I HATE THE STRAND

I Hate You and the Voice

2005-11-24T09:04:00.000+03:00

It's true.

Nearing the one-year anniversary of this suck/hate fest, I'd like to say that I've grown a bit as a person, that I no longer harbor all the same tired grudges, and that I finally make more than five dollars an hour at my current job. Unfortunately, none of these things is true. And I'm okay with that. From time to time. When I'm high. On meth. Then I tend to get all loopy and vacuum the entire apartment and my roommate gets all freaked out.

So thanks to the Village Voice and Rachel Fershleiser's excellent taste (send me hot pix haha LOL ;) *** cialis V1agra *** I'm not a stalker don't worry oh wait I am LOL LOL LOL OH FUCK I'M LOL'ING SO GODDAMN MUCH), this Thanksgiving, while my parents search for signs that I'm not actually the miserable person that I actually am, I can now offer them proof via the Information Superhighway that I actually am that person. Wait. Fuck. I forgot what I was trying to do.

Oh right-- somebody please give me money and a small Vietnamese child. Everything will be okay.

With a Whimper

2005-04-01T02:21:00.000+04:00

. . . and some gin. I'm also going to beat up some kids.

So here we are. It's been about five months since I first started this thing up in a late-night fit of rage and hate (fistfights are so three decades ago-- tough guys like me type HTML when they're really angry). . .

. . . And it's been an okay run. I didn't expect to build up my media empire or anything, as I only started worshipping Satan recently. (My stock in Hell is still relatively low at this point-- hence my only big payoff thus far was getting hired at Strand.) But rest assured, one day you will all be my personal fist warmers. This much I promise you. (You figure it out.)

Thanks and apologies to those who still visited even as my posts became more sporadic. Extra-special double-secret thanks to managers, their apologists, and even the Big Nance herself, who have deigned to grace this village of iniquity with their ever-watchful eyes. Even though we all know that you only dropped by to glean even more ways to make people's lives miserable, I still salute your efforts, because I can't imagine it's very easy to type in web addresses with those long claws.

And of course, kisses and monkey paws to those who left feedback, particularly if it was negative.

In the end, sometimes summoning up the rage was just as difficult as summoning up the ability to find any humor in it. In, you know, hauling garbage around and having customers sneeze in your face. (Being talked down to daily by the hideously incompetent and misinformed, however, is always a great thrill, I must say.)

As I'm sure many of you know, thinking about that place can be pretty taxing. Not like, Falun Gong-torture taxing, but more like the kind of physical and emotional duress one experiences after taking the morning-after pill. Oh, you know, the self-loathing, the second-guessing. . . and of course, the copious vomiting. We've all been there.

And then there's you, Nancy-kins. Those fleeting glances in the halls, catching one another's designer scents as we share those elevator rides. . . I know you feel it too. Kitten, you will always be my one true love. . . mostly because I was abused by my father, and have since developed a whole range of self-esteem issues. . . but nevertheless. . . it's just not worth my time anymore.

In the end, baby, all you get. . . is my complete fucking indifference. Have a nice life.

[Note: I'm not shutting this down by any means; I still strongly believe in everything it stands for as a forum. The immaturity, the petty grievances, the self-pity and lashing out, the coke, the hookers, I fucking love it all. If any of you still have anything to contribute, please do so, and I'll do my best to either make your voice heard, or at the very least, brutally insult you in front of a small audience.]

So yeah. Thanks for coming.

If you need to get ahold of me, go for it. I do write a pretty damn good email.

Friends, Honestly---

2005-03-27T01:26:00.000+03:00

This needs to stop. Enough.

You're little children, that's all you are. Children.

Kool K-9

2005-03-25T04:21:00.000+03:00

New format, please excuse site renovations.

Badass.

Customer/Brilliant Thespian of the Week

2005-03-16T21:09:00.000+03:00

Mr. Richard Dreyfuss, who stopped in long enough to do an impression of himself before buying a copy of The Sexual Life of Catherine M.

Moral lesson to learn from this event: Richard Dreyfuss loves orgies.

"I was in Jaws!"

Please Clarify

2005-03-14T22:01:00.000+03:00

Do I actually qualify for food stamps? Not that that's so hard to believe or anything, but the issue came up in conversation at work the other day.

[I don't actually know the prevalence of government assistance at the Strand. People make me uncomfortable, and I tend to avoid conversations with any degree of personal intimacy beyond whether or not I should grow a Tom Selleck moustache. For the purposes of this discussion, let me make it clear that I'm addressing this issue only in regard to the young twenty-somethings that float in and out of the Strand within a few days, weeks, or months, and not longer-term workers with, oh I dunno, kids or spouses or that kind of thing. You know, people that capriciously spend their money on trivial matters like shoes and diapers, as opposed to, say, jug wine and Interpol tickets.]

So within that demographic: is it clever maneuvering to suck off that fat, milky-white government teat, or just time to get another job? It seems like in the time it would take to file the necessary paperwork, you could just fill out a few applications to Urban Outfitters and Starbucks (I say this with minimal irony-- you get benefits a lot quicker, and unlike Strand, you get to wear a sweet apron).

Oops, almost forgot-- blah blah blah I hate my job blah blah grrrrr blah fuckshitpiss BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. Blah.

