Saved by lit·er·uh·choor

Posted on October 12, 2014 by Exile on Pain Street

I have a chip on my shoulder because I didn’t go to college. Always have. I got knocked around quite a bit when I first got to New York. People would find out I didn’t have a degree and put me in a tiny box. [People? Who am I kidding. Girls.] I took my meager design skills and somehow managed a career in asset management which, ironically, is an industry that covets employees who have degrees from the most prestigious institutions of higher learning. The pretty girls all wanted budding Managing Directors. That was never going to be me and they smelled it. The stench lines wafted off my resume and into their upturned noses.

To compensate for my deficiencies, I buckled down and started reading. I crammed the classics. The titles you were all obliged to read in college. Now, all these years later, I’m able to talk a pretty good game. To meet me, you wouldn’t think I barely made it through high school and was rejected by a local community college. (Although, admittedly, I still can’t punctuate properly and don’t know a damn thing about the rules of verse).

You can’t go wrong with the classics. To this day, I’ll still read a book out of a sense of obligation. Because it should be read. That’s why they’re called classics! Except in some cases.

I love short story collections. If what you’re reading stinks, just hang in there. It’ll be over in a couple of pages and something new and, hopefully, more compelling will start. To that end, I picked up The Stories of John Cheever. It’s purported to be the penultimate collection by one of the giants of the genre. They’re masterfully written stories but I can’t relate to any of them. Every conflict revolves around the denizens of the Upper East Side or a wealthy suburban hell called Shady Hill. They’re all of the “mother drinks too much at the summer home” variety. Mr. Marston is having an affair with his secretary. They can’t afford the maid anymore. The nanny has misplaced the child. Mrs. Mackenzie was thrown from her horse. And everyone DRINKS to excess. It’s bloody tedious.

Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor
O City of Broken Dreams
The Sorrows of Gin
The Season of Divorce

Don’t those sound like fun? They’re not. Do you know what? John Cheever sucks. Sometimes the experts get it wrong. Stick with Raymond Carver. He’s just as tragic but more earthy.

I recently reread Lolita. The first time I read it, I was in my 20’s. I remember it being an astonishingly well written, humorous, romp across America. A hoot! Well…I have a 12-year old daughter now and I didn’t think it was so goddamn funny this time. Mostly, I’m aghast that I once laughed at it. Plus, I didn’t remember it being so graphic. That being said, it’s still one of my favorite books.

Have you ever reread a book many years later and had a change of heart? I asked Zadie Smith that same question at one of her appearances and she said that while she admired her when she was young, she now finds George Eliot’s Dorothea kind of annoying.

P.S. Kubrick’s Lolita sucks, Peter Sellers and Shelly Winters notwithstanding. Sue Lyon is too old and hot for the role. Lolita was a child.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don’t have a photo for this post but I always like to include a visual, so here’s an oldie but a goodie.

I was taking pics of our neighbor’s photogenic white cat, Smudge, when, for NO REASON WHATSOEVER, their other cat, Skippy, walked into the frame and BIT HER IN THE EYE! It was an hilarious unprovoked attack. I couldn’t stop laughing. Cats are the best.

This pic always makes me wince.

It was a beautiful day

Posted on May 4, 2014 by Exile on Pain Street

My blog reading and commenting will have to take a back seat for a short while. I start a new job tomorrow and I need to devote my undevided attention to acclimating myself to my new environment. I love the honeymoon phase. You’re forgiven for your trespasses and everyone is nice to you. The (presumably ugly) truth will be revealed around mid-July to both me AND my new employer. I no longer work in the same building as Guap, but we’re still dating.

Finding a company willing to hire my old ass was miraculous. I’m in the terrible spot that so many in my generation find themselves in; too young to retire but too old to hire. My current inadequate healthcare policy doesn’t meet the minimum requirements set forth by the Affordable Care Act, so my insurer is cancelling it on June 15th. The market-rate monthly premium would have cost $1,200/month (without dental coverage). My new job is on staff with full benefits, so that’s one less worry I have. I get 15 paid vacation days, to boot. That’s up from ZERO for the past four + years.

The work itself won’t be as eclectic as the job I just left (which I loved, by the way). Also, my new taskmasters seem to be wound a bit tighter than the kind, benevolent souls I left behind. But I am no longer in a position to take into consideration such things as how interesting the work might or might not be, or whether or not it’s a pleasant working environment. Those are luxuries I can’t afford. Those considerations are for the young or people without children. I can’t provide for my two beautiful daughters as a benefits-free consultant, so I had to take it. Good Lord. How many of us end up like this? Thoreau was right.

The competition for the position was fierce. Navigating the multiple interviews was complicated and exhausting. It went on for nearly two months. I think they finally decided on experience over vigor.

As a pseudo-reward to myself, I took Friday off, got in the car and drove down to Atlantic City for a meditative walk on the beach and to prowl the casinos. It’s a repulsive place but I love it. The boardwalk is choked with the flotsam and jetsam of humanity. An unending parade of the broken and destitute. Inside the casinos it’s even worse, especially during the weekdays. My bride never goes with me. It makes her sad. She doesn’t mind if I go once in a while, as long as I don’t make it a lifestyle or insist she go with me. [Although she came down once to attend a Tom Jones concert at Caesars Palace. It was great, cheesy fun. A memorable night.]

