 | A WRITER'S WIT |
My Book World
Even if you don’t read this book (but I suspect you will) you must watch Hodgman’s reading on C-SPAN’s Book-TV. His wit is a razor-sharp knife crusted with the salt of a Bloody Mary. It cuts both ways—going in and coming out—and you either laugh or cry or both as the joke pops up in front of you like a sudden obstruction in the road. In this particular reading he shares the stage with another gay man of the same age, writing a memoir about a dying parent whom he is called upon to care for. (I have Bob Morris’s Bobby Wonderful on my shelf ready to start at any moment).
I love, love, love how Hodgman drifts in a fairly chronological line from beginning to end, yet, like an amoeba, darting or sometimes gliding, into the past to fill us in on a bit of information we must have about the past: his years as a student at the University of Missouri’s noted school of journalism; years that he works for Vanity Fair; years that he slaves as an editor for a large publishing company (who lets him go under the guise of “restructuring”). Back and forth we drift with him as he cares for his elderly mother now beset with many problems. Back and forth we drift, as he divulges only enough information to keep us returning for more, with him as he becomes addicted to drugs (particularly speed). Back and forth we drift with him between caring for Betty in Bettyville, a little town of her own making, as he spends summers on Fire Island at the height of the aids crisis. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, that we will have to live through Betty’s funeral after she dies of cancer, but no. Hodgman’s book isn’t about Betty’s death; it is about her life. And his. And how the two have come together in not always such a beautiful manner as mother and son. If you have been through, are going through, or will ever go through caring for a parent, this book is one that just may help you to cope.
A few nuggets from the book:
“My counselor in New York, Paul Giorgianni, asked about my family, my life, my feelings, sex life, vices. When he asked if I used drugs, I said only when they were available. He asked if they were a problem. I said not for me. He said I should not use them as an avoidance. Why else I would [sic] use them?
‘You don’t have to entertain me,’ he said.
‘Then what are you paying me for?’
‘You are hiding from your feelings.’
‘Can you teach me how to hide a little better?’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Lobby art.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Because I can’t get a job.’ I explained that I could not get through an interview and that I kept making a fool of myself on dates. ‘I lose myself,’ I told him. ‘I go away. I can’t be there when I need to be. I go away’” (167).
“Back in my office, I reviewed the form calling for everything but organ harvest and the renunciation of God and country. It was lengthy. I got a little emotional. I felt like Jane Fonda in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? When I tried to call my authors to tell them what had happened, I froze. Within moments, the publisher was back at my door.
‘Have you signed the form yet?’
I didn’t respond. My head was full of voices; I went outside to try to get it together. As I passed the publisher’s office, the question came again.
‘Have you signed the form yet?’
I stayed in bed for days, listening to the voices fling curses. I hadn’t worked hard enough. I hadn’t gotten it right. Work was all. I am nothing, nothing without work. No one is. Not without work. Harry worked hard. Bill worked hard; Mammy worked hard; Betty worked hard. Shut up’” (234).
“Sometimes a few decades of Final Net are all an honest woman can count on in this life” (238).
“It was October in Pennsylvania and on the first morning the ground was frosted. As I walked to breakfast, some guy yelled out, ‘Thirteen inches in the Poconos.’
‘Is that a porn film?’ I asked” (238).
“It is interesting, gratifying even, to watch this almost human let down his guard, warm up, grow less frightened. I have watched him transform from a pup reluctant to leave his mat or crate to a daring household forager who considers it his God-given right to poop copiously in the middle of the living room. ‘Get some OdoBan,’ a neighbor advises when I share our housebreaking problems.
‘How much,’ I ask, ‘do I take?’” (273).
NEXT TIME: New Yorker Fiction 2016
I love, love, love how Hodgman drifts in a fairly chronological line from beginning to end, yet, like an amoeba, darting or sometimes gliding, into the past to fill us in on a bit of information we must have about the past: his years as a student at the University of Missouri’s noted school of journalism; years that he works for Vanity Fair; years that he slaves as an editor for a large publishing company (who lets him go under the guise of “restructuring”). Back and forth we drift with him as he cares for his elderly mother now beset with many problems. Back and forth we drift, as he divulges only enough information to keep us returning for more, with him as he becomes addicted to drugs (particularly speed). Back and forth we drift with him between caring for Betty in Bettyville, a little town of her own making, as he spends summers on Fire Island at the height of the aids crisis. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, that we will have to live through Betty’s funeral after she dies of cancer, but no. Hodgman’s book isn’t about Betty’s death; it is about her life. And his. And how the two have come together in not always such a beautiful manner as mother and son. If you have been through, are going through, or will ever go through caring for a parent, this book is one that just may help you to cope.
A few nuggets from the book:
“My counselor in New York, Paul Giorgianni, asked about my family, my life, my feelings, sex life, vices. When he asked if I used drugs, I said only when they were available. He asked if they were a problem. I said not for me. He said I should not use them as an avoidance. Why else I would [sic] use them?
‘You don’t have to entertain me,’ he said.
‘Then what are you paying me for?’
‘You are hiding from your feelings.’
‘Can you teach me how to hide a little better?’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Lobby art.’
‘Why did you come here?’
‘Because I can’t get a job.’ I explained that I could not get through an interview and that I kept making a fool of myself on dates. ‘I lose myself,’ I told him. ‘I go away. I can’t be there when I need to be. I go away’” (167).
“Back in my office, I reviewed the form calling for everything but organ harvest and the renunciation of God and country. It was lengthy. I got a little emotional. I felt like Jane Fonda in They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? When I tried to call my authors to tell them what had happened, I froze. Within moments, the publisher was back at my door.
‘Have you signed the form yet?’
I didn’t respond. My head was full of voices; I went outside to try to get it together. As I passed the publisher’s office, the question came again.
‘Have you signed the form yet?’
I stayed in bed for days, listening to the voices fling curses. I hadn’t worked hard enough. I hadn’t gotten it right. Work was all. I am nothing, nothing without work. No one is. Not without work. Harry worked hard. Bill worked hard; Mammy worked hard; Betty worked hard. Shut up’” (234).
“Sometimes a few decades of Final Net are all an honest woman can count on in this life” (238).
“It was October in Pennsylvania and on the first morning the ground was frosted. As I walked to breakfast, some guy yelled out, ‘Thirteen inches in the Poconos.’
‘Is that a porn film?’ I asked” (238).
“It is interesting, gratifying even, to watch this almost human let down his guard, warm up, grow less frightened. I have watched him transform from a pup reluctant to leave his mat or crate to a daring household forager who considers it his God-given right to poop copiously in the middle of the living room. ‘Get some OdoBan,’ a neighbor advises when I share our housebreaking problems.
‘How much,’ I ask, ‘do I take?’” (273).
NEXT TIME: New Yorker Fiction 2016
READ MY ‘BEHIND THE BOOK’ BLOG SERIES for My Long-Playing Records & Other Stories. In these posts I speak of the creative process I use to write each story. Buy a copy here!
Introduction to My Long-Playing Records
"My Long-Playing Records" — The Story
"A Certain Kind of Mischief"
"Ghost Riders"
"The Best Mud"
"Handy to Some"
"Blight"
"A Gambler's Debt"
"Tales of the Millerettes"
"Men at Sea"
"Basketball Is Not a Drug"
"Engineer"
"Snarked"
"Killing Lorenzo"
"The Age I Am Now"
"Bathed in Pink"
Listen to My Long-Playing Records Podcasts:
"A Certain Kind of Mischief"
"The Best Mud"
"Handy to Some"
"Tales of the Millerettes"
"Men at Sea"
"My Long-Playing Records"
"Basketball Is Not a Drug"
"Snarked"
"Killing Lorenzo"
"Bathed in Pink"
Also available on iTunes.
Introduction to My Long-Playing Records
"My Long-Playing Records" — The Story
"A Certain Kind of Mischief"
"Ghost Riders"
"The Best Mud"
"Handy to Some"
"Blight"
"A Gambler's Debt"
"Tales of the Millerettes"
"Men at Sea"
"Basketball Is Not a Drug"
"Engineer"
"Snarked"
"Killing Lorenzo"
"The Age I Am Now"
"Bathed in Pink"
Listen to My Long-Playing Records Podcasts:
"A Certain Kind of Mischief"
"The Best Mud"
"Handy to Some"
"Tales of the Millerettes"
"Men at Sea"
"My Long-Playing Records"
"Basketball Is Not a Drug"
"Snarked"
"Killing Lorenzo"
"Bathed in Pink"
Also available on iTunes.
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