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.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
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):
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.
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.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Adventurous Times in Music
Hello.
And now, a short piece about life as a Grunt at Booth and Noble.
Your players:
- Me (the Grunt)
- Lady (the customer)
The setting:
- The music department at Booth and Noble at 2 pm.
[Lady walks into the department, anger flashing in her eyes and a bag swinging by her side. Glancing left and right, she spies Me and gallops over to the poor Grunt.]
Lady: ExCUSE me? Do you WORK here?
Me: [Me looks down at Me's nametag, at the PDA in his hand, and at the stack of CDs he is holding.] Yes, I do work here.
Lady: I need to complain.
Me: I need to sit down, but I don't see a chair emerging from my ass.
Lady: [Ignoring the obviously fake comment that Me did not actually say, because if Me said that, Me would be fired and on the street] I wish to complain about the CD I purchased.
[Lady holds up a copy of The Travelling Wilburys special deluxe album. Me knows exactly what is going to transpire, and is extremely happy to be in the know for once.]
Lady: The second CD won't play.
Me: [Fake looking concerned. Me wants to play this for all its worth.] Oh no! Tell me what happened.
Lady: I took it home and tried it in my CD player. Nothing. I came back and replaced it. It still wouldn't play! I got a THIRD one. And it wouldn't play either! [Lady is so mad, she slams her fist down on the counter. If there was a clown under there, that clown would be dead.]
Me: Did you think it was your CD player, maybe? [Me smiles inwardly. It's coming...it's coming..]
Lady: Of course! It plays all the other CDs just fine! [Lady gestures to the two other CDs in the 3 CD set.]
Me: May I see the CD?
[Lady hands Me the CD. Me looks it over, touches it, and pets it. He closes his eyes and sighs. His hands rub the CD case briskly, like he was wisking a delicious souffle. Suddenly, he opens his eyes.]
Me: The second CD is a DVD.
[Lady stands, mouth agape, eyes wide in shock.]
Lady: Oh...ah...um...
[Lady turns abruptly and leaves. Me goes back to scanning CDs.]
Fin
And now, a short piece about life as a Grunt at Booth and Noble.
Your players:
- Me (the Grunt)
- Lady (the customer)
The setting:
- The music department at Booth and Noble at 2 pm.
[Lady walks into the department, anger flashing in her eyes and a bag swinging by her side. Glancing left and right, she spies Me and gallops over to the poor Grunt.]
Lady: ExCUSE me? Do you WORK here?
Me: [Me looks down at Me's nametag, at the PDA in his hand, and at the stack of CDs he is holding.] Yes, I do work here.
Lady: I need to complain.
Me: I need to sit down, but I don't see a chair emerging from my ass.
Lady: [Ignoring the obviously fake comment that Me did not actually say, because if Me said that, Me would be fired and on the street] I wish to complain about the CD I purchased.
[Lady holds up a copy of The Travelling Wilburys special deluxe album. Me knows exactly what is going to transpire, and is extremely happy to be in the know for once.]
Lady: The second CD won't play.
Me: [Fake looking concerned. Me wants to play this for all its worth.] Oh no! Tell me what happened.
Lady: I took it home and tried it in my CD player. Nothing. I came back and replaced it. It still wouldn't play! I got a THIRD one. And it wouldn't play either! [Lady is so mad, she slams her fist down on the counter. If there was a clown under there, that clown would be dead.]
Me: Did you think it was your CD player, maybe? [Me smiles inwardly. It's coming...it's coming..]
Lady: Of course! It plays all the other CDs just fine! [Lady gestures to the two other CDs in the 3 CD set.]
Me: May I see the CD?
[Lady hands Me the CD. Me looks it over, touches it, and pets it. He closes his eyes and sighs. His hands rub the CD case briskly, like he was wisking a delicious souffle. Suddenly, he opens his eyes.]
Me: The second CD is a DVD.
[Lady stands, mouth agape, eyes wide in shock.]
Lady: Oh...ah...um...
[Lady turns abruptly and leaves. Me goes back to scanning CDs.]
Fin
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Harry Potter and the Book Grunt
Hello.
It now falls upon me, at this late hour, to detail the end of a dynasty. The world’s most popular fiction series was finished as of the 21st of July, and this particular Grunt had the particular pleasure of selling scores of copies to adoring fans. There were literally hundreds of obsessive and all-knowing fans flocking towards Booth and Noble, each and every one of them so anxious to get their copy that they were willing to eat puppies.
I am, of course, speaking of the release of the new Sylvia Browne book, So You Think You Can Speak to the Dead: Then Will You Please Tell Them to Turn Down the Music?
Ok, obviously I’m not. Obviously it is the much-anticipated release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows that brought all of us to Booth and Noble until 3 in the morning. This particular Grunt arrived at 6 in the evening, armed with a small container of fried chicken, for the Grunt Pot Luck, and the cobbled costume of half-giant Hagrid.
My role was two-fold. From 6 pm until 10 pm I watched the music department, and made sure than tomfoolery and willy-nilly-ness did not happen. I had nothing to worry about. From the moment I wandered into the store, passing by the two hundred people lining up outside to get their much-coveted wristband, I was completely enthralled by the complete emptiness of the music department.
Part of the uncomfortable nature of Hagrid’s costume stemmed from the large, fake beard worn around the neck. The other discomfort came from the combination of flannel shirt, corduroy trousers, and bodice wrapped towel around my waist; a combination that made temperatures in my body reach towards the heliosphere.
It can be argued, I am sure, that the pleasure of working the Harry Potter Midnight Madness Party and Booth and Noble is seeing the children smile with eagerness at finally, after ten years, discovering the end of the series. Seeing their wide grins and wide-open eyes should be enough to open up one’s hearts and let the Good in.
And then you meet Fat-Kid-In-Red.
