a cover is not the book

I love to read. Unfortunately, I don't have nearly enough time to do so anymore. Years ago, when I used to take the train to work, I read a lot. An awful lot. I used to go through several books a month. I read so much, that I tried to have several books lined up, so when I finished the current book I was reading, I could start right in on the next one uninterrupted.

I was always looking for books to read. I began by reading classics — books I was supposed to read in high school but just never got around to it. I remember when I read The Catcher in the Rye — a favorite of serial killers —  nobody would ever sit next to me on the train, a rarity in the busy, early-morning rush hour. I read I, The Jury — my first exposure to the 1950s hard-boiled detective genre. I enjoyed the book, but couldn't help but feeling that I was reading a MAD magazine parody. I honestly couldn't get through The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, but I loved The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll. I was surprised by how much descriptive story and suspense was built up, despite its abbreviated length. I felt the same about the many novels I read by Edgar Allan Poe.

There was one book that was regularly recommend to me by my wife's cousin Jerzy. He often gushed about one book in particular, extolling its satirical wit, its off-the-wall humor and its biting social commentary. Jerzy would bring this book up almost every time I saw him. So, after years of prodding, I purchased a second-hand copy of Jerzy's favorite book — John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces — to read on the train.

John Kennedy Toole

New Orleans native John Kennedy Toole taught English Literature at Columbia University after his graduation from Tulane, which he attended on a scholarship. He was drafted into the army in 1963 where he taught English to Spanish-speaking recruits in Puerto Rico. That's where be began writing A Confederacy of Dunces. He would finish the novel in his parents' home after his discharge. Upon its completion, Toole shopped the novel to various publishers. It was rejected by each one, including two different editors at Simon & Shuster, when it was deemed "pointless." Depressed and paranoid, Toole took his own life in 1969 at the age of 31. While going through his personal belongings, Toole's mother Thelma, with whom he had a close but tumultuous relationship and who served as the inspiration of the main character's overbearing mother in the novel, found her son's manuscript (in carbon copy form, no less!). Thelma was determined to have her son's book published. She literally pestered author Walker Percy to read the manuscript. He relented and loved it. In 1980, seventeen years after Toole typed the final words and over a decade after he committed suicide, A Confederacy of Dunces was published by LSU Press. Amid high praise, it won the Pulitzer Prize the following year.

Ignatius J. Reilly

Early one morning, I boarded the train to work, found a seat and cracked open my brand-new used copy of A Confederacy of Dunces. Almost immediately I was introduced to the likes of Ignatius J. Reilly, the slovenly, lazy, delusional, idealistic anti-protagonist of the story. Ignatius is educated but without ambitions. He has contempt for the world around him and the people who inhabit it. He perceives himself as a superior member of society. He is at odds with his mother, his reluctant girlfriend, the local police officer and his employers at several positions he is forced to take. He's a glutton, a pervert who points out the perverse actions of others, and a ne'er-do-well who blames his long run of bad luck solely on the work of an ancient deity — not his own decisions (or lack of). Ignatius's improbable interactions with the book's supporting characters were only somewhat amusing. To me, however, they were downright infuriating and eerily familiar.

As I continued to read A Confederacy of Dunces, I was nagged by an underlying feeling. I felt I had heard — even witnessed — the adventures of  Ignatius J. Reilly before. But, this was a silly thought. Ignatius J. Reilly was a fictional character. After a few more days and a few more chapters... it hit me. It hit me as to why I was not enjoying this book. It occurred to me who exactly Ignatius J. Reilly was. His antics. His "blame the world for my troubles" attitude. His "I am above everyone" ego. His skewed, "know-it-all" view on reality. Ignatius J. Reilly was... was... a member of my family. A particular member of my family. A member of my family whose personality and demeanor mirrors that of Ignatius J. Reilly's to a T. A member of my family with whom I have had a contentious relationship for years. A relationship that has exponentially deteriorated with each new audacious action he exercises. He is lazy, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unambitious, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's unrealistic, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's a buffoonish elitist, like Ignatius J. Reilly. He's an asshole, like Ignatius J. Reilly

I cannot — and will not — elaborate. If you know me, you know to whom I am alluding. If you don't know me personally, just know that I was not able to fully enjoy A Confederacy of Dunces to the level that Jerzy did. It's just one more thing that this particular family member has ruined for me.

I should really start reading again. It's a distraction.

