DISGRUNTLED BOOKSELLER

Hey, Cheeky Monkeys

2006-06-18T01:29:00.000-05:00

Hi. Sorry I haven't blogged in a while. I've been working on other stuff. If you're a former coworker, send me a message* so I can share said other stuff.

*™Deliberately Vague Hints

A Few Facts

2006-05-15T22:04:00.000-05:00

Fact: When Big Bookstore needed someone to fill gaps in the schedule, I was always available. I would estimate that I responded positively to 90% of the calls I received asking me to fill shifts on short notice. The only time I turned them down was when I absolutely had other commitments.

Fact: In eight and a half years of working at Big Bookstore I called out sick for four full shifts. Four. In eight and a half years. I've known booksellers who couldn't make that claim for one month, let alone eight years.

Fact: I never received less than the second highest possible rating on performance evaluations. I was told that the last performance evaluation I received was among the two highest in the entire store that year - for all employees, supervisory and otherwise.

Fact: I provided excellent customer service to Big Bookstore's customers. Our store's single largest customer, a man who spends about 5K per month in the store, has requested me by name for the last three years. Over that time, I've ordered over 1100 out-of-print books for him, and countless hundreds of in-print books. Virtually everything he has purchased for the last three years has been ordered by me, and his purchases account for a significant percentage of the store's annual corporate sales.

Fact: Last year, I won the monthly customer service award.

Fact: Last month I had the highest total percentage of membership sign-ups.

Fact: I can count on one hand the number of cashier errors I've made in the last year.

Fact: The last GM thought highly enough of me to beg me to become the Training Supervisor. I accepted even though it meant working two full-time jobs, because the store needed me. As we agreed beforehand, I stepped down after six months when the holiday period ended.

Fact: When Big Bookstore desperately needed Cafe staff last year, I volunteered to cross-train, then spent the next six weeks doing closing shifts in the Cafe six nights a week until the staff situation improved.

Tell me again why I'm a bad bookseller?

Welcome Big Bookstore Overlords!

2006-05-14T22:00:00.000-05:00

d00ds. What took you so long? I've only been writing this thing since 2004. I'm totally chuffed to see that you finally found me. I don't know how you found me, but, HEY! Now, I don't really have to care! w00t!

Perhaps the fact that this is the first time I've ever seen hits from the Big Bookstore corporate servers is a sign that I did an excellent job of obfuscating your precise identity. And I'll continue to do so because I think, in the end, that the disgruntled bookseller experience is a universal one to which all big box bookstore employees can relate.

So pull up a chair. Read. Enjoy. If you've ever spent any time on the frontlines at Big Bookstore, I feel reasonably certain you'll find experiences to which you can relate as well.

You Love Me! You Really Love Me!

2006-05-12T22:17:00.000-05:00

I received 498 copies of the following message.

In a community to which I belong, we describe things like this message as "found object self-awareness." In other words, the sender lacks conscious self-awareness of her own flaws, but manages to express her unconscious awareness by ascribing those attributes to others. I've highlighted the relevant terms for your convenience:

From: shelvingnazi@gmail.com
To: ereshkigal45@yahoo.com
Subject: All Booksellers Must Shelve MY way!
Date: Thu, 11 May 2006 21:47:35 -0700 (PDT)

Well, Lisa my darling, I LOVED your post about me!

I admit, you're right that shelving books is not trivial at a Big
Bookstore; however, your obsession with your little cart seems a bit over
the top, even for a control freak. I feel pity for you -- harboring such
animosity towards the world almost always signals a serious emotional
problem. Did you ever notice how the shelving gets done every day, even
when your colleagues don't follow your supposedly "superior" method?
Did you think that you were a manager for some oddball reason, with
authority to tell people what to do? Could your emotional brinksmanship
hinge on the fact that you realize that YOU'RE a "COW"-worker like the
others, only in girth and not in herd mentality?

Who knows? And now that you're home sweet gone, who cares?

Cheers! It's been great!

shelvingnazi

P.S. Perhaps if you relaxed with the obessessive tallying of relative
hours at said Big Bookstore you might not need a "substitute for the
lonelies."

As I say, I received 498 copies of this message. Four hundred and ninety eight. Yay! Someone has a new hobby!

Fan Mail!

2006-05-10T21:00:00.000-05:00

Bookseller posted this question in a comment to my previous entry:

Bookseller said...
um, just to clear up the air here.... eresh... did u really quit big bookstore? and, if not, are u still keeping this blog?

2:03 PM

Yes, Bookseller. It's true. I really quit Big Bookstore. No, I wasn't fired. I'm not saying that I wouldn't have been fired if I hadn't quit. Who can say? A manager at another store said that our new GM had "big problems with the staff" and "a lot of cleaning out to do." So, perhaps I was just the first sweep of the broom. Or perhaps I jumped the gun. Again, who can say what would have happened if I hadn't reached my personal breaking point.

As for the blog, I haven't really decided what to do with it yet. I certainly have a few more things to say, and will do so as time permits. And then? Perhaps I will be Disgruntled Civil Servant, although that certainly presents fewer comedic possibilities. And of course, I plan to continue being a Big Bookstore customer. It will be a luxury to spend time in the store actually shopping in a leisurely fashion rather than rushing around on a half-hour dinner break. So perhaps I will become Disgruntled Customer.

My next message comes from some anonymous individual, who apparently felt strongly enough about this to send me 100 copies of the same message:

From: lisa*isaslovenlyfatbody@gmail.com
To: ereshkigal45@yahoo.com
Subject: So sorry you were fired Lisa *, but, well, you ARE a slovenly fatbody...
Date: Tue, 09 May 2006 23:12:42 -0700 (PDT)

You poor thing, now you're a disgruntled EX-bookseller.

Ah, the satisfaction that everyone at Big Bookstore is now rejoicing at your eagerly-awaited departure! Your anal obsession with something as trivial as SHELVING is pathetic and childish. It's so sad that someone telling you that she has no intention on following idiotic mandates from a non-manager propels you to such a lowly state of cyber-rage.

By the way, Weight Watchers is an excellent program that you might want to look into before you have a heart attack, you unsightly spinster.

Cheerfully yours,
Lisa*IsASlovenlyFatbody

P.S. Maybe now you can get a life on those previously lonely Friday and Saturday nights! Well, then again, you ARE Lisa * and not especially charming...

A mature, thoughtful message to be sure.

I have no doubt that some of the folks at Big Bookstore rejoice at my departure. In fact, I'm reasonably certain that not a few people sang choruses of "Ding dong, the witch is dead." Being disliked by slackers hasn't ever bothered me. The job was not a popularity contest. I did my best to give Big Bookstore the best possible work product and I expected those around me to have the same work ethic. Those who didn't like me were generally those who felt hard work was either not a requirement of the job or was beneath them. I'm also not really surprised that the sender thinks shelving is "trivial." Those with bookselling clue will know that shelving, and shelving correctly are pretty significant elements of the job.

I've been really bolstered by all of those friends, coworkers and former coworkers from Big Bookstore who have called me or sent me messages of support. I had dinner with three of them last night and we laughed until our stomachs hurt. The friends I made during my tenure at Big Bookstore will remain my friends for years to come.

The P.S. brings up an interesting point. I never made it a secret that working at Big Bookstore was a substitute for the lonelies. Life can be lonely sometimes. There's no shame in admitting that. Perhaps the sender is lucky enough or, more likely, young enough not to have discovered this. And there's no shame in admitting that perhaps some of my weekends will be lonelier without the cameraderie of my Big Bookstore family. But I'm not the same person who started working there eight and a half years ago. As a direct result of some of my Big Bookstore relationships, I'm more resilient now. As for my future weekends? I've got three invitations for Memorial Day weekend: an invitation to visit friends (and former Big Bookstore coworkers) in Florida, an invitation to visit friends in NYC, and a tentative reunion with some old girlfriends I haven't seen in a while. It seems that perhaps there was no need, after all, to fill my weekends with work.

One final point. The sender calls me "pathetic and childish," talks about my "lowly state of cyber-rage," and says that maybe now I can "get a life." Let's note for the record that the sender sent the message 100 times, and that the first message was sent at 10:44 p.m. last night and the last message was sent at 11:13 p.m. That's 27 minutes of hitting the send button. I don't think I need to state the conclusion here.

Epilogue

2006-05-06T22:14:00.000-05:00

I moved this comment to my previous post here, because it deserves to be more than a comment. It deserves to be a post of it's own. Because it contained my name as well as the poster's, I've deleted the original comment, but other than editing out names, I have made no other changes.

K*** said...

Dear Lisa *,

Twenty-Nothing Cunty McSmartass here. Thought you'd post something about me on your bitchy little blog.

The fact that I work there forty hours a week means that I spend almost as much time as Border's as I do at home, which kind of makes it a second home. No matter how long you have worked there, your part-time status means that you are merely a former tenant, an unfortunate visitor in our (the larger staff's) home. In our home, the way that we shelve is decidedly different from your--yes, inefficient--method of shelving, despite your indignant declaration that "this is the way we've always done it." Which clearly is not true, not only from my personal knowledge, but the fact that you posted a diagram of how you want the book cart to look, indicating that you were upset at how things were being done even before I got there (for the record, I've been there for four months, not two).

I love working at Border's. The staff, even on their bad days, are smart, competent, hard-working, and largely delightful people. Despite your protestations and commentary to the contrary, the store functions just fine in the eighty-six hours of the week that you are not there.

Now this is a fine, fine rebuttal. But let's examine it in detail, shall we? (Sorry. I'm a lawyer. This kind of close textual analysis is what we do.)

First paragraph:

OK. Nothing to disagree with here. Cunty McSmartass seems to accept her new cognomen. That's cool.

I'm not sure what the second sentence means, but it seems to imply that I thought I would be getting away with something by posting about Friday night. Not really sure what that's all about, quite frankly.

Finally, it calls my blog "bitchy" and "little." Again, no disagreements. This blog isn't changing the world. And I keep referrer logs, so I know precisely how small my audience is. And bitchy? If it wasn't bitchy, what would be the point, I ask you?

Second Paragraph:

Much more meat here.

Cunty McSmartass (let's just call her Cunty for short, K?) asserts in her first sentence that being a full-timer at Big Bookstore "kind of makes it a second home." Again, full agreement here. I totally get how working someplace, particularly a place like Big Bookstore, makes it a second home. But watch very closely how Cunty goes completely off the rails in the next sentence.

In the second sentence, Cunty asserts that as a part-timer, I am merely a visitor in the "home" that Big Bookstore functions as for the "larger staff." I don't even know where to begin with this. Yes, I only work 18 hours a week at present to Cunty's 35. But in the course of the last eight and a half years, I spent more than four years working full-time. And even during the times when I had a day job, and was technically part-time, there were periods when I averaged more than 30 hours a week at Big Bookstore. I'm just not sure how I'm less qualified to call Big Bookstore my second home based on those numbers.

Let's crunch said numbers. For the sake of argument, let's say that over the course of the last 8 and half years I've averaged 25 hours a week. I think that's probably on the low side, but I don't want to overplay the hand. That would mean that over the last 442 weeks, I have put in over 11,000 hours at Big Bookstore. Cunty has been working at Big Bookstore for four months at 35 hours a week. That means she's put in 560 hours at Big Bookstore. 11,000. 560. 11,000. 560. Elevenfuckingthousand. 560. Now, who gets to call Big Bookstore a second home?

The second-place status that Cunty has accorded to her part-time coworkers, many of whom, like me, have worked at Big Bookstore for years, will come as a complete surprise to them, I think. Those of us who have become friends, seen each other through life's travails, loved, lost, and worked side by side for all those years? It's "our" bookstore too. In fact, I would even argue that it's even more our bookstore than Cunty's. Unlike the YPOT full-timers, Big Bookstore isn't a way station for us. It's not a stopping place on the way to some other, wished-for life or career. It's something we do, in addition to the lives we already have, because we love it. We've watched full-timers come and go and come and go and we plod on reliably year after year with no plans to ever leave.

You know, I was going to continue to pick apart Kari's comment sentence by sentence - discuss how she's wrong about how the reshelving should be, and has historically been, done. But quite frankly, after my last paragraph, that would be a retreat from the more meaningful to the picayune.

I'll close by saying this: Until today, Big Bookstore was not "kind of" a second home to me. It was my second home. In the past I've described "the sense of being enfolded by a place of belonging each time I walked in the door." It was the place I went to work alongside people that I love while doing work that made me happy.

Even the best of things, however, must come to an end, and I belong no more.

Daily Hate

2006-05-05T23:40:00.000-05:00

What the fuck is wrong with the YPOTs? Is it unreasonable of me to expect that people who were still in fucking grammar school when I started working at Big Fucking Bookstore might defer to my fucking judgment on how to do things around the store? Is it crazy of me to think that because I was once the store Trainer, that I might actually have more fucking expertise in the most efficient fucking way to do things than someone who started as a cashier six months ago and just started working Info in the last two fucking months?

Tonight, a 20-nothing bookseller argued with me about the sorting cart. She said it was inefficient. This is based on her vast experience with reshelving books for all of the last two months. One of her arguments was that she "worked 40 hours a week." I guess the implication there was that as a full-timer her judgment was more important or more valid than mine since I am a mere part-timer. Because, you know, closing three to six nights a week since 19-fucking-97 apparently makes me less qualified to determine the most efficient way to recover the fucking store than someone who has worked full-time for the last six months.

Now the HippieChick also happens to disagree with how I sort things for reshelving. But, and this is important, she's worked for Big Bookstore as long as I have, so I respect her opinion. I don't agree with it, and when we're at Info together there's a sort of silent tug-of-war over the sorting cart. She'll sort books her way, then leave the Info Desk, and I'll resort them my way, and back and forth we'll go. And it's OK. Because like me, she works her ass off, and between the two of us we'll get more shelving done than any four YPOT booksellers. So HippieChick and I are OK with the disagreement and we don't even discuss it.

But little Cunty McSmartass and her "40 hours a week" superiority? Sorry. She can kiss my big fat ass.

To calm myself down, and de-angrify, I shall ponder the following Big Bookstore koan: If an EAS gate goes off in the store, but there's no LP guy there to hear it because he's working on merchandising instead, does it make a sound?

Hello? Is This Thing On?

2006-04-15T00:07:00.000-05:00

Hey! Lookee here! It's my blog! I forgot all about this thing.

No. Not really. I remembered every day, and the guilt gnawed at me. OK. Maybe not gnawed so much as nibbled. For a while there I thought maybe the Medieval One had turned out to be right. Maybe I really had run out of stuff to say about working at Big Bookstore. I thought anything I might say would be the same old crap, recycled. But now it seems I have the opposite problem - way too much to say and not a clue where to start. And many of the things I want to say aren't even fully formed thoughts. Also, not so funny. If you're looking for the funny, sorry. Life at Big Bookstore kinda bites ass lately.

*******************

Due to some, um, irrational exuberance in the hiring arena, the store has blown its "manpower budget." As a result, everyone's hours have been cut. This has led to no small amount of bitching, moaning, complaining, a few spittle-flecked rants and one or two death threats. The full-time booksellers can't afford to have their hours cut. Losing even two hours a week for a full-time bookseller might mean the difference between eating Ramen every night and splurging on the Kraft Mac n' Cheese. Seriously. But management tells us that sales are down, therefore staff hours must go down. If we want to get the hours back up, we are exhorted to sell, sell, sell.

But here's a nutty thought: if you want sales to go up, you need to have more sellers, not less. I know it sounds crazy. I know it's really wacky and Out There, but trust me on this - fewer booksellers is not the answer.

Friday night was perfectly illustrative. It's the Friday before Easter. People are shopping for Easter presents. Selling to people the week before a holiday is like one of those canned hunts they have down in Texas. Just flush the customers towards me, and I'll bag them. They want to buy. They yearn to buy. They need to buy. And if booksellers are available to place merchandise in their hands, buy it they will. But in order for that to happen there must actually be booksellers. See how that works?

We closed tonight with three booksellers. Three customers came to me at the registers in the space of 20 minutes and said they had looked for help on the bookfloor and couldn't find anyone. Of course they couldn't. The Information Desk was completely unstaffed for the better part of an hour. Two of us were at the registers, and the remaining bookseller was helping in the Cafe, which was also shorthanded. So. Not one single bookseller on the bookfloor. Yeah. That's going to really increase sales.

This, ladies and gentleman, is what we call a negative feedback loop. No booksellers leads to lower sales, which leads to a lower manpower budget which leads to lower sales. See where I'm going with this? Here's a suggestion. Why don't we fire the nutbag bitch on the night crew who has been caught sleeping on the fucking job three times? Then you could give some of those hours back to the people who actually want and need them. Just a thought.

***************************************

I would just like to give a big and hearty FUCK YOU to the Assistant Manager who just quit after being with us for all of two months. It's not that I blame you for taking a job that paid 30K more than the crap pay that Big Bookstore doles out to its managers. Totally understandable. But blowing off your entire last week of shifts because you had already given notice? Totally fucking lame. In your eagerness to fuck over your boss you fucked over all the people with whom you were scheduled to work.

Here's the worst part. We fell totally and completely had. We liked you, man. We respected you. We knew you probably wouldn't be around for a long time, but we were happy to have you. You seemed to get us and we thought you liked us back. Turns out you didn't even respect us enough to not fuck us over by showing up for your last week of shifts. That's the kind of shit normally pulled by some YPOT barista.

Congratulations. You suck.

***********************************

A perfect Big Bookstore Saturday night moment:

Foam Party, the closing manager, over the walkie talkie: "Did anybody leave a pair of underwear in the men's bathroom?"

We Matter. We Really Matter.

2006-03-06T00:20:00.000-05:00

Larry McMurtry thanked me, while accepting his Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay for Brokeback Mountain! Wow! Last month the Time magazine mention, and now this!

OK. He didn't really thank me personally. He thanked "booksellers."

Closest I'll ever get.

Worst. Blogger. Evar.

2006-02-28T22:42:00.000-05:00

Really. I am. How bad am I? I suck so badly as a blogger, that this blog was quoted in a Time magazine article on retail bloggers and I had no clue until a coworker told me tonight. The article is dated February 5th. Three weeks, people! Three weeks in which I haven't even looked at the blog, let alone thought about writing something or checking the referrer logs.

I'm a little...wait for it...disgruntled that: a) TIME didn't link to the blog*, and b) they quoted some B material. Yes. I am looking a gift horse right in the fucking mouth, OK?

OH! And they called me a "he"! What. The. Fuck. Hello? Estrogen-stoked bitchiness? This blog is soaking in it!

OK. Now that the discussion of my suckiness is out of the way, let's move on to Other Things That Suck.

Other Thing That Sucks #1: Chicken Soup for the Soul Magazine. Do I need to say more about this? I think not.

Other Thing That Sucks #2: "Customers" who think that the handicapped tables are extra large study spaces.

Other Thing That Sucks #3: A cow-worker who missed three out of four weekend shifts last month without being fired. Note: My foot is so up her ass from here on out.

Other Thing That Sucks #4: This CD. Overly precious lounge music from some hipster French bar which is driving me in-fucking-sane as it plays endlessly on the overhead.

Final Thing That Sucks: Creepy new cow-worker who talks to women's breasts. Hey, asshole! I'm UP HERE.

*I'm not sure Time really gets this Interweb thingy.

Bloggy Blog Blog Blog

2006-01-10T23:51:00.000-05:00

The guilt has become too much. It's not that I think anybody really misses the blog. It's not that I think anyone is really slavering for new disgruntled bookseller dribblings. It's the wasted clicks. You could be clicking on something much more productive rather than visiting this blog only to find that, yet again, I have not updated. So merely to allay that guilt, here are some meager scraps:

For those who were curious, Trailer Park Baby Daddy and the mother of his spawn were gone within two weeks of my post. It seems that Trailer Park Baby Daddy was less than discreet about his failure to control his manly urges both during his break time and while on the clock. It's bad enough when the customers do this. It's so much worse when a cow-worker does. How can I, in good conscience, make fun of customers who beat off in the store when my own cow-workers can't keep their hands off their junk? Here's the sad thing: Trailer Park Baby Daddy isn't the only cow-worker wanker. He's just the only one who's been caught, um, redhanded so to speak. I know. Ew.

****************************

The War on Christmas visited our store over the last month. One woman became positively apoplectic that we didn't have any "Christmas-themed" wrapping paper. Mind you, she wasn't complaining that we didn't carry Christmas themed (whatever that is) wrapping paper for sale, because we did. She was complaining that our selection of FREE wrapping paper, the paper we use for our FREE gift-wrapping service, was inadequate. Next year, I think we should oblige O'Reilly's minions with Christmas-centric paper. And I'm not talking any pussy-ass second-hand Christmas themes like Santa or Christmas trees here. I want something that really says JESUS CHRIST WAS BORN AND DIED FOR YOUR SINS, MOTHERFUCKER. Perhaps a crown of thorns motif on a gore-colored background.

*****************************

I apologize to my fellow cow-workers, especially the Holler, for being the disease vector for this year's epidemic of Spurns-Kerlock (sic) Syndrome. I think I obtained it from the font at Christmas Eve midnight mass. Holy water, my ass. Those things are Beelzebub's own bubbling cauldrons of seething viral life. If you're reading this Mom, I blame you for making me go.

*****************************

Finally, I would like to thank the Honorable Samuel Alito for taking the time to give me a shout out while he blogs live from his confirmation hearings. I can't say that I support your nomination, Sam, because you've obviously been a climber who'd say anything to advance his own career (and I find your views repugnant), but thanks for the mention. That skanky bitch Harriet wouldn't give me the time of day.

Drones R Us

2005-12-20T03:13:00.000-05:00

Over on Metafilter, retail employees are told to: "Shut up, sit down, and put on a happy face you fuckers."

Things Change

2005-12-04T01:36:00.000-05:00

A little more than a year ago, I wrote about My Big Fat Bookselling Family (MBFBF). And while we are a family at Big Bookstore, our family membership is fluid. People come. People go. Lately, it seems like it's mostly go and not a lot of, er, come.

