Note: another installment!
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I recently started volunteering at the public library once a week as a reading tutor for this seven-year-old black kid. His name is Gerard, and unlike some other kids his age, Gerard is not as hyper and a fairly good listener. Today, we were going over this short story set during the Revolutionary War. I usually like to quiz Gerard on some of vocabulary words that we come across, and in this story, we came across the word “battle.” I asked him if he knew what “battle” meant.

“Yeah, I know what it means,” he said. “It’s when there’s two people and they have to dance to see who wins.”

I stifled what could’ve been a burst of laughter since he was serious when he answered me, but I found it quite amusing. I had to explain to him that, sure, his definition was correct, but that was just one form of the word “battle.” Hopefully, he’ll remember the definition I gave him the next time he’s in a history class and they talk about the Battle of Gettysburg or something.

Volunteering feels good, especially since Gerard tries hard and seems to be making some progress. I used to think volunteering, or any sort of charitable work, was for purely selfish reasons. You know, just to justify your own goodness or to look good in the eyes of other people. And I still think there’s an element of selfishness in “trying to do good.” But if I can get Gerard to remember a few more vocabulary words and raise his level of reading, then I can at least say that we both benefited from the effort. Makes sense, right?

I think for our next book, we’ll try to tackle In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson by Bette Boa Lord. It’s a charming story about a ten-year-old Chinese girl who emigrates to America in 1947 and finds inspiration in Jackie Robinson, who breaks into the Majors the same year. Since I’m Korean and he’s black, maybe it’ll be a feel-good story for the both of us. Am I trying too hard? Well, we’ll see.

Okay, this Oriental Brewery beer is beginning to taste more and more like Coors Light. Back to Teutonic beers.

Note: another installment!

I finished my beer earlier today watching college football on TV, so I decided to make some green tea instead. I dumped a few spoonful of leaves into my mug and microwaved it for a few minutes. It seems to have worked because it tastes pretty good, although I keep having to spit out some of the leaves. I should get tea that comes in bags next time.

It’s raining outside today, so I’m holding an umbrella and a cigarette with the same hand while holding my mug with the other. It’s gotten a lot cooler lately, so it feels nice to hold this warm cup of tea while watching the rising smoke.

I had a thought earlier today about what it means to be successful. I must have realized this while watching the super athletic football players perform in front of thousands of people in sold out stadiums, their every move scrutinized and every score celebrated with great fanfare. To think that all these guys, no more than 22 or 23 years old, are being worshipped by millions of people around the country, their accomplishments touted endlessly by big-time publications and teleivison announcers – they seemed bigger than life. I was watching Roger Federer playing in the US Open the other day and was reminded many times of how he had achieved such greatness. Only 25 years old, he made me wonder – Gee, what have I accomplished in the 28 years that I’ve been alive?

But does it all matter so much? Would I necessarily want to trade places with him? Or with 21 year-old Lebron James? At least Tiger Woods is 30, so his success is more taken for granted now, although I’m sure millions of people still idolize his skills and riches. And how about outside of sports? The young twentysomethings who’re running successful tech companies, the actors who’re raking in big movie deals, even the young novelists winning prestigious awards? Forget about being young, how about anyone who receives great press, makes a lot of money, and is respected nationally, or even worldwide, for their success?

As much as I admire and sometimes feel envy towards such people, I couldn’t say that I would want to switch places with them. I’ve taken the approach, although sometimes I am forgetful about it, that much of the public’s attitudes towards these superstars is a function of the hype and glamor created by the media. The glossy magazine photographs, the flattering interviews, and the lucrative endorsements – these are as much a part of our admiration as what each person actually accomplishes. In the end, new faces are discovered, new articles are written, and companies need new names to push their products. We all die in the end.

That is why I don’t mind being me. I’m healthy, I’m not yet thirty, and I’m okay with doing my own dishes and taking out my own garbage. Plus, it’s not like these famous people are monopolizing all the pretty girls – there’s plenty to go around. Which leads me to think more about our overall intoxication with fame. Would I like to be interviewed in The New York Times Sunday Magazine? Would I like Dwell to come and do a piece about how wonderfully I’ve arranged my bookstores? Would I like to be stopped on the street to sign a few autographs and answer questions from fawning fans? Sure, but I don’t really need these things to feel happy about myself and what I’ve done with my life so far.

But it’s true – for those of us who haven’t had a taste of celebrity, wealth, or even notoriety, we sometimes dream or, worse, lament about the inequities of life: why not me? I’ve asked this a few times, and I sometimes find myself staying up late at night trying to figure out ways to expand my business, trying to get profiled as a young entrepreneur in Business Week, or wondering why I’m not invited to the more exclusive parties thrown for literary elites. Then again, my bookstores have done well, I’ve gotten to know some pretty accomplished writers, and many people seem to take my advice on several topics, including good books to read.

