"...everything dies, baby, that's a fact/But maybe everything that dies someday comes back."

The Song: "Atlantic City," Bruce Springsteen. Words & music by Bruce Springsteen. Track 2 of Nebraska, 1982.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, 1982.
Listen/watch here. (Sorry about the long ad at the beginning; you can skip it after a few seconds.)

The last day of February, and I'm glad to see it go. It's snowing again, but this feels like a spring storm, if that makes any sense. The temperature is a relatively balmy 25F (no sarcasm, it feels warm), and the snow is supposed to change to sleet and rain by afternoon. Impossible to drive in, more treacherous than regular snow, but still a promise of better things to come.

The dog my kids grew up with, the noble Clancy Bea, passed away in his sleep last night. He and Dizzy were about the same age, good friends and boon companions. We all feel the loss, but it was peaceful, Clancy didn't suffer much, and no one had to second-guess any decisions. My sympathies go out to Vikki and Keith, Chris, Claire, Celeste and Carolyn. Nothing's better than a good dog. It feels cruel that their lives last only a fraction of ours.

In better news, my dad starts a new adventure today, taking a job with the Military Sealift Command. I hope it's everything he wants it to be, and wish him fair winds and following seas.

I'm supposed to head south later this week, but that may slide, as we're due more bad weather on Wednesday, and I need to clear a few things off my desk first.

"Start your own revolution and cut out the middleman."

The Song: "Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards," Billy Bragg. Words & music by Billy Bragg. Track 11 of Workers Playtime, 1988.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1989.
Listen/watch here.

This is Billy Bragg's theme song, and it's different every time he sings it. I've seen him live a couple of times and on TV quite a few times, and he updates the lyrics according to whatever's on his mind.

As revolution breaks out at home and abroad, both civil and uncivil, I notice how we've lost the middlemen in so many aspects of our lives. I'm not sure that's always a good thing.

Today I went to the Sears in Augusta, looking for a replacement part for my vacuum cleaner. Of course they didn't have it, but rather than offer to order it for me, they directed me to order it myself at Sears.com. Which I've just done, paying $8.99 in shipping on top of the $16.79 the vacuum piece cost.

Let's look at this transaction for a moment, and consider the implications for our economy as a whole. Undoubtedly it saves Sears money not to keep parts in stock at the store, and it certainly saves them money to have me do the ordering instead of an employee. It certainly saves them money to be able to pass on shipping costs to me.

But what did they lose? I went to the store prepared to spend some money. If they'd had the part, I'd probably have spent more time in the store, and I might have bought something besides. If they ordered the part for me and I needed to return to the store to pick it up, that would be a second visit, with a second opportunity for me to shop and buy something. And those might have been employment opportunities for the clerks helping me shop and doing the ordering. But that's not how they do it any more, so they missed those sales opportunities, and they definitely don't have as many clerks as they used to.

Is this progress? Is this better? Sears, which meant retail shopping for generations of the American heartland, is surviving by delegating customer service to the customers themselves. This is the new model of retail. And I hate it.

I want a little mediation, dammit. I want helpers. I want guides. It's a complicated enough world out there, without my having to figure out the !@$% model number for a vacuum hose.

"They don't like me/I just know it/But I'd be happy/Just to get along."

The Song: "They Don't Like Me," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 7 of I Love Everybody, 1994.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1994.
Listen here.

I don't know most of my neighbors well, and they don't know me. I was startled a few years ago to discover that some (not all) of my neighbors paid much more attention to my comings and goings than I realized, and had drawn their own conclusions about how I was: specifically, lesbian, unemployed, stuck-up, and weird.

Some (not all) also seem to assume that I don't like them, which I have tried to dispel by smiling and waving and trying to chat when I see them. Maybe these aren't things people do in Maine; I've had a neighbor visibly recoil when I greeted her and said something friendly.

Dizzy, on the other hand, assumes that everyone in the neighborhood is his friend, which means they must also be mine. Dizzy is a big dog, and not particularly tidy. I pick up his droppings faithfully, but there's no easy way to catch his urine, and he pees pretty much where he wants to pee. The woman across the street told me not to let Dizzy pee on her lawn anymore, and I have carefully avoided that yard ever since. It hasn't helped; if anything, it seems to have made neighborhood relations worse, rather than better. (She has a small dog of her own, as well as a cat that roams the neighborhood at will.)

