no. (roses_rejoice) wrote,
no.
roses_rejoice

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In which I get Nervous in a Bookstore and then see a Bink Pike.

After Easter church, which was unremarkable (overflow mass in the basement, need I say more?), I decided to kill a little time by stopping into Bridge Street Books, the indie bookseller near the church that I used to regularly drop into when I was young and had to Metro into Foggy Bottom and then walk a bunch of blocks thus passing the block with the bookstore. I've been impressed that they stayed in bizness all these years, and thought I'd step in and see what all they had and take a little jaunt down Memory Lane, to the days when I would go in there to look at the row of music and culture paperbacks imported from UK that you couldn't get anywhere else then, books on punk and post-punk that cost twice as much as reg'lar US books and came in weird little baggies, like dope. I always would look and maybe read a couple pages, but I don't recall ever buying one. For one thing, I didn't have a ton of money back then and a book that cost 25 or 30 bux was a significant purchase; for another, buying them was something I was always going to "get around to" and then when I was actually standing in the sto' I din't want any because books about punk n' such would remind me how miserable I was, how despite having a Job and being on a Coast with access to all the good showz I'd left all my friends (what there was of them, dwindling hourly) back in Oh-hi, along with my tro0 identity, felt like, and I wasn't getting much of anywhere with anything I actually Wanted to do in my life, which in those dayz was prolly band-related or sumthin'. The books would make me think I should really be living in LA or NYC or London or anywhere other than the place I was in, someplace where bands were for fun and not for Pollytix and weren't run by a bunch of overserious vegan social activists with whut I considered ugly wardrobes. The result was always I would not buy any of the music books and I would leave the store slightly depressed. I did buy other books there, I'm pretty sure, but the only one I can really remember is a cheapie I got off the sale table they always have out front (still do) that was basically instructions on how to cook hotdogs, baked beans, roasts of beef etc. on your car engine while driving long distances. It cracked me up, besides I was also continuously hungry from perpetually dieting in those days. Sadly, I have yet to actually try any of the recipes, but given time...

Nowadays you can get your punk books at Borders or Amazon and find every other off-the-wall book you ever wanted on ABEBooks so I hadn't darkened the door of this particular physical bookstore in prolly over a decade. It wasn't all that great of a visit, unfortunately. Some homeless guy was hanging around in front and after pestering the store managers for change, he decided to come in and look at the books. Which would have been OK except he smelled. At least, being homeless, he had a bit of an excuse compared to a lot of other smelly people one runs afoul of in bookstores, but it didn't make it any more pleasant to browse with him around. After he finally left, I had to put up with all the store clerks and managers socializing loudly in the front of the joint, yakking it up about their college courses, their upcoming vacations and other subjects that I could do without hearing about, esp in a bookstore, which to me is an atmosphere similar to a library, and if you're gonna talk loud at least be having a heated discussion of anarchy or European history or something, not bemoaning the fact that you still have to take a language course and don't know which one to take cuz they all suck.

Despite all the distraction I looked at some art books of Fillmore posters and one on that Joseph guy who made boxes (I want to say Joseph Cotton but that was some actor) and one on some gay artist also called "Joe" who was a contemporary of O'Hara (who I am still wending my way through the book about that I bought from Rafeeq at the Madbunny show years back) and who (Joe I mean) was apparently fly enuf in his day that his pal published a bio of him after he died, but who I had never heard of and I suspect most of the rest of the world hadn't either. I read a little of the new Dean Wareham book, Black Postcards, before deciding Dean Wareham is a pretentious arse (I can't stand men who have difficulty choosing between their wife and their gf anyway, either make a decision or just date 'em both until one drops out) and I'll just wait till his tome comes out in paperback and then buy one used. Or hell, maybe a used hardback, they're cheaper. Then I wandered to the back of the store and saw a book entitled in capital letters "ANTS HAVE SEX IN YOUR BEER" and really, that was just about Enuf on an Easter afternoon, so I cruised right on out of there and of course got accosted by the same homeless dude who was hanging around outside. He'd been eyeing me in the store too and I don't kid myself it's cuz I look so good, it's cuz they think an older lady who's not dressed up like a rich bich or like Powersuit Barbie is gonna be an easy mark for their sob story. NO, esp since I just saw the booksto' dudes giving you a handout.

I did see the obit of the supposedly "last" user of a secret Chinese women's code, the newspaper version of this article, which had been cut out of the paper in 2004 when it first ran and taped to the side of a bookshelf, way in the back of the store. That yellowing newspaper article was about the coolest thing in the joint.

oh, and I saw this on the way back to work. this camera fone picture I took just shouts "Easter" to me.



life is a lot more pleasant when you weed out all the annoying distractions and just keep the nifty ones, like bink pikes with pink foam cubes in their baskets stuck full of big purple sunflowers.
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