Long absences and fresh starts

Hello.

First of all, apologies. When I stepped away from Booth and Noble on Dec 31, 2007, I expected an absence of only a few short days. Instead, I found myself drifting in and out of various experiences, surfacing only a few short hours a day. These surfaces, few and far between, were not spent blogging, but spent doing other things. I found that the further away from the blog I got, the harder it was to re-appear, and the more lame I felt. It was a self-defeating cycle of poverty.

But here I am. Back again. Renewed, refreshed, and reworn.

My absence has been for a few reasons, but one of the main ones is because there has been a post-holiday dearth of people at Booth and Noble. This is to be expected, for the majority of holiday shoppers are those few people that emerge, once a year, to feast their beady eyes on what they "intellectually" know are called books, but aren't quite sure what they look like any more.

This crowd is the bane of Booth and Noble, but it is the bread and butter of Booth and Noble.

It is also the creme of the Booth and Noble blog.

Therefore, when that creme runs dry, what we are left with is a pitiful few "regulars" who, while annoying in their own way, are nothing compared to what we Grunts refer to as the "Unwashed masses...of body"

One such unwashed mass came up to me the other day at Booth and Noble, however, and asked me a question. Such is their want.

She says, in a voice like a cross between a pig's oink and the squeal of a cat getting drained of blood, "Do you have...medical...dictionary...and other...dictionary?"

I look at her oddly, because I'm concerned that she might be attracting daemons with her croaked voice.

"Yes, we have both, if you'd like to follow me." I walk her to the medical books, and hand her a medical dictionary. "This should solve all your medical needs," I say cheerfully as we head to the "other" dictionaries.

When we get there, I ask "what sort of dictionary are you looking for?"

"One that...I can use...and so...can my son...who is four."

I stare blankly at her, not knowing whether to recommend the Oxford or the Oxford. I finally decide to offer this: an all-in-one.

"Why...would I...get this?" she scabs.

"Well, you could use the dictionary to look up words, and it also comes with a Thesaurus."

She looks at me like I just peed on her leg. "What...is a thesaurus?"

I stare at her. Long, hard looks - puzzling out if she was for real, or if I was on camera.

"A...thesaurus," I start, and then continue when I notice she isn't laughing, "is a book of synonyms.

Those of you who know, will know.

"What...is a synonym?" she asks.

"A synonym is a word that means the same thing as another word."

"That's stupid," she says.

"..and it's idiotic," I finish.

Finally, the kicker:

"Will...I need...a thesaurus...in school?" she asks. "I'm studying...to be a nurse..."

Now, I ask you dear reader, what is a synonym for "scared to go to the nurse?"

She ended up buying the thesaurus, so maybe she can tell us.

Regardless, I am going to make it a goal to write one of these a week from now on. The fine folks at Alterati.com have kindly encouraged me to continue, and to be honest I have been feeling the loss of Booth and Noble quite strongly. However, I think I would like to also start a new feature, while we're here:

It has become apparent to me that I possess a superpower. I'm not sure I belong on Heroes , mainly because I'm not lame, but my superpower is pretty cool.

Once a week, no matter where I am, no matter what I'm doing...I get asked for directions. I might be walking the dog, listening to my generic mp3 player, hanging out with friends, shooting crack on the sidewalk - someone will ask me directions to somewhere. I can virtually guarantee it if I'm on vacation - someone will ask.

So, I will record these. It is time the world knew of my power!*




*Note: power does not equate to actually knowing where to direct people. Only that I will be asked. If I do not like the looks of you, or if you are wearing a shirt that has a "I'm-so-cute-I-was-purchased-online" phrase on it, I will direct you incorrectly.

Odd Lad, Syne?

Hello.

A long time ago, when I first decided to document the goings-on of the Grunts at Booth and Noble, I made three promises to myself.

"Self," I said, "just because God, or Google, or Godoogle, has given you the power to put this stuff up online, does not give you the right to mock those less fortunate that you."

"Yes, but self," I replied, doesn't that mean I will have no fodder? Nothing to write about?"

"True, true, self," I responded. But perhaps we should lay down some ground rules.

