But we NEED you, J.F.--You're our best and only friend!

I think that it's high time to point out that the Rochester Road Taco Bell has a garbage can that quite possibly embodies the spirit of Blade Runner's J.F. Sebastian. The humble pause, the heartfelt, "Thuank Yeww." I almost expect it to add, "Pris." It sounds just like him, gosh darn it. What really got me suspicious was that the trash can across the restaurant proclaimed as I dumped a tray, "He say you brade runnah!"

Funny. The Livernois Taco Ball has nothing like it.

Honestly though, it's become a Sunday Tradition. All us pals meet up there, and have gotten to know the staff by... well, the names we give them. There's "Lord of the Nerds," or alternately, "Nerd Lord." We humbly bow before his superior nerdiness. He has that particular longish hair and those particular big eighties glasses and that perfect semi-social-ineptness that all add up to nerdy charm. When we ask for cinnamon twist, he pauses for effect, then does a little dance behind the register, ending with a used-car-salesman type thumbs up... "What about a rhumbaaa?" Much respect to the Nerd Lord.

There's also Cheerful Black Music Guy. He's always in a good mood. Not to be confused with Ineffectual, Grumpy, Furtively Look Around When You Drop Someone's Food on the Floor and Sigh and Start Over When You Realize People are Watching Guy.
(self explaintory) Once, on my way though the drive though, I sat at the first window and watched while Cheerful Black Music Guy sold one of his homemade cds to the drive though customer ahead of me. Impressive. I was tempted to ask for one too, but I'd run out of money. Maybe someday. Another time, my head almost exploded and my universe was shifted alarmingly with the sight of Cheerful Black Music guy chatting with some people at the counter at McDonald's. Stars aligned. Planets crossed paths. Dimesions shifted. As I recovered from my shock, I watched him sell a cd to the people working there. More power to you, CBMG.

There are not many terrible things about a Mac keyboard. I have a rather slick one that's all see-throughy. Except that I can SEE all the dust and crumbs and crap that inexplicably makes its way from all over the house to nestle in the corners of my keyboard. It drives me crazy-go-nuts. I'm always so careful not to eat at the computer etc etc... So I used my can of compressed air to blow all the crap to the underside of the keyboard. There. Better. brrr. My obsessive compulsive streak still whimpers about it sometimes.

At Long Last.
Finally the first review goes up on Of Cabbages and Kings. There should be a review of the PS2 game, Dark Cloud 2, there shortly. As in...uh...within a week. Or so.

Well, I took my bonsai pot home from the ceramics store and sanded it. Carefully. Then I took it back and had it fired. Then I brought it home and painted it with a "crystal glaze," which had bits of multicolored glass in it. Then I had it fired again. Then I picked it up and rejoiced in the glory of its badassedness. Every time I've gone back, Oxygen Tube Lady has been at the same seat at the same table. I was starting to wonder if she ever went home, but she informed me out of the blue that it was "98 degrees in muh trailer last night. Sweated like a stuck pi-- no...just a pig." We chatted while she worked away on some ceramic chess pieces. hiss hiss... wheeze wheeze. She stamped out the last of a cigarette onto a pile of butts, (in a neat looking ceramic bowl) and explained that all the chess pieces were for students. Her daughter offered a chess set to anyone taking a ceramics course she teaches, and had many more takers than she expected. "So I'm sittin' here scrapin' away all day at these dang things. And I goes home at night and..." at this point her left hand, amazingly clawlike, rises to shudder around at table level. "I'm scrapin' these dang things in muh sleep!"

Share My Trauma:
I've played Dark Cloud 2 pretty steadily ever since it came out. That's lots of hours. I don't watch tv. Somehow I feel justified. A bit. When you're extra-uber-nerdy like me, you play to get all those little extras--you know...level up to the most kick-ass weapons, find all the little hidden whatchamhooleys, complete every last side quest.... I was missing a couple things that could only be gotten in the beginning. Fortunately, you can transfer files between games. In any case... I beat the "final" boss. But what's this?? Another chapter? Another boss?? For some reason, I decided that then was the time to begin a new game, get the stuff I missed, and add it to my current stash. Unsurprisingly, after a 150 hours of saving to the same slot, my fingers twitched, and I watched in horror as I saved about 30 minutes of gameplay over 150 hours. Why yes.... yes, I said 150 hours.

Those of you who don't play video games will now think that I'm the biggest loser in the known universe. Those of you who do play video games will have just groaned aloud in sympathy.

Goodnight and thankyou.

Glazed and Confused

I appreciate curiosity. Many of my friends suffer from this rare and interesting condition, and I seem to have caught it early on as well. I remember one summer making a pact with a friend that we weren't going to wonder. We were going to find out. At this point I realize that we were ambitious, but unrealistic. But exploring things had always appealed to me.

