Betima Brumm was featured on the Dec 2024-Jan 2025 Artists Cover Series for Yellow Scene Magazine. Find her interview, Painting in the Dissonance, here.

Edited in Prisma app with Leya, Betina Brumm

Edited in Prisma app with Leya, Betina Brumm

Betina Brumm

Photo credit: Dustin Doskocil, Dosko Photo, Dec 2024 Yellow Scene Magazine cover

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From the artistPainting has been a passion from a very young age. I decided to focus on being a visual artist after having children, realizing that I should show them by example that we should approach life throughout our passions. I have been dedicated to creating original pieces of my own and for commissions since 2019.

The post Betina Brumm appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Swing half-saloon doors open with the wind. Sun beams through the late afternoon air. It’s cowboy dust ghosts getting out of the sun to get a Rye. Small dust devils spin as the group moves to the bar. Eyes meet. The bartender smiles.

“Howdy.”

Cowboy hats are placed on the bar. Brim side up. You don’t put the brim on anything. It’s delicate. It’s been steamed-set, formed with supreme care. The crown of the hat holds the weight.

No real cowboys in Colorado, or the West, would ever wear their hats inside. That’s only in the movies. Raised better than that. The only place you can wear a hat indoors is a barn or a stable.

Mrs. Hank Horton came to Wyoming around the turn of the century. No — 1900! And you don’t want to mess with Mrs. Horton, Henrietta. Catching you with your hat on inside.

Hank doesn’t say a word.

She just looks your way. Maybe she doesn’t even catch your eyes. Just looking. You freeze. Granite.

The hat comes off faster than a cat on a hot tin roof.

She’ll whoop you and the crew. And you don’t want that!

Raising a Glass

Drinks are already poured sitting on napkins like individual tablecloths were just set out.

Except for Billie.

Never knows what to order.

Known for an hour we were going to the saloon.

The crew starts humming the Jeopardy Final Question theme song.

Bill orders, FINALLY.

Everyone raises a glass.

Thank the spirits — AND it’s Friday!

The gesture is older than most languages. It sits right at the intersection of ritual, trust and celebration.

Raising a glass was to acknowledge five senses.

Common sense isn’t one of them, nor is it common.

Sight: raising the glass
Sound: the glass clink
Smell: the drink’s aroma
Taste: the sip
Touch: the glass in your hand

People raise a glass to freeze time for a second. A way of saying this is a moment to remember.

Alcohol has always been tied into ceremony. Older than some languages. Sign language.

It’s a way people have come to understand the gesture.

And there are even many, many other versions. Communal shots. Shotskis. Solo shots. A cocktail. A glass of Scotch.

Bartender stands up again. Snorts and whews pass, a few coughs, heads shook.

Another round please, Jack.

Jack is scanning the back bar. Everyone is looking at each other.

George is scanning the room. Always looking for a gal.

Found it!

The bottle is pulled down.

It has more dust on it than what just walked in the saloon.

Health Inspectors, HA

Ah, The Bottle.

How long has that thing been up there?

How did a Health Inspector not see that filth?

Must be one of those classroom Health Inspectors. The same ones that tell you soap doesn’t kill germs. It just helps the germs slide off.

Ugh.

Every human needs to learn this as a child.

Food is absolute.

Without it, you don’t have much time left on this crazy planet.

Actually, it’s pretty safe to say you’re never going to leave it.

Not going to go into the spiritual thing!

And, unless you can buy a rocket ship ride off the planet, you’re not leaving.

You’re definitely not leaving the universe.

FAT TOM is the acronym.

Food: meat, dairy, cooked grains, sauces, anything moist and nutrient rich (soil!!)
Acid: vinegar, citrus, pickles (pH above 4.6 germs don’t grow well)
Time: 2 hours MAX, 1 hour if temp above 90°F+
Temperature: 41° ? 135° DANGER ZONE. Bacteria explodes here
Oxygen: some bacteria need air, some don’t
Moisture: Water activity is critical. Dry foods = safer. Wet foods are risky.

So very dusty means a very annoyed AI.

Where’s that other round?

Is This Where We’re Heading?

POS + CRM, CMR++ bars?

Man I hope not.

Do you even have a clue what language I’m speaking?

Let’s just say we are speaking English, but you probably will need a phone with one of those translation apps in it.

Turn it on now!

POS is pretty easy because you probably know what a Point Of Sale system is.

Ring in orders
Process payments
Track sales
Manage inventory
Generate reports

Nearly everywhere has this system.

If you use a credit card, you know Big Brother already has you like a prison.

A bar, not so much.

Bar patrons and owners do not want the government or other businesses to know anything.

Don’t want them to know what your name is, where you live, what your credit rating is.

And they know a whole lot more than this.

Probably have your fingerprint.

You are so busted.

This is still why CASH is king.

Not traceable, yet.

We’re going to now provide you with the best possible service ever.

CRM to CRM++.

Customer Relationship Management.

The computer knows everything.

The real color of your eyes. Your hair. Probably grey after reading this.

Your car.

Bed sheets color. Mine are black light purple, satin.

Tell us when we know too much.

When you walk in the door of a bar, cameras are everywhere.

I know it’s to stop crime.

But…

Now your picture is taken immediately.

If you’ve been there before, you can be known.

Facial recognition is great, bad — you chose.

A bartender can be told what you drink. How many you usually drink.

What color your sheets are that you just bought from Amazerion.

What the real color of your hair, eyes, car is.

How much you make at work.

How many bras your girlfriend has.

When she’s due for a pregnancy to getting her period.

Now they will tell you there are privacy laws.

But it’s too late.

A bar may tell you they need to know when she gets her period so they can make sure the machine in the bathroom is full in the name of better service.

Just keep the damn machine full.

Cash out.

The post Hat Law and Other Rules of a Proper Room appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

In 2024

The community’s voices did rise,

With hearts United beneath clearer skies.

A chance to heal, to learn, to grow,

In every face, new seeds we sow

What is difficult, we face with grace,

Old wounds and fears, we must embrace.

