Chinese "Catcher"

Here are the covers of German and Chinese editions of Catcher that I mentioned in my last post. The Chinese one is particularly bizarre.

Reading Salinger

When my seventh period seniors were in their seats and settled, I started talking.

“I’ve got something I want to talk about. This is maybe not the best group for me to do this with; members of this class tend to be a bit skeptical about emotional kinds of topics" – well, they did, and they knew it – “but this is important to me, and it’s important to me to do it right now."

An uncomfortable silence filled the room, the stillness kids have when things get heavy. They thought they were in trouble, and I didn’t correct the impression. If wondering if they were being scolded would keep the cynics along for the ride, that was fine. Good, even.

I said, “When I was in teacher school, one of my professors said that when dealing with topics you feel strongly about you should ask yourself a question: Am I doing this to serve my students’ needs, or my own?’ The implication is that if what you are saying is not for your students, you shouldn't be saying it. I agree with that advice, generally, and though I don’t always succeed, I try to hold to it. That said, I’m going to talk about something, and it’s going to be for me, not for you. It’s self-indulgent, and I apologize. I hope it’s of value to you, but I’m doing this for me. I want to be able to look back at this day and remember that I stopped what I was doing and took some time.”

The class had no idea what I was talking about, but they could see that I was emotional. A couple of them nodded support even though they didn’t know what was going on. I paused to regain my composure. And then I told them a version of this story.

I have wanted to be a teacher for as long as I can remember, but I’m not quite sure when I decided I wanted to teach English. I’m pretty sure it was in the seventh grade. My career choice had a lot to do with Ed Zettler, especially something he did on the last day of school.

That year I was a new kid – returning kid, actually – in a strict Catholic school. It was tough year for me, but I loved English. I liked Mr. Zettler a lot, and he liked me; his class was a sanctuary. On the last day of school, he was cleaning out his room. Some kids surrounded him, angling for the junky treasure he was tossing out. But then he called me over and handed me a book, saying, “You should read this.” It was Catcher in the Rye.

That book had a big impact on me, as it does to many people, and one of the big things it taught me is that you don’t have to understand a book to love it. The summer of my seventh grade year, I didn’t understand Catcher in the Rye. But I loved it – and this was before I knew that loving Catcher in the Rye was some sort cultural statement. It’s a cliché to fall in love with the first sentence of Catcher, but it wasn’t a cliché to me, so I did.

I loved Holden. I loved his voice. I was transfixed by his unrequited love for Jane Gallagher. I loved that the book had just enough naughtiness to make me feel I was getting away with something. But all along I knew there was more to the book than I was getting. When I realized it was a classic, I wanted to be taught the book, at school, in a class, with a teacher. (I loved Holden, but I wasn’t him.) I was eager to get to high school, where I assumed it would be studied. When I got there, I was eager to get to American Literature, where I knew it was studied. By the time I got to my junior year, I had read the book a couple more times.

I was thrilled to be in Sr. Margaret’s class – she was (and is, I’m sure) a wonderful teacher, and she, like Ed Zettler, has had an influence on my career. But she was also the English teacher at Bishop Watterson who did not teach Catcher in the Rye.

As soon as I got to college, I scoured the course catalog for a lit class that listed Catcher. I found Intro to American Literature. Good course; smart, funny instructor. When it came time to cover the novel – for only one day, according to the syllabus – I said to the instructor before class, “So it’s Catcher today, right?”

And she said. “Oh, yeah. I guess. I hate that book.”

We spent fifteen minutes on it.

Eventually, of course, I got to read it in a school with a class, but I was the teacher. I taught it for years at two different school. I read books about it, I read Salinger’s other works. I designed a senior elective for kids who love it. And though I've not taught that course or American Literature for a number of years, I still have my favorite interpretations (It not a sad ending! He’s not in an insane asylum! “Caul” is significant, tied to his hunting cap! And to Allie’s hair! So Mr. Antollini patting Holden's head isn't creepy! It's Holden's apotheosis!) I don’t know if I taught it well; I imagine I was a bit over-enthused and didactic.

Through the years I've read about J.D. Salinger, all of the eccentricities, the tawdry rumors, which are probably lies and probably true, too. I used Salinger's quirks and reclusiveness to capture students’ imaginations. Regrettably, I even expressed half-kidding glee that Salinger would most likely die soon. When he dies, I said, if the reports are true that he never stopped writing, then there may be a vault filled with Salinger's works waiting to be read by the likes of us.

The Catcher in the Rye, the actual, physical book, is an artifact in my life. A section of my bookshelf is dedicated to different editions of the novel. (To me, the real Catcher is the maroon one with yellow typeface.) When I travel to different countries, which I’ve done only twice, I buy editions in different languages. In China, that wasn't easy. When copies of Catcher are left in halls and lockers at the end of each school year, I grab a couple. When I have guests who’ve never read it, I give them one.

