Monthly Archives: February 2018

Book Loft Revisited

AS I WROTE SUNDAY NIGHT Toni and I went for our usual weekend photo safari on an overnighter to Columbus’s German Village tourist area and Ohio’s Hocking Valley. Left Saturday morning in the rain and came back Sunday night to news of high water all along the Ohio and tributaries.

Funny… We were driving in the rain, saw plenty of watercourses in spate, lots of drowned farm fields, but I — at least — didn’t get many pictures of “the flood”. I haven’t seen many that Toni took, either.

Sunday morning, we got up, got breakfast at the Bob Evanos across the road (there’s always one across the road), complimented the waitress on her (red) hair, and headed back into Columbus for a little toddle around German Village and a revisit to the Book Loft.

Saw more of GV than we did Saturday. Judging by the looks of the houses — mostly brick one- and two-story, with some three- — I’d guess the place was built over a short period in the early 19th Century, somewhat as Over the Rhine was in Cincinnati, by German immigrants. Thus the brewery district nearby. It doesn’t seem as though the housing stock was allowed to deteriorate as badly as OTR’s before gentrification set in.

Made a shorter visit to the Book Loft this time, then set out to the southeast of Columbus to do a little sightseeing in the valley of the Hocking River. As promised, interesting pix:

Book Loft Reified

SUNDAY EVENING as Toni and I were finishing our lunch at the Frisch’s on Lila Avenue in Milford, we estimated it would take a little under a half hour to get home and we wouldn’t get unpacked at all that night. A half-hour after we left the restaurant, we stumbled through unloading the car, staggered across the street, with all our impedimenta, and I was unpacked and in PJs a half-hour later.

We had just spent something over eight hours in the car and a half-hour stumbling around in the Book Loft for the second time in one weekend, since a Bob Evans breakfast that couldn’t be beat. That second time in a weekend is critical to your understanding of the matter.

You see, last week (Monday) I had shared a post of interest, featuring some words about a fascinating-sounding bookstore in the German Village section of Columbus called The Book Loft. Which store comprises 32 rooms in what turned out to be two floors of shotgun flats from the 1890s (I guess) on South Third Street. It is the kind of place that makes a bibliophile horny with the want-to-buy’s and can have your last dime burning a hole in your pocket. The sign claims 500,000 volumes in 32 rooms. I’m not even going to challenge their count, though I remain skeptical. That’s a lotta books. But, even so there’s a lotta books there. A good time was had by all. Money spent, and a lot of climbing of stairs (There’s a stairwell every two rooms it seems like, and, as the old mechanic at the service station used to put it, “Y’cain’t git theya from heeyer.” The place is definitely not ADA compliant nor friendly to the mobility-challenged.). I got a book and Toni got two. Would have spent more, but budgets must; when needs drive, desire sits in back.

Toni came back with the suggestion that we leave for Columbus after she got off work on Saturday, spend Saturday night in a hotel (Red Roof. Note: there’s one on South Front Street, four blocks from the Book Loft.) We reserved a room at the Red Roof in Grove City (about 7 miles away, and right by the exit off I71 North. We checked in and headed over to German Village. It was raining, so I had hassles with the traffic. Someday, I’ll learn.

We were lucky enough to find a parking spot on South Third Street, right across and half-block down from the Book Loft. Only had to cruise the neighborhood once. This is another key point; if you are at all mobility challenged, the closest parking lots are several blocks away — too far to hobble on a cane. It’s worthwhile to orbit the block, looking for an open spot. Plus: do a recce so you know what all the signs mean before you have to pick or reject a spot based on legalities. Also, if you have a handicapped placard, be prepared to wield it.

Go expecting to spend some serious coin. I think Toni and I spent close to a hundred dollars in two cursory visits. If we had been willing to hang in the store for what it’s worth and able to spend three or four (or five) figures, it could have been done. Most readily. I can see myself dropping ten grand in there on a weekend, though I can’t see myself having that much to spend, if you get my drift.

