McHuston Booksellers

Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: Featured (Page 27 of 43)

It’s tough being Vintage.

August 3, 2013 /

“Upgrade,” they urge. “Upgrade!”

“Up your nose,” I reply, “with a rubber hose.”

Well, I don’t really say that. But sometimes the sentiment crosses my mind. Bigger. Better. Faster. Smaller. Quiet. Louder. It’s all the latest. Upgrade! The one you have is old.

Old = no good, in their book.

I’ve just never felt that way. If you could see my collection of junk, you’d probably note my appreciation for the status quo.

For example: I drive a red Firebird that I have owned for more than a dozen years. I still enjoy tooling around in it, although I wish the air conditioner would heal itself. Beside me is an acoustic guitar I bought in Kentucky just after my high school graduation. Obviously, it’s almost old enough to draw its musical Social Security. (Only a slight stretch there…) Some things were better-made back in the day. They lasted longer.

When my Sony digital camera (the one probably found in the Smithsonian as the very first digital device, it’s so old…) – when it up and died, I bought another on eBay. An identical camera, with the ancient technology and dinosaur-size. It worked great and did everything I asked of it. I never wished it would do something that it couldn’t. Didn’t need to store 6,000 pictures or have it slip comfortably into my shirt pocket. I liked it. I replaced it, with an exact replica.

The death of my cell phone wasn’t the fault of age or technology. I sent it to a watery grave, despite hearing an ominous Thunk! when I loaded the washing machine (the same washer I bought twenty years ago, still working fine, thank-you-very-much). Should have investigated the Thunk! further, but I didn’t. The phone-in-laundry-waterproof test failed. Dead as a hammer after the spin dry cycle.

The cell is nice to have, even if I don’t use it all that much. So I visited the Sprint store, where my powers of invisibility kicked in at the worst possible moment. Pinched myself, held my breath, prayed to the god-of-digits hoping the young woman would be finally be able to see me standing there. Alas. To no avail.

I don’t frequent phone stores much and maybe the clerks all sense that, like dogs smell fear on me when I draw near them. When my pleading look did not even rate eye contact, I gave up and left for that electronic retail experience, diving headlong into the internet waters in hopes of finding a replacement phone.

The word “Upgrade” came up right away. I’ve been with the company for more than a decade (much more) and my contract expired years ago. My Sprint website password is as old as my car.

Andre, the Sprint guy: You should be seeing a link at the left for your options.

Me, after clicking: Those phones look like they came over on the Mayflower.

Andre, the Sprint guy: You could Upgrade instead of replace.

Some of this exercise is just lost on me. I asked Andre to subtract twelve from his age and think about where he was at that time. He admitted he wasn’t driving yet. That’s how long I’ve been a paying customer of his company. But for me to get the latest, greatest cellphone – completely free of charge – I have to become a new customer with another company. My drowned phone is no longer offered. I guess it was a lemon that got squeezed out of the lineup. I had just figured out how to Bluetooth it, too.

Sprint won’t extend me an offer for a Snazz-phone. Can’t get the next great thing. No smart phone for this dummy.

Oh, sure. I can get a sort of retro-looking flip-flop if I sign a two-year deal. The nice phones? Nah. Those are reserved for New Customers. It’s like Andre was pawning me off on Verizon or AT&T. Maybe a WalMart no-contract deal. Hey! I just want a telephone to go along with my monthly bill.

After nineteen-and-a-half minutes (I asked Andre how long we had been talking, and I guess he was timing it. Accurately.) – after that time, I felt guilty thinking he probably should have closed the sale in that length of time. I told him I’d look over the website more closely and call back when I was better informed.

Of course, I went straight to eBay.

Samsung Exclaim, with the Qwerty (fun typing there) keyboard, up for auction in several colors and varying-degrees of abuse. I place a bid. Checked it this afternoon. Won it. At this point, no six-hundred dollar smart phone for me. No upgrade. Just a twenty-dollar replacement version of the drowning victim.

Of course, to get it activated, I’ll have to visit the Sprint store.

Where I am invisible.

I’ll see you right away, if you – Come visit!

McHuston

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

Ah. The commercials explain it all.

July 27, 2013 /

‘Splain it, I should say. But they also make me realize things I didn’t know I needed to know.

I don’t have one. Do you? I mean – truly – I didn’t know I was supposed to have one. But here I stand (actually, I’m sitting…) having just been ordered by the person reading the television commercial: Ask your rheumatologist.

My rheumatologist?

Not even sure who those people are, or what a rheumatologist does. But, Phil Mickelson has one. He’s the star of the commercial, if commercials have stars. He spends his on-camera time talking about how dealing with pain is part of his golf-game. Apparently, Mr Mickelson suffers from what we used to call arthritis. My grandparents probably just called it aches or pains. At some point in my lifetime, it went from simple arthritis to Rheumatoid Arthritis.

Oh, the folks suffering from it never said that. There was no “Gracious, my rheumatoid arthritis is kicking up a touch. Perhaps I’ll have an aspirin.” Nah. It was more like, “Agh. Darned arthritis,” if anything would be said at all. I believe folks of my parent’s generation would have just endured it with minimal complaint.

