Bookstores and Bookstores

When I first moved to Red State, I rapidly shed my anti-big-chain-store snobbery. I’ve still never set foot in a Wal-Mart (I just can’t get down with the small-town-decimating corporate strategy or the gender discrimination thing). But I soon realized that supporting small businesses in principle doesn’t always work out in practice, especially when a lot of the small businesses in your town suck.

For instance, there’s a little health food store in Red State Capital City Suburb, just the kind of place you’d think you’d want to patronize, with a grandmotherly proprietor, a small but workable selection of natural food and household items, and a wall of vitamins and herbal remedies (which I’m not particularly interested in, but I’m glad they’re there). The thing is, though, they rarely have anything I’m actually looking for and, more importantly, the proprietor is a bitch. She’s always rude and often downright nasty. Once she accused M of breaking something and lying about it, and while I’m very open to the possibility of malfeasance on the part of my children, M hadn’t done it. So I’m sorry, but when I need something natural that I can’t get at the supermarket (which has an increasingly good selection, especially considering that we’re in Red State Capital City Suburb), I head down to the Wild Oats in Red State Capital City without a second thought.

It was the same thing with bookstores. Red State Capital City Suburb had a little independent bookstore when we moved here. Very sweet, nice little children’s section, and a great selection of John Grisham, self-help, and Oprah books. And that was it. Far from Cody’s and Black Oak, Borders became my mecca: poetry! books without happy endings! an entire case of gay and lesbian lit! I knew about the diverse, vibrant small-town bookshops crushed by the Borders juggernaut, but in Red State Capital City, Borders made real reading possible.

[Abrupt shift in position.]

Lately, though, Borders has just been making me depressed. I walk in, hoping to be inspired, and all I see on the front tables are pink-covered chick lit (which I’ve vowed to read no more, as every pink chick lit book I’ve picked up in the last three years has been boring and badly-written), books about war and W (which occupy enough of my consciousness as it is, so I’d rather not read books about them, thank you very much), and self-help books (just not my thing). I walk out of the store not even wanting to read, which is beyond depressing, since reading is…well, putting aside S, M, and E, reading might very well be my favorite thing in the entire world.

[Abrupt shift in geography.]

So what a pleasure it was to be in Northern California independent bookstores. I walked into City Lights and immediately saw so many books I wanted to read that I actually bought hardcovers (new collections by Michel Faber and Dave Eggers). They had Buzzy’s book on the front shelf, and Ann and Eric’s books downstairs in the music section, and Reggie’s book upstairs in the poetry room. (I know, disgusting name dropping, but they’re not very big names, and I can’t tell you how exciting it is to be in a bookstore that actually cares about the kinds of books my friends write.) (Though I have a feeling Buzzy is going to break out, and someday you’ll be able to say that you first heard about her at Not Quite Sure way back when.) At Point Reyes Books the table in front had biographies of women for Internation Women’s Day--Lucy Grealy, Dorothy Day, Beryl Markham--and all I wanted to do was sit down and start reading, which is exactly the effect a good bookstore should have.