Twists and turns in moments bright,

Are bonds that form in darkest night.

Hope shines through like mornings light,

A promise born from shared insight.

Together – imagine what will be,

A future where we’re truly free.

A year ahead, we dream anew,

With stronger ties and skies more blue.

In every challenge, we will see,

The power of community – strong and free.

Written by Alice E. Sabo, (her, hers)

Alice is an 11yo Erie, CO Native who sees inspiration, light, and hope everywhere. She finds joy in writing, music, dancing, reading, friends, and family.

The post New Beginnings appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I will not give you fear.

You will not take my joy.

If I die fighting evil, so be it.

But today, I’m coming up swinging

The post I Will Not Give You appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Waterhole Saloon, Stanford, Montana…
Home.
Stanford, Montana
I knew it as a Hutterite
bartering in a gravel parking lot
with a tool salesman
and from the gust of wind
approaching the saloon
blowing wet napkins
across the wood bar top
the stores across the street
where the one sheriff deputy
on duty counting the minutes
refuse to change
and die a slow death.
in the bar
a ranch hand drunk
on Early Times
an old codger
finally out of bullshit stories
getting George Dickle to go
and the bartender
once beautiful
with plans to get out
has had enough
of everyone’s shit.
the air is fat with gangsters
cattle rustlers
I imagine on the run and
If they run here
they would be running from
imaginary pickup trucks.
Nobody cares
about the wanted posters
down at the post office.
This is home because some
go to Great Falls
and come back
saying it’s too big
to revive, you take US 87
speed through Moccasin
ease up at Hobson
fuel up at Eddie’s Corner
get around the combine at Moore
and barrel through Glengary
to Lewistown
your hard earned pay
ready for a choice of bars
a room at the Yogo

and the streets less crowded
glamorous
the buzz of neon
speaking salvation
It’s home because
Arrow Creek eventually
dies into the Missouri
home because you can’t escape
the wind from your hometown
the slow death
dry decay
the feed lot
fewer cuttings
and waning
sweet smells of alfalfa
and comfort
each year
and the Missouri keeps rolling
as your life is filled
with only grim permission.
You can go as out of business here
as the shops
and the ranches
I knew it entering.
five old fashions in
and I’m in some other home.
– Ian A Dundas

The post Waterhole Saloon | Whiskey and Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I’m done with the pendulum

Swing right, swing left, never stops

It isn’t a pendulum, it’s a wrecking ball

Crashing through all of Us

One nation under Oligarchy, divided by the Plutocracy

Our Father warned Us against factions to divide but he has been shushed

Keep them fighting each other says the one percent

Then snowflake or bigot we are equally crushed

Why is it this or that

Why isn’t it Us

What about the welfare of humankind

What about ALL of Us

A Nation divided by a wrecking ball

A pendulum that keeps swinging

Hate is its energy

That’s why it keeps winning

It is time we become the friction

The air and the gravity to its motion always swaying

Why let the rich one percent decide

When it’s the rest of Us who keep paying

How to be the end of this motion

To be the nation once promised

Where all, not just men, are created equal

And hatred is abolished

So how do we ALL win

We each get to decide

To me, it’s US Altogether

The only way to survive

As the wrecking ball descends

What will you do

Be the friction and stand with Us

Or support the pendulum at the demise of you

The post US by Lindsey Terranova appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

The post Roadside Cross appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Some of the best conversations
I have are with
Ravens on blue mornings.
We mourn the old grain silos
and loss of old barns
as yellow leaves fall
upon red leaves
already downed.
They tell me of their struggles –
adventures
close calls with cats
and their general dislike
for pigeons.
Grudges long held.
They ask me if I
will fade into darkness
this evening as
the conversation turns.
I smile and walk back
into the house.

The post Conversations with Ravens appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

This place has been scarred
since the white man showed up
damaged and broken.
It’s poison
It’s forever reaching
mediocrity
and obtaining it
every time.
This is a place
once under water
that needs to be washed
of its bullshit.

It’s a place you leave
get talked into coming back
and manipulated into staying
Before you know it
you’re stuck.
A place where the red lights
last excruciatingly long
and the green lights
not long enough.
Nothing moves.

It’s a place that smells
of lilacs and cats piss
in the spring
and the sugar factory
smells like a fart in the fall.
A place surrounded by refineries
and little by little
the sweet alfalfa smells
are fewer and fewer.

It’s a place that plowed over it’s
small farms of corn and wheat
and replaced them with
with chain restaurants
evangelical churches
strip malls
apartment buildings
and golf courses
on the final remnants of a prairie.
Houses that look the same
that few can afford
all built within a month of each other.
Economically thriving for the select
economically depressed for the rest.
A place hanging on to its heritage
In one hand while taking bids on it
with the other.

Progressiveness and this place
are in direct conflict
and most people
have been brainwashed
into voting against their own
interests for the sake
of god and guns.

This place has few women
only girls with daddy issues
who waste your time.
The men are “bros”
equating masculinity
with violence
and promises never delivered
while overlooking
what is in front of them.
We are all broken.

This place prefers casinos
and karaoke
over live music
and culture barely breathes
unless approved by those
of financial gain.
The soul of this place is dead
and how can one be content
in a place where it’s neon soul
is on life support
and there’s a line of people
ready to pull the plug.

This place is cocaine laced
with fentanyl
and it’s convulsing
on the kitchen floor.
It’s a puddle of piss
In a downtown alley
next to a dumpster
on fire.
It’s a Sunday morning hangover
where you puke
blood orange malaise
and existential dread
and repeat to yourself
“This isn’t my life
This isn’t my life.”
This place is contemplating suicide
but too goddamn tired
to end it.

This place
This place
where the beauty
is fleeting
before being carried off
in the wind.

If you or anyone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis, please talk to someone and reach out to the following organizations:

National suicide prevention hotline – 1-800-273-8255

Mental Health Partners Crisis Service – Dial 988

CU Boulder Center for Disordered Eating

NAMI Boulder County resources for eating disordersa

The post The Magic City appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I have never understood
the phrase “dream job”
because I have never
dreamt of labor –
working some job
where someone else
gets rich off your back
while attempting to strip you
of your individuality.

