Archive | April, 2013

Simone and Pearl and the Power Cosmic! part 7: Simone loves butt jokes.

21 Apr

(Except for the Chicago Public School strike diary, I’ve avoided writing about topical things. This week is no exception, but like everyone else I’ve been riveted by the Boston tragedy, disturbed by the explosion in Texas, and bamboozled by the speed of the conspiracy dudes to somehow turn both into a government cover-up.)


Simone loves butt jokes. I blame Beth. One of Simone’s favorites: “Say hello . . . to my butt,” and then she turns around. Sometimes she lifts up her dress, shakes her derriere around, giggling. I can never stifle my laughter. Yesterday morning she said to me, “Daddy, I shouldn’t show my butt to my friends. It’s impolite.” Pause. “Only to mommy and daddy.” Big smile.

She’s a mischievous imp.

Last Christmas, at my parents’ dinner table, she started singing “Deck the Halls.” The family stopped talking and everyone looked at her to listen. “Deck the halls with bells of holly, fa la la la, la la la la.” She paused for a second, looked at me with a devilish grin, and started singing again. “Deck the halls with lots of butts,” and then an enormous grin. Thankfully my mom didn’t hear the last word.

She has a new favorite movie, Peter Pan; Simone is in love. Pan has taken possessions of our household. She talks about the characters like they are her friends. She tucks Michael in at bedtime, talks about him incessantly. She drives him to school. She dislikes Wendy.

Simone: "I like Captain Hook, too, daddy!"

Simone: “I like Captain Hook, too, daddy!”

Peter Pan has dated well. It contains a deep magic. The source material is strong. The songs are catchy, the pacing is punchy and the Schmee/Hook jokes are still funny.


It also has an achingly uncomfortable portrayal of American Indians. It isn’t all negative—they aren’t the bad guys, or anything like that—just insensitive and stereotypical. Simone picked up the undercurrent right away. “The Indians are bad guys,” she said. Not sure how to handle this one.

The movie is also scary. Simone now has nightmares. But she’s clever. We can’t tell when she’s actually scared, and when she’s pretending to be scared so she can stay up later. Last night she said, “I had a nightmare. There’s a scary mean dragon. I think I need to sleep in mommy and daddy’s bed.” This last little bit is delivered with the barest hint of a smile.


Pearl walks now, and like an angry gorilla. She has her arms above her head, her hands in the air, often a crazed smile on her lips. Her favorite books are Hop on Pop, which she just loves, Where is Baby’s Belly Button? and Where Is My House? When we try to read her a book she doesn’t like, she shuts the pages and begins slapping the back of the book. It’s hysterical.

She and Simone often play together now, and when they are both happy and smiling and engaged—it’s a wonderful sight. Simone still slings Pearl around, knocks her over, snatches toys out of her hands, but they seem to be getting along quite well.

Pearl likes to put Simone’s clothes on her head and wander around. She seems to understand us when we speak, more than other children, and I don’t know what to make of it. This morning I asked her what she was doing and she looked at me and said, “What?” Can’t tell if she meant it. Her eyes remain . . . discerning, for lack of a better world.


“Literature isn’t innocent.” Roberto Bolano wrote that (and it’s true). I continue to re-read Bolano, after reading his entire oeuvre over the last few years: By Night in Chile then Nazi Literature in the Americas then Distant Star then all the best of his short stories. I just finished The Savage Detectives[1]. On a second read, it’s a major novel, byzantine and sexy, dense, challenging and contradictory, fun. What he’s done is infuse youth culture and poetry with madness and death. The book disturbs. It unnerves. It jangles in my thoughts.

Detectives follows teenage poets scrounging their way through an impoverished existence in 1970s Mexico. The first section is a diary of a seventeen year old poet. He has sex. He drinks too much. He writes poems. He reads. He pursues Ulises Lima and Arturo Belano (Bolano’s fictional alter-ego), two renegade poets who have formed a poetry group called the Visceral Realists. Dark thoughts begin to appear, premonitions of catastrophe, portents of doom. The poets are living on borrowed time, they just don’t realize it yet.

One of the great novels, sexy, scary, weird, riveting, artful and complex. But fun to read.

One of the great novels, sexy, scary, weird, riveting, artful and complex. But fun to read.

The second section follows two dozen or so monologues of various characters across the globe, and their experiences with Lima and Belano. This section begins in the 1970s and ends in the 1990s, with characters interviewed in three different decades.

The third section returns to the diary and back to Mexico, and the whole jagged story—why Lima and Belano are floating through life like ghostly vagabonds—is explained.

