Last Wednesday I found myself unexpectedly free. I had no meetings scheduled, no conference calls, no time booked at the studio, no ad campaigns to be drafted, no family obligations, not even a full load of laundry to shackle me to productive adulthood. So I bolted for my favorite me-time playground: the mall. Any good mall is just as socially schizophrenic as I am. I can bounce from a salon to a Sports Fan Attic, breeze into an accessory store to grab a new pair of earrings (I like shiny things) before heading to FYE to pick up another Tarantino DVD (I like confusing things). I always save my favorite stop for last: Books-A-Million.
As I walked around in search of a new good read, I realized that outside of recommendations from friends I don’t really have a trusted source for finding new books. I don’t read reviews based on the notion that if I want to have an opinion about something I should probably check it out for myself first. Crazy, I know. And I don’t read book blogs or keep an eye on the New York Bestseller list. And above all, fuck Oprah’s book club.
I do things the scandalous way, the way I suspect many others do. I walk into a book store with my best renegade, rebel smirk and do exactly what I’ve been told not to do my entire literate life – I start judging the hell out books. Oh yes. By their covers. Even though this method is frowned upon, it is often highly effective. Oh, Dean Koontz wrote this? Chances are I won’t dig it. The title is 50 Arts and Crafts Ideas for Kids Under 12? Cool, but not for me. Picture of healthy looking food or a mean looking girl standing in front of exercise equipment? I’m out.
So there I was, sipping my seventh redbull of the day, zipping around casting judgment on books when I felt the strangest thing take place: those little bastards judged me back. The self-help section took note of the telling bounce of pride in my step and ignored me. “This bitch won’t ask us for shit,” I heard them whisper. Cookbooks beckoned to me with promises of culinary delights but gave up after they saw my non-existent attention span at work. “She’ll ruin everything,” they murmured. I wandered into the religion aisle and picked up a book or two before shaking my head and walking away. C.S. Lewis and Donald Miller rolled their eyes at my indecisiveness and knew I’d be back, just not when or in what mood. I picked up a GRE prep book, but the Study Guides called out a condescending “hey, nice to finally see you again!” and I swear I heard them whine “when will you take us seriously?” as I turned the corner. These little bitches, how dare they judge me?! It was I who was supposed to judge them, giving them a Roman thumbs up or thumbs down as they got thrown into my basket or placed back on the shelf. Trapped and overwhelmed, I headed to the fiction section where I knew it would be safe, where I knew they liked me. Of course, I had to pass the wedding planning shelf that I’d never noticed before. With my recent engagement gleaming on my left hand and glowing on my cheeks, books of wedding ideas and etiquette fiercely shouted my name, demanding I look into to this unknown chiffon universe. I turned left and found myself among romance novels and I fucking kid you not they blushed at me, knowing the scandals I’d caused in my day and the obscenities that come out of my mouth on the regular.
Finally, I stumbled into Fiction & Literature, land of the holy, aisles of the enlightened. But my judgment was far from over. Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow shook its head and looked down, disappointed that I gave up on reading it halfway through. Nancy Drew was pissed that I hadn't called her in over twelve years and the Hardy Boys called me a slut for leaving them for Sherlock Holmes. "Death of a Salesman" saw the dark circles under my eyes and warned against sacrificing myself to my career. Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus offered no critique, but whispered “do what you want and fuck the rest of ‘em.” At least I think that’s what it said, my French is terrible.
They weren’t all haters, thankfully. The Complete Works of Shakespeare and I shared a secret wink over all the allusions I now understood because of him. Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury cheered because I did finish it. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad joined in the applause, but even its happy face gave me chills. Just a Couple of Days by Tony Vigorito greeted me like a long lost drinking buddy and made me promise to hang out soon. “Run!” Fahrenheit 451 yelled, “get out of here! These books will be the end of you!” This might be a good time to tell you that I don’t do drugs. I mean, I drink, sometimes excessively, but I was not drunk at Books-A-Million. I was on redbull number seven, which may have something to do with it. I am probably some kind of yet-to-be-diagnosed crazy, as well. I am also a giant nerd. That’s like having red hair and freckles. Shit.
I'm not here to tell you not to judge books by their covers; I'm just here to point out that they probably have some crazy shit to say about you in return. I will leave you with the quote that popped into my head (thus inspiring this post) when I left the bookstore that day, angry and ashamed, judged and sentenced to a life of nerdiness.
“He never sleeps, the judge. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die. - Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian.”
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