I dream of other things.

I dream of finding a purpose
that fills my soul.
I dream of naps where the rain
taps on the window while
the dogs snore and a cat purrs.

I dream of mellow dive bars
on cold evenings with good music
that hits you just right
with a properly made old fashion.

I dream of remote mountain lakes
that few if any know about
where you drive and discover something
new about the land
even though you have been there before.

I dream of a petite brunette
that offers her grace
and gives me mercy
taking my hand in a
comfortable silence.

I dream my heart will no longer
be empty

I dream of walking into my house
justified.

I dream of many things
and work has never been
one of them.

The post Dream jobs appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I have faith in the borrow pit alongside
forgotten two lane highways and backroads that go on forever,
music, bourbon, Irish whiskey
half empty dive bars on cold winter nights
and the small of a woman’s back.
There’s faith in derelict small towns
where faith has been lost,
the silence of the morning, the tick and chime
of an old grandfather clock, an old gelding,
dogs, cats, the purr of a cat and the snore of a dog, ravens who talk back, rows of lilacs
around homesteads outlining
where the outdoor shitters used to be,
the ripple of water, the patter of rain, the hiss of cars driving by, the smell of penetrating oil on old tools, old pickups, the pop of snow underfoot, books, and the understood silence between two people, twangy guitars, the wholesomeness of quality woodwork, understanding eyes which are few and far between, secret trails to secret spots by a lake nearly forgotten, ducks and turkeys holding up traffic, fires on cold days and the crackling once you build one that roars and the ember that flies up is a lifetime until it extinguishes, and we all burnout when nothing is left except for the remaining things that held faith.

The post Things I Can Put My Lack of Faith In… appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

There is at least
three types of puke
on the sidewalk
in a one block stretch
and many more
in puddled alleys
where derelicts rest
on a Blue Sunday
in March

Blue Sunday.
You feel it
in the air
with a hint of rain
and soul pain
with uneasy peace
walking downtown
and if you listen
to the old brick
buildings you can
hear the vibrations
of drunken Saturday nights
of years past
just trying to come down.

Against better judgement
you stop in for a drink
just one
maybe two
quitting at eight
and the soul pain
never goes away
and the old brick
buildings have seen it all
and never judge
because you have become
those buildings
if you’ve been here long enough
and you think you
can withstand
anything.

The post Old Brick Buildings on a Blue Sunday appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

It can become overwhelming
when you’re drowning
and locked inside
your head.
The silence of a house
where you hear every
sound it makes
each pop
and chime
the sound of the furnace
clicking on
and it echos through your body
until you can’t take it.
You wind up
searching for escape
under neon –
higher ground
with the same thoughts
but different sounds –
clanking glasses
bullshit small talk
you try to ignore
as you drown from
all the things
spilling out of the hole
in your heart
that golden brown liquids
and white powders
can never fill.
This is your life
and you will never
wake up from it
or swim to shore.
We all drown
in our floods.

The post Drowning appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I want to watch
the Rimrocks cry
during a heavy rain
that spews it’s tears
into the basements
of those who are dumb enough
to live underneath
while the Shop Vacs clog
and turn to mold.

I want the street signs
to melt
and the turkeys
to block all traffic
halting commerce
and progress
while that Mercedes Benz
and all Subaru Wagons
turn to dust
and blow away
in the wind.

I want Pygmy Owls
to steal the souls
of bad local comedians
and shit them out
on the heads of the police
and I want them to suffer
perpetual foot cramps
while they stub and break
pinky toes.

I fear depression
has wrote a blank check
for my soul
but I was too down
invisible
drunk
and exiled in loneliness to notice.
Now I await for anything to happen
and talk to the birds I meet
and drink the ordered drinks
and silently wish for love
that will never happen.

I want you to gamble on me
because the final parlay
will be worth it and sweet
and in the meantime
I’ll float around in the bars
looking for the best anodyne
while the sidewalks boil
and the parking meters freeze
while derelicts stagger and mumble
and you are elsewhere and difficult.

The post When the Street Signs Melt appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I can’t decide if my chest pains
are from anxiety or heart burn.
Punishing myself for the past.
Heartache.

What I do know…
The wind blows sticks off trees
and those sticks multiply
when you pick them up.

Bartenders fail to put
adequate amounts of
Bitters in old fashions.

My soul sounds like
a dobro right now.
Vibrations define us.

The woman next to me
is beautiful drinking
Jameson on the rocks.

The lone ice cube in my drink
was hung by a Vigilante
in a past life.

The squirrels are part of a conspiracy
to make The Airedale bark.
I’ve heard this from the crows.

I live in perpetual limbo
like a ship never to port.
I survive the seas with things I carry.

The post Observations While Sitting At Walker’s Watching Cars Go By appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

The post A Mother. A Proxy. appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

A proper suicide
should be an Irish goodbye.
Out the side exit
stage left
You duck out without a word
leaving a scene
a place
that you didn’t want to
be part of.
A lifetime
trying to escape
and the halos around
the lights become too much
and every road becomes
a dead end.
Or you have run
as far as you can run
and the voices start telling you
that nothing will improve
or get better
and you’ll never become
unstuck.
It’s better to fade into
the darkness
while the drunken madness
that has always stirred
finally finds it’s
resting place in the shadows.

Or you talk yourself out of it
or fail and live with it
for eternity
but always take
that side exit
when you leave
without saying a word
because nobody cares
if you stay
or if you go.

If you or anyone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis, please talk to someone and reach out to the following organizations:

National suicide prevention hotline – 1-800-273-8255

Mental Health Partners Crisis Service – Dial 988

CU Boulder Center for Disordered Eating

NAMI Boulder County resources for eating disordersa

The post Side Exit appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I have never frozen to death
while passed out
in a snow bank
but I’ve gotten hypothermia
sitting next to a loved one.

The worst place
to puke is in the shower
still drunk
while Conway Twitty
sings of Linda on his mind.

