What was a garage sale in California and a yard sale in Virginia is, I've been told again and again, is a stoop sale in Brooklyn. Don't call it a garage or yard sale or you will anger the gods of capitalism and Milton Friedman will give you rectal cancer.

    About a week ago, May and I found a flier in our mailbox announcing a block wide stoop sale. The theory is that, once you reach a critical mass of tables, the event becomes noteworthy in and of itself and this attracts more patrons.
    We've always been meaning to clear out the basement of clutter, but we've always been a little hesitant to throw a stoop sale of our own as we don't have any old furniture, musical equipment, sporting goods, or any of the other a-list stuff. Instead, we've just got a ton of books. Mostly, we get them from May's gig. I reckon May brings about ten new books into the home a week. Then, as if this wasn't enough to keep me busy, I must by another four or five a month. Then there's the comic books and "graphic novels" and whatnot that flow in regularly. We're actually down one shelf because we over packed it and broke the damn thing.
    What's wrong with books?
    Well, there's a little theory about yard . . . I mean stoop (is that a lump?) sale books in Brooklyn and it goes like this: Walking cultures made up disproportionately of people who work in publishing and live in small apartments don't need to pay for books if they'll accept randomness. Since the selection of books at a stoop sale will be random, it is competing with free books and will lose.
    Let's break it down. First, densely populated sections of Brooklyn include a substantial number of people who live in absurdly tiny spaces. Second, a disproportionate number of them work somewhere in the publishing industry – they're authors or editors or production folk or wholesalers or retail or marketing and pub – so there's a constant and steady stream of free books flowing into these tiny apartments. At any given moment, 43.789532% of the neighborhoods population is in danger of being buried alive in their own shoebox-sized homes under the unceasing rush of free reading copies. That's a science fact, 'cause it is, like, such an exact number. Third, to prevent death, the at-risk Brooklynites regularly dump books in small piles on the sidewalks in front of their homes. Sometimes you do this by putting them in a nice little box with a little sign that reads "Free – Please Save Us and Take Some Books – They're Trying to Kill Me." Mostly, though, people just dump 'em. Forth, Brooklyn is a walking culture. This means, on any day, you will walk past one or two stashes of free books. If you happen to be one of the twenty-odd Brooklynites that aren't in the book biz, you get second hand access to the bounty of freebies simply by virtue of walking around. Since everybody walks, everybody gets access to free books. Finally, there is a catch: The selection is going to eccentric. For example, here's the finds in my last catch: an advanced reader edition of Charles Baxter's next novel, a Norton-sized antho called "A Modern Southern Reader," a 1948 collection of radio show scripts (intended for classroom use), and a memoir about growing up in a haunted house by a woman who was originally (including the time in the spook house) a man. Surreal selection is the hidden cost of free books.
    Given this context, we always assumed that books at a stoop sale were something like "coals to Newcastle" at a tired cliché convention. The selection wouldn't be big enough to attract those looking for a specific title and any cost would be more than the patient Brooklynite would eventually pay (that is to say: nothing).

     Actually, I should say, by we I mean me. May, being a professional bookseller, is convinced that a good enough retailer could sell Dawkins to the Pope and have him coming back for the latest Hitchens tome.

    As it turns out, May was right. We cleared out the basement and sold more than $100 worth of books. Considering that they were going at the rate of three for a buck, I reckon we got rid of (with give-aways and bulk purchases) nearly 400 books.
    My theory about stoop sale books didn’t take into account two critical factors: book addicts and pro-buyers.
    The addicts: We had a constant flow of cats and kittens in single three-book purchases. (The three-for-a-buck pricing was May's clever idea – three for $1, or one for $0.50 – folks almost always went for the three, which, since the primary goal was to clear these mammer-jammers out of the house, way good enough.) Almost every single one of these folks mentioned that they already had too many books and that the last thing they needed was more books. Many of them were actually in the company of a significant other who attempted to dissuade them from purchasing, on the same "you've already got too many" grounds. Still, more often than not, the best indicator that a browser was going to buy some books was a vocal proclamation that they didn't need more books.
    The pro-buyers: we got two gents that, alone, made up the majority of our sales – about $80 bucks collectively. They made no bones that they were buying for re-sale. They hit our table like a swarm of locusts. Amusingly, one of them also runs a table not far from my church and I'm pretty certain he bought back a couple of his own books to sell them again.

    The famous neighbors – Actress X and Actor Y – their identities aren't secret really, I just can't be bothered to look up the spelling of their names – swung by the table with their families who were visiting. They didn't buy any books, but one of them bought an old t-shirt of mine. A t-shirt for the Wo-Hop restaurant in Chinatown. Cost them a buck. Apparently that's where they announced their engagement to their families.

Sunday School

    Apparently the whole Ten Commandments thing didn't reinforce any moral lessons the church may have tried to impart. We spent most of today's lesson off-topic, discussing how to get free chocolate milk from the Starbucks counters in Barnes and Noble stores.

    Since that's more interesting and useful than my meditations about what kids do and do not think is right or wrong, I'll share.

    Free chocolate milk starts with swiping a Starbuck cup. I'm told this isn't hard if they're busy. Check near the serving area.
    Then take the Starbucks cup over to the station where they have the napkins and stirrers and the like. There you'll find milk and chocolate powder.
    Mix and stir. Now you've got chocolate milk. Easy peezie, right?
    This may be enough for you. Maybe you just want chocolate milk or maybe, just maybe, you don't have the guts to work in the big leagues. That's fine, little man. Stay here with your room temperature chocolate milk. There's nothing wrong with knowing your limitations. Meanwhile, the rest of us are going to pull the old crew together for one last big-time hot chocolate score.

    For advanced chocolate thieves in Starbucks-saturated areas, try the following:
    At the first Starbucks, make yourself a basic chocolate milk.
    Leave for another Starbucks. At SB2, using the chocolate milk you made in an official Starbucks cup as proof that you purchased hot chocolate, tell the barista that you ordered hot chocolate at the Starbucks up the street, but now you're thinking that you'd like whipped cream. Ask for whip cream. They will usually give you whipped cream without a problem. Thank the barista and leave for a third Starbucks.
    At the third Starbucks, designated SB3 on the heist blueprints, present the whipped-cream topped chocolate milk to the barista. Explain that, at a previous Starbucks, you purchased a hot chocolate with whipped cream. Explain that you started to drink your hot chocolate and it was cold. Do not ask for a new hot chocolate! That will raise suspicions. Jeez, man! What were you thinking? You're gonna queer the whole job. Stay cool, man. Humbly ask the barista if it would be okay to maybe throw the cold chocolate you've got into the microwave or something. Do not suggest that you want money back or a new drink or anything like that. Nine times out of ten, the barista will just throw out the cup you give them and make you a new hot chocolate with whipped cream on the spot.

    That's what we all learned in church school today.

Title song: Juvenile Thrills by The Launderettes