Wednesday, February 22, 2017

A Trip to the Book Store

I once sold my book through a book store.   I used to visit the store and stare at them, sighing like a father staring at his daughter's first bowling shoes.  Then the store's owners told me to take the rest home.

They made excuses, of course.  Something about it not selling.  Something about it being the worst piece of modern literature they'd seen.  Something about protesters and boycotts of their store.

Nice try, pal.  You entered the lion's den.  You tickled the sleeping dragon.  You killed John Wick's dog.  You spat in the wind.  You stole the Lucky Charms.  You ate the Taco Bell burrito.

Where was I?  Oh, right.

It's payback time.  And this time it's even more personal than payback usually is.  I devote one weekend every month to bringing that bookstore down.  One weekend every month, I begin my subtle campaign of terror.

Below are excerpts from my war journal.

Saturday the 14th:
I went into the kids section.  They have a series of books on who each US President was and what their importance was.

Did you know Kennedy was the first president to cheat on his wife?
I leaned over to a mother looking at Who Was Millard Fillmore?  "You realize there'll be a Who Was Donald Trump book some day?"

She grabbed her kid and rushed out of the bookstore.  Score one for the revolution.

Sunday the 15th:
I headed to the science fiction section where I saw someone looking at signed copy of The Martian.  

OMG!  It was signed right here!
I leaned over to him.  "So, Andy Weir just signs his books to nobody in particular then leaves them on the shelves? Are you supposed fill in your own name so it can look like he signed it to you?"

The man laughed.  Disgruntled, I tried again.  "Is that his signature?"
"Who is Lry Zni?"
"What is that?  It looks like a drawing of two dinosaurs.  Or maybe a pair of baboons kissing.  Whatever it is, it certainly does not look like the words Andy and Weir.  You could probably save time by buying blank copies and drawing squiggles on the title pages yourself."

The man put the book down and, careful not to make eye contact, left the store.  Got suspicious look from man behind the counter.

Monday the 20th (President's Day - Part of my "Long Campaign of '17"):
I wandered over to the New Releases section, grabbed a book, and flipped to the last page.
Fournier is one of my top eight serif typefaces named after obscure engravers!
I held the book up to a teenager.  "What's with the 'About the type' sections?  Are there font buffs out there who buy books just for the explanations of the letters?  Is there someone out there who rips out all these sections and tapes them together to form whole books about type?  Is that like Silence of the Lambs for fonts?"

The teenager told the owner.  The owner told the police.  Am now in lockup and using my time for a "private call to a lawyer of my choice" to pen this account.

The war continues...

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