December 14, 2007
Cold out. Still have my jacket on at work. Only four of us in this morning: Sue Lambert, Joel Klasky, Samantha Somers and me. Everyone else is out Christmas shopping!

One way to guage a good book is if it stays with you and agitates you long after you've finished it. I have been mulling several passages in Exit Ghost. The author, Philip Roth, injects, a real, live (actually dead) person, George Plimpton, (Paper Tiger, remember, he's the guy who boxed with Archie Moore, actually ran a play as a quarterback in the NFL, etc. and then wrote about it). According to Roth’s account, George wrote a book called Shadow Box (published in 1977), where he interviewed his literary friends about how they fantasized dying. Art Buchwald told Plimpton he “fancied himself dropping dead on the center court at Wimbledon during the men’s final—at the age of ninety-three.” Norman Mailer "seemed fondest of being killed by an animal—if on land, a lion; if at sea, a whale.” Plimpton himself fantasized about dying at Yankee Stadium, as a batter beaned by a “villainous man with a beard. . .”

Here’s the paragraph where Roth nails the whole shootin’ match:

“Humorously and unusually—that’s how George and his friends imagined themselves dying back before they believed they would, back when dying was just another idea to have fun with. ‘Oh, there’s death too!’ But the death of George Plimpton was neither humorous nor unusual. It was no fantasy either. He died not in pinstripes at Yankee Stadium but in his pajamas in his sleep. He died as we all do: a rank amateur.”

Wow!

And here's Roth's take on doing battle with youngsters:

“In taking on the young and courting all the dangers of someone of this age [he’s 71] intermingling too closely with people of that age, I can only end up bloodied, a big fat target of a scar for unknowing youth, savage with health and armed to the teeth with time.”
—Philip Roth, Exit Ghost

Speaking of being a big, fat target:

Poor Me, The Kingmanite
Been following your skewering by the Kingman bloggers. Congratulations on a very classy and resilient response. When you referred to the Kingmanites it reminded me of Desmond Dekker and The Aces, "The Israelites," amended:

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir
So that every mouth can be fed
Poor me, the Kingmanite

My wife and my kids, they are packed up and leave me
Darling, she said, I was yours to be seen
Poor me, the Kingmanite

Shirt them a-tear up, trousers are gone
I dont want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde
Poor me, the Kingmanite

After a storm there must be a calm
They catch me in the farm You sound the alarm
Poor me, the Kingmanite

Poor me, the Kingmanite
I wonder who Im working for
Poor me, Kingmanite
I look a-down and out, sir

Here's another theory:

“Joan what's her name might just be a troll although trolls don't usually post under their real name. A troll is someone who likes to go online for the specific purpose of finding someone to harass and cajole via rude and nasty comments on their blog or via emails or as response to online newsgroup/bulletin board posts. Their entire reward is knowing they got your goat and received a response to their rudeness. The saying is "don't feed the trolls" which means: ignore them and they will go away. You also don't have to share all the responses you get to your posts unless you want to...”
—Lee

Okay, I'll keep that in mind.

My neighbor Charlene Yager just dropped off her photos of the big John Deere tractor-fest we had last week. Here's a shot of me and Diesel (he's two) and Christa Barro going for a spin.



“I just found out I’m vain. I thought that song was about me.”
—Steve Martin