And so were set in digital stone the following rules:
1) Booth and Noble would provide an equal opportunity mocking. No one is spared, therefore everyone is equal. Stupidity is not dependent on age, sex, gender, size, race, orientation, or hair color. However, there would be NO jokes about the Eskimo people. Not because they're offensive, but really, Eskimo's don't read the Internet too much. They're not too "Inuit."

2) That being said, I would refrain from deliberately mocking the following groups of people: children, the mentally handicapped people that come into the store and dance and sing, and the managerial staff.

And on this, the eve of a new year, I propose to break one of those rules.

So this kid walks into the music department yesterday. He's probably about thirteen or fourteen - that age when they know they are smarter than you. They also know that they are shorter than you, so they usually keep their mouths shut.

This boy did not. He brazenly walks over to me behind the counter. He hands me a DVD. He stands there, eying me like a bear mama eying those people between her and her cubs. I say, "did you want to get this?" And he still looks at me, the thick glasses over his eyes barely covering the scorn.

"Is this the movie?" he asks.

"Well, it's A movie," I say.

"But is is THE movie?"

"THE movie what? What movie are you looking for?"

"Is is The Golden Compass?"

"No, that's just a documentary about the book, and about the author Philip Pullman."

"What book?"

"The book that the movie was based on."

"I want the movie. There's no book."

"There is too a book - it's over here."

"No, that's based on the movie." He changes subject: "when does the movie come out on DVD?"

"Well," I reply, "that's hard to say. It's still in theatres, so they haven't told us when the DVD is due out."

"That's NOT TRUE!"

I am taken about at his loud voice. "Um...yes, it is."

"No, I saw on TV that they had released it on DVD."

"Well, what date did the 'TV' tell you?"

He shuffled, still scornful. "I don't remember."

"Ah." I look at him. He looks at me. I tilt my head, as if to say "tsk, tsk."

He opens his mouth again: "Do you know what movie it is where an alien comes back in time and takes over a person's body?"

I stop and think. "Are you thinking of Invasion of the Body Snatchers?"

"NO! This is part of a series of movies. An ALIEN, from the FUTURE." He speaks as though I'm either deaf, or foreign.

"Do you have any more information?"

"He smokes."

Ah! Of course! The smoking alien/human movie! Well, I am perplexed, so I start thinking:

"Ah!" I think I've got it. "Is it Terminator?"

"NO! God. It. Is. Not. TERMINATOR! He was a ROBOT in that. WHY WOULD A ROBOT SMOKE?" He laughs hysterically.

"But...but he..." Ok, I'm not getting into this argument with a boy whose voice is breaking. So I think...

"Is it The Matrix?"

"Oh. My. GOD! What do you know movies? It's a really old movie. Like, 1980 or something."

I'm about ready to kick this kid in the face. But instead I think, well, we've all been trying hard to think of things in the past, maybe he just needs help.

So I say, "just to clarify. There is an alien who goes back in time, inhabits a human, and smokes."

"No." He sighs. "The alien doesn't smoke. Why would an alien smoke? That would just be stupid." He straightens his glasses. "The alien has a person with him. An old man. He has an old man with him."

"So the alien has an old man who smokes with him?"

"Yes."

I am at a loss, so I do the next best thing:

"Maybe we can browse through the science-fiction section, and see if we can find it."

The kid turns to me, a look of pure disgust on his face. "What," he asks, "is 'science-fiction'?"

I sigh and turn around. The day had just begun.

Christmas Is a Time for Loving

Hello.

I love the Christmas Season. People are always in such good moods. Let me give you a few examples for my most recent day at Booth and Noble. Happy Holidays!

1) We've just opened the store, so that means all those crazy people who line up outside in the snow and cold are let into the store. In a sane world, those people would be barred from entering; in Booth and Noble land, however, they are welcomed with open arms.

I'm standing at the information kiosk at the center of the store and I hear a loud voice yell from the front door:

"PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

I thought we were under attack.

Under attack from venture capitalist pirates.

But the voice kept coming closer.

"PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

Finally I looked up from behind the desk, where I had been cowering with a single cutlass and checkbook to protect me. A large woman waddled towards me with opened arms.

"I Need PIRATE MONOPOLY!"

I found it for her and put it in her hands. Without a second's thought, she said, "Can I leave it here?" and dropped it on the desk in front of me.