I will be the first to admit that my costume was not the most expensive or realistic as can be. I decided early on in the costuming process (i.e., four o’clock that day) that MY Hagrid would be more of a HOBO Hagrid. I wore an oversize pair of green trousers, a pair of too-small combat boots (no laces), and a brown and red lumberjack shirt. In addition, I stuffed my shirt with a towel, bunched into a working-man’s beer belly. And I wore a large black beard, spirit-gummed to my already hirsute upper lip. In addition, I stapled a stuffed dragon onto my collar and held a small plastic umbrella.
I may not have been J. K.’s Hagrid, but I was most definitely Hagrid -- as if he were born in a barn and lived on the rails.
Anyway.
Fat-Kid-In-Red walks up to me. He cannot be more than 11 years old, but looks as though he were practicing for a role as an short, obese 22 year old. He stops me, as many children do in Booth and Noble that night, to inquire about my costume.
“Who are you supposed to be,” he argumentatively asserts.
I stop. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Are you Hagrid?”
“Yes, I am Rubeus Hagrid.”
He appraises me: “Your beard’s not long enough, your hair isn’t black enough, your shirt’s too small, your belt isn’t right, and your dragon is upside-down.”
I looked at him. Then he walks past me, to find another costumed person to knock down to size.
The rest of the “music” time was spent cleaning up various things: books fell down, CDs were disorganized, the D&D players on the ground lost a 12-sided die. At 11 I took my break and at 11:30 walked back onto the book floor.
A small crowd had gathered around a teenaged boy wearing a green shirt and a baseball cap. He looked like a string bean.
He was a Spoiler.
Yelling the secrets of the book that had been leaked online a few hours earlier, he made children cry and grown men want to start beating their chests and ripping out their hair. Our managers, unable to take the onslaught of public outcry, rushed forward and brutally thrust him out of the store, onto the pavement.
Spoiler-boy was no more.
Of those that celebrated the ousting, the school-girl sluts were perhaps the most appreciative. I don’t know which House at Hogwarts they belonged to: perhaps a mysterious fifth house that had the talent of sexifying and cock-rubbery as their magical talents. I say this because these young women decided that it would behoove them to dress like cheap hookers at a Britney Spears talent show. Their outfits, short skirts that barely covered their bulging backsides and stockings that ended mid-thigh in a ruffle, would make a French Maid sit up and say, “oui?” The school tie and woolen vest made all the difference, as we Grunts were comforted knowing the three girls would not freeze.
But, then at midnight, the “Magic” started.
I removed the paltry beard and oversized cloak (oh yeah, I had a cloak too) and prepared for the on slot. In back of me: thirty to forty boxes of the book. In front of me: 500 people, eager, tired and developing a very strong odor.
As the bell sounds at 12:01 am, the huddled masses in all their glorious pageantry rush forward. The surge tallies forth. The tills ring and the cash flies.
I have a glance at my register and notice that the credit card machine is broken. This is just wonderful. I pull out my wand and yell “Reparo!” unaware, I believe, that magic does not actually work and that I was left holding a stick in my hand.
However, I am able to type in manually the credit card numbers, and commence doing so. After a few customers pay with their cards, a cash customer walks up.
“One copy of Harry Potter please” she says, handing over the $20.40. I type in the amount and hit the CASH button…and the drawer swings open with a hollow bang. There is no money in my drawer, just the remnants of a discarded receipt and a small dead bug.
The powers-that-be had neglected, in the adrenaline rush of the night, to get me any money.
From that moment on I was unable to accept any cash transactions.
This did not stop people from attempting to buy the book with cash, despite my warnings of dire punishment. One man even lied and said that he had exact change. He did not. I wouldn’t have been able to help him even if he did.
Finally, my last customer: 1am. He walks up to me and hands me his gift card.
“Does this have less than $20.40 on it?” I ask.
“Nope, it’s full.”
“I just want to make sure: I CANNOT give you change.”
“It will be fine.”
I ring him up. The total: $20.40. The gift card: $18.93. My last sale was a bust. The guy moved to the next cashier (Snape, whose register worked like a charm). I turned to face the crowd, Hagrid once again:
“ARGH!” I yelled into the empty book hall. “Wrart! Brarabaragh!”
The others looked at me, but I just turned away and smiled, serene in the knowledge that I had finally vanquished my dementors.
It now falls upon me, at this late hour, to detail the end of a dynasty. The world’s most popular fiction series was finished as of the 21st of July, and this particular Grunt had the particular pleasure of selling scores of copies to adoring fans. There were literally hundreds of obsessive and all-knowing fans flocking towards Booth and Noble, each and every one of them so anxious to get their copy that they were willing to eat puppies.
I am, of course, speaking of the release of the new Sylvia Browne book, So You Think You Can Speak to the Dead: Then Will You Please Tell Them to Turn Down the Music?
Ok, obviously I’m not. Obviously it is the much-anticipated release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows that brought all of us to Booth and Noble until 3 in the morning. This particular Grunt arrived at 6 in the evening, armed with a small container of fried chicken, for the Grunt Pot Luck, and the cobbled costume of half-giant Hagrid.
My role was two-fold. From 6 pm until 10 pm I watched the music department, and made sure than tomfoolery and willy-nilly-ness did not happen. I had nothing to worry about. From the moment I wandered into the store, passing by the two hundred people lining up outside to get their much-coveted wristband, I was completely enthralled by the complete emptiness of the music department.
Part of the uncomfortable nature of Hagrid’s costume stemmed from the large, fake beard worn around the neck. The other discomfort came from the combination of flannel shirt, corduroy trousers, and bodice wrapped towel around my waist; a combination that made temperatures in my body reach towards the heliosphere.
It can be argued, I am sure, that the pleasure of working the Harry Potter Midnight Madness Party and Booth and Noble is seeing the children smile with eagerness at finally, after ten years, discovering the end of the series. Seeing their wide grins and wide-open eyes should be enough to open up one’s hearts and let the Good in.
