I’m teaching Paradise Lost for the very last time, a poem I absolutely love.
I love its baroque poetry. Here’s Satan regaining consciousness after being flung across the cosmos into the fiery pit of perdition:
At once, as far as Angel’s ken, he views
The dismal situation, waste and wild,
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,
As one great furnace flames.
And I love Satan, tragic antihero extraordinaire. Here he is, going all existential, vaunting heroically to his nearest mate Beelzebub:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less than he
Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice,
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell
Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven.
But later, outside the gates of Eden in a soliloquy to the sun, he becomes perhaps the greatest of all tragic heroes, giving voice to his anagnorisis:
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell;
And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep
Still threatening to devour me opens wide,
To which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven
Here he sounds like John Wayne in a western:
Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape,
That dar’st though grim and terrible, advance
Thy miscreated front athwart my way
To yonder gates? Through them I mean yo pass,
That be assured, without leave of ask of thee.
The poem encompasses all of time (the war in heaven precedes the creation of earth) and all of space (hell is on a distant planet on the opposite side of heaven). Not only that, but Milton also evokes the Holy Spirit as a muse so he “may assert Eternal Providence,/And justify the ways of God to men.”
I teach the poem as adventure, as a sort of Marvel/DC Comics movie wannabe with Satan as a super-super villain who out-Hulks the Hulk, o’er leaps Spiderman, makes Superman seem like a patsy in comparison.
For decades, I’ve put on this shtick where I pitch an investment opportunity to the students. I argue that PL would make one kickass blockbuster recordbreaking animated epic motionpicture experience. For a mere 100K investment per student, I could get the project off the ground.
Truthfully, PL really would be, if you could get around the fullfrontal nudity of Books I & IV, profoundly entertaining. Certainly, the poem’s noble aspiration to justify Christianity should offset the horror that the darkened pigmentation of aureoles seems to provoke in red-blooded Americans. After all, we could run this disclaimer from Milton himself:
Nor those mysterious parts were then concealed:
Then was not guilty shame. Dishonest shame
Of Nature’s works, honour dishonourable,
Sin-bred, how have ye troubled all mankind
With shews instead, mere shews of seeming pure
And banished from man’s life his happiest life,
Simplicity and spotless innocence!
But dig this: as I was scouring the internet looking for images the spiff up my Keynote presentation, I ran across this fake trailer for Paradise Lost, the movie. Dig it:
I mean, y’all, just sayin’.
Look at me going all Joycean with these fused compound adjectives.
To my mind, the most important component of a great bar is a great bartender. I’d rather be enjoying a cocktail in in a seedy dive with a personable bartender than drinking in splendor at the Castell Rooftop Lounge with an aloof one. Of course, it’s in the best interest of a bartender to be friendly, given that he or she obviously would like to be tipped, and it goes without saying that bartenders should be attentive, efficient, and if you’re a regular, reaching for what they know you drink as you climb upon your stool at the bar. However, the very best bartenders end up being something more than just a friendly face; they become confidants.
One of the all time great bartenders I’ve encountered is Steve Smoak, who used to work at Rue de Jean on John Street. When the joint was packed, you’d see Steve busting his ass. It was as if he were dancing, pouring to a rhythm. In those inside smoking days of yore, one time I saw him with a drink in his left hand slide past a customer, light her cigarette with his right hand, and deliver the drink in his left hand to another customer two stools down — all in one fluid motion.
It was literally entertaining to watch, almost like one-man ballroom dancing
If Rue was really crowded, and Steve saw me stuck behind a throng, he’d step out from behind the bar and deliver my Jameson’s. Perhaps the biggest favor he ever did was talking me out of resigning from my job. After listening carefully to my tale of woe one week night, he said, “Wes, I’ve talked to lots of your former students. Don’t be a fool and quit over something like this. Swallow your pride. It’s not worth quitting over.”
Even though Judy Birdsong, my late wife, had given me permission to quit, I did swallow my pride, took Steve’s good advice, and continued my career..
Chico Feo is my go-to hangout because of the bartenders, Hank, Greg, Jen, Kelly, and Phillip, and I miss those who have left for greener pastures, like Jude and Charlie.
