The Culture of Celebrity | The Weekly Standard - October 17, 2005

The Culture of Celebrity - Joseph Epstein

Nothing like an old curmudgeon to take down the notion of celebrity in a famous, nay iconic, neocon rag.  The readers of the Weekly Standard just eat Mr. Epstein up; plenty of red meat here.

He's entertaining, no doubt.  Mr. Epstein breaks it all down for us from examining the terms culture and celebrity, to the difference between celebrity and fame, all the while setting us straight on some synonyms that really aren't so synonymous.  He covers our fascination with celebrity bad news and he puts the terms star, superstar, and icon in perspective.

But when he gets to the red meat of his essay, things get good.  He dismantles the tabloids and the subcultures of celebrity, including academia and writers.  His take on Susan Sontag, in my opinion, is spot on.

I'm not sure the culture of celebrity is such a big deal.  I can't tell what is wrong with in general terms.  Personally, I find the celebrities easy to ignore.  When politicians, such as President Obama, take on celebrity status, I feel a little uneasy.

In general, celebrity doesn't mean too much.  Celebrities are a victim of the popularity of the culture of celebrity.  Everyone is a celebrity and therefore, no one is really a celebrity.  Fame no longer carries the power it once had.  We can follow people on Twitter and Facebook and their blogs and see videos and really the amount of exposure celebrities have and the lack of control they seem to have over it makes their humanity a bit too obvious.  The mystique is gone.

Celebrities should be distant and mysterious, right?  I can't worship anyone that I can meet at a book signing or backstage after a show.

I've emailed authors and artists to tell thank them for their work and let them know I enjoyed it.  In every case, they have written back, to say "you're welcome" and to thank me in turn.  Those are the types of celebrities I prefer.

False Apology Syndrome | In Character - Fall 2008

False Apology Syndrome - Theodore Dalrymple

British doctor (retired) Anthony Daniels is Theodore Dalrymple.  He uses the pen name for his highly opinionated writings.  He is a conservative for sure, but he has a streak of independent thought that is very fresh. I enjoy reading his material.

The False Apology Syndrome is a short essay on a nation, a people, a civilization apologizing to another for a wrong that was done in the past.  American whites apologizing to blacks for slavery, the Vatican apologizing to the Muslim world for the Crusades, the Japanese apologizing to the Koreans and Chinese for their brutal occupation in the early 20th century.

All of it is false according to Mr. Dalrymple because the sins were not committed by the apologizers.  The apologizer has the benefit of feeling morally superior for apologizing without feeling any real remorse.

But that is the obvious issue here.  Mr. Dalrymple digs a bit deeper.  He asks penetrating questions about the morality involved with all parties.  For example, if whites should apologize to blacks for the slave trade, what about the culpable Africans who sold their continental brethren to the slave traders?  What about white abolitionists who sacrificed their lives and fortunes to free slaves?  What about the affluence that Americans have over nearly all of Africa?  If slaves had not been brought to the New World, then many African-Americans, descended from slaves, would not have the same standard of living.

Mr. Dalrymple discusses the moral impact on the apology receiver.  He contends that it can loosen the moral standing of such people.  They can feel less inhibited about their behavior because of what has happened to their ancestors.  He makes a stronger argument than my simple statement.

I love these essays that help me look at things in ways that go beyond my current thinking.  Most of the arguments about false apologies found here I have made myself, but Mr. Dalrymple does add a few more.  They are compelling.

And, of course, he apologizes in advance if you disagree.

The Gulf: A Meditation on the Mississippi Coast after Katrina | Virginia Quarterly Review - Summer 2008

The Gulf: A Meditation on the Mississippi Coast after Katrina - Natasha Trethewey

Natasha Nostalgia Trethewey has intertwined history, present day reporting and an emotional lament over her home.  She is from Gulfport, Mississippi, one of the towns that dot the Gulf Coast.

I had the pleasure of living in Biloxi, at Keesler Air Force Base, back in the early 1980s.  My memories of the Gulf Coast are fond and I wished that I had seen it again before the tragedy.  Well, the first tragedy, though, Ms. Trethewey doesn't call it that, she certainly makes it feel that way.  The tragedy is the reintroduction of the casinos along the coast.

