Tag Archives: independent bookstores

Tails and Tales

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Jack’s weekly guest blog –

Kittens! Kittens everywhere!!

They’re in my lap, under my feet, knocking over books and chasing each other all round the shop. Then they all, as one, keel over and go to sleep in a sweet little puddle of cuddling. Until it all starts again!

jack and nikeI’m the curmudgeon of course – “no more, this is the last one, we’re a bookstore not an animal shelter!”

But then one of them sneaks onto my lap or curls up on my shoulder – and purrs – – –

It’s hard to believe these little fluffballs would have been killed if we hadn’t taken them in. It’s harder to think about the ones we didn’t have room for. Wendy’s proud of having recruited two new foster families this month, so her rescue got up to about 2 in 5 kittens getting pulled from the shelter before the inevitable happened.

Kerouac, Ferlenghetti, and Nike being very Manx!

Kerouac, Ferlenghetti, and Nike being very Manx!

We honestly would love to keep them all, but the current crop just have to find homes. Poor Valkitty is grumpy as all get out about these pesky youngsters invading her space and, besides, we can’t take any more until we find homes for these five.

There’s Nike “Bad Ass” The Moth

Nike the wonder kitten

Nike the wonder kitten

kerouac

and Kerouac

                                                                                                                        and Joan Baezjoan posing

not to mention Winston Moneybags, who is already neutered

Winston sleepingK, F and JB are siblings: F is a cuddler, K a soccer player, and JB a preener who likes to sit about striking poses. Nike is a benevolent dictator, lap sitter and “carry me about” kitten; and Winston was dumped in the ATM room of a local bank and likes to lie on the backs of chairs or in windowsills.

So come on folks! Fill your home with fuzzy love and laughter – and doing the kitten shuffle. A free kitten with every book purchased!

Dear John

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Let’s face it: we’ve had some good times, but they’re all in the past.

You made me laugh; you broadened my horizons; I ran my fingers down your spine and felt sexy and smart. We even shared some values. I will never forget weeping over A Time to Kill, feeling that I’d found my soul mate (not to mention this generation’s To Kill a Mockingbird).

But we’ve grown apart. Put more bluntly, you’ve changed. Try as I might, I just can’t get past Playing for Pizza. 

It’s over, John. Our bookstore won’t be taking any more Grishams–not paperback, not hardback, not written on vellum. I tried. Through the mood swings from The Testament to A Painted House, I stood by you. “He’ll find himself again,” I said to naysayers. “Really, he’s a sensitive ’90s guy; did you read Rainmaker?” And then I read The Litigators, and wondered.

Frankly, John, it’s just not worth it to me. Your hardbacks are clogging a desirable traffic area with the Pattersons and the Cornwells. (If it’s any consolation, she’s next, and you may find comfort under each other’s covers in the bargain bin; rebounds aren’t so bad if you have a traveling companion.)

You take up an entire shelf for your hardbacks, and they can’t lie sideways because of their height. Size does matter, dude.

So really, it’s not you; it’s me. You’re just… too big. Too many. Too out there. You throw yourself around to every Amazon, Dick and Barnes and Noble, and then you expect to come crawling in here and I’ll take you back. You’re not a cheap date anymore; I need the space for the next guy. You don’t just take up that hardback shelf; you’re all over the spaces under our shelves, in the discount section. I’m tired of cleaning up your messes every morning, after you party all night with the cats. You’re just too cheap and easy.

I know, I know; you want to talk about the past, the glory days when people couldn’t keep their hands off you. I get it. I should feel lucky to have you here, with me, now. But it doesn’t work that way.

The time has come. Let’s be adult about this–no blame, no regrets. Admit it; you had fun. So did I. Shake hands before you go? No, don’t kiss me. You’re dusty. Just get out.