WTH Happened in Cookbooks?!

After a long period of neglectfulness because of Busy Life Syndrome, I moved with purpose and dusting rag yesterday afternoon toward the section of our bookstore housing Horror, Cookbooks, Hippie Interest and Crafting.

Yeah, we put ’em in the same room. Doesn’t everybody?

Anyway, it had been a good long month since any staff had touched the area, other than the quick sweep-n-mop that keeps us from drowning in doggie dander. For some reason, our black Lab Zora loves to doze evenings in the hallway between Homeopathic Health and Cookbooks. Maybe to a dog’s sensitive nose those books smell pleasantly of herbs and bacon. I don’t know.

The scene that met me was worse than anticipated: VC Andrews sat chumming it up in the knitting section. (I wonder what Debbie Macomber would say to that?) Brian Lumley was Cooking with Oprah, the hippies hanging with Stephen King. And the diabetes diet books leaned with a drunken slant against Cakes for Christmas.

A little neglect goes a long way. Over the next two hours, I bookwrangled the wild volumes into a semblance of order. I’m pretty sure Day of the Triffids snarled at me as I separated it from Wilderness Survival, but the world doesn’t need any more horror novels about plants gone bad.

The whole time I was pulling John Saul off Julia Child, that Boston Globe article about wealthy retirees buying “failed” bookstores and reopening them lay on my mind. It was a great article from a bookslinger’s perspective: how the bookstore is not only not dead, but in full-blown revival, climbing the charts of “most wanted retirement careers” to number eight from fifteen in just two short years.

But I hope those dear, sweet people understand that it’s a lot of work, and in many ways a lot of the same work over and over again. You will spend less time discussing Russian Literature than you will separating it from Amish Christian Romances.

Jack and I wish you well, you new crop of bookstore owners, and we wish you the joy that comes from co-mingled dust and ideas. You’re going to see a lot of both.

Ernest Hemingway has Something to Say

Call me Ernie. I’m a rescue cat. No, I don’t have Hemingway thumbs. I have Hemingway attitude. You can practice homage to Catalonia on me. I was made to be adored.ernest

I used to live outside, run across the river and into the trees. The hills, man, they were like white elephants. Then somebody picked me up and dumped me at the shelter. It looked like death in the afternoon, then this chick got me and took me from the shelter straight to the vet. To have or have not, I am still confident in my manhood.

I’m looking for a forever home. Right now I’m in a bachelor pad called a foster home. It’s a clean, well-lighted place and I can stay here as long as I want. But I’m waiting for my garden of Eden.

a farewell to arms

a farewell to arms

I like to be cuddled. I love to be fed. A movable feast suits me just fine. I’m a solid kind of guy. Dames worship me. Dogs fear me. Other cats think I’m cool. They want to be me. The sun also rises but not as big and bright as me.

I like a drink now and then, but what I really like is to play with my water dish. I make the torrents of spring with my splashes. Pretend I’m an old cat on the sea. Chicks think sailors are sexy. Hey baby, wanna play islands in the stream?

Naps are good. 14 hours a day is right. The other 10 I spend playing. Ask not for whom the jingle bell rolls; it rolls for me.

So c’mon down to the bookstore, if you’re a big two-hearted giver, and I promise not to give you a dangerous summer. Really, I’m a pussy-cat once you get to know me.ernest 2

Don’t take that the wrong way.