Book Recommendations

My name’s John, and I’m a recovering bookseller.  (“Hi, John!”)

Running a used book shop was the most satisfying and fulfilling occupation I’ve ever had, and I’ve done a lot of things in my life.  Computer programming and applications design, process engineering, pizza delivery, construction big and small, hooking up live sewer lines, teaching — if it’s low-pay or high-stress, I’ve probably done it.

The beautiful part about selling books lies in matching the book to the person.  So, if you’re a jaded Manhattanite who drinks to keep your remaining humanity crushed down out of sight while surviving day to day in the naked city, I’ll tell you to read Lawrence Block

Ghosts Around The Fire

My cousin died. He was probably the third-best liar I’ve ever known.

Understand that when I say this, I’m paying one of the highest compliments I know how to, but he’d have probably only accepted “storyteller”, and then only if he thought I’d argue the point. He was one of the best; never drew one out too long, and always good for a laugh. Reminded me always of his father, who I adored.

Hard Winter Coming

The old year has given the warning signs that it’s about to start winding down to a close.  The nights have a bit more nip in them than usual and the trees are changing color — “catching fire”, as a favorite aunt of mine used to put it, all reds and oranges and yellows.

Around the kitchen stove in the evening, it used to be a competitive sport to foretell the winter, though one you needed gray in your hair

What’s Faster?

“Which one do you reckon is faster?”  Cousin Terrence posed the question, and despite the interposition of the Internet I thought I could spy the mischief in his eyes.  He’s like that.

It’s one of those questions that inspires some thought, especially considering where it’s coming from.  Now, which one would go faster — jet or bike?  I’m guessing

My Grandfather’s Coffee

This is what comes of me reading John Gould books:  I get the urge to tell stories, and since everyone in breathing distance knows the warning signs by now, there’s nobody left near enough to tell them to without hollering, and my mother brought me up not to raise my voice.

Those Little Trees

A lady I know once asked me how many of those little pine trees you’d have to hang in the cellar to hide the scent of a corpse.  Since I was visiting without a chaperone at the time, that question got me to thinking, and once I’d finished my slice of apple pie I thanked her cordially for a fine meal and made my excuses without tasting her mince.

Those pine trees are some powerful, it’s true, but my experience is they just cover things up, hiding them in the noise, so to speak.  They hide the lesser sins,