I meant to go back to The Last Bookstore in downtown L.A. I didn't make it. I was seduced by the 99 Cents Only store. And Samy's Camera. More about that later.
There was a moment when I looked at the woman in the chair and I felt, something. Well, it was more than that; like time traveling to a bookstore off of Market Street, past the hot pretzel store.
More like a window. But there was a place where broke folks could do serious reading. You could find books for 25 cents or four for a dollar.
Magazines for a dime or high toned ones for fifty cents. A place where you buy underground comix like Dirty Duck and Mickey Rat. Or Pudge, Girl Blimp.
Have I written about this before? Hold on...
Dang it. I think I have a cootie in my browser.
So I'll have to stop being an old fuddy duddy and deal with something trying to report back to home base.
But there is something about her looking for a resting place. A place where solid words are still honored and not used as a weapon or talking points. Which I'm not going to be able to contemplate because something is messing with my system.
Because you have to invade to sell. Sell, sell and keep selling no matter what.
Whoopie, assault capitalism.
(Not against capitalism. Not necessarily for it either. I am against malware.)