One of my co-workers is attempting to convince me to go to Ikea. Now, I understand that I live in California. I further understand that I live in a yuppie-hell apartment complex in California, and that at least by some codes of ethics, it is therefore my moral obligation to populate my dwelling with Ikea furniture. I reject this thesis on the grounds that while I am indeed scum, I am a different kind of scum than the yuppie scum who share my parking garage and 24-hour fitness centre -- a solitary, uncomplicated blue-green alga, perhaps, as opposed to one of those colony-dwelling Volvox or the like -- and therefore their rules do not apply to me.

I do need bookshelves for my apartment, but I think I'll be much happier if I walk into an OfficeMax, go straight to the bookshelves in the conveniently labeled and grid-planned aisles, buy some, and drive home, as opposed to threading the rat-maze that is a store designed by the same people who design casinos in such a way that you can't tell what time of day it is or where to find the exit. I'd be happier yet going to a hardware store, buying wood, and making bookshelves, particularly since I also need to get some wood glue to fix the one piece of Ikea furniture I own (a coffee table which whitebreadchef offloaded during a move). Or, for that matter, finding a building that's being demolished, recovering wood and maybe some decorative bricks, and making bookshelves from salvaged materials. (OTOH, that requires that there be buildings being demolished in this area, and I'm not convinced such things exist.)

There are bookshelf alternatives. Ikea is not one of them.

I like Chris++, but he is not allowed to give me directions to anywhere ever again.

Bookshelves are called for tonight on account of not knowing my way around the area. Tomorrow will be better. For now, tea and paper.