Watching this reminds me of how the whole nation felt about the economy last September-October. (Without the faked excitement.)

My friend Doug — he of Doug’s Reading List and the only modern explorer any of us will ever know — was in town last week from the lower provinces of Patagonia or wherever his latest trek has taken him. You may recall that Doug, who is a reader for the ages, ejected all his thousands of books several years ago because they couldn’t fit onto a boat or a motorcycle. Now he and his wife, fellow adventurer Stephanie, have invested in a Kindle 2. I have seen the Kindle 2 and admire its functionality. But, as with print newspapers, it has proved difficult to break my addiction. I love books — not just reading them, but holding them and turning their pages and admiring their papery feeling and their floral aroma of decaying pulp. I also like having them on shelves in bookcases throughout my house and my office where I can see them and, let’s admit it, where others can see them. I check out the books in others’ homes and I like to see them checking mine out too.

But now I’m overbooked. Either that, or under-bookcased. All of our eight bookcases at home (one in office, three in kids’ rooms, one in bedroom, three in living room) are overstuffed with books and I pledged to my wife that we were done adding bookcases. And I’ve been unable to purge myself of any of these books because of the painful memory of my senior year in college when I sold my books back to the college bookstore because I needed the money. My favorite professor caught me in the act and said sadly, “Monsieur Wochner, you are selling your books?” It was heartbreaking. And stupid — because over the years I wound up buying most of them again at full price. I now know:  When you’re a playwright, you might have further need some day of “Seven Plays” by Sam Shepard, and books like it. Since then, I’ve lived in fear that the book I part with will be the book I’ll need. Having a Kindle 2 might help with that; my purchases would be digital files on Amazon.com.

But… what if Amazon.com goes out of business in my lifetime?

And what about after my lifetime? I like to think my books will find future readers. Who will read my future digitized Amazon library? Probably no one.

Here’s something that I wonder if having clear bookcases — so I could actually see the spines of the books — might help. Last night I was reading Kafka by Robert Crumb and David Zane Mairowitz. Crumb provides wonderful illustrations to summaries of Kafka’s great works, with introductory-level biographical text by Mairowitz. Recently on this blog, a friend suggested that I get this and read it, and I almost did buy it two weeks ago at my local comics store. Then I stumbled upon it in the last stack of unread books from last summer’s San Diego Comic Con. So I had already bought it and completely forgot. I dived right into it two nights ago and was thoroughly enjoying it and was surprised, given that I’m a fan of both Kafka and Crumb, that I hadn’t already bought it when it first came out, in 2004. As it was, some of it seemed familiar, but I just figured I’d seen chapters in Weirdo or other magazines with Crumb work.

I Tweeted a tiny rave about the book today and resolved to write an appreciation here tonight. In so doing, I Googled for images and found this. First thought:  “Crumb did two books about Kafka? He must be a huge fan!” Second thought: “This is an earlier edition of the same book.”  The cover looked hauntingly familiar. As in, familiar from my bookcases. I went to the “K” section of the first living room bookcase, moved aside two stacks of books, and found “Introducing Kafka” by David Zane Mairowitz and Robert Crumb right where I now thought it would be.  The same contents, but in a 1994 First Edition from Kitchen Sink Press. So I’ve now bought and read this book twice (and almost bought it thrice). That’s the downside. The upside:  It’s been a great first read — twice. Because in the 15-year interim I’d forgotten I’d read it.

(By the way, the Introducing Kafka cover  shown here has a slightly different title layout at the top than my first edition, meaning it must be a later edition. Proving that there’s still money to be made in Crumb and Kafka, if not Mairowitz.

End note:  My Google investigations turn up yet another Kafka book illustrated by Robert Crumb and with text by David Zane Mairowitz.  This one is called R. Crumb’s Kafka, “with text by David Zane Mairowitz.” I’m thinking this is the same book. (And given the title, I’m guessing it’s Mr. Mairowitz’s least favorite edition.) The cover is different, but they’re right when they say you can’t judge a book by its cover.

I’m not falling for it again.

A few minutes ago while I was working on a longer post for this blog, my 10-year-old daughter  suddenly appeared behind me, giving me a start.

“What are you doing up?” I said.

“I had to turn off the fan in my room because it was getting too hot for me.”

I noted two things: 1) this doesn’t make sense; and 2) she had a slightly confused look about the eyes. Then she added, “Plus, I had to put the… um… foam thing… on the counter.”