Since last year at this time, there has been so much change. Closeted Straight Man, who had been the General Manager of the store since its opening, decided to move to Florida with his partner (who managed one of our sister stores). The Queen of the Flying Monkeys, his Assistant Manager, followed Closeted Straight Man to Florida a few months later. (Our Fabulousness Factor has plummeted as a result of these departures, and more gay men need to be recruited for Big Bookstore stat.)

Three of the charter members of The Mean Girls have gone. Mimi decided to give China another whirl, and she is living the ex-pat life in Beijing. Chick Magnet is doing environmental cleanup work for Katrina in New Orleans. Cake Girl, our Events Slave, finally threw in the towel, got an Office Space type job, and is hanging with the norms now.

In MBFBF, the music guys are like the grown kids who refuse to leave home and continue to live in the basement, smoking dope, playing their music too loudly, and generally making their parents despair. But even music mainstays like Billygoat and Kermit have decided to move on.

Not everyone has gone completely. Dark Goddess finally caved in to the lure of a living wage and got a job with a consulting firm, but she still works on Saturdays. I hooked Calendar Boy up with a sweet job working for a friend of mine in IT, but he still comes in on Sundays.

All this change has been more than a little sad, and maybe that's why I haven't really been motivated to blog lately. But for all of the departures, there are many good friends who remain: the Wife-in-Law and her husband, the Medieval One. The Holler, Foam Party and Gun Nut. The Bathroom Fairy and the Queen of the Cashiers. The aforementioned Dark Goddess and Calendar Boy. And there are new people, some of whom, I hope, will stay long enough to become part of My Big Fat Bookselling Family.

The Foot Is a Metaphor. The Reality Is Worse

2005-09-10T23:14:00.000-05:00

Sorry it's been so long. I have no excuse. I just suck.

So let's get right to the ranting, shall we?

I'm in my usual cheery mood upon arrival at Big Bookstore this afternoon. As always, I clock in and begin assessing the scene. I start at Info to see what the reshelve situation is like. Not so bad today. There's some stuff. Not a ton, but there's no need for it to sit around on the cart, right? Satisfied that there are enough booksellers standing around with their thumbs up their asses to take care of the few reshelves, I head to the Cafe, pick up a couple of stacks of crap and bring them back to the reshelving cart. Again, there are booksellers standing around generally looking vacant and waiting for customers to approach. I always find this annoying, as my regular readers will already know, so before I head off to Kids, I bark at Trailer Park Baby Daddy, "there's shelving there for you to do."

(I call him Trailer Park Baby Daddy because he is like a poor woman's version of Kevin Federline, except he's even less goodlooking, and more skanky. He's got a knocked up girlfriend who works in the Cafe.)

Kids isn't a complete disaster, but I spend about 10 minutes picking up the big chunks and doing some general straightening. Once again, I return to Info. Not one book has been shelved from the reshelve cart, and the same booksellers are standing around. Trailer Park Baby Daddy has his thumb really worked up in there now. I turn to him and Weird Beard Dude and snap, "If I come back one more time, and those books aren't shelved, I'm going to...Stick. My. Foot. Up. Some. Asses."*

This is where things go awry.

Trailer Park Baby Daddy laughs and says, "I'd like to see you try. I don't think you can reach." I've already half-turned to stalk away as he's saying this, and my momentum carries me towards the Cafe. Which is good for Trailer Park Baby Daddy, as the words don't really sink in until I'm well on my way. Now I know that you're thinking that this is the point where I Lose My Mind, but amazingly, I do not.

Later in the afternoon, Calendar Boy tells me that Trailer Park Baby Daddy has actually relayed his snappy little comeback to others in the store. Because he's a big man, and I guess he's proud of himself. After hearing this, I can almost see people backing away from him for fear of being caught in the blast radius. Still, I maintain my cool.

You see, I know something that Trailer Park Baby Daddy doesn't know. He's already on the edge of the unemployment precipice and it will take just a few taps of my finger to push him over.

So. Trailer Park Baby Daddy? You out there? Can you feel that? That's me, tap, tap, tapping on your back.

Buh bye.

*Please see Disclaimer in Sidebar

First Anniversary Extravaganza!

2005-08-06T23:06:00.000-05:00

I posted the first entry on this blog on August 6, 2004.

And you thought I'd get tired of it or run out of things to say.

HAH!

It's true that my posting has become somewhat erratic, but I'd rather say something interesting every week or two than -- you know -- write crap every day. People who like the blog sometimes compliment me and tell me I'm a good writer. But really -- if I was a good writer, I'd be able to say something interesting every day.

I don't have anything profound to say in celebration of the anniversary, so I'll just post the little scraps I've been saving up for the last few weeks, m'kay?

*************************************

Crap Basket Redux. Last night the "customers" destroyed: a My Little Pony paint-on-velour kit, a Disney Princess Music Player, a Pixar Adventures movie viewer, a fugly pink backpack covered in bears and stuffed with back to school crap, a "Story Time Fun Pack," two (2!) doll hair kits, "Groovy Tubes Sea Splash," a SpongeBob Squarepants coloring book, and one Spanish language magnadoodle kit. Total value of merchandise destroyed in one day? $172.70 Congratulations, customers with spawn! I think we've set a new record!

Here's something you might consider: When we shrinkwrap something? It's because WE DON'T WANT YOU TO FUCKING OPEN IT.

Also, blisterpacks? SEALED FOR A REASON.

God I hate the customers.

*************************************

The calendars are here. I expect the Christmas merch to start piling up in the stockroom any day now. You have been warned.

*************************************

I think I have scared the newbies. In the space of one twenty minute period tonight, three of them came up to me to tell me that they had been in the Kids Section and it "looked good." Honestly, I have no idea where they get the idea that I am to be feared. It's not like I have any real authority. Relax, kids! I can't really stick my foot up your collective asses, you know. It's a: metaphor.

*************************************

Chick Magnet: Who's that lesbian from Lesbos who wrote the poetry?
Disgruntled Bookseller (incredulously): Um, Sappho?
Chick Magnet: Yeah! That's the one! I can never remember her name!

I've already notified the Lesbian Secret Ruling Council that Chick Magnet is a Bad Lesbian, and her recruiter should be receiving a demand from the Council any day now for return of the toaster oven. While I am not a lesbian (Hi, Mom!), I do have friends in high places.

*************************************

I know we should not have laughed at the man who, while looking the other way, walked straight into and bounced off of the plate glass window. It was mean. Replaying the security video in slow motion? Totally gratuitous. We should be ashamed of ourselves. Really.

Other Disgruntled Booksellers

2005-07-27T21:26:00.000-05:00

I was on the North Shore of Long Island this past weekend for a friend's wedding. As I always do when traveling, I found an excuse to drop by the local outpost of Big Bookstore. I had just picked the bride up from the hair salon the morning of the wedding and dropped her off at home, and had a couple of hours to kill before the wedding. I thought I'd grab a copy of the New York Times, and perhaps my local paper, and have a leisurely brunch at a diner. Imagine my surprise to find that I could find neither. I circled the newsstand twice to be sure that I hadn't, somehow, missed the newspaper rack. Then, to confirm my suspicions, I checked the Cafe tables. Sure enough, I could see no newspapers (or parts thereof) scattered about the Cafe. Even the most well-maintained store would find it impossible to keep the Cafe free of newspapers on a weekend morning.

Instead, I grabbed a magazine, and headed for the registers. There was a line. There had been only one cashier when I walked in, a sullen, pouty, pimply boy, who had called for and received backup in the form of an openly hostile older woman named "Pat." I'd love to tell you what Sullen Pimple Boy's name was, but he wore no badge - one of the cardinal sins of Big Bookstore. There appeared to be no other booksellers in the store.

I waited patiently, observing the open hostility with which Pat treated those in front of me. She didn't really say anything objectionable, but the resentment and animus flowed off of her in visible waves, like stench rising from roadkill on a hot, hot day. There were no pleasantries - not even a "thank you." And everything, from closing her register drawer to returning change, was done with a little too much force, making it clear that she was not happy with having to serve the customers. She demanded three cents of the poor little girl (no more than 10) in front of me, who was purchasing something for $3.03. She didn't ask. She demanded and held out her hand. Because apparently, making change was more than Pat could bear.

When it was my turn, Sullen Pimple Boy was free. This was Pat's luck, because I was ready to tear her a new anus if she so much as looked cross-eyed at me. You see, as much as I hate the customers, I treat them with the utmost respect, because that is what Big Bookstore pays me to do. When I got to Sullen Pimple Boy's register I asked him whether they carried newspapers and said that I had looked but couldn't find them. He snapped in an accusatory tone, "we don't carry them anymore because people left them scattered around the store." I said, "Yes. They do. But you know, I work at a flagship Big Bookstore, and if we stopped carrying everything that people left strewn about the store, we wouldn't have anything left to sell, and then," I paused for effect, "we wouldn't have jobs."

So, if you are reading this, and you are a sullen, pimple-faced boy, or your name is Pat, and you are a hostile, old bitch, and you work at the Big Bookstore on Jericho Turnpike? You suck, and this post's for you.

My Foot, Your Ass

2005-07-21T23:46:00.000-05:00

I am going away this weekend to attend the wedding of one of my best friends, so I've got the weekend off from Big Bookstore. But before I go, I would like to make an announcement to those whose asses I will be sticking my foot up* and explain why I shall be doing said foot-up-ass-sticking upon my return. Most of the asses in question are newbie asses, but there are a few recalcitrant old-timers who could use the foot/ass treatment.**

1. If you leave the registers without announcing to your fellow cashiers where you are going, or when you plan to return, I will stick my foot up your ass. (I'm thinking of one cow-worker in particular whose gimpy and slightly creepy ass will feel my foot the next time he just walks away without saying a word.) TELL ME WHERE YOU'RE GOING. IT'S A FUCKING COURTESY, MAN. Or, as I say, my foot will be up your ass.

2. If you think your register shift is optional and/or of a freeform nature, I will stick my foot up your ass. (Good thing I can't stick my foot up my own ass, because I'm actually guilty of forgetting my register shift. However, I am: allowed. Why? Because I said so.) Register shifts start on the hour and end on the hour. Not five minutes after or five minutes before. Is that so hard? Next time you arrive late, you know the drill: foot_up_ass.macro.

3. If you dawdle over the giftwrapping, I will stick my foot up your ass. The giftwrapping does not need to be perfect. It does not need to be meticulous. It does not even have to be pretty. IT'S FREE FUCKING GIFTWRAP. If people want perfect, meticulous and pretty they can go to the fucking Hallmark and do it themselves. There is only one thing the giftwrapping must be and that is: fast. If you do not wrap faster -- my foot, your ass, 'nuff said.

4. If there is a line, and you leave the registers for any reason other than your scheduled meal break, I will most assuredly stick my foot up your ass. I don't care if your replacement has already arrived. Unless you are scheduled to clock out for lunch or dinner, you stay until the line is gone. Why? Because the customers, who are the only people who annoy me more than you, get restless when they are in line and they see cashiers leaving. If there is a coverage issue elsewhere, the supervisors will take care of it. (In theory.) Leave the registers before me, while there is a line, and my foot will be so far up your ass you will be able to read the size on the bottom of my shoe.

5. This is a short one: if I see you standing at info leaning on the counter with both elbows? My foot + your ass = so happy together.

I think that's enough for now. You'll be pleased to know that I just get a pedicure.

*For you grammar sluts out there, I know this construction is incorrect. However, I think you'll agree that "those whose asses up which I will be sticking my foot" just sounds silly.

** Please see Disclaimer in Sidebar.

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, Part 2

2005-07-07T22:15:00.000-05:00

The Holler has a nose for masturbators and porn stealers. He's vigilant about tracking down the "adult" periodicals that have gone missing from the news stand. At least once a shift, he'll find the empty plastic husk of the polybags that are used to keep the underaged from casually browsing, say, Freshman or Perfect 10. Later, the magazine will turn up somewhere in the store crammed in a bookshelf, or (as I once found) nestled between the pages of an appropriately sized copy of a Children's Illustrated Classic. The worst case scenario, however, is one that happens all too often - the magazine turns up in the men's bathroom, where it has obviously been...put to use. I don't think I need to tell you why the use was obvious, do I? If the Holler had 10 bucks for every time he's had to "glove up and go in" to retrieve one of these items - well, he'd have a nice bonus.

But the "personal massager" which he had just discovered outside the men's room? This was beyond the bounds of all customer masturbatory behavior heretofore experienced.

After I got over my initial reaction, and the Holler recovered from laughing at said reaction, we immediately headed over to the Sex and Erotica section. Because, you see, we knew exactly where this vibrator had come from. Sure enough, there on the top shelf, with the box flap open, was 52 Weeks of Passionate Sex.

(I remember when we first started carrying 52 Weeks of Passionate Sex. I think it was around Valentine's Day two years ago. I remember because Closeted Straight Man, our GM at the time, shared this new item of merchandise with everyone so we could all marvel at the depths to which we, as booksellers, had sunk. We were now purveying vibrators. Oh, sure, the boxed set also contained a book, but we all knew the book was just a pretext for the vibrator, the lube, and the blindfold.)

The Holler pulled the box down from the shelf and opened it, affirming our suspicions. The vibrator was missing. Not surprisingly, the Dildo* Thief found no use for the silk rose petals or the blindfold. (And can I just say, at this point: silk rose petals? Not a turn on in this or any parallel universe.)

So here's the scenario: Dildo Thief is browsing the sex instruction books. Maybe he's also been skimming some of the porn in the next section over. He comes across 52 Weeks of Passionate Sex. He is curious. What could be in such an intriguingly named box? He opens it and finds the vibrator. A lightbulb goes on. A really grimy, disgusting, lightbulb. He pockets the vibrator and heads for the men's room. The vibrator is put to use. I'm thinking anal stimulation, but hey, it could be anywhere, right? (Wide Eyed Newbie postulates the ear, but I'm skeptical.)

We're OK up to this point. I mean, Dildo Thief has violated some social norms by masturbating in a bookstore bathroom, sure. But nobody's been harmed so far except Big Bookstore which now has a Sex Box with no vibrator which it can't sell.

But this is where we go completely off the rails. Because after Dildo Thief uses the vibrator, what does he do? Does he throw the vibrator in the garbage? Does he wrap it in toilet paper and try to dispose of it surreptitiously? No. HE TAKES THE VIBRATOR BACK OUT OF THE MEN'S ROOM AND DEPOSITS IT ON THE EDGE OF THE CUBBYHOLE FOR US TO FIND.

Then Dildo Thief goes back to the Sex and Erotica section, picks up a different sex box, goes to my register, and pays for it. So that he can have a brand new, unused vibrator.

Ladies and gentlemen, bookselling does not get any better than this.

*I know that the vibrator in question is technically not a dildo, but Dildo Thief trips off the tongue in a way that Vibrator Thief does not.

Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, Part 1

2005-07-03T01:05:00.000-05:00

I try not to judge people based on their purchases.

OK. That's complete bullshit. I totally judge people based on the ridiculous things they buy. But I do try not to let them know I'm judging them based on their purchases. That's worth something, right?

So when the tall, cleancut, not ugly, 30-something guy came up to my register with Anne Hooper's Sex Pack, I didn't think that it was lame or goofy or skeevy in any way. In fact, my thoughts ran more along the lines of "hey, here's a guy who's making an effort to make somebody's sex life a little more interesting even if it is a bit lightweight and vanilla." For a fleeting moment I wondered if I should offer to giftwrap the "Sex Pack" for him. It's the kind of thing a certain type of boyfriend might give a certain type of girlfriend. (Yes, I'm assuming heterosexuality because the "Sex Pack" is, as I say, kind of vanilla, and most self-respecting homos would find it a bit laughable - or at least those of my acquaintance would.)

In the end, I decided not to offer the giftwrap, but to bag the item as quickly as possible, because it is my experience that customers purchasing anything to do with sex - erotica books, nudie mags, and how-to guides - just want to get the hell out of there without making eye contact with me. Oh, and they always pay cash. Just in case, you know, Big Bookstore keeps track of who's naughty and who's nice. Because we really give a shit. So without ever having exchanged a word with me during the entire transaction, Mr. Sex Pack took his merchandise and left the store.

An hour later, the Holler approaches me and says: "You are not going to believe this. I can't even tell you what it is, I just have to show you. " He leads me over to the Big Bookstore public bathrooms, all the while saying things like, "I thought the chicken dinner in front of the toilet was bad, but this is worse," and "you are going to totally freak out."

The entrances to the bathrooms are set in an alcove. On the alcove wall, facing the bathroom doors, are cubby holes where we put all the local freebie periodicals. The logic here is manifold: we don't want the freebies cluttering up the front of the store, we don't want them using up valuable space for product that we can actually sell, and maybe, just maybe, people will take the freebies into the crapper with them rather than magazines from the news stand. Keith points to the cubbyholes and says, "Look."

And there it is. Perched on the edge of the cubbyhole, at a slight angle, as if casually set down by someone while perusing The City Paper. "It" is a "personal massage" device. A six-inch long, pink, plastic vibrator. The Holler is correct. All I can say is, "OH. MY. GOD." as I stand there and gawp at this thing.

To be continued...

How People Find My Blog

2005-06-16T22:47:00.000-05:00

I've kept track, over the last few weeks, of the searches that have led people to my blog. Mostly the search terms consist of some combination of "disgruntled," "bookseller," "bookstore," "[Big Bookstore]," and "[Rival Bookstore]." But here's a selection of the less obvious ones:

dictionaries teacher discount
work appropriate attire
nsa stands for craigslist
i hate the strand
babysitters fuck kids
skirt with no panties
hate [Big Bookstore]
cd long erotic weekend -amazon
facefull back issues to purchase
no panties&blog
bother bookstore
i hate being a lawyer
badcat
cow fucking lessons
anal school lessons
woobie
van kittens nine year old pussy cunt ass

"van kittens nine year old pussy cunt ass"??? What. The. Fuck. That is one incredibly specific fetish there, Dude. Seriously. Form the mental image. Where the hell do the kittens fit in?

"cow fucking lessons" Nowhere in this blog are cow fucking lessons offered, discussed or even mentioned. I imagine, though, that there are very few sites offering cow fucking lessons, so perhaps it's a niche I could fill.

"skirt with no panties" This one doesn't even make sense to me. Obviously the guy was looking for a girl in a skirt with no panties, rather than just, ya know, a skirt with no panties. 'Cause a skirt with no panties is just boring. I got dozens of those in my closet. Not hot.

"anal school lessons" Again, not offered on this blog. However, I can give a pointer to this fine book, which is available, of course, at a Big Bookstore near you.

Bookstores: the natural laxative?

2005-06-08T21:36:00.000-05:00

My cow-workers and I have often wondered why people feel comfortable settling in with the newspaper in the store bathroom for a nice, long dump. (Note: this is almost always the Men's room.)

OK. It's not exactly Topic A around the lunch table, but the question does come up when: 1) one of us has to "glove up and go in" to clean up after some omnidirectional shitter, and/or 2) the smell wafts unmistakably out over the reference section. Doesn't one naturally assume that people are more comfortable crapping in the privacy of their own homes? Apparently not.

And I believe I have stumbled across the answer here.

Announcements

2005-06-04T00:12:00.000-05:00

To the owner of a silver Mercedes SLK350 so new it still has 30-day tags, which was parked in the Big Bookstore parking lot last Saturday: I accidentally dinged your car door. Four times. I couldn't help it. You were parked a foot over the line into my space.

Sorry.

*************************

If you're the woman who was looking for a book last week on how to write up your life experience in order to get college credit, I'm sorry. To my knowledge, there are no books on how to get a fake degree.

*************************

If you are one of the many assholes who smugly refused to give your zipcode when asked last month, I've got a flash for ya: A zip code is not enough information for me or Big Bookstore to locate you, spam you, call you, stalk you, or find you to kill you. But a girl can dream.

*************************

A message for the gentleman last Saturday night who made me ring five separate transactions so he could use the five coupons he printed out. ONE COUPON PER CUSTOMER, PER VISIT, ASSHOLE. Next time you pull that shit, I'm going to make you turn your sorry ass around and apologize to all the people in line behind you for being such a total dickhead.

*************************

Finally, to the geniuses at Big Bookstore corporate headquarters who thought up the coupon for a discount on one item, and who think that customers are really going to pay attention to that "one coupon per customer, per visit" bullshit fine print: You are total fucking morons who have obviously never spent any time behind the cash registers at Big Bookstore. Please fuck off and die.

Well. I feel better now. You?

Mea Culpa

2005-05-27T23:17:00.000-05:00

Entil-Zha said...
When are you going to update this page?

d00ds and d00dettes, I am so sorry I haven't blogged in forever. I have this pesky new day job, which actually requires me to be in the office from 8:30 to 5:00. I go to bed at, like, 10:30 now, which is just insane!

I'm only working Friday nights and a full closing shift on Saturdays now, so I have way less material, and my crank factor has dropped drastically. I promise that I will try to get back on a regular blogging schedule and update at least once a week.

Thanks for asking. It's nice to know there are folks who actually miss it.

I See Old People

2005-05-03T21:26:00.000-05:00

Of course I can't say who the author is, but we had an event tonight for an author whose fan base seems to consist primarily of women who are middle-aged or flat-out old. I have just this to say about them: they are no-tipping motherfuckas. In the hour and half between the time I arrived and the time the event started, the line in the Cafe was never less than 7 deep and at the end of that hour and half there was not one single measly fucking dollar bill in the tip jar. The pennies and nickles couldn't have added up to more than three bucks.

I never take tips so I don't care for myself, but I felt bad for my co-workers.

Wrinkly, cheap-ass, bad-dressing, shitty-book-reading cows.

So Much Worse Than Billy Bass

2005-04-30T11:12:00.000-05:00

What the fucking fuck is this and why is Big Bookstore selling it?