Times were different then.

Now, in our age of gotta-have-air-conditioning-or-I-might-die, and our increasingly abbreviated speech, that old ailment is just too long to be spoken. Rheumatoid arthritis is now: RA. Our mouths just don’t work like those of previous generations. We can’t say things like “medication.” Our dogs take pet “meds.” I suppose we humans do too. If I’d had my “meds” I probably would not be writing this blog. Blog. Used to be a “web log,” but that took too long to say, so it was shortened to “blog.” That’s okay, I guess.

‘Kay with you? (Saved a full syllable there. Okay?)

You know when to be taking your meds, by taking your temp. That’s the thing that used to be “temperature” but it was just too difficult to voice. Temp. Meds. RA.

As a kid, I suffered the effects of asthma. Of course, if it recurs at this point of my life, I’ll need meds for A. Two syllables are just one too many.

Another question-posing commercial asks about your financial “number.” People are seen walking around with a large red number in their hands. There are no three or four digit numbers in any of the commercials. I’m not sure there are even any six digit figures. What is the number? It’s the amount of money we should have salted away for retirement. Not a hundred-thousand dollars. Not eight-hundred-thousand dollars.

The commercials all show actors carrying around one-million-dollar-plus retirement numbers. That’s the amount we’re supposed to have stuffed inside the mattress over time to take care of bills in our golden years.

Regrettably, my golden years will be closer to fool’s-golden. Somewhere along the line I failed to stash away a big enough percentage to have that Sweet-Million set back for the post-work good life.

Of course, based on the today’s pared-down style, I’m just keeping with the times. When the RA creeps up on me, I’ll just take a hard-earned D and buy an A. (D: dollar. A: Aspirin, for those of you my age. The rest of you already knew that, I know.) I don’t have a million set back, but I have the abbreviated version. The Really-Abbreviated-Version.

And, of course, when I feel the pain of RA, I’ll consult him or her. You know…

My rheumatologist.

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Once upon a time, in a town called Broken Arrow.

July 26, 2013 /

I don’t usually ask for names, figuring if a person wants me know their name, they’ll mention it. Maybe if it looks like we’re going to be trapped together in a broken elevator for the next six hours, a name might make the wait more comfortable. Kids in a sandbox? Sure.

Kid One, looking at Kid Two: Hey! Wanna play trucks? I’m Poindexter! What’s your name?

Kid Two: Gibby. I hate playing trucks.

Kid One: Okay. Then you can keep on eating the sand. I’ll build my roads over in the corner there.

Kid Two: Mmmmgllblg.

Honestly – as adults – you just never know for certain what it’s about when someone asks your name. Once I answered the What’s-your-name-Question and was promptly handed a legal summons. Not a big deal, as it turned out. But if I’d just kept my mouth shut, maybe I would not have had to waste the time. I figure if someone wants you to know their name, they’ll introduce themselves and mention it.

So – I didn’t ask the lady her name. Now you know why, partly. She and her nice friend were having lunch at the shop today. I could tell by their accents that they were not from the Sooner State. One of the ladies made mention of the sandwich bread. She liked it a lot, and decided it was much different that the bread in Australia. “We’re from Australia,” she said.

So I learned that much without having to ask.

At the checkout counter I figured since they had mentioned their country of origin that the fact was fair game for conversation. I asked how two Australians wound up in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, for lunch.

Books.

That was appropriate, I thought. Turns out, the taller of the two ladies is an Australian novelist who specializes in historical fiction. All of her works have been set in her native country. She figures that to sell books in the US, the plots will have to have American settings. I figure she is probably correct.

Which brings us to Broken Arrow, the setting of her next work of fiction. I suppose it doesn’t get any more American-sounding than Broken Arrow, especially if any stereotype of the Wild West remains. (Some of you might suggest Broken Bow, Oklahoma, as just as American-sounding, but then – that town could be named for gift-wrap, a violin bow, or a necktie…) If my Australian guest is planning on writing American historical fiction, the American West has played host to some great stories, and why not have them in a town with a real-West-sounding name like Broken Arrow?

I suggested to her that one of her characters might visit a bookstore. (Wink, wink: nudge, nudge.) She didn’t actually roll her eyes at the idea, but I could tell that her inner eye was rolling at the speed of light. I gave her a business card anyway and offered to answer any questions that might come up later about the area. Email and all that. G’day mate.

That, of course, will be the only way that I would ever find out if the book ever gets written, published, and distributed.

Since I didn’t ask her name.

It is true that most authors like the idea of having their book in a bookstore. Perhaps, at some point in the future, she (or her publisher) will make contact about a book with Broken Arrow, Oklahoma as its setting, and make it available for purchase in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma! I’m anxious to know if the hero of the story will be a sharpshooting, jingle-jangle spur-wearing cowboy riding high in the saddle on an Appaloosa kangaroo.

Every book sold today gets a free raincoat (some call them plastic bags), so come visit!

McHuston

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

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