Re: Board Game

2005-03-10T09:45:00.000+03:00

$75.00 on a stupid fucking ring would wipe out my entire checking account and erase my brain.

When I finally quit or get fired, I'll see what I can do about throwing a "Strandopoly" prototype together. Then the Big Bucks are as good as made. . . and spent. . . on whores.

"I Cannot Stress This Last Point Enough!"

2005-03-10T08:54:00.000+03:00

"Who is responsible for this? I said 'sundry Chilean black-market baby-parts', not 'tiny white novelty cardboard box!'

. . . And for God's sake, get me more femurs!"

(sooooooooooooo bored.)

Okay Motherfuckers, We're All Doing Jello-shots

2005-03-07T23:59:00.000+03:00

Strand Spring Break is here. Just because you work 40+ hours-a-week for no money and no good reason doesn't mean that you can't be in Cancun.....in spirit.

I, for one, defy anyone to work as little as I plan to in the coming week. Month. What have you.

The moratorium on Hawaiian shirt use has been lifted; heavy consumption of girl-drinks is recommended during any and all work hours; Caribbean music, however, is still off-limits, because I hate that crap.

If you would like to be part of the Organizing Committee, contact me with a letter of interest. Currently there are two (2) positions available for people to stand on either side of me and prop-up my dead fucking body "Weekend at Bernie's"-style.

[Schedule Update: The Wet T-shirt Contest will be combined with the Luau when I spray Nancy with kerosene and stick an apple in her mouth.]

Woohoo!

Sublimation via MS Paint

2005-03-04T09:55:00.000+03:00

From reader "Danzig" (cute), who apparently did this at work. Kudos.

'Bout sums it up for me.

[click to enlarge]

"It's either quit or this."

Winner Announced

2005-03-02T20:30:00.000+03:00

...for the Best/Worst Tattoo on a Strand Worker Competition.

The winning entry reads, in plain text:

Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.

I hear tattoos keep their color longer if you soak them in irony for nine hours a day.

God, People Are Disgusting

2005-02-24T19:05:00.000+03:00

That's it. That's really all I have to say. They slobber all over themselves, breathe like dying wildebeest, have boils all over their skin, reek like halitosis and decay, are hirsute beyond comprehension, and worst of all, WILL NOT LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE. STOP IT. STOP BEING DISGUSTING. YOU PEOPLE HAVE HEPATITIS C AND GIVE ME NIGHTMARES. YOU DISGUST ME AND I HAVE THE STRENGTH OF SEVEN MEN WHEN I AM ANGRY.

From the Night Files: Strand Dream #174

2005-02-19T22:29:00.000+03:00

It is evening. I am asked to go to the sixteenth floor to help bring down one hundred boxes of books as part of some annual competition. It takes no fewer than three different elevator rides to reach the roof where the boxes are stored. I do not question the logic of any of this.

Piles of Monopoly money are stashed in various denominations along the way. Apparently this is some sort of quasi-Easter-like hunt, and a small cash prize is given to whomever retrieves the most loot by the end.

I duck into an elevator with a hand-truck and arrive at the tenth floor of a pristine office building. As I exit, the doors close on my cart, mangling it and very nearly taking my arm off. I start to panic because I am being timed, by somebody, somewhere. A digital timer appears at the bottom right-hand corner of my vision, but I can't make out any of the numbers.

I crawl around on the floor looking through boxes and pull out handfuls of fake cash, and to my great delight, I find a huge cache of orange five-hundred dollar bills. Cha-ching. I feel ten again.

As I stand up to run down the stairs, a crack-addict levels a handgun at my chest and demands the loot. As I am abjectly poor, and Monopoly money is all I have in the world, I refuse. The crackhead shoots me in the chest, and I go down, whimpering like a small child. All is lost.

Or so I think. A fairly fit lesbian appears and trades gunshots with my assailant. Her hand is completely blown apart. I am not one to look a deus ex machina in the mouth, so I dart away as quickly as possible, money in hand. As I make my escape, I wonder how I was able to discern her sexual orientation in such a short, violent period of time. I mean, really, it seems rather irrelevant given the situation we were in. Nevertheless, I resolve that in the future, I will be nicer to all females clad in army-green tanktops.

When I reach the ground floor, I run directly into another gun-wielding maniac, who relieves me of all of my Monopoly money. I hand it over without issue, as I have already been shot in the torso at close range, and doubt my body's resilience.

. . . And that's about it. There was a bunch of other weird crap, like eating insect-covered pizza, and dogs biting me all over my body, but I think that's just residual issues from when I was abused for several years as a small child.

Fortunately, today I woke up without any large wounds, or at the very least, no new ones.

AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH GET OUT OF MY MIND. I am going bat-shit insane. I need to get the fuck out of that place.

Monopoly money.

Personal Message: Disregard

2005-02-15T08:02:00.000+03:00

Nancy, you cannot be my Valentine. Please stop calling.

Also, I had no clue those little candy hearts came in "Cold and Black."

Delicious.

St. Valentine, Pervert

2005-02-15T06:30:00.000+03:00

Ahhh, what a way to spend one of the crappier holidays ever invented. I haven't been this mad since I had to work on Arbor Day.

To my fellow coworkers who have not done so already: I encourage you to use this highly dubious opportunity to spill as much of the company ink in your lap as is humanly possible. You have my utmost assurance that nothing bad whatsoever will result from your actions.

