New Jersey, What an Inconvenience!

Seriously, I might as well live in Alaska. Asking friends to come over to my house is like asking them to charter a boat to the North Sea.
"Do you guys want to come over to my place tomorrow night?"
"Do we have to rent waders?"
No. Living in New Jersey is not as bad as it sounds. Every area of New Jersey is different and the area I'm in isn't necessarily that close to the city, though it is a nice area. Because of that fact, getting to and from my house to the city can make for a chore sometimes.

As an example of this, I expound the following story: Last Saturday night, May 26, was an odd day in itself as a whole, and I guess it was only fitting that it came to the close that it did. First of all, that morning was the morning the bee flew in my shower. At work, two things happened. A fellow employee, and the one guy who I had really gotten to know in my month's time of working there, was fired. That was really a downer. Then my Brazilian good luck bracelet got torn off when I was moving a box.
My Brazilian good luck bracelet was a fabric bracelet that was tied around my wrist with three knots when I was leaving Brazil two summers ago. The three knots represent three wishes made while tying them. After tying the bracelet on my wrist, I was supposed to let the bracelet fall off naturally, as a sign that my wishes had come true. After nearly two years of soaking up sweat and showers, that ratty old thing was coming looser and looser everyday and was so ready to be worn out and disintegrate right off my wrist, and then it had to be so violently severed by the MAN and his cardboard boxes.
It was another disappointment in an already disappointing day. After work, however, things turned up as I was able to meet with some friends who I had not seen in a while. After a late dinner, it was time to turn in, and I left the restaurant just in time to catch the last bus to my house.
Or did I?!
Well, I did, and then I got to the bus terminal and the appropriate place where I usually go to wait in line for my bus when, lo and behold!, a different bus should appear in my bus' place. The bus I usually take is the DeCamp #44, which leaves at 11:30pm and drives past my apartment building approximately half an hour after that. In the bus lane, however, there should appear a New Jersey Transit bus with the route #163. Obviously this was not my bus, and my bus was no where to be found. If I were to get on this alternate bus, it likely would transport me to some alternate universe (as if New Jersey wasn't enough of one to begin with) where I would not have any way of getting home, I would not know where I was, and I would not have my trusty subway system to get me as far away as I would care to be.
So after walking around aimlessly for a while, I come to the decision to take the New Jersey Transit #190 bus, which goes close enough to my house that I can walk 1.2 miles or call for a taxi. Getting in line for the 12:00am bus, I found there were a lot more people in front of me in line than could possibly fit on this bus, so I was forced to wait for the next bus at 12:30.
While waiting for it, I formed something of a bond with those people, joined together in frustration of the New Jersey Transit system and in the observance and quiet mockery of a definitively crazy Latino man who went on wild tangents cursing in both Spanish and English directed apparently at the buses.
After 12:30am, the next bus arrived, late. It took about fifteen minutes for us all just to board. Packed to the gills, I stood in the aisle, shoulder to shoulder with more New Jerseyites, and more still were left stranded at the bus terminal, sentenced to wait for the next bus which left from a different gate, four floors down. The ride was very uncomfortable, as I don't even really have to say, and no matter how s l o w l y you read this, you will not be able to realize the agony I've come to endure on these late-night journeys home.
For even though I was exceedingly tired, now hungry from not eating at dinner thinking I would eat when I got home, and overall worn out from being on my feet all day at work and then walking around New York City afterwards, what awaited me once I got off that bus was not a warm meal, a cushy bed, a beautiful woman, or some combination of all three, but a 1.2 mile walk to my third-floor apartment, where in short order I could attain at least two out of the three if I wanted.
The stop I get off of is after riding past Giants Stadium, after riding through the petty town of Secaucus, at the corner of the highway overpass and a main street of town. Caddy-corner to the bus stop is a 24-hour 7-11, which I proceeded to patronize. Oh, thank heaven, it seemed to be calling me. I ride past it everyday, but rarely get the opportunity to try one of the variations of coffee they are constantly advertising.
Now's my chance!
I figured I could use a boost for what I hoped would be the last leg of my journey. So, I proceeded to make my own hazelnut-flavored iced coffee, including a healthy portion of cream and sugar (by that, of course, I mean unhealthy). I paid more for less ounces of coffee that I had to assemble myself than I would have at Dunkin' Donuts. Oh, well.
"You're paying for the convenience," I thought to myself.
I guess that 20 cents goes a long way after all. It keeps the store open all night, which definitely helped me out. I don't know if I could have made it without completely wigging out had I not been able to purchase that iced coffee. It was quite good, too. I nursed it for about half of my journey.