They don’t shy from high price tags, although I suspect nearly every book in the store is marked down somewhat. I bought a book on Art Noveau, for example, that lists about fifty bucks, but got it for under thirty. But you can be tempted, believe me. On the way out Saturday night, I spotted a book still in the publisher’s shipping box: The Complete Little Nemo by Windsor McKay. I oo’d and ah’d appropriately, but knew without asking that I couldn’t afford it. Plus: we don’t have room for it in our house. Not shelf space, mind. That I could come up with — or build. No. I’m talking about room absolute. The thing is a coffee-table book. As in: put legs on it, it’d be one. What would you guess? $150? $500? I don’t know myself, but, as I said, I know I can’t afford it.

Saturday night after the book store, we went to a place Toni had scouted out in advance. It was close to our hotel, didn’t sound like a chain (we discovered otherwise later) and sounded promising on food and priciness. It was on Stringtown Road in Grove City and called Planks. It was an OSU hangout. Not that people from OSU hang out there specifically, though I’m sure a few do, but that it is a sports bar whose focus is local Columbus-area teams, including the Buckeyes. (The area’s like that. You’d have thought from all the O’s on people’s foreheads, that we were somewhere close to campus, but no. It’s that the Bucks are more popular in Central Ohio than the Bengals are around here. I forget what Toni had, but I had my old standby, a club sandwich with fries, washed down with Yuengling draft. (Happy hours during the week, they serve Yuengling draft for a dollar a glass. Mine went for $6.50. Oh, well. Win some lose some.) Our waitress was top-shelf. Very efficient and professionally friendly without the usual smarm that chains like Longhorn burn into their wait staff. Judging by appearances — both staff and customer — ours was hardly unique. I think the whole staff is aces. Big tip. The sandwich was huge. Turkey, bacon, ham. I’d guess four ounces of each. On a toasted double-decker with vegggies I didn’t even notice. And I think there was cheese, too. It was good. I almost had to leave the toothpicks in, it tried that hard to fall apart in my hands.

The fries deserve special mention. First, it was a huge serving. They’re billed as “Fresh cut” which sounds good. I think they used two or three Idahoes to make mine. Wowsa. I almost freaked when they came to the table (and you should learn from my experience and have faith). They looked like they were burned — dark from the oil. But they tasted like a little slice of heaven. Toni speculated that the seasoning my have darkened them somewhat.

The place has a Cheers-like atmosphere you’d expect from a big-time, historical sports bar in a big sports town like Columbus. (The photo at top was taken from our table through the servers’ door down the length of and behind the bar.)

As with the Red Roof, we discovered that there is a location of Plank’s (no idea how closely related, though the signs look the same in both places, so the assumption they are sisters seems legit) near German Village. Word to the wise. It seems worth noting that the German Village is neighbored on the West side (South Front Street) by The Brewery District. it’s not like Cincinnati where there’s a brewery on every block at the bare minimum, but there do seem to be a few, including the one this fellow represents. I don’t really know enough about local brands to say what breweries may be resident in the district (if any are) and which are not exactly local (like: some of the craft beers served in pubs (there was an Irish pub on Front Street, I seem to recall) and bars might have come from as far away as Cincinnati. But I don’t know.

Also to notice that the German Village area is about six blocks by six blocks, extending east from Front Street (though it would seem that the district proper doesn’t get really going until you cross South Pearl Street or City Park Avenue.) and South from East Livingstone to Thurman, just below the city park referred to in the name of CPA. (I never caught its formal name, but it looks as though there’s a statue of Christopher Columbus in the middle of it. (Kind of like the Statue of Alexander Hamilton on the Main Street of his namesake city.) The hitching post at right stands in front of a house on City Park Avenue. There are several of them and in between them are limestone blocks which look as though they were placed there to help (possibly inebriated) gentlemen to mount their horses, said horses having hitherto been hitched at the hitching post.

After dinner, we returned to the Red Roof, showered, changed into PJs, hung out and read for awhile, then went to bed.

