Tonight I stopped off at my local Half Price Books after having a few for a work happy hour thing. HPB sounded like a good idea due to the fact that I was a little buzzed (How did I know this? I bumped "Arthur's Theme" by Christopher Cross and sang along at full blast). In retrospect, I should have just went home.
HPB is one of my fave raves when it comes to finding cheap records and CDs. But 50% of the patrons are, to put it bluntly, the scum of the fucking Earth. Tonight a 400 lb sweathog in a neon yellow shirt was screaming about how he found the "Great Milenko" by the Insane Clown Posse and asking his little subservient bitch friend if Moby was "some kind of DJ". The dudes purchases consisted of the aforementioned ICP disc, 10,000 Maniacs unplugged, and a Staind CD. He then literally ran out of the store giggling with his partner in bondage.
Last week at the same HPB, a fat dude in a Canadian Tuxedo waxed poetic to his autistic looking son about Don Knotts and how he "remembered him", how zombie movies were so bad they were "dead" (pun intended) and how Dog Day Afternoon and Reservoir Dogs were the same movie because "they both had that Harvey dude in them".
Also to be noted, none of these people are even giving the books a glance. It's always the VHS tapes and the DVDs that are getting the most play.
Will the sweet mix of white trash, hipsters and the mentally challenged stop me from digging in the crates? Definitely not. But it just feels nice to bitch about it every once in a while. I see HPB more than I see my extended family, so I think at this point I have earned the right to rant about Auntie Half Price.
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