Happy Birthday, Best Beloved.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
Misty Water-Colored Memories...
When I first joined the world of booksellers, there was a time that I was puttering around behind the information desk, probably browsing books on a swell new (at the time) program that had just been installed for book searching...
(completely overhead: I recall that at the time it was a source of much snickering and juvenile amusement that this program, if stumped, would frantically supply you with a list of the bestselling books that were not even vaguely like what you had asked for. Or might be weirdly connected. Some memorable combos contrived by various creative staff members were as such: "turning your pets into handy household appliances" brought up I Talk to the Animals by pet psychic Barbara Morrison. "Famous nosepickers" brought up Lincoln's Virtues: An Ethical Biography, and last but not least, the program responded to "old dead guy" by promptly and confidently displaying Tuesdays With Morrie. Moving on...
Still puttering behind the info desk... When I noticed a timid, bird-like lady running her finger over the bestseller list, while glancing furtively in my direction. I smiled, and she suddenly became very interested in the latest Michigan Chiller title. I shrugged and returned to my oh-so productive whatever it was I was doing. Several more times I caught her peering at me with a mixed look of consternation and confusion... I began to worry that I might have a suddenly developed a disfiguring growth on my forehead or something of the like. Eventually she worked her way closer and closer to the desk, until finally I leaned over and asked, "Is there anything you need help finding?" She blushed and spluttered a little. "Well....umm, I'm so sorry, I'm sure you must be very busy and I didn't want to bother you and so I was just wondering if it's not too much trouble and tell me if it is too much trouble, because that's fine. I was... I need... I was hoping you might have a book....on... assertiveness.
Bless your little timid heart. Cutest Customer of the Day prize. Ding!
I finished the (ahem) Clive Barker book, Abarat yesterday, and I enjoyed it, though I think that were it not for the illustrations, it may not have captured me quite the same way. Yes, I think that's a fact. The names did get a little ridiculous and laid on thick later in the book, but that didn't take away from it very much. For some reason, I have a tendency to stop actually reading long complex names in text, and simply recognize the shape of the word. It makes reading a lot quicker, but it's annoying if you have two or more people with similar names. It's not a conscious choice I made... I wonder if it's because I was taught to read with phonics or something. I also tend to be a very visual learner, and that may have something to do with it.
I always sort of breezed over Robin Hobb in the scifi / fantasy section as another floofy Tolkien wannabe. (not that there's anything wrong with Tolkien, or Tolkein wannabes. Some of them are quite good at it. Others read like the true life story of a traveling renaissance festival leather mug maker born in the wrong century.) I find that Hobb is nothing of the sort. I recently read Assassin's Apprentice, (the first of her Farseer series) and found that it's an engaging story with much depth and intelligence. I'm currently in the midst of the second book. Highly recommended.
When I first joined the world of booksellers, there was a time that I was puttering around behind the information desk, probably browsing books on a swell new (at the time) program that had just been installed for book searching...
(completely overhead: I recall that at the time it was a source of much snickering and juvenile amusement that this program, if stumped, would frantically supply you with a list of the bestselling books that were not even vaguely like what you had asked for. Or might be weirdly connected. Some memorable combos contrived by various creative staff members were as such: "turning your pets into handy household appliances" brought up I Talk to the Animals by pet psychic Barbara Morrison. "Famous nosepickers" brought up Lincoln's Virtues: An Ethical Biography
Still puttering behind the info desk... When I noticed a timid, bird-like lady running her finger over the bestseller list, while glancing furtively in my direction. I smiled, and she suddenly became very interested in the latest Michigan Chiller title. I shrugged and returned to my oh-so productive whatever it was I was doing. Several more times I caught her peering at me with a mixed look of consternation and confusion... I began to worry that I might have a suddenly developed a disfiguring growth on my forehead or something of the like. Eventually she worked her way closer and closer to the desk, until finally I leaned over and asked, "Is there anything you need help finding?" She blushed and spluttered a little. "Well....umm, I'm so sorry, I'm sure you must be very busy and I didn't want to bother you and so I was just wondering if it's not too much trouble and tell me if it is too much trouble, because that's fine. I was... I need... I was hoping you might have a book....on... assertiveness.
Bless your little timid heart. Cutest Customer of the Day prize. Ding!
