Milwaukee
As I said, we went to Milwaukee again yesterday. Last week we went to hang out at the hotel and watch our friends' son Ike, which left no time for sightseeing. So, we made the decision to come back on Friday.
Milwaukee is an interesting town. As I said before it feels like I haven't left Chicago in some ways; like I took a wrong turn and discovered that the city had an east side, rising up like German Atlantis from the waves of Lake Michigan. They have a nice little art museum, a number of cool old buildings, and even though I've only ever gone there during the bleak months of winter, the grey skies compliment the city's grim, gritty vibe.
Mostly I go up there to visit the Renaissance Book Store. It's one of those old-school nightmare piles of books, magazines, and newspapers, where at any second you feel like the shelves are about to buckle, crack, and smother you with an avalanche of paper and ink. The air feels unhealthy, and the rooms (about four floors worth) alternate between being too hot and too cold. I'm not a squalor and rubble fetishist, by the way, so don't expect me to say that I love it nonetheless. Hanging over Plankinton Avenue on one side and the Milwaukee River on the other, I expect the place to pitch forth one way or the other some day-if it doesn't burn down first.
(Shot of the Milwaukee River from the paperback room)
In my younger years I wandered around stores like this starry-eyed, imagining that I'd find treasure if I just dug long and deeply enough. Back in those days I also convinced myself that Robert Johnson 78s and Action Comics #1 were lying in wait for me beneath a pile a moldering pulp. No more. To quote Danny Glover, I'm getting too old for this shit. What I really want I pretty much already have, and now I just skim the shelves with a trained eye, searching for visual cues (a certain combination of colors, a semi-famous name, a little-known piece of iconography). No more digging for me.
Which is not to say that shopping at Renaissance Book Store has ever been fruitless. Certain sections seem to have more attention paid to them, and there's a rudimentary sense of organization on those shelves. Little surprise: the paperbacks, particularly the sci-fi, horror, and mystery stuff, are in perfect order according to author, title, and subject. The adaptations shelf was tempting-perhaps I needed a copy of the fotonovel for Nightwing-but I resisted. I did pick up, out of a sense of nostalgia for my teen years, three books from Michael Moorcock's Elric series, which should explain some of the stranger statements on my Facebook and Twitter accounts yesterday. They had an awful lot of books from the DAW sci-fi and fantasy imprint, actually. I always loved seeing those yellow spines along my bookshelves as a lad. Maybe another trip, or 10, is in order.
Now this... This blew my mind.
I came across two shelves worth of these books. The titles are achingly cheesy, but it gets worse when you realize Perry Rhodan isn't the author: it's the series. Now, I'm sure this is one of those things everyone but me knew about before yesterday, but Perry Rhodan is apparently a German(!) sci-fi series that was brought over to the states, translated, and published by Forrest J. Ackerman and his wife. The series had no less than 3,000 novels in it. Jiminy, that's a lot of pulp. I'm guessing that gives even mega-series like Mack Bolan: The Executioner and William W. Johnstone's "Mountain Man" books a run for their money. Death Waits in Semispace? What hath God wrought?
Now here we have the basement/magazine area, where fuck is truly not given about order... or fire codes, I'm guessing. Strangely, many of the magazines have price tags regardless.
Across the way we have much stacked paper, justifying the high number of screechy "NO SMOKING" signs throughout the building.
Down here I managed to pick up a few Comics Journals from the old days. That the magazine has been plugging away for 30 years may not be hellaciously terrifying to you kids does not mean that it doesn't make me feel a little decrepit. After reading issues #39 and #40 though, I have to say I'm excited about seeing what happens next with this Star Wars movie the kids are talking about. Also, it's mighty odd to see the Journal just before comics started getting all alternativey. There's mention of a little project Art Spiegelman was working on called Maus, and this Love and Rockets comics looks intriguing as well. Msot of the standard bitching seems to be about, surprise surprise, superhero comics. Even the supposedly best stuff (Frank Miller was in the midst of revamping Daredevil for instance, was sniffed a by Groth and Co. Maybe they saw what was coming.
Spent the rest of the afternoon at the Betty Brinn Children's Museum, where Nate went absolutely bananas on the play train and in the various rooms that promote happy futures in low-paying occupations and grocery shopping.
