The Great Honey Hunt

The whole point of a random system is that you don’t have to choose—because you don’t get to choose—it’s like having a boss tell you what to do, and the freedom inherent in that. But I kept trying to pick my next, old, restaurant to write about, and I kept vetoing the random picks—for various reasons—didn’t appeal to me, in a city I have bad associations with, or the big one, the place no longer exists, and I can’t even find the address. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, anyway. Substack makes you look at your “stats”—when I started mine, with such optimism—thousands of views—which could only mean followers, likes, subscribers, a fast track to the paid version where I write about my sexual fantasies or something and the next thing you know, I’m on easy street. But this old restaurant business, no… By last week, I was down to ONE VIEW. Thank you, whoever. The reason I disabled any tracking on my website (well, besides, then, I don’t have to have that annoying message pop up that asks for permission to track you—because I don’t) is so that I can pretend that someone is actually reading stuff there.

Giving up momentarily on the random pick, I tried to watch TV, but the only two channels I get that show movies are playing a Western and a Biblical epic (because it’s Easter weekend, I guess), so I’m switching between the two in order to try to avoid that really long commercial where people have the giant blue plastic robot connected to their nose. It’s just desert and horses, in both of them, vaster and vaster desert, and more and more horses, grizzled, bearded guys, desert, and dust. Then a fight breaks out. Then more desert and horses. Bible movies and Westerns—same thing, I guess, with more interesting weapons in the Bible movies. The invention of guns was a real story-killer.

Walking around, earlier, I checked the menu at a place I used to eat, occasionally—years ago, to be fair, but still, it was kind of shocking—what I used to get for $6 is now $16. I let my appetite subside. Today (I’m writing this on Friday night) was the first day of summer, and everyone was out. People love sweating, I get it. There were some intriguing smells. So many little kids. The lockdown babies will be driving in a few short years. A 1960s Mustang with the top down drove by me, and I guess I was staring, a great looking car, and the driver acted like he was going to kick my ass—he just wanted to blend in, maybe? But it reminds me of a dream I had midweek where I was driving a convertible Mustang, like a madman, at dusk, lights on, trying to get to this public pool because someone had told me the bear I was taking care of had been acting up, so they gave it sedatives, and were now worried about the bear’s reaction to the drugs. Finally, I arrived, and there were lots of people around the pool, still, some still swimming. Beside the pool, near the deep end, there was the bear, reclining heavily but seeming to be okay. Relaxed from the drugs, I guess. No one was paying it any attention. I don’t know what kind of bear—black, brown? Anyway, huge, well over six feet when standing, four to five hundred pounds, a beautiful animal. But why was I in charge?

I woke that morning just glad that the dream meant I had fallen, at some point, not off the ship, but back to sleep. But what did it mean? I had not been thinking, reading, watching TV, or talking about bears, or convertible Mustangs, or swimming pools—there was no connection. Those are the best dreams, though, the ones that make you think you have actually traveled to different lands. There is a world beyond this one, and no one understands what it is! I mean, really, could there be anything more exciting than that?

Since I celebrated my 217th soap review, on my website, this week, I suppose it would be a good time to retrieve another from the archives (28 June 2017). Another mystery soap, enjoyed while cat sitting. I referred to it only as: Green Cube – “Hippie Legacy” – was baffled at the time, but in retrospect, I’m wondering if it wasn’t an olive oil soap with laurel oil. Regardless, here’s the review:

Another odd shape—square, brick-like—but it's huge and very rounded at the edges, suggesting that it might have once been so big that it took two people to carry it into the bathroom (and creates a whole different concern about dropping the soap in the shower). This one has a more discernible smell than the others; it's kind of mossy and plant-like and really brings to mind something that hippies would like because it's totally natural—pleasantness be damned—kind of like when vegetables have had too much time in your drain strainer. Is there a slight essence of patchouli?—or am I just imaging that because I'm thinking about hippies using this soap (but sparingly—somewhat in conflict about using soap at all). Maybe this soap cube has been passed down from one generation of hippies to the next, which would make it kind of old, and kind of neglected. —Soap Review No. 4

—Randy Russell 4.20.25

Pink Moon

NO DOUBT influenced by the today’s Pink Moon, my magic ticker happened to fall on the legendary Scottsdale, Arizona landmark, the Pink Pony, which originally opened in 1947, then moved to its present location in 1970—well it’s closed for good now, I guess. A lot of info on its re-opening, re-closing, again, etc., kind of hard to tell—I’ve got a dozen tabs open—it feels like unstable, unreliable time travel. Sounds like when the place first opened it was the only thing in Scottsdale besides desert—dirt roads, etc.—it was quite a hike to Phoenix—until they both swelled like wine stains on a linen tablecloth and became one and the same. (Glendale, too—do all the Glendales ever get together?) The most recent Pink Pony location looks really cool—and ready for a new tenant. Since I just got the notification, here, that my rent is going up (rather bad timing), I’m looking for a place to move, so why not Scottsdale? (Scott is my middle name, after all.) I could rent the old Pink Pony location and open a throwback bar, serve only pink cocktails, and sleep in the back. But then, out of curiosity, I looked up the weather—96 degrees! (Saturday at 6pm). In April? How is it that everyone moved to this town? I know people really love hot weather, but do people love AC nine months of the year? I do not. So, what next. I noticed that the newfangled coffee shop in the former Dentice Sausage closed (corner of Jackson and Pleasant, in Milwaukee)—so, keeping it here in town where the weather is sane—I’ll check the rent there, and maybe troll for investors. Maybe it’s time for me to put on the Big Boy Pants, figure out on which side to butter my bread, and learn to make the sausages—literally—meaning not literally. Maybe a Big Boy franchise would work, with a Friday Fish Fry, coupled with a sewing and crafts store, coffee shop, and art gallery!

Failing that, my new novel, Around Desire, will soon be out, official release date is the Strawberry Full Moon 2025 (11 June), and if everyone reading this pre-ordered it, and forwarded this post to 10 people who then forwarded to 10 people, and so forth, well, no curse will fall on any of you! Or… you can buy the eBook NOW (follow that link) for $3.99—the price of half a cup of coffee. Well, my coffee cup is half full because I’m confident readers will embrace the sheer excitement and disturbing situations portrayed within its pages. I have no illusions that it’s the best book ever written, but I’m predicting that future critics will place it approximately between “Mockingbird” and “Gatsby,” with a little coaxing. My false modesty has not served me in the past, so it’s time for a new approach.

I find that whenever I finish a big project (say, several years of work) and it’s finally done (let’s say, a novel), when I finally hold it in my hands in its physical form (or, even, e-version) the whole thing then just turns to dust. It crumbles, reduces to dust, the breeze picks up, and it’s gone. There is nothing. I’ve experienced this depressing state in the past, so it’s no big news to me, but still, it’s hard to take. Nothing in the world helps, either, except for working on something new. So much for retirement.

Speaking of which, no possible retirement from wages, as well—in fact, I’m just thankful that that’s even still an option. As dire as things look, lately, last week I strongly considered falling back on drinking and the attendant looming demise. I could become a “rummy,” I thought (still gluten-free)—do people still use that term? It seems charmingly dated, if not quite charming. I mean, possibly more grim than even the sweet wine. My brand would be, like, Cap’n Ron’s Leakin’ Lifeboat 621 Overproof. Which brings us to a sparkling water review, from the archives.