I’d rank Charlie right there with Steve Smoak as far as greatness goes. During Judy’s long illness, Charlie offered a sympathetic ear and later dating advice when I began seeing Caroline. He had become a sort of confidante.
Alas, Charlie left Chico for a downtown peninsula gig in a basement bar associated with the restaurant One Broad Street. I’d been missing my man, so last Wednesday, Caroline and I stopped in to see him during Cotillion.
The place is friendly, cozy, well appointed, and rumor has it the pizzas are the best in town – and cheap. However, its most valuable asset is Charlie, a master bartender and a helluva a guy – intelligent, articulate, easy going. Going downtown can be irritating with traffic and parking, but hanging out with Charlie makes it well worth the hassle, and as it turned out, an empty parking place was waiting for a customer right at the front door.
From left to right, Charlie, Amy, Caroline
So check it out. Tell Charlie Wesley sent you.
I hadn’t been on a date since November of 1976.
About ten years ago, when my father was dying of cancer, I wrote a comic novel that took place on one sunny October day in 1970. It’s called Today, Oh Boy. I copped the title from the Sgt. Peppers Beatles song “A Day in the Life.”
The novel chronicles one day at Summerville High School. It features a host of characters — teachers, students, administrators, parents, dropouts, derelicts, and a basset hound called Hambone/Mr. Peabody.
There’s a redheaded zit-faced protagonist named Rusty Boykin, a flat-chested National Honors Society officer named Jill Birdsong, and other characters also based very loosely on people I knew in high school.
It’s supposed to be funny.
What brings it to mind is that this morning my first true sweetheart sent me a photo from those days with this message: “Ha! Thought this might come in handy for one of your future blog posts.”
If you’re dying to know why I’m missing a tooth, click here.
Otherwise, I thought I’d offer you a taste. Here’s the opening.
Homeroom (8:00 – 8:05 A.M.
A classroom. Concrete block, pale lime green. A mango-hued, pockmarked bulletin board on the near wall, pencil stabbed and compass point gouged. Among the graffiti the names of star-crossed lovers: Wendy + Tripp, the tragic Tripp who dived off Bacons Bridge and broke his neck and was found tangled in blackberry bushes growing along the banks of the Ashley River. That very W-E-N-D-Y + T-R-I-P-P produced by either Tripp or Wendy’s own hand. Who else would have done it?
Rusty Boykin, a skinny freckled redhead who sits on the bulletin board row in Mrs. Laban’s homeroom right next to the artifact, thinks its Tripp’s work – the letters looking like fat-fingered boy letters. Wendy hasn’t been to school since it happened, four class days ago, and now it’s Monday, and she’s still not here. Right in front of Rusty she should be sitting, a girl with honey-colored hair hanging like a curtain to her waist.
Ollie Wyborn, who is unpacking his books, sensibly has compartmentalized Tripp’s accident into the “one of those foolish things” category, the accident reinforcing his cautious approach to life. Right after the dark news, Ollie overheard Alex Jensen call Tripp’s death “Natural Selection at Work,” and Ollie laughed in spite of himself, realizing immediately it was a sick joke, not rightfully funny, except that it does neatly correspond to Darwin’s theory as Ollie understands it. It really surprises Ollie, though, that AJ – as everybody calls Alex – knows enough science to make a witty crack like that. AJ never does his homework, and if he is ever reading anything, it‘s a magazine that has something shocking on the cover, like a man holding a gun to a dog’s head. Ollie has heard that AJ smokes marijuana, whose active ingredient THC (tetrahydrocannabinol) can conceivably cause birth defects. Smoking marijuana to Ollie is just as stupid as diving at night head first into a stump.
Well, maybe not quite as stupid.
