Pimp of the Week: J.D. Salinger

J.D. Salinger is the literary pimp who brought us such universally appealing expressions as "crummy," "phony," and "mean bastards." If he had not created Holden Caulfield, adolescents the world over would feel far less justified in escaping high school to wander the streets of Manhattan, to pay for prostitutes (strictly for talking purposes), and to seek alcohol-soaked wisdom from their English teachers.

But after Salinger became the star of literary irony, he receded into the anti-social depths of rural New Hampshire. But one can only remain in total isolation for so long. At age 53 Salinger ended up writing a series of letters to a Yale freshman girl, Joyce Maynard, because her article in The New York Times Magazine.

Maynard gave up the Ivy League to live with Salinger in New Hampshire. The affair ended when she wanted children and he wanted his peace and quiet. At least she got 10 months of boundless literary advice and a lifetime of unmatched dinner table conversation.

"I'd rather buy jewelry!"

A friend of mine decided to detox from a year of college drinking by spending his year after university living the life of a monk. He took a position as a history teacher at a secluded boarding school in the mountains of Switzerland, far from anything but lovely landscape and a lot of homemade cheese. He awakes at six o'clock every morning for a refreshing run in the alpine air with the basketball team, and the purity of his day only increases from there.

For a change of pace, he had a jaunt in Paris, and due to his modest monastic salary, he decided that CouchSurfing.org would be the most economical of accommodations. This website connects desperate travelers with random hosts all over the world who offer their couches for free, in the hopes of meeting new people and spreading good karma. Sounds officially creepy to me.

He ended up staying with a 35-year-old Parisian guy who did not have a couch. Apparently the bed was not big enough for the two of them, because in the dark of the night my friend awoke to an unpleasant surprise: his French host was treating him to an unsolicited 'Foot Job.' He spent the remainder of the night in his sleeping bag and returned to Switzerland with a renewed respect for Swiss cheese.

High Floor Corner King

There is something about horse races that just seems to bring together dapper, semi-elderly men on Sunday afternoons. At the Hipodromo de San Isidro outside of Buenos Aires I experienced my first horse race. It was a great deal like many male-dominated sporting events the world over—long, slightly boring, anti-climactic, and, since it is winter in South America, cold. It made me think of the Harvard-Yale football games that I get duped into attending every Thanksgiving.

At least at a horse race there is the added element of fun afforded by placing bets on the horses, or "studs" as they are called. They have the most inventive names, since there can't be any repetitions in the official stud book. "Free Saucy," Sensual Plus," and "Honorable Lady" were my personal favorite stud names.

Plus, it is always amusing to be the only woman at a mostly-male event. And to be the only American just intensifies that intriguing feeling of foreignness.

Disengagement

I hosted a reunion fête for my oldest friends in the world—the ones who used to accompany me as a twelve-year-old girl dressed in drag parading around the local video store on Friday nights banging on tambourines to attract awkward attention. Our nostalgic slumber party was upgraded from our middle school days of Toll House cookies and prank phone calls, by prosecco and a trip to a typically Boston, typically preppy bar.

But in the end, we still stayed up until 5 am, watching a VHS tape of our 8th grade musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (quite possibly the tranniest musical of all time). I guess the only difference was that this time we did not pee in our pants from laughing too much. And this time we had a lot more to say about our various experiences with mimbos and wankers. When my mother asked, "Do any of you girls have someone special in your life?" my friend responded, "Well, I have a boyfriend, but he's not that special."

A Biennale

I was recently in the somewhat posh position of choosing a print to take home from the Yale University Art Gallery collection. Two dozen lithographs, engravings, and photographs were laid out in the pristine climate-controlled space on the fourth floor of the museum.

Gauche things to do in the Yale University Art Gallery Print Room:

1. Chewing gum.

2. Texting your friend as an art consultant to find out which print is the most valuable.

3. Googling the names of the artists on your Blackberry (for the same reason as applies to #2).

4. Selecting the only non-classical/old master/charming French pastoral print and opting for something that involves:
a) a transvestite
b) a tin man clutching two decapitated pig heads under his arms with a contented grin on his face. Naturally, this was my choice—I couldn't imagine anyone wanting anything but such a display of sinister carnal delight...the photographer's name is Michael Garlington and he is described as "David Lynch meets Leave it to Beaver." In short, perfection.

