51: Newport

Alright, this book makes the claim that Rhode Island (the setting of Family Guy) is the "fabled watering place of the Very Rich." Now of course, as a blogger, I'm not typically allowed to know what the "watering places" for the wealthy are at any given point. Not even the trendy, flash in the pan ones, let alone the fabled ones.
Do the rich read novels about being rich? Wouldn't they rather read about poor people as form of comedy? I'm so out of my element that I'm just going to let a couple of selections speak for themselves.

From the author biography page, "Edwin Gilbert divides his time between Europe, the sea coast of New England, and Bridgewater, Conn..." aww, that's just making me feel crappy about myself. let's try another.

This describes the beginning of a sex act between the two leads. "Presently, mysteriously, the barrier between what had been and what was, vanished with starling speed, like a mound of sand suddenly washed away by the rush of tide." Its like they gold dipped a Nobel literature winner and forced him, under musket (was fired at the Battle of Lexington) point, to narrate their couplings.

Aww, jeez this ain't for me guys. I gotta wipe my mind clean with some science fiction or whatever else low brow/for the poor sort of entertainment.

50: I Killed Adolf Hitler

For the fiftieth post, it might as well come back to Hitler...like always. So the conceit here is that this world is the same as ours except that instead of humans it's dogs. And time travel is possible. Just everything else is the same so you have no trouble just jumping into the narrative.

Now here's the saving part for a book that really doesn't need any saving...Hitler steals a time machine and goes into the future...to the present (within the books original timeline). He's still the famous Hitler (dog guy) so he can't expect to just walk around without attention. Kind distinctive looking guy (dog person). So simply cut the little whiskers off and change the hair. See...

Yeah, this really would seem to work. Not being ironic either (am required to point out the rare moments of gravitas). My brain is in no way capable of picturing Hitler without those touch points. I get those little sparklies, you know, from when your mind pushes itself too far.

You don't get those do you...crap it's the cancer isn't it. Yup, gonna end on a bad cancer joke.

49: Warman's Pez Field Guide

Somebody once told me that Ebay began as a service to connect Pez collectors. Or maybe I read it somewhere. Book or online, I'm not sure.

There's no origin to this factoid and I refuse to look it up now. Like most of the stuff I know, there's no way I could give an origin citation for at least 90 per cent of it. sure, I look at the nature of my life and I assume it was from a book--I love books. But I like a lot of things. Maybe it was a fact from the lid of some soft drink or on the back of some cereal box suggesting to add educational value in the stead of nutrition.

At this point, if I think about it, I'm a little afraid at just how much of those facts that comprise my knowledge are random errant bits of misinformation good intentioned or not. So I'll just have a cupcake instead. Lots of vitamins in those.

48: Slow News Day

This is one of those extremes on my entertainment road. A nice quiet tale--city girl moves to the country, is underwhelmed but in a shocking twist eventually begins to cherish it. And a guy.

This is one of my favorite authors (and illustrator for it is indeed the example of a graphic novel), but I just can't read him any old time. Most of the time I gotta escape...something, I don't know what and stopping to think or even to end this sentence is just the sort of thing that would allow it catch up to me. Sometimes though, I enjoy the quiet and solid tale attempting to furnish me with real emotional responses. Sometimes. (ahh, that's a hack ending but I got no other)

47: Assignment Angelina

Oh this is one of those exposes, right? All about some wayward wild child without any good upbringing doing that which she shouldn't. Plus, in addition to the lack of parenting, she's got that genetic deformity. Crazy eyes! She looks like Lizzy Caplan (one of the stars of Party Down--please, only hipsters in the know comprehend that) sent back in time to ruin the good intentions of whatever the factual counterparts to the Mad Men cast were.
Some sort of hussy Terminator...which could star Lizzy Caplan! Ooh, now it's all a great big circle and my logic is complete! Sleep? What sleep? I remember Thursday, sure. All my thoughts now equal the direction of thought intended to be most direct in action, you understand? Fine, I'll take a nap.

46: I've got to Talk to Somebody, God

Not entirely sure that Marjorie here didn't intend for her name to be part of the title. Just from this cover, doesn't Marjorie seem like the sort of person crying about their loneliness to a multitude of friends.

Marjorie: I've got to have somebody to talk to...God. You know things have just been really hard for me lately, what with my hip which you probably don't even know about since we haven't talked much lately. Not blaming you dear; you're very busy I'm sure. Still...

