I read the above book the other day and was highly offended by the following:
My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden question in an impudent tone. “Can you help me find a movie?” It sounded like a challenge.
I looked up to find the skinny punk looking at me expectantly. He was quite a few years younger than me, probably early to midtwenties. He was about five-seven. He was wearing combat boots, a T-shirt that had been washed so many times I could practically see through it, and baggy jeans that were low on his hips. At least his ass wasn’t showing.
“Maybe,” I said. I would have liked to be able to just say yes, but it would have been a lie.
“Can’t really figure out your system.”
He gave me a lopsided smirk which might have been cute if it wasn’t so annoying. “What alphabet you usin’?”
He had me there. I had given up on the alphabetical thing a long time ago. “They’re grouped by genre.” I pointed to the little labels at the top of the shelves.
“In theory, man, but they’re all fucked up.”
I was starting to get annoyed. Not least of all because he was probably right. Still, I didn’t really want this punk giving me lessons on how to run my business. “Like what?”
“Like this.” He pointed to the shelf next to him. It was labeled Classics. “Sixteen Candles is not a classic.”
What. The. Fuck.
Sixteen Candles is SO a friggin’ classic.