Angel Face

The kids of my generation can be inordinately absurd, evidenced by the fact that I just used the expression "inordinately absurd." Instead of being defined by fiery social change and the advent of free love, we are mired in Adderall addictions and trips to the therapist, where we grapple with our ennui, our parents' divorces, and...wouldn't you know it? The very Adderall addictions that began when the psychiatrist prescribed the zippy little drug to us as "easily distracted" twelve-year-olds.

Gauche things to do during a therapy session:

1. Saying, "Sorry I'm late! I would have been on time, but I was having sex with that boy—you know, the guy you wanted me to compose a 'goodbye letter' to after our session last week."

2. Leaving your cell phone turned on and answering calls in the middle of the session, while not busy reading your emails.

3. Taking a photo of your therapist on your camera phone, and then saying, "Don't worry. I just need a quick shot so I can upload a new post on Mytherapistiswhack.blogspot.com."

4. Eating dinner, especially if the dinner you brought looks suspiciously like something taken from the fridge in the kitchen of your therapist's office.

5. When told at the end of the session, "See you next week," replying, "Yeah, hopefully."

King Tut

It's an abandoned university dorm room in the middle of the night. The place gets eerie at this time of year, when all the undergraduates are gone, except for a few straggling seniors awaiting graduation. My friend is an artist and uses her oversized single as a studio. She says, "It's great—I keep lumber, and power tools, and all sorts of things in there." She grew up on a farm in a "very rural blue-collar part of Wisconsin" that afforded her about 20 acres of personal space. One of her first worldly experiences was when she traveled to Siena at age 16 to do an apprenticeship with a 50-year-old painter. Her parents shipped her off with a little duffel bag, and she arrived at the man's falling down house in the middle of the Tuscan countryside.

Her Sienese painter/master was a typical Italian man...he would grab the paint brush out of her hand and smack her with it if he didn't like what she was doing. Plus, he expected her to cook him dinner. She mixed his oil paints for him and ran away to the city whenever possible. The best part about authentic travel experience is that, after enough time has passed since the traumatic 'culturally enriching' period, you always look back on it with fondness, even if it involved a middle-aged creeper and crying yourself to sleep every night.

Champagne Socialists

Sometimes it's nice to steal things even when it's not necessary. In fact, rich people are often the most dangerous ones prowling through luxury department stores. I'm sure that Winona Ryder had something other than pinching pennies on her mind when she scooped up 5,000 dollars worth of Marc Jacobs and Gucci items at her corner Saks Fifth Avenue. The phenomenon of kleptomania is like many destructive addictions, such as alcoholism, or watching reality TV: it seems like a good idea at the time, but after you've passed out in the shower, buried in floral print blouses, having watched 48 hours of Jessica Simpson prancing around her McMansion wearing velour, you realize that your favorite pastime is a destructive one.

I had a firsthand experience with thievery in the notoriously "ghetto" New Haven. Anticipating the closing of the campus dining halls, I became anxious about my access to food while squatting in my dorm room during the coming weeks. My friend and I decided to "get even" with our exorbitantly priced meal plans. In the space of 72 hours we went on an ultra-gauche shopping spree and stealthily pilfered the following items: 1 carton vanilla soy milk, 4 boxes Kashi Heart to Heart cereal, 2 boxes Cinnamon Life/Cracklin' Oat Bran/All-Bran/granola, 4 c. Quaker Oatmeal, 1/2 c. cashew nuts, 3 c. chocolate sprinkles, 8 slices luncheon meats, 1 c. hummus, 2 c. grape tomatoes, 2 c. yogurt, 36 Anjou pears, 5 bananas, 49 apples, 12 oranges, 1 loaf potato bread. It sounds like a recipe for disaster. And in the end we have decided to book it to Manhattan and leave all our precious rationings behind.

