The Yellow Wall Paper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1892). This is not a book, it's a short story, but it got my interest on several levels and was worth reading and reading about, as it's at once considered an early work of feminist literature, and also psychological fiction, and also gothic horror. If you know me, you might guess I'm also obsessed with both yellow rooms and living, breathing wallpaper. I hadn't been thinking about this until I read it, but besides all the usual accounts of patriarchal oppression—which was at one time blatant and scarcely disguised, and in our present time just as blatant but more pathetically disguised—for political control, personal control, and control for the sake of control—the idea of not allowing a woman to write, for “health reasons,” is a particularly chilling one. That the husband in this story is a doctor who likely really believes he is acting in the woman's best interest is also horrifying. The idea of evil, I mean as an externally influenced (by Satan, etc.) force is of little interest to me, but “good” people—whose well-intentioned actions are harmful—is of particular interest to me. I also have little interest in “horror” per se, but am very attuned to everyday horror. Also, I have little interest in the exercise of writing from the point of view of the mind in descent into madness (it just feels like work, the writing part), but there is something about this story that is gripping, as I can't exactly figure out the point of view. Also, that it was published in 1892 and reads as pretty contemporary, and probably still will in 2112 in the Temples of Syrinx, or even 2525 (if woman can survive). Like many of us, my personal experience informs everything I come into contact with, and I remember writing a story called “The Yellow Room,” which may or may not be eerily close to this story (though mine is already all but lost). And finally, what is it about wallpaper that is so creepy? I can never really shake that feeling. And what is it about certain patterns of repetitious design (like why does houndstooth give me a migraine?) that's, while manmade, seem to take on a disturbing life of its own?
Books I've Finished Reading
Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin (1955) This book is a collection of essays, and while probably one of those books you feel like you should, or should have read, it's not a huge drag like I find a lot of the “should stuff”—but it's by no means a hoot, either, or even a workout at the gym. I love James Baldwin's writing, and his voice, and I like hearing it in my brain, and I might go right back and start this book over, both because I don't think I came close to getting it all, and also because his style of writing inspires me. I don't know if I've exactly come to terms with my role as a white person amid ongoing racial inequality, but it's an evolving process. All learning is, of course—never done. It's equally as hard to accept that I'm not very smart, in a relative sense—but of course, what point is there dwelling on that? One can just keep trying to do better, I guess. I was surprised at, on one hand, how specific some of the essays in this book are, like an examination of Carmen Jones (1954) which I haven't seen, but probably will, some day, and think of this. And how compelling, in an almost fiction-like way some of the other accounts are, of the harrowing adventures of young James Baldwin, faced with the various forces of society—and trying to remember these things happened half a century or more ago. And mostly of how totally relevant this all is to the times we are living in now. It may be more relevant now than it ever was—and I don't know if that's just really depressing, as for our world, or it's just saying a lot about his insight and vision—I suppose both those things.
Good Old Archibald by Ethelyn M. Parkinson (1960) For whatever reason, this book was just my favorite when I was a kid, and I used to check out a lot of books at the downtown Sandusky, Ohio library. I have a very strong memory—before it was remodeled—of how that library looked and felt. I think I must have picked books based on the covers, or titles—I certainly didn't read them all. This story isn't the greatest—it's about a new kid in the neighborhood and the slow process of accepting him. What I think really attracted me to it was the vivid portrait of this very large family who are in a lot of ways creative and eccentric. One of the kids cooks meals in the basement—dead animals and vegetables from the wild, and another kid holds funerals for wildlife that has perished, including a bat from the garage. The illustrations here, by Mary Stevens, are also among the best of this era of kid's books—she did a lot of them. Ethelyn M. Parkinson wrote mostly about young boys, and I guess she never had children of her own. She writes with a really singular sense of humor—the situations, and the dialogue, and her word choices—I've never read anything quite like it. She's in a lot of ways like Beverly Cleary, who I also love, but I think (I've not read all of either of them) a bit more odd. She continues to be my favorite children's author, and I'm trying to find and read all of her books.
