The 1961 Club

Ooops, I did it again! I bought a novel I had been circling for a few months: VERNON GOD LITTLE by DBC Pierre. What's not to like about this novel? An adolescent boy with a filthy mouth....yeah, that's right up my alley!

Another thing I noticed when I looked at the back of the book jacket is that DBC Pierre was born in 1961. That was the clincher. Because I was born in 1961, I feel compelled to read authors that were born in MY year.

It wasn't always that way. When I was in my mid-20s, I was jealous as hell of anyone my age or younger that had written a book. I'd pass by a book of David Leavitt's short stories in the library, take it off the shelf, scowl miserably at his birthdate, then re-shelve the book. You can imagine my reaction when Bret Easton Ellis (b. 1964) came out with LESS THAN ZERO!

I don't know when the jealousy went away. These days, I'm proud and pleased when I see a 1961 author: Douglas Coupland, Chuck Palahniuk, Laurie Halse Anderson, and now DBC Pierre. I'm sure there are more 1961 authors. I just need to find them.

Korea Bug

I found KOREA BUG at Incheon airport yesterday & I wasted no time running up to the register and giving the cashier my money. For a book this thick and this entertaining-looking, it felt as if I was stealing!

So far, I've only read the article about bbondegi and part of the introduction, but I know that I will really enjoy KOREA BUG. I'm already a big fan; that's how talented J. Scott Burgeson is!

My co-workers and friends are going to be crying and begging to borrow this book from me. Of course, I'll have to loan it out, although I'll be nervously monitoring its whereabouts.

J. Scott Burgeson's witty, informative, and thoughtful writing makes me realize how much I miss the days before blogs, when zines ruled.

Whether or not you're an expat, this BUG's for you!
http://hanbooks.com/koreabug.html

Shel Silverstein

Saturday morning. Three a.m. I woke up with an earworm, and no one to blame it on.

Usually, Manfred, Jr. places them there by continually (and some might even say maliciously) singing a snippet of a song over and over. He really is diabolical -- my son, my spawn, my shot at immortality. When he was in elementary school, he'd come into my bedroom and sing "Good Morning, Starshine" before I was fully awake. I'd have that damn song in my head all day as I worked, shopped, stood in line at the DMV -- you name the place and the most annoying soundtrack on earth was right there with me.

But on this particular Saturday morning, Manfred, Jr. was blameless, and the song was "True Story", sung by Bobby Bare and written by the superbly-almost-obscenely talented Shel Silverstein:

This morning I jumped on my hoss and went out for a ride/but some wild outlaws chased me and they shot me in the side/I crawled into a wildcat's cage to find a place to hide...

And? And?

I crawled into a wildcat's cage to find a place to hide...

Crap.

Not only was this an earworm, this was an earworm that demanded the whole text of the song, would not be satisfied with only a snippet, would not let me rest until I played THE WHOLE DAMN SONG in my head. I lay in bed, cursing as the tune played interminably over and over on that last line, my tired brain trying creakily and failing mightily to pull up that elusive file. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to get out of bed and hie my pajama-ed ass over to my office to the computer to surf for the missing lyric. I grimly waited it out till daylight and tried in vain to give myself a different earworm with The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated", but it was hopeless.

After a couple of futile searches, I finally located the stray line of verse but some pirates found me sleeping there and soon they had me tied... finished playing the song in my head, and retired that particular earworm. I'm glad I contracted it though, because it started me thinking about Shel Silverstein.

Most people have experienced Shel Silverstein (1930-1999) as the funny and quirky author of many volumes of poetry that are geared towards children and parents to read and enjoy together. I'm more familiar with Silverstein as the outrageous, earthy and sometimes pungent storyteller-songwriter of country/crossover tunes such as "Sylvia's Mother", "One's On The Way", "The Unicorn" and "A Boy Named Sue". It feels really strange for me to be extremely familiar with and a fan of an author and also barely acquainted with him in book form.