I finished the (ahem) Clive Barker book, Abarat yesterday, and I enjoyed it, though I think that were it not for the illustrations, it may not have captured me quite the same way. Yes, I think that's a fact. The names did get a little ridiculous and laid on thick later in the book, but that didn't take away from it very much. For some reason, I have a tendency to stop actually reading long complex names in text, and simply recognize the shape of the word. It makes reading a lot quicker, but it's annoying if you have two or more people with similar names. It's not a conscious choice I made... I wonder if it's because I was taught to read with phonics or something. I also tend to be a very visual learner, and that may have something to do with it.
I always sort of breezed over Robin Hobb in the scifi / fantasy section as another floofy Tolkien wannabe. (not that there's anything wrong with Tolkien, or Tolkein wannabes. Some of them are quite good at it. Others read like the true life story of a traveling renaissance festival leather mug maker born in the wrong century.) I find that Hobb is nothing of the sort. I recently read Assassin's Apprentice, (the first of her Farseer series) and found that it's an engaging story with much depth and intelligence. I'm currently in the midst of the second book. Highly recommended.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
This Bowl Ain't Big Enough For the Four of Us...
After three weeks, it can be considered a tradition, right? Or if not a tradition, a habit? On Sundays we meet Shaun and Andi at Taco Bell, and from there we trundle from place to place, talking and not really buying anything. So this sunday I cut right to the chase and instead of the usual, "Hey...uh...did you want to get together?" I just asked, "When are we meeting at Taco Bell?" Lame, I know. Like a high school clique hangout. But I happen to enjoy the fact that after the meef chubacca supremes, we randomly pick a place that will lend itself to good conversation, ie: the huge greenhouse I forget the name of, or the minuscule flea market run by disabled vets, or the big pet store...or the Dollar store. Then we go and pass a leisurely afternoon in talk about everything from video games to books to why we think our pet snail might be a murderer. *sigh*
A couple weeks ago I was this close to buying what the flea market "knife and sword" guy assured me was a genuine authentic replica of the real thing. I thumbed the edge of the shoddy replica of Sting like I knew what I was doing. I whipped it around Andrea's unperturbed face. You've seen this blade before, haven't you....Smeagol? "That's 'Lord of the Rings,'" Knife Guy informed me. "Frudo carries it in the movie." Ah. Frudo, indeed.
I know that the question remains-- hanging there like one of old, teeteringly threatening chandeliers at the Majestic. Is your pet snail REALLY a murderer, or isn't he??? Truth be told, maybe. Fact: We bought a beautiful little fish and a slightly sinister snail. We put them in a bowl together. We named them Pearl and Snidley, respectively. All was peace and love. So much so, that I decided there must be more fish. So I bought two more tiny swimming pieces of art with big fan tails and crayola colors. These we semi-named Friendy and #2. Not even a day had gone by when when came home to find #2 very dead on the bottom of the bowl. Not only dead, but being gnawed on by the inexorable Snidley. Ewwww. Absolutely remorseless. We had to pry him off with an old pencil to free the ravaged body of #2. He flounced away (slowly) into his shell. Within a day, we noticed that Friendy's tail was looking distinctly ragged. I fluttered and fussed and changed the water etc etc to no avail. The more I looked, the more it looked like the original Betsy Ross version of the US flag. No need to describe the scene that greeted us when we came home the next day. I turned to find Ed peering at the bowl with a look of horror, yelping, "NO, Snidley!!" Friendy had become little more than another partially snacked on body. At this point, some suspicion had been cast on Pearl-- were the other fish not compatible with her/him? Was (s)he really a fighting ninja stalker killing fish mistakenly stocked with the guppies? Unfortunately, the only thing that fully cleared Pearl's name was the fact that after weeks of happy, seemingly healthy bowl life, (s)he too was found in the clutches of Snidley's evil, suckery mouth. What the hell kind of snail do we have?? We live with the fear that we may be next. We dutifully feed Snidley, not wanting him to become...hungry.
