Author: Pulitzer Guy

Greatest Hits or Greatest Miss? Ranking the Pulitzer’s Collection Conundrum: The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter (1966), The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford (1970), and The Stories of John Cheever (1979)

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 1 Comment

“[A] virtuosic song collection unified by its vernacular authenticity and rhythmic dynamism that offers affecting vignettes capturing the complexity of modern African-American life.” 

–   Pulitzer Committee describing the 2018 Pulitzer Prize winner for Music

“My left stroke just went viral.”

–   Kendrick Lamar, the actual 2018 Pulitzer Prize winner for Music

I’m not exaggerating when I say I have been writing this post since 2018. Yes, you read that right. Six years. ‘How do you know?’ you might ask. Well, because the two quotes above describe Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN., the 2018 Pulitzer winner in the Music category, and more importantly, they were the original inspiration for this post. Let me explain.

You see, back in 2018, Kendrick Lamar won the Pulitzer for his album DAMN., making him not only the first hip-hop artist so honored, but also the first – and still the only – pop artist of any kind to receive the award. And not only did they surprisingly give the award to a rapper, they gave it to a rapper at the very top of his game. This was an inspired choice by the Pulitzer people and almost instantly upgraded the relevance of the award. Clap clap.

For those of you that have been around since the beginning of Pulitzer Schmulitzer!, “inspired choice” is not a phrase that I’ve used often for the Pulitzer Prize winners for Fiction. Granted, we’re still in the bottom half of the countdown, but as I’ve talked about before, sometimes the Pulitzer Prize pickers push puzzling picks that perplex prose purists. Try saying that three times fast. In fact, if we go way back to my very first post here, I discussed my least favorite Pulitzer decision – the seven times they looked at all the literature produced in that year and inexplicably determined that no novel was worthy of the prize. Although I don’t want to relive that one decision here, I can’t resist the urge to give a nod to my brother Scott and quote Geddy Lee from Rush: “If you choose not to decide you still have made a choice.”

The 2023 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction: When (Almost) Everyone Wins

So what brought this six year old draft back to the forefront? Well, the kudos that I (almost) gave to the Pulitzer people back in 2018 I sadly must take back because I recently finished reading both of the 2023 Pulitzer Prize winners for Fiction, Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingslover and Trust by Herman Diaz. You read that right; I said “both.” In an unprecedented move, these two novels shared last year’s prize. It was, literally, a tie, and the first time such a thing has happened since the Pulitzer was first awarded in 1918. I haven’t yet decided where each of these novels will show up in the countdown, but I am prepared, however, to lodge an official complaint about the result.  

Last year’s decision to award a tie—a close cousin to the dreaded “no winner” years—left a similar bad taste in my mouth. Let’s be honest: no one likes a tie. Winston Churchill called it “a defeat for both sides,” John Wooden said it’s “a sign of mediocrity,” and Yogi Berra famously likened it to “kissing your sister.” You’d be hard-pressed to find a single quote praising a tie. Go ahead, I’ll wait. That’s why I’m adding this latest “tie” decision to my growing list of baffling Pulitzer moments.

Pulitzer Puzzlers: The Problem with Short Story Collections

It turns out that I have a third gripe with the Pulitzer Board’s decision process. In fact, this transgression eluded me for a while and only came to light as I wrestled where to put three books on the countdown: The Stories of John Cheever (1979), The Collected Stories of Jean Stafford (1970), and The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter (1966). You can see the connection; they are all collections of short stories.

I want to start by saying that I don’t have anything against collections of short stories per se. For example, Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri, which won the Pulitzer Prize in 2000, is one of my favorite Pulitzer winners and will appear later on the countdown. But unlike these three works, Lahiri intentionally published her collection of stories together in the year that she was awarded the Pulitzer. There was a deliberate connection between the stories. It was supposed to be a book.

In contrast, the Cheever-Stafford-Porter collections contain stories published by each author years – and even decades – before their Pulitzer Prize. For example, The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter, was simply a meta-collection of three earlier published collections. And although she was awarded the Pulitzer in 1966, the earliest of these stories was written and published in the 1930s.  Similarly, The Stories of John Cheever won the Pulitzer in 1979, yet included stories from as early as 1946. These weren’t fresh, cohesive narratives meant to tell a larger story or explore a unified theme. They were reprints, however wonderful, of years’ worth of work. And yet, the Pulitzer committee treated this collection as the best “novel” of the year. So my beef with these choices isn’t that they contain short stories; it is that they are a collection of short stories chosen from decades of work that just happened to be released in a given year.

Greatest Hits Albums Are Just That – Hits

Imagine giving the Grammy for Best Album of the Year to a Greatest Hits collection. Sure, the songs are amazing, but does a curated set of old favorites deserve to stand alongside newly created works? That’s exactly what the Pulitzer Prize has done in the years when these collections won the prize. Should they have? I’m not convinced which is why these titles are ranked down here in the bottom half of the countdown.

I do actually have some specific opinions about the Cheever-Stafford-Porter collections, but before we go there, I would like to clarify that simply because I don’t think that a greatest hits collection should be considered the “best” of whatever it is in a given year does not mean that I think greatest hits collections have no value. I own plenty of them. Interestingly, I’ve found that the most valuable greatest hits collections are not for the iconic artists with storied catalogs, but instead for artists where their separate works don’t hold up on their own. You don’t want a greatest hits collection from The Beatles, Zeppelin, Springsteen or Pink Floyd. The same goes for Prince, Bowie, Radiohead and U2. Each of these acts has some sort of greatest hits album or albums, but they serve only as a gateway to delve deeper into the artist’s catalog. For example, The Essential Bruce Springsteen contains some of The Boss’ greatest tracks, but songs like “Thunder Road” and “The Promised Land” are so much more powerful when placed in the context of their respective albums.

That said, there are bands and singers whose greatest hits collections are all you need. This doesn’t necessarily mean that their albums are bad (although in some cases, they are). It’s just that they pale in comparison to their best-of releases. And since we’re big fans of lists here at Pulitzer Schmulitzer!, here is the definitive list of the 10 greatest greatest hits collections of all time. 

The Top 10 Greatest Hits Albums (Because We Love Lists) 

10. Aerosmith – Greatest Hits (1980)

This might be the oddest inclusion on my list because this greatest hits album doesn’t include a significant amount of Aeromith’s greatest hits. Released in 1980, this album captures Aerosmtih at their bluesy, dysfunctional best, right at a crossroads in their career. This version of Aerosmith scared me. And it’s hard to fathom now, but I do think there was a 57% chance that this band could have simply imploded given the volatile relationship between Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. But alas, it turns out this album instead paved the way for the massive commercial success that the band enjoyed later in the 1980s and well into the 1990s. So while you won’t get “Janie’s Got a Gun,” “Cryin’,” “Living on the Edge,” or “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” this album includes the classic-rock staples “Dream On,” “Sweet Emotion,” “Walk This Way,” and “Back in the Saddle.”

9. Madonna – The Immaculate Collection (1990)

If I was creating a list for the best name of a greatest hits collection, this would win hands down. Luckily, the songs on this album, covering the years 1983-1990 when Madonna rivaled Michael Jackson as the most influential musician in the world, match the greatness of the album’s title. Seventeen songs, 15 of which were Top 20s plus two new songs including the notorious “Justify My Love” which went to No. 1 on Billboard’s Hot 100 but had its video notably banned (although really the song is just a backbeat with heavy breathing). Honestly, when Madonna first appeared on the scene, I assumed she would be a one hit wonder. I was wrong. From her first hit “Holiday,” to the teen pregnancy verse of “Papa Don’t Preach”, the Carmen Miranda infused “La Isla Bonita”, and the gospel inspired “Like a Prayer”, this collection reminded us how great her music had been up to that point. 

8. Journey – Greatest Hits (1988)

Even though I lived through Journey’s late-70s/early 80s heyday (I was very, very young), I never ever purchased a single album. Not even after I saw them headline a show at the Phoenix Coliseum with Billy Squire opening (whose first two albums I did actually buy) while swilling Bacardi 151 and smoking menthol cigarettes (a horrible decision). Not even after I learned to play “Open Arms” on the piano because I thought musicians get all the girls (a much better decision).

Nonetheless, in the decades since, I’ve come around on Steve Perry who, I’ll now admit with a straight face, was one of rock n’ roll’s great voices. I’ve heard “Don’t Stop Believing” and Steve’s still confounding reference to “Streetlights people” a thousand times, and I enjoy it. But despite my coming around on Journey in general, there isn’t any essential Journey album to own, not even their 1981 blockbuster, Escape. Everything you could ever want or need from one of the cheesiest-yet-enjoyable bands of that era is in their 15x Platinum-selling Greatest Hits compilation.

7. Lynyrd Skynyrd – The Essential Lynyrd Skynyrd (1998)

My mom was from Huntsville, Alabama so growing up, I always felt a kinship to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.” That said, I didn’t really take the band that seriously, partly because other southern rock bands like Molly Hatchet and 38 Special were kind of goofy, partly because concert goers calling out for “Free Bird” led to the song becoming the poster child of 70s album-rock excess, and partly because the band foreshadowed the trend of rock bands intentionally misspelling their names (see, e.g., Def Leppard). But over time, my admiration for the band (including “Free Bird”) has only grown, especially when you consider their catalog really spans only a four year period from the release of their first album in 1973 to the tragic plane crash in 1977 that killed singer Ronnie van Zant, guitarist Steve Gaines and back up singer Cassie Gaines. This collection distills the essence of their Southern rock sound, full of swagger, rebellion, and deep emotion.

6. Simon & Garfunkel – Greatest Hits (1972)

I feel like I didn’t really listen to Simon & Garfunkel until college when my freshman year dorm mate needed to play music to fall asleep so I spent many a night thinking about how “Bridge Over Troubled Water” could start off so quietly yet end at such uncomfortably loud volumes. The quality of their music as a sleeping aid aside, once you start listening to the duo, you can never stop. Simon & Garfunkel are like the cool, introspective cousins at your family reunion who’d rather hang out in the corner writing poetry than join the potato sack race. It’s like two melancholy troubadours just trying to bridge over troubled waters one introspective ballad at a time. One strums his guitar like he’s having an existential crisis, while the other harmonizes so angelically you forget they probably argued the entire car ride over. Their music is equal parts soothing and soul-searching, perfect for when you’re feeling both too intellectual for rock and roll and too sad to admit you just really want to listen to “The Sound of Silence” for the 10th time today.  

5. Eagles – Their Greatest Hits (1971–1975) (1976)

The Eagles’ 1979 album The Long Run was one of the first ten albums that I ever owned, yet even young me wasn’t totally sure what to think of this band. If TED Talks were around in the 1970s, The Eagles would totally be into them. They’ve got some wisdom to share, but sometimes you just want to scream, “Dude, it’s just a road trip, not the meaning of life!” For a band that sings about taking it easy, they sure seem to try really hard to convince you they’re musical philosophers. Between the meticulously crafted harmonies and the endless debates over what “Hotel California” even means, the pretentiousness can feel as thick as 1970s shag carpet.

But let’s be real—do you actually need their whole discography? Nah. Just grab their Greatest Hits (1971-1975) and call it a day. It’s got all the good stuff—“Take It Easy,” “Desperado,” “Already Gone”—without forcing you to endure the B-sides that didn’t make it past their metaphor-filter. It’s basically the CliffsNotes of classic rock: why slog through the deep cuts when you’ve got all the hits in one place? You’ll still be an Eagles fan, and you won’t need to pretend that The Long Run is your favorite album when we all know it’s not.

4. Elton John – Greatest Hits (1974)

Elton John is a glittering legend wrapped in rhinestones and rocket fuel and has been a rock star my entire life. In fact, Elton holds the record for the longest stretch between my first and last concert for any specific artist. I first saw Elton in 1982 on the “I’m Still Standing” tour when I was 14. I saw him last, 37 years later, in 2019 with my daughter Lily at the Chase Center in San Francisco. Yet, despite the fact that on both occasions I belted out “Rocket Man” at the top of my lungs, I just learned “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” on the piano, and he’s responsible for me wondering for years what a mohair suit was, I never owned a single Elton John album other than this greatest hits collection. Yes, because it is an early collection you aren’t going to get later hits like “Candle in the Wind,” “I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues” or even “I’m Still Standing,” this album front to back may be perfect greatest hits collection. 

3. Bob Marley & The Wailers – Legend (1984)

I’ll start with a couple of facts. First, Bob Marley’s Legend is the best-selling reggae album of all time, with over 28 million copies sold worldwide. Second, at 855 nonconsecutive weeks, Legend is the second longest charting album in this history of the Billboard 200 (surpassed only by Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon). But numbers aside, Legend condenses into a single disc everything that propelled Marley to international stardom: his intricate songwriting, his astute political commentary, and, of course, the profound spirituality and universal appeal of tracks like “I Shot the Sheriff,” “No Woman, No Cry,” and “Redemption Song.” 

And for the past 40 years, Bob Marley’s Legend has been as essential to dorm rooms as ramen noodles and IKEA furniture. Blame it on the iconic album cover, which seemingly captures everything about the man in one snapshot, or the string of must-have hits that comfort the soul over its 51 minutes, but Legend is tangible evidence that spirits do exist in music. Plus, it’s practically impossible to graduate without humming “Everything’s gonna be alright” at least once during finals week. I’ll leave you with one more Marley tidbit: I think that Bono’s speech inducting Marley into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1994 is one of my favorite tributes and not just because Bono is smoking a cigarette and keeps sniffing like he did a ton of blow beforehand. I urge you to watch the whole thing, but the end is beautiful: “Bob Marley didn’t choose or walk down the middle. He raced to the edges, embracing all extremes, creating a oneness. His oneness. One love. He Wanted everything at the same time. Prophet. Soul rebel. Rastaman. Herbsman. Wildman. A natural-mystic man. Lady’s man. Island man. Family man. Rita’s man. Soccer man. Showman. Shaman. Human. Jamaican!”