Bad Blogger

2005-04-27T21:40:00.000-05:00

Sorry I haven't posted in forever. The new day job is kicking my ass. On the plus side: hot Coasties.

Shove This Apple Straight Up Your Ass

2005-04-15T23:14:00.000-05:00

I don't even know where to begin this rant. How about this? I hate teachers. With a few exceptions, they are smug, self-entitled, rude, and cheap. Also, they are complete fucking pigs.

Twice a year, Big Bookstore offers a special discount to teachers over a three-day weekend. Today was the start of that weekend. Every time we hold this event, I am amazed anew at the scum to whom our society entrusts its children.

These are the things that I have learned about teachers.

1. They are, as I say, complete fucking pigs. Not only do they not know how to pick up after themselves, they actually seem to seek the maximum destruction of whatever section of books they are browsing. One teacher, in her quest to purchase one (1) children's dictionary, removed every single dictionary, and left them in five different places. Some were on nearby shelves. Some were on a nearby table. Some were shoved into fixtures a couple of feet away. And yet more were abandoned on her way to the register. Not content with removing one copy of each type of dictionary, she removed multiple copies of the same dictionary in her effort to eliminate Big Bookstore's slight profit margin through maximizing the resulting bookseller labor. Similar zones of destruction could be found in virtually every corner of the store.

2. They are freeloaders. Although we provided them with free food from the Cafe, and a hefty discount, several teachers complained to me and my colleagues that we didn't have enough freebies. One teacher spent five minutes telling me and my manager how upset he was that he didn't arrive in time for the raffle. He had been told over the phone that he would have until 9 p.m. to enter, when in fact, we did the raffle at 7 p.m. He went on and on and on about how he missed out on this because he was misinformed. You might have thought, listening to him, that we were giving away fabulous prizes -- perhaps, the Compact Oxford English Dictionary, or a nice DVD boxed set -- when in fact we raffled three gift bags containing approximately ten dollars worth of candy.

3. Like other civil servants, they have big dreams that they are too dull-witted and lacking in ambition to realize. Every Teachers' Weekend the small business, real estate and e-commerce sections are ravaged and the books redistributed in piles about the store. The teachers dream of starting their own money-making enterprises, which will free them from the triviality and futility of their miserable lives. They will never actually do these things.

4. They feel they are ugly, (and in this, they are largely correct). The Appearance section was completely trashed. I found several different piles of books on cosmetic surgery in different places and at different times throughout the evening.

5. They hate their jobs. Piles of career-changing and job-hunting books are a staple of the Teachers' Weekend destroy-a-thon. One pile of books I cleaned up tonight included, among other career-related titles, Great Jobs for English Majors. I've got news for you, assholes. It's too fucking late. You could have majored in something practical. You could have gone to a real grad school instead of getting a teaching certificate. You could have even learned a trade. You lacked the imagination or ambition back then, and I highly doubt you've gained either trait since.

So, anyway, I hate the teachers. They can all kiss my big fat ass

Too Mean

2005-04-04T03:03:00.000-05:00

I was introduced to the friend of a co-worker last night. Mimi introduced me this way: "This is [Disgruntled Bookseller]. She's the one who writes the blog." The friend responded, without a moment's hesitation, "Too mean."

I do hope that the readers of this blog understand that the blog is written for a purpose. It's called Disgruntled Bookseller, for Christ's sake. Obviously it has a point of view. And that point of view does not necessarily reflect the totality of my life or my personality. No, it merely reflects the frustrations, and also the joys, generated by my part-time job as a bookseller (and now part-time barista).

I am many things besides a bookseller. I am a loving daughter, sister, and aunt. I'm a good friend to the many people who are kind enough to bestow their friendship upon me. I'm the overly indulgent human being of two coddled felines. I'm a competent lawyer.

Sometimes I am perceived as "mean" to my co-workers at Big Bookstore. Not true. I am impatient. I am demanding. I am emphatic and forceful. I expect everyone to work as hard and as consciensciously as possible. I don't think that's unreasonable. Nor do I think it's mean.

As for the customers, I am as nice to them as they are to me. Often more so. I'd have been fired long ago for poor customer service if I responded to customers with the same level of (non)courtesy that they often tender to me. And that is why, instead, I write about them on the blog.

I like to think of myself as a kind, generous, and charitable person. Sure, I'm assertive and loud and have a tendency to take control of situations. But I am fundamentally nice. I am never mean without provocation or reason, solely for the sake of being mean. If that were the case, well, then this blog would be called "Disgruntled Human Being," no?

(Note to Mimi: Sorry I missed the Going Away Bash. I slept all day. Also, I was surfing the crimson tide, and damn if the sea wasn't rough. Pitiful excuses, I know.)

Our Life in Toons

2005-03-31T04:05:00.000-05:00

Check out Ed Brisson's Sob Story (via bookslut).

I Am a Lazy Blogger, But a Kickass Barista

2005-03-30T02:00:00.000-05:00

Whip me, spank me, tie me up in chains. I have not blogged in twelve days. This is partially because I am now working six days a week at Big Bookstore. (Actually, last week, because of the inventory, I worked seven days.) I volunteered to cross-train in the Cafe. Why did I do this after seven and a half years of being a bookseller? Excellent question! I have been asking myself the same thing over and over and over for the last couple of weeks. It seemed like a good thing at the time. I needed more hours, and didn't want to pick up early shifts. So I picked up two additional closing shifts by volunteering to work in the Cafe those two nights. And Calendar Boy, who is my favorite boy, needed the help over there.

Here's the thing about the Cafe, though. It is the black hole of Big Bookstore. Once you are trained there, you are circling the event horizon, just waiting to be sucked in. You cannot escape the gravitational pull of the Cafe.

There's a reason the Cafe exerts such an inexorable pull on those with the barest of Cafe training. Physically, it may be the most demanding job in the store. It's also the grubbiest, bar none. So convincing people to work there, and then convincing people to remain, is one of the biggest personnel challenges of Big Bookstore management. In the last six weeks, Big Bookstore has hired five people to work in the Cafe. Of those five, only one remains. Two quit after working only two days. The first because she "got a better job." Well, DUH. Any job is a better job. The second one quit because he "didn't think the amount of work was worth the pay." He was 27 and his parents had supported him up until that point while he went to school. I guess he wants a job where he doesn't actually have to work. Good luck with that, bitch.

One kid quit because he just couldn't make it to work. He had "transportation issues." Also, intelligence and anger management issues, but, hey, he was a warm body. The fourth...well, the less said about him the better. Perhaps some time in the future I will be able to devote an entire blog ~~rant~~ entry to him, but for now it is best left alone.

As a result of this sad parade of flatleavers and losers, I have been closing in the Cafe almost every night rather than the two nights a week for which I originally bargained. Grumbling aside, I don't really mind. I like being where I'm needed most, and God knows the Cafe needs me. And I get to work with Calendar Boy almost every night. He lets me squeeze his ass, and honestly, getting to squeeze 19-year old Cute Boy heinie and getting paid for it? Priceless.

I Am Both Old and Cranky

2005-03-17T02:56:00.000-05:00

Did you know that Being Female is an illness? The folks who assign subject codes at Big Bookstore Headquarters seem to think so, since that is where this book is supposed to be shelved. Subject codes and the morons who assign them is yet another subject on the long list of things I would rant about at length if I had the energy.

*******************

So I'm standing at the registers ringing up a Young Person of Today with some nouveau punk DVD and listening to the new Joe Cocker CD on the overhead. I say to the YPOT, "ya know, Joe Cocker just isn't the same without the visuals" and I do the freaky thing Joe does with his hands when he's singing. The YPOT looks at me like I'm completely insane and says, "who's Joe Cocker?"

Who. Is. Joe. Cocker.

I shit you not.

********************

Disgruntled Bookseller: Thank you for calling Big Bookstore, this is [Disgruntled Bookseller], how can I help you?
Woman with Severe Boundaries Issues: I'm looking for a couple of titles.
DB: Alright.
WWSBI: I'm looking for The Secret Life of Men and The Way of the Superior Man.
DB: OK. I should have both of those in stock. Let me check the shelves.
[Pause while DB locates books]
DB: I have them, ma'am. Would you like me to hold them for you?
WWSBI: Do they look good?
DB: I really couldn't say, ma'am.
WWSBI: I want my boyfriend to read them because he has problems with intimacy, and we need to work on becoming closer. Do you think I should put them on hold for him?
DB: Again, ma'am, I really couldn't advise you.
WWSBI: Well, I'm also looking for Your Long Erotic Weekend and How to Have Magnificent Sex. They're by the same author. Do you have those?
DB: The inventory shows that I have them, ma'am. Hold on again, while I check the shelves.
[Another pause while DB checks shelves again.]
DB: Ma'am, I'm sorry, I can't locate either of those titles on the shelf, but I'd be happy to order them for you.
WWSBI: Hmmmm. I'm not sure. How much are all the books?
DB: [reads prices of four books WWSBI has requested]
WWSBI: Well, what do you think? Do you think it's too much for my boyfriend to read? I don't want to overwhelm him. I don't know what to do.
DB: [silence]
WWSBI: Hold on. I'm going to call him and ask.
DB: [on hold, glaring at phone for three minutes]
WWSBI: I couldn't get an answer. Let's go ahead and order them. Oh! I just remembered. Do you have the book He's Just Not That Into You?
DB: Yes, ma'am. Would you like me to hold a copy of that for you as well?
WWSBI: I guess so. Is it on sale?
DB: I think so, ma'am.
WWSBI: You have a Cafe there, don't you? (note complete change of subject which just confuses my shit completely)
DB: Yes, ma'am.
WWSBI: What kind of things do you serve there? Do you serve meals?
DB: Well, no, not really. We serve cake and pastries and sandwiches.
WWSBI: Are the sandwiches good?

I could go on, but I think you've gotten the drift by now. I was on the phone with this woman for fifteen fucking minutes. I COULD NOT SHAKE HER. I'm guessing that the intimacy problem she's having with her boyfriend is that he knows she's completely fucking inSANE and he can't get far enough away from her. I so wanted to tell her that I knew the reason he just wasn't that into her, but I did not. Because I have: boundaries.

2005-03-14T04:35:00.000-05:00

badcat

BADCAT

2005-03-12T01:57:00.000-05:00

Ican'tupdatetheblog,becausethecat
(thelittleone,whoisbad,notthebigonewhoisgood)
spilledDietPepsionthekeyboard
andnowtheSpacekeyisbroken
(otherstoobuttheSpacekeyisthemostimportant).
ButwhenIdogetanewkeyboardI'lltell
youallaboutmyadventuresintheCafe
whereI'vebeenworkingonandoffforthelastweek.

Speechless

2005-03-05T04:44:00.000-05:00

I am at a complete loss for words at the news that Pamela Anderson will be starring in a new sit-com called Stacked, in which she will play a: bookseller.

I don't know whether to laugh or be completely offended to the core of my being.

CODE RED!

2005-03-02T02:26:00.000-05:00

Tonight, in the space of one hour, I went from losing my mind over the condition of the Kids section and the fact that Calendar Boy did not save me one measly freaking cookie, to crying while reading a children's book about a bandicoot with a stone egg. From this, I can only conclude that I am PMSing. Cow-workers, you are hereby forewarned.

*****************

Mr. Assclown: I have a CD on hold. The name is "Assclown."

Pause while Disgruntled Bookseller searches the CD holds for Mr. Assclown's CD.

DB: I'm sorry, sir. I can't seem to locate it. When did you call?
Mr. Assclown: This afternoon. The guy said he had it in his hand and he would hold it for three days.
DB: Let me check with Music.

DB calls Music. Billygoat ascertains that the CD is not at the Music Desk. Billygoat also checks inventory and says that we don't actually have Mr. Assclown's CD in stock.

DB [addressing Mr. Assclown]: Sir, are you sir you called this store? Because our inventory shows that we don't stock that particular CD, but a few of our sister stores do.
Mr. Assclown: Yes. I only called one store, and I'm absolutely sure it was this one.

Another pause while DB scours the hold shelves again.

DB: I'm sorry, sir. I don't have your CD. I'm not sure what happened. I do apologize. Here is a coupon for $5 off your next purchase for your inconvenience.
Mr. Assclown [looking disgusted at our incompetence]: Fine. Never mind.

Mr. Assclown, and his lovely wife, Mrs. Assclown, have other purchases. So, I let the Holler ring them up while I surreptitiously call our closest sister store and ask them if they are holding a CD for "Assclown." Of course they are.

DB: Mr. Assclown? I just talked to Sister Big Bookstore, and they say they have your CD on hold there.
Mr. Assclown: I don't know how that could be. I called this store.
DB [gently]: I think you must have actually called Sister Big Bookstore.
Mr. Assclown: No. I called this store. You must have called them and had them put on hold there.

Disgruntled Bookseller gives Mr. Assclown the Basilisk Stare. Mrs. Assclown hustles him out the door. Disgruntled Bookseller feels sorry for Mrs. Assclown because she gets the feeling that Mrs. Assclown deals with these situations a lot.

******************

Tonight, I'm adding a new occasional feature to my blog entries. I will be tallying the amount of damaged kids merchandise that goes into the Crap Basket at the end of each night because nobody else can be fucking bothered to sweep the fucking Kids section on any sort of regular fucking basis. I have begged and I have pleaded with everyone to check Kids periodically - to never let a half hour go by without at least making an appearance. But my pleas have fallen on deaf ears. Tonight, in the hour and half that I was on my dinner break and then at registers, our lovely customers destroyed $43.88 worth of merchandise. The destroyed merchandise included, inter alia, a set of flash cards opened and spread around the floor, one "Spy Kit" with pieces removed, one book and tape set with the book missing, and one opened and played with Klutz craft kit.

Kudos on the vigilance, guys!

I'm Not Dead Yet!

2005-02-26T01:30:00.000-05:00

Sorry I haven't posted. I've been sick. Really sick. SARS. Avian flu. Hantavirus. Something along those lines. Anyhow. I'm back.

*****************

Attention Big Bookstore customers. It's February 25th. The calendars are gone. Please do not express shock and dismay at this fact. You chose to live dangerously, deliberately waiting long after the New Year in order to get your calendar as cheaply as possible. You could have gotten one for four bucks at the beginning of February, but you thought if you just waited a little bit longer, they'd go down even further. And you were right! They went down to a buck apiece in mid-February. Still you did not buy. Perhaps you thought if you waited just a teeny bit more, we would pay you to take them? I don't know. In any case, you're too late.

If you've been living without one for this long, I think you can manage the rest of the year without.

****************

Hot new titles on the newstand: FaceFull, the first "world-wide paintball magazine," because domestic paintball is so, you know, unglamorous; and, New York Dog, a magazine which is, not surprisingly, for New Yorkers who own dogs. The cover features Nicole Richie and her hairy little beast, which leads me to wonder if the target demographic is rat-faced tramps with rat-like dogs, and whether this is really a winning business proposition.

****************

Customoron of the Week #1:

"I'm looking for a particular painting. How can I find it?"

****************

Customoron of the Week #2:

"I need books on raising alpacas and llamas. I can't believe you don't have anything like that in the store."

***************

Customoron of the Week #3:

C3: I'd like to return these books. I bought them with a gift card, but I don't have the receipt.
Bookseller: Fine. I can give you a store credit, sir.
C3: I don't want a store credit. I want them credited to my credit card.
Bookseller: I'm sorry, sir, I can't do that. Without a receipt I can only give you store credit.
C3: Well, I bought them with a $100 gift card that I purchased here with a credit card. I don't understand why you can't credit the books to my credit card.
Bookseller: I'm sorry. Without the receipt, I can't credit them back to your card, because I can't tell which credit card it is. Our agreement with the credit card companies prohibits us from crediting merchandise back to a card without a receipt.
C3: I don't want that. I want them credited to my card.
Bookseller: Let me get the manager, perhaps he can explain better.
[Extended discussion between Customoron 3, Bookseller, and Calendar Boy in which all parties reiterate points already made. Calendar Boy holds his ground. Thank you, Calendar Boy!]
C3: Alright. Fine. I AM NOT HAPPY. I AM NOT HAPPY. You've got $100 of my money, and all I've got to show for it are these books.

******************

Attention, Big Bookstore Management: I will no longer alphabetize the Corner of Doom, aka, Art, Design, Crafts, Architecture, Photography, Antiques and Construction. After redoing the section in November, I swore a solemn vow that it would be the last time. Then in January, after putting the CoD back into excruciatingly correct order, I swore a blood oath with the most dire consequences for violation, that I would no longer perform this task. BUT THIS TIME I'M SERIOUS.

(By the way, did you know that Mongolia is in Africa? Apparently the person who currently shelves the Corner of Doom, as well as Travel, believes this is so. Yup. That's where I found the new guidebooks on Mongolia that arrived last week - right there between Malawi and Morocco. Something to think about. I'm sorry...Am I being mean again?)

Craig's Freaks, Part III

2005-02-12T02:27:00.000-05:00

And, finally:

computer geeks... - w4m - 32

Reply to: anon-56307232@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-19, 6:05PM EST

I'm interested in trying to set up a specific type of meeting in nyc. I'm not looking for a relationship or a hookup. So if you send me pictures of yourself will details about your stamina I'm deleting your email right away. I've never done this before and would like to exchange a couple emails before we actually agree to anything. I want to feel safe even though this will be a one time public experience. I'm going to wear a skirt with no panties on. Or a thong. Your preference. You are going to be in the computer manuals section of [Big Bookstore]. You'll be sitting on the floor reading a manual. I will stroll over to you and lift up my skirt. You can then lie on the floor and I'll stand over you pretending to look for a manual. I may decide to drop something and will lean in. But no touching will occur. Then we'll part ways. Or maybe I'll find a chair and you'll sit across from me on the floor cross-legged and I'll keep crossing and uncrossing my legs and giving you little peeks. I'm not 100% sure that I can go through with this. I'm very shy but it's a long-time fantasy of mine. FYI, I'm short-ish (5'4") and slightly overweight. If you can't deal with this then don't bother responding.

Whoa. You're going to stand over him with no panties on? That is so...Out There. So WILD. You are one crazy, adventurous, nassssty girl.

***************

[Big Bookstore] IN COSTA MESA - 32

Reply to:
anon-56565234@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-21, 12:51PM PST

hey dudes...anyone ever cruising at [Big Bookstore] in Costa Mesa? sometimes there are some completely hot dudes there, but i always get nervous...i'll be there later to pick up a book if anyone is around and wants to "check eachother out." cute surfer dude here...32,5'10",160, fit, sexy and horny...give me a holla...jimmy

Aw. I totally understand where you're comin' from, Dude. I get nervous whenever I'm cruising strangers for sex in public places too. I ask myself if I'm hot enough. I wonder if my penis is big enough to satisfy...Oh, wait. I don't have a penis. And I don't cruise strangers for public sex. Damn. Sorry. I don't know where you're coming from, but hang in there and good luck with that!

***************

I rang you out at borders

Reply to: anon-55046212@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-09, 9:20PM CST

I pointed out the drama section for you this afternoon at Borders, then I put your books on hold for you. If I seemed like a goober, it was only because you were so beautiful I had trouble looking at you. Hope you found your credit card. If you're single and interested, let me know. Hope your life is going well no matter what.

See, this is why booksellers don't get enough play. We are too fucking nice. We should be posting ads on Craigslist asking people to blow us in the bathroom, not saying shit like, "you were so beautiful I had trouble looking at you." Barf.

Craig's Freaks, Part 2

2005-02-11T03:56:00.000-05:00

As promised, more craigslist fun:

[Big Bookstore] slut - m4w

mailto:anon-57073084@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-25, 5:03PM EST

Going to the bookstore tonight, seeking to meet up with a naughty cock sucking slut for some wild fun in the store bathroom. I am clean d&d free, conservative looking.I want you on your knees for me.

Which naughty cock-sucking slut? There are so many of us! I'm assuming you don't have a gender preference because you don't specify. We're going to draw straws in the break room to see who gets to service you. Can't wait!

***************

SOMETHING A LITTLE DIFFERENT ON A SNOWY SUNDAY - m4w - 27

Reply to: anon-56778864@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-23, 3:36PM EST

I'm currently sitting in [Rival Bookstore] reading some rather suggestive erotica, and all I can think about now is a woman watching me masturbate. I know this is a somewhat common post on here, but reading all of these short stories about voyeurism and exhibitionism have me really turned on. I've never done anything like this before, but I'm hoping that there's a sexy, adventurous, safe wf reading these posts today who sees the same appeal in this type of scenario as I do. I'm well educated, very safe, very clean and very discreet. I'm in decent shape, good looking and have an extremely clean cock. I'm not - NOT IN ANY WAY - looking for a sexual interaction; I simply want the eyes of an open-minded woman watching me. Once I'm done, I'll simply pull my pants up, thank you and leave. This is 100% sincere, so I ask that only potentially interested women respond. I've got a pic to share, and I will want to chat on phone briefly before we meet. Hopefully the right eyes will find this post...

Thank you, kind sir, for only thinking about masturbating in the bookstore.

***************

looking to give head near [Rival Bookstore] - 26

Reply to: anon-56278176@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-19, 2:47PM EST

Heading over to [Rival Bookstore] at about 6:15. Looking to meet up with a hot, clean, dd free man for great blow job. I am gl, shaved head, and just looking to get off. Looking between 27-35 only. Your picture will get mine. If interested hit me back!

I've been in the Men's room in our store. It's disgusting. I think this illustrates a fundamental difference between men and women. Men find nothing wrong with tearing off a quick piece in a filthy, urine-crusted bathroom frequented by homeless winos. In fact, I think some men actually find that a plus.

Craig's Freaks

2005-02-11T01:35:00.000-05:00

I've collected some of the better Craigslist posts involving Big Bookstore and Rival Bookstore for your reading pleasure, with commentary in red as appropriate. I'll post a few each day this weekend.

