My Encounter with Rabid Paolo Coelho Fangirls

A while back, I went to my favorite bookstore so that I could vacillate about whether to buy a certain book or not. It’s easy to find where I am when I’m at this particular bookstore – if I’m not browsing the classics’ corner, then you’d find me at sci-fi’s; and if not, then children’s, philosophy’s, art’s or comic’s.

So anyway, I was skimming the first few pages of some books, when a bunch of giggling and attractive women walked briskly to my direction. Deluded into thinking they’re giddy by the chance of their lifetime to finally speak with me, I hand-brushed my hair a little and ahem’d as if to make my voice baritone-ish. It was a few seconds later when I realized just how foolish I was acting, as I saw them actually dashing to the books they wanted to buy, as if these books will disappear if not immediately attended to. These books were next to me.

“Okay, fine,” I thought, “I can still strike a conversation with them if they start asking aloud for recommendations.”

But I merely have to overhear small parts of their yapping, to realize that they’re determined to buy only one author’s books, and I can’t recommend any of his books at all. And of course it was Paolo Coelho’s, whose books seem to be regarded as the must-read for every caffeine-consuming and coke-sniffing college undergrad. I was flummoxed by what these books were doing near me. I suppose it’s at this point when I should tell you that the bookshelf where they’re located at were filled with heavy classic texts, like novels by Chinua Achebe, Margaret Atwood, Albert Camus, Anthony Burgess, Truman Capote, Jack Kerouac and Milan Kundera. I’m trying not to sound snobbish here, but I’ve never heard of anyone reading Paolo Coelho, and saying “Oh, his books remind me of The Fall, In Cold Blood and A Clockwork Orange”. And really, the titles of the books should be enough to tell you the tones of their contents are so far removed from The Alchemist, that the bookstore might as well put Harry Potter besides Fight Club!

So what of the girls? Well, as I said, they’re very attractive, but they also sounded like the most empty-headed valleyspeak-tongued ditz. So this first girl who was light-skinned, had long straight hair, wore high-heels, had great legs and smelled like Dandelions, said “Oh my God, Paolo Coelho! Did you know ba that I so like reading his books noh? I feel so saya whenever I finish his works! Grabe, he’s so classic!” Uh, compared to the books beside Coelho’s? Even at the more modern contemporary-corner shelf next to them - where I was - was teeming with Chuck Palahniuk, Haruki Murakami, and Orhan Pamuk, all authors who wrote intelligent stuff that actually criticized the society and had any urgency. Where are the intelligence and the urgency on any of Coelho’s work, like The Alchemist, Veronika Decides to Fly, and By The River Pasig I Sat Down and Puked?

The second girl who was bespectacled, beige-skinned, and sporting a Lisa Loeb look, wistfully remarked, “Alam mo, I really love to read short stories. What kaya kuya Coelho book has them?” (KUYA COELHO?!) Uh, there’s a Truman Capote collection above you, a Portable Jack Kerouac below you, a Margaret Atwood collection above you, and even after the quake beside you, and you choose Paolo Coelho? The third girl seemed to be the only one who doesn’t like Paolo Coelho. It’s too bad, though, when she said, “I don’t read books eh, they’re so nakakatamad”. Now that’s the most depressing. I’d choose someone who reads Coelho to someone who completely doesn’t read.

And not to propagate a stereotype or anything, but the girl who didn’t read was the boobiest. Her breasts were so big they could hold a book! Holy mothers! Anyway, you know where Paolo Coelho’s books should belong? Next to The Secret and Dianetics! And, yeah, way to dodge a topic, Nightdreamer!

I left the bookstore with Choke chucked inside my bag, and with more chips on my shoulders.