Waterloo – Pineapple

Water Review No. 5 – 9.6.22

The only thing I like better than pineapple is nothing. The fruit, the image, the symbol—pineapple is weird and complex and fun. To be honest, there are a few things I like better: books, pumpkins, and cats. But that’s about it. The problem is, since I quit eating sugar, most sweet things taste ten times as sweet—too sweet, and no longer edible. So, I can’t really eat pineapple, or drink pineapple juice. The piña colada was once my favorite cocktail—back when I ate sugar (and, of course, drank rum). But that’s a seriously sweet cocktail, especially if you use cream of coconut, which is really sweet. The only part of that cocktail that’s not sweet is the ice—and if you use 151 proof rum, that cuts it down a little. So, anyway, this Waterloo Pineapple Sparkling Water tastes exactly like pineapple—no complaints there. It’s a good one. Then it occurred to me how good this would be with rum—like a really dry white rum of impeccable quality. Or, how about this. Mix part this water, part coconut flavored sparking water (I know it’s out there), and rum—and now you have a not-too-sweet piña colada! Then it occurred to me—I’d better watch out—this sparking water business could very well be a slippery slope.

—Randy Russell 4.13.25

Betty’s Home Cooking

I have three editions of Roadfood, by Jane and Michael Stern, which might seem excessive, but—I just looked it up—there have been ten editions published—the most recent in 2017. You have to think that must be about it—they’re both nearing 80, I believe—and just the traveling… not to mention the sausage gravy. Maybe they have people assisting them now—I haven’t seen the latest. At any rate, I am using the oldest edition, 1977, for my purposes—more time travel than travel. Betty’s Home Cooking was in my hometown, Sandusky, Ohio—I’m not sure how long it stayed open, but it didn’t make it into the next edition. It’s an entertaining review—this was a storefront diner, with diner food—and they found a lot to like (but criticized the pies). I don’t remember if I ever ate there. I was in high school when this book came out, and the only diner I remember going to, in downtown Sandusky, was Markley’s—and that was because my dad went there. I didn’t start getting interested in diners, really, until being a regular at Jerry’s Diner, in Kent, Ohio, in 1981. After that I became a diner fanatic. I am a diner fanatic to this day.

According to the internet, there still is a storefront diner at this location (325 W. Market Street, Sandusky, Ohio) called the Port Sandusky Family Restaurant—which is good news! I imagine it’s not unlike Betty’s Home Cooking. I’m sure the regulars could straighten me out on that—tell me the progression of greasy spoons that thrived in this location over the years. I know I’ve eaten at one of them—maybe it was the Port Sandusky. It’s in the heart of downtown, just around the corner from the famously haunted Rieger Hotel—which now may be a senior living place—though they have no website. I guess you just show up there with your good intentions. It is one of my ambitions to move there, I’ll admit. No wiser words were ever said than “you can’t go home again”—but I think that means don’t show up for breakfast and expect your mom to make you scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast with grape jelly—especially if your mom has passed on, the childhood home has been sold, and there’s bird flu. Anyway, it doesn’t mean you can’t move back to the town where you were born. Especially if you remember where you hid the loot.

I heard, last week, that Michael Hurley died, which made me sad. He was old, but not that old, especially because he kept playing, kept recording. I only saw him play once and I would have liked to again. I first heard of him when Andy McCormick gave me a cassette of some of his music, which I loved—thanks, Andy! You can spend some fine afternoons watching Hurley videos that fans recorded and posted—no one else like him. I feel like I have to admit this—but this is the only time I’m going to come clean—I roughly based a character on him. (It’s in my upcoming novel, Around Desire.) I’d never met him, so it’s entirely my imagination, what he’d be like—and it’s a character—so, it goes without saying it’s fiction, a composite, and not intended to be connected directly to Michael Hurley—but he was my starting place. I love my characters, and I love Michael Hurley’s music, so there you go. Also, I wrote brief reviews of a few of his records while cat-sitting in the “North Woods”—so I just might include one here—if there’s one where I’m not just complaining about the lack of internet service. Okay. This one is on my DJ Farraginous site and is from December 27, 2017.

Michael Hurley – Parsnip Snips

Normally I would never put on a record called Parsnip Snips, but seeing how this is a Michael Hurley record and I'm a big fan of Michael Hurley, I know that it will more likely be the naked, dirty, hippie with a sense of humor experience than the deadly serious, naked, dirty hippie experience, which pretty much sums up why I like some hippie shit and not others. A sense of humor is crucial, and that goes for all entertainers, as well as dentists, co-workers, friends, family, and countrymen. Not that Michael Hurley isn't serious sometimes, and that's when he's better, but humor is the foundation. It says these songs were recorded on a Wollensak between 1965 and 1972—that would have been a portable, open reel tape recorder. So, naturally, it sounds like he's over there on the other side of the room, right now. That's even before I started recording, at age 12. (This is how old I am: my first tape recorder was a portable, open reel recorder (pre-cassette)—not sure if it was a Wollensak.) Too bad this guy wasn't hanging around the neighborhood—he'd probably been a better mentor than the old guy who got us to shoplift for him. If I recall correctly, he's lived all over, East and West, out in the sticks, mostly. This LP is on Mississippi Records, which would sound Deep South except the address is 4007 N. Mississippi, Portland, Oregon, which, if I recall correctly, is Deep Hipster.

Michael Hurley used to play at the bar across the street from where I lived in Portland (he probably still does—I'm the one that moved away). By the time I realized I should go see him, I could no longer tolerate being in a bar, in the evening, at all. For me, nighttime is not the right time. You'd think I'd be able to deal with it, for a guy like this, who is the very opposite of the spectrum of BluesHammer, but no. Bars have evolved, but it's still drunks, just a younger generation drinking much better beer, which is also much stronger, and much sweeter—essentially the craft beer movement has given us a new generation of sweet wine alcoholics—it's just now, instead of Night Train and Thunderbird, it's Flying Raccoon Butternut Squash Porter. This album is really, really good by the way; don't mind my diatribes. I pretty much love Michael Hurley (except when he's cawing like a crow; I don't even like crows when they're cawing like crows; but I suppose that's his version of Bob Dylan's harmonica). I've gone semi-colon crazy in this review, the influence, perhaps, of the first song on the record, “You're a Dog; Don't Talk to Me”—maybe the only time I've seen a semi-colon in a song title, and it works!

—Randy Russell 4.6.25

Not of This Earth

Today’s Sunday Memo is an excerpt from my weekly Substack newsletter called: Love Me Avenue. You can subscribe for free, if you’d like. The title, here, Not of This Earth refers to the 1957 movie by that name. I believe there was a remake (maybe two) with the same title—I can’t vouch for those movies, but this 1957 one scared me as much as any movie, when I was a kid. There’s a space alien named Johnson—the movie is about him—and ever since, that quite common name always reminds me of this movie. The guidebook restaurant I’m referring to is called Pine Wood Inn.

This restaurant listing, in my 1950 guidebook, is pretty uninspiring—that’s the beauty of the random pick! I used to drop a magic marker on a map to decide where I was going to move to. Well, it never worked out. Open summers only, the Pine Wood Inn and Cottages was in New Durham, New Hampshire—in my opinion, that’s one too many News, in the destination (no News is good news). If it’s still there, it’s well-camouflaged—or else has turned into a place called: Johnson’s. (The naturalistic illustration in the book does resemble Johnson’s.) (No Howard in evidence.) At any rate, Johnson’s looks great, it seems to cover all the bases—seafood, steak, ice cream, beer, nachos. What else is there to do in town? Well, I’m guessing there’s fishing (there’s always fishing), and whittling, but it doesn’t look like there’s anywhere to stay. I’ve got to say, except for Johnson’s—not the most welcoming spot! At least according to my internet map. Don’t confuse it with Durham, NH, which is nearby, and bigger. People would often confuse my hometown, Sandusky, with Upper Sandusky, Ohio—not the same place at all! Sugar “Kane” Kowalczyk is from Sandusky, and Cathy Timberlake is from Upper Sandusky—which is up river from Sandusky, not north of, as some people assume. Before there was GPS, people would sometimes make that mistake and end up drowned in Lake Erie.