A Handsome Catalogue!

I found a wayward Mother's Day card soaked and dirty on the streets of New Haven, under one of the flowering trees next to an elaborate wrought iron gate. I am not sure if the card ever made it to the mother, or if it merely fell out of the son's pocket en route to the nearby post office. The front cover had an illustration of a book on it: "Mother Knows Best: The critically acclaimed best-seller." And then there was the boy's personal heartfelt message:

To the author of many critically acclaimed best sellers,
Happy Mother's Day. Thanks for all your wisdom. This mother's day is especially meaningful mostly because we had such a great mother-son bonding/quality time :) Thank you for everything, especially for supporting me through the amazing and challenging year!
Love,

Jack

I always thought of parents as being more like crutches for when you have a sprained foot and less like books for when you are in need of "wisdom." We go to our mothers kicking and screaming, and rarely seek them out when we are at our mature contemplative intellectual best. But the son's card was a soggy, wrinkled mess in the street. And it's the thought that counts.

Perfect Confection

At a lovely British Art Center lecture on Victorian paintings, which are notorious for being no body's favorite, the overriding theme was Morrison's Pills. Or, something to do with philanthropy and a rich English man who patronized the arts thanks to the phenomenon of his diuretics.

Gauche things to mention while lecturing at the Yale Center for British Art:

1. "The mounting of this exhibition was a long and arduous process that required the full strength of 12 Herculean men."

2. "This picture of the Babylonian marriage market always makes me think of America's Next Top Model."

3. "If you'll allow me five minutes to finish off, I'll discuss this picture of cheeky repose."

4. "I would take a few questions, but it's definitely time for a drink."

In proper Anglican fashion, the elderly audience, along with a slew of thirsty graduate students, trotted to the miniature crab delicacies and appropriately named "Hob Nob" wine. I bonded with a striking woman wearing fabulous ethnic jewelry and a frisky tunic dress—and there's nothing Victorian about her.

Fly by Night

There are certain things about college that I find terrifyingly gauche. Tonight I was lying awake in my cozy extra-long twin bed, while a gaggle of inebriated underclassmen hosted some sort of end-of-year alcoholic extravaganza in the suite above me. I could bear the incessant throbbing of their dreadful music, but then, the terrifying occurred: I heard the sudden pitter-patter of dozens of nineteen-year-old feet storming the staircase, accompanied by the following chant: "NAKED RUN! NAKED RUN! NAKED PARTY!"

The Yale phenomenon of the 'Naked Party' is on par with the proliferation all-male a cappella groups: I suppose it is a nice pastime for those involved, but I'd rather not have to hear about the nude pseudo-homoerotic bonding rituals central to both these Yale 'institutions.'

When I was a senior in boarding school, I would jump into the pond with underclassmen boys, but it was more of a spur-of-the-moment encounter involving wet t-shirts and broken curfews. In college this sort of midnight debauchery seems pretentious, premeditated, and, consequently—prepubescent. The same goes for a cappella singing.

Living in a dorm room at 33?

Finally finished with university, a land of prestige-seekers and Type A goons, I have been dropped in the most undesirable of places: 'the job market.' My first irritating duty while residing in this locale is to craft those dreaded documents called 'cover letters.'

Gauche things to say in a cover letter:

1. "I am writing to express my interest in filling the opening."

2. "I am willing to assume any position necessary."

3. "I've always wanted to work under you, but I'm also willing to rise to the top."

4. "I'm at my best when things get hard."

5. "I'm very flexible under pressure."

6. "Although one of my faults is a tendency not to create long-term commitments, I do inspire people to quick—even 'seat of the pants'—decisions."

Memory Stick: Rediscovery of the gothic

At a video/performance show for the art school's MFA students, one artist chatted with a plywood box for 20 minutes, and then sat down next to it and drank a juice box. Then a girl danced awkwardly with a cloth-covered phallus/boom-box-on-wheels.