The Missing Formula by Ann Wirt (1932) This is the short-lived Madge Sterling mystery/adventure series (at least I see only 3 books) supposedly written by Mildred Wirt Benson, author of the early Nancy Drew books, among others. It came out a couple of years after the first Nancy Drew—and what's kind of interesting to me is that (though I've by no means read or even am aware of all the kid's series books at the time) is that the girls mysteries seemed to be more in the circle of society, school, and romance books, while the boys more about adventure, the outdoors, sports, and science. The exceptions, to me (so far, in reading, and very admittedly biased) are the Hardy Boys, which are—at least the ones written by Leslie McFarlane—kind of in a somewhat strange, insulated, bizarro Hardy Boy reality of their own. And Judy Bolton, which are very much based in an actual place and time (and I've heard, based quite often on actual events). This Madge Sterling series seems like another exception, at least based on the first book—as it's very much an outdoor adventure, with Madge living in a summer resort run by her aunt and uncle, very hearty and capable, while by no means tomboyish. She meets (and immediately saves from drowning) a troubled young woman, Anne, who is at the center of the mystery. The two become fast friends, and though Madge has an ongoing flirtation with an older, male park ranger, she and Anne have a friendship which—maybe I'm reading too much into it—struck me as pretty romantic. The ranger is a bit of a distant (too busy) hero, and the aunt and uncle are just kind of blah and neutral, and other than that, the two girls are up against a slew of bastards, from the harmless but lazy handyman to the, greedy local speculator, to the soulless rich industrialist (who eventually finds his soul through filet of sole), to the totally underhanded greedy creep. None of them evil—just a catalogue of human failings. The books starts out, like so many Hardy Boys adventures, with weather (I love weather in these books!), and a nearly fatal boating mishap. It then takes on the endless tedium of the characters trying (and having ongoing thwarted success) to find the key to the mystery—so many of these series books are built on that tired device. In this case, it's, you guessed it, the missing formula. Just once I want a story where the thing that's missing just goes on being missing at the end of the book! But I guess for that you have to go to the movies of the 1970s, or absurdist drama, or I'll have to write it myself.
Do Not Sell At Any Price by Amanda Petrusich (2014) Subtitled: “The Wild, Obsessive Hunt for the Word's Rarest 78 rpm Records” sounds like the thing a publisher would slap on (why does “non-fiction” have to have the subtitles, but not novels?) in order to generate excitement, but that's unnecessary, because this is an exiting book—and especially toward the end, I found myself saying, “yes” out loud to parts. Most fresh in my mind is the last part where she really gets into examining the personality of the 78 collector, but more in general, the collector, the archivist, the obsessive, the hoarder (pretty much all of the men I know fall into those categories). Even if you have no interest in the music most of this book is about (though you might easily become interested, to some degree, by reading this and searching it out), the intimate portraits of her subjects are really enjoyable. It seems like most of those prominent record collectors are crusty, older, white guys, and Amanda Petrusich is a young woman (and an experienced music writer—I just noticed she did one of those 33 1/3 books, on Pink Moon), and she seems in the high end of the spectrum for passion about music in general, and obviously had an interest in this music, and during the course of the writing was discovering and becoming more obsessed with the music in question (mostly, but not all, 1920s and 1930s recordings, preserved on 78 rpm records). I suppose during the research and travel and dealing with the people, she became considerably more crusty herself, on the road, sweating, and eating diner food, and most severely, scuba-diving in the Milwaukee River. That was my favorite part of the book, close as it is geographically to me—her research of Paramount Records and the Wisconsin Chair Company, where many 78s were pressed, which was the first I've heard about this. I personally “discovered” Grafton, Wisconsin because it was the furthest I was able to ride my bike from Milwaukee and still make it back. I stopped for coffee, with no idea of its storied early 78 rpm record history, until I read this later. Yes, she donned scuba gear and mucked around the bottom of the river where supposedly the pressing plant just dumped the overstock. She was unsuccessful at finding any, but totally successful at proving she is pretty hardcore, and also has a sense of humor about it all.
Trixie Belden and the Secret of the Mansion by Julie Campbell (1948) This is the first Trixie Belden book, and she claims in the first paragraph that she'll die if she doesn't have a horse—I felt much the same way, as a lad, at least until I started drinking. Trixie makes what I think is going to be a lasting friendship with Honey Wheeler, the rich girl new neighbor. They're a great duo. The most annoying part of this book is Trixie's pest little brother, but I was glad he didn't die from the copperhead bite, which Trixie bravely administered first aid on. Thankfully, that slowed him down, at least. The mystery here, as you'd guess, is about an old mansion which holds a lot of mysteries and possibly some kind of treasure (a plot repeated over and over in kid's books). I like how the ending leads directly to the next book. I'm definitely planning on reading more.
