A few months ago, my neighbor and I went to a warehouse sale at A1Books, an online bookseller that happens to be based in the next town over. Recently, Publishers Weekly reported that they have "teamed with Google Books India to launch what it claims is the first online bookselling and retailer marketplace aimed at the Indian book market." This, I think, is a very good thing for books because piracy runs rampant in that country. Wider availability of discounted "official" copies should help spread awareness of legitimacy, and perhaps fewer publishers will learn about unlicensed editions of their titles that have been printed on toilet paper.

(Very, very interesting. I just did a little flipping through A1Books' web site and stumbled across a little bit of code that is clearly designed to up their ranking with the search engines. It pays to be clever when competing with the likes of Amazon.)

Anyway, for the first time, A1Books opened up their warehouse to the public for a huge remainder sale. A large section was cordoned off and stacks of books were sold at 1 for $4, 2 for $7, and 3 for $10. Although my browsing experience was marred by being followed around by a woman with two unruly children, I managed to stay focused long enough to find three books. I picked up Never Mind the Pollacks by Neal Pollack (I'm not a big fan of his style of satire, but it was either this or McGreevey's memoir. In the end, I figured I'd be less likely to throw Pollack's book across the room.), James Kaplan's Two Guys from Verona (NJ, natch.), and Half Life by Shelley Jackson (Its jacket description reminded me of Middlesex.).

Near the cash register was a spinning rack filled with a few books that weren't part of the remainder sale. For Oprah fans, one of them was Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I picked it up but put it back down because it was $8 and I knew I'd eventually find it for much less once the masses moved on to the next selection. McCarthy made his Oprah appearance yesterday, and I watched it even though I was too cheap to pay a discounted price for his book.

Just as they were about to talk about The Road itself, I heard the phrase "apocalyptic dream" and then had my own apocalyptic vision when I realized a small critter (Bat? Shrew?) was crawling through the back wall of my house. I missed the entire segment as I banged on the wall to frighten it into quickly fleeing. It paid me no mind and continued its journey, slowing its pace to what sounded like a mocking prance.

Then, McCarthy became my hero. When Oprah surmised that he worked (at writing) in order to not work (at a traditional job), he agreed with, "If you're dedicated, you can probably do it." This is my life's goal. Not to write, necessarily, but to figure out how to get a maximum of living from a bare minimum of working. I'm far from lazy, as many who know me hopefully realize. Long ago, I decided that the rat race didn't make me happy but I ran it because I thought I had to. I've since had a couple of mini-retirements (once from a layoff; currently, of my own choosing) and, despite a shortage of money, I'm the most contented I have ever been. If I can figure out a way to sustainability, I know I'd spend the rest of my days in a state of perpetual bliss.

Update: I have just taken the time to go through the rest of the businesses profiled in New York Magazine's "The Profit Calculator," which I linked to yesterday in reference to Random House. In figuring out my life's goal of "working at not working," I think I'm going to skip trying out a career as a drug dealer because:

Profit Catastrophes: Prison. “One day you open your door and there are five cops, and they take you to prison for two and a half years, where you spend all your money on lawyers and make 10 cents an hour in the prison shop, like I did. It’s almost inevitable, which is the downside of the business.”