2. Queen – Greatest Hits (1981)

Queen was unquestionably one of rock’s great bands, but if we’re being honest with ourselves, none of their individual albums is a must own. Even A Night at the Opera, probably their most critically acclaimed work, has filler like “39” and “Sweet Lady.” So yes, as great as Queen was, I’m declaring them a greatest hits band, and you can get all of their essential material from one one of the many Greatest Hits compilations. I’d go with “Queen’s Greatest Hits,” a monumental album released in 1981, has sold over 25 million copies globally and remains a cornerstone of rock music history. With its recent re-release in 2021, featuring digitally remastered tracks, the album celebrates four decades of iconic hits from one of Britain’s greatest rock bands. As a gateway into Queen’s extensive repertoire, it captures the essence of their talent and musical diversity, from the grandeur of “Bohemian Rhapsody” to the infectious energy of “Don’t Stop Me Now.” (The two biggest omissions, “Radio Ga Ga” and “Under Pressure” (which is really a David Bowie song) can be found on both Greatest Hits II and Classic Queen if those are must haves for you.) Despite occasional criticisms about certain tracks aging less gracefully, the overall brilliance of Queen’s songwriting and musicianship shines through, making Greatest Hits a timeless treasure for fans old and new. 

1. ABBA – Gold (1992)

ABBA gets a bad rap for no real reason. Until Mamma Mia! hit Broadway, even mentioning ABBA in a serious music discussion was considered a faux pas. Sure, their songs lean into the cheesy side, but of all the bands that face public disdain, ABBA deserves it the least. Their music, though undeniably tied to the disco era, is a cornerstone of modern pop. Enter ABBA: Gold, a greatest hits collection released nearly a decade after the band broke up that serves as both a time capsule of an important musical era and a testament to their enduring talent. From the iconic piano slide of “Dancing Queen” to the catchy rhythms of “Voulez-Vous” and “Take a Chance on Me,” the album strings together hit after hit. The contrasting melodies of “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” and “One of Us” reveal the band’s versatility, while ballads like “Chiquitita” and “Fernando” prove that ABBA could do more than make you dance—they could tug at your heartstrings too.

While most artists throw together compilations mid-career or long after their prime, Gold benefits from hindsight. Released after ABBA had disbanded, the album is a refined selection of pop perfection, with no filler tracks. Each song remains a timeless pop gem, reflecting ABBA’s enduring appeal and knack for creating music that compels listeners to dance. The songs span nearly a decade, but they flow seamlessly, showcasing ABBA’s knack for timeless pop. And it’s the seamless flow of all nineteen tracks on “ABBA: Gold” that begs the question: is this the ultimate greatest hits compilation? Spoiler Alert: the answer is a resounding yes. 

Can We Just Get Back to the Books?

The answer is also a resounding yes. I appreciate your patience but that is enough of our distraction and we can turn our attention back to the three short story collections starting with the earliest winner, The Collected Stories of Katherine Anne Porter. 

1. Katherine Anne Porter

Katherine Anne Porter (1890–1980) was best known for her short stories, though she also wrote novels, essays, and journalism. Her life, marked by multiple marriages, financial instability, and international travels, infused her writing with a deep sense of human frailty and existential contemplation. After nearly dying in the 1918 influenza pandemic, Porter’s perspective on life and death shifted, a theme that surfaces prominently in her most famous work.

“Pale Horse, Pale Rider” is perhaps her defining story, set against the backdrop of World War I and the flu pandemic, where the protagonist’s brush with death becomes a haunting meditation on survival and loss. In “The Jilting of Granny Weatherall,” Porter masterfully captures the inner turmoil of a dying woman reflecting on her life’s regrets and missed opportunities. And in “Flowering Judas,” Porter delves into political disillusionment, telling the story of a young woman caught between revolutionary ideals and personal moral conflict in post-revolutionary Mexico.

Porter’s prose is lyrical and deeply psychological, often tinged with a sense of doom. Her stories are layered with symbolism, and her characters grapple with the weight of betrayal, mortality, and the complexities of human relationships. While sometimes dense, her work is widely respected for its precision and depth, offering a timeless exploration of the darker sides of the human condition.

2. Jean Stafford

Jean Stafford (1915–1979) was known for her sharp psychological insight and finely crafted prose. Her difficult early life—marked by family struggles, mental health issues, and a near-fatal car accident that left her with lifelong scars—infused much of her writing. Stafford’s tumultuous marriage to poet Robert Lowell also shaped her later works, with themes of isolation, identity, and emotional hardship running through her stories.

One of her most celebrated pieces, “The Interior Castle,” delves into the psychological aftermath of a car accident, exploring the protagonist’s detached inner world and the pain of recovery. In “In the Zoo,” two orphaned sisters reflect on their abusive upbringing, a chilling meditation on cruelty and emotional survival. Meanwhile, “Bad Characters” examines childhood innocence lost, as Stafford taps into the darker side of growing up, where early experiences shape adult lives in irrevocable ways.

Stafford’s style, more formal and detached than Porter’s or Cheever’s, brings a cold realism to her stories. Her characters often wrestle with trauma, displacement, and the weight of societal pressures, making her work both emotionally charged and meticulously controlled.

3. John Cheever

John Cheever (1912–1982), often referred to as “the Chekhov of the suburbs,” masterfully captured the ennui of post-World War II middle-class America. His characters float through suburban life, their outward contentment masking deep inner disillusionment. Perhaps no story exemplifies this better than “The Swimmer,” where Neddy Merrill, an affluent suburbanite, embarks on a surreal journey, swimming through his neighbors’ pools only to discover that time and his life have slipped away from him. It’s a disarmingly simple premise that unravels into an exploration of aging, denial, and personal collapse.

Then there’s “The Enormous Radio,” where a couple’s new radio starts picking up their neighbors’ conversations, revealing the dark underbelly of seemingly perfect lives. It’s quintessential Cheever—deceptively domestic yet sinister, showing how easily the walls of normalcy can crumble.

And in “Goodbye, My Brother,” Cheever taps into the familial conflicts that simmer under the surface of respectability. The story’s narrator clashes with his pessimistic brother at a family reunion, reflecting Cheever’s recurring themes of nostalgia, guilt, and the desire for escape from the expectations of American life.

Cheever’s stories, with their delicate balance of humor, melancholy, and a touch of magical realism, stand apart for their vivid exploration of what lies beneath the surface of suburban dreams. They may be about cocktail parties, manicured lawns, and swimming pools, but they dig deep into the quiet despair that often accompanies them.

Despite their stylistic differences, Porter, Stafford, and Cheever are bound by shared thematic undercurrents. Isolation and alienation loom large in their work, as characters grapple with emotional disconnection from those around them, often feeling trapped by circumstances or societal norms. Memory and the weight of the past also shape much of their fiction—whether it’s trauma, regret, or longing, each author presents characters haunted by what they can’t change. Mortality is ever-present too, with death looming over these stories in different forms: quiet resignation for Cheever’s characters, deep psychological turmoil for Stafford’s, and philosophical contemplation for Porter’s. Gender dynamics and power struggles add another layer, as all three authors subtly critique the societal expectations that confine both women and men. And, of course, there’s the ever-present disillusionment with society itself—a deep-seated sense that the systems around them are failing, leaving their characters adrift.

This is all well and good, but do you have any actual opinions you’d like to share?

Once again, a resounding yes.  Although I’m going to rank them all together, I do not like them all the same. So in keeping with the Pulitzer Schmuliitzer theme, I’ll give them to you in reverse order of how much I like them.

My least favorite is the collection of Jean Stafford’s stories. Her stories, while critically acclaimed in their time, are less accessible to today’s readers (like me). While her psychological acuity and precise prose were once highly regarded, modern tastes have leaned toward more visceral or stylistically innovative writing. Stafford’s stories feel dated, and I found them hard to read. Her deep character studies may appeal to readers interested in a more classical, realist tradition, but that isn’t me. And I don’t think I’m alone. Of the three authors, she has faded more than the others from public view and is arguably the least well-known today.

Although I’m putting Katherine Anne Porter’s collection next, I will admit that she likely garners the most literary respect in academic circles for her precision, historical depth, and explorations of morality and human frailty. Her work remains a staple of college syllabi, and she’s often cited as a key figure in American literary modernism. Her stories like “Pale Horse, Pale Rider,” resonate with modern readers as a tale of illness, survival, and the fragility of life—a theme made even more poignant in today’s post-pandemic world. That said, her layered, often poetic prose and historical insight make her work feel timeless, though her sometimes dense, introspective style might not appeal to all readers. In other words, after a while I found a lot of her stories, well, boring. 

Which leads me to my favorite, the stories of John Cheever. While Porter might be more respected in academic circles, Cheever is probably the most widely read today. His stories tap into a timeless sense of suburban discontent that remains relevant. His lyrical, sometimes surreal style (as in “The Swimmer”) has left a lasting imprint on contemporary American fiction. He’s often seen as a precursor to writers like Jonathan Franzen or Richard Ford, who continue to explore the contradictions of American middle-class life. For me, his stories about American suburban life are the most fun, and still resonate deeply, and the mix of humor, melancholy, and magical realism makes his work appealing across generations.

So, when it comes to short story collections, we’ve established that pulling a ‘Greatest Hits’ album from decades of work doesn’t quite compare to an album—or in this case, a novel—crafted with a single artistic vision. Sure, they’re classics. But should they really compete with fresh new narratives? In my opinion—and in the immortal words of Kendrick Lamar.—’Sit down. Be humble.’ 

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[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

The 13 Greatest Super Bowl Halftime Shows In History

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ Leave a comment

Note to Readers: I originally posted this article last year with the intention of refreshing the list every year as needed. Lucky for me, Rhianna’s performance didn’t crack the Top 13 so the countdown remains in tact. At least for now.

I love football in general, but the Super Bowl is something else entirely. It is more than football. It is football plus. Football plus crazy expensive commercials. Football plus a million prop bets. Football plus gatherings with friends and five layer bean dip. And maybe most importantly, the Super Bowl is football plus a halftime show extravaganza.

It wasn’t always an extravaganza. During halftime of the first Super Bowl in 1967, the University of Arizona Symphonic Marching band performed “The Sound of Music” and “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the shape of the Liberty Bell. To be fair, the show, titled “Super Sounds from the Super Bowl,” also involved two guys flying around with jetpacks (how do we not all have these by now?) and a weirdly large number of pigeons. In subsequent years the halftime shows expanded, but were more quirky than star studded. One year, for example, had an Elvis Presley-impersonating magician named — obviously — Elvis Presto.

But it really wasn’t until 1993 when Michael Jackson made the halftime show the must-watch event that it is today. It was a match made in pigskin heaven; one of the world’s biggest stars on football’s biggest stage and the modern halftime show was born. How did we not think about this before? The halftime show was no longer filler. It was now a thing unto itself. And playing in the show became one of the greatest achievements you could have as a musician.

This year we get a semi-comeback of sorts from Rhianna. The 34-year-old “Umbrella” singer has been keeping a relatively low profile while parenting (she had a baby in May with boyfriend A$AP Rocky) and working on her clothing line. So not only am I excited for Rihanna’s return to the music stage, but I’m also excited about the aforementioned prop bets which have been extended to the halftime show. (“Diamonds” is currently the odds-on favorite for first song, but I’m betting on “Don’t Stop the Music.”)

Before we get there, however, it’s worthwhile to do a quick look back at the 13 greatest halftime performances. So without further ado…

13. Jennifer Lopez and Shakira (Super Bowl LIV, 2020)

It’s hard to believe that when Jennifer Lopez and Shakira took the stage in February 2020, we were mostly unaware (or uncaring) that a virus was quickly spreading around the world and that within a month would turn our lives upside down. We were relatively carefree, and this show was all about fun. Shakira played the guitar and J.Lo rode in on a stripper pole. There was dancing, crowd surfing, a nod to bondage, a lot of horns, a Led Zeppelin sample, and Bad Bunny. The main critique of the show was that it was “too sexual” even though Adam Levine from Maroon 5 pretty much took off all of his clothes the year before. Given the pandemic years we have now endured, it is nostalgic to think back to times when our biggest worry was whether Shakira and J-Lo were too sexy for national television.

12. Janet Jackson & Justin Timberlake (Super Bowl XXXVIII, 2004)

Without a doubt, Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake’s performance at Super Bowl XXXVIII remains one of the most memorable, although less for the performance itself and more for the “wardrobe malfunction” at the very end. But the show itself was pretty awesome. Janet and Justin were great, but what people don’t remember is that this show was full of guest appearances. Diddy appeared out of a haze of smoke, Nelly showed up in a small red car to sing “Hot in Here,” and most randomly of all, Kid Rock absolutely ripped through versions of “Bawitdaba” and “Cowboy.” In fact, I think if you look at time on stage, Kid Rock might have the longest set.

But all we remember now is that Timberlake “accidentally” ripped off Janet’s chest covering (I’m not sure what else to call it) as they wrapped the set. The debate of whether it truly was “accidental” continued for years since that show in Houston. There were FCC fines assessed that have been litigated forever, but maybe the most important discussion has centered around why Janet bore the brunt of the backlash while Justin’s reputation seemed unfazed. Regardless, it was an amazing show and it’s a shame that what most people remember is just the last two seconds.

11. Paul McCartney (Super Bowl XXXIX 2005)

Paul McCartney’s set the year following Janet and Justin’s performance was equally amazing but almost the polar opposite in terms of presentation. Supposedly, McCartney was considered a “safe choice” following the “nipplegate” controversy, and although his show was less of a spectacle, it included a set list that may remain unmatched to this day. On an X-shaped stage, the ex-Beatle kicked off his set with “Drive My Car.” He then followed up with “Get Back,” before trading his guitar for a piano during a fireworks-laden rendition of Wings’ James Bond theme, “Live and Let Die.” Saving his best for last, McCartney signed off with “Hey Jude,” during which the 84,000 in attendance at Jacksonville’s Alltel Stadium all joined in for the iconic coda. The performance was both nostalgic and energetic and signaled the transition from contemporary pop acts to classic rock legends performing at halftime.

10. Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, Mary J. Blige, Kendrick Lamar & 50 Cent (Super Bowl LVI, 2022)

SoFi Stadium in Inglewood, California, hosted Super Bowl LVI and if you’re going to be in Inglewood, then there is no better choice for halftime entertainment than Dr. Dre and friends. And the friends list was extensive. In addition to pre-announced performances from Snoop Dogg, Mary J. Blige, Kendrick Lamar and Eminem, we were also treated to surprise appearances from 50 Cent (who rapped “In Da Club” upside down) and Anderson.Paak on the drums for Eminem’s “Lose Yourself.” From the opening when Dre appeared to play “Still D.R.E.” to Mary J. singing “Family Affair” to Kendrick’s modern classic “Alright,” the performance was not only the best seen in years, but also went on to win an Emmy for Outstanding Variety Special (Live), marking a historic first win for the halftime show in the category.

9. Gloria Estefan, Stevie Wonder and Big Bad Voodoo Daddy (Super Bowl XXXIII, 1999)

I feel like the 1999 halftime show may be my most controversial pick because it looks so dated when compared to, for example, the Janet Jackson/Justin Timberlake show that was only 5 years later. Even the television production seems closer to the 1970s than the 2000s. But I love this one specifically because it is so 1999. I mean, what is more 1999 than starting the show with a ska and swing dancing set from Big Bad Voodoo Daddy? But that’s just the beginning. Then we also got a medley of Stevie Wonder hits, and an extreme tap dance from Savion Glover, which Stevie joined. And if that wasn’t enough, you can’t have a Super Bowl in Miami and not invite Gloria Estefan who came out singing in Spanish. This was one of those epic shows that reflected the time. The US in 1999 wasn’t in a war, and couldn’t foresee 9/11, weapons of mass destruction, social media, or a global pandemic. You could really have fun in 1999, and this show reflected that.

8. Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band (Super Bowl XLIII, 2009)

The best thing about The Boss is that no matter how many concerts he has done over his storied career, he always looks like he is having the most fun right now. So the 2009 halftime show was basically a regular Springsteen concert. Which, to be clear, is a very good thing. With Bruce, there isn’t a lot of spectacle, but this show did have some notable moments beginning with his admonition at the beginning to “step away from the guac” and “put the chicken fingers down.” He then tore through “Born to Run” and “Glory Days,” but the most iconic moment came when New Jersey’s favorite son slid crotch first into a TV camera during “10th Avenue Freeze Out.” And watch the end where Springsteen aggressively flings his guitar over his shoulder multiple times, does a back and forth comedy routine with a fake referee, and then closes by shouting, “I’m going to Disneyland.” Epic.

7. Michael Jackson (Super Bowl XXVII, 1993)

Honestly, I have a hard time ranking Michael Jackson’s performance at the Super Bowl in 1993. From a historical perspective, you probably can’t beat it (pun intended). This was the year the NFL decided they needed to up their game to keep people watching at halftime. Since the NFL doesn’t tend to go small, they tapped the King of Pop to put an end to the marching band era and set the bar for all future halftime shows.

That said, if you watch it, it is a weird performance. First off, like most Super Bowl sets, it’s only about 12 minutes long, but it takes MJ at least 3 minutes to get into the songs. In fact, when Jackson first shows up on stage, he stands there completely still for at least 45 seconds. Then, for someone with a catalog like Jackson’s, his song choices were odd. “Billie Jean” is great, but he kicked it off with “Jam,” and then played “Black and White,” part of “We Are the World” and then ended with “Heal the World” while a giant globe inflated in the middle of the field. And I’m pretty sure he lip-synched the whole thing. In the end, this one needs to be included because of the impact it had, but it just feels like it could have been so much more.

6. Katy Perry (Super Bowl XLIX, 2015)

If you like spectacle in your halftime show, Katy Perry’s 2015 performance is hard to beat. Perry enters on the back of a giant Tiger (or Lion) and yells, “Super Bowl, are you ready to roar!” Unlike Michael Jackson’s song selection, Perry hit all the highlights with a set list that included “Roar,” “Dark Horse,” “I Kissed a Girl” with Lenny Kravitz, “Teenage Dream,” “California Girls,” “Get Your Freak On” and “Work It” with Missy Elliot. If that wasn’t enough, she ended the show strapped to a mechanical shooting star for “Firework.” And of course, there was Left Shark, whose interesting dance moves immediately went viral. This was 12 minutes of lights, color, special effects, and a lot of dancing in high heels. What more could you ask for?

5. Beyoncé & Destiny’s Child (Super Bowl XLVII, 2013)

I think you could make a reasonable argument that Beyoncé should just do all the Super Bowl halftime shows. Beyonce in 2013 was at the top of her game (arguably still is), and the production value of this show was off the charts. (At one point there was a guitar with fireworks shooting out of it.) And there were the songs. She went through some of her biggest hits like “Crazy in Love,” “Love on Top,” and “Baby Boy.”

And that was all before Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams shot out from underneath the stage for a long awaited Destiny’s Child reunion. Together, the trio performed “Bootylicious,” “Single Ladies” and “Independent Women.” The 2013 production was so extravagant that half the lights at the Superdome went out, creating a 33-minute, 55-second blackout shortly after. Mic drop.

4. Madonna (Super Bowl XLVI, 2012)

Once the Super Bowl started tapping A-list artists, you knew it was only a matter of time before Madonna made an appearance. If you’re the type who wants your halftime show to be a little over the top, then this one was for you. Madonna arrived at Indianapolis dressed as a Greek goddess on a throne carried by Spartan soldiers. From there, we were treated to a graphic stage, slackline stunts, a Roman theme, Nicki Minaj, M.I.A., and Cee Lo Green. At one point, Madonna climbed on one of LMFAO’s shoulders.

Madonna’s song choice was on point. After her entrance, she launched into longtime favorite “Vogue” before being joined by LMFAO for a “Party Rock Anthem”/”Sexy And I Know It” infused take on her 2000 hit “Music.” We even got a little controversy when M.I.A. and Nicki Minaj joined her onstage for “Give Me All Your Luvin’” and M.I.A. gave the crowd the middle finger. However, Madonna’s epic “Like a Prayer” finale, aided by Cee Lo and a huge robed choir, ensured that the 12-minute spectacle ended with the focus right back on the music.

3. Lady Gaga (Super Bowl LI, 2017)

If anyone was going to match the anticipation of Madonna’s performance, it would surely be Lady Gaga. Gaga is one of the most eclectic artists in history, and everyone tuned in to see what her halftime performance would unveil. Truth be told, she played it relatively safe, but that didn’t take away from the fact that this was one of the most visually stunning and vocally impressive halftime shows in Super Bowl history.

She opened with a medley of “God Bless America” and “This Land Is Your Land” from the roof of the Super Bowl stadium, and then launched herself from the heavens down onto the stage, singing dance-pop favorites “Poker Face,” “Born This Way,” “Just Dance,” “Telephone,” and “Bad Romance.” And to close, her stage exit is probably the best the show has ever seen: She mic dropped, caught a football toss and hopped off a staircase into nothingness. No bowing, no waving. That’s how you end a show.

2. U2 (Super Bowl XXXVI, 2002)

U2’s Super Bowl XXXVI show deserves a high ranking not only because the performance was great, but also because of what the performance meant. Less than five months after 9/11, U2 brought the heart-shaped stage from their Elevation tour to the gridiron, and the Irish rock band found a way to make this performance both strong and emotional.

Janet Jackson was originally scheduled to perform, but after that World Trade Center attacks, the NFL decided that U2 would be a more appropriate choice. They did not disappoint. The band only played three songs: “Beautiful Day,” “MLK,” and “Where the Streets Have No Name.” During the latter two songs, the names of those who were killed in the attack were projected on a giant screen across the Superdome. At the end of the performance, Bono opened his jacket to reveal an American flag in the lining.

1. Prince (Super Bowl XLI, 2007)

Although “best of” lists like this are inherently subjective, you’d be hard pressed to not acknowledge Prince’s 2007 as the best we’ve ever seen. It had it all. He powered through his own classics like “1999,” “Let’s Go Crazy,” and “Baby I’m a Star.” He did mashups of Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower,” Queen’s “We Will Rock You” and Foo Fighters’ “Best of You.” He was backed by a brass marching band, and wielded a purple guitar in ways only Prince could wield a guitar. He closed the performance with the most perfect rendition of Purple Rain that included an epic guitar solo in the rain while the stadium sang along in falsetto.

Prince didn’t need to enter on a tiger like Katy Perry or fall from the sky like Gaga. The story goes that in the 40 previous years of the Super Bowl, it had never rained. Whether it was divine intervention or dumb luck, Prince created his own spectacular.

Scott Horton – A Farewell to Kings

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 11 Comments

We are young. Wandering the face of the Earth. Wondering what our dreams might be worth. Learning that we’re only immortal for a limited time.

Dreamline, by Rush
Scott (2nd from right) with his lifelong friend Bill meeting Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson from Rush

My younger brother, Scott Horton, passed away yesterday. We knew it was coming, he was surrounded by family and friends, it was peaceful, and he did it on his terms. I love all of that and I’m doing my best to keep that in mind, but today I can’t help but mourn for the loss of a great father, husband, brother, son, cousin, uncle, friend, neighbor, co-worker, concert-goer, sports enthusiast, artist, traveler, cat-lover, and overall human. (If you want to know why he’s a “Horton” and I’m an “Orta,” buy me a drink and I’ll tell you the story. I promise it will be worth your while.)

Giddy up! (Scott on right)

Scott and I were born only 20 months apart, so I don’t recall a time when he wasn’t around. Because we were so close in age, our childhood was filled with endless front yard football/basketball/baseball games, cap guns, model airplanes, green plastic army men, comic books and ninja throwing stars. We built bicycle ramps so that we could emulate Evil Knievel, waited in line to see all the Star Wars movies, and had “firework wars” where we would shoot roman candles and bottle rockets at each other. Thankfully, no one was (permanently) injured, but we did knock out a couple of teeth.

Come to think of it, a lot of the activities we did seemed completely normal in the 70s but would probably result in a call to Child Protective Services today. For example, it seemed that every kid in the neighborhood had a BB gun, the most popular choice being the Crossman air rifle that you could manually pump to build up air pressure. More pumps led to more pressure and more pressure led to faster BB velocity. So with that backdrop, we used to have BB gun wars where the rule was that you could only pump your rifle two times. Because we were 10-12 year old boys and said rule was only regulated by the honor system, it was inevitable that someone would get shot, it would hurt, they would scream “THAT WAS MORE THAN TWO PUMPS!” and a smallish scuffle would ensue. Good times.

Yet despite all of the things that we did together, we were polar opposites in many ways. He played the drums (loudly), I played the guitar (badly). (Note that neither of us wanted to play the piano, which was the instrument chosen by our parents.) While I ate whatever was put in front of me, Scott would eat only plain foods and his diet consisted primarily of hamburgers with no condiments, cheese pizza, pasta with no sauce, and grilled cheese sandwiches. (For the record, his taste palate increased significantly once he reached adulthood. Or maybe 30.)

We also could never agree on which sports team to support. He rooted for the Dodgers, while I rooted for the Reds. He rooted for the Dallas Cowboys, while I rooted for the Pittsburgh Steelers. (As an aside, this latter rivalry got so heated mid-game one year that he threw a pen at me tip first like a spear with such uncanny accuracy that it ended up in my ear. Don’t fret, no damage was done other than I flopped more than a Premier League soccer player in the penalty area which I recall resulted in a spanking and timeout for Scott. Sorry about that.) He loved to play hockey – both the ice and rollerblade variety – and I still don’t get it to this day.  

Scott’s early skating skills at work.

And in music, although we found some common ground mainly in the classics (Zeppelin, Stones), our tastes were not generally aligned. When I was listening to punk bands like TSOL, Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Social Distortion and X, Scott loved hard/progressive/jazz rock bands like Night Ranger, Steely Dan, Cheap Trick, Triumph, The Cult and Joe Satriani. But if you know Scott, you will also know that he loved one band above all others – Rush. I cannot stress this enough – he really, really loved Rush. 

I will choose a path that’s clear. I will choose free will.

Free Will from Permanent Waves by Rush (1980)

I’ve spent a lot of words here describing what Scott did, but it is a lot harder to describe who Scott was. Quiet individualist comes to mind, but I might be more successful in this endeavor if I simply told you a story that happened long ago, but that I only learned of very recently. The story takes place at church. At least that is what our Dad assumed.

Our mother died when I was 12 and Scott was 10. That is important for this story only because when we went to church on Sunday, Dad was now a single parent and had to play zone rather than man-to-man defense. Scott, recognizing this, began telling our dad that he preferred sitting in the balcony with the choir rather than on the main floor with us. In hindsight, this seems completely unbelievable. Nonetheless, the ruse appeared to work and before mass began, Scott would part ways with us and head up to the balcony. What 10 year old Scott failed to mention but 54 year old Scott fessed up to, however, was that as soon as the service started and we were all now facing forward, he would leave church, walk four blocks (across a major thoroughfare no less) to a local store/deli called AJ’s that served milk shakes and had a couple of video games, and then when he knew mass was ending, he’d head back just in time for the post-church donuts mixer.

When he told me this story – again, only recently – I was stunned, and not because (a) I never knew this story or (b) it seems inconceivable that 10 year olds in 1970s Phoenix could do this every week and not be murdered or have some other bad thing happen to them. No, what stunned me was how smart it was. Scott did the calculus: I hate church, I like video games, and I like donuts. Hence, what clearer path to choose than one he chose? I need to use the decision making framework more often. 

Scott at his high school graduation from Brophy College Prep. In the background is the room that had the donut mixers post-church services.

Why are we here? Because we’re here, roll the bones.

Roll the Bones by Rush (1991)

Although we obviously spent a ton of time together early on, as kids are prone to do, we grew up, went to college, settled in different cities, got jobs and had kids. If that wasn’t enough, Scott, the overachiever, got a Ph.D. at the age of 45. We spoke less not for any reason other than life is busy. Then, nearly three years ago, he called to tell me that he was diagnosed with what turned out to be a rare brain cancer. 

