Unexpected Gifts

I'm tough to buy for, I know that.  I'm interested in a lot of things, but I also own a lot of things. 

I have a friend I've been exchanging gifts with for the last decade.  Twice a year, on birthdays and Christmas, we try to buy each other thoughtful gifts. 

We have a pattern that has developed over the years.  There's usually a book component, a dvd or Blu-ray component, and a musical component.  Some years I give better gifts than I get.  Some years I don't.

This has been a challenging year.  I haven't spoken much to this friend in the last six months.  If we had talked about exchanging gifts, I would've said "how 'bout we don't." 

On Friday, my friend presented me with gifts.  Damn it!  Blaufarb!

So now I'm scrambling.  I'm not sure if I should return the unwrapped gifts (dick move, yes?) or admit I was caught by surprise. 

The musical component was a vinyl copy of the new Tame Impala album.  There was a Criterion Blu-ray of Being John Malkovich.  There was also a copy of T.C. Boyle's Wild Child, which we had discussed at length when it appeared on the bargain table at Barnes & Noble.  All very nice, very generous and thoughtful.

Sonofabitch.  Why had we not talked about this? 

It's tough to be thoughtful on a moment's notice.  Christmas was still four days away.  I went shopping.

The movie component was fairly easy.  Knowing this friend, I could either buy a copy of Dark Knight Rises or Moonrise Kingdom.  Pretty much anything with "rise" in the title.  In the end, I went with the Wes Anderson and kept the receipt.  I could have simply purchased a $25 gift card, but what's the fun in that? 

The musical component was difficult.  I've been giving this friend framed solo albums by the members of Kiss.  Gene Simmons?  Done.  Paul Stanley?  Done.  I found a Peter Criss a few months ago, but passed on it since I didn't think we would exchange gifts this year.  Flash forward to four days before Christmas.  I hit a half dozen different shops.  No Peter Criss, no Ace Frehley. 

I could've chosen another Kiss album, but decided to use this Black Sabbath album as my placeholder.  I have plenty of album frames, so that's not a problem.

Two down, one to go.  I still needed a book component.

I know this friend well enough to find a good book gift, but that doesn't mean I can just pull one out of my ass.  This is why people give other people gift cards.  It's much easier to give someone $50 or $100 and let them get themselves whatever they want. 

While I was out shopping, I found some interesting possiblities.  There was an old Go manual from the 1960's, and a boxed set of Playboy books from 1969.

The gift pack included three different books:  More Playboy's Ribald Classics, The Playboy Adviser Revisited, and Playboy's Party Games.
All of them were in pristine, unread condition.


































So now it's Christmas Eve day and I need to start wrapping things.  I've got the movie and I've got the music, even if it's the wrong music. 

I'm still undecided about the books.  I don't need the Go manual or the Playboy set, but I kind of want them both.  I either need to wrap up one of the books I bought yesterday or pluck another book off my own shelves.

I don't know why this is so difficult, except I do.

 

The Last Place You Look

Michael Ondaatje is coming to town, and I've spent the last two weeks trying to get my mitts on my British first edition of The English Patient. 

It's been driving me crazy.

I knew exactly where The Cinnamon Peeler was.  Same with Handwriting.  In the Skin of a Lion took some digging, as did my second copy of The Conversations, Ondaatje's excellent discussion of film craft with ace editor Walter Murch. 

When I moved, I thought I was careful to put all my valuable books in the same spot, and this edition of The English Patient certainly qualifies.  On the other hand, I've had to make more room over the years, and that means boxing up books and sending them to the garage.  If I was smart, only dead authors would be exiled there, because you really never know who's coming to town and with over a hundred boxes of books in the garage, it's a pain in the ass to look for things. 

When Jim Shepard visited, I couldn't find Batting Against Castro or Kiss of the Wolf.  I had a similar problem with Brad Watson.  Of course, signed copies of their books aren't worth $450 (no offense, fellas).

You're probably asking yourself, "why not a spreadsheet, hotshot?" to which I reply, "what am I, a freakin' psycho with OCD?"

Last weekend, I exhausted all the places The English Patient could be inside the house. 

This morning, after spending almost two hours on yardwork, I went to the garage. 

I started in one corner, and found this perfectly respectable 4th printing of Ulysses (Random House, 1934).

Technically, this book belongs in the garage, since James Joyce is never going to sign it.  But it's such a striking dustjacket I couldn't leave it out there. 

And while I was at it, I figured I may as well liberate Jean Stafford, too.

But that was it.

I was in the garage with a single purpose. I had to remain faithful to my system of opening boxes, resealing them, and stacking them in an orderly fashion. 

I was miserable for much of the morning. 

I did find other things of interest.  My signed Maurice Sendak books, which definitely do not belong in the garage.  Some of my favorite art books (Weegee, Halsman, Damien Hirst).  A couple of Lillian Ross collections and an old William Maxwell novel that belong inside the house with my other New Yorker authors.  In all, I stacked at least five dozen interesting, worthwhile books on my dining room table.

I managed to clear out a large segment of the garage, but The English Patient refused to present itself and I slowly resigned myself to the fact that even though I own the book, it just wasn't going to get signed. I'd find it eventually, just not in time for Michael Ondaatje's appearance.

I gave up.  Threw my hands up in defeat. I came into the house, had a drink of water, and surveyed the mess I'd made dragging various books from the garage. 

But I couldn't quit. 

I went back out for one last, desperate attempt.  Over in the corner, in an area I had't bothered with, I pulled out an unusually lightweight box.  Definitely not the place for a valuable book. 

Inside, I found this:

That's right, a box of cereal from 1985. Empty, of course, but in archival quality.

I've had it longer than any of my personal relationships, which might explain why none of those personal relationships lasted.

There was also a cardboard promotion for Elvis Costello's Kojak Variety (1995).

And there was a lot of dust.

But there was also a single plastic bag from a popular used bookstore, and inside the bag was my copy of The English Patient.

Go figure.

Sometimes I remember a book being in better shape than it really is.  A torn dustjacket, a remainder mark, a later printing. It's rare, but it happens. 

My copy of The English Patient has no visible flaws. 

Even the used price, written in pencil on the front free endpaper, is light and easily erased.

It was only $6.

Next week, when all my Ondaatje books are finally signed, they'll be lovingly wrapped in paper and plastic and carefully sealed inside a box
marked "Ondaatje." 

And that clearly marked box will stay inside the house for a long time.