I know it will be a rough night
when I consider
the first three old fashions
“dinner”

I dream of a scenario
with my brains scattered
over white walls
and it’s chilling and peaceful
but then I don’t want the brain meal
to get on the art
and I go about my day.

The icicle hanging
off the gutter in my backyard
is immaculate
and will beautifully drop
in the window well
on a bed of snow and leaves
and I fear I will miss it.

The orange peel
garnishing my drink
was a flapper from
the twenties
that I wish I could
go back in time and save.
I would kiss her neck
and take her hand
and we would escape the speakeasy
before the raid
and live in Nye
breeding and training
cutting horses
while distilling bourbon
in the bluffs.

The cold air hitting my leg
when the door opens
runs up my spine
and I’m thankful the yokel
born in the barn
holding the door open
reminds me I’m still here.

If you or anyone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis, please talk to someone and reach out to the following organizations:

National suicide prevention hotline – 1-800-273-8255

Mental Health Partners Crisis Service – Dial 988

CU Boulder Center for Disordered Eating

NAMI Boulder County resources for eating disordersa

The post Thoughts On Good Friday While Having A Late Afternoon Drink At Doc Harper’s | Whiskey and Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I love breakfast foods
bacon, hash browns
two eggs over easy
with an English muffin.
It’s my favorite breakfast
and my second favorite dinner.
It’s substantial
it’s home
it never lets you down.

I’m not always
the most perfect
egg flipper
awkwardly
sliding off the spatula
yolk breaking in
the pan
and while they will taste fine
it’s the desire
for perfection
for beautiful
flawless eggs
for all your imperfections
to vanish
and you feel that weight
crushing you
until taking a breath
is too much
and you load up on booze
and the voice in your head
reminds you of all flaws
within you
every mistake
while the house is silent
and you wake up
drunk in the front yard
on a cool morning
in hypoglycemic shock
with nothing on your mind
and puke in your beard
and the medical professionals
won’t stop with the questions
and you tell them you’re fine
that it was
a toxic misadventure
and when you get home
you see the loaded
Benelli on the table
that was going
to put an end to
all the flaws
for good.
Perfection.
Flawless, beautiful existence
and the super ego
is a son of a bitch
and I sit here eating
my blemished eggs
in silence
hoping things will
get better.

The post Perfectly Flipping Eggs | Whiskey and Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Maybe when you hear me speak

You miss my despair so bleak,

My person, my one true love

Can’t hear me from way high above,

He’s left, and I’m not sure if he’s coming back

I pray and wish for it to stop, but the grip has a very tight lock,

There were times we laughed and loved

But it’s replaced with a life so rough,

My heart bleeds from the inside

But no one can hide,

From the hardship it brings

To our once happier lives.

The post Lost Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Glorification for ugly simplification.
Wash your hands—
they are filthy.
I cannot understand.
When I am with you, I feel like
I am eating sand.
All around, others have
a hammock to swing,
but I stand,
pondering a way to float
between trees, but all I see are broken limbs.
When I need you to, hold me
so I can swing,
but my trees seem to be burning,
charred black
and broken limbs.
Who let you fall apart
and throw me away?
Don’t you hear them too?
They are laughing as people like you
hold the hammock,
rock them back and forth,
effortlessly creating a beautiful show.
I kick around mulch
in broken and busted shoes
from walking miles around you,
looking for a new branch to hang on to,
but time is only being
wasted,
drained,
constantly left in pain.
Just call my name.
Act like you even care to explain
who and what allowed
you to bust my candy cane
abrupt and quick,
left kicking mulch
as it rains.
I’d rather drown
in the most beautiful
mountain lake
than wait
and spend one more minute
in this absent pain.

The post Trying to Hang a Hammock Between Two Charred Trees appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I write for you,
for I enjoy nothing more than you.

Sing to yourself
silly things.

Something calling?
Or are your ears ringing?

Alone, but with your own
kissing on the phone.

Hold yourself,
see who you are,

but breathe.
Who are we?

Hey, hey, my baby,
miss me.

You say,

“Stay away.”

I wish
to eat with you today

the best piece of art
in my art show.

I create,
but I think,

“My art cannot take me anywhere.”

Why not?

I cry to know how this
magic simply flows.

Why can’t I be alone
but carry you with me?

Who are you supposed to be to me?
Marry me?

I seek myself,
but can act ugly,
but try, aren’t we all the same?

I wish to kiss you goodnight,
make no sense,

shut up,

love me,

stop.

To create art,
by me,
for me,
explore, don’t
consume.

DO NOT CONSUME.

You are consuming…

Goddamn it.

Try again.
Stop rethinking.

Think and let it pass.
It is time to
marry me?

Who cares?
Fuck off,

run around,
almost drown and

do it again,

but kiss me goodnight

before you go
and tell me,

“Marry me.”

Good one.

Now try again.

Run on dirt,
up and down
and fall down.

Bleed blood,
obviously.
What else?

Giggle.
You’re bleeding!

Yes!

I can bleed!
The rocks have my blood on them!
Yay!
I can bleed!

Now get up
and finish your run.

On trail,
off.

Sleep.
You’re healed.
Remind yourself
that
you
can
bleed.
Smile! Be happy!

Shut up, it hurts.

Kiss my neck,
rub my legs,
look at me,
I love you,
brown tint, green look.

You are here
and I know.

Hey, hey, my, mine,

spin with me.

Get dizzy!

Get dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

Remember the day of the week?
Me either

BECAUSE WE ARE DIZZY

Giggle, go slow.

Yes, oh, wow.

Kiss me.

Nerves.

Wow and would you look at that,

time to go?!

Yup, have to be there at 3.

Shut up.

The post Nonsense appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

The post Forever of the Stars appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I think if there were ever a service you could hire to deliver bad news that you didn’t want to deliver, booksellers would be naturals for that kind of assignment.

Books mean a lot to lots of people, and they value them in ways the market doesn’t. To their owners, their books are cherished, valuable objects. To the bookseller and the market, they aren’t. Today was an example of that.

