Book 38: Moby Dick by Herman Melville

I took an AP English class senior year. We read "Moby Dick". The real irony is that our teacher was a short drunk Scotsman named Mr. Dick.

I am not lying.

He looked like the Burl Ives snowman from Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer after he'd spent a winter drinking hot toddies and eating nothing but beef. His mustache blurted out of his upper lip like Play-Doh through a screen.

He loved "Moby Dick".

He was a bit of a joke to all of us but the amazing thing was that he somehow got the whole class INTO it. He would shriek about it, arms above his head in astonishment, reeking of Scotch, saying things like, "The entire chapter is about the penis! The flaccid penis of the whale!"

He retired not long after I graduated.

I can't really go into the specifics of why I am including it on this list, mostly because I read it over 20 years ago and don't remember much aside from what everyone knows. (White whale, crazy Ahab, Ishmael, etc.)

Any book that is too heavy to be carried in a backpack but still manages to grab the attention of a classroom of horny teenagers must be a classic is all I'm saying.

This story is really about me and my friend Tom DeVincke. And my other friend Justin Brady.

By the time senior year rolled around, Tom, Justin Brady and I were a drummerless punk powerhouse called Fecund Youth. We spent most of our time playing basketball and cutting each other down. I don't talk to Tom as much as I talk to Justin but I still consider him to be a best friend.

There are two parts to the story...

Part 1

Mr. Dick doesn't seem to care that I pull my desk up to the front of my row to sit with Tom. No one else seems to be allowed to switch seats or move but somehow we've escaped scrutiny. We must be exceptionally well-behaved, you surmise. Uh, no. We talk openly about Minor Threat, The Replacements, 7 Seconds, Dead Kennedys, and our own future as leaders in the punk movement. We snap rubber bands at testicles. We draw X-rated cartoons on textbooks. We are incorrigible.

Mr. Dick says nothing. For months and months. Both of us are A students but we are most likely ruining the class for everyone else. As well as posing a fire hazard should anyone have to get out the top of the row of desks.

Somehow we exhaust the patience of our saintly inebriated English teacher.

He looks over at us (Tom and Brendan). We are talking away. He snaps...

"Tim and Brian! Shut up!"

Part 2

I am moving out of the condo in Brooklyn that I'd shortly shared with my wife. We are going to be divorced. I need help moving. I haven't seen Tom in a couple of years.

But he made the trek to Brooklyn from Rhode Island to help me haul my things out, to help me get my life back on track. And Justin lent me the money to get the apartment.

So the next time you see a couple of teenagers being rude and disrespectful to everything and everyone around them, the next time you judge three young hoodlums loitering outside of your local supermarket drinking grape soda and popping zits...

Just know they may need each other down the line.

That'll Learn Ya Redux

Back on January 24, 2008, a full 20 months ago, I wrote a post about a song I hadn't heard in over 20 years.

This weekend I heard the song.

To recap...

That'll Learn Ya was a Rhode Island band in the early/mid 1980's. They gained a big local following. I bought a cassette that they released. On it was the song 'Robert DeNiro Movies'. I loved the song. But lost the cassette.

Every time I've been home to my parents house in Rhode Island I've dug through boxes of old tapes, looking for that missing gem. Never found it.

But through the wonder of Facebook, I recognized the name of one of the guitar players, Al Valatka. Within 20 minutes of this I was listening to a copy of 'Robert DeNiro Movies'.

Even crazier? A mere 10 days earlier ANOTHER old fan of That'll Learn Ya (a guy I went to high school with) had convinced That'll Learn Ya to reunite. The day the songs were uploaded to the internet for the first time? My birthday.

What a grand old world. So I'm planning on attending a Thanksgiving reunion show of That'll Learn Ya.

Next time anyone rails about how the Internet has dehumanized us all and left us disconnected and disaffected, just remind them to come to Rhode Island in November to see a concert and listen to some songs that would have been lost forever to me if not for Facebook.

By the way, the song was as good as I remembered it and I had the melody perfectly.

Book 39: The Left Hand Of Darkness by Ursula K. LeGuin

In my junior year of college, I got a great job. The theater department had gotten a grant to create an acting troupe. Work study. Other departments could then bring us in to perform in classrooms as a teaching tool. We were to be called 'ETC', the Educational Theater Company' and 6 of us made the squad.

I think I made $1,000. I only remember one scene.

A science fiction class was reading 'The Left Hand Of Darkness' and wanted to have some of the information presented as a debate. Three of us had to quickly read the book and dissect the chapter in question into a 'scene'...needless to say, we had a blast.

