Had a woman come in yesterday looking for autobiography. I told her that memoirs were mixed into the regular fiction -- I call them literary non-fiction. (It's no accident that so many of these memoirs are turning out to be hoaxes, because they're written like novels....)

Anyway, she looked around a bit. Something compelled me to ask if she was local. (It's funny to me how many people say something like, "No. I'm from LaPine...." To me, anything from Madras to the north, Chemult to the south, and Prineville to the east, and Sisters to the west is 'LOCAL.')

No, she was from Malibu. She had flown up in a Lear jet owned by her friend, (So pleasant not to have to go through the airport, she says) who was buying a fifth story condo in downtown, and she waved her hand vaguely in the direction of Franklin Crossing, but it could have been one of the other new buildings on Bond.

Wow, those aren't cheap, I said.

Oh, it was a million or more. She just bought it last month, and she's there waiting for the decorators, so I thought I'd look around downtown.

So not hurting from money, I venture.

Oh, they live in Malibu, right next to Lucas and Spielberg. Made their money in plastics. (I have a flash to the Graduate.)

And she's choosing to live in Bend?

Oh, no. This is a vacation home for them.....

She bought a 3.00 used book and left. She was a nice lady. Laughed when I told her about the Best Minimum Wage Job a Middle Aged Guy Ever Had. Made me repeat it a couple of times.

So, credit where it's due. DuBois or one of her compatriots just sold one of the big condo's.

And I feel like I've just had a second-hand sighting of a unicorn.