She never came back to get it.

2. Later that day, an creaky old woman came up to me.

"Do you have A History of the Christmas Ornament from 1920 to 1930, third edition, by Richard St. Germaine?"

I looked it up on the computer, and for once, here was a customer who had the title of the book right. Unfortunately, we didn't have it in the store.

"Sorry Ma'am," I said, a pinched smile on my face, but we don't have any in the store."

"That is impossible." She looked at me like I had just told her that I dropped a cabinet on her cat...twice. She waited.

"Well, Ma'am, we can go check on the shelf, but it would be a fruitless effort. The computer says we don't have any." I gesture at the monitor in front of me.

"Let's do that then," she says, talking slowly to me as if I were one of her nasty, horrible children.

We walk over to the shelf, and lo and behold it is not there. I turn to her to explain that it wasn't there and she preempts me by saying:

"My nephew called the Barnes and Noble in Portland, Oregon and THEY have it. Why don't you?"

Sometimes, I just want to drop a book on someone's head.

"Ma'am," I carefully explain, talking slowly as if she were one of her nasty, horrible children, we are different stores. We have different books in each Booth and Noble."

Needless to say, she turned with a huff and left.

3.
I return to the information kiosk, about ready to punch a small girl in the face. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but another obese woman.

"Where are your teen books?" she snarfs at me.

"Actually, they're right behind you," I say, gesturing to the large shelf labeled "Teen." She walks over there and stops.

"Are these the teen books?"

"Yes, they are."

She browses for awhile in the "B's"

Then turns to me.

"How much is this?" She holds up a paperback book. I walk over to her, turn the book over in her hand, and point to the price pictured on the cover. "It's 7.95."

She thinks for a moment. I can tell, because I can smell burning.

"What about this one?" she says, and HANDS ME A DIFFERENT COPY OF THE SAME BOOK.

"That would be the same price, ma'am."

"Oh." She stops and moves over to the "H" shelf.

"Are these also teen books?" she asks.

"Yes," I respond through gritted teeth.

"How do you know?"

"Because there is a large sign right there that says 'teen'."

"Oh." She goes back to browsing.

Meanwhile, I head to the breakroom for a drink.

4.
(Side note)
Booth and Noble central insists that we play Christmas music over our loudspeakers. As someone with a rather finally tuned sense of "taste," I am unhappy with this, but put up with it because, as a business, it is their right to play whatever music they wish.

However, as a rule, shouldn't Booth and Noble include some Hanukkah music? Some Kwanzaa music? What about non-religious music? If I have to hear about the baby Jesus saving the world one more time, I will not be pleased.

Also, one of the CDs they make us play is the new Josh "I can get as much nonagenarian ass as I want" Groban CD, which includes a voice that makes me want to drink wine until I puke. This comment is simply about how much I dislike that CD.


Happy Holidays, everyone!

Made in China?

Hello.

It's not often that I find myself at a loss for words, but just such an experience happened today at Booth and Noble.

See, we have this new book that just came out: YOU! You! has friends: both
YOU!, the first title in the thrill-a-minute series and
You! , which is like the Empire Strikes Back of the trilogy.

Well, a woman comes up to me and asks me for the "staying young" version of the book. Now, I'm not a cruel person, but I doubt that this book is that much of a miracle worker. When she said it, I wasn't so much thinking this as I was seeing this. There's only so much a book can do you for you, lady.

Anyway, as I handed her the book, she stopped me.

"What are these?" she asked, pointing to the two other books in the series, which we have helpfully stacked next to the bestseller.

"Those are the other YOU! books, I said.

"Hmm..." She actually audibly said "hmmm" here, too, which was unusual. She went on: "Which do you think I need?"

Now, I may not know what to say in many situation, but I usually come up with something. But what do you say to an old, chubby, close-enough-to-death-to-lick-it woman?

Thankfully, at that moment the phone rang and I was saved from making what could have been the last decision of my life.

Later in the day I was working in the children's department when an older couple came up to me:

"Excuse me, sir, do you work here?"

As any reader of this blog will note, this is probably the most asinine question we get at Booth and Noble. What you really mean to say is, "Can you help me," but people don't want to ask that, so they ask something else.

