Pictures from the holiday season...

First light Colorado

Yellow dusk

Peter Piper plucked a pepper and placed it in the powder.

Snow Mermaid

silver crescent moon

Fire truck a glow

Blue bears vs, Santa's train

The little reader

The fashionista

Now I sleep

Miki has recently read The Handmaid's Tale and watched the series. Now the discussion (Warning: Spoiler alert!).

Pete: You’ve recently read The Handmaid’s Tale and watched the recent television series. Which one did you like better?

Miki: I thoroughly enjoyed both. One of the differences is that the television series leaves things open for a sequel. I am very much looking forward to that.

Pete: Do you think the plot is plausible, that fertile young women could be held against their will, held in order to provide babies in a future time when conception is quite difficult due to environmental and political factors? 

Miki: Some aspects of this are beginning to come true, so yes.

Pete: I concur. After the last presidential election I think anything is possible. I’ve also read where male fertility is at an all time low. Maybe there’s another story out there as well. 

Pete: What do you think is the most compelling part of the book? 

Miki: The companionship between the women, the sisterhood despite difficult times.

Pete: How about the television show? 

Miki: When the Handmaid has to hand over her baby just after delivery. Also, when they made the character Ofglen watch as her girlfriend was hanged. Another scene I loved is when the Elizabeth Moss character is walking back home with the Handmaid’s after defiantly refusing to maim one of their own. It reminded me of Elizabeth Moss’s famous scene as Peggy in Madmen. All she does is carry her stuff down the hall to her new office, but it’s completely badass. One more scene of note is when Elizabeth Moss is under the covers with Luke and they’re talking about her new pregnancy, her hopes and dreams for the new baby. Very good writing.  

Pete: I was really touched by the final scene between Moira and Luke. Moira seemed to have some problem with Luke near the beginning, yet he still had her on his list of family when she made it to the refugee shelter. Their embrace was touching. 

Pete: What did you think of the performances in the television show?

Miki: Elizabeth Moss was spot on as Offred, as were Samira Wiley as Moira, Alexis Bledel (Rory from the Gilmore Girls!) as Ofglen, O.T. Fagbenle as Luke, and Max Minghella as Nick. The most surprising characters were Joseph Fiennes as the Commander and Yvonne Strahovski as his wife. In the book they’re described as older and arthritic, but in the television series they are just a little bit older than the rest of the cast and as physically attractive. 

Pete: Did you have any sympathy for the Commander and his wife?

Miki: In the book, yes, but in the television series, no. They come off as cruel and manipulative. 

Pete: Do you feel like they may have any regrets about the society they helped to create? I thought they may have but are in too deep to go back. They’d be exiled, imprisoned, or killed.

Miki: In the book, I didn’t get much of an impression about any of that, but in the show, I really felt like Serena Joy had regrets. Pete, do you think you will read The Handmaid's Tale?

Pete: After having seen the original film version and this television series, I’m not sure I could go through it again. That said, I never thought I’d be interested in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, but recently picked it up on a whim and absolutely loved it. It’s in my top ten for sure. So I never say never when it comes to books.

The movie classic High Noon has quite a backstory. Read this review:

High Noon: The Hollywood Blacklist and the Making of an American Classic by Glenn Frankel

High Noon is one of my favorite western-themed movies along with The Searchers and both versions of True Grit. What I didn't know about High Noon was that many of its principle developers -- producer, actors, screenwriter, etc...-- were involved either directly or indirectly in the Hollywood blacklist scare of the 1950's. Many concerned citizens and lawmakers alike had great fear of communist influence in American industry and culture, and came down brutally hard on Hollywood in particular. If you had any personal history with the Communist party or were even left-leaning, your career was in great jeopardy. There were even whispers of new concentration camps being developed if the scourge of communism could not be eliminated. Basically, you lived in a free country -- but perhaps not quite as free as you once thought. 

Many of the great Hollywood legends appear in this book, from Gary Cooper to John Wayne to Bogie & Bacall to the powerful studio heads and two future Presidents of the United States. Some individuals distinguished themselves with great courage while others caved under intense pressure and named their friends and associates to government investigators. Under all of that suspicion, however, High Noon was made and became a Hollywood classic, mirrored the times in many ways. It's been nearly seventy years later and yet the film still resonates. It's timeless. It's High Noon.

Early Halloween arts and crafts...

