Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

Tag: main street (Page 76 of 104)

What’s that? You say you want a revolution?

How young they look! Dapper pink suits and stripey bell-bottom pants. Of course, in those days, ruffled-front shirts were de rigueur, particularly for rock-and-roll bands.

The magazine came in yesterday, ordered as part of a research project. It was ordered based on an article inside, but it was the cover that caught my attention.

It’s a time-capsule, all right. I looked the boys over and – seeing the youthful face of John Lennon – thought what a loss his death represented. The shame of it is, it took until later for me to remember that George was gone, too, the victim of a health bullet.

The LOOK magazine is dated September 13, 1968. Came in the mail almost exactly 45 years after its cover date. It was a big year for Beatle fans, which might have been translated as a big year for the Beatles, but even then it was the beginning of the end.

Here’s what was going on in that year: the release of the so-called “White Album.” The group was at what later turned out to be the peak of their popularity. They were coming off of the success of Sgt. Pepper’s. Critically acclaimed. Popular success. Hit songs followed from that white-jacketed double album titled only with embossed lettering of the band’s name.

That much, I’ve known for years. Here’s what the research project arrival turned up for me due to a curiosity that spurred a little (off-the-clock) investigating. (I do projects on the side to help pay the bills. So sue me.) Seeing the Fab Four and noting the coincidence of the cover date and today’s date bonked that gotta-find-out button. For years (okay, up until a few minutes ago) I thought the album cover was all-white because it was to replace the “Two Virgins” photograph in which John and Yoko posed naked. Not like Miley Cyrus Arty-Twerky naked. Just standing there, showing-your-business naked.

That is what my good friend Mike told me.

Ahhh, Mike. It wasn’t like that.

Just found out that the album you were talking about was an independent thing. Also released in 1968. It turns out the white album wasn’t a censor-thing at all. A guy named Richard Hamilton DESIGNED it that way. (Would have loved to have heard him sell that idea. Yeah, he says. Totally white. Name? Sure. It’ll say classy. Embossed. Turn it at an angle and you can read The Beatles.” You’ll love it.)

Ahhh, Mike. Come on. You’re a PHD now. Lennon fan then. Thought you would’a had that one figured out.

This one I’ll give you. As I recall, we both thought the later album Let It Be was the last Beatles album. It turns out – if not technically – in all other respects the White Album was the last hurrah. Maybe that was even beyond the finish line. Many of the White Album songs were recorded independently. The band members didn’t even see each other during the recording. Ringo wanted it to be released as two separate records. When he didn’t show a couple of times, Paul McCartney filled in on drums. Two songs worth.

That’s one you didn’t tell me about.

The White Album was released just weeks after this LIFE magazine profile. The band was on top of the world. The band was – internally – lost beneath the waves.

Retrospection is a heck-of-a thing. Especially when it is has never been easier to grab up and listen to older music.

Oh, and here they come. Those long, lost memories. White Album. Hey Jude. First slow dance. Ever. Becky – the most beautiful girl in the entire high school – and my hand is on her hip for one of the longest songs ever commercially released. And I can dance with her until it is finally over.

I’m telling you now… for me, that song never ended. Naaaaaah-na-na, Na-na-nah-nah, Hey Jude.

No dance floor here, but – Come visit!

McHuston

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

Tagged in this post…

It was almost a hundred years ago and a young man was half-a-world away from his family’s farm. No one from Cass County Missouri had ever ventured so far away. Around his neck he had tied a cord and dangling on that was a round piece of metal about the size of a poker chip.

He hoped no one would ever have to take it in hand and read the letters stamped on it, because – if that happened – nothing else would ever matter. In the center of the disk were the letters U.S.A. Following the curve of the edge, his name was stamped into the metal.

John W. Huston.

My grandfather.

After a year-and-a-half, I’m finally getting around to the office, still sorting odds and ends from the move. Nailed up a couple of pictures that had been buried under a junk pile. Found a box and opened it up.

I’ve since sold the glass showcase, but the items in this box were displayed there at the old location, and pretty much forgotten about until this evening. What a mish-mash of stuff. The sort of treasure that pirates might hoard in a chest – if the ship that sported its Jolly Roger was confined to Skiatook Lake and the raiding of garage sales.

Looking over the items, I was trying to figure out where they’d come from. I recognized my sister’s Mickey Mouse watch. It broke and she was going to toss it. I was going to repair it. It’s still not working. A cardboard pressed recording of Richard Nixon’s nomination acceptance speech from August 8, 1968. I think I walked into his campaign’s local office (for some reason I was collecting election bumper stickers), and walked out with a “Nixon’s the One” 33 1/3 rpm Auravision recording.

Then, there was the metal disk with the hole punched in it. Looked it over for a couple of seconds, trying to remember what it was. Flipped it over and saw his name.