I became familiar with Silverstein's work because "Unicorn" and "A Boy Named Sue" were wildly popular when I was way down in elementary school, but what really defined him for me was the release of country singer Bobby Bare's album, Lullabies, Legends, And Lies when I was in 7th grade. My parents bought this record and it was hardly ever off the turntable for almost a year. Simutaneously, selections from LL&L were getting heavy airplay on Armed Forces Radio. The album had an embarrassment of riches on it: "Marie Laveaux", "Daddy, What If?", "Mermaid", "Paul", "True Story" "Winner" "Shiloh" and "Rosalie's Good Eats Cafe" among other gems by Silverstein.

I have paged through the Silverstein classics such as A LIGHT IN THE ATTIC, THE MISSING PIECE, and THE GIVING TREE. While I recognize many of the aspects that characterize Silverstein's poetry, it doesn't feel like real Silverstein. It feels like a dimension is missing, and the whole effect seems curiously flat.

My Shel Silverstein is the one from LL&L: Fanciful and slightly raunchy. A wonderful example of this exists in "Paul", Silverstein's take on Paul Bunyan:

Talk about women/that man was so lusty/he needed a woman every hour/just to keep from gettin' rusty/the young ones run/and the old ones crawl/to Paul .

For a middle-schooler, this was wickedly funny stuff. When my earnestly sober and polyester-clad grandparents came to visit, I "innocently" asked, "What's 'lusty'?" just to see them squirm.

Another example, even more hilarious, can be found in "Mermaid": The narrator falls in love with your traditional, garden-variety mermaid, but is vaguely dissatisfied:

...from her head to her waist she was just my taste/but the rest of her was a fish.

Eventually, she leaves him and he mourns until:

...her sister, she swam by and set my heart a-whirl/'cause her upper part was an ugly fish/but the bottom part was a GIRL!/Yes, her toes are pink and rosy/and her knees are smooth and pale/and her legs, they are a work of art/and I love that girl with all my heart/I don't give a damn about the upper part/and that's how I end my tale!

Equally satisfying was "Marie Laveaux", the Louisiana voodoo queen who exacted the revenge on no-good Handsome Jack that he so richly deserved:

GRREEEEEEEEEEE! Another man done gone!

There's also the very funny and multiple-versed "Winner"-- a chronicle of every contest the infamous Tiger Man McCool won, including stealing his wife from another man:

That woman, she gets uglier and she gets meaner every day/but I got her boy, and that's what makes me ...

[the slightest pause with an upwards inflection, deliciously delivered by the inimitably laconic Bobby Bare]

the WINNER?

For maximum comic effect, Silverstein piles up a list of Tiger Man McCool's ailments and injuries that strain both credulity and the Merck manual. Tiger Man matter-of-factly tells his latest challenger:

If it wasn't for this glass eye of mine/I'd shed a happy tear/to think of all you're gonna get by being a winner,

Also Silverstein is a master at creating pictures with words as evidenced in "Bottomless Well":

[Jesse] sits in his big white wicker rocker/eatin' candy-coated cashews/sippin' orange lemonade/while that sweet young thing/fans the flies from off his eyebrows...

At least that's until Jesse meets a mysterious and untimely end:

But it ain't murder/'cause he ain't dead/he's still a-fallin'/fallin' down down forever in the bottomless well! /Bye, Jesse!

Silverstein fans whose gentle sensibilities aren't too easily offended are in for a real treat if they can procure Lullabies, Legends, and Lies or a halfway decent Dr. Hook compilation CD. Even more fun is this website (which is where I found the missing line my pesky earworm demanded) that has links to most of Silverstein's lyrics: http://www.banned-width.com/shel.html

Lost Book

I lost a book. This hasn't happened to me in years! I think the last time was in 8th grade, back in 1975. I have had some near misses over the years, but the book was always found. There was also the time I inadvertently sold Manfred, Jr's copy of Election on eBay. I thought it was my book. It's not lost -- it's just somewhere in Duluth. Manfred, Jr. is still not happy about it, though.