Good idea.

I mean, c'mon, we're not exactly the most attractive group of people in New York City at this particular moment in history. Good looking people don't work cash registers at the Strand-- they gel their hair or show some cleavage*, and get paid to flip bottles of Sauza around like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Very often they are treated politely, because they are beautiful, and I daresay it, better than us.

I say it's high-time for us to band together, drink ~~some~~ a lot of Jack Daniel's, and pretend we're not disgusting circus freaks for just long enough to break our hideously long streaks of waking up alone. Yes, even if that does mean going to bed with the loud/pretentious/psychotic boy/girl/shemale/leper who leers at you in between the shelves. You owe it to each other.**

But let me be perfectly clear that when I say "we", I actually mean "you." Because I totally get laid all the time. Losers.

*Register people: please don't attempt either of these activities.
**Quite possibly.

Oh, Life is Fucking Terrible Funny Sometimes

2005-02-10T08:46:00.000+03:00

So when I first glanced at this page a few minutes ago, I noticed that one of my recent posts is entitled "It's Okay to Drink Whiskey at Work Now, Right?" A somewhat autobiographical piece of investigative journalism at its finest.

Well, to answer the question in question, it turns out that is in fact not okay to drink whiskey at work, as at least one employee discovered recently. According to certain sources of mine-- that actually operate inside the Strand (you'd be fucking amazed at some of the resources I have at my disposal)-- last night a few workers faced a choice all-too-familiar to those of us that get paid to wear stupid fucking red name tags and inhale asbestos just to scrape by. The dilemma? On the one hand, a relatively slight personal physiological alteration, and on the other, STABBING ONE'S OWN EYES OUT WITH A GODDAMN PEN OEDIPUS-STYLE, EXCEPT WITHOUT ALL THE COOL WEIRD SEX STUFF PRECEDING IT.

It seems a few persons decided that it would be less-than-professional to commit hari-kiri at the front cash registers, so they instead retired downstairs for a nightcap . . . or nine. I won't dwell on the matter, suffice to say . . . well, shit happens I guess.

(On a personal level, even were they detained by our Disney-esque authorities, I love that termination isn't even a credible threat at the Strand. Everyone knows that it would only mean having to hire and retrain some other scumbag to do your job, while at the same time giving you a much-needed, long-overdue kick in the colon to go do something with your life already.)

Look, I know I'm a bit biased here-- I love liquor as much as I hate humanity. It goes with the territory of being a brillyunt righter and an abusive lover. However, I am not entirely without a heart, so I will offer these words of advice: forget that furtive hide-the-bottle-in-the-corner-behind-some-books shit. Drink openly, early and often. It's far less suspicious and far more fun. Also, you'd be amazed at some of the stuff that comes out of your mouth to people when you're stumbling around the aisles. I once asked a customer if she would give me a piggyback ride up to the second floor. (Her mother informed me that the young lady was turning eight the following weekend.)

Everyone there smells like some combination of urine and death anyway. We should be allowed to mask that in whatever way we feel is proper. The union should issue Jack as part of our health plan.

"Manicures and Pedicures are a Pretty Good Buy"

2005-02-08T20:26:00.000+03:00

If you're like me*, up until this moment every day has begun with a futile, early-morning attempt to summon the will to just get up go about your pathetic lonely life. Not today, my friends. The wait is over. The stars have aligned in such a way that you can forget about the weight gain and the open sores on your face and discover what your entire existence has been one, long, disappointing lead-up to. . .

Via Gothamist, the "Nancy Bass Interview." God, my spine gets all tingly when I say it. . . although I did just swallow a handful of pills.

Believe me, I'll have much more to say about this one later. Not the least of which will be asking Nancy today if she's had a chance to check out the site yet.

(Thanks to CM for the link.)

*Also you probably have a thing for hard drugs and hookers, but lack the money for either. So you lie awake at night in a cold sweat, convulsing & weeping, praying for a quick death rather than live another instant thinking about how your entire life can be measured in missed opportunities and people you have disappointed (i.e., everyone). God, you are fucking sick.

Yikes!

2005-02-08T20:04:00.000+03:00

It's a cookbook!

Two Interactions I've Had With Strangers on My Way to Work This Week

2005-02-04T19:59:00.000+03:00

"You want another one, buddy?"
"No. . . no. . . I have to go to work now."
". . . . . . . Oh."
__________________

"Do you have a minute to stop human rights abuses?"
"No. . . actually I'm about to have them perpetuated against me for the next nine hours."

Charles in Charge

2005-02-02T19:31:00.000+03:00

I thoroughly encourage those of you in charge of this sort of thing to write as many ridiculous descriptions of books as you can for the website and send them to me. Typos and inanity are welcome:

Sweet.

Really sweet.

It's Okay to Drink Whiskey at Work Now, Right?

2005-01-28T20:43:00.000+03:00

I certainly hope so.

And could somebody get back to me on the whole "punching people in the face" thing? I'm sort of going case-by-case on this one.

Astounding asshole contigent lately, I must say.

Maybe it's a by-product of THE BLIZZARD OF OH-FIVE!!! OHMIFUCKINGGOD IT FUCKING SNOWED IN NEW YORK HOLY CHRIST LET'S COLLECTIVELY SHIT OURSELVES NOW.*

*Sorry, that's just a direct quote from every local news broadcast from the past week.