Mrs. Laban is tidying in front of the room, a science lab/classroom with a black cabinet (with sink) standing as a barrier between her and the blackboard, which is actually green. On it color-coded chalk homework assignments rendered in businesslike cursive: economical loops, emphatic exclamation points. Others are milling in, Sallie Pushcart, the principal’s daughter; petite, blonde, glassy-eyed Margie Blackthorn; Mama-Cass-sized Althea Bovinni; Josh Silverstein, wired as usual, a manic metallic grin flashing beneath old-fashioned black framed glasses. Up-classroom, Mrs. Laban stands smiling her Jesus-loves-us smile, her posture dauntingly perfect, as if her spine has been nailed to a straightedge, her blue-tinged silvery hair carefully coiffed, a work of Pentecostal perfection.
Rusty, whose eyes have crusted sleep on their lashes, and a fresh sprinkling of zits competing with his freckles, dislikes and fears Mrs. Laban, because he senses, or thinks he senses, her disapproval of him, of his tangle of uncombed red hair, his scruffy blue jean jacket with Mr. Zig Zag silk-screened on the back.
Although he doesn’t smoke tobacco, Rusty’s parents light up like fiends so there’s always the stale scent of cigarette smoke about him. Unhappily, he didn’t do his homework last night, so today’s Biology II midterm will be a testament to his ability to make intelligent guesses based on esoteric bits and pieces of disjointed information about the digestive system. Information that somehow has penetrated the almost impermeable force field of his daydreams: the puffy cloud, golden light land of the Maxfield Parrish poster taped over his single bed in a room that he shares with two of his brothers.
Here comes AJ right before the bell, rushing to his seat, shirttail halfway untucked. He’s leaning forward Groucho-like, an old-fashioned leather briefcase in his left hand. He, too, hasn’t done his homework, having spent last night with Rusty and others at Will Waring’s, who has dropped out of school and taken residence in a carriage house behind his widowed mother’s crumbling estate. AJ ’s no athlete and pants as if he’s just competed in the 1970 Pan Am Games’ 400-meter dash. Chuckie Cooper, Sallie Pushcart’s boyfriend, starting linebacker of the Mighty Green Wave, sports closely cropped black hair and an eye-singeing red alpaca buttoned up cardigan. He’s muttering something about hippies under his breath, but AJ ignores the would-be witticism. As it happens, Chuckie is one of the characters AJ frequently impersonates in his impromptu mockery routines (Chuckie’s never quite closed mouth, the deep duh-ness of his inflections), but homeroom isn’t what you would call a friendly audience.
The sounding of the bell is excruciating, drawn out ridiculously long. Mrs. Laban now stands to the right of an anatomical dummy whose plastic flesh-colored chestplate has been removed so that his bright, color coded internal organs (also removable) are on display. The dummy stares blue and vacant eyed smiling like an oversized cousin of Barbie’s Ken.
“The Silent Majority,” AJ calls him.
As Mrs. Laban peers over her half moon reading glasses to open her roll book, star quarterback Danny Duncan sidles in and takes his conveniently located front right row desk, one seat in front of missing Wendy. Even Jill Birdsong, the tall, levelheaded, flat-chested, straight-A student, is aware that Mrs. Laban plays favorites with Danny. If that had been AJ or Rusty, a detention would have been “awarded,” but Mrs. Laban is literally looking the other way. And Danny is nothing if not quick. Jill is one of the few girls who aren’t enthralled by dashing Danny, who looks as if he could be Troy Donahue’s younger brother with that thick blondish wavy hair and strong jaw.
Mrs. Laban calls roll, glancing from name in book to supposed person sitting in his proper seat. Most students say “here” – with a couple of “presents” thrown in – but Danny barks “yo” when his name is called, followed by a friendly chorus of chuckles. Ollie notices that AJ is writing or drawing something in his notebook, grinning like a maniac, then hears his own name, the last one called, annunciated in Mrs. Laban’s careful Upstate drawl. Rusty has noted that Mrs. Laban skipped Wendy’s name and so probably has inside information on her mental condition. Sallie Pushcart snaps her mirrored compact open and surveys her plump rouged cheeks.
Once roll is completed, Mrs. Laban says, “AJ, I believe it’s your turn to read the devotion.” Although Summerville High is a public school, Mrs. Laban “provides an opportunity” for students to read from The Weekly Devotional, published by the Southern Baptist Convention. The testimonies the students read aloud aren’t prayers but first person accounts from missionaries, often rendered in gender inappropriate adolescent voices. It’s not mandatory that you read, but even Josh Silverstein obliges when the booklet passes from row to row down the line.
