Friday
A getaway day.
Panic, although I should be used to the drill by now.
There was the lightest of dustings of snow on the mountain when dawn came.
I took extra suet out to the cages. I dumped a bag of seed into the big feeder hanging from a chain strung between two trees. I’ve been too lazy to fill it this year. There’s plenty of daily seed on the roof outside the bay window every day. But it is usually all eaten by the next morning.
There’s just so much to do. And the week has been more than full. Crazy busy. Spinning around this way and that. Lots of good and exciting things. A good share of problems as well.
Goes with the territory…
Annika talked me into signing up as an exhibitor at the Georgetown (DC) Book Fair this spring. It will be Wonder Book’s first fair showing since the Millennium. Actually, Annika will be doing most of it. I never enjoyed sitting in the booth at the many, many fairs I did prior to my last one in 2000. I’ll be acting as an advisor. We will give her plenty of support. Setting up. Tearing down. Selling breaks… I was very reluctant, but her interest and energy convinced me. I acquiesced after saying no many times. (Mostly to myself.) “No, no, no, no, no…”
Last weekend was a blur.
I did have dinner with two Egyptologists and a Pulitzer Prize winner. (I guess there could be a joke in there. “Two Egyptologists and a Pulitzer Prize winner walk into a bar… ‘Not without my mummy.'” You’ll have to fill in the middle.) It is a great pleasure to be in the company of brilliant friends. I held my own, until the bartender brought me my second martini in a large snifter. “We’re out of martini glasses. I think I made it too big.” My guess is it was a triple.
Then it was a blur.
The weekend was such hard work. So many books to go through. Plus, I did a lot of unusual tasks last week. Every day. There’s no getting ahead. Sometimes there’s no staying even.
There were still some carts Ernest had made from the deceased bookseller. Difficult ones. Loaded with foreign language and obscure science. But two of them had some nice stuff. Oz books with brightly colored fantasy images pasted on to their front boards. Other vintage kids’ books… Literature. Some interesting inscribed books.
But the really fun lot was from a pallet I intercepted on the way to data entry. Because of the seasonal slowdown in incoming books (I hope the flow increases soon!), we are getting into nooks and crannies long buried by other books. This one was very dusty on top. The top layer was mostly flats with the books stored spine up. I could tell they were vintage and would come to me, anyway.
“Cart this group up for me, please.”
I didn’t know what was there until I started on them Saturday. Old friends. This was a “lost” pallet from the mystery hoard… how long ago was it? Here it is. July 2020.
COVID times.
I recognized it from all the John Rhode first editions. That is one of the pseudonyms for Cecil Street. I like vintage mysteries and used to read and collect “forgotten” authors like J.S. Fletcher. Rhode was not on my radar. When we put them online, they sold like hotcakes, for good money, mostly to Australia.
This last lot, unless there is another lost pallet, was—just—so—cool. Lots of vintage paperbacks with lurid covers.
A nice clutch of H.P. Lovecraft first editions.
Plenty of Rhode first editions and many other early 20th century mysteries.
When is work like play? When the books are all fun and no frustration.
My nephew came. “Don’t come any earlier than 4:30.” It is impossible to work when he is around. He’s only about 12 years younger than me. When he was a kid, he was like the little brother I never had. Now he is an annoying relative I can only take in small doses. But I like to help him. He is still raising kids… long story. And there is the blood tie. A kind of responsibility.
He brought a collection of Lincoln paintings that a buddy had acquired in a storage unit clean out.
That’s Custer and John Wilkes Booth in there too. Plus, there were some 19th century images of Lincoln, Lee, McClellan…
“What the hell will I do with these, Gerry?”
I bought them. Paid way too much.
He is a good scout. He makes a living as a picker. (As well as a house painter, junk remover…)
He also brought back the Batman No. 3 he “pressed.” He’s developed a non-invasive system to restore old comics.
The results are dramatic. It used to have a rolled spine and other defects. Now it is 3-4 grades higher, I would guess.
Larry had brought a big batch of men’s ties a while back. I decided to sort through them.
There were some high-end silk ties. Nordstrom. Armani. Bespoke ones from France and Italy made “Exclusively for [some long gone men’s DC for Philly haberdasher].”