Dizzy is completely in love with Casey, a friendly black lab up the street, who's allowed to run around in her yard without a fence or a tie-down. Casey's owner is lovely, and has been very kind to both Dizzy and me.

This afternoon, as I walked Dizzy in a snowstorm, Casey came barreling across another neighbor's driveway to greet us. A truck was backing out of that driveway, and very nearly hit Casey; I yelled at Casey (not the driver) to stop, but she ignored me. She wasn't hit, the driver stopped, and everything was okay — except that the woman in the house, who saw nothing but only heard me yelling, assumed I was yelling at the driver of the truck, and not the dog. I tried to explain, but I don't think she heard me; she shook her head and went back into her house.

I don't want to spend a lot of time trying to manage what people I don't know think of me, but it's depressing to be judged and found wanting.

"It's time I had some time alone."

The Song: "It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine)," R.E.M. Words & music by R.E.M. (Bill Berry, Michael Stipe, Mike Mills & Peter Buck). Track 12 of Eponymous, 1988; track 6 of Document, 1987.
When/how acquired: Purchased Eponymous, c. 1990.
Listen/watch here.

The Middle East is melting down. The governor of Wisconsin has forgotten basic American values. Books Etc. in Falmouth is closing on Monday. Clancy Bea, great dog among great dogs, rebounded yesterday after a weekend his family thought would be his last. And Mother Jones just published this set of charts that should make even the hardest-core free market conservatives (Dad?) stop and wonder what the hell is wrong here.

At macro and micro levels, it feels as if civilization is collapsing around me. I must remind myself that I have groceries and cable and a great dog of my own, friends and family and work to do without unnecessary distractions.

I may give up Twitter for Lent. I'm seriously thinking about it. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm just not sure how much information I need.

"I get the news I need on the weather report."

The Song: "The Only Living Boy in New York," Simon & Garfunkel. Words & music by Paul Simon. Track 8 of Bridge Over Troubled Water, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased LP, c. 1981.
Listen/watch here.

This song's being used in a TV commercial for something, which bothers me. Paul Simon can't possibly need the money that much, can he? I know he has young children, but couldn't have have sold them "At the Zoo" instead?

It's winter break for the Maine public schools this week, which means that anyone who can afford it has left the state for warmer climes. The weather report's been important over the last week or so, as we've swung from thaw to deep freeze and back again. The current temperature is 9F. By this afternoon, we'll have broken the freezing mark, and it's supposed to hit 40F over the weekend. These things matter when you have a dog to walk.

I own a CD set of Simon & Garfunkel's studio albums — only three CDs, as they only released five albums (Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.; Sounds of Silence; Parsley, Sage, Rosemary, and Thyme; Bookends; and Bridge Over Troubled Water). Of them, Bridge Over Troubled Water is probably the album I listen to least, and I'm not sure why that is. It feels jumbled and distracted, transitional in many ways, a grab bag in which the whole is less than the sum of the parts.

This is the song that stands out for me, the one I go back to, and I find new things in it every time. The story is that Paul Simon wrote it for Art Garfunkel, when he was leaving to shoot Catch-22. Someone is leaving, and the singer is the person left; it's a lonely song, but it's also a blessing.

"I close my eyes and I see/Blood and roses."

The Song: "Blood & Roses," The Smithereens. Words & music by Pat DiNizio. Track 9 of Especially for You, 1986.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, c. 1987.
Listen/watch here.

Saturday I went to Boston for a day at Boskone 48, the annual gathering of the New England Science Fiction Association. It's a world I don't know much about, but I was interested in the program — particularly the chance to see and hear Jane Yolen, who wrote so many of the favorite stories of my childhood.

Here is a fundamental truth I think I've discussed before. It is not possible to have thoughts we don't have words for. It is possible to have feelings beyond our ability to describe. But when we can't name our feelings or find words to discuss them, we tend to do things about them, and sometimes that wreaks havoc.

Which is why fairy tales, in particular, are so important for children. Fairy tales riff on children's deepest fears and frustrations: our parents don't love us, can't feed us, secretly want to kill us. Our mother will die, and be replaced by someone our father loves better. The unknown forests hide monsters. Siblings are better-loved than we are, are responsibilities we can't handle, and/or also secretly want to kill us. The world is full of mysteries that might reward us if only we can figure out the tricks to unlocking them.

