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.

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?

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.