GAS MAKES THE HAPPIES SICK

Remember the old joke about what happens when you play a country & western song backwards? You get your girl back, you get your job back, you get your dog back.

I know a variation. I know what happens when you clean out your garage. You get your expired passport back, you get your social security card back, you get your childhood back.

Here are some random finds:

Didn't Thurston Howell have the same teddy bear in Gilligan's Island?

Apparently so.

Basic Goals in Spelling 

Safe All Day With The Happies (Rand McNally, 1959)

ENLIGHTENED DEPOTS

I've spent more time in Home Depot in the last two weeks than I have in the last six years. I'm a goddamned regular over there. 

It's like Norm entering the bar on Cheers, except nobody's very happy to see me. The employees all spin around and start walking the other way when I show up. They take early lunches and extended breaks.

I really can't blame Home Depot because I have nothing but silly questions and occasionally some returns. A tan faceplate instead of white, an extra paintbrush.

Getting the house ready to sell was more than packing up my belongings, more than cleaning bathrooms and baseboards, more than dusting furniture. It meant spackling and painting walls and resealing both bathtubs. 

It's been an education.

Several trips were devoted to matching existing paint and many more involved advice and additional supplies. 

In the end, it wasn't very difficult. 

LA BIBLIOTECA MODERNA

So I had what?  Over 600 Modern Library books? 

I pulled out all the duplicates and thought I might take a portion of the collection with me, but what to take?  What to leave behind? The duplicates were no indication of what I really had and it didn't make any sense to cart the rare stuff all over creation.

The whole collection is now nestled in cardboard, sleeping safely in storage. There are many striking covers that deserved scans, but I limited myself to three early titles. 

Dracula belongs here, and Native Son. The Sun Also Rises and Nine Stories and Invisible Man. Anything by E. McKnight Kauffer or Paul Galdone or George Salter.

ALGREN UP AND NO PLACE TO GO

I don't know where you stand on Nelson Algren, but I like the guy.

His novel The Man With The Golden Arm won the very first National Book Award, back in 1950. I'm not crazy about Otto Preminger's adaptation with Frank Sinatra, but how can you not love a protagonist named Frankie Machine? He plays cards, he plays drums, and he's addicted to morphine. Talk about a monkey on your back.

Of course, Algren is also known for his affair with Simone de Beauvoir, his relationship with the city of Chicago, and his novel A Walk On The Wild Side, an inspiration for one of Lou Reed's best-known songs.

The Neon Wilderness (Doubleday, 1947)

The Man With  The Golden Arm (Doubleday, 1949)

A Walk On The Wild Side (Farrar, Straus and Cudahy, 1956)

POST HASTE

There's really no good excuse for going ten days without posting except I've been packing up the last of my belongings and getting the house ready for the real estate photographer. There was also a terrible book that needed reviewing and people I wanted to spend time with.

I scanned a couple dozen things in the past week, images for future posts, and then I packed up my scanner. Don't worry, I know where it is. If something magnificent comes along, I can always plug the scanner back in.

The best thing about living in a mostly empty house is there are fewer places to lose your keys or wallet.  Three rooms are completely empty, the carpets are clean, and the curtains have been washed and tumbled dry. 

The house officially goes on the market next Thursday. I thought it was something that happened instantly, but apparently real estate listings have a proper release date, just like books and movies and records.

And that day is Thursday. 

 

BRING IT TO JEROME

Oh, J.D.

It's a big year for Salinger.  There's a new documentary and a new oral biography coming, but those are still months away.

Here are some Salinger goodies from my library:

Salinger's Catcher in the Rye: Clamor vs. Criticism  (D. C. Heath & Co., 1963)

Studies in J. D. Salinger  edited by Marvin Laser and Norman Fruman (The Odyssey Press, 1963)

Unauthorized Salinger collection (1974?)

Years ago, when I ran a bookstore, a customer who traded regularly brought in some Salinger books.  Tucked inside the books were these vintage Salinger clippings:

The New York Times Book Review (September 17th, 1961)

Salinger in Time (September 15, 1961)

Salinger in The Atlantic (August, 1961)

  

SOMEPLACE WHERE WE HAVE NO POWERS

I lost an entire post on July 1st, which is a little ironic since it was basically a description of what it's like to shed material possessions.

Most of these posts are stream-of-consciousness, composed in haste at the end of my day, but that doesn't mean I don't spend time editing or tinkering with word choice. I'm not above setting aside a draft that isn't working, either.  

So I lost my post after working on it for almost an hour and I had no energy to start all over.  I wrote down a few lines in case I decided to revisit it and then I went to bed.

Here's the gist:

Superman #164 (October 1963)

I’m feeling a little in-between these days.

I’ve spent the last three weeks boxing up my possessions, even though it’s not clear where I’ll end up. All I know is, I’m not staying here. 

No matter what, I’m heading to a smaller space.  It’s time to cut back, it’s time to slim down, it's time to make some tough decisions. 

My storage space is already three-quarters full.

I've thrown out a lot of stuff, things I've kept for three decades or more. I fill up my recycling bin every week, I called the city for a bulk trash pick-up, and I've made several large donations to Goodwill.

Sophie Zawistowski had to choose between her two children. Big deal. Easy-peasy.  

I've thrown away nearly 1300 issues of Entertainment Weekly. Ticket stubs, balls of string, love letters written, love letters received.

You know that sense of relief and fulfillment people say they get once they’ve shed all their material possessions?

I don't have that, but I understand it.

Last week, my dvr got fried. I had nearly 100 hours of premium entertainment (movies, television, talk shows, etc.) recorded over the last six years.  

And then suddenly I didn't.

It only took a second to register. The machine wouldn't turn on, there was no way to access my recordings.

And that was it, no two ways about it. Hasta la video, baby.

And I was okay with that.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've always had a love affair with things.  Magazines, books, music, movies.

I like them pristine, I like them mint. Do you know how many items I have that are as daisy fresh as the day I bought them?  The correct answer is “practically everything.”

Do you know how many relationships I’ve soured by telling my girlfriends not to place their drinks on top of my magazines, not to read my cd booklets with greasy hands, to please hold my vinyl records by the edges?

Do you have any idea how much wrath I’ve incurred from friends by gently asking them not to dogear the pages of my books, not to crack my spines, not to read my books in their bathtub?

Me, I'm a perfect browser.  My hands are almost always powder dry. I never leave fingerprints, I never leave traces.

Do you know how many merchants have openly weeped as I examined their wares, painfully aware that no harm would come as I lifted their items off shelves?

I've kept things that are important to me. I've kept things I cannot replace.

I won't miss this house but I'll miss the space.