The Dog of the South

The Dog of the South by Charles Portis (1979) On the surface, there’s no reason for me to like this book—about a young guy I can’t relate to who whose wife has left him. It’s a road journey from Arkansas down through Mexico, to Belize. They guy, Ray, is a humorless history buff who makes one bad decision after another. His wife has gone off with a sketchy loser—they’ve taken Ray’s awesome car (a Torino—an old Ford that was particularly badass) and shotgun, so Ray has to follow them in the loser’s broken-down Buick, sneaking his revolver across the border in a store-bought pie. Nothing about his methods inspire confidence. At first, I was cringing along, but as Ray came across one eccentric, over-the-top character after anther—something happened—I shifted into pure joy. I can’t recall having this much fun reading a book in a while, and I’ve read some terrific books lately. One of the funniest characters he meets is Dr. Symes, a larger-than-life schemer, one of those guys who has so many unbelievable stories and plans to get rich—you don’t care if he’s making most of it up—you just want to hear him keep talking. But that’s really just the beginning—it keeps getting more outlandish—each time you expect disaster—it fizzles out hilariously—and something strange and expected comes along—one oddball character and then the next—one failed plan after another—and the story keeps getting weirder and better. This is one of those books that I want to keep a copy around like an old friend—I was sad when it ended—but then was thinking—what was that all about, anyway? It gives me comfort that it exists because I know it’s there for me to re-read, some day. Though… I have no idea if it will be one of those books that gets better over time, and subsequent readings—or I’ll be baffled, and think—was I insane when I read that the first time? You never know.

10.17.23

Brady Street Pharmacy: Stories and Sketches

Brady Street Pharmacy: Stories and Sketches by Tea Krulos (2021) An in-depth personal history of Milwaukee’s now long-gone Brady Street Pharmacy—an independent pharmacy, drugstore and convenience market—and most important—lunch counter and diner. It’s written by Tea Krulos—who worked there for years and has done an excellent job of writing down his memories and observations—along with some very funny drawings. Sometimes an employee at a place isn’t the best person to document it—you get too embroiled in the politics, love, and hate. But he seemed to keep a level head and a fairness in his memories—though the emotion is there, too. There is no need to embellish any of this stuff—straightforward observations of some bizarre, hilarious, and sometimes sad and tragic events, populated by some true eccentrics—but also everyday people everyone will relate to. Anyone who frequented the place will want to read this—but people who’ve never set foot in Milwaukee will recognize universal tales about jobs, diners, regulars, and local oddballs. I was a semi-regular customer myself—though I had moved out of town by the time of Pharmacy’s unlikely transformation into a performance art space, and eventual demise—so I was happy to get the story. But even more happy to relive my good memories—I would stop for breakfast (cheapest in town) whenever I refilled a prescription, and I always liked Jim, the pharmacist. Or else I’d have breakfast while washing my clothes at a nearby laundromat. I’d sit over a cup of coffee and write in my notebook while observing the regulars and wait staff—always a lot of interesting people—but no one I ever got to know at all. So this book is a real bonus for me—rarely do you get a chance to return to your memories of a place like this from the well-observed and documented point of view that’s both from an observer and an insider. And if I eventually come across any Pharmacy entries in my old notebooks, I’ll probably get out this book and read it again.

10.10.23

Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma

Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma by Claire Dederer (2023) The subject of this book—how do we deal with artists who do awful things—has been on all of our minds for a while now. Though, I suppose there are those who absolutely separate the art and the artist—and there are those who just say: “That guy’s dead to me, end of story.” But this book might soften either of those viewpoints—it’s not meant to convince us one way or another, but to deepen the dilemma, which I think is the best kind of argument. Among people discussed are: Roman Polanski, Woody Allen, Michael Jackson, J. K. Rowling. Picasso, Hemingway, Nabokov, Doris Lessing, Joni Mitchell, Valerie Solanas, Sylvia Plath, Raymond Carver, Miles Davis, and don’t forget, Claire Dederer. The artists in question are just the tip of the iceberg, of course, but her examples are really extensive and varied and get into the various shades—the nature of the crime, the severity of the crime, the time period—and at the other end, what kind of art, and how deeply do you care about the art. I think we all find ourselves being hypocrites to some degree with this stuff. And at the heart of it is the art, which means the love of the art. She doesn’t forget that in the first place, there’s love. And as it turns out, there’s almost always a complication. Oh, and I also really liked her examples differentiating men and women “monsters” and what that means. The Nabokov and Ray Carver chapters were particularly interesting to me. The only sad thing is, this book could just keep going and going—besides a book, it could be some kind of an institute. More than usual, I found myself wishing a friend was reading this at the same time so we could discuss. Or better yet, I was in a reading group or “book club” and this was the book we were all getting together to talk about.