As crises often do, Scott’s diagnosis reminded us what – and who – is important in your life. From that moment until yesterday, we made the effort to spend a lot more time together. And from that moment until yesterday, I watched Scott battle cancer and battle it well. He had two surgeries, two rounds of radiation, one round of chemo, and countless doctor visits. Through it all, he remained both stoic and hopeful that he would ultimately prevail.

What is even more impressive than how he battled cancer, is how the kid who would walk from church to AJ’s and back for donuts lived his life when the cancer and associated treatments took a pause and he felt better. In the last year and a half alone he traveled to Chicago, New York, Milwaukee, Philadelphia, Charleston, Savannah, the UK, Ireland, Scotland, Spain, Portugal, and Italy. He saw the sphere in Vegas and hiked in Zion. We saw The Cult while I was visiting Arizona. His will to live – to really live – consistently amazed me. Unfortunately, as it so often does, the cancer returned in August, and this time, there were no more treatments to be had.

Scott at the Coliseum in Rome

The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect; so hard to earn, so easily burned.

The Garden from Clockwork Angels (2012)

Between Thanksgiving and New Years as Scott’s condition began to worsen, I was lucky enough to spend a significant amount of time with Scott, his wife Carol, and their two incredible sons Deven and Ryan. Their support for Scott, and each other, throughout this ordeal never wavered. It was extraordinary yet I’ve been struggling today to write something that appropriately captured this love without sounding rote. Luckily for me, Deven did a far better job than I could ever do in this Instagram post.

I also got to witness the effect Scott had on the greater world. Every day seemed to bring another string of visitors to wish him well, most of whom I’d never met. Neighbors, co-workers, former students and friends, all came by with stories of how Scott had impacted their own journeys. And of this group, I was most impressed by the friends that he has known for a lifetime.

I’m fairly sociable, but of the people that I currently consider close friends, the earliest are probably from high school and most are people I met later in life. In this way, Scott and I also differ. Of his closest circle of friends, most have known Scott since he was 7 years old or younger. I was trying to figure out why and how this happened, and I think it is because Scott was always Scott. In his office at home, Scott showed me recently how over the years he had collected some of his favorite toys from childhood. At first I thought this was just nostalgia, but upon further reflection there was a simpler explanation: Scott has always known what he liked and who he liked (and who he didn’t like).  

And on that note, I’ll end with one more story to bring the point home. I found this book report he did when he was seven years old on Roger Staubach: Running Cowboy. I love this because he only had to answer two questions. First, “Tell what the book was about” to which Scott responded: “But he’s six-four and weighs 250, someone said. What would you do with him in [a] back alley. Listen said Roger, I’ve got four years of hand-to-hand combat I never got to use.” I searched for this book on Amazon, sadly to no avail. Regardless, I’m not totally sure he understood the question, I’m pretty sure that isn’t what the book was about, and I’m 100% sure that I love the fact that Scott thought that this passage was cool.

The second question was a two parter: “Did you like the story?” and “Why?” To which Scott responded: “Yes” and “I like football”. If only he had added “dumbass” to the end.

Nearly 38 years after Scott received an “OK” on this book report, his Ph.D. dissertation titled “High Fidelity Virtual Environments: Does Shader Quality or Higher Polygon Count Models Increase Presence and Learning” was approved and published. Although I’m 100% sure that I don’t understand this paper, it is clear that Scott had come a long way from his “I like football” days. But what is even more telling and touching and apropos is what Scott included on the “Acknowledgement” page:

“As I officially end my time in college and this chapter of my life, while moving on to bigger and better things, I’d like to quote Neal Peart of Rush in saying:

Why try? I know why

The feeling inside me says it’s time I was gone

Clear head, new life ahead

I want to be king now not just one more pawn… “

The last thing I told my brother yesterday was that I loved him and I’m grateful for that. At the risk of taking this Rush thing too far, Scott, I bid you farewell my extraordinary brother, a “Freewill” spirit, we celebrate your “Tom Sawyer” adventures, the “Closer to the Heart” moments that we shared, leaving us with “Time Stand Still” memories. And as you embark on the “Limelight” of eternity, know that you will forever be “The Spirit of the Radio” in our hearts. You were, and always will be, a king.

The Acknowledgements page from Scott’s dissertation (December 2014)

You Say You Want a Resolution

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 2 Comments

One of my all-time favorite blog posts is this one by Tim Urban which discusses the passage of time, and in doing so, puts into clear focus the finite aspect of our lives. In particular, he lays out a lifespan not in the usual units of measurement such as minutes or hours or months or years, but instead by activities. For example, a presidential election only happens every four years. Assuming I live to be 90, therefore, I’m only going to punch the presidential ballot about another 10 times. Yikes.

That example, by the way, was intentional. The four-year cycle of presidential elections (or World Cups or Olympic Games) is apropos here at Pulitzer Schmulitzer because it has been just over four years since my last blog post. Another yikes. There are lots of reasons for this unintentional break, but suffice it to say that unlike presidential elections, the frequency of my writing is entirely in my control. And knowing that, I came to the patently obvious conclusion that I’m not going to finish this countdown unless I significantly pick up the pace here.

Why am I thinking about this now? Well, part of it is simply that fact that this is the time of year where “best of” lists abound as we look back on another loop about the sun. (Another part of it is that I had a COVID exposure so am self-isolating on New Year’s Eve and have some time on my hands.) On an individual level, it’s hard not to use this time to take stock of our accomplishments and failures and grade our past twelve months. More importantly, however, the end of the year also gives us an opportunity to think about the year ahead who we’d like to be. Granted, in reality New Year’s Day will just be like any other Saturday in our lives. But it feels different. It feels like we have a chance to close a chapter and start again with a blank slate. And not surprisingly, therefore, it is also time for New Year’s resolutions.

Historically, I’ve never been a huge proponent of either forming or following through on New Year’s resolutions. Part of this is certainly my fault, but most of the time my resolutions were either too vague, too small, too big, too numerous, or really, too stupid. As a result, I often forgot about them or ignored them or simply failed at them after a week or two.

At the start of 2021, however, I adopted an idea that my friend Gillian wrote about a few years back: instead of doing yearlong resolutions, set 12 one month resolutions. This structure helps in a couple of ways. First, you’re more likely to succeed (and success comes much quicker), with this shortened timeframe. Second, if you don’t succeed on any particular goal, you year isn’t shot; you simply start again the following month. So on this, the last day of 2021, here is my look back at my previous twelve months. With grades.

DRY JANUARY

Grade: B

Giving up alcohol in January certainly isn’t a novel idea, but honestly probably was (and probably still is) the most important one for me. The more I read about alcohol, the more I’m convinced that drinking is one of the worst things you can do to your body. The flip side, of course, is that drinking is super fun. (Or, as Kid Cudi put it, “All the crazy shit I did last night / Those will be the best memories”).

But at the start of 2021 we were a year into the pandemic, and if there is one thing I’ve learned from COVID is that pandemics are hard and a break from booze was sorely needed. I wasn’t perfect; I actually started on January 4th and had two other events that month where I drank, but 5 drinking days out of 31 was my best in a while. A long while.

WRITING FEBRUARY

Grade: F

February was supposed to be the month I kickstarted my writing. Specifically, I wanted to post two Pulitzer Schmultizer blog posts. It was a total fail. That said, the fact that I did set that goal gnawed at me periodically through the year, and may, in fact be another reason why I’m aiming to publish this piece in 2021. (Spoiler alert: I made it.)

READING MARCH

Grade: C

Given that I’m an avid reader, you would think the fact that I spend so much more time at home without a commute would have led to a significant increase in my reading time. You would be wrong. Turns out that the commute itself provides some built in reading time. Removing that time from my schedule also removed a fairly ingrained habit, and I didn’t find a suitable replacement.

So in March 2021, my goal was to read for an hour a day. I gave myself a C, but I consider this one a success; I was just over-zealous on my ambition. An hour a day is simply too much (or is simply too much for me), and I realized this fairly early on. What I also realized, however, was that a half-hour was doable, revised my goal accordingly, and was very successful reading that amount. So maybe a C with an asterisk.

VEGETARIAN APRIL

Grade: A

I love meat. But, like alcohol, the more I read about meat, and in particular the meat industry, the more I’m coming to believe that we’d all be better off as vegetarians. While this has been a slow realization for sure, over the years, I have cut out some specific things from my diet. I haven’t eaten veal in forever, for example. More recently, I decided that I won’t eat any of the top 10 smartest animals. Granted, most of these are fairly easy to avoid, but giving up octopus and, to a much greater extent, pork, has been a sacrifice. As noted above, I love meat and pork is very, very tasty.

Despite my love of meat, however, this one turned out to be relatively easy. My only slip up was a booze-fueled, unintentionally enthusiastic inhaling of a Kentucky Fried Chicken drumstick. (For Pulitzer Schmulitzer fans, you are aware of my weakness for KFC.) I will definitely do this one again.

OUTDOOR MAY

Grade: D

If you asked me at the start of the year which monthly resolution I thought would be the easiest to accomplish, I might have said this one. My goal for the month was simple: do two camping trips and take two hikes. What did I actually do? One hike and one night in a glamping tent at Safari West where I stayed up all night listening to two mating geese. I aspire to improve on this one in 2022.

BEACH BODY JUNE

Grade: A-

The goal for June was straightforward: do at least 30 minutes of exercise every single day. I already exercise a lot so this one wasn’t a huge stretch, but like with my reading, the COVID disruption to my schedule had somewhat surprisingly resulted in me being a little less disciplined with my work out routine. I missed maybe 1 or 2 days during June, but otherwise met this goal and, more importantly, re-established a much healthier routine.

LEARN SOMETHING NEW JULY

Grade: C

In hindsight, this goal – to “learn something new” – was frankly too vague. I did absolutely learn some new things. For example – and this is a little embarrassing – I actually barbecued for the first time in July. I’m not kidding. Not only that, but the grill had seen such little use that it wouldn’t light so I had to learn how to replace the igniter. But that wasn’t really what I had in mind at the start of 2021. In my head my goal for July was something more lofty like to take a course. As such, I gave myself a C with the real lesson here to be more specific with my objectives.

DELETE THE APPS AUGUST

Grade: A

If my reading time decreased during the pandemic, my time on social media increased in equal measure. As such, August’s goal was to delete Facebook, Instagram, Snap and TikTok from my phone. To be clear, I didn’t delete my accounts. But simply by removing them from my phone – especially from the home screen – it required me to be much more thoughtful and intentional about accessing them because it also required me to log in on desktop or through mobile web. This little bit of added friction, believe it or not, totally worked to decrease aimless scrolling and even more importantly the habit of opening them up at any moment of downtime. I loved this one and have never added any of the above back to my home screen.

DO SOME GOOD SEPTEMBER

Grade: F

September was supposed to be the month where I did a volunteer activity every Saturday. Again, like Outdoor May, I went into 2021 assuming that this would be a layup and again failed miserably. Didn’t do one thing. Yes, work was really busy this month, and yes, one Saturday I was actually at my first post-COVID wedding, but I believe I could have done more to make this happen. Of all of my 2021 resolutions, I may be most disappointed by this one.

ARTS OCTOBER

Grade: B+

At the start of 2021, vaccines were just around the corner and I assumed that by October life would be for the most part back to normal. As such, my goal for the month was to experience some of the things that I’ve missed the most these past few years and see one concert, one play, one museum exhibit and one art event of my choice. I was close. I went to two days of Outside Lands (I’m counting that as the concert and the event of my choice), and went to see an Orchestra performance of Anime hits on November 10th (nothing this elaborate mind you but this was one of the “hits”) and the Art of Banksy exhibit on November 24th. So technically I didn’t see the play and didn’t do it all in October, but technically COVID didn’t cooperate either because of the Delta variant so screw it, I’m giving myself a B+.

GIVE THANKS FOR YOUR STUFF NOVEMBER

Grade: A-

Similar to booze, the meat industry, and mindless social media consumption, I often struggle with how much stuff I consume. Because November is the time to give thanks, this month’s goal was simply to not buy anything new (food items excluded). Like Vegetarian April and Delete the Apps August, this one turned out to be relatively easy. I had to buy one tie and one dress shirt to wear for a business trip to New York, but other than those purchases I was the non-conspicuous consumer.

REACH OUT DECEMBER

Grade: B-

Last but certainly not least was one of my favorite goals of 2021: make a point to reach out to people that I adore but that I don’t get to see. My original thought was to do one reach out per day, so 31 in total. Ultimately, the reach outs were much more lumpy and I probably ended with about 20 so I’m giving myself a B-. Nonetheless, when I did do it the responses brought me a lot of joy. Makes you wonder why we don’t prioritize this more often. (Also, if you just read this paragraph and are mad that you weren’t one of the 20, don’t be. The other thing that this resolution taught me was that there are so many people that fall into this category. I’ll hit you up in 2022.)

So we’ve reached the end of this post and of 2021. I’ll get this posted right under the wire, and promise that this weekend I will work on my list for 2022. Some of these I will keep forever (Dry January is definitely needed), some I will keep because I failed at them last year (Writing February, Outdoor May and Do Good October), some I will improve on (Learn Something New July), and some I will drop because I don’t need them (Delete the Apps August). But most importantly, I resolve to pay more attention to Pulitzer Schmultizer and make some progress on my countdown. I hope you all keep me accountable.

In the meantime, I’m going to leave you with words from two people much more articulate and wise than I am. Both are about life and understanding that it is very finite. The first piece is from a commencement address the author Joan Didion – who just passed away last week – gave in 1975 at UC Riverside:

“I’m not telling you to make the world better, because I don’t think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I’m just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave’s a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that’s what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it.”

And the second is a poem called The Laughing Heart by Charles Bukowski:

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

(I love this poem and the only way it would be better would be to watch Tom Waits read it.)

So I made it. It is 11:13 on New Year’s Eve. Wishing you all the best in 2022.