It was now 1:15am. This walk takes about 45 minutes. Having made this 1.2 mile trek several times before in the dark, I was now a seasoned veteran, and had timed it accurately. The walk goes along the same bus route that normally takes me to and from Manhattan, but of course, what takes only about ten minutes by motor vehicle gets stretched out to a challenging monathlon by foot. (I made that word up. It means the same thing a triathlon does, only with one sport.)
I had my iPod, at least, and I decided that while I could listen to some stand-up comedy that would help cheer me up, I had better listen to something more depressing so I stay in my bad mood and stay inspired to write about it when I get home. So I put on some Bee Gees, who, aside from their disco hits, played a number of very sad love songs which I just adore.

Being so familiar with the stretch of road I was embarking on, I've probably come to memorize every business that passes me by. Let's see. There is the Shell gas station, which starts or caps off the route, depending on which direction you're going. There is a liquor store, and Italian restaurant, and a sushi place all on that block, then there is Qween Bee laundromat, and a bicycle shop. Not too far after that is SCORE! gas station. If I turn right there, I am led to my grocery store and several other businesses such as Blockbuster Video and Staples.
But I continue going straight, where I pass on the right a small cemetery, and on the left the Kingsland NJ Transit Train Station, right next to which is a deli that features a very creepy picture of some Italian chef, who I suppose is the owner, blown up in the window.
Continuing on the walk, and not losing any focus, I pass the Subway, Carvel Ice Cream, and Bergen [County, NJ] Dragon, the aptly-named Chinese restaurant. Next to that is the Regal Beagle, a bar that has been unoccupied and for sale ever since I've known about it. There is an elementary school, a Mexican-food delivery place confusingly-named Bagel Stop, and a liquor store.
If I turn right here, it leads me to my liquor store and TJMaxx, where two X's mean twice the bargains! Straight ahead, however, is where I must travel. A Chase bank lies ahead of me on the right.
Wendy's is coming up! If they are open, I'm totally prepared to pull a walk-through in the drive-thru lane. I don't own a car, they have to serve me! What kind of an excuse is not owning a car?!?! I'm saving my money to eat at Wendy's, obviously! Not drive around! But it's not open, so this sequence of dialogue I have planned out in my head doesn't actually take place.
I tread on. I'm just about finished with my Hazelnut iced coffee, which was the best part of my then-morning, aside from the very relaxing and uninterrupted sleep I did partake of once I actually got home.
But I digress, I think I missed some businesses back there. Most importantly, the pet-grooming salon, whose pink neon sign sends a very eerie vibe my way when walking past, not to mention the Lyndhurst taxi company, who I would normally call in order to avoid this trek, but at the moment I do not feel like giving them $12 for such an easy task. There goes the Mazur's bakery, which has some of the most elaborate and delicious-looking cakes I've ever been tempted to eat sitting on display in their window.
Now I've been carrying this empty beverage container for a while. No wonder this town is riddled with litter. There is not a trash can within sight. Finally I come to one as I pass by an Exxon station and Pulse nightclub, which is right next to another Italian restaurant. Crossing this intersection, there is another Italian restaurant, the one that didn't hire me, right next to the construction firm that didn't hire me.
On my right side, I pass by a deli and a Scuba shop, which has a TV screen in the window for all the land-dwellers to see the wonders of the underwater world, and how much better you could explore it if you had some of the products they sold at this shop.
Another thing I found while walking this way was that a lot of these businesses left lights on in the offices overnight. Insurance offices, tax offices, and other various businesses leave one light on, just one. Did somebody really forget to turn these lights off in all of these businesses, or is this some kind of weird strategy to advertise? There's nobody there! Turn off the light!
Passing by the 24-hour emergency vet clinic, I entertain a fantasy that involves me faking some kind of pet emergency in order to initiate a conversation that would somehow lead to an elaborate porn-film-like sexual fantasy with the female veterinarians inside. That fades away quickly as I realize I am feeling a burning down below, between my legs. You know the one I mean. Chafing! That's right, after hours of sweating and walking around in more heat and sweating some more, the insides of my legs have developed a very uncomfortable tenderness that is only exacerbated by more and more walking. I'm sure you skinny people don't know what I'm talking about, but my fellow brothers and sisters who are a little thick in the thighs can surely relate to what I am referring to. Anyway, this unfortunate bodily phenomenon forces me to walk with a little more straddle in my step than normal and allows me to disregard any kind of sexual connotation I may or may not have thought of along my journey.
Fortunately, I am almost home.
I am now passing by businesses that I could consider to be within walking distance from my apartment, although, as proven by this exercise, all the aforementioned businesses are within walking distance when necessary. The dry cleaners, the lousy gym that I went to once, unsatisfied, the CVS/pharmacy, the old Midas service center, which was falling apart and cleverly read "-ice experts" above the garage door, now being demolished, the Walgreens, Post Office, Jim Dandy's place for ribs and homemade ice cream, Greek restaurant, bagel place, Italian restaurant, YMCA day care center, doctor's office, apartment complex, and the big giant cemetery are all signs that I am very near to my destination. I just have to pass by a few florists, a few monument builders, a few hair salons, the North Arlington pub, Sammy's bagels and deli, the Almost Reality or Cutting Edge or In My Room All Day Playing Computer Games Comic Book Store (I forgot the name of it), the J.W. Deli, North Arlington Public High School, the Dunkin' Donuts that unfortunately did hire me, Victoria's Pizza, and then I casually walk to my front door.
The time is 2:04 am. It took roughly the time I predicted it would, at which I am pleased. Now it is time for bed and a day free from burden tomorrow.