They sell ok. But I think the displays are quirky and attractive at the stores.
Besides, what else can you sell on railings?
At the warehouse, Travis discovered some signed Chuck Palahniuk. We had ordered a couple of hundred for Books by the Foot on clearance. Why? Because we can use pink spines right now.
There were a couple of hundred. All signed. All first editions. All perfect.
We will have to look elsewhere for pink books.
It is not all fun and glory. What can I do with these?
Poor Rod. (Actually, he may have been the person who made the most money ever selling their own poetry.) To say he wasn’t taken seriously is an understatement. Pulitzer Prize-winning US Poet Laureate Karl Shapiro said, “It is irrelevant to speak of McKuen as a poet. His poetry is not even trash.”
He actually started in San Francisco venues alongside people like Kerouac and Ginsberg! And he actually wrote some pretty nice songs for movies and such.
My teacher, William Meredith, once “setup” our poetry writing seminar and had a respected student read one of McKuen’s poems as one of his own. Something about puppies, I think. It was so terrible, but we couldn’t flame the classmate in person.
“Ummm… nice.”
But McKuen sold a lot of “books.” I can credit him that. Perhaps some of his readers moved on to more serious books?
Monday
Travis is driving us down to Gaithersburg. (Sound familiar?)
But this trip, I have another purpose in mind.
A vision of sorts came to me.
We should expand the front room at the Gaithersburg store. A large percentage of sales come from the new arrival and “Premium” section there.
Since we can’t move the walls, I think we can make it larger by removing some stuff. Doesn’t make sense? I’ve learned—it took a long time and a lot of hard knocks—that sometimes less is more.
Well, we will see when the work is done. I think it will be a vast improvement.
The managers there seem excited.
I like that store now. After years of being a problem child, it is now an excellent bookstore.
We even have a fan who has started an Instagram account @wonderbookfinds. The creator is not affiliated with us in any way.
It is cool when there is tangible evidence that people like us.
Today, there is also a Books by the Foot list:
30 feet Deserts/Travel/Photography/Wellness. (Wellness?)
4 feet Sports
3 feet History
4 More feet Travel
4 Feet Nature
5 feet Art
8 feet Cooking
3 feet Vegas/Old Hollywood/Rat Pack/Entertainment/Mixology
Sounds like it may be a casino…
The contractor continued working on the “garret” on the mountain. Maybe I’ll be inspired up there to write a great American epic poem.
Highly unlikely.
And construction progresses on the two 52,000 sq/ft warehouse buildings. I saw them building a whole lot of low framing on the vast flat slabs. I thought they were some kind of fit out for the tenant. Turns out, they are pouring concrete for the WALLS on the slabs. When they are ready, a crane will come and stand these up for instant 30+ foot-tall wall sections!
This section has a window included. Amazing.
The weather has been pretty nice. Now that the bulbs are all planted, I can get into other stuff.
I cut some fallen wood for next year and dragged it down to the drive. It is too green to burn this winter. I used a pole trimmer to remove some upper branches of redbuds that were growing too high and impinging on the lower part of my view.
It felt good to get into the heavy physical stuff again. I hadn’t cut or hauled wood since early fall. Some muscles had not been used much, much too long.
