On June 6, 1944, J. D. Salinger landed on Utah Beach with the rest of the 4th Infantry Division and fought his way into France. He would later see action in the Hurtgen Forest and at the Battle of the Bulge--incredibly bloody battles--before suffering a nervous breakdown and checking himself into an Army hospital in Nuremberg as the Allies advanced on Berlin. There, he began writing stories. During the next twenty years he would produce a slender body of work that would appear in The New Yorker magazine and high school classrooms. And of course, in 1965, Salinger vanished from public life permanently.
Salinger died sometime yesterday, of natural causes. He was 91.
It's fitting that I heard of his death at a high school, from many sources: I got two separate e-mails, one teacher popping in to tell me, and one student yelling up from the library as I walked past the railing. I paused my American Lit classes later, and said a few words. We finished reading "The Catcher in the Rye" not three weeks earlier.
J. D. Salinger is still a provocative figure. People have opinions about his work, probably because most of them read him in high school, and conclusions formed when we are young are hard to shake. Conservatives still rail against the profanity and "debauchery" in his books, and try to get them banned in schools. Many people consider Holden Caulfield, his most famous character, an aimless whiner, or worse, an "emo." On the other hand, those of a more alternative bent quickly identify with Holden (and Salinger) and consider "The Catcher in the Rye" the best text in school. Salinger's stories still crawl under our skin; they still make us uncomfortable.
I went to a Catholic high school that didn't teach "Catcher." I first read it in my twenties, when I began teaching it, and at first was underwhelmed. Nothing seemed to happen; Holden seemed "emo." But, unlike most people, I thought about the book after I initially judged it. I realized the fantastically subtle shift in tone, and the starkly moral world that Salinger presented. I considered that the book was about grieving (Holden's younger brother died before the events in the story), not about "phoniness." Even now, I think about the book in the larger context of Postwar America and Salinger's life, and it resonates further. People don't usually pick up on that, especially the conservative book-banners, and so "Catcher" remains thought of, generally, as a book about an angry teen.
Reading Salinger's other works is even more rewarding. "Franny and Zooey" (two novellas, each a funny name) is one of the most thought-provoking and uplifting books I've ever read. The title characters are siblings in the Glass family that appears several times in Salnger's works. There is a clear messianic message in the "Zooey" portion that unravels skillfully and honestly, and I haven't talked to anyone who wasn't moved by the ending. "Nine Stories," his short story collection, is heartbreakingly close to his own postwar experience, especially the terrifying "A Perfect Day for Bananafish."
The huge Salinger fan in me wonders, now that he's dead, if the mythical "other" works that Salinger was rumored to write will surface. I mean, he had to do some writing in the 45 years of seclusion, right? I'd love to read more. Salinger the person, though, is clearly is as brilliant and misanthropic as his characters. There must have been a reason that he didn't want to publish any more. Maybe he's like John Cheever, who wanted his "Journals" published posthumously. Or maybe he's like Kurt Cobain, whose handwritten journals were published without his consent.
I felt good about getting Cheever's (extremely personal) "Journals." I didn't even thumb through Cobain's. I have some respect for dead geniuses, so I'll wait to see if I'll read any new stuff, see Salinger's intent about all this. After school, though, I did head on over to Borders and pick up the last Salinger book that I didn't have, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour an Introduction." I'm excited to start reading it.
Today in class, in front of a bunch of apathetic youth with their own problems (a room of Holden Caulfields), I held up an imaginary glass.
Here's to old J. D. Salinger, who taught us that profanity can betray tenderness, that the good things in life change too soon, and that baseball mitts can be poetic. We never understood you, but we were glad to have had you in our lives.
I smashed the imaginary glass against the floor.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Dirty Realism
We all go on little kicks. Right now I'm into this little college band from Ohio State (go Buckeyes!) called "Saintseneca." I'm also listening to Au Revoir Simone, The Avett Brothers, and Nipsey Hussle. These are all new groups to me; the world seems fresh and young.
I'm on a Raymond Carver kick right now, too. His short stories are some of the best I've ever read. Each word is in the right place. He's one of the few writers that can use an exclamation point effectively, and even make that ostentatious punctuation mark seem sad. If only I could! His characters are fully rendered. His dialogue is surprising and incisive. Importantly, his stories, about four or five pages long each, are perfect for that eight minutes or so before I go to sleep.