And then you meet Fat-Kid-In-Red.
I will be the first to admit that my costume was not the most expensive or realistic as can be. I decided early on in the costuming process (i.e., four o’clock that day) that MY Hagrid would be more of a HOBO Hagrid. I wore an oversize pair of green trousers, a pair of too-small combat boots (no laces), and a brown and red lumberjack shirt. In addition, I stuffed my shirt with a towel, bunched into a working-man’s beer belly. And I wore a large black beard, spirit-gummed to my already hirsute upper lip. In addition, I stapled a stuffed dragon onto my collar and held a small plastic umbrella.
I may not have been J. K.’s Hagrid, but I was most definitely Hagrid -- as if he were born in a barn and lived on the rails.
Anyway.
Fat-Kid-In-Red walks up to me. He cannot be more than 11 years old, but looks as though he were practicing for a role as an short, obese 22 year old. He stops me, as many children do in Booth and Noble that night, to inquire about my costume.
“Who are you supposed to be,” he argumentatively asserts.
I stop. “Who are you supposed to be?”
“Are you Hagrid?”
“Yes, I am Rubeus Hagrid.”
He appraises me: “Your beard’s not long enough, your hair isn’t black enough, your shirt’s too small, your belt isn’t right, and your dragon is upside-down.”
I looked at him. Then he walks past me, to find another costumed person to knock down to size.
The rest of the “music” time was spent cleaning up various things: books fell down, CDs were disorganized, the D&D players on the ground lost a 12-sided die. At 11 I took my break and at 11:30 walked back onto the book floor.
A small crowd had gathered around a teenaged boy wearing a green shirt and a baseball cap. He looked like a string bean.
He was a Spoiler.
Yelling the secrets of the book that had been leaked online a few hours earlier, he made children cry and grown men want to start beating their chests and ripping out their hair. Our managers, unable to take the onslaught of public outcry, rushed forward and brutally thrust him out of the store, onto the pavement.
Spoiler-boy was no more.
Of those that celebrated the ousting, the school-girl sluts were perhaps the most appreciative. I don’t know which House at Hogwarts they belonged to: perhaps a mysterious fifth house that had the talent of sexifying and cock-rubbery as their magical talents. I say this because these young women decided that it would behoove them to dress like cheap hookers at a Britney Spears talent show. Their outfits, short skirts that barely covered their bulging backsides and stockings that ended mid-thigh in a ruffle, would make a French Maid sit up and say, “oui?” The school tie and woolen vest made all the difference, as we Grunts were comforted knowing the three girls would not freeze.
But, then at midnight, the “Magic” started.
I removed the paltry beard and oversized cloak (oh yeah, I had a cloak too) and prepared for the on slot. In back of me: thirty to forty boxes of the book. In front of me: 500 people, eager, tired and developing a very strong odor.
As the bell sounds at 12:01 am, the huddled masses in all their glorious pageantry rush forward. The surge tallies forth. The tills ring and the cash flies.
I have a glance at my register and notice that the credit card machine is broken. This is just wonderful. I pull out my wand and yell “Reparo!” unaware, I believe, that magic does not actually work and that I was left holding a stick in my hand.
However, I am able to type in manually the credit card numbers, and commence doing so. After a few customers pay with their cards, a cash customer walks up.
“One copy of Harry Potter please” she says, handing over the $20.40. I type in the amount and hit the CASH button…and the drawer swings open with a hollow bang. There is no money in my drawer, just the remnants of a discarded receipt and a small dead bug.
The powers-that-be had neglected, in the adrenaline rush of the night, to get me any money.
From that moment on I was unable to accept any cash transactions.
This did not stop people from attempting to buy the book with cash, despite my warnings of dire punishment. One man even lied and said that he had exact change. He did not. I wouldn’t have been able to help him even if he did.
Finally, my last customer: 1am. He walks up to me and hands me his gift card.
“Does this have less than $20.40 on it?” I ask.
“Nope, it’s full.”
“I just want to make sure: I CANNOT give you change.”
“It will be fine.”
I ring him up. The total: $20.40. The gift card: $18.93. My last sale was a bust. The guy moved to the next cashier (Snape, whose register worked like a charm). I turned to face the crowd, Hagrid once again:
“ARGH!” I yelled into the empty book hall. “Wrart! Brarabaragh!”
The others looked at me, but I just turned away and smiled, serene in the knowledge that I had finally vanquished my dementors.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The Musical Experience
Hello.
So as I'm sitting in the music department of Booth and Noble (well, not sitting exactly, as the Higher-Ups at Booth and Noble think that a "stool" would indicate to the customers a general laziness on the parts of the Grunts. We Grunts feel that the fact we often stand around the counter reading Entertainment Weekly is a much better indication of our laziness, and we would enjoy the chance to gaze longingly from the vantage point of the three-legged wonder spot.)
Anyway. I'm standing there, processing yet another check, I cannot help but think about what a colossal waste of natural resources most of these "customers" are. It's not just the general waste of space they take up, but perhaps the phenomenally large amount of food they eat, the unnecessary air they breathe (don't they know there are people suffocating in China today?), or the fantastically angry-looking faces. Because these people write checks, I have to look at their driver's licenses. Because they haven't yet learned that a check card is exactly like a check, but faster, less likely to make a mistake, and less likely to get you spit at, I have to look at their ugly mugs.
And all I can think is "this is the product when lonely, ugly people get drunk to meet people."
* * * * *
A woman comes up to the counter. She looks kind of like a small balloon on short stilts. Her red shirt unfolds like a parachute across her expansive bosom of death. I imagine her children nursing and curling up like the Wicked Witch of the East.
She can barely reach her face over the counter, but she looks at me and says, "I'm looking for a DVD for a child who is rather heavy." And she stops, about faces, and scans the department.
