Bauman Rare Books is one of the premier rare book dealers in the U.S. I’ve always thought of them as the the dealer of choice for wealthy, lazy collectors. Granted, Bauman’s stock is top-shelf, but the prices they charge are so far above the market median that I can only think their clientele is people for whom money is no object. A little homework would turn up a comparable copy at a more reasonable price. But sometimes, they get a truly one-of-a-kind book and can charge whatever the hell they feel like. There IS no comparable!

Bauman occasionally buys a full-page ad in the New York Times Book Review. They’ll feature a dozen or so books. Most of them are show-off pieces. The type of posturing and preening you see at rare book fairs.

Currently, they have for sale, a Second Folio of Shakespeare plays (1632). It’s no exaggeration to say this book is a cornerstone of Western literature. There are fewer than 200 known copies and most of them are incomplete or somehow defective. This is a complete copy and is reported to be in excellent condition. Most of of the surviving copies are housed in institutions; there are very few in private hands.

So I would like this book. I’d like to keep it in my little hamlet in New Jersey. (Ha. See what I did there?) The asking price is $398K. That’s not so bad when you consider a First Folio would easily run in the millions. True, you can buy a house for $398K, but I’d really like this book.

Can you help me out, brothers and sisters?

This morning I had a spot of basal cell carcinoma removed from my forehead. It cost me a day of work and since I’m just a consultant, it will leave a hole in this month’s budget (not unlike the one in my head, as you will soon see). The doctor, who was a nice guy and had a good sense of humor, allowed me to take a few cell phone snapshots during the procedure. I am posting these as a cautionary tale. It should serve as a warning that there are consequences to be paid if you, like me, disdain sunscreen while walking on the beach. Sadly, my days as a bronzed God seem to be over. Will I ever turn a head again?

First, the numbing agent. It was a rather nasty looking needle and you bet your ass I felt it going in. After the initial injection (there were two) I had to sit for :10 minutes until it kicked in. The front quadrant of my entire head went numb. It still is.

He cut out a section of my forehead that was slightly larger than the affected area……and then bandaged me up.
The procedure is to take the extracted skin to a lab in the back room and examine it under a microscope to insure that all of the cancer cells were captured and none remain. The results took about :45 minutes. Well, guess what? He didn’t get it all! The doctor numbed my head again and extracted an even larger piece. I decided not to post a pic of that because it’s really horrifying.

The absolute worst part was getting stitched-up tight. My head was still numb but I could feel the thread running through my skin and the two open pieces of my forehead being pulled together. The doctor had to do some tugging to get it all to meet in the middle. I almost got sick. I felt him knotting the thread and heard it being clipped.

He got it all the second time around, thank God. I wasn’t about to let him hack any more of my head away. My friend D told me I should tape two bolts to my neck and chase children in the subway.

WEAR YOUR GODDAMN SUNSCREEN!

It’s not easy but this one knocks me on my ass every time I stumble across it (as I did tonight). Upon first reading, you might think it’s dark and defeatist. But it’s not. To me, it’s a poem of perseverance and fortitude.

a consistent sort

at the track
the other day
during the
stretch run
the announcer screamed:
“HERE COMES PAIN!”

I had a bet on
Pain and
he finished
2nd,
one half-length
short.

he didn’t win
that time
but he will
win soon
and you can
bet on that
again and
again and
again.

get down
heavy

How’s this for an introduction:

“The proliferation of inbreeding among royal families, as documented in Appendix II, spawned a tragic historical heritage of simpletons, “sad-heads,” and hideously deformed imbeciles, all laughingly given powers beyond their comprehension.”

Who *wouldn’t* get sucked into a book like that?!

A British gentleman I work with pulled my name for the Secret Santa exchange this past Christmas. Knowing my mania for all things British and royal, he bought me Mad Kings & Queens: History’s Most Famous Raving Royals by Alison Rattle & Allison Vale, a fantastic book about how the royal lineages of Europe and Britain have been genetically corrupt by centuries of inbreeding. This book isn’t a serious study but, rather, a scandalous look at the worst of the worst. I’ve treated myself to a few delicious morsels just before drifting off to sleep at night.

The most heinous ruler was Vlad “The Impaler” of Walachia (1431-1476). He’s reported to be the inspiration for Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Among other atrocities, he would impale his own subjects with wooden stakes, plunged from the anus to the mouth. To insure an agonizingly slow death, the stakes were smoothed and oiled so that no vital organs were damaged as they passed through the body. Gross!

Poor Ferdinand I of Austria (1793-1875) had a pleasant temperament but because he was “…a descendant of the inbred Hapsburg line, it was no surprise that he turned out to be a monstrous genetic mutation.” I know how he feels. His parents were kissing cousins. As a result, he was born with a huge swollen head, a vast nose, the famous Hapsburg drooping lower lip and a vacant expression. He was a simpleton and it is said that the only complete sentence he every spoke was, “I am the Emperor, and I want dumplings.” Yet, he was crowned! There were guys just like him in my shop class in high school, except that a crown did not sit upon their father’s head.

The common thread that seems to run through all this blue blood is that the majority of these Royals had insatiable sexual appetites. That goes for both the Kings AND Queens. But, think about it. If you had supreme Godlike power over a nation, wouldn’t you do a lot of experimenting in the bedroom? I doubt that their appetites were any different than anyone else; they just had better opportunities.

What exactly is a “sad-head,” anyway? Is that a British colloquialism?

My monthly column at the Undie Press is supposed to be about collecting rare books. I have no idea how my issues with my father crept in all of a sudden. It wasn’t by design. But you know how it is when you’re writing. Once the train leaves the station and it works up a good head of steam and the breaks fail, there’s no stopping it.

I do eventually get around to discussing books, but not before I vent my spleen just a bit.

This month I’m featuring an author you’ve probably never read but who deserves your immediate attention.