Usually.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

what's the use of anything

I was a terrible student. Yeah, I passed all of my classes from elementary school through high school, but only barely. My report cards mostly displayed "C's and the occasional "B." An "A" was a rarity for me, usually being awarded for art, a subject I would make my career, but teachers treated as "indoor recess." When someone (such as myself) showed a modicum of artistic ability, an otherwise indifferent teacher would mark an "A" because.... eh... what the heck. Maybe they'll be the next Picasso. (Spoiler alert: I was not.) So, aside from art classes, I was an average student. Not bad. Not something to brag about, but not bad. Just average. How I managed being "average" was actually an accomplishment. I hated homework and avoided it any chance I could. Sometimes I just wouldn't do it. My parents rarely questioned me regarding homework assignments. My father was more concerned about who ate the last Tastykake Chocolate Junior and my mom wanted to know who put the carton back in the refrigerator with an eyedropper's worth of milk left in it. Homework was not high on their "who did this" list. As far as my teachers went, I would either get a "zero" for that assignment (which I later discovered is bullshit) or I'd get a one-day extension. Sometimes, "one day" was all the motivation I needed and I'd knock something out and turn it in a day late.

In addition to general daily homework assignments, I loathed long-term assignments. These were known as "projects," and the expected result was some sort of poster or diorama or model. With those, because of the artistic aspect, I could get away with minimal information and heavy on the "pretty." But, if the project was something like a book report.... well, I was fucked. Book reports meant you had to read an actual book. Although things changed considerably as I got older, I hated reading when I was young. And reading a book?... for pleasure?.... yeeesh! But I did them. I read short books and copied lengthy passages from them as part of my book reports. The night before my book report was due, I'd panic and beg my mom to take me to Woolworths to get one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on to secure the pages inside. My reports were usually only three or four pages long (well, part of a fourth page, anyway). And I'd — more often than not — get a "C" on them. This went on all through elementary school. I can't remember a single one of the books I read.

 

After elementary school, there was a whole restructuring with our school district. My friends and I were assigned to seventh grade at J. Hampton Moore, a school well out of the cocoon we all lived in. Moore was far off from our little corner of Greater Northeast Philadelphia. Moore was in the same neighborhood as Roosevelt Mall, a place I only went with my mom on weekends. It was near Northeast High School, the crosstown rival of George Washington High, where my brother went. (Northeast wasn't really "crosstown," but to twelve year-old Josh, it may as well have been in another city.) Due to the restructuring, my friends and I were thrown together with other students from other elementary schools that were completely foreign to us. For six years, I was in classes with the same 30 to 35 kids. Suddenly, there were strangers among us.... and we were strangers to them.

New school or not, the homework assignments were the same. And just like in elementary school, "projects" were looming over me as well. Oh, yeah! Seventh grade didn't forget about ":projects." If anything, book reports became more difficult, requiring more preparation and in-depth commentary. My seventh grade English teacher was a very cool guy named Mr. Butler. Mr. Butler resembled, and seemed to have patterned his wardrobe after, Clarence Williams III, the ultra-cool co-star of the syndicated cop show Mod Squad. The first half of seventh grade English involved plays and acting and other forms of creative expression. I wrote a couple of plays for my classmates to perform and I acted in a few as well. As a natural show-off, I was a total ham and I really enjoyed it. The second half of the semester was brutal. It became an actual English class, chockfull of sentence diagraming and vocabulary tests and.... you guessed it.... book reports. When the first book report was assigned, I asked Mr. Butler if we could speak privately.

Paul McCartney, three years after the split of the most popular and influential band in rock and roll history, had released a solo career-defining album at the end of 1973. Spending six weeks in post-civil war and cholera-infested Lagos, Nigeria, the former Beatle, his wife Linda and guitarist Denny Laine (late of the Moody Blues) recorded a number of tracks that would become Band on the Run. Despite shitty recording equipment, getting held up at knifepoint and two members of Paul's fledgling band Wings quitting, the threesome soldiered on. Paul handled the bulk of the instruments, tackling bass, drums and most of the lead guitar work. Linda added her best keyboards and Denny supplied rhythm guitar. Paul wrote songs of freedom and escaping, possibly as a dig at the trapped feeling he felt in the waning days of The Beatles. In the month and a half they spent in Lagos, Paul had a bag full of lyrics stolen from him. He butted heads with hotheaded Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti. Kuti accused Paul of exploitation and stealing African music. (Paul graciously shared his music with Kuti, showing that he was not appropriating native music.) At one point, Paul suffered from bronchial spasms that Linda thought was a heart attack. But, Band on the Run was released and it was a worldwide hit, selling millions and receiving critical acclaim.

I bought Band on the Run and I loved it. And that's what I wanted to talk to Mr. Butler about.

I approached Mr. Butler's desk, waiting for the last of my classmates to leave the room at the end of class. "What did you want to talk about?," he asked, his eyes inquisitive as they peered over the tops of his dark glasses. (Yes, he wore dark glasses in class. I told you he was cool)

"About the book report...." I trailed off, gathering my thoughts and my courage. "Can I do a book report on an album?"

Mr. Butler looked at me... expressionless. Then, in spite of those dark glasses obscuring my line of vison, I swore he rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Pincus!," he sighed, "An album? Like a record album?" He was thinking. "Uh... okay.," Mr. Butler conceded. Then he added: "But it had better be good."

"It will be! Thank you, Mr. Butler." I left the classroom with a smile.

