tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53900416252264543532024-03-13T01:24:17.542-04:00Beazley BooksPierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-15530746460194732722013-04-06T17:55:00.000-04:002013-04-07T09:16:30.281-04:00Why Customer Service Isn't Important...
Beazley Books has a few sidelines like prints, small antiques and custom matting. We train cadaver dogs too but that’s another story. Staying on top of it all has driven me to drink, so when a regular customer came in this morning and saw me sipping my breakfast Guinness and asked, <i>you got another one</i>? That was a little presumptuous so I said, <i>no</i>, and he says, <i>did you grow up in an orphanage or something</i>? Well I grew up with four brothers and that’s a lot like living in an orphanage so that was very perceptive of him. Then a woman called and demanded to speak to the manager and I immediately detected evil (I can do that with small dogs and the elderly). I replied in my best Oxfordian English, <i>this is he</i>, and sure enough, she says that she spoke to a very rude man on the phone yesterday. <i>What did he do now?</i>, I asked, and she said the man was just unspeakably rude (for the record, all I told her yesterday was that I didn’t want to buy her box of Harlequin romances and that she should consider burning them for warmth). <i>Well</i>, I said, <i>the man you spoke to is schizophrenic so you never really know who you’re talking to when you call the store…..he’ll be in this afternoon so why don’t you come in and slap him</i>. She hung up on me, and if you’re thinking that it’s not a good idea to invite angry people to hit you, you might be right. Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-22970073103217228912013-02-28T17:56:00.000-05:002013-02-28T17:56:27.678-05:00Weird Titles<span style="font-size: small;">Here is a list of the <span style="font-size: small;">weirdest</span> book titles that have come into the store in February:</span><br />
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- <a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/48655068/The-Beggar-s-Handbook-A-Guide-to-Successful-Panhandling">The Beggar’s Handbook, A Guide to Successful Panhandling</a> by P. Packet<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/Nazis_in_the_woodpile.html?id=95A2AAAAMAAJ&redir_esc=y">Nazis In The Woodpile</a> by Egon Glesinger<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/You_may_know_them_as_sea_urchins_ma_am.html?id=HS0au0bBeWkC&redir_esc=y">You May Know them As Sea Urchins, Ma’am</a> by Ray Guy<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/The_Mafia_of_a_Sicilian_Village_1860_196.html?id=q4cEAAAACAAJ&redir_esc=y">The Mafia Of A Sicilian Village, A Study In Violent Peasant Entrepreneurs"</a> by Anton Blok<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/Surviving_in_prison.html?id=0lYrAAAAYAAJ&redir_esc=y">Surviving in Prison</a> by Harold Long<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/Old_wives_for_new.html?id=E5-h7rrSUIUC">Old Wives For New</a> by Graham Phillips<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/The_Myth_of_Ability.html?id=spya5MI98NQC&redir_esc=y">The Myth Of Ability</a> by John Mighton<br />
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- <a href="http://www.worldcat.org/title/you-die-next-jill-baby/oclc/1693919">You Die Next, Jill Baby!</a> by Kirby Carr<br />
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- <a href="http://books.google.ca/books/about/Old_Age.html?id=DiOYhyg2nT0C&redir_esc=y">Old Age, It’s Cause And Prevention</a> by Sanford Bennett<br />
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Anyone have weird titles of their own to share? </i>Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-81315386575952240442013-01-12T14:56:00.002-05:002013-04-27T15:15:05.160-04:00A Gastro Affair<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The holidays are over at last and I think it will be
recorded as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gastro Christmas</i>, not
to be confused with anything gastronomical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My fond memories of Christmas past tend to horrify my daughter, tales of
my father forgetting it was Christmas and flying to Bermuda “on business”, my
brother buying comic books with the tree money, and five sugar-demented
brothers fighting over who got to impale the angel to the top of the tree, only
to attach instead a crayon drawing of an unspeakably pornographic winged
creature, the nature of which was not discovered by my parents until the tree
was taken down a week later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people
in the store were so crazy-eyed with stress that they reacted badly to my
little jokes, one fellow screaming at me when I suggested that the cookbook he
was buying would make him fat. Then there was the Moldavian refuge who passed
around his homemade prune-avocado<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>moonshine and everyone got a rash</div>
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We all have our idiosyncrasies, and OK maybe mine are
weirder than most, but I can never look at an author’s picture because if I do,
I can’t read the book. I can’t help it. Last week I had to stop reading a book
I was enjoying when I happened to see the author’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>picture and was reminded of a Marketing VP I
once hated and tried to kill at the Christmas party. And who can bear to read
Atwood once you’ve heard her chuttering on the radio or enjoy Robertson Davies
after seeing that Rasputin picture of him. I liked Mordecai Richler’s work
until I met him and discovered he didn’t get the memo about blackheads and nose
hairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harlan Coben looks like a smug
programmer and Yann Martel like my suicidal Auntie Ophelia. There are exceptions. J.R.R. Tolkien looks like Gandalf so he’s OK and Mark Twain passes muster because he looks like he’s had a few and isn’t quite sure where he is. Anyway, this year I’ve vowed to read more serious fiction so I don’t have to lie so much when someone asks me about a book. </div>
Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-30945952716622661662012-08-16T14:38:00.000-04:002012-08-16T14:38:01.319-04:00Road Trip
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<a href="http://www.canadacool.com/COOLFACTS/NEW%20BRUNSWICK/NBPHOTOS/Lobster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="261" src="http://www.canadacool.com/COOLFACTS/NEW%20BRUNSWICK/NBPHOTOS/Lobster.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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There was a time when a bookstore owner could expect a visit
from an irate father for selling their teen daughter Henry Miller but today
it’s not the young we have to worry about. You may have noticed that old people
don’t die any more, they just get more difficult. Many of my customers are
elderly and it’s obvious that men don’t stay as sharp as women. This can be
awkward as women seem to have two ways of dealing with their slightly
confused spouse and both can be jarring. Some say things like “Put that down RIGHT
now you crazy old bastard” while others say things like “Now, now, Harry-Poo,
put the book down like a good boy”. I’ve notified my wife which method I prefer
when it’s my time but I figure she’ll just wing it and let me wander off in the
woods, in my shorts, in February.</div>
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On a lighter note, we drove to the Maritimes for a holiday
last month and took a shortcut through the state of Maine.
