Bookstores without Borders

Almost three years ago.  Do you remember the Summer of 2008?  Bush was President.  China hosted the Summer Olympics.  And - our Economy imploded.  My coworkers and I in Ye Olde Bookshoppe had it worse than some retailers because we were suddenly being poked by a pitchfork with two tines.  Not only did the Economy start doing its best Shrinky Dink impersonation, but a Borders opened down the street from us.  At the exact same time.

Borders.  I'm conflicted.  They're bankrupt now, you know, that, yes?  As of last Wednesday.  But in '08?  Though showing signs of wear and tear, they were still a behemoth.  That first week they opened, a young man walked into our store and sought me out.  Are you Nick? he asked as he thrust his hand out for a shake.

Yes, I said.

The manager? he asked, still shaking my hand.

Yes, I said again.  How may I help you?

Wanted to introduce myself, he said.  I work at the Borders that just opened.

He let that sink in, like he was Santa Anna and I a beleaguered Jim Bowie holed up in the Alamo.

Well, it was nice knowing you, he said, before marching out, La Cucaracha no doubt playing in his head.


When I told Michael - owner and President of the fine collection of bookstores of which I am a part - about this exchange, Michael smiled and said, Don't worry.  When they write the history, you'll be the last one standing.

Michael reminded me of our exchange on Wednesday morning.  He said, You remember what I told you, right?

It was my turn to just smile.

We happened to be having our monthly manager's meeting on the day that Borders declared it was headed into Chapter 11, and I'll admit, I brought YouTube up on my phone and played Taps at the start of our meeting, and that provoked some hooting and hollering.

Still, I'm conflicted.  I said that, right?  Borders is a bookstore, after all.

I mean, it's not like when A Clean Well Lighted Place turned out the lights, or when Cody's locked its doors for the last time, or when Stacey's bid adieu - when those good bookstores shuffled off this mortal coil, the heartache was more real because they were fellow independents and the light everywhere dimmed.  Everywhere.

Bookstores - look, I know.  I've got a horse in this race.  I manage a bookstore - of course I worry when the canaries in my particular coalmine start to go quiet.  So, taking into account that fact, that I have a material interest in the discussion, I do feel - have always felt - that bookstores are different.

There was a Stacey's at Vintage Faire Mall in Modesto when I was a kid, up there on the second floor.  It lured me inside anytime I accompanied my mom on a shopping trip.  I can picture the Sci Fi/Fantasy Section - about a third of the way down the wall on the right.  This was more than 30 years ago - when I was heavy into Fantasy - but I can see it in my mind's eye like it was yesterday.  I remember dipping into the Chronicles of Thomas Covenant for the first time while standing near that bookshelved wall.  I coveted a hardcover, slipcased edition of the Lord of the Rings that they carried - a boxed set that would end up wrapped for me under the Christmas tree that year.

Stacey's followed me like a good friend - after we moved to Palo Alto when Karen started Law School, we were delighted to find Stacey's waiting for us.  And then when we moved to San Francisco after Karen graduated - there was Stacey's again, down on Market Street.

The very next year, though, in 1994, Borders and Waldenbooks joined forces - and like a tidal wave of orcs, they swept across the land, mercilessly engulfing independent bookstores.

Ashes to ashes, Stacey's.  RIP, The Bookstore in Modesto.  Ah, Charlotte's Web, we hardly knew ye.

The age of the Indies was over, everyone intoned, the time of the Orc had come


Again - this was tragic because we're talking about bookstores and, damn it all, bookstores are important.  You don't need a curator for toilet paper.  You don't need a personality behind the cola collection in the 7-Eleven on the corner.  Bookstores are something else.  Well, Good bookstores, at least.  And when you walk into a Good bookstore, when you feel the presence of guiding hands that have chosen the offerings with care...it's different than walking into Walmart, all right?

It wasn't the guy selling Twinkies that published Ginsberg's Howl.  It was Lawrence Ferlinghetti, through his store, City Lights.  And it was Ferlinghetti who was brought to trial on obscenity charges - charges that he defended and refuted before winning the case when the Judge determined that Howl, indeed, was socially important.

Can we agree that time has been on Ferlinghetti's side and has ratified that decision?

Or on the other coast, Frances Serloff flaunted the law when she, at the Gotham Book Mart, sold copies of banned books like Tropic of Cancer and Lady Chatterley's Lover.  Sold the books knowing full well that she was breaking the law.

God bless her.

Oh ho, you may be saying.  Old news!  Who cares?  That was all then, this is now.

It would be pretty to think so, wouldn't it?

You do know, yes, what the Patriot Act did?  For our purposes, let us only talk about Section 215 of the Act.  It allows our Big Brothers and Big Sisters to go to your friendly neighborhood bookstore or to the library that you frequent and make that bookstore or that library tell Big Brother and Big Sister what it is you've been reading.  I imagine it would go something like this:

The story you are about to read is true.  Not even the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

There's a knock at Ye Olde Bookshoppe.  BOOKSELLER answers.

 SECRET AGENT MAN

I understand Nick Petrulakis works here.

Bookseller covers mouth with hand, aghast.

BOOKSELLER

Yes.  Yes he does.  But how did you know?

Secret Agent Man pushes into Ye Olde Bookshoppe.

SECRET AGENT MAN

I'll ask the questions.  My information indicates that Mr. Petrulakis (also for our purposes, "Mr. Petrulakis" shall be me) bought the Anarchist Cookbook.  And The Survival Chemist.  And The Construction of Secret Hiding Places.  All from this establishment.  Is that true?

 BOOKSELLER

It's true.  Yes, yes it's true.

Bookseller points at self.

BOOKSELLER

All of it!  All true!  Since I'm Nick, I'll rat myself out.  Ok?  I did it.  I bought those books.  For research!  For research, I tell you.  I'm writing the Great American Novel.  It was part of a character study.

SECRET AGENT MAN

Sir, that's immaterial.  I'm here for proof.  To that end, I have an Order for the purchase records of Mr. Petrulakis.  The Order can't be challenged.  Also, you can't tell anyone you've received this Order.  That would be verboten.  Under the law.

BOOKSELLER

But this isn't Russia!  This is the United States of America!  I got rights!  I got rights!

