Vonnegut at Smith

More Flashbacks

Okay people, I've been rummaging through the vaults again and have unearthed a few out of print pieces that I'll be posting in the coming days. Let's start with this reprint from May 22, 2001:

Vonnegut Versus the Thought Police

In an article that originally appeared in the Boston Globe and later reprinted in the Springfield Republican, it is reported that best-selling author Kurt Vonnegut is leaving our Valley to return to live in New York City. For the past year he has been teaching at Smith College in Northampton and offending the politically correct types on campus with his irreverent ways. As reported in the Globe:

Vonnegut has always found a certain poetry in vulgarity, and his language hasn't been muted by the tacit taboos of the ivory tower.

And that has stirred a bit of discomfort at Smith. During his public lecture last fall, which he titled ''How to get a job like mine'' or ''A performance with chalk on blackboard,'' Vonnegut strayed into forbidden territory. After getting laughs mocking the National Rifle Association and drubbing the Internet, the legendary technophobe told a self-effacing story about how he lusts for an Indian woman who works at a Manhattan grocery store and wonders whether, like dentures, she puts the jewel she wears between her eyes in a glass of water at night.

More than a few students gasped. The mix of laughter and shock sparked a staff editorial in the student newspaper headlined ''Deify Celebs Much, Smith?'' ''Why did offended audience members feel compelled to tolerate Kurt Vonnegut saying such things, however the statements were intended, when they would have walked out on anyone else who uttered the same things?'' the paper fumed, adding: ''How many of you read your first Vonnegut book in August?''

Smith's writer-in-residence laughed when asked about the tizzy his comments caused. Then he got serious. ''I'll say whatever I want; that's the price of my freedom,'' Vonnegut says. ''If it hurts someone's feelings, too bad! That's the way it goes.''

It isn't just students who have grown uneasy with the novelist's impolitic anecdotes. When he showed up in an old sweater with holes in the elbows to lecture in Elliot Fratkin's anthropology class, the professor remembers squirming a bit when Vonnegut said beauty is everywhere, including ''a young coed leaning over to grab a book.''

''A lot of us just looked down on the ground and wondered, `Where is he going?''' he says. ''At Smith, it's not especially popular to talk about the beauty of the opposite sex.''

Vonnegut has made more of his time at Smith than stirring up trouble. Over the past year, the author has read poems and told jokes at local cafes, scatted as the lead vocalist of a band he called ''Special K and His Crew'' in the city's annual talent show, exhibited what he calls his ''new-cubist'' artwork at a local gallery, and helped a local bar brew a beer his grandfather made more than a century ago.

So what does Vonnegut have planned for his post-Valley life? For one thing, he intends ot file a lawsuit against the tobacco companies, but not for the usual reasons. A heavy smoker even in his late seventies, Vonnegut wants to sue Big Tobacco for not living up to the health warnings printed on every pack. "They promised to kill me on the package," he complains, "and they haven't done it yet." He's also working on a new book, despite a promise he made when he turned 75 to write no more. Instead he soon realized he would "crack-up" psychologically if he stopped writing.

Many of his friends and family are now dead - and that has deeply affected him. But there is a more honest reason why Vonnegut is writing another book: He can't stop writing. If he did, it might really kill him.

''Writers are very lucky. They can treat their neuroses every day,'' he says. ''When writers crack up, when they really end up in the nut house, is when they can't do it anymore. The treatment stops.''

It was nice of the Boston Globe to send a reporter out here to the hinterlands to record such witticisms from Vonnegut before he departed our Valley. What's strange is that no local print, television or radio media ever reported on his political correctness troubles on campus while he was here. Once again we had to rely on media from outside our Valley to tell us what was happening in our own backyard.

 

Climategate

 



The stunning revelations that the top scientists and most respected "experts" in the global warming debate plotted to exaggerate the data supporting global warming in what some are calling "the worst scientific scandal of our generation," draws into doubt the necessity of even having the climate summit in Copenhagen next week, says Lorrie Goldstein of the Toronto Sun:

If you’re wondering how the robot-like march of the world’s politicians towards Copenhagen can possibly continue in the face of the scientific scandal dubbed “climategate,” it’s because Big Government, Big Business and Big Green don’t give a s*** about “the science.” They never have.