God: Now I'm really glad you wanted to catch up, but I've got this thing in like five minutes in Peru where...

Marjorie:...it all started during that recent bout of ice we had the other day. Steven, that's the Williams' boy from down the street, is supposed to clear my lanes for me during every bad bit of weather, but he just didn't get around to it that day. Hurrumph, he won't be seeing nickel one for that chore til my hip stops aching, I'll tell you that. Though you have to admire him accomplishing even that little that he has, what with all the drama under that roof...

God: Look! It's my only begotten son, Jesus. He'll want to hear all about that, bye Marjorie.

Jesus: Why hello...

Marjorie: Now why didn't I see you the other day at church. Weren't moping about the beach again were you?

Jesus: No, no, I was carrying this guy during a crisis of...

Marjorie: Anyway, I'd expect you'll be wanting to hear all about the Williams indelicate goings on as well, but first Miss Simpkins would just keel right on over if I didn't...

This really could go on forever, butI...I shall be the salvation this time and end it. Oh yeah.

45: The Ninth National Congress of the Communist Party of China (Documents)

Nothing about the book, but more so about people today. Within the bounds of one of my classes today, quite engrossed in not paying attention I was pulled away from inactivity by an emphatic "I don't like rednecks." Scenario: this is said in a rural town a couple hundred miles or so from a metropolitan complex. Again, this is farm country; the town in question is aggressively surrounded by corn. The speaker, a younger female, is thick (probably the corn) in ragged clothing in a way which, combined with the college class, suggests choice if not motivation. The teacher herself is by her own casual conversational testimony a farmer. The atmosphere apart form comment is country friendly, alright.

Next, another student not two minutes later describes that his (walking) path to Walmart at one time included crossing a pig farm. A pig farm. In town. On his way to Walmart. No comment escapes anyone else.

Fine...we're not a talkative bunch at the moment. Yet, not five minutes more multiple people in the class admit--without any admitted connection to the prior comments--that they've participated in the redneck fishing event "round these parts."

Suddenly I'm all proud of my relatively urban background. I've heard of irony and they haven't. I like feeling superior.

An update...

Well, it's been week since I experimented with abandoning three books in various locations about town all with a note directing comments via email to me. No luck. They were all picked up quickly, but not a word. Oh well. In two of the cases I suspected older people in on a grab, but one of them was at a college. That one, at least, I anticipated a greater probability for. Not giving up...just going to think about it some more. I want a response so I'll probably try dropping them in the tech friendliest places I can find...in a farming/rural town...so college again.

44: The Bunnies

This one's a treasure. There's the gorgeously pulpy pilot drawing washed with single tone. There's the full color shot of a lady, bra only in defense of nudity, through a salacious keyhole. She's even black as a surprise; book is from 65; you just don't find black women as objects of white lust without the book turning on a racial premise. This one is just a straightforward adventure where the lady per book just happens to be black. Neat. The hero calls her his chocolate bunny, thus the title.

Then, oh my god there's a wet fountain of homoerotic going on all over the back blurb. My man Peter Trees has got those itchy fingers, you know. Not only is he a pilot, he's also a shiny missile whose eruptions affect women and nations alike. Oh shiny missile man...you're going to melt your chocolate bunny you know.

43: Another old magazine #3

Just the last of these before getting back to books. This from a 1981 car magazine--corvettes are cool! I feel like no more than dust in the wind. Ugh, I should be able to do better than that, but cars just ain't my forte.

This was also won for the sum total of a penny delivered from a different seller from the last.

42: Another old magazine #2

From 2006, a magazine dedicated to the fine and ancient art of hunting with sticks that are thrown ever so quickly. Here's a better view as to the value of magazines. Only 5 years out of date with whatever technological advances that may have occurred in bow hunting and this old issue was bought for the sum total (including delivery) of one cent on Ebay. That's a game I like to play with the world. Just how much can I get for a mere penny delivered. Turns out...a lot, like over 170 discrete items won a lot. People are kinda not good at figuring out the value of things.

Sure, you know what the guy was thinking. At subscription rate, this issue cost him something around $1.66 (according to card inside). Now five years later the information is still valid; caribou and deer have failed to adapt to our bowhunting strategies in the meanwhile. This lack of understanding cost him $2.41 in postage for a penny earned and not really even that minus the fees inherent. Magazines are just worthless in a connected world.