All and all a fun day out. What more can I say but Vote Republican:
You heard me:
Milwaukee is an interesting town. As I said before it feels like I haven't left Chicago in some ways; like I took a wrong turn and discovered that the city had an east side, rising up like German Atlantis from the waves of Lake Michigan. They have a nice little art museum, a number of cool old buildings, and even though I've only ever gone there during the bleak months of winter, the grey skies compliment the city's grim, gritty vibe.
Mostly I go up there to visit the Renaissance Book Store. It's one of those old-school nightmare piles of books, magazines, and newspapers, where at any second you feel like the shelves are about to buckle, crack, and smother you with an avalanche of paper and ink. The air feels unhealthy, and the rooms (about four floors worth) alternate between being too hot and too cold. I'm not a squalor and rubble fetishist, by the way, so don't expect me to say that I love it nonetheless. Hanging over Plankinton Avenue on one side and the Milwaukee River on the other, I expect the place to pitch forth one way or the other some day-if it doesn't burn down first.
(Shot of the Milwaukee River from the paperback room)
In my younger years I wandered around stores like this starry-eyed, imagining that I'd find treasure if I just dug long and deeply enough. Back in those days I also convinced myself that Robert Johnson 78s and Action Comics #1 were lying in wait for me beneath a pile a moldering pulp. No more. To quote Danny Glover, I'm getting too old for this shit. What I really want I pretty much already have, and now I just skim the shelves with a trained eye, searching for visual cues (a certain combination of colors, a semi-famous name, a little-known piece of iconography). No more digging for me.
Which is not to say that shopping at Renaissance Book Store has ever been fruitless. Certain sections seem to have more attention paid to them, and there's a rudimentary sense of organization on those shelves. Little surprise: the paperbacks, particularly the sci-fi, horror, and mystery stuff, are in perfect order according to author, title, and subject. The adaptations shelf was tempting-perhaps I needed a copy of the fotonovel for Nightwing-but I resisted. I did pick up, out of a sense of nostalgia for my teen years, three books from Michael Moorcock's Elric series, which should explain some of the stranger statements on my Facebook and Twitter accounts yesterday. They had an awful lot of books from the DAW sci-fi and fantasy imprint, actually. I always loved seeing those yellow spines along my bookshelves as a lad. Maybe another trip, or 10, is in order.
Now this... This blew my mind.
I came across two shelves worth of these books. The titles are achingly cheesy, but it gets worse when you realize Perry Rhodan isn't the author: it's the series. Now, I'm sure this is one of those things everyone but me knew about before yesterday, but Perry Rhodan is apparently a German(!) sci-fi series that was brought over to the states, translated, and published by Forrest J. Ackerman and his wife. The series had no less than 3,000 novels in it. Jiminy, that's a lot of pulp. I'm guessing that gives even mega-series like Mack Bolan: The Executioner and William W. Johnstone's "Mountain Man" books a run for their money. Death Waits in Semispace? What hath God wrought?
Now here we have the basement/magazine area, where fuck is truly not given about order... or fire codes, I'm guessing. Strangely, many of the magazines have price tags regardless.
Across the way we have much stacked paper, justifying the high number of screechy "NO SMOKING" signs throughout the building.
Down here I managed to pick up a few Comics Journals from the old days. That the magazine has been plugging away for 30 years may not be hellaciously terrifying to you kids does not mean that it doesn't make me feel a little decrepit. After reading issues #39 and #40 though, I have to say I'm excited about seeing what happens next with this Star Wars movie the kids are talking about. Also, it's mighty odd to see the Journal just before comics started getting all alternativey. There's mention of a little project Art Spiegelman was working on called Maus, and this Love and Rockets comics looks intriguing as well. Msot of the standard bitching seems to be about, surprise surprise, superhero comics. Even the supposedly best stuff (Frank Miller was in the midst of revamping Daredevil for instance, was sniffed a by Groth and Co. Maybe they saw what was coming.
Spent the rest of the afternoon at the Betty Brinn Children's Museum, where Nate went absolutely bananas on the play train and in the various rooms that promote happy futures in low-paying occupations and grocery shopping.
All and all a fun day out. What more can I say but Vote Republican:
You heard me: