JD Salinger

Although I think that The Catcher in the Rye was one of the most under-rated over-rated books, and I at times might blame JD for the death of John Lennon, I still grieve today.

From TIME:
Salinger's only novel, The Catcher in the Rye, was published in 1951 and gradually achieved a status that made him cringe. For decades that book was a universal rite of passage for adolescents, the manifesto of disenchanted youth. (Sometimes lethally disenchanted: After he killed John Lennon in 1980, Mark David Chapman said he had done it "to promote the reading" of Salinger's book. Roughly a year later, when he headed out to shoot President Ronald Reagan, John Hinckley Jr. left behind a copy of the book in his hotel room.) But what matters is that even for the millions of people who weren't crazy, Holden Caulfield, Salinger's petulant, yearning (and arguably manic-depressive) young hero was the original angry young man. That he was also a sensitive soul in a cynic's armor only made him more irresistible. James Joyce and Ernest Hemingway had invented disaffected young men too. But Salinger created Caulfield at the very moment that American teenage culture was being born. A whole generation of rebellious youths discharged themselves into one particular rebellious youth. (Read TIME's 1951 review of Catcher in the Rye.)

Past & Present

I think it was first, third, and eighth grade that I had a crush on John Darling. His rugged good looks snagged me in first: those lightning bolts masterfully incorporated into his mullet, accompanied by a cute little rat tail in back. It was his style that got me in third: he was one of the only kids in school who got to have those laser lights in the background of his school picture. The neon colors zig-zagged behind that devilish grin, and I was smitten. In eighth grade my crush was a bit more legit: we spent our time in the back of Mrs. Reige's class making fun of her armpit mole and trying to make each other mess up while making argumentative speeches about women in the military, capital punishment, and euthanasia. We genuinely enjoyed laughing together, and so, again, I was smitten. Unfortunately, I was dating Patrick Forrer at the time: making out on the hill behind the movie theater and giving sweaty, awkward notes to each other between fifth and sixth period.

In high school, John Darling became somewhat of an untouchable. He quickly became a part of the "in-crowd," a football player, and lets face it, a hottie. My friends and I remained acquaintances with him, he was always the nicest of them all, but as we grappled with figuring out what to do for the 17th "girls night" in a row of estrogen-filled weekends, John Darling became something of a pipe dream for all of us.

Six years later, John Darling appeared on my doorstep in Brooklyn, arm in arm with my best friend, Nina Shully. It took me a few hours to cope with and set aside the excitement that our high school heart-throb was standing in my kitchen- (it was a similar feeling to when Mark Steffke was using my bathroom in the very same apartment: "Mark Steffke! In my bathroom! Pinch me!"). But I manned up, suited up, and we took Johnny D. out on the town.

Having never been to the Big Shitty, John provided Nina and I with a new perspective of the place. We wove through the mobs of ill-fitted tourists in Times Square (my most dreaded few blocks of the city), and John couldn't get enough. He shook me into realizing that the bright lights are actually beautiful, the mobs of people are not lost but found. Nina played tour guide while I pretended to go into work happily - she's been here so many times that she knows every stop on the F-train, how to meander from Chinatown to the Financial district, swim to the Statue of Liberty, and boardwalk it over the WTC hole in one day.

Johnny D. laughed at my Amish way of life, and I laughed at his inability to keep his head off the plate at brunch on Saturday. He watched as I attempted a few interesting dance moves, and I watched as he made my best friend happier than I've seen her in years. After all was said and done, we saw a clown out of the corner of our eyes, and laughed just as hard as we did in eighth grade, and all of a sudden the past became the present.

What Your Favorite Author Says About You

http://laurenleto.wordpress.com/readers-by-author/

Wildly entertaining. Do read. So true, and yet, so not true.

Perks of Being A Wallflower

November 12, 1991
Dear Friend,
I love Twinkies, and the reason I am saying that is because we are all supposed to think of reasons to live. In science class, Mr. Z. told us about an experiment where they got this rat or mouse, and they put this rat or mouse on one side of a cage. On the other side of the cage, they put a little piece of food. And this rat or mouse would walk over to the food and eat. Then, they put the rat or mouse back on its original side, and this time, they put electricity all through the floor where the rat or mouse would have to walk to get the piece of food. They did this for a wile, and the rat or mouse stopped going to get the food at a certain amount of voltage. Then, they repeated the experiment, but they replaced the food with something that gave the rat or mouse intense pleasure. I don’t know what it is that gave them intense pleasure, but I am guessing it is some kind of rat or mouse nip. Anyway, what the scientists found out was that the rat or mouse would put up with a lot more voltage for the pleasure. Even more than for the food.
I don’t know the significance of this, but I find it very interesting.
Love always,
Charlie

On the Subway, Without Pants

It surprised me how incredibly organized everyone was: a herd of smiling sheep, huddling close, crossing intersections, walking down the dirty stairs silently into their assigned positions.