The [Big Bookstore] on Rockville Pike Scene - 22

Reply to: anon-55931990@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-17, 1:54AM EST

So whats up?

Whats goin' on with the scene at the [Big Bookstore cafe] on rockville pike? You know what I am talking about.

Its like an international and oriental gathering with ocassional hipsters and it seems like there are regulars too. I fit in with the white\hipster stereotype, haha. I just show up alone and people watch and peruse the magazines with either a mocha frap or hot choc.

It is always crowded and I like how its a place to go when its kinda late at night.

What chu' think?

I think you are a pathetic hipster wannabe, haha™. Don't chu™ think?

***************

Lets Meetup at [Big Bookstore] or [Rival Bookstore] for some FUN - m4w

Reply to: anon-57160768@craigslist.org >
Date: 2005-01-26, 11:23AM EST

31 SWM looking to hook up with a 18+ female for some quick fun in bathroom or somewhere else we can enjoy ourselves. Let me know if interested we can just make it a NSA morning or afternoon
Pics trade when contacted

lets give it a try , discreet NSA
I don't believe for one minute that you are 31 or single or capable of providing "fun" in a bookstore bathroom. Also, sex in a public bathroom? Not discreet.

***************

curious guy looking at [Rival Bookstore] for j/o and maybe bj play - 37

Reply to: anon-55976728@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-01-17, 1:05PM EST

i am going to [Rival Bookstore] (home depo parking lot)around 2.00 to 2.30 do any guys looking to explore hang there.Every time i go there are just to many guys in there something most be going on.I would like to play with a cock other then my own,if turned on enough possible bj.I am also interesting in receiving hj and bj.i am engaged and would like to fulfill a fantasy before i get married.would like to meet a Gl guy str8 acting and looking thgat is new to this also.i will not be into rimming givivg or receiving or fucking .I just want to experiment and see if i enjoy this.

Whenever there are a lot of guys hanging around someplace I, too, assume that there "must be something going on." That's why I think NASCAR events must be sseething volcanoes of hot homo sex. I totally understand and respect that you draw the line at rimming and fucking other guys. Everyone knows that if you only blow each other, it's not really gay. I'm sure your fiancee sees it your way too.

This Week's Remainders

2005-02-05T03:25:00.000-05:00

The woman who transported a shelf of China and Honk Kong travel guides to the Cafe, where she took copious notes for hours without purchasing so much as a cup of coffee? I curse her to have a spectacular mishap on her travels, perhaps something involving being sucked into one of the Mid-levels Escalators in HK thus providing mealtime entertainment for onlookers in noodle shops. I have spoken.

* * *

Readers of Vibe, Urb, XXL, Murder Dog and Don Diva magazines: please stop covering up the magazines with covers of rappers you don't like with magazines with covers of rappers you do like. Nobody cares. Really.

* * *

Calendar update: It's not too late to get your Celine Dion, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy or Guardian Angels calendar. We've still got plenty. Also, lots of calendars for potheads: Cannabis 2005, Big Buds, and High Times are all languishing. Apparently, other than people who work at Big Bookstore, nobody in this area smokes pot.

* * *

I almost made a child cry today. She was maybe five-years old, barrelling full-tilt through the Vortex of Evil ™ and not looking where she was going. I was looking where I was going, but you know, I had the fucking right of way, dammit. Of course she plowed right into me and then fell backwards on her ass. I just looked down at her with the Basilisk Stare (which scares my cow-workers let alone small children). Her mother was standing a scant three feet away pretending not to notice. The child was this close to bursting into tears. I feel certain that had I offered any sympathy whatsoever she would have done so. But she looked up at my stony face, and then at her mother, and seeing no joy there either, she shut her piehole. I looked at the mother and said: "She ran right into me. Sorry." Then I walked away. La la la.

Disgruntled Waitstaff

2005-02-02T03:10:00.000-05:00

The New York Times published this article today about waiters and restaurant servers who blog:

February 2, 2005
The Waiter You Stiffed Has Not Forgotten
By JULIA MOSKIN

WHAT evil lurks in the hearts of waiters? Now you can find out. But can you stomach the results?

An anonymous New York waiter wrote online recently: "In my fantasy, I become Darth Vader the next time a customer asks about the wines by the glass, then says, 'Merlot! Waiter, haven't you seen the movie "Sideways"?' Then I will slice off his head with my light saber."

Grievances, including friction between kitchen and dining room staff, rapacious management and near-universal bitterness over tipping, are being revealed with gusto on the Internet by restaurant staff members. As a customer, to read Web sites like www.bitterwaitress.com, waiterrant.blogspot.com and www.webfoodpros.com is to wonder nervously, "Could they be talking about me?"

Each month, www.stainedapron publishes a new extreme example of customer obnoxiousness. (One forum is titled "Keep Your Brats at Home!") On bitterwaitress.com, the most popular page is an annotated database of people who give bad tips (defined on the site as "any gratuity under 17 percent for service which one's peers would judge as adequate or better"). Anyone can add a name to the database, along with the location, restaurant, amount of the check, amount of the tip and any details, most of which cannot be printed in a family newspaper. (A disclaimer reads: "We are not responsible for submissions. Uh-uh, no way, not in the least.") There are almost 700 entries.

To read the rest of the article, click on the article link above, and try the following login and password from bugmenot:

login: rorahpg
password: 191919

(Or you can create your own nytimes.com account.)

My favorite is Waiter Rant, which is not unlike Disgruntled Bookseller in style except that he's a better writer.

The Circle of Life

2005-01-31T01:49:00.000-05:00

Our store runs on chocolate. Chocolate and caffeine and cigarettes. Those are the essential nutrients for booksellers at Big Bookstore. I know people at Big Bookstore who only smoke during their Big Bookstore breaks. They don't smoke at home, or in their cars, or when they're out drinking. But when that break rolls around, they're out on the side of the store smoking Marlboro Reds down to the butt.

We're covered in the caffeine department thanks to the Big Bookstore Cafe. As for cigarettes, we're all responsible for bringing our own, but are always willing to share. (Our generosity with fellow smokers is fueled by the sense that we are a beleaguered group, doomed to extinction.) Chocolate presents a more difficult logistical problem, however. Big Bookstore sells chocolate, but it is expensive stuff. Good, but expensive. Given the amount of chocolate necessary to fuel booksellers at Big Bookstore, we would go broke if we didn't seek outside sources. This is where I come in. Once a week, I go to Safeway and buy a couple of bags of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Hershey's Minis, and Dove Kisses, which I stuff in my locker (which doesn't have a lock). Whenever anyone needs a hit of chocolate, they can stop by my locker, conveniently located by the timeclock for that all-important start-of-shift chocolate hit.

Sometimes my cow-workers contribute to the chocolate acquisition effort. Chick Magnet or the Holler or the Dark Goddess will buy candy and put it in my locker. Last week, the Queen of the Flying Monkeys, disappointed to find the cupboard bare, placed a note in my locker which read, "Chocolate Lady, please buy some candy, I need a fix." He enclosed some money. This is where the Circle of Life begins. Well, actually it begins with QotFM's Big Bookstore paycheck. (QotFM works hard for the money. He works hard for it, honey.)

I took the money and pocketed it, because I knew better than to try and give it back to him. Later that day, Calendar Boy went out to Jerry's Subs and brought back lunch. To pay him back for my Big Bubba, I gave him the money that Queen of the Flying Monkeys had given me.

Even later that day, Calendar Boy and I were in the Cafe, which he now supervises, and he asked me to ring him up for the large Caramel Mocha which he was preparing for himself. I did so, and gave him the total. He pulled out the five dollar bill which QotFM had given me for the chocolate, and which I had given Calendar Boy for the Big Bubba, and handed it to me. I placed it in the Cafe till, and the Big Bookstore Circle of Life was complete.

I have to say that usually the Circle of Life is much more direct. We get paid. We buy books. This money actually made an intermediate stop.

Head.Explosion.Macro

2005-01-26T02:13:00.000-05:00

I arrive at Big Bookstore for my evening shift. As always, I start my evening in the Cafe, sweeping books and magazines off the tables while I wait for the barrista to get me a soda to take with me to the registers. I start to do my thing, and shortly my arms are filled with books, newspapers and magazines that have been discarded by the slob...er, customers. I head toward the small cart that we keep parked between the Cafe and the periodical section to dump the load only to find that the cart has disappeared. In it's place stand two large rolling display carts with Bargain Books. I stop in my tracks and the words "what the fucking fuck" start to erupt from my lips. Sotto voce of course, because we can't swear in front of the fucking customers.

I page a manager to find out what is going on and the Tight Dude calls. I ask him what the hell happened to the cart. He can tell from the tone of my voice that I am supremely pissed. He doesn't know the answer, and avoids me for the rest of his shift lest he get caught in the blast radius when my head explodes. The Holler, a supervisor, finds me and explains that the cart has been put out in the trash. Cue cranial expansion. I begin a rant that doesn't subside for at least five minutes. "Where the fuck am I supposed to put all the shit I clean out of the Cafe? Should I just dump the magazines on the floor? Because I'll be happy to do that. In fact, why don't I just start doing that now? Getting rid of the cart is the stupidest fucking idea I have ever heard." It goes on far longer, but you get the drift.

The Holler goes to the loading dock and retrieves the cart and places it back in the Cafe. I am only temporarily mollified because I know that he is just placating me for tonight. The cart will be gone again tomorrow. And then. And then, they will be cleaning bits of my brain off the ceiling and walls of the Cafe, because surely my skull will not be able to contain the eruption.

* * *

Here's a suggestion. When there's an author event, and we're not allowed to use the paging system while the author is speaking, it might be good if people who aren't assigned to the registers bothered themselves once in a fucking while to look and see if the cashiers need backup. BECAUSE WE DID. Several times. And yet for an hour nobody bothered to see if this was the case, and we couldn't tell anyone this was the case. We couldn't page, you see. As I mentioned above. And the portable phone which the service manager is supposed to carry during such occasions was sitting on the information desk where it was doing a fuck of a lot of good.

* * *

Meateater - I threw your coffee cup away. It was foul. At first I thought someone at the registers had busted ass. OK. It's not pleasant, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. But then I realized that the stink was lingering. I traced said stink to your coffee mug which was sitting on the wrap counter. I couldn't leave the registers, so I double-bagged that badboy and tossed it. Sorry.

* * *

Let me close with a big hearty thank you to the crack team at the Big Bookstore warehouse for sending us some Advent calendars this week.

Other Booksellers Who Blog

2005-01-24T05:49:00.000-05:00

I've added a list of of links in the sidebar to other booksellers (or groups of booksellers) who blog. They run the gamut from the big chains to indies like The Strand, and even include a few English dudes. If you come across any other booksellers who blog, let me know.

Chewy, Chocolatey Bookseller Goodness

2005-01-20T03:05:00.000-05:00

Tuesday night a customer flushed his cellphone down the toilet. He was nice enough to let us know that this had happened, just in case we had any problems with the plumbing. Me? I would have just walked away. There's no way in hell I would confess to being stupid enough to flush my cellphone.

* * *

It's 7 p.m. at Big Bookstore when the following conversation takes place:

Customoron: What time do you close?

Chick Magnet: We close at 11, sir.

Customoron: P.M?

* * *

From the We're All Faceless Robots Department:

So, Mimi is helping this woman who is looking for books on fashion and appearance. Some books are selected, and there is confusion over whether one of the titles might be discounted 50% as a promotion. (It had previously been discounted.) Mimi checks. The book is not discounted and so informs the customer. Later, Mimi is at the registers when the same customer approaches to pay. Mimi is ringing up the books when she gets to the book over which there had been some question of a discount. The woman says, "the girl told me this would be 50% off." Mimi says (knowing that "the girl" said no such thing), "which girl told you it would be 50% off?" The customer says, "the girl who was helping me." Mimi says, "was it me?"

* * *

Earlier this month, I blogged about unsupervised kids in the store. Something happened the other day which is a perfect illustration of why parents who let their kids wander about the store are complete and total fucking morons. A customer called 911 because a man was stalking two girls in the store. The girls appeared to be about 10. The man followed them around the store, upstairs and downstairs, carrying his pr0n with him. Maybe he just wanted them to see him masturbating, or maybe he had darker intentions. We'll never know because apparently his behavior was creepy enough that another customer noticed and called the cops. The creep disappeared before they could talk to him. He wouldn't have been the first scumbag to masturbate in the Kid's section. And yet, later that same day, I found a nine-year old girl who had been left in charge of her three-year old little brother while her mother was out and about shopping. It's a big store. With two floors. And a parking lot right outside. I feel bad for kids whose parents are such morons.

It's Big BookSTORE

2005-01-16T01:35:00.000-05:00

Customer Unclear on the Concept: I have a question.

Disgruntled Bookseller: How can I help you, sir?

Customer Unclear on the Concept: Can I take this book home, read it, and then bring it back?

DB: [blank stare followed by dead silence]

Customer Unclear on the Concept: What I mean is, can I borrow the book?

DB: Oh, I understood the question, sir. You can buy the book and take it home and read it to your heart's content. But no. We don't lend books.

Customer Unclear on the Concept: OK. So I have to buy it?

DB: Yes, sir.

Customer Unclear on the Concept: OK, then. Never mind.

It's Always Friday the 13th at Big Bookstore

2005-01-15T03:36:00.000-05:00

The whole calendar thing baffles me. I don't use calendars unless absolutely forced. I have been known to use a calendar at the pesky day job, where it is sometimes unavoidable; but I'm not a big fan of keeping track of the days and writing dates down. It's that time management thing. Never been very good at that. I prefer my deadlines to sneak up on me like a slasher in a dark basement. I work better that way. "Oh my GOD. This project is due tomorrow. <bloodcurdling scream> Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." And then I kick my ass into high gear and produce something absolutely brilliant. When I was in school, my Mother would say things like, "Just imagine what you could do if you started early and took your time." She just didn't get it. If I started early, I would produce absolute crap.

I suppose a calendar would be helpful for organizing other things in my life besides work - paying bills for example. To be honest, though, I don't really see the need for a calendar in that endeavor either. My creditors are very good about reminding me that I owe them money. It's really quite convenient. Some people pay assistants to remind them when things have to be done, but my creditors actually call me and give me polite reminders. It's so lovely of them.

As for birthdays, I have made it a habit for the past few years to completely ignore my birthday and not let anyone know when it occurs. By doing so, I free myself from the obligation of remembering the birthdays of others. Except for my Mother. I always remember Mom's birthday. It's the 4th of May. Or the 9th. Possibly the 14th. One of those. Anyway, it's definitely in May. I'm sure about that.

This lack of interest in keeping track of the days makes the zeal with which customers buy calendars fascinating to me. As I've posted before, the next year's calendars start arriving the store in June and we start displaying them in July. And people start buying them immediately! I suppose they are afraid that if they wait too long we will sell out of "Outhouses of Appalachia" and then what will they hang on their cubicle walls?

Of course we stock the predictable stuff: scenic vistas, famous artists, cats, dogs, hot rods, sports teams, and Star Trek. These are perennials. But I'm more interested in the oddball stuff and I always wonder who buys these things: the aforementioned "Outhouses", "Nuns Having Fun", "Clay Aiken", "Crop Circles", "Precious Moments." Precious Fucking Moments.

I think that calendar sales provide an interesting snapshot of American pop culture for any given year. Assuming that calendar sales are a predictor of popularity, America is currently into: Bush bashing, Spongebob Squarepants, the Sierra Club, the Boston Red Sox, and, as always, half- or mostly-naked chicks. America is tired of: Celine Dion, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, the Sopranos, Snooopy, Thomas the Tank Engine, and Van Helsing. (OK. America never liked Van Helsing in the first place.)

And for all of the calendars that we stock, there are thousands more that we don't stock. Here's one that I'm sure would have been a hot-seller if only we had carried it: the Menopause Pocket Planner.

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

2005-01-08T02:59:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I posted about my Busman's Holiday. In response to that post, someone posting anonymously made an extremely shitty comment about management. While the post didn't mention any names, it was pretty clear that one person was the intended target of the comment. I probably should have deleted the post at the time, but I didn't. I didn't delete for a couple of reasons. I'm not a big fan of inviting discussion (by the act of allowing comments to my posts) and then editing that discussion. Also, deleting or editing comments is just an invitation to the world to test the limits of the editor's tolerance. Finally, I didn't think it was that big of a deal. And in that final conclusion, I was mistaken. Had I thought about it a little more deeply, I would have realized that it was a big deal.

I didn't think it was a big deal because, for the most part, this blog has been very positive about Big Bookstore, and I didn't think one comment grousing about management was too much to get excited over. I think I've made it clear, as have most of the posters here, that I love working at Big Bookstore and I love the people I work with. In fact, our love for each other and books is the reason we put up with the things we don't like - like mean customers. But what I didn't really think about was how the individual at whom the comment was targeted would feel after reading the remark. I think we can all try to figure out what it feels like to walk around the store wondering who the hell it is that wants to slap you silly. I'm guessing it feels pretty shitty. I'm deeply sorry for that. As I say, I should have deleted.

And being deeply sorry brings me to my next point. I don't like having to apologize for what is, essentially, someone else's primary fuck up. It makes me mad. So from now on, I'm asking you, the readers of this blog, to refrain from making personal, negative comments, unless you are willing to accept responsibility for them - and by that I mean, tell us who the fuck you are. If you don't have the balls to say it and take credit for it, don't say it at all.

I'd like to think we are adult enough to be self-policing. I could just turn off the anonymous comments, but I don't want to. Anonymity isn't always bad. I wouldn't, for example, mind an anonymous comment from someone expressing his (sorry, Mir) undying love for me. Preferably from some hot, young, anonymous poster. Just sayin'.

So, bottom line: I would prefer that you register with blogger and log in to post comments. If you really need to post anonymously, or are just a lazy fuck, then go ahead, but I will be aggressive with the delete button if necessary.

And remember this: I have referrer logs, so you are never really anonymous.

More Random Notes

2005-01-07T04:53:00.000-05:00

I was really dreading having to have that conversation with the Mullet about his personal hygiene. You know how bad I am with confrontation. Also, assertiveness. I have problems with both of those things. Oh! And speaking my mind. Also very difficult for me. The whole thing would have been very awkward, I'm sure.

Thank Jebus, the Mullet has left us to "seek other opportunities." We can all breath deeply now.

* * *

Big Bookstore now carries Southern Partisan magazine. I'd link to it, but they don't appear to have a website. Just as well. It would just piss you off. You may recall that an interview in Southern Partisan some years ago almost sank John Ashcroft's nomination. Unfortunately, in today's America, praising Jefferson Davis, and expressing admiration for a magazine that unabashedly yearns for the days of the Confederacy and has been called, in a feat of understatement, "crypto-racist", is insufficient cause to question a man's ability to be Attorney-General.

Screw this "crypto-racist" crap. I say we stop pussy-footing around and start carrying the hardcore neo-Nazi stuff. If a magazine isn't ready to come out and declare it's White Supremacist stance right up front then fuck 'em for the pussies that they are.*

* * *

I had a customer the other night who was straight out of an episode of "Cops." She had a bleached blond mullet (look! two mullet mentions in one post!), an inch of pancake makeup, skin-tight track suit, and a tank top that was pulled down so far in front that you could almost see her nipples. She might have been in her late 40s - or she may have just done some hard livin'. Difficult to say. Her skin had that leathery perma-tan one can only obtain from too many days riding "personal water craft" at some Redneck resort like Lake Anna. She had brought her son (also mulleted) to Big Bookstore because someone gave him a gift card for Christmas. He was disappointed to find out that we didn't have video games, and didn't think he'd be able to use his gift card. His mother pointed out that we had DVDs and CDs, and the day was saved. Apparently, the 150,000 book titles weren't even under consideration. I thought about telling him where the video game guides were, but I could feel the Ignorant People Cooties attempting to migrate towards me so I left them to their own devices.

Hey! I bet they would have bought Southern Partisan!

*For those of you who may not know, Disgruntled Bookseller is not white. She is sort of a racial tweener. Therefore, this paragraph is intended to be bitterly humorous. (™ standard sense-of-humor failure disclaimers)

Random Notes

2005-01-04T03:25:00.000-05:00

The conjunction of holidays and Sunday hours this past weekend really put some people over the edge. We closed at 6 p.m. on Friday night, New Year's Eve, 9 p.m. on Saturday night, New Year's Day, and then 9 p.m. on Sunday which is our normal Sunday closing time. Given that we're open six nights a week until 11 p.m. all year long, and only closed on Christmas and Thanksgiving, I think that closing early on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day is reasonable, don't you? One customer was annoyed that we were closing at 9 on New Year's Day. I told him that Big Bookstore was giving us the remaining three hours of the holiday to celebrate and I was sorry if it inconvenienced him. Another customer snarlingly told the manager that he WOULD BE BACK WHEN WE OPENED AT 9 A.M. THE NEXT DAY. Because, you know, we always get upset when people threaten to shop at our store.

* * *

The cafe was packed on Sunday. We made repeated announcements about the one hour seating limit. When the announcements had no effect, and I had three separate groups of people with food and drink circling looking for a place to sit, I started approaching study buddies who had been there longer than one hour, and who had no food or drink from the cafe.

Disgruntled Bookseller: Ma'am, were you planning to get something from the Cafe? Because if not, I really need your table for the folks standing over there with food.
Nursing Exam Bitch: I got coffee this morning.
DB: Well, ma'am, that was this morning and we do have a one hour seating limit in the Cafe.
Nursing Exam Bitch: But I already had coffee this morning.
DB (wearily): Again, ma'am. We have a one hour seating limit in the Cafe. If you're not going to be having an refreshments from the Cafe, I really need your table.
Nursing Exam Bitch (angrily): Alright! I'm getting a cup of coffee.
DB: Fine.
Nursing Exam Bitch (still angry): You'll see! I'll get a cup of coffee every hour! You don't know how to run a business! I've been here for three days!