That story - my history with The Catcher in the Rye - is the story I told my seventh period class today. I was unprepared for how hard it was; I choked up a couple times, especially at the wishing-Salinger-dead part. I was embarrassed by the whole scene. I imagined how I must have looked and thought about how I react to zealous fans of pretty much anything; I see them as unsophisticated and a little pathetic.

I abandoned my plan to read the class a Salinger story; I wouldn’t get through it.

By eighth period, I had regained my composure. Again, I told the class how much Salinger and Catcher means to me. This time I was less embarrassed and less embarrassing. I read them one of my favorite stories, “The Laughing Man.”

I’d like to say they were transfixed, but "respectful" would be more accurate. Even "patient." I’d like to say they loved the story, but I’m not sure they understood it, and my explanations fell flat. The reading, as I admitted, was for me more than for them. I want to know, tomorrow, a year, five years from now, that on the day J.D. Salinger died, I took note. I told my students what he meant to me, and I read them one of his stories.

Pictures from my old cell phone

I got a new cell phone, not for Christmas, but around Christmas. And I had to figure out what to do with all of the pictures on my old cell phone. So now they are all just sitting there on iPhoto.

So I'm toying with this idea of writing about all of them. A lot of them are gone, into the ether, I don't know where. But 180 pictures survived the move, all taken with a very cheap cell phone, none very good. Some to capture moments, others to help me remember a salsa I like. What if I try to write about each and every one of them? That, it seems, would be the most boring slide show ever.

So let's do it!

Entry number one.

This was, what, two years ago? Not this past summer. The one before. We don't do waterparks often - we must have had a coupon. I remember I took this picture specifically for use as the display on the screen inside my phone. Does it get much cheesier than concrete rivers and giant human flushing machines? We hadn't been to Zoombezi Bay before, and at least one of us - the mom one - was not very excited. But then, taking a break from crazy slides, sitting in a lounge chair as the kids played in the giant wave pool, drinking a seven-dollar, lime-flavored Bud Light, even she embraced the cheese, and we had to admit, we were having a damn good time.

Entry number two!

My son, circa a-few-years-ago. Cute. I can't imagine calling him cute anymore. But this is cute. I have no recollection of taking this picture.

Number three!


Ah, Larry's. I took this picture as a keepsake on Larry's last night. Larry's was an OSU campus institution, and while I was by no means a regular, I had some fond memories. When I was in high school, Larry's was rumored to be a gay-bar, back when that was still taboo. The rumor was started by the regulars in order to keep the frat-types away, and it worked. Larry's was a dark, Tom Waits-y type of bearded grad student and old-guy bar. Dark wood, peanuts, cheap glasses, philosophy rather than phallises on the bathroom walls. You imagined that the group of flannel wearing guys in the corner were planning the revolution. I first went to Larry's when I was in high school; an older, artsier friend invited some of us to his poetry reading - poetry readings happened at Larry's. That was probably one of the first times I had ever been in a bar. I still remember parts of the poetry, actually, and certainly Kip's reaction when I made an observation about one of his poems that he thought nailed it. Kip's poetry was actually pretty good, I recall, but a lot of the other stuff was far enough over our young heads as to seem completely non-sensical; for weeks after, Tom Ferkany would pass me notes in choir class with his own versions of meaningless poetry: "Tree bags, help!" and "Tuesday, up in the sky." I still remember them.

Poetry aside, though, something else that night made an even bigger impression: Larry's didn't card.

So I used to go to Larry's once in a while through high school and college, and even a few times since. It was the only bar where you could drink and not look crazy grading papers. It was a great bar, actually, had a lot of character and charm.

The night I took that picture, I was out with a couple of teacher friends, and we remembered the story in The Dispatch about it being Larry's last night, and we headed over. We were a bit out of place then, more buttoned down than I had been years before, less bohemian than most others there. I wish I had fit in better at Larry's, and I wish Larry's had fit in better, too. The city is worse off without it.

Imagine

What if I blogged again? Then what would happen?

