McHuston Booksellers

Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

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I promise. It’s me.

January 18, 2014 /

I’m hoping you’ll recognize the typing. It’s me, even if my identity isn’t clear. You see, my identity was stolen. But hey! I’m still me! You’ve gotta believe it!

The tip-off was a call from a Chicago police detective.

“That’s me,” I replied. Normally, I wouldn’t answer an out-of-state call. Nobody out of state who calls really wants to talk to me. They normally want to sell me something. Detective Bryant wasn’t selling anything.

She was very matter-of-fact, and it was impossible for me to keep visions of SVU and CSI out of my mind. I’ve seen enough of the TV shows and I’m pretty sure I’d seen my own personal episode, even if I can’t remember who was playing my part.

The victim.

Detective Bryant even asked me if I wanted to be listed as such.

“Yes,” I answered. But at that moment, I really wanted something much stronger than just admitting I was in that state. I want to be standing within three feet of Mr Coleman and… Well. Suffice to say, I wasn’t hoping slap up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for him. Or smack his back in congratulations. Certainly, not his back. And probably not a slap. But that’s neither here nor Chicago.

The guy named Josh Coleman was apparently sitting across the desk from the intrepid detective, claiming that he had found the credit card with my name on it some three years ago. It was a credit card from a home improvement store. I’ve never had one from such a place.

“That’s a lie,” I told her.

“Do you live in Calumet City?” she wanted to know.

“No,” I said. “No, I live in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.”

I have a good imagination, and right about now, I’ve got a pretty good image of this guy sitting in handcuffs, charged with fraud and identity theft, sitting on the other side of the desk from the woman on the telephone with me.

She explained that she had called me on her personal cellphone (which explained why her name came up on my caller-ID instead of the Chicago Police Department) but she would be happy to answer any questions I might have if I wanted to call the Chicago precinct. She gave me the number.

Before she hung up, she quickly answered my last-second flurry of questions: How did he get my information? Will charges show up against my personal credit? How did she find my number to call me?

The detective advised me to contact the credit bureaus and provide a “fraud alert” and request a credit report to determine if there are other credit cards that have been issued in my name that I don’t know anything about.

Man.

I can’t help feeling a little abused. A little victimized.

Don’t know why, but I sort of want to take a shower. I feel – dirty – economically, and that’s a weird thing, I’m telling you. Money laundering, I don’t need – ‘cause I don’t have anything to clean up. I’d LOVE to be laundering money. (I don’t mean ILLEGAL money laundering. I’m thinking it might just be fun to scrub up some dollars.)

I wish someone would scrub up Mr Coleman with a stiff bristle brush and some really hot water, maybe from a high-pressure hose. Then, I might come away feeling a little cleaner about myself.

Then again – I’ve never been a top-scholar about math and ciphering, laundry, the weekly wash, and the bottom-line-bank-account balances. I’m a reader.

Detective Bryant? Read him his rights.

Bookmen are inherently honest, even as regarding credit card transactions, cash tendered, consignments offered, and explanations put forward. Don’t be concerned about who I am. My identity – even borrowed or stolen – is always above board and honestly offered.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
123 South Main St., Broken Arrow OK!

Wait, wait. Don’t tell me…

January 13, 2014 /

Bring on blue-tooth and your tablets that stream live football games for free. Give me that technology. I’ll figure it out, eventually.

Oh. Wait a minute.

I need a technology filter first. You see, there are some things brought forth in the name of progress and invention that I can simply do without. Some of them are items that aren’t even that complicated.

Things like electric car windows. Don’t want them. Don’t need them. Roll your garage door up and down electrically all you like, but leave me my hand-crank for the car windows. Much more reliable. The passenger-side window on the van is permanently raised, even on the hottest summer day without air conditioning. Can’t roll ‘er down.

On the other hand, I love the fact that I can snap a digital photograph on my cellular telephone and transfer it to the laptop computer without the use of wires. And then – should I care to – click the mouse and send the picture to the printer in the office at the back of the store. Sometimes I do that, just because I can.

There are – I believe – some cutting edge techno-gadgets that simply go beyond what is necessary.

In our redeveloped Rose District we have some fancy-schmancy gadgetry that has just been connected up to the electrical circuit-grid, making them click, and whir, and switch. The traffic signals are more than just car-stoppers, you see.

Before the changes, a vehicle approaching on a cross-street would trigger the traffic signal facing Main to change to red. That’s all well and good. But – what if – there is a huge, huge line of cars wanting to cross Main Street? Just imagine so many cars backed up that they keep triggering the light to stay red. Oh, those poor souls on Main, forced to wait, even though their vehicles have backed up for two or three blocks. (It could happen. Yep.)

Well. The new signals have an electric eye (so I’ve been told) that keeps checking for any backups on Main. Too many cars waiting? Bang! Easy-peasy, the light mechanism knows it is time to change to keep the flow going. A little while later, it will switch back to allow the rest of the evening rush to get across.

