I think New York is just set up for me to become a hipster, which sincerely hurts my feelings. I found myself today shopping in Trader Joe's and Urban Outfitters, paying all my cash to an amazing used bookstore where the dude could chat with me about the different volumes of Foucault's work and the awesome antique New York books on the front desk. Apparently the part of town called Brooklyn Heights is just about the coolest place on earth - many thanks to the girl at Cafe Perch who recommended I go that way for a used bookstore, and then smiled and explained to me exactly how to get there without walking for three hours. I was told fairly definitively by the owner of the cafe that they wouldn't need my help, but I think it's almost as valuable for me to have a place to spend time and connect with the staff there. For some reason, I've always enjoyed having somewhere to hang out where I'm recognized, but not employed, and Cafe Perch may well fit that desire perfectly.
So I had my lunch at Perch - a fruit salad with fresh blackberries and bleu cheese, which was incredible - and got within fifteen pages of finishing "Galapagos" before the rush of the children happened. I talked to one of the girls who works there, and she said that the owner actually opened the place partially because she felt like she couldn't take her kids to coffee shops. So basically every day, somewhere between 3 and 6, they'll get a group of mothers and kids of varying size that congregate (I assume) to be in community with other young mothers. It's cute, and I don't begrudge it, but I also didn't feel like sitting there with that many little kids bouncing off the walls and yelling.
I took the B63 bus up past Atlantic Avenue to Court Street, where I saw the giant Trader Joe's and got off. I have to say, I really enjoy the way the bus moves, completely differently from the subway. The bus is often more of a gentle rocking motion. Standing while riding a bus is something vaguely resembling surfing, the way you shift weight and move with the bus. It's somehow captivating. But getting on a bus also means contending with lots of kids - I don't mean cute, sweet toddler kids, but annoying pre- and teenage kids who are old enough to ride by themselves and not old enough to not be obnoxious. Seriously, do these kids not have parents that teach them not to be self-important, unaware little punks? Or worse yet, are we all that way at that age?
Anyway, I finally bought new shoes. Two pair, in fact. But this is where the hipster part comes in - I bought two pairs of Mary Janes at Urban Outfitters. It was 2 for 20, I didn't feel like spending all my money on shoes and thus forgoing the wonder of used books. So I caved. But dear Lord to I feel like a hipster now. The upside is that my socks will no longer be blackened by the time I walk from my station to home - that makes it worth it. Right?
I bought three beautiful old books from the bookstore, including "Film Form" - the film theory essays by Sergei Eisenstein. I think I'm becoming a nerd. No, scratch that, I know I am, because I was deeply torn between the Eisenstein and the Kracauer, but ended up deciding to get the cheaper one and come back for the Kracauer. I'm being Jimmy Gilmore'd (new definition of the term here). To top it all off, I actually searched for a Foucault text, thinking that I'd really like to own one of his other works. I asked the owner about it, and I think he was amused by my question, but assured me that the "History of Sexuality" makes its way through his doors very often, and there'd surely be one soon. I'm frightened of what's happening to me.
I found out early today that Frank Frazetta died recently, and was genuinely sad about it. I can't exactly explain what always attracted me to Frazetta - his work, like Luis Royo's, largely consists of muscle-bound warriors and mostly-naked women - but I can remember the exact night that my dad told me to look up some of Frazetta's work, and the exact sense of awe that I felt. Some artists cause me to admire, some cause me to think hard on the nature of beauty, and a very few inspire me to create. His was the latter for me, and although I don't claim that anything great came out of that inspiration, there is certainly a special place in my heart for him.
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