Corpus Blogus

What began as a small experiment in blogging has lasted far longer than I ever expected. Yesterday's entry was my 100th post to this weblog (excluding the original, "Shirley, You Jest," test case) and it concludes nearly six months of writing.

You might now expect me to editorialize upon what I've learned, or look back and reflect upon what I've written, or speculate upon what, if anything, comes next. Not so. This ain't your momma's weblog, baby. Instead, I chose to commemorate this inexplicable pastime with a similarly irrelevant and inconclusive analysis.

I wondered what one might discover by running a word count utility against the first 100 entries. I'm sure you've all been wondering the same. Fear not, I have the data.

Those 100 entries exceed 53,000 words, the equivalent of a short novel. English grammar being what it is, much of that word count consists of only a few common words. In fact, the top five words alone account for 15% of the total word count:

the (2664)   and (1451)   to (1417)   of (1310)   a (1264)

Nearly one third of the word count can be attributed to a mere 30 of the approximately 8,600 unique words tabulated. Rounding out the top 30 words then are:

I (1059)   in (694)   that (664)   it (627)   for (518)

was (481)   is (392)   my (361)   with (358)   but (340)

as (322)   on (318)   one (312)   you (299)   at (269)

he (269)   his (228)   so (228)   me (224)   this (224)

from (223)   have (221)   not (219)   by (216)   first (214)

I have a list I've made of approximately 300 words—articles, conjunctions, pronouns, prepositions, contractions, etc.—that are the connective tissue of English sentences.

I ran the utility with instructions to strip out those words and it deflated the total word count by 50% to roughly 27,000 words. Nearly 8,300 unique words remained, but these were the more interesting nouns, verbs, adjectives, etc. that reveal to the psycholinguistically astute and the numerologically obsessed, clues about the hidden semantic mysteries of a passage.

Here are the top 30 words once the file had been deflated by 50%:

first (214)   more (147)   read (131)   time (128)   boys (109)

2004 (105)   book (105)   years (91)   get (90)   books (86)

Justin (77)   two (75)   day (73)   know (72)   line (71)

movie (71)   back (69)   year (65)   Andrew (64)   reading (64)

John (63)   Kevin (63)   three (63)   last (60)   good (58)

little (58)   story (58)   made (57)   make (57)   novel (57)

Anyone following this blog is unlikely to see any surprises in that list. Perhaps something can be learned by examining groups of words that have the same number of appearances. For example, here are the 30 words which each appear exactly 15 times in the 100 entries of this blog to date:

call   class   com   consider   entry
especially   expected   fans   feel   final
free   friend   including   internet   June
keep   leave   letter   looked   material
Michael   minutes   mom   note   rejection
script   stranger   trying   turn   weeks

One begins to feel like the John Nash character in A Beautiful Mind trying to make sense of the cryptological messages he believes to be hidden in the newspapers. Speaking of mathematicians, that reminds me: numbers, too, are counted by this utility. Perhaps something can be divined from the following:

1 (29)  2 (18)  3 (27)  4 (17)  5 (17)  6 (20)  7 (20)  8 (12)  9 (18) 10 (21)
11 (12) 12 (23) 13 (14) 14 (16) 15 (19) 16 (11) 17 (11) 18 (10) 19 (12) 20 (18)
21 (6) 22 (11) 23 ( 6) 24 (7) 25 ( 9) 26 ( 6) 27 ( 2) 28 ( 4) 29 (5) 30 (12)

I'll leave that as an exercise for the avid reader. You may also need to know:

one (312)   two (75)   three (63)   four (21)   five (31)
six (18)   seven (22)   eight (7)   nine (7)   ten (17)
eleven (2)   twelve (6)   thirteen (1)   fourteen (2)   fifteen (5)
sixteen (3)   seventeen (1)   eighteen (2)   nineteen (20)   twenty (21)
won (7)   to (1,417)   too (45)   for (518)   ate (4)

Maybe scholars dedicated to analyzing this site will be better served by a complete concordance. (Don't worry: I'm not going to post the damn thing.)

Since we've determined that 19 is a mystical number, let's choose one word with 19 occurrences and see what that might yield. For illustrative purposes, let's choose the word, "point" since (22) you (299) all (196) are (194) beginning (20) to (1,417) wonder (13) what (112) mine (8) might (21) conceivably (0) be (200):

physical linkage to a fellow mammal seems a plus at this point. Damien is a friend.

My words begin plucking at threads nervously, seeking purchase, a weak point,

And don't even get me started on all the random point awarding by the professors.

unfamiliar dispute or the conclusion to a negotiation point that I had not yet

haul them back by their hind legs to the starting point. Ribbons would be awarded

Marx Brothers faking a mirrored reflection in a doorway, at which point we would

the hints; or 1 point for each correct title or author when you got only one right.

entwined with circular references, let me point out that the writer called Terrance

hundred times at least I've had someone point at Andrew and ask, "Is he the oldest?"

goes out of his way to point out Mersault’s use of the child’s word “Maman” when

writer alive who can match [Irving's] control of the omniscient point of view."

Drop City, maybe even The Tipping Point or Fast Food Nation is scheduled to appear

what woke them up." At one point Justin said, "This is starting to get scary,"

neither parent appears in the book and that at one point Tom apparently ventures

Anglo-Saxon hero myth of Beowulf from the point of view of the monster the hero

killed, rather than from the hero's vantage point. In so doing, he scored numerous

worse than use those twenty authors as the starting point for creating a reading list

But that would be missing the point. It's hard for any Red Sox fan who has lived

waving their "I believe" placards, a turning point to forever remember in a dream

Whatever is revealed in hindsight by reviewing my first one hundred blog entries depends, finally, upon the reader. I've written far more than I ever planned or expected, often on topics I never intended. What began as a whim, grew into a pleasant diversion. Public omphaloskepsis. Was it ever supposed to be relevant?

Now with this, the 101st entry, I've proven that every word counts, or at least, that every word can be counted.

Nineteen More Sentences

I paid a second visit to 826 Valencia today. This time I wasn't there to purchase any piratey things, although I did purchase Issue 12 of McSweeney's Quarterly.

