Every year I walk into the Armory in New York City for the Antiquarian Book Fair, I enter with the same fantasy you’ve probably had: unlimited funds to buy anything.

The New York Antiquarian Book Fair has become a ritual. I go to see books so rare that—once bought—they disappear. Gone from circulation, often forever. Until, maybe, an estate donates them to a library, or they quietly resurface on the market. Likely to wind up right back at the Armory.

In past years, my imaginary checkbook has picked up a true first edition of Ulysses published by Sylvia Beach’s Shakespeare & Co., a signed Catcher in the Rye, and The Genius of the Crowd—that exceedingly scarce Bukowski chapbook printed by da levy, most of which were confiscated by Cleveland police on obscenity charges. One copy I handled a few years ago even came with its original mailing envelope—possibly the only one still in existence with the envelope.

This year, two items had me biting my lip: a beautiful copy of Wallace Berman’s 7th issue of Semina and a fantastic letter written by Charles Bukowski. Berman’s hand-assembled artists’ book won.

Most issues of Semina are nearly impossible to find. All of them are rare. Semina inspired Volta. And the 7th issue was Berman’s most personal—entirely his own work, no outside contributors. And how about that photo of Tosh!?

As for Buk’s letter? Scroll down and tell me it’s not great.

Of course, neither came home with me. But that’s okay.

A small part of collecting is imagining what you’d own if money weren’t an issue. The real joy of book collecting? Knowing books don’t just hold stories—most of the time they are the story.

Here’s a picture I took last night of who is probably the world’s biggest Abbath fan.

Abbath is a Norwegian black metal band, fronted by a man who calls himself Abbath Doom Occulta. He once led another band called Immortal, but they had a very nasty breakup. But I’m not going to make this about that.

And what in the world was I doing at an Abbath show? Let’s not make this about that either—except to say Abbath was part of a three-act opening bill (Cro-Mags, Abbath, and Down) for Danzig. Glenn Danzig. Which is exactly what I was doing at an Abbath show, and whom I enjoy far more as frontman for The Misfits than as a solo act.

But I don’t wanna make this about that.

What I do want to make this about is how much I love Super Fans. Super Fans of any kind—whether or not I’m into the thing they’re into: Deadheads and Hulkamaniacs and Parrotheads and Trekkies and Swifties and Whovians and Beliebers and Potterheads. They’re all terrific in my book. Including members of The Fiend Club, which is the space for Misfits devotees.

And especially this member of Abbath’s Army, who is part of the Trve Kvlt, which makes her a real Corpsepaint Warrior, one of the traveling Blackpackers, proud member of The Northern Horde, and a foot soldier in The Frostbitten Legion.

Super Fans are my people.

Even when they’re not.

You don’t expect to find John Steinbeck under the Big Top. But there he is—in the 1954 edition of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus Magazine & Program—writing a short essay simply titled “Circus”.

It’s tucked between clown bios and ad copy, printed on glossy paper for a quarter. Not in The New Yorker. Not in Harper’s. But in a souvenir program handed out to families watching elephants march in circles. And the thing is—it’s good. Way better than Hemingway’s take from the year before. Steinbeck’s essay didn’t read like he simply accepted an assignment — which is exactly what Hemingway’s felt like. Steinbeck doesn’t glorify the spectacle, either; he honors the labor, the grit, the fading shine behind the scenes. It’s about memory and movement. It feels like something that could’ve shown up in one of his novels.

So why does it matter? Because this forgotten periodical reminds us that literary value isn’t always shelved where we expect it. Sometimes it hides in ephemera. Sometimes the archive is a folding table in the sun at your favorite flea market.

That’s part of the work—being a seller, sure, but also a finder. A rescuer. A re-contextualizer of things left behind — if you can call that “work.”

I’m in Flagstaff, Arizona—a place I once considered calling home. During the confusion of that chapter of life I’ll call My Twenties, Flagstaff was on the short list of maybes. The other? Los Angeles. (Don’t count out San Francisco…but that’s another blog. Probably a whole lot more.)

The difference? I did LA. I stayed twenty years. It became A Full Chapter.

Flagstaff? I’m here for 48 hours, and that’s enough to remember why: it’s a charming mountain town. Friendly people. A quaint downtown, complete with turn-of-the-century brick buildings and hand-painted adverts now all but unreadable. Pine trees. Snow. That slow pace that feels good—for a minute.

But then I remember: I hate winter. I hate snow. Life on a slow pace is overrated. I hate scraping windshields and layering up. (I did that once—growing up in Chicago.) And let’s be honest: no flea markets. No book fairs. No weird, wonderful pop-up art galleries. And where are all the great tacos?

LA gave me stories. Some really great ones. It also gave me great friends, some chaos, and a few enemies; it gave me endless sun and a community of creators, collectors, and beautiful misfits. It gave me access to pretty much everything I ever needed.

Flagstaff’s great for a weekend. But I needed a place that never slows down—even when I need to.

LA almost broke me — and if it had, it would have been in the right way.

There’s a thin line between scandal and style. In the 1950s, Bettie Page—smiling in gingham, posing in sunlit bikinis—was dangerous enough to put photographers on the stand. These two booklets — Presenting Bettie Page and Bettie Page Outdoors — were labeled obscene in their day. Today, they’re “cheesecake.” Retro. Kitsch. Highly collectible—and, for some, arguably “empowering.” The language shifts, but the image remains.

Irving Klaw, the photographer behind many of Bettie’s iconic images, was subpoenaed during the Senate Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency, chaired by Senator Kefauver in May of 1955. The hearings investigated the potential link between pornography and juvenile crime. Page narrowly avoided being called to testify. When she walked out of that courtroom, it shook her enough to walk away from Klaw—and modeling—forever. And right into her own personal darkness.

Now these slim, staple-bound booklets are traded as pop relics—nostalgic, collectible, almost sweet. What once risked prosecution now earns preservation. You can flip through Klaw’s work at a flea market without flinching—except, maybe, at the price. Bettie always knew how to work a curve. Turns out value is one of them.