Bad day

End of a long day at the l.n.c.b.. My usual Saturday shift -- 11 a.m. to 7 p.m. -- felt longer and more tiring than usual. I spent most of the time at the registers ("at reg"), as usual, dealing with the usual Saturday waves of shoppers. One moment there would be no one in line; three minutes later there would be seven people in line, waiting to check out. We have new cash registers at half the stations, and these are both quieter and quicker, so everyone gravitates to them. When I came over and filled in on reg. no. 5, one of the old ones, during a break, the grating sound of the printer hitting the register tape and the motion (now uncessary on the new registers) of actually tearing the receipt off for the customer already seemed strange.

All day long things felt a little off. My friend the boss took 25 minutes to work through a complicated return-recharge transaction with a woman who had bought scads of blank journals for her fifth-grade students; I did a few returns, but luckily they were all easy ones. The strangest one was when a slender woman wanted to return a book about vegetable juice she had bought at a branch of the l.n.c.b. in upstate New York, and it was sticky, as if it actually had vegetable juice on it. Oh, and the funny thing that happened was when a young couple came in with these two books: a do-it-yourself divorce guide, and a bartender's guide. Nyuck nyuck.

Nevertheless, all day I had a foreboding that something would happen, a robbery or something. And I felt worn down and tired. My last two hours I was scheduled on reshelving, a task I welcomed since the store has been in such lousy shape for the last few weeks. While people have been on vacations, the place has never gotten completely put together at the end of the day, a fact I find depressing -- it makes the whole experience of working there somewhat Sisyphean. I put away, in several sections, books that had been left about the store yesterday and today: novels, business books, history books, books that go in the "General Metaphysics" section (where all the weird-ass New Age stuff goes, that is, if it doesn't go in the "Magic" or "Speculation" sections).

Fifteen minutes before the end of my shift, I got a page and went to spell the guy in the music dept. while he took a break. I hung out there, standing in front of the fan, answering the phone, which no one else seemed to be answering. Finally at 7:02 the guy who belonged in music came back and said, "Wow, you're really removed from all the excitement back here." I said yeah I guess so. "No, did you hear what happened?" he asked. "R_____ was working in the cafe when an old boyfriend came in and came around the counter and threw hot coffee in her face. They're calling the ambulance right now. You really didn't hear anything?"

Yes, he said, yes

Here's an irresistible story from today's "Minor League Notebook" column in the New York Times:

A KEROUAC BOBBLEHEAD

Jon Goode, the director of media relations for the Class A Lowell Spinners, a Boston Red Sox [baseball] farm team, wanted to honor the author Jack Kerouac, who was born in Lowell, Mass., but he was not sure about the way to do it.

He called representatives of James Irsay, the owner of the Baltimore Colts, who purchased the original manuscript of Kerouac's most famous book, On the Road, in 2001, to see about bringing the manuscript to the ballpark. He was told that the manuscript was too expensive to travel, but he was also told that Hillary Holladay, a member of the English department at the University of Massachusetts-Lowell, had gone to them with a similar idea.

So Goode called Holladay, and they met to try to figure out a way to honor Kerouac. Of course, Goode, being involved with baseball promotions, had an immediate idea: Jack Kerouac bobblehead dolls.

"She looked at me like I had about 10 heads," he said of Holladay's reaction. "But I explained to her that not everybody gets a bobblehead doll and that it's a big honor, and she decided to go for it."

Jack Kerouac Night, which was held Aug. 22, was a huge success. Goode said that peoplle lined up as early as 11:30 p.m. -- the gates opened at 5:30 p.m. -- and that the crowd had a distinctly literary flavor.

Arise ye prisoners of want

I love Fridays -- my day off. I do errands, read, see films, and always end the day by spending two hours on the treadmill in the basement watching the Giants on TV. (I hasten to say that, without the ballgame, it's a deadly dull two hours. I don't like exercise and I've never been able to understand people who do it for the sake of it. I'm doing it to keep from getting a fucking stroke.) Even when the Giants lose, like tonight, it's fun. I'm doing 7 miles at a pop now. I don't run much; mostly I walk. That's why it takes two hours.