Children might not be able to articulate any of this, but look to the old stories for solutions and affirmation. My personal favorite: "Hansel and Gretel," which encapsulated every one of my deepest fears, and all my understanding of my responsibility to/for my twin sister. Of Jane Yolen's stories, the one that hit me hardest, and stays with me, is "The Girl Who Cried Flowers."

Jane Yolen read from her forthcoming novel Snow in Summer, a retelling of the Snow White story set in West Virginia. I think it'll be marketed to young adults, but Jane Yolen, like all great writers, never writes up or down to her readers. She just tells the stories she wants to tell. The chapters Ms. Yolen read were beautiful and gripping, and I do have the words to say that I'm impatient for November, when the rest of the book will be available.

"I put on some make-up/And turn on the eight-track/I'm pulling the wig down from the shelf"

The Song: "Wig in a Box," The Polyphonic Spree. Words & music by Stephen Trask. Track 9 of Wig in a Box, 2004.
When/how acquired: Purchased MP3, 2007.
Listen/watch here.

I had errands to run and friends to see in Portland yesterday, and stopped off at the Maine Mall to spend a gift card a friend/client had given me for Christmas. I never go shopping, and can't remember the last time I visited the Macy's in South Portland. I needed a new winter coat; I needed new turtlenecks to replace the ones that have become so desperately shabby; I needed socks and underwear and all those things I never replace until they are frayed and holey.

I used my gift card to buy a tube of Chanel lip gloss.

I can't remember the last time I bought expensive makeup; several years ago, certainly, before some conference where I knew I'd see a young man who had captured my affections. (Makeup didn't help, by the way. In my experience, it never does.) I don't lead a life that requires much makeup, except when I go on stage, and I have enough stage makeup to last a while.

But I saw the Chanel display, and remembered a wonderful tube of Chanel lipstick I used to have, years and years ago when I had disposable income for that kind of thing. I stopped at the counter, pulled out a tester in a shade I liked, and tried it on the back of my hand. It was bright, and shiny, and made the world around me seem brighter and shinier.

"I'll take it," I said, and handed over my gift card.

It's completely indefensible. Self-indulgent. Reckless, even. But if the result is that I go out looking for opportunities to wear my lip gloss in public, that might not be a bad thing.

"Could you be loved?"

The Song: "Could You Be Loved?", Bob Marley & the Wailers. Words & music by Bob Marley. Track 3 of Legend, 1984.
When/how acquired: Gift cassette, 1989; gift CD, c. 2002.
Listen/watch here.

It's been a long time since I was in a relationship on Valentine's Day, but even when I was, it was hard for me to take it seriously. The corrosive power of Valentine's Day is that too many people see it as a day to find out how much they are loved, instead of how much they love.

Guess what? It's none of your business how much anyone else loves you. You can't know it, you can't control it, and no one but God knows whether you deserve it or not. Love is a gift we give each other. Think of it as any other gift; how horrifying would it be to go around asking why people aren't giving you more?

What we can control and know and celebrate is how much we love other people. Get out there and show a little love today.

I've used lines from this album before, but am not sure I wrote much about it. Legend reminds me of a time when I was head-bustingly, foolishly in love, overwhelmed with a feeling I knew could not last and could not be reciprocated, and didn't care at all.

As a bonus, one of my favorite love poems, which is all about the power of loving without worrying about being loved back. Blogger won't let me format it as it's supposed to be laid out, so go find it in a book somewhere, to see how Graves does it.

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep
Robert Graves

She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

"All exiles are distinguished, more important, they're not dead."

The Song: "A New Argentina," Bob Gunton, Patti LuPone, Mandy Patinkin and cast. Words & music by Tim Rice & Andrew Lloyd Webber. Track 10 of Evita (original cast recording), 1976.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1996.
Listen/watch here.

All regimes come to an end, peacefully or otherwise. Few dictators die peacefully in their beds without relinquishing power; even Francisco Franco had handed over the reins of government to King Juan Carlos before he died. Given a choice between retaining power and spending the rest of one's days in luxurious exile, I'd choose feather beds on Elba any day. Reluctantly as Mubarak left, it's possible that he waited too long; newscasts reported last night that the Swiss banks had frozen his accounts.