A specter of death hangs over Bolano’s entire body of work, and Detectives is no exception. Detectives is about ghosts, exiles, voices from the dead, failure, leftwing politics, the power of the Spanish language and an obsessive disassociation with reality. It’s a furious read, at times alienating, saturated with sickness, despair, horror—plus plenty of humor and brilliant writing.

Bolano is a polarizing figure. Plenty of readers find him bizarre, hard to follow. The big problem for some readers is his tone and high/low approach. He’s obsessed with poetry, Literature, but he writes like some perverse, polyphone mash up of James Ellroy, George Bataille, and John Cheever as well as a synthesis of the entire Latin American literary canon. He’s a pulpy, violent, artful, beautiful soul.

He’s also a great reading companion. His novels are filled with recommendations, summaries of novels, lists of great poets, dismissals of overrated artists.

He was dying of cancer for his entire novel-writing career, and the sickness in his cells imbues his work with an obsessive, driven, often horrifying pulse. Much of his work is unclassifiable. Some of it is terrible. But the bulk of it remains the great literary treasure trove that was published in my lifetime thus far. I plan to re-read 2666 next.


Me. Just not in the mood.

I’ve been working on a new manuscript. The blog has moved to a once-a-week post. (I have lots of mostly finished entries.) When I write essays and blog posts fiction recedes. When I work on fiction, the blog seems flimsy and a sham.

My latest manuscript is, at least right now, going to consist of three novellas. I have a draft finished of the first; I’ve mostly written the second, although I haven’t typed it up yet; and the third I haven’t even begun.

I’m feeling a bit . . . deflated tonight, so I’m going to move on.


I saw Wake in Fright, the fantastic (mostly) forgotten Australian film about desolation, despair, weird sex, kangaroo hunting and binge drinking in the Aussie outback. It follows a bitter schoolteacher named Grant on his way to vacation in Sydney. En route, he stops in at Bundanyabba, a little city in the middle of nowhere, for an overnight rest. The denizens of the Yabba are excessive drinkers, gamblers, hunters and fighters. They appear friendly, but are easily offended and insist that Grant partake in their bad food, warm beer, and repugnant social life. One day turns into two and Grant, hungover and broke, wakes up in the apartment of a drunken scoundrel doctor named Tydon, played by Donald Pleasance.

Pleasance gives an outstanding performance, wild and wooly, vile and vicious, yet somehow decent and kind, too. It’s better than his Biblical madman in Will Penny (also a great performance in a great movie), and it reshapes my thinking on Pleasance. I always saw him as a buffoon, really, miscast in The Great Escape and pretty terrible in Prince of Darkness[2] the first two Halloween movies. But now, I’m not sure. He’s so fucking alive in Fright, so present in each frame, channeling his intellectual reprobate with clarity and force. Maybe he was a genius all along, just misused.

An amazing, deeply disturbing performance in a fantastic, horrifying film.

An amazing, deeply disturbing performance in a fantastic, horrifying film.

Grant’s plunge into dissolution and despair, his urge to prove himself amongst the smiling thugs and snarling bastards, is scary, heart-breaking and even a little funny, too. He doesn’t understand these people, and he doesn’t understand his own desire to earn their respect. His learning and intellect are slowly peeled away as he descends into a lurid mania. Days pass. And all the while there’s Tydon, pushing Grant into more and more extreme situations. The penultimate scene involves a surreal night hunt of kangaroo, and it has to be seen to be believed. It will turn your stomach.

The movie has been described as an Australian Deliverance, but that’s not quite right. There are similarities—both films are stunningly beautiful and horrifying at the same time—but Wake in Fright has a moral outrage over the collective madness of this rural town. These two movies, along with Straw Dogs, A Clockwork Orange, Two-Lane Blacktop (all four of them were released in 1971, what a year for movies!), and a handful of others, manage to combine high art with grindhouse savagery. Wake in Fright is probably the best of the bunch, and that is high praise indeed.

[1] The first time I read it in a blaze; he ferociously entered my life. This second time I cherished the book, took my time, lived with it for a while.

[2] An underrated, and incredibly strange, film.

Simone and Pearl and the Power Cosmic!, part 6: Changelings.

5 Apr


Someone has kidnapped my children and replaced them with simulacra. Or little look-a-like elves.

Pearl is one. My sweet, even-tempered, calm little munchkin is gone. The new Pearl is a beast. She bounces up and down, she tries to rip the doll clothes to pieces, she slaps faces and even bit Simone right on the face. In anger. She giggles when we tell her no; she implacably attempts to get into the cleaning supplies; and she breaks as many objects as she can. She eats like some little mini pony and leaves destruction in her wake. If she doesn’t want the food she throws it on the floor.

Her favorite game to play with me is to stand by my back and hit it with both hands. I pretend to go into convulsions, which she just loves.