Ruth Fielding at Briarwood Hall by Alice B. Emerson (1913) This book is subtitled: or, Solving the Campus Mystery, and it's the second in the Ruth Fielding series (I did not read the first) published by the Stratemeyer Syndicate, who published like billions of childrens series titles—and this author is a pseudonym—the actual writer was probably a staff writer who was paid peanuts. It's very well-written, though, and compelling—I loved this book. It's about Ruth and her friend going off to boarding school, where there is a mystery, some adventure, and lots and lots of personal politics and social tension. The weird thing is that I started reading this at almost exactly the same time as reading (for the first time) the first Harry Potter book, and both stories follow remarkably the same path, concerns, and plot points. I mean, minus the wizardry, and details, of course... but really, it made me think that probably Harry Potter (at least the first half of the first book) comes from a very regular tradition of young reader boarding school stories. It was totally by accident that I started reading those at the same time, but that's cool—it's nice when it feels like there's a plan out there. I'm not going to start studying the boarding school form or anything, but I may come upon more, at some point, if I keep reading kids' books. Which I'm planning to do. More Ruth Fielding? If I find more, I may well read them. Ruth is a really good character—very human, with her anxiety, vulnerability, resolve, and courage—all well balanced and clearly expressed. The ending of this book leads to the next story, too, so maybe I'll keep an eye out for that one.
The Amazing Spider-Man – Enter Dr. Strange (1972) This is Marvel Comics No. 109, an old comic book I had since I was a kid. Somehow, through 40 or so moves and a lot of lost stuff, I managed to hold onto one box of childhood comics. Unfortunately, this one is in bad shape, since it goes for nearly a dollar on eBay—it looks like I used it for a cutting board. But it's still readable, so I did my best to try to figure out the appeal of Spider-Man. There is a lot of writing in this thing—first bringing us up to date on the story, about some Asian monks who are going to kill this guy, and Peter Parker's dilemma: that he can save him by being Spider-Man, but then this woman he likes, Gwen, would find out he's Spider-Man, and not just this wimpy guy who always disappears when things get tense. So he's got to lie, which in most popular culture has dire repercussions, but not here? Anyway, he teams up with this Dr. Strange, who looks kind of like the gray-templed Fantastic Four guy dressed for Mardi Gras. There's a lot of action, which is boring beyond words. Toward the back there's a letters page, and some news and a “Soapbox” column by Stan Lee, which is pretty fascinating—a lot of personality—it really feels like his personal zine. Most interesting to me of all, though, are the ads—most geared toward adolescent boys, of course. There are five different ads for various body building programs! Also, a lot that are trying to direct kids into heinous career choices, the most prominent being sales. There are several ads that offer fantastic prizes for selling their products—I don't know how young kids used to sell stuff—maybe to their friends, or relatives, or door-to-door? Anyway, the most nostalgic thing here is the of-the-time multitude of prizes they are offering—I'm going to page through and list some: Jr. Typewriter, guitar amp combo (I wonder what kind of guitar?), two-man rubber boat, Estes rocket kit, Mini Bike (does anyone remember these? They were tiny motorcycles), “banana seat” bikes, chemistry set, microscope, telescope, small open-reel tape recorder (like the first one I had), cassette tape recorder (like the ones everyone had), GE Wildcat stereo (which I had), Aurora model motoring set, Kodak Instamatic, Cox dune buggy and Corsair airplane (I'm guessing these were the gas powered, radio controlled ones), rock tumbling kit, Polaroid Colorpack camera, Magnus electric organ, Panasonic Bolero radio (which I'm guessing you might be able to sell for something, now)—and it just goes on and on. Kids, if nothing else, you can be a superhero in sales!