41: An old magazine #1

There's nothing better to make you feel like an intellectual giant than to read old magazines. Take this 1969 sports mag...Tony Conigliaro's comeback? Yeah, like that's going to work, what were you thinking 1969? Foolish past, don't you know that I know you already?

Why do you even still exist magazine...though at least you give me nostalgia that has some weight to it. What little does a similar sports magazine of the this very week give me? The happenings of a few days past--not even long enough to cause that fun spark of "oh yeah, that existed" but only "yeah, I remember that when it mattered." In this case, I spent $4 for that spark

40: Killing Yourself to Live

Now I've had the opportunity to meet all sorts of authors. The kind I tend to read especially. But I made no greater fool of myself than the time I forced my company on Chuck Klosterman. At a sales convention (for books), I was headed towards my room when I see no other than Klosterman attempting entry into his own room. As would be expected, I essentially rape his personal space forcing myself into an impromptu discussion of his oldest book at the time he was promoting his first entry into fiction--about which I admitted to him that I had not read nor purchased.

This trainwreck continued as he continued to try and unlock the door only to admit defeat and suggest that he had the wrong room. At the very least he escaped despite my dreams...he was supposed to recognize that I wasn't like the other fans. I'm a little unique sunflower that would totally buy him a drink just to espouse like on ideas for hours. Nope he rejected and escaped.

It didn't matter. The next day, during the conference proper, I still forced a book into his hands at a chance encounter demanding/asking for the signature bit. He obliged and walked away. Now, a few years later what I have left is a reminder of how awkward I was to him and a dream deferred in misery/eliminated.

39: Spiced (a third attempt at giving away books in what I call subtle, but that others would only call awkward)

Okay, this is the last one for a while. I want to see if anyone will actually respond to my requests for comments before I try some other tact to force people to react to books. Anyway, this one I left in the town square on a bench. There were what are the typical assortment of society in a small town's square in the middle of the day...you know--the elderly, the infirm (mentally?), the got too much sociology on the brain college student. I think it was one of the elderly who took it.

I think I may have actually tried to read this one only to become bored at another's attempt at cooking.

38: The Little Book (the second in an attempt to awkwardly donate books to the public)

This was my second attempt at leaving a book in a public place and seeing if people would take the book and whether they would be willing to contact me about the experience. This time I left the book in a well traveled stairwell at the local college I attend before my morning class. As I did yesterday, I included a note that whoever found the book should feel free to take it and, if they were willing, to email me with their thoughts. Directly after the class period, I checked and the book was gone. We'll see...

This is another book that I had received for free from a former job in what was a former life that I have never read. Sure I'm a sucker for a little genre-rific take on time travel (as cover blurb suggests)...but the cover itself just wants so hard to be taken seriously. Like an oily salesman with an honest to goodness deal for once in his miserable life, perhaps the cover is relevant to a literary masterpiece of science fiction worthy of escape and high intellect simultaneously...I doubt you both, cover and salesman, and defy you by name before the pulpit. Anyway, I would never actually read it so I can only gain from this.

37: The Film Club

Here's an advance copy of a book apparently planning to be released in 2008...and from the future I tell you things! Okay...no more of that. So, I like the idea of messing with people's heads--those little expectations of how life and our surroundings are supposed to be. If I were to toss little variables into someone's way, how will they react?

So I took this unwanted, unread book that I was never going to read or allow anyone else to read (under normal circumstances)and tossed it on the sidewalk in front of my house with a little note saying that it was free, please take...and if the taker was so inclined that they should feel free to email me with their observations on the book itself or just the odd manner by which they found it. Within 10 minutes (while typing this very sentence I stopped to check) the book was gone.

36: The Road

Here's a quick review of the book only based on the cover and random unsourced and unverified information.

35: Baron Sinister

Hot pink lipstick woman clinging to a secret agent in the very moment of converting his gun to silent death mode...of course the best way to catch tail is to work directly for the President. Nowhere in any advice rag will any woman find the helpful hint to avoid men who have "foes," but they should. Just simple English, if this guy is his deadliest foe then somewhere else are less skilled foes all looking for ways to harm the obviously simpering womenfolk hugging the great spy's heels. Hmm, something about this cover makes me want to tell a woman what she wants for dinner.