What started as a job quickly became an obsession for all of us. The book tells the story of Genly Ai, a representative of the Ekumen, a new ruling group which is based in equality and social order. There are planets that had once been part of the empire that have fallen out of contact with the rest of interplanetary society so envoys are sent to observe in secret before trying to reintroduce these runaways back into intergalactic community.

Long story short. Genly Ai goes to observe a planet where the inhabitants have a very unique sexuality. They go into a kind of 'heat' 2 days out of every 26. For most of the time they are androgynous and asexual. But on those 2 days they morph into either male or female form. One month they might be male, the next female. The father of one child could be the mother of many more.

This book has continued to resonate in my heart almost 20 years later even though I remember NO details of the plot other than that one.

LeGuin, in inventing this different mode of sexual living, points out just how fixed and trapped we can be in our own version. This isn't judged, merely presented. The complications that arise in this book are COMPLETELY impossible here. Imagine. You meet someone. You like them. For almost a month you get to know them. The moment of transformation occurs and you may be the male, you may be the female. But your knowledge of that person HAS no sex attached to it, the sex is completely OTHER. Which, when you think about it, is not all that foreign at all.

We met in dingy college rehearsal rooms and hashed out three different characters who were debating the information brought back by Genly the observer. One of us was a functionary, determined to keep his conservative view of sex and sensuality. One of us was a purely scientific mind who merely wanted to investigate the information as dispassionately as possible. And the third, I think, was a more artistic soul who was interested in the emotional aspect of this anomaly above all.

We were also in the middle of rehearsing 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood' (see 'As Datchery I Did My Bit' elsewhere on the blog for an amusing anecdote on that subject) so my friend David and I had big mutton chops and long unkempt hair that could be slicked back to approximate Dickensian style. This added to our alien appearance since this was before grunge swept the nation and shagginess became chic again.

Imagine if you will a classroom of sci-fi literature nerds seeing us sweep in wearing robes and hotly debating 'kemmer', the 'Ekumen', 'mindspeak', and Genly Ai's relationship with Estraven, especially what happened out on the ice when Estraven 'transformed' during his 'heat' period and Genly Ai was the only other being around...

And the State paid for it! I love America.

Book 40: The Shipping News by E. Annie Proulx

Somehow this book took me by surprise in spite of the fact that everyone I knew was reading it, everyone who had read it insisted I read it, and everywhere I looked a review raved.

I resisted this tidal wave of praise out of an innate sense of contrariness, a go-against-the-grain-and-don't-believe-the-hype sensibility that was most likely honed while I was a teenager listening to music that was born of total outsider status and despising the flavor of the month. This kneejerk eclecticism kept me from appreciating some very worthwhile music, books, movies, etc., but it is a stance I still prefer to its inverse, which seems slavish and Pavlovian to me.

Needless to say, the second the character of Quoyle appeared I realized that popularity in this case was merited. Like 'The Scarlet Letter' or 'Ethan Frome', this book lives in a spare, sparse, isolated environment which is made all the more stark by the love affair that populates it. This elevates the subject matter to something universal and not soap opera-ish. Which is also why the movie seems an abomination to me. Never having seen it I'll never know for sure.

I do know that the book affected me in an emotional way in which few books have. I love books in different ways. 'Crime and Punishment' I love in the way a citizen loves the country of their birth. 'Moby Dick' I love the way a young boy loves the worlds he imagines for himself to play in. 'The Great Gatsby' I love the way you love a masterpiece painting hanging in a museum of a beautiful woman, the pose capturing a moment in a life you'll never quite grasp.

'The Shipping News' feels like an actual love affair, one that had to end, one that was destined to end, one that, looking back on, you can't quite believe that you started because the end was already so obvious.

This is due partly to my reluctance in picking the book up in the first place.

I dated a girl in college. Dated is a strong word. We flirted for a short time and then she came to a party at my house. She slept with someone else at that party and I fooled around with someone else but we were at the party together. There was a desperation to our coupling when it finally occurred, already laced with guilt because we'd betrayed each other from the first.

This pattern continued over the next year and a half, only ending when the Atlantic ocean intervened and I went to France. Once in France it was as if I was exorcising devils daily. I sank deep into a blackly nihilistic view of humanity which haunted me until about last week.

'The Shipping News' is like that for me. This is heightened by my relationship with the rest of E. Annie Proulx's work. I remember breathlessly awaiting 'Accordion Crimes'. I read the short story volume 'Close Range' which contains 'Brokeback Mountain'. I can't really overstate how much I disliked these books, 'Accordion Crimes' especially. Ooh, I hated and still hate those books.