Anyway, I say I do work there and ask if I can help in any way. She says, with an exasperated voice, "do you HAVE any books not made in China?"

Again, I stop. I didn't know our books were made in China. I immediately open one and - yes it is! In fact, most of our books are actually made in China. How fascinating!

She, however, was not fascinated.

"I refuse to buy or use anything that was made in China," she says to me, with a contemptuous upturned nose.

"That must make shopping difficult," I say, thinking in my head that if she went ten minutes without using a product made in China I would be surprised.

She turns around. "I won't get anything made in China," she repeats. "And my grandson loves Winnie the Pooh. Do you have any non-Chinese Pooh here?"

I'm sorry, but let me repeat that for you.

"Do. You. Have. Any. Non-Chinese. Pooh. Here."

No ma'am, all our Pooh is American made. And proud of it!

When were you born?

Hello.

I want to discuss with you my recent stint working in the children's department at Booth and Noble.

I don't work in Kids much. Maybe it's the constant smell of fetid old diapers. Maybe it's the general noise level that approaches the sounds of fifteen cats being spanked.

Or maybe it's the fact that I am generally repulsive to children.

Whatever the reason, I have not been in Kids much. That changed today when I made my way into the department to being my first shift in a long time.

I decided to take with me a stack of books that needed to be reshelved. Balancing those books and my PDT, and my phone, and my cup of coffee, was quite a lot to manage.

I was greeted by a woman who asked me if I worked there.

I stared at her, briefly considering my options. I could immediately run for the door, after throwing the stack of books at her face and leave, knowing that this, the beginning of the day, was probably the highlight.

Or, I could summon all the courage I could muster to look her in the face and say, "why yes, I do work here! How did you ever guess?"

She said, "I'm looking for the books that come before The Magic Tree House.

"Ma'am," I say, "The Magic Tree House books are themselves a series. There's no "prequel" like The Hobbit or Episode I: The Phantom Menace.

She looks at me like I just took off my pants and slapped her with a piece of cheesecake.

"I am a Librarian, Sir. I know that there is no "Prequel" to the books."

"Umm...Ok," I reply. "Then what are you looking for?"

"I am looking for a book that is EASIER than this one. For my grandson. He's going into second grade."

First of all, lady, it's almost November. Either he's in second grade or he's not. Or he's homeschooled. In any case, he should be reading more than Magic Treehouse books. Second of all, I don't know your grandson, nor does it appear that I want to. So pick your own books.

What I say is: "Well, ma'am, if you want to browse maybe something will come to you."

Later in the day, the Birthday Guy comes into the department. The Birthday Guy has some sort of savant ability - he will remember your birthday if you tell it to him. For example, if Birthday Guy comes up to "Sandy" and says, "What's your name," and she says "Sandy" and he asks "When's your birthday?" and she says "Feb 23," he will remember that and tell it to her every time he comes into the store.

Not the most amazing of superpowers, but interesting.

Anyway, he is also a creepy pedophile looking guy. So, of course, I'm keeping an eye on him in the Kids Department.

He wanders over to two women who have been sitting and chatting for a couple of hours together.

Let me repeat: there are two women, NOT WATCHING THEIR CHILDREN (who are incidentally making a mess of the Kids department, and I think one of them poo'ed his pants because it TOTALLY smelled like poo back there for HOURS afterwards), are Chatting IN THE KIDS DEPARTMENT on the tiny benches and table, which is kind of like a grown man trying to use a child-sized urinal.

Anyway, this Birthday Guy comes up to the two women and ask them what their names are and when their birthdays are. They are, of course, rather shocked by this. As a pickup it's just a bit creepy. As a "I want to steal your children," it's also just a bit creepy.

They rebuff him and he leaves. He walks over to another woman and asks the same questions. She says, "I don't want to tell you." He then responds with "If you tell me I will remember them for twenty years."

Now, I have to admit, he has never come up to me. Or, to think about it, to anyone like me.

Yes, he only talks to women. Which leads me to suspect that it's not a savant skill, but an amazing attempt to pick up someone. And although it hasn't worked so far...when it does...

That woman will get a birthday treat like none other.

I Want My Movie!

Hello.

Many apologies for the near-month absence of a new blog post from the Internet , but I am ashamed to report that not much of interest has happened at Booth and Noble. The truth of the matter is, it's not people have been getting less annoying, but that they have been coming to the store less frequently than they had before.

I blame it on Ozzie Davis.

But, this is not to say that those that have been making appearances at the local Booth and Noble have not given us Grunts a reason to hold our heads in pain and anguish at the state of the human race.

One such case I call "movie-lady." Movie-lady calls up Booth and Noble and speaks with the person working at the information desk, one of whose responsibilities is the answering of phone:

"Thanks for calling Booth and Noble, how can I help you?"

"Where's my movie?"

A pause follows.

"Excuse me?"

"I want my movie! Where is it?"

Information Desk Working immediately felt that this was a situation that required the expert advice and opinion of one Grunt in particular.

Me.

She forwards the call to me, working in the Music and DVD department, and I immediately pick it.

"Thanks for calling movies and music. Can I help you?"

"Where's my movie?"

I immediately decide to go into Computer-Help-Desk-Help mode. "I would be happy to help you with that query this morning. I just need to get some information from you. What's your phone number?"

She gives it to me and I type it into the computer.

Her order comes up. The computer tells me that the movie has shipped from the warehouse and will be in the store in the next few days.

"Ma'am, I see that the movie has shipped from my warehouse and should get to me in the next few days. I'd be happy to call you as soon as it got here."

"What name is it under?" she asks, violently and with an exaggerated sense of importance.

I check. "Vic Harris," I respond.

"My name is Em Harris!" she snaps back.

"Well, as long as you give us your name when you get here, we'll give you your movie."

"What happens," she asks, "if Vic Harris comes in and wants to pick up the movie?"

"Do you know a Vic Harris?" I ask her.

"No."

I stop and think about this. "Ma'am, I'm pretty sure that this mythical Vic Harris won't come in and arbitrarily ask at the counter if we are holding Leprechaun 2. Besides, he probably doesn't even like horror movies."

She responds: "You know, I asked that someone change my name on this order, and they never did!"

I respond: "Actually, it's impossible to change an order once it's been placed, but if you order again, we can certainly use Em Harris instead of Vic."

"Good," she spits venomously back. "I don't want to be known as Vic Harris. Do I sound Hispanic to you?"

I stop and think. Is there anything I can say to this woman to ease her pain? To make her feel better about her sad life that for three full days she's been sitting at home wondering when Leprechaun 2 would come? To complete her one and true life goal?

I respond: "Oh, apologies. Usted película no está aquí, pero el Duende 2 son la mejor película hecha acerca de Duendes malos.

Mis amigos en Booth y Noble

Hello.

You want to know something that occurs many times in Booth and Noble?

Something that is atrocious?

Something that epitomizes all that is wrong with our country?

It's old men.

Yes, it's true. See, what happens is that old men will be waiting for their wives to finish shopping, and they will come to me and say things that just aren't acceptable in today's culture.

For example, the other day I'm at work and a woman is searching the "pop standards" for the latest Micheal Buble release.

The husband comes into the music department.

"Can I help you, sir?" I ask, demurely.

"Yes, I'm looking for my ugly wife. I keep the pretty one at home so no one gets her."

WHAT?

Even if this were a funny joke, it is still wildly inappropriate to say. But since it's not funny, it's just stupid.

He follows this up, after his wife laughs at his "humor," with a:

"I can bring her here, but I can never lose her. " He leans in close to me: "They can always find ya!"

Don't insinuate me with your verging-on-felony humor! I wanted to turn to the woman and say, "lady, I know you're old and smelly, but you can still do better than that."

So they left and I went back to my desk to call some customers. The special orders had come in, and it was my job to make sure that the customers were informed that their copies of "The Secret" and "<Ski School" came in.

I call a number and get an answering machine. This is not uncommon - it's the middle of the day in a work week, and I'm sure that they had better things to do than wait for my call.

But for some reason, this person didn't seem to realize that everyone has answering machines now. They left incredibly detailed instructions as to how to leave a message:

"Hi. You've reached the phone number for the Michaelson's. We are not home right now, but you have reached our machine. It will record any message you leave and play it back for us. Please leave us a name and a phone number. Also, if you could leave a brief message that tells us what you were calling about, that would help us place your call. When I am done talking, there will be a beeping noise. You should leave that information -- your name, your number, and your message -- after you hear that beep."