I've got a guest room, if he needs one.

"I don't want to go out./I want to stay in./Get things done."

The Song: "Modern Love," David Bowie. Words & music by David Bowie. Track 1 of Let's Dance, 1983; track 20 of ChangesBowie, 1990.
When/how acquired: Illegal cassette copy (Let's Dance), 1983; purchased CD (ChangesBowie), 1990
Listen/watch here.

It would not have surprised me at all if Christopher Bea had emerged from the womb singing this song, since I had this tape on constant replay through the summer and fall of 1983 (along with The Psychedelic Furs' Forever Now, the Talking Heads' Speaking in Tongues, and The Police's Synchronicity). Somewhere, photographic evidence exists of an all-nighter I pulled about two weeks before Chris was born, finishing a term paper for Introduction to Biblical Literature. If memory serves, the paper was about Second Isaiah (Isaiah 40-55), which - I realize only now, almost 30 years later - was exactly what I needed to be reading at the time.

Anyway. The fever is gone, and I'm much better, though something hard and painful has settled in my lower respiratory system. I'm taking Mucinex to loosen it up, but will see a doctor if it isn't gone by Monday. It's rare for me to get through a winter without a case of bronchitis, so why should this year be any different?

In the meantime, though, I have a lot of catching up to do. Staying in. Getting things done.

"I'm sick of myself when I look at you/Something as beautiful and true."

The Song: "Sick of Myself," Matthew Sweet. Words & music by Matthew Sweet. Track 1 of 100% Fun, 1995.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, 1995.
Listen/watch here.

Matthew Sweet's music was the soundtrack of the 1990s for me, from 1991's Girlfriend (one of the greatest albums of all time) to 1999's In Reverse (an album I admit I still don't entirely get). He's still making music, but I'm mildly shocked to discover how little I know about what he's been doing for the past ten years. It feels like losing touch with an old boyfriend.

I am sick, not of myself (although I'm almost always sick of myself) but in general. I assume this is some kind of virus, which would make going to the doctor pointless, but people say it's going around: sore throat, chills and fever, head twice the usual size, mild nausea and a general feeling that someone has been beating me with one of those big foam bats. Varying reports say this either blows right through or lingers for weeks; I'm praying for "blows right through."

Until it does, I am conserving my energy like a bristlecone pine, and might be scarce around here for the duration.

"Don't know much about history/Don't know much biology/Don't know much about a science book/Don't know much about the French I took"

Today's entry is a guest post from Dan Smith, author of Think You Know it All? The Ultimate Interactive Quiz Book, which the folks at Penguin were kind enough to send me. Everyone knows I'm a sucker for this stuff. And no, I didn't know everything in this book.

The Song: "Wonderful World," Sam Cooke

For lots of people growing up, the accumulation of knowledge is something they are forced into at school and not something they ever consider a pleasure. For others, though, knowledge for its own sake is a complete obsession. I suspect I fall into that second category.

I don’t remember a time when trivia hasn’t fascinated me. When I was little I would read books of facts from cover to cover – really nerdy books but ones that taught me a lot. I especially loved anything to do with history. And Trivial Pursuit always played a big part in my family Christmases.

So you can imagine that getting the opportunity to put together my own quiz book, Think You Know It All?, was quite a thrill. The idea behind each quiz is that it consists of one short question but which has multiple answers to tax you to the limit. So, for instance, you might be asked to name all the plays that Shakespeare wrote. Or the bones of the human body. The member states of the European Union. The cast of "Friends." The instruments in a symphony orchestra.

Ideally, the reader and their friends can put their heads together to try and get all the answers. This really is a case where several heads are better than one. Subjects range from high culture to low, science, language, history, religion, transport, sport – I have done my best to include quizzes that will appeal to pretty much anybody.

If you do manage to work your way through all of the quizzes, and assuming you have a memory the size of Alaska, then you might well be tempted to show off.

Be careful, though – it’s a thin line between looking clever and showing off. My advice is to remember that the greatest fun to be had by a true know-it-all is not by boasting or bragging (such smugness will rightfully inspire scorn) but to set your knowledge valve to slow-release and look on as those around you discover for themselves just how clever you really are!

"If I get home before daylight/I just might get some sleep tonight."