I am unsure what to do. Does she want an exercise DVD, to help the child lose the "heavy"? Or does she want me to find a congratulatory DVD? Or one that portrays obesity in a positive light? (Hairspray doesn't come out for another few weeks). Perhaps she wants a DVD of Israel Kamakowiwo'ole singing "I Want Candy."
Well, she wants the exercise DVD. As I hand it to her I give her my member card speech and she looks at me like I'm trying to sell her second-rate crystal meth. "Why would I want that?" she asks. "My wallet is too heavy as it is."
"Perhaps," I respond, "we can find it an exercise DVD as well."
*****
A fifteen year old boy in a white, backwards baseball cap and an undershirt walks into the music department and comes up to me standing behind the counter.
"Emir," he says. And expectantly waits.
I think he's speaking another language to me. "Emir," I respond, bowing a little.
"Emir." He repeats himself and then folds his arms.
This can't be a greeting, I determine. So I look at him. "Do you want something?"
"Emir."
"Is that a DVD?"
"Emir."
"Is it a CD?"
"EMIR."
I type it in. Nothing of note comes up.
"Can you spell that?"
"Emmure."
OH! I exclaim and type it in. There's one CD and he scans it under our listening music station. The sound that emerges from the headphones sounds like what I imagine the death lament of a Transfomer would be. Or, perhaps, a thousand crying baby seals. Or the sound of one mime begetting another mime.
I'm all for mime-on-mime action.
Anyway, he listens to this music and, at 2:30 pm exactly, leaves the deparment.
"Now I'm totally pumped for my concert!" He exclaims into the air.
"Emir," I respond.
So as I'm sitting in the music department of Booth and Noble (well, not sitting exactly, as the Higher-Ups at Booth and Noble think that a "stool" would indicate to the customers a general laziness on the parts of the Grunts. We Grunts feel that the fact we often stand around the counter reading Entertainment Weekly is a much better indication of our laziness, and we would enjoy the chance to gaze longingly from the vantage point of the three-legged wonder spot.)
Anyway. I'm standing there, processing yet another check, I cannot help but think about what a colossal waste of natural resources most of these "customers" are. It's not just the general waste of space they take up, but perhaps the phenomenally large amount of food they eat, the unnecessary air they breathe (don't they know there are people suffocating in China today?), or the fantastically angry-looking faces. Because these people write checks, I have to look at their driver's licenses. Because they haven't yet learned that a check card is exactly like a check, but faster, less likely to make a mistake, and less likely to get you spit at, I have to look at their ugly mugs.
And all I can think is "this is the product when lonely, ugly people get drunk to meet people."
* * * * *
A woman comes up to the counter. She looks kind of like a small balloon on short stilts. Her red shirt unfolds like a parachute across her expansive bosom of death. I imagine her children nursing and curling up like the Wicked Witch of the East.
She can barely reach her face over the counter, but she looks at me and says, "I'm looking for a DVD for a child who is rather heavy." And she stops, about faces, and scans the department.
I am unsure what to do. Does she want an exercise DVD, to help the child lose the "heavy"? Or does she want me to find a congratulatory DVD? Or one that portrays obesity in a positive light? (Hairspray doesn't come out for another few weeks). Perhaps she wants a DVD of Israel Kamakowiwo'ole singing "I Want Candy."
Well, she wants the exercise DVD. As I hand it to her I give her my member card speech and she looks at me like I'm trying to sell her second-rate crystal meth. "Why would I want that?" she asks. "My wallet is too heavy as it is."
"Perhaps," I respond, "we can find it an exercise DVD as well."
*****
A fifteen year old boy in a white, backwards baseball cap and an undershirt walks into the music department and comes up to me standing behind the counter.
"Emir," he says. And expectantly waits.
I think he's speaking another language to me. "Emir," I respond, bowing a little.
"Emir." He repeats himself and then folds his arms.
This can't be a greeting, I determine. So I look at him. "Do you want something?"
"Emir."
"Is that a DVD?"
"Emir."
"Is it a CD?"
"EMIR."
I type it in. Nothing of note comes up.
"Can you spell that?"
"Emmure."
OH! I exclaim and type it in. There's one CD and he scans it under our listening music station. The sound that emerges from the headphones sounds like what I imagine the death lament of a Transfomer would be. Or, perhaps, a thousand crying baby seals. Or the sound of one mime begetting another mime.
I'm all for mime-on-mime action.
Anyway, he listens to this music and, at 2:30 pm exactly, leaves the deparment.
"Now I'm totally pumped for my concert!" He exclaims into the air.
"Emir," I respond.
Monday, July 9, 2007
Harry Potter and the Deathly Grunts
Hello.
It’s getting close to Harry Potter (Book 7) time at Booth and Noble, and things could not be any more hectic. Children are screaming; parents are fuming; Grunts are laughing at the funny looking people.
And I am once again astounded by the absurd reality in which we live.
For example, a pregnant woman walks up to the Information Kiosk with a determined look in her eye. And a baby inside her stomach (she was pregnant, but I also think she had eaten a child).
As she walks up, she slams her fist on the counter. “Is this where I order that Harry Potter?”
“Yes,” I say, typing the ISBN number quickly into the computer. “How many copies would you like?”
“Oh,” she laughs heartily, “just the one.” Then she rubs her stomach in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Gordon Ramsey rubbing spice into a hunk of red meat.
I order the book for her, she thanks me, and walks away. Then she stops, and turns, and heads back to the kiosk. “I have another question,” she says, basting her belly.
“Yes,” I sigh like a man on death row.
“I just want to make sure: is this the first edition?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The first edition of Harry Potter. Is the book I ordered a first edition?” The large gold medallions hung around her neck swing back and forth, hypnotizing me.
“You mean, the book that is being released around the world to fanfare and hundreds of thousands of eager adults and children?”
“Yes.”