I’ve held it before, but the history of it never really struck me. In four years time it will be one hundred years old, and that long ago – this thing now in the palm of my hand was around the neck of a 23-year-old Missouri boy who would manage to survive his time in France. After the Great War he would come back to the US wearing the dog tag and eventually put it in a box.

He’d get married and have kids and they’d give him grandchildren – one of whom would wind up in a bookstore in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. I remember sitting on his lap as a little kid – him asking me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Bookstore owner, I told him. (That’s a bald-faced lie. I actually answered that I wanted to play for the New York Yankees. “Gonna start in the minor leagues?” he’d asked. “Nah,” I replied. “Just wanna play baseball for the Yankees.”)

Well.

A lot of years have passed since that discussion. Regrettably, my naiveté hasn’t improved much since that conversation with Grandpa Huston. Too trusting. Always expect the best from people. Believe what people tell me. I’ll admit that I’ve been taken advantage of and have been disappointed at times. Sometimes folks say things to me that turn out not to be true. I’m surprised every time it happens.

But I’m not so naïve as to think that I’d be sitting in front of this keyboard in a bookshop in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, if it wasn’t for the man who left the farm and went to France and faithfully wore his dog tag and served his country, and then married that pretty telephone operator in Parsons who placed his call back home.

Thanks, Grandpa – for everything. Wish I’d had the chance to sit across the table from you. Maybe ask you a little bit about France and the big war.

Holding this little piece of metal tonight makes me feel as though I met you again for the very first time. I’m thinking there may be a spot in the shop where I can treat it with a little more respect. I’m thinking it has a lot more miles on it than I do and I’m happy to keep it safe – even out of my treasure box.

The other token in the image? A mystery coin that I found in the front yard about the time I was young enough to talk Yankees with my Grandfather. But that’s a whole ‘nother story!

Come visit!

McHuston

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

Go to the light… Go to the light!

Nah. It’s not a post-apocalypse Zombie movie set. That’s downtown BA in the pic. I would say “downtown Broken Arrow after dark” but it is clear the dark is still there. Nothing AFTER about it. It stays this way until the morning hours.

Sometimes they kill the generator-powered lights down by Fiesta Mambo (the tiny pin-point of light in the lower-right in the pic). They might cut the power to those after the Tex-Mex margarita machine is powered off. Lights and mixer – same electrical circuit? You decide. The ensuing darkness? I believe that’s the Zombie’s cue. (I know they’re out there. I’ve seen Zombie droppings.)

Here’s the word. (Actually it is hearsay from another business owner, but amongst ourselves we consider that to be The Word. Similar conversations might be called ‘gossip’ elsewhere.) The Word: Demolition that will eventually lead to construction will begin in front of the bookstore next week.

Fine.

The sooner started, the sooner completed. Boomer.

It can’t get any darker out there, and the end result will work toward my primary hope: Slower traffic.

We used to have talks about the OLDER generation and the YOUNGER generation. Later, it was broken down demographically. GEN-X. GEN-Y. The MILLENIALS. (Couldn’t gin up a Gen for them, I guess.) These are social study descriptions for various age groups. It’s a lot too complicated for me.

Here is what it really boils down to: Cars.

Not what kind of car you drive, or car you’d like to drive. Not cars you owned or wrecked or stole. It’s what you do when you’re inside that big steel honker. Need a label? Fill in your own blanks.

1. In a car seat or strapped in the backseat = Gen _____
2. Finally got a license and personal set of keys = Gen _____
3. Driving with a car seat or strap-ees in back = Gen _____
4. Paying insurance premiums for Group 2 = Gen _____
5. Complaining about driving of Groups 2, 3, & 4 = Gen _____
6. On a pillow to see over dashboard and Groups 1-5 = Gen _____

Now, we’ll play Guess the Group:

Me, on the phone: “…not only that! It’s a construction zone. I’m sure they’re doing 50! And it’s dark!”

Daughter (Hint: Accompanied by several Group 1-ers): Well, Dad. Maybe they need to be somewhere in a hurry.

Me, sounding a lot like Billy Crystal (Google him) when he affects a Jewish dialect: And they don’t have an alarm clock so they can leave earlier to get there on time? And not kill the rest of us?

You see, these are the kind of things that are concocted in your head after staring up at the brilliant police spotlights in downtown BA. It isn’t a near-death experience. Just the gas-powered spotlights in the Rose District. At least, it isn’t a near-death experience – unless you are a member of Group 5 or 6… And get out of your car.

The rest of you – (Editor’s Note: The atmosphere on Main Street in Broken Arrow does not really involve Zombies, Billy Crystal, speeders, or near-death experiences. Group 5’ers tend to get worked up.) Well, then – ALL of you:

Come Visit!

McHuston

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

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