DC’s Most Insufferable Bookstore Generates Last Year’s Worst Piece of Journalism

Written by None - Do not Delete on . Posted in Books, Posts.



In
the end, it wasn’t even close.  The other day I was mulling over what
I thought was the worst piece of journalism of the year 2000. Not surprisingly,
The New York Times was at the top of the list, for either their bogus
story on how federal agencies and public parks were rejecting the Boy Scouts
for homophobia or the example-parched article about how Jeb Bush orchestrated
his brother W’s victory.


But
in the end, The Washington Post broke the tape. It’s often
been noted that the Post is riding on fumes, still buoyed, barely, by
Watergate. As someone who writes for the paper on a semiregular basis, I don’t
know if that’s entirely fair. I do, however, know that something is desperately
wrong with the "Style" section. Or at least the front page of it.


On
Dec. 28 the above-the-fold piece in "Style" was about the bookstore
Politics and Prose. Politics and Prose–or P&P–is one of these
crunchy independent bookstores that liberals adore. The kind with a coffeeshop,
epicene employees who are a notch above Tower Records studied grubbiness but
still too "alternative" to get real jobs, and a lousy selection. Politics
and Prose is all these things and nothing more. But don’t tell that to
Linton Weeks, who wrote the piece, called "Biography of a Bookstore."
To fully appreciate the enormity of its awfulness, I’m afraid it’s
necessary to quote several paragraphs from the opening:


Been
damn hard, me being a successful independent bookstore for the past 16 years
and all.


First
the chains–Crown, Barnes & Noble, Borders–shook me up. Then the
Internet. But bookselling seems to have evened out and things are looking up.
Every morning I open my doors, let 700 folks rummage and rifle through my stacks
during the day. They pace my aisles, browse through my variety, lap up lattes
in my cafe and increase their health, wealth, wit and power–word, spiritual,
sexual.


Like
a book on a shelf, I sit between Sheffield liquor store and a CVS pharmacy on
Connecticut Avenue NW. My canvas awning is dark green and the words above my
door, Politics & Prose, are deep purple. I am owned by Carla Cohen and Barbara
Meade. I am filled with shelves; the shelves are filled with books; the books
are filled with ideas. Of all stripes: liberal, conservative, kooky, kinky,
cogent, cautious, cockamamie.


At
this point in history, I am at the center of the reading universe. I am arguably
the polestar of the most literate people in the nation’s most literate
city–Washington. Readers come "looking for a book my friend told me
about" and to meet other readers and to make new friends who will tell
them about new books to read. Writers come to meet other writers and for the
rare opportunity to commune–face to face–with their readers. This
makes me independent. Want to know what makes me successful?



There
is a moment in one of the early Beavis and Butt-head episodes where the
two are sitting on their sofa watching videos and making scalding comments about
their lameness. Suddenly "Ice Ice Baby" appears on the screen. Beavis
and Butt-head simply look at each other, silent, then turn the channel. When
I read Weeks’ opening, I sat in stunned silence. This was not the Whitefish,
MT, Whitefish Pilot. This wasn’t the Georgetown Prep Little Hoya.
This was The Washington Post.


It
got worse. I prayed that the silly, grating affectation of writing the piece
as the bookstore–and as a bookstore that’s a five-year-old–was
just for the lede. I thought Weeks might retreat from calling Washington the
literary center of the universe. (I was born and raised in Washington and love
the city, but in letters and readers we get spanked by New York; it’s not
even close.) I was ready to forgive him for saying that The Weekly
Standard
’s David Brooks worked at The New Republic. I
even held out hope that he might offer some criticism of P&P, which is blown
regularly by Washington media elites and is long overdue for a dressing down.
I thought he might at least nail the P&P magazine selection, the worst I’ve
ever seen. (I don’t shop at Borders because I’m right-wing, but because
I can get Down Beat and the Irish Times there.)


Instead,
Weeks offers graf after torturous graf of dull minutiae, some of it downright
Pinteresque:


In
the coffee shop, [co-owner Barbara] Meade eats a slice of pineapple carrot bread
and drinks a Diet Coke. [Co-owner Carla] Cohen orders a chai and half a sandwich.
Listen to them and you may wonder how they ever get anything accomplished.


They
discuss the plight of Denver bookseller Joyce Meskis, who is engaged in a First
Amendment battle. Drug enforcement agents believe that an illegal drug manufacturer
may have bought how-to books from Meskis’s store. She is refusing to release
sales records. Talk about independence.


"I’d
do the same thing," says Meade.


Cohen
shakes her head. "I wouldn’t sell ‘The Anarchist Cookbook.’"


"We’ve
special-ordered it before," Meade says.


Cohen
shakes her head again, "I don’t think we should."



They
look at each other. Nothing happens. Lights dim.


Last
fall Matt Drudge tried to arrange a reading at P&P for his Drudge Manifesto.
Cohen refused, calling Drudge "a rumormonger and a troublemaker."
Weeks notes that "Drudge saw Cohen’s refusal as politically motivated"–duh–then
reports Cohen’s reply: "What an obnoxious person."


And
that’s it. No examination of the politics of Politics and Prose and whether
the store is the most overrated institution in Washington. Not even a shot at
Drudge. Just more of the same precious pretentiousness, more of which Politics
and Prose and its fans do not need.


"Books
have brought these people here," Weeks concludes. "Books have made
these people who they are–brainy and bespectacled. Their lives have been
strengthened, weakened, beaten, bettered, bewildered and enriched by books.


"They
obviously can’t get enough. From the shelves the authors continue to cry
out. Read me! Read me! Read me! ‘More Matter,’ shouts John Updike.
‘Living in Hope and History,’ wails Nadine Gordimer. ‘No Other
Book,’ Randall Jarrell calls."


What
a bunch of phony bastards, adds Holden Caulfield.



 


..