elfs | The Blink Blink Effect

Today, Omaha sent me on an wild goose-chase all the way up to Kirkland to locate a store that did not exist to fix a computer that is not broken. I'm rather annoyed that we need to fix the computer at all; it apparently has in its customized BIOS a unique identifying number, and the same number is burned into the CD, and if they do not match you cannot reimage the computer at all with the CD sent by the manufacturer. The BIOS is corrupt and now we can't re-image the machine-- not because it won't boot but because it doesn't recognize that CD as being its CD-- and it's going to be my mother's computer so we need the reimaging CD because she's about as competent with computers as I am with laundry, and if it ever goes bad she'll have to do it herself because she lives all the way in Florida. It's the kind of service arrangement lock-in that I find most offensive.

The store is actually in Renton, but both Yahoo! maps and Omaha told me it's in Kirkland, so that's where I went before looking it up for myself. She also told me that the man on the phone told her they were open on Saturday, but the voice jail system at the place tells us Monday through Friday, banker's hours. They're one of the few places in Seattle that is an "Authorized Toshiba Repair Center."

So, after figuring this all out, I head home. I realize my gas is low so I stop at the Chevron station in Issaquah across the street from the Cineplex and the little strip mall with the QFC and Starbucks and stuff. Since I'm in the neighborhood and not all that cheerful, I decide I'm going to go into a little store I know there and buy some new Hello Kitty stickers for my laptop; the ones on it currently are a little ratty and faded. The place is call Morning Glory, and is, unsurprisingly, a Morning Glory reseller.

Morning Glory is the Korean equivalent of Sanrio, the makers of Hello Kitty. They have the same schtick-- painfully cute characters saying painfully cute things to one another, all done in an incredibly kawaii look. Their flagship character is "Blue Bear," and others have names like Bimmie, Miss Rabbit, Babu, and so on. I'd actually be tempted to use more Morning Glory and less Sanrio if I didn't have to explain to people who the heck the Morning Glory characters were.

Now, why a Morning Glory reseller, actually named "Morning Glory," sells Sanrio stuff is beyond me. I suppose it's a gotta-do thing to stay alive in a tight market. They also have some Studio Ghibli stuff in there, as well as a small wall-display of Digimon stickers. They are not an anime store, and they don't cater to an anime crowd. It's much more for people wanting cute knicknacks and novelties. Sometimes the translations are quite inadverently funny in that way that only mistranslations can be. One diary has printed on its cover,

When I wake up in the morning, I feel you. You are like glaring morningsunshine. I am so happy with you.

So, I'm looking through there and I find what I want, a big Hello Kitty bumper sticker in bright red and silver, just the size I want for my laptop case, and I start browsing through the wall display of pop music CDs. The woman behind the counter leans over and says, her words slow and distinct, "Are you looking for something in particular?"

"No," I said. "Just browsing. Do you have any BoA?"

"No, no BoA. We don't have the Lain CD."

It takes me a second to remember that BoA did the theme song to Serial Experiments Lain, a very weird anime. One of my favorites, despite a lack of hentai moments. "Oh, that's okay. I'm just looking for BoA. Or maybe Baby VOX."

And then she freezes for at least three seconds, staring at me, blinking. I'm tall, presentably dressed but unshavenly scruffy in that weekend style some men develop, and quite clearly not at all Asian. I continue, "I've got Five-Five Special and Boyish Story. But I don't have Why or Come, Come, Baby."

That long stare continues. She shakes herself, looks me over up and down again, and I can't decide if she's weirded out or delighted that I seem to know what I'm talking about. She smiles, though, and talks a little faster, as if now refusing to apologize for her accent. "We don't have any Baby VOX now. Very expensive. Thirty, sometimes forty dollars a CD."

"I know," I said. "That's about what I'd pay at Kinokuniya." I bought the bumper sticker anyway, thanked her and walked out. There was something about the exchange that pleased me intensely. Maybe it was just the way she dropped the talk-slow-to-the-American attitude.