What I Didn't Say: Um. Yes. That's the point. You've been here for three days, and you've purchased one cup of coffee. And again, threatening to purchase product from the store doesn't really scare me. In fact, that's the whole fucking point you stupid cunt.

* * *

Charles Manson has been in the store a lot lately. OK. He's not really Charles Manson. He's just a homeless guy who smells bad and looks a lot like Charles Manson. One night I told him he couldn't leave his grocery bags (full of what looks like garbage but is probably Very Important Stuff to Charles Manson) parked in a corner of the store while he walked around. He asked me why. I told him we didn't like unattended bags lying around the store. He said, "you just think it looks bad to have my bags lying around." I said, "well, yes, that's true, it does look like shit, but I was trying to be nice about it."

* * *

The Mullet needs to take daily showers. I'm serious. If this issue doesn't get addressed soon, I will be forced to take matters into my own hands. And you know I will not be nice or tactful about it. I nearly snapped on Sunday. I was this close to saying, "Mullet, do you ever fucking shower before you come to work? Because you smell foul." But I did not.

What's that you say? Why, yes. Yes, in fact, I do think I should get a prize for my restraint.

* * *

Book returners of the world: hear me now. We are not stupid. We know you wait until the weeks after Christmas to return the unreturnable. You think that due to the sheer volume of post-holiday returns we will not notice that you are attempting to return a ratty, yellowed copy of a crappy novel that has been out of print for five years, or those shitty Book Club editions of bestsellers that are bound with spit and rubberbands. Unfortunately, it's true that occasionally, because of people like the Mullet, you get away with it. Woe to those, however, who attempt a bogus return on my register shift. I like to draw the process out. Spend my time looking the book up in the computer. (Even though I already know the item is not returnable.) Examine the book carefully. Telling you that the book is not returnable because it's not something we've carried for the last three years (if ever) is one of my little pleasures. If you argue with me about it, it's like icing on the cake. I do a little mental happy dance at one of the rare opportunities to say "no" to a customer. Sometimes I am almost tempted to break into song.

"Nooooooo.
You cannot return your piece of shit.
Because you are a looooooser."

* * *

The Valentine's crap has arrived.

***

We are suffering a severe eye candy shortage on the bookfloor. My former crush, Senor Mujeriego, who turned out to be a pig, but was still nice to look at, quit last night. No notice. (Again I say, WHAT THE FUCK is up with YPOTs who give no notice?) To add insult to injury, El Otro Hombre Caliente has been moved upstairs to Music. APPARENTLY, NOBODY IN MANAGEMENT THOUGHT TO CONSULT ME IN THIS MATTER. Bastards.

Plus, Babysitters Get Paid More

2005-01-02T03:42:00.000-05:00

This article in the Washington Post touches on just one of the many reasons that I call the Kid's Section at Big Bookstore the Vortex of Evil. The article discusses children's story hours at Big Bookstore and Rival Bookstore, and how they provide a valuable service to parents who can shop in peace while their kids are entertained by booksellers. Here's a choice quote: "If you think about how clever Barnes & Noble and Borders are: While they are effectively baby-sitting your children, you have two hours of uninterrupted book shopping," said Paula Quint, president of the Children's Book Council, based in New York."

Someday, I plan to write at length about all the many reasons that booksellers hate to get sucked down into that maelstrom of malevolence known simply as "Kids", but at the top of any such list of reasons would be parents who leave their children to be babysat by booksellers while they shop. If these parents had any clue about the kind of people who hang out in bookstores (not to mention the kind of people who work in bookstores), they would chain their children to their sides as they browse the store. But no, they feel it is perfectly safe to let their spawn, some so young they can barely locomote let alone speak, run amok unattended in the children's section as if it were some sort of Safe Zone. At least once a week I find one of these grubby little urchins playing alone with no adult in sight.

Frankly, I could give a shit about their welfare* - I mean, if their parents don't then why should I? But being a dutiful employee of Big Bookstore (and keenly aware of potential legal liabilities) I take said urchin by the hand, attempt to elicit a name, and page the parents. The reaction of the parents ranges from embarrassment at being exposed as neglectful, to outrage that I have dared to disturb their shopping experience by worrying about the welfare of their disgusting progeny.

So it was with some gratitude that I saw this Letter to the Editor in yesterday's Post. I'm going to beg the author's forgiveness and quote it in it's entirety:

Paula Quint, president of the Children's Book Council, gave a nod of approval to parents who make a habit of dropping off their young ones in the children's section of a bookstore. She said that Borders and Barnes & Noble "are effectively baby-sitting your children, [while] you have two hours of uninterrupted book shopping" ["Bookstores' Story Time Not Just for Kids; Parents Use Occasion to Browse and Buy," Metro, Dec. 25]. As a former Borders employee, I wish to disabuse parents of this notion.

People who work in retail suffer from low pay ($6.25 an hour to start), chronic understaffing, a heavy workload and constant customer service requests. They are not nannies.

Booksellers are not trained or necessarily inclined to make sure the toddler being dragged out the front door -- a daily occurrence -- is really with his or her parent.

Drink your latte, buy your CD, but don't let your child out of your sight.

MARK FEEHAN

Washington

Right on.

*I like kids. I really do. But only if they are related to me in some way by either blood or friendship. I feel no special obligation to look out for the welfare of the children of strangers absent some immediate and obvious threat. If you disagree with this attitude, bite me.

Busman's Holiday

2004-12-23T03:32:00.000-05:00

I cannot walk or drive past a bookstore without stopping and going in. Many booksellers suffer from this compulsion. I've shopped in branches of Big Bookstore Corporation from San Francisco to Manhattan and a dozen places in between. I've also visited my fair share of Rival Bookstore Corp shops. (And yes, I also visit independents.) Herewith, a report on my bookstore visits so far this week:

Two nights ago I completed my Christmas shopping at the nearest local Big Bookstore, a 25 minute drive down the freeway. I went late, because I'm not an idiot, and I hate the customers (even when I am one), and I know that the best time to avoid the customers is after 9 p.m. on a weeknight. I felt bad for my beleaguered fellow booksellers. The store was a mess. Merchandise was strewn hither and yon. The Kid's section was a complete No Go Zone. The periodicals looked like they had been the subject of some bizarre punishment wherein the person being punished is required to relocate each item, one at a time, to a different part of the store. The phone wouldn't stop ringing and nobody was answering. I had to resist the Pavlovian urge to grab the nearest phone and say, "Thank you for calling Big Bookstore, this is [Disgruntled Bookseller], how can I help you?" I actually did help them out with some recovery, picking up discarded merchandise here and there and reshelving it or returning it to their main Info desk. I settled my Mom in the Cafe with a Large Decaf Kahlua Foam Explosion Double Whipped Cream Chocolate Latte with Extra Sprinkles, and did some power shopping for family stocking stuffers: four WWII movie DVDs for my brother, three books on military history for Dad, the Illustrated Da Vinci Code for Mom, a couple of these cool carabiner LED lights for the nephews, Burt's Bees hand and foot kits for Mom and my sister-in-law, and other shit I can't remember now.

As I mentioned in my previous post, Rival Bookstore Corp recently opened a brand new store mere minutes from the parental dwelling. Last night, using the excuse that I was still looking for the new issue of the Atlantic Monthly, I stopped in. It was lovely. It was pristine. There was barely a book out of place. There was no merchandise on the floor. The Children's section was an oasis of serenity. At seven in the evening, with four shopping days remaining before Christmas, there was nobody in line. I wandered about the store noting all the lovely merchandise they carried: calligraphy sets, inkpad and stamp sets, Simpsons jigsaw puzzles, kits for writing love letters, Scoobydoo-opoly, and bird feeder construction kits to name just a few. I note this for all of my fellow Big Bookstore employees who complain that we sell too much non-book crap. Our crap doesn't even come close to the amount of crap Rival Bookstore carries. Seriously. Not only do they have more crap, but their crap reeks way more than our crap. Anyhoo. I was somewhat relieved to find that they did not have the new issue of the Atlantic Monthly for two reasons: I would have felt really guilty about spending money in Rival Bookstore, and I didn't want to break the peaceful, slumbrous state surrounding the cashwrap area. I don't think people Out Here read a lot. But perhaps Rival Bookstore can make it just by selling the crap.

Today was my final bookstore visit. I stopped into the Big Bookstore flagship in San Francisco. Good God. It was insane. All I can say is this: Booksellers of Big Bookstore #5_, I salute you, You Magnificent Bastards ™.

In the Land of the Governator

2004-12-16T16:29:00.000-05:00

By special dispensation from the retail gods (also known as the General Manager and HR Manager), Disgruntled Bookseller is on vacation this week, visiting the Kingdom of Cimmeria to celebrate her parents' 50th anniversary.

Let me begin by saying that reading about Arnold Schwarznegger being the governor of California from a distance of 3000 miles is one thing - actually being here is another. I swear he has people here hyp-mo-tized.

I was going to post the First Annual™ Disgruntled Bookseller Naughty and Nice Awards today, but first I must point out my extreme disgruntlement at the fact that Rival Bookstore Corp has opened a new store a few miles away from the ancestral abode, whereas the nearest branch of Big Bookstore remains an annoying 25 minute drive down the freeway. ("Freeway." So California.) This totally fucks my Life Failure Fall-Back Plan. You know - in case my life goes completely into the crapper I figured I could always move back to the parental domicile and work at the nearby branch of Big Bookstore which would surely be opening any day.

Personally, I can totally understand why Big Bookstore passed on my parents little patch of paradise. It totally bites ass out here. Where is "out here?" It is the Bay Area 'burbs. I will not get any more specific than that because I am too embarrassed to say. See, we used to be City folk. And I mean City with a capital "C". We were San Franciscans. Now, the Disgruntled Bookseller family seat lies at the end of a BART line, a good hour's drive away from the Promised Land. I think this is karmic retribution for all the times that my Mother and I laughed at all the underdressed suburbanites in their sensible shoes and dowdy clothes who came into the City at Christmas to look at the window displays. Other karmic retribution? My Mother had to sacrifice her Guccis, Ferragamos and Maud Frizons for those same sensible shoes after years of high heels on city pavement ruined her feet. (True story: my mother and I once ran into I. Magnin to buy her a pair of $120 Bruno Magli flats because it had started to rain, and she didn't want to ruin her $300 Bruno Magli pumps. Good times.)

Anyway.

Here I am, in the 'burbs.

And today I am wearing: Hush Puppies.

More Lessons from the School of Obviosity: Holiday Edition

2004-12-14T03:30:00.000-05:00

I think I've made it pretty clear how I feel about the customers. While some are intelligent, and some are pleasant, and a rare few are both intelligent and pleasant, many are complete fuckwits or asshats, and all too many are both fuckwits and asshats. The level of fuckwittage and asshattery rises drastically in December for a number of reasons. One of the chief reasons? Christmas shopping brings a deluge of people who would never otherwise step inside a bookstore, satisfying all their reading needs from the aisles of Safeway or the book section at Wal*Mart. Perhaps their children have defied the genetic imperative and requested the complete works of William T. Vollman for Christmas. Whatever the reason, the levels of idiocy and pettiness rise drastically with each day that passes in December.

These are just a few of the things I would have like to have been able to say to customers tonight in response to the various queries and comments I received:

"No. You are not special. If you want to purchase that item you will have to get in line just like everyone else. I am not sympathetic to your request that I let you jump ahead of everyone else because you have just one item. In fact, since you are only buying one measly fucking CD, you should wait even longer. If I had my way, people would get in line for the registers based on the amount of money they are planning to spend and the quality of the merchandise they have selected. Since you're spending 15 bucks on that shitty Mannheim Steamroller Christmas CD, go to the back of the line, asshole."

"I understand that the phone rang for two whole minutes before someone answered. That's because the people who weren't too lazy to get off their big fat asses, put some fucking clothes on, get in their cars, and actually come into the store, were being helped first. If you want to shop in your pajamas from the convenience of your own home, you're going to have to fucking wait for me to pick up the phone."

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do mind ringing up five separate purchases for you because you want to use the 25%-off-one-item coupon for five different items. It clearly says on the coupon that you can use one fucking coupon per day, you cheap piece of shit. READ THE FINE PRINT, ASSHOLE. But what the fuck, I have all day, and I'm sure the people in line behind you have all fucking day. And by spending five extra minutes ringing up your five separate purchases, all the people in line behind you will be extra fucking happy and cheerful when they finally arrive at my register."

Of course, I can't say those things. I can only pin the customer with what I like to think of as my basilisk stare - a sort of half-lidded, dead-eyed look that my friends know means I am thinking, "you are a moron and I wish you would go away." I only wish it actually had the power to turn people to stone.

So, So Much More Disgruntled Than I

2004-12-11T04:42:00.000-05:00

Seriously. I am humbled by the level of bile and disgruntlement this bookseller manages to express with his (her?) brief but hilarious posts at I Hate the Strand.

To be fair, beetlebreakfast has much better material to work with than I do, as anyone who has ever visited the the Strand can attest. For a bookstore, it is an amazingly foul place.

The Strand Magnetic Poetry is particularly brilliant.

The Waiting Room of Hell

2004-12-05T01:11:00.000-05:00

There was a time, back in the day, when the employees of Big Bookstore had some control over the music that is played "overhead". There were rules - nothing with lyrics, nothing too "hard" or "poppy" - but generally, if we stocked it, we could play it. Nowadays, the music we play overhead is dictated to us by Big Bookstore headquarters, and as a general rule, it is complete ass (™ Meateater). There are six CDs that rotate on the overhead sound system. In any given month there will be at least one CD (if not more) from the following set of artists: Josh Groban, Andrea Bocelli, Sarah Brightman, the Three Tenors, or the Irish Tenors. For the last six months the selection has included a CD put together by the local easy listening station to support a cure for breast cancer. This CD includes songs by Billy Joel, Madonna, and Dido. Dido. Like I said. Ass. And we can't stop playing it until we've sold all the CDs. There are 78 left. I have actually considered taking up a collection to purchase the remaining CDs just so we can finally be free again.

We used to have live music at Big Bookstore every Friday night in the Cafe. The artists were local, and ranged from jazz combos to Celtic groups to folk singers. Once, during Hannukah, we had a Klezmer band which led the customers in an impromptu horah throughout the store. The music was always too loud, and occasionally very bad. Sometimes it was very, very bad. Banjer Dan comes to mind. Banjer Dan played the, um, Banjo. And told really inappropriate and bigoted jokes about the Middle East in between songs. To this day, if you mention his name, you will elicit shudders of remembered revulsion from the Big Bookstore staff. Then there was the "classically trained" singer who came during the holidays and insisted on having her own precious nativity set as a prop while she sang. Just in case people didn't get the message that her Christmas carols were about, you know, the birth of Christ and shit.

This past weekend, Big Bookstore hosted a special event. It was a live music event to promote a Christmas CD by a guy who used to be the lead singer for a big rock band that's been around since the late 60s. In the 60s and early 70s this band Did Not Suck. However, the cheeze factor on this band's output began to steadily rise, along with the singer's falsetto, from the late 70s onward, until it reached a peak of Cheddarosity in the mid-80s. So the Has Been singer has been a solo artist for the last twenty years or so, trading off of his association with the band, but never quite achieving the same success and fame.

We had strict instructions for this event. The Has Been needed the employee bathroom to be vacated for 30 minutes prior to his arrival. It made me wonder if the Has Been knew about the Big Man - our Saturday night music seller whom we love, but for whom a 30-minute Zone of Exclusion must be established after he graces the employee restroom. Also, we were not permitted the barest whisper of a mention of the Has Been's former band.

The Has Been was glossy. He was shiny. His fake tan practically glowed with a radioactive luminosity. His hair was bleached and blowdried to perfection. I was reminded of nothing so much as Abba. He sang for 20 minutes, emoting his way through such slices of holiday Camembert as "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." Rivulets of molten Velveeta flowed downwards from the Music section as his audience received this performance with the enthusiasm that only the freaks who worship C-list celebrities can muster. Afterwards, he signed his CD, while the burlier supervisors kept his insistent fans at a safe distance.

Then the Has Been was off into the night, and we returned to our previously scheduled overhead listening: Christmas with the Beach Boys.

A Letter

2004-11-30T02:02:00.000-05:00

Dear Big Bookstore Customer,

I know I haven't always been very gentle with you here in this blog. And I have said some unkind things about you. I've bitched a lot about the things you do that piss me off. No. Really. But that's no reason to end the relationship! I just needed to get some stuff off my chest. I didn't mean for you to break up with me!

This last weekend really hurt my feelings. It was Black Friday. Where were you? I waited and waited, but you never showed. I thought we had a date. OK. It's not like we actually sat down and made an appointment, but it's traditional - the Friday after Thanksgiving has always been our special day together! The day we set aside every year to spend together! I can't believe you just blew me off like that. I thought what we had was special. I thought it was different. I was so sure that I was different from all the other retailers with which you've had relationships in the past.

Don't I do things for you that other stores won't do? (Let's not be coy. I think you know what I'm talking about here. I bend over backwards to serve you. I go out of my way to meet your needs. I even go into the back room for you when you want something special that you just can't find elsewhere.) Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I've been too easy. My Mother always told me I should play harder to get.

So, yeah. Last weekend really hurt. When you didn't show on Friday, I was sure that you would make up for it on Saturday. I stayed late Friday night to fluff the displays so that when you did stagger in on Saturday, smelling of knock-off perfumes from whatever skanky big box retailers you'd been hanging out with the day before, you would be blown away and immediately regret ignoring me. But again you were nowhere to be found. That's when I started to really get pissed off. I was willing to chalk up Friday to those doorbuster specials that those cheap, tarty retailers were flaunting to get you to look at them. You know the ones I'm talking about. The $29.99 DVD players being sold by that slut Wal*Mart. God. Wal*Mart. She's so fucking common. But by Saturday I realized that the problem was deeper than that. You've begun to take our relationship for granted. Deep down, you think that no matter how late the hour, no matter how few days are left before Christmas, I will still be there for you. After you've satisfied your baser needs with those other retailers, you'll come crawling to me for some real service and sincere, meaningful merchandise - the kind you can't get elsewhere.

I only hope that when you come to your senses, that I can still be there for you. I'm not really sure that I can. I mean, I'll try, but by the time you get around to noticing me, it might be too late. There are other customers in the sea you know! And they'll all be lining up at the last minute trying to find the perfect gift, just like you. So I hope you'll understand that when the line is fifty customers deep at the registers you have only yourself to blame. When there are 10 people at the Information Desk and only two booksellers to service them, please know that it could have been so different if only you had paid a little more attention to me at the right time.

You could have had my undivided attention. You could have had me waiting on you hand and foot. I would have been, metaphorically, on my knees for you.

Maybe it's not too late to salvage this relationship. I'll be in the store every night this week. I'll be looking for you. But I can't wait forever.

Love always,

Disgruntled Bookseller

Discretion, or Lack Thereof

2004-11-27T04:56:00.000-05:00

These lines from "A Well Worn Story" by Dorothy Parker describe me well, don't you think?

I wore my heart like a wet, red stain
On the breast of a velvet gown.

This is How It Happens

2004-11-24T14:06:00.000-05:00

This is how it happens. You're shelving in Transportation one day and one of your coworkers passes by and makes a casual comment. You look up and notice that some time in the last six months he has shed the unique look that made him a cross between Jerry Garcia and Grizzly Adams and you can actually see his face - and it's a very nice face. And you realize that he's also been a bit more outgoing and less...scary. So you think about it for a little while, and one night you ask him out. You're not really that interested, but what the hell.

You go out on a few dates, and things are kind of nice, but then you wake up one morning a few weeks later and realize you are in love for the first time in years. You move in together and proceed to live in a relationship which you think of as The One. You know. The One that will last forever.

But it doesn't last forever. It lasts eighteen months, because he has some issues to work out and a lot of growing and learning to do, so he leaves you and moves out. He dates other people, but you can't and you don't. You leave Big Bookstore because you can no longer bear to work there where the other people he is now dating also work. You can't even bear to drive by Big Bookstore on your way home without crying uncontrollably, so you take alternate routes.

Six months later he is back. He moves back in. You try vainly to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. You try and try and try, but you can't and he won't. He moves out again.

* * *

This is how it happens. You are working at another branch of Big Bookstore, and you begin to realize you have a crush on another coworker. You resist. Not because you have been down this road before, but because he is totally inappropriate and completely lacking in social skills or redeeming qualities. Although you still have enough sanity to realize this, it doesn't help. Reluctantly you give in to the crush. One night, you confide your crush in another coworker. He responds by paying you such an extravagant compliment that you are forced to look at him with new eyes et voila, the old crush is extinguished. Within two weeks you are dating your confidant. You do not yet know that the extravagant compliment is one of the last nice things that your confidant turned boyfriend will ever do for you. A year and a half later, after you have helped him through some incredibly rough times, he breaks up with you by pointedly ignoring your birthday. Another Big Bookstore relationship ends.

* * *

This is how it happens. You are walking around the store with the Trainer talking about various work issues when he stops to introduce you to a new coworker. The new person gazes down at you from his perch on the sliding stairs and offers his hand and his name. The French call it the coup de foudre. You have never believed in it before but now you do, because instantly you are lost.

This is how it begins.

My Big Fat Bookselling Family

2004-11-20T01:43:00.000-05:00

I almost had a really bad night tonight. An ex dropped by the store and by the time he left, I was in tears. Not because I'm upset about the demise of the relationship (which occurred about six months ago and was pretty mutual), but because in typical fashion I was somehow made to feel responsible for his unhappiness.

My night was rescued by my cow-workers.

Calendar Boy, an incredibly hot, mature beyond his years, 18-year old supervisor, with whom everybody in the store, male and female is in love, saw that I was upset and came over to give me a big hug and let me vent, while Buns of Steel looked on and listened with sympathy and concern. Later, my girlfriends, Chick Magnet and Mimi, also listened while I expressed my anger and frustration at feeling so manipulated. And then, at the end of the night, my dear friend, Wife-In-Law, provided much needed ego boosting, cheer and distraction by discussing my new crush with me in optimistic terms.

