Rare, Collectible, & Otherwise

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True Lies and other Honest Observations.

Time changes things. Hey. I used to be 165-pounds and thin. Well, relatively thin. Since then, some time has passed. Things change. In the race between grey and bald, I used to root for grey. Now, I’m just pulling for a peaceful draw. Maybe a tie ‘tween the two. Resolved quickly.

I’m old enough to remember when women used to wear underwear on the inside – like, Under their clothing. Then along came the singer/performer Madonna and the cones. Like I said. Things change.

Thongs used to be footwear. Now, thongs are… –well, you know. Probably, Madonna wears hers on the outside. I don’t keep up with her that much. On her feet are flip-flops, probably. Not sure when that changed, but like I said… (Time changes things, in case you’ve already forgotten.)

Perceptions change too. I remember when – well, we don’t need to go into all that. I’m guessing if you put ninety seconds to it, you can remember a couple of your ways of thinking that have changed. Hint: Remember that guy Santa? Tooth Fairy? Not every perception is so grandiose as that which led to the discovery of the New World. Remember that one? Perception: The WORLD is FLAT.

Oops. Wrong-a-roo.

Concede the point yet?

Enough build up. Time has passed, but some things are the same. In particular, they have not released an Anniversary or otherwise-altered version of James Cameron’s movie TRUE LIES. When it is shown these days, is still the same film that was released back in 1994. Just as a reminder, that was the same year that Nelson Mandela won a majority vote in South Africa, when Blacks got the right to vote. Ireland and Northern Ireland called a cease fire. (Some of you are young enough to know nothing of the Troubles.)

OJ Simpson set out in his Bronco in the most-covered non-action video of all time, as he raced (sort of) to keep away from police over the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson. Kurt Cobain committed suicide, former president Richard Nixon died, and Michael Jackson married the daughter of Elvis Presley. (He was still alive, back then.)

I know you’re catching on how those events seem like long ago. In fact, they were – relatively speaking.

So, when I was watching the James Cameron movie True Lies, with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis, I was actually viewing it with new eyes. The events of that particular year didn’t play into the thing. No politics. No pressure. No hype.

This doesn’t happen often, I promise you. But I laughed out loud. It’s an action movie. But, it has more than its share of laughs – more than many films labeled as “comedy.” Remember, Arnold was strictly an actor when this was filmed. Not former governor of California. Or governor of California. He was actor-Arnold. That long ago.

The website Rotten Tomatoes has its infamous Tomatometer that rates the reactions of critics and audiences. True Lies has a 72% and 69% score. One of the rare occasions when critics like a movie more than regular viewers. I’m thinking both were a bit jaded. But, the scores are recorded and they are on the internet and cannot be withdrawn.

I – for one – would give the film a much higher score. But I have the advantage of time. As in, the passage of time. Times have changed. The film hasn’t. It’s a funny, action-packed movie. The Feel-Good movie of the Summer? I dunno. But I laughed. Out loud.

Perceptions.

A lady came in to the bookshop looking for old history books. A home-schooler. She didn’t want anything new. “They’re changing history,” she said to me. And, you know, she’s correct. What with political correctness and social responsibility there are difficulties owning up to the past. So we change it.

I just finished reading a history from an area of the south not particularly noted for grand race-relations. It was clear that the authors were aware of that fact. There were numerous occasions in which historical civic actions were purported to have been influenced by sympathies for a race-relations cause. Hard to swallow and I hated to brand it as such, but I thought: Revisionist.

The narrative written on the electronic-pages of the internet will be around forever (assuming that those predictions of the total-global-electronic-apocalypse are incorrect). Those ratings, praises, condemnations, thoughts-in-passing, curses, slanders, praises, observations (even this one) may ultimately be absorbed into the total human educational posture. Our collective history. History.

Be careful in stating what you mean. And be careful to truly mean what you state.

I’ve got Scooter Libby’s tell-all, and other relevant offerings (I don’t really, but do have some really good reading… And that’s no True Lie.) Come visit!