I loved books about archaeology when I was little. I still do. I was riveted by the section in Garth Nix's Lirael that dealt with the ancient Library of the Clayr. It consists of room after room of books and artifacts, none alike, winding deeper and deeper into the earth where it's sometimes dangerous to go. No one alive has seen the end of it. Magic.

You know those overpasses on 696 that have trees growing on them? We found out that they're parks, (no roads) so that Orthodox Jews can cross the freeway on the Sabbath.

One Fall weekend in Indiana we heard tales of a lakeside villa Al Capone used to own. So we wandered around with our cameras and sketchbooks until we discovered the place. It had been divided up and made into a gated apartment building. We stood wistfully at the gate and looked though at the building curving around the lake. We imagined decadent gangster parties and concrete shoes and flappers and zoot suits. Finally we decided that we ought to try to get in. We looked at the names on the buzzer. Smith, Johnson, several other boring names, (none were Capone) then.. Love. "Heck. We ought to try," Gabe said. "If Ms. Love doesn't let us in, nobody will." So we buzzed her and explained that we were meek and harmless students-- we just wanted to get in to look around. She laughed, and a minute later the gate opened. It turned out to be one of the nicest afternoons that year, a cool sunny day lazing on the docks telling stories, taking photos, drawing, and exploring the old boat houses...

In Jackson, Liz and I often took afternoon drives, looking for interesting things. We often failed. Lord knows mid- Michigan is not exactly fraught with excitement. However, one afternoon we stumbled over a collection of rundown stone buildings in the middle of nowhere that turned out to be an ancient collection of theaters and art studios. A huge circular stone tower in an overgrown field out back used to be a windmill, but had been concerted into--gasp--living space.... which we discovered when we shoved through the vines over the broken door. A large circular kitchen with a bar along one wall, winding stairs with a bathroom halfway up, and a big round great room completely surrounded with windows and waist-high bookshelves. Above it, a ladder led to a glass topped bedroom. All of it wonderful and magical. All of it in disrepair and ruin. It makes me sad that there's no one to love it.

I tend to get restless if I go too long without anything to discover. I hope that's a good thing. The other day I finally stopped a hole-in-the-wall ceramics store that's been beckoning to me for some time now. Just a grubby yellow little building across the street from the junkyard. I walked into a cluttered maze of shelf after shelf of bottles of paint and glaze and ceramics in various states of completion. Oddly, all over the floor was coiled a thin tube of some sort, tangled around corners, and leading toward the back. I followed it. It led around a corner, up the side of a table, and to the nose of a squat, watery eyed old lady. (I was momentarily tempted to ask what the other two Weird Sisters were up to.) The tube hissed out little puffs of oxygen every couple seconds-- that, coupled with the wheezing of her breathing and the crackle of potato chips as she munched, made it a bit difficult to understand when she gave me a semi-toothless grin, rubbed her beard (yes, her beard) and croaked, "Anything I can do for ya?" I explained that I was interested in ceramics but had never worked with them before... and between wheezes, hacks, and stopping to light up a cigarette, she told me about what was on the shelves and how glazes worked etc.

I expected to pay a reasonable $10 or $15 for a decent piece that I could plant a bonsai in, but when I held the raw pot up and asked how much she snorted, "Buck." Then maybe it'll be expensive to fire, I thought. "Firing's half whatever the piece cost." she wheezed. Geeze. No complaints here.

At that point her equally toothless husband shuffled in, tripping over her oxygen tube and causing her to huff and wave her cigarette at him angrily. He gave a "don't shoot!" sort of gesture. "Woops! I unplug ya?" He asked cheerfully. She muttered and turned to me, still pointing her cigarette, which was threatening to drop ash onto her bag-like mu-mu. "Don't listen t' anything he says. He don't know what he's talkin about." The husband smiled and gave me a little wave, as if to acknowledge that it indeed, was true. They both spent time making sure I understood what I needed to do with the piece, and helping me pick out a glaze, and then waved me out the door when I left.

Curious pays. I'm glad I'm not a cat.

Of Ships and Shoes and Sealing Wax
When I was little I thought it was "ceiling wax." It was very confusing.

So I lied. I'm not starting an alternate blog called A Record of Small Things I realize that this blog, WIDD, is pretty much already that: little stories from everyday life.
Instead, I've made a page called Of Cabbages and Kings from which I will proclaim my (humble) opinions about such flotsom as Detroit area events, film, literature, webcomics, video games, music, and what-have-you. Subjects of my scrutiny will receive a King, (gooood) or a Cabbage, (baaad) depending. If you think some-thing/one has been unfairly kinged or cabbaged, you are welcome to say so. This is a democracy. Except that I am Supreme Dictator for Life.

The link to Of Cabbages and Kings is er...with the links.

I warn you: I have not yet begun to write.