FADE TO BLACK

Rights?  Your rights and my own have been slashed under the Patriot Act (a piece of legislation named by the grandson of George Orwell)  (ok, I made that up) but you and I don't care because it couldn't happen to you.  Couldn't happen to me, right?

Funny thing is, even if it did happen to me, I couldn't tell you about it.  Remember?  Verboten. 

So...let's not argue about the fact that the government has the right to demand to know WHAT YOU'VE BEEN READING.  Or, um, what you've been CHECKING OUT AT THE LIBRARY.  After all, this is all in the good fight against Terrorism.  Yeah, yeah, Big Brother and Big Sister had to change the law (see Section 215, above) to get their way, but let us not forget - WMD's?  Mission Accomplished?  You haven't forgotten, have you?  You promised.

In light of all that, it's absolutely fine that I have to divulge your buying records when they come calling.

Really - it's fine.  Or so the government thinks.

We don't.

In 2005, The Campaign for Reader Privacy was begun by the American Booksellers Association, the American Library Association, the Association of American Publishers, and the PEN American Center.  We all felt you should, you know, be able to buy books without the threat of having your reading list scrutinized by a Secret Agent Man.

I know, I know, silly booksellers.  We're all a bunch of Commie, clove smoking, tattooed ne'er-do-wells.  Only trying to subvert your constitutional rights.

Actually, it's the opposite.  To promote that fact, I'm designing bumper stickers.  The first will read:  I'll give you my book when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.

Ok already.  I'll stop.  And I'm not saying that I wear a cape.  If I did, I'd look as goofy as Seth Rogan's Green Hornet.  What I am saying is, bookstores are important.  They provide a place where you can come and discover new ideas, new voices.  Some subversive, some not.  What we offer, with any luck, is a place where you're treated with respect.  Where you can spoil yourself with that beach-read you're embarrassed to admit you've been waiting for.  Where you can catch up on the words of the ideologues from the left and the right.

You want a copy of the Constitution?  I've got it at the front register.  We've sold more than 500.  It's such a little document, you wouldn't think it would cause so much trouble.

Not all of us can be Lawrence Ferlinghetti and launch a movement.  But you know what?  Firefighters spend great swaths of time waiting.  Only a fool would begrudge them that, because they're there, just in case.  And booksellers?  Everyday, we're here just in case, too.  As a meeting place where conversations can occur, where opinions can be trafficked - not behind some anonymous posting in the cloud, but face to face.  Everyday, making sure that you can get your hands on what you want.  Your neighbor might not agree with your selection, but at least you're allowed to make up your own mind.

We employ people who live where you live.  We give back to our communities, every day.  You tell us what you want, we provide it.

Some of us have fought the good fight, thumbing noses at the censors who say No.  Others have fallen in love with an author and helped to launch a career.  Or we're just tracking down that book you heard about on the radio.  I may think Palin is an idiot, or that Al Franken is a buffoon, but if you want their books, I'll ensure you get them.

I think we call that being in the service of a free exchange of ideas.


The problem is - when any bookseller falls, your choices are diminished.  If you're happy going to Costco and having your book selection limited to the 10 titles they've decided you should buy - if you're thrilled that Amazon can get it to you at a discount, and that's the most important thing determining where and what you buy - then we have nothing to talk about.

If, however, you want to be able to ask for help.  If, however, you need a donation for your school/church/synagogue (try that at Amazon).  If, however, you're fond of choice and don't want to be confined to the Top Ten of someone else - then you know what?

You need to patronize the shops in your neighborhood.  Barbara, across the street at Daisy's, was telling me about the looky-lou who told her that she loves browsing the wares Barbara offers.  She'd never think of buying anything, but she does like to look.

Folks - Daisy's isn't a museum.  Bookstores aren't museums.  And if they were, we'd at least charge you to come in.  You thrive when we thrive.  So if you like the shop, support it.  Crass though this may be, "support" means spending money.

Borders.  I got a little bit away from the bankrupt Borders, which is what made me sit up and take notice.  Another bookstore, gone.  More booksellers out of work.

I won't write their history.  I'll leave that to the smarter, the better informed.  They'll be able to tell you about the bad business practices, about the fact that the very size of Borders hindered its ability - like the T. Rex of old - to dodge the meteors as they started falling from the sky.

Do I wish the jerk from Borders who came into my store with the intention of throwing dirt into my grave was still there?  Closing down his shop for good while we're here to serve another day?  Sure.  Along with some of my partners in crime:  Mrs. Dalloways.  Rakestraw.  Diesel.  A Great Good Place.  Laurel Bookstore.  Alexander's.  Booksmith.  West Portal.  Modern Times.  Green Apple.  Bookshop Santa Cruz.  Book Passage.  Pendragon.  Pegasus. . .

We take no pleasure, I assure you, in seeing your alternatives - our alternatives - narrowed and reduced.  Again.  Because that just means the light is dimming.  Again.

Do me a favor.  Read a book.  See a movie.  Listen to a song.  Pay for the privilege and be thankful  the opportunity is there to be had.

All this pontificating is hard work.  I need a drink.  First round's on me.

Sweet Caroline

Everybody's trying to raise money for schools, right?  We in Alameda are no different.  Karen and I moved here because of the schools, but now?  It's a long story, but Alameda schools will soon be worse off than many, and forward thinking citizens have been trying to get parcel taxes passed to stave off Armageddon (I know, I know.  You hate parcel taxes.  I'm selfish, ok?  And I want good schools for my kids and I want good schools to keep my property value up.  Now please admit that the only reason you're against Parcel Taxes is because you're selfish, too.  Please.  Just do that and then go away.  I'm selfish, you're selfish.  Let's agree on that.)

Anyway.  In Alameda, we call it Measure A.  The good people behind the measure held a fundraiser.  There was a bar downstairs, music upstairs, and a Silent Auction someplace else.  I had a fine feeling about this piece of art that was being Silently Auctioned, and Karen needed some art for her new office, so I suggested we throw half our tickets into that pot.

Long story short, Karen won the art and it hangs now on the wall behind her desk.  Looks great.  But...these words weren't going to be about the art.  Heck, they're not even about Measure A (though you should vote for A if you can.  I'm planning to vote early and often).  It's about Nick and Sharon and Neil Diamond.