My big leisure this afternoon was a trip out to the Richmond to see an obscure 1997 Japanese film, Bounce Ko Gals (a.k.a. Leaving) at the 4-Star. (The film festival page alleging it is a 2002 film is wrong.) Cute little Japanese girls, sex industry storyline: my kind of picture. I hasten to add that the entire movie transpires without any of the characters in the movie actually performing a sex act, on screen or off. Mostly they just make appointments with losers and then rob them. There's a sentimental yakuza who used to be a student radical; he owns a bar with The Internationale on the karaoke system -- that's the kind of gag they have in the film.

It was chilly and foggy out there on Clement St., and sunny and cool in north Bernal Heights when I got back. A lovely holiday all around.

Other creatures of the night

My two favorite customers from my Monday night shift at the l.n.c.b.:

The woman who brought the following books to the register: a book about loneliness; a book about how to survive a breakup; a book about shyness; and some other self-help book I can't remember. She was cute, too. It's amazing how much you can infer (or wrongly assume) about someone based on their purchases -- which is why we should never let the feds get access to library records.

And then there was the man who wanted books on "the culture and geography of Mississippi." The l.n.c.b. doesn't have a geography section, and we're not very good on searches by subject, but I looked up "Mississippi" on the computer, and all I found were books whose titles indicated they were either about slavery or the Civil Rights movement -- titles like Sons of Mississippi: A Story of Race and Its Legacy or Mississippi Harmony: Memoirs of a Freedom Fighter . No, I don't want that, he said -- I want something on the culture. Well, what the hell is the culture of Mississippi besides slavery and the Civil Rights movement? I really didn't know what to tell him, and just led him to the U.S. History section and left him there. At least an hour later he came up to the register, just as the store was closing, with a state map and a book -- I don't remember what it was, unfortunately, but it seemed vaguely about the culture of the South.

Of course, I could have told him to go read the novels of Eudora Welty and William Faulkner. But I have a confession to make. I haven't read either author.

Last week I pissed off a customer without even meaning to. These students from Cal park themselves in the l.n.c.b.'s cafe for hours to study -- I suppose because they live in shared apartments and have noplace else to go. At the end of the day last Wednesday we were closing and every customer had left but this one guy who was scribbling away, showing no sign of moving. I was in the cafe picking up the piles of books and magazines that people leave in the cafe all day long without buying; I may have been a little irritated at that habit of the customers when I walked by him and said "Time to pack it in, pal." He muttered something, packed up his things and left. I later heard that he got so pissed off that he called the manager on the phone an hour later and tore her a new asshole. I felt bad that she had to catch shit for something I'd done. But talk about over-reacting.

The famous and near-famous

I just failed to get into a screening of the new movie Tekonolust. My friend Bob Ostertag knows the filmmaker and invited several friends to the premiere this evening. Outside the theater he introduced us to actress Karen Black. Unfotunately the theater sold out before we got to the front of the line, which was bad for us but good for the film, which was completed two years ago and is still seeking a wide release.

So I came home and I'm watching the ballgame on TV. It's all good.

I met Bob twelve years ago when the Kronos Quartet commissioned and performed a piece called All the Rage. The live performance involved Kronos live on stage with a hundred dancers, me among them -- it was the last dance performance I ever did.

And speaking of my friends' accomplishments, here's a piece on extreme programming by my friend Martha Baer, former Wired managing editor and now a freelancer.

And I met both Bob and Martha through Sara Miles, a great editor, journalist and activist. Those are three highly talented people.

FBI informant inflated facts in effort to publish book

I loved this story from my old Houston suburban neighborhood, about some pathetic dweeb -- described as an "FBI operative," which means what, exactly? Was he an FBI agent, or just an informant? -- inflated reports in order to attract a book contract as well as wreak revenge on a handsome astronaut. My favorite quote:

"He said his wife was tired of supporting him. He didn't have any income. If I couldn't get a book sale quick or a movie contract, he was going to have to go back to work and he wanted to write for a living."

How well I know that feeling.

Can't stomach Demo hacks. Must... vote... otherwise

A friend wrote:

Dear Friends, I'd like to hear your thoughts on some upcoming election issues. I'm planning to vote "No on recall; yes on Bustamante" in the California gubernatorial recall election on Oct 7. Anyone see any reason to do otherwise?