The Song: "Friend of the Devil," the Grateful Dead. Music by Jerry Garcia & John Dawson; lyrics by Robert Hunter. Track 2 of American Beauty, 1970.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette tape, c. 1990.
Listen/watch here.

Got home a little after 12:30 this morning. Up early to pick up Dizzy, who's been sleeping most of the day. Scrambling to catch up with everything that came in over the past six days, plus everything that piled up during my January doldrums.

In other words, I got nothing, unless you want a piece of the meltdown I treated my father to over the phone this morning. Sorry, Dad.

Tune in tomorrow for a guest post by the author of one of the more useful and entertaining books that's crossed my desk recently.

"You can travel for miles and never leave LA."

The Song: "Come a Long Way," Michelle Shocked. Words & music by Michelle Shocked. Track 2 of Arkansas Traveler, 1992.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1992.
Listen/watch here.

Yesterday morning I was awake at 3:00 to meet a 4:00 taxi that took me to a 4:30 shuttle so I could catch a 6:00 a.m. plane to Dulles, from which I hoped to take a flight to Portland, Maine. Arriving at LAX at 5:00 a.m., I discovered that my flight from Dulles to Portland had already been canceled, and the nice people at United would not let me start a journey they knew I couldn't finish.

So I got a shuttle back to Van Nuys and a cab back to my friends Linda and Tim's in Sherman Oaks, and tried again this morning. A more humane flight time — 9:40 a.m., and this time I got a ride with Tim, who had to take his own flight out this morning. I made it to O'Hare, and am now waiting out a four-hour layover to Portland. If all goes well, I'll be home by midnight.

I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by the events of the past month or so, and could sleep for about 48 hours, but will not get the chance to - I am badly behind on everything that got neglected in the past few weeks, and I have a lot of catching up to do. But I want Linda and Bobby to know that a piece of my heart stays in Los Angeles with them, as they finish the process of dismantling the Mystery Bookstore.

"I went to a funeral/Lord, it made me happy/Seeing all those people/That I ain't seen/Since the last time somebody died."

The Song: "Since the Last Time," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 7 of Joshua Judges Ruth, 1992.
How/when acquired: Purchased CD, 1992.
Listen/watch here.

The mystery world turned out in force last night to say goodbye to The Mystery Bookstore, and for stretches of time it was almost possible to forget what we were there for. It was great to see everybody, and I'm so grateful to the authors who made special trips just for the occasion — Lisa Lutz, in particular, who stayed with us to the end, and Eric Stone, who gave Linda and me a ride home when it was over.

I don't know when I'll see everybody again; I just know I will. Since Robert Crais' L.A. Requiem was the first book I bought at the store, it seemed appropriate to wind things up last night by buying his latest, The Sentry. He signed it to me: "Never the last." Let it be so.

Weather has already canceled my flights out of LA in the morning. I've been rebooked on a flight out first thing Wednesday morning, but doubt I'll get all the way to Maine before Thursday.

"All alone in a world that's changed/Running scared, now forced to hide/In a land where he once stood with pride."

The Song: "Will the Wolf Survive?", Los Lobos. Words & music by David Hidalgo and Louie Perez. Track 11 of How Will the Wolf Survive?, 1984.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1985.
Listen/watch here.

Memory's not reliable. I have a vivid memory of listening to this tape on a Greyhound bus from Norfolk to Washington, DC, one winter while I was in college. I was sure it was January 1983, when I returned early from Christmas break for play rehearsals; for years, I've associated this tape with learning my lines for Loot, Mask & Bauble's February 1983 production.

As it turns out, the album didn't even come out until a year later, in 1984. I certainly didn't own any kind of personal stereo until 1985, at the earliest; I think I bought my first Walkman knockoff with earnings from my summer job that year. So my vivid memory of memorizing lines to the beat of Los Lobos is a lie. Which makes me wonder what else I remember that simply isn't true.

Tomorrow, after the Mystery Bookstore closes, Westwood will no longer have any off-campus bookstores. Westwood used to be the heart of the Los Angeles book community; someone said on Saturday that they remembered a time when Westwood had five bookstores, within walking distance of each other.