Dollars and Scents

2005-01-20T20:34:00.000+03:00

I don't know what that means, but it's gross. From a fellow hellion:

What's up, sucker. Yeah that's right, I called you a sucker. You know why? 'Cause I just hit the big time. They just moved the big K-man (that's me, idiot, shut up) to some new sections. and gave me a fat new promotion. You see, now I'm in charge of the Sex and Substance Abuse sections. My Graceland and shit. Oh-ho!! Have fun frisking old ladies at the front door or whatever the hell it is you do. Now I show up to work in a Town Car and shit. Eat it.

Dude, have fun with the people that patronize those sections. Although I'm sure the creepy-old- lech/incontinent-alcoholic demographic there is only slightly higher than anywhere else in the store.

Now I shall "eat it."

Mailbag...box....thing.

2005-01-18T03:57:00.000+03:00

From the Guardian:

Blogger sacked for sounding off

Waterstone's says bookseller brought firm into disrepute

Patrick Barkham
Wednesday January
12, 2005

A bookseller has become the first blogger in Britain to be sacked from his job because he kept an online diary in which he occasionally mentioned bad days at work and satirised his "sandal-wearing" boss.

Joe Gordon, 37, worked for Waterstone's in Edinburgh for 11 years but says he was dismissed without warning for "gross misconduct" and "bringing the company into disrepute" through the comments he posted on his weblog.

[. . .]

"This wasn't a sustained attack," Mr Gordon told the Guardian. "I was not deliberately trying to harm the company. I was venting my spleen.

"This was moaning about not getting your birthday off or not getting on with your boss. I wasn't libelling anyone or giving away trade secrets."

In the past two months, the bookseller, who helped set up a branch of Waterstone's, ran bookclubs and appeared on radio and TV for his company, mentioned his work twice. On one occasion, he ranted about his "sandal-wearing" manager he nicknamed "Evil Boss", which he said was a caricature like the "Pointy Haired Boss" in the Dilbert cartoons. In another posting, Mr Gordon joked about "Bastardstone's".

[. . .]

"We are hopeful we can get him reinstated," said David Pickles, president of the [Retail Books Association]. "We feel it was heavy-handed and they have overreacted. The company has no guidelines to say 'please don't' [write about work on a weblog]. They shouldn't use a hammer to crack a nut.

[. . .]
"As long as there is no one being discriminating or offensive, if it is just fun and opinion, then I can't see it being a problem. It's just how he felt on the day."

Click here to read the whole article.

Poor guy. There are plenty worse things that can happen to a person than getting fired from his retail job, though. Like, say, cuddling with a kitten. Or being handed a briefcase full of cash and pornography. I could go on.

I sat around for most of the evening laughing about the whole thing, mostly because the comments that got him fired are among the tamer things I've ever heard in my life. "Evil boss." Ha. I love it.

The guy mentions work twice in passing on his website and drops insults that are the schoolyard equivalent of "dummyhead" and managed to get fired for it. I, however, run a stupid website entirely devoted to the moral, emotional, and spiritual demise of my employers, and make a conscious effort to be as juvenile and offensive as possible in every post. The only consequences for my actions thus far, though, are the massive amounts of celebrity and free corporate perks that have fallen into my lap.

I also wish that I had "trade secrets" to give away, but the rampant sodomy and forced cannibalism at the Strand are hardly secret anymore. It's more like a signing bonus.

Thanks to whomever forwarded the article.

It's Old--

2005-01-14T08:18:00.000+03:00

--but I still laugh every time I read it.

From "50 Most Loathsome New Yorkers" (NY Press):

#29 -- Strand Staffers

SLAVING AT A used bookshop may be a nobler vocation than trading pork bellies, but is it too much to ask that someone make eye contact through his or her Elvis Costello glasses? Is it unreasonable to expect the occasional acknowledgement of a customer's presence? Do new employees take classes to learn how to display utter contempt? Screw the Strand and its narrow aisles and indecipherable shelving practices and overpriced used books and staff of petulant clerks. They can ram all eight miles of books up their mopey asses. Next to them, the people at Barnes & Noble are downright motherly.

We're nestled between Dick Grasso and Joan Rivers on the list.

Leaked Memo

2005-01-10T04:59:00.000+03:00

Managers/Department Heads Please Note:
The new name tags are to be distributed to employees and worn immediately.
At the same time, all old tags are to be collected and destroyed.
For consistency's sake, no old tags are to be worn.
. . .
If any employee is more commonly known here by a less formal name, (at their discretion) they may trade in their tag and Robin in the 3rd floor office will create them a new one. (Please don't go overboard with this offer. This is meant only to ease anyone who is at extreme discomfort in having their formal birth name appear on their tag.

I guess that's good news for Poopypants Jones (aka, "Magnum") anyway.*

Extreme discomfort at the sound of their birth names. These are the people I work with.

Also, old tags will be melted down and reassembled into a giant red suit of plastic armor in which Nancy will strut throughout the store, vanquishing the naughty.

Yes, yes, I'm well aware that this is the type of ridiculous petty stuff that happens at every job, but if you haven't experienced it already, there's something particularly stupefying about the level of absurdity one encounters on a day-to-day basis while working retail. Particularly if your boss wears a red plastic suit of armor and is inexplicably prone to addressing all employees (male or female) as "Ray."