She loves to fiddle with the stereo. We now have two amateur djs turning the thing off and on, switching from phono to cd, and making the listening of music in our house a trying ordeal. Pearl has no discernable taste in music at this point. She likes to clap, do a little jig.

Her first word, as far as we can tell, is “No.” She draws it out in a long, sonorous bellow. “No-o-o-o-o-o.”


Simone has been replaced, too. My spitfire ninja, my quicksilver mad-hatter has morphed into a fussy, fashion-conscious prima dona. She spends ten minutes a day trying on different outfits. She cries out when her socks aren’t facing the right direction. She said to Beth the other day, “I can’t handle these purple pants!” and then she changed.

She’s three and a half.

The princess phase continues. Amplified by just a touch of diva.

She’s become dramatic. Every day she says something like, “I’m having trouble breathing out,” (she wasn’t); or “I can’t clean up anymore, I’m so tired!” (after three minutes of standing around); or the now almost-daily, “I’m sick, daddy,” and after she gets what she asked for, “but I’m feeling better.” I can’t adequately convey the histrionic nature of her outbursts. Months ago she got angry and yelled, “I don’t get nothing. No cake and no whipped cream! Nothing!”

She’s a regular Tallulah Bankhead.

Her favorite movies are A Dolphin’s Tale and Cinderella. The first is a well-made, simple, old-fashioned tear-jerker about a lonely young boy who helps save a dolphin. Based on a true story, of course, and these animal young child friendship movies are a major weakness for me in the tears department. Simone handles it all with a big smile. She only asks me to fast-forward the scene where “the mommy gets angry,” which I dutifully do.

Cinderella is another matter. Simone loves this movie, and it’s easy to see why. The film is carefully balanced between the classic fairy tale and a Tom and Jerry cartoon. The malevolence in the movie is palatable to a child. It has none of the madness of Snow White, or the scary picaresque of Pinocchio. Plus it has lots of dresses, her favorite topic of conversation. The big issue with the movie is that Cinderella’s longsuffering seems to serve no purpose. She’s kind to animals, but she takes terrible abuse from her step-sisters. Worse, she appears to be waiting around for a rich husband to appear. (And he does!) It’s a far cry from the values we want to instill. But she loves it so much. Beth suggested we “lose” it, or say it got damaged, and that they don’t make it anymore. Ah, the casual cruelty, larceny and lies of the attentive parent. We’ll see.

Simone spends a lot of time in the neighborhood coffee shop, The Grind. A few weeks ago she turned to a dude at a neighboring table. “So, tell me,” she asked, “who are your favorite princesses?”


Beth and I have changed, too; we’ve been in a media blackout. I’ve spent the last week without reading, listening to the radio, watching any movies. So no NPR, or any of the podcasts I listen to (Mike and Tom Eat Snacks; The Conspiracy Show; How Did This Get Made?; Sound Opinions and This American Life). No comic books or graphic novels. No novels, short stories or poetry. No New Yorker, New York Times, The Reader or The Onion. And no Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, or HBOgo. No internet, besides work-related email and a one check a day on gmail. So no Facebook, no Google searches, none of the websites or blogs I check on a weekly basis. Finally, I’m only listening to orchestral music. No Spotify, Youtube, Pandora, or any of my cds or records that has words. Today I listened to Carl Stamitz. Yesterday Mozart and Bach. Tomorrow, Schubert?

Even listing the above—which is a regular week for me—makes me anxious. This is the longest I’ve gone without reading since I was seven. (I binged on comic books at an early age.) The idea was to carve out some space to write. So far it’s succeeded, but in strange ways. I feel calmer. I’m spending more time with Simone and Pearl. I’m less frustrated. My dreams have returned to the vivid horror shows of my youth. And I feel more clear-headed, more lucid about my own writing. I’m working on a novella, only longhand, blue pen on white lined paper, and I’ve almost completed a draft. I’m still submitting things, and the pain of rejection really is easing.

I’ve written some thoughts on the experience, and will post them when the whole thing is over. But the experiment has shown me that I’ve been overstimulated for a long, long time.

Finally, Beth and I got some type of stomach flu again. She recovered faster than I did. My diet for almost seven days has consisted of rice, toast, potatoes, Jello and Gatorade. When I deviated from this, I was punished. With my unkempt beard, I have returned to my half-starved Danish peasant phase, where I look like some abandoned, busted out berserk eking out a living on tubers and spiders beneath a pitiless Scandinavian sun. I only need a tattered cloak and a blunt axe to complete the picture.

I’ve gone six days without coffee and feel calm and at peace. My legs don’t bounce. My kidneys don’t ache. My vision doesn’t telescope onto odd details. It’s been nice. I plan to get back to the dark bean as quickly as possible.

More to come dear friends and neighbors, fellow citizens of the world.