Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: booksellers (Page 91 of 92)

What the Dickens?

I’ve been spending time with a favorite family, one that I’ve not visited in some time. The tribulations facing William Dorrit and his grown children make for some great drama, as co-presented by the BBC and WGBH-Boston in an adaptation of Little Dorrit, by Charles Dickens.

Somehow, I missed the whole miniseries when it aired in the US in 2010, but thanks to the hand-held viewing device (you know the thing to which I refer, which shall go un-named here…) I’ve been able to catch up on the episodes.

Much of the real-life of Mr. Dickens was woven into the fabric of his stories, and the patriarch of the Dorrit clan begins the story imprisoned for debt – just as Dickens’ own father had been jailed. A social reformer on many issues, Dickens points out the lack of logic in detaining debtors, who otherwise might have been able to work to pay off their creditors.

Although the work was published serially more than 150 years ago, his topics still reflect the times. One of the subplots involves a banker who is said to turn his clients investments to gold with unfailing returns – in the manner of present-day schemer Bernie Madoff. And – just as the financial scheme of Madoff’s house came crashing down, Mr. Merdle suffers financial and social ruin when his investment scheme eventually fails. The characters in Little Dorrit have their financial security destroyed due to the collapse of what had been considered a no-risk investment, as did the victims of Bernie Madoff.

Where Dickens created distinct characters to enliven his novels, the BBC production has followed faithfully. Andy Serkis plays the evil villain Mssr. Rigaud, who hisses about as much as the character Gollum in the Lord of the Rings movies, also played by Serkis. And Mr. Pancks, the snorting and nervous-twitching rent collector is done justice by British actor Eddie Marsan.

I realize though, that it isn’t the Dorrit family I’m especially fond of – it is the telling of their story by Charles Dickens that draws me in. During William Dorrit’s stint in prison he is alternately pompous and sniveling. When he is freed at long last, his newly-found fortune inspires conceit and condescension rather than inspiration for the greater good. His daughter Fanny was already snobbish before the family fortunes changed, and son Edward is idle and feckless regardless of his financial position.

Only Little Dorrit – Amy – who was born in the debtors’ prison, remains her kindhearted self throughout.

Perhaps if I had offered a Little Dorrit action figure instead of the one of Mr. Dickens (complete with removable pen and hat!), it might have sold during the holiday season. I’m a firm believer though, that Dickens is the gift that keeps on giving!

Extreme blogging.

It’s late to be asking this, but when did everything turn – Extreme?

One of the earliest appearances, as far as I can recall, had to do with ESPN and their Extreme Sports. Compared to four hour baseball games and Sunday afternoon coverage of quietly-announced golf events, leaping from a helicopter to ski down the snow-covered face of an Alpine mountainside does seem pretty extreme.

But it didn’t stop at sky-diving, bull-running, or Snake Canyon motorcycle jumping.

Okay. So maybe skateboarding in those events that have contestants shooting fifteen or twenty feet into the air could be considered extreme. Pushing yourself one-footed down the sidewalk and then coasting for six feet – not so much.

On my way to work this morning, I noticed that Broken Arrow has an Extreme hair salon. I’m not really sure what that means. Will you leave later with all your hair hacked off? To the point your friends will notice your ‘extreme’ style change? Or is the trim achieved with a chainsaw? That, even I would admit, would be a fairly extreme way to get a haircut.

What about the Extreme nail salon? There is one of those, too. It makes me think of those pictures of oddballs who never, ever, trim their fingernails and have those long twisty things hanging off the ends of their digits. That’s extreme, in my book. Clippers and a nail file? I don’t see how that qualifies. Applying nail polish and paint? Extreme? Maybe if it is done with a snow-blower.

Most of these, I’ve seen. Some are courtesy of Google. They are local.

Extreme sports camp. Extreme nutrition. Extreme DJs. Extreme food couponing.

Then, there are the products. Drink down a No Fear Extreme energy drink and perhaps you’ll experience supersonic flight – without the jet. The Extreme-Clean drink promises to run through your gastric system eliminating toxins on its merry (but extreme) journey.

Are things better, when Extreme?

If so, then let me show you some Extreme Books, or try the Extreme Irish Stew!

Nah…

On second thought, I’ll stick with moderate to slightly-exciting.

The Grilles and the lack of Grills.

I don’t think the weather could have been nicer – and a lot of folks made their way to the Rose District (that’s the new nickname for downtown Broken Arrow, you know…just passed by our elected officials). The event was advertised as Grilles and Grills, a combination car show and burger cookoff.

The grilles showed up in numbers, with some truly classy cars displayed from Broadway to El Paso. Main Street was blocked off – something BA is fond of doing. Any excuse for a parade. Saturday morning it was hot rods, Corvettes, pickups, ’57 Chevys, and about everything in between.

The two beauties in the pictures belonged to the same fellow, as it turned out – Dave Lewis, who has A-1 body shop in Broken Arrow. They are certainly a testament to the quality work he does. As I was uploading the pictures, I belatedly realized I should have asked permission of the owners before publishing photos of their vehicles. I sauntered outside just as Mr. Lewis and his wife were beginning to pull out of their parking spaces. I quickened my pace (a rare happening these days) and got to them before they revved and rolled.

The grills apparently didn’t show up at all. Someone popped in the bookstore to ask where all the burgers were, but I couldn’t say. I had to admit the thought of sampling a freshly grilled burger had crossed my mind. But not my lips.

Someone said there weren’t enough entries to stage a competition, but it would have suited me just fine if the top trophies were handed out to the grillers who were willing to give it a go. I believe they could have sold a few of them. The food truck across from the bank was doing a steady trade. (I sold a little Irish stew as well.)

Looking over the cars, I experienced a brief pang of nostalgia for my own car project, a Triumph TR-6 that I had intended to complete as a graduation gift for my daughter. That date came and went. The years dragged on and the progress was as slow as pouring cold motor oil. I embarrassed myself talking to one of the car show attendees, asking him how many years it took him to complete his restoration.

“A little over a year,” he replied.

Mine was ten years running and could have run another couple. Granted, I didn’t work on it every day, but still.

It was looking sharp, and I was excited when it was finally to the point that I could start it up and back it out of the driveway. I drove it around the block.

And just hated the feel of it.

I don’t know if I had tightened the steering too much or something else not enough, but I was remembering the feel of my little Triumph Spitfires, tiny little British sportscars that were fun to drive, even without any horsepower worth mentioning. The TR-6 handled more like an old farm truck, I thought.

After that spin around the neighborhood, I couldn’t get excited about working on it any longer. I sold it on eBay and the fellow hauled it in a trailer to Texas.

I wondered about the many restorers showing off their projects Saturday, and whether they might be old car book collectors as well, but only one came in and asked about auto manuals. There are a few over on a lower shelf – Chilton and Haynes repair guides – but they tend to be for cars like the Ford Pinto.

There weren’t any Pintos on Main Street on Saturday, but if there had been one, I bet it would have had fat black tires and flames leaping down the fenderwells.

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