But back to the book I lost. To make matters worse, it wasn't even my book. It was a book Pablo loaned me. After looking in all possible places, I decided to tell him.

"Dontcha hate it when you can't find something? And you've looked and looked EVERYWHERE. And dontcha hate it when it's a book you've lost...well, maybe misplaced. A book you were enjoying so much! And dontcha hate it when it's not even your book, that it's a book that someone let you borrow?"

Pablo's attention sharpened. "What book?"

"Song of Solomon. But I'll find it, don't worry. Or replace it. You know I will."

"Well, that's all right. I thought you were talking about my folio edition of The Maltese Falcon, and then I'd have to kill you."

"Oh no, I'm careful with that one."

(Folio books intimidate me. I won't even touch them unless I've scrubbed my hands with soap and water two or three times!)

I really hate it that Song of Solomon seems to have vanished. It's my own fault. I was enjoying the book so much, I was carrying it from place to place to place, trying to capture a few stolen minutes of reading time.

What else was there to do but go to bookcrossing.com and bleat piteously, shamelessly begging for a replacement copy? As an act of contrition, I offered The Historian as an exchange. Well, I guess it wasn't just contrition -- I knew it was also pretty damn good bait. Still, I had hoped to hang onto The Historian for a while longer and use it as bait for something that I might covet later on down the road.

A kind woman living in Tennessee with whom I've traded before just happened to have Song of Solomon on her bookshelf, so she answered my pathetic plea and now the book is winging its way to Korea.

Naturally, this bookwormy crisis has affected my reading. One minute I'm eagerly reading, waiting to see if Hagar is really going to go ahead and bump off her cousin and lover, Milkman Dead, and wondering what other crazy skeletons his family has in their various closets, and if Guitar is going to be able to carry out his grisly duty as the Sunday man, and the next minute, the damn book's gone and I'm stranded with nothing to read!

Nothing to read. Ha. At last count, I had a mountain of 20 books piled up, waiting to be read. None of them would do. I gazed at the titles disinterestedly with a glazed eye, muttering things that made me sound like I was a refugee from Deadwood.

Finally, I grabbed Arrowsmith, the book I liberated from that bar in Busan last spring. Usually Sinclair Lewis can shake me out of a funk. I read a few sentences then slammed it shut, exclaiming: "Where IS that fucking book? Damn it!" Clearly, Arrowsmith was not having the desired effect.

I went to amazon.com and browsed moodily. Suddenly, I sat upright. A new Harvey Pekar book! A novel! THE QUITTER. A graphic novel! Pekar had suddenly been quiet after the AMERICAN SPLENDOR hoopla, and he hadn't updated his blog, so I'd been worried about his health.

I smiled. THE QUITTER would cheer me up. Then I snarled at the monitor. No, I wouldn't order it! I'd punish myself further for losing a book! I wouldn't allow myself any enjoyment from books until SONG OF SOLOMON arrived and I finished it and gave it to Pablo!

Sulking and reading. It's like the walking and chewing gum thing; I can't do both at once. My reading totals for October are gonna suck. Damn! I can't stand it! WHERE THE HELL DID I LEAVE THAT BOOK??? Furthermore, why couldn't this have happened to one of my books, preferably ATLAS SHRUGGED?

Lunch Money, 1976.

Every few weeks, I'd make up my mind that middle school sucked beyond endurance. In addition, I'd revisit the crushing realization that my 14-year-old life was actually being wasted. Furthermore, I'd face the grim fact that three more years of being flushed out of the stacks in the school library and being forced to attend pep rallies was a permanent part of my pathetic landscape.

It was powerfully daunting crap to take stock of, but about the time I felt completely mired, something good would happen! The English teacher (her class always a tiny island of respite) would pass out the new Scholastic book order forms!

These order forms were (are?) only two thin sheets printed front and back with selections from the Scholastic Book Club, but to their credit, they made every little bit of space count, listing books that students could order, complete with a stamp-sized photo of each book cover and a tiny synopses artfully written to tickle the interest of even the most indifferent reader. Of course for me, the tickle was like a sledgehammer blow.

