In the books

Tuesday night was a sad night, as I made what, barring any last-minute runs, will be my last visit to the Strand Annex on Fulton St. in NYC. It always hurts just a little to see a bookstore close, particularly an independent one (though it should be noted that the Strand proper will not be closing...if it did, believe me when I tell you that I would not be able to hold it together long enough to write a blog post about its demise).

The annex has been in a steady decline in recent years, starting with the decision several years back to get rid of their new reviewers' copies section. While it wasn't nearly as comprehensive as the same section in the main store, there were many times when I found a copy of a book at the annex that I couldn't grab at the flagship. Plus, the annex was just a short walk from the Staten Island Ferry, so it was a convenient place to hit on the way home back in my salad days in Staten Island.

I'm not quite nerdy enough to be able to look at my bookshelves and tell you the books that I bought at the annex (though I can do that with a fair part of my CD collection), but I'm sure I picked up some Kinky Friedman books there, along with various other paperbacks (the annex actually usually had a better selection of new paperbacks than the main store's) and even a few CDs (which the main store only started carrying recently). Two of the finds I can definitely pinpoint as coming from the annex were the first-season media guides for the Columbus Blue Jackets and the Minnesota Wild, which I like to think will be worth something someday, provided either one of those franchises eventually does something memorable.

Anyway, like I said, I hate to see an independent book store go under (from what I understand, the annex lost its lease). On the positive side, though, when said independent bookstore does bite the dust, there is the inevitable "everything must go" sale. And I am pleased to say that I was able to pick up ten books that I am reasonably confident I will read in the near future (the least likely candidate being The Autobiography of Lincoln Steffens, which is over 700 pages but seemed like a steal for $5) for just over $40. It was a fine last trip. I'll miss the annex, as much as one can miss a place of commerce.



I hope the other independent bookstores can hang on through these tough economic times and in the Age of Kindle (Richard Cohen says as much here). I guess you can browse thousands of books online, but there's nothing quite like the feel of a book and the feel of a giant bookstore that teases you with all those stories you've never read. Almost every time I was in the annex, I left with a book I didn't intend to buy going in. And that's a damn beautiful thing. The city--and the world at large--can't afford to lose such beauty.

Goodbye, old friend. Thanks for the books.

The Strand Annex will remain open until August 15. All books are currently 50% off (of the prices that are already generally 50% off). Plenty of books left.

Why I Love New York City (Vol. 236,731)

This is what I did on a sweltering Saturday in Manhattan (or, as I like to call it, the other side of Jersey City:

I took the PATH train in around 2 p.m. after actually waking up and being active before noon on a Saturday (two weekends in a row spent with friends with early-rising children has opened up the possibility that things can get done before noon on weekends). On my way to the Housing Works book fair, I spot a guy sitting behind a card table outside a store on Bleecker. He's reading a newspaper, and there are three copies of a book displayed on the table. I glance over and see orange and the words "Mr. Met." Focused on getting to the book fair, I keep walking up the street before I come to my senses and head back.

Hot damn. The original "Mr. Met" is signing copies of his book. That's right--the first Mr. Met, the man who first put on the oversized, somewhat frightening baseball head back in 1964. Seriously, what other city are you gonna find a guy like that selling books in front of some kind of pharmacy? Does the original Phillie Phanatic park himself outside of Geno's? Doubt it.

Anyway, I chat up Mr. Met (Dan Reilly) and pick up the book. I soon notice that Mr. Reilly is a fellow iUniverse author, which clinches the sale. And not only did I get my own personally inscribed book, but I also got a bonus signed photocopy of a photo of Reilly with the original Mr. Met head. Awesome.

I am on a high once I get to the actual book fair, and that high continues when I find a 1999 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame program lying on top of a box at the fair. It was a pretty good year for the Hall, with Bruce Springsteen. Billy Joel (screw you, haters), Bob Wills, and Paul McCartney among the inductees. But better yet, the program cover was designed by personal hero Jon Langford. And it was a buck. Score! I also picked up some Erle Stanley Gardner paperbacks, an Ian Frazier book, a Dick Butkus autobiography, and a few records. Fourteen items: $10 total. And the money went to a good cause.

I was running a little late to the Big Apple BBQ in Madison Square Park, but I got there just in time for the start of the Wild Magnolias' set and was able to squeeze in some pulled pork (something sounds really bad about that, but I'm leaving it) as I took in the Magnolias' set. Good times. And God bless the spyboys for their willingness to wear their garb and give it their all in 90-degree heat.