People say that independent bookstores cannot survive in this new environment, with so much competition from online sellers and e-readers. I don't believe this. I agree that the old models don't work any more, but I see stores finding new models, with new ways to remind people that it's still a great thing to be able to walk into a place that sells and promotes and believes in books. In fact, I'd argue that there's never been a more interesting or exciting time to be an independent bookseller, because I see new opportunities popping up all over the place.

E-readers aren't replacing print books. They might be cutting into the sales of print books, but I see e-readers sparking a renaissance of reading, as people remember how much fun it is to get lost in a story. And if you really love a book in e-format, you're going to want a print copy, so you can hand it to someone or leave it to your kid or just take it down off the shelf once in a while to find that passage you loved most.

It's not like music. The listening experience is the same whether you're listening to an MP3 or a CD; audiophiles can talk about albums vs. singles, digital vs. analog, the warmth of vinyl vs. the austerity of electronics, etc., etc., but the average person doesn't know or care whether they're listening to a digital device or an analog one.

Books are different. Books are both useful and decorative. Books are, as my friend John says, an optimal delivery system. Reading an electronic screen is not the same sensory experience. No matter how much people love their e-readers — and I love my iPad with a foolish, cultlike passion — the e-reader will never be a tactile pleasure in the way that books are.

People will keep buying books. People will still want a place to come for recommendations and conversation and that joyful shock of recognition that comes only when someone puts a book in your hand and says, "Have you read this?"

The world has changed. The wolf will survive. Maybe not in Westwood, but the wolf will survive.

"And it's one more day up in the canyon/And it's one more night in Hollywood/It's been so long since I've seen the ocean/Guess I should."

The Song: "A Long December," Counting Crows. Words & music by Matt Malley, Charlie Gillingham, Dan Vickrey, Adam Duritz, Ben Mize, David Bryson. Track 13 of Recovering the Satellites, 1996.
When/how acquired: Purchased CD, c. 1997.
Listen/watch here.

I did see the Pacific Ocean yesterday, from the back deck of my friend Gary's house, and then when I walked down to meet my friend Ann Marie for brunch at Patrick's Roadhouse, and again when I rode down Ocean Avenue to the Third Street Promenade.

Coming back to Los Angeles in winter, I notice two things immediately: how full of color everything is and how much money everybody seems to have.

"When I come to Los Angeles, I covet things," I said yesterday. Everybody seems to have so much stuff, and the landscape is full of stores and billboards and signs inviting us to buy more, more, more. I saw not one but two Bentleys yesterday, one black and one white. Those are $200,000 cars. Who has $200,000 to spend on a car? And why would you, if you could?

And yet . . . and yet . . . the danger of Los Angeles is that we see these cars on the street and think, My God, what a thing of beauty — because they really are. And then we (or at least I) think, Somebody owns that. Somebody gets to drive that around. From which it is only a small step — again, at least for me — to thinking, Why can't I have that?

Which is why it's much better for my soul and my peace of mind that I live in central Maine.

"And the lights of L.A. County/They look like diamonds in the sky"

The Song: "L.A. County," Lyle Lovett. Words & music by Lyle Lovett. Track 5 of Pontiac, 1990.
When/how acquired: Purchased cassette, c. 1990
Listen/watch here.

You can't beat Lyle Lovett for the perfect combination of good humor and rage. This is the happiest song about homicide I've ever heard.

The lights of L.A. County stretch out as far as the eye can see, when you're flying into LAX at midnight. We landed in fog so dense the world outside the plane looked like nothing but twinkle lights (though, to be fair, that's pretty much what the night looks like to me anyway).

I'm here, anyway, and will not have time to process the culture shock before heading back on Tuesday. But I'll roll with it.

"Going to California with an aching in my heart."

The Song: "Going to California," Led Zeppelin. Words & music by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant. Track 7 of Led Zeppelin IV, 1971.
How/when acquired: Purchased MP3, 2002.
Listen/watch here.

I've never been a Led Zeppelin fan. I can admire much of the music objectively, but most of it has never connected with me. It's Big Swinging Dick music, and nothing summed up my feelings better than the Viking kittens version of "Immigrant Song."

Still, context is everything. Over Thanksgiving 2001 my cousins, friends and I rented a cabin in Yosemite, and spent the weekend eating, drinking, hiking, drinking and consoling each other and ourselves for the losses of that terrible autumn. Our friend Hugh, a professional film editor (among other things), recorded a lot of it on video, and cut it together to make a short film. This song was the soundtrack for shots of us hiking a mountain trail. I had never really listened to it before, but it was perfect for the purpose, wistful and hopeful at the same time.