10.2.23

Music Is History

Music Is History by Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson (2021) The dedication is “to scientists of sound”—then a good intro about how history in school was just “memorization.” Where was this book when I was growing up and hated history, as a subject? At least one teacher I had in high school would have delighted in teaching this. Anyway, I’m in. (Even though, as far as music goes, for the past three decades or so I’ve been “out to lunch.”) A series of essays about the important music in his life in relation to contemporary American history, and at the same time, a big essay on what history is, exactly, and why it’s interesting, and why it’s important—and how it’s related to popular culture, and in particular, music. Questlove made the decision to start with the year of his birth, 1971, in order to contain things, a bit—which is great for me, because that’s the year (I’m 11 years older) that culture really started to have an impact on me. He recalls stuff from a remarkably young age—he seemed to get involved early. He then frames the book by year, starting each chapter with a series of big moments—including major political events, tragedies, milestones in Black history, sometimes sports, and mostly music. Then each year is essentially its own essay, focusing on a particular subject that that year’s events best illuminate. For me, reading this, naturally I put myself at the beginning of each of those years—where was I in my own history? It’s interesting to be reminded of what the world looked like at each of these junctures, and how it was reflected through culture—how the times affected the music—and how the music processed the times. Even if you’re someone who constantly goes back and reflects and keeps reading about the past, you do need to refresh—you can’t keep it all in your brain all the time. Naturally, the view here is Questlove-central—but as someone who must be revisiting the culture a lot, reprocessing it, and keeps learning (he’d have to be, to write this)—so you’re in good hands. He’s opinionated, which makes it fun, but he’s fair and thorough, and he’s also funny—sometimes even a little goofy. There is nothing dry about this book, and the criticism that (some) people have of “history” is that it’s dry—but not so here. This is a great book for young people, of course, but really anyone who wants to expand their mind a little (or a lot).

9.23.23

Patience

Patience by Daniel Clowes (2016) There’s an equally good chance that time travel is both an impossibility, and… has always existed (and is the reason why things are so weird). I’m not too worried about it—I can enjoy most attempts to portray time travel in movies and books—and this is one of the better versions I’ve come across. It’s ultimately best to not resist too much with what you perceive as logic, and just let the author sweep you along with a good yarn. If you feel the high of inevitability on the last page—even if it’s bit of a magic trick—then you’re in. Along the way, it’s a lot of fun. The story is really pretty complex, so it’s impossible, as you go along, so see what’s going to happen next—but as it all falls together, it’s satisfying to see the convoluted systems of cause and effect in the structure. Good characters, too, particularly Patience, whose complexity gets revealed little by little, and Jack, who’s not as smart, but through a lifetime of experience and desperation gets to be the ultimate badass. It’s pretty much sci-fi film noir—or noir graphic novel, of course—with basic, hardboiled dialog, and commonplace locations, like cheap restaurants and diners, nightclubs, and bleak Middle-American landscapes. Really, you could see it as a movie—I wonder if a film version was discussed?—it’s all right there. I suppose… what would be the point? How would a movie—I mean, besides the glamour of movie stars—improve upon it—but isn’t that always the case?