Here’s a bit of stream of consciousness forced on me late at night in what, at the time, felt like “in extremis”:
Coyotes cry as dusk gets darker. A flash down the forest slope catches my eye. White tails bound down toward the pond far below. I brought a heavy machete with me to gather the logs I cut yesterday. It doesn’t comfort me much. It leans against a tree trunk a few paces away. I cut up a tree that I felled last fall. Thinking about next winter, I feel the urge to haul the wood from the forest. The drive slopes downhill. I carry the logs and let them roll the final few yards toward the pavement. A couple escape the declivity at the asphalt’s edge and roll, roll, roll out of sight down the hard smooth surface. I can finish this another time. After all, it is firewood for the next winter. I enjoy the labor. Hard, honest, heavy, satisfying. But as the woodland around grows darker, I perceive movement in peripheral views. When I turn to focus that way, there is nothing. No glowing eyes or raised haunches. I am all alone. Why did I leave my phone inside? In a hurry, I suppose. Time to quit the outdoors. The house glows warmly a couple hundred yards uphill. The truck is parked on the trail nearby. I count the last trips to justify my effort. Just ten more trips with heavy logs in two hands pressed against my gut. Eight. Nine. Ten. I retrieve the weapon. Are the rustling steps in last fall’s dead leaves, or are they my own? I pull myself up into the cab and push the starter. The big engine roars to life. I turn on the brights, expecting to see glowing pairs of eyes out in the forest. I back out of the dirt path onto the pavement and back up, up, up to the lighted home. Yesterday, there was no pack of wild canines when I cut up the fallen tree. It wasn’t as dark as this when I when I quit after dragging long branches too thin to burn. Those were the crown of the tree. Thinking of spring, they would be unsightly. I added them to the big pile started some years ago. Now a massive jumble, it is shelter for birds on the forest floor. When I finished yesterday, I was tired and sore after a long hard laborious day, after a long hard laborious weekend. These were different muscles. The chainsaw and the pruning pole hadn’t been used much for months. The cramps came later. Muscles in both legs froze hard and burned. Pain raged. Standing was excruciating. Can I not do this anymore? But the next day, today, I yearned to be out again. It felt good. The soreness in the arms and shoulders was earned. Back upon the terrace lit by house and security lights, I set the machete on the truck’s tailgate within easy reach. I cross to the barn and cart load after load of wood that I cut and stacked last year. Back in the house, I fill the cast iron rings against the cold days ahead. This year. Last year. Next year. The coyote pack is silent. Gone? Or watching just outside the light spilling from the windows? The first bay is now empty. I can start putting green logs in there to season. I go inside, bringing a heavy all-night log with me. It is warm, but I am warmer from the work. I pour some wine. I put on Perry Mason and put up my feet. Black and white shadows flicker before me. So young and beautiful. All dead now, but their voices and faces live before me. I watch one murder after another after another and lose myself in a distant past that was once alive and contemporary to the child I was. I step outside for more firewood, looking every way just to be sure. Orion looks down upon me. A winter constellation unchanged, undying. He holds his club aloft. His belt of the three-inline stars orients his figure. I won’t cramp tonight. Those muscles are stretched now. I can still cut and haul next year’s heat. I am not happy. Just satisfied. Warm in bed, it is late. Almost tomorrow. Alone but for woods and words.
I love the discipline of woodcutting, hauling, storing, burning, ash spreading. It is not a chore. In this 21st century with so much cyber stuff, it is real. Hands, arms, back, mind, eyes.
I like the heat and the fire.
It keeps me earthbound.
Dear Mr. Roberts:
Just when I think we’ve put Mr. McKuen to bed for his much needed eternal rest, I feel compelled to offer perspective on a man who, for a brief ten year period, turned much of what he created into pure gold. To all those high brow artsy fartsies out there, I assert that McKuen was as creative in his way as any of you, only his audiences were massive. Yours?
As is, those “books” should probably go directly to pulp. Alone they lack much needed context. But what about pairing them with an lp or two? Buy this, get that! Dial up your records division and tell them to look for one of his greatest hits collections. Choose from any one of four separate and distinct existing volumes. Or maybe a concert album, any one of which would demonstrate indisputably the manner in which he consistently held his audiences in rapture. Try Carnegie, Red Rocks, the Hollywood Bowl, or perhaps the London Palladium or the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. All of these and more of the many live and studio recordings offer proof positive of the enormity of McKuen’s talent as a performer and………..SONGWRITER of the first degree.
One can easily see that McKuen often used what he put into those “books” as inspiration for the many beautifully crafted ballads he went on to create. So there’s clearly a link…..and a selling point. From that (arrow pointing to a “book”) came this!!
You can locate McKuen merch at various sites around the store, just keep him out of the poetry section. Happy now Karl Shapiro?
Try an end cap in the music legends section. Forget his peripheral early contact with the beats, McKuen actually collaborated as an equal with the likes of Jacques Brel, Johnny Mercer, Henry Mancini, Anita Kerr, Petula Clark, Mary Travers, and many more entertainment luminaries. Frank Sinatra commissioned McKuen to create an entire album of McKuen songs, and when Nina Simone was finally coaxed out of retirement to record one last album, she led it off with three straight McKuen songs.