#48. Foreign Affairs by Alison Lurie (1985): You Never Know What’s Going to Happen – Notes from My 7-Year-Old

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 3 Comments

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.”

-Victor Hugo

“The face you have at age twenty-five is the face God gave you, but the face you have after fifty is the face you earned.”

-Cindy Crawford

Sometimes I find it tough to read my 7-year-old daughter Macy. She’s mostly happy to see me and I know she loves me, but as I often tell people when describing her, she skews happy. She loves everything. For example, she recently found a note pad where you could list five things that you love. Macy’s list, in order (and spell corrected):

  1. Hugs!
  2. Kisses!
  3. Soccer!
  4. Musicals!
  5. Dinner!

Note - List of Loves
Macy’s list of things she loves. “Dad” did not make the cut.

It is interesting to note that like us here at Pulitzer Schmulitzer!, Macy is a big fan of the exclamation point. And it is also interesting, maybe more so, to note that although “Dinner!” made the list, “Dad!” did not.

So I was very excited Sunday morning when Macy, after working very diligently on a drawing at the dining room table while I read the paper, handed said drawing to me and said, “I made you a card.” I was even more excited when I read it because it said: “Thank you for being a rock ★ parent! I’m going to miss you so so so so so so so so so much. Love Macy.”

Pride in my own parenting skills swelled within me. I looked at my youngest lovingly and we had the following interaction:

Me: That is so nice Macy. Thank you. (Quick hug ensued leading to more pride swelling). But why are you going to miss me?

Macy: What?

Me: (Showing her the note) You said you were going to miss me so so so so so much, but I’m not going anywhere.

Macy: (Taking a closer look at the card.) Oh, I forgot something.

At this point, Macy took the note back, grabbed a pen, and quickly started writing. It took only a few seconds before she handed me the now augmented note that read as follows: “Thank you for being a rock ★ parent! I’m going to miss you so so so so so so so so so much … when you die! Love Macy.”

note-rock-star.jpeg

Although I was still happy that she was going to miss me, I was understandably a tiny bit conflicted about the prerequisite. It was a little morbid. But in her defense, Macy has been a little preoccupied with death these last few months and I think I know why. First, she recently asked if she could have a fish tank. So, over my objections, we took her to a fish store and brought home a five-gallon fish tank, a miniature castle, some foliage, and three little guppies – Fire, Joey and Sparkle.

All was good with the world for about 16 hours until she woke up the next morning and found Joey lying dead behind the castle. Tears flew from her eyes immediately and she decided that Fire had killed him. I’m not totally sure what Sparkle’s alibi was, but Macy was convinced that Fire was a bad apple. She was inconsolable.

Actually, I take that back. She was somewhat consolable and started to pull it together until I retrieved Joey from the tank and headed to the bathroom to flush him down the toilet at which point we had the following interaction:

Macy: What are you doing with Joey?

Me: I’m going to flush him down the toilet.

Macy: NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!! (Tears flying out of eyes once again. Now actually inconsolable.)

Me: What would you like to do with Joey?

Macy: BURY HIM!!!!!!

So shortly thereafter, Macy and I were standing outside in the yard holding a fish funeral for Joey. We buried Joey in a small Kleenex box, his little guppy body laying on a bed of tissues. We said a few words, which was hard given the limited time we knew each other, but it was sweet. And as the last spoonful of dirt covered Joey’s casket, Macy said: “Can we get another fish?”

The second reason Macy has been fascinated with death recently is that I turned 50 this summer. I can barely believe I’m that old, but to my seven-year-old, it is inconceivable. (And you just thought of The Princess Bride). She’s just learning to count that high. In her mind, the difference between 50 and the age of the universe is not that much. Like 20 years.

So because we had many celebrations around my birthday, she was acutely aware that I’m the oldest one in the family that means, of course, that I am going to be the first one to die. And my death will be followed by, in order, Gigi, Sam and Lily thereby leaving Macy the last one standing. The first time she told me this, I was trying to get a sense of whether this chain of events bothered her or comforted her. I’m still not totally sure. But what I was sure of was that I didn’t want her to think that was necessarily how things were going to turn out, so I said something to the effect of, “you never know what’s going to happen.”

I’ll get back to that story in a minute, but first we must detour to Foreign Affairs by Allison Lurie, the 1985 Pulitzer winner that comes in at #48 on our countdown. Foreign Affairs tells the story of Virginia Miner (Vinnie), a fifty-four-year-old spinsterish professor at Corinth University who specializes in children’s literature. She loves travel and is off to London (which she also loves) for a six-month research trip with plans to write a book about playground rhymes. Her mood, however, is a little soured because a critic named L. D. Zimmern recently trashed her work in a nationally circulated magazine.

Also bringing her down is Chuck Mumpson, a sanitary engineer from Tulsa, Oklahoma and her seatmate on what would otherwise be a pleasant flight, who proceeds to accost her conversationally. Although currently unmarried, Vinnie couldn’t be less interested. She’s had her share of affairs and even a brief marriage, but at this point in her life, Vinnie has stopped believing that falling or being in love is a good thing. So to silence Chuck, she gives him a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy. Unfortunately, this plan ultimately backfires when the smoking, drinking and generally loudly American Chuck contacts her in London. It turns out he has been inspired by Little Lord Fauntleroy to want to trace his own family history. Vinnie slowly becomes involved with his project, and then with him.

Meanwhile, in a parallel story, one of Vinnie’s young colleagues, Fred Turner, has left his wife, Roo, at home for his own sabbatical in London, where he is researching John Gay. In chapters that alternate with those recounting Vinnie’s triumphs and tribulations, we learn that Fred and Roo have quarreled and he fears the marriage is over. He consoles himself with the affections of a beautiful and aristocratic television actress, Lady Rosemary Radley, who gives him the entree into London high life. The exquisite but not so young Rosemary has never managed to have a really successful love relationship—though she is not resigned to this, as Vinnie is. Ultimately, these two stories come together when, quite by accident and with the encouragement of Chuck, Vinnie becomes an emissary for Fred’s estranged wife. What makes this favor more challenging for Vinnie is that Roo’s father is none other than the nefarious critic L. D. Zimmern.

I won’t give away the ending, but suffice it to say that Vinnie’s relationship with Chuck opens her eyes to the fact that she has many years to live and a lot to experience, including love. Literate by nature, Vinnie comes to the realization that literature may have unintentionally betrayed her. “In the world of classic British fiction,” she reflects, ”almost the entire population is under fifty, or even under forty – as was true of the real world when the novel was invented.” Even today, in most novels ”it is taken for granted that people over fifty are as set in their ways as elderly apple trees, and as permanently shaped and scarred by the years they have weathered. The literary convention is that nothing major can happen to them except through subtraction.”

But in real life – or the “real” life of Vinnie – she has many years to live and much to experience. Why, therefore, she concludes, should she ”become a minor character in her own life? Why shouldn’t she imagine herself as an explorer standing on the edge of some landscape as yet unmapped by literature: interested, even excited – ready to be surprised?”

As one who is now near Vinnie’s age in the novel, I absolutely love this and appreciate what Alison Lurie as to say about getting older. Foreign Affairs offers a wry commentary on who we perceive ourselves as being and the sometimes jarring reality of who we are and how much we are constructed by other people’s perceptions of us. The book is witty, truthful (sometimes painfully so), intelligent, warm, humorous, and ultimately inspiring. Fast forward 30 years and I’ll probably suggest Macy read it.

However, it is currently above her reading level, so when Macy handed me back the updated note she had written, I did my best to translate the message. I told her that 50 isn’t that old and (fingers crossed) I have many years of life and living left to do. She didn’t need to miss me quite yet.

As an aside, what I really wanted to do but can’t because she is only seven, was go one level deeper and add that she shouldn’t be anti-death (although again I’m not sure she is). Death is in some ways in underrated. To be clear, I’m not talking about senseless death, or early death, or painful death; not the death of war, terror, cruelty, poverty, abuse, neglect, suicide, disease. But normal death is our admission fee for the privilege of life. It gives life urgency. It makes life worth living. And yes, graying hair and creaky joints are part of that fee. Our lives are finite — so, as we’ve discussed many times here at Pulitzer Schmulitzer!, we should live them with gusto.

But in the end that conversation didn’t happen and Macy’s takeaway focused on the uncertainly because “you never know what’s going to happen.” So I shouldn’t have been that surprised to find the following message scribbled a few days later on a pineapple note pad:

Note - Pineapple
“Can we please get another dog. We only have two fish and who knows if there gonna die? Love Macy

#49. Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout (2009) – Make America Hate Again: Why I Wish There Was A Little More Olive Kitteridge in Donald Trump

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ Leave a comment

donald-trump-alec-baldwin-snl

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

So my very public promise to write more frequently was a total fail. But, in all honesty, it wasn’t for a lack of trying. I’ve just been having the hardest time with this post. Here at Pulitzer Schmulitzer!, my usual formula is to tell a personal story and then connect it (albeit very tenuously) to the book I’m reviewing. And if you know me, you also probably know that telling stories about myself is generally not an issue. Most of the time, writing about the book is the hardest part for me. Not so this time.

So we’re going to flip things around and start with the book: Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge, the 2009 Pulitzer Prize winner. Set in a small community on the coast of Maine, Olive Kitteridge is a “novel-in-stories,” a book-length collection of short stories that are interconnected. Think The Canterbury Tales, or, if you’re looking for more Pulitzer themed examples, Jennifer Egan’s 2011 Pulitzer Winner A Visit from the Goon Squad, and Junot Diaz’ non-Pulitzer winner but still popular This is Where You Lose Her (he did win the Pulitzer for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao (2008)).

If the author can pull it off, I’m a fan of the novel-in-stories format. (Actually, I like the format in other mediums as well. For example, some of my favorite movies are very Olive Kitteridge-esque. The Player, Magnolia, Go, and of course the (relatively) new Christmas classic Love, Actually all follow the same formula.) Some complain that telling stories in this manner doesn’t leave room for nuanced character development. That may be true, but telling a story or stories in this manner has a ton of benefits as well.

Specifically, I like the idea that our stories don’t exist in a vacuum but instead are messily enmeshed. In real life, I like the idea of six degrees of separation and discovering random connections with strangers I meet. In fiction, I like the fact that these stories remind me that things aren’t always about me; a reminder I need surprisingly often. We’re all living in our little worlds but we’re doing it all together, and sometimes paths cross with less than optimal outcomes. But often those outcomes have less to do with the parties involved than with all the backstory – often unknown to the other party – that comes with them.

Turning specifically to Olive Kitteridge, Strout weaves together 13 different stories that encompass a wide range of experience. One story takes place at the funeral of a man whose wife has just learned he cheated on her. Another features a hostage-taking in a hospital. Elsewhere, an old lover surprises a lounge pianist, sending her reeling back into painful memories, and in another, an overbearing mother visits her wary son and his boisterous, pregnant wife. Most stories center on some kind of betrayal, and a few document delicate and unlikely romances.

And linking these stories together is the novel’s namesake, Olive Kitteridge, a seventh-grade math teacher and the wife of a pharmacist. Olive’s presence in each of the stories varies. In some she’s at the center, but in others she remains only on the fringe. (And for the record, the stories in which she appears the least are also often the least interesting). Through these interactions, we learn not only about Olive herself, but we also see the effect that she has on those around her.

Truth be told, I had a great story lined up to accompany this novel that involved me delivering Christmas trees. How I ended up in the situation is unimportant, but suffice it to say one rainy night a few weeks before Christmas I found myself driving a Ford F150 around the East Bay with three trees in the back and stranger by my side. As the night wore on, each delivery became a story unto itself. There were highs and there were lows. And with each stop I was getting a short but rather intimate look into strangers’ lives. It was an Olive Kitteridge experience. It was a cute story (at least in my head).

But despite knowing for over a month now that was my story, I just couldn’t pull it together. Given the current political environment, it seemed too light. I thought I could cure it by weaving in some humorous jabs at Donald Trump, but poking fun of him – although there really is so so much to poke fun at – came across as simultaneously petty, ineffective and unsatisfying. There are plenty of people far funnier than I am making fun of him all day long. I got so fed up I finally scrapped the whole idea and hoped I could find another connection to Olive Kitteridge. If our paths cross, I’d be happy to tell you of my Christmas tree adventures.

“Luckily,” it only took one week of Trump being President to figure out a new connection. You see, Olive, like Trump, comes across as an asshole. She is neither nice nor sympathetic. As one of the town’s older women notes, “Olive had a way about her that was absolutely without apology.” That’s putting it nicely. Her son, in contrast, told her more bluntly, “You can make people feel terrible.” She dismisses people with words like “hellion” and “moron” and “flub-dub.” Sound familiar?

But as is true of most people, Olive is more complicated than she seems on the surface. She may hurl insults at her son, but she also loves him a lot. The same goes for her her husband who she also loves, although she has trouble expressing it. She’s definitely has her moods, but she also laughs spontaneously, and most importantly, she harbors a sense of compassion, even for strangers. In one story, for example, Olive bursts into tears when she meets an anorexic young woman. When Olive tells the girl that “I’m starving, too,” the girl takes one look at this large woman and says, “You’re not starving.” “Sure I am,” Olive says. “We all are.”

Olive may seem like an asshole, but through these stories, we learn that she also has a remarkable capacity for empathy, and it’s an empathy without sentimentality. She gets that life is lonely and unfair, and that it takes a lot of luck to experience blessings like a long marriage and a quick death. She knows she can be a shit; she has regrets. And because she has that self-awareness, she understands people’s failings — and, ultimately, their frail hopes. By the end of the novel, you may hate her brusqueness, her self-centeredness, and her difficulty accepting changes, but you admire her quiet strength, her forthrightness, her realistic views of life, and the fact that she controls her emotions.

And Kudos to Ms. Strout, because the novel-in-stories format is a perfect medium for capturing this complexity. Each story is presented from different viewpoints and shows Olive’s many sides as she interacts with family, neighbors and friends, as she experiences age, loneliness, grief and love. It’s through these stories that we discover a character infinitely richer than originally assumed.