“The book that the world has literally been waiting ten years for? The one that answers all the question? The book that J. K. Rowling has put in her will in case she dies?”
“Yes.”
“…Then yes, it is a first edition.”
But not everyone is super excited about Harry Potter. I was working in the music department when a woman walks up to me, her children leashed to her like it was the iditarod. A veritable cloud of cigar smoke curled around her sneered lips as she opened her craggy mouth with a creaking slurg.
“Ai’im lookin’ fur France-sis the Takin’ Moole.”
“Excuse me?”
“That Moole moo-vy. I want the France-sis Moole moo-vie.”
“Francis the Talking Mule?”
“Thaits what Ai sayd.”
I quickly look on the computer. “I see a couple of movies, here:” and I name them for her.
She gets a pained look on her face, like she was passing a watermelon. “Ees eet the moole moo-vy?”
I say, “Yes, it’s a Francis the Talking Mule Movie.”
“Ai want the woon with the Moole.”
“Yes, this is the one with the mule.”
“The woon wit the takin’ moole?’
“Yes, the one with the talking mule.”
“Are yu shoore?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“The takin’ moole?”
“YES! DAMN IT YES!”
“Ai want eet.”
“I can order that for you.” And then I ordered it for her. After it was ordered, she dragged her poor children around like deflated balloons.
I shook my head as she left, aware for not the first time that the very fate of human kind hung in the balance.
The next shift at the Information Kiosk found more people attempting to interact with me. The highlight of this interaction may have been the man who loudly informed the store that he would rather have a $40,000 guitar than work in a bookstore. I asked if they were mutually exclusive activities.
Turns out, guitars are different from bookstores. But I guess I didn’t need to tell you that.
It’s getting close to Harry Potter (Book 7) time at Booth and Noble, and things could not be any more hectic. Children are screaming; parents are fuming; Grunts are laughing at the funny looking people.
And I am once again astounded by the absurd reality in which we live.
For example, a pregnant woman walks up to the Information Kiosk with a determined look in her eye. And a baby inside her stomach (she was pregnant, but I also think she had eaten a child).
As she walks up, she slams her fist on the counter. “Is this where I order that Harry Potter?”
“Yes,” I say, typing the ISBN number quickly into the computer. “How many copies would you like?”
“Oh,” she laughs heartily, “just the one.” Then she rubs her stomach in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Gordon Ramsey rubbing spice into a hunk of red meat.
I order the book for her, she thanks me, and walks away. Then she stops, and turns, and heads back to the kiosk. “I have another question,” she says, basting her belly.
“Yes,” I sigh like a man on death row.
“I just want to make sure: is this the first edition?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The first edition of Harry Potter. Is the book I ordered a first edition?” The large gold medallions hung around her neck swing back and forth, hypnotizing me.
“You mean, the book that is being released around the world to fanfare and hundreds of thousands of eager adults and children?”
“Yes.”
“The book that the world has literally been waiting ten years for? The one that answers all the question? The book that J. K. Rowling has put in her will in case she dies?”
“Yes.”
“…Then yes, it is a first edition.”
But not everyone is super excited about Harry Potter. I was working in the music department when a woman walks up to me, her children leashed to her like it was the iditarod. A veritable cloud of cigar smoke curled around her sneered lips as she opened her craggy mouth with a creaking slurg.
“Ai’im lookin’ fur France-sis the Takin’ Moole.”
“Excuse me?”
“That Moole moo-vy. I want the France-sis Moole moo-vie.”
“Francis the Talking Mule?”
“Thaits what Ai sayd.”
I quickly look on the computer. “I see a couple of movies, here:” and I name them for her.
She gets a pained look on her face, like she was passing a watermelon. “Ees eet the moole moo-vy?”
I say, “Yes, it’s a Francis the Talking Mule Movie.”
“Ai want the woon with the Moole.”
“Yes, this is the one with the mule.”
“The woon wit the takin’ moole?’
“Yes, the one with the talking mule.”
“Are yu shoore?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“The takin’ moole?”
“YES! DAMN IT YES!”
“Ai want eet.”
“I can order that for you.” And then I ordered it for her. After it was ordered, she dragged her poor children around like deflated balloons.
I shook my head as she left, aware for not the first time that the very fate of human kind hung in the balance.
The next shift at the Information Kiosk found more people attempting to interact with me. The highlight of this interaction may have been the man who loudly informed the store that he would rather have a $40,000 guitar than work in a bookstore. I asked if they were mutually exclusive activities.
Turns out, guitars are different from bookstores. But I guess I didn’t need to tell you that.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Children, and the Experiment of Life at Booth and Noble
Hello.
Apologies for the length of time between posts. Turns out -- I was on vacation last week! My affairs, however, are now in order and it is time to return to the wasteland that is Booth and Noble.
The past couple of times I've worked as a Grunt I've been surprised by the ineptitude of children. Turns out, they're not very intelligent. Or considerate. Or quiet.
See, it's "summer reading" time at Booth and Noble, which means that parents drag their grade school children and teenagers to the Booth and Noble to get them books -- people that have never cracked a book in their life are now "helping" their progeny find a book that they will never actually read. These illiterate children pick up the book like it's made of seaweed and wrinkle their noses like it smells like seaweed, and then hand the book to their parents to purchase, like seaweed. Perhaps we should ban them from entering the store.
I'm all for children's literacy. I think Harry Potter is really good. (I do, really!). I think it's great that children are reading, and that books have opened up their imagination and kept them inside and away from all the places I go, like bus stops, restaurants, and restrooms.
However, these children do come into Booth and Noble, so I guess I'm not completely free of them. They stand in the middle of the aisle, having not yet been taught by their parents (or any capable authority figure) the proper way to get out of the way.