9.19.23

August Blue

August Blue by Deborah Levy (2023) The story starts with a woman’s obsession with seemingly trivial things—seeing a stranger buying small, mechanical dancing horses at a flea market—that she wanted—and then finding that woman’s hat, which she then wears obsessively—because she believes the woman is her double. We’re not sure, exactly, how much this is just playful, or if it’s indicative of a problem. The narrator, Elsa, is a famous pianist who’s at a crossroads in her life and career. This spare novel covers surprisingly a lot—her relationships, the death of her adopted father, piano teacher, and mentor, and discovering her unknown past—what could take another book twice as long, or longer. Yet, it takes its time, letting us to get to know Elsa as we see more of the world around her. She keeps seeing (or thinking she sees) her double, as she travels around Europe for a year or so, taking jobs as a music teacher. Her students, their parents, and her friends, are vivid and very funny characters. Later, she’s reunited with her mentor/teacher/father as he’s dying—and the relationship between them—and his lover—is particularly detailed, complex, sad—but also somewhat comic. As we are putting together the pieces to determine who Elsa is, we discover the extent of her fame and accomplishment as a piano prodigy—in contrast with her as someone we relate to as we would a slightly troubled friend. Finally, there is discussion of when she freaked out at a concert—started playing her own idiosyncratic version of the music—until she was ridiculed by the conductor and forced to leave the stage. It’s disturbing, but also exciting. We don’t know if this story is her dead-end, or a new beginning—we know it’s one of those, or maybe even both—but her troubles and her humor put it all in perspective. The big questions—love, death—they’re all in here.

9.12.23

The Death-Ray

The Death-Ray by Daniel Clowes (2004) I resist saying what this story is “about” because it annoys me when people do that—it’s lazy shorthand, and also reduces the work—so I won’t say it, nor will I do more than a basic plot summary. As briefly as possible: it’s the story of a guy named Andy whose parents died young, so he lives with his grandfather—but apparently his father had been some kind of scientist who treated him with an experimental hormone—that’s activated by nicotine—to give him super-human strength. And also—he gave him access to a horrific weapon called the “Death Ray.” I had to wonder if it was inspired in some part by the 8th Man animated cartoon from the early 60s—that I really liked as a kid—it’s about an android superhero whose power supply comes in the form of fake “cigarettes”—sometimes causing awkward social situations. Anyway, this story jumps around in time, so we’re putting together this biographical puzzle. The main character besides Andy is his best friend, Louie—it’s to some degree his life story, as well. This was first released as Eightball #23—so the version I have is a large (9x12 inch), staple bound comic book of 42 pages—so it’s deceiving—you might think it’s part of a serial (rather than portrait of a serial killer) or a collection of otherwise unrelated short comics—but it is really a complete and intensely thorough graphic novel. (It was re-released later in a larger, hardcover format—which I think the book deserves.) Because of its size, we have an extreme variety of formats within—everything from a huge two-page composition down to some panels that are 2-inch square. As with the best Clowes stuff, you have to pay attention to all of it, including what happens off the page, and in the background—and you have to work a little to get the whole story. I mean, it’s satisfying work. It’s dark, disturbing, and immensely complex, often very sad (and often very funny)—but a deep understanding of human nature on view. Worth going back and rereading, for sure.

9.4.23

Song of Solomon

Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison (1977) The life history of Macon “Milkman” Dead, growing up in the Midwest, his family and friends, the Black community he makes his way in, his loves and troubles, and his relationship, in particular, with his friend/nemesis, Guitar. There is so much in this book, it should be several books—but it’s also very entertaining and at times really funny. Much of the story we get through dialogue—long stretches of speech, sometimes—some of these characters are really good talkers. A lot of characters—just their names are a lot to take in—given names, nicknames (like Milkman, saddled with that one due to breastfeeding at an advanced age). Sometimes odd use of Biblical names, and misunderstandings of names. As we follow Milkman through happy and painful situations, we get his family history, his friendships and loves and secrets—we also get a rendering of social structure and class differences within the Black community, conflicts that arise, as well as solidarity. Some of this we get through barbershop conversations, via Milkman—discussing the political climate, horrific events in the air, such as the murder of Emmett Till. Then we are given to understand the philosophy of an avenging secret society that Guitar is part of. This really is a book that will reward you for re-reading—I’ve read it twice, and I feel like I’m still missing large swaths of meaning in its subtlety—and it’s powerful in the way that it can come across as crude and hilarious while simultaneously being sad, deep, and enriched with meaning you can go deeper into, when you’re ready—bottomless, really.

