Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

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Can’t Park? Snark!

Snark. Sounds like the noise that smart-alecky friend uses to follow up his low humor. SNARK. SNARK. Or, maybe – drawn out – like, SNAAAAAARK! It could have swimmers scrambling out of the surf like crazy.

Panicked-sounding fellow: SNAAAAAARK!

Beach vacation-ers, in unison: WHERE?

Surprised-sounding fellow: Why, right here, of course. My guitar is badly out of tune.

Snark. The guitar-tuning miracle. Install the shiny little battery, clip it to the head of the guitar, and twist those little pegs. Somehow, it knows what string you’re messing with and the little tune-ometer (like a speedometer, only for sound. That’s what I thought of anyway, when I first saw it…), the guage, I suppose is more accurate – lights up to indicate flat or sharp. All green? Perfect tuning for the string.

I’ve had guitar tuners in the past. Most have worked only with guitars set up to be used with amplifiers. Plug the cord in to the guitar, the other end into the tuner. Tune away.

Snark? No chords. No muss, no fuss.

To me, these little inventions are more fun than all the Angry Birds you can throw a stick at. (Or a rock, if that’s your phone-app’s version.) And unlike Angry Birds, when you’re finished playing with it, you have actually accomplished something other than wasting time.

And why am I playing with guitar tuning?

Partly because I am currently waiting for some bookbinding glue to dry enough to move on to another part of the project.

And partly also, because of the jack-hammering, dirt-scooping, power-generating machinery that is causing the jam-up on Main Street today. The street-landscaping project is in full bloom and the varieties of big yellow equipment are rumbling around like dinosaurs on steroids. There are a couple of lots open, but on-Main street parking is sort of a challenge, at times.

The UPS man bustled in, shaking his head. His sixth attempt to bring in my package. No place to park. Front is jammed. Back, too. The gas company chose this week to move and re-set all the gas meters in the alleyway behind the buildings. My car is baking in the sun about a block away, by the park. Couldn’t get around the dinosaurs to reach my back door and its parking spot.

The Tulsa World ran a nice story this morning about the progress. Of course – progress – is a word that has to be used in reference to the long term. Veronica Reyes is quoted in the article and sounded both optimistic and upbeat. She’s the owner of Fiesta Mambo, a business on the east side of Main, where there is currently no parking at all.

I’m with her. When it is all finished, the Rose District is going to be Mah-vuh-luss. We’re all going to love it. Ms Reyes has booked a band for Thursday evening at Mambo (on Main) and a number of other merchants are having First Thursday specials. (This month, on Second Thursday, since the traditional late-night affair fell on July 4th.)

Honestly, I believe it’s worth the slight inconvenience of park-and-walking a little. The Mambo chimichanga is a tasty meal and a real value at the price. Same with the treats at Nouveau Chocolat. Main Street Tavern continues to draw customers for its dining offerings.

I imagine we’re all having up and down days, what with the construction. Tuesday was a jump and run-to-keep-up day here at the bookstore. Today?

I’ve got the books, just need some sand for a summertime beach read. I could yell SNAAAAARK!

And get this old guitar tuned up.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main, Broken Arrow OK!

Civil War. HI-DEF.

Before every newscast, the Channel 6 announcer reminds us we are watching “Oklahoma’s Own, in HIGH DEFINITION.” Woohoo. I’m thinking by now, everyone is pretty square with that concept. Hearing it, I am personally reminded of the Quinn-Martin productions back in the day, when the announcer solemnly pronounced “The FBI…in COLOR.” Oh, to clarify: THE FBI was a television program back when television was carved on stone tablets and pitched onto the front lawn. One of the Roman gods was probably director or set assistant. Good guys always won. In color.

Boom. Wow. In Color. Of course, the announcer had to TELL us we were watching color television, because in the black and white age leading up to it, we had no idea what that weird spectrum was we were witnessing. Oh. COLOR! That’s IT!

Me: Color? Oh, yeah! COLOR! That rainbow thing! Right on our television.”

And then – technology happened.

Me, years later: Oh, yeah! HIGH DEFINITION! That’s why I only see half of the meteorologist! Maybe I should get a new TV.

Believe it or not, there was a time before television. Before radio, even. People had to sit around in the dark and play with mudpies. They liked it. They LOVED it.

I’m kidding there. People wanted to be entertained just the same in the olden days, so they went down to the park on Sunday after church and listened to speakers orate (or orators speak, if you prefer). There were bands, a la John Phillips Sousa. Picnics. There were tournaments for watching paint dry and the rising and falling of the thermometer.