I said there was music upstairs, right?  I should be able to remember who the bands were, but I don't.  They were all fab, I do remember that.  But, um, the bar downstairs?  The Corona was extra cold, the lime wedges shoved down the Corona necks were wonderfully citrusy, and my story is that it was the quality of the cerveza - not its quantity - that may have pushed the names of the bands out of my mind.

But the music was great.

Late that night - close to when they were going to kick us out of the upstairs at Rhythmix, down the stairs and out the front door - it was late when He appeared onstage in all his shiny, sunglassed glory.  White shirt with a lot of sparkles, collar tips hanging way down to here.  It wasn't really Neil, I mean his voice left some to be desired, but his attitude?  That was all Diamond.

Karen and I had been joking earlier that you could tell the age of the parents who were there, upstairs, by how loudly they responded to the songs that were being covered.  Eighties?  That was for the old parents - right in our wheelhouse.  The next Gen screamed loudest for the Grunge ditties and Ska.  There were some real young whippersnappers, and they responded to songs that I hadn't heard.

I didn't think those songs were all that, but that's just me all over.

The funny thing?  Everybody responds to Neil.  Yeah, you might not think you would - but there's a test.  I was telling Nick about the test when Neil took the stage.  Nick and Sharon are in the Ska generation.  Younger.  But they don't hold it against us.

It's easy to tell that Nick's younger because he remembers each of the Neil Diamond songs that were sung, sung blue that night.  Four of the five or six were favorites of his and he could count them down on his fingers easy, I'd betcha.

But I don't bet.  Unless it's a sure thing.

Anyway.  Karen was sipping bad white wine, I had my cold Corona, and Neil just took over.  Whenever I hear Neil Diamond I think about Delaney's.  Great bar in the Marina.  Well, it was great when Tim Delaney owned it.  Delaney was a star receiver at San Diego State and for the WFL.  Years later he ran a terrific bar.  It happened to be next to the bookstore that I managed, and I happened to befriend the bartenders, and they happened to keep my frosty glass of soda refilled throughout the day.

Tim - I owe you for a lot of Diet Coke.

One night after work, a group of us went next door to Delaney's for adult beverages.  I was there, and so was Ladd, and Craig, and Phil.  Ladd was 6'4'' - at least - good looking to boot.  Marina Bunnies loved Ladd.  Craig was older than Ladd, and not as tall.  Phil was young.  An artist.  He's at Lucas now, chasing Skywalker.  Ladd's designing chairs.  Craig's off to LA, following his music muse.

That night, though, we were all booksellers relaxing after a closing shift.  Craig, after a beer, started grilling Ladd about how to close the deal.

I don't get it, Craig kept saying.  These beautiful women come into the store, but it's awkward.  You can't hit on them - and here he shot me a look, assuring me that he wouldn't make a customer feel uncomfortable in the store - that would be wrong.  But where else am I going to meet someone?  I'm in the store more than anywhere else.  You - he shot this at Ladd - you don't seem to have any problem, no one feels uncomfortable when you're selling them a book.  How do you do that?

And Ladd just smiled.  Well, he said, you can't ask anyone for their number.  Someone - and Ladd here smiled at me - might not approve.  But you could comment on the book as you slide it in their bag.  You could say, I've heard good things about Bridget Jones.  When you finish, you should let me know what you thought.

And then Ladd sipped beer.  And Craig just stared.  And then the grilling continued.  Craig throwing out different scenarios.  Ladd casually tossing off lines that fit each occasion.  Not that Ladd used these lines, mind you.  He was just answering questions.

Deftly.

The four of us were sitting at a table that would comfortably seat three.  And the table next to us was empty until this group of seven or eight frat guys took it over.  They were probably visiting from Berkeley.  Loud, the way frat guys can be loud.  Not offensive, just a lot of guys in a small space taking up a lot of room and drinking more than - perhaps - they should.

It was then that Neil Diamond started playing.  Sweet Caroline.  Tim always made sure there was good music in the jukebox.  Ah, Sweet Caroline.  That's a dynamite song even if no one knows what the lyrics are.  I'm asking you right now - how's it start?

No cheating.  You can't Google it.

Give up?

Where it began.
I can't begin to know it.
But then I know it's growing strong.

See, I've told you that's the song, and I've spelled out the beginning for you - but even now, it's not really registering.  If you had the music, though, like the frat guys had the music, you'd know what was coming.

Was in the spring.
And spring became the summer.

Who'd have believed you'd come along.

Ok, that's starting to tickle a little something in the back of your mind.  But like I said, if you had the music?  You'd almost be able to sing it.  Almost.

That's when I shouted out, loud enough for my table to hear - but not the table next to us - I yelled out to Ladd and Craig and Phil, because this is the surest of things, I yelled out as I reached into my pocket for a five dollar bill, I yelled out as I waved Lincoln above my head and looked at the frat guys, When it gets to the chorus that entire table's breaking into song. 

Hands, touching hands.

Ladd twirled a finger in the air and said, The entire table?  And I said, Each and every one. 

Reaching out.

So Ladd pulls out a bunch of bills from his overalls, and Phil follows suit, and the dollar bills are just raining on the table. 

Touching me.

I don't have five dollars, Craig's yelling.  Ladd looks at the frat guys, looks back at me and repeats, All of them? and I just nod so he digs for more dollars to cover Craig-- 

Touching you.

And it's irresistible.  I'm here to tell you that anyone in that situation - in a crowd, libations flowing free, music loud and everywhere, I'm here to tell you that after Neil sings 

Hands, touching hands.
Reaching out.
Touching me,
Touching you.

Anyone not on a respirator is going to shout out 

Sweet Caroline!
Good times never seemed so good!

And with all those dollar bills on the table, well, two or three more rounds were assured.

More songs came out the Juke.  Some Johnny Cash.  Maybe a little Led Zeppelin.  And at a later point that night, Ladd suddenly calls out

Beer!

So without thinking I swipe my glass off the table, as does Phil - though he's an artist, he's quick - but Craig just looks over at Ladd and says

Wait, what--

And of course Craig doesn't get to finish his question because it's right then as Robert Plant's screaming out

Ramble on!

that one of the frat guys comes pinwheeling backwards, arms swinging, ass slamming into our table, Craig's beer gone, the glass shattering at his feet as the table flips then slams Bang onto the floor and the frat guy sprawled out like a scarecrow without a post to hitch himself on.

