You can take the books away from the boy...

In a rare instance of consistent resolve, I've actually managed to go a few days without reading. I'm beginning to learn that there's a world outside the printed page, even if that world is often scary or confusing. Usually both.
Case in point, my participation in that old, revered institution-SNDC (Sunday Night Drinking Club). Fully realizing that I had to be at work at eight-thirty this morning, I decided to stay out until three.
For those not in the know, SNDC was initiated three years ago by our very own Susannah. It was originally conceived as a work project which had the end goal of knocking boots with Toronto's own Ron Sexsmith. While that end was never realized (As far as I know. Susannah?), little did she know that this modest gathering would eventually give birth to one of the grandest recurring social events of the twenty-first century, beloved by at least ten to fifteen people. In times of difficulty and confusion, wars and rumors of war, in my darkest hours, I know I can always hold fast to its time hallowed traditions. Traditions that exhaustively include meeting up with people, and drinking till we can barely afford a cab to bring us home. This week's SNDC included an impression of yours truly by our very own Andrew, which I modestly absented myself for.
I'm not sure if it was the adrenaline from the lack of sleep, or the coffee and sugar, or some unholy combination thereof, but today was one of the best days at work on record. While I can't susbtantiate this in any way, I'm pretty sure that the caffeine plus the adrenaline brought on by exhaustion allowed me to obtain Buddha consciousness. This allowed me to perform my various tasks with eerie precision while in a blissful state of indifference. While the blissful state of indifference was unsurprising, I was so unnerved by my efficient completion of tasks that I would often run to the bathroom and huddle in one of the stalls, shaking and crying and wondering what went wrong.
In completely unrelated news: the Booker Prize is upon us. While I've heard of a few of the authors, I'll admit that for a few I have absolutely no idea who they are. Could someone tell me who they are? I mean, am I that out of the loop or do they just usually pad the list with a bunch of unknowns? I notice with mild irritation that quirky-hipster favorite David Mitchell is on the list, and I notice with maddening rage that Peter Carey is yet again on the list. I don't understand his appeal. Has anyone ever read My Life As A Fake? I've never read a book that would be so improved by a small, judicious use of fire. I've been told to read the Kelly Gang, but I've become cynical about books written entirely in dialect. I'm starting to suspect that writers use dialect as a literary smoke bomb, allowing the writer to escape out the window with character development, well crafted ideas and my hard earned twenty-two fifty. But that's a rant for another time.