put me down for a plum

I was reminded a day or two ago about a fellow Albany freshman.  His name was/is Mike and from what I understand he is now a very successful physician.

We lived in the same dormitory on the same floor.  The dorm was set up like a huge H.  Three floors of H,  Rooms along the horizontal line that connects the vertical lines of the H, and rooms on the two vertical lines on the three floors. Where the vertical lines met the horizontal lines there were community bathrooms with gang showers, a line of sinks, urinals and stalls.  

Mike had put up a sign in the bathroom mirrors on our wing advertising that he had taken a barber shop course and for 50 cents a head, would shear any one brave enough to take a chance.

I was reminded of Mike the other day because I was chatting with my friend Kenny who told me that for his entire freshman year, he had gone to Mike for his hair cutting needs. I told Kenny that I too had used Mike as a barber. I remember that when it was time I would knock on his door. A very good student, he was usually in the room reading some Biology tome.  He'd put aside his books, take out his scissors, put a towel around my neck and cut hair.

Some thoughts. 

 I wonder how Mike feels about this now.  Fifty cents a head.  He would have to cut ten of us to earn five dollars.   He's now an oncologist. He probably makes enough dough to have him shake his head at the notion that it was worth his while to cut hair for 50 cents.

The thing is, it was then.  We were at a state university. Our tuition was peanuts by today's standards, but nobody I knew who lived in the dorms came from any money.  The fellow across the hall was one of nine and his dad was a fire chief. I remember we both shook our heads in wonder when we learned that one of our dorm mates' dad had gotten a raise and was now making 10K a year.  Kenny's roommate, now a retired professor, woke up at 5 am every morning so he could work the cafeteria for minimum wage. Probably hauled in 25 dollars a week, tops. Every morning he would peel himself out of bed and dish out what passed for scrambled eggs to the few of us who got up early enough to eat it.

It's tough to write this and not sound like my dad who talked about how he remembered when a hot dog was a nickel, or how he got a tangerine as a gift during Chanukkah. I remember getting a real charge out of that.  I said, "Put me down for a plum."  He chuckled a little, but that was what it was like for him.

Most of the Mikes in my dormitory did well for themselves. My roommate, a dedicated Biology student, quit the Sciences and opened a multi franchised sub sandwich business in the Albany area.  A number of my classmates worked for the state, keeping jobs they had started for next to nothing picking up odd jobs at the capital.  Several, like Mike, became docs, a few successful lawyers.  A long way from charging 50 cents for a haircut to take the bite out of 300 dollar a year tuition costs.

At some point when I was a senior I bumped into Mike on campus.  I asked him if he was still giving haircuts. He said no and confided that he never had taken any lessons to cut hair.  Probably is now certified to be an oncologist though.

Covid Plus

I had intended today to post a blog more akin to those I used to post. I'd stopped a few months back and only written book reviews because I'd read that a blog post is considered a publication--and if I ever wanted to adapt a blog for publication--and that publication eliminated any submission that had been published--then I could not submit the adapted version.  I have seen, lately, some publications that do NOT consider blog posts publications, so--here goes. 

My intention was to write some, not necessarily sequential, thoughts about COVID.  And I still will but there will be an addendum.  

Regarding COVID:

A pox on the administration that poo poohed this in the early months of 2020, and the neanderthal supporters like the current governor of Arkansas, and present lobotomized governor of South Dakota, and the various sycophants who've boosted the earning of knee pad companies because of how they groveled and grovel in support of the president at that time.

I have been vaccinated and boostered three times. Last week I won the COVID lottery and I had symptoms.  Not benign symptoms.  It was probably no worse than when I have had a bad case of the flu. However, as I have now traveled over seventy times around the track, and also because I am aware as is anyone who has not Rip Van Winkled through the last three years, that people have in fact perished because of COVID, I was more than just a cranky camper.

The doc I saw on Monday predicted, very accurately, what would transpire.  I got better at almost the precise rate as he informed me would be the recovery pace.  I am now two days safe for society if I was ever safe for society in the first place.  The only thing that has lingered is a cough which today has nearly dissipated entirely.