Her Gulf Coast was already changing from her childhood memories when Katrina came.  Now it is unrecoverable.  The Gulf Coast that I knew is no longer.

Thanks to regulations and government spending that isn't necessarily going out based on need, more and bigger casinos are cropping up, with more on the way.  Ms. Trethewey mentions an ordnance that doesn't allow any restaurants that aren't located within a casino.

She does not dare call it racism, but man, the circumstantial evidence is strong.  Set back requirements for rebuilding on lots that aren't large enough to allow it?  Oh, yeah, no problem there.  Funds failing to help those who've lost their homes, because their homes aren't salvageable?  Mmm, hmm.  Because we all know that building a hotel where there was once a squat little ramshackle hovel is really the highest and best use for such prime real estate.

Yes, the casinos bring revenue and help with schools, but where is the analysis on the cost to the community?

Ms. Trethewey spends a good portion of this long essay describing the Gulf Coast's history, using her grandmother and her other family members as supports to tell the story.  She intersperses conversations with various people in the present, all of whom seem to have some connection with the hotel trade, about the storm and its aftermath.

New Orleans gets the lion's share of the news and even the thin follow up stories.  (Most of us are reminded of Katrina when the anniversary rolls around or when we catch the Saints playing football.  We'll notice it again at the Sugar Bowl later this week.)  But the Gulf Coast was ground zero for this storm.  It was ravaged. And the place seems largely forgotten in the psyche of the American people.

Read this essay.  Break it up over a period of time by reading it in its sections, the way it was written.  Let each part sink in.

The area where I grew up has changed.  More people, more development.  They've even straightened out a street that I lived on that had two ninety-degree turns.  But the place is the same.  It only looks different because there are more buildings.  The Gulf Coast had its geography changed.  And while new construction has occurred, there is still devastation plainly visible.

How can we comprehend this?  How do we respond when our homes, our histories, are lost to nature or war?

Ms. Trethewey mentions that children were more clingy and uncertain.  A psychiatrist says that post-traumatic stress disorder will affect many people.

I can only imagine.  I would have to agree.  How can you trust the earth after doing this?  How can you trust the world at large for its response?

Aesthetics of Catastrophe | Public Culture - Spring 2008

Aesthetics of Catastrophe - Aric Mayer

Sometimes you read an essay and you feel that you've managed to expand your thinking, you've learned something new, you now have a new ability, however rudimentary, that you can put into your critical thinking toolbox.  And sometimes you read an essay and you wonder just exactly what the author is attempting to convey.

After reading Mr. Mayer's essay and viewing his accompanying photos (more can be found here, including those  with the essay) I felt a little of both.

I understood everything he was saying thanks mainly to his clear writing.  However, maybe because I am not able to view these photographs as three to six foot squares, I couldn't quite make the connection.  In other words, without seeing his exhibition, I felt that he failed to achieve his goal, which was, in his words "to present the images of the storm’s aftermath, (and) to critique our reception and expectations of them as well." Instead, I think he was more successful at reflecting, not critiquing, our ambiguous reactions to Katrina.

For many, Katrina was simply more cinema verite, just another drama playing out on television.  For others, it was a call to action.  Mr. Mayer examines the responses from private citizens to government bureaucracies and finds them all unable to adequately cope.

He, rightly, I believe, explains that our method of relaying images and stories of the disaster to the world were utterly inadequate.  Photos are severely limited in scope.  Television, too.  Neither can pass on the magnitude of the damage, of the emptiness, of the despair of the people of New Orleans.  "You had to be there," is truly the correct phrase in this instance.

And so Aric Mayer took his camera there immediately following the storm and took photos. He made large versions of these photos to help the viewer become immersed, to be there.

He purposely made the photos with beauty in mind.  My first thought on viewing these, which is a reflection on me and not Mr. Mayer's photography skills, are that they would make excellent jigsaw puzzles.

I am the America that he is critiquing.  But I think he made the photos too pretty to be horrific.  Do I not have enough humanity in me?  Or is it that I have too much of what passes for humanity today?

Through a glass, darkly | Harper's Magazine - December 2006

Through a glass, darkly: How the Christian right is reimagining U.S. history - Jeff Sharlet

One thing is clear:  Jeff Sharlet has a beef with Fundamentalists.  And I share it.  But is it worthy of an essay in Harper's?  Is this "movement" really so strong as to be a threat to our liberties?  He might have a point.  The stuff that is spouted by these folks comes off as cataclysmically dangerous.  In fact, it doesn't sound much more far-fetched than the nonsense that comes from radical Islam.

Yet these people are Americans, right?  They can't be dangerous.  Heck, aren't they pro-freedom?  Don't they want the government off our backs?  Well...that's one way of looking at it.  They certainly want government to be smaller (and I think that would be a good thing.)   But they would also pass laws that limit your actions to those things that are "approved", which means righteous, as in whatever the latest leader of the flock interprets the Bible to mean.

This is a truly dangerous thing.  The last thing we need is a theocracy.  Yet, even today, as we have seen in an earlier essay, the American people won't tolerate an irreligious person in the White House.  They have to pass a basic litmus test of at least believing in God and making a show of buying into the divinity of Christ.

Mr. Sharlet paints a picture of these radical Christians building an army of the future via homeschooling and tent revivals.  I simply don't buy it.  Are the ideas of these people dangerous?  Yes, it can certainly be seen that way.  Are they taking over?  Hardly.

The people that Mr. Sharlet profiles are on the fringe.  They are strange.  Given enough of them, we would be in big trouble.  But most people are smart enough to see that these folks are not quite mainstream.

My fear, and Mr. Sharlet does NOT suggest this in the essay, is that if we act, as a society, or via government, to suppress or stop these folks from their wacky ways, then we are committing the gravest sin that a society is capable of committing.  It takes all kinds.  For all of the silly right-wing hardcore the United States is a Christian nation believers out there, we have as many or more who believe and think in hundreds or  thousands of different ways.  Suppressing thought simply because we think it is dangerous is itself a dangerous thing to do.  What if our thoughts are the targets of suppression?

We should be vigilant against the bizarre and the foolish.  Reason, hopefully, will win out.  Mr. Sharlet is to be thanked for his consistent and relentless exposition of these fringe thinkers.  Read this essay and judge for yourself.  If you're a believer, then you'll think I am nuts, that I am lost and I cannot be saved.  If you're like the majority of Americans, you'll likely feel a bit uncomfortable by the behavior of the main characters portrayed there.

Hey, it makes for fun reading at least.  That's probably why it made it into Harper's.  It certainly wasn't because American civilization is about to collapse because of a handful of Fundamentalists.

On Impact | The New Yorker - June 19, 2000

On Impact - Stephen King

As I look ahead to the essays that we'll be reading and commenting on here, I notice that nearly all of them involve tragedy of some sort.  However, they all have a hopeful tinge to them, which brings us through, if not unscathed, at least not damaged as readers.

Stephen King's tale of getting hit by a van while walking down a road in Maine reads much like a Stephen King novel.  The words flow easily.  A story is underway.  It is horrific, yet personal.

What separates this story from his fiction is the tone it takes whenever he mentions Tabitha.  When she is on the page, in his thoughts, it is clear that we are seeing the definition of love.  He reminisces on their initial meeting, triggered by a memory of his wedding ring.  He's near death and he needs to tell her that he loves her.  He needs to write and she accommodates.  She is half of him.  I would venture a guess that he is half of her also.  This is what couples are.  They aren't perfect, they just seem to fit together.  Over time, people really do complete each other.

I love this essay.  King is a master at story.  He mixes humor with the pain.  He has a front porch poignancy about his writing that harmonizes with American culture while also extending the culture's boundaries.  Where would horror be without him?  (He did his vampire masterpiece 30 years ago.)

We're all lucky that Mr. King survived this accident.

The Judge's Jokes | The American Scholar - Spring 2007

The Judge’s Jokes - John Barth

The Judge under discussion in John Barth's essay is his father.  Mr. Barth (the son) gives us a quick glimpse of his father's maturement from a boy who mashes his finger to the only surviving son.  We learn about the creation of Whitey's, a candy shop on Race Street no less, in Cambridge, Maryland, on the Eastern Shore.  Mr. Barth (the father) becomes a leader in his community and surrounding area, as an elected judge to the orphan's court (I have no idea what that is), a volunteer fireman, an American Legionnaire and a much sought after after-dinner speaker at various events.

Mr. Barth clearly loves the Judge, but he only knew bits of him.  He discovers his father's notebooks and files filled, not with the actual jokes, but with cues, splashes of ideas, that were intended to guide the Judge through his speeches.  Judge Barth is a humorist, with some subtle adult humor mixed in.  But Mr. Barth never attended any of these functions.  He never saw his dad in action.

This is a short essay, and it isn't intended as a salute to dad.  It really is about the concept of actually knowing someone, a lament on our inability to get beyond the artifacts, how we're stuck (until we develop telepathy and shared empathy) with a frustrating epistemological limit that doesn't go beyond simple recollection and memory.  Everything we know about someone is relative to ourselves.

Mr. Barth's novels are humorous, downright funny, but in person, apparently he isn't all that.  He didn't inherit his father's gift for creating the chuckle.  How can he know someone so different from himself?

How can we?

Home Alone | The Atlantic - September 2002

Home Alone - Caitlin Flanagan

Happy Boxing Day? Is that how it's said?  Merry St. Stephen's Day? Whatever.  There is so much that I simply do not know.

For example, until this morning, I could not have told you who Caitlin Flanagan is.  I still can't, really, but I do know that she is a polarizing person in the world of housewifery.  I'll have more on that and my take on it in a moment.  First, though, we need to tackle this essay from a seven year old issue of The Atlantic.  And it's all about Martha.

Martha Stewart can draw an opinion from just about everyone.  Those opinions tend to be on one or two topics, and sometimes both, and the opinions, like many opinions, are not necessarily learned opinions.  Much like my commentary on these essays, one could easily say.  The two topics are: 1) the Martha Stewart way of keeping house and entertaining, and 2) the Martha Stewart insider-trading scandal that landed her some jail time.  The first topic is typically regarding the complexities or the thoroughness of Martha's approach, while the second topic usually reveals a complete lack of understanding of insider trading and the particular situation with Imclone.  I have my opinions on the matters, however unlearned they might be, but we can cover those at some other time.

In this essay, Mrs. Flanagan (I've decided that Ms. would probably insult her) reviews two books on Martha Stewart, Martha, Inc., by Christopher Byron and Martha Stewart, by Charles J. Shields (from the "Women of Achievement" series of books aimed at 9 to 12 year-olds.

Well, really, Mrs. Flanagan only reviews the first book, which she loathes.  Her reasons are compelling.  By the middle of the essay, she has brought the simple 112 page book for kids into play as a comparison.  Her points are salient and one wishes that biography was actually about a person and not about tearing down a person.  Mr. Byron appears to be injecting far too much of himself (that is, his views and opinions) than he should or probably realizes he is doing.  (Dude, even I know about the importance of thread count in sheets.)

While that part of the essay is well and good, Mrs. Flanagan continues by trying to capture, in general terms, why Martha Stewart is both annoying and compelling to women.  Her comparison of one of Martha's early books on weddings to a later volume is particularly telling.  Maybe her explanation is too simple.  I don't know.  I don't take anyone's writing at face value.  It is one more data point in the larger analysis.  But because I do not own stock in Martha Stewart, I'm not going to spend too much time worrying about it.

Now, let's talk about Caitlin Flanagan.  She is a writer, mainly reviewer and critic for The Atlantic.  She worked for the New Yorker for a time.  She is best known for her views on motherhood and housewifehood(?)  In this she is an polarizing as Martha Stewart.  Her opinions, as seen in her columns and her book, To Hell with All That, tend to really divide people, especially women.

I get the feeling that Mrs. Flanagan is playing the persona game here.  While she believes her own words about staying at home and valuing maintaining the house and raising the children, she also seems pretty pragmatic (apparently, they have a nanny and a maid at the Flanagans, oh, and a gardener.  Just add a chauffeur and an occasional visit from a child psychologist and you've covered 96% of a parent's role.  (I know, I know, that was cynical.  Providing a loving, nurturing environment is 96% of a parent's role. I get it.))

Maybe I am feeling a bit cynical here on the day after Christmas (Boxing Day sounds so much better) because I think that Mrs. Flanagan is doing two things in order to help her sell books and to keep people reading and listening to her:  1) keep being that polarizing figure to women, taking on "feminism" which she can define on her terms, and upsetting those self-described feminists, while making women who choose to stay at home feel valued, and 2) appealing to nearly 100% of the heterosexual male population.

We (men) supposedly like the notion of a homemaker who keeps things in order, cleans, prepares the food, looks after the kids, and puts out regularly.  Regarding the latter, I would wish that it wasn't treated as if it were just another chore, but most people (including men) believe that men will take what they can get.  As we age though, we expect more from our sexual unions than just a release of pent up lust.  At least I do.  Don't you agree, fellas?  Anyone?  Well, maybe I've lost some testosterone, but sex really does become an expression of emotion after a bit of aging has occurred.  Not always a deep loving emotion, but there needs to be something there.  Perhaps the old cliche that many men don't seek out prostitutes for sex, but for someone to talk to without judgement is really true.  (Of course, after unloading all that suppressed emotion, we expect sex.)

So, yeah, I dig Caitlin Flanagan for all the "wrong" reasons.  But I do like her writing.  Her dismantling of Christopher Byron was solid.  Some folks who've read his book and believe that it is even-handed and revelatory would do well to read this review.  I'm talking about a seven year old essay as if it was front page news.  Ah, the perils of randomly choosing essays to read and review.

Santa™ | The Smart Set - December 21, 2007

Santa™ - Jason Wilson

Merry Christmas, 2009.  And to celebrate Christmas, what better tradition is there than to take the kids to see Santa and get an overpriced photograph?

Jason Wilson, the writer of the Spirits column for the Washington Post, did just that with his 5 year old son, Sandor.  But unlike you and I, who probably take our kids to a local mall or department store, Mr. Wilson took his youngster to Rovaniemi, Finland.

He details the things he and Sandor did and ate and their prices.  Apparently nothing is inexpensive in Santa's Village.

Mr. Wilson puts a family digression in the middle of the essay, explaining the variety of spiritual beliefs his family members hold and how everything is put aside for family traditions.  His mother collects Byers' Choice Carolers and their display is a key part of the decor.

I think we all should spend a little time and write about our family holiday traditions.  We all have them however ornate and intricate or loose and lively or quiet and humble.

There's certainly nothing earth shatteringly new or profound in this essay, but it wasn't intended to be.  We get a portrayal of a father and son doing a little bonding over bear meat and cheesy animatronics, which makes for a nice holiday read.

Of God and His Enemies | Narrative Magazine - November 2008

Of God and His Enemies - Hal Crowther

It's Christmas Eve, and me and my family are celebrating Christmas. But we are not practicing Christians. I'm an atheist, my wife is a reluctant non-believer, though she would never admit it, and my two kids that live at home are devout skeptics.

The kids (ages 15 and 12) acknowledge that people have different beliefs and they are tolerant of those beliefs unless and until they start crossing the line of civility. They have been questioned by their schoolmates, with deep incredulity, about the fact that they don't attend church.

They find this a bit bewildering. They are not passing judgement on their classmates' beliefs, but rather their classmates' behaviors. I point out to them that this is one of those things about "organized" religion, at least as it is practiced in the United States, that makes us look backward and somewhat stupid as a culture.

This brings us to Hal Crowther's essay. He has written a meandering essay (really, though, find a good essay that isn't meandering, I think it is essential to the style of writing as it reflects the thinking of the writer) regarding God and the various types of believers and non-believers and what they get right and wrong about him, according to Mr. Crowther, that is. (Did you notice that I didn't capitalize the "h" in "him"?)

Thoughtful writing on this topic always captures my attention. Mr. Crowther argues, with near belligerence, about America's dogged dogmatism. We are a nation of believers, however casual, that don't seem to mind stories of virgin births, rising from the dead, and other miracles associated with Jesus. We believe without question the stories of the Old Testament, including the six day creation, a massive worldwide flood, and Israel's capture of the promised land with its associated destruction of the local population.

