Ballad of Borders Bookstore

Like drinking poison, like eating glass -- #1674

Back in 1996 I used to beat hangovers by going to Borders Bookstore. This was during my Molson Ice phase, spending most nights under its sweet skunky charm, partly because I liked the fact that they used Jesus and Mary Chain’s “Snakedriver” in their ads and partly because Molson Ice was the first beer I ever bought legally in a supermarket. I turned 21 in the summer between junior and senior year of college, bored at home one night when it suddenly occurred to me, “Hey, I can go out and buy beer!” During my penurious mid-twenties, Molson Ice was my glorious compromise between drinking expensive lager and sucking down 40s of Crazy Horse and King Cobra. I vividly recall that first purchase, giddy with enthusiasm as I sprung my unchalked driver’s license on the teenage checkout girl like I just flopped the nuts at a poker table. I remember the first time I bought beer, yet barely remember losing my virginity. Though I’m pretty sure that Molson Ice was involved there too.

Borders was a sanctuary to me. The presence of books always puts me at ease. Plus I loved the fact that Borders had a proactive employment policy toward sideshow freaks. Afternoons were a weird combination of “Sunday Morning Coming Down” and a Tod Browning movie. The oddities at that place were astounding. One of my favorite stories to tell is the time that I was turned down for a minimum-wage job at Borders right after I finished grad school.

Borders Manager: “I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’re qualified to work the floor here.”

Me: “But I just finished graduate school with a master’s degree in English. I specialized in postmodern fiction. I wrote my thesis on James Joyce.”

Borders Manager: “Maybe we can find something for you in the back. You don't seen to have the personality to staff the floor.”

Me: “The guy working the cash register has a third arm growing out of his forehead.”

And then, of course, were the Borders customers: Romero-esque zombies plodding through the self-help aisles, dead eyes surfing the travel section, blank faces hellishly growling at Dilbert calendars and the latest antics of Shopaholic. It was a misanthrope's paradise. I'd sit back in one of those comfy chairs they put out for reader's too cheap to actually buy a book and watch the passing show. Sometimes I might even have a scone.

Anyway, two weeks ago I celebrated my graduation from law school and among my many generous gifts was $50 worth of Borders store credit. Solid gift, because if you can’t spend $50 at a huge multimedia bookstore, you’re probably retarded. Actually, you can be retarded and still spend $50, so long as they keep publishing pro-wrestler biographies. Or you could find something in the "Books for Retards" series, one of which probably instructs you on how to spend gift cards. The point is, spending $50 at Borders should have been a slam dunk. I stress the words "should have been."

The problem is that I refuse to read books anymore. I’m over them. Law school broke me and I no longer want to read anything, ever, for so long as I live. Words don't dance on the page anymore for me; writers squat over the paper and leave a steaming ink dump. Legal treatises and statutory code and law review articles: just make it all stop. I read for a living now. Books make me want to vomit. This is why, if you watch those disturbing HBO "Real Sex" shows about people that have to pay a dominatrix to shove their face into a toilet, they invariably turn out to be lawyers. It's because James Patterson is dead to them.

Fortunately Borders also sells movies and music, which works for me because I'm shallow, have almost no personality, and need to be defined by my possessions. Particularly my media library. As far as I'm concerned, the two worst types of people in the world are people that burn music CDs and people that don't scrutinize their DVD purchases. I had a conversation with a co-worker once where she tried to justify the purchase of shitty movies by saying that with rental fees and late fees and the cost of travel, you were better off just buying that copy of 50 First Dates instead of renting it. Are you kidding me? You might as well just tattoo "moron" across your forehead. How is it OK to tell the world that you voluntarily purchased and proudly displayed a copy of Little Nicky on your bookshelf? Dear God, what if you ever had guests?

“Wow. Me, Myself, and Irene. Gold-box edition. Interesting.”

“So, were you able to make eye contact with the cashier when you bought that copy of Dodgeball: The Movie, or did you have it shipped to you anonymously in paper packaging like you were buying European pornography?”

“I can’t believe that I’m sleeping with somebody who owns a copy of Gone in 60 Seconds."

I purchase music and movies not just for the entertainment value, but also for aesthetic purposes. I want people to know what I like to watch and what I like to hear and accordingly judge me on it. It's middle-class art. There's not much going on upstairs, so I'd rather have the fact that I own every Iron Maiden album up to "Somewhere in Time" do the speaking for me. You mock, but at some point in my life, someone will be impressed that I own every episode of Chris Elliot's "Get a Life." And as far as I’m concerned, if you can’t look at someone’s DVD collection and have a 90-minute conversation about the fact that they own Convoy on blu ray, you might as well be dead.

It's because of the ownership factor that burned music seems so repellent to me. Burned media gives it a disposable quality. Not only do you lose the packaging and the artwork, but you lose that innate need for possession and control that makes Western consumers so inherently special. It's American to display your junk. Some people get their body pierced, others spend gobs of money on shoes, I debate for hours whether I should buy the new Wilco album. Don't judge me. Actually, go right ahead -- the CD rack is right over there.

So the plan on this day was to make specific purchases with the gift card. Here was the agenda:

1. Thin Lizzy -- Johnny the Fox
2. Pavement -- Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain
3. The Departed on DVD

I estimated that the DVD would cost me about $20, the CDs about $15 each -- gift card spent, great success, high fives all around. Unfortunately, considering its been so long since I had money to spend at a massive megaconglomerate earth-raping franchise bookstore, I forgot the one great maxim of our modern times: Borders bookstore is the ninth level of hell.