Yes, there is surfing in New Jersey. Don’t these guys have jobs?

I lost many hours to the craps tables. It’s always like that. I go into a trance and when I snap out of it, I can’t believe how much time has passed. Rolling dice has a warm, narcotic quality to it. I love when it’s my turn.

They don’t like it one bit when you take pictures in the casino.

I love the aesthetics of the game. The way the dice feel in my hand. The smoothness of the felt. (I rub it for good luck.) The clickety-clack sound the chips make when you rifle them in your palm. The calls of the stick man and the sharp proficiency of the box men. It’s a delicious game.

You meet interesting people, too. A community forms. You all live and die by the roll. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. Just look at these two beautiful, old geezers. They’ll clear out by 6:00 Friday evening to make room for the girls in tight, black dresses and New Jersey Guidos with overly-manicured eyebrows and gold chains who’ll come roaring into town in their Camaros. You’ll find these same two dudes back at the same table come Monday morning.

Why can’t THIS be my new job?

Reading the fine print

Posted on January 14, 2014 by Exile on Pain Street

I work with a lot of legal disclosure text so I’ve become hyper-sensitive to the fine print. I can’t help but to take note of the cautions that corporations post when pitching their products. Some of them are pretty amusing.

For instance, Nissan posted these helpful words during a recent commercial for their sporty Rogue. In it, three young, multi-racial, milt-gender, attractive (God, dare I say it?) hipsters are caught in a traffic jam and running late. Evasive action is taken by the pretty driver.

Because someone might not realize that a car flying through the air three stories off the ground is not real. After the car lands on the roof of a speeding train, they cut to the pretty driver as she flicks her hair, arches an eyebrow and smiles confidently. Easily done. The car speeds along and we are further cautioned:

Do you know what this means, don’t you? This means that a gaggle of lawyers sat in a boardroom at TBWA/ChiatDay and decided that their commercial is so well-crafted and so convincing, that some idiot out there might actually buy a Rogue and try to jump onto the roof of a speeding train, which will only result in death and, worse, litigation.

Pharmaceutical warnings are the best. I recently saw an ad for Chantix, a drug that will help you stop smoking. The usual litany of nightmare side effects were listed, but along with the constipation, gas and/or vomiting, you might experience this:

Excuse me, but I WANT vivid, unusual and strange dreams! Who doesn’t?! I’m considering becoming addicted to tobacco so I can take Chantix and enjoy a riot of colorful dreams. Thank God for the Food and Drug Administration. Do you think your friends at Chantix would reveal any of this if it wasn’t mandated by law? No, brothers and sisters, they would not.

* * *

I was in lovely Cleveland visiting dear family right after Christmas and you’ll never guess who I was shooting craps with at the downtown casino. Santa Claus!

After a long night of delivering gifts to all the good little boys and girls–a trip that apparently causes Santa to shed a significant amount of weight–Santa likes to cut loose at the crap tables. Mrs. Clause was nowhere to be seen. Santa was busy chatting up the tiny box girl next to him who looked suspiciously elf-like. Santa was laying money on the center prop bets. An unwise strategy, as any student of the odds will tell you.

* * *

I am Mia! My hypnotic gaze will penetrate your soul and enslave you! I command you to toss this ball into the next room. When I return with it, you will toss it again. And again! And again! All afternoon long.

Walk into the kitchen, fitly human, open the cupboard and get out the doggie treats. Do it now, you worthless bag of meat.

Now, scratch my belly, pig. The power of Mia compels you!

Should you meet your hero?

Posted on November 27, 2013 by Exile on Pain Street

British comedian Alan Carr famously said that meeting Paul Newman was a crushing disappointment. He said Newman looked old, frail and all too human. But I received an invitation to meet someone I’ve admired for years and had I declined, I think I’d have regretted it.

* * *

When you’re young and living in Manhattan and you meet someone new—for instance, a pretty girl—there’s a dance whereby you search for a common thread with which to start a conversation. You look for a shared experience to build a relationship and when you’re in your early 20’s, that shared experience, more often than not, is college. When I’d meet a girl and she’d ask what college I went to and I said I never went to college she’d start looking over my right shoulder to see what was behind me. And trying to land a job without a degree on my resume was extraordinarily difficult. They were debilitating years.

I’m a low-level rare book dealer. I could never make a living by dealing. I’ll see an undervalued rare book on the market and buy it with the intent of flipping it and making a few quid, but once it’s actually in my hands, I can’t bear to part with it. So I’m more of a collector. I began collecting to bolster my image and self esteem. Collecting books is seen as an intellectual pursuit so I decided to wear that mantle. It helped. I’d find a way to wedge it into a conversation and I’d get some mileage out of it.