You’ve probably figured out where I’m going with this. When Trump incomprehensively garnered enough electoral votes to secure the Presidency (I can’t bring myself to say “won”), I consoled myself in the weeks that followed by hoping that he had a little Olive Kitteridge in him. I told myself that once he was President, the importance of the office would temper his campaign promises. I wanted to believe the Republicans – who only weeks before refused to support him – when they suggested that we should give him a chance.

For example, Peter Thiel, the Silicon Valley billionaire, was asked before the election what he thought about Trump’s proposal to ban Muslim entry into the United States. Although Thiel initially expressed misgivings about Trump’s language, he ultimately came to his defense by arguing that we – and specifically the media – shouldn’t take him literally. “[T]he media always has taken Trump literally. It never takes him seriously, but it always takes him literally.” In other words, Trump didn’t mean he wanted an actual ban. “I think a lot of the voters who vote for Trump take Trump seriously but not literally. And so when they hear things like the Muslim comment or the wall comment or things like that, the question is not ‘Are you going to build a wall like the Great Wall of China?’ or, you know, ‘How exactly are you going to enforce these tests?’ What they hear is ‘We’re going to have a saner, more sensible immigration policy.’”

Although his literally/seriously argument seemed far-fetched when applied to a man hoping to run the most powerful country on Earth, I hoped Thiel was right. Sadly, it took only all of one week of the Trump presidency to realize that he wasn’t, and that what Trump said on the campaign trail was exactly what he meant. He really does want to repeal the Affordable Care Act and take insurance coverage from 30 million people. He really does want to build a wall despite the fact that anything that impedes the inflow of tequila seems like a horrible idea to me. He really does hang out with and trust neo-nazis like Steve Bannon and thinks it is a good idea to add him to the National Security Council. And he really really doesn’t like Muslims.

As we all know by now (hopefully), last week he signed an Executive Order that halted refugee entry into the US for 120 days, and barred all citizens of seven predominantly Muslim nations – Iran, Iraq, Libya, Somalia, Sudan, Syria, and Yemen – from entering the US for three months. Although supposedly done to protect Americans, this is pure security theater. How do I know? Well, I know it because of the number of people killed in the US by refugee terror attacks. Zero. I know this because “nobody in the counterterrorism community pushed for this.”

I know this because it doesn’t even target places that pose the largest threat. Not a single American was killed on U.S. soil by citizens of any of those countries between 1975 and 2015. Interestingly, nearly 3,000 Americans were killed by citizens from Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirites and Egypt in the same time period, with the bulk of those being victims of the 9/11 attacks. Yet in those three countries, Trump has significant business interests. Hmmmm.

trump-middle-east-map

I know this because even putting aside refugee v. non-refugee or even the specific countries, enacting this Executive Order in the name of American safety is pure farce. Sadly, I stole the following chart from Kim Kardashian West, but I’m sure its directionally correct and more importantly it proves a (my) point.

list-of-things-that-will-kill-you

If Trump were really concerned about the safety of American citizens, he should start with tackling our gun laws since guns are about 5,868 times more likely to kill you than an Islamic jihadist immigrant. Then, in order of operation, we should make everyone install bed rails, bolster bus and lawnmower regulation, wear rubber shoes and, of course, get some control over those pesky toddlers. But we won’t.

We won’t because this isn’t about protecting the American people. This is about divisiveness and hate. Which honestly doesn’t make that much sense as a strategy until you realize he’s doing this because he knows that he will never be able to tell his voters, “Your lives are better now.” He has no plan, so he’ll have to keep them scared, angry or both. For four years. This is literally his only play.

And again, there are people that are a lot smarter than me that are writing far better articles about the situation we find ourselves in at the moment. You should read them. But I will say that on a personal level, of my eight great-grandparents, four came to this country from somewhere else. One from China, one from Denmark, one from Ireland and one from Mexico. And my immigrant great-grandparent tally may even be higher than that if I actually had a good handle on certain branches of my family tree (which is another story I’d be happy to share if our paths cross). America isn’t great despite immigrants. America is great because of immigrants.

Thankfully, the response to Trump’s Executive Order gives me hope. Over one weekend, the ACLU received $24 million in online donations, six times the amount is usually receives in a year. Starbucks announced plans to hire 10,000 refugees over 5 years in 75 countries. There are Google docs going around with every Senator’s stance on the Muslim Ban with telephone numbers. The Pope chimed in and said you can’t reject refugees and call yourself a Christian. Pretty sure he was talking about Paul Ryan. Even the acting US Attorney General told her staff that the Order was illegal and to not enforce it (at which point she was summarily canned).

But most importantly, people – normal people – have rallied. They showed up last week at the Women’s Marches and they showed up this week at airports. The bar for being a superhero is so low right now. You don’t need capes or karate. You just have to show compassion and empathy. You just need to funnel your inner Olive Kitteridge.

There is a quote I love from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, about an Irish immigrant family at the turn of the century: “There are very few bad people. There are just a lot of people that are unlucky.” This is true of Olive. By the end of the novel, we recognize not only Olive’s glaring flaws, but also her inherent nobility, and she reminds us that we are complicated and imperfect creatures. And reading a book like Olive Kitteridge reminds us that we need to try and understand people, even if we can’t stand them.

But we must also remember that although the number may be very few, there are actually bad people in this world. Sadly, it appears that one of those people is now the most powerful man on the planet. I wanted to believe that there was something deeper behind his angry rants. But as I’ve said before, we have to embrace the world that is, not the world we wished it were, or the world we thought it was. And in this world, Trump is seriously, literally, an asshole.

#50 How My Dad’s Mattress Ended Up on Our Front Lawn: Lessons Learned from A Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor (1987)

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 1 Comment

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

We’re about a month removed from the closing ceremonies and I’m sad the Olympics are over, but not necessarily because I want to watch more events. Honestly, it was killing my productivity. And my ability to catch up on other television shows. Or both. Hello Mr. Robot my old friend.

No, the reason I’m sad is that these Olympics will hold a special place in my heart because it was really the first Olympics that we shared with Sam and Lily. They must have watched the 2012 games in London, but at that point Sam was 11 and Lily had just turned 10 and they were still going to bed early enough that they wouldn’t have seen NBC’s ridiculously late night coverage (a topic for another day). But now they’re four years older. Sam is learning to drive, Lily is in high school and they now stay up ridiculously late which is super handy if you want to watch the Olympics.

So this year we spent a lot of time between 8 p.m. and midnight sitting around our bedroom watching Simone Biles, Kerri Walsh Jennings, and Usain Bolt. We discussed green pools, the Zika virus, and the sexism imbedded in this headline.

olympics-article

We lamented the US Women’s Nation Soccer team losing way too early. We laughed at Michael Phelps giving Chad le Clos a pre-race death stare, the diving scores that covered the athlete’s groins so it made them look like porn stars, and Ryan Lochte dying his hair brown again after saying “my bad” for lying about being held up at gunpoint. (That helped for one second.) And we marveled at the athleticism and sportsmanship on display such as Katie Ledeky beating the the silver medalist by nearly 12 seconds in the 800m final, and New Zealand’s Nikki Hamblin and Abbey D’Agostino of the USA helping each other out after colliding in their heat of the women’s 5000m. In hindsight, it was two weeks of together time that was wonderful.

And although I love that I have my nights back, I’m a little melancholy due to the fact that the Olympics only happen every four years, and that time we just spent together may not be replicated with the older two kids (Macy, I realize, is another story). When the Olympics descend on Tokyo in 2020, Sam will be nearly 20 years old and in college (hopefully). Lily will have just turned 18 and be a full-fledged adult and getting ready to go off to college (again, hopefully). Who knows if either will be in the house and even if they are, will we all sit around our bedroom for four hours every night watching synchronized diving? Doubtful.

Am I being overly pessimistic? I don’t think so. I’m dating myself, but the first Olympics I clearly remember were the 1976 Montreal Olympic Games. It was the Olympics of Nadia Comaneci and the first perfect 10. It was Sugar Ray Leonard and Spinks brothers, Michael and Leon, taking gold medals when boxing still mattered. It was the US men’s basketball team winning after the controversial loss four years earlier. It was Caitlin Jenner, then known as Bruce, winning the decathlon, soon to have (at that time) his face all over boxes of Wheaties. Germany was still divided between East and West and everyone thought the East German women’s swim team was doping when they nearly swept all the swimming events. Probably because they were.

And even now, I remember watching with my parents and loving it and being so excited for it to happen again. Except it didn’t. In 1980, the US boycotted the Moscow games for reasons I don’t recall. By the time the 1984 Olympics rolled around in LA, the Russians and most of the Eastern Bloc boycotted in retaliation for the US boycott, and I was entering my senior year of high school. As such, neither the USSR nor I participated. And then I was gone.

But, and this is a big but, having that one Olympics with my parents made a difference. Not only do I still remember much of it to this day, but it also led to one of my top five favorite Dad stories. I was so obsessed with the Olympics that when my birthday came around I wanted to have an Olympics themed party. Most of the events were fairly straightforward. Lots of races (both running and swimming), we had a roughly round-shaped rock that we used as a shot put. There was a diving (read: cannonball) competition. But my favorite event was high jump, but not because I love that event or because I did especially well. No. That event was my favorite because my Dad dragged his mattress from his master bedroom on to our front lawn so that we would have padding when we landed. And he told me not to tell my Mom.

I remember thinking it was so out of character. The whole thing. I’ve spoken at length about my Dad and he had many, many fabulous qualities, but a secretive rule breaker he wasn’t. He was very practical and honest and had I been a betting man at that tender age, I would have said there is a snowball’s chance in hell that he’d drag a mattress – his own mattress – on to our front yard in support of fake Olympic glory. And then I would have double-downed that he would have run this plan by Mom first. Being wrong about your parents, however, is just part of growing up.

And I’m 99% sure that if I could tell him that story today, he would have no recollection of ever doing that and certainly wouldn’t think that it had any impression on me. In fact, there were all sorts of other “lessons” I inadvertently learned from my Dad that I’m sure he never intended. For example, to teach my new puppy, Toby, how to swim, he threw him in the pool. Lesson learned: sink or swim. Literally. When we came across a gruesome car crash in Mexico with a bloody dead guy impaled on the steering wheel, I looked at him and he didn’t flinch. Lesson learned: don’t freak out. When my grades dipped during my sophomore year of high school, he told me not to show him my report card. Lesson learned: when the lesson is learned, the lesson is learned. (Alternate lesson: give ‘em enough rope).

Lessons learned, or scar tissue developed, during childhood is a great intro to Peter Taylor’s A Summons to Memphis, the 1987 Pulitzer Prize winner. Summons tells the story of Phillip, a New York City book editor and the 49-year-old son of imposing Memphis lawyer George Carver. Phillip, who is unmarried, returns home when George, an octogenarian, decides to remarry, a development that Phillip’s two older and also unmarried sisters, Betsy and Josephine, intend to prevent. With gusto.

But it turns out that the crux of the story isn’t the kids’ obsession with thwarting their father’s new love. Instead, it is the family’s history and the kids’ belief that their father totally ruined their lives. Unlike the father in A Thousand Acres, however, whose transgressions were objectively unforgivable, George is guilty of the much more pardonable sin of moving the family from Nashville to Memphis. In their minds, that decision 40 years earlier blighted all of their lives. Seriously, it can’t be fixed.

A little background is in order. Other than George who was born in rural Tennessee, the Carvers are natives of Nashville. And George, despite his upbringings, pulled himself up by his proverbial bootstraps, attended the prestigious Vanderbilt University and became a respected Nashville lawyer. In Nashville, the family leads an ideal life blessed with meaning until George is compelled to uproot the family and move to Memphis in order to protect his reputation due to his association with a former friend, the unsavory Mr. Lewis Shakleford. Tragedy ensues.

One sister had to give up an engagement; Philip was forever torn from an adolescent love; and the children’s mother, who has been dead for a few years before the book begins, had to leave all that she knew behind and start anew. And in Memphis the hardships continue. The teenage daughters are not allowed to be presented in Memphis and are thus denied the opportunity to find acceptable suitors; the other brother Georgie eventually runs off to fight in the war; the mother declines physically and mentally; and Philip moves to New York City to get away from it all. On the surface that is pretty much it to the story (I’ll leave you in suspense as to the success or failure of their thwarting attempts).

But really, A Summons to Memphis is about whether we ever get over the pain and betrayals – or what we remember as the pain and betrayals – from childhood. Granted, it is hard to get too worked up over the kids’ pain and betrayals in this story. It seems silly to blame a move of 200 miles as the determining factor for the rest of your life. But in retrospect, maybe the seeming triviality of the father’s actions in this book force us to take a closer look at the question. In other words, some people experience such horrible childhoods that the fact those experiences affect them throughout life seems a foregone conclusion. For most, however, those supposed wrongs might appear innocuous when viewed through the eyes of an objective outsider. In any case, A Summons to Memphis is a fine reminder that forgetting the injustices and seeming injustices which one suffered from one’s parents during childhood and youth must be the major part of any maturing process. The Carver children haven’t done so well on that front.

Bottom line, A Summons to Memphis is a finely written novel — as most of the books on the countdown from here on out will be — that tells a semi-interesting story. And for parents such as myself, it is a somewhat troubling reminder that all of your actions, intentional or not, will make an impression on your children, but a select few will change who they are as adults. And the kicker is you won’t know which actions those are until it is too late. (So maybe the really important lesson that we should teach our kids is that if you’re dropped into a swimming pool, you should swim.) All you can do is try your best, and drag your own mattress onto the front lawn once in a while. And by all means, spend time with your kids, even if it means nobody goes to bed before midnight. It might just be the thing they remember decades later. Lesson learned.

#51 Beloved by Toni Morrison (1988): As Yoda Would Say, Love or Hate. There is No Like. Hmm. (alternate title: I Did Not Love It. Controversy?)

