Today -- Monday, that is -- I tried to finally play my ace in the hole.

(I know, there's a split infinitive in that sentence. It couldn't be helped. "I finally tried to play..." would have implied that I hadn't tried before, which isn't true, and "I tried finally to play..." sounds awful. Fact is, the rule in question doesn't always apply to the English language, although following it does usually make for stronger sentences. But I digress.)

Anyway. Back when I was born, or shortly thereafter, my great-uncle -- or possibly my grand-uncle or great-grand-uncle, I can never remember -- bought me an Israel Bond. It matured (at $180) fifteen years later. (The world is still waiting for me to reach maturity.) After languishing in my mother's drawers for awhile, I received the thing a couple of years ago. (Ummm, the bond was doing the languishing, not me. And I'm referring to the drawers with her papers and stuff. Get your mind out of the gutter.) (Oh, dear. This is turning out to be one of those entries, is it? Hmmph. Let's see if I can get through the next paragraph without backtracking or using parentheses...)

The upshot of all this is that I had this bond, but hadn't had the chance to get out to the bank in Manhattan that handles the things. A couple of weeks ago, just before the end of the semester, I did finally get the form needed to redeem it, with the option of simply mailing it to them, or going down to the Manhattan bank in person.

As the semester was now over, and I could really use the money, I decided to go there in person, in the naive hope that if I did so, I might actually get the cash on the spot, or at least be handed a check.

No such luck.

I took the bus to the subway, transferred twice (due to a station being closed -- one transfer would have sufficed, if I'd known), and strode into the Chase Manhattan Bank on Water Street, where I handed everything in. I was informed that the check would be in the mail sometime within the next two weeks. After which, it would have to be signed by myself and my father, as we're both named on the bond. Which means once it finally shows up, I'll have to go back to Far Rockaway for his signature before I can deposit the thing, presumably wait for it to clear, and then finally pay my phone bill. Which I have a bit of time on, at least.

I took out a bunch of books, most of which aren't especially worth noting, and a bunch of CDs. As CDs need to be returned in seven days, to the branch from which they were borrowed (unlike books, which can be returned to any branch), this means I'll have to go back there next week. Somehow, I think I'll manage that.

Anyway, I took out seven CDs, of which I'd previously heard one. That one -- Happy Town, by Jill Sobule -- was my favorite of the bunch, and retains its high standing on my List of CDs to Buy Once I Win the Lottery.

It's better than his last two books, I'll give him that. Unfortunately, that's about all I can say for it. There's almost no plot, and the character development is laughable... but the worst part is that there's no suspense. For a guy whose greatest strength used to be writing page-turners, that's downright unforgivable.

At least he spares us the polemic this time around. While his cause du jour seems to be the redemptive power of religion, he doesn't employ a sledgehammer to get that across in this book. Nor does he make his point, but I'm counting my blessings.