I can never find shit in bookstores, maybe it's related to growing up on the Dewey Decimal system, or the fact that there are 9000 sub categories of genres these days. I end up wandering around aimlessly like an anorexic tween at an all you can eat buffet.
I read the blog Dad Gone Mad pretty regularly and he just wrote a book, so I figure I'll check it out. Of course I can't find it and I end up asking the overly well-read condescending sales clerk to help me. "Sir you are looking in Self Help and that book is in Biography & Memoires which is over next to Mind, Body and Spirit." My mouth said "oh cool thanks", but my eyes said, "well fuck me, how could I have ever been so stupid, thank you for showing me the error of my ways fucktard". Maybe the Dewey Decimal system wasn't so bad after all.
I finally find the book and meander over to the cash register, which is another nightmare of epic proportions. There is one overweight scholarly guy working and he is Mr. Chatty Kathy. "Ma'am this book is a great choice, but you should really read his early work when he was a bartender in a small Ethiopian village. His prose is just superb for a boy who was raised on just 19 cents a day." Dude c'mon, you have a line going here that rivals Hands Across America and you're chatting up this suburban house frau like you're long lost pen pals. I've played entire games of Monopoly that have taken less time than getting out of this store. My freedom is slipping away, and all I can do is stand here and watch your sweaty upper lip move up and down.
Finally, I get up to the counter make absolutely no eye contact and conduct my transaction with as little engagement as possible. I head out to the car excited to have yet another book that will end up sitting on my coffee table for months completely unread.
Now if you'll excuse me I need to hit up Chipotle and spend some quality time watching football sans pants.
