Scenes from a Warehouse

I had to go back to Costco today.

I think that the parking lot around Costco may be a small laboratory in adaptive biology. There is now a population of tiny birds who seem to live only in Costco parking lots. You can see them hopping between cars, mad-eyed, waiting for a kid to drop one of those damp Costco snack bar hot dog buns or a suburban mom to trip and crack open her thirty-pound case of pretzels so they can swoop in and feast. Occasionally they send a scout into the store itself, and you see the little lost avian winging its timid way between the cavernous aisles or up among the Tron-like rafter system. A whole secondary branch of the species has adapted to the interior conditions, their plumage going concrete gray and their metabolism changing to digest packing plastic and basil lasagne samples. I think they may have developed a rudimentary radar system and beaks designed to penetrate cardboard. No one ever attempts to return them to the outside world--how could you ever catch them inside a structure some several times larger than the outside world?

While inside, I spied someone whose name I assume must have been Count Ennui von Narccistein: a young fellow in pale makeup, with flame-red spiked hair and enough piercings to keep him from getting within a thousand yards of an MRI machine. He was sweeping melancholically along the aisles in a floor-length black coat with black braid and black boots. I was totally feeling his Goth vibe, filled with a longing for the dark knowledge he must have paid for in blood and pain, when it occured to me that you just can't be the Prince of Darkness in Costco. Sorry, kid--you're not freaking the norms by buying a double-pack of Honey Nut Cheerios and a six-pound box of eclairs. To paraphrase the wise words of Devin Parker: wouldn't it be cheaper and easier just to carry around a big red-lettered sign that says, "Pay attention to me"?

Finally, I have to report on the high quality of Costco toilet paper as sold under their house brand, Kirkland's. See, when you buy toilet paper in bulk, it's easy to go on using it for several months without thinking about it and then suddenly be faced with an empty cupboard. So last week I had to run out to Wal-Mart to get a few rolls to tide us by until the Costco run today.

Now, I'm not a toilet paper snob. I don't demand 600-count Egyptian papyrus personal cleansing squares infused with Sphincter Tingle ("A Refreshing Blast of Mint for Your Nethers"). Yet I'm not buying Cousin Billy's Pooper Paper with 10% wood pulp and the invigorating scrape of splinters. The name brand paper which I purchased was several steps below the quality of toilet paper found in stadium restrooms. I had always felt as though I was slumming buying the Costco brand; now I've learned a valuable lesson regarding plushness and that the corporations may not always represent said plushness in a forthright fashion.

Thanks, Costco.