Donna navigated with the maps I pulled off Google Earth while I drove in
circles cursing and you’d do the same if entire towns<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>kept appearing in the wrong place. I kept
confusing Right and Left and it didn’t help that Donna said it was because
I confused Right and Wrong. </div>
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The Bay of Fundy ferry crossing was
uneventful except for when I tripped in a doorway and went flying screaming
into the men's toilet and scared the bejesus out of all the guys doing their
business. I hung out nonchalantly by the lifeboats for most of the crossing,
there are times when you want to be in front of the line. </div>
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We finally got to Nova Scotia and
I immediately began to eat lobster. I didn’t tell Donna that I’d watched a
YouTube clip called “How To Eat A Lobster” and I think she was impressed with
my carapace-crushing skills until I discovered the scary green goop in the
body. What the hell was that supposed to be? Poop? Guts? YouTube didn’t cover <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>so I said to Donna, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that my dear is only eaten by Cossacks but
you can have some if you like. </i></div>
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Then we went whale watching and I got sea-sick and threw up
over the side (mostly) and everyone accused me of scaring the whales. The
ship’s pilot tried to calm things down by saying that my loud retching sounded
like a finback whale mating call but I get the feeling everyone got a refund
except me.</div>
Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-60474964903999251342011-12-29T16:41:00.006-05:002011-12-29T17:46:37.544-05:00Did Santa Bring You Books for Christmas?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://jpsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/gift-books.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 235px;" src="http://jpsblog.org/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/gift-books.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />I know the Season of Senseless Spending isn’t over yet but I thought I’d write a little note since I have a tiny window of opportunity this morning (I’m sober). Book sales went through the roof this summer when I started telling my customers that the pocketbook they were buying was actually an e-reader and where the hell else could they get an e-reader for $5.95. Now it’s true that most of my customers ignore this remark but a few are delighted with the deal and isn’t it all about delighting your customers? Things get even better when some come back complaining that their Beazleybook e-reader seems to be frozen on one single book. Obviously a Microsoft Windows crash, I explain, but it’s easy-peasy to fix. I just replace the old book with a new book and charge $9 for the repair (OK, so it’s only really a reboot) but I guarantee my product so I’ll repair the damn thing every time it breaks.<br /><br />Now like most adults, I wish the holiday season lasted for only 1 long week-end. Imagine only three days of attack-dog style shopping, artery-blocking meals and frozen hours in the car driving to yet another damn family meal, maybe the one where old Uncle Maxwell forgets where he is and starts shouting that he won’t eat another bite until his catheter is removed.<br /><br />On sale at the store this week*:<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Fire Eating, A Manual of Instruction</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1993. The perfect gift for the grandchildren. Some pages are water-stained.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The Permanent War or Homo the Sap</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1943. I don't know what the hell this book is about.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Butterflies in my Stomach, The Insect World as a Source of Human Food</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1975. At last, the definitive work on this holiday season subject<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Purgatory Quizzes to a Street Preacher, Catholigetic Subjects Baffling to Converts</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1939. No, 'Catholigetic' is not a typo.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Your Basement Fallout Shelter, Survival in Likely Target areas</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">1963. Has fold-out building diagrams, great place to sit and cry during the next financial melt-down.<br /></span><br />*Prices are a pittance, and only one copy of each book is available, so hurry in while supplies last!Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-10735111014389047532011-09-26T21:45:00.002-04:002011-09-26T21:49:01.935-04:00Birds of a Feather<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSSLEbxK7IrqeiFwbgEYW0tVd8A60zs8b2nJZLjFbuM6Hhm_acv0g"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSSLEbxK7IrqeiFwbgEYW0tVd8A60zs8b2nJZLjFbuM6Hhm_acv0g" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I never thought I’d meet someone who made the parrot lady look normal. That woman used to come into the store with 2 parrots, one perched on her shoulder pirate-style and the other in a filthy old baby carriage. They were huge tropical creatures with meter long tail feathers, beaks like the Kraken and evil tempers to match. Once, in all innocence I asked her if her birds performed any tricks and she answered of course they did. She placed one of them on the floor and said, “poop Reginald, poop, poop”, and beamed proudly when the wretched beast crapped on my floor. Good trick! <br /><br />But this morning, Madame Parrot met her match. A lady came into the store murmuring quietly to herself and holding a bag to her chest and as she moved down the aisle I thought I heard a muted shriek of distress. Now, I’m deaf in one ear so I can’t tell where the sound is coming from. It might be that damn feral cat caught in the basement again or the elderly painting class next door having another gin-and paint party, so I get up to investigate and I hear the sound again, but this time it sounds like a bird gurgling. A very sad gurgle. Whatever was in the woman’s bag started to coo and bloody gurgle with each breath and finally I said, lady, do you have a bird in your bag? She said yes, yes, my dove. I tried to smile but I’m not sure what kind of facial expression I formed. She turned away and began saying things like, “there, there, we’re going home soon, momma’s almost finished, is baby tired?” I had a terrible thought. What if there was no bird! What if she was in the terminal stages of Organic Crazy Person Syndrome? I had to know, so I walked over and said, can I see your bird? Now if you ask that question of a person that isn’t carrying around a bird, you risk assault, but I’m relieved to report that there was indeed a bird in her bag. A comfortable looking, clean white dove in a bed of fresh green grass.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-38043314748380616052011-09-10T13:18:00.006-04:002011-09-10T13:54:34.500-04:00Yes, I really said that...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ksyu.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/footinmouth.jpg?w=142&h=345"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 342px;" src="http://ksyu.