Dark Houses series: The Bride, the Groom, and the Milkman

Dark Houses series: Halloween

Book review: Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore by Matthew Sullivan plus much more...

Part mystery, part love letter to books, booksellers, and book lovers alike (and even includes a shout out to the gang back in receiving), Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore is a very clever mystery about a suicide, a triple murder, and the lone survivor who has to put all the pieces together. The novel is set, I believe, in early 1990's Denver, when the baseball stadium was being built and the lower-downtown area was just beginning its long transformation from urban blight to imposing glass edifices and impossible to park. The Bright Ideas Bookstore was a place to escape the cold and lose yourself in three stories of books, a coffee shop, and a newsstand. 

I came onto the scene in 2001, and by mid-year was working for an eerily similar bookstore in Denver. We didn't stay open until midnight back then, but I do recall closing on weekends at 11:00 pm, the bars in full swing and many a colorful character wandering (sometimes staggering) in for a last look at the books or a quick trip to the restroom (perhaps to vomit). I remember having my lunch at the 16th and Wynkoop intersection late in the summer. Today, hundreds and hundreds of people and vehicles pass by in a hurry going this way and that. But back then on that day there was not another soul in sight, until...a very old man came upon me violently swing his cane. I was sure he was going to hit me with it, but he eventually calmed down and we had lunch together. It was nice. I only saw him one more time after that, still swinging the cane.

But getting back to the book. At the onset of the story, star bookseller Lydia discovers one of her regulars, Joey, hanging by his neck on the third floor of the bookstore (that's right, the third floor). Based upon my lower-downtown experience of those years past, I don't find that scenario implausible at all. The hanged man leaves a clue on his person that connects Lydia to a dark incident in her past. So begins a humble bookseller's fascinating journey through gritty downtown Denver and into the snowy mountains as she attempts to solve the riddle of a suicide and the identity of a murderer. 

Longtime Denver folks will recognize the many so accurately described landmarks in the novel including the Wazee Supper Club, the 16th Street mall, a certain independent bookstore, Capitol Hill, Colfax, the dive bars, the slushy alleys. Very longtime Denver folks and booksellers may even recognize themselves. Who could guess a book about suicide and homicide could be such fun to read? 

Dark Houses series

Dark House 1

Dark House 2

I know you don't want to, but Make Your Bed! A book review and then the musical version.

 I know you don't want to. I don't want to either. It's just going to get messed up again when you next go to sleep. However, Admiral William H. McRaven (U.S. Navy Retired) makes a compelling case for making your bed each day in his new book, Make Your Bed -- little things that can change your life...and maybe the world. In his Navy Seal days, Admiral McRaven was ordered to make his bed. Not doing so to the satisfaction of his instructors would result in a cold plunge in the Pacific Ocean and a roll around in the beach sand. Though most of us would not incur that kind of punishment for an unmade bed, McRaven supposes that we ought to do it regardless. By doing so, we can make one small accomplishment bright and early, and then maybe make more accomplishments during the course of your day. And then you build to greater and greater accomplishments. Also, you get to come home to a made bed. The book is then filled with life lessons that are highly inspirational and attainable for all. Make Your Bed would be a great gift book for graduates (the genesis of the book is a commencement speech to University of Texas grads) and a nice stocking-stuffer. Fans of The Four Agreements will also love this one.  


Make Your Bed (The Musical!)

When the chickens rise and they need to be fed,
Yeah you, just make your bed.
When you’re walkin’ the streets and you need some cred,
Yeah you, just make your bed.

When your sheets are crumpled and your blanket is rumpled,
Yeah you, just make your bed.
When your brother’s named Ted and your dog a big red,
Yeah you, just make your bed.

Hey, I’m just gonna sleep in it anyway…
The next day slips into the past.
Yeah, I’m just gonna muss it up anyway…
Tomorrow might be my last.
Now you tell me, why do I gotta make my bed?

But if you want to impress your lover,
And give a shout out to your mother,
Who told you, boy, just make your bed.

But if the pillows are jammin’,
And the headboard keeps slammin’,
Bright and early, I’ll make my bed.

If your girl’s named Polly 
But she’s crushin’ on a Wally,
Then you, just make your bed.

If your boy’s named Steven 
And he’s thinking’ hard on leavin’,
Then you, just make your bed.

If your auntie’s named Ella
And she’s chasin’ all the fellas,
Don’t matter, just make your bed.