Or was it?!?!

For the most part it was, but to add insult to injury, the good mood that was to be about me Sunday was stifled by the incident at Church. I still go to Church every so often. I go when I can and when I feel like it, which is not every Sunday, but is more often than not. When I go to Church, it is usually because I haven't gone in a while, and I feel like while God is keeping me alive and safe, I really owe him something for that. This is just my opinion, by the way.
If I was at home and I missed a week of Church, I would be condemned to hell, whereas at Beloit College, by going to Church once a month I was dubbed some kind of religious zealot. I can't please anybody. Anyway, when I go to Church, I really have to have a sound mind and body for it. Needless to say, every Sunday this is not always the case, as Saturday night is often the night before. So when I am ready to go to Church, I am ready to go, get my worship on, and get out of there. I want to sing a few hymns, pray a few prayers, think about people who need help, atone for my sins, grab the body of Christ, pay my respects, and get on with my life.
It seems, however, that when I go any more, God's always sticking it to me for not going the past few weeks, and therefore the Mass is just a bit longer than usual because of that. Sometimes, it's a Baptism. Every once in a while a First Communion. This time, though, it was the grandpappy of them all. This time it was a freshly-ordained priest who was saying the Mass. He was just ordained the night before, probably while I was not eating dinner. He was from the area, saying his very first Mass at the Church he grew up in, and the Parish, and the family, and the school. It was very sentimental...for him. For me, it was just annoying.
It was bad enough that New Jersey made me wait three extra hours for me to get home last night. I wake up to find out God is punishing me, too?
The worst part about it was they had the Knights of Columbus there parading up and down the aisles as if they were serving some importance. Now, I can deal with all the Catholic Church ritual and the blessings and the singing and the Latin, but when you bring in costumed men bearing swords that are supposed to resemble Spanish explorers from the fifteenth century walking around like they own the place, that's when I get perturbed. This normally tolerable one-hour procedure was begrudgingly dragged out to one hour and thirty-eight mind-numbing minutes.
How does one explain to his wife or significant other that he is a Knight of Columbus, anyhow? I want to know how that conversation goes.
"Uh...honey? I can't come to dinner tonight. I have to dress up as a fifteenth-century crewman and walk around in a ceremony."
"You have to what?"
"It's for Jesus. I have to carry a sword."
"You have to carry a sword and dress up in a costume for Jesus? Ok. I understand. If I'm not here when you get back, don't come looking for me, it just means that I think you're insane and I'm moving back with my mother. Don't get scurvy."

You can't bring fingernail clippers into an airport but you can bring a sword into Church? That's logic. I especially have a problem with seeing old costumed men carrying swords around Church and not seeing a sword fight. That is the least they could do. As long as they are in there with the costumes and the swords, they might as well stage a battle. They already have their audience. They're even paying by donation. Heck, they might even donate a little more if they saw a sword fight. I know I would. Oops, but I forgot my wallet. Oh, well. I probably don't have any cash anyway. I spent it all last night on unnecessary bus tickets. Thanks, New Jersey.

What's with your dog?

