"Why do you give into these impulses?"

Yesterday at a work Town Hall, I very publicly asked a question to a boss who made $88 million dollars last year.  Nothing offensive or explicit, but it was a smart-ass remark.  My co-workers giggled and afterwards people gave me high-fives.

I got home and re-told the story to my wife.  Afterwards she faced me with a serious look and asked "Why do you give into these impulses?"

It's a good question, my wife is one of the smartest people I've ever me and she KNOWS me.  (Most people who know me or have worked with me can probably site examples of this terrible, self-destructive behavior.)

I'm going to try and answer that question.

In no particular order:


Sometimes I'll think "it would be cool if someone did (obnoxious act or stupid remark)."  And when no one does it, I decide "I guess I'll have to do it."

*      *      * 

I fell in love with "The Loneliness of the Long-distance Runner" and its romanticization of self-destructive rebels.

*      *      * 

Working-class people ruin their opportunities for upward mobility, so that they don't betray their people.

*      *      * 

In high school I did a book report about Abraham Lincoln and fell in love with this detail: John Wilkes Booth shot himself, with the attitude that "only a Booth is worthy to take the life of a Booth."  Maybe I'm wired the same way, I want to beat my oppressors to the punch.

*      *      * 

I fear success.

*      *      * 

In my old sketch group I wrote a scene about a jerk who goes on Jeopardy and keeps losing points by including editorial commentary in his answers.  The Final Jeopardy had a clue about the 40th President of the United States.  But our man bet all his money and said "Who is mass-murdered Ronald Regan?"  He lost the game, but as far as he was concerned he won.

*      *      * 

I think Buddy handled this situation just right:

*      *      * 

Does any of this make sense?

If you could see the inside of my mind, you'd ask "why is the dashboard covered with so many prominently placed SELF-DESTRUCT buttons?"

I think Willy Vlautin would understand -- he writes about a lot of troubled fuck-ups who are their own worst enemies.  In an interview Willy talks about how when he was younger he owned a lot of Charles Bukowski books, and after spending a lot of money on them, he decided the books were a bad influence and if he got rid of the books, he'd turn his life around.  Maybe Vlautin is my Bukowski and I should get rid of his novels.

Don't worry, Willy.  I'll never do that.


To be continued.....

Book of the year: another truly geeky thing about me

I never talk about this, but I keep track of everything I read and at the end of each calendar year, I would nominate THE BOOK OF THE YEAR. An imaginary award given to whatever book had the most impract on me.

Here's the thing -- any book ever written could be nominated.  (But I had to read it that year.)

From there it's like any award, there's politics and in-fighting (did I mention I am the only one on the committee, but I will debate myself from time to time.) 

If I were to give an actual award, it would be a sticker made to look like the big foam hand with the extended finger to convey "this is #1"!   The same way books get an "Oprah's book club" sticker, I'd have a BOOK OF THE YEAR sticker with that hand. 

Now let's get to the actual list.  These are the best books I read between the years of 1996 - 2009. (Read the whole thing, or skip ahead to the end for a surprise.)   Lastly, please keep in mind this is not necessarily a list of recommended reading, it's just that the timing was right -- these books spoke to me, because they connected with my then-current situation and where my head was at.   I don't know that "The Best of Temp Slave" would mean as much to me today as it did 11 years ago. 

1996:  THE DAY OF THE LOCUST by Nathanael West 

The best required reading from my junior year of college.  I was totally swept up in this unflinching story of Hollywood in the 1930's.  West is a lean, mean writer and he gets at the loneliness of desperate people.  There's one scene that describes a sad sack sitting naked on the toilet, crying his eyes out waiting for the bathtub to fill-up.  It's a brutal story that doesn't pull any punches and I couldn't put it down.  The John Schlessinger movie is visionary, but I prefer the book's intimacy.  (Does that make sense?  Sorry, I rarely write about literature.)