When I found myself single in Los Angeles, my first thought was: “Well, so much for meeting someone who reads.” Joke’s on me because my husband owns more books than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. He also, shockingly, reads those books. From this distance in time, I can see that single-me made a crass generalization that this town is only good for tequila-guzzling, taco-loving, illiterate skateboarders. Rest assured, I’ve learned my lesson! Lots of Angelenos read, if only for the purpose of finding I.P. they can mine and cheapen through the lesser arts of film and television!
Personally, moving to a famously superficial city actually deepened my relationship with books. I acquired a library card for the first time in my adult life. Even though I used the New York Public Library system a lot, it was mostly as a glorified co-working space. (Did I ever get a job off of any late-night packet I ever wrote in those hallowed halls? No, but I wrote some exceptionally bad jokes about Chris Christie while sitting underneath an oil painting of John Milton and his daughters, and isn’t that better in a way? Not really, actually. Money is nice.) The one time I sheepishly inquired about getting a card I demurred upon realizing I would have to provide some proof of residence. I was in my twenties and couldn’t handle that type of long-range planning. I also worked in publishing and had a bunch of friends who did, too—I was drowning in free books. What did I need the library for?
Turns out, I need the library for a reason to leave the house, something which I think I’ve mentioned I’m always searching for in this fair city. And LA has an incredible public library system, something I read in The Library Book which renowned author Susan Orlean wrote while living in…you guessed it…Los Angeles! Putting a book on hold gives me something to live for; it’s an exercise in delayed gratification. During the pandemic, my local library had an outside pickup for books, and said books were handed over in brown paper bags, like drugs or pornography.
Speaking of which, there are some legendary local stores called Circus of Books. There used to be one in my neighborhood (it is now a weed store, God bless), but the original, in West Hollywood, is still holding strong. The first time I visited LA I thought, “Wow, I really need to pay a visit to that cute used book store!” And when I did I found that the cute used bookstore is an adorable gateway to a backroom filled with things that backrooms are usually filled with, catered specifically to the gay male community. Perhaps because of that connection, the selections were gorgeously camp, and I found a lovely little vintage book from the 50s about stars and starlets that I passed along to a friend. (And if you can stand another recommendation, there’s a documentary about Circus of Books I have yet to watch that looks very sweet, moving, and funny.)
There are, of course, other bookstores with less varied inventory. One day I visited my local (another stop on the “reasons to leave my house” itinerary) and ran into a couple of friends. They informed me that said bookstore was partially owned by a recently canceled celebrity, lest you worry that LA bookstores don’t reflect the culture of their surroundings. I am ashamed to say I still frequent the bookstore with some regularity. My need for decent staff recommendations outweighs my desire to rid workplaces of toxicity.
It’s hard. Because we’re all stumbling through the desert, looking for an oasis where we can find some escape when reality gets grim. To me, libraries and bookstores will always be those little floating islands of possibility. Because as I now know anything can happen. After all, I found an Angeleno who reads.