Next thing I knew I was at the Yale undergraduate art exhibit, staring at a chocolate-topped café table. The artist claimed that he wanted to "confront the interface of edible and inedible objects." He rambled on about how "it is fascinating that you can have a piece of chicken, and a book, and a cell phone, and gold (as in jewelry), all on a table together in the same space," and "what would it be like if they melted into the plane?" I could not for the life of me understand anything that came out of his mouth, but he used the term "interface" in rare abundance.

Another young artist spent months using two scanners to "scan each other," in the creation of seductive digital images that she makes into sleek little books and large reflective glass-plated prints. I am obsessed by her "Scan Scan" project and hope to become her agent.

It mystifies me how the art world can induce such pretensions, such idiocy, and such brilliance, all in the space of 24 hours. But it's never hard to know if it's the chocolate, the phallus, or the scanner that emits beauty.

Throwaway Culture

This morning at the New Haven corner coffee shop a middle-aged woman sat next to me eating her raspberry scone and writing repeatedly on a pad of paper: "Please God give Brendan strength/Please God give Brendan strength..." And just like that for pages and pages. Meanwhile, across the street, there was quite a sizable security brigade forming in front of the museum. Everyone in the coffee shop turned to stare out the windows and gawk. Apparently, there was a "special guest" visiting the Yale Center for British Art today, and "no one knows who." There was a proliferation of Chinese flags and well-dressed Asians carrying large bouquets. My guess is it was a noted Chinese pop singer along the lines of Miley Cyrus. Perhaps the recession has forced Yale to sell off some of its fine art assets, and the young lovely is looking to cover her bubblegum-colored loft in a glorious George Stubbs tableau.

According to a textual message drifting around campus, the mystery guest was far less of a trendy tween icon than I had anticipated: "it was liu yandong the only female member of the politburo and the highest ranking female in china." Well, I got the gender right at least.

In a Lab Coat

The Dostoevsky novella Notes from Underground was adapted into a play that I watched last night at The Yale Rep. It was quite romantic to sit by myself in a packed theatre, mesmerized by the bits of falling snow on the sparse-and-skanky set of the Underground Man's apartment, with its stacks of filing boxes and makeshift chairs made from parcel delivery containers. Though it was 120 minutes of an older man at his wit's end and on a rant, I couldn't take my eyes off the performance. I never even thought to glance at my Blackberry or my watch.

The production used video camera footage projected onto the wall, so that the audience could simultaneously watch the Underground Man's body on stage and his hyper-mediated face blown up while he documented himself. The white walls of his cell-like lodgings were transformed by enormous moving images: Bauhaus apartments flashing by in black and white, neon lights and highway stripes, and even male party guests wearing tuxedos and sipping champagne like bobbleheads. The distorted movements—from the bulbous and sweaty Underground Man, to his gamine twenty-year-old prostitute—made for exquisite unease. During the final rape scene the audience was breathless.

It reminded me of the endurance of any period of over-consciousness or self-reflection in one's life: painful, even torturous, but always cinematic.

Ultimately

I have been beleaguering all of my friends and family about the issue of whether or not I should invest in graduate school. In one moment it seems like a natural progression, a golden opportunity, an ideal way to evolve intellectually in these less-than-ideal times. Plus, it is good to be in a haven of smart people, many of whom care about things other than sex and money, which is a rarity in the dense area of Manhattan.

When I emailed my thesis adviser about my dilemma (mixed in with an apology for my lack of a finished draft), he responded with refreshing succinctness:

"too soon to flip out. save that for middle age, since it will happen anyway."

The Diamond Fell Out

Tonight I attended Theatre of Desire, a Yale undergraduate drama debauchery that takes place sporadically, in a ballroom, with donuts, coffee, and Deb Margolin, the famous feminist performance artist and playwright. I usually shudder at the sight of the overly enthusiastic theatre kid, but tonight I was feeling particularly low and needed a collaborative distraction involving cold readings of unfinished plays and outbursts of emotion that would rival my own current state of existential distress.