Now Hear This...

This afternoon I received an email from a gentleman who informed me that he was seeking an amputee and has finally found her. I asked if he would mind writing a little something for "When I Drop Dead," and I hope he will oblige.

I've been thinking about announcements, in light of what I wrote earlier...
I became more attuned to overhead pages after I was trained at the bookstore. "You should be calm and professional," we were told. "The page should only draw attention from people who are listening for it." Nonetheless, we've had some interesting overhead pages resound though the store. There was the time that someone picked up the phone, pressed "page" and boomed, "Thanks for calling, this is W. how can I assist you?" Or back when a now-former employee (known for his habit of whining) pressed "page" and asked that a manager call 233, but neglected to hang up when he was distracted by the fact that the manager was within speaking distance. "When can I take my break? (break...)" echoed around the store. "You said I could take it awhile ago, but blah blah whine whine... (echo echo...) Customers paused, staff snickered.

I have a dear friend who has much more in the way of cajones than I. She was amused by the way the pleasant female automated voice announced, "Attention Meijer guests: there is no waiting in...lane...twenty...three." So one day back when she was in high school she made a Meijer page of her own. "Attention Meijer guests: there is an orgy in...lane...sixty...nine." Management was not amused, but all the baggers were.

Not too long ago I was in Meijer late at night on a desperate search for something-or-other. Meijer is a kooky place late at night. Just me, some sleepy eyed parents buying cough syrup, a few questionables circling the liquor aisle, and an army of shelf stockers...
When without warning, a pleasant male voice came onto the overhead:

Booop. "Attention Meijer guests: I am not wearing any pants."

More from the side of the trash can...

"Seeking Pretty Amputee" guy struck again the other day.

Much to my pleasant surprise, one of our managers bought a multipack of art supplies for us to create signage with. We've been doodling with oil pastels and crayons and colored pencils and markers during our break-times ever since.

This time, Mr. Seeking's poster was given the Vermeer treatment-- I washed the background with a nice blend of greens and gave it a nice summer sky. Someone else gave the "pretty amputee" a lovely sunkissed blonde hairdo and well manicured nails. I'm sure that someone will give her outfit the royal treatment as well.

I found myself at Rescued Treasures Thrift Store today after dropping off The Boy's dry cleaning. I always experience a mixture of awe and slight discomfort when I'm there. The place is so huge--aisles and aisles of homeless couches from the seventies, hand-knit sweaters, ancient tuneless pianos, teetering stacks of wooden...various things that, I assume, are meant hang on the walls of a kitchen, tall unwieldy lamps with dented shades, and the baskets...oh God. The baskets. There is a mammoth section of them, strung up from the drop ceiling on unbent metal hangers. Like some kind of forest. Overwhelming. All slightly dingy.

And from overhead, about every 5 mintues or so, there would be a break in the rather syrupy eighties church music for a series of raspy-voiced announcements. Most of them went something like this:

(Booop. Crackle...crackle...thunk) Oops, sh*t! What was I gonna say...? OH. Thanks for shopping at Rescued Treasures...um. Just so you know, every Monday all the clothes are 50% off. And today only, uh...there's a sale on...let's see here... Crap. Where'd I put that? (rustle rustle) .......Red tag items! They're half off. So thanks for shopping at Resc--- oh. I already said that. (clunk)

---end transmission----

The guy at the checkout smelled overwhelmingly of stale cigarettes and...something else. Before I was 15 feet from the register, he croaked loudly in my direction, "Y'hear my announcement??" I paused, not sure he was talking to me, but since there was no one else around, I nodded. "Did it sound okay?" I nodded again. The cashier inspected his fingernails casually. " I know. I always do the announcements here." A young man with a magnificent mullet and a grungy leather jacket strode past me and stopped in front of the cashier. There was a pause as they eyed each other. "Rock 'n Roll," the young man said in a heartfelt, meaningful way. He strode off.

Remember:
I think I'm going to start another blog to record insignificant little things from daily life.

It will be called A Record of Small Things.

In the meantime, what is it about Products??? By Products, I mean, those sleek bottles and tubes and jars with matte glass and shiny bits that promise to "revitalize," "renew," or "refresh" (and a thousand other "re" words) your skin, hair, toenails, and what-have-you.

I laugh in the face of thousands of marketing experts. I snort in the direction of advertising mavens. I point at the font on the bottles and raise my eyebrows at the cunningly worded blurbs. I know what you're trying to do to me. You want me powdered and coiffed and painted with your overpriced goop!!

And yet... knowing all this, I still itch to buy. Somehow, I think, knowing that alpha hydroxy shine beta moisture release strengthening globules are craftily tuned to make me want to buy them somehow excuses the fact that... I do.