McHuston

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

Perseverance and Panning for Book-Gold.

Whap! Whap! Woohoo! (That’s me slapping myself on the back and giving a general cheer…) The result of proving to myself that an occasional reward is extended for tenacity and sticky-to-it-ness as a book detective.

It might have been five years ago when a customer asked if I could find a book for him. Sure can, I replied. I’ve had pretty good success searching out titles, largely due to the internet. Before the Web, finding an out of print book meant calling bookstores one after another. Visiting fleamarkets. Book fairs. Taking extended buying trips out of state.

Now, I can scour shops from coast to coast by simply visiting a couple of websites. Auctions like eBay have new offerings daily.

Still – the task I was given turned out to be a tough one. It wasn’t the first time I was asked to find a particular book based on the color and shape, but it was the only time I’ve taken up the challenge.

Over the years, the customer has stayed with me – now, he is a regular and respected client. We never meet, though, that he doesn’t ask me if I’ve had any success seeking out the book, the one printed in 1960 or ’61, the one with the white cover, the coil-spiral binding, and the smudgy black and white reference-guide pictures throughout the interior.

Me, repeating our routine of many years: Who’s the author on that?

Mr. Client: Don’t know.

Me, smiling through our stage-play: And what about a title?

Mr. Client: Don’t know it. It had a white cover and a spiral binding at the edge.

Me: The publisher?

Mr. Client: Probably privately published in Chicago.

Me: If I only had the author. Or the title. The publisher. I’m thinking it’s going to come to you in a dream one of these nights.

Mr. Client: Won’t happen. I was just a kid and didn’t pay enough attention.

And so, having run through our well-rehearsed exchange another time, I make a promise to keep me ears peeled, me nose to the stone, and me eyes to the ground in the continuation of the hunt.

There are plenty of tricks to searching the internet beyond the basics. I’ve tried them all. But I haven’t stopped there. I’ve written letters to dealers. Telephoned libraries. Emailed booksellers far and wide. Not many get past the first scoffing reaction to the idea of trying to find a particular book without knowing the title, author, or publisher.

“It’s coil bound,” I’ll tell them. “Probably privately published in Chicago.”

“Good luck,” most reply. “You’ll need it,” some add.

I received a dusting of good luck this week. Found the book.

After so many years, there’s no short way to describe the twisty, keyword-tweaking, obscure-location scouring methods that gave me a first hint of hope. Nah. Not hope. Just the slightest – possibility. The shortened version would go like this: I added a word or two in the search box, clicked on something and saw part of an online classified advertisement. It wouldn’t let me read the ad without first paying an auction-site membership fee, and if I had paid for each opportunity to look at a classified ad over the years it would have amounted to more than the price of the book.

There was this small, compressed-graphics image of a beat up looking old book with a coil binding. The part of the ad that wasn’t hidden from non-members indicated it was printed in the early 1960’s. I got out my magnifying glass and held it up to the computer screen.

There was an author’s name at the bottom of the cover in the picture.

Typed it in, and Bang! Three copies listed. One had an image of the red-ink cover. Not the white I’ve been looking for all these years, but I printed it out anyway. It was an image of the closest thing yet. Out of curiosity, I checked with the World Catalog to see how many copies existed around the world. Six. Including one at the Smithsonian, of all places. Six in libraries, three for sale. Nine in the world. Pretty much a needle-and-haystack search, if ever there was one.

At our next meeting, Mr. Client embarked on our Q-and-A routine about the book, no variation. Afterward, he added: How are we ever going to find it?

I slid the paper across the desk. Maybe you can look this one over, I said. Red cover though.

“That’s IT!”

And the hunt is ended, more than five years in.

Found the book after all, without the title and without the author’s name. Without knowing the publisher or release date. Only an incorrect description of the book’s appearance.

Feels good.

Find your own treasure (without a five year search!) Come visit!

McHuston

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

Here and now, and back then.

