Bananafish

"Well, they swim into a hole where there's a lot of bananas. They're very ordinary-looking fish when they swim in. But once they get in, they behave like pigs. Why, I've known some bananafish to swim into a banana hole and eat as many as seventy-eight bananas... Naturally, after that they're so fat they can't get out of the hole again. Can't fit through the door."

-- Seymour, in JD Salinger's "A Perfect Day for Bananafish"

--

It's raining in Nebraska. The storms that spread like riots across Ohio came from Nebraska, or so a local news agency says. Leftovers from Pacific activity that leaked across the Rockies, strings of storms like noodles through a strainer.

Nebraska is hardly ever in films. About Schmidt was a notable exception, as was the old TV version of The Stand. (There was a brief mention in Dumb and Dumber, too.) The state is always portrayed in bleak tones, a lot of grays and pale yellows, as if it is a territory known for its dirty sinks and gravel roads. And corn. The state gets bad representation in the media, in my humble opinion--just another reason to distrust most of the media.

Iowa, on the other hand, seems to get all the attention whenever there is concern about democratic caucuses, inspiring stories with farmish settings, or road trips across the country.

James Tiberius Kirk was from Iowa. I learned that from Star Trek, which I just watched. (The rumors are true: It's good.)

--

I taught my first children's theatre workshop last night. The room I was in is one the school no longer uses for anything except storage. I had to move dozens of desks and arrange as many chairs to prep it for the impromptu session on self-esteem.

I had a two-page outline of the workshop and my own creative wit to get me through.

I began with high-fives all around. I ended with everyone taking a bow and then giving themselves a standing ovation. If that doesn't spell self-esteem, I don't know what does.

The town I was in was the sort of town where thirteen-year-old girls look like thirty-year-olds and walk outside the local Save-A-Lot with a peach-colored cigarette in one hand, a glittery pink cell phone in the other. And you can drive along the main drag of town and never lose sight of the river through the trees.

--

I have beer in my fridge, and overdue fines at the library. My two pairs of shorts have not been washed in a month, though I have worn one or the other almost every day. Laundry only happens on Mondays now, because of the security system in the basement.

I picked up some plays from a local book sale and have read one, a snazzy two-act exploration of the Side Man, or the expendable horn section blowers in the forgotten big bands. People who played with Sinatra and didn't get mentioned in the liner notes. Turns out the play premiered in Cincinnati before running on Broadway and winning a Tony. Who knew.

I've moved away from the prosaic formulas of Life of Pi and am back to the gritty grind: I have McCarthy and Salinger along for the ride. I have these books in my bag and I carry them around with me. I sort of imagine having McCarthy and Salinger themselves in the bag, smoking awful cigars and bitching about the meaninglessness of bullshit, maybe cutting themselves and telling dirty jokes. I like the image. If my book collection was a meeting room wherein all my favorite authors could commune, I figure McCarthy and Salinger--Bradbury, too--would all gang up on Stephen King and kick him in the sides, calling him names and cursing him for destroying their literary legacy.

Or something like that.

--

I'm watching American Beauty tonight. Gotta gear up.