Then something unexpected happened. I started to enjoy collecting for what it was. Not just for the visceral reasons, but because it’s interesting. I enjoy trolling used bookstores and rare book fairs. My favorite fragrance has changed from a sizzling steak to paper, ink and glue. I became interested in their history, construction and preservation. I fell in love with books.

The first author I collected was Charles Bukowski. This was long before he attained mainstream popularity and his rarities became prohibitively expensive. I felt a kinship with Bukowski’s difficult childhood and hardscrabble existence. I worked in a breadcrumb factory once. It felt like something Bukowski would’ve done.

Bukowski was discovered, nurtured, edited and published by a guy named John Martin. He built his Black Sparrow Press on Bukowski’s success. I wrote to Mr. Martin many, many years ago and asked a series of neophyte questions about collecting Bukowski. He took the time to patiently answer each of my idiot queries. Over the past 20+ years he has continued to provide valuable guidance about two things that I care deeply about; books and life. You’ve probably never heard of him before but Mr. Martin is a pretty big deal in the independent publishing community and the fact that we correspond regularly is something I never could have imagined when I first read War All the Time all those many years ago. I certainly never thought we’d meet.

In September, I took my bride to Napa Valley for her birthday. As it turned out, we stayed not far from Mr. Martin and his lovely wife Barbara’s house. A dinner invitation was extended and OF COURSE I accepted. I was nervous and worried that what has been sustained over the miles and years could not be replicated at a dinner table. I thought there would be long, uncomfortable silences. I thought our chemistry only existed in the ether. That, as it turned out, was piffle.

The conversation flowed as freely as the Pinot noir. It was a joyful evening. One I’ll never forget. The four of us were comfortable in each other’s company. As you can imagine, he told incredible stories and, after dinner, knowing my Achilles heel, showed me some stunning books and original artwork.

When you collect books, it’s all about the signature. I brought one of my collectables for them to sign. My Bride questioned the appropriateness, but when I asked permission I was told to bring as much as I could carry and they’d sign anything.

This is Bukowski’s novel Factotum. It’s a limited first edition signed by Bukowski with one of his oil paintings bound in. It’s dedicated to the Martins. Having a copy signed by the author and inscribed to me by the dedicatees is deeply meaningful to me, for the right reasons.

* * *

Grape harvest, St. Helena, CA, September 19, 2013, 8:15 a.m.

The lunatic is in my head. Yours too? Here’s a neat trick.

Posted on September 23, 2013 by Exile on Pain Street

Mental health is mostly a matter of personal choice. That’s the theory put forth by psychiatrist and ex-Clevelander, Dr. William Glasser, who just passed away at age 88. Dr. Glasser wrote a series of successful books about how mental health problems can be resolved by accepting personal responsibility for our own actions. He believed that people are more in control than they realize, which is a scary proposition for many. It’s a heavy responsibility.

“We choose everything we do, including the misery we feel. Other people can neither make us miserable nor make us happy,” he wrote. This will sound familiar to anyone who has dabbled in Buddhism or meditation.

These theories were rejected by psychotherapists who were proponents of prolong, deep-dredging psychoanalysis. Dr. Glasser shifted the power to heal from the doctor to the patient. You can see why this didn’t sit well with many. It’s hard to buy a sailboat when your clients are leaving in droves to cure themselves. Dr. Glasser was adamantly opposed to drug therapy, which upset the pharmaceutical industry. He also believed that efforts to change other people in our lives are doomed and could actually be the cause of further emotional duress.

He encouraged teachers to abstain from class rankings and grading, seeing them as corrosive. “Once children start failing, they begin to believe that they can’t do anything. They give up.” That was me. I was an academic failure. I didn’t do well early on and it fed on itself, like a cancer. If there had been standardized, mandatory testing in order to graduate, as is the case today, I wouldn’t have been awarded a high school diploma.

There are, in my view, valid criticisms. Children shouldn’t be burdened with that much responsibility. Also, there are serious mental illnesses, such as schizophrenia, and cases of ongoing physical and psychological abuse that require outside intervention. But in many instances (certainly, mine), satisfaction can be achieved and sustained by avoiding the urge to blame others and relive past hurts. It’s hard work, but it can be done.

I’m not exactly a bastion of psychological strength, but I shudder to think of the mess I’d be if it weren’t for my continued efforts to stay grounded. To that end, I have a little trick I’ve been employing for years. Whenever I start to spiral into my dark, terrible thoughts, be it on my long commute or staring at the ceiling at 3:15 a.m. or even walking up Madison Avenue, I’ll stop myself and my inner voice will say, “Or, I can choose not to,” and I tend to snap out of it. Not every time, but often enough. It‘s beautiful.

I just reread that last paragraph and it sounds silly, but it’s a powerful tool. And the more you use it, the more effective it becomes. I’m terrible at meditation, but at least I took that much from it.

“People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

Abraham Lincoln

* * *

Here are a few selections from this weekend’s trip to the local botanical garden. I can’t name any of these flowers. Not a one. It’s not my thing. But I can tell a first edition of The Heart is a Lonely Hunter at five paces. That’s got to count for something.