Saunders' Tenth of December

     I've seen George Saunders on Letterman.  He seems like a good guy: modest, funny, likable.  And Tenth of December was hyped on NPR, the reviewer proclaiming it might be the best book you will read this year.

     He has been described as the chronicler of the wage slave, and the best short story writer today, so naturally I had to lay my hands on a copy.

     Here is my review.

     How to respond:  Incumbent upon, and what not.  But what would they say?  Keep wits, no doubt.  Keep wits.  It could be done.  Oh God, voice rec.  Ignition.  Sledding is tough, unbelieving, informal.  Hotel Echo, this is Charlie Delta.  Show some respect.  (Weds OK?)  Coffee shop sample requester.  Direct quote: "cornhole the ear-cunt."  Added bonus or pure liberty?  Takingwise.

     If you've enjoyed my review of Tenth of December by George Saunders, then you might like Tenth of December.

The Universal Language

    During the first few years of my guitar-playing life, I was really livin'.  And learnin'.

    I'd recently traded in my basic guitar for a very well-made cedar top.  The relationship between musician and instrument is an intimate one, and I guard my 6-string with the vigilance of a mama gator.

    There was a folk music club where members take turns rendering their favorites.  The group's organizer and leader, Walt, is well-known locally as a folk music enthusiast and patron.  With his bald head, long beard and black, plastic horn rims, he looked professorial.

     Some people think it would be difficult to get up and give a speech.  Nothing compared to playing acoustic and singing, which requires complete relaxation and immersion.

    In the cozy classroom setting of this club, I decided that "Dark Hollow," a tune derived from bluegrass and made somewhat popular by the Grateful Dead, would be my best bet for a winning debut.  I had almost no experience playing for anyone other than myself and my yellow lab, and I hadn't quite mastered this tune.  But I just figured this crowd would go for "Dark Hollow."  The song ends with the following refrain.

                                         I'm goin' away, I'm leavin' today,
                                         Well I'm goin', but I ain't comin' back      (repeat)

    I struggled with some of the chord changes; my rhythm was iffy; my vocal was flat.  It was a frustrating attempt at communing with like-minded humans.

    As I was putting my cedar top back in its hardshell case, and out of harm's way, moderator Walt said, "Well don't go away mad."

    I actually replied with, "Oh, I'm not leaving."  And I didn't.  I slid back down onto my chair where I quietly held my baby in its shell.  I'm more protective of my guitar, apparently, than I am of my dignity.



 

Has It Been That Long?

     "I'm not feeling too well," she explained when I called Friday night to firm up our Saturday plans.  We'd been dating every weekend for about two months.

     "I'm kind of run down and a little depressed."

     This actually suited me, as I wasn't feeling my best either, and was struggling to come up with something  interesting to do for a date that wasn't too taxing.  Thinking it polite to show some concern for her condition, I continued, "So it's not like a bug or something then... you're just kind of  stressed out?  I have lots of bad days myself but don't actually get sick much.  Usually I get a cold once a year in October.  Actually last year, I didn't get sick, probably cuz  I wasn't working around kids anymore."   Blah, blah...

     I called Saturday afternoon.  We had a long chat that went pretty well: I scored some laughs, cheered her up a bit.  And then I wanted to recap how she was doing.

     "So then you don't have like a virus or anything serious, you're just run down?"

     I'm not sure at what point over the next couple days it finally dawned on me.  God.  Two things:  I'm pretty slow, and I need to get out more.   It's been so long since I've had a regular relationship that I forgot women have periods.

The Dwelling Was Fully Involved

  When it comes to marriage and kids, how involved should one get?  Well, to each his own, but remember that word involved.  It’s a word used by firefighters, as in, “By the time we arrived on the scene, the dwelling was fully involved.  There was nothing we could do.”

  What does  life have in store for me?  Am I fated to holing up like Pynchon or Poe, only without the body of work?  It’s an unhealthy existence, slowly withering on the vine, while the images of me in photographs begin to fade away like those of Marty McFly in Back to the Future. 

  For all those guys bent on a life without kids, George Gilder’s Sexual Suicide is one scary read.  In this defense of marriage, family and traditional values, he seems to suggest that men who don’t have children tend to fare poorly in life.  Men need to be socialized by having a family.

  As for the ladies, he notes that many of them like to broadcast their utter lack of interest in having babies, but he says they are denying their biology.  Childbirth is their destiny.  And here I thought childbirth was a publicity stunt.  (That seemed like a pretty good line when I came up with it.  Then along come a few  headline-grabbing, high-output females, and suddenly it doesn’t seem particularly original, clever, or, alas, funny.  Thanks.)  Carry on with your biological chain letter, your parental pyramid scheme, your human hoarding.  Do we really need to be farming humans in overcrowded pens?   Spawning like shrimp in a fetid pond?  Honestly, I miss the days when TV shows were about families like the Petries, instead of families from Petri dishes.  In the film Get Him to the Greek,  Russell Brand’s character, Aldous Snow, says to the boy whom he thought was his son, “Your mother… is a wonderful mother; but she is a terrible human being.”

  Sexual Suicide suggests that in life’s main event, reproduction, women play the central role.  They have the power.  They’re the Johnny Carson, while the father is standing around like Ed McMahon.  To hear all the jokes that male comics make at the expense of females, one would think that men don’t like women: "Why do women knit?  Gives them something to think about while they’re talking."  (I'm just the messenger.)  The male attitude toward women is shaped by the notion that hetero men have but two choices in life:  (a) Settle down, get married, and have kids.  Or (b) Proceed down a dangerous path that leads to prison.  Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me no pleasure to point out that many names for jail sound like slang for the lady bidness.

·         Cooler..................... Cooter

·         Frig ......................... Brig

·         Clit ........................... Clink

·         The Pokey................. (that could be either, really)

·         (ditto the Walls, Up the River, etc)

·         Hoosegow .................. House cow

·         In Stir ......................... In Stirrups (get ‘em up)

  All right, let’s not belabor it.  So men need to be subordinated by family.  Here’s how it works.   A guy will want to nail pretty much anything that walks by until he has his own children.  Why does having his own kids change his behavior?  Based on my observations, it’s because his kids keep hitting him in the nuts.  When I pay a visit to my younger brother’s family, my seven year old niece Julia (Jules for short) comes running at me.  Sometimes I yell, “Cover the jewels!”  She thinks I’m talking about her.  Ever see a family where the kids’ ages are like 9, 8, 7… and then 1?  That woman is trying to keep her man in check.  (By the way, this is all true:  I looked it up on Wankipedia.)  Uh… I guess you guys aren’t ready for this stuff yet … but your kids are gonna love it!