34: The Pork-choppers (and that's exactly how it's printed on the cover)

The best part, and by best I mean outrageous since books are silly weird relics of the past lingering on in an increasingly tech world anyway, is the blurb above the cover.

"He was the president of a powerful labor union--but he could lose it all with one blast of an assassin's rifle!"

The kinda sorta supposition here is that only someone like a powerful labor boss *snort of laughter* faces real loss from bullets entering them. Can poor people lose what they do not have...with one blast of an assassin's rifle? Can the somewhat powerful vice-president of a labor organization lose from an assassin's rifle?

33: 1001 Home Hints

Why of course I expect some assortment of 1001 tips for around the home from this books, whoever would I not? Inside though, no numbering of tips...just chapters. There's not 1001 of those either. And there are only 494 pages of actual text inside so you're supposed to assume a a smidge over 2 tips per page? On the title page there IS a mention of over 1750 pictures. Leaving alone the fact that that this publisher decided to put that fact on the title page rather than on the back or any other normal advertising area, this leaves each picture as showing LESS than a tip each. That's just confusing.

Basically, Southwater Books here knew I needed a dollar. Instead of giving me a nice logical form of a dollar--like a bill--they threw a fistful of pennies at my face and promised me that there were 100 of them. "Oh feel free to count them when you get home," they said laughing. Why you laughing Southwater Books, either I'm amusing or you just ripped me off. Instead I laugh at you foolish print publisher in this millennium--I didn't pay for your book! It was given to me and I won't even appreciate or let anyone else do so either. Never gonna give it away or open it up again. Ha! Victory to me, Southwater Books!

32: Glister, Vol 1.

Now a haiku about this book.

This should be funny
but it's only a haiku
no room for details.

Damn, ran out of time...but I came off clever, right? That's all I need in my life right now--to not be perceived as clever.

31: Where She Went

Apparently Where She Went is the sequel to If I Stay which obviously she did not. I'm no more clever than that today.

30: The Sword of Pleasure

This is my quick video review of the cover of The Sword of Pleasure by Peter Green.

29: An Invitation To Sin

Usually, for something like this that I want to write about, I wanna hold it, possess it, ruffle it up you know. That much incremental joy improvement did not equal $5.24 in this case. So...is that not the most polite invitation to sin ever? Whatever dark emotionally malnourished part of my mind that creates this sort of thing told me that this is how my grandmother organizes orgies. Oh you nice young man, you just must come to our next key party. Now you have your invitation, please RSVP at your earliest convenience with the number of accompanying bitches you plan to offer to grandpa. Just sick. Or do I not want to disempower myself? I feel maladjusted suddenly.

28: Night of the Quarter Moon

Guess the year time! An accepted San Francisco society couple come under attack when it is suggested/discovered that the woman of the duo is of mixed racial heritage. She's part black they say while physically, yes physically, attacking them and throwing bricks through their window. Later, the woman who is light skinned, strips down (showin the nudey bits in other words) in court to prove that she is white. Also, surely a book about the then sensitivity to the mixing of ethnicities would not utilize a title that heavily suggests a racial slur regarding someone who has mostly but not all white ancestry. Nope. "Quarter Moon" is ever so delightfully just far enough away to give great big heaps of plausible deniability while doing nothing more than whispering "quadroon" over your should, into your ear and touching your mind with its dirty little raycess* fingers. It turns out that the woman actually did have a black grandmother (proud African-American they call her of course as that will make up all the difference) so not only did she dare mix in inappropriate circles, but she lied to them, too!
So, the year? 1917? Uh uh. 1925? Nope? Surely, not after WWII? How about all the way in 1959. Sometimes, though I want to hold firm, I wonder whether it is better to remember the worst of the past or simply wash it away. Oh, inconsequential note, this tied into the movie of the same title starring Drew Barrymore's dad which is his name now.

*Raycess is of course the more phonetically pleasing form of racist.

27: Jungle She

I have to think that the title--this is the 1953 1st edition--is a reference to Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, who was a pulp and comic star of the time and the time before. Actually, she was the first female star of a comic book, but...since no one today is going to get the allusion you gotta assume the author failed, right? That's his job--to be eternal and have the words last. Instead you reference something forgotten and exist not to be read, but for a possessiveness of the cover. Which is very nice, isn't it?

Trivia--this author also wrote what would be the basis for Elvis' Stay Away Joe feature which put the singer (in his late 60s persona) as a Native American. Naturally, this went just as swimmingly as you could expect and was in no way mocking of Injuns.