Perhaps one at the Inspiration section. What’s more inspiring than the journey of a guy who grew up an orphan in poverty, took every and any job he could get, struggled, honed it, crafted it, refined it, shifted gears over and over, struggled some more, and eventually became what someone in the British intelligensia (forgot who) termed “a one man cultural explosion.” If me, then perhaps you as well. In YOUR own way.
From this, that.
Over to Business and Business Luminaries. Bennett Cerf, Nelson Doubleday and Harper and Row are sitting around in the Gold Room at Random House blowing through Royal Gurkha Courtesans and riffing on one blowhard named Karl Shapiro, who’s been demanding a meeting and trashing them for giving McKuen an audience for his sub dung pap.
“I have no time for this clown,” bellows Cerf. “I’m meeting Arlene and Dotty at 21 for lunch. ”
Doubleday chimes in: “Doesn’t this fool know that the oodles of cash we rake in from McKuen helps us subsidize Shapiro’s stuff that few want to buy? I have no time for this boob, I’m thinking of buying the Mets!”
Harper and Row in unison: “We also have no time to waste on snotty Shapiro, tee time in an hour!!
Phone rings, “Mr. Cerf, sorry to disturb, Mr. McKuen is downstairs and would like to pitch an idea or two.”
Cerf: “Send him right up in my private elevator. Clear your calendars boys, let’s make some money!”
And let it be known that simultaneous to his relationships with no less than three of the top publishing houses, McKuen was also developing his own imprint, which for a period, ranked third largest in record mail order behind Columbia House and RCA.
I’ve been very fortunate to have seen live performances of many of my favorite artists, especially having grown up in NY with the village clubs, Carnegie, the halls and theaters, you name it. I regret having been too young for Judy at the Palace, and passing on Harry Chapin at the Dr. Pepper just weeks before his fatal crash cause, well, I’ll just catch him next time around.
Just a few years before he passed, McKuen seemed to be trying to emerge from a long-standing depression that was easily apparent from how it seemed etched into his face in the infrequent photos I’d seen in the press. He embarked on a very limited concert tour, singing and I guess, reading from those “books.” I was on the phone immediately and got my ticket to the Birchmere. He got through his BB King NYC gig rather well per the reports. Unfortunately, as explained by the Birchmere guy I talked to, he called to ask how the ticket sales were going, but was dissapointed at the number sold, and decided to cancel. “I tried to explain to him that we weren’t worried, our gate doesn’t typically book, they just show up,” but it was to no avail. That was sad, because I really wanted to add a McKuen performance to my book of concert memories.
And of course, as I mentioned in a previous post, things didn’t really end up well as far as keeping anything positive alive in terms of McKuen’s legacy. It was disheartening to learn that he never did follow up on his grand plan to share all that he had accumulated from his life in the entertainment industry. According to his biographer, his ailing spouse consigned all of it to several dumpsters. Only his valuable works of art and his incredible record collection were saved. I didn’t bother to look Shapiro up, but perhaps he might have been pleased.
So if there was any magic to McKuen, what was it? Personally, I hear it in the concert record overtures as conducted by masters like Peter Matz or Arthur Greenslade. McKuen certainly had a knack for melody construction. And he coupled that with a fine, basic understanding of often explored themes involving loneliness, despair, isolation, triumphing even if briefly in a search for love—you know, the usual stuff that our betters freely exlored–albeit in ways that were not always accessible to the common person’s intellect. What stands out about McKuen is that he came to bear at a transitional time in which the average workaday joe and jill were often stultified in their abilities of personal expression. Many people had yet to embark on “making our own kind of music” but in one way or another, as the 1970’s progressed, we were doing just that, and perhaps fittingly, there was no need anymore for the phenomenon that was McKuen.
Thanks as always for reading this, now a few words about your store staff. Of course, your Gaithersburg store looks great, but frankly, I think the magic you’re witnessing is at least equally due to Paulo and his team. You have some real superstars working there. They get it, a bookstore as an escape from the mundane, a world of exploration and fancy. Friendliness, helpfulness when needed, letting the customer know you’re available and wanting to help, then backing off to let the magic of exploration take hold on its own. Real life out there is often a tough proposition and it’s nice when the bookstore wants to serve as respite. And dropping some cash during a visit not only helps keep the enterprise going, but it might also be one of the things you do for yourself that keeps you out of the therapist’s office.