So, my takeaways.  You can get it, even if boostered.  If you get it and are vaccinated you will likely not kick.  I don't know how to be "careful" not to get it.  I have not been "careful" but I don't know if I had been careful if I would have not gotten it. My best guess is that I got it after joining a local Y and using their steam room. That would seem to be a swell place for a virus to hang, but I don't know. Could have gotten it purchasing chicken breasts, baked potatoes, and little chocolate doughnuts that I enjoy snorting.  I could have gotten it knocking back a beer at a sports bar mid afternoon on New Year's eve. Could have gotten it chatting with the mailperson.  Therefore, while I was singing a different tune a week ago today when I could not sing at all having the worst sore throat of my existence, I think today that sequestering yourself is NOT the way to go.  I have enjoyed life, to the extent that I enjoy life, for the past year. Taken trains, gone to ball games, stayed at hotels, gone on airplanes.  I could have NOT done these things and maybe reduced my chances of spending last weekend thinking about my Will, but then I would have missed out on some very good times. The value of staying alive is to have good times, but if you preclude good times because you are concerned with getting the virus, then some good time has  been lost. Look, I am not going back to the Y and and will not spend a half hour shvitzing in the steam bath. And when I use the elliptical I will try to find a bike away from others.  And I will mask up on the train and planes.  But if I'm invited to dinner, I'm going, and will stop off for a beer and a shot on the way home if someone else is driving.

The addendum is a metaphor. I will preface this by writing that I once was a very good athlete. In almost all sports, I picked up the game and could compete with regulars in not much time. However since 2013 I have had a host of injuries that have affected my ability to compete and in some cases undermined claims of athletic prowess. And one of those events/injuries that undermine claims of athleticism happened today.  

We come in through a side door. There, on the inside of the door are a host of shoes in what amounts to a mudroom.  Not technically a mudroom, more like an anteroom that serves as a mud room.  Anyway when we come in from walking we put our wet shoes near the door.  Today, I noticed that no fewer than five of my shoes, five pair, were right there by the doorway--an accident waiting to happen. So I gathered the ten shoes in my hands and went to bring them upstairs and put them where they belong.  There is a banister along the left side of the stairs, but I had no appendage available to grab the banister as my two were otherwise engaged.  I got to the top of the stairs and I had a sensation I've had before when carrying up laundry.  I felt as if I needed to regain my balance because I was leaning backwards. I have to think this has happened thirty times.  Always I regain my balance. Not a big deal.  

This time I did not regain my balance and I fell backwards down the stairs.  I could not grab the banister and felt myself rapidly going backwards.  I slammed into the wall at the base of the stairs that protrudes and contains the light switch. Very hard.  Very hard. I thought I had done serious damage.

I did not. Miraculously after, no doubt, waking all those in the 12453 zip code,  I was able to get up.  Major league pain in my pain but it was a miracle that I did not snap my neck or land on my spine.  Immediately thereafter I was able to move my left hand above my head. (Four hours later not so easy).  I feel blessed.

And there is a metaphor here. How many times in our life do we fall.  This was up there with another for me as the worst.  In both cases, I emerged with relatively minor injuries. We all fall down. Our life, metaphorically, consists of tumbles and bruises no matter how carefully we navigate. I do think there are ways to go up the stairs that allow one to grab a bannister. So there are ways to be careful. I don't ride bikes for example because I think they are, for me at least, not the best mode of transportation or exercise. 

But our life is a tumble, and we catch breaks and make breaks or don't catch breaks or don't make breaks.

Happy new year to all. Seize the day (and the bannister).  A buddy of mine turned 74 on new years day. We--he, I, and others--zoom regularly and I asked him after his birthday how it felt to be 74. The first thing he said to me was "Fuck you." Apparently, the milestone did not bring joy to his heart. Someone else asked why he was so sour. His answer: "How long is the damn runway?"

Fact is we don't know.