After three weeks, it can be considered a tradition, right? Or if not a tradition, a habit? On Sundays we meet Shaun and Andi at Taco Bell, and from there we trundle from place to place, talking and not really buying anything. So this sunday I cut right to the chase and instead of the usual, "Hey...uh...did you want to get together?" I just asked, "When are we meeting at Taco Bell?" Lame, I know. Like a high school clique hangout. But I happen to enjoy the fact that after the meef chubacca supremes, we randomly pick a place that will lend itself to good conversation, ie: the huge greenhouse I forget the name of, or the minuscule flea market run by disabled vets, or the big pet store...or the Dollar store. Then we go and pass a leisurely afternoon in talk about everything from video games to books to why we think our pet snail might be a murderer. *sigh*
A couple weeks ago I was this close to buying what the flea market "knife and sword" guy assured me was a genuine authentic replica of the real thing. I thumbed the edge of the shoddy replica of Sting like I knew what I was doing. I whipped it around Andrea's unperturbed face. You've seen this blade before, haven't you....Smeagol? "That's 'Lord of the Rings,'" Knife Guy informed me. "Frudo carries it in the movie." Ah. Frudo, indeed.
I know that the question remains-- hanging there like one of old, teeteringly threatening chandeliers at the Majestic. Is your pet snail REALLY a murderer, or isn't he??? Truth be told, maybe. Fact: We bought a beautiful little fish and a slightly sinister snail. We put them in a bowl together. We named them Pearl and Snidley, respectively. All was peace and love. So much so, that I decided there must be more fish. So I bought two more tiny swimming pieces of art with big fan tails and crayola colors. These we semi-named Friendy and #2. Not even a day had gone by when when came home to find #2 very dead on the bottom of the bowl. Not only dead, but being gnawed on by the inexorable Snidley. Ewwww. Absolutely remorseless. We had to pry him off with an old pencil to free the ravaged body of #2. He flounced away (slowly) into his shell. Within a day, we noticed that Friendy's tail was looking distinctly ragged. I fluttered and fussed and changed the water etc etc to no avail. The more I looked, the more it looked like the original Betsy Ross version of the US flag. No need to describe the scene that greeted us when we came home the next day. I turned to find Ed peering at the bowl with a look of horror, yelping, "NO, Snidley!!" Friendy had become little more than another partially snacked on body. At this point, some suspicion had been cast on Pearl-- were the other fish not compatible with her/him? Was (s)he really a fighting ninja stalker killing fish mistakenly stocked with the guppies? Unfortunately, the only thing that fully cleared Pearl's name was the fact that after weeks of happy, seemingly healthy bowl life, (s)he too was found in the clutches of Snidley's evil, suckery mouth. What the hell kind of snail do we have?? We live with the fear that we may be next. We dutifully feed Snidley, not wanting him to become...hungry.
Monday, January 27, 2003
From whence the title came.
Fact: people ought to be more contrite when they demand things at the bookstore. Most of the times that I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from laughing (or spitting like a lama into someone's eye) are the result of the overconfidence of blithering idiots. Not to say that there aren't wonderfully intelligent and kind people who make working at the store a pleasure. There are, and they DO. But idiots make working there a whole other kind of pleasure. Does that make me mean-spirited and naughty? Perhaps.
But take, for example, the well coiffed and manicured Rochester teen who glides haughtily up to the desk snapping her gum. "Hello," I begin. "What can I help you find?" There is a silence, and the snapping of gum as the gears in her mind begin oh-so-slowly to turn. She glances down her Roman nose at me. Then, clearing the gum to the side of her mouth, she states, "When I drop dead."
Eh? What then? I realize it's a title. I'm none the wiser. "Do you know who the author is? " I inquire. She pauses again, seems annoyed that she's even here, and then shrugs apathetically. "I don't know... Fooker? Flocker? Some guy on our book list."
SQUWAK! It hits me like a stack of books falling from the top shelf in the art section. You know-- those BIG coffee table tomes that weigh more than most of the doe-eyed innocents running about the children's section. "You...y...Do you mean...William Falkner's... As I Lay Dying???
She doesn't blink. Snap, snap. "Yeah."
This sort of thing happens every day. Every Day. There are many people who have the good grace to admit that they really can't remember the title, or that they could be wrong. However there are other people who insist that the world has conspired against them because we can't find the book that they have just invented. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, is Fate tittering into its hands as we blindly flail at the keyboard, left to the mercy of a woman who swears her book club is reading something enigmatically entitled Lonely Legs? And when the book, in actuality, is called The Lovely Bones, are we congratulated, even thanked?? Well...ok. Sometimes we are. Thank god. Life is worth living after all.