That's as good a reason as any to call it a night, so the three of us still with beer in our hands finish as seven brothers attend to one, and I'm going to tell this story to Nick.  You remember Nick, right?  We were at the event for Measure A.  His wife and mine, Janine and Brad, Edward and Annette, Natasha and Harry, Barbara, Ron, Liz - all the cool kids.

As I'm telling Nick about Neil, and Sweet Caroline - this is after our Neil has swaggered across the stage to three fabulous songs that Nick could recite for you but that I can't - it's as I'm trying to tell Nick the story about frat guys and monies wagered on vocal proclivities, it's then that our Neil, version 2011, of course begins to sing

Where it began.
I can't begin to know it.
But then I know it's growing strong.

You of course know where this is going because you just sang the song with me.  But as I'm telling Nick, Sweet Caroline starts being sung.  I mean, of course, right?  And I get the story out as quick as I can, just in time for the chorus

Sweet Caroline!
Good times never seemed so good!
I've been inclined to believe
They never would.



We're all singing, all of us, there upstairs in the dark, singing in support of schools, in support of songs with the catchiest of hooks, singing as a man in a white shirt with sparkles plays us, plays this crowd, like the vocal instrument we've become.

Good times never seemed so good.

Don't forget to vote.

My Dinner with *gasp* the Tiger Mother

If you haven't heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth produced by Amy Chua, the most feared mother on the planet, please eject the eight-track tape you're listening to, stop playing Pong for a moment, and visit the The Wall Street Journal to read what all the fuss is about.

In brief - just before its January 11th release, The Journal published an excerpt from Ms. Chua's book, The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.  Because Ms. Chua touched the Third Rail of American Parenting (that many Western notions of child rearing are "weak-willed and indulgent," and that Westerners "poorly prepare their children for their own futures"), the backlash was swift.

Last week, The Journal noted that the article had elicited more comments than any in its history.  That was when the comment count stood at 5,700 - now it's closer to 7,700.

All because a Tiger Mother was thought to roar.

You know what we called Tiger Mothers when I was a kid?  Strict.

A strict mom, though, would just incite vitriol in these, our pretty days of baby-whisperers.  If the tone of the comments was merely vitriolic, if they stemmed mainly from Western mommies and daddies offended by the title of the Journal's piece (Why Chinese Mothers are Superior), if they stayed in the realm of "that mom is incapable of serious thinking...."  If.  If.  If.  Instead, they teeter then crash into the chasm populated by doctrinaire Klansmen.   Ms. Chua is a "Crazy Asian." Or:  "China's really dirty.  Doesn't that invalidate her?"  Or: "Sixty million people were executed under Mao.  Ipso facto, Amy is a bad mom."

You can't make this stuff up.

One could discuss the racism that infects many of the words hurled towards Ms. Chua - to trace these xenophobic projections to their roots in an attempt to, what?  Understand the hate?  Sympathize with the intolerant?

That exercise would prove as productive as trying to talk guns out of Arizona.  So I won't.

But we're left with these fraudulent notions:  Ms Chua is only concerned with the appearance of her "Trophy Children."  She's a "bully" who is guilty of "child abuse."  Or, simply, from the most eloquent of commentators, that Ms. Chua is a "creep."

Swift was the backlash, yes.  Swift and extreme - even from the mainstream.  Check out NBC News.  Their Education Correspondent, Rehema Ellis, could barely keep the snark in her voice at bay when she interviewed Ms. Chua.  And you want to know why?  Because Ms. Chua was the evil Tiger Mother who dared - not to insinuate but to declare - that Chinese mothers were the best mothers and that she was the epitome of the Chinese mother and that she was therefore perfect.

The only problem with that is - it isn't true.  But to find out the truth, you'd have to read the book.

Hey - what are you doing?  Take your fingers out of your ears.  I just said, you should read the book.  Hey!

You know what's needed here?  Let me put it in words known and loved by y'all:  You need a timeout.  Now.  Go on, slink over to that corner there and just be quiet for ten seconds.

I said, ten seconds!  Is that so hard?

I just need a ten-count to say one thing:  go read the book.

Because, see, you haven't read the book.  And yet you stand in judgment after (maybe) having read the naughty bits that the Journal strung together.

So, please, go read the book.  How can you make an informed decision without having read the book?

If you only glanced at the opening pages of The Diary of a Young Girl, you'd think, what drivel!  Who is this silly teenager Anne Frank?  Who'd want to spend time reading about her birthday, her presents, or who the prettiest girl in her class is?

Go read the book.

If you only watched the first moments of the Wizard of Oz, you would leave thinking, black and white movies ain't for me.

Go see the movie. 

If you only caught the beginning of King Lear, you'd believe Regan and Goneril are doting daughters and that Cordelia is an unappreciative wench.  How'd that work out for Lear?

Go watch the play.

Take the time - instead of making deluded decisions because it's easier, faster, more fun.

Misinformed Criticism - it's the new black.

I read The Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother because I had the opportunity to have dinner with Ms. Chua back in October.  October 27th, to be exact.  I remember the date because our dinner happened to coincide with Game One of the World Series.  You can read about that here. I'm, um, a bit of a baseball fanatic, so I thought I was really making a sacrifice, missing the game and all.

That was before I met Ms. Chua.

It was beautiful in San Francisco - earthquake weather.  Calm, clear and warm on that October afternoon heading into night.  I'd been invited with a few other booksellers to have dinner with Ms. Chua and representatives from Penguin Books (thanks Ms. Wood!) in celebration of the imminent publication of the Tiger Mother.

I liked her immediately.  She was gracious, smart, easy to talk to.  Plus - she had two daughters, I had two daughters.  And better yet, her girls were separated by three years, just like mine - and just like mine, her oldest was a Monkey, and her youngest was a Boar.  Sure, her daughters were twelve years ahead of my own, but they shared the characteristics that the Chinese Zodiac ascribed to them.  Quick-witted, artistic and polite are the Monkeys.  Gallant are the Boars, gallant and sturdy - resolute, even.  Very, very resolute.  And very, very passionate.




