It's that time of year again. (This is a venting post) →[More:] When one's thoughts turn to turkey and swell times with the family and pumpkin pie and all that shit. Of course, if you work in retail, it's a whole other story. This is the time when the bats come out of the damn woodwork. Down at the Famous Used Bookstore the regulars are enough of a handful, but now we have to deal with all the yutzes who've never been in a non-chain bookstore (or even a bookstore) before and who don't understand rules and procedures and get all pissy about having to wait in line or stunned that their frayed copy of The Pelican Brief only worth a buck (I'm not exaggerating). We have a door at the side of the store with a sign saying "NOT AN ENTRANCE - UNLESS YOU ARE SELLING BOOKS." Late this afternoon a one-armed man (you heard me)walked through it. My co-worker Micah told the guy that entrance was for sellers only and to use the front door next time. 15 minutes later the guy came through the side door again, and then ten minutes later and he gaveMicah a dirty look when I did. "I think he wants to fight me," Micah said. "I think you'd have the advantage, dude," I told him. It's not everday you get to seriously consider beating up amputees.

We also had a visit from a once-every-three-months dude we call the King Of Brooklyn. He wears what has to be a hot toupee, as in he stole it of someone else's head and decided that it looked good enough and he should wear it. In reality it looks just like the hair on Lego people only less natural. He also a voice as loud as a bullhorn and some kind of mental glitch where every other sentence (literally) is "I'm from Brooklyn!" followed by either "Ebbets Field!" or the name of a Dodgers star of yore. "I have some books to sell. I'M FROM BROOKLYN! DUKE SNIDER!" They were mostly batter paperbacks. "We only take mass market paperbacks in new condition sir." "Really? I'M FROM BROOKLYN! JACKIE ROBINSON!" and on and on and on (at peak volume), until the store's owner, a normally reserved if crabby 80-year old man bellowed, "I'm from the Bronx and I don't care where you're from so pipe down!" "The Bronx? I'M FROM BROOKLYN! You probably rooted against the Dodgers...."

Oy gevalt. And of course there was the usual parade of smelly stewbums, attic-cleaning hausfraus, neurotic managers, discontented co-workers etc. only more so. And this is just a preview, Friday's when all hell breaks loose*. That day I'm coming to work with a football helmet and brass knuckles.

So for those of you in the Nametag Nation, here's some appropriate music.



*Thankfully we're not doing any of that 'open at 4am' early bird special jazz. If that's your idea of fun, seek help.