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/footinmouth.jpg?w=142&h=345" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The secret to a long happy marriage is never saying “I told you so”. I was doing lawn work with Donna the other day and she said that she would mow the front lawn and I said be careful because the lawn has a steep slope and she said, yeah yeah whatever. Five minutes later she strolls up to me and says, ‘for some reason the lawnmower is flipped over on its back’. I did not say ‘I told you so’, I just righted the machine and pulled the start-cord and suddenly clouds of black smoke billowed out but that was the least of my worries because when I yanked the cord I elbowed Donna, bam in the nose, and she was crabbing away from me with her hands to her face and I’m wondering, should I say I’m sorry even though it’s her fault for standing in the wrong place? Well, the second secret to a long marriage is the man must always apologise for everything his wife does.<br /><br />So this couple come into the store with their 8 year-old daughter and I suspect they’re Mennonites or something and the woman puts a few books on the counter and whispers, I’m not from here and I can’t help noticing there are an awful lot of immigrants around. Well, I said, I’m all for immigration because without them we would be depopulating. Look at your situation, I said, is this little sweetheart your only child? Do you really consider yourself fecund? Well maybe I should have said “fertile” instead of “fecund” though really either word in retrospect is look-away awkward and what the hell was I thinking. You may have guessed that there is no politically correct way to pronounce “fecund”, it just tumbles out sounding like a dirty Irish word. She clamped her hands over her daughter’s ears and gave me one of those familiar are you crazy looks. I stuttered, realising the word was unknown to her but the pronunciation was disturbing so I said, what I mean is, if you were more fruitful and had more children you might stop complaining about other people’s kiddies. Her eyes went poppy-like and I couldn’t believe what I just said and her husband looked like he was going to take a swing at me but instead they just marched out and I figure they might say bad things about the store to their friends.<br /><br />The ambient weirdness of the neighbourhood has been rising recently. Yesterday a very elderly man leaning on a pencil thin cane stood outside the store and stared at me for so long that I started to get very creeped out so I went out and asked him if he was OK and he started screaming at me for not carrying German books. Damn, I thought, another case of Organic Crazy Person Syndrome. So I asked, trying to calm him, are you German? No, he screamed, but the buggers are everywhere. OK, I thought, he might be ancient but he’s clearly dangerous so I started to close the door and he darted out and stopped the door with his foot. This was distressing to me in an Edgar Allen Poe kind of way but fortunately Nestor was visiting and was in the back of the store so I called out, we got a live one here, I need help, but he took one look and fled out the back. He’ll pay for that.<br /><br />Some people ask me if my stories are true. They are. It’s true that I may be encouraging things a little by my store display. I can’t help it. Current titles include “How To Embalm Your Mother-in-Law”, “The Case For Flogging”, “Eros On Crutches”, and “Improper Advances, Heterosexual Conflict in Ontario, 1880-1929”. These titles are not available at that other book store, you know, the one with the name that rhymes with Rapters (don’t bring your pets) or Captors (don’t bring your kids).Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-70881318421826157622011-07-18T18:51:00.009-04:002011-07-18T19:10:23.329-04:00Pierre forgets his wedding anniversary...AGAIN<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumqc3p0LLZAu2gzE-dSSEVViGydsZ7QlFvkhidIeXlTMMFX4v7WZ0aGDAI7AG9kAHAgiJOtHqGJLSbVuijhLMErnjjNir5ukiD4ig15AqYyJZOLSCpY3Xx2Ii6iw4YIn9joNmfVwHpvct/s1600/Courant-Dog-House.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 348px; height: 171px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhumqc3p0LLZAu2gzE-dSSEVViGydsZ7QlFvkhidIeXlTMMFX4v7WZ0aGDAI7AG9kAHAgiJOtHqGJLSbVuijhLMErnjjNir5ukiD4ig15AqYyJZOLSCpY3Xx2Ii6iw4YIn9joNmfVwHpvct/s1600/Courant-Dog-House.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Some relationships begin like a knife fight, crouching and circling with your blade, seeking your partner’s weaknesses and protecting your own while an undeclared truce slowly develops and you begin to accept each other’s bad habits and weirdness. And so it was that at breakfast yesterday morning I noticed my wife smiling and knew immediately that I was in a lot of trouble. She never, ever smiles at breakfast so it rang every alarm bell I had and I immediately took an inventory of everything I’d done recently that she might interpret as inappropriate or “really not funny at all”. Before I could blurt out a blanket apology with the caveat that the thing with the lawnmower was not my fault, she tells me that it was our wedding anniversary and that she’d decided to remind me early in the day instead of waiting until after supper like she did last year....leaving me no time to buy flowers. But still, she could have reminded me the day before. So I was in a hell of a mood later that day in the store when Ivan, a local author, overpass engineer & bon-vivant, dropped by to chat about writing. It’s all about beginnings, he said, a book has to grab you on the very first page. I agreed and showed him the first page of my new novel which begins like this:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><blockquote> “As I ran from the poorly attired serial murderer, I thought of my recently rediscovered abused childhood, and about my brother Darren who was abducted by vampire aliens from the future, and my sister who escaped a Buddhist yoga cult only to overdose in a shipping container in the North Atlantic, and my cousin Moira who disappeared in Tuscany while looking for love and trying to stop the imminent nuclear holocaust to be triggered by a global terrorist conspiracy aided by the US government to find the Holy Grail before global warming destroyed us all.”</blockquote></span><br />So, I asked him, what do you think? Now, Ivan is still somewhat Russian so he never answers right away. First he had to make the long-suffering guru face and then make that odd noise a parrot makes when you pull its tail feathers. Finally he said, maybe you should add a Scottish warrior. Women like that. You know, kilts and swords.<br /><br />I don’t know, I said, I want to keep it believable.<br /><br />That’s when a customer who looked like the giant Indian in the novel “One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” walked in and Ivan began doing weird things with his eyebrows and jerking his head in the guy’s direction and I’m saying calm down for Christ’s sake I see him. The giant asks me for the bible in Spanish and I tell him that I don’t even have the bible in English. What are you, he asks, a pagan? Now I enjoy talking to people about religion and politics, and commenting on their parenting skills, but I didn’t think this would end well so I answered that, no, I’m not a pagan, but Ivan here probably is. And I was right, it didn’t end well.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-38808726325598337452011-05-27T08:29:00.003-04:002011-05-27T08:34:04.917-04:00Day Four: We do the tourist thing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdQYT1zqnV8-P-kMGFOTiiLjKBu1AhiBR7UolF0hN81UQ-Vx6IO6VZsnjLdOvJmF9QvIOS3Z8qgm_PVWKSMlX2km6WSALBJwCxYQnD_sagUy03QGNCzRCB0rfrQglf3unFdD0cwh-k_8/s1600/Day+Two%252C+Three+and+Four+May+2011+018.