Your dog is such a prude! It only likes it when I pet it on the top of the head, back, and belly, but if I try to touch its paws, its ears, its tail, or its neck, it starts barking and nipping at me.
Listen here, dog! You're supposed to like being petted, and I resent the fact that you think I'm not good enough to touch your ears, and your owner is.
I'm all about having a right to personal space, but you are a dog. You are not entitled to the same liberties as humans. I'm sorry, you're just not. Who do you think you are, dog, that you can refuse affection? It's not like I'm trying to molest your naughty parts. I'm merely trying to pet you in all areas, not excluding any that sometimes get overlooked. Where is this behavior learned anyhow?
I think the celebrity dogs on dog-food commercials are setting bad examples. You know the ones I mean, where the animals get all this special treatment, like some kind of pet royalty, cushy pillows, and their gourmet meal gets served to them on a silver platter. As if that wasn't enough, these dogs get paid afterwards.
Meanwhile, your dog sits on the couch all day and watches this garbage on the TV in between shows on Animal Planet. Your dog hasn't been in commercials. Your dog hasn't done any modeling or voice-over work. Heck, your dog hasn't even written anything worthwhile. So, what does it have to show for this cuter-than-thou, I-only-like-to-be-touched-in-specific-areas attitude? Fine, dog, I will take my affections somewhere else. There are plenty of other dogs that would love the kind of attention I'm not giving to you anymore.

The Bee

This morning as I was preparing to take my shower, I opened the window in the bathroom to let some air in, as it was a very hot and muggy morning. Not a moment after that, a wandering honeybee flew in through the open window, curious about my white walls and, no doubt, the bouquet of floral scents and manly essences that emanate from my windowsill in the form of many exotic cleansing oils and perfumes that every clean man-about-town must surely own. It was upon trying to shoo the bee whence forth from where it came when I discovered, much to my own chagrin, that there was, in fact, a screen already on the window, but not yet in use. So after I got the bee out safely and securely, I put the screen down and now have my screened window open free of the hazards of protruding insects.

Lesson: Prevention is key. Put the screen down before the bee flies into your bathroom, that way, the bee won't fly into your bathroom.

Positive Uses for Your Gut

In this day and age, health and fitness are becoming more and more of a trend and the continuing obesity rise is on the minds of everybody who is thinking about it. I myself am a subscriber to a health magazine, which explains to me all the intricate details of what foods to eat and what exercises to do to keep my body in perfect form and all my organs in working order. I am also currently on a recently-activated diet and exercise program, one that the summer usually brings out in me when I realize, "hey, I'm looking at these people, maybe it would be nice if they looked at me, too."
Besides the superficial effects of losing weight, though, I am also battling a family history of health problems, including namely diabetes, a fate which I would very much like to avoid because I love ice cream. When I looked down at some newfound stains on my shirt, I was reminded that I was not quite there yet. Rather than give up hope, however, I thought to myself, "hey, it's not all that bad, this bulbous torso of mine has gotten me a lot of places in my day," so I continued to appreciate it throughout the day.
So then I thought to myself, before you lose it use it! There are lots of good things a gut can be used for aside from the obvious downsides. If you are on a weight-loss quest such as myself, remember that it doesn't happen overnight, and if you get discouraged noticing your gut halfway through, don't forget before you give it up that that gut is useful in a lot of ways.
For instance, having a gut is great for when you are carrying things to and fro. A gut is a very nice place to set heavy objects while you are carrying them from one place to another. It can really assist your arms in this measure. Let's say you are moving a cinder block somewhere and you have to use two arms to carry it, but you have to go a long distance, like from inside to outside. You can use your arms and place the edge of the cinder block on your protruding gut and relieve some of the stress from your triceps and shoulders. Obviously, your arms still have to do most of the work, otherwise you are going to drop the cinder block or worse, you are going to give yourself a hernia trying to make your stomach lift a cinder block, which I assure you, will only hinder your weight-loss scheme. The gut works great in this scenario. It is even better if you have to open a door or do some other minimal task while you are carrying something bulky and cumbersome. It almost acts as a third arm! Very beneficial. I use my gut for this purpose often. When I have a littler gut, it will make me sad that I am not able to perform this more efficiently. But, alas, the health benefits outweigh the helpful moving benefits.
Get it? Outweigh?! Ha, ha. Brilliant!
Having a gut also serves as a great canvas for one to display works of art or witty phrases or pictures of cartoon characters in compromising positions via the always-appropriate form of media that is the T-shirt. I also employ this technique often. It's great because when you catch somebody looking at your T-shirt trying to read it, you can take that opportunity to really stretch is out across your belly and exercise its full potential, which always gets your important message across.
Having a gut, depending on how big it is, is also great at warding off unwanted attention from potential suitors of the opposite sex. He or she might notice you have a little pudge and still find you attractive. It might be necessary to stick it out there a little bit more if you are not interested in this person. If they continue to approach you and you would really rather avoid all contact, don't be afraid to show a little skin; just flash that belly directly in their eyes and they will directly turn and run. That example is a little extreme, but it is certain to work under the right circumstances.
A gut is useful in case you should fall down in a forwards motion. It provides an extra cushion before that inevitable bump on the forehead. It does, however, in the case of a belly-flop in a pool, mean more pain.
There are benefits to a gut that do involve other people, as well. For instance, if you happen to already have a partner who is not warded off by your pudge, the gut can provide its uses for him or her, too. If the belly-owner is lying down, the belly provides a wonderful make-shift pillow for the other person in this couple, and it provides a level of non-sexual intimacy that many couples forget about. It does, however, make for a bit of an awkward position, as it puts the two of you in a T-formation, unless, of course, you have a lot of space to work with.
The belly is also great for couples standing upright. Say, for instance, the couple is made up of a belly-ridden man and a bosomy woman. When these two embrace, their intimacy goes even further by providing something of a puzzle-piece interlocking fit. And if they are a sexually intimate couple, this equals more skin-on-skin contact.
So, you see, there are lots of already-existing uses for a belly or a gut, and there are probably even more waiting to be discovered. You just have to use your know-how, your gumption, and your gut, to find them. If you have any other ideas for the good uses of your gut, feel free to add your own suggestions in the comments department. If you do have a gut, you should probably make an attempt to get rid of it. My magazine talks about non-Hodgkins lymphoma, a new killer that is rising in belly-owning men. If you don't ultimately get rid of your belly, the effort will at least make you a healthier person, and probably help you live longer. But remember, before you lose it, use it!