“Yes, ma’m,” AJ says, and as he starts to read, he alters his voice, making it more Southern, inflecting the words like a backwoods preacher.
“When Eye-ah was a Seminarian-uh, in the Nineteeeeeen For-ah-ties- uh.”
In a battle to stifle his giggles, Josh Silverstein succumbs.
She’s fuming. After what the school went through last week, here he is mocking the Lord. “Alex, hand the Devotional to Ollie, and you go, son, as fast as your little legs will carry you, straight to Mr. Pushcart’s Office.”
“What for?” AJ asks in mock incredulousness.
“You know, young man. Now get.”
“Cause I was just trying to bring the devotion to life?”
“You know what you were doing.”
“Yes, ma’am. Trying to dramatize the reading to make it more effective. Isn’t that better than reading it in a monotone?”
Mrs. Laban’s thin mouth is drawn tight, her glowering eyes twin-barrels.
She fairly screams, “I said, ‘Get out!”
Alex Jensen: rising with a Raskolniscowl.
Mrs. Laban: purpling.
Jill Birdsong: looking down embarrassedly at her Pre-Cal.
Rusty Boykin: musing about how wonderful it would be if Mrs. Laban would keel over with a massive stroke and/or coronary, maybe not die, but be rendered incapable of administering the impending midterm.
Now that the door has closed behind A.J, the silence is palatable. Mrs. Laban is inwardly struggling, trying to control her breathing. Josh has put his head on the desk, and from Althea Bovinni’s perspective from her backseat spot on the third row, it looks as if he could be violently weeping.
“Ollie,” Mrs. Laban manages, “please read.”
Ollie pushes his wire rims up on the bridge of his nose, and says, “When I was a seminarian in the late 1940’s, I met many men who had served –“
All alone in the main hall, AJ’s doing the Bataan Death March boogie, head lowered, feet shuffling, headed for the gallows.
As the last painful pitch of the bell dies, classroom doors fly open, and AJ is swallowed by the crowd, melting into the menagerie of chattering students headed for first period, jostling with a swarm of kids right past the glass-walled administrative offices. He glances forlornly at the glass wall, the bustling secretaries, and now he’s breaking off discretely and pushing open the double glass doors to freedom.
In bright sunshine, he quickens his pace, afraid to turn around. The blonde-bricked school behind him is only ten years old, designed to be functional – but it’s oh so, so, so soulless – the landscaping, like what AJ ‘d expect to see in some sub-Soviet housing project. The scrub beneath his white high top Chuck T’s can’t keep the sandy dirt from blowing away. A balled-up piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook tumbleweeds past. He sneaks a peek over his right shoulder to see the Stars and Stripes flapping in the stiff October breeze.
Bent over and groping, too afraid to look, Rusty has plopped into his desk in Mrs. Rimsky’s American History class, hoping against hope that he’ll feel the comforting bulk of his missing history text in the compartment beneath his desk. Rusty is a master of losing things, things like notebooks, wallets, birth certificates, report cards, shopping lists, discount coupons, his religion, only to name a few.
This is an honors class. Jill Birdsong is seated, ready to go. Others from different homerooms file in: Julie Robinson, class president in a plaid polyester pantsuit; Carl Whetsell, one of the few blacks in the entire school system; James Hopper, who takes little short steps, his clarinet and books pressed defensively to his chest.
Down past the left turn in the hall outside the math wing, Dana Richards, one of Wendy’s closest friends, is whispering something to Sallie Pushcart.
A few years ago, I received an email from a stranger requesting to “interview” me in conjunction with her School of the Arts project on The Catcher in the Rye. As it turned out, the interview ended up being a survey of written questions that I answered electronically.