*I'm very sorry, this was the funniest fake-name I could come up with. It can't all be gold, people.

I Need a Girlfriend

2005-01-09T03:59:00.000+03:00

If you guys start donating nickels and dimes, I think I can start running Completely Nonsensical Political Attack Ads on television.

Commence Forgetting of Auld Acquaintances

2005-01-06T20:35:00.000+03:00

Yeah yeah, I'm lazy and haven't posted anything for a few days. I've been on a much-needed bender for the past week or so. . . so really, I haven't gotten much of anything done. Showering, bathing, paying bills, etc., have all been shelved for the time being. Probably permanently.

I think the spirit of the New Year can is adequately represented in the conversation I had with two kids from Kazakhstan that I met on the subway recently, shortly before schooling them in Super Mario 3 on their own gameboys.

"Are you in high school?"
"No. . . no I already did all that. . . I work
now."
"Wow! You're a man now!"
"Yeah. . . yeah I'm a man alright."
"Do you have a wife?"
"No."
"Why not? You don't want a wife?"

At this point several passengers were taking interest in our conversation. I took the opportunity to have another swig of Jack before I launched into something that began with "Lemme tell you a lil' somethin' about women. . . " I found myself tossing around the phrase "when I was your age" far more than I normally feel comfortable with. So, to sum up:

1. Happy New Year from the adopted kids I met on the 4 train.
2. Olde English the beverage is far superior to Olde English the language.
3. I need a wife.

Mystery Magazine My Ass

2004-12-30T08:10:00.000+03:00

Inbetween soliciting strangers for sex today, I noticed the current edition of The Strand Magazine sitting on a nearby newstand. After browsing through it, I have to say that it was almost completely different than what I expected-- i.e., it wasn't composed entirely of pictorial layouts of Nancy holding me down and kicking me in the testicles repeatedly (which, incidentally, was the only interesting thing I got for Christmas*).

*Just kidding. I got herpes for Christmas. Again.

(Thanks a lot, Grandma. I'll keep it next to the new socks....somehow.)

Holly Jolly

2004-12-26T01:49:00.000+03:00

This flyer was included with all employee paychecks yesterday. . . obstensibly our "bonus."

Personally, I find it very, very offensive.

Most Coveted Task of the Day

2004-12-23T08:15:00.000+03:00

Are the rumors true? Fred sending out errand-boys to Saks to pick up a fur coat worth several thousands of dollars? "Hey, you, kid-- no no, the dirtier one-- no, not you, I want the filthy, poor one-- yeah, you! Run along and grab a bag of roadkill worth more than your entire life, chop-chop."

I would have loved to see the interaction between Fancy Store Salesperson and Abjectly Destitute Non-bathing Strand Worker.

FSS: May I . . . help you?

ADNSW: Coats . . . gurgglhhggfzzz . . . need soup . . . where is soup. . . ?

FSS: Excuse me?

ADNSW: Please . . . I don't . . . I have a . . . a dumpster . . . .

FSS: Please sir, get off the floor.

ADNSW: [Foams at mouth; shoves both hands in pants]

[Long silence]

FSS: Ohhhhhhhhhh, you must be here for the coat.

Yes, this happened on company time, which of course isn't surprising at all. What would be surprising is Mrs. Fred opening up her present on Christmas morning to discover an actual fur coat, instead of a cheap ringer substituted for the original (which has since been pawned for three years' pay and some Chili's gift certificates).

Mailbag:

2004-12-22T07:29:00.000+03:00

From an anonymous email, subject line "cold-hearted Strand" (A possibly gratuitous, but more likely unintentional Paula Abdul reference? Yes!):

There is no heat on the main floor of the Strand. There might be a radiator going off without use in some corner of the Strand, but step on to the main floor on a day like yesterday [12/20/04] where it was twenty degrees outside and you can see your breath when you exhale. There are no federal regulations requiring an employer to control the temperature of a workplace, but sadly, for penny-pinching Fred Bass, he is operating his store in New York City, where labor unions were able to secure some workplace rights before they faded into irrelevance.

Just as your landlord is required to provide heat for you in these cold winter months, so is your employer. Call 311 (NY Government) and tell them you want to file a complaint. I did this morning. It takes ten minutes, and with enough complaints, they will investigate faster. You can file anonymously. If the owners want to stiff us out of fair wages and decent healthcare, they are at least going to have to provide a heated workplace where you don't need to wear a scarf, hat, and at least three layers of sweaters just to stifle the shivering. Keep fighting and praise god that you live in a town with progressive laws. Just try calling OSHA (1-800-321-OSHA) to get the New York number to call and you will see that you are lucky, that OSHA deliberately stonewalls and doesn't provide any assistance to help you find out about local regulations, will refuse to. While the federal labor group atrophies, we still at least have good progressive New York laws, and friendly people on the other end of 311, eager to take your complaint.

Are you suggesting that those small space heaters conveniently located next to the managers' desks are insufficient for warming hundreds of thousands of square feet of retail space?

Watch out for Fred's Pinkerton thugs, bud. Someday very soon you'll be walking through the M-through-O Literature aisle and feel a blackjack cracking up against that thick commie skull of yours. . . you'll wake up to find yourself naked, slathered in scallion cream cheese, and being eaten alive by sewer rats. . . or as I refer to it, "a successful Friday night."*

My own solution is to just set the place on fire, as matches are cheaper than sweaters, and almost as much fun to play with.