8.22.23

Peggy Finds the Theater

Peggy Finds the Theater by Virginia Hughes (1962) Technically, the title of this book should be considered a spoiler—or maybe only if I point that out—sorry! The first book of an 8 book series: Peggy Lane Theater Stories, from the early-Sixties—about a young woman from Wisconsin whose thespian desires burn hot enough to convince her parents to help her move to New York City and enroll in a theater program. She even leaves behind her best friend, but soon meets a new bestie, and then starts dating a possibly shady (based on his name and profession) playwright named Randy, who is trying to find a venue to put on his “experimental” play and possibly invent “Off Off Broadway” (internet says it was invented in 1958—so this is contemporary). The author of this book (under the pen name Hughes) sounds like she has a lot of knowledge of both the theater and New York, as far as I can tell, and the story is detailed—though there’s no hint of anything but hetero sexual orientation, and a minor character being French is the extent of diversity. One funny thing is that a lot of characters are introduced, never to be returned to—this feels like the first third or fifth of a longer book—but then, it is a series—so maybe this book is more like the first of eight chapters, or “books,” of the whole. It makes me want to check out the next one—and they’re hard to find—but it might be worth it—there’s some good stuff in this book—in particular, NYC details, as Peggy and her friend explore, searching for an empty performance space, and essentially discover SoHo. My favorite part, though, is when Randy and Mal take Peggy and Amy to the famous, 80-year-old restaurant, Luchow’s, (gone now)—a place I’ve read a lot about (and even written about)—and there’s a whole chapter just describing that crazy establishment.

8.15.23

Killing Commendatore

Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami (2017) I find that I connect or don’t connect with Murakami books rather quickly—and this one, right off, I was in—mostly because it’s about an artist, a painter, and there is a lot about art and painting—and I just liked the main character and his voice. Also, it’s a post-breakup story about a guy going off somewhere trying to change his life—I always relate to that. Also, there is plenty of day-to-day stuff, the kind of mundane details of living that I like reading about—food, work, friendships. But mostly, lots and lots about painting. The book’s title is the name of a painting he finds which casts a strange spell over him—and then things start getting very weird. Without giving anything away, it comes to a point where I felt he crossed the line to what I could accept from a relatively realistic narrative—and I almost stopped there—but I forged ahead, and it paid off because that ended up being my favorite part. There are a couple of other main characters—a mysterious neighbor and a mysterious young girl—great characters. As often reading Murakami, I’m not real comfortable with his depictions of sex—I just don’t like how it’s handled, but that’s a relatively small part of this big book, and I got past it. It’s a pretty crazy story, overall, and I liked not being able to predict what was next—constantly surprised.

8.9.23

Cinema Speculation

Cinema Speculation by Quentin Tarantino (2022) It’s like a conversation with a friend who goes on and on about movies—I say conversation because I found myself talking back, at points. He didn’t listen to me, but that’s the way it usually goes. Even if I often don’t agree, it’s worth my time because he’s more enthusiastic than I am, knows more, and has actually talked to some of the people in question here. It’s primarily centered around 1970’s cinema from the U.S.—which is my favorite era of film, so a lot of this book felt like me reliving my own memoires. We’re roughly the same age (he’s the age of my younger brother), and I especially liked the chapter about seeing films as a kid—we share the experience of seeing a lot of these Seventies movies at the theater—at what is probably considered too young an age. My parents took me to everything, regardless of the potentially disturbing content—and we’d talk about what I didn’t understand. Tarantino seems to have remembered every film he’s ever seen, where he saw it, and what else was on the bill. The chapter I most liked was the one on Bullitt (1968), as that’s a movie that I’ve always had an odd attraction for (its unusual flatness) which increases with each viewing. He articulates this very well. Also, it was fun to relive my experience seeing Deliverance (1972) at the theater—through his breaking that one down. His history of seeing Blaxploitation films, and that influence on his filmmaking, is illuminating. The chapter that surprised me the most was his lengthy appreciation for L.A. film critic Keven Thomas—which is really kind of touching. As is the final chapter, a tribute to a man, Floyd Ray Wilson, who dated his mom’s friend—who he befriended as a kid, and who first inspired him to try to write screenplays. And there’s lots, lots more. With each of his subjects, he extensively covers the background of the film’s inception, sometimes comparing original scripts to final movies, and speculating on alternative actors, filmmakers, and decisions that could have and would have changed film history. I’m not usually a fan of this kind of geek-level stuff, but in this case I found it a lot of fun—fascinating—and that includes the examinations of the cultural and critical perception of a lot of the films in question. I’m guessing he could do a “part 2” to this book—probably will.