Q. How old was I when I first read Salinger’s novel?
A. Old/young enough to have had my complexion likened to a pepperoni pizza.
Q. My initial reaction to the book?
Q. Did I identify with Holden?
A. Yes, we shared a nostalgia for childhood in a darkening world.
Q. Have I ever taught Catcher?
A. No, but it has appeared on my reading lists.
Q. How do I feel about censorship?
A. Liberal to a degree: yes, you may read Lolita; no, you may not read Justine.
Q. What do I think is theme of The Catcher in the Rye?
A. Adolescence is a particularly hard time for idealists who have begun to realize the
Himalayan heights of the bullshit they must conquer in order to succeed in the adult
*In tribute to my two sons’ degrees in German, the “w” in “underwhelment” is pronounced like a “v.”
The student’s query/project struck me as quaint. Certainly, hapless Holden’s naive attempt to efface the “fuck you” some churl has scratched into the wall of his sister’s elementary school no longer outrages parents of the Late Empire who blandly witness each January the obscene decadence of Super Bowl Halftime Extravaganzas. After all, the novel is a year older than I, so Holden (if he was fifteen in the year of Catcher’s publication) would have been born in 1936 and if not dead subsisting now off of Social Security and Medicare, a wizened old man in a wheelchair, his orange hunting hat cocked at a jaunty angle in some subsidized assistant living facility.
Last I heard of Catcher causing commotion was twenty years ago. This account comes from The Post and Courier.
Perhaps because Mr. Bagwell had pilfered from my former high school’s library and because I had grown up just down the street from him, I felt chagrined enough to send him the following correspondence (signed with my return address):
Answers: 1.D 2. E 3. F 4. A 5. G 6. I 7. C 8. J 9. H 10. B
At any rate, the student’s interview request prompted me to do some digging into what texts have now replaced Catcher in the Late Empire as catalysts for censorship, those books in 2011 that rile parents into pitching protests, so I googled “most challenged books,” and lo and behold, there in the top 10 was Catcher, along with that other adolescent mind-warper, To Kill a Mockingbird.
No, I was wrong. Some Late Empire parents still see Holden as a threat; this confused boy still scares shitless certain curtained consciousnesses that seek to shelter their darlings from the muck and mess of the ever looming out there.
The degradation of childhood in the Late Empire is a curious phenomenon. In some ways it ends way too soon (sex at fourteen) and lasts way too late (under-employed and living with mom at thirty-four). Books are considered more dangerous than movies, an unclothed human body much more offensive than graphic violence. However, I truly believe there is little to fear in a good book because it portrays life as it is lived. Virtually no one gets horny reading the sexually explicit passages from The Color Purple (nor, for that matter, desires to become a homosexual penguin after finishing And Tango Makes Three).
Of course, in the beginning, puritans considered any novel dangerous because novels dealt with worldly matters, tempting readers, especially vulnerable young ladies, from God’s Holy Word into the profane and vulgar concoctions of scribblers who entertained rather than edified. I don’t know about you, but essentially, my early reading was all about escape. I’d rip through every Hardy Boys cardboard bound adventure I could get my hands on wishing I lived in a town blessed with abandoned mills, haunted houses, and inept criminals. Television in those days consisted of two stations that played soap operas in the mornings and afternoons of scorching summer days so reading novels offered a way to slip through the looking glass into jungles where apemen swung through the trees with scantily clad English girls clinging to their backs.
Eventually, I graduated to biographies, books about dinosaurs and deep space, classics like Tom Sawyer and The Count of Monte Cristo, yet even reading those non-controversial tomes posed the danger of a sedentary, cloistered lifestyle that spurned the Wordsworthian glories of nature’s here and now. In other words, through books you could abandon your own precious life for the abstractions of the printed page, curl up in the bed of one of the houses houses below, and become deathly pale.
Marcel Robert: La Fin de l’Hiver
Of course, nowadays, computers have replaced books as the vehicles for escape, and now, thanks to cell phones, it’s not unusual to see someone walking on the beach oblivious to the plunging pelican as the beachcomber stares downward manipulating the screen of that tiny computer. Even though books may have blinded Milton, they are easier on the eyes than this infernal monitor you’re staring at.