And you can quote me. (or "Just Call Me Misanthrope)
"Educator Appreciation Weekend" again at the bookstore. Also known as "I Can't Believe These Assholes are Teaching Future Generations" weekend.

Let it first be known that not all educators are included in my broad, bitter, blanket statements. One of my best friends taught me high school English. Another friend teaches kindergarten. They both rank at the top on the Most Kind, Cultured, and Intelligent People I Know list. I know there are others out there. So WHY....pray tell, don't they happen to shop at the bookstore I work at?

It never fails. The moment a woman wearing a fuzzy sweater-- with, say, geese on it, or perhaps a heartwarming embroidered cliche of some sort-- approaches the counter with that "you just lost recess privileges, mister" look on her face, I know I'm in for it.

Fact: Teachers make up a high, HIGH percentage of the most manipulative, condescending, deceitful, and outright rude customers I experience. I can't count the times that I have had to practically bite off the end of my tongue to keep from saying something snide to a teacher feigning ignorance about taking advantage of our discount system, or outright lying about what items they're buying for their students. I still get a churny stomach when I think about one particularly loathsome woman who originally stuck out when she was rude to a coworker of mine, and who I saw talking to her teenage grandkid in the manga section, and who boldfacedly included a Battle Angel Alita book in a discount purchase for her third graders.

For those of you who are familiar with Battle Angel... does that seem strange? (When I think of the anime, I just have to say, "The dog! Good Lord! The poor dog!" )

Her excuse? Her excuse for supposedly getting an R rated book for her third graders? "Well, the kids...they like to draw the characters. I'm teaching them how to draw the characters." then an extremely dirty look. If I had been able to snort in her face and tell her to shove it, I probably wouldn't even remember the incident. But instead it just festers, made worse by other just plain nasty people. I know--I have issues.

Among my issues is the fact that I don't forget a face. So I recognize the guy who cut me off and flapped his hand dismissively at me when I asked if there was anything more I could help with. "TCH! (he silences me). Don't babble at me. I'm done with you. Go away. God. You people." I also recognize the guy who tried to steal a cd, and the woman who called me a bitch because our store didn't have the book she wanted, and the woman who berated me because I wasn't able to process her expired coupon, and the man who cussed me out because our store carries one magazine and not another, or the kid who came in in a suit, expecting to get a managerial job, and snorted condescendingly when I asked if he'd like to fill the application here, or bring it back. "I have a resume here." Good. And I have a degree in Literature. The store doesn't hire you if you don't apply. He ended up snatching his resume back, dusting it off, and stalking out. I recognize these people when they come back. I help them find their books, and sometimes I take their abuse again. I'm tempted to ask, "So... still think you're better than everyone?"

All this to say, sometimes I hate people. Stupid but well-intentioned people are fine. They make me want to help even more. But mean people are another story. The best thing to do is go to bed early.

On another note...

Tonight the Boy and I walked around outside, since it was "nice" for the first time in eons. We walked up to a pitiful defunct Big K and looked at all the "Store Closing!" and "Everything Must Go!" and "For God's Sake! Buy our Crap!" signs. We peered in at the empty rows of white metal shelving and the little clusters of stuff that still hasn't been sold. It was creepy in a Twin Peaks sort of way, as if Nadine was going to come busting out with her arms loaded with cotton balls for her "silent drape runner" invention.
The creepiness was compounded by the fact that the coke machine outside was clearly disturbed. Instead of the little screen about the cash insert flashing "Cold. Drinks. Coke. $1.00." It instead told us, "Flolt. Boop. 4931. Gaup." Hmm. I was poised to flee rapidly if it flashed, "ZOOOLE."

The Thing about Tuesdays...
I could never get the hang of tuesdays.

I also could never get the hang of why people kill each other.

That's all I'm going to say about that.

Actually, that's not all I have to say about it. Before I shut up on the subject, the reason I will not be writing about the war in this blog is that the world is supersaturated with information and opinions for and against it already. It is not that the topic of the war doesn't evoke many emotions in me. It is not that I don't have anything to say about it.

It is that I have trouble getting up in the morning, and I have trouble going to sleep at night, and I have a sick feeling in my stomach most of the time these days. Come to your own conclusions. You don't need my opinion. And I sure as hell don't need to write about it.

For the record...

One of the undisputed sweetest little moments of working at a bookstore/cafe happened a couple years ago. The guy in the cafe served a hot cocoa to a mom and a little girl. He topped the daughter's drink with sprinkles and handed it to her with a wink. Later, he was wiping down the counter when he heard some rustling from below the front of the register. Then a little hand emerged from below the counter to set a note on it. It quickly withdrew, there was more rustling and some smothered giggling. The paper showed a crayon drawing of a boy and a girl holding hands and running while an enormous smiling sun looked benevolently on. The boy was wearing an apron. And below, it said:

Dear Man. I like you. I liked it when you blinked at me.

