Point counterpoint

DC's Second Story Books has reopened after their renovation, luring Dupont locals to paw through a slightly airier layout full of novel temptations. They don't keep an inventory of most of their trade texts, so if you want to find out if they've got, say, a Sapolsky compilation you're reluctant to buy at full price, the only thing to do is dig. A careful shelf-by-shelf investigation of the pulp SF cart uncovered a copy of John M. Ford's Web of Angels, long out of print but hailed as one of the earliest cyberpunk novels (results when I get around to it), and the outside sales rack turned up Doc Holliday, by John Myers Myers. JMM's classic Silverlock drove home to the twelve-year-old me that I was not as well read as I wanted to be; his nonfiction turns out to be even more fun and an exemplar of the changes in biographical style. The book is ostensibly a straightforward life of the famous tubercular gunslinger, but no book published in this decade would include sentences like, "Even the slipperiest fish eventually feels the gaff of human ties," when describing Doc's first encounters with his paramour Big Nose Kate. The unexpectedly whimsical text makes the book seem closer to fiction, and since Dracula, the other book by my bedside lately, is fiction written as non-, it's a fun balance.

Other random balancy news: CoCo Sala, whither Ginsays and I repaired last night, charges too much for its teeny weeny portions of exquisitely described food. But a chipotle-chocolate souffle is the cure for many ills. Given the swingeing prices, I won't be a regular there. HOWEVER. Morelia, whither work is bound at the end of April, is home to the Museo del Dulce, an establishment whose name promises that exploration will be rewarded. Since I'm trying not to get neurotic about Mexico's current spate of drug-related violence, focusing on the promise of tasty tasty historical recipes and samples is the better option.

And finally, oh Joss. "I am your superior." "In every way." Welcome back.