“I think you’re sleepwalking,” I said.

She looked at me, spun around and went back upstairs. I followed her to make sure she wound up in bed and found her there almost instantly. She must have run. On the way back to my office, I took note that there was no, um, foam thing on the kitchen counter.

My family has been having fun encounters like this for decades, from my grandparents to my parents to myself and my siblings and perhaps back to the start of our bloodline for all I know. All three of my kids are carrying on the tradition. As far as genetic curses go, I guess it beats sickle-cell anemia.

“Brutus” and “Judas.”

Jeez.

Number one: It seems to me that the U.S. taxpayer just paid Fiat $8 billion to take over Chrysler so that Fiat can get access to the U.S. market in exchange for pretty much nothing (except the strongly opinionated management of the Fiat CEO). Am I wrong about this? Is it just me?

Number two:  Last night at the opening-night performance of the play Loveswell, an event benefiting Heal the Bay, a woman said to me, “Were you an actor?” “No,” I said. “Oh,” she replied, “You look like you were an actor.” What does this mean? Do I somehow look wrung out from years of waiting tables or bartending (two occupations I’ve never held)? Also, if I were an actor (which I am not and never have been), how does one look at me somehow reveal that I’m now through with it?

How fortunate we are in this great land to have Free Comic Book Day. And woe to the nations that do not observe it! They do not know the despair they endure.

This year’s Free Comic Book Day might place in your hands free retro reprint editions of classic Marvel comics (Avengers #8, the first new Ant Man, the first Spider-Woman, an early Iron Fist, and so on), a great Simpsons comic starring Comic Book Guy (!), a new New Avengers / Dark Avengers mini, Sonic the hedgehog for younger boys and Betty & Veronica for stinky older sisters, and on and on. All for the cost of nothing!

Submitted for your perusal, photographic evidence of just some of the wonders available to you at your local comics store. These esteemed visitors were seen at House of Secrets in Burbank.

Mr. Incredible, defending my ability to secure free comic books.

My favorite artist, right, gets a sketch from comics artist Tony Fleecs.

My daughter Emma considers a future line of work. (After asking me why Supergirl had a navel piercing, which was “wrong.”)

Mr. Incredible trying to horn in on my action. Right after this pic, I dialed up Mrs. Incredible and that put an end to that. Still, I’m glad to be seen with four defenders of truth, justice, and the American way (the three heroes in the flesh and the hero depicted on my shirt).

Afraid you’ve missed out? There’s still time to discover similar wonders at your local comics shop. This link will direct you hither.

Just got in from a night spent bowling in Hollywood. Bowling is not what it was when I was a kid:  filthy lanes with middle-aged guys in NRA hats chain-smoking and chugging Schlitz, getting served greasy snacks by a washed-up bottle blonde at a grimy window into a dank kitchen area. Now it’s video screens, club music and a deejay, Asian wraps, a serious dress code, and the hipster Hollywood contingent. At least that’s what we found at The Lucky Strike in Hollywood,  on the corner of Hollywood and Highland (our town’s new epicenter).

The lane next to us was taken up by six playboy bunnies and their photographer and videographer. How did we know they’re bunnies? One of our crowd asked the girls, “Why are all of you blonde?” and one answered, “Because we’re Playboy bunnies.” That, plus when they were checking in, they announced at the shoe counter, “We’re the Playboy party.”

The eight of us in our lane bowled two games and I lost both of them. (Well, the second time I tied for last place, so see, I was getting better.) Somehow or other I bowled a gutter almost every time. Not that the Playboy bunnies were a distraction. I don’t know what it used to cost, but tonight bowling for eight for two hours with drinks and snacks ran three hundred bucks. And it seemed like a bargain.

Charles McNulty reminds us where Bea Arthur developed the killer comic delivery we loved so much on television:  in the theatre.

My friend Hoyt Hilsman suggests we waterboard Sean Hannity.

Click here for some photos of the abandoned house that Steve Jobs has owned — and hated — since 1984. He wants to tear it down and — perhaps in the spirit of the times — build a new, smaller mansion.

Some of these pictures remind me of the state my then-girlfriend (now wife) found our apartment in one a.m. after an infamous party. After bidding six or so of us farewell at 6:30 p.m., she came home from work at 6:30 a.m. and discovered us still up drinking and unmoved, the apartment trashed, and a stick of butter mysteriously adhered of its own power halfway up the kitchen wall. Jobs has only skunks and rain to worry about; we had musicians and gamers.