No recipe, except for this recipe for despair. I’m not talking about the federal buffoonery news, but that, too. But here at home, I have a new book coming. It’s a novel, again self-published. The title: Around Desire. Once the advance copies arrive, I’m finally faced with the stark reality that the project is over—and now it’s my responsibility to try to find readers for it. Besides being ill-equipped for that, there’s also the question of space. (I won’t mention money, because I still believe it causes as many problems as it solves—but debt is just the other side of that dark coin.) I live in a hotel room (I do pay by the month—it’s a residence hotel) and it’s small, like just over 200 square feet, I guess. Kitchenette with no counters. I share my bed with my small art collection, hundreds of records, sparkling water to sample, a box of bar soaps yet to write about, lots and lots of books, my office, art studio and supplies, cameras and abandoned video projects, a few guitars, way too many clothes and twice that many shoes, all the things I’ve saved from my childhood, an AC unit (see, I’m not complaining), five fans (I need them, I’m on the third floor, facing south), boxes of collage materials, boxes of collages, several sealed time capsules, bags of sock monkeys, a carload of fabric and sewing materials, five coffee makers, a live bamboo in water, two golden pineapples with no function, and… quite a few copies of my last four books. When the new books arrive, the increased density will likely force me below the waterline.

So, here’s an idea that could work. If anyone would like to buy a copy of any one of my four previous books (look under the “MEDIA” tab), I’ll send a signed copy—and then when the new book is out, I’ll send a signed copy for free! Contact me by whichever way suits you.

—Randy Russell 3.30.25

50-Cup Coffee Pot

Just the name of the place—Riverside Lodge and Ranch—creeps me out. As does the location, according to my 1950 guidebook: “12 miles up St. Vrain Canyon,” outside of Lyons, Colorado. Which is a stone’s throw from Hygiene. I don’t know why it all gives me the heebie-jeebies, but I’ve got to honor my random pick. Without an exact address, it’s hard to tell if the place is still there, or if there’s a similar lodge or ranch there now—it was along the river, so it might have been washed away in a flood, like that bad one in 2013. Lyons is not remotely near Penrose, home of Estes Model Rockets (not Estes Park), which I mention because I mysteriously received one of their 2025 catalogs in the mail, which is almost exactly the same as the 1973 catalog I still have. If something works, why change it? Lyons is about halfway between Boulder and Estes Park, so I’ve likely driven through there a couple of times, including an epic vacation when I was seven, with Brady Bunch-level weirdness that included me passing out atop Pikes Peak, a massive hailstorm in Estes Park, and seeing a space alien at the Garden of the Gods. The scariest thing, however, was watching The Haunting (1963 version) on TV in the motel room.

Even more strange, I predicted, at the time, that I’d write a fictional account of the parallel lives of two characters during a global pandemic. No, I didn’t. I didn’t predict that. I’m sure I didn’t even predict being 65 years old. It was my goal to schedule the release date of my new novel, titled: Around Desire, on the five-year anniversary—which was last week—of our very real pandemic lockdown. I remember that last day of work (at my job at the time) like it was surreal yesterday. But, anyway, the book will be available soon. The crucial thing, for me, is that once I finish the final draft of something, the next day, I’m working on something new. I can’t imagine any other way. I could just put finished writing in a box, I suppose, but I’m excited to have people read this new novel, because I feel like it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. Naturally, I always say that.

I am not going to re-type an entire recipe (I’m too lazy!) but this one is pretty good. The Riverside was only open June 15 to September 15, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—with “Chuck Wagon Dinner” every Thursday! It starts with them burning a huge pile of hay. Then, on the coals, they cook sweetcorn, T-bone steaks, and baked beans, while “cowboy biscuits” bake in a Dutch oven. Most significant, simmering over the coals is a “50-cup coffee pot!” All this is served with a “fresh mountain-grown vegetable salad, preserves, pickles, and dessert.” I’m a little disappointed that, with all that description, they don’t get more specific on the dessert. It could be anything (even Jell-O), so I’m just going to insert a favorite from my mom’s recipe box: “Candlelight Salad.” “Bring to boil 1 can Eagle Brand (sweetened condensed milk) in water to cover. Reduce heat and simmer for 3 hours. Keep adding water as needed. Chill can in refrigerator for 12 hours. When ready to make salad open each end of can and push cooked milk out. Slice into six slices. Arrange lettuce leaf on salad plate. Add one slice pineapple and one slice cooked milk. Arrange ½ banana into center of pineapple. Top with whipped cream or mayonnaise and maraschino cherry.” If you can picture that. What I really want to see is that 50-cup coffee pot.

Another new sparkling water review this week, on the Water page—so I’ll also include an old one, here, from the archives— Polar – Black Cherry, from way back in September 2022—and it’s a review that includes an addendum—which is about the invention of the Black Cow cocktail! Wait, you say… there already is a Black Cow. Well, that may be true—there are several. But this one, here on Love Me Avenue, is the best.

Polar – Black Cherry

Water Review No. 4 – 9.16.22

I’ve had a few Polar Seltzers—and they’re an older company, apparently, in Worcester, Massachusetts—a town I’d move to in a second (if I had a job there) just because it’s a good diner town. Well, there are several diners, and I’ve only been to one, the Boulevard Diner, but it’s a great one. It’s long been my goal to visit them all—and try all the Polar varieties—so relocation seems imminent—just waiting for that job offer. For some reason “Black Cherry” sounds so much tastier than “Cherry”—but maybe that’s because I absolutely despise Cherry Coke (an aside: Dr. Pepper is not cherry cola—it’s its own thing—and I like it—but another discussion). Perhaps my revulsion is because I had a job where I had to use a cherry scented toilet cleaner. I’m afraid the association persists. But also, I just think cherry and cola go together like ice cream and mayonnaise. And I love cherries—a childhood neighbor had cherry trees where we spent a lot of time, climbing and eating. But one taste of this seltzer and—no. Gross. Sorry. Right to the bottom of the list. Well, we all need a basement—if for nothing else than a place to bury the bodies.

Addendum: I made an extra, small espresso one day and had put it in the refrigerator. Later, I got an idea: I poured it in a large glass, then filled it with this black cherry sparkling water—it foamed up impressively—it looked like the head on a glass of stout. And the shocking thing: it was delicious. For some reason, the coffee and cherry interact in a pleasant way that enhances them both. I’m sure I’m not the first to try this, but I’ll pretend I am, and now I have a new drink! I’m going to call it a “Black Cow.”

