A is for Anarchy

I am allergic to things not being in alphabetical order. I was in a bookshop a few weekends ago, in the only instance I can think of when it is cool to be in a bookshop on a Saturday night - Gould's on King St in Newtown, because you are waiting for a gig to start at the Vanguard.

( I love and hate the Vanguard in equal measure. I love the flocked wallpaper, the feathers and beads on the little lamps, and the beautiful people who hang there. I hate the sound. It is the worst acoustic in the world. Singing into a paper bag full of mushrooms would produce a better sound, even if that singer happens to be tone deaf and suffering from a cold. And this is a real pity becasue the other cool thing about the Vanguard is that they attract lots of cool bands. So you end up being seduced by the name of the act into paying x amount for a ticket (unless you have a friend who reviews for street press), x amount for drinks, and then whining about the crap sound while sipping your French Sauvignon Blanc and gazing at the red and gold wallpaper... )

Anyway, so Gould's is basically next to the Vanguard, and open quite late, so it's the perfect place to waste some time before the gig starts. It is the kind of bookshop that you think only exists in 1980s made for TV movies - full of dusty piles of higgldy-piggldy books on all kinds of topics. It drives me nuts. Nothing is properly filed, and while I can see the charm in the idea of browsing through shelves bending under the weight of dusty books to find a long lost treasure, it is an idea that nauseates me. Literally.

For example, while I personally would separate the performing arts into separate sections, I can understand the notion that gripped the filer in about 1963 of putting them all in one spot. However, I'm adrift in a sea of confusion when it comes to the choice that led to linguistics, religion, psychology and reference all sharing a row. I had to leave before the dizzy spells got out of control.

I could go on and on about it all, but I am like the nameless children of the Dylan Moran sketch - lying listlessly on the lawn drinking a latte; disaffected, morose, and suffering from a migraine and the knowledge that I can dress myself up and do my hair, but no one will ever see the real me.