8.1.23

Mister Wonderful

Mister Wonderful by Daniel Clowes (2011) Some version of this was first published in New York Times Magazine—I remember that, though I don’t remember in what format—this book format is somewhat experimental—it’s almost exactly twice as wide as it is tall—so it looks a lot like the shape of a “widescreen” movie (I’m not measuring the exact specs or ratio). Of course, the individual panels vary widely in size and shape, but sometimes he has a full-page composition. And then sometimes it opens to a two-page layout, in which case you get a much, much more wide composition than you’ll ever see in comics, movies, or even art (I’m sure there are some instances, out there, that I don’t know). He really takes advantage of these different configurations—so you get the sense of someone experimenting in the best, most playful way—which is nice, because the story is a little grim. It’s a deep and detailed examination of a first, blind date between a man and woman who have both had (we find out as we go along) some particularly difficult relationship problems in the past. Nothing out of the ordinary—pretty much the love-life hardships everyone has—but detailing things we don’t exactly highlight on dating sites (god forbid we’re on dating sites, and wanting to put the best version of ourselves out for sale). It’s from the point of view (we get his internal monologue) of a guy, Marshall, who does have some anger issues, but mostly wallows in typical male cluelessness—but I can relate to him. The date is with Natalie, a woman most people will feel they’ve known, or known someone like, to one degree or another. The one issue I had with the story is the “saving the woman” fantasy—which is usually just that (fantasy, I mean)—but it’s a story, and it moves the action along. The other funny thing is there are multiple run-ins with the same “homeless” guy, Randy (third book in a month with a character by that name—what does it mean?)—like it’s Mayberry RFD and he’s Otis the drunk. Clowes has a way, though, of whenever things are getting a little too annoying, to end a page or sequence with a “zinger” (which was the structure of Wilson)—often really funny. I’m not the biggest fan of love stories with happy endings, but this take on the romcom is filled with enough pain that I was perfectly okay with the relatively decent outcome.

7.24.23

The Queen’s Gambit

The Queen’s Gambit by Walter Tevis (1983) I’ve only been frustrated by chess. I learned how to play it when I was younger, but I was never remotely good—and by now, I barely remember how the pieces move. So, I’m not a chess person—though I am in awe of the game. I came upon this book because I liked The Man Who Fell to Earth (1963) so much—but I was wary—after all, that was about a space alien, and this is about chess—what could they possibly have in common? Well, addiction, for one, which is something I relate to and like reading about. Of course, this book, like life, is about much more than chess—addiction, for example—but a lot of other stuff, too. It follows the life of a young woman, Beth, from her childhood in an orphanage (something about the fish sticks on Friday is more horrifying than anything—fish squares covered in sweet orange sauce). Then, discovering chess—to becoming a chess prodigy—growing up, the chess world, and fame. The most amazing thing about the book, for me, is that it really is heavily about chess—yet I was totally transfixed—as if I was watching each game unfold and understanding what was happening, game-wise, strategy-wise—even though I know close to nothing about the game. In a way, I felt like I was watching sports—I mean, as a sports fan—sports at their best. I tried to imagine writing about, say, football for someone who didn’t know football—I don’t think I could do it. Yet, Tevis pulled it off, here—totally engrossing and exciting, even. Also, a really good ending, neither tragic nor triumphant—more like real life, but also satisfying—feeling like an ending, coming full circle. It almost made me cry. I guess Walter Tevis died not long after this book was published—I can’t help but wonder if he intended to write a sequel. The chess world must be really stressful and even more weird for an ongoing chess champion—so more about chess, fame, addiction, aging. If he didn’t, I guess it’s our loss. I heard they made some kind of TV show from this book. I might wait long enough to forget it a bit, then check it out. Or, I might decide to re-read this book.

7.12.23

Sea of Tranquility

Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel (2022) I said I was through with time travel stories, but I guess not, since I knew that going in—plus, I like the title so much. Every few years someone comes out with a book or movie with this title, which is understandable—though if this book makes a big splash (maybe it has) the next might have to wait for a while—or else go back in time and publish it. One problem with time travel, the more you think about it, the less fun it gets—so you’re tempted to just turn your brain off and accept the fantasy—but where’s the fun in that? The fun here, though, is that it’s presented as a puzzle, so there’s that mystery element of putting the clues together, so that’s pretty satisfying. Also, it’s funny—there’s a depiction of one of the central characters who is a novelist and is on a book tour, and it’s hilarious. As far as the time travel storyline, one of my favorite bits is that time travel is facilitated by the “Time Institute”—a powerful organization whose main objective seems to be seeing that the time travel that does happen doesn’t ultimately affect the timeline of the Time Institute. The storylines involving all this are pared down to a few incidents over several centuries, and the events themselves are lowkey and seemingly inconsequential. It kind of reminded me of the effective approach by that indie movie a few years back (can’t remember its name) where not much happened, but there was a lot to think about. The book is pleasingly sparse, and unlike the bloated, maximalist approach of some science fiction. Besides also being a mystery, it owes something to detective fiction—out of which comes the main character who is not the smartest person in the story, but very relatable. Ultimately, the heart of the novel is the choices he makes— legitimately tough decisions that come alive for the reader—and his actions have real consequences.

7.5.23

The Complete Eightball – 1-18

The Complete Eightball – 1-18 by Daniel Clowes (2022) When I heard that Daniel Clowes had a new book coming out (this fall) I decided to read and re-read all of his stuff and maybe even rank them (because I’m a nerd—see, “Listz-O-Mania!” on this website) before the new one comes out. Entirely for fun, of course. But, however, I decided to skip some of the ones I don’t have—mostly the earlier books like Pussey! and the two Lloyd Llewellyn collections, Orgy Bound, and Lout Rampage! I do plan to get to the rest, but we’ll see. There is some overlap with some of his books and this collection, of course, but seeing how all of his stuff if worth re-reading, I’m all for it. You can read this cinderblock of comics from cover to cover (I did)—including the letters (letters!) printed in original issues. Also, a couple of sections of notes by the author—worth reading! It’s fun seeing the serials Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron and Ghost World in their original context—maybe even better to read them spaced with other stuff in between. I also really like the ongoing Dan Pussey! saga. But the most truly weird, sometimes, and often funniest stuff are the short comics, often one-offs, that might go a few pages, or maybe just one, or half a page—sometimes a single panel. My favorites include: “Nature Boy” (three pages, most of it some striking, dark, complex jungle images, with a kid exploring, and then the final couple frames, truly weird), “Zubrick and Pogeybiat,” “Dickie—Disgusting Old Acne Fetishist” (really gross), “A Message to the People of the Future,” “Grip Glutz and Shamrock Squid” (made me laugh harder than anything), “Ectomorph,” “Glue Destiny,” “Cool Your Jets” (Stew and Lew), “On Sports,” “Hippypants and Peace Bear,” and many many more, really no bad ones. It’s interesting to see when different things came out, and next to what, and in what issue. Offhand, I’d say my favorite ever issue of Eightball would be Number Eleven (which came out 1993). It starts with “The Party,” which is one of the more realist and seemingly autobiographical ones I can think of… and the issue ends with the first installment of “Ghost World.” Then there’s the “Hollywood adaption” of Velvet Glove—really funny. But in the middle are two of the more twisted comics, in my opinion. One is called “The Fairy Frog,” which he says is an Irish Folktale—and it reads like it—weird, scary, and not totally adding up—but there’s something about the way he illustrates it that makes it even more disturbing, and also very funny. And then there’s “The Happy Fisherman”—that could be a small-town morning paper comic done by R. Crumb—about a fisherman with no pants and a frozen carp stuck to his crotch—his companion a talking worm, a piece of bait hanging from his fishing pole. They meet the deranged Smitty the Dowser, some drug dealers (who Smitty executes), and “Furburger,” and… well, he never reaches the ol’ fishin’ hole. It might sound like I’m making that up, but no, it was Clowes, in 1993.