These people turned the night around for me and reminded me of why, no matter how much I may earn at the day job, I will always work part-time for Big Bookstore.

I'm not being hyperbolic when I describe my Big Bookstore cow-workers as family. There are about 70 people on the payroll at my store, so it's a big family, but a family nonetheless. At the head are the General Manager and his Assistant Managers. The GM, Closeted Straight Guy, is the perfect pater familias - loving but firm, affectionate and friendly but demanding of hard work and loyalty. His co-parents are Queen of the Flying Monkeys, Foam Party, Gun Nut and the Tight Dude. The other managers and supervisors, including Calendar Boy, Dark Goddess, Wife-in-Law, and Holler, among others, are like the big kids - older siblings who help Mom and Dad keep the younger sibs in line, but occasionally act like kids themselves. Then there's the rest of us - booksellers, music sellers, barristas, shelvers, cashiers. We are the children - some of us are favorite children, and some of us (Baby Seal) are problem children - as in any overlarge family.

Not everyone at Big Bookstore is as invested emotionally in the Big Bookstore dynamic as I am. Some people just come to work and go home, and aren't really interested in having a personal relationship with their cow-workers. Others know they're only passing through - Big Bookstore is a pitstop on the way to grad school or a "better" job. But at the core are the people who stay despite the possibility of better paying jobs because they love books and they love the people they work with. We become friends with each other, we hang out together, we date each other, and sometimes we move in together or get married to each other. Over the course of the years, these relationships can get a bit tangled, and to outside eyes might even seem awkwardly incestuous. My ex, the Medieval One (who is not the ex mentioned above), and I lived and worked together on and off for four years. He's now married to another cow-worker which is why I jokingly call her "Wife-in-Law." We all work together quite happily and are the best of friends.

After the Medieval One and I broke up for the final time, I thought some space was needed so I moved to another, smaller branch of Big Bookstore. (In a Big Bookstore break-up, custody of the store always goes to the one who has been there longer. He had me by four months.) It was like being orphaned from a large Italian family and being adopted by a small clan of New England WASPs. They were nice people, but they weren't my people and I felt adrift in a place of strange customs and cold embraces. The store was too small to contain my sometimes overwhelming personality. I missed the boisterousness and drama of my old store, the tantrums and intrigues, and the sense of being enfolded by a place of belonging each time I walked in the door. It only lasted six months before I returned home.

New kids walking into this large, complicated and sometimes dysfunctional family are often confused by the thicket and tangle of old friendships and loyalties. But if they are destined to become "one of us", they quickly learn to fit right into the family rhythm and establish their niche in the sibling pecking order.

My cow-workers are my friends, my social life and my support network. (And I'm sort of hoping that one cow-worker in particular, with whom I am completely and utterly smitten, will eventually become my boyfriend.)

They are my big fat bookselling family.

A Bookstore for Some of Our Special Customers

2004-11-17T01:53:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has ever been a bookseller can tell you stories about customers who come in looking for "that blue book with the gold lettering that I saw on your front table last week." Not only can these customers not remember the title or author, most of the time they can't even remember what the book was about. The only shred of information they have managed to retain is the color of the cover and the fact that for some reason, which they can't even recall, they would like to find it again. I've always found this incredibly bizarre. If you can't even remember what the book was about, why on fucking earth are you interested in it?

No matter. For a short time, at least, there is a bookstore where these people can go and search for books by color.

So Pissed I Thought My Head Would Explode

2004-11-12T01:39:00.000-05:00

I've got a newsflash. Federal holidays come at the SAME FUCKING TIME EVERY YEAR. Every fucking year we have the same goddamn holidays. Here. Let me list them:

New Year's Day
Birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.
Washington's Birthday
Memorial Day
Independence Day
Labor Day
Columbus Day
Veterans Day
Thanksgiving Day
Christmas Day

Am I burdening anyone with information they didn't already know? I didn't think so. And yet. AND YET, every fucking federal holiday we are understaffed. And every fucking federal holiday FOR SEVEN YEARS I have said, "gee, didn't anyone realize it was going to be a federal holiday and think to adjust the schedule accordingly?" And every fucking time I ask that question, there is no answer.

Now, this wouldn't be such a big fucking deal if my branch of Big Bookstore wasn't located in a place where a significant chunk of the population is employed by the federal government. And an equally large chunk of the population is employed by companies that contract with the federal government, and therefore observe the same holidays as the federal government.

I think you can put two and two together and see where I'm going with this.

On federal holiday weekdays, every fucking civil servant in the metro area descends upon Big Bookstore. Having nothing, apparently, better to do with their time, they come to Big Bookstore to dream. They dream about the exotic trips they'll never take. They dream about the luxurious houses they will never build. They dream about the lucrative sideline selling real estate that they will never pursue. And they dream about that great private sector job that they will never have the guts to leave the government for. And they do all this dreaming by pulling ten or twenty books at a time off the shelves on their chosen pipe dream and redistributing them in various places about the store.

You might think I'm being harsh about feds. I am. I was a fed for 17 years, and in a few weeks I'll be going back to work for the federal government. I know whereof I speak. Feds, for the most part, are people who have big dreams but small realities. They want to have larger lives. They want to do something more meaningful or more lucrative. They want to be interesting. But the sad fact is that they are not. They dream but don't do. They are shackled to their secure, safe, unspeakably boring jobs, afraid to take risks.

It's the same every federal holiday. Travel books, interior decorating, job hunting, home construction, and real estate books. These are the things that small minds dream about. And picking up after the daydreamers is what I face. The day crew, having been shocked and suprised (shocked I tell you!) by the volume of business on this federal holiday that occurs at the same time every year, has not had time to reshelve any of these daydreams. This is especially true because two of the three booksellers who worked the open or mid shift today are - how can I say this politely? - slackasses. (Attention, cow-workers! If you are reading this and think you might be one of the two slackasses mentioned, and you are offended, please read the disclaimer in the sidebar and then Bite Me.)

Tonight, I spent five hours doing nothing but reshelving. At high speed. It took me a half hour just to sweep all the big chunks in the Kid's section into a big pile so I could start the reshelving.

So, yeah. I was so pissed tonight that I thought my head would explode. I think I'm better now. Ranting helps.

Karma

2004-11-10T01:53:00.000-05:00

I was digging through my attic the other night searching for some old papers and came across this. For those of you too lazy to click, it's a Karma Violation Pad, a book of "tickets" from the Karma Police which can be filled out for various violations such as: barefaced lying, borrowing with intent to keep, hurting intentionally, being just plain rude and obnoxious, and a host of other karmic violations.

At the bottom of each Notice of Karma Violation is the following statement:

In accordance with the laws of the universe and karma, you are hereby required to make immediate amends and/or apologies to the aforementioned person(s) or institution(s) perpetrated against. Failure to comply will cause this already negative energy to come reeling around the planet right back into your life.
DO NOT THINK YOU CAN REALLY EVER GET AWAY WITH THIS

I've come up with my own Karma Violation Codes - one for customers and one for cow-workers.

Customer Karma Violation Code

§ 1.01 Removing an Ass of Books from the Shelves with No Intent to Purchase
§ 1.02a Child Neglect: Leaving Children Unsupervised in the Kids Section
§ 1.02b Child Neglect: Being Present with Children in the Kids Section and Failing to Supervise Said Children
§ 1.03 Opening Sealed Merchandise with No Intent to Purchase
§ 1.04 Attempting to Tell Bookseller How to Do Job
§ 1.05 Continuing a Cell Phone Conversation While Interacting with Bookseller or Cashier
§ 1.06 Asking If an Item Which Doesn't Scan is Free
§ 1.07 Behaving in Any Way Which is Appropriate Only for Your Own Living Room
§ 1.08 Consumption of Food and Beverages Not Purveyed by Big Bookstore
§ 1.09 Display of Indignance When Informed of "No Outside Food or Beverages" Rule
§ 1.10 Use of Cafe Seating for More Than One Hour, But Not Less than 4 Hours, Without Making a Cafe Purchase

§ 2.01a Attempting to Return Used and Unsaleable Merchandise
§ 2.01b Whining and/or Shouting When Attempt to Return Unsaleable Merchandise is Refused
§ 2.02a Stealing
§ 2.02b Attempting to Return Stolen Merchandise
§ 2.03 Fraudulent Price Switching
§ 2.04 Use of Big Bookstore as Research Center with No Intent to Purchase
§ 2.05 Use of Cafe Seating for More Than Four Hours, Regardless of Amount of Cafe Purchase

§ 3.01 Public Masturbation
§ 3.02 Use of Any Big Bookstore Premises Other Than the Designated Restroom as a Toilet

Next: Cow-Worker Karma Violations

Annual Harbingers of Doom

2004-11-06T02:58:00.000-05:00

At Big Bookstore, the holidays move in on us like a snowball rolling down hill which, starting as a mere flake of snow, gathers momentum and grows in size, until it slams full-force into the store scattering booksellers hither and yon.

First there are the little signs. The calendars go up. In June. We don't want to think about December. And it is 90 degrees outside, so we don't. But it's the first snowflake of the impending avalanche.

The summer drones on.

In August, customers in flip-flops start browsing the newly hatched Halloween merchandise. More metaphorical flakes fall from the merchandising sky. But it's still too warm - no sense of doom yet.

The Christmas cards go out on the floor in September. Because, you know, we're all so fucking organized we're going to buy the cards in September, spend all of October and November writing lengthy personal messages to all our nearest and dearest, and have them in the mail by December 1st. THEN, after we've recovered from the monkeys flying out of our collective asses, we'll have time for a relaxing holiday with that little chore done. Yeah.

The Christmas wrap arrives in prefab cardboard display boxes at the start of October and the Halloween stuff is everywhere now. (The Halloween stuff is complete and utter CRAP. My GOD, I am amazed at the total shite that people will buy for this second-rate holiday. Except for the plushie bats. They are cute. I have spoken.) The Kids Christmas books are all out on the floor now. (They've been building up in the stock room since June.) The snowball is midway down the mountain and really starting to pick up some speed. I check my Grinch-O-Meter. Is this it? Is this when I finally start to sense the impending doom? Nope. Getting there, but not quite.

The Halloween stuff gets marked down to 50% off, and the Kid's Thanksgiving books go out. As holidays go, kids aren't terribly interested in Thanksgiving. There are no toys and no candy. A kid's reaction to Thanksgiving is mostly: "Eh." My needle on the Grinch-O-Meter has finally started to move though.

This week, the final sign arrives. I know now, without a doubt, that the hellish slide into Christmas has begun, for this week we have built: the Barge. The Barge is the centerpiece of Big Bookstores carnival of consumerism. It is the floor display to end all floor displays. A floor display to make merchandisers weep with joy. The beauty of the barge is that there are no gimmicks. There are no light-up displays. No motion-triggered sounds. Not even any fancy stacks. It is pure, unadulterated merchandise. Mounds of it. Piles of it. A sheer mass of books that confronts you as soon as you walk in the door. And almost every single one of them crap.

Yes, it is the arrival of the annual "literary" contributions of Janet Evanovich, Danielle Steel, Patricia Cornwell, James Patterson, Mary Higgins Clark and the like that truly heralds the arrival of the holiday season at Big Bookstore.

The needle on the G-O-M is moving into the red and the avalanche is on the way.

Give me a shovel. I'm ready.

Disgruntled Bookseller Is in Mourning

2004-11-03T23:58:00.000-05:00

I changed the blog to black to reflect my mood today. Maybe I'll change it back in four years.

Chairman of Large Bookstore Chain Cribs from Disgruntled Bookseller!

2004-11-02T03:23:00.000-05:00

Len Riggio, the chairman of Barnes and Noble wrote this op-ed yesterday in the New York Times about the plethora of political books this year and the problems that plagued booksellers as a result.

Here is a choice quote:

Indeed, the right seems convinced that booksellers and publishers are trying to influence the election by publishing and prominently displaying books that attack President Bush. In stores across America, angry citizens can be found poring over book displays and tallying up the number of titles according to their political persuasion. If they don't like the mix, they run to their phones and complain to their favorite radio talk-show host. Pity the poor bookseller who gets caught in the middle.

Damn, I like that guy.

(By the way, I just want to pat myself on the back for continuing to obfuscate the issue of precisely which large bookstore chain it is that I work for.)

Kyoot, But Not My Size

2004-10-31T01:16:00.000-05:00

"Attention, Big Bookstore customers. If you have a toddler with you tonight, you might want to check your child's feet - particularly if your child came in wearing BabyGap tan and orange sneakers in size Toddler 5. If your child is missing his or her shoes, we have them here at Information. Thank you."

That's Called "Karma"

2004-10-30T01:16:00.000-05:00

Unless you live in a cave, you have probably heard that Bill O'Reilly, the Fox News talkshow host who claims to be nonpartisan, claims to be looking out for you, and claims that his show is a no spin zone, has been sued for sexual harassment.

This wouldn't be so delicious if O'Reilly wasn't a pompous, conservative windbag whose claims to political neutrality and the moral high ground weren't as grandiose as they are false.

Big Bookstore is displaying his new book, The O'Reilly Factor for Kids, front and center. It occupies prime real estate on the front of the Information Desk. And it is faced out in the Parenting section. Lest you think that the booksellers at my store are indulging in a little bit of irony, I should tell you that the the books which are displayed on the front of the Info Desk, along with those displayed on most of the prime "front of store" display space, are determined by Big Bookstore Corporate headquarters. Yes, The O'Reilly Factor for Kids will remain in this front and center location staring brazenly out at every customer who approaches to ask for information, despite the fact that the author is currently embroiled in a sex scandal the tawdriness of which is exceeded only by its banality.

In this new book, Bill dispenses advice to teens on everything from Clothes, Money, and School, to Bullies, Sex, and Work. He advises kids to stand up to bullies and not to bully others. He advises kids to wait for sincere and loving sex. And he tells kids how much he loves his job.

Although you might expect it from the allegations in the last three links, The O'Reilly Factor for Kids does not contain any advice on phone sex, cheating on your spouse, or using Middle Eastern foods as sex toys.

Let it NOT be said that O'Reilly's book does not contain some sound advice. This is my favorite line from the chapter on sex:

"And guys, if you exploit a girl, it will come back to get you. That's called 'karma.'"

Save Me, Mr. President

2004-10-27T01:17:00.000-05:00

A recent article in Time magazine asked, with regard to the upcoming election, "What Do Women Want?". The article quoted a "senior Republic official" as saying: "Kerry is the weirdo first husband you married in college when you were an art major. Bush is the solid second husband who saved you, helped you raise your kids and taught you golf."

Because women need to be saved by men. Men who are former drunken, cocaine-abusing fratboys, who now think they are receiving messages directly from God and who confuse Sweden with Switzerland.

Yup.

(Sorry for preempting my usual bookselling rants. Don't worry. I'll be back next time with a post about Bill O'Reilly's excellent advice book for kids.)

And Decades of Experience in Being a Complete and Utter BITCH Troll

2004-10-26T01:02:00.000-05:00

It's 10:30. I'm tired. I started my day at the pesky day gig at 8 a.m. Now I just want to get Kids reshelved and go home. I'm so not in the mood for difficult customers. But lo, who then drifts into view but Complete and Utter Bitch Troll? Of course, I do not know at first that she is a Complete and Utter Bitch Troll, but I sense that something is awry. For one thing she is, as I say, drifting - wandering slowly through the Kids section, head and limbs slowing waving about - just drifting. There is an air of lackadaisical slackness about her. I do not like to see this at 10:30. Frankly, I do not like to see this in a customer at any time of day. You may not be in a hurry, Ms. Customoron, but I have shit to accomplish, do you hear me? A customer without a sense of urgency is a customer who will drag me down, down, down into a pit of non-productivity. The only thing worse than a customer not in a hurry is a customer incapable of making a decision. I often find myself clicking the FastForward button on an imaginary remote control while slow people with poor verball skills try to articulate precisely what they are looking for or decide what they want. Paradoxically, it is my experience that these slow and indecisive shoppers end up buying nothing, which makes the time-suck all the more frustrating. But I digress.

I ask Drifty if I can help her find something.

Disgruntled Bookseller: Is there something I can help you find, ma'am?
Drifty: Yes. I'm looking for picture books of Dinosaurs for a four-year old.
DB: Let me show you the Dinosaur section.
Drifty: No. I've looked at those, those are nonfiction.

(I glance over. Yes. She has looked at those. I can tell because she has removed half of the dinosaur books from the shelf and strewn them about the floor. The irony of this behavior will become apparent soon, I promise.)

DB: Well, I can't think of any Dinosaur picture books that aren't non-fiction off the top of my head. Let me see what I can find in the database.
Drifty (preparing to morph into Complete and Utter Bitch): Do you have the A to Z book?
DB: A to Z book?
Drifty: Yes. It's a reference book that has childrens books listed by subject, so you can look under D for "dinosaur" and it will tell you what children's books are available.
DB: I'm not familiar with that book.
Drifty/Complete and Utter Bitch: I've seen it here before. I'm sure you have it.
DB: No, ma'am. I don't think so, but I can try to look it up. It's just called "A to Z"?
Complete and Utter Bitch (note that transformation is almost complete): Yes, it's the "A to Z Book". Libraries use it to maintain a children's collection.
DB (still searching in Books in Print and coming up with a couple of hundred books with "A to Z" in the title): Hmmm. Well that sounds like something our buyers might use, but I've never seen it in the store.
Complete and Utter Bitch Troll: You must have it.
DB: Ma'am, I've been a children's bookseller here for over 7 years, and I don't think we've every carried that particular book.
Complete and Utter Bitch Troll: I didn't ask you how long you worked here. I don't care how long you've worked here. That is not the answer you should give me. I've been a children's librarian for much longer than seven years and I know what I'm talking about.
DB: Ma'am, I was simply trying to establish that I'm pretty familiar with our stock and I don't believe we have ever carried that title.
Complete and Utter Bitch Troll: I don't care how long you've worked here. You don't know what you're talking about.

At this point I had several choice responses. I could have said:

a. "Ma'am, I'm sure the books exists as you say, and had you consulted it before leaving the library at which you claim to work perhaps you wouldn't need to ask me, a lowly bookseller, for assistance in choosing a book."

or

b. "Ma'am, I'm sure the books exists as you say, but this is a bookstore where we 'stock merchandise, not a library where we 'maintain collections.'"

or

c. "Ma'am, which library do you work at, because I would like to come there and pull shit off the shelves and dump it on your floors."

or, even

d. "Gee, ma'am, I'm shocked that a children's librarian of your vast years of experience wouldn't know all of the available dinosaur pictures books off the top of her head."

or, finally

e. "Ma'am, you are a complete and utter bitch troll, and if you do not leave right now, my head will explode but not before I stick my foot up your ugly, middle-aged ass. "

However, being the well-trained and customer-service oriented bookseller that I am, I said:

"Ma'am, let me get you another bookseller since I clearly am not going to be able to satisfy your needs."

So I paged the Baby Seal, and let her deal with the old hag.

Sick

2004-10-18T02:26:00.000-05:00

I haven't updated in a while. I'm sorry. But I've been sick. And lazy.

I was so sick I actually called out for my Saturday shift. This is the third full shift I have missed in seven years. I feel bad about that. But not real bad. I was really sick. I coughed so hard today I pulled a muscle in my back. Ow.

Anyway, help me pick the topic for my next post. There's a poll in the sidebar. Take it.

Thank you.

A Book About Me!

2004-10-08T00:32:00.000-05:00

This is my new favorite book.

Mags

2004-10-06T01:13:00.000-05:00

Big Bookstore carries a lot of periodicals. Maybe 800? Something like that. We've got everything from Action Pursuit Games to Zymurgy. You want cooking magazines? I can sell you magazines on gourmet cooking, "lite" cooking, low carb cooking (there are 5 or 6 of those now), Italian cooking, vegetarian cooking, chocolate making, cooking for diabetics, chiles, grilling, barbecuing and herbs. Maybe you're into crafts and hobbies. We've got magazines about paper crafts, tole painting, scrapbooking, carving waterfowl, general woodworking, cabinetry, beading, glassblowing, jewelry making, doll making, doll houses, teddy bears and at least a dozen magazines each for every type of needlecraft you can think of. There are two (2!) magazines about rubber stamping and two (2!) about machine shops. Do you know anybody who is so into rubber stamps or metal machining that they would actually read a magazine about it? Do you know anybody into rubber stamps or metal machining, period? Who has a fucking metal shop, I ask you?

I never cease to be amazed at the niche markets that magazines carve out for themselves. Do you collect things? Pens? Autographs? Watches? Baseball Cards? Postcards? Yes. There is a magazine about collecting postcards. I guess it has lots of pictures of...postcards. If you like electric trains, we have four magazines for you, including one devoted solely to outdoor or garden train sets - you know, the kind upon which you and your grandkids can ride. Because in addition to being crazy enough to build a train you can ride on in your backyard, you also want to read about other people who build trains in their backyards. I imagine there are lots of How To articles in this magazine in which backyard train conductors share tips on things like how to avoid running over my dog Rover with the Cocoa Puff Train.

Then there's this whole new category of superhip magazines whose purpose and intended audience are not discernable from the title, cover, OR contents pages: Wallpaper, Index, While You Were Sleeping, Flaunt, Tokion, Surface, Dazed and YRB. No fucking clue what these mags are about. I'm just not cool enough. If you figure it out, you let me know, m'kay?

Me? I'm a fash mag hag [™AbFab]. Oh, I throw the Atlantic Monthly and Harpers into the monthly mix so I don't seem like a completely vapid, fashion-obsessed moron to my cow-workers, but it's the appearance of the new Vogue or Marie Claire that makes my heart leap with joy. God, I love fashion magazines. (Sorry, Jude.) Who doesn't need another article about The Bag You Must Own Right Now?