Can I tell you the hardest thing I've ever attempted?  Being a good father.  You want to know the only thing I can think of that would be harder?  Writing down all my missteps.  All my lapses in judgment.  Not only writing them down, but then sharing them with friend and foe alike.

But I don't write down my mistakes because I don't have the guts.  Or the courage.

Do you?

During that dinner with Ms. Chua, I learned she had the courage I didn't.

Ms. Chua writes that her daughter Sophia told her that piano practice was once interrupted by mother saying to daughter, If the next time's not PERFECT, I'm going to TAKE ALL YOUR STUFFED ANIMALS AND BURN THEM (more on that later).

Please, for me, imagine something awkward, something mean, that you've said to a child, parent, or friend.  Come on, you can do this.  Think of the worst - the most unfair - thing you've said to someone.

There, do you have it?  Awful, isn't it.

Now, go tell all your friends you said it.  Or admit it to a group of strangers.  Don't give them context - don't let them see your side, what you were feeling.  Just accept their opprobrium and shut up about it.

Wait, you don't want to admit to any of your failings, at least not publicly?  Ok, well, you don't have to go full Monty or anything.  Maybe admitting the worst thing is too much to ask.  How about just poking at yourself a bit?
 
You can't imagine the Tiger Mother poking fun of herself, can you?  But again, that's because you haven't read the book.  She's funny.  And self-effacing.  During our dinner, she answered all our questions with good humor and wit.  Even when some of the booksellers poked a hot stick at the issue that would arouse such animus.  Ms. Chua of course asked those questioners - delicately, delicately - if they had read the book.  If they'd read the book they'd know where she comes down, in the final final, about what's better - East or West.  Then she made us laugh, as she often did that night.

At the beginning of the book, she describes that her first daughter's name, Sophia, means wisdom.  And that "from the moment Sophia was born, she displayed a rational temperament and exceptional powers of concentration.  She got those qualities from her father."

See, that's a joke.  Oh, but wait.  It also chips away at your preconceived notion that Ms. Chua is full of herself.

Go read the book.

There's another moment when Ms. Chua describes a conversation she's having with her husband, Jed Rubenfeld.  Much to her surprise, she allowed her daughter, Lulu, to get a dog - as a bribe for playing a piece on the violin especially well.  (Even though she proclaimed earlier that she took a dim view of graft.)  "I don't believe in bribing children," she wrote.  "Both the United Nations and the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development have ratified international conventions against bribery."

Another joke?

Wait, there's more:  "A lot of people liked Lulu--there was something almost magnetic about her inability to ingratiate.  Thank God we live in America...where no doubt because of the American Revolution rebelliousness is valued. In China, they'd have sent Lulu to a labor camp."

She.  Is.  Not.  Being.  Serious.

Let's go back to the dog.  To Coco.  Ms. Chua admits that she soon began to work the dog as hard as she worked her daughters.  For Coco's benefit, of course.  After one evening when she'd engaged in a shouting match over how much time her children should practice their instruments, Mr. Rubenfeld - in private - expressed worry that his wife was, perhaps, pushing the girls too hard.  She fought back.  "All you think about is writing your own books and your own future.  What dreams do you have for Sophia, or for Lulu?  Do you ever even think about that?  What are your dreams for Coco?"

Her husband paused before - wait for it, wait for it - he burst into laughter and kissed the top of her head.  "Dreams for Coco--that's really funny, Amy."

This story - it's almost sheepish.  And it is very funny.  But you wouldn't know that about Ms. Chua because you haven't read the book.

So go read the book.

Heck, you don't even have to read the book.  You could just read the cover.  Do you have time for that?  Right under the title - Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother - there are three sentences.  Do you have time in your busy schedule to read three sentences?

• This is a Story about a mother, two daughters, and two dogs.
• This was supposed to be a story of how Chinese parents are better at raising kids than Western ones.
• But instead, it's about a bitter clash of cultures, a fleeting taste of glory, and how I was humbled by a thirteen-year-old.

And if you had taken the time to read that, maybe you'd have an informed opinion.  Maybe you would've scratched your head and said, Hmm, that's not what I thought that there Tiger Mother was all about.

Because I'll tell you what her story is about.  It's about one woman trying to do one job - mothering - the best way she knows how.  How do you parent?  The best way you know how?  Did you ever make any mistakes?  Because mistakes are easy.

Mistakes, I've made a few.  The other day, I pocket-dialed Karen.  She wasn't in her office, so my call rolled over to voicemail.  When she played the long message, the message that I had no idea I was leaving, she heard me having a discussion with our youngest, Kristina.

I have to hand it to you, Nick - Karen told me later - you never raised your voice.  I just heard a lot of background noise interrupted by you saying, Now Kristina, I really need you to calm down.  You kept saying that again and again.  The only time I could tell you were angry, Karen said, was there at the end when I heard you say, I am going to count to three.  If you haven't stopped when I get to three - I'm gonna rip her head off.

What Karen couldn't see, naturally, was the Barbie Doll I held in my hands - Barbie smirking up at me the way she does - while I threatened my daughter with the dismemberment of her favorite doll if she didn't calm down.

Who needed calming, can you tell me that?

Ms. Chua threatened to burn some stuffed animals, I threatened to go all French Revolution on a Barbie Doll.  The only difference is - Ms. Chua used her experience to illustrate a story, a story about how her parenting techniques left something to be desired.  About how she was forced to change her mind about what was right and wrong when it came to being a good mother.

But you wouldn't know that.  You wouldn't know that Ms. Chua takes the reader on a journey, and the territory she gets to is vastly different than the territory she left.  You don't know how the story ends, because you didn't bother to read the book.

Can you do me a favor already?

Go read the book.

It'll be a little different than mine.  Inside mine, Ms. Chua wrote, For Nick - Here's to Monkeys + Boars + the Bay Area...Go Giants & Tiger parents!  All best wishes.  Amy Chua.

Still, please - go read the book.

Available at an independent bookseller near you.

Begin the Beguine

'Twas another New York New Year's Celebration, just like last year.  Again, this doesn't mean we were in Times Square when that Waterford Ball dropped - it just means we celebrated the dropping when New Yorkers did, even though we were in California.  Midnight there, 9 o'clock here - perfect for old fuddy-duds like us with kids.

