P.J. O�Rourke, �Peace Kills�
Just to make this clear, there are a hundred other things I�d rather be doing right now instead of writing this entry, but I promised and it�s been a month since the last entry, and Kurt Vonnegut is dead (so it goes) so here we go�
Listen.
As I�ve explained before, I had hippy parents. The thing was, there were the squarest bunch of hippies you could ever find, leftovers from the beatnik era but still Johnny-cat-come latelies to that movement which was already choking on its own pretentiousness and black turtlenecks. The result is that I had two parents who were interested in the power of words, man, but didn�t create their own. Then the hippies came along and they were too old for the sex or drugs and the music was too loud, so they just adopted the ideals that started with the entire beatnik movement and carried them forward into a tie-dye attitude, feeding their children with a sense of morality about equality and sustainability, and appreciating things such as nature.
Of course, since children are supposed to rebel against their parents, I now consider the world as my ashtray, but that�s neither here nor there. Still though, with them being holdovers from the 50s beatnik scene and not getting into the whole drug culture and free love thing (as far as I know, anyway, and if I�m wrong, I don�t want to know about it), they wanted to stress the importance of learning.
Part of that upbringing always seemed like a copout. We couldn�t watch television, because they didn�t want us to beg for things we saw on TV. We made bi weekly trips to the library, because the library was free and thus outside of the evil capitalist empire. Being small and having no access to legal council, I had to put up with things like nine years of exclusivity to Public Broadcasting Television and wheat germ on my ice cream.
While I made repeated assertions that I was going to run away, even packing my suitcase on a weekly basis saying I was going to live with the family down the street who fed their kids popsicles and let them watch Dukes of Hazzard, I stuck with it. To be honest, the popsicle family down the street frightened me with their dysfunctional behavior, and even at seven years-old, I could tell that the entire family was dumb as a brick, particularly since they didn�t read anything longer than a fast food menu.
And I liked the library. The entire idea that there was a place that had any book you could think of and they�d just give it to you, so long as you promised to give it back, was an awesome idea to a six year-old. And so I, along with my sister, read constantly, so much so that our parents had to institute a �no reading at the dinner table� rule. I don�t know why that came as a surprise to them � what the hell else were we supposed to do? Talk about wheat germ?
Still, though � most people talk about authors or books that they love as a child, and I can�t really remember things like that. I didn�t have a favorite author or series. I read a lot of the standards, like the Narnia collection and the Baum books. Aside from the Encyclopedia Brown books by Donald Sobel, I didn�t have a childhood favorite. Part of that, I think, was that I resisted attempts from volunteers and librarians who tried to steer me toward the brightly colored children�s section. It was explained to me fairly early in my life that the library would let me look at any book regardless of content, and I liked that idea. Besides, the books that had covers featuring nubile scantily clad women being menaced looked far more interesting than those featuring a pack of pint-sized sleuths peering at a cute animal on the cover.
In other words, it didn�t take long for me to find the horror section.
In 1978, Jaws 2 was in theaters. There was no way my parents would let me see it � they wouldn�t even take us to see The Bad News Bears because of the cursing � but they couldn�t stop us from knowing about it. And they had no problem with me checking out the book from the library, which seems like an odd form of censorship. In any case, I did check out the Peter Benchley novel, and tried to present it to my class as my book report. As soon as I started talking about it, my teacher cut my presentation short and took me aside, saying that the novel was �too adult� making me choose from a slew of books featuring a pack of pint-sized sleuths peering at a cute animal on the cover.
I don�t remember the title or author of the book that I finally picked and presented, though I do remember that it had a scene of cross-dressing involved, which made me far more uncomfortable than simply talking about how shark�s teeth could flay the skin off your bones. Just because my parents were pseudo-hippies, doesn�t make you any less repressed.
Anyway.
My parents eventually divorced, and the field trips to the library dried up when they learned that television made a good baby sitter. I still read a lot, but saved it mostly for school and even then, I didn�t have a favorite author or even genre. Put something in front of me, and I read it.
Once I got into the beginning of the middle school years, my reading habits were a private secret. I still read a lot, but I�d be damned if I was going to tell anybody about it. I suppose it was out of fear that if I did tell any of my instructors what I was doing, they�d put a book featuring a pack of pint-sized sleuths peering at a cute animal stuck in a tree on the cover.
By then, of course, I had figured out that a cover with a scantily-clad women in peril didn�t automatically make a good book, and so I tried to find an author I liked. My options had narrowed, and so I started to go with familiarity instead of reading something for the hell of it. This led to a lot of the obvious choices, the most obvious of them being Stephen King.
Part of this, I think, was from a longing to be accepted. As wicked cool as I am now, it might be hard to accept that I was a kid with an identity crisis up until my later teenage years, but it�s true. In the same way that I didn�t have a favorite genre or author, I would try anything, going from Dungeons & Dragons, to the rugby team to breakdancing, all fads which held my interest for about three weeks. But Stephen King was popular. A lot of people read Stephen King. Therefore, if I read Stephen King, I would be popular, if not a bit bored (though I still ascertain that The Stand is a great fucking book). I read King�s books in public, while taking other authors home to read in secret. I started to build alliances to certain writers, P.J. O�Rourke being one of them.