Raymond Carver, before drifting in and out of marriages and bouts with alcoholism, lived in Yakima, Washington. This makes sense. I've been to Yakima way more than I've ever wanted too (a good buddy moved there after college), and it's exactly like a Carver story. The people there mean well, but they have it rough. They work a lot. They hunt and fish. They shop at stores called "Yakimart" and "Yakimex." While he's not really considered a provincial writer, Carver, like Annie Proulx or Flannery O'Connor, absolutely recalls the spirit of his place in his work.
Here's a beginning to a Carver story, "Gazebo," told without irony:
That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.
I go, "Holly, this can't continue. This has got to stop."
Somehow, Carver turns this scene into a mournful account of a marriage ending, with a thoughtful side note about the title symbol. He makes us sympathize with the drunken couple; he's kind to his characters, despite their initial flaws. Carver describes the type of people that live somewhere in our town, the people that stay up too late and maybe don't have enough self-control. Most of us are related to these people. Carver was one of these people, and his voice isn't hip or angry or proud. It's honest.
I'm on a Raymond Carver kick right now, too. His short stories are some of the best I've ever read. Each word is in the right place. He's one of the few writers that can use an exclamation point effectively, and even make that ostentatious punctuation mark seem sad. If only I could! His characters are fully rendered. His dialogue is surprising and incisive. Importantly, his stories, about four or five pages long each, are perfect for that eight minutes or so before I go to sleep.
Raymond Carver, before drifting in and out of marriages and bouts with alcoholism, lived in Yakima, Washington. This makes sense. I've been to Yakima way more than I've ever wanted too (a good buddy moved there after college), and it's exactly like a Carver story. The people there mean well, but they have it rough. They work a lot. They hunt and fish. They shop at stores called "Yakimart" and "Yakimex." While he's not really considered a provincial writer, Carver, like Annie Proulx or Flannery O'Connor, absolutely recalls the spirit of his place in his work.
Here's a beginning to a Carver story, "Gazebo," told without irony:
That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.
I go, "Holly, this can't continue. This has got to stop."
Somehow, Carver turns this scene into a mournful account of a marriage ending, with a thoughtful side note about the title symbol. He makes us sympathize with the drunken couple; he's kind to his characters, despite their initial flaws. Carver describes the type of people that live somewhere in our town, the people that stay up too late and maybe don't have enough self-control. Most of us are related to these people. Carver was one of these people, and his voice isn't hip or angry or proud. It's honest.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Heart of the Valley
I'm haunted by the last two sentences of my last blog post. I was trying to compare my commute to a river, and went with the analogy, and the river spilled back to Corvallis. I wrote that, wondered where it came from, then left it. Do we all return to Corvallis?
Now, a week later, I reflect on the last few days. I've run into former students, three of them, and they're all on different points on the same cycle. One wants to leave Corvallis, one is going to school back East, and one is back in Corvallis, having left an eastern school. They all find their way home, like salmon. I also have this anadromous impulse.
This was a good Friday. Leaving class as the final bell rang, the students filed out merrily, with the typical high-fives and laughter. They asked me if I was going to the boys basketball game. I said no. They asked me if I was going to the OSU gymnastics meet. I said no, I lived in Wilsonville. They wondered what I was doing.
I blinked. I thought of strip malls, traffic, and parking garages. I don't know, I told them. Where I live isn't like Corvallis.
Tomorrow, Saturday, I'm heading back down I-5 to the Heart of the Valley.
Now, a week later, I reflect on the last few days. I've run into former students, three of them, and they're all on different points on the same cycle. One wants to leave Corvallis, one is going to school back East, and one is back in Corvallis, having left an eastern school. They all find their way home, like salmon. I also have this anadromous impulse.
This was a good Friday. Leaving class as the final bell rang, the students filed out merrily, with the typical high-fives and laughter. They asked me if I was going to the boys basketball game. I said no. They asked me if I was going to the OSU gymnastics meet. I said no, I lived in Wilsonville. They wondered what I was doing.