Fact: people ought to be more contrite when they demand things at the bookstore. Most of the times that I nearly bite my tongue off to keep from laughing (or spitting like a lama into someone's eye) are the result of the overconfidence of blithering idiots. Not to say that there aren't wonderfully intelligent and kind people who make working at the store a pleasure. There are, and they DO. But idiots make working there a whole other kind of pleasure. Does that make me mean-spirited and naughty? Perhaps.
But take, for example, the well coiffed and manicured Rochester teen who glides haughtily up to the desk snapping her gum. "Hello," I begin. "What can I help you find?" There is a silence, and the snapping of gum as the gears in her mind begin oh-so-slowly to turn. She glances down her Roman nose at me. Then, clearing the gum to the side of her mouth, she states, "When I drop dead."
Eh? What then? I realize it's a title. I'm none the wiser. "Do you know who the author is? " I inquire. She pauses again, seems annoyed that she's even here, and then shrugs apathetically. "I don't know... Fooker? Flocker? Some guy on our book list."
SQUWAK! It hits me like a stack of books falling from the top shelf in the art section. You know-- those BIG coffee table tomes that weigh more than most of the doe-eyed innocents running about the children's section. "You...y...Do you mean...William Falkner's... As I Lay Dying???
She doesn't blink. Snap, snap. "Yeah."
This sort of thing happens every day. Every Day. There are many people who have the good grace to admit that they really can't remember the title, or that they could be wrong. However there are other people who insist that the world has conspired against them because we can't find the book that they have just invented. Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, is Fate tittering into its hands as we blindly flail at the keyboard, left to the mercy of a woman who swears her book club is reading something enigmatically entitled Lonely Legs? And when the book, in actuality, is called The Lovely Bones, are we congratulated, even thanked?? Well...ok. Sometimes we are. Thank god. Life is worth living after all.
I'm timidly reading Clive Barker's new youth novel, Abarat, purchased at an outlet store yesterday.
Guffaw! Clive Barker? YOUTH Novel?? I know that you're thinking.
The reason I picked it up is that it was so... heavy. The pages are an expensive semi-glossy stock, and every illustration is full color. The pictures are gutsy, thick, bizarre paintings scattered throughout the pages. This thing must have cost a fortune to make. The story is not bad so far. I tend to roll my eyes a little at general fantasy sometimes:
"Quick, Zibbonifict! We must make haste to Fippawongarious in our mangus monstopicus before the Eve of King Pumplefrump!"
Clive, never one of my favorites, is managing to keep the names of things within reason so far. He has some interesting and genuinely entertaining ideas, so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt until such time as I need to throw down the book in muttering disgust. Gawd, I'm such an optimist.
Guffaw! Clive Barker? YOUTH Novel?? I know that you're thinking.
The reason I picked it up is that it was so... heavy. The pages are an expensive semi-glossy stock, and every illustration is full color. The pictures are gutsy, thick, bizarre paintings scattered throughout the pages. This thing must have cost a fortune to make. The story is not bad so far. I tend to roll my eyes a little at general fantasy sometimes:
"Quick, Zibbonifict! We must make haste to Fippawongarious in our mangus monstopicus before the Eve of King Pumplefrump!"
Clive, never one of my favorites, is managing to keep the names of things within reason so far. He has some interesting and genuinely entertaining ideas, so I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt until such time as I need to throw down the book in muttering disgust. Gawd, I'm such an optimist.
Post Numbero Uno. In short, this blog will hopefully be the emergency steam valve for the day to day occurences that sometimes have me teetering between disbelief and laughing so hard I pee. I make (a very small amount of ) money working at a certain large chain bookstore, and the ambundance of stories that flow in from coworkers and my own experience should not go to waste. Certainly there will be bit about things that don't fall into the Bookstore category, but hopefully I will eventualy fall into some sort of rhythm. Right now the only rhythm I have is the pounding ache that seems to be, shockingly enough, ANOTHER wisdom tooth coming in. Oddly enough, I had all four wisdom teeth pulled a few years ago. I have the dubious honor of teething at the same time as my 9 month old niece. Take 2 asprin and blog in the morning.
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