6.28.23

The Mystery Hunters at the Haunted Lodge

The Mystery Hunters at the Haunted Lodge by Capwell Wyckoff (1934) A solid boys’ adventure story from the Thirties with an element of mystery. Four high school boys decide to take Christmas in a cabin on a frozen Vermont lake, and while they’re at it, look into rumors of some hauntings at the big, old, closed up lake lodge. They skate up the frozen river to get there, then go about exploring and making their camp comfortable, while having some run-ins with some unpleasant rich kids from their school, and someone, or some thing, who steals some of their stuff. The high point of the story is when the boys become separated, and a couple of them get stuck out in a blizzard after going for supplies. I always like a good snowstorm, and this one goes on for several chapters. The story sounds like not much when outlined, but I found the book quite engaging. Capwell Wyckoff woite the four-book “Mystery Hunters” series and several other books, including the Mercer Boys series, which I’ve seen but never read. Plus, he’s got a cool sounding name.

6.15.23

Eileen

Eileen by Ottessa Moshfegh (2015) I heard somewhere that this book was made into a movie already, so I decided I should read it first, because after you see a movie, you don’t want to read a book that it was based on because it feels too much like homework—the comparisons weighing on you. I heard an interview with the author, Ottessa Moshfegh, and I felt like I related to her in some way or another, which is one of those things that gets me reading a book. The story is narrated by a much older Eileen—so right off, we’re not worrying too much if she’s going to die before this immediate saga is through—which is always a relief. It takes place, oddly, in 1964, I believe—which is probably about the first year I remembered things—though it was mostly Vietnam stuff on TV—the oppressive nightly news. I couldn’t help comparing my own “ideal” childhood to Eileen’s exceedingly grim one (she says something like she despises people with ideal childhoods—ha). She is 24, so born in 1940 (which I used to think of as a cutoff year—anyone born later than that was “young”) which makes Eileen about four years younger than my mom—and she is the age my mom was when I was born—weird. Also, 1964 was the year my aunt was murdered, while living with us—which as a kid, I didn’t know about until much later—but still, I knew something was up. For some reason my aunt was gone and my parents were acting insane. She refers to the town as “X-ville” for some reason (I guess so we don’t go looking it up on the map—most people don’t do that—I do). Which is fine, and also compelled me to just translate it to my hometown, which isn’t New England, but is still spooky Northern Ohio on the lake—probably more ghost Puritans and witches in her town, but plenty of ghost Native Americans and religious fanatics in mine. Either way, we both had prisons, crappy bars, and people in hiding. Also, there’s a character named Randy—what’s a name mean? Well, it’s hard for me to get away from that one. He’s the major obsession for Eileen until Rebecca comes along (named supposedly after the movie, Rebecca). Even without these insights and incidental personal connections, I would have found this an engaging and haunting book. You are getting to know Eileen little by little, often painfully (I wouldn’t let a best friend be this open about stuff—but I guess that’s why we have books—and for a while, you’re thinking, this is why we have poltergeists). The story then takes a hard turn toward brightness and fun when she meets this mysterious character, Rebecca—who I was initially frightened of, but then came to love as quickly as Eileen became infatuated with her. For one thing, you know some weird shit is gonna come to light eventually. But first, the book took a really grim turn toward reality—which you could see coming, or should have, as this is a prison for kids. The whole story still kept on being hilariously funny, somehow, in its way—even while we’re face to face with some really sad and depressing realties of abuse. And at this point, I can’t really say more without messing it up for the reader who might have not read it… plus, I’ve said enough.