I thought that every possible niche had been carved out by magazine publishers a couple months ago when Sole, the magazine for collectors of athletic shoes hit our racks. I understand the need for a niche magazine like Transgender Tapestry (which wins the Best Column Name award for "Ask Dr. GenderFixIt"). A good magazine that addresses the needs of its constituency can create a sense of community among its readership. But a magazine devoted to collecting the latest Nike Air Shox? I have one thing to say to that: What. The. Fuck.

I can honestly say, however, that as of tonight I have seen the niche magazine to end all niche magazines. It is called Conceive Magazine. The tagline is "celebrating the creation of families." The premiere issue of Conceive contains such articles and columns as "Boxers and Briefs," "Fertabulary" (fertility and vocabulary, get it?), and "How Fresh Are Your Eggs?" The best article, however, is one entitled "Brave New Babymaking". The article is divided into three sections: low tech, high tech and super high tech babymaking. You might be wondering what constitutes good advice on "low tech babymaking." Wonder no more! Conceive has the answer for you! "Start by having unprotected sex."

I was going to write more, but really, I just can't top that.

A Musical Tribute to Ornery Moe

2004-10-04T16:23:00.000-05:00

I love my friend, Jude. She consistently wins the award for friend whose life I would most like to have. In her copious free time between writing for the New York Times Circuits section, writing books for Mac geeks, taunting the fashion poodles [™ Jude] at the Times Magazine, living in connubial bliss with the lovely Betsy, and pursuing her never-ending goal to get the word "booger" printed in the Gray Lady, she took a moment to pen this ode to Ornery Moe for me.

(To be sung to the tune of "Modern Major General")

ORNERY MOE

I am the very model of a late-night bookstore sorting cart
I wait all day to stock the shelves the customers have torn apart
I like to be well organized before I have to start my rounds
So with my racks you know you really, really shouldn't fuck around
History and religion go above the books for geeks and nerds
And my bottom shelf's for books stomped by the nasty little rugrat herd

BIG BOOKSTORE EMPLOYEE CHORUS:
The bottom shelf's for books stomped by the nasty little rugrat herd!
The bottom shelf's for books stomped by the nasty little rugrat herd!
The bottom shelf's for books stomped by the nasty little rugrat herd!

ORNERY MOE:
So at the Info Desk I sit and gather orphan books all day
And await the evening hour when I roll out to put this shit away
So wheel me 'round whenever all the bookshelves have been torn apart
I am the very model of a late-night bookstore sorting cart!

The Woobie

2004-10-03T01:55:00.000-05:00

Last night, I did something bad. Something mean. Something that completely justifies my reputation as meanest of the mean.

I threw away somebody's woobie.

The woobie had been abandoned in the aisle between Children's activity books and Children's non-fiction.

It was a dirty woobie. A filthy woobie, really. Almost black from the grubby little paws of love that had clutched it for so long.

I picked it up using only my thumb and forefinger holding it far, far away from me. Who knows what vile little human spawn germs crawled upon its grubby surface?

I thought about putting it in the lost and found. For about 5 seconds. Then I went over to the trash can and dropped it in, shuddering.

Maybe if I hadn't just taken a look at the utter disarray of Ornery Moe, I would have had more charity in my soul.

See what fucking with the Sorting Cart does?

2004-10-03T01:53:00.000-05:00

WRONG!

2004-10-03T01:51:00.000-05:00

The Sorting Cart Done Right

The Sorting Cart Explained

2004-10-02T02:35:00.000-05:00

I am a "closer". Big Bookstore has several shifts, and closing is one of them. As you might suspect, closers work until...the store closes. Big Bookstore is open until 11 p.m. six nights a week. For seven years I have been a closer. I never open. I never "mid". I close.

Every shift has its plusses and minuses. Being a closer -- and a big whiner -- I like to think that closing has more minuses than the other shifts. One of the bad things about closing is that closers are responsible for making sure that Big Bookstore is ready for the next day. This means reshelving all the books that have been left in piles about the store, and generally straightening all the displays and shelves. Often it also means completing all the tasks that the previous shifts couldn't manage to finish - merchandising projects, shelving projects, inventory projects, whatever. Closers are like the bookstore fairies. If you leave it for the closers, somehow it will magically get done. Or not.

Because I always close, and because I close more than any other employee, I am pretty picky about how things get done. OK. I'm beyond picky. I'm angrily obsessive about the closing tasks. After seven years of closing, I know what needs to be done, and I know the most efficient way to do it, goddammit.

This brings us to the Sorting Cart.

The Sorting Cart is a big rolling cart that sits behind the information desk. Throughout the day, books that are picked up or "swept" as we pass through the store are dumped on the Sorting Cart, where they remain until they are reshelved. There are lots of sorting carts in the stockroom, but the oldest and crankiest of the carts is the one we usually leave at info. This is Ornery Moe.

Now, I like Ornery Moe to be arranged just so. It's a very simple system in which books are placed on the cart according to where they are located in the store.

Top shelf left: Management, Reference, Science, Animals, Health, Cooking
Top shelf right: Fiction including Genre
2nd shelf left: History, Politics, Religion, the "-ologies" (archae-, soci-, myth-, psych-)
2nd shelf right: Arts, Design, Crafts, Gardening, Transportation, Travel
3rd shelf: Computers and Math
Bottom shelf: Kids including Parenting and Education

If the books are placed on the cart in the manner described above, any bookseller can grab a bunch of books from one part of the cart and head off to reshelve, secure in the knowledge that all the books she has grabbed go to the same part of the store. And if it's always done precisely the same way, every night, then life is that much easier. This seems efficient and logical to me. I try to indoctrinate the new kids as soon as they start on The Way of the Sorting Cart. I explain the system. I explain the logic. I explain the efficiency. But most importantly, I explain the potential for dire consequences should my will be thwarted in this matter.

And yet, it seems as if every night, someone comes up with a new way to confound me and Ornery Moe. I'm convinced that my cow-workers deliberately flout my system just to see if I will get pissed off.

But you know, pissing me off is not really a huge accomplishment. It's not like it requires a hell of a lot of effort. My baseline mood is set to "mildly irritated" when I clock in. It elevates to "irked and twitchy" after I pull my requisite one-hour register shift; and once I've made my first pass through the Vortex of Evil otherwise known as the Kids Section to assess the carnage, my mood shoots straight up to "angry and demented." At that point, fucking with the Sorting Cart to irritate me is waving a red flag in front of a bull, or better yet, trying to hand feed the lions through the bars in the zoo just to see what happens.*

This is what happens.

Please do not fuck with the sorting cart, People.

*Please see Disclaimer in Sidebar.

Let Me Get My Manager

2004-10-01T14:24:00.000-05:00

Last night, I was approached by a customer who wanted to make a complaint. He's a semi-regular who occasionally buys a magazine or two. Let's call him "Homely Asian Guy".

Homely Asian Guy: "I want to complain about one of your employees, [Gun Nut], who was very rude to me."
Disgruntled Bookseller: I'm sorry, sir. I would get the Store Manager for you, but [Gun Nut] is the store manager.
HAG (incredulously): He's the store manager?
DB: Yes, sir. I'll be happy to call him for you.
HAG: Well, he was very rude to me. He was searching for something for me, and he raised his voice to me, and I don't think that was called for. I shop here all the time, but if you guys want me to shop at Rival Bookstore, I'll go there.
DB: I apologize for the bad experience, sir. Would you like me to search for something to you?
HAG: No. [Gun Nut] was very rude. Do you want me to go to Rival Bookstore? Because I can go to Rival Bookstore if you want.
DB: Again, I apologize, sir. Is there anything I can do to help?
HAG: No. If you don't want my business, I can go to Rival Bookstore you know.
DB: Again, I apologize, sir.
HAG: Is there someone I can call about this?
DB: Of course, sir. [writing name of more senior manager on paper] You can call [Queen of the Flying Monkeys] and speak with him about [Gun Nut].
HAG: I can go to Rival Bookstore you know. Do you want me to go to Rival Bookstore? Because I can.
DB: Sir, you are welcome to shop wherever you want. All I can do is apologize. Repeatedly.

Then he left.

I spoke with Gun Nut afterwards, and of course, he didn't raise his voice to the Homely Asian Guy. Gun Nut was searching for something for the HAG in our inventory database which is proprietary software. Using this database isn't rocket science, but there's a reason we don't let the customers use it. It is not, to put it gently, user friendly. After HAG's third attempt at telling Gun Nut how to query the database, Gun Nut informed HAG that he knew how to use the software, thankyouverymuch.

I really hope Homely Asian Guy doesn't start going to Rival Bookstore. Because he can, you know.

The Revenge of the Smelly Hippie

2004-09-29T03:20:00.000-05:00

Remember that site I linked to last week where people were posting about how booksellers were smelly, evil hippies trying to keep them from buying conservative books? That site was littlegreenfootballs.com. This quiz asks you to guess whether a given set of 14 quotes came from the fuckwits at littlegreenfootballs or Nazi propaganda. It will blow your mind. <™ Hippie Speak>

The Big Bookstore Index

2004-09-29T00:20:00.000-05:00

Shamelessly stolen from Harper's Magazine, the first in an occasional series of completely fictional statistics:

Number of hours in a full shift: 8

Number of hours spent at registers in a full shift: 3

Number of hours spent at the information desk: 5

Approximate number of questions by customers answered in a typical hour: 30

Approximate number of answers involving the location of the bathroom: 10

Percentage of phone calls after 9 p.m. asking what time we close: 55

Percentage of people who confuse Information with Registers: 8

Percentage of those people who are non-English speakers: 84

Percentage of customers at Information who are complete asshats: 12

Number of people who confuse Big Bookstore with Rival Bookstore in a one hour register shift: 2

Percentage of customers on cell-phone during transaction during one hour register shift: 22

Percentage of customers at registers who are complete asshats: 18

Average value of returned merchandise per return: $22.53

Average dollar amount of returned computer books per computer book return: $49.99

Typical number of days since returned computer book was purchased: 30

Percentage of computer book returners who want to keep the receipt for tax purposes: 15

Percentage of computer book returners who are complete asshats: 95

Total number of cow-workers: 69

Average number of cow-workers whom I like in any given shift: 6

Total number of cow-workers I wouldn't cross the street to piss on if they were on fire: 6 8

Total number of cow-workers to whom I would actually set fire: 1

More Disgruntled Booksellers!

2004-09-26T01:16:00.000-05:00

I'm keeping my finger on the pulse of the Disgruntled Bookseller nation, so you don't have to!

Sort of a Retraction, But Not Really

2004-09-25T03:26:00.000-05:00

Glenn Reynolds, aka instapundit has published a half-hearted correction about booksellers "hiding" conservative books.

Gee, thanks, Buddy.

Hey, You! Yes, You With the Cell Phone. I Hate You.

2004-09-24T02:33:00.000-05:00

By now you're tired of cell phone rants. You've read about it everywhere - in the papers and in online rants. You've heard about the new laws banning cell phone use by drivers, and you've all witnessed some monumental cell phone gaffe like the sound of Outkast's "Hey Ya" beeping from someone's Motorola in the middle of a funeral. There's even a book out now dedicated solely to the subject of The Jerk with the Cell Phone. It's been covered. If you don't want to read another rant about cell phones, then move right along. Nothing to see here.

First let me give a full disclaimer. I own a cell phone. It currently resides in the side pocket of my totebag. It is four years old, the battery is dead and the antenna, which had been taped on with hundred-mile-an-hour tape, is off on its own little adventure somewhere. I'm just not a phone person. At home, I can go for days without making or receiving a call. I don't get a lot of calls because anyone who would be calling me knows that I almost never answer the phone. I go for weeks sometimes without even checking my messages. The only day I answer the phone is Sunday. On Sundays, Mom calls. It's always Mom on Sunday, and she knows I'm here, and if I don't answer she just keeps calling and leaving messages that make me feel like a total slackass. She says things like, "It's 2 in the afternoon, but you must still be in bed. Call me if you ever wake up." Later, "It's 6 p.m. I guess you've gone back to sleep." (The last said in an exasperated tone.) Later still, "Lisa, it's 10 p.m. your time. Are you there? I'm getting worried."

She's not worried. She knows exactly where I am. I'm on the couch in the living room reading the paper and watching the Simpsons and I only have one phone (which is not cordless) and it's in the bedroom and I'm not about to haul my ass across the apartment to get there by the fourth ring so she can tell me about my nephew's latest school band performance, the stupid thing my Dad did, and what she served at her last bridge luncheon. If anyone dies in my family, it better be on a Sunday, otherwise I might not make it home in time for the funeral.

So, yeah. I'm not a phone person.

This is why I find it incomprehensible and unfathomable that so many people now find it virtually impossible to live their lives without being in constant contact with whoever it is they feel they must be in constant contact. When I see people shopping in the grocery store, cell phone to ear, I want to drop to my knees and scream to the heavens, "WHY???" Grocery shopping was never a consultative process before. You made a list, you shopped. None of this calling of the spouse from Aisle 7 to assist in the monumental Mrs. Butterworth's versus Aunt Jemimah decision. WHAT THE FUCK? PICK ONE OR BUY BOTH. IT DOES NOT REQUIRE A PHONE CALL.

But apparently it does.

At Big Bookstore, people do not seem to be consulting the person at the other end of the line so much as talking recreationally. Big Bookstore, apparently, is conducive to catching up with friends and just generally shooting the shit. I have a theory about this. I think that some people feel that shopping for books indicates something negative about their desirability as social beings. After all - reading is a solitary pursuit. So if you're at the bookstore stocking up on the latest chick lit or the entire Tom Clancy oeuvre, you might (if you are a socially insecure moron) feel that others are looking at you and wondering why you have so darn much time on your hands. It's kind of like the single-woman-in-grocery-checkout-line-with-catfood-and-lean-cuisine syndrome, where you can just sense the pitying looks gazing down on your pathetic basket of single girl goods.

If do find yourself in Big Bookstore, shopping alone, on a weekend night and you are that insecure moron mentioned above, then you really need to show the world that you are not the Big Loser that you appear to be. What better way than talking loudly on your cell to let the world know: "Hey! I am not a Big Loser! I have friends. Friends with whom I am speaking RIGHT NOW!"

There are other variations on this theme. Some people (mostly men) talk business, very loudly, while their infant spawn run amok in the Kid's Section. They are saying to the world: "My wife may have stuck me with the kids tonight, but I AM IMPORTANT, DAMMIT. I am not some girly-man caregiver! I have work that cannot wait until tomorrow!"

So these people walk around the store, talking and gesticulating and not using their inside voices. When they come to the cash registers, they do not even pause in their important conversations to acknowledge my existence. I am reduced to a human vending machine. The entire transaction takes place without the customer ever making eye contact or exchanging a word with me.

I watch the customers depart, juggling their belongings, purchases and cell phones, the flow of this vital conversation never ceasing, and I think: "You don't fool me. I know you are really talking to your Mom - who is telling you about your nephew's latest school band performance, the stupid thing your Dad did, and what she served at her last bridge luncheon."

Damn, This is Getting Old

2004-09-22T15:33:00.000-05:00

Glenn Reynolds, also known as instapundit has also jumped on the all bookstore employees are flaming liberals who display books based on a political agenda bandwagon.

I don't understand the difficulty in comprehension these people display.

It's a goddamn election year with an incumbent running. As a result there are a lot of anti-Bush books out there. I would venture to say there are three or four times as many anti-Bush titles available right now as there are conservative books. So, OF COURSE THE DISPLAY WILL SEEM LOPSIDED.

Sorry for the yelling, but this really, really PISSES ME OFF.

When Clinton was up for reelection in 1996, the plethora of anti-Clinton books was overwhelming. Even in 2000, without an incumbent, there were plenty of conservative books that hit the shelves.

We don't write the books. We don't publish the books. We just sell the books. But the argument is that in selling the books we are giving an unfair amount of display space to the "liberal" books.

Let's do some basic, grammar-school level math, OK? If I have four "liberal" titles, and one "conservative" title, and my bookshelf holds five books, how much of the shelf will be occupied by conservative books? Please answer in fractions.

If you answered 1/5 of the bookshelf, then you win a prize.*

There is another problem with this misperception that bookstores are promoting anti-Bush books. What, exactly, constitutes an "anti-Bush" book? If Robert Reich writes a book called Reason: Why Liberals Will Win the Battle for America, is that an anti-Bush book? Is this? How about this book written by a conservative author? Is it anti-Bush too? In the Instapundit/littlegreenfootballs/freerepublic world, it appears that any book which questions the current direction of the country is, by definition, anti-Bush. And somehow, by extension, being anti-Bush in their world is also anti-American.

God, I'm tired.

Let me just close with a hearty FUCK YOU to Instapundit for flunking out of the School of Obviosity. As a result of your article, booksellers across the nation will now have to put up with another week of cranky, old white men taking copious and detailed notes on our displays, rearranging all of our displays to suit their beliefs, and verbally abusing us on the way out.

*There is no actual prize, you big losers.

The Customer is Always

2004-09-21T00:31:00.000-05:00

My friend and cow-worker, the Medieval One, is a serious guy who writes serious shit. He thinks I should write more serious stuff and that I'll run out of things to blog about if I limit myself to the type of stuff one would expect on a blog called "Disgruntled Bookseller." He could NOT be more wrong. I've got a list a mile long of things I want to write about. Every couple of days I add to the list. Hell, every time I go to work, I add to the list. My backlog of Disgruntled Bookseller topics is as long as my backlog of books purchased and not yet read. Off the top of my head, these are some of the things I could be blogging about right now: the Vortex of Evil Otherwise Known as the Kid's Section, Customers Who Are Flunking Out of the School of Obviosity, the Disgruntled Bookseller Index of Random Statistics, the World of Bizarre and Inane Periodicals, and Com-Poo-Tors and the People Who Read Books About Them. Oh! And Fucked Up Things People Do at the Cash Registers! Definitely need to write about that.

But I'm not going to blog about any of those things tonight. For those of you looking for a laugh, I don't think this post is going to provide one, because tonight I feel like writing about customers and their sense of entitlement.

Margaret Webb Pressler writes a great weekly column for the Washington Post called "Selling Us." It's one of the first things I turn to every Sunday. She writes about retailers and the retail environment, as well as consumers and what motivates them. As much as I like her columns, I don't always agree with them. She wrote a column recently about what she perceived to be a general lack of customer service - an unwillingness on the part of retail employees to go out of their way to meet customer needs. She essentially laid the responsibility for lack of customer service at the feet of the front-line retail employees, saying that they are undertrained and underprepared. She didn't use the word "lazy", but it was lurking in there, between the lines.

She did say one thing in this column with which I partially agreed. She said there was "a disconnect" between the folks in the corporate offices and front-line employees. However, she implied that the disconnect was a failure on the part of the front-liners to understand the corporate desire to drives sales with customer satisfaction. There's definitely a disconnect, but at Big Bookstore, it's not a failure to understand what corporate wants us to do. We know what constitutes good customer service. We just don't always have the tools to provide it. And even when we do, "good customer service" has become like Zeno's Paradox - an asymptotic retail equation where no matter what we do, it is never quite enough.

I chalk this inability to satisfy (some, not all) customers to the sense of entitlement that so many seem to feel. Some of this is societal. We're the richest and most powerful country in the world, and by God, we know it. My Baby Boom peers seem particularly guilty of thinking this way. But a lot of this attitude is the Frankenstein creation of retailers themselves. In the haste to outsell the competition, retailers have created an environment where the customer feels he can do no wrong. Return used and damaged merchandise? Sure! No problem! Let your kids run wild and destroy merchandise without paying for it? Why not! You want a discount for no good reason? Do it angrily and insistently enough, and threaten to make a scene, and we'll probably cave in.

The bottom line? If you're a customer, the sky's the limit! Be shameless! Be bold! Threaten to take your business elsewhere! When all else fails, demand to see a manager.

I can provide the customer with fabulous customer service. I can find every book the customer wants, make recommendations, giftwrap his selections, give discounts, and do it all with a smile -and after all that, some customers will still walk away feeling like they should have gotten more.

This is why there are websites like this. Whenever I'm feeling especially disgruntled and cranky, I read some of the latest entries there to remind myself that it could always be worse.

I'm a Smelly Hippie!

2004-09-17T00:35:00.000-05:00

I was going to do a big, long rant about this conservative website where people in tinfoil hats are currently posting about how booksellers are conspiring to keep them from buying Unfit for Command. There are hundreds of posts on this site about bookstore employees. According to these nice conservatives, all bookstore employees are:

- dirty, smelly, hippie shitheads
- college or high school dropouts, who like to smoke dope before going to work
- smelly, emaciated dildoes (again with the "smelly")
- easily replaceable employees who can learn our jobs in half a day

and

- snotty (OK, I'll give them that one.)

So, in order to teach us a lesson, these nice, upstanding people are going to:

- wipe boogers in Michael Moore books
- vandalize the books of liberal authors with chewing gum to make them unsellable
- rearrange our displays to better reflect their tastes

Bottom line? These lovely people would like to tell us to just: "[Shut the fuck up] and give me my change you f'ing moron."

Like I said, I was going to do a big long rant, but fuck it. You can read the links and do your own rant. I have to go put on some patchouli and fire up a doob.

Appropriate Attire

2004-09-13T01:31:00.000-05:00

Let's talk about what constitutes appropriate attire. I've been thinking about this a lot lately because of a confluence of events.

I had an interview last week for a law-type gig, and I put on a suit for the first time in four years or so. The suit was black. My sensible, low-heeled pumps were black. My shirt was black. In a moment of crazy fashionista rebellion, I carried a red tote bag. Fashion-wise, this is a conservative town. If I don't get the job, I'm blaming the tote.