No signature, just an anonymous love note from a tiny admirer. It's still posted in the back room of the cafe.

Another paper a little person recently gave a manager said this:

Sory! Sory! Sory! sory! Sory 100000000000000 times!!!

Along with the paper, we also received the little plastic key chain that the young author had stolen. It's good to know that someone's son out there probably won't grow up to be a cleptomaniac.

alwayswearunderwear


I remember it as the big joke of the high school Latin club or what-have-you. "Semper ubi can ubi." Or something along those lines. Students would intone it seriously across the cafeteria, and those of us "in the know" would titter into our hands.

It comes to me because today I was reminded of an event that took place several weeks ago. A. told me about it with a mixture of distaste and laughter. How does a small, flower-printed pair of panties end up hastily wadded under a display in our children's department? I'm not sure I want to know. Wait. Make that a definite "no." I really don't want to know.

The thing that reminded me happened at the drive through at Taco Bell today. You may not inspect the curb while waiting in line at the drive through, but I sure do. There are all kinds of bizarre things to be found on streets and curbs. I have seen these things at the side of the road:

1. a big live crab
2. a gun
3. (In Illinois) a crumpled New York license plate.
3. two policemen on foot with flashlights and dogs in front of a slowly moving police car.
4. a guy wearing nothing but a sandwich board that said "ART"
5. a big cd binder with 50 cds in it. Unfortunately, most of them were crappy music.

I'm hoping to someday find a big envelope of rent payments for the next 300 years. I'm not crossing my fingers.

As I glanced down today, I was slightly startled and amused to see an underwire. You know, from an underwire bra. The kind that drive you nuts until you have to just rip the wire part out. There was no mistaking it. They look a certain way. A flat "C" of metal with the ends coated in plastic so that they don't actually make you bleed when they painfully stab you. I'm not going to make a cup guess or anything, but I can sympathize with the poor woman who was so frustrated with torturing bustenhalter that she ripped from it the offending wire and flung it from her car just in time to place an order for a "Meef Chubacabra Combo, with coke and a soft taco. "

Eureka!

This post is also directed to the misdirected individual seeking a pretty amputee.

You know, I might just have found your perfect lady! Sure, she has all her limbs, but she seems like just the sort of wacky, good humored, clever woman you're looking for. Perhaps if you two hit it off, she might be convinced to get a leg removed or something.

Yup, I'm talking about "crazy coffee stealing little old lady." I think you two might just share something really special... like a total disregard for social norms. I mean, this old girl really knows how to buck the system! I used to see her all the time in the cafe at our store. She'd come in a few minutes after we opened, and spend her entire day pretending to read whatever magazines were left on the table, and figuring ways of nicking coffee for free. Her original approach was to casually go up to the info desk where the coffee samples were, and get herself a little cup. Then for the rest of the day she'd dash to the pots in the cafe and fill up whenever the staff's backs were turned. My very favorite of her approaches was the "ninja-stealth mug approach," where she'd sit near a table where someone had left a cold, halfdrunk mug of coffee and some magazines. This approach takes discipline, wits and a keen sense of timing. She had them all. At any time, someone might sweep through and clear away the target mug, or she might been seen in her careful, steady approach, sitting closer and closer to the mug table until eventually she was sitting right across from it. Casually, she'd get up to inspect something nearby, and when she returned, BINGO. She'd sit right down in front of it, and look at the mug as if to say, "You're mine, bitch."

Can you believe it? I know you guys would totally fall in love. She's so clever. But get this:

Once she had the hapless mug in her grasp, she'd sit there clutching it for awhile, so that everyone would know that it was hers all along. She didn't even care if there were lipstick marks on it, when she was obviously wearing none. Then she'd streeetch and pick up the mug and head to the cafe counter, pretending to be really interested in the danishes. Sometimes she would even buy a few things just to throw off the salesperson... and then, without warning... "Could you warm this up for me?" She would proffer the purloined mug. Just adding coffee would never do, you see. She wanted it microwaved, presumably so that any germs from the previous owner would be "zapped." Of course, if you offered her fresh coffee in the same mug, she'd get flustered and flap her arms a little. There'd still be germs! Then a sly look would cross her face. "Oh, thanks. but could you warm it up in the microwave? Um...because your coffee is never hot enough. Yeah."

It could be it's never hot enough because you've never had it fresh, Coffee Lady.

So, what do you think? I could totally hook you guys up. What you'd probably want to do is sit very quietly at a table in the cafe with a half cup of cold coffee across from you as bait.

I'm just trying to help.