What “climategate” suggests is many of the world’s leading climate scientists didn’t either. Apparently they stifled their own doubts about recent global cooling not explained by their computer models, manipulated data, plotted ways to avoid releasing it under freedom of information laws and attacked fellow scientists and scientific journals for publishing even peer-reviewed literature of which they did not approve.

Now they and their media shills—who sneered that all who questioned their phony “consensus” were despicable “deniers,” the moral equivalent of those who deny the Holocaust—are the ones in denial about the enormity of the scandal enveloping them.

To read the whole article click here.

Animal Friends

Me and Tippy

Me and Copper. 

Today's Video

Be afraid. Be very afraid. 

Bookish

Two reviews.

Tomorrow I'm going to be very busy so I'm not sure if I'll be posting. Just in case not, I've given you a few extras from the vault: Two book reviews, an old political tidbit and a video to help you rock on until I return. 

I guess you could call me a binge reader. Every so often, for reasons I can never quite explain, I'm suddenly struck with an almost obsessive compulsion to read everything I can get my hands on by a certain writer or in a specific genre. At some unpredictable point I will then just as suddenly abandon it, rarely if ever returning to the same subject matter.

A binge I went on of reading horror novels has never really been revived. Whatever muse drew me to consume one summer in the 1980's nearly every creepy novel of the supernatural I could get my hands on, after it finally passed, was never to interest me again with only two exceptions. I continue to be entertained by the novels of Stephen King and Anne Rice. While I haven't kept up with all of their releases of recent years, I've gotten around to reading many of them.

Perhaps part of the reason why I lost interest in horror novels is that few horror stories are well written. Oh, there are a few masters, Edgar Allen Poe foremost among them, but in general most horror stories follow a certain predictable formula that gets tiresome after a while. Such books usually have the same rough plot - something scary appears, someone tries to stop the scary thing only it looks as though the scary thing will defeat them, but in the last chapter the scary thing's luck goes sour and the good guys win after all. Despite the way many authors attempt to spice up the plot with liberal doses of sex and gratuitous violence, once you know the basic formula it's hard to prevent boredom from creeping in. I mean how many scantily clad damsels in distress can you read about before you don't care anymore what happens to them? Toward the end of my horror novel binge, I found myself rooting for the monsters.

Stephen King avoids that pitfall by recognizing that in the end it isn't the supernatural elements that make a horror story work. The trick is to make you care about the characters in a personal way that has nothing to do with the horrors that later descend upon them. That way when the creepy stuff starts, it is as if you were concerned with the fate of a friend, rather than treating the main characters, as too many horror writers do, as just props for the monsters to work their mayhem on. King also wisely places his stories in recognizable settings that are as modern as today's newspaper, thereby enhancing the sense that these are events that maybe, despite their obvious improbability, might just happen to you.

Dreamcatcher King's latest, is a horror story for outdoorsmen. Anyone who's ever gone hunting knows the odd sense of eeriness that can come upon you from being alone in the woods. Not just the pragmatic fear of what you can stumble across in the woods, like angry wild animals or drunken fellow hunters who might mistake you for game, but the natural, perhaps instinctual fear of the wild itself. We are shelter loving creatures, and the world of fauna and beast are not our preferred environment, no matter how much you may think you know its ways or enjoy communing with its natural beauty. The woods are a place that we sometimes like to visit, but not really where we would like to live.

Something terrible comes to visit a group of hunters in the dark Maine woods in Dreamcatcher an impressively complex tale that mixes both the elements of traditional horror stories and science fiction. All the classic King elements are there, the well-drawn characters he makes you identify with before he places them in peril, the clever catch phrases that he repeats with ever changing meanings as the story progresses, the comic-book gross-outs and startling surprises that keep you turning the pages despite a growing reluctance to do so. King is a great storyteller, and his genius is in his ability to both repel and attract you simultaneously. You're afraid to know what happens next, but simply must find out anyway!

That's quite a feat in a book of this length (nearly all of King's recent books are suitable for double duty as doorstoppers) but the novel is not without some depressing aspects. Recent King stories have shown an increasingly pessimistic world outlook. An element of bitter disgust with people's stupidity and cruelty has crept into his books that wasn't as apparent in his earlier work. It feels like he's undergone a transformation that's something akin to what happened to Mark Twain, whose early works invited you to laugh along with him, but whose later writings suggested that the person to be laughed at was you. King used to write books that were designed to scare you for fun, but now he seems to imply he's scaring you because you deserve it.

