On the way, we stopped off at the art supply place Thomas The Bookbinder had suggested to me. My goal: get paper for the blank book I'm going to have him make for me.
The store is called Boesner and it's a chain in Europe, and the store is just unbelievably cool. I can't begin to describe the amount of art and drafting supplies they have in there---every kind of paint, pen, marker, pencil, canvas----and of course, paper. Handmade stuff, textured stuff, all different colors, all different sizes, some cheap and some very, very expensive.
So B bought some nice wrapping paper and I bought 200 sheets of acid-free sketch paper, and some beautiful yellow paper to use as end papers. (If you look at any of the Bukowski books published by Black Sparrow Press, they all had a thicker, different-colored piece of paper at the beginning of the book, and at the end. Not sure if it serves any purpose but it's cool-looking to me, so I wanted one for my book.)
We get to the cashier and the WTF experience begins. The cashier says, looking at her computer monitor:
"Your name and address, please?" It takes me several seconds to figure out this is what she's asking.
"I'm not in your files; I'm a tourist from the US," I told her.
She says: "Well, I can put that information in now."
B and the lady talked in German and the gist was, she wasn't going to take my motherfucking money until I let her enter my name and address in the computer. I kept my voice more or less reasonable but I was about as pissed as I can get and I told B: "This is bullshit. I'm not giving anyone my fucking name and address. I want this paper. Here's my money. I'm ready to go." The lady was nice but she didn't budge. "Fuck this shit. Let's go," I said. I was ready to leave my shit behind and storm out.
But B gave me a look and started talking and the lady started typing, and I realized she was giving the cashier the name and address of her long-dead grandmother. I was still pissed at this bullshit of demanding my fucking name and address and I almost said, "NO, goddamit, NO! This. Is. Bullshit!" And maybe I should have. Writing this now, I'm pissed at myself for knuckling under, even with the scam of giving a fake name.
We got to the parent's house and told B's dad about the incident. He started getting hot and said: "That's illegal---they can't refuse to sell you paper if you don't give them your name and address!" He went in the next room and called one of his buddies who knows the rules and the guy confirmed it was bullshit---they have no right to demand that info.
So when we got home B emailed three different consumer protection departments and told them what happened. We'll see if they respond.
It's really too bad, because the store has some fantastic supplies, but that bullshit of "Show me your identity papers, comrade!" just doesn't do it for me. Since when did buying paper become a complicated process like buying meth precursor chemicals or explosives or nuclear materials? WTF?
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Well, fuck. I calmed down enough to make this for supper. Turned out pretty good.
I subscribe to Bittman's "Minimalist" cooking videos via iTunes. It's free, and he has some great recipes.