Everything -- English, Math, General Science, Vocal Music, Citizenship, Oklahoma History -- fell away as I studied my order form. Only threats of confiscation by some unreasonably irate teacher made me put it away to peruse later on the bus. I couldn't understand how some of the other students' order forms fell to the classroom floor and ended up torn and footprinted.

At home, I sprawled on my bed to study the list of books with the proper attention, gravity and reverence it deserved. My math phobia dissolved like mist as I scratched columns of figures on notebook paper like the most seasoned accountant, re-checked my choices, and scowled at the wadded dollar bills and assorted change I'd dumped on the pillow.

Heavy sigh. As usual, I wanted more than my allowance covered. This time, it was way more. Was Scholastic Books having some sort of brief literary renaissance, or was the recent onset of puberty the catalyst that set off the voice in my brain that intoned nonstop: "The books. The books. The books! The BOOKS! THE BOOKS!" a refrain that persists right to this very moment?

I would have to ask my mother and father for some money. I hated to ask them because they were non-readers. Both of them. They wouldn't get it. Oh sure, they bought me books, but they didn't understand the compulsion to have piles and piles.

I approached them in the living room at a moment they seemed to be relaxed and in a good mood. "I was wondering if I could have an advance on my allowance up through March." My allowance was $2.00 a week.

"No," said my mother automatically. I waited a minute. "Why?" she asked.

"I want to buy some books," I said.

"How many?"

I held up the Scholastic book order form. "This one, that one, and that other one." I pointed. "I have enough for these three, but I don't have enough for the other seven."

"You don't need ten books," said my mother.

Yes, I do. I need them. I thought.

"You've got books," my father chimed in. "There's books stacked up in that room I'd bet you've never looked at."

You'd bet wrong.

"When do they need the money?" asked my mother.

"Friday."

"This is not a good week to ask. Just get those three. That's enough for now."

No use arguing. I took my order form and headed back down the hall. "Well, hell." I muttered.

"What'd I hear?" My father called out.

"Nothing."

Back in my room, my mood continued to darken, and the prospect of school resumed its usual dreary proportions.

The next morning I rose reluctantly and trudged to the breakfast table. There by my cereal bowl lay two dollars and fifty cents!

"Don't forget your lunch money," my mother said.

I grabbed it and held it in my left hand as I spooned cereal into my mouth with my right. "Don't worry, I won't."

I could hardly wait to get out of the house. More scratched figures in the notebook. Two-fifty! One week of lunches! Lousy lunches that inevitably featured a meat dish that tasted like soggy cardboard covered in gravy. Boring vegetable medleys. The tiniest smidgen of dessert. All washed down with milk, which I loathed. To hell with that. I was going to get at least three more books. That would make six. Six was a far cry from the ten I craved, but I knew I couldn't be happy with only three.

For the rest of the week, I hung out in the library during lunch. That Friday, I turned in my order form and money, and 4-6 weeks later, I brought my nice fat package of books home.

"How did you get all those books?" my mother asked.

Since there was nothing she could do now, I told her about saving up my lunch money. She was appalled. "You went hungry so you could buy a damn book?" She shook her head. "Don't do that again."

"OK," I said.

Of course I did it again.  And again.  Over the years, I've saved hundreds in lunch and grocery money and staggered bill payments to afford books. It'll never end. In my mind, I look ahead, many years down the road. I envision a long Barnes & Noble receipt taped to my gravestone.

The Nonreading Boyfriend, 1977.

When I was 15, I had a boyfriend. That was the main thing back then, to have a boyfriend that you could drop into conversations like so much disposable currency. Since I was rather new at this sort of thing, I didn't really do research before signing up to "go steady" with him. We'd been going out for a few days when I found out that he didn't like to read. In fact, he hated reading!