After ducking into a bar to not see horse racing history, I decided to walk to the Mercury Lounge, where the Bottle Rockets were doing the fourth in their series of 15 shows to celebrate their fifteenth anniversary as a band (with Eric Ambel and the Roscoe Trio directly preceding them on the stage). But I got sidetracked in Union Square by a pretty cool brass band doing the Isley Brothers' "Shout" (lest you think they were doing Tears for Fears's "Shout") and "Charlie Brown," among other numbers. I stuck around for about 20 minutes and didn't feel much like leaving but had to continue the journey to the Mercury Lounge so I could get there early enough to get good photo position (which, as often happens when I plan that, was about an hour earlier than I needed to be there).



After a pretty good set from the Apple Brothers and a damn fine set from Ambel and the Roscoe Trio, it was time for the main event. And the Bottle Rockets came through with a kickass set, which though it didn't include any of my three favorite Bottle Rockets songs, was still amazing. They played somewhere around 30 songs for a little over two hours, but by the time it ended with a completely incongruous and dead solid perfect cover of Redbone's "Come and Get Your Love," it was still over too soon.



On my walk back to the PATH station, it occurred to me that over the course of about 12 hours, I had sat for a total of maybe 15 minutes. And my back and legs were feeling that a bit. But it didn't feel that bad. After all, in that half-day, I had stumbled upon the original Mr. Met, picked up some cool books and records, ate some good barbecue, and heard a bunch of great music, including a two-hour set from one of my all-time favorite bands.

Thank you, New York.

Lush Life

I first started reading Richard Price because I was bored and homesick. He was speaking at Cornell while I matriculated at the People's Favorite college in Ithaca, and I'd heard his name before, so I figured it was worth a shot (I used the same theorizing to attend an event with Phillip Glass...bad call on that one). So I went downtown to the Autumn Leaves bookstore, bought a copy of The Breaks, and went over to hear Price read excerpts from a book he was working on (which later became Freedomland). I got him to sign The Breaks at the wine-and-cheese reception that followed but probably didn't get around to reading the book until after I was done with Freedomland and Clockers. Pretty soon, though, I was all caught up with the Richard Price ouevre and ever since have kept a lookout for something new from him. The list of authors whose books I look forward to grows a little smaller every year (though I'm giving you one more chance with the next one, Ellroy), and Price is always at the top of that list.

So, a few months ago, I was pretty jazzed to see that Lush Life was due out. Price's books are always good, fast-paced (as opposed to quick, which implies a certain degree of lightness) reads, and Lush Life is no different. It's killer. You oughta read it.

That's really all I have to say. You can find reviews by people who do that sort of thing for a living elsewhere on the Internets. But just take my word for it--Richard Price is a literary ass-kicker. And you can tell him so yourself at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in NYC on Tuesday. C'mon...the chance to hear a writer talk about his book in the very area of the city where much of the book's action takes place? It's a slam dunk. Be there.

(As a side note that should in no way influence you reading the book or going to the event, I would like to register my one complaint about Lush Life--what's up with all the dropped question marks in dialogue? Author's decision? Shoddy copy editing? I want answers. But I feel too nerdy/copyeditorish to ask Price in person on Tuesday. Feel free to do so yourself, though. 6:30 p.m.)

Comedy Tonight

*Last week, I reached another easily attainable goal (set your goals low, kids, and you minimize the chance of disappointment) and got Chevy Chase to sign my VHS cover of "National Lampoon's Vacation" (previously signed by Randy "Cousin Eddie" Quaid, Anthony Michael "Rusty" Hall, and Jane "Cousin Vicki" Krakowski...Chevy Chase's is the one you can't read above). It was surprisingly painless, and the event that preceded it--an edition of the UCB Theatre's "Inside Joke," where every month a comedian is interviewed about his/her career--was surprisingly uneventful. Chase told some interesting stories (including the background behind the famous Richard Pryor job interview skit from SNL's first season) and admitted a few faults (he never watches his work but recently saw "Caddyshack" and marveled at how awful he was), but overall, the interviewer seemed ill prepared and the audience was so enamored of Chase that they laughed at just about everything, which got annoying after awhile. I was reminded of the time I watched one of the Andy Kaufman specials in one of the theaters at the Museum of Television and Radio and sat behind two people who laughed during the setups to Kaufman's elaborate punchlines. And that drove me crazy. Laugh at the funny stuff, people. And stop pretending that everything the comedian you're watching says is uproariously funny. It's not.

