Wednesday, December 15, 2004
James Lileks was in Chicago this weekend, ego-browsing bookstores to see how his new book is selling. He turns them face-out because, "People’s eyes skate over spines, but they linger over covers. For a second, at least." I understand his desire to make his book more noticable. If I ever get around to writing The Great American Coffee-Table Tome, I'd want it to sell, too. The problem is that the cover of THIS particular book will make your eyeballs explode from their sockets. Imagine the ugly scene in a crowded Chicago bookstore: A group of folks are gathered mournfully around the deep-discount table, looking sadly at the unsold stacks of obsolete anti-Bush screeds while throngs of harried holiday shoppers elbow their way past. Suddenly there's a loud, wet, "POP! POP!" and a pair of bleeding, melted optic spheres zip through the crowd, nailing an embittered blue-stater and his wife square in the temple. Down they go. Hard. "POP! POP!" again and a lady slumps over her stroller, double-tapped between the eyes. Screams. A mad rush for the exits. An old lady goes down in the crush, wailing piteously. James, you're a nice guy, but endangering the public in order to line your own pockets is simply reprehensible.