Smart? Maybe...Resourceful? Definitely!

I've always considered myself a bright individual. Of course, there are times when I have been exceptionally bright, just like there are those times when I have been exceptionally dim. There was one time when I decided to warm up a leftover pizza by putting the whole thing in the oven, box included, which consequently lit the cardboard box aflame, setting off the smoke detector, and needing to be rescued before the whole house went up.

Today, however, I feel I discovered that my resourcefulness hasn't left me yet. I went for a run today, as I periodically do, and afterwards, as I periodically do, I began my routine of situps and pushups to keep my abdominals and pectorals under strict regimen. But there was something inside of me that wanted more. My body needed to be challenged, and not having been to a gym in the past seven months, my arms have not felt the pump of an arm curl or my shoulders the stress of an overhead lift, with the exception of the boxes of books I lift from time to time working at the bookstore.
So, I searched my apartment for things I could lift and press for a few sets. Luckily, I had a full gallon of milk in my refrigerator, which I did a few curls with. I did a few overhead shoulder presses with a nice case of beer that I have lying around, not yet consumed. And then I ran into the zenith of my resourcefulness when I picked up my stone lawn gnome that guards my door and performed a few reps with it. Yes, a stone lawn gnome, that my loving sister so graciously presented to me a few years ago as a gift, served as a near-perfect replacement to a much needed dumbbell. A perfect size, a perfect weight, and if I grasp him right at the beard, I get a really nice grip and am able to do quite a few repetitions, fully exercising my biceps, as long as my hands don't get too sweaty.
It just goes to show you how the answers to all your questions are right around you if you really look for them. Or maybe your lawn gnomes are right around you, if you happen to have lawn gnomes, and actually need them.

I do have another lawn gnome, which is slightly less useful, since it is made from hollow plastic, but he is bent over with his pants pulled down, revealing a cheeky mooning pose, along with a very savvy grin. I guess my point is that a little kitsch goes a long way.