A woman called me last week to come to her 91-year-old father’s apartment. He was going into assisted living. His biggest concern was his books — and who would buy them so they could avoid being thrown out or given to someone who didn’t appreciate them. What little she could tell me about the books wasn’t promising, but I agreed to come out. If nothing else, I could show some respect for the guy. And bring him donuts.

Anyway, the daughter showed me the books, and they were largely mass market paperbacks: Techno-thrillers, well-worn mysteries, romances… I explained to her that I couldn’t do anything with any of them, and told her why. “Will you explain that to my dad?” she asked. And I said yes.

I told him that even in the best of times, his paperbacks would have little value, but these weren’t the best of times: Covid flooded the book market, local used bookstores have liquidated, people have downsized, and all of that has made booksellers like me become increasingly reserved about what we buy.

He tried to say something to me, but I couldn’t make it out. I think he was missing his dentures. I suggested to him and his daughter that the library at the assisted living place would be a good place for his books. They’d still be nearby, and others could enjoy them. They thought that was a good idea.

I left a little saddened. It wasn’t so much missing out on a good book collection — the apartment house was where my mother lived before strokes took her. I hadn’t been there since. But I take no joy in delivering disappointing news. And to top it off, he didn’t even want a donut.

The post Donuts & Bad News | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

A woman so loving,
a hug,
open arms
upon first encounter.

She’s beautiful.
I see where he gets it from.
Love pouring out of her,
kisses on one’s shoulder.

How does one learn to love
as deeply as she?

How does one carry herself
as elegantly as she?

So intriguing,
she knows so much.
So intelligent,
so experienced
and such.

Easy to love,
easy to die for.
I admire you
and all that you could
cry for.

A woman so grand,
she defines her title
more than any “idol.”

Easy to love,
loving is she,
open arms
always she greets me.

Well, hello!
I absolutely love
speaking with you,
beautiful nature.

A blissful peach tree
she ought to be,
always sharing her
fruit
with many more
than just me,
obviously.

Nectar so sweet,
let it drip down your cheek.
Don’t you dare wipe your feet.
Sit and just be
with her
as she models being free in one’s mind.

You can’t help but
crave more,
beautifully crafted
woman,
never so poor.

So glad we meet,
a peach tree so
profound,
deep, deep roots in the ground.
Oh, how lucky I was to have found
your baby peach tree
as he has led you to me,
me to you
more like it.

Make many others
loosen their crown
as it belongs to
Mother Earth,

The woman of
all, many hours,
wise peach tree
she ought to be.
Oh, I am so glad
you welcome me
with the hug,
open arms
upon first encounter.
I aspire to be like you,
elegant peach tree.

The post Blissful Peach Tree appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

It was 2002, and I was the youngest person at the book signing. That’s probably why, out of the large crowd gathered at the Tattered Cover that day, Scott Adams picked the eleven-year-old with his hand raised.

“What is the strangest thing you’ve ever seen in the office?” I asked.

Adams thought about it for a moment. “I didn’t see it,” he said, “but someone told me about an office where people were walking down the center of the hallway, and it was wearing out the carpet in the middle. The management circulated a memo through the office, asking the employees to ‘distribute their walking.’ “

We all laughed. It was the kind of story that has drawn us to the Tattered Cover, where Adams signed copies of his latest book, Dilbert And The Way of the Weasel.

In one of my favorite Dilbert comics, the boss tells the engineers “We used to say our employees were our most valuable asset; that is wrong. Money is our most valuable asset. Employees are ninth.” And what came in eighth, an engineer asks? “Carbon paper.”

I was reading Scott Adams’ comic strip Dilbert years before I ever commuted to an office. Dilbert was my introduction to the ways language can be used and misused. Dilbert taught me about buzzwords, words that once inspired, but whose luster had faded like an old vacation photo. I learned how two people can hold a conversation that contained no meaning whatsoever. I learned how bad or unpopular ideas could be revived on Frankenstein’s slab through the dark science of “rebranding.”

Permit an anecdote. Many years ago at CU Boulder, a president decided he needed to leave his mark on the university. His big idea? CU would be rebranded as a “TLE”, a “Total Learning Environment.” Never mind that this has been the definition of a university since the Middle Ages, no CU was a TLE, and fortunes were spent branding it onto banners, beer coasters, sweatshirts, and stationery. Meanwhile, actual learning continued unabated, and amongst the staff, TLE stood for “Total Lack of Enthusiasm.” 

In 2016, Adams appeared on my radar again. He has a lot to say about the rise of Donald Trump, how his ranting showed calculation where most saw dementia. Adams is a trained hypnotist, and he noted how Trump’s repeated insults, “Crooked Hillary”, “Lyin’ Ted”, and later “Sleepy Joe’, were the work of a master crowd manipulator, embedding phrases in the popular psyche. At first, I thought Adams was well-suited to warn people of the dangers Trump poses, but I soon realized his goal was to help hold open the door for him.

Adams has claimed that men are being displaced from modern society, that the election of Joe Biden would result in Republicans being “hunted down”, and characterized the January 6th Insurrection as “more patriotic than criminal.” He claimed the TV series based on Dilbert was canceled in 2000 because he was a white man. In 2023, speaking on his podcast, he said that black Americans were a hate group, which led his publisher Andrew McMeel Syndicate to cut ties with him.

There were some fore-shadowings. Adams was always a contrarian, someone who liked to question the official story. He once described himself as a “smart-ass vegetarian”, the guy who would show up to a cookout and remind people that they didn’t throw out the cow’s rear end when making ground beef. Sometimes, a contrarian can turn that critical eye inward when receiving criticism, and use their instincts toward self-improvement. Other times, criticism is met with a snarling “Don’t tell me what to do,” and they dig in deeper toward more extreme views. Each friend lost, each business partnership ended, becomes a point of pride — further validation that they alone stand against a world gone mad. 

Perhaps that’s what happened, perhaps not. Mostly I feel sad. We’re always warned to not meet our heroes. I did, a long time ago, but there aren’t any heroes, not really, only people who change. Think of who you were years ago: a completely different person would be my guess. In another twenty years, we’ll be different all over again, different, or… well, let’s leave that alone. As Geddy Lee sang, “Changes aren’t permanent, but change is.” 