And then, without missing a beat:

"And, just to be clear, there is NO ONE at this number who should be receiving ANY calls in SPANISH." BEEEEEEP.

I cannot tell you how tempted I was to leave a message: "Hola! Es Booth y Noble! Sus videoes son aqui!"

But I was too busy giggling to do anything.

Helping the Hoi

Hello.

It comes as a bit of a shock to me, but it seems that there is a definite loss of awareness of irony in our culture. This is despite the cynical and rather argumentative claims of postmodernists and other cultural critics who see the world as degenerating into a formless, amorphous blob of subjective experience and loss of feeling. As any self-righteous cultural critic would state, the ennui and general unease felt in contemporary culture comes from, among other places, a sense of listlessness among the living and a general malaise in the everyday experience of people.

What this boils down to, at least for those consumers who enter Booth and Noble and attempt to make sense of the endless monotony of their lives, is that either a) they do not realize what asses they are being, or b) they realize and they just don't care.

My vote is for the first option.

As a case in point, the other day at Booth and Noble, I noticed a preponderance of Ironic Shopping. As you may know, when someone works in a retail book shop they must automatically be gifted with the inane trivialities of the minutiae of your life. In other words, all of us Grunts must be extremely well-versed in any knowledge that the customer requires. Am I an expert in coin collecting? Of course! Do I know everything there is to know about business/commercial real estates! I'm completely licensed, of course! Do I know what life is like for the Telugu culture? Why, I'm part of that culture, sir!

What do I mean by Ironic Shopping? What I mean is, for the first two hours that Booth and Noble was open, every single customer that approached me - male, female, tall, short, ignorant, butt-ignorant - asked me where the Self-Help section is.

Is this not Defeating the Very Purpose of the Self-Help Section?

What makes it worse is that these people all had specific titles. In order, these were the titles they were looking for (this is not a joke):

• Women Who Think Too Much


• Think and Grow Rich


• 365 Steps to Self-Confidence: A Program for Personal Transformation

What is the key connection here?

Yes, it is confidence and thinking: the irony of which is that neither was attempted in searching for the book. Even a cursory glance around Booth and Noble will reveal the Self-Help section.

Of course, the irony here is not just that some people decide to not think and grow rich (or, as it is, not-think and grow Booth and Noble rich), but that even when they don't think, they are faced with the incredibly difficult task of becoming capable of handling their own life. To this end, a gentleman comes up to me at the desk and asks for a copy of "an introduction to economics." I lead him to the economics section and give him a book that would work for him. He responds with a disgusted snort and a derisive scorn:
"I'm not looking for a book ANY one can read. I want a TEXT book."

I tell him we don't sell textbooks, but I can order something for him. He declines and leaves.

Ten minutes later I'm called to the front of the store to help ring out the customers. I work the registers for a few minutes and then who should be next in line but economics gentleman. And what should he be buying but:
the book .

I was super polite to him, but I don't think he understood.

Of course, nothing beats man who called the store at the beginning of the day.

"Hello, Booth and Noble," I said into the phone.
"Do you know anything about stamps?" He asks with neither a "hello" or a "how ya doin'?"
I respond: "I do not, but we have books about stamps if you want to come in and browse."
"Well," he says, "do you know what this might be worth?" And he proceeds to read off a stamp to me.
"Sir, I don't know anything about stamps."
"But this has got to be worth something, right?" And here are the facts from the stamp he elucidated:

"So I've got this stamp from 1707. It's got a picture of John Adams on it, you know John Adams?"
"Not personally," I admit, "But I have heard of him."
"Ok, well, it's John Adams and it says '2 cents, United States' on it. That's gotta be worth something, right?"
I stop and think. Something here doesn't add up.
"Sir," I say, after realizing the problem. "Perhaps you'd like to take this up with your nearest Philatelist.

Of course, who am I to understand the workings of the consumer mind. I'm just a Grunt.

A Gross of Gross at Booth and Noble

Hello.

