Feeling glum and malnourished, I went out for a bagel, and stopped at the Independant Intellectual Bookstore down the block. Generally I don’t go there, because I am not nearly cool or intellectual enough–this is a place for people who can really get into poetry written by tormented Korean sweatshop workers and who practice composting and could explain all the references in “Naked Lunch” if you asked them to, completely disabusing you of the notion that it was about a crazy guy seeing fishmen and talking typewriters. Their sci-fi/fantasy/horror section is a thin bookcase labelled “Other” which mostly serves to house books by Tepper, Gibson, and Octavia Butler, with carefully handwritten notes by the staff about how these books, despite being fantasy, are actually metaphors for suffering of peasants during the Russian revolution and thus okay.
They also carry “Preacher” for some odd reason. No other comics, but they’ve got every “Preacher” ever written. This gave me pause. Someday I’ll read the rest of those–it’s a guilty pleasure. And, wedged in between all the fantasies with social conscience are a few old favorites and bestsellers, looking vaguely embarassed that they are not a metaphor for anything in particular.
It is a sign of my general blahs at my husband’s absence that I went for the most cheesy, comfort-food, young-girl-overcomes book available, which is naturally by Mercedes Lackey. God, the shame. It’s the equivalent of Ben & Jerry’s for the soul…nothing but empty calories. Mmmm….Ben and Jerry’s…To hide it on the walk home, I also picked up “Dr. Tatiana’s Sex Advice For All Creation” which, despite being on evolutionary biology, looks like a cheesy sex advice book. It is perhaps a sign of the wiring in my brain that I would far rather people think I had trouble with my love life than see that I am reading Mercedes Lackey. It’s probably due to lack of adequate nutrition. I tried to make a TV dinner earlier. Let’s just say that was a learning experience and move on.