She’s five years old. Maybe six. Small enough that a dad’s arms can reach full ‘round her twice with room left to pull her in tight, hug-close. Such a pretty thing that you never want to let that hug loose. Never let her go.

Her hair is blond and longish. No particular style, because I don’t know much about that stuff. To me, it is perfect as it is – but I brush it on occasion – because that’s about all I’m qualified to take on.

I don’t know what she’s wearing, but it suits her exactly. I’m taking her all in because it seems like forever, but what I’m really looking at is her eyes. She isn’t crying because she doesn’t do that much. Ever, really. But if she wasn’t so stoic I might have seen a tear by now. It’s clear she is sad. Somehow, I can tell she is profoundly disappointed.

She says it out loud, at last.

“I didn’t get invited,” she manages. The tears were close, but she hardly ever goes there.

“To what?” I ask, knowing that the options for a five year old are limited. “Are you sure?” I’m hoping for clarification right off, trying to find some solid footing, some point of reference to make this all better. It’s a dad’s job, you know.

She is free of my hug but I am still squatting down before her so she’ll know she has my undivided attention. It is no performance on my part. It isn’t my job to slay dragons. It’s my passion. Clear the path. Teach, when possible. Inform, when relevant. Prepare her for the inevitability of her flight from the nest and watch with confidence when she first leaps into thin air.

That day is still far off. She’s five years old. Maybe six.

I’m waiting for her reply, but something is tickling in my head that she cannot already be worried about things like invitations. Then, something rattles around that time passes much too quickly. Remember this moment, I’m thinking.

Her hurt is palpable, but all I can remember is holding her close to me and how it seems like so long ago, but – didn’t I just let her loose?

“A birthday party.”

“Maybe they haven’t been sent out yet.”

“Everybody else got one,” she says in a voice almost a whisper. I know she wants to say more, but she won’t. Her point has been made. Nothing more need be spoken.

“Do you think it might still be in the mailbox?” I ask. Obviously, it is expressed with a naïve vestige of hope. I don’t remember retrieving the mail, but somehow I know that there was no invitation. Nothing at all addressed to my daughter. “Why don’t we check?”

Normally, that would be a mistake. There is some kind of confidence, though. Like an invisible sword and shield designed especially for attacks upon the children of men. Dads with daughters who think and act beyond their years. Those girls who won’t cower in the dark or cry out without cause. Who won’t much ask for help. I’m saying the words that should be the shield, if the construction of that thing holds true. I believe my own words.

“Let’s go look,” I say, and we walk through the hallway and out the front door. For some reason, the mailbox is across the street, one of those metal things with the red-raise-it flag and the hinge trap door. Someone is at it, just as we step onto the porch. I don’t recognize the person at all.

“Hey,” she calls out, looking in our direction. “There was something else in your mailbox.” The woman I don’t recognize at all holds aloft a square-shaped piece of correspondence.

“Looks like an invitation,” she adds, with a smile.

I look down to see the reaction on the face of my little one, but her expression is unreadable. Could be relief, but it doesn’t really resemble that. Joy would involve jumping or shouting, or some such thing. I want to believe it’s a look of appreciation for my simple suggestion to re-check the mailbox, a grownup response to her dilemma. Could be she’d already thought of doing that. She’s quick that way.

In the end, I don’t know. Just seeing the invitation in the woman’s hand had to end the disappointment. Her eyes are no longer cloudy, though. She is glowing like sunrise. My best guess? The world was righted – set back on its axis – at the moment the paper envelope escaped the mailbox. Nothing else to say about it.

Her arms came up toward me and I wrapped mine around her twice and pulled her hug-close. It feels just as real as it did so many years ago, back when she was five years old. Maybe six. I don’t want to let go.

Ever.

They’re funny like that sometimes, but sometimes not funny at all – just filled with lovely memories of those precious days in the nest with invisible swords and shields held aloft by dads in dreams…

Working late on the stacks of books, my head spinning with titles and prices and shelf locations – and thinking about my little girl with girls of her own – looking for those dream interpretation references!

Come visit!

McHuston

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

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