Lonely..... leg?
Ok, Mister. I know you're out there. Yeah, I'm talking to you--- the guy who sneakily leaves xeroxed signs taped to the garbage cans outside our store every other Tuesday or so. (No, not you, Mr/Ms. "work at home, lose weight, and make millions" sign maker. )

I'm talking to the guy who leaves the signs entitled "Seeking Pretty Amputee"

For starters, I would like to know why you leave your signs on our garbage cans in the dead of winter. If you are seeking an amputee, shouldn't you look someplace amputees are...well, LIKELY to be? Or have I simply missed the droves of good looking limbless that hang around reading trash cans in the snow rather than coming the heck inside the store for some good hot chai? That could be it. Either way, you probably should post it away from all those "lost pets" signs. it looks weird. Er... weirder.

The next thing that leaps to mind is the text of your...proposal? Personal personal ad? Query? In any case, what you make known is that you are a clean, slim, white, male office professional around the age of 50. You are a self proclaimed creative--an artist and a writer. There is no mention of how many limbs you may have. I would, however, like to suggest a thesaurus for replacing overused "personal ad" phrases like, "nice" or "disease free."

Now, the writing, I can forgive, but you claim to be an artist. You even provide said art--the top half of your sign is dominated by a clumsy rendering of what I can only assume must be a pretty amputee. Now, I can appreciate your use of the pastoral setting. Everyone looks nice lounging on a picnic blanket in a woodsy park... But is there a reason that this particular legless lady is so busty that an explosion from her lowcut top seems eminent? Or does she have to lean forward like that to balance herself? The prominent placement of her crutches seems so contrived, as if she is saying to the world, "Well, hello, World. Has any one happened to notice I only have one sexy leg?" I would recommend going for some classical Danish props next time. Perhaps your next amputee could be gazing at a skull, or holding a copy of the Gutenburg Bible. To be quite honest, the overall feel of this work was less like high art, and more like that of a coloring book.

...Which is probably why your latest posting ended up colored by crayons, and on the breakroom fridge. Like we're some proud parent, displaying your art. Don't get your hopes up.

The next thing I would like to point out is your description of the perfect Ms. Right. You seek an intelligent woman of any age who is slim to curvy... hmm... I guess being non-specific can only widen the playing field... but then you had to add that she must have one leg amputated a few inches below the hip. Right or left hip?

You're "seeking a serious relationship, possibly leading to marriage," and those are your specifics? I'm just asking. Your closing statement of I'm drug and disease free. You should be too. seems a little demanding. Or is it just me? Are you saying that if she's not, she ought to be, but by all means, write anyway? Or don't bother? Can you afford to be so picky?

Anyway, I just wanted to offer you a little feedback. I, uh... hope you find your amputee. before she finds you.

I'm All Lost in the Supermarket...
Because the lights are out. I stopped by Meijer yesterday and took little note of the handwritten "push" signs on the normally electric doors until I emerged into a dark, cavernous store with a few furtive shoppers creeping about. "Eh?" I thought. Apparently some odd "main switch" emergency had rendered the overhead lights unable to come on and various other things. Meijer was still open, but it had turned into an enormous city at night-- various districts, some that have emergency lights over them, and others that are darker and more foreboding. Unfortunately, it was a bad neighborhood I had to go into to buy the wooden dowels I was looking for. The hardware department was so heavily shadowed that I ended up walking past the dowels twice before I realized they were there. Surreal. On my way back up to the front I passed through Pets, and was just in time to dimly see two ladies converge at the same time around a corner. In the light, it would have been, " Oh, excuse me. Sorry." But there in the shadows, one lady let out a little shriek, and the other lady dropped her bag of cedar chips. Everything is more scary in the dark, even a little lady in orthopedic shoes.

It snot you. It's me.
What can I say? Over the past few days I think I've experienced more phlegm than I have in the rest of my whole life put together. Miserable. The worst thing about it all is that since it's all taking place in my sinuses, my ears are begging to be popped. I gave in to the pressure a couple days ago and the change of pressure was so great that I literally staggered and had to sit on the floor due to the extreme dizziness. I still can't really hear out of my right ear. It's like wearing a helmet full of water. Like poor Mr. Yorke in the "No Surprises" video. Sigh. Or more likely, splutter.

I'm still on the ferret bandwagon. I've built a dreamy cage that, heck-- I wouldn't mind living in. It's got three levels and a hammock and a tube and a litter box and and.... and I'm so darn lame. As much as I'll feel guilty about it, we're probably not going to get the critters from the ferret shelter after all. Most of the ones who end up in the shelter are at least 4 years old, which is considered geriatric in ferret-time. The main drawback to ferrets is that they're prone to various illnesses later in life. ie: I'd rather not bring them home from the shelter only to have them keel over from adrenal disease 2 weeks later. The guilt would be unbearable. Plus, I've never owned ferrets before. I ought to start out with younger, healthy ones. Regardless of where we get them, they will be Ferguson and Sashsa.