Then there was the Harper’s Weekly magazine. During the US Civil War, photography was in its infancy, and the newspaper relied on engravings to pass images along to their readers, (ie. Downloaders…). The paper was a connection to the outside world. Most people at the time would never travel outside their own county. Very few Americans would cross the Atlantic Ocean, or even dip their toes in it, for that matter. You can click on any image for a larger view of what your great-great-great-grandparents waited to receive at the mailbox.

Harper’s Weekly was the window to the world in HIGH DEFINITION. Unfortunately, my telephone-camera is closer to Civil War technology than iPhone, and does not deliver the crisp lines included in the Harper’s graphics. The volume I’m currently rebinding is from the year 1861, which – you recall – is the time of the US Civil War.

Matthew Brady was an early photographer during that time. A famous one, later in history, for his Civil War images. Lithographers working for Harper’s would be handed an M. Brady photograph and would create a lithographic plate (read that, draw freehand, using the photo as a model) that could be reproduced in the paper. The detail is simply incredible.

Many of these magazines are currently purchased and cut up, sold as individual images on sites like eBay. During the Civil War era, families saved their subscription copies and had them bound up – at the end of the year – in a hardback volume that they could keep for years and years, and look back upon in their leisure time. Believe me, compared to our soccer, Little League, PTA, TV prime time, and commuting schedules – they had plenty of leisure time. Just no GameBoys, et al.

When I’m finished, I plan to teleport the restored book back in time, so some family can have a window on the news of the current war, fashion, and upcoming works of fiction.

Or maybe, I’ll hand it back over to the fellow who asked me to rebind it.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
122 South Main Street
Broken Arrow, OK!

Dropping Paula Dean? What? Drop a book?

The question is: Are there retailers in the US that do not have an exclusive line of Paula Deen products?

Answer?

McHuston Booksellers.

Apparently, I’m the only store without something with her name attached. Presumably, I could have a book or two in stock with her name on it. I don’t though.

By gosh, if I had one I swear I’d snatch it off the shelf and run it straight to the dustbin.

I’m kidding, but not due to matters of principal. And – although I’m surprised at the extent of her business ties and my naiveté about the extent of her fame – I am a little sympathetic about her current situation. I’ve never been one to relish in someone’s demise, particularly business people. (I’d say she qualifies even if business wasn’t her original claim to fame.)

Okay. I sort-of enjoyed the demise of Coach Hayes of Ohio State fame, who was fired as Coach/Icon for punching out a collegiate student-athlete who let him down in some fashion. And there was Bobby Knight. I admit feeling bad for President Richard Nixon, the guy who couldn’t just say, “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?” I think I could have. And he was the president that was going to have me slogging around in the rice paddies of Vietnam.

Someone I cared a lot about once remarked – at watching the University of Arkansas athletic director arriving in a car – “Here he is. Oh. I didn’t know Frank [Broyles] had a driver.” The “driver” was Coach Nolan Richardson. She assumed a black man behind the wheel had to be a hired chauffeur. Driving Mr Daisy. These days, most of us would not make that assumption. (I could still be naïve.) The person observing the arrival of Mr Broyles that day was the product of a different era.

Not a bad person.

I’m not defending Paula Deen here. My father set me to rights at an early age but Ms Deen did not share a father with me. I did not grow up in the deep South, as she did and has reminded us of – more than once. I think that’s the trouble.

Like Tricky Dicky, the president who had to abdicate the throne because he couldn’t say “I’m sorry for my mistakes,” Paula Deen persists in defending her style of upbringing as an excuse for her racist-sounding commentary. “I’m not a crook,” said Nixon. “I is what I is,” says Deen.

Personally, I used to poop my pants, but I learned to better myself.

So, it has to be “Sorry, Paula. You’re books are forever banned from the shelves of–”

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m selling pages and information. Books. Recipes. Paula Deen didn’t know me from Adam when she fell from grace and she doesn’t know me now. I’ve never prepared food based on her recipes.

But I won’t deny someone else that chance and – me, a sale.

It isn’t personal or principal here. Just business. (I’m not a serial killer either, but sell murder mysteries.) The chef is losing sponsors for her past comments, but not so much for her past comments as for her inability to say today: “Woopsie! I guess I messed up there. Forgive me?”

It would have worked for a disgraced US president way back then and for a Deep South deep-fryer in this day and age.

Pride goeth, they say, before a fall. Wow. What a fall. Fail, as they say these days. But don’t start remembering later those loose words said these days, or don’t speak today those words that may be later recalled.

Cookbooks? Got ‘em. Political spin-doctoring? Not so much. But, you aren’t looking for those, anyway. Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 S. Main Street, Broken Arrow OK!

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