Way off topic, so DRIB
Adams-Blake Co.
[For the past 7 years I've written a weekly column on publishing. It's called
"A Saturday Rant." It goes to about 7,000 book publishers. Occasionally I
share some of them with the readers of this group when I think the topic is
apropos. Well, this is NOT one of those times but maybe this will give
someone a holiday smile and a little warmth. - ANC]
A Saturday Rant 11-30-02
ANOTHER BIRTHDAY... 55... DOIN' WELL AND KICKIN' ASS!
Tomorrow, December 1st is my 55th birthday. As is the custom on the Pub-Forum
list, we post an "intro." Here is a link to one I posted two years ago. It's
pretty "roudy" so you church-ladies better not go there. But it still works
and I think some of you will get a smile or two out of it.
http://www.adams-blake.com/item.asp?recordid=birthday&default=itemlist
For those who want to know what I look like, here is a picture, taken with a
celeb that most of you will recognize:
http://www.adams-blake.com/aandp2.jpg
For those who want to see me, my first, current, and very expensive wife and
our wonder dog:
http://www.adams-blake.com/fampix.html
For those who have known me through this column for these many years and who
might be interested, I want you know that for me aging is just a mind-state.
The alternative is worse. I've spent my life working out, keeping my weight
down, staying "toned." I'm lean, mean, and still able to kick ass. I'm
better than I've ever been and I'm here to tell you that you should eat a bit
less, have a drink or two each day, run a mile or two five times a week, get
laid now and then, work at what you like, and don't sweat the crap that life
sends you.
Anyway, instead of the usual B-Day intro, I thought you would like this bit
of trivia from my past. It's part of who I am.
HOW I NAMED MY COMPANY
It's hard for me to understand sometimes how much things have changed and yet
know that in some parts of the world, things are as they were thirty years
ago. And up to about twenty years ago, I'd say the same about this country.
Now we're all the same... pasteurized, homogenized, franchised, and
socialized.
But in the 1960s it wasn't like that. There were parts of America that were
right out of the 30s. And at the age of 20, a newly minted college graduate
("plastics" held no fascination for me) I found myself as a draft-dodger
living way up in the mountains of West (God Damn) Virginia, teaching the
entire 8th grade in an eight room schoolhouse located near a place I dare you
to find on the map... Diana, W.Va. The job paid $4995 a year... and I had
more money then, than I've ever had since. Beer was 25 cents a glass,
cigarettes were 20 cents a pack, gas was about 29 cents a gallon, a nickel
bag was a nickel, and you could get a great piece of ass for an Andy Jackson.
Sorry to offend, but "ass" is rather central to the story. Anyway, "a piece
of ass" is probably the most gender neutral terminology for describing
someone of the opposite sex... yet I can hear you born-again holy-rollers
getting down on your knees praying for my eternal soul. Maybe that's what
Monica was doing on her knees and the press just got it wrong? Anyway...
Teaching school was all well and good, and so was hiding out in West Virginia
where I was still scared but pretty sure the FBI wouldn't find me and haul my
ass off to Vietnam (where I might have been safer!!). Yeah, teaching was
fine... but I wanted to be a writer.... not a schoolmaster for the rest of my
life.
Well, one thing about being a writer is that you need to find things to write
about... and I didn't have much. I realized I'd have to get a bit of "life
experience" if I expected to rival Ernest or John. But I missed hearing the
bells toll in Europe, and I missed getting a ride with the Joads out of
Oklahoma. But there WAS something I could learn and experience in that part
of the world where the law holds that if you get divorced you still remain
brother and sister.
Not far from my humble trailer, up a logging road, right next to an abandoned
coal tipple, was a place that you won't find anymore almost anywhere. They
were called "dancin', fightin' and sportin'" houses. This one was known as
Cindy and Miranda's. There was no sign on the door or anything like that, it
was just known as Cindy and Miranda's and that's what everyone called it....
I guess because it was owned by Cindy and Miranda. And they say people aren't
smart in West Virginia?
Did you ever hear the term "juke joint"? Well if there was such a thing as a
"juke joint" for white people, Cindy and Miranda's would be it. It was an old
farm house where store-bought whiskey was sold for exorbitant prices, but
local moonshine was very cheap Some people say that the "recipe" (Oh so you
have seen Waltons Mountain!) would gag a goat! I, on the other hand (and
rather experienced in the vagaries of distillations (October was a good
month!)) like to think of the "recipe" as an acquired taste!
At Cindy and Miranda's the drinking was done downstairs and business was done
upstairs. And surprisingly Cindy and Miranda got a mixed crowd of men and
women. The gals knew about the whorin' goin' on, but no one much cared. There
weren't that many places to go on a Saturday night for a few hours escape,
see neighbors, and have a good snort, maybe good fight, and maybe even get
laid if you had the money.
Both Cindy and Miranda were in their early 30s, a bit past their prime, but
it didn't show in their rates. Cindy was a dead-ringer for a taller Dolly
Parton while Miranda looked like Faith Hill with boobs. There where a few
other working girls there on and off, mostly part-timers looking for weekend
cash, but Cindy and Miranda were the star attractions... I'm sure they would
never hire anyone that might have taken away from that. They were blond, but
not dumb.
I used to go up there two or three times a week to drink some lightenin',
listen to the hillbilly-bluegrass music that was always being played by
someone or other, and occasionally pick up a few bucks tending bar. On
Saturday nights I was a star attraction as people (like I said, both men and
women) came from all over to hear me play a bit of guitar and do the entire
28 minutes of Alice's Restaurant... better than Arlo could do it. (And I
think I still can!)
I got to know Cindy and Miranda (remember Cindy and Miranda?...its a story
about Cindy and Miranda) real well... but their history is too long to tell
here. We got to be good friends. I taught them literature and they taught me
about life. I learned a lot from both of them. On week-nights when it wasn't
too busy, I'd sit at the bar and scribble notes for my great American novel
and talk with them about things. If you want to know about life, don't ask a
librarian, ask a working girl.
It was a rare treat for a little New York Jewish kid to see some real time
fighting and real time whoring, to say nothing about the contrasting innate
goodness and innate evil that is present in all of us but so well masked by
middle class morality (and mediocrity.) There were life lessons learned here.
After a couple of years of teaching I felt it was time for me to move on. The
war was winding down, the draft was over, and it was safe to come out again.
I wanted to go to graduate school, but of course, didn't have a dime to my
name.
It was Cindy and Miranda who gave me the money (almost $1800) to pay the
tuition for the first year at William and Mary. They said it was a gift, but
I said I would pay them back someday, some way. (That wasn't the only gift
they gave me, but that too is another story.)
The last thing Miranda said to me was "Now Al, when y'all get rich and famous
as a writer and y'all have your own publishin' company, please don't forgit
us none."
On clear winter nights like tonight, I think of them.
I miss those days.
I miss my youth.
They were killed eight months later when their car lost control on an icy
patch of road and jumped the guard rail, plunging down the mountain. Cynthia
Adams and Miranda Blake were their names.
Alan N. Canton, President
Adams-Blake Company, Inc.
http://www.adams-blake.com
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