Sunday, I attended the Anarchist Bookfair in the park. (by the Ninth av. enterance) I go every year, lately out of habit or vague hope, and at first this year looked the same. The usual suspects were gathered outside the building, serious flameouts sneaking a toke, earnest highschoolers clutching the manfesto du jour, dogs of all stripes, steely-eyed granny ladies, and a cultural voyeur (myself). We were urged to raise our awareness and celebrate this, that, and the other, (usually far away and exotically hip) It was suggested that, for instance, Chilian yam farmers would welcome our interference in their lives with open arms. It's well known that yam farmers, busy trying to bring in a crop, are notoriously concerned about the minutiae of text deconstruction.
Inside, with the books, things were looking up. Two years ago social hacking was all the rage, but thankfully that didn't pan out. Perhaps the instigators realized that their screens would be a prime target or that their personal property might get liberated too. (those darn kids) I found a new collection of Satty prints in book form, (another post) and the seller let me buy them for a song and threw in some good personal stories about the artist. Then the P.A. said Terry Bisson was speaking. Hot damn, I read Talking Man, where's the auditorium. (well hidden, as it turns out)
Mr. Bisson was reading from his new book, The Left Left Behind ( on PM Press) a satire of the Left Behind series. Poking gentle fun at the man, at the Anarchist Fair, why I never... A great half-hour that made the rest of the posturing bearable.
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