*I'm just about done with the book Comedy at the Edge and it's pretty good, though not incredibly revelatory. So far, my favorite anecdote, which I've probably heard at some point before, involves Larry David, an admittedly hypersensitive, uncomfortable performer:

One night at Catch [a Rising Star]...David came out, silently scanned the audience, muttered "I don't think so," and walked off without saying another word. David confirms that the story is not just urban legend. "I just didn't like what I saw," he says.

The book could use more quick shots like that, and probably would've been better as an oral history, but it's still a good read.

*BET ran a "Diff'rent Strokes" marathon Sunday, and I think it's safe to say that that show may have been the most consistently horribly acted show ever. Of course, I came to that conclusion after watching about eight episodes in a row, so there's clearly something wrong with me. But since the marathon featured shows from different points in the show's run, I became fascinated with Gary Coleman's descent into hell, starting off as the cute little kid and gradually turning bitter right before your eyes. There was a point in one of the later episodes where there was a clear moment for a "Whatchutalkinbout, Willis?" but all that comes out of Gary's mouth is "Wha?" I can just picture the director begging Coleman to do the old softshoe there. Poor guy.

*I ate at the Cozy Soup 'N' Burger near Astor Place for the first time tonight and quickly became fascinated with one of the autographed pictures on their wall. It was a signed 8X10 of ALF (or, as they knew him on Melmac, Gordon Shumway). And it was signed from ALF. Intriguing. So, ALF came in there one day? Man, that must've been cool. But way odd for the other diners there that day. Only in New York, kids.

To the moon, Hunter

A month or so ago, I was making copies of something I wrote that mentioned Hunter S. Thompson at a Kinko's-type place in Hoboken. As the copy guy (who seemed right out of Central Casting) made the copies, he decided to read what he was copying. While standing right in front of me.

I'm not really sure of the copy-shop etiquette on this, but I think you should at least try to be discreet about it. But he wasn't, and so after making the copies, he came up to the front desk.

"You write this?"

"Um, yeah."

(I should note that at this point I had decided to disregard my anger about him reading what I wrote and was gearing up for a compliment. I'm very needy.)

"You read that Jack Kerouac book 'On the Road'?"

"Um, yep." (How was this leading up to that compliment?)

"You know Dean Moriarty in the book?"

"Uh-huh."

"Kerouac based that character on Hunter Thompson and a trip they took."

At this point, I had a great urge to scream, "You moron. That's completely and embarrassingly wrong. And probably not even possible. Do you just sit here and make shit up all day? Have you ever even read a Hunter S. Thompson book, you tubby, pale-faced goon?"

Instead, I fell back on my standard response when I know someone's wrong but don't have the heart to tell them: "Oh yeah?"

Then I took my copies, paid the man, and ran.

****
At some point today, Hunter S. Thompson's ashes will be shot out of a cannon on the grounds of Owl Farm compound in Woody Creek, Colorado. Hunter S. Thompson was not the basis for any character in "On the Road." Nor was he, as some would have you believe, a drug-addled fool whose writings can only be appreciated by similarly baked readers. And he was certainly more than just "that guy who wrote the book they made into that Johnny Depp movie."

He was a writer, a journalist, a character in a world that could use a few more like him. As much as I enjoy what he wrote, I might enjoy even more his appearance on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien," where he and Conan shot various items (from posters to stuffed animals) in a field somewhere. That segment is why I still say "Fuck you, bear" a little more often than I should. And I remember telling Hunter how much I enjoyed that appearance when I saw him at a book signing...and then having him turn away to talk to somebody else. I moved down the line, but then I was called back amidst much yelling from staff and hangers-on. When I went back, Hunter apologized and mumbled, "Sorry man, I thought you were some kind of loose cannon." It might be the greatest compliment I ever got.

But sometimes lost in all the tales of Hunter's misdeeds is the fact that he wrote a ton of great stuff, like "Hell's Angels" and "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72." And you don't have to be under the influence of any drug to know that it's all burning with the fire of a man who waged an unending battle against boredom and drudgery.

And the battle continues today with the shooting of his ashes into the Colorado sky. His remains will be launched out of a giant, Gonzo-fist cannon as a group of friends and family look on. It's not exactly your average way to go out. But Hunter S. Thompson was never average.

Rest in peace, Doc.