Look, I'm old. I get that everything I like was made about a bajillion years ago and that every time I complain about how new music sucks I might as well hike up a pair of Depends and ask what time shuffleboard is. A few years ... OK, a decade ago, when bands like Oasis and Spacehog were all the rage, I remember hearing Robert Smith from The Cure complain that new music sounded just like recycled David Bowie and I thought to myself, “Wow, you’re really old.” Now I think that every new "great" band out there -- Arcade Fire, The New Pornographers, The Shins, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah -- they all sound just like recycled REM. What time is the canasta game, nurse?

So I knew I was pushing things by thinking Borders would have Johnny the Fox, even if it was the follow-up to one of the greatest rock albums of all time. But not only did they not have Johnny the Fox, but they didn’t have any Thin Lizzy whatsoever. None, nada, zip. They didn’t even have one of those little plastic display flags that let you know “Thin Lizzy would be in this section if you’re looking for it.” Godsmack has a little plastic flag. Thin Lizzy does not. This was outrageous. I would have grabbed the manager and pummeled him to death, only he had a third arm growing out of his forehead. That thing looked pretty dangerous.

It only got worse, as I next went for the Pavement. Did you know they “re-released” Crooked Rain in new cardboard packaging, complete with a forty page booklet that you'll never read and some horrible previously unreleased tracks that you don't want to hear because they completely suck? Is there anything more hideous than re-releasing albums? It's an excuse to gouge the crap out of you, all so you can hear the acoustic demo version of “Cut Your Hair.” But more importantly, they defeated the reason why I wanted the album in the first place: to be a pretentious asshole. You see, I already bought this album back when it first came out, because I was fucking cool and that's what fucking cool people did. Only I lost it. Now I want to replace it, scuff up the jewel case, and seamlessly slide it into my collection like nothing ever happened. And then when hip sexy women come over and scan my awesome CD collection, they'll realize how fucking cool I am because I bought Crooked Rain back when it was fucking cool to do so. Mad sex will ensure.

So now I’m pacing nervously through the bookstore, looking more confused than Alex Rodriguez facing an 0-2 count. Fortunately I know that they'll have The Departed. No question. And naturally they do. But do you know how much they're charging for it? $35. How dare you, Borders Bookstore. How. Dare. You. For $35 dollars Marky Mark himself better materialize out of the box to insult my least favorite friend.

I'm panicking now, my heart racing because I have no idea how to spend this money. I calm myself with an idea: bookstores are a great place to meet single women. This is good because, honestly, I could use a girlfriend. I noticed this last weekend when I was drinking chilled raspberry vodka from a pint glass while watching the Yankee game at 4:00 in the afternoon. I thought to myself, “I would sooooooooo not be doing this if I were engaging in regular sexual congress. I am dangerously close to leaving the house in sweatpants."

Ladies on the brain, I catch my reflection in a display case and remember that I’m a complete disaster. I woke up this morning at 6:30 to write a bar review assignment due for 9:00 class, scrambling unwashed out the door, with only three hours of sleep the night before because … wait for it … I was up all night playing ... wait for it ... The Sims. The Sims. Read that back again, rinse, repeat.

Weeks ago I packaged up all my junk because I didn't want any distractions while I studied for the bar. Everything fun in the apartment is gone, and I guess the only thing I missed was this dusty video game that I must have uncovered during some ADHD withdrawal jag or something. I wasn't worried though, because I never really enjoyed the game before. Even when it was relevant and new, I could never play it for more than a few hours before getting bored and having the guy piss himself to death.

It was probably a bad idea to sever my distraction ripcord while I tried to study for the bar. Turns out, you kinda need some breaks. And unfortunately, here were my only sources of distraction lately:

1. Watch “John Tucker Must Die” on cable

2. Masturbate

3. Play The Sims

After covering choices 1 and 2 to the point where Arielle Kebbel could get a restraining order against me, I gave in and decided to pop in The Sims. What a horrible game to thrust upon the single, lonely and unemployed. My little Sim guy was everything that I'm not: driven, active, outgoing, amusing. He had his own kick-ass pinball machine and he grilled up burgers every night and watched cartoons on his plasma TV. He worked at Sim City Hall and had a stable of hot Sim women. Around 12:30 last night one of the Sim women asks, “Do you want to have a baby?” Fuck yeah I want to have a baby! Turn on the stereo and let's get it on!

In retrospect, I don't think I was ready to be a Sim parent. The baby cries and cries and cries and cries, and you feed it, and it still cries and cries. No one is getting any sleep in my Sim house, no one is having any fun or gaining any logic by gazing out of the telescope on the back porch next to the hottub. My poor little guy barely has time for a shower before rushing off to work. Finally the Sim Child Protective Services stepped in and threatened to remove the baby if it didn't shape up. That's when I went to bed.

Anyway, back at Borders, I'm still prowling the shelves, even if I look like I have a meth problem. I suddenly notice a fairly attractive woman in the soundtracks section. We make brief eye contact for a moment and both furtively look away. And for a second I forget how repulsively unattractive I am, about how I haven’t showered that day or shaved in almost a week; I forget how I threw on a sweatshirt this morning that I wore all weekend, or that my eyes are swollen and red, my breath tainted by coffee. She casually strolls over, and now we’re standing next to each other, scanning display racks. From the corner of my eye I catch her looking toward my waist, and I forget that I was holding a CD I was thinking about buying.




She walks away. I put the CD down. Weighed, measured, and found wanting.

I think about using the gift card on the entire Police catalog -- on display because they're currently disappointing fans across the country. I reconsider because I don’t want the cashier to say to me, “You must like The Police.” I just can’t do it. In the end I settle for the new Bloc Party and some Motley Crue.