Tag: dude

Vonnegut

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Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite authors of all time. Few even come close to the affection I feel for that dead old man and his pall malls.

The way each story unfolds and what it represents is always done in this clear, no bullshit, no time for pleasantries, miasma of honesty. There’s so much humor and humility and cleverness; his political opinions and his stances, his morality is never vague. And he doesn’t come off as pretentious in his storytelling –in fact pretentiousness and how boring it is is a huge theme.

I also, and this is a personal jab at myself, absolutely buy into the mix of sci fi and speculative fiction. I’m pretty sure that when I was little I also was convinced I lived in a space zoo. So. I’m doing great. Don’t worry about me.

Free will versus predestination; prophecy and its inscrutable, annoying, cloying certainties; and, the nature of time are massive themes in most of Vonnegut’s stories and I very much jibe with that.

Which brings us to: I recently reread Cat’s Cradle and I wanna talk about it.

It might be my favorite of his books.

As the man says: see the cat, see the cradle?

I realized sometime in January, Cat’s Cradle kind of fundamentally hits the nail on the head for me. And it is presented in exactly the way it has to be to get its point across. I mentioned some time ago that that’s the key to a well written murder mystery —that the audience doesn’t see an alternative option that would suit the story better. Vonnegut couldn’t kill god in any more perfect a way than he does in Cat’s Cradle.

It does that thing I love of telling you one story, presenting you one plot contrivance early on which seems so different from the ride and destination that you end up on. You tumble along with the characters into an impossible scenario and you turn around and squint at the beginning, at the person you used to be before you ended up here. And yet—and yet how could you have ended up anywhere else?

And what better way to end a book than by ending the world, laying on a mountain, and pointing your finger up at god? If that doesn’t tell you everything about humanity, what does?

Please, if you haven’t, read as much Vonnegut as you can find.

Review: My Mother was Nuts

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I know what you’re thinking. Dany, you read another comedian memoir? Yeah, I did.

This time around it was Penny Marshall’s My Mother Was Nuts which opens with the fun story of the modern-era (now deceased) Ms. Marshall’s house being broken into by two young kids dressed as ninjas with samurai swords.

A promising opening.

It definitely grabs your attention. And unlike Wishful Drinking by Carrie Fisher which I read earlier this year, Penny Marshall has a lot to say about her friendship with Carrie Fisher. Carrie must have forgot to mention that while married to Paul Simon she accidentally set up her best, oftentimes oblivious, friend with Art Garfunkel who then went on to keep unwittingly inviting the famously toxic duo to the same places.

That seems to be my overall review of Ms. Marshall. She seems to stumble into being funny.

The book loses some traction midway when Ms. Marshall just begins recounting the details of her career. There’s some interesting facts about Hollywood history, particularly around her directing Big and A League of Their Own, but these are just interesting facts. It becomes almost a list of accomplishments, like she needs to make sure that you know why you’re here. I found the really interesting and insightful parts of the memoir to be just that–when she remembers to talk about herself.

There is a sense that fame and success changed Ms. Marshall, but not in the way it changes anyone else. Instead of becoming big headed or indifferent, she becomes a series of sighs. A long, unending line of ‘and, well, then this happened. What are you gonna do?’

I read Elton John’s autobiography!

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It’s called “Me” which is both on the nose and a manifesto.

I feel like if I could get books right as they come out I’d love to do a ‘I read this so you don’t have to!’ but I’m always behind the curve.

I get the distinct impression that whatever editors and ghost writers and cleaners-up-heroes came in to lend a hand had a full-time gig with Elton John. He writes the way he speaks, which is darling, and he isn’t afraid to take the piss at all. He’s aware, exactly, how he’s behaved historically and he’s determined not to be ashamed of it. The man has an excellent sense of humor and humility, particularly in the face of his addictions. I found his abusive romantic relationships, played up as a central theme of the Rocketman film, are lacking. He doesn’t linger. Elton John is all about accountability, particularly his own.

He doesn’t have a bad thing to say about one single person he’s known in his life, just a string of ‘life goes on’ sighs, occasional disappointments, but primarily a lot of gratitude. I was struck particularly by the way he reaches out to people if he’s heard they’ve had a difficult time that he can relate to– celebrities, people in the news, anyone he comes across’s story, he’s willing to be a friend. Some people may find that claim of his to be self aggrandizing or insincere, but I’d disagree. He talks about reaching out to addicts in the music industry and offering his advice and it strikes me like a lot of men of his generation I’ve talked to, a touch sad and wishing someone had done the same for them.

He strikes me as a good guy and also a bitch, which he fully agrees–not afraid to talk about his ego, his outbursts, his own ridiculousness, or the way he yells just like his mother. There is one picture that struck me which he captioned ‘George Michael wanted a somber affair and so naturally I am dressed as Donald Duck’.
The man is very self aware, and yeah, he does whatever he wants.

I found out after I’d read it that his former wife, Renate Blauel, had sued him over the book. I wondered if I had then read a changed or edited copy as it’s been on shelves for two years now. He honestly only has lovely things to say about her, and how sorry he is that she was dragged into his mess. That seems to be the big theme of the memoir —sorry I’m like this, thanks for coming.