When I got home, I listened to Paul McCartney's Band on the Run. Sure, I had done this nearly every day since I bought the album at Korvette's, but this time was different. This time, it was for school! I listened closely. I read the lyric sheet. I followed along with the lyrics as the songs played. I listened to side one. I listened to side two. I analyzed the songs in my head. I reread the lyrics. I tried to make some sense out of the often cryptic, often nonsensical lyrics. I wrote notes — actual notes — as though I was doing an assignment for real! Finally, I began writing my "book" report. I wrote an introduction paragraph. I broke my report into paragraphs discussing each song, its possible meaning and how it fit sequentially into the album as a whole. Each of the nine songs on the album warranted a paragraph or two. I finished with a summary of the entire album and my thoughts on my listening experience. I carefully wrote out my report. I slipped the pages into one of those clear report covers with the plastic spine that slid on. I put it carefully into my schoolbag.

The next day, I proudly handed it in to Mr. Butler, plopping it down on the pile of other clear plastic bound book reports authored by my classmates. I did it. I convinced a teacher to let me do a "book" report on an album and I handed it in. I was very, very proud of myself. Very proud, indeed.

I got a "C."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

world of a king

I am no fan of Stephen King. 

I have read a bunch of his books, though admittedly, not the really long ones. I read Carrie and The Shining and Gerald's Game and.... oh, I don't really remember all of them. What I do remember is that I was disappointed by almost every one of them. Stephen King is a terrific writer of the middles of stories. They are compelling and inventive. The writing is decidedly descriptive. One can almost picture the events unfolding on a movie screen.... which, I believe, is King's intention. The "meat" of King's tales are truly engrossing. However, he has a hard time wrapping things up and arriving at a satisfying ending — especially after such epic plot lines. After investing quite a bit of time reading King's indulgent, often intricate, novels, I have felt cheated by the so-called "pay-off" of most of them. (The one exception is Thinner, his 1984 book released under the "Richard Bachman" pseudonym.) 

My literary relationship with Stephen King ended when I completed The Regulators, which I read after finishing Desperation, its companion piece meant to be read at the same time. When I turned the final page of The Regulators, I closed the book, dropped it to the floor and sighed. It was then that I decided to never waste my time reading a Stephen King book ever again. That book should have ended at several different points, but it stretched on unnecessarily for countless pages of mystical back-story nonsense. I could wait to be through with it.... and with Stephen King. I decided right then and there, never to entertain another Stephen King-penned volume again. (Don't start recommending this book or that book... because I am not going to read them. I'm just not!)

Funny thing.... I enjoy some movies that are based on Stephen King books. I love The Shawshank Redemption (based on Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption, one of four novellas included in the 1982 collection Different Seasons), although the ending of the movie is way more satisfying as compared to the ambiguous conclusion of the original story. Stand By Me is another of my favorite Stephen King book-based films. (It, too, is based on The Body, a selection from Different Seasons.) Again, there are differences between the book and the movie. And, again, the film is more concise in its message. The majority of Stephen King movies are just as disappoint as their source material. (I won't include The Shining in this comparison, because they, essentially, tell two completely unrelated stories.)

Just this week I was scanning the offerings under the "horror" category on Netflix. After scrolling past countless, blood-splatters posters for obscure slasher films (I love horror movies. I hate slasher movies), I stumbled across a film called Horns starring Daniel Radcliffe. I like Daniel Radcliffe. My wife and I just binge-watched the TBS ensemble anthology comedy series Miracle Workers. The show was hilarious (Season two was better that season one) and Daniel Radcliffe was a delight. The synopsis for Horns looked intriguing, so I watched. It was tedious. It was a non-linear, overly — and unnecessarily — atmospheric mess. Radcliffe and the supporting cast (familiar screen faces like Kathleen Quinlan, Heather Graham, James Remar) were all good. Too good for the script. They all looked as though they were trying their best, but were being dragged down by the heavy-handed premise. At just a hair under two hours, I felt like I had invested an entire day into this disjointed adventure that couldn't decide what exactly it wanted to be.

Horns, I later discovered, was based on a highly-touted novel by one Joe Hill. Joe Hill — it turns out — is the nom de plume of Joseph Hillström King, the eldest son and middle child of Stephen King. And let me tell you... the poison apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I should have known immediately, as the entire set-up of Horns smacked of a Stephen King story. There was the close knit group of misfit friends depicted in flashback sequences. There was the camaraderie that can only be experienced in a small New England town. There were dark secrets of youth that smolder and eventually manifest to weigh heavy on the lives of the now-adult friends. There was an awful lot of slow-motion and unexplained, other-worldly manifestations. And there was plenty of gratuitous gore. It was the kids of It and the kids from The Body and the quirky formulaic townspeople of Derry, Maine all rolled together in Daddy's signature style. Did Joe rummage through the wastepaper basket by his father's desk looking for castoffs to crib for his own career?

Eh... what difference does it make. I was sucked in. But, as The Who once warned — I won't get fooled again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com