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 5 Comments

Hamilton
The cast of Hamilton

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

There was a busy and sad news week in April – led by the death of Prince – where you might have missed the fact that the US Treasury Department decided your wallet has too much testosterone so they’re booting Andrew Jackson off the $20 bill and replacing him with Harriet Tubman. If your third grade history class is a little fuzzy, Tubman was one of the most important figures in the movement to end slavery. Now, not only is she the first woman to appear on US currency in more than a century, but she is also the first African-American ever to appear. And Andrew Jackson, the man she is replacing, owned slaves. Karma’s a bitch.

What you might have also missed if you were endlessly looping every Prince album from 1980’s Dirty Mind through 1987’s Sign o’ the Times (which, if you haven’t done, then you should right now), was that the original plan wasn’t to replace Jackson, but rather to replace Alexander Hamilton on the $10 bill. That’s not happening anymore because, well, Hamilton. Controversy? Not really.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, Hamilton is the Lin-Manuel Miranda written Broadway phenomenon; an unlikely sounding hip-hop musical about Alexander Hamilton, one of the lesser-known founding fathers of America. The numbers are staggering. After a successful off-Broadway run, it took in over $60 million before it opened on Broadway in August 2015; it’s sold out through January 2017; the album, which reached number three in the rap charts, is the highest selling cast recording for 50 years; tickets for even Monday evening shows can fetch up to $2000 for the best seats; and it just collected a record-breaking 16 Tony Award nominations.

But Hamilton is more than just numbers. It has been called historic and game-changing and, honestly, everyone seems to agree. Hollywood stars, hip-hop royalty and politicians of every persuasion have turned out in droves to see it. President Obama took his daughters, Bill Clinton has seen it, as has Julia Roberts, Susan Sarandon and Madonna (though she, according to cast members, spent most of her time glued to her phone). Jay-Z and Beyoncé posed with the cast after the show. One night JJ Abrams, the director of Star Wars: The Force Awakens, came and asked Manuel to write music for a scene in the film.

But its not just famous people that love Hamilton. Little kids love Hamilton and make cute little kid YouTube videos. Finicky critics love Hamilton. Ben Brantley, the New York Times critic, wrote, “I am loath to tell people to mortgage their houses and lease their children to acquire tickets to a hit musical. But Hamilton… might just be about worth it.” And even more finicky (finickier?) and sometimes hard to please teens love the show. How do I know? Because I’ve got one.

My daughter Lily started listening to the Hamilton soundtrack right before Christmas. I’m not entirely sure what the impetus was to make her queue it up on Spotify, but I am sure that once she started listening to it she couldn’t stop. Within a fairly short period of time, she knew every word to every song. She knew every cast member, including ensemble cast members and backups. She even enlisted her little sister to accompany her in a cute little video.

Which brings me to Beloved from Toni Morrison, the 1988 Pulitzer Prize winner and probably the most controversial novel on the countdown. Just as Frank Bascombe from Independence Day was the anti-Lemmy Kilmister, Beloved is the anti-Hamilton. People love or hate this book in equal numbers.

Set in Ohio in 1873 after the end of the Civil War, Beloved tells a lot of stories with a lot of voices, but the central one belongs to Sethe who is living in a farmhouse with her youngest daughter Denver, and her mother-in-law Baby Suggs. There is almost no way to explain this book without giving away the plot (ergo, SPOILER ALERT), but their house is also home to a sad but very angry ghost, who everyone believes is the spirit of Sethe’s baby daughter, who, at the age of 2, had her throat cut under appalling circumstances. We never know this child’s full name, but we – and Sethe – think of her as Beloved, because that is what is on her tombstone. Sethe wanted ”Dearly Beloved,” from the funeral service, but had only enough strength to pay for one word. Payment was 10 minutes of sex with the tombstone engraver.

Not surprisingly, a haunted house doesn’t make for the greatest home environment. Sethe’s two young sons have run away from home by the age of 13, and Denver, the only child remaining, is shy, friendless, and housebound. To add insult to injury, not long into the book and with the ghost in full possession of the house, Baby Suggs dies in her bed. Insert sad emoji.

But characters – and stories – such as these don’t exist without some significant trauma in their past, and Sethe’s past comes front and center when Paul D – one of the slaves from Sweet Home, the Kentucky plantation where Baby Suggs, Sethe, Halle (Sethe’s ex), and several other slaves once worked – arrives at their home. They fled Sweet Home 18 years before the novel opens, and when we begin the flashbacks, we see why. If there is such a thing as a good slave owner, then Mr. Garner, the original owner of Sweet Home, might qualify. He treated the slaves well, allowed them some say in running the plantation, and called them ”men” in defiance of the neighbors, who want all male blacks to be called ”boys.” But when he dies, his wife brings in her handiest male relative, who is known as ”the schoolteacher,” and, as is often the case with people whose nickname is “the schoolteacher,” he is a total asshole.

Throw in the schoolteacher’s two sadistic and repulsive nephews, and from there it’s all downhill at Sweet Home as the slaves try to escape, go crazy or are murdered. Sethe, in a trek that makes the Snake’s journey in Escape from New York look like a stroll around the block, gets out, just barely; her husband, Halle, doesn’t. Paul D. does, but has some very unpleasant adventures along the way, including a literally nauseating sojourn in a 19th-century Georgia chain gang.

So Paul D. and a shit ton of baggage arrive at Sethe’s home, and surprisingly, he appears to make things a little better. He forces out the ghost, and even gets Denver out of the house for the first time in years. But never forget, this is a Pulitzer winner which means that, chances are, this isn’t a story where things are going to work out for everyone in the end. And sure enough, on the way back home with Denver, they come across a young woman sitting in front of the house, calling herself, of all things, Beloved. Paul D is suspicious (duh) and warns Sethe, but she is charmed by the young woman and ignores him.

Not surprisingly, inviting a random 20 year-old who shows up out of nowhere calling herself the same name as your baby daughter who died tragically turns out to be a poor decision. Beloved gets in everyone’s head and sooner or later has sex with Paul D in a shed. He feels horrible and is racked with guilt, but when he tries to tell Sethe about it he instead tells her that he wants her pregnant. Lesson: just no.

Albeit, Sethe is initially elated so, to be fair, Paul D’s ad lib does put the breakup playlist on hold for a few. But when Paul D tells his friends at work about his plan to start a new family, they tell him the real story of how Sethe’s two year old died. I’ve given away too much already (and honestly would rather not discuss it), but suffice it to say that the news is too much for Paul D and he leaves. Without him around, Beloved consumes more and more of Sethe’s life until it reaches the point where it is clear that both cannot survive.

As I mentioned at the outset, people’s opinions on this novel vary widely. But regardless of where you think this book should sit in our literary countdown, there is little disputing that both the story and the writing are somewhat painful to get through, although I have a much harder time with the latter than the former.

Stories about slavery, especially good stories, are hard to read. On purpose. It was a brutal and lamentable part of our nation’s history, when very specific (and horrific) things happened to actual human beings. And being a book about that period, Beloved describes all of the beatings, whippings, rapes, killings, all of the families torn apart, individuals humiliated and lives wasted. As it should. And that may make the novel hard to read for some, but that isn’t a valid critique of the book.

For me, what made this book difficult to read wasn’t the story, it was the presentation. I’ll give you one example:

“In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ’cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved.”

Look, Toni Morrison is a much much much (I could go on for a while) more talented writer than I am, so I’m sure many people will completely disagree with me, but I find passages like the above hard to read. And not in a good way. It is a little over the top. A little Faulkner-esqe (and we see where that got him on the countdown). A little too, well, much. As I read this book, I kept feeling that she was trying too hard to impress and that the story therefore suffered a teeny bit because of it (IMHO).

But regardless of the prose, I admire Beloved for what it aims to achieve: to make us remember a terrible part of American history. And by remember, I don’t mean in a generic “there was slavery in the United States” way, but instead that there were very specific (and horrific) things that happened to actual people. With many wide scale events such as war, racism, or the holocaust, it is easy to get lost in the numbers, to forget that individual people were affected or perished.  Beloved personalizes slavery, which makes it easier for people-in-general to identify with the subject. It elevates a terrible part of history beyond mere statistics.

And maybe that’s where Beloved and Hamilton share a common bond. We all learn about the War for Independence in school but in our heart of hearts, we don’t care. We aren’t really moved by it. Hamilton changes that because it shows us a period in history through the story of a single, albeit sometimes unsympathetic, man. Just as we really feel the horrors of slavery because of how we see it affected Sethe, we understand the sacrifices people made when establishing this country.

But, and this is a big but, delivery matters. Beloved will never be universally beloved because Morrison loses the reader (or at least some readers) with her challenging writing. There are no little kids making videos recreating scenes from Beloved. Miranda, in contrast, engages a whole new generation of people with his never-before-heard all-rap Broadway musical. Its accessibility enables the story. Hence that’s why Alexander Hamilton will remain on the ten-dollar bill while slave owner Andrew Jackson gets the boot.

Oddly enough, the very same week that equally universally beloved Prince died, I found myself at the Richard Rogers Theater in New York with Lily watching Lin-Manuel Miranda do his stuff. To tell the truth, I was a little concerned that there was no way the play could live up to the hype. I shouldn’t have been. I loved it. No controversy there.

Lily and Daveed
Lily’s selfie with Lafayette/Jefferson actor Daveed Diggs after the show.

#52 Independence Day by Richard Ford (1996): Mid-life, Motorcycles & Motorhead (but no aliens)

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ Leave a comment

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

You know I’m born to lose and gambling’s for fools
But that’s the way I like it, baby
I don’t wanna live forever
And don’t forget the joker

– “Ace of Spades” by Motörhead

I know, I know. It’s been months since my last Pulitzer Schmultizer! column. I feel bad about that. And, honestly, I have no excuses. In fact, I have less than no excuses because I actually left my last job in October and didn’t start my new one until January. I had grand visions of knocking out a bunch of Pulitzer reviews during my break. I was going to knock out so many that I’d have them backed up just waiting for the perfect time to post them. But alas, I filled up my time with other activities and before you know it three months passed and I’m already in a new year. Viva la 2016.

But although unintentional, regret over things unfinished is a very apropos theme given the story I’m about to tell that I started to write back in the fall. You see, there was a Saturday in October when I found myself in a deserted parking lot, slightly hung over at 6:30am, next to the aircraft carrier USS Hornet with 20 total strangers. And again, although I have no excuses, I do slightly blame Lemmy Kilmister.

There is a good chance you don’t know Lemmy. He was the front man for Motörhead, a metal band that played music most people don’t listen to, and played it long enough ago that many more people have either forgotten or are too young to remember. But when I was 12, my friend Drew went to London with his parents on vacation and came back with Motörhead’s Ace of Spades album. When he put in on, I stared at the album cover, half of me wanting to be in the band and the other half wanting to get into a fetal position and hug my Snoopy doll.

On stage, Lemmy was all bronchial rasp, singing into a microphone stand that towered above him, tilting down to his weather beaten face with his mutton chops and oh so present warts. And off stage, he was exactly the same. Lemmy didn’t have a stage persona. As Dave Grohl once said: “Fuck Elvis and Keith Richards, Lemmy’s the king of rock ‘n’ roll. Lemmy’s a living, breathing, drinking and snorting fucking legend.” And like with many things in life, Dave was right. A kid once asked him if he got hangovers, to which he answered: “To get hangovers you have to stop drinking.”

It seems silly now, but to a 12 year-old in suburban Phoenix, Lemmy was the coolest guy that ever lived. Lemmy drank a bottle of Jack Daniels per day and slept with 2,000 women. And I was convinced – even though now I’m not sure where I got the idea – that Lemmy rode a motorcycle. Hence, someday I would ride a motorcycle. Key word: “someday.”

But life is life and a thousand other things happened. I grew up, went to college and then law school, got a job, fell in love, got married, went to more school, had two kids and adopted a third, and got five more jobs (not necessarily in that order). And that’s just the big stuff. I also (not necessarily in this order) visited 23 countries, bungee jumped, scuba dived, took salsa, guitar and swing dance lessons (twice), got stranded in Tijuana (once), lived with at least 7 pets (not including fish), climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, ate rotting shark in Iceland, did a triathlon, threw up in at least three public restrooms (and at least one of which was a women’s room), earned a brown belt in a Vietnamese martial art called Cuong Nhu, and was nearly arrested at least 5 times. To be clear, I was innocent in each instance. In my free time, I also read every single Pulitzer Prize winner for fiction. And that still isn’t even scratching the surface. The good news is that I didn’t drink a bottle of Jack Daniels per day OR sleep with 2,000 women. The bad news is that is also never learned to ride a motorcycle. And then, snap, I was middle-aged.

A few posts ago I discussed my mid-life crisis and how it has spurred me to try new things. Turns out, it also spurs you to try old things. Go figure.

I guess that isn’t that surprising, as mid-life brings about the discomfiting realization that your remaining time on earth is less than what you’ve already lived. Sounds a little morbid, but you realize that death is now clearly on this side of one’s narrative rather than some faraway, remote, abstract endpoint. And so it makes perfect sense that it is during this time that people pause and reflect on where they have been and where they are going. Or, put another way, it triggers two related but distinct realizations: “I’m not young anymore” and “I won’t live forever.”

For the most part, “I won’t live forever” is motivating. Granted, it is motivation by the fear you aren’t going to live forever, but taking stock of where you’ve been, where you are, and where you’d like to go is helpful in making thoughtful decisions about your future. This thinking, as I’ve mentioned, leads to saying “yes” more often, as well as some unfortunate yet inspirational coffee mugs and posters of soaring seagulls that say things like “this is the first day of the rest of your life.” That’s growth. Sort of.

The “I’m not young anymore” can be a little trickier. Despite all of the things that you absolutely can do when you hit mid-life, you realize there are absolutely things that would aren’t going to do. Like win Wimbledon, fly a fighter plane, or be President. When you focus on what you haven’t done, you tend to make impulsive decisions designed to make one last mad dash to recapture youth. Like learning to ride a motorcycle.