I witnessed a scene from a play about a girl, her lucid dreams, her therapist, and her best friend's imaginary boyfriend. The lead, Mia, pleads with her friend, Flora, to break up with the imaginary boyfriend, Clark, saying, "Flora, you have to find something real!"

But is Mia right? Do we have to find something real? What is so abominable about an imaginary boyfriend? I suppose it is considered "settling" to date someone who only exists in your fantasy life, but absurdism can go a long way in making reality more bearable. The above picture of champagne glasses also signifies something that can go a long way in making reality more bearable.

You & Me Solo

On the cover of today's Yale Daily News there is a photo of a beaming young couple, two Yale seniors (both Catholics and on the crew team) who are engaged to be married upon graduation. It all began when they met on the steps of the New Haven post office, and they sealed the deal (not literally I'm sure, since they are devout Catholics) when he proposed to her last year on those very steps. What a whirlwind tale of tidy romance.

Marriage before the age of 23 is uncommon these days, and the figures are dropping in recent years: apparently only about 25 percent of women and 16 percent of men choose this path of an early yoke and bypass the lovely exploratory period of the 20s dating scene. The Yale Daily News reported that less than 40 percent of young marriages end in divorce, which is less than the overall 50 percent divorce rate.

My guess is that it's all a matter of luck. Destiny could have it that you meet the man, or woman, of your dreams while studying for final exams, under the harsh fluorescent glow of the library reading room, at age 19. For some women, their destiny seems to be meeting a series of mixed characters until the right one comes in, maybe late in life. And then, oops, that one wasn't the right one either—just a regular old mimbo/wanker conglomerate.

quiet & sweet & delicate

In the midst of my last-minute attempt to finish a draft of my senior essay, I am procrastinating to no end. Today this meant taking coffee with one of my oldest friends in the world, who was recently elected by the Eastern College Athletic Conference (ECAC, an acronym I never thought I'd understand, let alone use) as their "Hockey Student-Athlete of the Year." This honor seems prestigious.

Gauche Things to do during a reunion with your high school friend:

1. When discussing your social lives: revealing that you have been stalking them (or their older brother) on the Facebook, by saying something like: "Well, you certainly seemed pretty frisky in that green shirt on Saturday night..."

2. When mentioning their high school sweetheart-slash-ex-boyfriend's name: saying, "How's he doing? I haven't heard from him since that night on Fire Island this summer. He pretty much disappeared after eggs..."

3. When ordering food: asking the waiter, "Do you have some sort of business woman special?" This is not so much gauche as a brilliant allusion to a good old-fashioned American epic.

In a Festive Teepee

The past few days have been a veritable mini cruise in celebration of my birthday. It all began when my sister made a trip to New Haven and I showed her a few of its many charms. First there was The Cupcake Truck, where she surprised me with a red velvet cupcake topped with edible gold. That evening we stopped in at the neighborhood cigar bar, the Owl Shop, where a table of middle-aged Connecticut men told us about the nuances of their jobs as liquor promoters. Luckily, just as they whipped out a round of Jägermeister liqueur and insisted on mailing us various alcohol-related "tchotchkes," eight of my friends showed up to steal me away for the first surprise party of my life. Ironically, it was hosted in a sorority house, a place I would ordinarily never be caught dead.

The three-day birthday cruise segued into two incidents of spontaneous guerrilla-style dance: the first took place next to the Yale University Art Gallery's Oxfordian arch, to the mellifluous sounds of Prince's "Delirious" blasting from a Volvo; the second transpired next to the Harvard Square T-stop, to street performers' Andean ethnic folk music.

The birthday finished with a quieter intervention on the Boston T. My sister had found a beautiful eight-foot-long tree branch outside of the Museum of Fine Arts. Thinking it would be a perfect decorative accent to our lavender bedroom walls, I brought the unwieldy branch into the subway with us. When I entered, the subway operator immediately called her supervisor and said, "A woman just brought something like a large tree branch in." The branch's presence in the subway worried a few, delighted some, and mystified many. It's funny to see what a touch of nature does to an urban landscape.

The above picture is of a woman in a fetching fur hat at an ever-popular Yale Center for British Art reception.