—Randy Russell 3.23.25

Chicken Country Captain

A recipe from the Blue Moon Inn, apt, for a week in which the full moon (Worm) gave me such weird dreams that I was afraid to write them down and have anyone find them after my demise. But… Blue Moon Inn! That’s such a good name, there’s got to be at least one in every state, but this one, that the random chooser selected in the 1950 guidebook was famous and well-loved, and I saw a “Once In A Blue Moon Cookbook,” featuring recipes from the Inn, for sale, online, and it costs a fortune! Kind of surprising, since you can’t sell cookbooks anymore. Or maybe they’re making a comeback, which they should, since online recipes are always annoying. The restaurant was in Montgomery, Alabama, and is long gone—it might have had several locations, even, but it’s no more. The address from the guidebook shows a kind of amazing-looking small house—but who knows how accurate that is. The street it was on (Goode) had since been renamed Edgar D. Nixon Avenue, in honor of civil rights leader, E. D. Nixon. Another address shows a vacant lot. There was a Blue Moon Café (probably not related, except for the Southern cooking) that is also gone. I’ve never been to Montgomery—and I’m not even sure if I’ve been to Alabama—the times I’ve traveled south, I passed through Mississippi and Georgia, so probably not. It’s 70 degrees and sunny, there, right now—which I think most people would agree is beautiful weather. This morning I woke up to snow, here, which delighted me—though I can get hardly anyone to agree about that. While snow in May is a bit much, I certainly love the weirdness of the April snow, and snow in March always used to be expected, but anymore, it feels like a winter bonus. The Blue Moon Inn, which had been open for over 30 years in 1950, was closed on Sundays (well, it’s the South) and also closed for the month of August. I’m guessing that kitchen got pretty hot.

That cookbook looks intriguing—someone is selling it for $115! (there are cheaper ones). A lot of these recipes in the old guidebooks, I want nothing to do with, but this one fascinates me—it’s called “Chicken Country Captain.” I might be the only one who took over 60 years to come upon Country Captain (it’s big in the South), but this is the first I’ve heard of it! Country Captain could be an oddball character, somewhere, or maybe it would make a good band name, though I’m sure it already is one. It looks like a labor-intensive curry chicken in a tomato sauce with green peppers and onions and a lot of spices. It looks like it’ll take a couple of hours to cook—I mean, if you like chicken—it’s cut, rolled, fried (in deep fat), browned, soaked, simmered, poured-over, and added to—pretty much everything but stuck in a corner with a miniature hat and made to orate by way of the ventriloquist’s “thrown voice.” Not that anyone would do that, but when you give your meat a character name, then spend such quality time with it, why not. What I’m wondering is, if there’s a “quick country captain” recipe out there—and of course there is—but it’s on an annoying website—to get to the recipe, you have to first “like” their band, Country Captain, then read a story, watch a video, sign up for a newsletter, and dodge about 15 popping up ads.

So… all that made me hungry, so I attempted my own version of (quick) “Country Captain”—altering the recipe, of course, in order to adjust for certain conditions (gluten-free, not having the called-for ingredients, price, time). What I’ve come up with, naturally, is quite a bit different—and is more like… potato soup. But very delicious! I’m a terrible cook because I break too many rules. At the same time, I just massively broke the rules for filling out my “March Madness” brackets (so that I can participate in the office pool and be a “regular guy”). I did this by making my picks before, even, the teams have been announced! It’s 4:45 pm CST. I’m sure that I will prevail.

—Randy Russell 3.16.25

Trees, Vines and Bushes

Here’s an excerpt from my weekly, Substack, newsletter, called Love Me Avenue. You can subscribe HERE, and never miss an edition, no matter substitute mail carriers and nonexistent paper delivery people and paywalls and robot messages reminding you that you should be ashamed for getting something for free. At least, that is, until the greed sets in here on the Loveboat.

The Coffee Shop

Random destination is the Culinary Institute of America and a collegiate course called “Coffee Shop,” in which the students run a diner called “The Coffee Shop”—trading off duties of cooking, cleaning, and dishwashing—ensuring an absurdly high level of quality in all areas—in other words, how all restaurants should be run. As described by Jane and Michal Stern in the 1977 edition of Roadfood. The Sterns, no strangers to the hit and miss nature of the “greasy spoon,” found this culinary oddball to be a surreal experience—and were we to use our time machine, so would we—especially as far as prices go, compared to today. You can find some old, archived menus on the C.I.A. website—amusing—coffee 25 cents, pie 55 cents, etc. I decided I had to pick one fancy item suited for my diet, so I landed on: “Trees, Vines and Bushes”—seasonal fruit with their own sherbet, or yogurt, or cottage cheese, and their own dressing—for a whopping $2.25. I didn’t go so far as to examine their current course of study (or tuition), so I’m not sure if they still have the diner course or not (maybe someone will let me know), or if they have courses in restaurant politics, and dealing with substance abusing co-workers, etc. The map of the area, along the Hudson River and Highway 9, near Hyde Park, NY (just north of Poughkeepsie) shows no less than six restaurants on campus, with various themes—and also a student cafeteria called “The Egg.” Egg is a really funny word—and it’s also a versatile food. As chicken eggs have eclipsed caviar, price-wise anyway, I’ve temporarily altered my everyday menu. Tofu is and always will be a funny word, as well. We might be the last generation who ate eggs at diners (as well as the last who remember diners). But I won’t continue with this pessimism, for now.

Young people rarely (i.e., never) ask me for advice, due to my lack of success (most people assume they can figure out how to be a loser on their own), but were they to, I’d recommend going to some kind of college related to what they want to do—as much as anything, for making contacts that will help them out, post-school. Everyone knows that, though (well, I didn’t), but how to decide what you want to do—and to pay for tuition? Don’t ask me, kids! Maybe learn skills that will still be skills after the ridiculous pace of technological change makes so many skills obsolete. Cutting hair, for instance—hair continues to grow. Try to predict what might have a “comeback,” like actual drums, and written language. And you could do worse than learning everything about cooking, and I’m guessing there are many fine schools—some, even, close by. This C.I.A. looks interesting, to me—and it’s funny they call it CIA, which is also the name of a band (plus a few other bands), and the California Institute of Abnormalarts, and the U.S. government Central Intelligence Agency—who, like Subway, are “always hiring.” Though, I guess, soon to become the A.I.A. Anyway, chef school—you could do worse. If it doesn’t get you a job, it’s still true that the way to a man (and/or woman’s) heart (and, by extension, pants) is through their stomach… so there’s always that.

And if anyone knows where I can get an order of Trees, Vines and Bushes—locally, and preferably for delivery—on a Sunday evening, let me know.

—Randy Russell 3.9.25

Old Virginia Corn Cakes

Hotel Rueger / Hotel Raleigh

What’s in a name? Dumb question—everything, of course! My random traveling destination from my 1950 “Treasury of Famous Eating Places” is “Hotel Rueger” in Richmond, Virginia—but in the revised (1955) version of the same book, the establishment is now called “Hotel Raleigh”—I’m sure there’s a story there, but it might be no more interesting than money changing hands. The scary thing is always checking to see what’s there now—might be a depressing parking garage, or a modern office building—same difference. But… it looks like—still there! One wonders how many more name changes transpired in the last 70 years but, at any rate, now it’s called The Commonwealth—and the crucial thing, there’s still a restaurant—and it’s called Rueger’s. I’ve never visited Richmond, but should the opportunity arise, I’ll have no trouble finding this place—it’s right across from the State Capitol (which is, in turn, across from the Capitol Waffle Shop). The hotel is likely haunted, and the restaurant menu boasts grits—$5—which puts it in my price range.

The drawing in the guidebook is somewhat bland, but the description tells us there used to be an oyster bar, established in 1846, and it was a favorite “stopping place” for Edgar Allan Poe! If the image of Edgar Allan Poe eating oysters isn’t exciting enough for you, here’s the Hotel’s recipe for “Old Virginia Corn Cakes”—“3 eggs, 1 pint milk, 1 pound water-ground corn meal, unbolted, ½ teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon baking powder, 1 cup melted lard.” Which you mix, naturally, and cook on a hot griddle greased with bacon rind. And that happens to be remarkably close to what I had for breakfast this morning—except for no eggs (too pricey), no milk (intolerance), no lard (that’s just gross), and my corn meal was bolted. And I didn’t grease my griddle with bacon rind, but rather, butter. I probably like butter too much. You know when people describe certain things that “melt in your mouth like butter?” You know what else melts in your mouth? Butter.

I was sad to hear that David Johansen passed away this week. He was one of my favorite people to ever approach a microphone. So, rather than a random selection from the archives, I am including this ancient review (from my DJ FARRAGINOUS site) of his first (1978) solo record. This writeup is from 18 August 2007—and even though I’m a different person, now (molecularly—2 and half times), I’ll stand by it (though my fav, now, is “Donna”) and happily post it here without further editing.

David Johansen “David Johansen”

I still think of this as one of my favorite records of all time, but that has to be partly due to going to see him at the Cleveland Agora not long after this record came out in 1978. I was 18 and could go to a bar, and this was the first time I saw a band I really liked at a bar (rather than a concert venue) and I was amazed at how close to the stage I could get. I hadn't ever really listened to the New York Dolls, and from the pictures on the album cover, I expected the band to be wearing pretty much all black leather-- so I was pretty shocked when David Johansen came out wearing an all bright yellow suit with matching hat and started dancing around like a maniac. It was a great show, maybe my favorite rock show ever-- the energy was overwhelming to me.

So, over the years since, I STILL get the feeling back from these songs. The interesting thing is that I have changed my favorite songs over the years. I'm sure of that. The geekiest thing I can think of to do right now would be to rank the songs (all of which I really like) according to how I feel about them NOW. But I won't do that. Okay (from least to favorite): 9. Lonely Tenement 8. Pain In My Heart 7. Girls 6. Cool Metro 5. I'm a Lover 4. Donna 3. Not That Much 2. Funky But Chic 1. Frenchette. I could go on and on about these songs forever, but I won't. (I'm sure this was the first time I ever heard a CONCEPT like "I'm in love with you daddy, but not that much.")

It's no secret that the New York Dolls are my favorite rock'n'roll band of all time, but by the time I listened to them they were in the distant past. I suppose this record might have been a disappointment to Dolls fans, the cover and back cover pictures are kind of screaming "I'm not in drag!" But for me at the time, nothing seemed cooler than that pack of Lucky Strikes sitting on the floor. The band picture on the inner sleeve is hilarious-- the band looks like the cast of "Mean Streets"-- well, the one guy looks just like young Bill Wyman. My favorite is the bass player, Buzz Verno (nicknamed definitely NOT after his haircut) who, live, as I recall, was wearing a couple of huge white leather belts, hanging down low. The two guitarists look pretty much the same-- which is always a nice look for a band. It says a "Joe Perry" played on Cool Metro (as well as Sylvain Sylvain)-- and if it was THAT Joe Perry, I'm wondering if there was a contest that day in the studio for protruding cheekbones and puckered lips.

Anyway, I think this is a record that I'll ALWAYS be able to listen to. (I'm kind of sad I don't have his next one, "In Style" which is pretty good, too.) I know it's personal, though, and has to do with circumstances. Every time I listen to a New York Dolls record I think about that.

—Randy Russell 3.2.25

Love Me Avenue

Does it make any sense at all to write and post a Substack, on Sunday evenings, and then post a somewhat re-written version of it here? Don’t answer that—I’m used to zero feedback when I ask these questions—and I don’t want to freak out. Okay. No. It makes no sense whatsoever. Thank you. You’re welcome. Like I said, this is a “work in progress.” Right. After all, they might start showing Columbo on Sunday nights, again, and that would mean rescheduling. I’ll keep that in mind.

—Randy Russell 2.23.25

Parry Lodge

I kind of imagine driving around in a magic RV (easy to park, exceptional gas milage), following the whims of the magic location picker—this time, a town I’d never heard of, Kanab, Utah, and a place called Parry Lodge, which is still open. The 1950 guidebook shows a not-useful illustration (looks like a house, with trees), and at that time it was closed from December 1st to April 15th. A lot of places used to totally shut down in the winter—maybe the economics were such that the owners could head to southern regions for several months off. You’d imagine that each closed-down property might require a winter caretaker—which would have been the perfect job for me—solitude, lots of time to write, and naturally I would be trusted not to break into the liquor storage and have a chat with the ghost bartender! I suppose most places can stay open, now, due to industrial snow removal, milder winters, increased popularity of tobogganing, and the necessity to keep the dollars rolling in. Parry Lodge looks to be very well-preserved, like an old timewarp motel. I’d probably like it, and it’s enticing kidney-shaped pool. If you like rock formations and Western souvenirs, this is your spot. There is perhaps less than universal acceptance of non-heterosexual people, and even a history of bans on singles, swingers, bikinis, and Speedos—so maybe that pool isn’t so enticing. But still, worth a stop for the charming-looking coffee shop and a stack o’ wheatcakes (rendered on their website, though I don’t see on the menu?).

Exactly the same temp (25 degrees) in Kanab as Milwaukee today. I’m about to make oatmeal and a second cup of coffee. We had some terrific snow, but I was disappointed in being unable to frolic (i.e., go for a walk) in it, due to being sick. Not too sick, fortunately, because I’ve used this weekend to tackle the big decision about starting the (self) publishing process for my new novel, which is titled: Around Desire. The decision is only hard because of: “Can I afford it.” I haven’t chosen the cheapest self-publishing options, but the ones that (hopefully) allow me to stay (relatively) sane and move on as quickly as possible to the next thing I’m writing. This book might be it, the last I can afford. It looks like, at this point, my finished writing might exceed my ability to make it available (at least in printed form). But I suppose that’s better than the other way around—sitting here typing endless pages with nothing but “All work no play…” and bouncing a tennis ball off the wall.

The recipe in the guidebook is for “Pot Roast”—which I’ve never made—seems like something could go horribly wrong. It calls for a “5-pound beef roast” which seems unimaginable. Recently, I’ve replaced eggs with tofu. I guess I’m gearing up for the Soylent Green era, coming soon. The recipe says to serve the Pot Roast with “noodles or pineapple fritters.” You can’t do both? And… pineapple fritters? Canned pineapple must have been a big hit around 1950. I mean, it sounds good—I just never would have thought that was a traditional accompaniment to pot roast. How about potatoes? That’s why I like checking out these old recipes.

—Randy Russell 2.16.24

The Tivoli

A version of this “memo” is on my weekly Substack newsletter called Love Me Avenue—you can subscribe to it, if you’d like. I forgot to add that the illustration (a painting by Charles W. Moss) in the guidebook, shows the modest Tivoli dining room with a smorgasbord setup in the background. In the foreground there’s man by himself at a table—there alone? No, a woman’s purse sits by the other chair—so she’s either in the little girl’s room, or more likely, getting food at the buffet. So why is this guy sitting there with no food and a forlorn look? Smorgasbord too exotic for him? Or are they quarreling? Whatever did Moss have in mind?

I’d heard of this place (probably from the 1950 guidebook) but never ate there—and I’m not sure how long it lasted—it might not have even been possible without the time machine—but anyway, it was close by (an hour or so drive from where I grew up) on Monroe Street in Toledo, Ohio. Online map indicates that its former location is now a Kroger parking lot. Oh well, there are worse things it could be—like… a pit leading to Hell. The restaurant, which featured a smorgasbord, was named (by its Danish owners) after the Tivoli Gardens in Denmark, one of the world’s oldest and most popular amusement parks. Interesting that I grew up near one of the oldest and most popular amusement parks in the U.S., and my favorite restaurant was the San-Dar Smorgasbord in Bellville, Ohio (about the same distance away as Toledo)—and let me tell you, this was no Shakey’s Buffet. It was very old-fashioned, and you could load up on the frogs’ legs, if you desired. It had a dessert table to die for (if it didn’t kill you first)—it was beautiful, like Jackie Gleason as Minnesota Fats—and I could eat wheat, then, too. What we did go to Toledo for was Smoker’s Inn, a place where I used to buy some fine pipe tobacco—one called MacGregor’s that I was obsessed with, and still am, since I can’t nail down the essence—really, to its fullest extent, at least. I’m not even sure if that’s spelled right—but it’s long gone, anyway. I could smoke, back then, too.

I’m fighting post-project depression (not that bad, really, I suppose, since it’s overshadowed by new fascist government horrific shitshow nausea depression)—still, you can’t get entirely out of your selfish head. Why? Oh, because I finished my novel (still not giving up the title). That was four of five years of really enjoyable hard work. Last week was four or five days of hair-pulling frustration, trying to write a synopsis. If you want me to write you a novel, sure, why not, or if you want me to help you move, glad to. But for the love of God don’t ever ask me to write a synopsis! Oh no, I just noticed that Super Bowl 19 is underway, and people will be arriving soon for the party! No time to proofread this, sorry! Under eight minutes to go it the first quarter (this is being written in real time, Dad!) and I’ve still got to clean my toilet and start the crab dip aging! Fortunately, it’s BYOB, but the savvy guest will bring me a sparkling water I haven’t yet tried. Good luck, there! On the other hand, I was just kidding. No one’s coming over. “Fox” (TV station) stopped coming in (except for a little graphic that says “No Signal”). Really? I live in a city, last I checked. So, I’ve missed the Chief’s historic comeback. No Superbowl party. No aged crab dip or ranch casserole. The toilet still needs to be cleaned.

—Randy Russell 2.9.25

Peckett’s-on-Sugar Hill

The guidebook (1950) describes Peckett’s as an “inn,” three daily meals, open May 15 to November. Though it seems like skiing must have been a reason to venture—it’s way up there in Sugar Hill (near Franconia) New Hampshire—closer to Mt. Washington (windiest place on Earth) than any real city, and relatively close to Canada. It seems to have evolved into a wedding destination—amazing it’s still there—but then it sounds like beautiful area. The uninspired guidebook illustration shows a rambling structure with a golf course in the foreground—oddly the pin (flagstick) is placed in a cup (hole) that’s in a bunker (sand trap)! No one said that artists had to be golfers. Even so, I wouldn’t mind visiting this place—as long as it wasn’t for a wedding (mosquitos, obnoxious DJ, someone drinking too much). I wonder what the weather is like right now? (14 degrees, cloudy, moderate wind—snow on its way.)

I am making the choice not to name the specific guidebooks that I’m randomly picking my imaginary destinations from, from now on, just because the guidebooks are sponsored by companies (such as tobacco and canned soup vendors, and automobile makers) that I’d possibly find support intolerant and fascist regimes, were I to legitimately research—so, I’d rather not quote the names—they don’t need my advertising, anyway. I mean, these books go way back—half a century or more—and contain no political content (though occasionally some offensive stereotypes via the art department). But anyway, if anyone really wants my specific guidebook source, just email me. In the future, I might also use some of my old Jane and Michael Stern books—so I might mention those, since I love the Sterns—but it’ll be a while before I enter all these places into my random pick spreadsheet!

That’s (the above) part of what’s going on in my weekly Substack post, called Love Me Avenue. Please, subscribe, won’t you?

Yesterday, February 1, kicked off the annual “Farraginous February”—named after my old vinyl review blog, DJ Farraginous—and in the past I’ve tried to write about a record each day of the short month. Never quite accomplished that—and this year I won’t even get close—but there will be some additional write-ups. Months other than February, I usually write one a week. My long-term goal is to write about all my records (which keep getting to be greater in number as time goes on)—or 1000 short reviews, whichever comes first. It doesn’t help that the older I get, the more longwinded I get. But it’s all in good fun.

—Randy Russell 2.2.25

The Boulevard Room

My random pick from The Ford Treasury of Favorite Recipes from Famous Eating Places (1950/1955) this week took me to St. Louis and the former Boulevard Room at the Hotel Jefferson, downtown—a place currently in transition. I eschewed the Golden Glow cocktail. What if this nonsense actually led me to moving somewhere, someday? Stranger things have happened. In the meantime, here’s some imaginary traveling. To get this kind of comforting, entertaining, and inexpensive fun emailed to your inbox once a week, please subscribe to my Substack newsletter, Love Me Avenue.

Odd name for a restaurant—I suppose because of its French origins, it seemed like a fancy-pants name for street—so it does have a nice ring to it. The funny thing about that word, depending on how deeply you look, it merely refers to wide road, maybe with trees along it. But growing up, my parents called the grassy strip between the sidewalk and the street “the boulevard.” (It was always unclear to me if this was our property or the city’s—and if we were required to mow it or not—of course we did. It was also where you could have cars park if you had a party and your driveway was full.) I assumed this was another of my parents’ odd, made-up words, unique only to them (which turned out, in every case, to have some antecedent, somewhere). And it turns out, when you look more deeply, it sometimes does refer to the grassy area in the middle of some streets—and, also, the strip between the sidewalk and the street. So, where’d my parents get that? I suppose from their parents, or teachers, or maybe TV, or books.

It’s a word that still amuses me. It occurs to me that it would be a good word to include in the title of something… but what? My new (this year) novel already has a name (still a secret). My band, of course, is Love Me Avenue (incidentally the same name as what you’re reading now). Maybe I should start out with the name, and then figure out that story later. Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Sunset Boulevard, Heartbreak Boulevard, Boulevard of Death… all taken. How about…The Boulevard Room? It could take place in its original location, Hotel Jefferson, in St. Louis. It’s seen better days, live music, jazz, in the ballroom and The Boulevard Room. I found a 1960s cocktail menu, online, that’s interesting. I noticed, there, the “Golden Glow” cocktail, which I don’t believe I’d ever heard of. The 1955 Ford Treasury book (the source of my random pick) shows an elegant dining room where Chef Mauclair serves Indian inspired cuisine. The recipe is for “Rice Mangalais with Curry Sauce.”

The funny thing is, one of my job notifications this week was at an office in St. Louis, and then I find myself looking up this place—it’s right downtown—the old (originally built in 1904 for the World’s Fair) Hotel Jefferson is still standing, but has been closed and neglected for a couple of decades. But apparently it is just recently undergoing renovations—by the time I get this job, it might be the place to move to! Oddly, there are not a lot of paranormal stories that I could find—but a place that old, it’s got to be haunted, to some degree. Maybe the ghosts are just waiting for the new generation of residents. I can only hope they don’t do a bullshit job, renovating, like seemingly every other old place that gets an overhaul for… well, don’t get me started. St. Louis is probably way too hot, for me, in the summer, and doesn’t get enough snow in the winter. Nowhere does, anymore.

—Randy Russell 1.26.25

Hacienda Dining Rooms

Since it was my birthday today, I wrote this yesterday (partying today), on Saturday night (the loneliest night of the week) after a diner breakfast for dinner (homefries and cornmeal mush—no eggs, to pricey for me these days) and late coffee (rare these days). This was for a post on my Substack, called Love Me Avenue—which you can follow and/or subscribe to by following this link HERE. I decided to start reposting my Water reviews there, starting with the first one I wrote, for Waterloo – Grape. Also, I’d like to reiterate—since I’m turning 65, I’d like to announce that I’m no longer taking shit from anybody—believe it or else! Now, here’s something about the Hacienda.

The Revised Edition (1955) of The Ford Treasury of Famous Recipes from Famous Eating Places (which I refer to by its later (edition), shorter name, Ford Times Cookbook) contains a surprising 22 restaurants that were not in the 1950 edition (and replaced, for whatever reason, 22 restaurants from the earlier volume). I know that because I went through the books, page by page, and entered each restaurant in a spreadsheet (so that I can use a random number generator to pick the next one to write about). After all that work, I’m barely left with energy for research, so I’ve only a bit of speculation on the lucky pick, Hacienda Dining Rooms in Old Albuquerque, New Mexico. The only address the book provides is: “Old Town Plaza,” and the Hacienda is most certainly no longer open, at least by that name.

I’m too tired (lack of sleep) to do any definitive research, so maybe an Albuquerquean can correct me if I’m wrong. I’ve only been to Albuquerque during the one-hour layover on the Western train, so never made it to this cool looking old town area. While there’s no evidence of the Hacienda Dining Rooms, there’s a (now closed) La Placita Dining Rooms (also, oddly, plural, in name) that is apparently also in the c.1706 former governor’s home, and from an online photo, there is a tree inside the building! The rather crude illustration of the Hacienda, in the book, also shows a tree inside. (I love trees inside buildings!) So, all of that is, for me, evidence enough to assume they are the same place. Another thing I read was that the La Placita is allegedly haunted, and there’s apparently many stories about ghosts at the Hacienda—some say due to an unfortunate murder suicide that went down in the vicinity. The recipe in the book is for Caldo de Frijoles, with enough chile peppers to wake the dead.

—Randy Russell 1.19.25

The Bird & Bottle Inn

Note: This is an excerpt from my Substack post this evening. I shortened it in order not to re-post things already on this website. If you’d like to subscribe to the Substack, follow this link: it’s called LOVE ME AVENUE.

I sometimes use a random system to pick what I’m writing an article about—for example, vinyl records—I have my albums listed in a spreadsheet and use a random number generator to pick which one to listen to next. In that way, I don’t have to choose—and also, I can pretend I’m working for a long-lost music magazine and getting paid for it. So, I figured I’d use a random system to pick a restaurant from my library of favorite restaurant guidebooks as a title for each of these weekly newsletter posts—just to get the ball rolling.

I decided to try a weekly newsletter via this platform—Substack—and see how it goes. I used to send out one mass email a year (none last year!), but I want to reach out a little more. I’ve heard good things about Substack—but need to try for myself. It offers the option to send free or paid newsletters—this one is free. My idea here is to write a weekly letter—could be long or short—and then excerpt a few things from my website, RSPEEN.COM, where I typically write and post two to six new things a week—always available to check out for free, no ads. It’s just out there, but some of the writing is buried pretty deep, so I thought it might be fun to go back and see if I can find articles worth reprinting in this newsletter. I’m not sure how much or many—I’ll see what seems to make sense—or if I get any feedback. I welcome any questions, comments, or concerns—email me, or contact me any way convenient for you! I’m going to try to send this out weekly, on Sunday evening. I used to watch Columbo every Sunday, when it was consistently on one of the broadcast TV channels, same time as 60 Minutes. I would love it if a few people getting this welcomed it as a way to end or start their week. (Or else put it aside for an idle 10-minute spell, midweek.) But, of course, feel free to not subscribe, unsubscribe, or simply ignore it. That said, I’d love to keep in touch.

The Bird and Bottle Inn, happy to report, is still open, at 1123 Old Albany Post Road, Garrison, NY, 10524—it’s looks remote, but not far off Highway 9, only about 10 miles north of where U.S. Route 6 passes through Peekskill. This is particularly exciting to me because of my “U.S. Route 6 project”—but more on that, later, hopefully! Anyway, the illustration in the Ford Times book shows an old inn, painted yellow, and today’s internet shows a similar paint scheme, and some impossibly quaint interiors. They boast being open “Since 1761”—believe it or else! Also, you can stay there (five unique rooms). I’m not going to excerpt the inn’s history—too much there—but it’s well worth reading about on their website, especially if you’re in the area and want to stop by. I’d imagine that reservations would be wise.

—Randy Russell 1.12.25

Up in Lights

I have no problem with making New Year’s Resolutions—I do it every year, almost without thinking about it. It’s part of my new year, I love it. In fact, what I’ve taken to doing is commissioning local artisan neon-sign sign-makers to fashion each of my heartfelt promises to myself in glaring, nostalgic, red neon, which I then rent out space for on the side of apartment buildings along the three and a half block walk to my closest (since Victor’s closed) local pub, Monica’s (which is far, by Milwaukee standards). The signs might say: “Exercise more!” (ha), or “No more stress-eating Swiss cheese!” Okay, how ’bout: “Start telling the truth, for goodness sake.” Or, “Finish reading Against the Day.” Or, “Finish reading Monica!” (a particularly weird one, since, what’s my problem with that book? Because, you know, Clowes!) One thing they don’t say is: “Don’t Drink and Drive!”—because I haven’t owned (or stolen) a car in 25 years! Plus, sober since 1993.

So, I’ve got all the usual ones about breathing and stretching and not eating sugar, but a new one this year—not a resolution, exactly, but an idea—I thought I might try to use Substack in order to get in and be in touch with people more. Rather than, as is my habit, publishing writing on my website and never telling anyone about it. I’ve heard good things about Substack, so why not—I’ve found that you can read and read about a thing, but you can only really find out what it’s like by trying it. I don’t have any real hopes of making money, because I know myself—King Midas in reverse, as far as that goes. I’ve failed at every form of social media—why? Because I’m not social. It’s not that I’m antisocial… but I am. Also, I just don’t care. At any rate, I don’t feel like I need to make promises to “write more”—I’m already doing what I can—and it’s pretty much all I want to do. The idea, here, is that I’d like to push myself to reach out to people more. Okay, we’ll see.

I lied, above… I don’t look at the signs on my way to my local pub. That’s because I did not commission local artisan neon-sign sign-makers to render my resolutions. Even if I could afford such work, I’d probably ask for the signs to say something like: “Be Kind to Others,” or something I really believe in (these signs aren’t cheap), but we all know how much good that does. The other reason I don’t look at the nonexistent signs on the way to my local pub is because I don’t frequent my local pub. Monica’s does have (last I checked) a cute red neon sign that says, “Open”—yet, sadly (or, insert your own word here), I’ve never darkened Monica’s door.

—Randy Russell 1.5.25

Sobriety Anniversary (XXXI)

I had my vacation (from work) last week, and time slowed down. What I mean is, it seemed like a much, much longer week than an average work week—kind of a weird phenomenon—the exact opposite of what you’d think. I don’t understand it. If I didn’t visit you—well, I didn’t visit anyone. No money. Also, it was my “sobriety anniversary” (October 15)—31 years. Since that’s not a multiple of 10, I didn’t get a confetti cake or anything. What I did do was pick up a bottle of bourbon in the grocery story—I mean, in my hand, and feel the liquid in the glass bottle. Most brands (of bourbon) still exist, and they don’t change the labels, and thus retain a potential connection to the past. But is it? I realize that is just an illusion, but still, I’m about as close to going back to drinking as I ever was. It’s always possible (well, I don’t know about after death—I’ll let you know). So, it occurred to me that it’s time to finally get serious about not drinking. I’m going to stop visiting the liquor section at Metro Market every time I’m annoyed with them not having shopping baskets, or the one item I went to the store to buy (i.e., all the time). I’m going to stop visiting bars and taverns, 100%, no exceptions—even when I have a crush on the ID checker, bartender, or person singing on stage. But am I going to stop writing about drinking, in a fictional context, I mean? Well, I may not stop doing that, but I’m going to take it very, very seriously.

—Randy Russell 10.20.24

Packers

ROUGH times lately—and it’s my favorite time of year! Well, it still seems like the summer is never going to be over—can’t sleep at night—which probably exacerbates… but look, I’m not going to sit here and complain about minor health problems… when people all around me have major ones. Interesting—while waiting for the pharmacy to open this morning (down to the last pill!) I stopped in the liquor department and found myself holding a fifth of Evan Williams bourbon for a lot longer than I’ve held a cat, a baby, or an ailing bird, lately—it used to be my brand—and this is probably not a good sign—but then later today, I realized the Green Bay Packers have a player named Evan Williams—roughly my size, young enough to be my great-grand-son—so best of luck to him!

My real sob story lately requires a bit of a setup—about two years ago I got the idea that I’d write a mystery series! Because I like to read mystery series books, and I thought I’d try my spin on the form, for fun (much more that than any delusions that it might become immensely popular—and seeing how my take on the thing is a little weird… sure). I figured I might use a pen name (just for fun) or not, and I’d see, after one episode, if I’d have enthusiasm for more. Also, keep them short, and don’t be such a perfectionist! SO, the good news is I finished the first installment, and I did keep it short—but I couldn’t help it, I still had to do several revisions, re-writes, false starts, big changes, etc.… until I was finally happy with it. But I am—and am excited for people to read it. The other thing is, I thought I might use Amazon’s eBook and print-on-demand platform—since it’s “free” to use—and I can’t afford to print another book right now. The last four books I completed I self-published using the same company (Book Baby) who did a good job and were easy to work with, but… well, considering what they provide, book design, distribution, printing, etc. are—I think— fairly priced—but I’m not making enough money, working, lately, you know… Lately, I can’t even afford to do my favorite thing in the world, go out to breakfast, much less travel, party, or print books!

But when I tried to upload, format, download, design, what-have-you this book on the Amazon thing, I just couldn’t do it. Kind of weird in that I did actually do it with kindle books in the past—and it’s supposed to be a thing any idiot can do. But apparently, I’m not just any idiot—I have become an exceptional idiot… I guess. Can’t do it. Which, I’ve got to say, turned this day into the worst day of 2024, for me, so far, just from a futility standpoint. It probably didn’t help that when I took a break and a walk, I listened to a podcast about book publishing, and it was grim. I don’t want to pick on anyone, so I’ll just call this podcast: “The Last Podcast” (as in the last one you listen to before, you know…) Wrong Choice. So, then, I was trying to use the vending machines in the laundry room (for potato chips), but after the machine took my dollar, I had to try to scan the refund code and go to a website and fill out a refund form… and after 20 minutes of that, I had to give up on that, too! It all kind of recalled that Bukowski poem… which I can’t remember the name of right now, which is probably good, or at least… okay.

Maybe it’s all a sign, I thought, that I should finally give up on this “novel” writing game and just enjoy the end of my life! The thing is, there is nothing I enjoy doing more than writing these longer form fiction things (longer form than when I was younger and wrote serial fiction in zines which was at least manageable, and thus, satisfying). You can call them “novels” and I like that word—even though this new one (the first installment of the series) is technically “novella” length—which I think some people might like (shorter, I mean). I suppose I could just write stuff… and go onto what’s next… and not worry that when I die it’ll probably all go in the same dumpster as my “art” and letters and unrecorded songs and endless photographs.

But these longer form things, writing them, is really what keeps me going. Right now, I have four finished books (well, finished to “the end”—but in various stages of revision)—and they’re what I think about when I go to sleep at night—I mean, solving story problems, not tech-y problems—that’s how I’m able to sleep. You work on story problems in your dreams. Also… it’s how I can get up in the morning—for the two hours I have for writing before going to my job. So I won’t say I have to have these novels to work on—but I will say, I really, really want to. I don’t think I’m going to take up shuffleboard just yet. And as much as the endless re-writing, revisions, copy editing, and proofreading is seemingly endless sometimes, and even feels like slog-work at times, it’s still part of it—to get to the finished thing. Just writing first drafts and putting them aside strikes me as kind of depressing.

Oh, well, again, there are people with much worse problems. And I will have much worse problems, I’m afraid, and sooner than I want. But at least I can write about this stuff here (“Memo page”) where no one will read it—and not bother friends with my sad-sack complaining (who soon would no longer be friends, because who can put up with it?) —while watching the Packers game, which I’m doing now—and they just won! Just barely! (If life was like football, with the endless fucking official reviews, I don’t think I could take it!) Also of note, I put a good luck charm on Evan Williams by writing this (above)—and he just (minutes ago) was in on the game’s final, decisive, defensive play. You can’t make this kind of stuff up. It’s why I endure sports. You don’t have to, but you’re welcome to thank me, Packers fans.

—Randy Russell 10.6.24

Migraine

IT WAS INTERESTING, I had a migraine this weekend, Saturday, one where I didn’t really have a headache—but just felt irritable and depressed and distracted. Since I didn’t imagine it was a migraine, I didn’t take one of the prescription migraine pills until later—but once I did, it worked—and the rest of the day was productive. I don’t understand how those pills work, and I don’t understand migraines—still haven’t read that Oliver Sacks book. This malady set me back, yesterday, because I wanted to finish editing my new story, a mystery adventure that I am intending to be the first book of a book series. I thought it would be fun to write some detective mysteries and try to make a series. This depends on not getting tired of writing them after the first one, or so—so we’ll see. I like the first episode a lot. It’s relatively short—what is probably a “novella” length, technically—though I’m just calling it a series book mystery. Twenty chapters. I like the characters. The only problem is, I don’t know how I’m going to publish it. I am thinking of trying the Amazon print on demand thing—to make a kindle book and, also, hopefully, print paperbacks. I cannot afford to use the book printing service I used in the past (partly because I’m planning on doing a book that way next year, and that’s my limited budget). I’ll do my best to publish it in some way, and to make some copies affordable and available for people—I want people to read it!

—Randy Russell 9.29.24

Sunday Memo – Autumn Equinox

SO MUCH FOR the memos—and this failed page, which has fallen by the wayside. Well, the previous entry, courtesy R. Speen, is… if you can understand it, let me know. And before that… the less said the better. It’s always nice to have a fresh start, and the Autumn Equinox is as good a time as any. Since I haven’ t been going to breakfast by myself as often as I used to (money) I don’t write as many journal entries (physical, paper, notebook, pen) as I used to, because breakfast by myself is usually when I’d write. So why not here, every Sunday? Well, I’ve got to get an earlier start, because by now (9 p.m.) I’m too tired. Too tired, even, to complain about this and that, so maybe that’s good. Maybe I can talk about what’s up, what’s new, what’s to look forward to. But not right now. Right now all I can think about it how long until coffee time.

—Randy Russell 9.22.24