In fact, this seems to be the problem here. Children themselves are lovely, cute, edible people. But when they aren't taught by adults to behave in an adult world, or when they are coddled to the point of lunacy, or when they are allowed to roam freely around screaming like they're on fire because the parents think that their precious little darling is more important than any other people in the store -- This is when the lovely, cute, edible people become denizens of the dark lord.
Anyway, what's been happening is that these children are running willy-nilly through the store, like they own the place.
The thing is, they do not. Booth and Noble own the place. Booth and Noble's policy is that I can kick kids in the face.
What this means is that I'm completely on edge, all the time, at work. When scores of kids run around because their parents let them act like douche bags, I become agitated. And I cannot give good customer service when I'm agitated.
So a father comes up to me yesterday and asks for some help, I am not as helpful as I could be.
He emerges from the test preparation books and asks, "I'm looking for a book that will help my daughter with Chemistry and Physics."
I ask, in reply, "Is she studying for a test? Do you want a test preparation book?" I thought to myself, perhaps he couldn't find the proper book in the test preparation books.
"No," he flatly says. "I want a book that will help her review concepts."
I decide to press this one step further, just to be sure.
"Many text preparation books have review in them. Are you sure it's not for a test?" I mean, it's July. Who buys a review book for the daughter after they've graduated?
"No, I need a review book." He is adamant.
So I take him to the science section -- all the way across the expanse of Booth and Noble. I hand him a good, solid review book of chemistry concepts, and a good, solid book of physics concepts. He looks at them and then turns to me.
"Will these help her study for the SAT?"
I looked at him like he had just dropped his trousers and shat on the floor.
"No, for that you'd want a TEST PREPARATION book." I lead him back to THE EXACT SAME SECTION as he had JUST LEFT and handed him the EXACT BOOK he had been looking at.
I'm not against children. Or against children reading. Maybe what I'm against are parents interfering with their children reading. Every day in the children's department at Booth and Noble we have parents telling their kids, "no, you don't want to read that." Or, "that book is too old for you." Or, worse yet, "you're not smart enough for that book." It's horrifying, knowing that our future is being told, at age 7, that they're too stupid for a book.
Maybe it's not children that should be banned from Booth and Noble, but parents.
Apologies for the length of time between posts. Turns out -- I was on vacation last week! My affairs, however, are now in order and it is time to return to the wasteland that is Booth and Noble.
The past couple of times I've worked as a Grunt I've been surprised by the ineptitude of children. Turns out, they're not very intelligent. Or considerate. Or quiet.
See, it's "summer reading" time at Booth and Noble, which means that parents drag their grade school children and teenagers to the Booth and Noble to get them books -- people that have never cracked a book in their life are now "helping" their progeny find a book that they will never actually read. These illiterate children pick up the book like it's made of seaweed and wrinkle their noses like it smells like seaweed, and then hand the book to their parents to purchase, like seaweed. Perhaps we should ban them from entering the store.
I'm all for children's literacy. I think Harry Potter is really good. (I do, really!). I think it's great that children are reading, and that books have opened up their imagination and kept them inside and away from all the places I go, like bus stops, restaurants, and restrooms.
However, these children do come into Booth and Noble, so I guess I'm not completely free of them. They stand in the middle of the aisle, having not yet been taught by their parents (or any capable authority figure) the proper way to get out of the way.
In fact, this seems to be the problem here. Children themselves are lovely, cute, edible people. But when they aren't taught by adults to behave in an adult world, or when they are coddled to the point of lunacy, or when they are allowed to roam freely around screaming like they're on fire because the parents think that their precious little darling is more important than any other people in the store -- This is when the lovely, cute, edible people become denizens of the dark lord.
Anyway, what's been happening is that these children are running willy-nilly through the store, like they own the place.
The thing is, they do not. Booth and Noble own the place. Booth and Noble's policy is that I can kick kids in the face.
What this means is that I'm completely on edge, all the time, at work. When scores of kids run around because their parents let them act like douche bags, I become agitated. And I cannot give good customer service when I'm agitated.
So a father comes up to me yesterday and asks for some help, I am not as helpful as I could be.
He emerges from the test preparation books and asks, "I'm looking for a book that will help my daughter with Chemistry and Physics."
I ask, in reply, "Is she studying for a test? Do you want a test preparation book?" I thought to myself, perhaps he couldn't find the proper book in the test preparation books.
"No," he flatly says. "I want a book that will help her review concepts."
I decide to press this one step further, just to be sure.
"Many text preparation books have review in them. Are you sure it's not for a test?" I mean, it's July. Who buys a review book for the daughter after they've graduated?
"No, I need a review book." He is adamant.
So I take him to the science section -- all the way across the expanse of Booth and Noble. I hand him a good, solid review book of chemistry concepts, and a good, solid book of physics concepts. He looks at them and then turns to me.
"Will these help her study for the SAT?"
I looked at him like he had just dropped his trousers and shat on the floor.
"No, for that you'd want a TEST PREPARATION book." I lead him back to THE EXACT SAME SECTION as he had JUST LEFT and handed him the EXACT BOOK he had been looking at.
I'm not against children. Or against children reading. Maybe what I'm against are parents interfering with their children reading. Every day in the children's department at Booth and Noble we have parents telling their kids, "no, you don't want to read that." Or, "that book is too old for you." Or, worse yet, "you're not smart enough for that book." It's horrifying, knowing that our future is being told, at age 7, that they're too stupid for a book.
Maybe it's not children that should be banned from Booth and Noble, but parents.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Music Post II: The Return of George
Hello.
Since it had been a week between my last two posts, I had accumulated sordid stories from across Booth and Noble. What follows is a small sampling of them:
"The Return of George"
Some of you may remember George. George is one of those customers that never seem to leave Booth and Noble. There are about five or six people who decide, for whatever reason, that Booth and Noble, a place of business, would be a fine place to spend their every waking hour. They arrive when the store opens, buy one small coffee (and numerous refills), and stay in the store until it approximately closes. We call these people "regulars," which is about as ironic a name as you can get, because they are anything but regular people. Those we Grunts like get called by their name. The ones we Grunts don't like get referred to by their identifying characteristics: "the professor," "smelly man with headphones," "euro-trash."
