Discovery at Powell's, the King of America's Independent Bookstores

I'd read plenty about Powell's Bookstore in Portland, Oregon. It's the de facto King of the American Independent Bookstore. Once we'd decided to go to Portland, this was one place I really wanted to visit.

In a later post on the regular blog I'll be going into some more detail about the discoveries at Powell's, but until then, Norm, here's something that you may appreciate:

These guys have a rare-book room, but this was definitely not found there. The cover art and the ad-copy inside are pretty neat.

I'm not sure how Powell's stacks up against Manhattan's the Strand...

I need to think about that with some more depth, but I certainly never saw anything like this chilling on the shelf in New York.

Update: Rellerindos

Norm, there's good news and bad news. First the bad.

I've just been informed that my new favorite hard candy:

...is only available for sale in Tijuana (and random spots that have regular TJ runs).

The good news is that a trip is being planned by my current source, and he said he would procure some for the both of us.

Just a Test

One two...

Buckle my shoe...

Downtown LA from 4th Street, just west of the 110:

Skyline of downtown Los Angeles, from the Slauson metro stop, one of my new daily routines, and in no way connected with the above picture:

This was only a test of posting pictures directly from my phone. It was a success...

Happy New Year

2013 saw both a new Pynchon book and, in an easy way to trivialize a new Pynchon book, a new baby for Norm! Congratulations, brother!

Time to get over to this blog to type ramblings about authors is hard enough for me to make, and I have zero babies. But, in keeping with the general vibe of posts over here, I'm back with another random Dollar Bookstore discovery.

I finished the latest book I wrote about over here, Richard Flanagan's Wanting. I found it good, but certainly not as outstanding as I had hoped, but that's my fault.

Saying something truthful, like "Well, it's not as a good as Gould's Book of Fish," is like complaining Pudd'nhead Wilson isn't as good as Huck Finn--how could it be? In both cases, one is good book by a genius, and the other is a masterpiece.

But, since Flanagan doesn't get the recognition he deserves, sometimes his books end up on the margins, and for me in downtown Long Beach, those margins are manifested in the physical world by our Dollar Bookstore.

So the other day I found another new book to get to once my Christmas reading has finished:

The premise is that a stripper wakes up one morning to see her face all over the news as a newly wanted terrorist. After reading Wanting, I am curious to see how Flanagan deals with a more modern narrative. The first and last chapters of Gould's... notwithstanding, I've only seen his prose in specific historical time periods, and this idea seems like it could have some legs.

Also, having read Wanting, I know where to set my expectations so I won't face disappointment.

Thanksgiving Discovery

I know how swamped you've been, Norm...or at least I can imagine. Toddler, baby on the way, pregnant wife, very important jury service wrapped up...and then there's the j-o-b. On top of all that, there's books and reading.

Bleeding Edge I imagine is occupying whatever reading time you have for yourself, and then afterwards if you're still inclined is that skinny Mishima book, The Sailor Who Fell From Grace with the Sea.

So, here I am with some days off, and I took a sojourn from my housework and went down to my friendly Dollar Bookstore. I was perusing the disheveled shelves and saw a book by an author whose last name I recognized, Flanagan. A quick glance showed that it wasn't the author I thought, it was someone named Bob Flanagan. Hah, I thought, wouldn't it be cool if there were a Richard Flanagan book in here...that's why, after all, I was even looking though the "F" section.

Since the "F" section is pretty ragged, and around the edges last names starting E and G are easily seen, it's easy to imagine that within the section itself, nothing is really alphabetized. As I started to leave the aisle, my eyes caught another Flanagan name. It even looked like a Richard...could it be the same?

I grabbed the copy from the shelf and snatched it up, and before I even read the title of the book I noticed underneath the author's name it said, "Author of Gould's Book of Fish." Sold. I carried it around until I left and bought it.

I didn't bother to read the back to find out what it was about. Wanting is the title, and the lady with the rose on the cover only registered in my brain long after I was home and deciding to check out the meat of the story.

Here's a rundown, and Norm, since you know how Flanagan structures his stories, you can imagine how this one can turn out: In real life a guy named Sir John Franklin took his wife and left for Tasmania where, after a while, his wife fell in love with an aboriginal girl. Later, in real life, Sir John and his entire crew went missing on a trip to the North Pole--cannibalism was suspected.

Those are the real events that Flanagan uses to frame this book...

...And now I have to force myself to focus on other shit and not read it until later. It is just over 250 pages, though...

Another book to add to your already-too-long list, brother.

Not Really About Pynchon, But...

Here's one of a few pictures I'm trying to do something with:

III and IV, being blinded by the sun...

Just in Time...

It was a Tuesday. In September, but not a bright autumn day back in '01. The namesake for this blog was dropping a new novel upon his readers on September 17th, and for once I got to be excited for a book release.

Excitement over book releases are rarer these days---and then I remember all of the teeny-bopper unconsummated-love horror-pop genre fiction and I say, "Oh yeah...some folks really care about that stuff..."

So, I guess, if you like serious books about heady things, or like authors that are celebrated by heads and scholars alike, then when one of those authors delivers something new, you get excited.

I had plenty to do on that particular Tuesday, and checked to see when the book store closed---their website said 11 pm. It turns out that that was only for Friday and Saturday, and if I wanted to get there on this Tuesday in September, I had to make it by 10. When I realized this, it was, like, 9:38.

Where's the car parked? Do you really want to go right now? Can you even make it? Do they have a copy?

This is all pretty stupid, I was telling myself, but Corrie reminded me, "Hey--it's about the adventure, right? Screaming across town late at night might just be worth it..."

So, scream across town I did. I called as I huffed it out to the car to have them hold me a copy, then drove basically along the beach the entire length of our city to get to the one corporate bookstore I know about around town. Sitting at the last few stoplights, cursing and sweating, yelling at the lights and the randomly placed slow drivers, I was constantly aware of the car's clock, four minutes fast, mind you, but reading 10:01.

I tore ass into the parking lot, nearly skidded into a spot, 10:02 on the clock, I ran up to the door. The lights inside illuminated the fact that the door hadn't yet been locked, and the transient examining the bargain books by the door let me know they were still open. I smiled to myself, loosened up a bit, and let myself in.

I went right to the counter--I wasn't going to be wasting any of these workers' nights--and visually located the copy with the name "PATRICK" written on a piece of paper and rubber-banded together with it.

It was on a discount, too. Pretty sweet... My receipt says 9:58. Just made it, baby!

I texted you, Norm, as I got back to the car:

I'm just past 200 pages, which is almost halfway through it, and, damn, there is so much to say about it...

While my post isn't about a Tuesday in September back in '01, that hangs over this story like the proverbial ominous storm cloud. There is a disaster being brought upon the world by a type of evil that is manifested in greed and power struggles...nobody is quite sure what this disaster might prove to be, but of course we know.

You get the idea, reading it, that Pynchon began writing the book in his head, or maybe just working it out in his head, as a way of catharsis maybe right after the towers fell. It's like Against the Day meets Doc Spotello's investigation agency--by which I mean that you get the perspective of a transition era (in AtD it's the 19th-20th centuries) snuggled into a mysterious dilemma. It's also like Vineland in that it offers perspective on an era (the late '90s), but from less of a vantage point (right before 9/11, where in Vineland it's the '80s perspective on the '60s). But, like Mason & Dixon, since you know historically what the outcome will be, you get to supply your own perspective as well.

And, of course, he knows New York very well.

AND, the hero, or protagonist, like in The Crying of Lot 49, is a lady, a divorced Jewish mom, which is pretty cool. We should be able to amend our conversation about Pynchonian ladies all (mostly) being whores.