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxdQYT1zqnV8-P-kMGFOTiiLjKBu1AhiBR7UolF0hN81UQ-Vx6IO6VZsnjLdOvJmF9QvIOS3Z8qgm_PVWKSMlX2km6WSALBJwCxYQnD_sagUy03QGNCzRCB0rfrQglf3unFdD0cwh-k_8/s320/Day+Two%252C+Three+and+Four+May+2011+018.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611372938657605858" /></a><br /><br />We’re in a cab racing down 5th avenue, after paying $40 for admission to the Metropolitan museum but the nice people at the counter didn’t tell us that the museum was closing in 30 minutes, so anyway we’re in the cab and Donna shouts, look there’s ted dancing in the street, and I thought, who the hell is ted and who gives a damn if he’s dancing in the street, and the cab driver says, that was him alright. I liked him in Cheers. Oh, that Ted Danson.<br /><br />So we finally weaken and take the gorky bus tour to see neighborhoods we don’t normally visit and maybe go for a walk there later. The tour guide keeps saying things like “there’s Macy’s department store, yeah, heh heh heh, and “that’s where Madonna sang Happy Birthday Mr. President, yeah, heh heh heh”. But I really started questioning her training when she says that we can’t get lost in NYC because the streets are numbered, and they’re alphanumerically ordered. This tidbit excited a torrent of Spanish in the back row where a painfully touristic extended family is looking mostly grim, for some reason a lot of touristy families look like they’ve been fighting in the hotel room and are in a reluctant truce on the street. Then, the tour guide says, “if you take a look to my right, you’ll see a building built by the architect Arthur Deco who was very popular in the 30s.”Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-39014121500607084182011-05-26T09:23:00.002-04:002011-05-26T09:27:51.851-04:00Day Three: Taking a Walk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6IXU87yc6PoonbkkxbodxS_7SPlp3t0FnNdYv1YotOr8YhBLr2MH3Jtnc5TsmHUMAQvI3kvSar4vQnRR2FcoyFi79_dXoj2Z0kdlKjq9elTKjTrutJlfrjqsDUiZcmBoRmhQw7eLjXo/s1600/Day+Two%252C+Three+and+Four+May+2011+053.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv6IXU87yc6PoonbkkxbodxS_7SPlp3t0FnNdYv1YotOr8YhBLr2MH3Jtnc5TsmHUMAQvI3kvSar4vQnRR2FcoyFi79_dXoj2Z0kdlKjq9elTKjTrutJlfrjqsDUiZcmBoRmhQw7eLjXo/s320/Day+Two%252C+Three+and+Four+May+2011+053.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5611015951726610722" /></a><br />Our daughter called us from Montreal this morning and asked me why I left my wallet on the desk in our living room, don’t I need it in NYC she asked. I assured her that experienced travelers always always left their wallets at home as a precaution against theft and it’s a great way to save money while travelling.<br /><br />Later that day, I didn’t suspect a thing when Donna said she had tickets to a great Broadway show, but that it was a surprise. It was starting to occur to me that surprises are almost always nasty, when we turn the corner of Broadway and 42nd street and there’s a marquee screaming Mary Poppins. I said forget it, watching this would deplete whatever meager supplies of testosterone I have left but one look at her face and I marched in with all the other guys with pasted-on desperate smiles on their faces. It was even worse than the bloody movie. Anyway, afterwards we stood in Times Square with 3 million other tourists and, well we stood there. There’s really nothing to do in that damn square, though Donna liked the naked cowboy playing the guitar except that he wasn’t really naked because he had on a g-string and a rolled up sock. So we went in search of sushi and the first place we found had an Aztec behind the sushi bar and the place smelled like my Uncle Sebastian’s basement toilet after he forgot about his poor cat that time. So we skedaddled and started walking behind a lady in unfortunately tight black slacks walking with her pierced daughter, oh, and a threaded needle stuck to her butt. Now it’s a little distracting to see a jiggling bum needle just a couple feet away so I took out my camera and took a picture. Some of you may know that a man shouldn’t do this when walking with his wife so this little walk swiftly went all to hell .Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-74011753948265250022011-05-25T13:47:00.002-04:002011-05-25T13:51:48.771-04:00Day One Redux: First night interruptus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys5q1s2CqwxTxpF6osGpcWN8sU7V0FFzH3FH1PRxGytC1dygEKWhnx-SSFpV7m4DD-IjpA82UOIPMtmPFUvuyokLXyscwQ6MqHgHbSeIYnaUZS4bw7IpWuuE5ZrBBQHbB6enyCX-fOAg/s1600/NYC+May+22%252C+2011+012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys5q1s2CqwxTxpF6osGpcWN8sU7V0FFzH3FH1PRxGytC1dygEKWhnx-SSFpV7m4DD-IjpA82UOIPMtmPFUvuyokLXyscwQ6MqHgHbSeIYnaUZS4bw7IpWuuE5ZrBBQHbB6enyCX-fOAg/s320/NYC+May+22%252C+2011+012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610712525602211970" /></a><br />On this trip, we decided that we couldn’t afford the Marriott where we’ve stayed during previous visits so we booked a room at a charming art deco hotel off Times Square. The charm began to wear off as we made our way down the hall to our room and neither of us could identify the odor emanating from the carpet though I had a vivid vision of the crawl space beneath an abattoir. Hopes that our room would prove better were dashed when we couldn’t identify the stains on the walls and there didn’t at first glance appear to be any windows. It went downhill from there and Donna went dangerously quiet. It didn’t help matters that I noticed my wallet was missing and all that jostling in Times Square might not have been entirely innocent. I was trying to explain to Donna that I didn’t really need credit cards and ID when she interrupted to tell me that the bathroom looked like a little torture chamber. Now we have the kind of relationship that if one complains about something, the other automatically says “it’s not so bad”. That kind of pre-programmed banter either eventually drives you crazy, or, well, there is no ‘or’. It’s one of the reasons why people who’ve been married a long time are always a little crazy. So I said, “It’s not so bad, it’s really pretty standard for NYC” but Donna didn’t answer and I knew there was little use to unpack the bags.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-40854060229392809572011-05-24T12:44:00.004-04:002011-05-24T12:49:40.804-04:00Day One in NYC: Why I Hate Trains<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bRsl0zu-cer07MQOm-9t2UuRsKsPmurWfvp5RcOomQENyrbmy1MN93DzxF-0-5O4GuQm8LTmnfhXFxr3isoObZZ8apHnFNYnVph3U0wu-F9aJcvWBXSKrVu4pLPBrJs9s26rWhckn5M/s1600/Day+2%252C+NYC%252C+May+26%252C+2010%252C+First+Batch+012.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7bRsl0zu-cer07MQOm-9t2UuRsKsPmurWfvp5RcOomQENyrbmy1MN93DzxF-0-5O4GuQm8LTmnfhXFxr3isoObZZ8apHnFNYnVph3U0wu-F9aJcvWBXSKrVu4pLPBrJs9s26rWhckn5M/s320/Day+2%252C+NYC%252C+May+26%252C+2010%252C+First+Batch+012.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610325757697183026" /></a><br />The train ride to New York began badly when we misread the departure time and got to the train station 2 hours earlier than necessary. No matter, the porter was a capitalist and accepted a very generous tip to place us on the train before everybody else which turned out to be a little creepy, sitting in a dark train alone for 2 hours. It was a crowded ride but everyone behaved except the unidentified person with digestive problems. We were just past Albany when 6:00 pm rolled up and as everyone knows, the end of the world was expected. I looked around but nobody seemed concerned so I started shouting “OMG,OMG, I feel it happening, I’m rapturing and all you people are now officially LEFT BEHIND. But it hurts, why does it hurt so bad? OMG, He’s leaving parts of me behind! The parts that sinned! Parts that I’m fond of!” Well, Donna wasn’t amused, and since most of the train couldn’t speak a word of English or French, they thought I was having some kind of fit and starting offering me weird food. Because of delays, it was a 13-hour ride and this ain’t Euro-standard train travel, this is Amtrak medieval class. There appears to be a direct relation between the degree of rocking and the cleanliness of the toilet, and we rocked like a ship in a storm.