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Happy Record Store Day 2025!

This is a picture of the Yo La Tengo record Old Joy

Look, I’m not going to wax poetic about how great Record Store Day used to be. I’m not even going to go on about how perversely overpriced records have become—though both are true. But here goes anyway.

Record Store Day used to be great. It really was. And I suppose, for a lot of people, it still is.

When I asked the clerk how long the line was to get into my local store — Grace Records — he said, “Mall security had to send people home last night—mall rules don’t allow overnight sleepers. They let the line form at 5 a.m.”

I rolled in around 1 in the afternoon, my expectations really low—but somehow, I managed to find a copy of The 13th Floor Elevators – Houston Music Theater, Live 1967 (4,000 copies), Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak: Alternate Version (6,000 copies), and even two copies of Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music (2,500 copies) were still left!

Lou Reed’s fifth solo album is quite possibly the most unlistenable record ever made. Lester Bangs once called it “the greatest record ever made in the history of the human eardrum”—but he was kidding. (I think.) I’m not kidding when I say Metal Machine Music is like an Andy Warhol film: far better discussed than experienced. (Except maybe his Screen Tests.)

I stood there holding all three for ten solid minutes, flipping through what was left of RSD 2025 one more time. And all I could think of was $104.98 before tax….$104.98 before tax….$104.98 before tax. Then, I let out an audible sigh and made my decision.

Three new records: One. Hundred. And. Ten. Mother. Fucking. Clams.

Man, Record Store Day used to be great. It really was.

(I almost forget to mention the 9th record to my 10’s-the-max collection just arrived at my po box a few days ago from the always-fabulous Mississippi Records! The soundtrack to Old Joy, a film by Kelly Reichardt, music by Yo La Tengo.)

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The Books I Did Not Buy at the NY Antiquarian Book Fair.

a photo of Semina 7, one of my fantasy wants

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.

a photo of a bukowski letter, one of my fantasy wants

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The Art of Being a Super Fan

A picture of the world's biggest Abbath fan.

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.

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🎪 The Other Circus Essay (Or, What John Steinbeck Was Doing in a Circus Program from 1954)

various pictures of the Ringling Bros. Circus Magazine featuring “Circus” by John Steinbeck

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.”

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20 Years in LA, 48 Hours in Flagstaff

This is a picture of downtown Flagstaff, AZ

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.

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Filed Under: X – Cheesecake, Censorship, and the Curious Afterlife of Erotica

Two Bettie Page publications Presenting Bettie Page at home and Outdoors

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.

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Where Have All the Completists Gone?

A picture of the Ernest Hemingway nonfiction piece "The Circus" as well as 3 copies of the magazine Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey Circus."

When I started collecting books in the mid-to-late 80’s, one of the first things I noticed were collectors exhibiting a fervent dedication to completeness. A true Kerouac enthusiast, for instance, sought not only On the Road, but also every Kerouac contribution made to little magazines, slick periodicals, and ephemeral broadsides: scoring a scarce copy of Yugen; searching for the men’s skin mag Escapade that featured Kerouac’s opine piece “The Last Word” (I think it appeared in 4 different issues; however, I can’t say for sure — except to say Kerouac was contracted to write 12 pieces but the magazine failed before they were completed); or maybe splurging on one of the 100 copies of A Pun For Al Gelpi that exist. This meticulous pursuit extended to other literary giants as well.

I got bit by the Bukowski bug early in my collecting adventure. I can tell you if there was one completist that may never have existed, it’s the Bukowski Completist. For a very brief moment, I contemplated making such a run. But I quickly realized the sheer impossibility of the task. (I could add the sheer madness as well). Buk’s work appeared in an overwhelming number of obscure publications, from his earliest appearances in print to the countless small press journals, underground mages / “littles”, to every iteration of John Martin’s fantastic Black Sparrow Press editions. Tracking them all down wasn’t just difficult—it was a never-ending pursuit, a costly rabbit hole with no bottom — certain to drive one to ruin. Both emotionally and financially.

I bring this up only because last Sunday at the Georgetown flea, I pulled a few of the Ringling Brothers magazines. I know there’s some circophiles still left, and the price for all three was right. When I got back to my Air BnB, I discovered one of them featured the Hemingway nonfiction piece, “The Circus.” It wasn’t very good, and as I finished it up, I wondered just where Hem was financially in 1952 that would have made him even want the gig – let alone take it. And I’m guessing forty years ago, such a find would have been a gem for the Hemingway completists. In 2025, however, the landscape of book collecting has shifted, prompting my question: Where have all the completists gone?

A picture of the Ernest Hemingway nonfiction piece "The Circus" as well as 3 copies of the magazine Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey Circus."

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How to Get Kicked Out of the Palm Springs Art Museum.

Pics of the Palm Springs Art Museum

We were sitting in front of a wall of Hockneys when security approached. “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to leave. Your dog urinated in the LGBTQ+ Room.”