Book Reviews

 I've read three books since my last post.  One of these falls into the category of "superficial and implausible"; a second is in the category of "if this was not a famous author, the book would likely not have been published"; and the third is "close to brilliant."

I was in a library a few weeks back that I'd never visited before. It was right near the airport and I was picking up Donna later in the day.  Since I planned to go to a library near home and wait for her call, I figured I would find a library near the airport so that when I learned the plane landed, it would take me no time to get to the terminal. And that, for any Bostonians who are library people and who are scheduled to pick someone up at Logan, is the way to go.  Once I got the call I was at the gate before she retrieved her luggage.  While I was doing what I do in a library I saw a display of books that librarians had highlighted.  I can't recall now if these were "staff picks" or just books the librarians thought patrons might like. One was called, The Last Thing he Told Me. It is a page turner.  However, when you get done turning the pages, you're left holding something superficial and implausible, such that you (or at least I) figure that the value of the easy read is outweighed by the loss of time reading something that evaporates within moments of having completed the reading. In this, apparently very popular, novel a man disappears leaving his wife with a stepdaughter who is not crazy about the wife.  The wife attempts to find her sweetheart and earn the respect of the surly stepdaughter. Twists and turns like you wouldn't believe--literally--you would not believe them.  The husband, go figure, is not the guy he said he was.  His history is not the history he had described to his wife. How the stepdaughter and wife learn this is through a series of implausible, but readable, escapades.  In the end, guess what, the good wife earns the respect of the stepdaughter who seems, absolutely improbably, to be well adjusted despite what she has learned about her dad and her biological mother.  In short, if you are on a plane and have nothing to read, you could do worse, but don't expect Tolstoi.

I request books from the library when I read a review that makes the book seem interesting. From now on I will write down, when I make the request, where I saw the review and why I was intrigued. The Latecomer is one of these books. I received a notice from my library that the request was in, so I picked up this book that I'd forgotten I'd requested. Bottom line. Very well written book. Longish 430 plus pages, but the author is able to describe events and people in a way that is, literally, marvelous. (i.e. I marveled at her skill).   Basic plot line: a woman marries a man who she knew ahead of time was carrying a heavy heart and guilt. Nevertheless she wants to marry him and procreate. However, she can't conceive. Eventually through a doctor's intervention and modern science, she has triplets.  Much of the book describes the triplets, and the parents. While I am not sure the kids could be as described, they are described vividly.  I cannot relay who the latecomer is without giving something up that the author wishes the reader to figure out, or be surprised when it is revealed. With some pride I will comment that I predicted who the latecomer was after only about 100 pages. There is one event near the end however, that really was startling and again I marveled how the author prepared the reader for that revelation. In short: Highly recommended. Some tidy stuff at the end which I can't believe would have happened, but maybe. Snowed in for the weekend. You can do worse that settle in with this book.

I've been a fan of Scott Turow's since he wrote the magnificent, Presumed Innocent.  I read it about 30 years ago and I've yet to read a comparable legal thriller. Since then I've read nearly all, if not all, of his books. They are almost always engaging, though none compares favorably with his first novel.  I was in the library a week back and saw a STAFF PICKS section and there was a recent Scott Turow, called Suspect.  The first 200 pages of this was engaging and classic Turow. The main character is the granddaughter of the main character in Burden of Proof, Sandy Stern, who was also a very important character in Presumed Innocent.  Since I have read nearly all his books I recall many of the names, but not all of the details about characters who appeared in previous novels. I think he threw some characters from the past in the book to reward loyal readers as they are not all central to this book.  The granddaughter, however, is, central. And there are several references to Stern, now living in Assisted Living.  After the first two hundred pages, the rest of Suspect turns into high tech gratuitous gobblegook, and an ending that just could not and would not have happened in so many ways. The book read like half way through Turow said to his kid (I don't know if he has a kid) who kept nagging the dad saying "I can write better than you" to go knock himself out.  It's terrible.  Inclusion of completely irrelevant characters. Disappearance of central characters.  Characters that blur into each other. Just not good. One thing I liked is that he attempts to deal with gender inequities. The book is about a police chief who is accused of sexually harassing cops in exchange for promotion.  The thing is the chief is a woman and the allegedly harassed cops, men. The main character is a sexually active bisexual woman who discusses her amorous activities in a way that is not intended to make her seem promiscuous.  And I think Turow did this deliberately to try and put a dent (or question mark at least) on the very much lingering double standard--as well as the insidious puritanical attitudes our society still has about sex.   Still, even with these positives, the book disappoints. The plot does not pass the "is it ridickalus" sniff test.  I can't recommend Suspect and am surprised that a librarian staff member did.