Here is the ultra-tech: If you stand at the corner of Main and Commercial, (or have a seat in one of the new sidewalk benches) you’ll be told to “Wait.” It is an authoritative male voice that doesn’t seem to want any guff.

“Wait,” it says. “Wait. Wait. Wait.”

In fact, it appears to be limited in vocabulary to a single word. And it seems to be limited in intelligence to a single activity.

No matter which direction we pedestrians are headed, we are told to “Wait.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.”

“See McHuston wait.”

“Wait.

The UPS driver bounced in wondering what the Wait was all about, and I replied that there was no waiting at the bookshop. A customer wondered if people were commenting about the Wait.

They were, but I had no idea what they were talking about until I walked to the bank and needed to cross the street.

“Wait,” the post said. “Wait. Wait Wait.”

So, I waited longer than reasonably required, just out of courtesy. Wait. It has been my impression that people walking downtown have long been accustomed to waiting before crossing, for fear of instant crushing death at the hands (or fender) of a heck-bent motorist in a speeding car. I’m thinking there should be a bullhorn aimed at those folks calling out “WAIT!” in a no-fooling tone. “WAIT! WAIT!” And then, we could cross the pedestrian-friendly street.

I was in the crosswalk in the middle of Main, walking with the approval of the signpost, when a young woman pulled up directly in front of me, cutting me off. One step quicker and I’d have been hit. I stood there – maybe two feet away from her car door – wondering “What the…”

The exact middle of Main seemed as safe a place as any at that point. So, I just waited it out. I’m not sure she ever saw me. She continued to talk on her phone until the light changed. At that point, she sped away, finally allowing me to cross against the wishes of the authoritative voice desperately calling out for me to “Wait. Wait.”

A lunch guest popped back in the shop today and said he had heard a voice outside. It kept repeating itself, he said. I was surprised when he admitted to needing a few moments to figure it out.

“Oink,” he had heard it say. “Oink. Oink. Oink.” At least I got the word right. I was hustling back from the bank and – don’t tell – I crossed against light.

“Wait,” spoketh the post. “No comprendo,” I replied.

Come visit!

McHuston

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

What? Who?

January 11, 2014 /

“Glory is fleeting,” Napoleon is supposed to have said, “but Obscurity is forever.” Fame is a lot like glory in that respect. You can’t be too well-known if people don’t remember who you are.

Some time back, a younger person was asking who the Beatles were, and the explanation came back that it was Paul McCartney’s band before he joined Wings. (It wasn’t my answer…)

Ouch. I would have figured the Beatles as beyond forgetting. But what about their predecessors, popular singers like Eddie Cantor and Paul Anka? I’ll admit I can’t name even one Eddie Cantor song, and at the moment, I’m drawing a blank on Anka as well.

Elvis is remembered, I guess. I haven’t done any surveys. I was nervous about buying a Marilyn Monroe book collection for fear that no one remembers her anymore, and I’d be stuck with them. (I’ve pretty much sold them all.) Napoleon is supposed to have finished his Fleeting Glory saying with: “I choose obscurity.” Ironically, the French military leader maintains his fame more than two-hundred years later.

A research project had me going through the archives of Billboard magazine, a trade publication that has been in print for over a century. Most people have heard of the Billboard music charts, but the magazine actually reports on a myriad of entertainment fields. One of the covers from the 1940s caught my attention.

The slim fellow behind the microphone was so well known in his time, that he could be identified just by his initials – N.T.G. – sort of like presidents JFK and FDR.

Inside the magazine is an item serving as a caption to the front cover, and the final line reads: Nils Thor Granlund is one of the great showmen of our time.

And I bet you’ve never – ever – heard of him.

For those of us looking the article over from a distance of more than half a century, even the accomplishments attributed to the showman are obscure.

“It was NTG who conceived the elaborate movie premiere, with lights, news-cameras and personal appearances of stars. It was NTG who exploited and advertised the first full-length motion picture in this country. When radio began to gain a foothold it was NTG who brought Al Jolson and Eddie Cantor and Harry Richman to the listening public. He also presented radio’s first amateur program.”

The item goes on to point out that Granlund was born in Lapland and by age eighteen had already made his mark as a race car driver, an aviator, and press agent – then went to work for movie pioneer Marcus Loew.

“His greatest fame, of course, has been gained in the night club field,” claimed the Billboard writer. “The famed Paradise Restaurant in New York was also his creation.”

A lot of “fame” being thrown around there, but all these years later, his name, his restaurants, and his night club adventures are lost to memory. Granlund’s name was largely forgotten by the public at the time of his death, in a 1950s car accident. His was a rags to riches to rags story. Fame is fleeting. Obscurity is forever. When no one can even recall your name, it doesn’t matter how famous you once were.

And NTG was at the top of the heap in his time.

The Billboard item starts: “No history of show business could be complete without a long chapter devoted to the incomparable NTG, star-maker, pioneer, and precedent-setter extraordinary.”

Wow.

Maybe the most famous person you’ve never heard of.

Somebody ought to write a book about the guy!

Come visit!

McHuston

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

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