The evolution of the modern bookstore – Borders. I took my three-year old there today to spend a giftcard.  A children’s book for her, and a novel for me.I had a shortlist in my mind: “Belly of the Beast” by Jack Henry Abbott; “The Brotherhood of the Grape” by John Fante; or anything by Jim Thompson. Most were titles/authors a friend had loaned me, and now I wanted copies of my own. As we walked in, I had to stop and check the sign on the door again…

Yep, Borders Bookstore — So why is the damn lobby filled with toys?

We passed by islands of books by comedians and reality stars. Rows of adolescent vampire novels, celebrity memoirs, and kid’s books with little toys packaged on the front.

We made it to the Literature section. It had all the name-brands. The classics and the commercial. Everything you were supposed to read.

My daughter sat in one of the big leather chairs and flipped through a copy of “The Story of Ferdinand.” I sang the alphabet song in my head as I scanned the shelves — T for Thompson, F for Fante, A for Abbott.

Nothing.

So I went to a computer. I typed my own name in first of course, Devin Hansen. The screen showed all the titles I wrote, each accompanied with the line “Not in Stock.” Of course. I didn’t expect differently.

Then I typed in the other author’s names. Famous writers that were far more talented than I’d ever hope to be.

“Not in stock.”

I asked a clerk. She clicked away on the same keyboard and said: “Well, we can order them for you…”

“Nevermind.”

I sat in the brown chair next to my daughter. Next to a kiosk of bookmarks and journals. Next to a stack of David Sedaris books. Three stacks, in fact. Three shit piles of smug, saccharine satire. Three stacks by the poster-child for commercialized intellectualism. A pretentious, megaphone for self-important intellectuals that need constant affirmation to bury their own insecurities.

He was there, this darling of the publishing industry, among the toys, DVDs, music, and anything else you wanted to numb yourself. You could even sip a coffee while you decided. Maybe a Kenyan roast. All while surrounded by hunched-over students, attention-seeking writers, and tattooed girls talking anarchy over a plate of biscotti.

I paid for “The Story of Ferdinand.” Then gave the gift-card, still with a large balance, to some old lady walking into the store. She smiled and patted my daughter on the head.

On the way home, all I could think was “fuck David Sedaris.”

Three fucking stacks and you had to special-order Jim Thompson…

This is what we’re up against?