He states, as I have often stated myself, what a vindictive, mean entity Yahweh is in the Old Testament. A semi-close rational reading shows that hardly any of these stories can possibly make literal sense. Yet, the majority of Americans believe it.

Crowther covers a lot of ground here. He points out that we expect our politicians to be believers of some sort and atheists need not appear on any ballots (or if so, make a public showing of faith and attending church services.) He picks apart Leviticus, and deservedly so. By the way, if you haven't read the Bible, it is worth the read, just so you can better understand one of the pillars of Western Civilization, even if Europe is supposedly mostly godless these days.

My favorite parts of the essay are those where he takes atheists, especially writers of popular atheistic works, to task. I agree with him completely that there is a bit of the dogmatic in atheism. The denial of a supernatural being, in my opinion, is somewhat irrational depending on how the non-belief is framed. I have no problem in not believing in the divinity of Jesus. That's easy. I have no problem denying the reality of the personal God of the Old Testament. Seems to be similar to writing about Zeus or Thor or Ra or Shiva, and not many of us believe that these entities ever have really existed.

My problem with knee-jerk atheism is the insistence that there cannot be a supernatural being. How can a rational person be that closed-minded? Before you say it, this does not make me an agnostic. I am not agnostic about my unbelief in the divine characters of Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, etc. I do not believe. But if I were presented with evidence, I could change my mind.

Mr. Crowther brings William James into the picture and his one of his masterworks, The Varieties of Religious Experience, which he uses to show the intellectual laziness that modern atheist writers take.  It is easy to demolish the irrationality of organized religion.  But to ponder religious experience, to come to terms with the interconnectedness of things, to have the courage to recognize that something might be happening that is beyond our current science, beyond our ability to reason would require atheism to believe that its position is weak.

Of course, this doesn't mean that suddenly the Bible contains literal truths.  It doesn't mean that New Agers are on to something with their mystical serenity.  Allowing yourself to be open to religious experience doesn't make you a believer in God.

Mr. Crowther nails it toward the end of the essay when he states that this really isn't a struggle between science and religion.  History is a struggle for control and suppression of humanity's impulses toward "authoritarian, xenophobic, and homicidal" behaviors.  A people does not need a religion to have these impulses, though, unfortunately, people use religion as an excuse to justify these impulses.  How does reason address these impulses?  That would a good book for an atheist to write.

Meanwhile, we have to prepare for Christmas.  We listen to holiday music, give presents, have a tree, and a big feast.  I even have a Playmobil creche that I set up every year.  Not because I believe in the literal truth of Jesus' miraculous birth, but because it is part of my culture to celebrate in the dead of winter and to think about a symbol of peace and harmony embodied in a little baby.  I find that comforting and a lot of fun to celebrate.

"Is Something, Burning?" | Esquire - February 2004

"Is Something, Burning?" - Mike Sager

If I mentioned Steve Bartman to the typical American male, he would probably be able to tell me, with little prompting, about the unfortunate incident involving a foul ball that supposedly kept the Chicago Cubs from going to their first World Series since the 1940s. That, of course, is pure nonsense, yet this guy has been vilified since that fateful October night in 2003. The link above is to the official Major League Baseball website for goodness sake.

Now, what if I mentioned Sergio Martinez? Likely, the typical American male would assume that I was speaking of a middle reliever or spot starter, working in obscurity for some team in big leagues or maybe the minors. "Does he have good stuff?" would be the probably query.

Sergio Martinez, a couple of weeks after Mr. Bartman tried to catch a foul ball, set a fire in the Cleveland National Forest in southern California. He did, he says, because he was lost and feared dying. He wanted to signal rescuers to his whereabouts. The fire, now known as the Cedar Fire, burned over a quarter of a million acres and killed 15 people. (To be sure, this was not the only fire in California that autumn and Sergio Martinez was not the only person charged with starting a fire that season.)

Mike Sager's essay describing the fire and the actions of the people of Wildcat Canyon and the surrounding area is a fast-paced piece of literary reportage. It is a gripping action vignette. The various scenes start leisurely with a "man is it hot" or a "do you smell that?" moment (thus the title of the essay.) Quickly, the residents realize that this is serious and they make decisions that decide their survival.