Book Review: The Position

 I took The Position a book authored by Meg (not Hilma, her mother) Wolitzer, to Washington DC the week before Thanksgiving.  I started reading it at least three times and I could not get past the first page. It just did not grab me. Maybe I was tired because of my travels, maybe the museums were stimulating such that I could not get stimulated by a book. Who knows. I could not get to page two.

When I returned home, I thought I would give the book another shot.  I read a few pages, thumbed through to see how long the first chapter was, saw it was 20 pages, and almost gave the book the heave-ho.  Then I determined to plow through the first chapter and then make a decision.  

This experience is a good example of why one should give books a genuine chance.  The Position is a very good book; exceptionally and vividly written.  In brief (and this occurs on the first few pages) one of four siblings discovers a book the parents have written about sex. The book is called Pleasuring and it not only includes descriptions of sex acts, but also has pictures of the parents engaged in the activity.  The kids are stunned.  The rest of the book describes each of the four children's reaction to the book and their subsequent development. Also, the parents'--the authors of Pleasuring--evolution is described. In some cases, the partners of the characters are described as well.  

I think the author was not quite certain how the book was going to end or even how all the characters would evolve. This, if you have read my reviews before, is not to my liking.   However, in this book Wolitzer does such an extraordinary job of depicting each of the characters that I can still recommend the book enthusiastically.  I'm not sure if I buy how the children reacted, or that the publication of the book could have been as jarring as it apparently was to the kids. The saga of the oldest child seemed particularly unrealistic, and the ease with which some characters eased from one relationship to another was atypical at least to my experience.

Still, I recommend the book.  The title refers to a sexual position that the authors of Pleasuring claim to have "invented" The position itself is not described until the very end of the book. It's not a position that is likely to "work" at least for an extended period of time. About halfway through the book, before the reader knows what the position actually is, a woman friend of the female author of Pleasuring comments to the author that she tried "the position" and found it exciting, but the problem was "it kept popping out." Sexual and romantic connections are difficult to maintain and endure.  They are initially, and can even be in the long run, exciting and bonding, but the reality is we keep popping out.

I've read two other books by Meg Wolitzer. The Interestings and The Wife. Neither was as good as The Position.  Looking for a good read? Give this a chance.

An Available Man--Book Review

 This morning I had to make an early run to the grocery store.  My cat was out of treats and I was close to out of ketchup. An absence of either could result in grouchy behavior.  At just about 8 am I walked into the store and at nearly the same time I saw a man leaving holding a takeaway coffee in his right hand.   To compete I guess with a Starbucks nearby, in the grocery there is a takeout coffee station.  The entrance and exit doors to the grocery are automatic. The doors opened for him and me concurrently. I had a great view of the guy banging into the close to completely opened door, spilling coffee from the tiny sucking opening on the lid and shouting as he burned his ungloved fingers.  It's possible that he anticipated the door would open more and he would have space, but it seemed to me that he just wasn't paying attention.  He rammed into the door. He burned his hand, he lost some coffee. As I walked past I heard him mutter "fucking door"    Hey Mack, I thought, the door is inanimate. You walked right into it. Don't blame the door.