I blinked. I thought of strip malls, traffic, and parking garages. I don't know, I told them. Where I live isn't like Corvallis.
Tomorrow, Saturday, I'm heading back down I-5 to the Heart of the Valley.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
The Commute--An Idyll
It's cold in northwest Oregon at six thirty in the morning. At that time, before the first glow over the Cascades, I'm guzzling coffee, adjusting the radio stations out of the static, and barreling down I-5 past Woodburn. It's a dark, wet crossing, this trip south. I pass the 45th Parallel. I click my wipers up, then down, fiddle with the defrost. I emerge from the spray behind an eighteen-wheeler. I yawn, then sing, then am quiet. There's an amnesic plane we enter, on this road, in the pre-dawn rain. It's a murky fugue, spanning 50 miles or so between the outlet malls at Exit 271 and Highway 34. It's where we all lose our grips. Once, I was in south Salem before I realized that I hadn't turned on my headlights. I've lost track of the speed limit, of my peripheral vision, and of my thermos, buried under my lunchpail and backpack in the passenger seat. The Cavalier continues its noble passage; time blurs as the trees, broken lane lines, threads of rain on my windshield, and glimmering red tail lights melt together. For when I turn off Wilsonville Road and onto the interstate, I join a great river, and the current pulls me to Corvallis. We can never leave Corvallis, not really anyway. Her siren song draws us back.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Enormous Animals
" . . . and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago." --Herman Melville
I just finished reading "American Buffalo," the fantastic memoir and study by Steven Rinella. In the book, the narrator draws a tag to go on an Alaskan hunting trip to hunt buffalo, to his knowledge the only hunt in North America of its kind. These are among the last wild buffalo in the country, and the only that people can hunt. Through his recollection of the trip (a fascinating adventure), Rinella provides information on the animal and explores centuries of the complex relationship between buffalo and man in North America. It's a wonderful read.
Rinella is an inspiring character. In my American Lit classes, we're discussing the Postmodern movement and one of its characteristics, "New Journalism." One of the tenets of this style is that the character of the journalist is as important as the subject they're exploring. Indeed, the newspaper quotations on the back of the book compare Rinella to another New Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson. This comparison is weak, but Rinella is like a literary character: part Hank Stamper from "Sometimes a Great Notion," part Ishmael from "Moby Dick," and part cowboy (any of them) from Annie Proulx's three Wyoming collections.
After finishing a book as good as that one, I often think about it for a few days. How does my biography, and curiosity, measure up to Rinella's? Do I have the life experience to write a great memoir that not only traces my stories but compares them to our larger relationship with the natural world? The short answer: no. Not at all, really. Not a full-book length. Maybe a short story . . .
Once, in California, I surfed with dolphins. It was Christmas, and the sun was setting, and dolphins were riding the same wave I was.
Once, in Yellowtone National Park, I pointed a can of bear-spray at a black bear that passed by our cooking fire.
Once, in the hills around Eugene, I shot a deer in the lungs, packed it out, ate it. I was about fourteen, and my dad took me.
Once, in Grand Teton National Park, my buddy and my wife and I spooked a cow elk, fifteen feet away. Two days later we surprised a bull moose on the trail.
Once, in the trails outside Corvallis, my wife and I found a porcupine.
That's about it. Oh, I've seen elk and buffalo, moose and deer, bears and coyotes--all from my car window. I'm probably more outdoorsy than most Americans, as if that means anything. But, importantly, I've never been attacked by an animal. I've only killed one. I have two cats, but there's a huge lack of primal human-animal contact in my life. This needs to change. If reading "American Buffalo" did anything, it challenged me to continue the delicate dance of humans and enormous wild animals that has existed since the dawn of time. I need to live the circle of life, to keep that great wheel turning. I need to stare down wild grizzly bears (like my hero, Timothy Treadwell) and shoot and eat buffalo like Steven Rinella. It's been too long, people. I know that we're already in the second decade of the 21st century, but our connection with our ancestry needs to go beyond "Big Buck Hunter" video games in truck stops. Let's all get a little crazy in 2010.