A crowd of 300 of pantsed persons gathered in Foley Square yesterday, waiting patiently to hear when and how would be de-pantsing. We weren't the only ones. Stations strategically placed throughout the city and many of it's bouroughs held just as many of us, covering all trains from the 1 to the 7, the A to the Z, and 66 cities around the world (apparently this is huge in Berlin) joined our bare-leggedness worldwide. We were broken up according to our birthday month, Januarys in the front car of the train, Decembers in the back, and then from there we broke up into subsets as to who would be de-pantsing first. From the City Hall 6 train stop, all the way up to 59th street, we gradually became less and less trousered. Eventually, all 3,000 of us converged in Union Square for a Pantsless celebration. I slid my jeans off around Astor Place, and waited on the platform for the next train, listening to my iPod and reading a book. Another pantsless gentleman came up to me, commenting on my shoes. I kicked out my naked leg and non-chalantly thanked him.

Throughout the frigid experience, we felt our adrenaline rise, our modesty fall, and our sense of unity completely solidify. The mid-winter whiteness of skin and goosebumped inner thighs only brought us closer together. Our audience (innocent unknowers) at first was baffled, then entertained, then charmed at the scene. And it was a scene, but a quiet one. Everyone minded their business, saying "excuse me" when they bumped someone with their boxered bum.

Check it out at Improve Everywhere

Or The New York Times
Or This Random Website

Fifth Gear

Through the sideways snow, the looping traffic of Chicago and the stinking cities of Indiana, the frozen white Ohio farmlands, and the rolling foothills of Pennsylvania, I could feel the miles spread out between me and home. As we wove into and out of tiny cities made of ashes, Dylan, Blind Melon, The Brothers Avett and our favorite Cult of Clouds mingled with our best belting karaoke voices. There were stretches on I-80 where we made plans in silence, knowing that the crumbs would fall wherever they damn well pleased: in the cracks of the seats, inside the seat belt slot, within the fibers of the carpet - and we'd find them eventually if we needed to. Tossing pennies in the tolls and flicking off slip-sliding semis, chugging coffee and cursing the New Jersey Turnpike's ghostly curves, we made it through the well-marked Manhattan streets, over the Brooklyn Bridge, down Court Street. As the blinker ticked to the left onto Butler Street, I began to breathe again.

Between the brain-busting trivia of which pop band was originally from Gary, Indiana, the ever-popular "who can spot the most states on the license plates" game, and the name-that-author ABC game, I stared out the side-view mirror, watching Christmas memories float out in the exhaust.

I hugged more people than I had planned on hugging, and ate more gyros than I would ever have imagined eating. I played a good amount of Rockband, and watched the Packers with a new found zeal. I felt my nephew slide like a fish beneath my hand, beneath skin, warm and waiting for January 27, and dove into his drawer full of tiny clothes with monkey feet and into his crib full of caterpillars and soft blankets. I experienced the difference between HDTV and regular TV and realized that its all TV to me. I had a hearty dose of Madisonalgia, ate at new restaurants and drank at old bars. I noticed cracks in the lettering in my Wisconsin t-shirts, cracks that narrated the years between me and college. Somehow I found myself at a swim meet in Homestead, smelling the sweet and sour smells of high school lunches and flirtatious hallways. I watched as gifts were showered upon one of my best friends, and under the blanket of wrapping paper and ribbon, my Mequon kindreds and I felt due pangs of pride in knowing we'd be standing next to her come October. We found others from our circle and danced harder than any prom, homecoming, or sadie hawkins combined. I looked into the face of a far-away love, cried tears drenched in hello and goodbye, cheeks red and breath held, we closed the swinging door, hopefully for the best. I sat by the fire on Christmas eve as my dad handed my brother a certificate of ownership of a company - and as they shook hands we all felt like we were on the top of the trees. I cushioned awkwardness with whiskey and found myself lost on a scarfless journey for a time - one that Karma would punish me for but I'll punish it right back soon enough. I played poker for high stakes with the big boys, and wrestled with the best presidentially named dog in the world. I travelled back in time to a cabin in Rhinelander, where it was just us girls, where we dipped our feet into the water while the rainbow trout nipped at our toes, where our chanting made the motor run, where we wrapped ourselves in songs and affection for one another, where our mothers giggled on the moonlit porch, where we will return someday.

I watched as these memories escaped behind the speeding Nissan, and then finally faced forward: making new years resolutions to say less, to stop worrying, and to stop cussing. I put it into fifth gear, and smiled at the decade ahead.

Bike City

Salvaged from the cobwebs of the garage, disassembled & dragged through 17 hours of highway, reassembled and ready to rock. Soon enough I'll look like this.