Make it now and make it good.
Bounce a quarter on it.
I knew you could.
Just make your bed -- like you should. 
Just make your bed -- or sleep in the wood. 
Yeah you, just make your bed. 

A review of Men Without Women and then a review of Men Without Women (same title different authors), and then a Men Without Women story by Pete. What's up with this title anyway?

Ernest Hemingway wrote Men Without Women, a collection of short stories first published in 1927. Not all the stories lack women, however. My favorite of the bunch, Hills Like White Elephants, definitely has a woman present, and she is pregnant. The couple lazily discuss what to do about their situation while having drinks at a tiny, sun-bleached train station in the middle of the countryside. It’s a heartbreaking story that reveals so much about this couple and their unborn child without hardly saying a thing. Another story, The Killers, was eventually made into a movie, and is speculated that it may have been the inspiration for Edward Hopper’s most famous painting, Nighthawks. After reading The Killers and looking at Nighthawks, I can see the possible connection. As a person who writes from time to time, I believe it’s good to read or re-read Hemingway at least once a year. His concise sentences and strong use of metaphor are truly masterful.  

Another of my favorite writers, Haruki Murakami, recently published a collection of short stories also called Men Without Women. After reading this one, I can see why Murakami chose to use a title popularized by Hemingway. Although nearly a century divides the two works, there’s something eerily similar in the tone of the stories, the loneliness of the men, the fractured masculinity. My favorite story of the Murakami collection is called An Independent Organ. Here we have a plastic surgeon who is also a player with the women. He has his game down to a science and never succumbs to any heart complications. What happens when this least likely to fall in love individual gets struck by Cupid’s arrow? Wow, what a story. In another tale, Scheherazade, a man is cared for by a woman with a talent for storytelling. And what stories she tells. All seven of the stories in Murakami’s collection are -- as usual for him -- fabulously entertaining and thought-provoking. I really enjoyed reading both versions of Men Without Women this summer, and the realization that the best stories of both works are about men with women, which may have been a better title.  


You Are My Fireworks
by Pete Schulte

It was the Fourth of July and late afternoon. Keswick was the lone cashier in the near empty grocery store. The deli was already shut down, so all you could buy was the usual junk. Keswick was just putting in his time, doing time really. At nightfall he’d walk back to his little apartment. Fireworks would explode in the sky. He didn’t care a whiff. “What if everything just stopped?” thought Keswick. “What if I stopped? Everything stops eventually. Why not me, why not now? Okay, I’m just going to stop.” And Keswick did stop …momentarily. But that’s not the way life works -- especially in a retail establishment. You can stop all you want, but they’re going to keep coming. Oh yes they are. And they’re coming, always coming…for you!

Magilicuddy was a tiny old man who moved at a snail‘s pace. Keswick spotted Magilicuddy and Magilicuddy spotted Keswick. “Please don’t ask me any stupid questions,” thought Keswick as Magilicuddy made a beeline for his register. “Dear God -- or Jesus -- or whoever the fuck is in charge up there. Please don’t let this old man ask me any stupid questions. I just want to go home. Is that so wrong? Is it so wrong to want to be done with this and to go home? I ask you, creator person. You’re home, I gather. Can’t I do the same? Can’t I just go home? He’s going to ask of me something stupid, isn’t he?” 

Magilicuddy smiled brightly as he approached and regarded Keswick. He bowed to him. He tipped his cap. Keswick knew by now to remain silent, to let the customer do the work. Would he ask for change? Would he ask to use the phone? Perhaps it was directions to the restroom? Keswick knew enough by now to be dispassionate at all times. 

Magilicuddy said to him, “Sir, I would like for you to get me some aftershave.” 

Keswick remained stone-faced. “You’ll find the aftershave on aisle 9, sir.”

“You don’t understand,” said Magilicuddy. “I wish for you to get it for me please.”

“Look, buddy,” said Keswick, “there’s several different brands at several different prices. I don’t know what you want or need. Just go to aisle 9 and pick something out. 

“No, I can’t go,” said Magilicuddy. “You must go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Keswick. “I can’t leave my post. You go.”

“No, you must go,” said Magilicuddy. “I can’t go. You see, I’m shot.”

“You’re shot?” said an exasperated Keswick. “Are you kidding me? Should I maybe call the cops?”

“No, no police,” said Magilicuddy. “I just need some aftershave. Could you go please?”