Not only did this guy hate reading, he hated to see anyone reading. On several occasions, when he saw me reading, he'd come up and knock the book out of my hands and across the room! The first time he did this, I was so deep into the novel (INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE) that he scared the crap out of me and I screamed. For some stupid reason, I recovered when I saw that it was dear darling Boyfriend and quickly decided that he was so happy to see me that he couldn't control his exhuberance, which of course was charming and flattering.

After a few more books went sailing across the room, I became less enchanted with his unique way of saying hello. The final straw came when I was reading an older paperback novel (CATCHER IN THE RYE) and the glue on the spine was old and crumbly. As the book flew across the room, it fell apart and loose pages fluttered down.

I forgot about my secret vow to always be The Nicest, Sweetest Girlfriend In The Whole Wide World.

"Fucking asshole!" I sputtered, scrambling to gather the pages and shove them back in the book in the correct order.

"What's your problem?" Boyfriend was genuinely bewildered.

"Well, it's just that...." I paused and tried to remember exactly how last month's SEVENTEEN magazine had said to handle tense situations with tact and grace.

Ah, to hell with it.

"You broke my fucking book!" Broke. Too childish. Sounded like I was talking about a toy. Also, I had that broken-toy whine in my voice. I tried for some dignity. "You destroyed my book. Demolished it."

In another minute, Boyfriend was going to need to put his finger up his nose to keep his brain from rattling around like the last dried bean in a maraca. "What you tallkin like a dictionary for? You think you're so smart, sitting around with your goddamn books all the time, trying to act like you're hot shit!"

"I am not!" Really, I didn't think I was that smart. And I would have never in a million years thought of using books as a way to establish my hot-shitness to the world. Farrah hair? Yes. Knee-high lace-up boots? Yes. Books? No.

"You just can't do that to a book," I pointed out to Boyfriend (?), or tried to.

"Why?" Boyfriend (?) sneered. "Does the ittle book have feelings? Is it gonna cry?"

I personally thought that the book had feelings, but didn't say so aloud. In private though, I had already apologized to INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE, A PROLOGUE TO LOVE and GO ASK ALICE for being assaulted. I apologized and made explanations. ("He doesn't like to read but it's because he hasn't found his perfect book yet. It's up to me to find it for him.")

"Reading's stupid," Boyfriend (?) announced. "And you're stupid for reading so much," he added. "That's why you got them glasses. If you quit reading, you wouldn't need to wear glasses, and you know what? You'd look a HELL of a lot better."

I finished gathering all the pages. "I have to go," I said, my voice wobbling.

I went into the bathroom to cry, to comfort my book, and to meditate on my revenge. I wondered if the American Library Association put out contracts on stupid fucking asshole bastard nonreaders! I imagined myself beating him up, then tying him to a chair, then gluing his eyes open and forcing him to read every minute of every day! That'd fix his stupid fucking ignorant nonreading ass! What would I make him read? I smiled through my tears, thinking of the many possibilities.

I wiped my runny eye makeup and blew my nose. "I still have you," I whispered to CATCHER IN THE RYE, hugging it tightly.

Damn, it was going to be such a drag, waiting around for another boyfriend! Oh well, maybe there was a likely candidate in the school library. If not, I could check out a book to cheer myself up.

Rodney

While riding the train one evening, I met a woman who used to be a high school English teacher back in the U.S. During the course of our conversation, I asked her if she likes to read. She said she did, then she mentioned a former co-worker named Rodney. She said that he has more than 200 books at his workplace, and that people come and borrow them all the time.

200 books? All in one place? That made me smile. Of course, a shadow of doubt crossed my mind, as it always does. What if it's all crap? I shook my head resolutely, and decided that in a pile of 200 books, there would have to be a gem or two...or twenty. Right?

This woman told me where she used to work, where Rodney works. I saw the place the other day, coming home on the bus. Yee haw! Now, I've just got to meet Rodney. I'm bound to run into him in some sort of social setting. Can I control my book lust enough to keep me from barging into his workplace with a hearty smile and a good-sized empty bookbag? Stay tuned.