I was informed by a coworker the other day that while she was helping a college girl find some books for classes, the girl checked her list and declared, "Okay. The next thing I need is a threesis--you know---like a dictionary, where you look up a word to find another one like it?""

NEWSFLASH! ANGRY BUSINESSMAN THROWS TANTRUM!

I remember a few years ago when we were having problems with people spilling coffee all over books in sections, then sneaking away.... we made the obvious choice of requesting that people stay in the cafe unless they had to-go cups. One "gentleman," after telling the clerk that he wanted a mug, and yeah yeah yeah, he'd stay in the cafe and all that, wandered out onto the floor and proceeded to spill coffee on a stack of bestsellers.

Now, it drives me nuts. I'm generally a nice person. I don't want to make people feel dumb. But what if they are dumb? Not even then are we allowed to look someone up and down and say, "Do you need help, Fuckwit??" You would be amazed at some of the abuse people heap, simply because we cannot answer in kind.

In any case, a staff member thoughtfully asked the suit if he would like to freshen up his coffee and transfer it into a to-go cup so he could wander the store. Let's look at the facts, shall we?

1. Suit KNOWS the rules
2. Suit flouts the rules and makes a mess
3. Staff offers him free coffee and a new cup.
4. Suit ignores
5. Staff repeats request, reminding Suit of rule.
6. Suit berates staff

"I don't LIKE to-go cups! Are you telling me I'm CONFINED to the cafe just because of what I'm drinking out if?? You people think you can run my life?? Do you know who I AM?

7. Manager is called. Manager repeats free coffee offer and reminds Suit of rule. Gently asks Suit to please give our store the same respect that we would give were we in his home.

The Suit became livid. Several eye witnesses testified to the fact that fine wisps of steam
wafted from his ears. A large vein stood out on his forehead. He roared something unprintable, then stormed toward the door. On his way out, he snatched at a 6 foot tall revolving bookmark display and flung it petulantly to the floor. Merchandise scattered. Customers scattered.

K. called the police. They said if he ever returns to let him know he's banned, and call them. The next week, suit was back, leaving large rings of coffee on a Wallstreet Journal he hadn't purchased. K. Called the police, then informed the man that he needed to leave. Self righteous Suit protested to the cops when they arrived, insisting it was all made up just so he would look bad. Why pick on him? This is the first time he's even come to this store! So K. showed them the qued up security tape, where, in perfect focus...

Stompity stomp, yelling and roaring, flinging and leaving. Suit left very quickly and redly. We haven't seen him since. Thank heaven.

Calling all nerds...
Final Fantasy 9 players, do you ever wonder who the hell Kupo is?

Like, assassins must get, like, SO depressed sometimes.


I started into the third Robin Hobbs book today at the Secretary of State office, while waiting to renew the tags on the Boy's car (which we've been driving around illegally for the past few weeks). "Grk!" I said when I heard of it. But it's fixed now. All better. Whew.

Then the Boy mentions offhandedly that his drivers license is expired too.

*sigh*

I must say that it's very kooky to drive a Cadillac around, no matter how old. For those of you who weren't aware, the Boy received the caddy for free from the non-profit place he worked. People were constantly donating cars for the tax write-off, and after his ancient rust heap of a van nearly killed him, his boss said the next donated car was his. Ding! Caddy! Thus the weird discrepancy of us--penniless, driving a Caddy-- rich old people car. The world is a strange and unpredictable place. What makes driving it odd is that people obviously expect you to be something else. You just get different kind of looks from people when you drive a car like that.

Especially when you try to pay with all change at the drive through.

RIP, Puddleglum. No more fish. Gawd. I don't want to talk about it.


And yet, I do.

As much as I've been trying not to think about it, the petrifying thought has been circling like a shark in my unwilling mind: If Snidely has an arm, then is it possible he has a little (shudder) hand?? And if he has that, then it seems conceivable that he could have a (God forbid!) tiny gun as well??

I mean, look at the facts, people! Five.... count them-- FIVE questionable deaths in the last few weeks, and the only survivor in the place is a sinister snail who seems as though he knows more than he's letting on.

PICTURE IT.

Snidely: Stick 'em up!!
Puddleglum: Good heavens! (the color drains from him)

Two enormous, distorted yet concerned faces appear to hover outside the glass. A look of horror washes briefly over them, and they jerk quickly away. From somewhere above, a disembodied voice says, "It's definitely time to check my email."

Snidely: Har har! Bang Bang!
Puddleglum: OW! (glub glub..) If anyone needs me, I'll be floating at the bottom of the bowl, dead.

I think there's surely enough evidence to make a case. I'm also throwing out that particular fish bowl, just to be safe. Snidely now resides alone in a mason jar. I think this was his plan all along.

Brrr.