There was a time when we'd be dancing to Superbooty in San Francisco, drinking backstage with those rock 'n rollers after the gig because our friends knew the guitarist.

We were young then.

When we first moved to Alameda, we introduced pots and pans to the neighborhood.  On New Year's Night.  We're pretty sure pots hadn't been banged at night, outside, before us.  Coulda been, but if I bet, I'd bet no.

Pots and pans were big in Modesto.  Karen and I, growing up together - but separate, we wouldn't meet until high school - we banged pots at the stroke of midnight.  I banged on Sherwood Avenue, Karen way across town causing a racket on Carolyn.

So we brought that to Monte Vista on the sleepy island.  Our first New Year's, we woke the street up.  Grainne and Stuart, right next door - neither of us had kids yet.  We were both two years from kids.  Three doors down - they had a full house. Four kids, the oldest ten, the youngest - one?  Two?  Barely two, if two.  So when we banged, and hooted, well - the kids thought it was alarming.  Alarming and fun.  Adults, taking wooden spoons to pans?  What's up with that? 

We didn't know we were starting a tradition - how can you know you're starting a tradition there at the beginning?  The next year, we warned them to be ready for more of the same - the second to youngest swore he'd be there for us.  He'd wait up, he could do it.

When night fell, and midnight followed, we banged like we did that first year.  But the good souls were asleep at the witching hour.  Karen had me go over and leave a pot on their porch with a big wooden spoon nestled inside.  Evidence that we had banged.

So long ago now.

Last year was our first New York New Year's - honestly, I forget if we made it to twelve after we got home.  I know we didn't make it last night.  What's the First Rule of drinking?

Don't mix.

What's the Second Rule?

Don't mix.

So last night, we had some punch thing.  Cloud called the bar he used to frequent in Oregon to get the recipe.  Lotta alcohol.  Then I mixed up some Candy Cane Martinis.  I wanted to spice them like Jeremy had, but I didn't have any Pepper Vodka.  And of course we couldn't find the candy canes that should dangle from the lip of the glass, so they were just strong without the candy fun.  And then Harry's Margarita's.  And champagne.

I may have had a beer or two.

Anyway - that would be the definition of mixing.  When we got home, around ten, after watching the ball drop an hour earlier, at Natasha and Harry's - with Cloud and Kate, Sharon and Nick, Brad and Janine, Liz and Donar.  And the kids.  The kids!  All the kids.  How'd we all get so many kids?

We got home with the kids and tucked them into bed, safe and sound.  The two of us?  We did not pass out.  We glided gently off to slumber - smiling and humming carols.

Until midnight, when Karen poked me and said, They're banging pots and pans.  Get up, up, you have to go out.

So I dressed like a thief in the dark, and stood on our porch while the oldest of the neighbor kids - now 18 and applying to college - led her merry band of revelers in a rousing rendition of Auld Lang Syne on copper kettle, stainless pot, and tin can.

Should old acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?

Beautiful, beautiful sounds.  And they laughed and I laughed and then I called for a second round.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup!
And surely I’ll buy mine!
And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

And still laughing I reminded them that it wasn't too long ago when I was the one doing the waking, but now here they were, banging while we slept.

While we slept.

There will come a time when we're the ones up again - but for now, we're tired.  Blessedly tired.  So we'll sleep when we can, rest when we can, and before we know it, it'll be Elizabeth thinking about college, or travel, banging her pot on the porch - laughing in the dark and walking down the block, Kristina hitting her pan even louder, Kristina probably with two lids turned into cymbals - crashcrashcrash - because how much fun would that be?

crash

Happy New Year - and all best in the year to come.


And there’s a hand my trusty friend!
And give us a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll take a right good-will draught,
for auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear.
For auld lang syne.
We'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

New York Postcards, #4 -- The Empire State Building Sucks

Is it awesome? (And please, I've spoken before of the use of the word Awesome. I intend its use as the Lord our God intended it to be used - a feeling of reverence produced by the sublime. Your '63 Chevy is not awesome. Nor is Lady Gaga.)

So - is the Empire State Building awesome? Sure. The world's tallest building for forty years - not a record that'll be broken. Tallest until the North Tower of the World Trade Center was finished in 1972. Tallest again in New York after September 11th, 2001.

Awesome not just because of its height, but because of its design - back when builders actually cared about design. Beautiful, yes, awe inspiring, yes, a marvel? Truly.

Just don't try to get to the observation decks.

Karen and I had a few hours to kill on our Saturday in New York, so we decided to be tourists and do the most touristy thing we could think of.

Top of the Empire State.

What the authorities don't tell you, on a beautiful Saturday in New York, is that it's going to take about four hours total to enjoy the view. 240 minutes. 220 of those minutes will be spent in line. After line. After line.

At least Disneyland has the courtesy to have those stupid little signs acknowledging that you have to wait.


Splash Mountain - APPROXIMATE WAIT TIME - 90 MINUTES!

Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage - Wait time - 120 minutes from this point!


I'm here to tell you, if we had seen a sign that said:

Observation Deck - Wait time - 220 minutes!

...we would not. Have waited. Of course, that's probably why the Powers That Be don't inform you of the stupid wait. In New York, there's always something else to do, so you'd do that. Something else. And not waste more than three hours for a glimpse of the stupid view.

Ok, the view's not stupid. Still. Three and a half hours? Are you kidding?

The only funny bit was the dad ahead of us in line. The way they work it, you think you're getting to the end of the line, when you turn a corner - more line! Or you get to a door, open it - more line! Elevator, in, out - more line! So this poor guy is in line with his two girls, and he's gotta use the bathroom. He figures, I've been in this fucking line for three hours, we ain't moving, I'm just gonna go pee. What could happen?

What could happen is this. Some freak in an ape suit could choose the exact moment that the bathroom door closes behind the dad to leap out and terrorize the crowd. He could beat his hairy King-Kong chest and roar like only a freak in an ape suit can roar. His rampage will cause the youngest of the two girls, the girls now alone, without their dad - he's in the crapper - Kong's frenzy will make the youngest of the girls scream in terror. Scream and cry, loud and long. She'll be screaming so loud and long that I, thinking about my own two little girls, will be tempted to cut through the line and offer succor to the wee thing.