We had an event recently at the store. The event was for a best-selling author of genre novels who is famous for his iconoclastic and humorous style. He is "out there." And so is his audience, which contains a high percentage of...there's no way to put this nicely...dorks. I find that with audiences of this type, it is very difficult to tell the deliberately bad fashion choices from the merely accidental. I'm pretty sure the woman dressed as a witch, complete with pointy hat and candy-striped hose (a la the Wicked Witch of the East) was making a deliberate statement. But what of the girl in the mini-skirt and sagging, aqua thigh-highs? Tough call there. The guy in the shirt that proudly proclaimed that he was "Pissing Off the World One Person at a Time" was certainly an exemplar of truth in packaging when he came to my register and nitpicked me through the transaction. Oh! And let's not forget the guy who came to the Info Desk to tell us, indignantly, that The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy should not be on the new books table because it was very old and the author was even dead! OK. He wasn't a fashion victim as far as I can recall, just a complete fucking idiot. I'm not even going to go into the tragic grooming choices of the male attendees, except to say that balding, middle-aged guys should avoid pony-tales, PLEASE.

One of the things I love about working at Big Bookstore is that there is considerable freedom of choice when it comes to appropriate work attire. That stereotype of the bookstore clerk with pink hair, and multiple-piercings and tattoos? There's a reason for that. My cow-workers and I dress, for the most part, as we please. We can't wear things that make political statements and we can't wear open-toed shoes. Other than that, you're golden. I've had male cow-workers who have liberated themselves from the dominant-male paradigm by wearing skirts to work. One of my favorite cow-workers has actually worn her pajamas on occasion. And then, there's the cow-worker who regularly wears what I would call cocktail attire. Of course, this precludes her from doing any real grunt work. Hate. Her.

Me? I mostly wear black. It's slimming, utilitarian, and everything matches. It's a bookstore, not a soiree.

Outed, and Other Random Stuff

2004-09-10T01:40:00.000-05:00

I've been outed to management. It's not like I thought they wouldn't find out eventually, but I was a wee bit nervous. The best feedback I've gotten so far is from the manager who is indignant that I did not give him the ™ for the phrase "Baby Seal". He first used that term to describe a former cow-worker who was, I swear, mildly retarded. So, I hereby pronounce "Baby Seal" to be ™ Gun Nut.

Tonight I helped a leggy Young Republican locate the Anne Coulter books. She was in the Political Science aisle and said, "I've been looking everywhere but I can't find her books." I showed her where they were - in the, um, C's for Coulter. Maybe she thought they would be shelved in the L's for "Lying Bitch". Or the I's for "Insane Whore with White Daddy Complex." I don't know.

If you are reading this, and you are a closeted gay man, or simply one of those bi-curious MWM that I see posting on craigslist all the time, I have a request to make. Please don't pull all of the male nude photography books off the shelves every single fucking day, and then jam them back in some random and out of the way place because you're too embarrassed to be seen looking at naked guys. Dudes! Just buy Freshman 10 Magazine. It's naked dudes without all the artsy crap. I promise you I will not even blink when I ring you up. Trust me on this. It will be more satisfying for you - and for me. Thank you.

"Cow-Worker" Is Not a Misspelling

2004-09-03T16:15:00.000-05:00

I confess. I cannot claim credit for this hyphenate. "Cow-worker" is ™ Steve Berg, aka the Berg Man of Alcatraz. Berg is an acquaintance from my old-stylee on-line community, Echo. Echo is so old-fashioned it has no web interface. If you love command-lines, Echo is for you. On Echo, when someone creates a witty turn of phrase, or even a typo that seems apt, the word or phrase becomes "™ the person who created it." Sometimes a ™ gets applied to a certain phrase whose repetetive use becomes associated with a particular member of the community. So, for example, "customoron" would be ™ me. "Cow-worker" has entered into such common usage on Echo that almost no one ever spells it correctly anymore.

But I digress. I was going to explain why I call me colleagues at Big Bookstore "cow-workers." Partly it's because after spending years on Echo, I can't shake the habit of typing "cow-worker" rather than "co-worker". But I also like it because it implies that we are all corporate cattle. You may bristle at being called a cow, but, hey - I'm part of the herd too. And as herds of cattle go we are, for the most part, a pretty intelligent, educated and diverse group of bovines.

I love most of my fellow cows. As I say, it's great herd. Nonetheless, there's no getting around the fact that there are a couple of cows that are just not that smart. I'm thinking of one steer in particular, who can't seem to master the alphabet, and consequently fucks up the shelves I so meticulously maintain in the Art section. He'll be first up the ramp into the slaughterhouse, if I have my way.

Moo.

The Cake Girl Birthday Memorial Blog Entry

2004-09-01T00:48:00.000-05:00

Today was the birthday of cow-worker Cake Girl. It was suitably celebrated by the Mean Girls™ who feted her with balloons and presents at a nearby bar. I ran over on my dinner break, and arrived just in time for the serving of the Slut Barbie Cake complete with teeny-tiny anatomically correct sex toys made out of marzipan.

When a group of booksellers congregates outside of the workplace and has an audience of even one non-bookseller, the conversation will inevitably turn to Crazy Customers We Have Known. Non-booksellers are always amazed at the levels of sheer bugfuckery that we witness on a daily basis. Perhaps the civilians assume that bookstores, by their very nature, must attract reasonable and sane patrons. No.

Here, in honor of Cake Girl's natal day, is a partial list of the CCWHK - people who, by repetetive acts of dementia, or one monumental act of totally inappropriate behavior, have earned their names:

The Book Licker: She would remove books one at a time from the shelves, lick the spines, and then return them to the shelf, blessed with the touch of her tongue.

The Shoe Licker: He licked the shoes of other customers while they were browsing unawares. One of his victims came to the information desk to complain to us about it. WTF? She couldn't deal with it herself?

Urinator 1: The old man who sat down, let go, and then wandered away with nary a warning to the next customer who, in a perfect Big Bookstore Moment, promptly sat down in a wet, warm chair. He was a regular for a while, until we ran out of upholstered chairs.

Urinator 2: This young woman had neuro-muscular problems but refused to wear Depends and would, instead, use newspapers and magazines from the Periodicals section to absorb her, uh, micturation. Then she would either return said merchandise to the Periodicals section for reshelving or cram the soaked papers into any nearby bookshelf. We finally had to ask her not to return. Hello? We have a cafe? Can you say Health Code Violation? Also, EW!

Masturbator 1: The old man who played with himself in the corner of the Kid's section. Double EW!

Masturbator 2: The young Russian guy who would grab some porn from the "Erotica" section, select a chair in a prominent place in the store, place his jacket over his lap, and then work that bad boy like he was 13-year old in a circle jerk contest. I caught him twice in one week.

The Shit Artist: The person who decided that our bathroom was his personal Lascaux and used the best materials he had to, um, hand to create his masterpiece on the walls.

The King of Efficiency: The person who had an entire Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner on the toilet, and left the box of chicken bones parked in front of the throne.

Then there are whole categories of everyday wackaloons whose demented behavior never quite lifts them above the constant background noise of batshittiness: people who want their merchandise untouched by human hands, people who change their child's diapers in the middle of the store, people who kick their shoes off and scratch their balls like they're on the couch at home, PEOPLE WHO DON'T HAVE INSIDE VOICES, "straight" guys who disguise their copies of Freshmen Ten with a copy of Maxim, people who arrive at the store every night at five minutes to close, and a whole raft of homeless people who just smell bad. Some of these people will eventually rise to a level of regularity in their nutbaggery and earn a Name. One of the homeless guys has recently been dubbed "Beaverhat" (™ Dark Goddess).

Beaverhat. Yeah. I think it fits.

YPOTs Confound Me Some More

2004-08-29T01:26:00.000-05:00

One of my twenty-something cow-workers called out sick today. She was "achy."* I think she's called out sick for more weekend shifts than she has actually worked. There was the weekend where she didn't show up for two shifts in a row and didn't bother to call anybody. This was followed by a tale of how she was threated by gang members and was afraid for her life. Apparently, she was so frightened by the gangstas that she forgot how to use the phone. That's some scary stuff! Um. Yeah. Whatever. She dates another YPOT cow-worker whom we call The Mullet. 'Nuff said.

And then there's the YPOT cow-worker whom I'll just call The Baby Seal, (as in, "I'd like to club her like a baby seal.") ** The Baby Seal fucks up everything she touches. She could fuck up a wet dream, as my friend Chris likes to say. It is actually a relief when the Baby Seal doesn't show up, because she creates more work for her colleagues and supervisors than she accomplishes.

I think the Baby Seal has Asperger's Syndrome, but I am not a psychologist, so I am pulling this diagnosis straight out of my ass. People with Asperger's Syndrome find it difficult to form social bonds, and have a hard time discerning and adhering to social norms. Here are some of the diagnostic criteria for Asperger's. Let's see if Baby Seal fits, OK? It'll be fun!

inability to interact with peers √
lack of desire to interact with peers √
lack of appreciation of social cues √
socially and emotionally inappropriate behavior √
clumsy/gauche body language
limited facial expression √
inappropriate expression √
peculiar, stiff gaze √

Ding, ding, ding!!!

People say that I am mean to the YPOTs. They say that Ereshkigal is a bitch on the floor. They say that other booksellers are afraid of me. But, honestly. Can you blame me?

* Achy? I'll give you achy, you toy ass bitch! This week I put in 40 hours at the day job and another 24 at Big Bookstore, all while nursing a bad cold. Achy, my BIG FAT ASS.

** Please see Disclaimer in Sidebar.

Young People of Today

2004-08-27T15:02:00.000-05:00

What the fuck is up with the Young People of Today?

Last night, a cow-worker walked into the store 20 minutes after her shift was supposed to start and informed the manager that she couldn't work for Big Bookstore anymore. She did not give two weeks notice. She didn't even stay to work her shift that night.

She told the manager that she worked 9 hours a day at her day job, and working at Big Bookstore was "just too much" and she was "too tired." She is in her early 20s.

She is not the first YPOT to do this at Big Bookstore - quit because it was just "too hard". Nor is she the first to quit with no notice. Again, I say:

WHAT. THE. FUCK?

See, this is why I don't bother to learn the names of the new people until they've been there for at least two months. Some people think I'm mean to the new kids, but I just don't have the brain cells to waste on that shit.

Equal Time

2004-08-24T21:16:00.000-05:00

We are sold out of Unfit for Command. We have been sold out since the day it arrived in the store. Why? Because apparently Regnery Publishing*, a marginal publisher which verges on being a vanity press for the extreme right-wing, did a first print run of 5,000 copies. I'll let the reader infer the level of incompetence inherent in that decision. You don't have to be a publishing genius to know that something so controversial, about a candidate, in an election year for Christ's sake, is going to sell well.

Anyway, Big Bookstore doesn't have any copies of Unfit for Command, and the publisher and distributors are unable to confirm when we will be getting additional copies, although I hear there is a new print run of 550,000 copies in the works. Not only is Big Bookstore sold out, but so are Big Bookstore Corp's competitors, Rival Bookstore Corp and Amazon.com. (Amazon says it will ship in 5 to 7 days, but Amazon will also sell you a book that isn't even due for publication for another year.)

Some people have come into my branch of Big Bookstore and accused us of refusing to sell Unfit for Command. As I've posted before, they think that Big Bookstore is part of a huge conspiracy to suppress the righteousness of the Right. In the hopes of forestalling this kind of unfounded criticism we put up a sign at our information desk and our registers which says something like this: "Unfit for Command is our #1 non-fiction bestseller, however we are sold out. We have ordered additional copies and are taking reserve requests."

Tonight, I had the following exchange with a customer, whom I shall call Shitty Old Man:

Shitty Old Man (pointing to the sign described above): You're promoting that anti-Kerry book. You are Bush-supporters.
Disgruntled Bookseller: No, sir. We're simply stating that we're sold out of the book.
Shitty Old Man (angrily): You're advertising for Bush.
DB: Actually, sir, we put the sign up because people were accusing us of just the opposite and saying that we were refusing to sell the book, when in fact we're just sold out and can't get our hands on more copies right now.
Shitty Old Man: You should have a sign up there advertising an anti-Bush book. Where are the anti-Bush books?
DB: Sir, the entire hardcover bestseller display and front table are covered in anti-Bush books. We have an entire display in the Political Science section which is mostly anti-Bush books. (Note: the display is not intentionally anti-Bush. It's just that most of the books being published right now happen to be anti-Bush. The few bestselling conservative titles that we have are on display too.)
Shitty Old Man: But you're advertising the anti-Kerry book up here.
DB: Sir, Big Bookstore has no political stance. We sell books.
Shitty Old Man (walking toward the door still angry): You need to provide equal time to anti-Bush books!

Lessons learned by Disgruntled Bookseller:

(1) We can't fucking win.
(2) There are totally bugfuck assholes on both sides of the electorate.

*Recent titles published by Regnery: Absolute Power: The Legacy of Corruption in the Clinton-Reno Justice Department; At Any Cost: How Gore Tried to Steal the Election; The Bible Is History; and my favorite, Brighter than the Baghdad Sun: Saddam Hussein's Nuclear Threat to United States.

Unfit for Publication

2004-08-18T02:09:00.000-05:00

There is a new book out called Unfit for Command. I'm not going to link to a description of it, or even dignify the authors by mentioning them. You've probably heard of it. It's a hatchet job of John Kerry's military service in Viet Nam, written by some men who claim to have served with him. These men, with the support of some very rich Bush backers (wait - "very rich Bush backers" is redundant, no?) have also produced a television commercial.

We've received a lot of calls about the book. I don't think the volume of calls reflects the popularity of the book so much as it does the scarcity. The original print run was relatively small, and most stores have sold out. And unlike the plethora of anti-Bush books out there (all selling satisfyingly well, thank you), this is really the first anti-Kerry book to hit the scene.

I admit it. I have a hard time maintaining my cheery demeanor when responding to requests for this book. When I think really hard about the issue of calling into question the service of man who actually went to Viet Nam, in the hopes of electing a man who can't even provide a satisfactory account of his whereabouts during his Guard stint - I get so fucking angry I think my head will explode. I come from a military family, and I remember my Dad leaving for his two tours in Viet Nam, so this shit means something to me.

At least once a week, someone will ask for a manager to complain about the anti-Bush books. They are convinced that Big Bookstore is promoting these books and placing them prominently on display as part of a liberal conspiracy to unseat Bush. I listened to one woman tell a manager that we were "revolting" and "repugnant" because of this issue. We try to explain, very nicely, that Big Bookstore could really not give a shit. I like to say that if there were a sudden resurgence of interest in Mein Kampf and it suddenly shot to the top of the bestseller list, Big Bookstore would immediately sticker it 30% off and make a huge front of store display. Then we'd try to figure out a way to have an author event.

Devolution

2004-08-13T23:27:00.000-05:00

If I were Queen of the World, I would require that all the people who read car magazines and all the people who read hairstyling magazines breed only with each other.

That is all.

Four Piles of...Something

2004-08-11T01:44:00.000-05:00

People leave piles of books everywhere in the store. Under chairs, jammed into bookcases sideways, and of course, on tables in the Cafe. Some people hide their piles in corners or try to disguise them, just like the dog when he craps in the living room. I spend a lot of time picking up piles, and reshelving their constituent components.

Sometimes the piles are delightfully eclectic - a couple of new novels, a travel book, a news magazine or two. But most of the time, the piles are obsessively single-minded. Every single book in the store on how to write business letters, get into law school, become multiorgasmic, have the perfect wedding, raise tropical fish, or any one of hundreds of other topics. It's as if the person who creates the pile is searching for the book that has the magic answer. "If I just buy the right book, all my problems will be solved, and I will write the perfect letter/get into the best law school/have the most beautiful wedding/raise the healthiest fish/have the screamingest orgasms EVER."

Tonight, I picked up four separate piles from the Cafe. These piles were topical and almost angry. One pile on Zionism. One pile on reparations for slavery. One pile of Bush-hatred. One pile on Jihad. I wonder if the guys with the Zionism and Jihad books eyeballed each other across the Cafe.

Depending on my level of crankiness for the day, I may invoke a small curse on the depositor of the pile. I mutter under my breath as I bend down for the 50th time that night to pick up a pile: "I curse you to be rejected by every law school to which you apply." Or, "I curse your wedding to be a cascade of embarassing disasters." Like that. Very occasionally, the pile evokes a pity response, and I leave off the cursing, because it would feel wrong to curse the leaver of a pile of books on cancer recovery. Usually, however, the curses are dire. "I curse you never to have more than one orgasm at a time, and that one to be barely toe-curling."

It's not much, but it makes me feel a little better as I walk around the store, cleaning up the piles.

How Nice for Me!

2004-08-07T00:29:00.000-05:00

It was a busy Sunday afternoon, and the Cafe was packed. Customers with drinks and food were circling looking for a place to land. No dice. The Study Buddies had spread like a fungus to every table in the place.

It is time.

I make The Announcement. As is my habit, I walk slowly around the Cafe afterwards, eyeballing each offending table. I know that the Study Buddies will not immediately vacate the Cafe. It is a game we play. They will wait until I walk away before gathering their notebooks and backpacks and going next door to the neighboring restaurant where they will set up a satellite colony until it is safe to return to the Big Bookstore.

As I turn to leave the Cafe and return to making my rounds of the store, I am stopped by a woman. She is middle-aged, and has that sharp, pursed-mouth look of the perennially dissatisfied. For reasons that may become clear, let's just call her Cunty Cunterson.

Cunty: Excuse me.
Disgruntled Bookseller: Yes, ma'am?
Cunty: The announcement you just made -- where does that come from?
DB: Oh, we've been making similar announcements for years.
Cunty (sharply): That's not what I asked. Where does it come from?
DB: A manager requested that I make the announcement.
Cunty: I want you to know that your announcement is illegal. You can't tell people to leave here after an hour.
DB: Actually, ma'am, we can.
Cunty (voice rising in vehemence): That's against the law. This is a public place. You can't just tell people to leave if they've been here too long. Someone could sue you for that because it's illegal.
DB: Well, ma'am. I'm a lawyer, and I have to tell you that you're wrong about that. This is not a public place. It's a private establishment owned by Big Bookstore Corporation.
Cunty : It's a public place!
DB: No, ma'am. It's not a library. These are private premises, and it is well established that a proprietor can refuse service for any reason. Of course, Big Bookstore Corporation does operate in interstate commerce, and therefore the constitutional restriction against discrimination on the basis of race, color, creed, ethnicity, religion or national origin does apply, but so long as we apply the rule without discrimination we can certainly enforce our one hour seating limit.
Cunty (almost shouting now): You're wrong! I've been here with friends who are lawyers and they agree with me that you're wrong. You're going to get sued and you're going to lose.
DB: I don't think so, but reasonable legal minds could disagree.
Cunty: No! The law is the law!*
DB: Well, not really. That's why we have courts and judges. Let me give you an analogy, ma'am. Let's say you own a restaurant. A customer comes into your restaurant, buys one cup of coffee, pulls out a book and sits there for the next 12 hours until you close. There are other people waiting for tables, but you have to turn them away because you don't have any left. Do you think that's OK?
Cunty: That's a completely different situation! This is not a restaurant, it's a bookstore.
DB: No. It' s a restaurant within a bookstore, but it is a restaurant nonetheless.
Cunty (skeptically): You say you're a lawyer? What kind of law do you practice?
DB: It's really none of your business, ma'am, but I specialize in management of federal property.
Cunty: Well, I don't think you know anything about the law. You're a lawyer and you also work here?
DB: Yes, ma'am. I have a day job as a lawyer, and I've worked here as a part-time bookseller for seven years.
Cunty (sarcastically): How nice for you.

Now, you might be asking why I even engaged in such an inane conversation. I've been asking myself the same thing. I should have just handed her off to my manager, who would have told her, in so many words and very nicely, to fuck off somewhere else if she didn't like it. But I couldn't stand that someone was actually trying to tell me the law. God knows, I'm no Oliver Wendell Holmes. I'm not even Johnny Cochrane. I hate being a lawyer. I work at Big Bookstore so I can escape from being a lawyer. But non-discrimination in public accomodations is one of the few, tiny, little areas of legal expertise I have actually mastered, so I just could not back down.

I went back to the Cafe 10 minutes later, and a satisfyingly large swathe of tables had been liberated. Task accomplished.

*Does she not watch Court TV? If the "law was the law", we wouldn't need lawyers for Christ's sake.

The Announcement

2004-08-06T15:42:00.000-05:00

So, I work in a bookstore.

It's a big bookstore. A really big bookstore. One of the biggest. A really big bookstore with, of course, a cafe. Because what kind of really big bookstore would it be without latte?

I hate the Cafe. We all hate the Cafe. The only people who like the Cafe are the what we like to call the "Study Buddies". The Study Buddies are men (mostly) who spend hours and hours, every single day, day in and day out, studying in the Cafe. They are studying for software certification exams, the United States Medical Licensing Exam, nursing exams. You name it, they are studying for it. And they are studying for it using our books, which they have not purchased. Sometimes they "borrow" pens and paper from us. Some of them bring their own food and drink, thus completing the trifecta of freeloading.

Occasionally, real customers want to sit down in the Cafe and browse a few books or magazines while having a cup of coffee and a bite to eat. But they can't. All the tables are occupied by Study Buddies. One Buddy to each table. Because a Study Buddy needs room to spread out his study materials.

When the Cafe reaches Study Buddy critical mass, we make The Announcement. The Announcement goes something like this:

"Good afternoon, Big Bookstore Customers. This is just a gentle reminder that seating in our Cafe is limited to one hour. This is so that all of our customers can get something to drink and a bite to eat and have a place to sit down and enjoy their refreshments. So if you are studying in the Cafe, and have been here for longer than an hour, we do ask that you gather your belongings and move elsewhere in the store. We thank you for your cooperation and understanding."

My cow-workers always like me to make The Announcement. Somehow, I am best able to convey the subtle subtext of the The Announcement, which is this: " Get the fuck out, you fucking freeloading scum. Yes, you! I am looking right at you while I'm saying this!"

To be Continued...