Kudos as well to your Frederick store staff. The front desk is always a beehive of friendliness and activity. The store is bright and always seems well stocked with fresh stuff, and I can feel the adreneline rising as I approach the lot. What will I find today???
Can’t really comment on Hagerstown. During my infrequent stops there, I’m usually pressed for time and need to seriously focus on tackling the massive cd wall. It’s usually quiet, never busy, otherwise unremarkable. If there was a negative, I’m wondering if the shopping center itself isn’t on a decline. While going through your outside merch, a couple of persons of minor concern invaded my space in separate moments. No biggie.
Finally, my condolensces on the recent passing of the gentleman from your warehouse. I’ve also known a few quirky guys like that who bring their own unique skills and personality traits to the table. How ironic it was that his passing came a week or two after your “nobody needs me anymore” blog. I think we can put that one to bed. Look around, you—we are always needed.
Regards,
STEVEN RODGERS
Dear Mr. Roberts:
Just when I think we’ve put Mr. McKuen to bed for his much needed eternal rest, I feel compelled to offer perspective on a man who, for a brief ten year period, turned much of what he created into pure gold. To all those high brow artsy fartsies out there, I assert that McKuen was as creative in his way as any of you, only his audiences were massive. Yours?
As is, those “books” should probably go directly to pulp. Alone they lack much needed context. But what about pairing them with an lp or two? Buy this, get that! Dial up your records division and tell them to look for one of his greatest hits collections. Choose from any one of four separate and distinct existing volumes. Or maybe a concert album, any one of which would demonstrate indisputably the manner in which he consistently held his audiences in rapture. Try Carnegie, Red Rocks, the Hollywood Bowl, or perhaps the London Palladium or the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. All of these and more of the many live and studio recordings offer proof positive of the enormity of McKuen’s talent as a performer and………..SONGWRITER of the first degree.
One can easily see that McKuen often used what he put into those “books” as inspiration for the many beautifully crafted ballads he went on to create. So there’s clearly a link…..and a selling point. From that (arrow pointing to a “book”) came this!!
You can locate McKuen merch at various sites around the store, just keep him out of the poetry section. Happy now Karl Shapiro?
Try an end cap in the music legends section. Forget his peripheral early contact with the beats, McKuen actually collaborated as an equal with the likes of Jacques Brel, Johnny Mercer, Henry Mancini, Anita Kerr, Petula Clark, Mary Travers, and many more entertainment luminaries. Frank Sinatra commissioned McKuen to create an entire album of McKuen songs, and when Nina Simone was finally coaxed out of retirement to record one last album, she led it off with three straight McKuen songs.
Perhaps one at the Inspiration section. What’s more inspiring than the journey of a guy who grew up an orphan in poverty, took every and any job he could get, struggled, honed it, crafted it, refined it, shifted gears over and over, struggled some more, and eventually became what someone in the British intelligensia (forgot who) termed “a one man cultural explosion.” If me, then perhaps you as well. In YOUR own way.
From this, that.
Over to Business and Business Luminaries. Bennett Cerf, Nelson Doubleday and Harper and Row are sitting around in the Gold Room at Random House blowing through Royal Gurkha Courtesans and riffing on one blowhard named Karl Shapiro, who’s been demanding a meeting and trashing them for giving McKuen an audience for his sub dung pap.
“I have no time for this clown,” bellows Cerf. “I’m meeting Arlene and Dotty at 21 for lunch. ”
Doubleday chimes in: “Doesn’t this fool know that the oodles of cash we rake in from McKuen helps us subsidize Shapiro’s stuff that few want to buy? I have no time for this boob, I’m thinking of buying the Mets!”
Harper and Row in unison: “We also have no time to waste on snotty Shapiro, tee time in an hour!!
Phone rings, “Mr. Cerf, sorry to disturb, Mr. McKuen is downstairs and would like to pitch an idea or two.”
Cerf: “Send him right up in my private elevator. Clear your calendars boys, let’s make some money!”
And let it be known that simultaneous to his relationships with no less than three of the top publishing houses, McKuen was also developing his own imprint, which for a period, ranked third largest in record mail order behind Columbia House and RCA.
