Thanks to every one who voted last week. LIM is up to #61. I’d love to see it go higher before the end of this book. Just three more pages to go! (For new readers, I’m only referring to this current book, #3. There are six issues in all, so we’re really only half-way through the story. I’ll be taking a break, but book 4 is already in the hopper.)

Because I’m so crunched for time right now, I’m going to slack off a bit on my blogs, but only a bit. I’ll do one meaty post per week and then a short one mid-week for the duration.

Next week I am going to start a new occasional series, The Parades Gone By, which will deal with obscure topics of interest from long ago. The title of the series is a tribute to a book that influnced me greatly when I read it in high school, Kevin Brownlow’s The Parade’s Gone By, (Alfred A Knopf, 1968) a lavishly illustrated detailed look at the silent cinema. I could fill several posts just rambling about the book as well as Brownlow, but I’m restraining myself. It’s a great book.

His title comes from something Buster Keaton said when he was way past his prime, working as a gag man whom no one would listen to. It’s kind of sad.

But that apostrophe has always bugged me. I find my own variant of the title more evocative of the ‘memories’ I have of things I never actually experienced. I’ve had this discussion with numerous collector friends, and none of us have an answer for why we feel so nostalgic about items and events that weren’t even part of our parents‘ childhood. It’s as mysterious as, “why is there something instead of nothing?”

As a for instance, I love early jazz, and have over 150 CDs of music from the period 1898-1935. All of them are of interest to me, but there are several that are sheer magic. No, it’s not because of the music itself, though that is a contributing factor. The recordings that move me the most are the ones that sound like…I’m not sure how to get this across…..it’s like I’m actually listening to the band through a weird hole in time. If I could just squeeze myself through that hole, I could drop by and say hi. They are still living, still recording, and somehow broadcasting to me via modern technology.

If that doesn’t make me sound like too much of a nut, I’ll add that when I hold a dime novel in my hand, or a serial lobby card, it’s like I can feel the era emanating from it. I don’t have visions of people, I’m not going to be able to help the police resolve cold cases and mysterious murders. It is in no way a psychic experience. But there is a little electric charge.

Anyway, next week: The Mystery of Fantômas (1913), something short, and page 28 on Friday.

Have a good weekend.