I just finished reading "American Buffalo," the fantastic memoir and study by Steven Rinella. In the book, the narrator draws a tag to go on an Alaskan hunting trip to hunt buffalo, to his knowledge the only hunt in North America of its kind. These are among the last wild buffalo in the country, and the only that people can hunt. Through his recollection of the trip (a fascinating adventure), Rinella provides information on the animal and explores centuries of the complex relationship between buffalo and man in North America. It's a wonderful read.
Rinella is an inspiring character. In my American Lit classes, we're discussing the Postmodern movement and one of its characteristics, "New Journalism." One of the tenets of this style is that the character of the journalist is as important as the subject they're exploring. Indeed, the newspaper quotations on the back of the book compare Rinella to another New Journalist, Hunter S. Thompson. This comparison is weak, but Rinella is like a literary character: part Hank Stamper from "Sometimes a Great Notion," part Ishmael from "Moby Dick," and part cowboy (any of them) from Annie Proulx's three Wyoming collections.
After finishing a book as good as that one, I often think about it for a few days. How does my biography, and curiosity, measure up to Rinella's? Do I have the life experience to write a great memoir that not only traces my stories but compares them to our larger relationship with the natural world? The short answer: no. Not at all, really. Not a full-book length. Maybe a short story . . .
Once, in California, I surfed with dolphins. It was Christmas, and the sun was setting, and dolphins were riding the same wave I was.
Once, in Yellowtone National Park, I pointed a can of bear-spray at a black bear that passed by our cooking fire.
Once, in the hills around Eugene, I shot a deer in the lungs, packed it out, ate it. I was about fourteen, and my dad took me.
Once, in Grand Teton National Park, my buddy and my wife and I spooked a cow elk, fifteen feet away. Two days later we surprised a bull moose on the trail.
Once, in the trails outside Corvallis, my wife and I found a porcupine.
That's about it. Oh, I've seen elk and buffalo, moose and deer, bears and coyotes--all from my car window. I'm probably more outdoorsy than most Americans, as if that means anything. But, importantly, I've never been attacked by an animal. I've only killed one. I have two cats, but there's a huge lack of primal human-animal contact in my life. This needs to change. If reading "American Buffalo" did anything, it challenged me to continue the delicate dance of humans and enormous wild animals that has existed since the dawn of time. I need to live the circle of life, to keep that great wheel turning. I need to stare down wild grizzly bears (like my hero, Timothy Treadwell) and shoot and eat buffalo like Steven Rinella. It's been too long, people. I know that we're already in the second decade of the 21st century, but our connection with our ancestry needs to go beyond "Big Buck Hunter" video games in truck stops. Let's all get a little crazy in 2010.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Why "Magenta Surrender"?
Like Eric Clapton or Neil Young, I've been a part of many music groups over the years. Unlike those two, most of my groups never actually played or recorded music--they were simply ideas, or brief practice sessions. Notably, some were real, even recorded in film or audio format. Here is a humble list, as far back as I remember. Genre is in parenthesis; name of group is italicized.
Skankin' Dank and the Hot Tub Monkeys (Ska) Mid-nineties. Not real.
The Bon Marche Muslims (Thrash Punk) Mid-nineties. One practice session.
The Ottos (Neo-Suburban Acid New Wave) Late nineties. Real band, several practice sessions, one concert, subject of a documentary.
The Chair-Van Man Band (Acoustic Reggae-Influenced Jam Band) Early aughts. Very real, four practice sessions, one show--in Wyoming, of all places.
The Andy Freeman (Acoustic Shock Rock) Early aughts. Two huge shows, several practice sessions, one ruined relationship based on song lyrics. Notable tracks include "Andy", "Speedo Rhymes with Burrito", and "Eugene vs. Gresham." Band motto: "Three guys, two chords, one band."
The VH Vigilantes (Hip-hop Group). Early aughts. For a brief period, this group was the best all-white religious rap group in the Corvallis area. Recorded one album, "The Coconut Bangers' Ball". Five or six shows. Recordings survive to this day.
Dankstyle Reckless (Solo Hip-hop) Early aughts. Solo project after Vigilante break-up. Appearances on two Proof tracks. Two concerts.
Thunderwolf (Hair Metal) Early aughts. Mostly real. One practice session.