For some, however, we can't but help know their name.
For those of you that don't know George (not his real name, unfortunately), or don't know to whom I refer, I will illustrate with a quick recap of a previous post:
"A little while later, George walks in. Perhaps I should describe George for you so that you get an idea of what he looks like.
George is over six foot tall and large. I wouldn't call him obese, but he obviously enjoys a good OCB five or six times a week. He's in his late 40s, early 50s and he always wears a ridiculous trucker's hat. … He wears a bluetooth in his ear at all times, even though I have never seen (or heard -- importantly, you will see) him on the phone. He is permanently in need of a shave.
Also, George also cannot control the volume of his voice.
Some would call this tragic. Others would say, then George should watch what he says. However, neither of these would be appropriate for George. The first time I met him, he asked me (loudly) if I had any DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS!
Anyway, yesterday he walks in and he screams (and I mean SCREAM - he's talking FULL VOLUME and can be heard ALL OVER THE STORE) "I'M LOOKING FOR MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR BY ELTON JOHN."
I say, "I think The Beatles did that."
He screams, "I KNOW THE BEATLES DID IT. I WANT THE ELTON JOHN VERSION."
Perhaps I'm unfamiliar with it, so I look it up. But I didn't find it. I tell him so.
George then remarks: "I WILL BROWSE NOW." The guy reminds me of Andre the Giant.
He wanders around Soul for a while until he comes back and screams, "DO YOU HAVE THE PONY SONG?"
"What?"
"THE SONG ABOUT RIDING A PONY?"
"I'm not familiar with it. Do you have a title?"
"NO, BUT I CAN SING IT." And this is where he starts singing, top of his lungs, "RIDE....MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEE! MY PONY!" And as if I didn't understand this, he then starts dancing.
His dance involves an oddly stilted undulation and a strict up and down movement, as if one was indeed riding a pony. He does, however, offer the occasional "smack" onto the pony's rear end...and then, yes, begins to sing again.
"RIDE...MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEEE! MY PONY!" SMACK! "RIDING MY PONY!"
Although I’m familiar with the song, I never ever want to hear it again."
I wrote those words, back when this blog was an infant of blogs (a blogette). Since then, George has not come back into Booth and Noble -- at least, not when I was working.
At least, not until the other day.
George lumbers in, on a mission.
"I NEED TO WAIT UNTIL MY CAR IS REPAIRED."
I look at him. "Ok, can I find anything for you?"
"DO YOU HAVE THE HONEYMOONERS, SEASON 3?"
A quick check on the computer reveals that we do not. I tell him so, my voice quivering through the sheer inertia that his voice powers through the air.
"VERY WELL. MY CAR DOES NOT START."
"I'm sorry. Looks like you're..." and that's when it hits me. "...stuck here." I sigh, audibly. "How long until it's repaired?"
"THEY TELL ME AN HOUR." Inwardly, I cheer. Outwardly, I ... well ... cheer.
Later, however, George wanders back into the music department. He examines some DVDs and then his phone -- his bluetooth -- starts to ring off the hook (off the ear?).
"HELLO? WHAT? YES. BOOTH AND NOBLE. DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS. NO. NO. NO. FINE." He touches a button on his ear and turns to me. "MY CAR WON'T BE READY FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS. DO YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT WELCOME BACK KOTTER?"
That's not the most agitating thing about working in the music department, though. What really ends up being the turning point from a good day to a bad (and they all pretty much hinge on one or two customers) are the People that Assume Too Much (the PATM). The PATM assume that a) because I work in music I must know every single song on the radio at the moment and b) that I care what they think about music.
A) A gentleman comes into Booth and Noble with a request: do we have a particular song, by a particular artist? It is a normal enough question -- at least, normal enough for Booth and Noble, where our average customer is less-than-literate.
However, what is amazing is that this gentleman doesn't know 1) the artist or 2) the song title. He does, as he points out however, know how the song goes. And then he proceeds to sing it for me. Not with words, mind you -- that would be too easy. No, he sings it with "tra"s and "la"s and "fa"s, like a beautiful aria from Puccini.
Needless to say, I have no idea what he is singing. A random grouping of notes, sung off-tune by an obese man with a beard, does not a jukebox make.
B) A woman rushes into Booth and Noble's music department with an urgent -- URGENT -- request.
"I must have Nickelback's album," she practically screams at me. I lead her to the "Nickelback" area of the Pop Rock section, helpfully labeled "N" right after "M" and right before "O."
She grabs the album and races me back to the cash register. I saunter, because I don't care and I'm not in a rush.
She impatiently taps on the counter.
"Come on!"
I wind my way back behind the counter and ring up her order. I do not make polite chit-chat because 1) I don't care and 2) she is annoyingly too excited about Nickelback.
She, however, wants to be best friends with me. "Do you love Nickelback?" she asks me. "No," I honestly reply. "Why not?" she demands. "I don't know," I truthfully say. "I really wish I did though." That was a lie. A lie to make her feel better.
She then whips out her phone. "You know how much I love Nickelback?" I shook my head, afraid that she was about to call the lead singer of Nickelback to tell her she was horny for him.
She hit a button.
A song started playing.
A Nickelback song.
"That's how much." And she smiled a sweet smile, as if to say, "I love Nickelback more than anything in the world."
Because nothing says "love" like a ringtone.