It shouldn’t reflect on the motel, but it does, that there were stomping elephants overhead and a herd of water buffalo parading outside our door and bitching at each other in teenage voices. It made getting to sleep difficult, so I sat up late and made notes about the next day’s itinerary from our road atlas.

I’m beat and need to go to bed, so I will continue this tomorrow. It will include lots of neat pictures.

The Liberty Position…

…ON PRIVACY: Like me, my mother (female parental unit) is a writer. Unlike Heinlein’s rules for writers, she did not, when I was growing up, have a private room where she went to write. Her typewriter — an IBM Selectric (pre-golf-ball) — was on a desk in front of the back window of our dining room in the rental house in Oakley (Cincinnati) where we lived for the latter half of the Sixties and up to the Bicentennial. There was always a sheet of paper in the machine, and her progress on that page was readily visible to all passersby.

We were forbidden to read on pain of… (whatever. The punishment was never specified; never had to be.)

The notion was that Mom’s writing was personal and private — as sacred as her (or our own) innermost thoughts — UNTIL and UNLESS she chose to share it. I was allowed to read the novel she wrote (and would love to see it published, for all its 50s-era post apocalypse setting and tropes are outdated). But only on her conditions.

It was an early lesson in the nature of privacy. Even though a thing is in plain view, in public or private circumstances, it is not yours to dispose of. It belongs exclusively to its creator or owner and consuming — or even looking at it — is taboo. Including the so-called “plain view” principle enshrined in post-constitutional case law.

There is no exception in the Constitution for cases where a person’s “persons, papers, or effects” are in plain view or in “public”. The plain wording of the Fourth Amendment brooks no such exception and, in the very fact of the words, makes it clear that the “plain view” or “in public” exception carved out by agents of the state is or ought to be null and void. (Since when are agents of the state fit to define the limits of state authority under the Constitution? Yes, of course, the courts are nominated as judges of such in that document, but there must be limits set by the actual text of it. thus far and no farther.) If a thing is not properly yours, you have no right to dispose of it. And that goes double for agents of the state.

However, it should be recognized (and obeyed) that the language of most of the articles of the Bill of Rights does not limit its intent to the state or its agents. The language of the Fourth, for instance:

“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.”

…it should be noted, does not limit its scope to actions of the state, nor does it brook the notion of ANY exception. It is absolute in its scope. “Shall not” has a specific and clear meaning when used in law. And it is universal. Any and all actors must respect and guarantee this security. Including but not limited to the state and its agents.

The same may be said, by the way, of the language of the Second Amendment.

The clarity, universality, and absoluteness of the language of the Fourth makes it clear that, if an agent of the state is engaged in a lawful (warranted) search, and stumbles upon something not named in the warrant, that something is not admissible in court and may not be used as a pretext for a warrant or further investigation. The principle is not, “If it’s in plain view, it’s fair game.” It’s: “If it was not specifically named in the warrant authorizing the search, you didn’t see it. Could not have seen it, in fact. Since you did not get legal permission to look for it.”

Statists will argue that this is an unfair burden on agents of the state. But the notion of constitutional liberty is not founded on the convenience of the state, but on the comfort and freedom of the people. In the vernacular: “Sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

The same principle applies for non-state actors. For example, the phone company (neither the manufacturer of your equipment nor the carrier of your signal) does not have the legitimate permission to share your data — any data — with any other player, state actor or non-, without a warrant issued by a judge of appropriate authority and under the limits set out in the Amendment as to specificity. This would — or should — eviscerate Google’s entire business model.

Further, I would argue that those entities whose business model or raison d’etre includes the possession and handling of personal information or meta-data should have and exercise a fiduciary responsibility to protect such data from assaults from all comers (including the state) and that the courts should be instructed to pay such duty the same respect afforded the confessional, and client-provider relationships in the law and medicine.

It should be clear that the courts have not read the clear text of the law thusly and should be reined in by legislation.

Let us call this an absolutist position on privacy — one favoring the people’s natural civil right of privacy. After all, if the notion of privacy can be extended to a license to kill unborn children, even up to an after birth, it certainly ought to cover a far more reasonable interpretation.