Nevermind, you can have the seat you pervert!
I was reading American Psycho on the bus the other day, and during my ride I read through several fairly graphic scenes, alternating between the violent and sexual, and, if you’ve read the book, you’ll know what I mean when I say that they are evocative in one way or another.
And suddenly, as I was reading one of the more sexual scenes, I became aware that I was reading this surrounded by a bunch of commuters crammed around me. With eyes. That can probably read. And I looked back down at the page I was reading and some of the naughty naughty words that were thereupon printed suddenly seemed bigger and bolder than the others (including, but not limited to, one that rhymes with the name given to the smallest dog in a litter. And things were happening to it.). And I thought, “what if other people look over and read all of these naughty naughty words and get offended?”
But then I thought, “I’ve heard and seen some inappropriate stuff actually happen on MUNI,” so maybe it’s just the innate puritan in me trying to get out.
Leaving aside the magazines with the glossy pages and actual pictorial depictions of a graphic nature, is there any literary work that you think is off limits on the rails?
Perhaps this is silly. Perhaps this is like writing a yelp review of the golden gate bridge. This is the Alcatraz of SF bookstores. Iconic because of its history of the iconoclast. Chances are, if you’re reading this blog, you’ve been here. And likely, the first time you came here, it was less of a weekend stroll and more of a pilgrimage.
Best known for its patronage of the beat poets (Allen Ginsberg, for example), City Lights continues to flourish as an independent publisher, consistently churning out a large number and variety of quality works. Walking through this bookstore, surrounded by the gritty and touristy, yet somehow still charming North Beach, I get the same feeling I do when I walk through a cathedral in Europe. A certain curiosity takes over as one can almost smell the history. You know you’re somewhere special.
They have a great selection of new and old titles. This was, in fact, the place I picked up my first book authored by Jose Saramago many moons ago.
You can get there on the 8x, the 41 Union, 30 Stockton or 45 Union/Stockton. Caffe Trieste is also just up the street.
Your fearless leader fearfull follower book stalker is back from…well, not quite the dead. I guess more like if instead of being dead, Lazarus had taken some time off between jobs and then didn’t want to do anything involving a glowing rectangle (at least the kind that has a board of plastic letters attached in some fashion) during that time, and then started the new job and was like daunted by the 22nd St.-perspective-from-Church St.-like gradient of a learning curve of said new post so that more doing stuff just seemed like a bad life choice.
All the google image results for Lazarus were spooky, so here is Lisa Lazarus, Ms. Universe UK 2008. Much better than the jesus/mummy pics. From football.co.uk.
And it was not the JC that brought me back from my ambitious laziness! No, it was because I finally managed to wrestle loose of the embrace of Infinite Jest after it had imposed a six month literary embargo on me. I am now free to try out some probably shorter works and hopefully something that is less dense than Pb (and I don’t mean peanut butter, crunchy or otherwise). And this also means that I’ll have some time to shadow Muni bookworms.