A lot of this is something I very nearly pushed from memory. My sister reminded me of it one day when I made fun of her music favorites from the 80s. �That�s why we didn�t take it too seriously when you got into punk,� she said. �We figured you�d be into something completely different in a couple of weeks.�
Whoops.
And so, much in the same way that I had started to build an alliance toward certain authors, I built an alliance with the punk scene. And then, one night, they melded.
We were at a party brought by the singer of our newly-formed punk band, though at the time nobody had any instruments or knew how to play. He was interested on dating a girl that was going to be there. I, meanwhile, was simply using the false bravado brought on by wine coolers and Purple Passion to make an ass out of myself. Brian, who elected to play bass in our mythological punk band, told me that the girl hanging out by the wall had been watching me all night. Our �singer� had to drive his date home, and I went up to the girl an invited her along, not telling her that the ride would involve being locked up in the cab of a long bed El Ranchero that had a cover. She accepted.
While riding in the back, locked away, she asked me about books. I mentioned whatever Stephen King book was out at the time and asked her what she was reading. She mentioned Kurt Vonnegut, which was what I was actually reading at the time.
And here�s my thesis: Reading Kurt Vonnegut gets you laid.
She and I talked, in the dark and bouncing down the freeway, about Billy Pilgrim, Kilgore Trout, and how accurate Vonnegut�s representation of an asshole was. The singer�s date was dropped off and we returned to the party, the two of us sequestering ourselves to the backyard to further our discussion, intermingled with making out. We spent so long doing these two things that I got her grounded for a month, since I didn�t take her home until the next morning.
When her punishment was finished, we dated for the next four years. It was from her, I think, that I truly found my niche, willing to accept that I could be cool and smart. After all, she was the one who could deconstruct novels, plays and films all day, and then climb up a ladder at a Doggy Style show at The Farm in San Francisco that night, flashing her underwear that said �FUCK OFF� across her butt as she dove 15 feet into the crowd.
More than a decade later, long after she and I split for good, I was on a blind date with a girl named Gywn. My photographer partner was with me, and for some such reason, the subject of Hoosiers came up.
�Who the fuck would call themselves a Hoosier?� he said. �And what the fuck is a Hoosier anyway?�
�It�s a Granfalloon,� I said. Gwyn, probably the only person who has read more than me, stopped what she was doing to look at me, eyes surprised, mouth slightly open, obviously impressed.
�I�m getting laid tonight,� I thought. And I was right. Reading Vonnegut gets you laid.
(For those who need to get laid, the term �Granfalloon� comes from the Vonnegut book Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons. A Granfalloon essentially is for people who need to identify with some sort of community or culture, however meaningless, even making up pseudo-cultures in order to have something to identify with.)
Later still, when I was courting another girl on campus, she came into the newspaper office to hang out. She saw my photographer partner�s copy of Slaughterhouse-Five on the counter.
�Who�s reading this?� she asked. My photographer owned up.
�Is it for a class?� He told her that it wasn�t, he was just reading it.
�I�m impressed,� she said. �I fucking love Vonnegut.�
Later that night she came back to my house and saw my bookshelves, with every Vonnegut novel placed up front, at premium eye level including Venus on the Half-Shell, written (supposedly) by Vonnegut�s fictional creation, Kilgore Trout.
Reading Vonnegut gets you laid.
It�s funny � ask me what my favorite book is and I�ll answer �The Grapes of Wrath� before you finish your sentence. Ask my favorite author, and I�ll say Steinbeck with the same speed. But ask about my second favorite book or author and I�ll say The Sirens of Titan or Vonnegut with the same amount of speed and sincerity. It�s an answer I�ve always been a little uncomfortable with because as an entire body of work, I prefer Vonnegut (Steinbeck wrote some real shit).
I reread Sirens of Titan last year and while I still loved it, I realized how simplistic it is, especially when it seems profound. That doesn�t stop it from being a great novel, but it helped me realize why he was always number two � he�s just not that profound. He�s kind. He�s witty. He has a wonderful sense of the quirky, the sacred and the profane, and he skillfully mixes all of these. But it�s not life-altering, merely life-affirming.
Kelly called me earlier today, asking how I felt about his death. She knows that I was genuinely upset at Hunter Thompson�s suicide, and how the untimely death of Mia Zapata can still bring me to near tears. And she knows that I loves me some Vonnegut. After all, I read a lot - I suppose that makes me sensitive, but if you call me that, I'm going to sensitively hit you in the face with a brick.
Anyway, before she called, I was sad. I had made that clear when I walked into the newspaper office. I trudged up the stairs and sat down, letting out a heavy sigh.
�What�s the matter with you?� My editor asked. �Are you hungover, or tired?�
�Yes,� I said. �But it�s more about the fact that Kurt Vonnegut is dead.�
�Oh, whatever,� she said. �Kurt Vonnegut is old. Old people die. That�s how it works.�
�Yeah, but Sue Grafton is still alive. So is John Grisham. I think that�s proof positive that there is no God.�
�They will die, if that makes you feel any better�
�Sure, but it�s just poor planning,� I said. �I should�ve been put in charge of who dies first.�
But my feelings of loss faded quickly. I got some great experiences (and sex) from Vonnegut. What really sealed my acceptance at the loss, however, came from Slaughterhouse-Five, the book that first got me laid.
Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.
So it goes, Kurt. Thanks for keeping me busy, busy, busy.
