I spent most of the day outside at the LA Times Book Fair. I helped out at the WG booth for a bit and took some time to wander around. I watched the long line at the Ray Bradbury book signing for a bit and studied the area map.

What the hell are you really supposed to do at these things anyway? I stopped by the Poets&Writers booth to let them know I am a subscriber. One of the P&W ladies left like that was the cue to take a lunch break. And I thought that if I stood by the McSweeney's booth long enough someone would recognize me as the person that sent in a story that they rejected and they would try to befriend me.

There were three people in that booth. On the left was a guy with dark curly hair, girly thighs crammed into faded levi's, and thick black glasses. He spoke with a voice that sounded like a mix of Ira Glass and Fran Drescher. I imagined him writing stories about being a picked-on bookworm in private school. In the middle sat an expertly freckled fresh-faced blond girl in a modern-cut ethnic print sundress. She didn't speak unless spoken to. I heard her say "Those are fifteen dollars." On the right was a cartoonist from San Fransisco. Tall, skinny, dark skinned, with a patch of hair on his chin. Standing in front of his books. What a set of jerks! I stood around for a while before screaming, "you don't know me!" and rushing off to find the shuttlebus.

No escape from street fairs though. As soon as I got home I was reminded that today is the Atwater street art fair. I spent the remainder of the sunlight deepening my sunstroke by walking around in the smoke of meats on a grill.