I CHECKED OUT EARLY this afternoon to ski Hiawatha golf course (the South High Nordic team had the same idea) and do odd errands: get Jo at daycare, notarize an affidavit for a client (I do what I say I do, I swear), and drop by the former Amazon Bookstore on Chicago Ave to thumb their unusual second-hand assortment. Alone in their basement, I entered a hyper-niche publishing time warp.
I passed on all but the Minneapolis-St. Paul Epicure (1981, photocopied menus of long defunct restaurants) and a 1976 Doonesbury collection. Cat Dependent No More! is a self-help parody, but even as a “humor” title it struck me as the saddest book of all time.