You know, it may occur to some people after reading this blog that there the American Educational System (AES) needs some major Overhaul (O). Yes, it is true: people come into Booth and Noble EVERYDAY and ask us where the "nonfiction" section is. And yes, people do come into the music department EVERYDAY and demand to know if we're ever going to stock Beta Max again. But these we know about. These are the people, the subjects of this blog, who make up the days of our lives.

But what of the other people?

If Booth and Noble fulfills its promise: to be a haven for your tired, your sick, your weary masses, then where are the gross?

Yes, for too long this blog has been about the customers at Booth and Noble who defy education, who eschew obfuscation, who demand nothing but bestseller crap and literary junk food.

It is time to change things. It is time to talk about the gross people that enter Booth and Noble.

There are three categories of gross people. For the sake of simplicity, I will label them,
1) Gross-lyte
2) Gross-Regular
3) Gross-Unique. (or, Grossnique).

Here is how I differentiate them. Gross-Lytes are those that come in once in awhile and do something that makes you think to yourself, wow, if I did that I would probably think less of myself. The Gross-Lytes are those people that curl their bare feet under their sweaty ass when they sit on the chairs. Yes, when you go to a bookstore, and you sit on the chairs, think about how many sweaty, nasty feet have been plunged into the stuffing of that chair. Think about how many pimply, pot marked, calloused backsides have sat, immobile, for hours on that very seat. Think about this: when you reach down to pick up the pen that fell between the cushion and the arm of the chair: someone has probably peed in that very seat. All but one of the chairs at Booth and Noble has been peed upon - and only two of them by me.

As a newer example of the Gross-Lyte, there was a woman yesterday who came into the store and had blood red cleavage. I mean, there were two large breasts and in between, where there should have been dark shadow, was a bright red area. It looked as though the skin had been peeled off her bosom and the lower layer of epidermis was peaking its way out like a groundhog on February 2nd. This was Gross-Lyte.

Gross-Regulars are those people that habitually come into the store. These people generally tend to get nicknames -- for instance, there's Manga-Girl, who last summer spent every single day from 9am until 10pm in the store reading Manga. (As there weren't that many Manga titles back then, that means she must've read each title approximate thirty-two times each.) There is the Family Skank, which should be self-explanatory. The Family Skank, obese mother, skinny, bedraggled father, and two obese children (singlehandedly, this family is keeping the American Obesity Epidemic in the double digits), come into the store occasionally. They like to sit on the floor, sprawled out in their muumuus and their funny plastic shoes and read Anne McCaffrey Dragon novels. They also smell like day old veal.

An example of a Gross-Regular is the guy I affectionately term, "Shitty-Guy." Shitty-Guy comes in and shits a couple times a day in our bathroom. Now, the Booth and Noble bathroom at the moment is, without a doubt, the most disgusting place on the planet. Some pipe somewhere has leaked and for some reason, no one has come to fix it. It smells, consistently, like the inside of an anus. I am not joking. It is vile. Imagine that every time you've gone to the bathroom in the past two weeks, but instead of flushing the toilet, you've decided to let it sit and "marinate" -- this is what the men's room at Booth and Noble is like.

Part of the reason for this extreme smell is because of Shitty-Guy. There have been times I have wanted to use the restroom, but Shitty-Guy has been in there, becoming eponymous. Somehow, Shitty-Guy must have lost his sense of smell, because he remains in the men's room for a long time. Most of us just head to the pet store next door, where it smells much nicer.

The third category I reserve for the indescribably gross. I call these, the Grossnique.

They are not regular customers, but they do something that makes the memory of them endure for years.

For example, yesterday, a woman comes up to me when I'm at the cash registers and she hands me...

A retainer.

A Used Retainer.

She sets it on the counter in front of me and says, "I think someone left this."

Oh really? Someone left their retainer? You mean it's not something we sell?

I walk to the cafe and grab a plate and a long stream of plastic wrap. I gingerly grasp it between two paper towels and thrust it onto the plate, all the while stopping my gag reflex. The dirt alone on the retainer made me rethink my position of euthanasia. Finally, it's on the plate and I wrap it in plastic. A neat and tidy present for an unsuspecting child.

Anyway, these are the three examples of Gross-ness at Booth and Noble. I'm sure more abound. I look forward to hearing about them, and sharing more grossities with you.

The Return of the Tooth!

Hello.

So I look at my blog and I see that it has been exactly one month since my last post. Some of you may be wondering what has been clogging up my output. I shall attempt to explain, in the simplest way I know how.

I was kidnapped by happy-go-lucky pirate children.

For three weeks I was forced into slave labor upon their schooner. It was actually not an entirely unpleasant experience, as they mostly just laughed in foreign tongues and danced around a great big vat of pudding.

But, after those three weeks I was deposited back on dry land with one lady's sandal and a small pony named Fred. I managed to make my way back to Booth and Noble, having only Fred for sustenance, and upon my arrival was immediately put back to work in the music department.

Yesterday, for example, was a typical day in the music department of Booth and Noble. Hours went by with nary a customer in sight, until The Man with One Tooth walked in.

Yes, one tooth.

He also has mutton chops and a hat.

For some reason, this gentleman focuses on me and decides that, in the world of lonely men, he is going to befriend me. Now, I had had some of this "befriending" when I was involved in the world of pirates, but at Booth and Noble, that would just be inappropriate, as well as smelly. But he wouldn't stop talking to me. For an hour this man talked to me.

Part of his diatribe was an inquiry about a film: Strategic Air Command. He wanted to know if we had it on DVD.

We did not.

In fact, according to our computers, it was not available in DVD. Period.

What was fascinating, though, was how a little bit of knowledge can ruin a perfectly good query. For, following this up, this Toothful gentleman decided to ask whether the movie was available in ANY FORMAT. And not all at once. No, he would wait until I had picked up my scanner and moved to a different part of the department, and then he would come back over to the desk, forcing me to come back to the desk, and ask:

"Is it on DVD?"

"No, it's only on VHS."

Then he would say, "Ok, I'll let you get back to work now" and walk away. I would once again leave the desk and go to a different section, and thirty seconds later he would turn around and come back to the desk, forcing me to walk back to the desk:

"Is it on HD-DVD?"

"No, it's only on VHS."

"Ok, I'll let you get back to work now." Thirty seconds later.

"Is it on Blu-Ray DVD."

"Sir, if it's not on DVD, it's not on Blu-Ray DVD."

"What about Beta-Max?"

"What? Do you even have a Beta-Max player?"

"Yes I do, right next to my Gramophone and Daguerreotype"

Anyway, this goes on for awhile until She walks in.

She must be eighty five years old. He sees her and cupid strikes him down.

See has, you see, a hole in her cheek. (Since it is difficult to find a picture of a hole in someone's cheek, I simply linked here to a funny picture that came up when I typed in "cheek"). This hole is about the size...get this...of a tooth! It's not just that they were made for each other, it's that they were physically, and sexually, compatible. He can cheek hump her with his tooth!

Anyway, they get to talking, which means he gets out of my hair. She's carrying a computer book and I overhear this interesting tidbit from her:

"I didn't know you had to know what kind of computer you have in order to get a book about a computer!"

And his reply: "Yes, that's how they getcha!"

As their conversation gets going, I start to work near them. Since we've had a rash of thieveries recently, I thought it best to keep an eye on them (two eyes, actually: one on the tooth and the other on the hole).

However, being so close, I can't help but overhear:

Hole: [Looking at the Cary Grant Collection] "Is Cary Grant the Gay one?"
Tooth: "No, no, you're thinking of the other one."
Hole: "Who am I thinking of?"
Tooth: "Hudson...Rock Hudson."
Hole: "Oh yes, I like him. I thought you were going to say Perry Mason."
Tooth: "No, Perry Mason isn't gay."
Hole: "Oh, I'm SO glad about about that. I just love him."

I didn't really have the heart to tell them that Perry Mason, is, in fact, a fictional character, and that Raymond Burr, the actor that played Perry Mason, was, in fact, a well known homosexual.

But I digress.

As these two lovebirds make their way out of the department, Tooth turns to the lady and asks, "So, is there a husband at home?"

She turns to him, teeth showing through the hole.

"Nope. Dead."

He grins a wide, uni-tooth-ular grin, and says, "I'm so, so sorry to hear that." He tips his hat to her and the walk out together, presumably to cheek hump all night long.