The Book I've been pressing on unsuspecting strangers lately is I'm Not the New Me, by Wendy McClure, because it's enviously hilarious and also, like normal life, heartbreaking. Added bonus: the glosses on 70's-era Weight Watcher recipe cards included in the book and here. I find that if people don't think these are funny, we are just not going to get along.

Customers always want to know what I personally can recommend, even though it would be better if I helped them find something they would like; in spite, I'm tempted to take them to the new R. Crumb book and say, "I like this, buy it," fully knowing they'd hate it. And they want to know if I have read the book as if I might dupe them into tasting some hogswallow I haven't actually eaten myself. This makes me want to bang my head against a nearby column given the massive number of new titles that comes out every week. I believe most people imagine the bookseller's life consists of long, lazy afternoons noodling among the stacks, a book of medieval poetry in one hand, Oprah's latest sensation in the other, just waiting to pounce on them and press unknown masterpieces into their trembling hands, but booksellers call themselves bookslingers for a reason.

All spleen aside, it is thrilling when you find a like mind and can trade information and ideas--or help someone find something they really need that neither of you knew existed. I'm always amazed at the things people are looking for and find interesting, although the customer who was upset that we didn't have a unicorn section crossed the line.