Click fiend that I am, I’ve decided to once again do a round-up, a sort of greatest hits [insert ironic cough] of the pieces I posted this year, significantly fewer than in years of yore (67 to be exact, as opposed to 141 in 2016 and 142 last year).
So hold onto your hats or toupees or do rags; here we go.
Miles Davis at the Vancouver International Jazz Festival, 1986
I only published three posts in our shortest month, the best two, I think, a short memoir celebrating lethargy and a paean to Ireland that I composed after listening to the last of my 42 cds of Joyce’s masterwork Ulysses.
March was a bit more productive. I fantasized about the reign of terror I’d wage against those who violated my very few grammatical pet peeves if, as I have always dreamed, I could manage to overthrow the government and declare myself a sun god.
I also produced a satirical series of haikus, a form of poetry I detest, which you can experience through the magic of my recorded voice, that gorgeous Lowcountry baritone that so many have come to know and love.
In May, on the anniversary of his mother’s death, I reblogged my son Ned’s moving postfrom his site The King of Nowhere. In addition, I sort of like this oneon the importance of providing students with the traditional Western canon (not a very popular viewpoint nowadays).
June found me, my fiancée, Caroline, and her daughter in Andalucia to visit my great friend Charlie Geer.
Despite his bluster about one of the greatest landslides in American electoral history, Donald Trump actually squeaked out a narrow Electoral College victory (a flip of 80,000 votes collectively in Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Michigan would have resulted in a Madame President Clinton).As far was the popular vote went, Trump lost the election by 2,864,974 votes.
Given those numbers, it would have been judicious for Trump to try to expand his base rather than consistently bending over backwards to accommodate its xenophobic inclinations, which aren’t shared by a majority of Americans.For example, he could have cut taxes for the middle, rather than the donor class, and worked on infrastructure, but he remained and remains fixated on immigration.
Let’s look at some numbers.
On the week of 16 December2018, according to Gallup, Trump’s approval level stood at 38%
Here’s a recent Pew poll on Americans’ views on immigration:
2018 Jun 1-13 #
2017 Jun 7-11
2016 Jun 7-Jul 1 ^
Of course, we’re talking about legal immigration here.Nevertheless, the most recent number is that only 29% want to see immigration decreased, which is nine points lower than the number of voters who approve of Trump.
Trump’s making illegal immigration the cornerstone of his midterm election rally blitz in the campaign’s last days didn’t work out very well for him.Although Republicans kept control of Senate, in fact increasing the majority by two seats, they did so by winning in red states.The Democrats, on the other hand, took over the House by flipping forty Republican seats as suburbanite Republicans abandoned their party and Independents went heavily blue .
So what does Trump do?Doubles down by rejecting a budget deal passed by both the House and Senate and shutting down the government.
Why?Because Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter got their panties in a knot, assailing his manhood.*
Trump’s pathological need for attention and adulation is his worst enemy.These rallies, populated by fanatical and inchoately angry rural white people must satisfy some atavistic tribal need in him.The fact that they need to be under-educated and misinformed doesn’t seem to matter to him.
He’s his own very worst enemy.
Meanwhile, our government is rudderless.We have an acting chief of staff, and acting attorney general, and an acting secretary of defense.
I’ll resist the urge to quote from Yeats’s “The Second Coming,” which has become almost a cliché.Instead, I’ll leave you with a snippet of his “Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen.”
Come let us mock at the great
That had such burdens on the mind
And toiled so hard and late
To leave some monument behind,
Nor thought of the levelling wind.
Come let us mock at the wise;
With all those calendars whereon
They fixed old aching eyes,
They never saw how seasons run,
And now but gape at the sun.
Come let us mock at the good
That fancied goodness might be gay,
And sick of solitude
Might proclaim a holiday:
Wind shrieked — and where are they?
Mock mockers after that
That would not lift a hand maybe
To help good, wise or great
To bar that foul storm out, for we Traffic in mockery.
* I concede forcing you to picture Rush Limbaugh in panties isn’t in keeping with the holiday spirit. Sorry about that.
For a brief, narrow, but entertaining history of the English language, click on the link below and make sure to cross reference words with asterisks with the accompanying dictionary found at the very bottom of the post: