Chuck Klosterman proudly wears the label and stereotype of “Generation X”: disaffected slacker, discontented cultural charlatan. When my fellow Gen-Xer, Johnny Smokes, recommended this book—a survey of popular culture mixed with personal memoirs of the same—I picked it up. It is important to remember that I am talking about a book based on a section of cultural history fiercely reliant on its lack of attention span. I fear even the book’s incongruities may feel somehow appropriate.
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Sherman Alexie‘s critically celebrated first collection of short stories vividly weaves memory, fantasy and stark reality to paint a portrait of life in and around the Spokane Indian reservation. Several of the stories have been adapted as the basis of the award-winning motion picture Smoke Signals— a favorite of mine.
My child bride, Whirl, has begun to identify certain quirks of my characters as “windmills.” She compares my behavior to that of an errant knight, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme. And I must give her her due. She has a point. I have taken up particular causes—some may say particular frivolous causes—and attempted to advance them to no discernable end or for no obvious reason.
These impossible, foolish tasks prove capable of capturing my attention, raising my ire and consuming precious time and energy: both physical and emotional energy.
It causes me to wonder if other people have windmills and if so what they might look like. The more interesting question may be: why do we build these windmills at all and set them as targets?
Two prominent windmills on my psychological horizon are sport utility vehicles and cellular phones. These objects—these material objects—have the capacity to bring me to a frothy, bilious boil. But when I think on the topic with more circumspection I begin to realize that like most inanimate objects the true objects of my aversion are not these base things, but rather the way they have insidiously inserted themselves into my everyday life. They have done so at a cost.
Upon reading about Tom Robbins’ uncertainty about writing again, I have dutifully returned to his novels after several years absence. This one is described as a fast-paced CIA adventure story with comic overtones. That would be most unfair: Robbins is a gifted wordsmith who defies definition with ferocity and elegance.
Leave it to Stephen King to tell a harrowing zombie story and feature the most miserable of contemporary technological devices— the cellular phone— as the apocalyptic catalyst. It’s really all over… isn’t it? This is a triumphant story of horror for a new age.
I spoke with my friends this week about television. Not the latest plot developments in our favorite shows—although we do quite a bit of that, too. No, this was about the object itself: the television.
I explained that I have an uncle who enjoys restoring old radios and televisions—he particularly enjoys working on the ones that do not have transistors in them, but vacuum tubes. He will pick one up at a garage sale or salvage it from the garbage, and then spend the time to determine the make and model and find the parts necessary to repair it. Sometimes the research-oriented approach is not possible and he must experiment. His rate of success is relatively high. More often than not he can successfully resuscitate these devices. I have seen him collect several copies of the same item, each broken in its own peculiar way, in order to produce one working model.
My father has always had a strong interest in electronics, as well. Another uncle, my father’s other brother, works for IBM. All three of these brothers share a strong curiosity for tinkering. Cars, motorcycles, boats could commonly be found in various states of dismantling and reconstruction around our home growing up. When the three of them are together, the conversation often turns to gadgets and gizmos. This shared interest I do not find particularly curious; my experience has been that brothers often have more common traits and interests than they do differentiating ones. What grabs my interest is the speculation on the possible sources. I believe that I may have the germ of a theory. These three men all share the same father—my grandfather. And while I do not know the source of his fascination with tinkering electronics, I do have some anecdotes that may paint his fascination with some clarity.
I trust my faithful readers will forgive me that cumbersome allusion.
Grandpa grew up on a farm in rural Illinois. He left the farm shortly before he married and worked for forty years as a machinist. He served in the Navy at the end of World War II. He died earlier this year. He was ninety years old. Quiet, considerate, forthright, honest—these are romantic ways to describe him. They are accurate descriptions, true. But there is more to grandpa’s legacy than romanticism—time and sorrow have provided a clear platform where I am able to reflect on what has been lost. And what remains.
Sherman Alexie’s second collection of short stories is not a collection of stories about the Indian Condition; it is a collection of stories about Indians— urban and reservation, street fighters and yuppies, husbands and wives.
The first volume in Armistead Maupin’s series of novels centering around the quirky house— and its even quirkier residents— at 28 Barbary Lane. If there were another city where I would like to live, San Francisco would be it.
Whirl and I have been going through our belongings—paraphernalia, equipment, gear, goods we have collected. We have lived in our current home for a little over two years now. Before we moved we culled and sorted a slightly different menagerie of items. We separated it into categories: trash, donations, gifts, keepers. The goal was to minimize the amount of stuff we would need to move from one place to the other. And as we had lived in that apartment for almost six years, we had accumulated enough stuff—stuff that we found we weren’t using—that it had completed filled every possible corner of storage space.
Our loft has very little storage space. That is by design. That makes sense to me. The idea of the loft—particularly as Whirl and I envision it—is to present a large open space. The more closets and cabinets you build, the smaller that open space shrinks. As a consequence it becomes important to keep track of your accumulated substance. We develop guidelines for what stays and what goes.
I find fascinating the choices I historically have made on that score. I can alternate at moments between maudlin sentimentalist and draconian protagonist. Clichés: If I have not used this in two years, I will not ever use it again. Protests: But that is my favorite! Negotiations: If I have to get rid of this, you have to get rid of that. Whirl and I both agree that the previously mentioned two-year guideline does not apply to books. Stephen King has defined being rich as, “When you can go out and buy the new hardcover version of a book whenever you want without having to wait for the paperback to come out.” I am not convinced that we are rich by Stephen King’s standards. Nevertheless, it is a noble rubric by which to define wealth.
Dan Simmons’ takes the Internet’s Darwin Awards and combines them with urban legends and a touch of his own skill at storytelling to weave an exciting suspense story filled with dark gallows’ humor.
Beta|Erinyes 