This adds yet another layer of the bitter remembrance factor to my view of 'The Shipping News'. Why would she move away from that style? Why wouldn't that be the catalyst for deeper, plainer, stronger work?

And like the scars from that collegiate love affair which was over before it ever began, what might have been is stamped onto what is, until you decide to scrape it off and let it heal. So, E. Annie Proulx, I let you go. Thanks for the one book I loved but no longer need.

Book 41: The Fermata by Nicholson Baker

When I was in 8th grade, I used to fantasize that I could stop time. While everyone around me sat frozen, I dreamed of being able to go right up to C. and get as close to her as I wanted. I didn't actually kiss a girl until I was a junior in high school so my fantasy was G rated. I don't think I would have even kissed C. during the time stoppage. I only wanted to get close enough to look at her without her knowing I was doing it. To see her for a moment without having to worry about being caught looking, to see her free of her own knowledge of being watched, to see her in her purest essence.

Nicholson Baker was not in 8th grade when he wrote 'The Fermata'.

His narrator has discovered that he can ACTUALLY do what I dreamed of. And somehow, in spite of the X-rated and surely criminal actions he undertakes, the novel maintains a tone of innocence and exuberance.

I have only read Baker's sex books, this and 'Vox' which is one long phone sex transcription. Perhaps someday I'll read his other stuff, but for me, his treatment of sex as a viable literary device is refreshing to the point of revolution. Usually sex in books comes as a moment of other, as a deviation from the story, as a catalyst for tragedy or euphoria, in other words as something that either precedes or follows the REAL event.

In 'The Fermata', sex is the event.

There is something refreshing about this, as if a dinner party has finally loosened up because some difficult subject were accidentally broached. Once the elephant in the corner of the room is acknowledged, things get really interesting.

I read this book at a time when I really needed a frank, unapologetic look at the male sex drive. How that drive can distort us if it is not directed in a positive manner, how much time can be wasted in a fantasy land of your own making, how lost we can become if we remain alone inside of our desires. The main character in 'The Fermata' is struggling with these questions and ultimately realizing that even the presence of real magic cannot replace the wonder of actual human interaction.

Baker somehow treats this X-rated journey not like a pornographic romp but as a crisis of the soul. This juxtaposition has the odd effect of heightening the titillation factor because Baker isn't apologizing for the content, merely positioning it as a fulcrum. The narrator must let go of this wondrous anomaly if he wants to reap the benefits of an actual relationship.

Ultimately it is a book about growing up, about discarding juvenile fantasy in favor of actual experience.

But, boy did I want to stop time and run my fingers through C.'s hair.

Book 42: Freddy The Detective by Walter R. Brooks

When I was little my favorite thing to do was to go to the Kingston Free Library and take out as many books as possible. This was a family ritual which continues to this day. Whenever I am back in Rhode Island I wind up perusing the shelves. They've renovated the building and it still has a magical quality but when you add the power of retrospection it becomes a portal to another universe.

The shelves seemed higher. The ceiling was definitely higher back in those days and the central room was larger. The space has been maximized but it still somehow seems smaller, both through the change in height of this observer and from a simply architectural perspective. It was darker. When you left the front desk to go into the stacks, the height of the shelves combined with the old fashioned windows made for a very complicated play of light. Beams streamed through letters of the alphabet that didn't have too many authors, or through genres that weren't overpopulated. Beams were blocked by popular fiction and common last names.

I had moved past picture books and was now ready for chapters. I don't know whether the librarian suggested it or whether one of my parents had read this book as a child but somehow I read a book called 'Freddy The Detective'.

First off you have to understand that Freddy is a pig. He lives on a farm where the animals have begun to take responsibility for some aspects of their lives. Imagine 'Animal Farm' as a really great show produced for PBS by Jim Henson and you'll get the idea.

Freddy is a bit bored. He has had some adventures (obviously this wasn't the first book in the series which immediately clued me in that there were other books, very exciting!) but things have calmed down to the point where he is looking for something to do.

Et voila, a mystery drops into his lap. The man who owns the farm notices that his grain supply is dwindling rapidly. Theft!!! Freddy decides that he is going to solve this case come hell or high water. He begins to investigate. Now Freddy is smart for a pig but that ain't saying much, if you catch my drift. The tactics that he uses are hilarious and naive, sort of what a 7 year old might do.

