I live in Fremont, CA, curry-kitchen suburb to Silicon Valley, where East Indian software programmers in sandals play Cricket (aka 'baseball, but not') on the field in the park where Jack and I take our morning ramble.
Fremont is home to all the big-box super-stores, with the exception of the two that have folded like cheap lawn chairs—Borders and Barnes and Noble. Their rapid collapse left all the locals surprised, apart from the East Indian software programmers who knew that you could download any programming language manual directly to your computer or have a hard-copy delivered to your front door by amazon.com. To add insult to injury, these quietly respectful and unassuming gents from Bangalore don't need to steal Internet access while nursing an over-priced caramel macchiato for three hours. Big box book stores never had a chance here.
That's why I was surprised when someone here in Fremont - the birthplace of the technology that has been slowly killing the large national retailers - decided to open a used book store, and beyond my wildest expectations, it has become a thriving and successful concern. Our local bookstore is now the first place I go when I need a gift or a card; I don't remember the last time I willingly went to the mega-mall.
It was during a recent visit to our little book store that I realized why I feel so at home there: stores like this are a pleasant reminder of the record stores and head shops that I was fascinated with when I was a teenager. These stores were so different from the Sears and J.C. Penny's my parents dragged me through, and they were speaking to a different section of the population that I wanted to be part of. One of my happiest memories is record shopping at the Record Factory store in my hometown, my father in the classical section reviewing my rock and roll selections with parental encouragement mixed with a dash of watchful concern.
The local book store is my new head shop. I'm just feeding my head with different things these days.
Our little book store always produces a reaffirming flashback to the counter-culture that defined me in my youth, but my experiences are slightly different now. I always chuckle at the abundant volumes people have given up on in the new-age philosophy section. I find it slightly disturbing to walk past the collectable comic book section complete with guys that will never stand a chance at dating your daughter, and I am always comforted to see a section containing what is now the rarest of all media that is making a slow and steady comeback into style: the long playing (LP) record. During my last visit I almost bought a Hank Williams Sr. record for $15.00 on principle alone (my record player was last seen in the attic), but instead I supported our local economy and the ‘alternative shopping experience’ with two "Happy Holidays to me!" used book purchases for a grand total of $15 with tax. The place was buzzing, people were buying and selling, and there was groovy music on the house sound system. It was beautiful, just like I remembered how shopping could be.
Perhaps you have grown accustomed to or even spoiled by places like Amoeba and Rasputin and local independent book and music stores like Bird & Beckett in The City, but to have a store like this thrive here in the land of commuters in 2005 grey Toyota Celicas (software programmers) and 2012 Priuses (program managers) is a rare treat of new-age counter-coulter that makes me warm and fuzzy all over like a good hit from a 1974 bong.
Cool.
Ken Owen Van Niddy Press December 2014
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