26: The Cuddle Sutra

Aww, it's such a sweet book for cute couples in loving and close relationships. Let's see how dirty I can make it!

Step 1. Just give the titles of some sample maneuvers and allow a wink and imagination to do the rest. Yes, these are real "cuddle positions" according to the text. The Layer Cake, oh yeah. The Two Pillows, uh huh. The Tete a Tete, qui qui.

Step 2. The same thing, list some of the positions with a little detail of your own fiction but not something that gives a full image. You still gotta let the nasty out of your imagination. Lile the Pinky Play--gonna need some sanitizer. The Gleap--or as it is sometimes known, the Detroit Haberdasher (because of what you do with your head). The Tug O'love for when there's just not enough time for the full Pinky Play.

Step 3. Just go all out silly with just enough left to the imagination to draw a filthier picture than even I intended. The Cherry Popsicles. Well, one time I crossed over at Laredo into old Mexico and you think the real crazy stuff only happens in Tijuana...but you'd be real wrong. A five dollar transaction and I'm in the filthiest bar ever watching two chicks perform the Cherry Popsicle. I learned alot that day. How God must not exist. That that particular shade can be bodily made. That I could still cry at my age.

25: The Retrosexual Manual

Okay, now this isn't a book for me. This is for those, all I gotta do is touch it sort of feeling guys. Science lesson time. Everybody is born with the basic package of feelings--sympathy, joy, bonhomie, jealousy, and so on. At puberty onset, your brain releases hormones that identify which elements of your emotional spectrum are present in your environment and eliminates those without recognizable matches. Say you were raised in a dour environment by a dysfunctional family--snip snip goes your natural forms of happiness and trust.

sigh...myself, well, they're not supposed to do this, but when I was 11...my feelings...they...molested me. They took advantage of me all alone in a dark room and suddenly and ever since I've been adrift without control seemingly. All I know is, if you're within the sound of voice you are not safe. So run...RUN!

24: Ten Little Indians

Yeah, it's about racism again--there's really no physical limit to the number of these I can do. This is the third of three titles (by appearance order) for this particular book--all of which show how culture attempts to step away from overt racism. The first, and I don't want to even write it out, was Ten Little N-words. yeah the actual title had the real word. They didn't care much about it back when originally published in 1939.

Now, I can't move on without thinking about a comedic bit Louis CK does about inappropriate words including touching on the n-word. To him, and he's right, even using the sorta acceptable substitute just makes you think the original in your mind. Basically, someone has made you think the word aloud in your head without actually saying it themselves--raycess* virus.

The original title was published into the 60s, and by large-shoulda-known-better publishers like Penguin. There were some publishers as far back as 1940 who insisted on a name change, for some reason not universally held obviously, and the title became And Then There Were None which is how the book is generally published today. Ten Little Indians is an alternate title created after the source material was renamed for a movie.

Just the original dust jacket, with raycess name and little raycess caricatures dancing (I'll link here, but have no interest in showing the picture on my blog), costs near fifty dollars itself online. Though, that's not like the only potential racism about. As you can see, my copy names Indians but then adds the perhaps suggestive hanging body--during the 60s, come on! Even the supposed safe title, And Then There Were None can create dark overtones in comparison to the original. Now there's none of them left? Is that your goal, Christie and or publisher?

Regardless, enough people didn't care to the tune of 100 million printed copies--making this the highest selling mystery of all time. I myself own this copy and a more recent And Then There Were None.

23: Six Million Dollar Man #4; Pilot Error

Yeah, this book is cute in that "oh it's older than me so that makes it adorable in its attempts to communicate" sort of way, but that's not it. There's no way I would have the spent even the dollar it cost a couple of days ago if not for the happenstance awareness of the advertising material in the middle.

See? Yeah, books to push cigarettes? Like all out obvious where kids could find in their attempts to understand the jumpsuity universe of Steve Austin (thank you for retro hip shows like Venture Bros. for me even knowing that much). Then your little baby, 9 year old Tommy, is sucking on a tobacco tip like it has the cure for cancer at the end, which, yeah is really ironic for 39 year old Tommy.
The New York Times actually did an article about cigarette ads in books a few years ago. Apparently, this was actually quite common during the 60s and 70s. They tended to appear in the more masculine pulps and thrillers (Mack Bolan types), but actually could be found in such varied material as Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye (I would happily kill like three people--in order to rank my desire I will enumerate my kill/desire--for a copy of this just for the odd juxtaposition) and Dr. Spock's baby care books (which prompted a law suit by Dr. Spock when he found out). Considering my shock on discovery, it just shows the lengths to which culture can change while erasing the memory of its path.