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-38793740313600854042011-05-18T17:54:00.008-04:002011-05-18T18:24:24.792-04:00Maybe It's the Weather<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://blog.webtrendforum.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/book-review-blogger.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 205px;" src="http://blog.webtrendforum.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/12/book-review-blogger.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It must be the crazy season, too much rain and recession. People come into the store and call out a single word, words like <span style="font-style:italic;">trains</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">hockey</span>. What’s that about? I’ve never gone to the grocery store and stood in the isle shouting <span style="font-style:italic;">bananas</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">eggs</span>. Well, I answer them with a monosyllabic ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">no</span>’ and they usually slump in relief and walk right out because they’d only spoken in panic upon discovering that they’d stumbled into a bookstore. But some reply with withering things like <span style="font-style:italic;">are you telling me you have nothing on trains</span>? That kind of pressure makes me a little crazy so I make things up like: <span style="font-style:italic;">Oh, I had a huge collection of that stuff, hard to find stuff, vintage stuff, a lot of leather bindings, but I sold the whole lot to some fellow last week for $20, just to get rid of it. You know.</span><br /><br />One of our cultural oddities is that people think a used bookstore is an open marketplace for the free exchange of ideas. The oddity is that these same people have very strong and strange views on things that you <span style="font-style:italic;">must</span> agree with. But nothing prepared me for the bear wrestler. He came in with his Fu-Manchu mustache and his main squeeze and asked me if I had any books by some guy with no vowels in his name. <span style="font-style:italic;">You know</span>, he says, <span style="font-style:italic;">it’s about the 15,000 year old manuscripts they recently found in Mesopotamia with secrets that THEY don’t want us to know about.</span> Now, booksellers have an instinct about these things and the word ‘THEY’ usually has us reaching for the panic button or the shot-gun under the counter, but it was 3:00 pm and the vodka was kicking in so I said <span style="font-style:italic;">that kind of crap is down there with Von Daniken and the space aliens</span>. Fu-Manchu man gave me a hard look and gave me his card. He said: <span style="font-style:italic;">go to this web site. We’ll talk again</span> and walked out of the store. I snorted at him after he was safely out of the store, but, OK, OK, I went to the web site. But so would you! The site showed a video of Fu-Manchu man wrestling a bear in a boxing ring, and the bear trainer shouting ‘<span style="font-style:italic;">be good Poo bear, roll, roll</span>’ and Fu-Manchu man looked very grim rolling with the bear so I hope he doesn’t come back to the store any time soon.<br /><br />Then this very elderly lady comes in and tells me she’s moving into the neighborhood here soon because the Africans in her apartment are trying to seduce her into their harem and she’s tired of the harassment. I laugh nervously and she leaves grumbling <span style="font-style:italic;">I’m too old for this shit</span>. I find myself hoping she doesn’t move too close.<br /><br />So these bachelor weekends don’t work for everybody. Nestor’s brother recently revealed that his wife was in Europe for a week and he was going to live like a 20-year old while she’s gone. I said, is that a good idea at your age, you’re what, 48? 49? He said <span style="font-style:italic;">yeah, yeah, whatever, you got any more of that Newfie rum</span>? So we drank Screech for a few hours, and how was I supposed to know that he’s <span style="font-style:italic;">already</span> drunk a bottle of cheap red wine and eaten a large all-dress pizza with extra bacon and had spent the afternoon watching Borat. But these things have a way of coming out, and in this case, coming out everywhere so I hustled him out of the store while he screamed in a previously undiscovered language and called him a cab but after what happened outside I realized I should have called an ambulance and I hope I don’t get sued because that was not my fault.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-43079268320983644332011-04-09T12:57:00.006-04:002011-04-09T13:20:27.883-04:00Pierre gives yet more advice...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRHFIkPZPYPZOHi0MoZ2uVpEX_RcERAyPIKThbjzk4nwFlLpijg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 410px; height: 352px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRHFIkPZPYPZOHi0MoZ2uVpEX_RcERAyPIKThbjzk4nwFlLpijg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />Nestor came into the store this morning and asked me to go the local post office and buy him some stamps. Now I get a lot of non-book requests, like, do you have a bathroom, can I have a Kleenex, where is the locksmith, is there a God? But this seemed a bit over the top so I said, Nestor, WTF. He said <span style="font-style:italic;">do this for me and I’ll stop stealing your books</span>. I knew Nestor was stealing but since he has peculiar tastes and actually buys the occasional book, I never paid it any mind. But still. So I asked him, why not buy your own stamps and he said that Johnny, the Postal clerk, was mad at him. What the hell did you do to Johnny, I asked. Nestor looked at the floor and said, <span style="font-style:italic;">I stared at his teeth</span>.<br /><br />This was getting a little weird, even for my store. What, I said, do you mean you stared at his teeth. Nestor shuffled a bit and said, <span style="font-style:italic;">I was buying stamps and I must have been daydreaming at the counter because suddenly I woke up and realized that I’d been staring at his teeth. Really staring.</span> Well, I said, that’s not so bad. <span style="font-style:italic;">But</span>, Nestor continued, <span style="font-style:italic;">I think maybe he has very bad teeth</span>. Nestor never says ‘I think maybe’ unless he’s sure of the thing. Nestor continued, <span style="font-style:italic;">then I got nervous and smiled and that’s when he started to look really pissed off. I tried to look innocent, but it only seemed to make things worse</span>.<br /><br />Wait a minute, I interrupted, show me your innocent face. Nestor pinched his lips together into a sphincter the size of a dime and opened his eyes so wide I thought they’d pop out of his head. Holy moly, I shouted, you looked at him like that?! My advice to you, Nestor, is avoid the Post Office for at least a week. Nestor didn’t look convinced but who cares. It’s not like they can withdraw my ‘Excellence In Customer Service Award’ <span style="font-style:italic;">again</span> for giving bad advice.