There seems to be a trend developing. Multiple people have recently been completely flummoxed by the title/author info of the same book. For example: I was putzing about... guess where? At the information desk, of course. As usual. (side note: no...I haven't been banished to "information desk purgatory." It's actually one of the only places in the store that I don't risk injuring myself after last summer's back surgery. I actually quite like it. I get to chat with lots of nice people, get condescended to by a few rude ones, and stay on top of what's current in the literary world.)

In any case: info desk. A lady inquired as to whether I might have the book entitled Lonely Legs. Grrk! All else aside, that is enough to warrant a few snickers. Lonely Legs! I successfully smothered a snicker. I refrained from querying, "Might it be found in the 'Relationships' section?" Instead I nodded sagely and began the attempt to look it up. I failed to find the title in any of the several programs we employ to locate books. Not in print, not out of print, not anything. I began to get suspicious. After all... LONELY LEGS, people. I then changed tack-- "Is it possible that there's another word in the title, or one might you have misremembered?

Pause. "No...I don't think s... Oh! Try Lovely Legs."

Oh my. I had an inkling. "Is this book, by any chance, the bestselling semi-autobiographical story of a 14 year old girl's murder and subsequent life in heaven, from where she watches her family cope with her tragic demise? Yes?"

And that would be...Alice Sebold's The LOVELY BONES. Lord only knows.

Likewise, a gentleman approached later to ask if I might help him find a book his wife had just requested on the phone: Allison Blog. Odd. I did the requisite fruitless search before I turned to him. "Is it possible there is another word in the title blah blah blah?" He thought a moment. " It could be Allison Blood, I guess. I couldn't really hear her that well on the phone."

A tiny light in a little room in a house in the neighbor hood at the far side of a city in my head went on. A tiny light in a little room where most of the bestsellers are kept.

(Aside: not that some of those books don't merit...well, merit... It's just that bestsellers are a breed of book unto themselves. The sort of thing that a bookseller must know not only by title, but by color and essence. When someone wanders confusedly over and asks for "that yellowy-greeny book" you must know to hand them the Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. And when someone in a suit asks for 17 copies of "Who Cut My Cheese?" You must be able to, with a straight face, hand them the right amount of Who Moved My Cheese by Johnson and Blanchard. Secret Knowlege: The blue book about this big is The Lovely Bones but if it's about this big, it's The Blue Day Book. "The book with the horse" is the long awaited 5th prehistoric smut tome from Jean Auel called Shelters of Stone. And as much as you want to plead, "Look! Jose Saramago, or For God's sake! Look! Fredrick Buechner! There may not be a poorly painted horse on the cover, but I swear it's literature! You can't. End of aside.)

Allison Blood... Back to what the tiny light in the little room suggested. I cleared my throat. "Is this book, by any chance, the bestselling semi-autobiographical story of a 14 year old girl's murder and subsequent life in heaven, from where she watches her family cope with her tragic demise? Yes?"

That would be ALICE SEBOLD's The Lovely Bones. Enough already.

In an effort to increase my dorkiness quotient, I have begun playing Final Fantasy 9. Again. What can I say? I like it. I like most of the characters. The side quests don't make me gnaw my own arm off, and I have a weird obsession with chocabo upgrades.

So did I mention that to replace the pretty little fish who all died prematurely in a bowl on our bookshelf, I bought a gorgeous blue/red betta named Puddleglum? I pulled Snidely out and he skulked around in a mug of water while I scoured the bowl and removed the river rocks, which I was beginning to suspect had some toxic effect on fish. I replaced them with a bunch of shiny, tiny beadlike white things I bought specially that the fish store along with Puddleglum. I then placed both inhabitants and water in the bowl and peered hopefully in. Everything appeared normal. Until Snidlely tried to glide, svengali-like, across the floor of the bowl, and discovered that due to how small and light the shiny beads were, he only succeeded in floundering around and creating a teetering mound of beads, glued together by the byproducts of his angry struggles. Instead of him having something to hold onto, they were holding onto him. Now I'm no snail psychologist, but I'm pretty sure he was VERY angry. I gently propelled him to the glass wall with a chopstick which I then dried carefully and replaced in the silverware drawer. (NO! I threw it out! What are you thinking??)

He's stuck (literally) to the walls since then. There was a horrifying moment this afternoon when I glanced into the tank to see that Puddleglum had lost most of his color. I don't want to talk about it. When the Boy had comforted me through the wailing about never touching anything live again and getting myself sterilized in case I did this to my future children ("But they don't live in bowls," he reassured me) we ventured to look into the bowl to find that Snidely had extended... a ...something. Now, I've watched Snidely. (in terror, sometimes) He's got a head, with two eyes and those little whiskery things, and then two long feelers. This was...not...them. It was an armlike thing, like what comes out of a clam or something. It waved around. We both jerked back a couple of steps. Then the Boy blinked and said, "It's definitely time to check my email." We have not spoken of it since. Nor will we ever.