Just before I make the move to try and stem her crying jag, the dad emerges, wiping his hands on his jean jacket.  He hears her cries and looks up. For a moment, he thinks - that's not my daughter. Can't be. But then panic sets in - he walks faster, starts to rush.  The crowd of us lets him know - yes, that is your daughter and where the hell have you been?

We're all imagining the conversation when the dad and the girls get back to the hotel, back to the mom that has taken the afternoon to luxuriate in the bath - maybe order room service. What do you mean, the mom'll say when the story comes out, you left the girls alone, in New York? Are you crazy? I knew I shouldn't have stayed behind, I knew it.

For the rest of us, at least, that drama broke up the wait. I mean, we knew the little Fay Wray wasn't in harm's way - just scared out of her gourd without her father to protect her, is all.

Anyway.  There's my memory of the Empire State Building.  And yes, the sight from the deck is breathtaking. Where else can you see five states at once? And our day was clear and bright. The Chrysler Building, from above? And the Flatiron? The Hudson River, the East? Brooklyn, New Jersey, Central Park? Amazing, yes, seen from so far above.

Karen's hair, blowing in the wind, the wind skirting across the top of the world.  That's my other memory.

But 220 minutes in line when you could be out in Central Park? Or Brooklyn?  C'mon.  You're with me, right?  You want a slice of John's Pizza more than you want to read about the Building's energy efficiency retrofit project while you inch through that line, right?  C'mon, right?

Right.

And Silver Bells

Silver bells shouldn't make me cry.  Still, it's Christmas, so I'm allowed.

Christmas.  My mom can be a little over the top when it comes to Christmas presents.  Like on Monday, when Mr. UPS dropped a package at the store, addressed to me.  There was no indication of who had sent it, but since my mom had posted a similarly unmarked package last week - that one contained three boxes of candy canes and two huge nutcrackers, for the girls - my guess was that the three-foot tall Santa with his full and fluffy beard probably came from the same source.

Christmas.  This would have been the 49th that my parents spent together.  They got married in '62.  Their marriage was pretty typical for a couple from that generation.  You're watching Mad Men, yes?  Well, their union, my mom and dad's, didn't have that kind of glitz, but the gender roles?  Similar.  My mom stayed home, did everything that entailed, while my dad worked - a lot.  They were comfortable with their tasks.  And after forty-eight years, the comfort that one finds in the commonplace can often be taken for granted.

My dad never took my mom for granted.

But - there were things my mom handled, and both she and he understood and accepted this.  Christmas presents?  Definitely my mom's purview.  He may have had input over the years - the Daisy BB gun I got, circa 1976?  Maybe he had some say.  But the year in, year out?

Thanks for all of that, Mom.  Thanks.

A funny thing happened, though, when Karen and I were lucky enough to welcome Elizabeth into our lives.  That first Christmas, my dad decided he wanted to get her a Christmas present.  Something just from him to her.  My mom tells me she had no input on this.  He wanted it to be his gift.

My dad, with my daughter?

My parents were married in 1962, I said that, right?  Different times, different roles.  My mom did so much of the baby stuff, so much of the holding and feeding and clothing.  My dad was a dad of his time - so the baby stuff?  Not his bailiwick.  But when Elizabeth came along?  That first time I got fussed when my folks were over and I handed Elizabeth to him, without warning?  My dad sat there, holding her, holding his first granddaughter.  Worried there at the start - but quickly just smiling, just holding her gentle.

I think my dad loved being a grandfather because he got to experience babies for the first time, in a lot of ways, even though he helped raise three boys. 

Loved being a grandfather to Elizabeth.  Then Elizabeth and Kristina.  And then Eleni, my niece.

But that first year, that first Christmas, he thought about what he could give Elizabeth - and my dad came up with a Silver Bell.  This was so unlike him.  How did he decide on a Silver Bell?  My dad, so tall, and with his big hands, his hands - those hands, at least - his hands at least better suited to the coal mines my grandfather worked, his hands at least better suited there than the pharmacies he would grace.  And here was my big, Greek dad, picking out a Silver Bell?  Such a little thing in his hands, such a pretty, little, tinkly thing.

My dad had the Bell engraved.  One side read:

Christmas

2004

And on the other side:

To

Elizabeth

Ann

From Papou

It was just splendid.  He was so pleased with the gift, with something just from him, just to her.

My dad would do this every year.  For Elizabeth - then Kristina, too.  And last year, when Eleni arrived, then also for her, for my beautiful niece.

So Eleni received a bell from her Papou - and this is important, so important, because the bells from my dad in 2009 - those would be the last bells he would gift to his grandchildren.

This year, when it was time to unwrap all the decorations, when the halls of our house needed to be decked - so many boxes, so many bags.  I love unwrapping the crinkly paper from each treasure.  The angel I got Karen in 1988.  The Scandinavian Star treetopper that we found in Booneville in 1989, the year before we married.

The Star is there now, as it's been every year, looking down on me as I write.

And then, this year, unwrapping the first Silver Bell. 

To

Elizabeth

Ann

From Papou

Unwrapping the Bell.  Holding it, so cool in my hand.  Hearing its sweet tinkle as I placed it on the mantle.  Placing it there, in front of the antique clock, the clock that belonged to Karen's grandparents.

Crying, a little bit.  Sure.  Yes.  A little bit.

We had my family over to our house yesterday, for Christmas Eve.  Our first without Papou Tony.  And in spite of that, we had a lovely, sweet time.  Somber, fleetingly somber - I couldn't quite make it through saying grace, not quite, but still, a sweet time with everyone.  With my brother George, and his wife, Karna.  Dean, the youngest brother of we three, and his wife, Laura - and little Eleni.  Connie and Gordon - Connie godmother to Kristina.  Kristine came up - Karen's sister Kristine.  What would we have done yesterday without Kristine?  And my mom.  My mom, of course.

I made drinks - it's been a year since I made Aviations.  You should have one right now.  Trust me.

Aviation:

3 parts Hendrick's Gin.

1 part lemon juice.

1 part Maraschino Liqueur

1 part Creme de Violette.

Shake with cracked ice, pour into chilled glass.  Serve with Luxardo Maraschino cherries.  Two cherries, at least - maybe three - because they're so good.