I’ve been very fortunate to have seen live performances of many of my favorite artists, especially having grown up in NY with the village clubs, Carnegie, the halls and theaters, you name it. I regret having been too young for Judy at the Palace, and passing on Harry Chapin at the Dr. Pepper just weeks before his fatal crash cause, well, I’ll just catch him next time around.
Just a few years before he passed, McKuen seemed to be trying to emerge from a long-standing depression that was easily apparent from how it seemed etched into his face in the infrequent photos I’d seen in the press. He embarked on a very limited concert tour, singing and I guess, reading from those “books.” I was on the phone immediately and got my ticket to the Birchmere. He got through his BB King NYC gig rather well per the reports. Unfortunately, as explained by the Birchmere guy I talked to, he called to ask how the ticket sales were going, but was dissapointed at the number sold, and decided to cancel. “I tried to explain to him that we weren’t worried, our gate doesn’t typically book, they just show up,” but it was to no avail. That was sad, because I really wanted to add a McKuen performance to my book of concert memories.
And of course, as I mentioned in a previous post, things didn’t really end up well as far as keeping anything positive alive in terms of McKuen’s legacy. It was disheartening to learn that he never did follow up on his grand plan to share all that he had accumulated from his life in the entertainment industry. According to his biographer, his ailing spouse consigned all of it to several dumpsters. Only his valuable works of art and his incredible record collection were saved. I didn’t bother to look Shapiro up, but perhaps he might have been pleased.
So if there was any magic to McKuen, what was it? Personally, I hear it in the concert record overtures as conducted by masters like Peter Matz or Arthur Greenslade. McKuen certainly had a knack for melody construction. And he coupled that with a fine, basic understanding of often explored themes involving loneliness, despair, isolation, triumphing even if briefly in a search for love—you know, the usual stuff that our betters freely exlored–albeit in ways that were not always accessible to the common person’s intellect. What stands out about McKuen is that he came to bear at a transitional time in which the average workaday joe and jill were often stultified in their abilities of personal expression. Many people had yet to embark on “making our own kind of music” but in one way or another, as the 1970’s progressed, we were doing just that, and perhaps fittingly, there was no need anymore for the phenomenon that was McKuen.
Thanks as always for reading this, now a few words about your store staff. Of course, your Gaithersburg store looks great, but frankly, I think the magic you’re witnessing is at least equally due to Paulo and his team. You have some real superstars working there. They get it, a bookstore as an escape from the mundane, a world of exploration and fancy. Friendliness, helpfulness when needed, letting the customer know you’re available and wanting to help, then backing off to let the magic of exploration take hold on its own. Real life out there is often a tough proposition and it’s nice when the bookstore wants to serve as respite. And dropping some cash during a visit not only helps keep the enterprise going, but it might also be one of the things you do for yourself that keeps you out of the therapist’s office.
Kudos as well to your Frederick store staff. The front desk is always a beehive of friendliness and activity. The store is bright and always seems well stocked with fresh stuff, and I can feel the adreneline rising as I approach the lot. What will I find today???
Can’t really comment on Hagerstown. During my infrequent stops there, I’m usually pressed for time and need to seriously focus on tackling the massive cd wall. It’s usually quiet, never busy, otherwise unremarkable. If there was a negative, I’m wondering if the shopping center itself isn’t on a decline. While going through your outside merch, a couple of persons of minor concern invaded my space in separate moments. No biggie.
Finally, my condolensces on the recent passing of the gentleman from your warehouse. I’ve also known a few quirky guys like that who bring their own unique skills and personality traits to the table. How ironic it was that his passing came a week or two after your “nobody needs me anymore” blog. I think we can put that one to bed. Look around, you—we are always needed.
Regards,
STEVEN RODGERS
Note: I might be having difficulty transmitting the above, so I’m adding this statement and resending.
Dear Steven, i reallyy enjoyed your comments.
You are certainly correct.
There is certainly professional jealousy at work in a circumstances.
And I briefly touched on McKuen’s quality as a song writer.
Jean, you’re young and alive!!
Come out of your half-dreamed dream
And run, if you will to the top of the hill
Come into my arms, bonnie Jean
Please list all the stores – often!
We add fresh stock constantly to them!
Thanks again.
Chuck