A negative influence may be King's near death encounter when he was struck by a car while walking near his home. In an afterword King reveals that he wrote Dreamcatcher while undergoing painful rehabilitation from his injuries. In fact, one of the main characters is someone who was hit by a car while crossing the street. King writes about the agony of the character's recuperation with a vividness that feels rooted in personal experience.

Readers from Western Massachusetts will find an added treat due to the fact that the latter part of Dreamcatcher takes place at Quabbin Reservoir, with references to places like Ware, Belchertown and Palmer. So if you're looking for something to give you some chills unrelated to the weather this winter, I suggest you pick up a copy of Dreamcatcher. 

Vonnegut on Cape Cod

Kurt Vonnegut's
God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian

For a guy that made a big deal out of retiring, Kurt Vonnegut sure has been busy lately. In fact, he's been more in the public eye since his retirement than he was in the years just preceding his announcement (he also spent a lot of time in Northampton, where he was a guest lecturer at Smith, but then departed in the midst of a political correctness scandal he caused by his curmudgeonly ways).

If by retiring he meant simply cutting back on his literary workload, then I guess this slim 79-page volume qualifies as a retirement job. It is in many respects typical Vonnegut fare, with the usual mix of dark humor, philosophical meandering and whimsical word play that has made him one of America's most popular authors.

In this delightful if tasteless collection of short essays, Vonnegut imagines himself as having a series of near-death experiences, purposely brought on by that master of deadly adventures, Dr. Kevorkian. In Vonnegut's fantasy the good doctor, by limited use of his suicide technology, sends the author almost but not quite into the land of the dearly departed, enabling Vonnegut to engage in brief interviews with dead people, both personal friends and famous people from history.

He returns from the dead with both good news and bad. Among the good news is that there is no Hell - everybody gets accepted into heaven with no more than a scolding from a cantankerous St. Peter for their past misdeeds. He also brings happy news about the fate of babies that die - they remain in a celestial nursery where they play with angels until they are reunited with their mothers when they too arrive in heaven.

The bad news is that you have no idea in heaven of what's going on back on Earth, thereby leaving most people essentially unchanged in heaven from what they were when they were alive (James Earl Ray, for example, continues to refer to Martin Luther King as a "nigger" in the great beyond). Vonnegut provides a few examples, however, of personal growth beyond the grave, such as Adolph Hitler, who expresses regret, if not quite remorse, for World War II. Vonnegut says Hitler wishes that someone on Earth would erect a memorial stone for him, on which he would like to have engraved the German words for, "Excuse me."

I could go on but you get the idea, the book is a collection of two dozen or so of these irreverent, politically incorrect satires, which despite being of dubious taste, are apt to make you laugh out loud. I predict you'll find this book to be a guilty pleasure, but then aren't those often the best kind?

Here's a short piece I wrote in 2002 about an unexpected change of their editorial heart by the Springfield Newspapers.

Ryan's Last Laugh?

Veterans of Springfield's great casino wars of 1994-95 were stunned last week when in an abrupt about face the Springfield Newspapers announced that it would not be supporting the current push to legalize casino gambling. They gave no explanation for their switch, beyond listing the common arguments against casinos, arguments that they had always dismissed in the past. But maybe times have changed in a way they didn't care to mention.

At the time of the casino wars former Mayor Charles V. Ryan, the unofficial leader of the anti-casino forces, charged that the Springfield Newspapers had a vested interest in seeing a casino located across the street from them at the current site of Peter Pan bus lines. The theory was that the newspaper's plant had become antiquated as the result of the computer revolution in publishing, and that the Newhouse Corporation, owners of the Springfield papers, hoped that the casino would eventually buy their property for expansion or parking. Then they could relocate to shiny new facilities at a site they were rumored to be eyeing in East Longmeadow.

The newspaper vehemently denied Ryan's accusations, with editor Larry McDermott giving a rare public interview to The Dan Yorke Show to angrily insist that it was false. For his part, Ryan never retracted his charges.

When the casino was killed at the polls, a few years passed and then - surprise, surprise - the newspaper announced that it was building an expensive new press that would feature all the new computerized technology. Turns out that plant was sort of antiquated after all. Now that they've made this big investment in their current location, and probably wouldn't want to lose it by having to move, they've decided that they're not interested in a casino anymore. A coincidence? Maybe, but to me it looks like Charlie Ryan has had the last laugh on that controversy.

I like this weird orange bush I came upon in Northampton recently.