The case almost rips the farm apart! Old wounds are re-opened, new conflict arises, and chaos almost reigns. Of course, this being for kids, Freddy somehow solves this case and by the end of the book is already planning on opening a bank or building a space ship.

Now, obviously, this book is not one of the 50 great achievements in modern literature, or any era for that matter.

But when the magic stacks of the place where you discovered your own imagination come into play, all objectivity is supposed to go out the window, isn't it? I mean, that's what this story telling thing is all about. This series of books held my brain in such sway that I remember it more vividly than I do winning the State Championship in soccer when I was 12.

Cut to 28 years later or so. My father and mother have come down to NYC to meet up with a dear friend Barry Scott and his wife Joanne at a book fair held in the Armory on 68th street.

Cashel is just about a year old and just about the cutest thing ever created. I popped him in the little sling we used to carry him around in and we headed on the subway with my folks up to the fair. And that was where I saw a copy of 'Freddy The Detective', a first edition, mint condition, perfect. I hadn't thought of the books in years and the whole thing came flooding back to me in a rush.

And there with me was my Dad who is the whole reason I was there (both at the fair and on the planet) and I held my own son in my arms and the joy of the passing of time and the connections of life was almost unbearable. And all that came from a book about a talking pig who is always looking for the next challenge.

Book 43: The Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon

I find it hard to be a fan. When it comes to acting I feel such a kinship that I can't help but feel like an appreciative peer. When it comes to music my blood pulses with it to the point that I can't be separate enough to be counted as an audience. And with authors most of the books I read are by dead people.

I am an unabashed fan of at least three modern authors. Perhaps more. One I've already touched upon, Douglas Coupland. There will be several more of his books appearing on this list before I'm through. Steven King who is frowned upon by most serious literary minds who need to get their collective heads out of their singular ass and get real.

And then there is Michael Chabon, who seems to combine the populist nature of King's romps with the cerebral post-modern intellectual tone of Coupland. This mix can be exasperating (see Gentlemen of the Road which lasts about 5 minutes and took me several tries to finish or Yiddish Policeman's Union in which Chabon thinks he's writing a sparse hard boiled detective novel for the first 2 1/2 pages and then writes a sentence 47 paragraphs long in which he starts with a dradel, passes through decades of imaginary Jewish/Alaskan history, and winds up in the sad empty bathroom of a music club where an out of work guitar player sits slumped and unknowingly containing the key to a plot to blow up a portion of Jerusalem and this sentence itself will give you an indication of how that hard-boiled sparse thing worked out for Chabon in that novel which I still loved...sheesh) but when Chabon gets it right there is NO ONE better.

I will most likely include several of his books here as well. He and Coupland and King could dominate this and might when all is said and done. The Wonder Boys isn't even my favorite but I think it is the funniest of Chabon's work and I need to conjure up some laughs today.

My college life while I was in it was chaotic to an absurd level. At the time this seemed like an ancient curse like arrangement and I couldn't see the humor in it. But now, picturing myself scaling dorm room balconies, parked outside of doctor's offices trailing the unfaithful girlfriend of a friend, smuggling blankets into the concert hall in anticipation of a tryst on a grand piano only to wind up miles away needing a coat to take the bite out of the wind that was whipping through my pajama pants on the beach, sitting in a giant hall listening to a professor whisper arcane economic facts with her back to the throng (she must have suffered from some sort of social anxiety when I look back on it) or trying to explain to a police officer why the flames coming out of the left side of my car were no real cause for alarm...now I look back on it all and wonder if I could ever have that much fun being that fucked up again.

The Wonder Boys captures that insane sort of arbitrary bullshit that human beings inject into staid university life. It is as if the ivy and brick and organized schedule makes the imp in everyone revolt. Girls take their tops off in public. Guys drop trou. People pour liquor over each other as if a certain amount of beer could approximate the fountain of youth. Contests arise in which marijuana smoke is held inside of varied lungs to see who can hold onto it longest. And these are the normal moments.

I can't even remember what happens in The Wonder Boys, per se, but there is a dress that Marilyn Monroe wore, a transsexual, a transvestite, a murdered dog, a whole helluva lot of liquor, cigarettes and weed, and a good deal of crying and wondering at what the hell it all means.

While it is happening to the characters it must have seemed interminable and tragic. Now that it is for us to read it is hilarious. And, like college or whatever wild oat period you went through, irretrievable. And the grief that accompanies that revelation puts the sturm und drang of the memory to shame.

So yes, I am a fan of Michael Chabon. And I once opened every cabinet in my kitchen to send my father a message.