6.8.23

Dr. No

Dr. No by Percival Everett (2022)  It’s the first book I’ve read by the author, Percival Everett, and now I want to read more—he’s written a lot of books. A weird and very funny yarn that immediately drew me in, as the sense of humor—I felt—was oddly aligned with my own—meaning, kind of odd, a little dorky. The best example of this (and, to me, the book’s funniest detail) is when, at one point, the villain uses his secret weapon (the concept of “nothing”) to reduce the entire community of Quincy, Massachusetts to nothing—not destroyed—just never existed. His reason is because he’s annoyed by the way people there pronounce it—like “Quinzy.” This rather tragic event cracked me up because I’m familiar with that particular town and pronunciation due to Mike Mitchell and the Doughboys podcast! (There may be other cultural references to that regional oddity that I don’t know—but the connection of this book and that podcast—which otherwise don’t have a lot in common—delighted me.) Besides that, the main character is a mathematics professor with a unique approach to life, so even though there are a lot of math and philosophy references that may have sailed over my head, that didn’t bother me. (I always like knowing there is more—that I’m not necessarily getting—and there were some pretty esoteric references I did get.) His name is Wala Kitu and he’s an expert on “nothing”—the concept of nothing—and he’s hired by (and later kidnapped by) John Sill, a wealthy man with ambitions to be a “James Bond” super-villain, who wants to use nothing to nullify the world (or something like that—it’s a tricky concept to explain, but we get it fed over and over until it starts to feel second nature). The story is roughly modeled after the James Bond 007 adventures, and I’m much more proficient in Bond (the movies, anyway) than, say, Derrida. Wala has a one-legged dog named Trigo and a socially awkward mathematician friend named Eigen Vector, who falls under the spell of John Sill. Wala is concerned with the safety of these two, which adds some human stakes to the story—but like Bond, you don’t worry about him so much—he’s almost imperturbable. The episode where he decides he needs a car, even though he’s never driven before—and then his first experiences driving—is particularly hilarious. There are plenty of location changes, ala Bond, as well as gaudy wealth and gadgets—and there is danger and violence, but mostly there’s the ongoing joke about the concept of “nothing”—which made me readjust a bit, mentally, every time I heard it. I mean, the whole book, like any good novel, makes you shift your perspective a little—and in this case more than a little—to go along with the ride. So, of course, there is more than just humor—there’s skewed ways of looking at wealth and power structures, history and race, this messed up country and this messed up time of living in it—and even friendship and love—without it being “about” those things. But, of course, it is, too.

5.30.23

Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron

Like a Velvet Glove Cast in Iron by Daniel Clowes (1993) The first Daniel Clowes comic I ever read—it ran in the first ten issues of Eightball—which a friend of mine had, in the early Nineties—I should have bought them myself and kept them! The very first bit I remember is where the guy answers the door with the fish tails coming out of his eye sockets, due to some absurd scenario—it’s the image that’s important—and burns a traumatic hole in your mind. Because of moving, life changes, etc., I’m not sure if I finished the serial at that time, or sometime later—anyway, it was worth rereading. It’s a crazy, surreal story that keeps getting weirder as it goes along. The whole thing starts with a guy named Clay seeing his ex in a porn film—classic setup—and then his search for her, in which he encounters cults and secret societies, eccentrics, freaks, weirdos—even a dog with no orifices. It could give you nightmares. I think I would have been disappointed if it all added up—or was explained—but it just keeps getting more mysterious. More creepy characters than you’ll ever see in one place, including a hairy guy who never wears a shirt and is always sweating, and a guy with botched hair transplants whose head looks like a sprouting garden—just the dedication in drawing the details in those guys! Ultimately, Clay’s fate is several levels worse than death, but it’s still pretty funny, and even touching in a way. My favorite character ended up being the diner waitress, Tina, who looks like part fish, part potato—at first repulsive, she ends up being really quite endearing.

5.20.23

An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter

An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter by César Aira (2000) A novel about a real person, the 19th Century German landscape painter, Johann Moritz Rugendas (who I’m not familiar with, and only know he’s a historical figure because I looked him up) who traveled to South America to paint. He’s traveling across this vast region of Argentina on horses and huge carts in an absurdly slow journey, but things get crazy when he’s struck by lightning and nearly killed. He endures, howerer, with the help of some medical procedures, drugs, and his trusty sidekick. I had to consider, of course, that the only difference between it being a novel and a historical account is what the author and historians claim. It’s a bizarre story about the hardship of the journey and it gets quite surreal and hallucinatory—and there’s also a lot of odd humor. There are some philosophical ruminations about painting, as well, and I suppose about art in general. I couldn’t help thinking of Werner Herzog’s approach, in many of his films. All of life is extremely weird, but is often flattened in the telling, whether by a fictional approach, or by historical accounts—but this story brings out the strangeness and wonder.

5.14.23