Growing up, I used to imagine that I would become a super CEO of a media mega-conglomerate, overseeing record labels, magazines, film productions, and publishing houses. Then somewhere along the line, I started to see how being CEO wasn’t the be-all, end-all of success, that they were often held liable by boards of directors and shareholders, and that the idea of running a big business wasn’t as freewheeling and maverick as I dreamt it would be. It’s okay to be a small-time shop owner, it’s okay to only have twenty employees, and it’s perfectly fine to take yellow cabs instead of limos. Some days, I can roll out of bed at 11am, take a walk through Central Park, read the New Yorker from cover to cover, and stop by my stores for an hour or so just to check up on things and make a few decisions. Would I trade such freedoms with a super athelete who has to keep a rigorous training regiment all year round or a high-power ad agency executive who can’t even spend time with his own kids on weekends?

It’s kind of like that half-full, half-empty idea I guess, but the point I’m trying to make is that the very idea of success is probably overrated and overexaggerated. Impressing a lot of people with a particular skill is great and so is making tons of money, but these things come and go, and in the big scheme of things – I may sound a bit cynical here – everything is pretty much meaningless. We’re just a bunch of living organisms enclosed in a bubble eating, pooping, sleeping, copulating, and when not doing these things, trying to keep ourselves occupied. And in our bubble, we decided somewhere along the line that we’re going to celebrate things that some people do, raise them to the status of idols, and perpetuate the idea that some people are great while others are just ordinary. Yes, I wouldn’t mind being an idol, and I would love to use that status to buy more things, sleep with (more) really pretty girls, and read about myself in general news magazines, but like I said, I’m doing alright as it is.

Okay, tea time is over. This stuff gets me hyped up way too much. I’m going to grab a six-pack.

Note: the series continues!

In this unbearably hot weather, I’ve been unwilling to leave my apartment unless it’s absolutely necessary. Right now, for instance, I’ve left my chilly air-conditioned living room to smoke out here on the balcony because I don’t want my place to smell. I’ve brought out a nearly frozen bottle of Stella to keep me company in this evening heat. I only went out once today, and that was to check on one of my stores. A clerk at the Union Square store noticed that we had no Paul Auster books in stock although our computers showed that we had several of his titles. Could it be that someone had stolen every single one of them? I had read somewhere that his New York Trilogy was the most widely shoplifted book in New York, but it struck me as strange that every Paul Auster book would be missing, even his compiled book of poetry from his Columbia days, which I thought was pretty crappy. I’m wondering if this is something I should be reporting to the police, but before any of that, I’ll just have my people keep a sharper eye out for potential thieves – probably a skinny hipster with torn jeans and messy hair who thinks he’s a writer but is too damn lazy to get a job and buy the books at their already low prices. Bastard. Okay, so a little profiling action and stereotyping – so what? My store(s)!

If money is a concern for buying books, then one should consider buying used books. At my stores, we prefer to sell new books, but for my personal reading, I actually seek out used books only. I love how the previous readers often leave little notes and marks on the pages, giving me something insightful to think about that I probably wouldn’t have come up with on my own. Several of my friends, however, have told me that they find such remnants in used books to be distracting and even degrading to the value of the book. How superficial. I do wonder, though, if the previous reader was a clean person or if he/she was the type of person who didn’t necessarily wash hands after going to the bathroom. Although I take my books into the bathroom with me frequently, I must say that I am pretty good about washing my hands and keeping the books clean. And getting back to the marks in used books — I actually hate writing in books and will never make any of my own marks. It’s a strange thing, I know, but maybe it’s a bookseller’s instinct or something.

Speaking of my own marks, I’ve been asked by my friend Ashley to write a short story for her literary journal called Sprout, which is a charming little publication that is sadly dominated by mediocre self-proclaimed writers. There is the occasional jewel author whose prose makes up for an entire issue that would’ve otherwise been garbage. So I guess if by Sprout the magazine title refers to that budding, rare talent amid the vast wasteland of forgettable writers, then I’d say it’s an excellent name to go by. And come to think of it, I’m a bit anxious because what if I, too, am part of the literary wasteland? She said I should submit a draft by next Thursday. I haven’t written anything at all, but maybe if I re-read some Jhumpa Lahiri and whipped up a pseudo-personal story with ethnic notes – Korean in my case – then it’d be all good. I hate having to italicize words like kimchi and gehsekki, but that’s how you get maximum ethnic mileage out of your story. Probably something about identity and rediscovering my roots would help as well, but of course in a non-cliche, non-Amy Tan sort of way. Ashley is white, not to mention pretty hot, so I’m hoping she’ll dig it. Alright, it’s not too late, so maybe I’ll start writing something.