Dakota (Arena Rock) Mid-aughts. Not real.
Steel Duchess (Speed Metal) Mid-aughts. Not real.
Sassy Lads (Boy Band) Mid-aughts. Several practice sessions. Always harmonized and crooned in English accents.
Magenta Surrender (Emo) Mid-aughts. Several practice sessions. Work on first album ("Puddles of Melancholy November") halted due to to emotional inablity to work together, drama. Still rumored to achieve reunion tour.
Clearly, I tried my hand at a lot of music throughout high school and college. I've turned the volume down in the years since, but there's still a song out there that needs to be sung, and some old friends that need a late-night phone call. Some day, we might get the band back together. And on that day . . .
Skankin' Dank and the Hot Tub Monkeys (Ska) Mid-nineties. Not real.
The Bon Marche Muslims (Thrash Punk) Mid-nineties. One practice session.
The Ottos (Neo-Suburban Acid New Wave) Late nineties. Real band, several practice sessions, one concert, subject of a documentary.
The Chair-Van Man Band (Acoustic Reggae-Influenced Jam Band) Early aughts. Very real, four practice sessions, one show--in Wyoming, of all places.
The Andy Freeman (Acoustic Shock Rock) Early aughts. Two huge shows, several practice sessions, one ruined relationship based on song lyrics. Notable tracks include "Andy", "Speedo Rhymes with Burrito", and "Eugene vs. Gresham." Band motto: "Three guys, two chords, one band."
The VH Vigilantes (Hip-hop Group). Early aughts. For a brief period, this group was the best all-white religious rap group in the Corvallis area. Recorded one album, "The Coconut Bangers' Ball". Five or six shows. Recordings survive to this day.
Dankstyle Reckless (Solo Hip-hop) Early aughts. Solo project after Vigilante break-up. Appearances on two Proof tracks. Two concerts.
Thunderwolf (Hair Metal) Early aughts. Mostly real. One practice session.
Dakota (Arena Rock) Mid-aughts. Not real.
Steel Duchess (Speed Metal) Mid-aughts. Not real.
Sassy Lads (Boy Band) Mid-aughts. Several practice sessions. Always harmonized and crooned in English accents.
Magenta Surrender (Emo) Mid-aughts. Several practice sessions. Work on first album ("Puddles of Melancholy November") halted due to to emotional inablity to work together, drama. Still rumored to achieve reunion tour.
Clearly, I tried my hand at a lot of music throughout high school and college. I've turned the volume down in the years since, but there's still a song out there that needs to be sung, and some old friends that need a late-night phone call. Some day, we might get the band back together. And on that day . . .
Saturday, January 2, 2010
New Money
The Oregon Ducks lost the Rose Bowl yesterday. Across the state, it is being treated like a tragedy, as though Kennedy was shot again or someone canceled Christmas. The Oregonian is morose, its cover a picture of dejected fans wearing dark green, silver, black, light green, gray, very bright yellow, a more faded yellow, and forest green.
I'm happy. Actually, many people are happy, though we're scolded for rooting against our state, or against our conference. When Jim Tressel and his Buckeyes beat the Ducks, a warm feeling spread throughout many pockets of Oregon and greater Northwest. Justice was served yesterday, and the team that represents everything wrong with college football, and indeed the bad direction of all college athletics, lost.
I haven't liked the Ducks for about ten years now, or when they first put up a billboard in New York's Times Square to advertise Joey Harrington's Heisman campaign. I couldn't explain my nauseau then (it was just a vague dislike) but it grew to the point where I can now safely say that the Oregon Ducks, if given success, will ruin everything we love about college sports.
When I think of college sports, I think of tradition. Pageantry. History. I think of institutions a hundred years old that, sometime in the nineteen-teens, had a vote among their student bodies to decide mascots, colors, songs, and cheers that would last for generations. That's why, in college sports, we have great mascots like the Hokies, Buckeyes, Sooners, Golden Gophers, and Crimson Tide. That's why Texas A + M has their "midnight yell" and my Oregon State Beavers revere the Trysting Tree. I think that going to school and cheering on my team links me to the past, present, and future, and that I am but one drop in a rolling river of Beaver Believers and I will carry my school's storied history as proudly as the orange (it hasn't changed) shirt on my back.