<br /><br />The cartoon is from <a href="http://beazleybooks.blogspot.com/2011/04/pierre-gives-yet-more-advice.html">xkcd</a>.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-24311281046691077322011-04-02T14:53:00.004-04:002011-04-02T14:56:34.403-04:00Pierre Meets a Psychiatrist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSYI8yJszF3HiO2PHiZevhye1r_anoB9tv4c8EImQJluF8FgAhc"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 164px; height: 307px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSYI8yJszF3HiO2PHiZevhye1r_anoB9tv4c8EImQJluF8FgAhc" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />When I discovered that one of my customers is a psychiatrist I told him that I was a defrocked priest but that he mustn’t tell anyone. I’m still not quite sure why I told him this, I suspect it was because I’ve always liked the sound of the word ‘defrocked’ but who cares, it churned the conversation up a bit and he soon wanted to know why I’d been defrocked. I said it was complicated and since I didn’t suffer the curse of complexity I was very confused. He didn’t buy it and said so by glaring at me. Well, I wasn’t intimidated in the least because his wife was in the other day complaining about him and when a man’s wife tells you things about him, he loses all power over you. Especially when she tells you that her husband is afraid of sunlight. I just couldn’t resist so I asked her, you think he’s a vampire? and she said don’t be stupid, he just thinks that every cell in his body is a suntan away from erupting into a spongy tumor. <br /><br />So I just glared back at him and said that defrocking was a very private thing and I can’t even spell embezzlement so why would I do it and anyway I needed the money for my gambling habit. And speaking of gambling, I said, just to change the subject a bit while I rang up his purchase, don’t you think, I said, that we should prepare children for the unpredictability of life by teaching them to play poker, starting maybe in grade school. Poker would teach the little creatures about the nature of risk and how the house always wins in the end. It would be more instructive than the statistics and ethics courses they’ll eventually cheat their way through. The good doctor counted his change, with more care then necessary I thought, and as he left asked me if I was off my medication. Some people.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-91000629572827598942011-01-23T16:22:00.005-05:002011-01-23T17:50:37.009-05:00A Newfie comes into the store...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSZU4TkwEPnFT6s_xZtwnW2EDbb5jFC1KF-nrMRXK_GZ3qVPTV81A"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 328px; height: 154px;" src="http://t0.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSZU4TkwEPnFT6s_xZtwnW2EDbb5jFC1KF-nrMRXK_GZ3qVPTV81A" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />This big fella and his tiny wife comes in the store today talking in that distinctive Newfie accent and he asks if I have any books on whales and I reply ‘no but when are you folks going to stop killing those baby seals then?’ (I don’t really care about the seals but I figured the question would break the ice). He says ‘they’re not babies, we don’t kill babies. They’re cubs. We club cubs.’ Ah, I said, and it’s euphonic too.<br /><br />He ignores this and asks me if I have any prints of whales. I do, I say. But are they <span style="font-style:italic;">old</span> prints he asks. Oh yes, I say with my best newfie accent, I have verra olde prints. Abbut 1750 they is, I say. He looks at me funny and says that’s all very good, but are they <span style="font-style:italic;">Newfoundlander</span> whales? Well how the hell would I know what nationality the whales are, so I say they’re Pacific whales and he says well NFLD is in the Atlantic don’t you know and I answer, is it now?<br /><br />His wife starts making him big-eyes, you know, wife code for <span style="font-style:italic;">enough already</span> so I try and smooth things over and I ask him, ‘so how’s the economy on the Rock then?’ Maybe that wasn’t the best tact because he answers that unemployment’s at 19% and the tuberculosis is killing those too weakened by eating Raman noodles 3 times a day to look for fish that ain’t there no more no how.<br /><br />Ha, I say, you think you have it bad, just look at that roundish building out there (I point to the curling club), that’s a soup kitchen, I say a little untruthfully, we’re suffering here too but we don’t complain about it all the time. They look over to the curling club and he whispers <span style="font-style:italic;">a soup kitchen</span> can you believe it and I say yeah and it’s not even real soup it’s just tap water with food coloring added so don’t talk to me about suffering. They glanced sadly at the curling club as they left and I thought, I won that one not that I care about winning of course.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-43754124441121499872011-01-16T15:57:00.002-05:002011-01-16T16:08:40.695-05:00Book Store Myths<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTKZdp5crtD-nonw_L1a6yJVxLa-w1KlMyeN16XXffVR9fwcRvmxA"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 225px;" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTKZdp5crtD-nonw_L1a6yJVxLa-w1KlMyeN16XXffVR9fwcRvmxA" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I’m talking here about myths, not delusions. Delusions are often funny unless the person holding them is also holding a machete. Myths are not funny, they’re too much like Beliefs, and Beliefs are like Principals and you know what people are like with their damned principals. So let’s go there.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Myth number 1 is that kids today don’t read.</span> This is usually said very loudly to no-one in particular by people who are bitter about the biochemistry of aging. Oddly, they rarely buy a book. They know kids today spend hours in front of a computer monitor and wonder why they don’t instead spend hours in front of the TV watching Gilligan’s Island and The Beverly Hillbillies like we did. But it’s not true; kids buy a lot of books. I try to slow them down a bit but kids today just don’t listen.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Myth number 2 is that eBooks will supplant printed books.</span> Well, it’s not a zero-sum game. EBooks will replace a small part of the paper book market, but if radio can co-exist with TV, and pencils with keyboards, then we don’t need to worry about the future of paper. (This myth was sponsored by The Pulp and Paper Institute of Canada)<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Myth number 3 is that used books are cheaper if purchased on line.</span> Well if you include shipping costs, they rarely are. Also, you might be interested to know that used books purchased on line are packaged by underpaid Albigensian monks that because of their vows of silence can’t complain about their terrible working conditions.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Myth number 4 is that to be successful, a used bookstore must both specialize and offer a wide selection of everything.</span> This is only true if you’re schizophrenic.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Myth number 5 is that books printed in China gives you scurvy.</span> This one might just be true.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-29827405781555447152011-01-13T18:30:00.005-05:002011-01-13T18:58:39.198-05:00What the hell is that smell?