*with the possible (but by no means necessary) substitution of ugly women for sewer rats

Paula Abdul Paula Abdul Paula Abdul

Poetry

2004-12-21T06:40:00.000+03:00

A Christmas haiku. . . for you. . .

there's snow in my shoe
consume, vomit red and green
what the fuck is nog

(submitted anonymously by Monica)

2004-12-21T02:53:00.000+03:00

"I'm looking for a.....hey!...Hey!!...a..book about...it's like...dolphins???!!! Dammit! Dammit!"
(employee Five)

This would be funny if it hadn't happened to me yesterday. I'm not sure exactly what it is about the combination of retail and the birth of Jesus that's so awful, but I'm pretty sure it has something to do with talking to people and having rad dinosaurs on your shirt.

By the Way. . .

2004-12-21T02:43:00.000+03:00

We may as well have a fucking slumber party, seeing how our "Holiday Party" is advertised as being this Friday at 8 IN THE FUCKING MORNING. Yeah, sure, I'll see you guys there! In fact, I may just happen to be at work 2 HOURS EARLY straightening things up anyway, so if you see me around, be sure to remind me about the festivities, and I'll run upstairs and try my best not to vomit copiously on Nancy's desk.

Good Night, Asshole

2004-12-21T02:41:00.000+03:00

After collectively being evicted from their apartments, Strand employees have been graciously allowed to sleep on the elusive '4th floor' . . . .
(courtesy of employee Five)

Judging by the looks of the guy in the blue shirt, there will be no orgy to follow. . . maybe.

The Missing Link

2004-12-17T09:29:00.000+03:00

I wish I were sober enough to have made this up. From the "Missed Connections" section of Craigslist.

Sandbox, Strand Bookstore- Stunning Woman in Dark Coat - m4w - 32

Reply to: anon-52370608@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-12-14, 7:33PM EST

We got on the elevator together, and exchanged glances...I was the guy in the leather coat. You got off on Sandbox's floor, and we exchanged niceties- yet, I know on my end- I lost my voice!

I'd love to get to know you...

it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

A few thoughts:

1. Jesus Christ, buddy, I'm surprised that you even had a chance to 'glance' at that hottie, let alone talk to her. I mean, that elevator only takes 20 FUCKING MINUTES TO GO ANYWHERE, where do you get that sort of devil-may-care bravado? Kudos!

2. Guys that "exchange niceties" don't get laid.

3. We have a sandbox? And I've been masturbating in the bathroom all this time??

Please contact this intrepid gentleman at the email address above if you wish to offer thanks or words of encouragement. (It may be Matt from the front registers, if you wish to do so in person.)

Missed Encounter

Note on Previous Post

2004-12-17T07:38:00.000+03:00

There's a slight possibility that I may not be able to retire on that much money. However, I've never actually seen that many digits in my bank account, and have absolutely no conception of how much money five thousand dollars is. When I hear it spoken aloud, it sounds exactly the same as my little sister saying "a million ga-billion dollars."

New Plan:

2004-12-17T07:20:00.000+03:00

Buy "Take Five" scratchers from the deli on 13th & 4th on my lunchbreaks, win the $5,555 jackpot, do pantless victory laps up and down the stairs of the Strand. Quit job and retire in style.

Tonight's results: free ticket

Year-to-date earnings: -$6.00, or approximately one hour of my life (street value)

Newer plan: Hide cell-phone from self, drink 12 beers, call it a night.

I Know There's a Joke Here Somewhere. . .

2004-12-16T08:48:00.000+03:00

Oh wait, it's on us.

From a coworker (anonymous), via email:

Tonight, the union voted on the contract hammered out over the past few months by the negotiating committee composed of Strand employees, UAW folks*, and the owners. The union voted about 36 yes to 11 no to approve the contract, willingly stepping up to the noose. This is why the Strand Sucks because the greedy, rich owners find every way imaginable to shaft its workers. The new contract keeps the already low wages at the same level, continues the same set raise level of a whopping fifty two cents a year with no regard for a little thing called inflation.

But where they really shaft us is in health coverage, the one thing that one might have been at one point considered a benefit to working at the Strand. Co-pays for doctor visits are increasing 1,250% from $2 to $25. Prescription co-pays are also increasing to an insane amount from $2 to between $10 and $25, depending on how good the painkillers are you are getting to snort. That's what, about one weeks pay there? But the best part here is, you get $5 back if you present your receipt to the owner, so that that way, management can start harassing you until you are fired because they found out you were the one milking the healthcare system and raising their premiums.

Yes, yes, labor is dead. The Basses are dancing on its grave, singing dirty, capitalist tunes, and you are the ones filling their pockets, buying their wares.

Wow, what a buzzkill. Thanks for ruining the party, bud. Christ. (By the way, how good are the painkillers you get. . . ?)**

*Strand employees are part of United Auto Workers. (Don't ask.)
**Found it!

I Fucking Love the Post

2004-12-15T09:47:00.000+03:00

(click to enlarge)

Who the fuck is Troy?

2004-12-14T06:17:00.000+03:00

Only one of these pictures appears when you type in "Nancy Bass" on Google's image search.

