My Sanctuary

On those special nights, when I feel like killing every living thing at my house, I steal away to my sanctuary, the bookstore. My husband usually lets me go without a fuss, because he knows when I get that bloodlust look in my eye, it’s better to be away from me than near me.

The bookstore I run to isn’t one of those unique, quirky, indie book places; it’s just a Borders Books and Music near the mall. All of those cool, aforementioned stores are in the city, and tend to close around 8:00 p.m. During my usual bookstore outing, I begin by checking out the clearance titles on the portable bins in front of the store, because you just never know what you’ll find. Tonight, Kurt Cobain’s private journals are marked down to $5.99. What a shame. Such a brilliant, talented mind, exploited in death by his greedy widow, who was just busted for drugs, again, which doesn’t surprise me given the fact that the bitch probably hasn’t been sober since 1988. Note to my husband: If you ever publish my private journals, I’ll come back from the grave and make your life more of a chaotic hell than I do now!

I proceed inside and go right to the barista to place my coffee order. This may be a corporate bookstore void of a soul or knowledgeable employees, but it does have the wonderful advantage of a full coffee bar. While the little guy is whipping up my usual (medium, skinny, vanilla latte), I grab the Seattle indie zines: The Seattle Weekly and The Stranger. I love both of these publications. The Weekly is slightly more mainstream than The Stranger, but both are hell raisin,’ ass kickin,’ ultra-libby zines that give a quality alternative to the sanitized news on the broadcast channels. Back in the ‘90s there was another zine called The Rocket, which I desperately miss. I think about The Rocket as I grab my drink and begin perusing the pages of my zines. My favorite section of both of the magazines are the personal ads, especially the ones where people with odd fetishes look for others with the same bizarre tastes. I really never knew there were that many people in the world who wanted to be walked around on a leash like a dog.

After indulging my own local indie zine fetish, I cruise past the racks of magazines, and realize that all of the glossy publications I would choose to read, I already subscribe to. I press on to the main displays featuring the best seller titles. There are millions of new books available, but fortunately Borders and the corporate powers that be have conveniently waded through all things non-catagorizable to bring you titles that you wouldn’t likely spend two seconds looking at. Senator Rick Santorum, you know the conservative, straight guy who thinks about homosexual men non-stop, has written a book on restoring family values. I grab this one and flip through a few pages, most likely for the same reason I read Mein Kampf, it’s good to have a full grasp of absurd ideas that mindless people follow that way you can know how to strike back. I don’t buy the Senator’s book, because I don’t want to give him a dime of my money, plus I figure that within a month or two, it will be right next to Kurt Cobain’s journals on the rack outside the store.

I make my way through the music section hoping to find some of the older albums by The Soviettes forgetting for a moment that I’m in a corporate bookstore. This fact hits me in the face with a punch as I’m inundated rows of Jessica Simpson CDs. First of all, I can’t believe people pay attention to Jessica Simpson, let alone actually want to hear her sing, but to each their own. I make a stop upstairs in the Judaism section, located right next to the Islam books, because Middle America tends to lump the two together anyways, and finally return to the coffee stand/reading area with a glossy music magazine.

While finishing the last few sips of my latte, I look around and notice that most of the other people in there are about my age. I wonder if they are Suburbia refugees, as well. Maybe if we all got together, we could form some sort of a club and force this Borders location to operate more like the cooler bookstores in the city. We could hold nightly support groups to deal with the nagging feeling of having to break away and reclaim some semblance of the independence we once knew before we said “I do” and agreed to go by the name “Mommy” or “Daddy”. Maybe if we all gathered together, we could figure out a way to make Suburbia a great, interesting place thriving with ideas and artistic inspiration.

Then I realize the one glaring reason why we are all here at Borders in the first place: we just want to be left alone to think an uninterrupted thought for five seconds without a nagging spouse or demanding child. We want to look through books, music, and magazines that are interesting to us and only us, and we want to have our coffee drink while gawking with amusement at the personal ad for the guy who wants to be treated like a baby and gets off wearing diapers.