The University of Oregon eschews history. They shun it. They don't care about their traditions, colors, or souls. Rather, through some gaudy marketing and corporate help (a Disney logo, a Nike uniform), they loudly scream for attention through the worst ways possible. Indeed, if what people dislike about the BCS (it is a beauty contest more than a demonstration of ability) is true, than Oregon is playing the system they best way they know how. They are known for their looks and potential, not their actual talent or success. Worse, they got this money through the donations of one man. While yesterday's opponent, Ohio State, built an empire on the collected efforts of their success and alumni contributions, the Ducks won the lottery. And like most lottery winners, they tried to quickly buy success with flashy toys and a new wardrobe. Rather than focus on the impressive play or discipline of their football team, ESPN spent much of the Rose Bowl hype on what the Ducks do even better than that--sell sparkly jerseys to their hungry fans and advance the Oregon "brand." If I wanted to watch money thrown around, I'd watch the NFL.
In every other aspect of my life, I prefer cool old traditions to bubblegum new gaudiness. It's why I like classic rock more than the Jonas Brothers, or read literature over the Twilight series. So why, fellow Oregonian, would I cheer on the ostentatious Ducks when I could appreciate the salt-of-the-earth values of the Buckeyes as they beat them? Go Beavers, world, and down with the Ducks on all fronts. Let's appreciate our state, but more importantly, let's not sell our souls.
I'm happy. Actually, many people are happy, though we're scolded for rooting against our state, or against our conference. When Jim Tressel and his Buckeyes beat the Ducks, a warm feeling spread throughout many pockets of Oregon and greater Northwest. Justice was served yesterday, and the team that represents everything wrong with college football, and indeed the bad direction of all college athletics, lost.
I haven't liked the Ducks for about ten years now, or when they first put up a billboard in New York's Times Square to advertise Joey Harrington's Heisman campaign. I couldn't explain my nauseau then (it was just a vague dislike) but it grew to the point where I can now safely say that the Oregon Ducks, if given success, will ruin everything we love about college sports.
When I think of college sports, I think of tradition. Pageantry. History. I think of institutions a hundred years old that, sometime in the nineteen-teens, had a vote among their student bodies to decide mascots, colors, songs, and cheers that would last for generations. That's why, in college sports, we have great mascots like the Hokies, Buckeyes, Sooners, Golden Gophers, and Crimson Tide. That's why Texas A + M has their "midnight yell" and my Oregon State Beavers revere the Trysting Tree. I think that going to school and cheering on my team links me to the past, present, and future, and that I am but one drop in a rolling river of Beaver Believers and I will carry my school's storied history as proudly as the orange (it hasn't changed) shirt on my back.
The University of Oregon eschews history. They shun it. They don't care about their traditions, colors, or souls. Rather, through some gaudy marketing and corporate help (a Disney logo, a Nike uniform), they loudly scream for attention through the worst ways possible. Indeed, if what people dislike about the BCS (it is a beauty contest more than a demonstration of ability) is true, than Oregon is playing the system they best way they know how. They are known for their looks and potential, not their actual talent or success. Worse, they got this money through the donations of one man. While yesterday's opponent, Ohio State, built an empire on the collected efforts of their success and alumni contributions, the Ducks won the lottery. And like most lottery winners, they tried to quickly buy success with flashy toys and a new wardrobe. Rather than focus on the impressive play or discipline of their football team, ESPN spent much of the Rose Bowl hype on what the Ducks do even better than that--sell sparkly jerseys to their hungry fans and advance the Oregon "brand." If I wanted to watch money thrown around, I'd watch the NFL.
In every other aspect of my life, I prefer cool old traditions to bubblegum new gaudiness. It's why I like classic rock more than the Jonas Brothers, or read literature over the Twilight series. So why, fellow Oregonian, would I cheer on the ostentatious Ducks when I could appreciate the salt-of-the-earth values of the Buckeyes as they beat them? Go Beavers, world, and down with the Ducks on all fronts. Let's appreciate our state, but more importantly, let's not sell our souls.
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