Things to do on a nice spring day: Buy something from an independent bookstore

An EV Grieve reader sends along the following e-mail...

St Mark's Bookshop is my favorite bookstore. They've been a gathering place for authors and readers on the cutting edge of literature, politics, art, and cultural theory for over 32 years now. And they're facing a daunting retail economy at the moment. I'm challenging my friends to SUPPORT ST MARK'S BOOKSHOP *TODAY* by buying a book (or 2, or 5) Today, if you are so moved.

Stop by the store on 3rd Avenue, call them up at 212-260-7853, or check out St Mark's Web site:

A FEW BOOK SUGGESTIONS:

JUST KIDS, by Patti Smith, a memoir about her young days with Robert Mapplethorpe, *SIGNED*, $27 (they're actually now out of signed copies...)

LET THE GREAT WORLD SPIN, a novel of New York in the 1970s by Colum McCann, $15

"STORE FRONT: The Disappearing Face of New York" A beautiful and heartbreaking book of photography by James T. Murray, Karla L. Murray, $65

A new book of poetry, BORIS BY THE SEA, by Ugly Duckling Presse editor, Matvei Yankelevich, SIGNED, $14

THE OTHER SIDE OF PARADISE, a memoir of a journey from surviving a heartbreaking Jamaican childhood to discovering her voice, by Brooklyn performance artist and Def Jam poet, Staceyann Chin.

THIS IS BERLIN NOT NEW YORK, a DVD about 10 underground New York artists traveling to Berlin to make art and friends. $16

Thank you for that e-mail... of course, there are many fine independent book shops around...such as East Village books...



And Bluestockings on Allen Street...Here's a list of independent book sellers in NYC. And this is a favorite topic of Jeremiah's Vanishing New York. He has written extensively about the loss of stores, particularly in the West Village. Here's a post on the new location of Left Bank Books.

One view on "Naked City"

At the Post today, Julia Vitullo-Martin, director of the Center for Urban Innovation at the Regional Plan Association, takes a look at the new book by Sharon Zukin, "Naked City: The Death and Life of Authentic Urban Places."

Vitullo-Martin writes:

While Zukin expresses substantial ambivalence, she ultimately believes that authenticity is its own reward. Indeed, she goes so far as to propose that authenticity should be used to "ensure everyone a right to stay in the place where they live and work." But this would be disastrous in practice, resulting in rent rules and protections that would leave a grid-locked and static city.

Down that road lies what Justin Davidson pondered in New York magazine ... her the "dedicated yearners would roll back" the tide of affluence, preferring the "cracked-out squats" of the 1980s.

Put that way, I vote for today’s New York, even without the authenticity.

At least East Village shoplifters still have good tastes in books

Still catching up with the Sunday Times, where I noticed this article about an uptick in shoplifting at bookstores...

Fiction is the most commonly poached genre at St. Mark’s Bookshop in the East Village of Manhattan; the titles that continually disappear are moved to the X-Case, safely ensconced behind the counter. This library of temptation includes books by Martin Amis, Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Raymond Carver, Don DeLillo and Jack Kerouac, among others.

“New York at that moment was bankrupt, poor, dirty, violent, drug-infested, sex-obsessed — delightful”

New York City during the 1970s was a beautiful, ravaged slag — impoverished and neglected after suffering from decades of abuse and battery. She stunk of sewage, sex, rotting fish, and day-old diapers. She leaked from every pore.
[Expletive] was already percolating by the time I hit Manhattan as a teen terror in 1976. Inspired by the manic rantings of Lester Bangs in Creem magazine, the Velvet Underground's sarcastic wit, the glamour of the New York Dolls' first album, and the poetic scat of Horses, by Patti Smith, I snuck out my bedroom window, jumped on a Greyhound, and crash-landed in a bigger ghetto than the one I had just escaped from. But with two hundred bucks in my pocket tucked inside a notebook full of misanthropic screed, a baby face that belied a hustler's instinct, and a killer urge to create in order to destroy everything that had originally inspired me, I didn't give a flying [expletive] if the Bowery smelled like dog [expletive].

That's part of an essay by Lydia Lunch included in “No Wave: Post-Punk. Underground. New York. 1976-1980,” a visual history by Thurston Moore and Byron Coley. No wave gets the coffee-table book treatment this month. Ben Sisario at the Times takes a look at the book in today's paper:

Of all the strange and short-lived periods in the history of experimental music in New York, no wave is perhaps the strangest and shortest-lived . . .

With crisp black-and-white photographs and interviews with musicians and visual artists, the book is a loving reminiscence of a largely unheard period, as well as a look at a seedy, pre-gentrified Lower East Side. . . .

"New York at that moment was bankrupt, poor, dirty, violent, drug-infested, sex-obsessed — delightful,” Ms. Lunch said by phone. “In spite of that we were all laughing, because you laugh or you die. I’ve always been funny. My dark comedy just happens to scare most people.”

[Lydia Lunch photo by Julia Gorton]

Bonus: Teenage Jesus and the Jerks live