The Largesse of the Sea Maiden by Denis Johnson (2018) There is something about Denis Johnson's fiction that always makes me think it's not only autobiographical in nature, but just straight non-fiction, verifiable truth down to the smallest detail, even when I know it's fiction all along. He's like a magician. I'll end up googling names of characters only to find the only reference to them is people discussing these stories. When I'm really connecting to one of his stories, he's my favorite. I'm really sad that he died. Is it possible someone might discover tons of unpublished stuff? Probably not. I have the feeling that he worked terribly hard on the writing that's presented to us, and there are only so many hours in a day, but who knows? There are a lot of his books I haven't read, at least. Jesus' Son (1992) was a huge book for me, of course. Some of his stuff I don't connect to all, but it's like that with any writer, I guess. I never hear anyone talk about The Name of the World (2000), but I'm kind of obsessed with that short novel, have read it twice, and will probably read it again. I didn't really connect with the middle three stories in this book, but I'll try again sometime. The first one, “The Largesse of the Sea Maiden,” I loved, though, and even re-read it before I finished the book, and I'm going to re-read it again right now. For having read it twice, I can't tell you what it was about or why I liked it so much, but it kind of did something to my brain. I just finished the last story, “Doppelgänger, Poltergeist,” which is another one that made me feel like, “this can't be just out of his imagination, can it?” It's about a professor's friendship with a slightly younger student and poet who has a secret obsession with Elvis' stillborn twin. It's a very weird story—and it resonated with me quite a bit because of several relationships with friends, gone now—I can maybe go into it more in person, if you're my friend, and I'm talking to you over coffee. And I need to re-read this one, too. There is a novel's worth of stuff in this longish short story. It almost has the quality of being a kind of weird epitaph, too, one fitting Denis Johnson. Maybe I re-read to a fault, but I'll argue with anyone that it's worthwhile, re-reading things, and this is especially true with DJ, and I do imagine you'll find one of his books by the side of my deathbed.
Aja by Don Breithaupt (2007) This is one of those 33 1/3 book series, “pocket-size” books, each one by a different author about a different LP record, which is a great project (there are well over 100 of them now), but I've found that you've really got to love the record, or otherwise even these relatively short texts can feel stretched beyond normal attention spans. This book is by Don Breithaupt, a Canadian musician and music writer; an interesting side note: he's referred to, briefly, in Jonathan Lethem's novel Chronic City, and Lethem has also written a 33 1/3 book. Well, I love Steely Dan's Aja (1977), and I happily read this entire book, even though I didn't have a lot of patience with the large portion of the chapters that are hardcore music theory that's frankly miles over my head. For somebody, though, it must be a dream come true. The chapters here cover various themes, as reflected on the album—like, production, process, lyrics, sidemen, etc., and a lot of this relates to all of Steely Dan—and it does go into depth. There are also various appendices, including a “Glossary” I find particularly fun. If they keep publishing these 33 1/3 books, which I think and hope they will, there is plenty of room, eventually, in my opinion, for books about all of Steely Dan, and especially the first seven albums—and they may all want to refer to this one—and I'll buy all seven.
A Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne (1864) I started reading this classic—that I'm sure everyone is familiar with—as research for my novel about traveling to the center of the Earth (I admit, one of my favorite subjects)—and everyone knows, or should, that there is no procrastination quite like “research”—in fact, one could easily research one's life away, and many do. It was an enjoyable yarn, nonetheless, even if it got me no closer to my own journey. I can confidently say that the best stories have at least a character named “The Professor,” or a narrator named “Axel,” or an Icelandic guide named “Hans,” and this one has all three, and pretty much no one else—just the journey. I don't envy Jules Verne writing this thing, it's pretty relentless forward movement (or downward, inward) with little to draw on but the imagination (or other “research”). It must have taken quite a few bowls of tobacco and a lot of black coffee, and he didn't even have the luxury of thinking of James Mason's speaking voice whenever the Professor talks (which isn't often). Hans is pretty much silent, and most of the speaking is done internally, by Axel (is that even his name, I'm not sure now?) and it's a pain to write that stuff when your own concerns are nothing like your character's. But I was in this guy's head for awhile, and it was as much of a relief to get out of it as it was to emerge, finally, onto the surface, into daylight and warmth and fig trees.
Henry Reed, Inc. by Keith Robertson (1958) This is one of the most important children's books for me, that I read several times when I was a kid, and have re-read as an adult. I feel like it's not dated at all, but I don't know if young kids would feel that way. At this point it's maybe an adult book, and it's written in a way that it appeals to adults, I think, as well as kids. I think the adventure parts probably appeal more to kids, and the humor more to adults. Of course, for me it's impossible to separate it from my nostalgia for it. It's about a young boy, Henry Reed, whose parents are diplomats, so he lives overseas, but comes back to stay with his aunt and uncle in New Jersey for the summer and decides to keep a journal of his summer—so it's written in journal form. I think this is the first thing that influenced me to keep a journal, when I was 12, and I've done it ever since. Henry meets his only similarly aged neighbor (they're pretty much in a rural setting), a girl named Midge, and they start a “research” firm together, kind of a summer business, but also for fun. They have quite a bit of success all around. One thing that is impressive to me, reading it now, is the really full portrait you get of these two kids, and the idea of how as people mature, one aspect of their personalty matures faster than the other, which leads to interesting misinterpretations and miscommunication. Henry is like a little a adult in a way, very smart, but still kind of clueless in other ways, like what's behind some of his own motives. One of the running jokes is Henry not getting Midge's sense of humor, which is much more advanced and adult-like than his. Despite their differences, though, they do become close friends, and there are sequels to this book on the horizon. Keith Robertson is one of my favorite children's authors, and I've read many books by him and probably will re-read more. One other note—there have been a lot of re-printings of this book over the years, but you can still find the Viking hardcover, which I recommend. At the very least you must get a version with the original illustrations by Robert McCloskey (the great children's author, and illustrator)—as they are absolutely integral to the book.
Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem (2009) I read this book just after it was published, while I was living in New York, and it's very much a New York book. It's kind of an alternate reality story that focuses on several outsiderish (to varying degrees) characters, and it's ultimately somewhat ambiguous about the level of reality we are meant to interpret. All of that really appeals to me, so much so that I read it a second time. Some of the magic had worn off the second time around, and I was more trying to figure some things out about the story, maybe discover something new—though I wasn't able to relive, too much, the kind of weird discoveries the first time around. One of my favorite things about it is the way it uses actual people, occasionally, and actual places, a lot. While I was reading it the first time I had fun visiting some of the places referred to, like the Jackson Hole hamburger joint around the corner from Brandy's Piano Bar on the upper east side. I ate there once, almost feeling like I'd see the characters in the novel walk in. Later in the book it was destroyed, and later when I tried to visit again, it had turned into something else. I remembered hearing that Jonathan Lethem did some kind of marathon reading of this novel when it came out—I'm not sure if the whole thing (it's kind of long!) at multiple locations. I think that might have been the best way to experience this book—it's kind of a rock star idea—and very much in keeping with the spirt of the book. I would love to talk to that guy. Sometimes his writing infuriates me, and sometimes it intimidates me—but overall, I like the writing, and feel like I'd like him (it's an easy bet I would) but of course, it's probably a mistake to think you know him, from reading a novel. You get to know some great characters, though (though it's part of the nature of this book that you don't really know if you know them). I was expecting to see immediate news of a film version happening—you almost can't help casting it, in your mind—but at the time of writing this, that doesn't seem to be happening.
The Sweet Ride by William Murray (1967) I had a paperback copy of this for years, but I guess I was afraid to read it, since it's the novel my favorite movie of all time is based on. The book came out about the same time as the movie, so you wonder if someone was working on the screenplay before it was even published. Anyway, Murray was a pretty successful author, it sounds like, but you won't find a lot about this book. It's pretty interesting to read, knowing the movie, because some of it is identical, almost word for word, but in a lot of cases the book naturally elaborates more and goes deeper. The book is also much more graphic, hardcore, cynical and, especially regarding the outcome of the story, much darker. I'm not going to go into the plot of either one, but quickly, it's about three guys who rent a house near Malibu in the mid-Sixties—a tennis hustler, a jazz musician, and a surfer, Denny, who meets a young Hollywood actress who is later nearly murdered. The movie focuses more on Denny's story, asking us identify with him, but the novel is told mostly first person from the hustler's (a slightly older guy named Collie) point of view, which made me really happy. Sometimes we get a more omniscient viewpoint, but it's often as if Collie is retelling what he heard from another of the characters. We get a lot more details about Collie's hustling in the book, and we get a lot of stuff about surfing from Denny, and a lot about the actress, Vickie, as told to Denny (then presumably told to Collie). There's a lot about biker gangs, too, but the version in the book is a lot more gritty and unpleasant than the cleaned up version in the movie. After a run-in with some bikers and their right-wing neighbor, Parker, Choo Choo (the musician) points out how Parker hates the bikers, but in their shared racism, doesn't realize they're his natural allies. Also, there was side trip to Las Vegas in the movie, which is very much more elaborated on in the book—especially a part where Collie ends up by himself in an eccentric local bar, and makes one of his kind of hipster philosophical, cynical observations: “That's it, the American essence! A great towering pyramid of love, equality and good times built solidly on a deep foundation of loathing.”
Hunting for Hidden Gold by Franklin W. Dixon (1928) My least favorite Hardy Boy books were the ones where they went far from their home of Bayport—that's just my preference—and this one is mostly in Montana—but also, my favorites are the ones that take place in winter, as does this book, the 5th of the series. It starts out when a simple ice skating outing on a frozen pond nearly turns deadly, due to a ridiculous storm, which the Hardys and their chums barely survive by taking refuge in a cottage that has been blown off a cliff and landed intact, complete with an old codger, a miner from Montana who ends up being central to the mystery at hand. When the the Hardys get summoned to join their detective dad, Fenton, out west, the old guy warns them, “It ain't all beer and skittles.” Fenton's laid up with an injury, so he has the boys working on the case, and the first day out they're nearly killed in a mine cave-in and captured by the criminal gang. Fenton decides to let them go on with the investigation, though, if they're more careful, which they're not, and they are almost killed again, this time in a blizzard, which they survive only to be attacked by wolves in a mine, escaping only because they have a pistol they took from one of the gang. I didn't like them shooting the wolves, who are after all just hungry dogs, but they do, of course, eventually find the hidden gold and capture the gang. The best part of the book, though, is when they take the train out west to meet their dad. It's their first train trip and the descriptions of train travel, and their observations of Chicago are really excellent. They're also involved in some Hitchcock level intrigue in which some improbably clever, far-reaching members of the criminal gang try to fool them, put them on the wrong train, back in the the wrong direction, to a backwoods nightmarish kidnapping scheme where they are finally saved by good-hearted black guys—chicken farmers. Then back to another layover in Chicago, and this time they don disguises and barely make it out of town once again. This is the kind of crazy stuff that makes the old, original text versions of the Hardy Boys worth re-reading.
Jughead No. 204 – May 1972 Archie Series 16126. One of my comic books from when I was 12 years old—Archie comics were my favorite, over superhero and other stuff, and Jughead was my favorite of the Archie gang, because of his disinterest in girls, his laziness, and his passion for eating—even though I was more interested in girls than food, myself, and I was far from lazy. I think I recognized, even at that young age, that Jughead was some kind of a zen-master—kind of a version of “The Dude” from The Big Lebowski (1998). On the cover, the kids are all in the lunchroom, wearing those exaggerated colorful, wild design, big collared Seventies shirts, and Jughead has on a white shirt and red tie and says, “Dig the very latest...” Everyone looks confused, but Jughead knows that non-conformity quickly becomes conformity, and the real non-conformists are a step or two ahead—and often baffle everyone. Real Punks Don't Wear Black (the title of another book on my reading list). There are the usual Jughead vs. Veronica stories here—besides competing for the affections of Archie, they just didn't like each other. My next favorite character was probably Betty—I both had a crush on her and related to her. There is a story here where Jughead helps Betty win Archie away from Veronica, and it's almost heartwarming. There's also a story from Hotdog's (Jughead's dog) point of view—an odd one—that more or less lays out the Jughead philosophy, and could almost be called “Jughead Comes Out”—of course, Jughead isn't “boy crazy” (though his love for Archie is obvious)—what he does is displaces sexual feelings with the friendship of his dog—and his passion for food and Zzzz's. This edition is light on the stories about (and pictures of!) food—but I'll re-read and review one of my favorites of those sometime in the future.
The Ford Treasury of Favorite Recipes from Famous Eating Places – Nancy Kennedy, editor (1950, 1955) This is the first volume (and revised volume) of my very favorite-ever national (USA) restaurant guidebook, later to be known as the “Ford Times Cookbook.” My parents had this one, and I was obsessed with it as a kid. It's a collection of brief restaurant listings from around the country that were first published in Ford Times magazine, a post-war publication, I guess (I've never seen one) encouraging auto travel. This collection is arranged by region and state. Each restaurant listing contains a recipe from the menu (many are odd and dated), but most significantly, an artist's rendition of the place, sometimes exterior, sometime inside. The style of the art is all over the place and fascinating—from naturalistic color painting, to ink sketch, to stylized magazine style illustration, to just plain weird, impressionistic renderings—it's somewhat of a compendium of this kind of thing. My favorites are the nostalgic, formal paintings that you could imagine hanging in the establishment itself. Some of these restaurants are still around, and some gone, of course, but I try to visit the existing ones, or the site, when traveling, which I've occasionally documented in a blog called Restaurant Time Tunnel. I included the 1950 and 1955 editions here because they have the same cover (if you can find the original dust jacket, it folds out to a cool restaurant map of the US), and mostly the same content, though there are a few omissions and additions in that later revised edition. When they published these, I think they were surprised at it's popularity, and later came out with additional volumes, which I'll review later.
