The Street Lawyer

there are skyscrapers. there is traffic. there is gossip. there is this blog.

there is loss. there are half empty beer bottles. there is is an orgasm in another language.

there are an infinite amount of things to talk about, yet i can think of none.

but i digress...


im reading a book. a paperback book. its got about 400 pages and could fit into the front pocket of just about any winter coat [for those of you in california, a 'winter coat,' is a rather thick and heavy jacket that is of considerable length and preferably the finest down lining. it is useful during the winter season in the further east, and insufferably colder, coast of the northern americas -ed]. as it is i carry it in my trusty man-purse record-bag along with my $5 sunglasses, my cigarettes, my wallet, my keys, a couple 12" singles, and all my make-up.

my mother left it here when she was visiting. i asked her if she bought it in the airport and she told me in an annoyed tone that no, she had borrowed it from a friend and asked did i want to read it. if i did, she would leave it here. -whatever, i said. i was involved with Billy Pilgrim and his perpetual death. so it goes. -go ahead and leave it. she did.

it wasnt until this week that i started reading it. i had nothing to read. i was out of magazines. had finished my book. i would watch tv, but even the advertisements were reruns. so i picked up the paperback. i didnt even think twice about it.

i was ready to be Grishamed.

i have to say, the most uncomfortable thing about me being Grishamed is realizing that im a disgusting literature snob. i mean, who am i to shamefully hold the book down so no one can read the authors name were they to curiously glance at what i was intensely involved in during my potentially spine dislocating herk and jerk subway ride to brooklyn? how can i conjure up the nerve to calmly add the disclaimer -its my mothers, every time i tell someone what it is im reading? why do i think i have the right to be ashamed of John Grisham. for he is not that bad of an author.

in fact, i can hardly put this book down. and i eagerly anticipate my subway commutes if only so i can sit and devour each simple, plot pushing sentence he has written. John Grisham is that sweet sweet candy that you know wont totally rot your teeth. kinda like xanax.

Sure, he is formulaic. all his stories are the same with not much, if any, depth to the characters. his plots are predictable and written not like a book, but an excellently delivered pitch for a movie. this book fills its function nicely. its cheap. its short. its easy and leaves you unenlightened.

still, i cant get past the guilt i feel. not for reading him, but for being so snobby about it. oh well, guess im kinda lame like that. fuck you John Grisham. eat shit.

oh yeah, i love how im the only one that writes this yet still insisted [to no one] on doing the -ed. thing. that was awesome.