Since it had been a week between my last two posts, I had accumulated sordid stories from across Booth and Noble. What follows is a small sampling of them:
"The Return of George"
Some of you may remember George. George is one of those customers that never seem to leave Booth and Noble. There are about five or six people who decide, for whatever reason, that Booth and Noble, a place of business, would be a fine place to spend their every waking hour. They arrive when the store opens, buy one small coffee (and numerous refills), and stay in the store until it approximately closes. We call these people "regulars," which is about as ironic a name as you can get, because they are anything but regular people. Those we Grunts like get called by their name. The ones we Grunts don't like get referred to by their identifying characteristics: "the professor," "smelly man with headphones," "euro-trash."
For some, however, we can't but help know their name.
For those of you that don't know George (not his real name, unfortunately), or don't know to whom I refer, I will illustrate with a quick recap of a previous post:
"A little while later, George walks in. Perhaps I should describe George for you so that you get an idea of what he looks like.
George is over six foot tall and large. I wouldn't call him obese, but he obviously enjoys a good OCB five or six times a week. He's in his late 40s, early 50s and he always wears a ridiculous trucker's hat. … He wears a bluetooth in his ear at all times, even though I have never seen (or heard -- importantly, you will see) him on the phone. He is permanently in need of a shave.
Also, George also cannot control the volume of his voice.
Some would call this tragic. Others would say, then George should watch what he says. However, neither of these would be appropriate for George. The first time I met him, he asked me (loudly) if I had any DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS!
Anyway, yesterday he walks in and he screams (and I mean SCREAM - he's talking FULL VOLUME and can be heard ALL OVER THE STORE) "I'M LOOKING FOR MAGICAL MYSTERY TOUR BY ELTON JOHN."
I say, "I think The Beatles did that."
He screams, "I KNOW THE BEATLES DID IT. I WANT THE ELTON JOHN VERSION."
Perhaps I'm unfamiliar with it, so I look it up. But I didn't find it. I tell him so.
George then remarks: "I WILL BROWSE NOW." The guy reminds me of Andre the Giant.
He wanders around Soul for a while until he comes back and screams, "DO YOU HAVE THE PONY SONG?"
"What?"
"THE SONG ABOUT RIDING A PONY?"
"I'm not familiar with it. Do you have a title?"
"NO, BUT I CAN SING IT." And this is where he starts singing, top of his lungs, "RIDE....MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEE! MY PONY!" And as if I didn't understand this, he then starts dancing.
His dance involves an oddly stilted undulation and a strict up and down movement, as if one was indeed riding a pony. He does, however, offer the occasional "smack" onto the pony's rear end...and then, yes, begins to sing again.
"RIDE...MY PONY! RIIIIIIIDDDDDDEEEE! MY PONY!" SMACK! "RIDING MY PONY!"
Although I’m familiar with the song, I never ever want to hear it again."
I wrote those words, back when this blog was an infant of blogs (a blogette). Since then, George has not come back into Booth and Noble -- at least, not when I was working.
At least, not until the other day.
George lumbers in, on a mission.
"I NEED TO WAIT UNTIL MY CAR IS REPAIRED."
I look at him. "Ok, can I find anything for you?"
"DO YOU HAVE THE HONEYMOONERS, SEASON 3?"
A quick check on the computer reveals that we do not. I tell him so, my voice quivering through the sheer inertia that his voice powers through the air.
"VERY WELL. MY CAR DOES NOT START."
"I'm sorry. Looks like you're..." and that's when it hits me. "...stuck here." I sigh, audibly. "How long until it's repaired?"
"THEY TELL ME AN HOUR." Inwardly, I cheer. Outwardly, I ... well ... cheer.
Later, however, George wanders back into the music department. He examines some DVDs and then his phone -- his bluetooth -- starts to ring off the hook (off the ear?).
"HELLO? WHAT? YES. BOOTH AND NOBLE. DOCUMENTARIES ABOUT SHARKS. NO. NO. NO. FINE." He touches a button on his ear and turns to me. "MY CAR WON'T BE READY FOR ANOTHER TWO HOURS. DO YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT WELCOME BACK KOTTER?"
That's not the most agitating thing about working in the music department, though. What really ends up being the turning point from a good day to a bad (and they all pretty much hinge on one or two customers) are the People that Assume Too Much (the PATM). The PATM assume that a) because I work in music I must know every single song on the radio at the moment and b) that I care what they think about music.
A) A gentleman comes into Booth and Noble with a request: do we have a particular song, by a particular artist? It is a normal enough question -- at least, normal enough for Booth and Noble, where our average customer is less-than-literate.
However, what is amazing is that this gentleman doesn't know 1) the artist or 2) the song title. He does, as he points out however, know how the song goes. And then he proceeds to sing it for me. Not with words, mind you -- that would be too easy. No, he sings it with "tra"s and "la"s and "fa"s, like a beautiful aria from Puccini.
Needless to say, I have no idea what he is singing. A random grouping of notes, sung off-tune by an obese man with a beard, does not a jukebox make.
B) A woman rushes into Booth and Noble's music department with an urgent -- URGENT -- request.
"I must have Nickelback's album," she practically screams at me. I lead her to the "Nickelback" area of the Pop Rock section, helpfully labeled "N" right after "M" and right before "O."
She grabs the album and races me back to the cash register. I saunter, because I don't care and I'm not in a rush.
She impatiently taps on the counter.
"Come on!"
I wind my way back behind the counter and ring up her order. I do not make polite chit-chat because 1) I don't care and 2) she is annoyingly too excited about Nickelback.
She, however, wants to be best friends with me. "Do you love Nickelback?" she asks me. "No," I honestly reply. "Why not?" she demands. "I don't know," I truthfully say. "I really wish I did though." That was a lie. A lie to make her feel better.
She then whips out her phone. "You know how much I love Nickelback?" I shook my head, afraid that she was about to call the lead singer of Nickelback to tell her she was horny for him.
She hit a button.
A song started playing.
A Nickelback song.
"That's how much." And she smiled a sweet smile, as if to say, "I love Nickelback more than anything in the world."
Because nothing says "love" like a ringtone.
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