Although most of my used bookstore jaunts are in search of desperately out-of-print science fiction and the occasional classic I’ve been looking for, I do love it when I find a treasure of oddness. I’ve got a copy of Dr. Sylvanus Stall’s anti-Onanism tract What Every Young Boy Ought to Know and some determinedly strange children’s books, even some dandy anti-Communist literature, but I don’t have anything really weird. I’ve never found a copy of the Codex Seraphinianus or a hitherto unknown key to the Voynitch manuscript. I’ve never found anything by Harry Stephen Keeler, thought by some (including Big Secrets author William Poundstone) to be the worst mystery writer ever, although others would apparently put forward Joel Townsley Rogers for the title. I’ve never found anything by Lionel Fanthorpe, the Ed Wood of British science fiction. I’ve found Masonic and anti-Masonic propaganda and all sorts of New Age hokum, but I’ve never found a hand-colored refutation of Einstein. I’ve never found anything worthy of mention in Book Happy, a zine published by Donna Kossy of Kooks fame, and I’ve certainly never found anything quite as remarkable as Down Home Gynecology, a women’s health book written in country-fried dialect that could have been (and possibly was) lifted from Li’l Abner. And for that I am grateful. None