I finished An Available Man by Hilma (not Meg) Wolitzer yesterday morning. I was looking for a good novel and had enjoyed another book by her a few years back.  It was an easy, fast read and in that respect what I wanted.  As a drawback the novel reminded me of advice that Bird by Bird author Anne Lamott offered about plot.  Lamott suggested that authors allow characters to develop the story and not to have a definite idea about where the story would go until the writer "listens" to the characters.  As I mentioned in an earlier review, I don't agree with this advice.  In An Available Man  Wolitzer seemed to me as if she took Lamott's advice and was not really sure where the book was going to go when she started. She had the general idea.  A man is widowed, is out there and available. The book is about what happens subsequently. In addition to the widowed, now available, husband, the author probably had other parts of the story in place: he had loved his wife; he had two stepchildren; the mother of the deceased was still alive; there was a dog; the main character was a teacher; the main character's romantic history had a big bump in it-but beyond these facts, it did not seem to me as if she had specifics or maybe even an idea of how it all was going to wind up.  As it turned out, it wound up fine; interesting story--I don't believe some aspects of it are likely and without spilling the story I can't go into what, but I don't buy some of the plot.  Still the story got tied up if in an unlikely way with an unlikely set of connections,  but it was tied up and, in general, a good read.

A message in the book resonated with me even though it is not that profound.  We are responsible for our own happiness. We can make decisions that will allow us to be happy or we can choose to block the paths to joy.  I'm not necessarily the greatest at following that advice, but at least I know that we have, myself and everyone else, choices.  One of the peripheral characters in the novel is a psychic and she relays this "you have a choice" advice to a character.  A key is not to take the predictably bumpy roads when, even without a gps, you can see that there are routes that are likely to be far more exciting, salubrious, and relatively obstacle free.  And it follows as a corollary that, unlike the guy I saw this morning who burned his hand, don't blame hot coffee on your fingers on the fucking door when you, yourself, walked into it.

Do I recommend the book? Yes, it is an easy, well written read.  Do I suggest you rush right out and get it, no.  It is not grab your neighbor and say you must read it good.   But on a rainy day when you are looking for something to read in an easy chair, you could do much worse. 

Bird by Bird--A Review

These past six months I've been writing beyond blogs and textbooks.  Short stories, plays, essays. Some days have been more productive than others. Sometimes I write what seems brilliant to me, only to have it rejected by an editor who obviously does not have the wisdom to publish what is unequivocally brilliant.  In October I hit a bit of a wall in terms of motivation for writing.  The book Bird by Bird was highly recommended.  I read it. i second the recommendation.  

The author, Anne Lamott, is a successful writer who also--at least at the time when she wrote this book--taught writing classes. Bird by Bird is a collection of essays that each describes some message that she relays to her students.  In addition to the essays, there is an excellent introduction in the book that frames the essays. 

Some specific reactions.

There are parts of the book that have stuck with me in the ten days or so when I completed it--and I believe these will stay in my. head for the duration.  The most significant is the story that explains why the author titled the book as she did. The story: Her brother had procrastinated writing a paper in high school. The paper was about birds. At the 11th hour he was overwhelmed with the assignment. Lamott's father came over to the young man, put his arm around him, and said: Bird by Bird.  And that is a key thing in writing. Not that I always use the key, but the point is that when apparently overwhelmed, address the task (and the assorted factors that impede progress) bird by bird.  There are other parts that are valuable as well. So, one reason to read the book is that there are stick to you take-aways.

Second, she is funny. There are several parts that are very much laugh-out-funny.  Others that are good smile funny. Still others that are read the part to whoever is sitting in the living room funny or at least clever.

Third, she makes important points that are not wholly related to writing.  The Bird by Bird could be said to be one of them, but another is as significant to me.  In one essay she talks about how some of her students believe that once they publish they will feel better about themselves. Lamott contends that this sense of self worth if it is based on being published will not last. She relays a story of an Olympic coach who was working with bobsledders hoping to win a gold. The athletes felt that if they could medal, then they would feel great. The coach's comment went something like this--If you're not enough without the medal, you won't be enough with the medal.  As they say: in Spanish Es Verdad; in Hebrew, the Emmess; in English True Dat.