Summer so far

It's been a Peter Gabriel, Lolita, freezer-pop, Elmore Leonard, Six Million Dollar Man, Dennis LeHane, Van Halen, Farnesworth Invention, Little Debbie Swiss Cakes, pizza-on-the-grill, stray cat, Rent at Columbus Children Theater kind of summer so far. A bit on each:

Peter Gabriel isn't the coolest with the critics or the Wilco, Weezer, or Stones crowds, but I've been a fan since waaay back. Summer tends to be a time to look back rather than forward, and I'm following up last year's "Every Rush album in order" summer with a Peter Gabriel summer, though not in order, cuz I don't have them all yet. Highlights: Security, the one I first fell in love with, so I was, what, a sophomore? I thought I was younger. That always happens. Anyway, still love that album. Peter Gabriel 1 is much better than I expected, 2, I thought, is kind of weak, 3 is great fun, and immediately brings me back to mowing my parent's lawn listening to the cassette on my Sony Walkman. Next up are his Genesis-era albums, which I never listened to. Love his newer stuff. Have been playing In Your Eyes and Washing the Water on the piano.

I've been wanting to read Elmore Leonard for a while, and now I am. 'sokay. I'm reading Pagan Babies. No I'm not. I'm blogging. So I'm not very drawn to it. But the characters are fun. Doesn't live up to what I've heard about him. Maybe I grabbed the wrong one, but it's the one the library had.

I finally read Lolita, which I thought would be a funny choice to read on a trip to an educator's conference, and it was. Odd glances on the plane. Amazing novel, and it put me through things no novel has before. Much creepier than I expected - even hard to read at some points. I almost didn't get to part two after the last sentence of part one. Amazing voice, and I didn't expect it to be so funny. Then I watched both movies. Kubrick's is great - Shelly Winters is fantastic and James Mason is great, but I'm becoming increasingly okay with my annoyance at Kubric. The 1997 Adrienne Lynne version is very good and captures the tone of the novel well.

Freezer pops are summer. But whichever brand made yellow "Pina Colada" is not the brand for me. I eat, like, forty freezer pops a day.

Talk about looking back. I've got two pirated Six Million Dollar Man DVDS - the pilot and the bigfoot episodes. Youngest-son really liked it, and the rest of us had a blast, so I wanted more. But they haven't been released in the US.

So I bought the second season from Amazon.do.uk, and figured out how to hack my DVD player to be region free. Came in the mail yesterday. Haven't watched them yet. Excited, though.



At the beach I was looking for a pulpy but good mystery-thriller sort of thing, and I remembered reading that Dennis LeHane is one of the best, and I know he wrote for The Wire, and he wrote Mystic River and Gone Baby Gone, which got great reviews, so I bought a used copy of Shutter Island, and spent the week laughing at it and sharing with my wife one implausible cliche after another. Then I came home, went to a movie, and saw this on my popcorn box:



I sent that picture to my wife, who also said "No way!" Then, just now, I find out it's being directed by Martin Scorsese. So maybe I'm an idiot.

Van Halen, Roth-style. Still awesome. At the library, I found a CD of Van Halen covers done by bluegrass bands. Extra awesome.

Farnsworth Invention, a great play by Aaron Sorkin. I saw it at the Alley Theater in Houston. Loved it.

Little Debbie Swiss Cakes do not allow me to sleep whenever they are in the house. They are never in the house for long.

We bought a new grill. It has defined our summer meals, including pizza on the grill, because I married oddly. But it was delicious, except for the one that caught on fire and almost burned our house down.

My daughter has fallen in love with a stray cat that has been coming around.

Took my oldest to see Rent at Columbus Childrens Theater. It was quite good. Having never seen the show before, he loved it.

A bit of summer so far. Now I'm just chewing up a rainy Saturday afternoon.

United Breaks Guitars

There is nothing more terrifying for a guitar player than knowing that you have to travel on an airplane with your guitar ... and check it with the other baggage.

Thanks Dave Carroll! This says it all with a great song and great video!

Creepy Doll Place

Interstate 30 East goes into Holden Beach, where our family has been going for years, my wife's family for years before that. And right before the scenery shifts from North Carolina rural to non-commercial beachy, there's a curve in the road. And right before the curve in the road, there is a weird, over-cluttered lot we've always called the Creepy Doll Place.

From the street, it looks like a setting from a cheap 80's horror movie, a place where the non-supervised vacationing teenagers go on a dare, where someone in a hockey mask teaches them the ultimate moral lesson about their debauchery the night before.

You miss Creepy Doll Place if you don't know it's coming, because you're either on your way to your vacation, on your way back home, or on your way to or from Wal Mart.

Creepy Doll Place became a punchline. And every year we'd say we'd stop to see it, and every year there was less time on vacation than we expected, and every year the mystery grew.

My brother joined us at the beach with his family this year, and he joked with us about the Creepy Doll Place. When his few days at the beach ran out without us having gone to see it, the dare was on. My brother's expectation was not just that I visit the Creepy Doll Place, but that I prove it.

Creepy Doll Place from Stefan Farrenkopf on Vimeo.

For less ironic but more professional information about Mary Paulsen, including a video about her latest project, click here.