Behavioral Observations of Strand Customers/New Yorkers

The Strand is big used book store located in a popular area in Manhattan. According to the sign out front, it is the biggest used book store in the world. The store itself takes up four stories of an 11-story building, with an additional two stories for storage and warehouse. The four stories that are open to shopping for customers go from the basement to the third floor. They are each pretty extensive in their own right, with shelves of books as far as the eye can see. Strand advertises 18 miles of books for sale.
What is unique about it is that all the books have come from the city of New York in some way. Strand not only is a great place to buy books, but also to sell them. People come from miles around to sell their old collections in great volumes. Strand buys a lot from people. Strand also buys books in great numbers directly from publishers, many of which are situated here in New York. Strand also conducts a great deal of internet business. Strand works with other websites like Amazon and Barnes and Noble to get the most revenue out of their unique situation. They have got it down to a science, figuring out what to buy and at what cost, then turning around and selling it and at what price.
So far, it has been very successful. The man who founded and owns Strand owns the entire building in which it stands, renting out the other floors to other unique businesses, all the while collecting the profits from a bookstore that has achieved greatness far beyond the expectations of a normal bookstore. It is world renowned; generating its reputation merely by word-of-mouth, and it is quite a landmark in New York. Many people would miss it if it were to someday vanish.
That being said, Strand is home to a great many unique customers and employees, such as yours truly. The coolest part about working there is that I get to hang around in an old building all day. Old New York buildings are pretty cool to me, with their aging, yet solid, foundations, narrow staircases and passageways, antiquated facades, intricate architecture. Many points during the work day, I have to ride the freight elevator up and down, lugging boxes of books on dollies and hand trucks. The freight elevator, as most freight elevators in the city of New York, is operated by Strand's own operators. These drivers are in charge of opening and closing the gate to make sure one doesn't fall out into the elevator shaft as well as guiding the elevator precisely to its destination, making sure the floor level of the elevator lines up with the floor level of the ground outside. Very old school. And very cool.
I also work in the basement of this 11-story building, so I have to deal with everything a New York basement has to offer, including cockroaches, puddles of water forming in random places, and very little air circulation. The other cool part about working at the Strand is the hefty discount I get on books and merchandise. It has inspired me to repopulate my bookshelf at home with anything that looks remotely interesting that I might get to reading long after I've left this job. Being surrounded by books all day keeps my interest piqued as I get to read paragraphs at a time from all kinds of different subject matter. It also inspires me to write more.

About the customers, though, one could tell all kinds of different stories. As with any job in retail, the customers provide all, if any, enjoyment the job creates for its keeper. I've narrowed the customers down to a few different types. Before I go into the dynamics of each customer grouping, it is important to realize a few things about New Yorkers. Firstly, New Yorkers are all weird in their own right. There is no other way to describe it. If New York is one thing, it is a giant melting pot of weirdness. People leave their hometowns so they can come be weird here. Only the true weirdos live in New York. The second thing to remember is that everyone reads here. That, in itself, is weird to me, as I am used to people watching TV and movies and only reading when it is required, and trying to get out of that as much as possible. To even think about reading for recreation sounds like a job to me. It sounds like a tremendous amount of work, and I don't want to do it. In New York, however, everyone reads. I have a theory on this: everyone reads in New York because they don't have to drive anywhere.
If one thinks about this, one would realize that while the majority of Americans are driving to work, driving to school, driving anywhere because it is the most logical way to get places, people in New York, are sitting on buses, sitting on subway trains, sitting on commuter trains, just waiting to get to their destinations. And while some people choose to entertain themselves with music or video from a portable MP3 or DVD player, a great deal of them choose to educate or stimulate themselves by reading newspapers, magazines, and books. Books, books, and more books. These readers don't have to pay attention to the road or other drivers, all they have to do is wait and listen for their stop to be called. They don't even have to look up. Most people are just sitting or standing around anyway, and it is usually pretty quiet, so the environment on public transportation is very conducive to reading. New Yorkers read, that's what they do. They read so much, in fact, that they anticipate books coming out, searching out stores and shelves for new releases like some other people would do for movies or music CD's. This pretty much blows my mind. Yet, they do it. That's what is weird about New Yorkers.

