Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/ignsofthetimes.mp3 or read on…

What’s missing from this picture?

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As children of the kudzu, we used to make up our own games, spending hours entertaining ourselves, laughing, jostling, snarling, giggling…just plain having fun at no-one’s expense.

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On a good day, when I connect with someone else who is ready to take laughter seriously, I still make my own fun.

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For instance, I look at signs along the way to someplace else.

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Better still, I look for what’s missing in signs along the way, trying to guess what the real message is.

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Here’s one sign:

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FAMILY LAR

This one took a minute…what is a family lar?

Ummm…oh, I see–it’s a FAMILY DOLLAR STORE sign that’s missing letters.

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What else?

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AMPU HOUSE

Hmmm…I’m afraid to guess because it seems a bit medical-rehabby. But, oh, I get it. It’s CAMPUS HOUSE, some kind of religious facility with alphabetus interruptus syndrome.

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Here’s another:

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ANNA’S LINLNS

After a while, I figured it to be ANNA’S LINENS with besmirched letter.

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There used to be a store chain called DOLLAR TREE, which I always read wrong. That’s because the sign was set up this way: 1 DOLLAR TREE. In the grand tradition of Free Enterprise, it always popped into my head as I-DOLLA-TREE (IDOLATRY), or the worship of merchandise that stores like that carry.

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And here’s one that still throws me, usually printed on the side of juice containers:

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CONCENTRATE

Which causes me to sit and stare until I find the rest of the statement, “made from concentrate.”

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So it goes.

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You can make up your own games. Send me the IGNS OF THE TIMES that you spot along the way

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(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Just sold ‘em at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories.

1941 originals!

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/passeposse.mp3

or reed on…

When it comes to being respectably respectful of the concept of Time, we multitudes are subdivided into a dizzying array of thought-camps (or posses), herewith (below) being a few:

1. The past is passé posse: 

The past is passé and deserves a quick brush-off so that we can relish the present and brag about how much better the future will be because We are here and ready to take over.

2. The past was better posse:

Everything good has already happened and the future is going to hell because it’s being commandeered by those younger whippersnappers.

3. The future will be better posse:

We must look to the future, since the past and Right Now are so screwed up. We will be saved by a Sacred Happening or by Scientific Progress or by right-minded leaders (benevolent dictators). 

4. Everything was always bad and the future will be, too, posse:

People are no damned good and they’re getting worse.

5. This is the best of all possible worlds posse:

“This is the best of all possible worlds.”—Candide

(There’s Good everywhere and all you have to do is focus on that precept and hold on for dear life.)

6. The Yin and Yang will prevail posse.

There will be good times, there will be bad times.

These are good and bad times.

There were good times and there were bad times.

7. The enemy is Us posse:

“We have met the enemy and he is us.”—Walt Kelly (Wherever we go, there we are.)

8. We can brainwash the world posse:

“The dice of the gods are always loaded.”—Emerson (from a Greek proverb)

(Just put us in charge and we will “educate” everyone to think Our way, thus guaranteeing prosperity and peace for all.)

9. Beware the Posses posse:

“If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.” —Brian Schell (Be wary of anyone with The Answer.)

“Anyone who says differently is selling something.” — Westley (If it seems too good to be true, it is.)

I’ve doubtless missed a few categories, but the exercise is remarkably repetitive through the

generations—each “aha!” moment is, upon examination, fraught with traps and dead-ends and bad punchlines. What is the real answer? How will we learn to respect the past, the present and the future simultaneously? Will we ever?

Perhaps if the Elders and the Present Youth and the Descendants would join hands and work together, we would once and for all see past/present/future as one and the same. We’re on the same ship at the same time in the same galaxy, and the sooner we stop one-upmanshipping one another and just consider life to be one big fat family reunion, the sooner we’ll be able to take a deep breath and get on with the business of Being a better world 

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Oh, those Birmingham Lounge Lizard days of yore.

Can you identify these two swingin’ cats from the nightclub scene?

Can you come up with the story that this image evokes?

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Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/airbrushedreality.mp3

or read on…

I’m in the right-hand lane on 20th Street heading to the shop.

A van pulls abreast to the left of me, pointed in the same direction.

In the passenger seat of the van is a young woman  staring straight down 20th, only her vision is blocked by the hand mirror in which she views herself. In her right hand is a small artist’s brush with which she dusts her face in rapid, skillfully coordinated motions. In the process, her lovely skin is covered by a fine beige powder that serves to hide her distinguishing marks, such as moles, pores, birthmarks, discolorations, scars and any trace of eccentricity.

She slowly becomes as smooth-complected as the life-sized mannequin at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories.

The van takes off and passes by and I am left to wonder about the airbrushing ritual. Does the young woman continue dusting her neck, shoulders, chest, armpits and all points south of 20th Street? Is she now a living beige mannequin ready to face the day? Could I identify her in a line-up, since she’s all smooth and featureless now? Is she happy with her newborn self? Should I airbrush myself and would anybody notice my lovely new complexion?

This seems like a lot of trouble, the things some of us do to remake ourselves each day, but I do understand it to some degree.

I spend each day airbrushing my comments and opinions and behavior, based on what I need to accomplish. Eating is important, so I brush over my suppressed retort when someone is rude—so that I can complete the sale and continue feeding my family. I tamp down my political opinion when someone rants a thought I don’t share. I hold back a funny remark when I sense that this particular customer is bereft of humor or spirit. I avert my eyes when someone unconsciously bends down to peruse a book and displays an intimate tattoo or bit of string underwear. I pretend deafness when someone spouts outrageously personal asides to a companion shopper. I hold my breath when it’s clear a customer hasn’t bathed or brushed for days—once they leave, I sigh and spray so that the next customer won’t have the same experience. I listen patiently to the extended tale someone spins in order to impress me or make me want to buy something they are trying to push.

And so on.

Like Zelig, Woody Allen’s fictional hero, I can shapeshift and airbrush as much as possible when it’s important to do so.

But it’s also so much fun to relax and chat freely with customers who are obviously open to verbal intercourse, receptive to ideas and remarks, relaxed within their own skin. When this happens, I can be myself and not be judged, the customers can be themselves and feel safe, and for a few moments, we can all put aside our airbrushes and get on with pleasuring ourselves with the dialogues of the day

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed http://www.jimreedbooks.com

The Greater Birmingham Convention and Visitors Bureau now honors  Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories in their new Birmingham IN guide. Pick up your copies of the IN guide at Reed Books & Vulcan Park and Museum & The Birmingham Store (2200 9th Ave North 35203) & the Birmingham-Shuttlesworth International Airport.

SPREAD THE WORD!

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We have the real thing–original pulp books and magazines with great cover art and exciting stories. Take a look:

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/mustbewritten.mp3 or read on…

These are books that must be written, soon and by somebody.

The Vampire Bat Effect (sequel to The Butterfly Effect)

How to Lose Friends and Alienate People* 

Sometimes a Great Lotion

The Winter of My Contentment

Metaphor as Metaphor

How to Write Good Without Knowing Anything*

One Flew Over the—Oops! Didn’t See That Branch

Tequila Mockingbird

How to Eschew Obfuscation

I’ve Got Tears in My Ears From Lying on My Back in My Bed While

I Cry Over You (based on the song of that title)

Moby Ralph

Pitiful Expectations

Every Day is Eventually Yesterday

Atlas Whimpered

Daisy Wheel and Dot Matrix Do Dallas

How to Fail in Business After Trying Real Hard

Undead Poets Society

*(wait—that’s already been written!)

Don’t say I never gave you a good book title. The rest is up to you. Send mss to jim@jimreedbooks.com

***

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Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/longtimegone.mp3 or read on…

Where have all the old men gone?

As Bo Diddley said, “We’re a short time here and a long time gone.”

My neighbor, Frank Selman, died last week, and he’s already too long gone.

Frank was everything a good neighbor should be—attentive, witty, energetic, respectful of privacy, and always willing to lend a hand or a tool (as long as you brought it back in a timely fashion, in pristine condition).

When Liz and I and the kids moved two houses down from Frank in 1977, he and wife Margaret were already considered to be elderly, though if my math is correct, they were actually younger then than we are today…guess who’re the old folks now?

Frank kept his 1906-built home immaculate, and we kept our 1906-built home fairly straight most of the time, so I always admired his industriousness, always felt a bit guilty at my inborn Ludditeness. I am not a handyman.

Frank was 91 years old when he left the ‘hood. Wife Margaret is 91 and eager to leave us—she’s not well. All those decades of living close to Frank, all those generations being with the man she adored, seem to be pullng her away, yearning to join Frank on his journey.

Margaret and Frank were truly Southside Birmingham’s honorary village elders, and we hung on to every word Frank said, every bit of juicy gossip Margaret shared. They knew this century-old neighborhood better than all of us, and they remembered the names and periods of each person who had lived here. They were walking encyclopedic troves of historical fact and lore.

Are Liz and I the next village elders? Hardly likely. We’ll never live up to the standard that Frank and Margaret set, and we’ll never be quite as lovable.

So long, Frank. I hope you and your long-ago pet dog, Duchess, get to take extended walks together, I hope you find your old fishing buddies and have many opportunities to get out there and catch some, get out there and escape the cares of running a household, if just for a few hours.

And I hope that, once Margaret joins you, she’ll make a batch of spicy cheese straws in memory of me, the Selmans’ biggest fan

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/lostinspace.mp3 or read on…

Granddaughter Jessica hands me her brand-new Kindle Fire (later to become Kindle Kindling?) and proudly notes that the first book thereon is Dracula by Bram Stoker. Being the book nerd that I am, I look to the first page for Stoker’s dedication to his friend Hommy-Beg (novelist Hall Caine) and it’s not there! Whoever scanned the novel simply missed the dedication that helps set the stage for the serial details that build the book’s mysterious  sense of foreboding.

It’s kind of like tearing out a page before gifting a friend.

My mistrust of hasty reprints begins to build my own sense of foreboding.

Down all the centuries of publishing, each time a new technology kicks in, errors increase.

When librarians began tossing original copies of periodicals once they were microfilmed, we started losing words and image quality. Print columns were truncated unnoticed till it was too late, Illustrations and photographs lost their resolution.

When 15th-century manuscripts were copied by hand, mistakes occurred and were repeated once published in book form.

When Twitter insisted that sentences be squeezed down, depth of thought rang shallow.

When graduate assistants photo-copy or scan a book chapter for re-distribution, a page is inadvertently dropped and seldom noticed till the volume is remaindered or de-acquisitioned.

And so on.

There are advantages to electronic transmission/storage of words and pictures, but there are casualties, too. That’s why I embrace the concept of retaining original works as backup, lest we lose things and fail to realize it.

I also urgently try to keep all those works that will never, ever be placed on the internet or archived: hand-written notes, personal diaries, postcards, century-old love letters, 19th-century invoices, crayoned refrigerator messages, etc. We can scan them into a computer  but we cannot reproduce the texture, fragrance, friction sound, signs of ink absorption, envelope mucilage, raised edges of stamps, cracking wax-seal shards, embossed letterheads, oils from skin rubbed against paper during composition, and on and on.

Go forth into the cosmos and reduce the sum total of our knowledge into a flash drive, but at the same time, do me this one big favor: leave room for those of us who are frantically rescuing, adopting, saving and passing forward the three-dimensional relics of our lives, the evidences that we were once a tactile, feeling, emoting and empathizing species who knew how to imagine and dream and postulate, who knew how to say “what if” instead of just “what is.” We are the archivists, the antiquarians, the hoarders, the collectors, the accumulators who want to appreciate the real thing, not just its thousandth virtual—thus ethereal—disembodiment

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com