Final note. I'm so off the tobacco path (quit smoking after I turned 18; legality made it all boring and shit) that I misspelled "cigarette" every time I try to use it.

22: The Man From S.T.U.D. in The Girl With the Polka Dot Box

1969. Why not convert acronym prone thrillers of the day (Man from U.N.C.L.E., Nick Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D., S.W.A.T....damn I hate having to do that whole type, then period, then type, then period pattern; is this a really long parenthetical break or what? Oooh, maybe this is the real point of the paragraph and what is outside is cosmetic, or a dream, or only an entryway to my mind.) into paperback sex romps? What does it say about us that a thriller or a spy novel today is more likely to be genre mashed with vampires?

Anyway, past or present, this is no Tijuana Bible or Rule 34, this is actual parody via a hell of a lot of mentions of "bush" and "broads." Actual sentence from the book: "He led her by the bush to the bed." Other than that, well, you could say the flagrante is detailed. One could blush or laugh, but never both.
This isn't the most collectible/expensive of the odd books in my collection, but it would be one of the harder to replace if accidentally destroyed. Naturally I found it in a dusty used book shop of the lesser of the two types. Used shops can either have deep, valuable, or recent selections...you know, obvious from the first glance of worthy delving. Or...they can be those leftover shops still occupying a local niche long since past its prime. No longer do locals trade-in the latest Cussler or whatever the oldies are reading these days. When you walk in, you look around but all you see are items from 10 to 20 years ago at the latest. This shop, where I found this one, was of the later. Still, hidden in the back, and past a narrow gap in shelves, was a selection of nice 60s pulps like reprints of 30s and 40s heroic fare like Doc Savage and the Avenger and sex romps like this one. Why be shocked that the heirs to the unwanted creations of others lack the imagination to notice the truly unique?

21: The Hater's Handbook

I don't know coach; you heard what the doctor said. If I hate just a little more than I do like normal now my heart could explode. Yeah, I wanna hate, but...

Alright, I'm gonna do it. For little Johnny back in Brooklyn. Open it up then. Yeah...yeah...YEAH, I feel it! I hate you! I hate little Johnny! I hate Brooklyn! You did it, you ugly fucking Italian bastard. You're not even Italian, but I got so much inside I just gotta throw slurs all over the place!

20: Comic Epitaphs

For this one, you just gotta read this bit, from just before the main text:

The following collection of gravestone inscriptions is hardly a serious historical one. Most of the items are genuine, but many are suspect, and a few are frankly contrived. In some cases genuine inscriptions have been somewhat altered; and the place names are not reliable. Scholars are there warned not to find fault; but all men--and also any women who choose--are invited to read further for a little ghoulish amusement.

So, not only is this book partially fraudulent, but women might, might, read it as well as men. Probably cause they're mentally frail or something, so says the 50s when this was published.

Oh fine, here's two examples of "comic epitaphs" from inside:

FIRST A COUGH CARRIED ME OFF, THEN A COFFIN CARRIED ME IN.

SHE LIVED WITH HER HUSBAND FIFTY YEARS AND DIED IN THE CONFIDENT HOPE OF A BETTER LIFE.

Yeah, comic indeed.

19: The Klansman

Well, I haven't looked at any outright horrible books in a bit so let's try one on.

Hmmm...oh, no, there's probably nothing going to be wrong about a book entitled "Klansman" and showing a white man in a power pose before a disheveled black woman on her knees before him. Also, I love the signal of a woman meekly attempting to pull one sleeve that had fallen back over her shoulder. Before books started reflecting reality (in oh, let's say 1991) that sort of subtle gesture or image was code. The meaning of the code changed over the years but in this case it definitely means rape. Sure, I don't want it to be rape...but it is what sells. Or something sordid--Mackenzie Phillips says what?