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTV1wA2rc0xfcof8sdVGm5f0f-i1_ijHqSJlBzn84U2eFEAsJ-Hbw"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 230px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTV1wA2rc0xfcof8sdVGm5f0f-i1_ijHqSJlBzn84U2eFEAsJ-Hbw" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Let me say from the start that I’m not going to talk here about disgusting smells, funny smells, or inappropriate smells. This blog-post is about those unhealthy smells that bring back fond memories, smells like diesel fuel, bacon fat and pipe smoke. And guilty smells like when your neighbour’s house burns down and you like the smell because it reminds you of a campfire on the beach.<br /><br />On second thought, it’s not about those smells either. It’s about preventing my bookstore from smelling bad.<br /><br />An elderly man came in recently with magazines to sell and the moment he opened the box my eyes began to burn and my nostrils clamped shut like a camel in a sandstorm. I said ‘these magazines smell of cigarette smoke, and there’s a yellow film of pure nicotine that sticks to my fingers when I touch them. You could roll these magazines up and smoke them’. He narrowed his eyes and said ‘they didn’t smell when I put them in the box this morning’ and I said ‘how the hell can you tell? You’ve been smoking for what, 60 years?’ He made that angry face I see people make sometimes in <span style="font-style:italic;">other bookstores</span> and I was beginning to think that maybe I went too far when he suddenly whistled with his throat and began hacking that loud barking sound seals make when they’re in distress. Well, I figured that if he can’t talk I can finally get a word in edgewise so I tell him I get many books that smell of mould or cigarette smoke but I throw them out because a bookstore should smell like wood and cognac and not like a rotting corpse. He had yet to take a breath and was turning purple and worse he wasn’t even listening to me so I suggested that he take the magazines elsewhere to sell. He finally took a breath and said ‘I’ll donate them to a Hospital’. I hope he changed his mind, our hospitals have enough already to deal with.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-417089165100296782011-01-05T12:08:00.003-05:002011-01-05T12:17:47.825-05:00Happy New Year!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQm9mmuXsRpRrBjHlJdeXu5icEBFBIeNMIZ27rGXWPH2ZQ4JHGp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 121px;" src="http://t2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQm9mmuXsRpRrBjHlJdeXu5icEBFBIeNMIZ27rGXWPH2ZQ4JHGp" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />When you’re in retail you notice certain things, like when people do crazy things it’s because they’re crazy people but when I do crazy things it’s because I’m a victim of circumstance.<br /><br /> Take last Friday for example. The street was closed off and covered in a quarter inch of mud after city workers dug in the wrong place. I figured that it would cost more to clean my carpets than to open the store (that gives you an idea of why used bookstore owners don’t drive Jags) so I locked the door and since it was the holidays and well after noon I broke out the vodka. The first person to breach the rampart was a thirsty friend who vowed through the door that he had only walked on the sidewalks and was mud-free so I let him in and gave him a glass. Minutes later some fellow saw us through the window and tried to get in. He jabbed at the hours sign on the door and mouthed something indignant and I made sorry faces and mouthed something incoherent. Then a teenager tried to get in and I shouted through the door that it was the feast day of Saint Stolichnaya of the Three Olives and why the hell wasn’t he in church. I may have lost a customer there. My friend treasonously muttered ‘but you’re a store’ and I poured him another drink to shut him up but it got me thinking. I had to change tactics. An elderly lady tried the door next and courtesy demanded that I go out and speak with her so I asked her if her boots were clean. She said ‘what? Are you crazy? Let me in.’ Behind her two women appeared and also wanted to get in. It was the first time I had a line-up at the store but I had no time to savor it. ‘Ladies,’ I shouted, ‘I must first see the bottoms of your boots’. They just frowned at me so I said ‘Come on, come on, your bottoms!” Well, that was an unfortunate turn of phrase because they marched off. My former friend asked me if my business model was to alienate people and then buy shares in the competition. I gave up, unlocked the doors and had the best day of the month.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-35044417442267514492010-12-22T11:15:00.002-05:002010-12-22T11:18:58.142-05:00Christmas in the Bookstore<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRRFNNUTul3rnwO4ZIj56yIt60RP4lB5TMwVANjHSRA5vGyRhS_jg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 249px;" src="http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRRFNNUTul3rnwO4ZIj56yIt60RP4lB5TMwVANjHSRA5vGyRhS_jg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It’s hard to write about Christmas without resorting to maudlin platitudes, crass commercialism, miserable complaints or childlike retarded cheer. The only good thing about writing about Christmas is that you’re certain to offend someone and it’s easy to pretend innocence as to why. But enough. Christmas at Beazley Books is like Martin Luther King Day in Moscow....subdued. No Christmas music, surreptitious drinking beginning at noon, and calm people (see: drinking beginning at noon).<br /><br />I like Christmas in the bookstore because it’s easy to pretend it’s 1842. People come in with lists of names, not lists of gifts. They spend a lot of time looking for the right gift for Aunt Sophie who had very poor judgment in her youth and Uncle Norm who really should have known better last summer in Cuba. Sometimes people wake me up and ask for advice about what to get for a sibling or a friend but usually they know better and make their own mistakes. Some people stumble in from an afternoon of Christmas shopping and become disoriented. No music, no tinsel.<br /><br />But there’s one evil even the bookstore strains to keep at bay: the It’s-For-A- Good-Cause people trolling for money (in 1842 they were called beggars and you were allowed to kick them). I keep a sharp machete on the counter to discourage them but some have religion and are drawn to martyrdom. I am not completely without a heart, however. If the spirit moves you this year, you can make a cash donation to: The Beazley Books Fund for the Enrichment of Beazlies.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-53451298193291937482010-09-27T20:51:00.002-04:002010-09-27T21:02:58.100-04:00If you thought that was rude...Sometimes people mistake me for a big box store clerk and get angry when I call them impertinent. But I'm happy to report that the great majority of my customers are very pleasant. And since I enjoy calling rude people names, I figure that means that I like all my customers.<br /><br />Of course some are sort of scary like the woman without pants who came in last week to sell me a book, and sure her flannel shirt was long but not long enough. And the gypsy woman with electrical white hair and Alice Cooper-caught-in-the-rain make-up who drinks too much and keeps trying to leave the store through the window. <br /><br />And sometimes I hear things that I know will stay with me until I die, like the woman who insisted that human twins sometimes eat each other in the mother's womb. Now fetal cannibalism is an alarming concept but far worse is the succession of middle-aged guys who have been leaning on my counter telling me about their weird medical problems and how I'm probably suffering from all their creepy afflictions too but I just don't know it. Well here's the thing, I don't want to know and one day when the doctor tells me I'm doomed because they didn't detect the damned thing early enough I'll say Feh! and pour another drink.