Dev.
Hulls
Editorial
Now & Then
As our more relentless readers surely know,
your beloved Rev. has over the years been involved in '
various plots for the overthrow of tomorrow. My
latest involves publishing various books written by
friends. Uncle Mike’s Guide to the Real Oregon
Coast. Letters to Uncle Mike and Sally’s Wildlife Qfl.
the Edge being the first of these. Having little or no
money of my own 1 have been forced to beg for help
from readers and friends. Recently the Ragsdales
have, with a singularly rare lack of judgment,
purchased Saddle Mountain Press which will be
printing more books of this ilk. Realizing that they
knew even less about publishing than your beloved, no
mean feat in itself, they decided to attend the Pacific
Northwest Booksellers’ meeting, and suggested Uncle
Mike and I attend as well. They promised two nights
in a luxury hotel and tons of fun. Uncle Mike, I must
admit, advised against it. “I hate those things!” he
said. “But, think about the fancy hotel, the fancy hotel
bar, room service, hanging out with intelligent
amusing authors and bookstore people, peihaps even
amusing intelligent female people,” I whined.
I finally talked him into the trip, and plans
were made for him to meet me at a gig in Lincoln City
Saturday night and we would drive to the meeting
together. I had asked him to book me a motel room in
Lincoln City and when we met he handed me a key.
“What’s the room number?”, I asked. “13” he said
with a sardonic smile. Anomen? Yes. The room I
finally found my way to after the gig was a closet with
* a dysfunctional bathroom. It took until the next
morning’s painful awakening before I could figure out
how to bring the temperature up to less than freezing.
And no, the shower didn’t really work.
So, when Uncle Mike arrived I was ready to go
anywhere. Well, almost. Have I failed to mention that
the Pacific Northwest Booksellers were meeting in
Tacoma? Tragic but true. We were going to Tacoma!!!
As we proceeded north Uncle Mike said something
about my being in the fetal position. I corrected his
spelling. I had assumed the ‘fatal’ position. For those
of you mercifully ignorant of Uncle Mike’s life style,
suffice it to say we were forced to change vehicles
before we left the state. The reasons are numerous and
classified. The Ragsdales provided a truck with which
we were to complete the trip, since Mike’s car ‘Sparky’
refused to leave the state. It became tragically obvious
that the gods were not on our side when we noticed that
the little red pick-up we were to take to Tacoma was a
Toyota Tacoma. Omen #2? Hell, yes. We followed
Bob through the ‘deliverance’ country and reached the
west coast umbilical cord, 1-5. I can’t bring myself to
share the pain and fear that ensued. Traffic in hell,
Trucks of Death filled with flammable liquids, hurtling
at incredible speeds, inches from each other. We
begged for quick and certain death. But, no, we arrived
at the Sheraton Tacoma intact in body, if not mind. Bob
wheeled his beemer into a spot and we parked beside
him, in space ....wait for it.....#13.
Omen # 3? Perhaps? Bob flashed his Lithium
jewel encrusted Visa card and we were given little
plastic cards that allowed us to enter our assigned
rooms. I will not talk about the fact that Mike’s room
was already occupied by (he says) an attractive woman,
and he was forced to move to other accommodations,
thus missing the perfect Cary Grant moment No, I
would like to take time here to share with our readers
what a luxury hotel room looks like these days. Okay,
picture broad striped wall paper in mauve and beige,
add to that an overstuffed chair with a diamond motif,
which doesn’t quite match the rug, except that there are
diamonds there as well, and then include matching
drapes and bedspreads with a neo-french/faux-victorian
pattern with circles and scenes of farmhouses, and it all
adds up to a place Oscar Wilde would gladly slit his
wrist before entering. I am sure there are whorehouses
in Nevada that are better decorated. There were
instructions on every surface, the in-room bar was
locked and there was a note that explained why you
would not have hot water if you chose to shower in the
morning. Another note celebrated the environmental
attitude of the Sheraton Tacoma and suggested you
might want to leave this card on your bed if you wanted
to save the earth by sleeping on the same sheets night
after night. Well, nothing could be done but proceed to
the bar with all due speed. Regretfully that didn’t help.
Several stiff drinks didn’t change the fact that we were
in Tacoma, and the television set over the bar was
showing a Pee Wee Herman movie. The bartender was
having difficulty making eye contact and seemed unable
to serve the six customers desperately trying to kill their
pain. I won’t go on about the rest of the evening when
we visited a pool hall that Uncle Mike to this day
persists in calling a Bowling Alley, or the incredible
dosage of drugs needed to bring on sleep, under the
circumstances. Suffice it to say, we regretfully met the
dawn.
The true test is not whether a man behaves like a
gentleman, but whether he misbehaves like one.
Sydney Tremayne
2
Urrat LEFT EME fiFWL 2000
I
There were numerous workshops to chose
from. And not much else to do, so we found ourselves
standing in the back of meeting rooms listening to the
horror stories of others in the book business.
Comments on in-store promotions, like “it’s not about
selling books” inspired Uncle Mike to make
statements that can not be printed in a family
newspaper, or this one either. Poor Bob left each
workshop more depressed and confused than the last.
Finally, by noon, he concluded that no one in the book
business knew what they were doing and he was going
home. I begged to be taken along. Uncle Mike’s “1
warned you” was getting on my nerves, but then so
was everything else. 1 was back in the bar by 2pm,
and by dinner time, I was a much nicer person to be
around, or so I thought, until I looked up and found
myself completely alone in the only smoking section
in the hotel without a television set. This was fine
with me because the spectacularly dismal view of
downtown Tacoma was fading into darkness and the
lights were all you could see of the dysfunctional
landscape.
Uncle Mike and Susann finally found me, and
demanded I ‘join in’ the festivities planned for the
evening, which included standing in long lines to get
autographs of people you’ve never heard of and
listening to more horror stories about the book
business, a term that Bob had declared to be an
oxymoron. 1 managed to find my way to the
festivities and joined several conversations uninvited
until words like ‘hotel security’ began popping up, and
I escaped back to the empty smoking section at the top
of the hotel, and the comfort of my new favorite bald
headed bartender, David. Bombay and Tonic did their
job and another day was mercifully gone.
The following morning was the one event that
made the whole trip, if not worth while, at least not a
complete waste of time. The big book give-away.
Publishers, distributors, authors, anyone with a book
related product had set up tables piled high with their
‘products’ and our job was to chat with them while
they handed out copies of ‘uncorrected proofs’ and
‘readers’ copies’ of their offerings for the season. I
had just about filled my free book bag when Uncle
Mike appeared. “Look at all this free stuff!” I said. I
had failed to note the look that he gets in his eye
before the police are inevitably called. “I can’t be
here,” he mumbled, “we must leave, now.” People
were giving us a wide berth as soon as they saw Uncle
Mike’s furrowed brow and squinting eyes, and hear
his labored breath coming out in hisses. “Yeah, sure,
uh, let’s go find Susann and make sure she’s in good
hands, and get the hell outta here,” I suggested.
The wonderful Val Ryan from Cannon Beach
Books was in attendance and was showing Susann the
ropes. Val is an old hand at this and was taking
Susann under her wing. We knew she had a good
heart, a quick mind, and obviously an iron constitution
since she has attended hundreds o f these things. We
grabbed our stuff and ran to the pick-up, and headed
south. We didn’t even think o f looking back. “Lot’s
wife was never in Tacoma,” Uncle Mike said. We
reached the mighty Columbia safely and found our
way to Vernonia where we changed vehicles with the
speed of a pony express rider changing horses, and
finally were back at my Ocean. When Mike had
pulled into the driveway I raised my fist in defiance,
and shouted at the gods, “I made it! Inspite o f all the
omens I’m home safe and you can’t hurt me now!” I
then stepped out of the car and into a pile of dog shit.
The perfect end to a perfect trip.
My advice to our gentle readers is to never yell
at the gods, and to never, ever, ever, ever go to
Tacoma.
Mo, stuff...
It was eight years ago this month that your beloved
Rev., the humble Ms. Sally, Dr. Karkeys, Spud and
Uncle Mike started the Upper Left Edge. Our web
site began almost four years ago thanks to Liz
Lynch, and thanks to Myma Uhlig, it’s still up.
Over the years we have met many wonderful
people, writers, artists, and friends who have helped
the Edge survive and become a different kind of
newspaper. We are proud to have been able to share
the works of the famous and the unknown with our
readers. We have tried our best to offer an
alternative to the corporate media, and to the
alternative media for that matter. We have tried
several times to stop publishing, but you wouldn’t
let us. Thanks. Now, to the point of this whole
thing. It’s tax time and the books of the Upper Left
Edge look like an unsorted recycling container. Our
billing records are chaos. Our files are piles.
Somewhere amongst our readers there must be
someone with a lineal mind, a love to organize, a
need to sort, a passion for order, who would be
willing to take on this Herculean task. Volunteers
should call 503-436-2915. There’s no money in it
but you will have the eternal gratitude of your
beloved editor and a life time subscription to the
Upper Left Edge.
Now for some election news. As many locals and
those who visit www.upperleftedge.com know we
are having our first annual election for Village Idiot
on April 1st. We used to take turns, as we still do
for the position of Town Drunk, but since we’ve
grown so fast in the last few years it was decided to
have an election. Well, the race has heated up and it
looks like we might end up in a tie between the
Chamber of Commerce party and the Ambulance
Chasers, who’s “Paved the Beach” platform has
resonated with voters. Of, course if there is no
clear winner the whole election might end up in the
courts. Stay tuned.
ANTHONY STOPPIELLO
i
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