You know what they say?
Early bird gets the worm!
At the crack of dawn this morning, I was strolling up a side street in picturesque WeHo, when I spied a couple of cardboard boxes brimming with cast-off books that a resident tossed out at the curb for pick-up on trash day.
When an intriguing object or two caught my eye, I was in there like Flynn.
Until I resided in New York City, such a trashy adventure would not have been thinkable!
You see, when I first became a transplant of the big apple way back in the seventies, I was hindered by the fact that I was a naive innocent from the suburbs of conservative Canada with a tendency to faint dead-away if a stranger were even to up-and-utter boo.
Indeed, liberated New Yorkers - and their ballsy approach to life - stirred up an emotion or two.
For example, one day I was simply aghast when I observed a very well-heeled gentleman stoop over and sift through a pile of trash at the curb, like he was feasting down on a hearty meal.
In the months that followed, it became abundantly clear that a multitude of New Yorkers were a practical lot, simply motivated by laziness or budget-constraints.
Why hire a truck to haul off unwanted furniture when every Sainted tenant in Manhattan was wise to an old-familiar truism?
"One man's trash is another man's treasure"
One day, I was strolling down a bustling busy street in ultra-trendy East Village, when a curio in the trash caught my eagle eye.
As my hand reached for the object, I suddenly realized in horror:
I'd become a bona fide New Yorker!
And, there's been no looking back since, you betcha.
Today, for instance, I was sifting through a handful of the finely-bound books in the cheap carton, when - lo & behold - an envelope slipped out from in-between the dog-eared pages of a pristine copy of a Dominique Dunne best-seller - Justice - and landed ceremoniously in my lap.
Upon close scrutiny, the slip of paper turned out to be a two-page type-written piece of correspondence (which originated from up the coast in San Francisco) signed with a flourish by the master of the macabre himself, Vincent Price!
Then, I happened across a second scrap of paper tucked away in a pamphlet, out-of-sight at first glance.
The aged cutting turned out to be a news clip of a society page penned by George Cristy for one of the Hollywood trade papers.
Curiously, I recall perusing that particular article published in 1986!
My memory didn't fail me on this occasion for a very special reason.
One of the publicity stills featured Elizabeth Taylor (my fave star), Carol Bayer Sager, and crooner Barry Manilow.
Ureka!
A hand-written note from George - to an unknown correspondent - actually bore his signature.
But, it was an eye-catching brochure dating back to the late-fifties or early sixties (judging by the style and presentation) that sheltered a few sheets of pristine writing paper and an envelope (embossed in gold with the name of The Palace Hotel in Beijing on its face) that caused me to jump with joy.
Gosh, what a collector's find.
Inside, there was a quaint inscription which read:
The Legend of Wangfujing"On this site at Wangfujing a thousand years ago a spring bubbled forth its waters so sacred so tranquil that the Emperor guarded it as he guarded his most sacred treasures."
"When tired from the pressures of office, he and his chosen Mandarin came here to rest for it seemed the flowers were more sweetly scented and the birds sang more joyfully at the well of Wangfujing."
"At the Palace Hotel, we like to believe that we are continuing the tradition of the legend of Wangfujing."
Indeed!
In addition to these surprise treasures, there were a few quality guide books touting exotic locales such as Morocco and Singapore.
Ironic, since I just noted in a post last week that my blog stats indicated a soar in overseas hits, including far-off locations such Singapore!
An omen, perchance?
A few texts on fluency in foreign languages hinted that the owner had been expanding their skills in the romantic languages on a whim or - in the alternative - prepping for a little jaunt overseas to Italy, and France, and parts unknown.
From other books in the lot, I determined a few other interesting facts.
Three beautifully-crafted catalogues for prestigious auction houses in Europe suggested that the well-read individual (with a flair for languages) was a collector of objects of fine art, antiques, and items of historical interest or value.
By the way, there wasn't one sleazy dime-store-novel in the whole batch of books.
I laughed out loud when I stumbled on Blackwell's autobiography:
"From Rags to Bitches"
Shortly after his death last year - and on the heels of a post on Fashion Tips for men - a reader was inclined to refer to me as the new Mr. Blackwell at his blog site.
So, in homage to Blackwell, I tossed together a Worst-dressed list at the end of last year.
Post: 12/29/2008
http://ijulian.blogspot.com/2008/12/10-worst-dressed-listcher-oprah-and.html
Expensive gardening books studded with high-quality color plates indicated that the owner was fond of house plants, lush outdoor garden settings, and exotic flowers.
Books on Edward III (the Pleasure Prince) and a celebrated Russian actress (who lived around the turn-of-the century) signaled a romantic day-dreaming side fascinated by fantasy, celebrity, and the high-life.
In sum, a box of trash with a heap-load of personality, n'est-ce pas?
Ferre didn't surprise much, instead preferring to stray along mostly-familiar fashion territory with signature design flourishes that have been big sellers for that powerhouse in the past.
