As I told you I would in the previous post, I've searched my house for the most unusual book, and I have found a perfectly ridiculous book that was published in 1970 and taken seriously — I think! - at the time. More on that later. Along the way, I ran across 2 photographs of your humble blogger from the same era.
First, there's this from about 1974 (when I was 23). I'm sitting on the steps of our rather horrible tenement building on East 91st Street in NYC and wearing the kind of parka that everyone wore back before down jackets:
I fancied myself an artist back then, and I worked in strange day job that involved classifying the editorial content of all the major magazines. I read magazines every day and wrote code numbers on them with a red china marker and made $6,500 a year.
This next one is a duplicate made long ago from a Polaroid. It's really washed out and faded. It says "October 1976" on the back in my mother's handwriting, so I am sure that is the correct date, in which case I was 25.
1976 was my year of retreat from commerce. The company with the magazine job collapsed, and, with husband and cat, I moved back to Ann Arbor (or, more precisely, Ypsilanti) and lived on savings. But that's enough for now. This is a blog, not an autobiography.