Over on my bookshelf, I can see my copy of “Shave the Whales” that Scott Adams signed for me over two decades ago. I think of slumber parties spent watching the Dilbert cartoon series with my similarly-oddball schoolmates. I can’t tell you why Scott Adams changed, but I know I miss the man I once met.

The post When Heroes Fade appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

We get to know a lot of people after it’s too late to meet them.  Their books tell me who they were.  Go into a stranger’s house and look at their books, and you’ll come as close as possible to reading their mind. The other day, I got to meet Warren through the books his widow brought me.

She came in with her daughter and granddaughter, a little uncomfortable with her situation and unsure about what she was doing. With her white gloves and purse, she reminded me of my grandmother.  Her daughter guided her to a chair and then the daughter and I went through the books.

Warren loved books, particularly books about books. I know he loved them because he cared for them so well, fashioning custom covers for them from book-themed wrapping paper. He took care to leave information in his books: Where this one came from, what bindery re-bound that one.  He had a lot of copies of “The Colophon,” a richly produced hardbound periodical from the Thirties that cost more per issue than a lot of people then made in a day.

I asked the daughter what she wanted for the books. She didn’t know. So I made an offer and she took it. I wrote a check to the widow. She seemed happy that someone appreciated the books.

When I got the books home and did some more research, I concluded that the books were worth more than I paid for them. So I wrote another check – two, actually. I had made the first one out to Warren.  What was I thinking?

The post Dead Man’s Books appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Golf’s never made me feel good — “klutzy” is more the word –but that isn’t true for everyone. One of our friends from the St. Francis apartments for the homeless — where we stock a library — used to play a lot before his brain injury. Now he doesn’t get much of a chance, but when he does, it makes him feel better. He has lost a lot, but not his love for golf.

So he and I and one of the staff went out to play yesterday. It was a beautiful day and we had fun. I hadn’t played in so long, I’d forgotten all my bad habits.

We sat at a picnic table and talked afterward. When he was homeless, he spent a lot of time at the Denver Public Library. Because of his brain injury, he needed the quiet of the library — and the roof over his head. He told us that friends who used to work at a golf course would let him in at night and he’d camp there. He was safe from other people, but coyotes gave him a hard time. He fought them off with a strobe light from his bicycle and a golf club he found at Goodwill.

One day at the library, a social worker approached him. She connected him with various services for veterans and people with injuries like his. He hit the jackpot when he got to move into the St. Francis apartments, where we met him.

I learned, too, that he liked to cook. As luck would have it, I had some cookbooks in my car, so I passed those along to him.

All in all, best day I’ve had at golf in a long time

The post Forgetting Bad Habits | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I got a call Monday that has bothered me since. A woman I’d bought some books from called and angrily said, “I sold you some first editions. You gave me $3 apiece, and I want to know what you sold them for.” I told her if I paid her $3, I would price the book at $9 or $10.

“Do you remember the titles?” I asked. She didn’t “I’d give you the books back if you tell me the titles.” No dice. “You know that a lot of first editions aren’t valuable, right?” I asked.

And she said, “I want you to know I’m on to you.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“I just want you to know that I know what you did. Goodbye.”

I looked up when I’d bought her books. It was 10 months ago. Ten months she stewed about this, finally reaching some kind of point where she had to call. Ten months is a long time to carry around pent-up anger. I wondered what finally made her call.

Today was another house call. A woman was selling her parents’ books. I asked her what she wanted, she didn’t know, so I made her an offer, and after some back and forth, we made a deal. When I got home, a $20 bill fell out of the first book I opened. I called her, told her about that, and suggested she check for cash in all the remaining books. If you hide money in one book, my experience is you will hide it in another. I put the $20 in the mail.

It would be weird if she waited 10 months, then called to thank me.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post 10 Months | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I’m Tired.
with a Capitol T, hard-wired.

It’s not just the hours,
that the work requires.

Our babies are killing each other
and themselves for what? Power?

They say change happens slowly
when human nature is revolting,

Against the stories they have been told
just work harder and maybe you will get some Gold.

So we flash our worth in cars, clothes, and our 45’s
thinking that makes us “really” alive

It makes a bang so loud
making men feel so proud,

of their hate
they think makes them great.

We don’t seem to see other humans,
even dead bodies numb our feelings.

Even those who preach love,
turn on each other and kill the dove.

I’m Tired.
With a Capitol T, hard-wired.

Tomorrow is another day
to hope we learn to love and play

The post I’m Tired | Red Tornado appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

It’s just a word
But what if it’s a word born of hate?
What if it’s a word filled with contempt?
What if it’s a word that denigrates?
What if it’s a slur or crude?
What if it’s an insult?

It’s just a word
So is racist… bigot…. Antisemite
You don’t like being called those do you?
So there are words you find offensive
What if I called you a pedophile?
Isn’t that also ‘just a word” ?

It’s just a word
But it has the power to cut the soul
It can draw tears, it can draw blood
It can enrage, it can discourage
Sure it’s just another word
But words have power

It’s just a word
Do you know its meaning?
Do you know its origins?
The weight of its history?
Words are so much more
Than they seem on the surface

It’s just a word
Like any other we use to communicate
Ahh… but what are we communicating?
Even if you didn’t know its meaning
Once it’s made clear to you
Why do you keep using it?