Where to Drink Coffee by Liz Clayton and Avidan Ross (2017) This is one of those Phaidon guidebooks (Where to Eat Pizza, etc.)—the idea of which are kind of absurd, but I'd love to own all of—fun to look through, and perhaps consult before traveling somewhere. With this coffee one I, of course, looked up the cities I was familiar with and found it to be pretty much what I'd expect. I'm sure it's well-researched and smart, but seeing how the scope is global—kind of insane, because... the world is actually a pretty big place. As a sunrise to sunset coffee drinker, if I dedicated myself to merely the Milwaukee area, and was able to do that as a job—I might be able to be pretty thorough—but I'd still always be one coffee shop away from being complete. Which is actually a comforting thought. Anyway, I came across this book in an odd way. I was looking at this old zine called Wind-Up Butter-Cow, a one time thing all about Ohio, but I think centered on music scenes. It was put out by Liz Clayton, who I don't know. It's a great zine—I should re-read it and review it, here—I will! Anyway, remembering it led me to looking up the Liz Claytons of the worlds online, and then I saw this book. Is it the same person? I don't know—but unless I decide to write to her (or them) or otherwise make an acquaintance, I guess it doesn't really matter. Anyway, coffee is a ridiculously complex subject, and the world is big, so this book is impressive.
The Haunted Attic by Margaret Sutton (1932) This is the second book of the Judy Bolton series, and it follows directly from where the first one left off, after the dam broke, and Judy's family had to find a new home. They move to the nearby town of Farringdon into an old house that is rumored to be haunted. Judy and her brother Horace are not disturbed by the stories about the creepy old house and are determined to make it their home and even plan a Halloween party in which they intend to expose the hauntings as a hoax. They are pretty unnerved, though, once they arrive; there are strange sounds and other ghostly manifestations, and they are slow to explore the truly creepy old attic—given the description of it, I'd have been slow to explore it, too! Judy is really more bothered, however, by the difficulties socially with her new friends in the local high school. She then makes friends with a girl on the poor side of town, where the millworkers live—and really, the portrait of the town and its social-economic divides is as interesting as the ghost story. Anyway, it ends with the big Halloween party, so this is a good book to read in the fall—though because of the nature of the continuous time running through this series, you will do best if you read them in order. I really like Judy Bolton, so I'm planning on reading more.
The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson (2015) I first heard of Maggie Nelson's book Bluets (2009) and put it on my list of books to check out—because it sounded like my kind of thing—between poetry, prose, essay, memoir... but starting out with being about the color blue (which reminds me, someone stole my copy of Derek Jarman's Chroma—please return!) The Argonauts is an even more irresistible title, especially when you read about (which I'll leave for the reader to discover) her inspiration to use that title. A great title goes a long way, at least with fools like me. So like a fool I dove into this book, hearing nothing beforehand, and found out it's like a virtual compendium of subjects that not only make me profoundly uncomfortable, but also I avoid like there's no tomorrow. Sex, marriage, pregnancy, childbirth, motherhood, children, death, love, gender reassignment, surgery, academia, those philosophers I haven't read, and even (as a confirmed bachelor, cisgender, old-guy) companionship. And did I say love? And for all that, the part about dealing with a stalker terrified me the most. As soon as I got reading, on about page 1, I realized this book wasn't for me. But there was something about her writing—perhaps that elusive quality I lamely describe as “good writing”—evident on about page 1—that kept me going. I felt like I was getting to know Maggie Nelson, and I committed to reading the entire book. Then two weird things happened—one was that while I was reading it, I started to hear about it everywhere, from the media to people I know. It was one of those things—the book everyone's talking about. The other thing is I was enjoying it immensely. The reason it took me so long to read (it's a pretty short book, word-wise) is that it's also very dense—first in ideas, but more in emotions. A single paragraph can fill you up for an entire day, or longer. Also, I'm like the world's slowest reader. Also, while I was reading this is when I got re-interested in the idea of “memoir” and the memoir form, and the problems inherent with and beautiful things about memoir. So that really made it all immediate, as well, and along with that, my interest in writers who not only cross over genre lines but just recognize no lines at all, as with this book. All that is very exciting to me, and in the meantime I read about all those (above) subjects (cringing, sighing, dreaming) that I normally avoid like the plague.