Well, yes, I replied to him. The fact that Bustamante, like Gray Davis, is a totally unappealling MEDIOCRE PARTY HACK.

He responded:

Frustration shared, Mark, but what are you actually going to do?

And I answered: http://www.georgyforgov.com. Now, someone has pointed out: But she's selling thongs on her merchandise page. My point exactly. To my knowledge there is no other candidate selling thongs, unless... I guess I'd better check Angelyne. Nope, no thongs for sale. How about Larry Flynt? Yes, he sells thongs too! It just goes to show there are some candidates thinking outside the box.

That will be the extent of my political commentary for the next six weeks.

In other news, an Ohio grad student gave me a shout-out in her blog; she found me, she said in a follow-up email, by googling Frighten the Horses. Welcome Rita!

Couldn't resist

A high point last night at the l.n.c.b. was when a customer brought this anthology to the counter. I couldn't resist exclaiming "I've got a story in this!" Caught a little off guard, all she could say was, "Really?" in a mild tone, as if that were more information than she wanted from the counter boy who was selling her 500 pages of dirty stories.

I wasn't asleep!

With my new schedule, it's harder to update my blog. Of course I can always do so from work, but then only the blog page is updated, and not my home page -- I can only do that by manually editing the page and FTPing it to the server. And there's no FTP software on the computer at work, yet. But now it's my day off, and I report the following.

Last night I had a sort of kung fu/thriller movie dream. I woke up in the middle of the night and tried to write it down in the dark. When I looked this morning at the notebook, I saw that I had written over a previsouly written page -- rendering both dreams illegible. The only thing I remember clearly is that the dream was set in some kind of company or organization that had at least two levels of indirection for customers, in order to mislead them about the company's real mission (which had something to do with superhero crime fighting or something). The first level was a computer game which the customers were supposed to spend months or years figuring out. But for the really smart customers who finally got to the last level in the game, there was virtual reality sex. And yet virtual reality sex was not the main business of the company, only something else to mislead the customers and keep them from discovering its real activities. Nevertheless, the people who actually worked at the company frequently took advantage of the virtual reality sex themselves, perhaps while waiting around for someone to launch them on some life-saving mission.

At the l.n.c.b., I continue to encounter customers who are amusing or dismaying, or sometimes both. But I think the saddest thing is the "reshelves" shelf. When a customer returns a book, it gets put on the "reshelf" shelf behind the counter and, all things being equal, put back on the shelves at the end of the day. When I see things on that shelf that I've personally sold, it makes me sad sometimes. Like on Monday someone bought a book off the classics shelf, Histories by Herodotus. On Wednesday I saw it had already been returned.

Then there are the customers who seem to think we are a used bookstore. A guy came in Wednesday with four books; no receipt, and they didn't have the characteristic l.n.c.b. bar code sticker on the back cover. Clearly they were books that had been sitting on his shelves for some time, never read. We took three of them. The fourth, I was going to give the guy a refund for as well, but a manager discovered the fact that it was an outdated edition. The transaction took forever because the manager had to look them all up on the system after I had also done so. Then the manager took it upon himself to scold me for doing several things wrong during the whole affair, including letting the guy stand and wait while I took care of other customers during the time the manager was looking up his books. Personally I feel the other customers shouldn't have to wait while some lame-off cashes in some books that probably were never bought at the l.n.c.b.. But according to the manager, we're all just supposed to stand there.

So far on my day off I've accomplished getting a haircut. Later on I'll go to the bank. I might go see a film. Nothing stupendous. We can't afford anything stupendous anyway.

But you've got to admit, they had a hell of a logo

Yesterday on some NPR show -- "Marketplace," or "Fresh Air" -- I heard a story that was, partially at least, about Germany's attempts to redefine its image, and make it seem like more of a cool, happening place. "Unfortunately," said a German marketing consultant who has been hired to take on this task, "we are still suffering from the negative branding we accomplished from the years 1933 to 1945."