One part with which I will quibble. I don't agree with her essays about plot evolution and character development.And I believe she contradicts these recommendations in a subsequent chapter. Essentially, she writes that the act of writing will help you understand your own characters and that the plot will evolve if you listen to your characters. I don't buy that. In a subsequent essay she describes a book that was rejected by an editor and friend. When she railed against the decision, the editor/friend said that she needed to explain in writing what she had just expressed orally. Lamott then wrote out a chapter by chapter description of the book. That novel, according to her at the time of Bird by Bird, became her most successful. Personally I don't like novels that seem to be written with the author not knowing how the characters would evolve. Then the evolution seems fictional And too many times i read a book that ends as if the author had no clue how it would end and, after a spell decided, to stop and did not know how to conclude.

On balance however, Bird by Bird, is a very good read. Here I am in a hotel room having trouble sleeping. There are a dozen notions darting through my consciousness including several to dos. One to do was that I wanted to write this blog. Wrote it at 326 am. One down. Bird by Bird.

 

Death at the Fair-review

 Annually in October there is a book fair in Copley Square in Boston.  Because of COVID the fair did not take place, at least in real time, in 2020 and 2021. This year it was held and because it was a beautiful day the Fair was well attended and the atmosphere was festive.  

The Fair includes several concurrent sessions during which authors or reviewers or publishers speak on various subjects. I attended one session during which three book reviewers and the editor of a book review section opined on issues related to being a reviewer.  In a prior year I listened to three authors who had recently penned books on sports and social issues. When the panelists are authors there is typically a book selling/autographing session after the program.

In addition to the sessions, booths are set up in Copley Square itself--not far, in fact, from where the bombers took lives and limbs when trying to make some sort of irrational political point during the Boston Marathon in 2013.  At the booths, various publishers of magazines and books, display their wares. This year one booth was occupied by a group called The Mystery Writers of New England.  I visited it, as I visited most of the others.  A woman there told me she had written a series of historical novels featuring a young woman named Emily Cabot. I asked her about the first novel in the series. It was, Death at the Fair. I bought it and read it during the first week in November.

The plot is interesting.  A student, Emily Cabot, is visiting the 1893 Chicago fair.  Her mother and brother travel from Boston to attend, and some friends from the South also meet up with Emily to visit the Fair.  The friend from the South has brought along another friend, an acquaintance, to visit as well. Emily has been mentored and supported by a professor at the university.  (If you're interested in reading the book, you might want to skip to the next paragraph as some minor details of the plot are coming. I do think I leave enough out, so that a reader could enjoy the book even with this information. The minor details:)   At a gathering of all people identified, the professor is startled when he sees the acquaintance. Apparently, they had been sweethearts at one point. However, the woman married another man.  That man it turned out was a tyrant and virulent racist.  At one point he beat his wife, the acquaintance, and blamed the beating on a black servant. The servant was then lynched.   After the initial gathering, the racist husband joins the entourage.  Subsequently, he is murdered. That is the death at the Fair.  The professor is accused to be the killer because, it is alleged, he is jealous since the victim married the professor's former sweetheart. Emily is certain he did not do it, and attempts to learn the identity of the killer. 

This is an historical novel and several characters are real people--not the victim or Emily or professor--but others. At the Fair is Ida Wells and Ferdinand Barnett.  Students of history will probably recognize the name of Wells.  I'd heard of her, but could not have told anyone much about her contributions.  I can now. I did not know how she met her husband, Barnett, and who he was--and perhaps this reflects inappropriate ignorance--but now I know.  I'd read The Devil in White City which is also about the Chicago Fair. Now I know more about the Fair.  There are real Chicago politicians, miscreants and events in this novel.  One I'd heard of, others I'd not. So the book had some educational value.

However, it was not a gripping read. Some terrific sentences and paragraphs beautifully written, but overall, it could not hold my attention despite an interesting plot line.  Others who like historical fiction and writing that tries to capture the language of the late 1800s might feel differently.  I'll not read the other novels in the Emily Cabot series.  If anyone who reads this review does, I'd be interested in your perspective.