<br /><br />Note to wife: I want my tombstone to say "You're Next, And It Really Really Hurts."Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-25227454166279509692010-08-26T22:01:00.001-04:002010-08-26T22:04:56.111-04:00Why I Lie About What I Read....I stopped reading serious literature years ago but people assume that because I’m surrounded by good literature I must be reading it. Well let me tell you that once you begin on the trashy stuff you don’t go back. So when an earnest teenager asks me what I think of Gravity’s Rainbow, I make a little humming sound and hope he mistakes my cluelessness for tongue-tied awe. And when a professor compares the work of several well-known poets whom I’ve never even heard of, and being professorial he is quite content to talk about it without soliciting my opinion, I simply nod here and there and laugh knowingly at the right parts. Sometimes I laugh knowingly at the wrong parts and get an odd look. But here’s what I don’t get and it happens every day. A woman is browsing and picks up a book titled something like Heart and Soul about a woman who discovers herself. Probably in Tuscany. She holds up the book and asks, have you read this? I answer that its women’s fiction and no man in his right mind would even pick up the book, what with all the pastel colors and squiggly fonts. She proceeds to inform me that she knows a man who has read it (a damn lie) and that I shouldn’t be such a sexist. Novels are not, she declares, gender specific. Her confidence in this theory is severely shaken however when she glances down and spies what I'm reading, a 1952 science-fiction novel called Alien Brain-Eaters, its cover a red dagger-toothed alien vomiting brains onto a near-naked girl.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-59623511587415056492010-08-20T07:00:00.004-04:002010-08-20T07:00:03.780-04:00How Not to Sell Your Books....It was 9:30 pm and I was finishing my second vodka and trying to figure out how to smoke a cigar without my wife smelling it on me. The phone rang and I ducked thinking it’s my wife and what the hell, is she reading minds now? But it wasn’t her. Instead an old-lady crinkly voice demanded to know if I bought comic books. I could tell from the way she talked that she smelled funny. Maybe like one of those European cheeses with high bacteria counts that people are leery of. Anyway, she wanted to meet in the parking lot across the street from the store, the comic books were in the trunk of her car she said. The drug dealer aspect of all this should have rang some alarms, but I agreed to it and the next morning when I saw her I knew that this would not end well. She was about 70, had a silver buzz-cut and the eyes of a Viet-Cong sniper. She popped the trunk and I looked down at the box of shabby Archie comics and I said $20. Ha! she snarls, you ain’t low balling me and she slams the trunk on my head. I say ouch (or maybe shit) but she keeps the trunk door pressed against my head. Now I’ve watched Goodfellas at least a dozen times so I knew it was touch and go at this point. I said Lady, you’ve got to let me get my head out and she glared at me while I moved my head out of range. Maybe I should’ve offered $30.<br /><br />Later the same day, an elderly man with an iron-curtain accent and a disapproving wife came in with what looked like an inflated pizza delivery bag, the kind with the aluminum foil lining on the inside. The wife said “these are good books” and he says “good books”. She says “these books are worth money” and he says “worth money”. I look inside the bag and it looks like the books were flung into it during a regime-change evacuation panic. The aluminum foil is a little weird so I ask them if the books are radioactive. This must be a standard question where they’re from because she looks solemn and shakes her no but he looks a little guilty and says you look at books, we go for ice cream. At the door, she turns around and warns “they’re counted” and he says “counted!” I decided the books were radioactive after all and went for lunch.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-89503648585224990492010-08-01T14:53:00.005-04:002010-08-01T15:04:17.487-04:00Review of THE STRAIN by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/d5/60/d56088b2ac7e56f5935684c55674141414c3441.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 190px;" src="http://pics.librarything.com/picsizes/d5/60/d56088b2ac7e56f5935684c55674141414c3441.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />Nosferatu meets CSI.<br /><br />Vampire literature thrives on contrast. Victorian readers once yawned at bizarre doings in Carpathian Mountains but shivered when Bram Stoker’s Dracula appeared in the city of London. Legions of writers have since inflamed this contrast until it has become positively bi-polar, giving us bloodsuckers as southern gentlemen, little girls, rebellious teenagers, space aliens and a even a librarian. And now worms. Well, why not.<br /><br />The authors were perhaps over-enthused with the possibilities presented by Vampires, endowing them with so many physiological horrors that a biologically confusing monster emerges. But they are entirely clear in one regard: sex. Vampire tales usually slide easily into sex and sexiness but there’s nothing remotely sexy about these creatures; they are simply repulsive. As it should be, too. <br /><br />I would have enjoyed more surprises and plot twists, but the story rips along just fine and dialogue is expertly executed. There is much unnatural ghastliness here, and a couple scenes that are stunningly revolting.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thestraintrilogy.com/">The Strain</a> is frighteningly well written and a compelling read.Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5390041625226454353.post-29714367016820514852010-07-26T17:09:00.002-04:002010-07-26T17:13:40.508-04:00A conversation in a bookshop....The following exchange took place in June of 2010 in Beazley Books. It is, as far as I can remember, word-for-word true (God have mercy on my shrivelled soul)<br /><br />Normal Looking Customer: Do you have any books on Egypt?<br />Me: Modern or ancient?<br />NLC: Ancient.<br />Me : Yes, I have several... here they are.<br />NLC: Oh, but I’m looking for old books.<br />Me : I have that. ... here they are.<br />NLC: Well, I’m really looking for old French books.<br />Me : I have that.....here it is. A three volume history of Egypt published in Paris in 1940. Not so old that the French is any different than today’s (ha ha)<br />NLC: Well, I don’t read French but I intend to learn one day. I’m in these books you know.<br />Me : I didn’t know, actually.<br />NLC: Well I am. In a previous life, I was an Egyptian Queen so I’m certainly in those books.<br />Me : Which one?<br />NLC: I don’t know. Volume one I expect.<br />Me : No, I mean which Queen were you. <br />NLC: Oh, well, one of them. I must have been an important one because otherwise I wouldn’t remember it, would I.<br />Me : Hmm, I see your point. Well, these books are $120. A real steal. They’re worth $300.<br />NLC: Oh, I don’t have any money. I was just curious about what books you had. Maybe I’ll have some money if I can find a job. You wouldn’t by any chance be hiring would you?Pierre Parehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15872932736277208332noreply@blogger.com3