Negative branding. Yes, I guess they managed to convince everyone that Germans were rapacious, fanatical, power-mad, and willing to employ any means to the end of world domination. But they had style. Doesn't that count?

Monday's favorite customers at the l.n.c.b.: The late-fiftyish Jewish woman who smacked two books on the counter for return -- "A book about Siberia and a self-help book! Well, I'm not going to Siberia and I don't need any more mental health, no matter what they think!" -- and the young black woman who called asking for a book called Pimpnosis. Actually she didn't know the exact title, only that it started with "pimp" and it was pimp-no-something. I found it on the system and went to the shelves to locate it. Sure enough, there was an expensive hardback with nice arty black-and-white pictures of street prostitutes and mostly-undressed women in bars; the text was a novel about, yes, pimps. From an admiring standpoint. As far as I could tell, the book was less about the women and more about the narcissim of the self-styled pimps, an occupation the book took entirely seriously. It was neither ironic not an exposé.

I went back to the phone and told the girl I couldn't find it on the shelves. "But I need that book so bad!" she cried. "I need to send it to someone in prison in Southern California!" In the background was a crying baby. I'd heard about all I needed to hear. "Sorry, maybe I can look for it later," I said. "Well, can you call me back if you find it?" she insisted. She gave me a phone number and told me her name was Mahogany.

The fact is, prisons won't give hardback books to inmates. The materials can too easily be made into shanks. But that's not the real reason I pretended we didn't have the book. In truth, I was just too disgusted.

Rants that you will enjoy

Sunday morning after another day of working at the l.n.c.b.. Yesterday a woman with two children brought a fancy pen and notebook to the register; the total was nineteen dollars and change. The card she gave was “declined,” the first time that’s happened to me. She asked for an ATM, was sent to the food court adjacent to the l.n.c.b. and never returned as far as I could see. It was also the day that a woman called on the phone asking for a book supposedly entitled Sandwiches That You Will Enjoy -- a book which, according to all the computer records at our disposal (including Books in Print) does not now exist, if it ever did. Due to a miscommunication, the woman was left on hold while the employee who was helping her left for her mid-shift break, and when I finally picked up the line after five minutes, she was madder than a drunken trailer wife on Cops. She asked to speak to the manager so I had to hand her over to the supervisor of the hour who endured her angry rantings for several minutes.

I read a novel called The Monk Downstairs. It was short and rather shallow, I thought. But despite those characteristics, it was widely and positively reviewed. I have ordered another by the same author, because I found out that his agent lives in Berkeley and is connected to a powerful New York agency. Perhaps I can finagle a way to get my novel to this woman.

I’m also reading The Crazed by Ha Jin and The Book Against God by James Wood. I’m really into reading novels since the l.n.c.b. job started.

You are what you buy to read

Working at the l.n.c.b., one is in a position to observe people's secret desires, fears and obsessions. Consider:

The cuddling couple who bought three wedding magazines, a book about having the perfect honeymoon, and a football magazine

The lady d'une certaine age who refused to believe we didn't have in stock "All Families Are Psychotic" by Douglas Coupland (whose name she insisted on pronouncing "coop-lund")

The man and woman who came in, twenty minutes apart, each looking for books on lonliness.

About those two, my friends whom I tell about them always say, "Why didn't you introduce them?" The truth is, it didn't occur to me. But to say to someone, "Why, that trollish guy over there was just asking for the same thing! Why don't you chat with each other instead of wallowing in your separate hells?" -- that would be a little intrusive, I think. My job is simply to lead them to the "Self-Help" section and wish them well.

It's all a little like being a shrink, perhaps, except people come up and lay their interests and obsessions literally before you. You put them in a bag and give them back to them, after charging them money for them.

To better endure my hours standing on my feet at the end of the day, I have done two things: started taking Ibuprofen before and during a shift, and bought the fattest, most cushy and expensive Dr. Scholl's shoe inserts. The results of these steps is that I'm no longer utterly exhuasted at the end of the shift. Last Wednesday I actually had a little bit of energy by the end of the day.

This is my day off. As usual I spent it doing errands and exercising. Then in the evening, Cris had a date, so it's my chance to sit around reading and playing the Bob Dylan CDs she hates. Quelle luxe.