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06-Nov-2015 10:01 by 3 Comments

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He looked down and mumbled thanks again, we shook hands, and he took the magazine and walked out of the store. The guy had fought bulls and written novels, had talked smack with Frank Sinatra, and seen the world by candlelight.He was now this older guy with a spotted scalp and uncertain shuffle heading for a bookstore exit door; a muleta disguised as a doily.

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I produced the magazine without further ceremony, and his face – I remember this very clearly – his face became minutely animated, threw off some sudden light. I thank you.” He was looking down, but I saw that he was not looking down at the magazine but at his own fumbling hands, it seemed.

I was one of three managers of the Earthling Bookshop at the time and knew Barnaby first as this somewhat weathered-looking, older gentleman-friend of the bookstore owners, Penny and Terry Davies (unofficial gatekeepers of the town’s shambling literary scene), and knew him next as a member of the mischievous, smart-ass writer’s salon that frequented the place and could often be found hanging about the store like loitering teenagers, cracking wise around the stone fireplace in the bookshop’s center, occasionally doing readings.

Shelley Lowenkopf, Paul Lazarus, Fran Halpern, Walt Hopmans, and the others, they comprised a sort of loose-knit family in the Earthling during that glowing epoch when a bookshop was a building which writers and readers would inhabit like the chummy congregants of a speakeasy.

By the early 70s, though, the unmediated energy of the City by the Bay began to wear him down. Having very publicly achieved both apogee and a measure of perigee, Conrad would settle into a period of what looked to this writer like a long-sought contentment, a twilight whose elegiac roseate glow yet suggested something of the fires and neon that had so characterized his peripatetic journey to that point. in the mid-90s to visit my brother and his family, I visited a nearby community center where the residents had been asked to empty their garages for charity.

He was a family man by then, and moved the clan to Santa Barbara, where in 1972 he contrived to convince a handful of top-tier authors to attend and help launch the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference (SBWC), Conrad schmoozing each with an unsecured promise of attendance by the others; a pyramid scheme of tactical flattery. The conference was off and running, its early Miramar Hotel years reportedly characterized by Olympian tippling (think Irwin Shaw roaring by lamplight in the wee-hours hotel bar) and other varieties of behind-the-scenes bedlam. He would reframe himself as a quiet, literary man-about-town, and headmaster of that erstwhile writer’s salon whose unofficial tree house was the Earthling Bookshop. On entering the place, I bee-lined for a nearby table piled high with old books and stacks of magazines, and on scanning the piles of stuff I saw Barnaby Conrad’s face staring up at me from the cover of a dusty magazine.

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