My specific purpose in returning to 826 Valencia was to leave behind the anonymous calling card I once mentioned. While browsing among the spy glasses and pirate dice, I spotted what I was looking for: a pile of unopened mail. I waited until the cashier's attention was diverted and then as inconspicuously as possible (which was not very), I dropped atop the stack of mail a standard business envelope with a single folded sheet of paper inside. On that page, in the form of one long, unindented paragraph, were the following nineteen unrelated sentences:

It all started with one simple question.   Enoch drew his rifle and held it.   It was the first time he beat his father at anything.   Some stories are better left untold.   Scat.   Call me Ish Kabibble.   Finding a parking place that morning should have been the least of her worries.   I never did understand “reality TV” and that right there was half my problem.   You look at any picture of Charles Manson and what do you see?   Not again.   Think of it as the next Great American Novel, the best whaling novel since "Moby Dick"—except much shorter, only one hundred and forty pages, and set in West Texas, and there isn't any whale.   The first time Jason spotted her she was walking her dog backwards through the snow.   If you really wanna know what happened, I’ll tell you the whole freakin’ story, even the part about getting kicked out of "Exit-Here Academy" and what happened after JayDee tried swallowing half a bottle of pills, but if you start giving me any of that Holden Freakin’ Caulfield crap, then I’m outta here and you’ll never know why they both had to die.   Harrison first showed it to her in the front seat of her father’s black Lincoln Continental.   Could I possibly be any more charming?   Arguing with her in a crowded bar, that was my first mistake; following her home in my green VW was my second; but killing her, that was no mistake.   What my sister lacks in talent, she more than makes up for in enthusiasm.   I never should have gone through that door. You come to me at night while I am sleeping.

Whether that sheet of paper ends up in the hands of Dave Eggers, a student prodigy, tutor, or clerk, or merely gets tossed unread into a waste basket, I have no way of knowing. My role in the fate of that sheet of paper began with an idea and included weeks of thoughtful revisions, right down to the precision of the sixty-three words of sentence 13. But my role in the fate of that sheet of paper also ended with its delivery (and its authorship is our little secret).

Whether the eventual recipient considers it an exercise in experimental writing or some "dadaesque joke" hardly matters. What's important is its potential. If fate chooses, then perhaps someone will discover it and conclude, like Philip Roth once claimed, "that if ever a unifying principle were to be discernable in the paragraph it would have to be imposed from without rather than unearthed from within."

I admitted nearly two months ago that the notion of literary creativity springing from such a serendipitous event as the one Philip Roth claimed as inspiration for his first nineteen books (see the Afterword to the twenty-fifth anniversary edition of "Portnoy's Complaint") gave me two really great ideas. Now you know the first. It's just possible that you can guess the second.

Rose by Any Other Name

I wrote previously of how Kathy and I assigned each name to our boys after their birth, but I omitted the details of how we selected the names in the first place. It didn't happen the way I would have expected it.

Naming one's child is a serious matter. Every couple gives it a great deal of thought. Baby naming books are consistently strong sellers. A name is the first gift you give your child and in most instances it lasts a lifetime. Who wouldn't agonize over it?

Names are evocative. They remind us of close friends, former classmates, colleagues, movie characters, even people we despise. Many couples decide not to reveal the baby names they are considering, even to close friends and family, because they have learned that any name may provoke a strong reaction, and not always a polite or favorable one.

I once assumed I would choose names fraught with personal meaning, perhaps the name of a great author, or a public figure, or a character from a favorite novel brimming with personal significance. But where does that leave you? With Herman? Theodore? Atticus? One's spouse will surely have an opinion on such choices. And likely as not, she reads different authors and admires different celebrities and actors. Was I willing to risk Fritzwilliam? Pierce? Bra-aad??

(I have a friend who did exactly that, though, naming her son Atticus, and I asked him once after he'd graduated from college how he felt about it. He was pleased with it, I'm happy to say. I now wonder what he'll name his children.)

When I was a perennial bachelor, I suggested absurd options as potential names of future offspring; I claimed facetiously that it was a litmus test for compatible spousal material. "I'd like to name my daughter, Mirth," I might say (and poorly, with my accent). "Or maybe, Blight Louise—it will build character." While others were still shuddering, I'd propose for boy/girl twins the names Vermin and Virus. It was all a big joke designed to get a shocked response and played by a man who never seriously expected to be naming a child. (Although I do still expect Mirth to show up in one of my stories; I may not be as unrestrained as Jonathan Lethem, but the name still charms me.)

The joke on me, of course, is that I did eventually marry, and then had triplets, not twins. My friends were quick to offer suggestions. We repeatedly heard the names, Moe, Larry & Curly, or Huey, Dewey & Louie. One literate friend proposed Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Baseball companions suggested Matty, Felipe & Jesus, or Tinkers, Evers & Chance. (I liked "Chance.") The triplet naming game was irresistible.

Upon hearing the news that Kathy was pregnant with triplets and that her suggestions for names were welcome, Kathy's five-year-old goddaughter, Molly, went off to think and came back shortly with a 3x5 index card with the names Emily, Kate, and Julia printed carefully in red ink. "That's terrific, Molly," Kathy said, "but what if they are boys?" Molly looked momentarily shocked and betrayed, but returned again later with three more names printed on the card: Justin, Tom, and Scott. We actually liked all three of those and Justin Thomas now owes partial thanks to Molly for his name. I cannot recall as precisely when Andrew and Kevin became candidate names for the other two.

The boys were three years old before I first heard one high school friend of Kathy's explaining to another how cool she thought it was that Kathy had named one of her sons after a high school boyfriend. Can you imagine? It would take real chutzpah to name a child after one's ex. I sometimes wonder how many others still believe this fiction. (Knowing as I do that I had been the one to suggest the name and having heard Kathy's own response to the rumor, I'm not concerned. "But what if you're wrong?" you ask, rudely. Big deal. I admire the man.)

The anticlimactic truth is that we did what many couples do. We sat up at night feeling the babies jockeying for position in the womb and discussed potential names. We made lists of possibilities. We consulted baby naming books. But in the end, we navigated purely by instinct and chose names that just sounded agreeable to both of us.

The middle names were almost easier. We wanted to attach a degree of family legacy to them so we chose unused names that would honor our two oldest brothers, Thomas and Michael; and with some irony, Patrick signified both Kathy's Irish heritage and my Portuguese father who was born on St. Patrick's Day (and may or may not have once had the middle name, Patrick). I paired the middle names with candidates for the first until I was satisfied, and showed them to Kathy. Happily, she concurred.

End of story.

Except...

One can now wonder, How well did we really do? Did we give the boys names that would honor them, that were not absurdly trendy or commonplace? Did we burden them with names better suited for a character in a Jonathan Lethem novel? How will their names sound thirty, fifty, seventy years from now?

The best article I've read on the topic of baby names is called, "Where Have All the Lisas Gone?" by Peggy Orenstein, appearing in The Best American Science and Nature Writing 2004 essay collection.

In trying to select a name that is not going to become the next trendy name, she sets out to determine what really influences the popularity of various baby names. Along the way she discovers the official Popular Baby Names web site hosted by the Social Security Administration. It's a site that "ranks the 1,000 most common boys' and girls' names since 1900. You can also look up a specific name and track its status over time," an activity that Orenstein warns and I echo, "is an Internet addict's sinkhole." Sure enough, I downloaded the data, organized it into a spreadsheet, and began charting and graphing the progress of my siblings' and children's names.

Andrew seems pretty safe: his name has remained in the top 100 boys' names for an entire century, hovering in the top 10 for the last 14 years. He may resent growing up and working alongside so many other Andrews, but he is unlikely to one day find himself burdened with a middle-aged name, like girls named Barbara, Nancy, Karen, Susan, and yes, Peggy. "Those sound like the names of middle-aged women because—guess what?—they are," writes Orenstein.

The name Kevin, on the other hand, surprised me. It didn't even make an appearance in the top 1,000 male names until it placed 830 in the 1920's. How is that possible? In the 1900's Rudolph ranked 129th. There was also Hyman (265), Barney (269), Solomon and Moses in the top 300, Aloysius for goddsakes (no offense) at 381, Hoyt (595) and Casper (608), but the name Kevin couldn't even break into the top 1,000? Fortunately, it took off like a bullet once it made the chart, and has remained in the top 30 or so for nearly 50 years. Kevin, also, should age without fear of becoming the Chauncey of his generation.

Then there is Justin. My poor little guy has not one, not two, but three "Justin H's" as classmates. No wonder the name already shows evidence of having peaked at 9. Worse yet, it only really began to rise in popularity in the 70's. Thanks a lot, Molly (102). If he weren't such a funning pool ("Hey, I'm Justin Time!"), I'd fear he might one day begrudge us his trendy name, as one day he still might.

Luckily for me, my naming days are over—blessedly before I found the SSA's Popular Baby Name web sinkhole. But for those of you still naming babies, whether you're considering Roses (358), Moses (503) or Beauses (423); Dylans (19) or Villains (as if); Destiny (37) or Chance (246), you'll get thoroughly dazed and confused on this site.

Good luck.

The Search for Plupreme

Right from the outset I expected rejections from publishers when I submitted my manuscript for the picture book, The Search for Plupreme. Two more familiar SASE's arrived yesterday.

From Cartwheel Books, I received the following form letter:

Dear Author,

A sincere thanks for allowing us to consider your manuscript. We are sorry to write that we do not see a place for it on the Cartwheel list, but as each publishing list has its own needs, we encourage you to submit your manuscript elsewhere.

We apologize for the impersonal nature of this reply, but we are hoping that this form letter will enable us to respond to authors in a timely fashion.

We wish you the best of luck in placing your manuscript.

Sincerely,
The Editors
Cartwheel Books

Even less personal was this 4" x 6" Authorgram from Boyds Mills Press:

Many thanks for your submission.
Unfortunately, this one didn't work for us.

We are returning your manuscript because
_X_ It's not suited to our present needs.
___ Its language or concept is too mature for
          our audience.
___ We seldom buy rhyming picture books.
___ It needs more character/plot development.
___ We have a very limited nonfiction line.

Sincerely,
The Editors

These rejection notices, while expected, are hardly instructive. I originally hoped that recording them here might be helpful for others with similar aspirations. Instead, they have become redundant and illustrative of what I said all along, that it is an against-all-odds proposition to break into the children's literature market as an unknown. (Notice I don't entertain for a moment the notion that my manuscript is flawed or undeserving. I hope I get credit for that much, at least.)

But Ashley's quest to discover a new color now seems an apt metaphor for my attempts at gaining the favor of one editor. Like my little heroine, it is time now after 10 rejections to consider a completely new strategy. (Although I should be honest: this step too, was predictable.)

So this January I will take a more active role in getting the manuscript seriously considered. There are several local children's literature networks I have yet to pursue, and friends-of-friends in the business who might at least be able to make some calls on my behalf. And maybe it's time to seek an agent. At the very least, failure at any of these strategies will allow me to offer more practical advice to others.

And once I'm published and Ashley helps some unsung illustrator earn a Caldecott Award, I'm a member of the writer's fraternity and subsequent manuscript submissions will be welcomed, if not solicited, right?

Well the fantasy, at least, is Plupreme.

Lonely Dumptruck

What do the following names have in common?

Conrad Metcalf   Everett Moon   Pella Marsh   Philip Engstrand
Effram Nugent   Lionel Essrog   Dylan Ebdus   Mingus Rude

Would you choose any of these names for your child?

Orton   Pansy   Ilford   Ralfrew   Marilla   Runyon   Euclid   Moira

These are not names you hear everyday—unless you spend your days reading Jonathan Lethem. The first set of names are of lead characters in six of Lethem's novels. The second set appear as minor characters.

Even when Lethem selects a common name—unlike those that seem more anagram than name—you can almost bet he'll pair it with an outrageous surname:

Danny Phoneblum   Timothy Vandertooth   Paul Pflug   Danny Fantl

He also seems as likely to scan the dictionary as the phonebook for inspiration. No noun or verb is too insignificant to be considered a potential name:

Maurice Gospels   Walter Surface   Harriman Crash   Abigail Ponders

Lethem clearly enjoys giving his characters original, often bizarre, names. Here are several others from The Fortress of Solitude:

Aaron X. Doiley   Erlan Hagopian   OJJJ   Zelmo Swift

With the publication in 1998 of the science fiction novel, "Girl, In Landscape," Jonathan Lethem really hit his creative stride in imaginative naming. The novel envisions an alien species that speaks hundreds of languages, but becomes fascinated with English as a language of "enchanting limitations," giving themselves inscrutable names formed from English words:

Hiding Kneel   Truth Renowned   Gelatinous Stand
Specious Axiomatic   Grinning Contrivance   Notable Beast
Somber Fluid   Lonely Dumptruck

Lethem spoke the other night of Tourette's syndrome, a logical topic because Motherless Brooklyn is his unforgettably original novel about a detective afflicted with Tourette's. But while claiming no clinical manifestations of having Tourette's himself, Lethem admitted that he empathizes with some of the compulsions, and he spoke of how he distractedly plays with words and names and revealed that he keeps a notebook of potential character names, currently filled with over seven hundred entries.

That struck me as a pretty remarkable statement when one considers the names he has selected for the characters in his published novels. It would be a fascinating opportunity to flip through the notebook with Lethem and hear him comment on the names.

Lionel Essrog, the Tourettic detective of Motherless Brooklyn, often manifests his condition with verbal tics. His explosive outbursts give Lethem an opportunity to dazzle with jewels of creative wordplay, like these examples of Lionel butchering a name, often his own:

Criminal Fishrug   Viable Guessfrog   Lionel Deathclam
Lefthand Moonprose   Lullaby Gueststar   Licorice Smellahole

Of course, aliens and Tourette's syndrome give a novelist like Lethem a convenient landscape for demonstrating his verbal pyrotechnics. But after reading The Fortress of Solitude and hearing Lethem speak, I'm now convinced that he has no intention of ever populating any of his novels, regardless of genre, with characters with such quotidian names as Jack Ryan, Alex Cross, Robert Kincaid, or Jack Torrance.

Lessons from Disneyland

We were fortunate enough to find the means to take the boys on their first trip to Disneyland last week. We decided to make the seven hour drive and chose to combine the adventure with a visit to their cousins in southern California.

The big surprise was the reaction by Val and three other former nannies, now all approximately 23-24 years old. They couldn't imagine missing out on the boys' first trip to Disneyland, so they pooled their resources and five girls planned a road trip of their own to coincide with ours and to join us at the park for one day to experience it with the boys. Of course, their evening plans were far wilder than ours and details of their 3 a.m. exploits would undoubtedly make far more interesting reading.

Nevertheless, we had a terrific time and it was fun to witness both the boys' delighted reactions to Disneyland and the girls' eagerness to make sure no thrill was overlooked. I observed also that the boys had no problem pairing off with a partner for each ride. I'm not sure what to make of that, but I'm sure it's preparing them for some socialization experience I'd rather not contemplate.

There's no easy way to summarize such an eventful trip, but I can share a few lessons learned along the way, giving a sense of the adventure in the process:

• Read The Unofficial Guide® to Disneyland 2005 beforehand.
  
• Look into AAA or similar clubs for savings packages. We got great discounts and invaluable FASTPASS privileges to multiple attractions.
  
• If you're driving, consider getting audio books. I have three boys who are patient travelers and I'm philosophically opposed to filling one's driving time with prepackaged entertainment (especially DVD's), but still we borrowed the audio book, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. Unabridged, it delivers over 8 hours of distraction which provide a convenient break from time to time.
  
• Pay attention to the road. We got so busy talking we missed a key exit and by the time we discovered our error, it cost us nearly an extra hour driving time to correct.
  
• Use the FASTPASS system. Why wait in 30 to 90 minute lines?
  
• Go on a weekday—preferably a school day (shhh!). Lines on Thursday were appreciably shorter, no more than 10-15 minutes. By Friday we were starting to see crowds and waiting times of 45 minutes or more (and this was not a peak weekend).
  
• Get lanyards early. We saved time by arranging them through AAA and picking them up at Downtown Disney the night before. Strangers repeatedly stopped us and asked us where we got ours. Tip: on crazier rides, tuck them into the kids' shirts.
  
• Seven is a great age for Disneyland. We didn't have to tend with strollers or complaints about walking; we met most height requirements and the kids were still far from being jaded. Most parents will opt to take their kids at a younger age, but we don't regret waiting.
  
• Prepare to walk. I can't imagine how many miles those boys covered without a single complaint.
  
• Instill the "Stick-Together Rule." We never once felt like we were at risk of losing the boys in the crowds.
  
• Carry water and snacks. Most of the food in and around the park is too expensive and only marginally palatable.
  
• Don't start with Indiana Jones Adventure. Dumb, dumb, dumb. We were so concerned the line would be excessive later we dashed to this attraction before the boys had even begun to get their bearings. We exited the ride with two unprepared little fellas in tears.
  
• Splash Mountain and Pirates of the Caribbean are hits. We rode these several times each.
  
• 48 is not too old to try your first 360 degree looping roller coaster. I chuckled to myself when Samantha casually suggested I read the medical requirements—I never found out whether she was more worried about Andrew and Kevin or me.
  
• There's more to consider at Autopia than the 52" height requirement. Andrew met the requirement, but had difficulty reaching and maintaining pressure on the gas pedal by himself. By the end of the ride he was slowing to a snail's pace.
  
• In Disney's California Adventure (new for us), It's Tough to Be a Bug, a 3-D Bug's Life multisensory experience, and Soarin' over California, an IMAX-quality hang glider simulation, were big hits, Dad included. (The former may be too intense for many young ones.)
  
• Peter Pan's Flight is way too short after a 30 minute wait. It's magical for kids, but lasts only two minutes. After rides of 7 minutes at the Haunted Mansion and 14 minutes at Pirates of the Caribbean, Peter Pan felt like it ended just as it was getting started.
  
• Try the Rainforest Cafe. It was one of the few dining experiences that didn't feel like a waste of money. We were able to combine orders and escape for a fair price. Better still, the kids ate the food and enjoyed the surroundings.
  
• Take a break at the hotel. We found taking turns watching the kids in the pool gave us time to recharge our batteries and get ready for evening rides and parades.
  
• Avoid the shops. Do you really need to be tempted to buy expensive Disney-themed items?
  
• Give the kids their own spending money. This saved us a lot of "I want that" conversations. Our boys saved for a year and spent their money wisely, mostly:
  
• Beware the expensive enticements. We made Andrew wait several hours to reconsider purchasing the picture of his face superimposed on Anakin Skywalker's image. But Justin looked at the colorful printing of himself as Obi-Wan Kenobi, agreed to purchase it, and no further than thirty yards past the exit burst into tears of regret over wasting his money, asking repeatedly whether he could return it or somehow earn his money back.
  
• ESPN Zone is addictive, but way too expensive. Kevin and I could have spent a weekend there: it offered rock climbing walls, air hockey, simulated pitching to Barry Bonds, hockey booths, football tossing games, and more. I was lucky to get out for only $10. On the other hand, Val and company returned for Top Shelf Margaritas and who knows what else.
  
• 48 is too old to try The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror. Hey, we had young women on hand to introduce the boys to that kind of lunacy—and now Kevin has bragging rights that he went on one ride that Dad chose to skip.
  
• There is still magic in Disneyland.
  

That last comment is the real lesson of our trip. It's always easy to find ways to be cynical, especially for a former amusement park employee, but Disney still has the right formula and everyone had a great time.

Still Life with Pigeons

Justin's ongoing amusement with all things punderful has extended to the visual. We were driving past the car wash today when he announced from the back seat, "Warning: Pigeon Alert." It has been a running gag with the boys that the pigeons sit atop the street lights outside the car wash waiting deliberately to use pristine vehicles for target practice. But today, as Justin pointed out, they were not only on the light posts, they had gathered on one roof, that of a medical center. Several dozen pigeons perched between two tumbling figures bookending the words, "Active Life."

When I read that phrase to Justin, he burst into a fit of contagious giggles, his scrunched-up eyes filling with tears. "Are you kidding me?" he asked in apparent disbelief at the oxymoronic unlikelihood of the scene. "Why would pigeons that just like to sit around and sleep and poop sit on a building that says, 'Active Life?' "

He continued to giggle in delight, eager to share this absurdity with his mother, while I pondered the amazing little guy who daily blesses me with his sense of humor.

Obsession

I believe Susan Orlean and I would get along fabulously. We would while away the hours talking about an endless array of topics: New England eccentricities, monomaniacal collectors, underwear models, blogging compulsives, you name it. In fact, Susan, if you're reading this, I encourage you to give me a call the next time you're in town on a book tour.

(It's a damned shame I missed her on Oct. 7; she was promoting her new book, My Kind of Place: Travel Stories from a Woman Who's Been Everywhere, at Kepler's, my favorite local bookstore.)

Who else but Susan Orlean could get me to read an entire book on white orchids (The Orchid Thief)? Really, it not only isn't the type of book I'd ordinarily read, it isn't even the type of book I'd generally pick up. But I found it sitting on an acquaintance's coffee table a couple of years ago, scanned it, and became intrigued. So I went out, bought it, and found it fascinating and engrossing.

In the person of John Laroche, Susan found the embodiment of obsession, a man whose passions become all-consuming, until they one day disappear as suddenly as they began. As a ten-year-old boy, Laroche obsessively collected turtles, determined to collect one of every species. "Then, out of the blue, he fell out of love with turtles and fell madly in love with Ice Age fossils. He collected them, sold them, declared that he lived for them, then abandoned them for something else." So it went with lapidary (hey, I missed that one), old mirrors, orchids, and tropical fish:

At its peak, he had more than sixty fish tanks in his house and went skin-diving regularly to collect fish. Then the end came. He didn't gradually lose interest: he renounced fish and vowed he would never again collect them and, for that matter, he would never set foot in the ocean again. That was seventeen years ago. He has lived his whole life only a couple of feet west of the Atlantic, but he has not dipped a toe in it since then.

      —"The Orchid Thief," Susan Orlean (1998)

Those of you who haven't read the book may have seen Charlie Kaufman's movie adaptation starring Nicholas Cage, Meryl Streep, and Chris Cooper, called—what else?—Adaptation. But don't let the movie deter you from reading the book. Charlie went off on a drug-addled tangent of one sort or another. The movie resembles the book not at all (but Susan loved it, so you can see she has a terrific sense of humor, one more reason we'd get along).

Most recently, I read Susan's essay in The Best American Essays 2004, about a taxidermist convention. I was hooked from the opening sentence:

As soon as the 2003 World Taxidermy Championships opened, the heads came rolling in the door.
      —"Lifelike," The New Yorker   (2003)

Susan Orlean is consistently funny, observant, and unconventional. And whatever catches her interest, she observes with clarity and discusses with wry intelligence and infectious enthusiasm.

That bit of vanity at the outset about becoming friends with Susan and discussing everything and anything, from the Red Sox and stuffed quahogs to pet rocks and dog show blogs, is not just a private fantasy. Just listen to how Susan begins one article on a typical ten-year-old boy:

If Colin Duffy and I were to get married, we would have matching superhero notebooks. We would wear shorts, big sneakers, and long, baggy T-shirts depicting famous athletes every single day, even in winter. We would sleep in our clothes. We would both be good at Nintendo Street Fighter II, but Colin would be better than me... We wouldn't have sex, but we would have crushes on each other and, magically, babies would appear in our home... We would hang out a lot with Colin's dad. For fun, we would load a slingshot with dog food and shoot it at my butt. We would have a very good life.
      —"The American Man, Age Ten," Esquire   (1992)

Surprising as it may seem for Susan to envision her marriage to her ten-year-old subject, she takes an even greater leap of imagination in an article about a championship show dog:

If I were a bitch, I'd be in love with Biff Truesdale.
      —"Show Dog," The New Yorker   (1995)

By the time you finish the essay, you may or may not be in love with Biff too.

But you will certainly be in love with Susan Orlean.

Not Cute Enough

How much rejection can one man take?

Actually, when I set out to document my pursuit of a publisher for The Search for Plupreme, I expected it was a Sisyphean task without the benefit of an agent. But I thought it might still be instructive to record and post the rejections as they accumulated, sharing the sense of anonymity one feels and offering any lessons worth sharing along the way. (Yes, and privately maintaining a sliver of hope that I might one day get to post a note of encouragement, if not an actual acceptance letter.)

Yesterday, I learned that Kathy had intercepted one of the rejection letters that had arrived the same day I'd learned I had been turned down for a job by a company I was enthusiastic about. A charitable gesture, to be sure, but unnecessary as it turns out, as this particular rejection was from a publisher that declines to read unsolicited manuscripts. (Hey, at only 750 words, I'd figured it was worth a try.)

So here is the response from Candlewick:

Dear Author:

Thank you for submitting your work to Candlewick Press. Sadly, we must return the material unread, per our stated submissions policy of accepting only agented or solicited material. Please note that we have increased our attendance at writer's conferences and SCBWI meetings to mitigate the effects of this policy and to maintain a strong level of involvement with the writing community.

We thank you for your interest in Candlewick Press, and offer our best wishes for finding the right home for your work.

Sincerely,
The Editors
Candlewick Press

Sounds like it was written by attorneys, doesn't it?

Then this week I received the following from Houghton Mifflin:

Dear John,

Many thanks for sending me the manuscript for "The Search for Plupreme." Please pardon my delay in responding.

Your story is cute. However, I am not inclined to pursue this project at this time. I am returning your manuscript herewith.

With best wishes,
Andrea D. Pinkney

"Cute???"

Instead of the "Thanks" (T), "No Thanks" (NT), or "Thanks, But No Thanks" (TBNT) varieties of form rejection letters, am I to believe that Houghton Mifflin employs "Cute" (C), "Too Cute" (TC), and "Cute, But Not Cute Enough" (CBNCE) distinctions?

I mean, really: "Cute?"

"Amateur," perhaps. "Discordant," maybe. "Sweet," even. But, "Cute?"

Hey, her letter was more personal than attorneyspeak, so I'll take Andrea's rejection as an intended kindness. And I'll excuse her the one dissonant "herewith."

Buy This Book

On the drive to and from the city Monday night to hear Jonathan Lethem, Rachel and I discussed books. Precocious and well-read, but not yet 17, she has yet to discover authors like John Barth, Robert Coover, and T. C. Boyle. On the other hand, she has taken a workshop with Dave Eggers and Michael Chabon at 826 Valencia, is helping select entries for Dave's next volume of The Best American Nonrequired Reading series, and regularly peruses McSweeney's and The Believer, and is thereby able to introduce me to many younger writers and unfamiliar literary publications. So despite the generational difference, our book discussion was anything but one-sided. (I hope.)

As we spoke, it occurred to me that I had one book to recommend to her above all others, a book which conveniently enough I've also been meaning to champion here. So while it is still in print, treat yourself to a copy of The salon.com Reader's Guide to Contemporary Authors, edited by Laura Miller. It is an indispensable reference guide every bibliophile should own and my favorite guide to modern American novelists. The only reason to think twice about recommending it is that it is now four years out-of-date (so add your voice to mine in begging for a new edition).

Nonetheless, this is a passionate volume crammed with useful and entertaining information on 225 authors with contributions by nearly 100 authors and reviewers (Eggers and Lethem among them). Each entry includes a complete (and invaluable) bibliography of the author's novels, along with the critic's opinion of the best material (including the one novel to choose if you plan to only read one), and suggestions of similar authors to consider.

These are zealous, opinionated entries incidentally, unlike the typical dispassionate bibliographical summaries available elsewhere. A few are scathing (like Kate Moses's dismissal of Edwidge Danticat's first novel as reading like "a high school student wrote it," along with her accusation of critics being guilty of "race pandering" and Danticat's career being "built wholly of atmosphere"... yikes!), while most entries, suggested as they were by critics who were passionate about an author, read like Lethem's description of Philip K. Dick as "a bohemian autodidact, who stumbled through genius and madness" and produced a "genre all his own."

The salon.com Reader's Guide is written for lovers of books and, by editorial design, reads as though it were written by intelligent, literate friends answering your questions about an unfamiliar author. If my library contained only the novels discussed and recommended in this guide, I would be set for life. In fact, about a third of the authors in this guide are already on my shelves and that undoubtedly contributes to making this volume so personally relevant and appealing. Just consider the following sampling of included authors, each of whom has at least two volumes in my library:

Martin Amis, Nicholson Baker, John Barth, T. C. Boyle
Charles Bukowski, Anthony Burgess, Caleb Carr, Angela Carter
Michael Chabon, Tom Clancy, Robert Coover, Michael Crichton
Samuel R. Delany, Don DeLillo, Philip K. Dick, Joan Didion
John Fowles, John Gardner, William Gibson, John Hawkes
Joseph Heller, Carl Hiaasen, John Irving, Ken Kesey
Jerzy Kosinski, Ursula K. Le Guin, Elmore Leonard, Jonathan Lethem
Norman Mailer, Bernard Malamud, Cormac McCarthy, Larry McMurtry
Walter Mosley, Joyce Carol Oates, Walter Percy, Thomas Pynchon
Tom Robbins, Philip Roth, Terry Southern, Paul Theroux
J. R. R. Tolkien, John Updike, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., Tom Wolfe

Just entering that list makes me want to lock all the doors, unplug the TV, and take the phones off the hooks, then start a roaring fire in the fireplace, make myself a big thermos of tea, and read non-stop for days without interruption.

You should do the same. Let this volume get you started.

"Context is Everything."

Monday night I was fortunate enough to spend a terrific evening listening to Jonathan Lethem interviewed by Daniel "Lemony Snicket" Handler at a lecture series in San Francisco benefiting a scholarship program for 826 Valencia. Lethem was outstanding and his passion for writing and reading was electric. He considered every question from Handler and the audience and whether it was original, trite, or controversial he gave long, articulate answers that made you admire his devotion to fiction and the care he weaves into the structure, language, metaphors, and emotional fabric of every novel.

What made it especially personal for me was how he kept referencing many of my favorite authors and speaking about their work passionately and often showing how it had influenced his own. He spoke about Raymond Chandler and Philip K. Dick of course (everyone who reads Gun, With Occasional Music must); but also about Borges, Kafka, Pynchon, DeLillo, Dickens, Vonnegut, Bradbury; even Robert Coover and Italo Calvino; plus Graham Greene, Shirley Jackson, Donald Barthelme, J. G. Ballard, Thomas Berger...the list goes on and on. It felt as if he were sitting before my library, thumbing through my favorite books and sharing his insights and their personal significance to him.

He spoke at length about the difficult choices he made when writing The Fortress of Solitude and how Motherless Brooklyn was a warm-up to attacking the autobiographical material in Fortress. He fielded questions about gender biases and race, music and film influences, genre blending and pop culture. He told a terrific anecdote about the proprietor of a used bookstore in Berkeley, and revealed that he prefers having background music or listening to a ballgame while he writes, explaining that he is most productive from May to September during the daily three hour baseball broadcasts.

I was thrilled when I discovered The Fortress of Solitude several months ago and read the recommendation from Michael Chabon. The novel then became a guilty pleasure for the next several weeks. But it all came together Monday night and will now probably send me back for a second, more careful reading. I'd also love to hear Lethem again, and the good news for all of us is that the event was recorded for later broadcast (perhaps on NPR?) so we may get that chance.

Further good news occurred to me when Lethem discussed how in his youth he would discover an author and then, like many of us, quickly devour every book in succession. That's when it dawned on me that Lethem has three novels (Amnesia Moon, As She Climbed Across the Table, and Girl in Landscape) and two story collections ("The Wall of the Sky, The Wall of the Eye" and now "Men and Cartoons") that I have yet to read.

But not for long. I tracked down three of those at the library today.

The First Line

Just when you thought it was safe to go back to this blogger...

You may recall my post about the Bulwer-Lytton contest for the best of the worst opening lines for hypothetical novels and, later, my favorites from this year's winning entries. That inspired me to create several first line quizzes: one for novels, another for children's literature. (And just for good measure, a corresponding last line quiz.)

Those first line threads triggered a series of complementary posts: Longest first lines. Shortest first lines. Other first line quiz and database web sites. The new translation of the first line to The Stranger. Philip Roth's bizarre claim of origin of the opening sentences to his first 19 books. The excellent first line to John Irving's first children's book.

So how much more can one man write about the first lines of novels? I thought you would never ask. I'm afraid this well is not yet dry.

How could I not tell you that today marks the first day of a writing contest at a web site known as, you guessed it: The First Line? The contest is simple: they give you the first sentence and you use it to create a story of 300 to 3,000 words.

Here is the first line for the current contest:

Life would be so much easier if I was a cartoon character.

You have three months; the submission deadline for the next contest is February 1, 2005. Winning entries will be published in their magazine. The prize is $10 (that's right: one Alexander Hamilton) plus a free copy of the magazine in which your story appears.

The first line to the previous contest was, "The inside was dark." I contemplated that sentence for two months, considering a variety of alternatives, none satisfactory until the last day for submissions. Then an idea struck me that was so abhorrent and bone-chilling, yet based upon an actual incident that had horrified me as a parent, that I shuddered to consider it. It's too bad it occurred to me so late, although I'm still not sure whether I would have had the courage to craft it as fiction, except perhaps to exorcise that particular demon.

So we all missed the last contest, but three months is plenty of time to give this next one a try. I'm considering posting my entry here. I have no idea what it's about yet, but I can tell you how it begins:

Life would be so much easier if I was a cartoon character.

Once a Pun a Time

How many of you can recall the first pun you ever heard and appreciated? You'll argue that I could not possibly remember such an insignificant and bygone incident, but whether it was actually the first or not, I nevertheless recall the day an uncle amused me with this riddle:

      Q.   Why do Eskimos wash in Tide?

      A.   Because it's too cold to wash out-Tide.

That awakened in me a penchant for wordplay that by high school must have been torturous to bear. During an anatomy lesson in biology I would distract my classmates by holding up signs reading "Liver Alone" or "Aorta Know Better." Dick Cavett was my idol and he could toss off a play on words without missing a beat. Incessant punning doesn't win the girl or make you the most popular; but it's a habit that's hard to break.

In our household today, it's Justin who shows signs of becoming quite the punster. He's always had a great sense of humor; even he recognizes it, selecting, for example, a jester's costume for himself at Halloween three years ago. It was probably about that same age when one night during story time after there was an unmistakable sound from his brother's bed that he quipped, "Andrew, what do you think this is? A gas station?"

Justin continues to surprise and amuse me with his wordplay, now occasionally striving for the multi-lingual:

Before one meal he raised his glass and said, "Bon appe-drink!"

Giving me a hug at bedtime he once said, "Sleep de resistance."

Watching the playoffs he announced, "I call him Derek Cheater."

Like most anyone else, I have difficulty remembering jokes and I've certainly forgotten several books' worth of bad puns. But a few favorite, albeit no longer contextually interesting, groaners still linger:

I envied the writer of the one paragraph review of the movie, Mommy Dearest, who chose the caption, "Old actresses never die; they're just Faye Dunaway."

I once took a film course and had to suffer through back-to-back viewings of "Pierrot le Fou" by Jean-Luc Godard and "Lola Montes" by Max Ophuls. Afterwards, my single line film journal entry read simply, "Two of the most Godard-Ophul films I've ever seen."

And one of my all time favorites, from "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test," is the sign that one of the Merry Pranksters posted on a winding road through the hills of La Honda to help revelers locate Ken Kesey's ranch for an LSD party:

No Left Turn Unstoned

The Results Are In

I said this was not a political blog and I was sincere. But it would seem an egregious oversight to completely ignore yesterday's presidential election to discuss cheeseburgers, esoteric internet searches, movie trivia, or first lines from twenty year old novels.

So, whether you feel Bushwhacked or Kerried-away, the results are in and we have four more years of President Bush. No hanging chads or drawn out legal battles to get caught up in this time, at least not in any way that will change the outcome.

In our household, the results also seemed to be split as close to 51% to 49% as five individuals can possibly come (I'll leave the math as an exercise for the reader). What surprised me was how interested the boys suddenly became in the election on November 2, after barely any discussion before that. I'm still not sure what was said at school, especially during their library visit, but they came home eager to discuss the election and willing to debate the merits of each candidate.

I discussed this with several other parents last night whose elementary school kids were also coming home with pronouncements like "Bush is a murderer" or "John Kerry doesn't care about protecting our soldiers." One wonders exactly what transpired in the classrooms and on the playgrounds.

The biggest family surprise for me was Kevin who was willing to forego Cartoon Network yesterday to watch the election coverage. He sat cross-legged on the sofa with his arms folded behind his head and periodically called out the results from another state. I believe it was the arithmetic, the statistics, that most appealed to him, and also the competition. But it was odd to see him as engaged as he was watching the baseball playoffs. (Gotta get that boy a baseball stats software package soon.)

Justin was eager to talk about the election, and seemed especially interested in knowing how mommy and daddy had voted. No surprise there.

Then there's Andrew. He was so wrapped up in needing to know the election results that he wandered into our room at 4 a.m. He wasn't as worried about Bush vs. Kerry though. He was more concerned about the class election to determine a cartoon character president from a four candidate run-off among Oscar from Shark Tale, Scooby Doo, Hubble from Good Boy, and the big fat chicken from his buddy Matthew's latest story. (Remember the boy I inspired? Still writing.) Eventually Andrew returned to his bed and this morning was the last to wake up. It was easy to get him ready on time though: we just had to remind him about his class election.

Those results, however, are not yet in.

Sleeveless in Seattle

"In order to support one of Starbucks's guiding principles and protect our environment we will provide sleeves for beverages on request only."

I have decided to boycott Starbucks. This was no easy decision to make. A non-coffee drinker, I had to make a special effort to become addicted to extra hot grande mochas (with whip). Developing a taste for the chocolate cream cheese muffin or chocolate croissant I frequently choose to accompany the mocha required no extra effort at all.

But imagine you are my physician. Imagine you are aware that 40 million Americans are pre-diabetic and diabetes is about to become the largest health risk to lethargic Americans in decades, indeed that we are the first generation ever to have worse health than our parents. Then I come to you with cholesterol numbers off the chart, in excess of 250. The little issue of a daily mocha is broached.

"Careful, the beverage you're about to enjoy is extremely hot."

Let's bring this dirty little addiction out into the light. The grande mocha alone contains 400 calories (200 from fat), 22 fat grams and 33 grams of sugar. Combined with the pastry, we're talking about a total of 850 calories, 46 grams of fat, and 64 grams of sugar. Daily. For breakfast. That's before the cheeseburger and fries for lunch at McDonald's.

Now is your advice to cut back? Switch to non-fat milk? Try "no whip?" Order a tall instead of a grande? Skip the pastry? Cut back to every other day?

Or do you advise me to never ever ever set foot in a Starbucks or McDonald's again as long as I live which if I am lucky will be a week beyond next Thursday?

"This insulating sleeve is made from 60% post-consumer recycled fiber and uses approximately 45% less material than a second paper cup. Intended for single use only."

Do you suppose I am the only customer at Starbucks making unwise beverage and pastry selections? Or do you imagine that millions of other customers like myself are surrendering to death by espresso?

I have my own theories about how Starbucks is changing the future of our country. They have become so ubiquitous—another one pops up in our neighborhood every six months at least—that like McDonald's before them they are making permanent changes to our lifestyles. One can research the rise and fall of various convenience food markets in this country—smoothies, gourmet cookies, frozen yogurts, ice cream, etc.—but Starbucks, I am convinced, is here to stay. Just watch how the clientele gets younger and younger: first high schoolers, then middle schoolers, youngsters accompanying their parents; hell, every one of my boys knows where to find at least five Starbucks locations and they each have their favorite beverage. That's pretty damned frightening, I think.

And who are the baristas? There was barely such a job twenty years ago; yet one day soon we'll hear the statistic telling us that by the year 20XX, one in every ten Americans will have worked at one time at Starbucks. We are creating a generation of educated espresso snobs. These kids will never go back to a cup of black coffee from a diner, 7-11, or a vending machine for godsakes. They will have the skill for creating espresso drinks, the desire to have their drinks suited to their taste, and the expectation that an espresso drink is a necessary part of their lifestyle.

I think it's great that Starbucks is "committed to a role of environmental leadership in all facets of (their) business." And if that means, among other things, eliminating beverage sleeves except upon request, then fine. But the ways they are effecting us is not only environmental. Watch what happens to our health and that of our children as we continue to consume their high calorie, sugar-laden products over the next decade.

Except for me. Because I already had my wakeup call and have decided to forego my daily trip to Starbucks.

...hmmm, except maybe on Sundays?

Piratey Things

"Not long ago—just two years ago, in fact—San Francisco was a city without a pirate store. Itinerant pirates, having landed upon these shores, could wander the streets for weeks without finding a source for replacement mop heads, boots, rope, bottles, lard, quill pens, black hats, glass eyes (or eye patches, for the more modest)...
No longer."
      —Julie Orringer,
        Foreword to "The 826 Quarterly, Volume III"

"Definitely one of the top five pirate stores I've been to recently."
      —David Byrne

"Hey! That's right! We're supposed to sing about piratey things."
      —VeggieTales

I made my first visit to the pirate store at 826 Valencia in the Mission District of San Francisco last week. My time was limited; I was running late, out of gas, lacking coins for the meter, and thoroughly lost. But I was as least as impressed as David Byrne, and I plan to return soon for lard, quills, and other "piratey things."

Of course, as most anyone who has been there will tell you, the pirate store is merely a front for the more interesting enterprise in back, a non-profit writing and tutoring center for students aged 8-18. That is the real promise and wonder of 826 Valencia. Founded by Dave Eggers and others two years ago, 826 is staffed by hundreds of volunteers. There they teach writing skills through individual tutoring sessions, workshops, homework assistance, and class field trips offering custom curriculum or popular programs such as the bookmaking workshop where students can write, illustrate, print and bind their own books in two hours. The response to 826 has been so overwhelmingly favorable that volunteers in New York have now opened an 826NYC.

There are several publications at 826 featuring the students' work. While there, I snapped up a copy of Volume III of The 826 Quarterly ["Published twice yearly at least"] so I could sample the student writing at my leisure. It includes stories and poems by authors aged 8 to 18 and includes some impressive writing.

As I was settling in to sample their work, I discovered a story from one of Dave Eggers's writing workshops on "revealing character and developing tension through dialog" called "And They Both Suspect That Somehow This Is All Completely Irrelevant." What quickly caught my eye was that it was written by my 16 year old buddy, Rachel. What a treat! I read and enjoyed it; it's really quite clever, well written, and amusing. I'm about to email her my kudos. For the rest of you, I quote the first paragraph:

Here is inevitability, here is conversation. These are the words which he says. Here is what she replies. Mathematically, Matt takes up approximately 78 percent of the conversation. She, called Lea for short, takes up another 9 percent. The rest we leave to awkward silences.

I plan to return to 826 one day this week when I have more time. I not only want to learn more about their writing workshops and the adult seminars, but I have a calling card of sorts to leave behind...but more on that another time.