It’s just a word
No… it’s a concept actually
No… it’s a message
No… it’s an emotion
No… it’s history
No… it’s a word

It’s just a word
Or… it’s a weapon

The post It’s just a word… or is it? | The Soul in the Sun appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

The reason we speak up

It never occurred to you
That sending us to a school
Named after a confederate
Might make us uncomfortable

It never occurred to you
That wearing our skin as make up
To ridicule or mock our identity
Might make us uncomfortable

It never occurred to you
That singing an anthem
Written by a racist
Might be inappropriate

It never occurred to you
That not having representation
In even such things as romance novels
Might make us feel undesirable

Until we pointed it out
You never noticed
That we were missing
In our American culture

Unless we raised the issue
It never occurred to you
That we might feel
Left out

We speak out
We raise our voices
Because you need to see us
You need to include us

For we too are
Americans

The post Why we speak… | The Soul in the Sun appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

No one ever worried
That learning the horrors of our history
Might make us sad and uncomfortable
From the auctions to the lynchings
No one ever cared about that

No one ever worried
As they taught us everyday
That our constitution called us
¾ of a human being and savages too
No one ever cared about that

No one ever worried
About teaching us of the civil war
The deeds of the confederacy
To keep us shacked and enslaved
No one ever cared about that

What they worried about
The things that were hidden from us
We the accomplishments of our people
The inventors and the creators
Those they felt would be too much

We barely started learning
About our heroes and our heroines
People that we could look up too
A history we could be proud of
But that was another short lived dream

Cause now they’re worried
Worried about their children
Learning that Blacks had heroes too
That Blacks had great deeds too
They decided this simply won’t do

They said it makes them uncomfortable
To learn of America’s racists past
That their children might feel guilty
Of the things done by some of their ancestors
Well shouldn’t they?

Doesn’t everyone feel a little shame
Experiences a little guilt
For bad things committed by their own?
Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?
For history not to be repeated?

Aren’t we taught to learn from our mistakes?
Well? Aren’t we?

The post No one cared… | The Soul in the Sun appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

A row of barstools
has decayed from loneliness
and the curb outside
crumbles from neglect.
These days
swing from
apathy to anger
and back.
Thoughts of suicide
to hope
and back
while the spring
can’t decide
what it will do
and each gust of wind
is an insult
and each voice you hear
is a lie
and that skiff of snow
burns
and the sunshine
freezes
and every greeting
is a rejection
and every touch
a betrayal
and no matter
what crowd you’re in
and who claims
they love you,
you’re alone as you
drown in flames
and your cries
are silent
and you just get on with it
because of one
inkling
of
delusional
hope
that things
will get better.

– Ian A Dundas

The post Spring | Whiskey and Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

We’ve have watched you
Come after us and our rights
Time and time again
Every single generation
Every time we start to shine
Every single time!
Slavery, Jim Crow, Civil Rights, Selma, Segregation
And so many other instances and places
Where you’ve shed our blood and burnt our houses
Every time “progress” stats to mean results for us
You come out of hiding to slam the lid down on our dreams
And you have the unmitigated gall to stand here today
And say YOU’re being oppressed?
You’re the victim?
Or worse that you’re fighting for me
For my own good!
For my kids future
You have the unmitigated gall to tell me today
That you feel uncomfortable?
That your way of life is being threatened
You have the unmitigated gall to say
The reason for our lack of riches is that we’re lazy?
Even as we work 3 jobs to keep our children fed
You have the unmitigated gall to say
We’re being “anti-white”!
We’re being ungrateful
And though we’d have every reason
To be “anti-white we are NOT

We are anti-white supremacy
We are anti-Racism
We are anti-Sexism
We are anti-greediness
We are anti-Intolerance
We are anti-fascism

We are ANTIFA!

The post Unmitigated gall! | The Soul in the Sun appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

Even when you anticipate it
the sting pulses through you
whether it’s a love interest
who picked someone else
or the local poetry festival
that rejected your work
as unsurprising as it is.
It still hurts.
It’s a big shit sandwich
you have to eat.
It’s reality.
and before you move on
to someone else
and buckle down
and work at writing better poems,
you silently wonder why
and replay everything
possibly wrong
over bourbon
and beers
and an 8 ball of cocaine
and you drink your failures
and snort your rejection
through a dollar bill in
the bathroom
as the drip and the rush
simply say
fuck them.
You consume it.
Consume it all
as it consumes you.
You go back to your stool,
down another shot
and the bartender
brings you another round
and throws the empty bottle,
your life
in the garbage
and you clank with the other
discarded lives
as the hip, academic poets
read down the street
and the person you want
the most
is not with you
and you find someone else
for just the evening
if you’re lucky
to fill the empty time
and to ease anything.
The sprinklers turn on at 5
just before the sun rises
and you come down
with failures and rejections still
reminiscing in the first beam
of light as you write it down.

– Ian A Dundas

The post Rejection | Whiskey and Words appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

We feel Denver’s population boom at Printed Page. Today, we had customers from Massachusetts, Alabama, New York, California and Kansas, all new to the city.

We also had a customer visiting from Missouri. He is what we call a Discreet Purchaser. He would rather his wife — who accompanied him — not know that he is buying books in a certain price range. He will hand me such books with a wink, and I put them under the counter. And then he will say, a little too loudly, “Well, I guess I don’t see anything I need today. Let’s go, Honey.” I go along with this. I’m not going to cause any marital discord unless the purchase is under $50. Instead, I will ship him the books in a plain brown box with the return address of Printed Page Auto Parts.

Anyway, for some persons, finding a new used bookstore in their new city is right up there with finding a new dentist or doctor. I think a dentist would be smart to hang out here and let people know that they need to invest in their smiles. Be OK with me unless he started giving people the stink-eye when they opened our jar of candy.

Toward the end of the day, some locals finally came in — a group of about six teenage girls. They parked themselves in the back room and talked and laughed for an hour or so. That was fine with me, too.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post Printed Page Auto Parts | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

A daughter asked me to come look at the books from her mother’s estate. When I got there, the family was busy cleaning up the house to get it ready for sale. It smelled like a combination of cat and cigarettes. Paneling and shag carpeting told me when the residents concluded the house didn’t need any more updating.

I could see the mother’s decline stacked in a corner: A cane, then a walker, then a wheelchair. Going through the books had an element of grave-robbing, except that when I do grave-robbing, I do that at night and with the aid of a slow-witted assistant.

The daughter was disappointed that I didn’t find more books to buy (they usually are), but she thanked me for coming out. Later, at home, I found some papers in one of the books. It was a eulogy the daughter had written for her father. I thought about mailing it to her but decided not to. I thought it might remind her of another time she felt the pain of loss. I hope I did the right thing.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post A Daughter’s Loss | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I met another dead man today.