So somewhere in my middle-aged brain remained the acorn of an idea planted all those years ago while listening to Motörhead and looking at a picture of Lemmy: I needed to know how to ride a motorcycle. I’m the first to admit, it makes little sense for a middle-aged man with three kids. Regardless, the desire was there and it continued to gnaw at me until I found myself, hungover, in the deserted parking lot at 6:30 am next to an aircraft carrier with 20 total strangers (the hangover part was pure coincidence). Believe me, people have had worse ideas in their mid-life crises.

Which leads us to Independence Day by Richard Ford, winner of the 1996 Pulitzer Prize, and a tale of mid-life crisis poster child Frank Bascombe. Sadly, this is not the book the movie Independence Day was based on. If you’re expecting aliens, explosions and rousing speeches, you won’t get them here. Instead, you get Frank. Like John Updike’s Rabbit, this is not Frank’s first appearance in print as he debuted as the angst-ridden antihero of Ford’s highly praised 1986 novel, “The Sportswriter.” Frank, who was 38 when we first met him, is now 44 years old and has abandoned sports-writing and returned to conservative Haddam, New Jersey, to live in the home of his ex-wife, Ann, and work as a realtor.

Frank is not in a good space and is exhibiting some textbook mid-life crisis thinking: he believes that life’s choices are limited, that getting old is humiliating, and that the nearness of death is downright terrifying. He has entered what he calls his “Existence Period,” “the part that comes after the big struggle which led to the big blowup,” a sort of holding pattern characterized by “the condition of honest independence.” He’s drifting through his forties, and throw in a few non-trivial bumps in the road — a deceased child, the divorce he hasn’t been able to recover from, and a brutally murdered ex-girlfriend – and Frank is the definition of a hot mess.

But despite his hot-messness, Frank has some goals. First off, he’d like his son Paul to come live with him so he can straighten some things out. Much, much easier said than done. To say Paul’s got some issues is an insult to issues. Paul has never recovered from the death of his brother; occasionally barks like a dog; and has been labeled by a team of therapists as intellectually beyond his years yet emotionally underdeveloped. He has recently been arrested for shoplifting three boxes of Magnum XL condoms (so he’s also either set in that department or delusional) and is being taken to court by the female security guard who captured him, who is accusing him of assault and battery.

His two other goals seem somewhat mutually exclusive. On one hand, he wants a second chance with his ex-wife Ann, which seems highly unlikely since she feels that he “may be the most cynical man in the world.” And there’s also the small matter of her remarriage. On the other hand, Frank also wants to form a “more serious attachment” to his girlfriend, Sally, but here too there are problems as evidenced by Sally’s confession: “Something’s crying out to be noticed, I just don’t know what it is. But it must have to do with you and I. Don’t you agree?”

Amidst all this, Frank is also tackling two more minor problems. First, he’s trying to collect rent from Larry McLeod, a black former Green Beret, and his white wife, Betty, who live in one of two houses Frank owns in Haddam’s solitary black neighborhood. At the same time, he’s been shepherding two “donkeyish clients,” Joe and Phyllis Markham, through 45 houses and is urging them to close on a place located next to a minimum-security prison. These story lines are so boring I almost fell asleep writing the summary.

So with all this going on, you would expect more to be going on. But there is only the thinnest of story lines in the 451 pages of Independence Day. As we’ve seen with some of the other Pulitzer winners toward the bottom of the countdown, the novel often bogs down in the repetitive description of place and setting. The majority of the book is Frank driving around the Northeast in his Crown Vic and having conversations with various characters, with whom he generally tries to share moments of meaningful human connection, with varying degrees of failure. Some events, such as Frank’s effort to collect rent from the McLeods, or the mysterious murder of his realtor/girlfriend, lead oddly nowhere. Others, such as Frank’s meeting with Sally, are at best inconclusive (Sally hopes someday he’ll “get around to doing something memorable”), or at worst, depressing in their inconclusiveness (the Markhams lose the house they were looking at to a Korean family and Frank’s effort to help his troubled son veers toward tragedy and irreparable loss).

But maybe that’s the point. A good plot as we traditionally think of it will take us for a ride through a series of events. But this would violate Frank’s basic belief that “you can rave, break furniture, get drunk, crack up your Nova and beat your knuckles bloody on the glass bricks of the exterior wall of whatever dismal room you’re temporarily housed in, but in the end you won’t have changed the basic situation and you’ll still have to make the decision you didn’t want to make before, and probably you’ll make it in the very way you’d resented and that brought on all the raving and psychic fireworks.”

This isn’t a novel about conflict or rupture or surprising and unexpected turns of events. It’s certainly not about the invasion of aliens on the 4th of July. It’s really just about living inside someone else’s mind while he goes about a fairly dull weekend, and Ford somehow does a surprisingly entertaining job of capturing the banality and desperation of mid-life suburban self-creation. Moreover, it isn’t entirely depressing. By they novel’s final scenes, Frank has managed to take his first tentative steps from the Existence Period toward a sense of community and the possibilities of the “Permanent Period,” which he defines as “that long, stretching-out time when my dreams would have mystery like any ordinary person’s; when whatever I do or say, who I marry, how my kids turn out, becomes what the world — if it makes note at all — knows of me.”

Frank Bascombe is like the anti-Lemmy Kilmister. Lemmy, for better or for worse, was a living, breathing, drinking and snorting fucking legend until the day he died, which anecdotally happened in December, while I was on my work break, not writing my blog posts. Such self-realization is rare, but it is hard to imagine that Lemmy had any self-doubts as he made his way through middle age. In contrast, Frank was full of self-doubt, and spent his days wanting life to mean just a little something more than existence. Maybe he should have tried motorcycle lessons.

Speaking of which, I loved my motorcycle lessons. As the day wore on and my hangover wore off, I couldn’t help but smile as I wove through cones or learned how to shift. It was fun. But maybe more importantly, I put Lemmy’s ghost to rest and realized that I’m not going to buy a motorcycle. I just wanted to know that I could ride one. In case aliens invade us. On Independence Day.

#53 How Shakespeare, Baby Names, and the Tower of Terror Provided Proper Perspective on A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley (1992)

~ Pulitzer Guy ~ 4 Comments

[Editor’s Note: Pulitzer Schmulitzer! is where we count down our favorite Pulitzer Prize winning novels for fiction according to the unpredictable and arbitrary whims of yours truly. To learn how Pulitzer Schmulitzer! started and read about the methodology or complete lack thereof behind the rankings, look no further than right here. If you want to see what we’ve covered so far, here you go. Now, on to the countdown.]

My daughter Lily was almost named Cordelia. Well, “almost” may be an exaggeration, but it was certainly in the consideration set. A little over thirteen years ago we were expecting the birth of our second child and going through typical baby-naming negotiations. We knew we were having a girl, so at least that narrowed the choices down a bit. Some names Gigi liked but I didn’t (Scout) and vice versa (Claire). And some we both liked but were summarily dismissed if it was determined I dated anyone with that name (Iris).

But one of my favorites was Cordelia. Honestly, given the passage of time I’m not entirely sure why I was fixated on Cordelia, but I was, and so it was on the list. To me, she was the youngest daughter – and most favorite daughter – of King Lear. Very much a Cinderella character in contrast to her two older evil sisters. To my wife Gigi, however, Cordelia was a truck stop on the way to Tahoe and there was really no getting around that.

So Lily it was. And Lily, and the whole naming thing, was top of mind recently as I watched my now 13 year-old scale a climbing structure affectionately known as the Tower of Terror. Actually, calling the Tower of Terror a climbing structure is like calling Stalin a bit of a grump. The Tower of Terror is the tallest climbing structure suspended between two trees in the United States. At the top – 100 feet above the ground – is a bench where you can enjoy amazing views, but to get there you need to navigate a series of supremely difficult climbing elements.

How do I know it is difficult? Because I’ve tried it. The Tower of Terror lives at Camp Augusta, a camp in the Sierra Nevada Mountains where my kids have gone for summer camp for years. And every so often we attend a “family camp” weekend where parents are allowed to join. So over the years I’ve attempted to tackle the Tower of Terror with little success. Some might say no success as I can’t even navigate up the first element called the Giant’s Ladder, which is a series of “rungs” made from logs that get progressively farther and farther apart.

So I was somewhat surprised (but pleasantly surprised to be sure) when my 13-year-old and her 13-year-old friend signed up to try their luck. As with any parent, you want your children to succeed, but the Tower of Terror was so hard that I was proud that they were even going to attempt to climb it. I either significantly underestimated both their ability and resolve or overestimated my own, or both.

I wouldn’t say Lily and her friend Kaelin raced up the Tower of Terror, but I would say that they handled it with relative ease. It is intended to be a team building activity, but the girls ignored that advice and each tackled it on their own, albeit at the same time. Friendship be damned. And although they approached each of the elements in a different way, they both ended their climbs victorious, sitting on the bench at the very top.

Lily and Kaelin attacking the Tower of Terror.
Lily and Kaelin attacking the Tower of Terror.

And as I stood on the ground far below trying to take pictures on my iPhone of Lily so very far away, I had one of those moments where I realized that my kids have and will continue to quickly surpass my skills in many different ways. And I’m not talking about the fact that they’re better than me at Minecraft, aerial silks, SnapChat or other things that they spend an inordinate amount of time on that I don’t. No, I’m talking about things that I can do. Maybe not well, but I can do them. Sam, for example, can beat me at both chess and tennis, and, embarrassingly, taught me how to make pancakes the other day. And now Lily can say without hesitation, that she is a far better climber than I am. Although these moments may bruise the ego a little, they provoke undoubtedly positive feelings of pride and joy.

So its on the back of that parental pride for my nearly King Lear-named daughter that we tackle A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley, the 1992 Pulitzer Prize winner, and a fine example of how things can go incredibly wrong in a family dynamic. A Thousand Acres tells the story of Larry Cook, the aging patriarch of a rich, thriving farm in Iowa, and his three daughters: Ginny, Rose and Caroline. Larry decides, somewhat unexpectedly and hastily, to retire and turn the farm over to his three daughters. For Ginny and Rose, who live on the farm with their husbands, the gift makes sense–a reward for years of hard work, a challenge to make the farm even more successful. But the youngest, Caroline, a Des Moines lawyer, flatly rejects the idea, and in anger her father cuts her out–setting off an explosive series of events that will leave none of them unchanged.

Sound familiar? It should because coincidentally (or not), Smiley uses King Lear as her framework for the novel. We have the ailing patriarch, a kingdom in decline and his three contesting daughters. In fact, as I was reading the novel I was wondering how far Smiley is going to mirror the Shakespeare plot. It turns out, pretty far.

The novel is narrated by Ginny (Goneril in Lear), the eldest of the daughters. On the surface she is self-effacing, obedient, submissive to both her father and husband. She is childless, the victim of several miscarriages and thus jealous of her sister Rose (Regan) who has two girls. She is also jealous of her younger sister Caroline (Cordelia) who has escaped the farm and rural life to become a lawyer in the city.

But here is where the book starts to veer from its inspiration. What Smiley tries to do with A Thousand Acres is to re-tell Lear from the viewpoint of the daughters. In other words, why did Lear’s daughters act the way they acted? Was Lear less of a tragic character than a fallen one? And once armed with the backstory lacking in Lear, Ginny and Rose absolutely become more sympathetic (although you will still roll your eyes at some of their behavior), and Caroline becomes a little less sweet than her Shakespearean counterpart. They all become a little more real.

And like many of Shakespeare’s plays — and unlike many of the other Pulitzer Prize winners — A Thousand Acres has no shortage of plot twists. The story moves at a fairly rapid clip (one exception below) and should hold your interest. I won’t spoil the specifics of them for you here, but rest assured battles are engaged, abuse (both physical and sexual) is done, finances are ruined, plots are hatched (and tilled), backs are stabbed, poison is prepared, estrangements abound, truths are told, cars are crashed and lightening bolts flash. Plowshares are literally beaten into swords, and honestly no character ends up happy (which I guess may be somewhat of a spoiler except that it would be expected knowing that the story is based on Lear).

So why not a higher ranking? First off (and the exception noted above), the book did get a little overly descriptive and tedious at some points. Seriously, it is about a farm in Iowa. There are only so many descriptions of soil that I can handle. But it isn’t just soil. Smiley describes every covered dish at the social, every vegetable in the garden. I appreciate a detailed pot-luck casserole depiction as much as the next guy, but we could have lost a fifth of this book with no harm done.

Second, and more substantively, as Smiley makes the daughters more real by providing motivation, she subtracts from the realism of Larry (Lear) simply by overloading the father with culpability. You can tell fairly quickly that Larry is enough of a douche to engender adequate rage. But instead of leaving well enough alone, Smiley turns him into Satan incarnate by introducing multiple additional motives for the two oldest daughters to hate their father. Not only did this seem unnecessary, but it also actually took away from his daughters’ newfound depth because their behavior seems much less complex given the introduction of the additional bad deeds.

Lastly, and maybe most importantly, I simply did not feel good after closing the book. Obviously, there is an awful lot of misery in this tale. It was emotionally draining. It was dark. That being said, I’m not usually one to be that bothered by depressing stories. This one may have gotten to me because the bad stuff is never balanced out with any character redemption. Unlike Lear who at least gains a modicum of compassion and humility from his excesses, Larry learns nothing from his actions. Alternatively, and probably, I’m sure my reaction has a lot to do with being a father of three and reading a story that punctuates the power that parents have over their children — a power that can become lethal and suffocating when abused. But the fact that I recognize that rationalization doesn’t make the book any easier to read or take the stress out of parenting.

So how do you cope? Change the perspective. I recently read an article after Vice President Joe Biden’s son, Beau, died over the summer at the age of 46. In 2008, Beau, who was also a politician, had introduced Joe at the Democratic National Convention when Joe agreed to be Obama’s running mate. During his acceptance speech, Joe said: “A father knows he’s a success when he turns and looks at his son or daughter and knows that they turned out better than he did. I’m a success; I’m a hell of a success. Beau, I love you. I’m so proud of you.”

So next time I’m looking up at my kids (literally) as I did with Lily and the Tower of Terror, I’ll try to remember that even if there is a little ego bruising as they continue to surpass me, their successes are really my successes. Because really, it’s all about me.