(click to enlarge)

Slightly Dated But Nonetheless Respectable Journalism Alert

2004-12-13T08:27:00.000+03:00

From the top-notch news team at New York Magazine regarding store renovations (11/02, slightly edited):

The logjam of an entrance (which Bass admits "doesn't work at all", adding, "In fact, I believe that it is a Mexican entrance, and I will fire it immediately") will be renovated into submission, as will the truly horrifying bathroom. The slogan, EIGHT MILES OF BOOKS, will become SIXTEEN MILES. ("We already passed sixteen," says Bass, "but it gets to the point where nobody believes us . . . And then I get. . . angry. . ." she adds as a slight spasm appears on the right side of her face.) The third-floor rare-book room has already been remade into a rather sleek space, rentable for parties. (Imagine getting married at the Strand.)

Yes, imagine that indeed. In fact, I'm imagining it right now. Let's see, getting married on the third floor of the Strand Bookstore....hmmmm.....yeah, I can actually get into this idea..... I've never planned a wedding before, but considering the place, what's to plan? Many venues don't even bother to offer you a repulsive vermin infestation with which to decorate your wedding, nor do most chapels have a homeless person contingent sizeable enough to fill in as guests for the ceremony.

(Note: Can the guy who sprawls out on the sidewalk drinking motor oil double as a bridesmaid? Look into it.)

Hey, that guy on the fifth floor that looks like Meatloaf can be my best man, why the fuck not! You only get married once, right!

Wait, part of the deal isn't that Fred makes you marry his daughter, is it? Because I don't even think I'm capable of that much hate-sex.

The Gawker Thing

2004-12-12T05:48:00.000+03:00

Don't expect anything good to come out of more people knowing your life sucks. A lesson my father taught me well when I turned fourteen and he shaved my entire body.

Gawker Gets Alliterative

Wacky Strand Mad-libs!

2004-12-12T05:11:00.000+03:00

It's like ad-libbing, except it's MAD!!!!!!! Hooo-hoooooo!!!!!

Strand Madlibs

By the Way...

2004-12-10T07:34:00.000+03:00

Prospective Strand applicants:

On the job application you are given, there is a ten question match-the-author-to-the-book mini-test on the back.

FYI, the answer to every question is Jean-Paul Sartre. I believe that this is the only author Nancy has actually ever heard of, and that she frequently drops his name around the office* in a vain attempt to garner credibility for herself. Mention his name liberally in your interview.

*[e.g., "No-no-no-NO, you IDIOT, I don't want those expense reports now, I want them nine fucking minutes ago! Hey look, there goes Jean-Paul Sartre."]

A Few Words on the Minimum Wage

2004-12-09T20:18:00.000+03:00

From the New York Times (12/7):

Republicans in the State Senate forced through a measure on Monday that will gradually raise the minimum wage in New York State by $2 to $7.15 an hour by January 2007, overriding Gov. George E. Pataki's veto of the proposal.

. . .

Of the roughly eight million workers in New York, more than 700,000 earn $5.15 to $7.10 an hour, working mostly in retail and in the leisure and hospitality industries, say those on both sides of the issue.

Here's the thing: I'm all for helping the working poor in theory, but when it's in your own backyard, it's a different matter altogether. You see, right now, I'm better than all of those people. At least now when I wake up, often in a pool of my own creation, I can pull the needle out of my arm and know I'm better than some asshole pulling in $5.35 an hour. Ha ha! Good luck with that, sucker!

But now, come 2007, 700,000 nouveau [whatever's French for just above the poverty line] are going to be running around the streets of Manhattan waving their fat $7.10-an-hour checks in my face like the Park Avenue snobs they actually are deep down in their greedy hearts. They're going to parade down Broadway past the Strand in their handsome cabs, blaring Robert Palmer and tossing out handfuls of cash to onlookers.

They'll look in through the window of the store as they pass, lock eyes with me, and I'll know. And they'll know. Everyone will know. That I suck. Hard.

Drinking the Holiday Spirit(s)

2004-12-09T10:22:00.000+03:00

I don't even have a fucking fridge

(click on image to enlarge)

The Kind of People Who Apply at the Strand

2004-12-08T20:25:00.000+03:00

Below are a couple of the responses to Nancy's Craigslist ad, unedited, forwarded to me by "an interested party, completely unaffiliated with this blog."

Always wanted to be with a woman in your particular condition...Handsome
jewish gentleman...Very single, very discreet... live alone in the
Village...Health professional...Very giving... fun... interesting... well
educated... and warm...

g

In her "particular condition?" What, shrill, bile-spewing, and prone to feasting on the occasional fetus? Oh, that condition?

I'll spare this "gentleman" the gross indignity of posting his picture here, but suffice to say, he most certainly is not what I picture when I hear the name "G" tossed around. Next:

HI there,
we are a hot cpl in 20's (29 n 25), who would love to meet a nice lady fora
wild night of pure pleasure and exploring..
you posting drew our attention, as am sure we canhave some blasting times
together, nice bodies. discreet, clean, wild, ilove to havefun , and ......
(very beautiful woman with toned body and STRAP ON/ sexy with nice body and
thick 8' cock..She is a blonde/ he is tanned i assure you that we will
have some wonderful times
J & J

Yes, it's true. When I hear the phrase "blasting times", I immediately think "Strand Bookstore." Somebody flag these people's applications when they come in, and immediately move them to the front of the line. I think this arrangement could work out.