This one was an accomplished attorney in a high-powered Denver law firm. He taught himself German, Chinese, French and Spanish. He decompressed from his high-stress work by painting military miniatures — thousands of them. His wife would sit next to him while he painted the soldiers under a magnifying glass, and they would talk about the day. He collected books about military subjects, hunting, history and poetry.

He conformed to my theory that if you collect one thing (miniature soldiers), you collect two (military medals) or three things (books). This past Spring, he felt ill one day and died two weeks later. His widow is overwhelmed trying to deal with all the physical objects he left behind. She told me he had hundreds of pairs of socks that she gave away, then later had an intensely vivid dream that he demanded to know where his socks were. I remember my Mom having a dream where Dad came back, and it was as real to her as anything.

Books are how I meet these people. I’ll forget about the books in a few weeks. The people stick with me.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post Military Miniatures | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

December 19

Today was a day of lows and highs at Printed Page. A cold wind scoured the street; maybe that’s why we didn’t have any customers. Toward afternoon, an elderly couple came in wanting to sell some books.  Had to downsize, they said.  The books were in boxes roped together on a dolly with knots not seen outside a sailboat. The man carefully untied and unpacked them. The books were all common titles, well-worn mass market paperbacks…John Grisham, James Patterson, the kind of things that fill the shelves at Goodwills.  I felt so sorry for them having made such an obvious exertion to no productive end.  I found a Modern Library copy of “Out of Africa” and gave them as much as I could.  And while I told them I couldn’t speak for other book dealers, I said I didn’t think they would have any better luck selling the other books.  We loaded them back up, and off they went. It’s saddening to have to tell people their books have little value.

As it was getting dark, a guy from Mississippi named Dustin came in.  He wanted to know if the “Green Book” was real (it is).  We talked a while, and then he saw a book about juke joints.  He got excited.  “My daddy had a juke joint in Clay County Mississippi,” he said, and started thumbing through the book.  He turned a page, and there it was:  The L&N, complete with the bright green walls, the pool table, and the wall light made from an Old Milwaukee beer can.  “I gotta call my mama!” Dustin said, and he FaceTimed her.  Mama knew the book and the photographer well.  She said she had a copy once but lost it in a fire.  She told Dustin the book was hard to find and cost a lot.  He laughed and said, “I don’t want this man to know that!” but I did.  It was $150.  He told her goodbye. Then he sat in a chair, staring at the pictures, tears running down his face, reminiscing about his father.”You know what?” I said.  “I think you need this book more than I do.  Take it.”

He didn’t think I was serious.  “What?  You don’t mean it, right?”

“Take it.”

“I”m gonna send it to my mama,” he said.

“You do that. Tell her Merry Christmas.”

Some days are better than others.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post Juke Joints | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

I get to know a lot of people after it’s too late to meet them. Their books tell me who they were.

Go into a stranger’s house and look at their books, and you’ll come as close as possible to reading their mind. The other day, I got to meet Warren through the books his widow brought me.

She came with her daughter and granddaughter, a little uncomfortable in her situation and unsure about what she was doing. With her white gloves and purse, she reminded me of my grandmother. Her daughter guided her to a chair and then the daughter and I went through the books.

Warren loved books, particularly books about books. I know he loved them because he cared for them so well, fashioning custom covers for them from book-themed wrapping paper. He took care to leave information in his books: Where this one came from, what bindery re-bound that one. He had a lot of copies of “The Colophon,” a richly produced hardbound periodical from the Thirties that cost more per issue than a lot of people then made in a day.

I asked the daughter what she wanted for the books. She didn’t know. So I made an offer and she took it. I wrote a check to the widow. She seemed happy that someone else appreciated the books.

When I got them home and did some more research, I thought the books were worth more than I paid for them. So I wrote another check — two, actually. I had made the first one out to Warren. What was I thinking?

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post White Gloves and Old Books | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.

No kid in America ever dreams of growing up to be a bookseller, including me. I thought I was set for life with a career in corporate communication when I met a guy connected with one of Denver’s newspapers.

We were talking one day and he asked me if I liked books. I did. He said I should do book reviews, so I started doing that – and accumulating books.  My friend eventually drifted into book scouting. He would visit thrift stores and yard sales looking for books he could sell to used bookstores. He’d call me up on Monday mornings and tell me about his finds – a $50 book bought for 50 cents. A collection of Oz books for a buck apiece. A signed copy of “In Cold Blood” for a pittance. I was hooked. 

I started trying to understand what made books valuable.

By that time, my friend had opened a used bookstore, so I would try to find him books he could sell. I’d map out weekend garage sales and dash from one to the other. I likened my quest to fishing: Luck is involved, but so is skill.

Bookscouting was urban fishing. Sometimes I came home skunked. Sometimes, I came home with as many books as my car could hold.

I’d take my finds to my bookseller friend, and he would go through each book, telling me why this one was worthwhile, why that one wasn’t, why this one was a first edition, why that one was a cheap book club reprint. I came to remember details about books while forgetting details about other parts of my life. I read booksellers’ catalogs, books about books – anything I could get my hands on to learn more about the used book trade.

I became obsessed with finding books. I discovered ways to get into book sales before they opened. I started putting on book sales for non-profits just so I could get the first crack at the books. I started a publication that reviewed books so that I could get publishers to send me copies to review. I filled my library with books, then started on friends’ basements.

My turning point came in 2008. I reached my career objective when my wife got a great job. At the same time, the company I was working for was doing layoffs. I asked my boss to include me. He did.

I began my second career as a bookseller. I never felt better about what I was doing, never got more satisfaction from anything else I did, never lost sleep because of work, and never again had to sit through a damned PowerPoint presentation.

In the days ahead, I’ll tell you all about it.

– Dan Danbom
Printed Page Bookshop
printedpagebookshop.com | facebook.com/PrintedPageBookshop

The post Mild to Moderate Bibliomania | A Bookseller’s Diary appeared first on Yellow Scene Magazine.