I fired back immediately. “That couldn’t be.” Because it couldn’t be. No way. I mean, how could it?

Security assured me that was the case, and they had video to prove it. “I don’t mean to push back, but I’d really like to see it. She’s been standing next time me since we walked in. Trust me, I’d know if she pee’d anywhere…and she hasn’t.” Security called for the video. I looked down to make eye contact. Her SERVICE DOG vest was a little crooked, so I adjusted it. “You couldn’t have pee’d on the floor without me knowing about it…could you?” I quietly asked. Because how could she? No way I would have missed something like that. Impossible.

But nothing’s really impossible. Because she could. And did.

While I was centering my phone on a terrific Bob Mizer beefcake photo collage so I could take a picture of it to show you, Molly stood up (after I had given her a sit command), took a couple of back steps, squatted, and curated some of her own business. Stealthy-like and quick. Very quick. Very stealthy. But not stealthy enough to fool security. Or the cameras. Then, just as quick and stealthy as she backed up, she got right back into her sit command and waited until I told her to heel. And then we walked on to the other terrific Bob Mizer beefcake photo collage on display.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. We had good intentions. Really, we did. The Sculpture Garden. The LGBTQ room. Hockney’s Perspective Should Be Reversed. The Permanent Collection. Lunch. The gift shop. Instead, Molly—my companion and almost-always well-behaved dog—decided to contribute a little abstract expression of her own…in the form of a very unauthorized, very liquid installation. I’d like to think it would have made Bob Mizer smile. And David Hockney.

Molly may not be welcome back to the Palm Springs Museum anytime soon, but if you’re ever looking for ways to make a lasting impression, just know that sometimes, the most memorable exhibits are the ones you never intend to create.

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Leaving Los Angeles.

this is a movie set in downtown los angelesI like listening to Marc Maron’s WTF. Have been for years. Especially his 5-10 minute little rants/rambles before he runs with his interviews.

From Maron’s podcast today, and even though I’m putting his words in quotes, it’s more of a loose paraphrase — but I need to credit him:  “It wasn’t even a déjà vu feeling…I’ve been in LA on and off a long time, pretty much I’ve had a place there pretty much since, what? 2002. In one way or another. So I just walk out of this theater (it was the Vista Theater over in Los Feliz) and in my mind all these moments I’ve been in that area throughout the entire time i’ve been in LA just kind of congealed into this feeling of — what happened to all that time?”

What happened to all that time.

It’s a universal feeling we all have, so much so it’s kinda cliché. Part of the human condition, right?

Yesterday, as I was making my way down the 101 to DTLA, I exited early at Vermont Avenue. GPS had me avoiding the 101’s  brutal afternoon traffic. I was coming back from the Valley, where I just just met my editor and handed off stacks of hard drives. My editor — now my ex-editor — was hired by the company who purchased my production company. And this was a final hand-off of sorts before I pack the last of stuff and move back home to Arizona.

(Side note here: a block south of the Vermont exit, on the right hand side of the road, is a burnt-out (literally…there was a fire a few years ago) Korean hotel. It’s always been a hotel, and long before it was a Korean hotel, it was the hotel where the love of Charles Bukowski’s life — Jane — died in 1962.)

Bucking GPS’s best route home, I chose to head to 7th street, turned east and went by my very first Los Angeles studio. It’s right across the street from the La Placita Market, where I used to run in to get my 11pm sugar fix before going to bed. Which is right down the street from Southwestern Law School, which is now housed in the old Bullocks-Wilshire department store.

(Side note here: back in the day, that Bullocks-Wilshire used to have, on 24-hour call, models with the same, exact measurements as Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Jayne Mansfield, Lucille Ball, Elizabeth Taylor, Grace Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, Doris Day, et al  so when and if any of the ladies I just named show up to try on clothes, well…they didn’t have to actually try anything on.)

As I sat in the car in front of my first LA studio, 24 hours before listening to Maron’s show I mentioned in my opening, I thought something along the lines of this isn’t even a déjà vu feeling…I’ve been in LA on and off a long time, pretty much I’ve had a place there pretty much since, what? 2004. In one way or another. So as I sit in front of my old studio thinking about all the moments I’ve been in this area throughout the entire time I’ve been in LA it just kind of congealed into this feeling of — what happened to all that time?

What happened to all that time.

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Vintage Bookmarks from Bookstores both Current and Long Gone.

This is a picture of vintage bookmarks from bookstores both current and long gone. I have a thing for vintage bookmarks. Actually, I love all bookmarks, but the ones lacking the most information are the ones I like best.

A bookmark without website info is a good one.

A bookmark without a USPS zip code is a great one.

A bookmark with no area code is super duper!

A bookmark with the phone number starting in letters and forming words? Call LOcust 3-4150!

Oh my.