[I wrote this short story several years ago, but only recently submitted it to Graphos. It was in the Fall 09 (last semester's) issue.]
My guitar sat in the corner of my already crowded room, untouched, for the first week after I got it. It was a birthday present from my mom, who thought I would want my dad’s first guitar as some sort of memento thing. I mean, don’t get me wrong—it was a beauty: an acoustic with cherry wood finish worn smooth from use, ivory inlays, and brand new strings. But it wasn’t an iPod (what I really wanted), and even more importantly, I wasn’t a musician (what my mother really wanted).
When I announced two years ago that I would be dropping band class in order to pursue a more suitable hobby (painting), my mother’s only comfort was that she wouldn’t have to pretend to enjoy my saxophone playing anymore. I inherited none of Dad’s musical genes, to Mom’s disappointment, and all of his bad hair genes, to my disappointment. I also inherited his name, Terrence Baxter Glenn (again to my disappointment), but usually stuck to Baxter, for obvious reasons.
“Why don’t you play something Terrence?” Mom asked when she first gave it to me.
“Well, I don’t want to break it, or…”
“Oh, come on, just a bit. Please? For me?”
“Okay, fine. Just don’t hate me. Here goes.”
I picked up the guitar, took a deep breath, and probably killed any small animals in the vicinity by strumming. It was that bad.
“Well, we can’t all be Jimi Hendrix,” Mom said, swallowing hard and not meeting my gaze, “maybe we’ll get you some lessons.”
But we both knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon, not with Mom’s paycheck from Merriam’s Supper Club, where she played hostess, waitress, and bus girl. (Don’t be confused by the name. Merriam’s was no more a “club” than I was a musician, and Merriam himself was a recovering narcotic whose burgers just so happened to be adequate, if not at least filling.)
Instead, I used the guitar as a sort of ultramodern art deco statement in my room. As in, it sat in its stand right next to my easel and held my Dodgers baseball cap. That is, until yesterday, when Dinkman came over.
Dinkman is my best friend, by default. Both plagued with embarrassing names (Dinkman is his last name. His first is even more repulsive, and he would kill my hypothetical firstborn if I even hinted at it.) and a less-than-stellar reputation with the ladies, we immediately bonded upon meeting each other in the second grade. If there is a difference between Dinkman and myself, it’s that Dinkman is a better liar. He can, and does, fool himself into thinking he’s great at anything—cooking, sports, brain surgery—no matter how dreadful the outcome of his overconfident actions, whereas I accept myself for the pathetic artist that I am. So when he picked up my guitar yesterday, even I wanted to give him a wedgie.
“Dinkman, what are you doing?”
“Well, I’m about to melt your face off, if you have to know.”
“You look ridiculous. You aren’t a guitar player anymore than I am. See the name carved into the back of the fret board?” Dinkman looked, nodded. “T. Glenn. That’s my dad, the only person who should play that guitar. As a matter of public safety.”
“Whatever, Bax,” Dinkman said. Then, taking a deep breath, he played the opening chords of “Champagne Supernova.” It sounded a bit strange, but only because it was Dinkman, strumming away. He didn’t look like any guitar player I had ever known, with his two-inches-too-short khakis and ketchup-stained polo, sitting on my bed, head bent over the guitar, tongue out in determination. But he was playing as if he’d been taught by Noel Gallagher himself.
“Um…do you want to explain what just happened?” I asked once he had finished.
“That. That just happened,” Dinkman replied.
“No, Dinkman. You don’t play guitar. That could not have just happened.”
“I know, right? I’m amazing.”
Of course, I had to try. I was sure I was going to be horrible, and sure enough, Dinkman actually cringed.
“You’re doing it all wrong, man.” This from the guy who falls up the stairs.
“What do I do? I just want to play some chords. Anything to prove that I’m worthy of owning this thing.”
“Just…hear it in your head. And play it.”
“You have got to be kidding. Who are you, Ghandi for the aspiring guitar player? Maybe I just need to warm up,” I strummed tentatively, but nothing. Dinkman smiled.
“Not so easy for the starving artist I guess,” he said. “Want to go to my house and play
Halo?”
“What? Are you kidding? You played the guitar. Maybe you could teach me. We should start a band or something,” I said, ideas for band names already forming.
“Bax, let’s be serious here for just a minute. Do you know the percentage of musicians who actually make it to the big time?”
“Probably the same percentage of girls interested in us, which is to say not a big enough percentage to even mention.”
“Yes. Wait, what? Speak for yourself, Bax, I’ve got tons of girls interested in me. Now let’s go play video games and drink Mountain Dew in my basement.”
That kid is going to do great things some day.
I checked out The Italian
from the library the other day without even reading the back of the box. It really has nothing to do with Italy or Italians, and it's actually in Russian, but I liked it.
(again didn't read the summary on the back), but Adrian Brody has a way with me.
I also started reading Plenty: One Man, One Woman, and a Raucous Year of Eating Locally
, which discusses the Western SUV diet--meaning even if you don't own a car, your food has probably traveled between 1,500 and 2,500 miles to get to your table. Authors Smith and Mackinnon decided to stick to a 100-mile diet for a year; since they live in Vancouver, this meant tropical fruits out and cabbage in.
Why give up the luxury of food from literally all over the world? For one, if you buy your food locally, you know you aren't supporting slavery. You know who made the food you will be putting into your body and that there aren't 15 unidentified chemicals, preservatives, additives, dyes, extra sugar...you get the idea. Interested in the food industry? Check out PBS tonight at 9 or Friday at 10 to watch Food, Inc.
, a documentary showing why eating locally, seasonally and sustainably is important for more than just the planet.
In non-Earth Week news, my latest author binge is David Sedaris. I'm thoroughly convinced my attention span is depleting as short stories seem to be the only thing I can read lately. Sedaris holds my attention, though, judging by the way I powered through Me Talk Pretty One Day and Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim
this weekend.
Michael Pollan is another man dedicated to the cause of eating real food. You may have heard about his book, In
Defense of Food, which basically reminds us to eat food, not processed items parading as food.
Alright, this will be my last post about Dave Eggers for a little while. I just finished A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius about a week ago (Thanks for the reading suggestion, Elizabeth!) In it
, he writes about his childhood/young adult life. It's hilarious, a little meta-fiction and crazy. Mostly because he has some of the same thoughts I've had about myself, my writing, etc.
In his most recent book, Eggers writes the story of the Zeitoun family before, during and after Hurricane Katrina. Similar to What is the What (see previous post describing it here), Zeitoun
is fiction and nonfiction at the same time. Another similarity: both books gave birth to their own foundations, the Valentino Achak Deng Foundation (builds schools in southern Sudan) and the Zeitoun Foundation (aids in the rebuilding of New Orleans and promotes respect for human rights) and proceeds from each book go to these foundations. Sweet.
Today is César Chávez Day. Chávez was a farm worker, labor leader, and civil rights activist. He got his own stamp in 2003 and eight states officially recognize today, his birthday, as a holiday. Wisconsin is one of them because his work in the western part of the US led to the founding of Obreros Unidos, an independent agricultural labor union in Wisconsin.
Yesterday was Tracy Chapman
's birthday. If you aren't familiar with her work, she's the lady who sings "Give Me One Reason." She's known for the political messages in her songs and has been quoted as calling herself a "hopeful cynic." I sometimes feel that way too, if you haven't noticed.
My current obsession with Dave Eggers has led me to his book, What is the What: The Autobiography of Valentino Achak Deng, which tells the story of a Sudanese man, Valentino, from his early days in Sudan to his time as a refugee in Ethiopia and finally his life in Atlanta. It is at the same time fictional and nonfictional, and though Eggers wrote it, Valentino is the speaker.
[From The Better World Handbook: Small Changes That Make a Big Difference
, quoted in Sleeping Naked is Green
.]
It's not your fault any more than it's my fault, but (to quote someone smarter than me) it's all of our problems. Why?.
Read How We Are Hungry
by Dave Eggers. I don't think the short story gets enough attention by book readers, so if you're hesitant to pick up a collection start here.
If you have time to read two things, next you should try out Adam Haslett's You Are Not a Stranger Here, another collection of short stories.
Back to How We Are Hungry, as I make my way through this collection, treating it like that piece of chocolate cake you both want to devour and savor, I have to wonder how he does it. Where do these characters, these situations, these images come from? The more I read the more I want to hang out with Dave Eggers, hope that his creativity rubs off on me. Instead, I did the next best thing. I Googled him. And found my dream job.
Now with two interviews in Chicago next week and two other programs in the process of reviewing my applications, I'm starting to see myself there. So pray for my interviews and for discernment! I'm trusting that these good feelings, the right vibe I'm getting, is divinely inspired.
On the other hand, even for atheists, porn is smut. I'll be the first to admit there are certainly racy passages in the Bible, but they aren't pornography. And again--a lot of atheists don't appreciate or support porn. I'm not sure what the point is. This isn't like trading your Pepsi for a Coke. It's like trading your bowl of chocolate pudding for a bowl of manure.
Remember that movie about the bumbling, yet sweet guy (or innocent and naive girl) just doing his/her job when he/she gets mixed up in politics at work/finds obstacles on her course to pursue her dreams and suddenly has to choose between his/her job/dream or the woman/man he/she loves? Of course you do, it's a familiar Hollywood plot. Think The Proposal, The Devil Wears Prada, etc ad nauseum. There was once a time when this was fairly original, though, and that time was 1960, the film The Apartment
directed by Billy Wilder.
The film Dr. Risden paired with Aurora Leigh for Film & Lit today was Cold Comfort Farm, based on the novel by Stella Gibbons. It's always funny how Dr. Risden doesn't just make us read books that have been made into novels--he selects a book and a movie that he finds more comparable than the actual pairing.
Finally, this afternoon I watched a film I've been wanting to see for some time now, Il Postino (The Postman).
It's in Italian with English subtitles and I loved hearing la bella lingua again. Il Postino is marketed as a romantic comedy, but I found it more of a dramatic film with lots of political and poetic undertones. I can't say I'm surprised--Italians are a dramatic people.
Other dramatic people: Keira Knightly & Co. Don't get me wrong, I think she's great--beautiful, talented, smart even--I just sometimes think she's pigeon-holed herself. Atonement is one of those films that makes me think that, though I did enjoy the film 
overall. Again, it's one of those movies based on a novel (there aren't many original films out there), but it was visually stunning and great thought was put into the lighting, music, and cinematography.