“If you’re shot,” said Keswick, “then what the hell do you need aftershave for? You’ve got bigger problems.”

“Hey, I like to smell good on any occasion,” said Magilicuddy. “Now you go.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Keswick, heading at a brisk pace for aisle 9 while muttering under his breath the whole way. “I can’t believe I have fetch this guy aftershave. What does he need aftershave for anyway? Does he have a hot date or something? And this stuff about him being shot. What a bunch of hooey is that? Can’t somebody shoot me? Put me out of my misery? I’ll just grab the first aftershave I see. My time is valuable. Can’t he see that? Bad things happen if you leave your post. I don’t want bad things to happen. Does anybody? But they still do, don’t they? Stay at your post. You’ll see, bad things will happen anyway. It’s the Fourth of July. Everybody’s happy, right? Then some chum blows his thumb off. What’s the good in that? So here I am, picking out aftershave for some tumbleweed who thinks he’s got a bullet in him. I’ll find him some aftershave all right.”

Keswick grabble the first bottle he laid eyes on, a product called ‘Brobus.’ On the way back to his post he railed on about the damn Communists, the pot-smoking hippies, the boy teens who won’t pull up their pants, the girl teens with their nose rings and tramp stamps, the latte drinkers, the distracted drivers, and all the managers he’s ever worked for. Then, back at his register, he regarded Magilicuddy with irritation and placed the bottle in his hands. 

“What’s this?” asked Magilicuddy, sniffing the top of the black bottle. “I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s Brobus,” replied Keswick. “All the guys are using it. Go ahead, splash it on.”

“No, I won‘t do it,” said Magilicuddy. “I want something manly, but not overpowering.” 

“Look old man, you weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Nobody’s ever going to accuse you of being overpowering.”

“No, this won’t do at all,” Magilicuddy stomped. “I don‘t want this Brobus. Go get me something else. Something a bit more subtle. I trust you.”

“Oh my stars!” exclaimed Keswick. “Now I have to fetch you something else?”

“You must!” stated Magilicuddy.

Keswick mumbled and grumbled and cursed, but back to aisle nine he went. This time he picked out a brand called Sandlewood Dream. When he returned to Magilicuddy, the old man greeted him with a warm smile. “Now what have you got for me? Something nice I hope.”

Keswick passed the aftershave to Magillicuddy. “It’s sandlewood. Manly yes  -- but not too manly.”

Magilicuddy opened the cap and took a whiff. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, this is the one, this is it. I like this Sandlewood Dream.”

“Good for you,” replied Keswick. “We done then?”

“Well…”

“Oh boy,” said Keswick. “Here we go.”

“You see,” said Magilicuddy, “I’m afraid I have no money to pay you, not a dime to my name.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Keswick, resigned. “Of course you don‘t...”

“But I’ve something better,” replied Magilicuddy, “something much more valuable than a few trifling coins.”

“Go on old man…”

“I’d like to give you a big kiss,” said Magilicuddy to Keswick.

“Are you crazy? I don’t let perfect strangers kiss me.”

“What about not so perfect strangers?” asked Magilicuddy.

“No way, old man. I don’t want your slobber on me.”

“How about a hug then?”

Keswick thought about it. “Oh, okay. It is a holiday after all. What harm is there in a little hug?”

“No harm,” said Magilicuddy. “There is no harm at all.”

The two men approached each other cautiously. Keswick leaned down while Magilicuddy looked up. They wrapped their arms around each other and awkwardly embraced. Keswick soon found himself patting Magilicuddy lightly on the back as if to say enough is enough. Magilicuddy, however, had other ideas and held tight. Then Keswick stopped patting and felt himself give in to something he didn’t quite understand. He gave in, couldn’t help but giving in, and then things inside him began building up, building up as if an eruption were about to occur, an eruption way beyond his control. It was petty bullshit that came up at first, that and more, so much more. Now it was cowardice and discontent, then mendacity, avarice, cruelty, jealousy, humiliations, failed relationships, regret, longing, sloth, anger, boredom, shame, missed opportunities, loneliness and time, all that wasted time he could never get back. It all welled up inside, flooding him. Then came the tears. They trickled at first, then fell down his cheeks in sweeping torrents. He could not stop them, he did not want to stop them. All this horrible stuff was leaving his body, gone. He found himself utterly forgiven, his body lighter than he’d ever felt in his life. Magilicuddy held Keswick close as the larger man continued to sob. “Remember my son, every day you’re learning,” Magilicuddy whispered into Keswick’s ear. “Every single day. You are a good man, a decent man, everything I could have ever hoped for. You are my star, you are my fireworks, and you are my friend. I wish for you the happiest Fourth of July. I wish for you everything under the sun.”

Magilicuddy broke the hug and Keswick immediately covered his face with his hands. He fell to his knees until his tears slowed and finally ceased. When he opened his eyes there was no old man, not another in sight. All that was left was a faint smell of sandlewood. Manly yes -- but not overpowering. 

The end. 

One serious lady driver.

A new book review, Beartown by Fredrick Backman, new paintings, and bonus pictures!

Swedish author Fredrick Backman sure struck a chord with his delightful novel 'A Man Called Ove.' I wondered how he could top the character of Ove, the elderly curmudgeon with a secret heart of gold. In 'Beartown,' the main character is not just one person but the town itself, a dying little outpost with not much going for it except for ice and snow and an extremely talented junior hockey team. As the team drives toward the national finals, conflict arises when one of the star players commits a serious crime, as some would see it, or an indiscretion or misunderstanding, as many wanted to see it. The team does its best to go forward but the town becomes divided. A few side with the victim, but most are pulling for the player and the team. At least, that's what it seems at first.

A few years back I reviewed a novel I loved called 'The Art of Fielding,' by Chad Harbach. It was about a college baseball team but not about baseball itself. The same can be written about Beartown. You don't need to know anything about hockey to enjoy the book. I certainly don't. Backman is such a good writer and humanist that you feel you know each of the many characters even though he is writing about a tiny town somewhere in Sweden. If you're like me, you will be on the internet looking for more information about the fate of the citizens even after finishing the book. They won't leave you that easily -- if at all.  

Cordelia at the Fence

Piggies at the Fence

Cows at the Fence

Cows and Piggies, oh my!

Hail storm at the train station

More hail!

Blue flowers

Pink flowers

Upon reading the 25th Anniversary editions of 'The Alchemist' and 'Blood Meridian.' Plus, a review from our newest contributor, Cordelia.

After finally getting around to reading ‘The Alchemist’ by Paulo Coelho and ‘Blood Meridian’ by Corman McCarthy, I can honestly relate that I’ve had two extreme experiences. The Alchemist is divine in tone, even considered a self-help book by some. And judging by the author’s introduction, it appears that the novel is perhaps even guided by a higher power. As a bookseller, I still get requests for this title at least once a week. 

Blood Meridian, on the other hand, is taught as a subject in some Ivy League colleges. But I’ve yet to have a request for this title. You see, it’s a very dark novel. So dark that it seems to reach up from the pit of hell and drag you through the darkest places imaginable. I think if Satan himself had published Blood Meridian, he may have asked the author to tone down the violence and gore some. That said, much of the novel is based on true events. 

It’s funny though, that there are some similarities between these rather disparate novels. Both are about long journeys. The Alchemist begins in Spain and travels across North Africa to the Great Pyramids. Blood Meridian covers the entirety of the Texas/Mexico border during the seemingly lawless era between the 1850’s to the 1870’s. The protagonist in The Alchemist is a humble shepherd who crosses the desert in quest of a buried treasure. He finds that the greatest treasure, however, may be something he hadn’t expected at all. In Blood Meridian, a young man known only as ’the kid’ (and later -- ’the man’) crosses the U.S./Mexico border earning money by scalping Native Americans at first, then robbing and killing most everyone they come upon. There are no happy endings here. Not even close. 

It was interesting to have read the most optimistic, divinely inspired of novels, then follow it up with a novel about the darkest aspects of human nature. What’s more interesting is that you arrive at the same place.  The termination of two amazing novels that I’m so fortunate to have read. Incredible journeys -- both light and dark.  

Although our daughter Cordelia is still too young to talk, based upon her smile and the brightness of her eyes, one could surmise that she thought the art and illustrations in 'Ela Cat in the Jungle' was both mysterious and alluring. She thought the prose was charming and succinct. It was the perfect bedtime story and she was soon fast asleep, no doubt dreaming of her own adventures in the jungle. If she were able, I'm certain that Cordelia would recommend 'Ela Cat in the Jungle' for any child between the ages of three months to three years and beyond. What a sweet little book!

after a late April snow storm

 

Please, have a seat...

No, sit here.