The Los Angeles Times won a Pulitzer Prize for Breaking News Reporting for a series of articles on the Cedar Fire. It is interesting to read these pieces after reading Mr. Sager's work. It vividly explains the difference between news reporting and essay writing.

It is well worth the read. We, who are not the victims, quickly forget these tragedies. It has been six years since the incredible firestorms of 2003. Most of us have memories of news reports and helicopter camera work of tall flames and billowing smoke. But these images are interchangeable with every brush or forest fire that makes the news.

Read the essay, read the articles, place yourself there. We can't forget these things. We need to learn from them. How prepared are we for a disaster? How brave would we be in this situation? How many of us would have tried to get to the reservoir? (I know that was my first thought.)

Ah, but our minds are full of trivia about foul balls and angry fans. Steve Bartman, you're ok with me, though I've heard that your notoriety is still strong in your native town.

I wonder how Sergio Martinez is doing these days? What is it like to live with that action, however inadvertent the result, as part of your personal history?

The Bone Garden of Desire | Esquire - August 2000

The Bone Garden of Desire - Charles Bowden

Remember, I am a reader, not a writer. There is a good reason that the description of this blog includes the self-deprecating adjective that describes the commentary.

But, I do know how to read. And this is my first exposure to Charles Bowden. What I have discovered is that he is an acquired taste. I will read this essay many times over the next few years and months as I try to discover some depths that should be there, but that I can't seem to plumb just yet.

Charles lost a string of friends over a very short period of time. In this essay, he intertwines their waning lives with his unplanned exotic desert garden and his affinity for preparing and eating simple colorful powerful foods, mostly Italian, thought the essay opens with a preparation of machaca as the backdrop to introducing Art (a dying friend, not the practice of creation.)

Mr. Bowden's descriptions of his friends were poignant, sad, and emotional enough. His descriptions of food and the process of preparation were distinct and powerful like the flavors he describes (though it did bother me that the polenta required white wine for the sauce so soon after he dismissed white wine as untrustworthy.) His garden, in my mind's eye, is a massive arrangement of flora and earth and stone that becomes a natural setting for reverie and reflection. I could picture Mr. Bowden writing this essay there, under the shade of his Argentine mesquite.

The problem that I have with the essay is making all three of these elements come together into a cohesive whole. Maybe that's why I plan on rereading this essay over the coming months. I think that this essay does harmonize its elements. But I believe they do that most effectively, perhaps effortlessly, in the heart of Charles Bowden.

Words cannot help me truly know these men. Words cannot impart the flavors of the Italian dishes, which, Mr. Bowden apparently understands, because he provides us some back of the napkin styled recipes. Finally, without the experience of gardening, of the backbreaking labor of stacking rock and shoveling soil, without the satisfaction of sitting amongst your arranged creation, however unplanned, one simply cannot fathom the sacredness of such a place, even if, as in my mind, I see a garden hose laying on the gravel path and a pair of soiled gardening gloves on the rock wall.

Yes, there is power in these images, but they are pale reflections of the experiences. Mr. Bowden admits that failing within the essay as he relates attempting to describe his precious night blooming cactus to his inexperienced friends.

As a matter of fact, as I talk myself through this essay, I can sense that Mr. Bowden has the same issues regarding words of comfort that I am having with his essay. He doesn't want, need, or care for explanations about how his friends no longer suffer, about how they have gone on to better places. They don't soothe, they don't heal. They mask the real at best. At worst, they're a dishonest expression, no, suppression of grief. Or maybe they're used in the genuine absence of grief. These are, after all, words that you are likely to hear from clinicians, counselors, pastors, and distant friends and relatives.

Give me that glass of wine, Charles. Let me help you slice the scallions. Let honest tears fall in mourning. Let the feelings of loss do their work on my heart. Let this happen while I watch the flowers bloom at night and close at dawn. While I think of my own childhood, my own city, I will eat with gusto, I will taste.

You've honored your friends, Charles Bowden, and you've made me rethink grieving. Thanks.