And let's assume that J doesn't mean his girlfriend is a beautiful woman with a thick, 8 foot cock. We'll just chalk that one up as grammatical imprecision.

However, I would advise leaving the "STRAP ON" at home most days, because when you work at the Strand, you're the only one getting fucked.

How Odd

2004-12-07T19:51:00.000+03:00

So I was just doing a little morning craigslist browsing, and somehow I found myself in the "casual encounters" section(!) and stumbled across this post that I think is a tad strange:

Woman of Dark Power seeks underling locusts for hot times - w4mw (12th & Broadway)

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/cas/51483221.html

Weird.

2004-12-07T09:20:00.000+03:00

Nancy uses weird birds as croquet mallets

2004-12-07T05:41:00.000+03:00

This post has absolutely nothing to do with the Strand

Week in Review: Least Overheard Customer Quote

2004-12-06T08:20:00.000+03:00

"My, what a clean, wonderful store. I am a very polite and/or sane individual and don't smell the least bit like mothballs/deli-meat/feces."

1st Annual Strand Sucks Photo Caption Contest

2004-12-06T05:10:00.001+03:00

We're giving the New Yorker a run for their filthy liberal money on this one. Here's how the contest works:

Look at the (very) poorly photoshopped picture below. Stare at it for at least twelve minutes-- really take it all in. Then, when you inevitably think up something that's actually halfway funny or cruel, write it down on a piece of paper. Then take that piece of paper, walk it up to the 3rd floor of the Strand, and staple it to Nancy's face.

Contest open to all; entries must be attached by December 31st.

2004-12-06T05:10:00.000+03:00

Nancy shows a new worker around.

It's the Most Wonderful Time

2004-12-04T10:56:00.000+03:00

You'll be happy to know that the Strand Bookstore (www.strandbooks.com) is offering a delectable holiday treat! No, not sodomy-- a radio reading of Dave Egger's Christmas classic "A Christmas Carol" by NYC's finest radio personalities you've never heard of!

However, WNYC has issued a subtle, yet significant warning-- if your radio broadcasts a slight fuzzy sound, do not be alarmed-- that is merely the souls of a thousand babies being absorbed through Nancy's pores for energy. The store doesn't run on Modest Mouse records, you dumb indie fucks.

It's a Good Thing I'm Drunk

2004-12-04T10:54:00.000+03:00

.....because I really, really hate my fucking life. I also hate the fucking Strand. Goddamn that place fucking sucks.

2004-12-03T07:59:00.000+03:00

Out for a drive

Barnes and Noble Specials

2004-12-02T08:30:00.000+03:00

1. Polar Express Chris Van Allsburg / Hardcover
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2. Night Fall Nelson DeMille / Hardcover
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3. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart Presents America the Book A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction Jon Stewart / Hardcover
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4. The Five People You Meet in Heaven Mitch Albom / Hardcover
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5. Da Vinci Code Dan Brown / Hardcover
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http://www.barnesandnoble.com
Same Day Delivery Available in Manhattan

Time to Get Drunk

2004-12-02T08:05:00.000+03:00

In fairness, I've actually had worse days than today. I didn't run into hate-gremlin Nancy "The only problem with owning a bookstore is that everybody expects you to read everything"* Bass, so my genitals are still more or less** intact.....but, as pertains to my last post, I was utterly thwarted in my every attempt to shoot up heroin in the bathroom, and entertain yet another fleeting high that passes for my life these days.

*New York Times, 11/5/03
**less

Goddammit.

2004-12-02T07:56:00.000+03:00

I don't think there's any place on the planet where people defecate more often than they do at the Strand. Maybe it's something in the 1000-year-old water fountains (that, nonetheless, are refreshingly cold), but good lord, do I need another reason to hate that fucking place?

Oh fuck.

2004-12-01T20:14:00.000+03:00

I have to go to work again.

It might not be such a bad job if there was at least a decent bathroom to tie up & shoot smack in.

2004-12-01T10:31:00.000+03:00

"Quiet, Old Man, or I'll bite your face off."

A List of Things I Could Have Bought With the Money I Made at the Strand Bookstore Today

2004-12-01T10:29:00.000+03:00

-shoe (1)
-crappy Free Generic New York Subway Newspaper (13)
-rent* (*should be relocated to the "things my parents will have to spend today's money on" list)
-goldfish, live (4)
-goldfish, crackers (57)
-goldfish, mixed (12)
-Kix Cereal (9...kernels, or balls, or whatever denomination Kix comes in)
-books (Actually, reading is frowned upon at the Strand Bookstore. I've actually been threatened with termination, on more than one occasion, if I am caught reading a book. 18 miles of books, Jesus Christ-- it's the "water, water, everywhere..." business model over there. I'd hate to work at one of their brothels.)
-and believe me, they run those too.
-gin (nowhere near enough)

2004-12-01T10:21:00.000+03:00

Where I work.

God, the Strand sucks

2004-12-01T09:21:00.000+03:00

I mean, it really does. Honestly. If I were Nancy, I'd kill myself if I weren't such a misanthrope that I could purchase a suicide weapon or drug somewhere (because that would involve talking to someone without managing to bite their entire face off praying-mantis-style).

If I were Fred, I would strongly consider looking into a late-late-late-late-late-late-late-late-late-term abortion.