The two main divisions of customers that we have at Strand are the upper-class Manhattan intellectuals and the hipster youth. The upper-class Manhattan intellectuals are not necessarily all upper class, but they would be in the higher-than-median-income division of wealth. They might not even be that intellectual, but they read for recreation, or as least feign reading, for the sake of how their bookshelves look to anybody who might see them. Whether they read them or not, they buy books for one reason or another, and this obviously is of great benefit to Strand.
These people who live on the Upper East Side or the Upper West Side or downtown or in Greenwich Village or Chelsea or Gramercy Park or New Jersey or Park Slope or anyplace in New York that is expensive, which is most of Manhattan and some of the nicer neighborhoods of the surrounding burghs, file in everyday, lists in hand, of the books they wish to purchase. Or maybe they don't know exactly what they want, they just know the author, and so they have to look up the title of the book. Which is why they come to me, because I have a name tag, but I mostly just send them to the info desk.
Some of these Manhattan intellectuals take the form of a special group of people we like to call "proofies". Strand is a unique store in the fact that it gets so many copies of its books directly from publishers and reviewers, which is how it is able to sell books months before they are actually released in nationwide bookstores like Barnes & Noble or Borders. Some of the books that arrive early come in the form of "proofs", which are copies of books that have been edited to the point where the content is the same as when it will be officially released in a few months, but maybe there are one or two things that will get changed after the book gets reviewed. They are always paperback and they all say "Not intended for sale" on them, but we sell them anyway, in a special section in the back of the basement, for $1.50 a piece, which is why they are so sought after. The proofs take up three rows of shelves in the back, but the "proofies" are so hungry for cheap books, they will clear out a single shelf in less than an hour. Soon enough, it will be up to a person like me to put out a box of proofs.
The "proofies" hover around the area where the empty shelf is until I get there to put the box out. These people also have a particular smell, as one might expect people who relentlessly hunt for $1.50 versions of books would have a particular smell. The boxes of proofs come in dozens at a time, so we have plenty to spare, it's just amazing that these people come so often to clear the area of new proofs, so that others might not get them. In fact, I have been told that fights have broken out in that particular section, which is why rules have been set in place now for the "proofies". No person is allowed to touch a book until an employee has placed it securely on the shelf, meaning nobody can reach into the box and claim something before someone else has had a chance to see it. If anybody does reach into the box, I'm allowed to slap them. Actually that's not true.

The next group of customers at Strand are the hipster youth of New York, who dominate the colleges and art schools of New York, and live in areas like the West and East Villages, the Lower East Side, and Williamsburg, in Brooklyn. Hipsters are usually easily identified as wearing clothing that is tight but not flattering, including "vintage" T-shirts and jeans, shoes that have little to no character, and/or "trendy" glasses, like the black, horn-rimmed variety. These people tend to have either gone already or are going to college, are up on things, and are eager to learn more or spout their knowledge on the world via their views on music or poetry or explore their own creative tendencies through art or music or poetry. Hipsters are more easily identifiable by their behavioral characteristics, rather than their physical characteristics, such as their general hippie-like attitudes, smoking a lot of pot, listening to indie rock music, being on birth control, and talking from the left side of their asses about politics.
Strand is situated in Union Square, in New York, which is right around NYU, so the area is rich with these types of people. While there are quite a few who are intelligent, beautiful, and entertaining people, they still exhibit a good deal of naivety, which makes it hard for me to take seriously when someone asks me, "I think I want to start getting into mysteries, do you have any recommendations?" I would have liked to recommend not bothering me, as I only have an hour left in my shift, and I'd like to sneak in a few more pages of that book about why men have a higher sperm count than women.
The rest of the customers are pretty much normal people who come in casually and are not really looking for anything in particular. Or else they come in looking for something very specific and are wondering if we have it in our gigantic library of used books. I try to help these people as much as I can, but if I can't I would say something like this, "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know for sure if we have a book specifically on riding horses at night during a full moon in a desert in Spain, but take a look in our Equestrian section in Sports."
Strand has a lot of books, but they don't have everything. Even Strand has some limits. But the great thing about it is that there is generally something in the store that could appeal to everyone. A person who reads could find any number of books that would be interesting to read, from tractor-trailer transportation to Eastern religions to the Battle of the Bulge to the latest by your favorite obscure author or blog-writer. ;-) They also have a phenomenal rare books department, children's department, and art department. They run events with authors like book signings and video presentations. Even if one doesn't read, one could find enjoyment in the store, just looking through books or investigating the CD or DVD rack, or making use of the public restrooms! They also have a great deal of merchandise, such as T-shirts, umbrellas, and tote bags, which everybody and their mom seems to have in New York.

Strand has been good for me. I can say I have enjoyed working there, even though the work is none too thrilling. The people are great, and I have gained a perspective of New York and the world I would not have had otherwise. I hope others who go there to shop can appreciate it as I have.

To Marvel at Travel

This morning I woke up in tiny Beloit, Wisconsin, a speck on the map of glorified empires and dominating metropoli. At the end of the day, I find myself in equally diminutive North Arlington, New Jersey, a meaningless town to most people. And yet I went through and used the commercial and technological advantages of two of the most important and largest cities in the United States and the world in order to do that.

It is something of an awe-inspiring realization to come across how easy and carefree it is to wake up in a place so familiar to me and fall asleep at the end of the day in a different place so familiar to me, and for those places to be separated by more than 800 miles. It is almost absurd to think I traveled that distance in less than six hours.

One hundred years ago, nobody could do that, even if he or she had the most money in the world. It just goes to show how privileged we are in this 21st century to take for granted the extreme advances in technology others have suffered through to make it easier for the rest of us. If you really think about that, you have to realize the relevance and the importance of modifying your own behavior for the sake of the advancement of our society. If nobody pioneered to try and send electricity through wires, we would not have cellular telephones, a needless object that by today's standard, plays a vital role, and my opinion, a consistent nuisance, in our society as a whole. This is why it is important that you as a consumer, learn to understand technology and its role in your life and the lives of those around you. It is too important to take for granted why that plastic wrapper is there, how it got there, and what its effects are for you to just open it, chuck it, and leave it be. If you don't take the necessary time and thought to ponder over the wondrous advances and roles of our technology, how can you possibly consider yourself worthy enough to use it?

We, as human beings, are the only creatures on this earth that have the power to change our surroundings. Use it wisely. Take advantage of the efforts those who have come before you have put themselves through for your own benefit. Don't let it go to waste. There is no telling how much we could accomplish nor how long we have left to do it.

Why I am against stereotypes

I think it is funny how preconceived notions people harbor about other people are almost always inherently wrong. From simply hearing a person's name, viewing a person for the first time, hearing a person speak for the first time, one could draw all sorts of conclusions. Those are just guesses and nine times out of ten, they are going to be wrong. How can you possibly know anything about a person without spending the appropriate amount of time to get to know them?
This is what I've heard from people in the past two weeks: "Leland? Are you from the South? Leland is a very common name in the South."
Nope.
"With a name like Leland, you must be Irish."
Nope. Thanks for guessing.
I'm glad that you think you are experts at guessing people's backgrounds based on their first names, but don't quit your day job. I tend to think of myself as a pretty complicated person. People who have known me for years still to this day do not know what I am all about. Can I blame them for that? No.
In my opinion, it takes an incredibly long time to get to know a person well enough to just assume things about them. And like me, I believe everyone is a complicated person. Everyone is completely different (except twins, freaks). Nobody is going to give away signs that tell who they are deep down inside. That is very valuable information. Assuming stereotypes get you in trouble. And when you think about it, it is a very conservative thing to do.
Assuming a stereotype automatically dismisses the option that a person might not be all about what you think he or she is all about. It is dangerous because if you are wrong, and most likely you will be, you have already built up an image of that person that cannot be dismissed. Why even when you find out I am not Irish, you are still going to have in your mind that you thought I was Irish at one point. This is not so bad if you think of being Irish as a good thing, as I do, but if you have a bad opinion of being Irish, you are going to have a bad opinion of me, even after you recall that I'm not Irish. The fact is the opinion will be there, even if only subconsciously, and it might rear its ugly head to me or anybody, for that matter, but it will still be there eating away at one's subconscious until those negative feelings are harnessed in some way.

This is why racism hurts me in such a way. I grew up in an age where I had no choice but to learn about the past mistakes of American and world culture because of the assumed differences race presented. In reality, the difference among people with different-colored skin, and in turn their heritage, is, initially and only, the difference in the color of their skin. To think any more than that, the most obvious observation, is preposterous. So to think that because a person is black, he or she is going to rob you, or to think that a person with tan skin is a Mexican and therefore an illegal immigrant out to get your job, or to think that because a person is white, he or she has plenty of money to give away if you just ask for it.
I truly believe that racism is not as big of a deal any more as it used to be, and that is a given. Honestly, though, I feel that only the remaining stupid people left around from the past that used to believe with the majority that because people were different, they were less, maintain that point of view and the rest of us are just waiting for those stupid, ignorant individuals to die off so the world can be that much more equal when those people are gone.
Obviously racism is still an issue. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be talking about it. But hopefully, by keeping talking about it and bringing the attention back around to it, those individuals who choose to remain ignorant and stupid might change their ways without actually having to die off. It takes a great deal of will power and mental strength to overcome a precedent that has been instilled in you from a very early age, which is why it is hard for me to believe other than what I was told as a youth, which was that all people are created equal. But that is why time heals all wounds. Because sometime it heals by killing off the old way of opinion. It's all about perspective.