We all visited, and drank, and ate.  Opened presents.  Near the end of the presents, my mom hands me an envelope addressed to her granddaughters - an envelope and three gift-wrapped boxes.  The envelope contained a note, and in the note, my mom wrote about Papou's bells:

December 23, 2010

My dear Elizabeth, Kristina and baby Eleni.

The year 2004.  When Elizabeth was born.  Papou Tony for Christmas wanted to give Elizabeth a silver bell with her name on it.

To Elizabeth

From Papou

He said, I will do this every Christmas so she can get many bells.

2007 Kristina came.

So he did the same.

To Kristina

From Papou

2009, Baby Eleni came.

So he did the same.  A silver bell, to Eleni.  From Papou.  2009.

He said they are so beautiful and bright, I hope their future will be as bright as these silver bells.  Annio, please keep doing that for me.

So my dear ones, I will as long as I am here.  I hope when you get older and understand, please remember your Papou Tony.  Because he loved you all very much.

I love you, too.  God bless you and Merry Christmas.

--YiaYia Anna

So the three girls received three more Silver Bells.  Elizabeth and Kristina, their Bells are on the mantle with the others.  Beautiful and bright, yes.

Beautiful and bright.

I hope you have a wonderful day - and even if your day doesn't involve Christmas, I hope it involves family and friends.  Or thoughts of family and friends.  Today's a hard one for me, hard but beautiful, too.  I'm lucky to have Karen, and my girls.  The friends and family we saw yesterday, the friends and family we'll see later today, in the Valley.

Take a moment, please take a moment and remember.  Remember - and wish family and friends, past and present, wish them well.

I love you, Mom.  I love you, Dad.

Merry Christmas.

Cakewreck

Yesterday was Duane's last at the bookstore.  Good for him, bad for me.  He came back to Ye Olde Bookshoppe last December - to help out during the holidays.  Much to my pleasure, he stayed.  And stayed.  Working odd hours, bringing his strong presence through the doors marked 1344.  But, yes, all good things must come to end, and Duane's tenure here is one of those.

It's hectic in the Shoppe this week - not as hectic as it could be, but beggars can't choose - when we chose to do the little going-away thing for Duane.  The card, the cake, the stirring testimonials.

Well, I strove for stirring.

Do you like cake?  I do.  I mean, I prefer pie, but for going-away things?  Gotta go cake.  Cakes can be delicious, or dry.  They can be beautiful, and sometimes - not so much.  For the not-so-much, you should visit here, and you'll also be saying Oh, the wrecks!.  Cakewrecks, that glorious site, also does a calendar, and this time of year we sell lots of calendars, so I've been looking at Cakewrecks a lot, so for Duane's cake, I basically ripped off Cakewrecks.  I got Duane a cake, indeed I did, but it was so hard to know what to have written atop the chocolate sheet.  In the end, I told the baker that I wanted nothing on top of the cake.

She obliged, as you can see below.

So we ate the cake, stirringly testified, and did all this at the front of the store, not in back where we usually stir.  Too busy yesterday to get everyone off the floor, and I figured it'd be fun to sing Duane's praises in front of customers who have enjoyed working with him.

Quickly, though, we got back to selling and wrapping.  Quickly, the cake had been nibbled enough that it was time to get it into the back room.  It was just me and Samm at the cashwrap, everyone else was off delivering the Autobiography of Mark Twain into happy hands.

Do you know Samm?  You should stop on by and talk to her before she heads back to New York.  Samm, like everyone here at the store, is terrific.  Just don't call her Samantha.  I think she kneecapped the last guy who did that.  But besides that?  Terrific.

So Samm's selling Cleopatra:  A life - Stacy Schiff's amazing biography - to this hipster in a cloth cap, and I pick up the sheet cake to take it into the back.  The baker packed the cake kind of strange - it lay on top of a plastic tray, and then the plastic in turn lay atop a plastic base.  But the two weren't connected, you know?  Just laying there, one on the other.  And um, well, when polymer meets polymer, things can slip and slide.

Are you paying attention?  Do you see where I'm going?

I pick up the cake, the one with nothing on it, and I turn, I turn towards Samm, Samm innocently helping the hipster buy Cleopatra.  Instantly, I feel the cake continue going right, when I've made a sharp left.  I'm going left, cake's going right.  I correct, turn my wheels into the slide, and I, for a moment, think I've averted a crisis, I can feel the slick plastic of the cake tray sliding back onto the plastic platter, but I over correct, and the plastic slides forward, forward - I'm pushing the cake on the tray, the tray I hold in my hand, I push everything forward and tilt the tray up, trying to catch the cake as it slides, trying to flip it with a twist of my wrist, trying to flip it back to safety--

And Samm and her hipster stand unaware of the drama taking place, Samm blocking the hipster's view of my contortions, my not-so-dexterous attempts at derring-do...

It keeps sliding, sliding, gaining momentum, how could it slide faster?  I'm trying to ease the slide but it keeps going faster, the chocolate a blur, the hipster saying something about Cleopatra, me saying Oh, Samm hearing my exclamation but trying to do the customer-service thing, not about to move out of the way.  Why would she do that?  The cashwrap is cramped, there's no place for her to go, and why would she go anywhere since she has no idea the cake is sliding, sliding, slipping up and over, over, I'm going this way, it's going that, this way, that...

With one last lunge I push the cake forward, fast, where it glances off Samm's elbow, smears across the back of her shirt, down, slicing down over her belt, the seat of her jeans, brown frosting in a chocolate blur over her clothes.

The hipster now jumping back, grabbing Cleopatra, dusting the crumbs off her beautiful face, Samm turning, looking down, assessing the wreckage, gasping when she sees the rest of the cake, the uneaten rest, tumbled into our recycling bin, pulling it out, freeing it from the paper and cans nestled inside.

It's still good, Samm says.  It's still good.

I'm apologizing while the hipster backs away with Cleo clutched under his arm, while our coworkers now - now - flit close like bats to a streetlight, to see what fresh hell I've wreaked.

Through it all, through the jibes and laughter, Samm maintains her equanimity.  Grace under pressure and all that.

So that's how I spent yesterday trying to say goodbye to Duane.

Goodbye Duane.