2020, without question, a great year for binge-watching — but taking a moment to think about it, I don’t believe I did any more bingeing than usual (which is to say I am a binge-master, the only trick is tracking down something I want to binge — and so far, so good — the Koreans jumped on the zombie genre just in time).
The notable literary endeavor for the year was doing some editing on John D. Haefele’s landmark of litcrit, Lovecraft: The Great Tales. Ought to pop any day now, the final hurdle being the Index for the 750 page plus monster. I think if the Index is longer than the book, we’ll have to trim it back to strictly HPL cites, and maybe Robert E. Howard, Clark Ashton Smith, and I guess Machen and Chambers and Bierce, perhaps some Young Belknapius and Robert Bloch. . . . But everything otherwise is a wrap. Formatted. Ready to roll. A nice surprise or two. The book Lovecraftians have waited their whole lives for, but didn’t know it.
On the Hammett Tour front I have spent the entire year discalced. Honest, nothing remotely like a gumshoe has grabbed me by the feet. First year since 1977 when I personally have not led hardboiled tourists on the now legendary walk. Of course, it is easier to not do the tour than to hike up and down the mean streets, and I like easy, so I don’t feel traumatized by sitting one out.
I fully expect to resume the walks at some point, when the various vax’s have done in the virus. Put a slug through the pump. If not sooner, when they’ve only plugged it in the leg.