The author, William Huie (which I have to guess is pronounced something like hoo-ee cause of the Southern birth of the man), was pure Alabama--born there, graduated from an Alabama school, wrote about Bama football, and lived through and journalistically covered some of the high/low-lights (which is best?) of the Civil Rights Movement. Then he right promptly used some of that material to write what I guess I could call in my best PR impersonation "racially charged."
Just looking at the man's history brings back all sort of twisted thoughts on Southern heritage. I was born in Alabama and still find myself rooting for Auburn...but, damn there is a lot to be ashamed of culturally. So this cover, and I don't care enough to review the interior, just reminds me of all that. Like most of the ephemera I've collected in the past years, I keep this bit cause it reminds me of a different past. Not just some scrubbed rendition of "before and after" or "this=good and this=bad," but a real world of shadings...a world where books with covers like this were bestsellers should be remembered if not fondly then just coldly.

18: Instant Replay

This one, originally from 1968, is one of the first of the now way common technique (plot? device?) of following a team over the course of a season and attempting to provide something of an insider view. The Packers, of course, were the dominant football team of the 60s and Jerry Kramer was one of their star offensive linemen.

Of course, professional athletes are a tight brotherhood forever distinguishing between those who actually played the game and those that did not--for example, most reporters and announcers. To breach that brotherhood by providing to those outside some of the internal secrets is to place one's own position within at some risk. For Kramer, his memoir possibly created enough ill will as to prevent his being voted into football's hall of fame--the NFL network has proclaimed him as the best player not currently enshrined. The, in reality quite vanilla, tell-all provided the basis for the far more risque Ball Four in 1971 and all the subsequent "turn back the curtain" attempts since.

Was it worth it? Would I be willing to share the secrets of any particular society to which I belonged for some spending money and literary notoriety? Of course I would, why else would I be spending time just playing with words as I am?

By the by, I thought his 1985 book had a far more cute title--"Distant Replay."

17: A Coney Island of the Mind

As far as I remember into my past, I was always a voracious reader. Poorly stocked libraries, the inattention of my parents, and a lack of discretionary cash largely led me to a vagabond reading selection of remaindered books, donations, loans, or outright thefts (as opposed to forthright theft? Gotta think about that one.).

One incident in high school provided some of the first shape to my reading patterns--my high school received and gave away several cases worth of paperbacks that had had the cover stripped off. Now I know that these were the remnant of some return to the publisher (Penguin in this case), but at the time they seemed to sum up the overall shabbiness of the school.

These books were piled up on tables in the library and given away on a "take whatever you can carry, we don't care" basis. Now, most (or all as I can remember) were of a high literary quality. The only two that I can absolutely remember taking was a copy of Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory and The Beat Reader though I took a hell of a lot more than that. The Beat Reader was a collection of sampler pieces of all associated with the Beat Generation meaning they ranged from core members like Kerouac to muses like Neal Cassady to barely/fringe influenced people like Bob Dylan. These pieces rocked my literary world and spiraled me into a literary world that, while it didn't end there, included chanting the full length of Allen Ginsberg's Howl out loud at midnight a few years later on Ole Miss' campus. And if you don't know, "Howl" is a hella long poem.

Eventually I even made the pilgramage, as I considered it, to one of the great remaining landmarks of the Beatnik faith--City Lights bookstore in San Francisco. Owned and operated by poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the associated press published many of the first and major works of the movement including "Howl." The guy is still around, over 90, and by sheer luck I got to meet him in one of the two visits I made to the shop. That's where I got my signed copy of the book shown above.

So, after saying all of that, what I really want to talk about is that San Francisco people are really freaking rude. After getting my signed copy and after Mr. Ferlinghetti walked away, I told the cashier in awed tones that I was so shocked at actually meeting one of the original guys that I just didn't know what to say. He scoffed at me and snidely suggested that next time I try "Hello" and then walked the fuck away from the register...while I stood there about to pay for the signed book. When I went back there the next day to get something I had forgotten, the same guy initially refused to be bothered to remove the item I wanted from the window of the store saying it wasn't for sale despite the prominently displayed price sticker. I finally got it, but that was about what I got from San Francisco folk. A city I loved so much that I have taken two vacations there and a people that make even my own anti-social tendencies blend into a general genteel manner of the well heeled South by comparison. Current resident of said city, and hilarious comedian, Greg Proops has frequently noted on its savage social nature. Recently he noted on his podcast that it is the sort of city where the reply to a hopeful "I'm trying to get to the Asian Art Musuem" is more often met by a caustic "Well good luck with that then" than not. Funny.