The Giving Tree

I can't decide who's the bigger asshole: The tree or the kid.

In thinking about this since my childhood (I wanted to punch Shel Silverstein's classic in the face even then), I have never figured out what all the precious fuss was about.

While some claim this book is about unconditional love, to me it smacks of a cautionary tale heard over and over again in twelve-step programs. In addition to being a playmate (branches to swing on), a protector (shielding the kid from harmful rays), a provider (offering up its fruit for food, branches for a house, and trunk for a boat), and a stool (finally a stump), The Giving Tree is a sap.

Plus, the tree is female, which makes her continual sacrifice to this knob even more annoying and questionable.

Might I suggest that this parable serve as a lesson to all the other anthropomorphic trees and shrubs out there. Set some boundaries, learn to say no, and get your Serenity Prayer on. Accept that you can't change greedy, thoughtless little shits, muster up some courage to change your behavior and drop an apple on his head, and get wise to his ways. That's the path to happy, joyous, and tree.

Unctuous questions at author readings

It’s not quite right that I’m punching this in the face, because while I love book signings and author readings more than anything, I adore loathing the bespectacled sycophants who amble up to the mic or wave their hands wildly during the Q&A portion of the evening so that the celebrity author has no choice but to hear what they have to say…and say…and say. 

See, before the question comes the preamble.

I was just at a magical evening with the sexy, brilliant Junot Diaz and I wanted to rip his or my clothes off. But first, I wanted to rip these interlocutors a new one.

“I love your new book and am struck by how much you revisit the themes of love and loss in your work. For instance, your short story XX features the character XX, who once again experiences love, loss, and even cheating. On page 53, for example, he says…”

Translation: I am SO smart. My thorough homework and obnoxious eyeglass frames prove this. And, oh yeah, I worship Terry Gross.

“As a longtime educator in the public school system who teaches your books in my class, I couldn’t help but wonder…”

Translation: I'm credible. I'm a teacher. Admire me.

“My mother lives in the Netherlands and reads every word you’ve written. Then she shares it with her friends. Then she books a flight to Boston and stalks you as you walk to class at MIT. Did I say that out loud? Anyway…”

Translation: I am your biggest fan. Well, okay, my mom is but I like you too, so I get extra credit.

Let me translate something else: You are a suck up. The 499 other people in the audience don’t need or want to hear you spam yourself all over the author. Send Junot a note, sign your panties, or wait in line and ask him to inscribe your hardcover or your breasts.  Whatever the case, cut to the chase and ask your fucking question and stop holding us hostage with your simpering need for validation.
All this said, I can't wait to hear any questions you have during my Punch Parties this fall!

(photo: jacket2.org)

Bloomsday

I once engaged in a vigorous round of literary flirtation with a fellow writer. Scratch that. He was an aspiring writer. He would send lengthy e-missives designed to make me swoon, or at least open up my, uh, Rolodex. He wanted my agent’s information.

In the words of Alicia Silverstone’s Cher in Clueless, “As if.”

What made him especially odious, however, was not his naked ambition. It was his blathering nonsensical jabberwocky. He concluded with one simple sentence that I shall never forget.

“I’m speaking, of course, of Ulysses.”

Let me paint a portrait of this artist as a young man. He, and innumerable other numnuts, gather every June 16 to read the novel Ulysses (which takes place on this day), dress as the book’s characters, embark on pub crawls, and indulge their inner McAsshole.

The bloom is off this literary rose. While I generally applaud literary events of every kind, Bloomsday acolytes, in my experience, are not a cause to re-Joyce. They are pretentious prats who smoke pipes, affect accents that don’t exist in nature, and reference films that never made it out of the film festival circuit.

I’m speaking, of course, of punching each and every one of them in their monocle. And yes I said yes I will Yes.

(photo: vicbooks.wordpress.com)