Saturday night at St. Mark’s

Not the hot sheet hotel, the glorious bookshop! I mean sure, the St. Mark’s Hotel has short stays and a lot of sex worker and perv lore attached to it, but the St. Mark’s Bookshop has an anarchist section.

Last night after a sushi dinner with my friend Jane, we got immersed in bookshop-land. Our original plans for the evening had involved doing a two girl show for a dude, but he cancelled because he had in-laws in town. Whatever, we entertained ourselves with books, her new hula hoop and also a trip to Toys in Babeland, where I purchased a toy that may be instrumental in some new business ventures.

Though I usually spend most of my time in said bookshop in the cultural criticism section, I’ve recently sworn that stuff off. Well, to be fair, I’ve just stopped reading the obsessively footnoted stuff recreationally. See, I have this habit of reading a lot, the denser the stuff the better: I have a penchant for theory on history and memory, the act of looking and of course history of sexuality stuff. Although I’m now in grad school, I’m still occupying my free time with reading, which I’ll admit seems like a poor choice. I should probably fill more of my free time with masturbation.

Anyway, over the last few weeks I’ve developed a thing for fiction. This is a big deal for me, because I’m usually all over the non-fiction and could care less about anything else. My new kick involves Raymond Chandler’s hardboiled detective stuff, some Bukowski, some Kosinski, and a bunch of Latin American authors from the 1960s. The Latin American authors have really got me in their clutches right now; its all Reinaldo Arenas’ fault.

And that, my dears, is an account of how this particular whore spent her Saturday night. And now… back to the homework. Oh, glorious homework…