I've always said that California is the American version of the French Foreign Legion. It's what we do when we can't think what to do next, when our hearts are permanently broken and our dreams disappointed for what seems to be the last time. A voice deep within us says, Move to California. Things will be better there. California is the end of the line, the American dream distilled.

This afternoon I'm going to California for the final weekend of The Mystery Bookstore. It's a trip I can't afford to make, but can't afford not to. I'd no more miss it than I'd skip a family funeral.

Posting's been scarce the last couple of weeks, and I realized this morning that it's because I've been spending so much time and energy filtering what I say about all of this. I am sad and I am angry. I'm angry about a lot of things that can't be changed or fixed, and won't be helped by anything I say.

This much, however, I do want to say. The Mystery Bookstore had thousands of people on its electronic mailing list, thousands of people who got its newsletter every month and the updates once a week. These newsletters included lists of forthcoming books, plot summaries and recommendations from booksellers. They were free to anyone who asked for them, part of the cost of doing business. I wrote them, not for free but for a pittance, for an hourly rate barely above the minimum wage.

And the vast majority of people who got those newsletters — the vast majority, it's not an exaggeration — took that information and those recommendations and bought online.

Money is tight. I understand that better than most. But in this online era where "content wants to be free," it still costs money to produce content. People's time is worth money. People's expertise is worth money. In the old model, sales were the reward for that time and expertise. Now it's taken for granted, and nothing supports it. People will say it's no longer even necessary; the work I used to do for an hourly wage is now done for free by book bloggers whose only compensation might be free books. If people are willing to do work for free, it makes no sense to pay anyone for it, no matter how little you're paying. Right?

Maybe that's true. What I know is true is that we pay for the things we value, and what we don't pay for, we don't value. What we don't value goes away. If we really don't value it, we don't miss it.

But I'll miss The Mystery Bookstore.

The Mystery Bookstore will close for good on Monday, January 31. I'll be there on Saturday afternoon for the last formal event, when T. Jefferson Parker signs his latest book, BORDER LORDS, and I'll be there most of the day on Monday. Almost everything in the store is currently discounted by 35%, and many older hardcovers have been marked down to a dollar. The store is at 1036-C Broxton Avenue in Westwood, and ample parking is available in the structure above the store.

"'Cause I want to live inside the world/I want to act like a real girl"

The Song: "Dreams Are Not My Home," Rosanne Cash. Words & music by Rosanne Cash. Track 9 of Black Cadillac, 2006.
When/how acquired: Gift CD, 2006
Listen/watch here.

This CD, a memorial to Rosanne Cash's parents, came out within a month of my own mother's death. Jennifer Lechner gave it to me. I played it pretty much nonstop for about six months, and bought copies for all my siblings. Even now, phrases from it can punch me in the gut.

I've been listening to Rosanne Cash's audiobook reading of her memoir, COMPOSED, and it's been catching me the same way. I'm overwhelmed by the generosity of it, the balance she strikes between a clear-eyed willingness to sit in judgment over her choices and a profound tenderness toward her younger self. She manages to find the universal in her extraordinary life. At the end of this book, I'll probably write her a thank-you note.

Early in the book she writes about that sense of not knowing how to be a girl, in the way that other girls seemed to. It's always been a mystery to me, too. Princess stuff makes me angry; makeup baffles me; years ago I ceded defeat in the battle of my hair, and wear it in a careless way that becomes increasingly inappropriate with age. Even the name of this blog was meant to be ironic, because although I am happy to be a woman, I was never any good at being a girl. Too blunt, too independent, too critical and probably too lazy.

But I still feel a little wistful about it. Jewelry will always look silly on me; I never did learn to walk in really high heels; and even my lifelong search for the perfect handbag has always been about something other than fashion.

It's snowing again. Weather permitting (and it may not), I'm hoping to get to Boston tonight for the launch of Daniel Palmer's first novel, DELIRIOUS. If you're in the area, you should go: Borders downtown, 511 Boylston, at 7:00 p.m. Dan's a client and a friend, and I'm proud of the work he did on DELIRIOUS. Check it out.