Scientists write about "deep holes" in your personal timeline--moments when you seem to age by ten million years. You were thirty yesterday; today, you are one hundred years old. In my youth, I would have skimmed over this--but, now, I see the brutal reality. In various photos, I have a full head of hair--then, suddenly, I do not. "A receding hairline can be charming," says my shrink, because, yes, I talk about this in therapy. (Joyce Carol Oates recently complained about inane navel-gazing in fiction. "I'm reading Percival Everett on the history of lynching--then I have to read some white man's thoughts on his latest divorce?" ....I empathize, but maybe not every rough patch in a life has to be tantamount to a history of lynching.) There is no universe in which I will feel charmed by my own receding hairline--so I just change the subject. My spouse and I go to see the movie "Tuner," which features a young man named Leo Woodall. And Wood...
The NYT is celebrating 50 years of Sandra Boynton in print. I'd like to nominate one Boynton title as the greatest--it's "The Belly Button Book." In this tale, a group of hippos celebrate their belly buttons. We always like to get balloons... And I know why. Do you? It's because we like to think balloons Have belly buttons, too. Boynton then moves the action to "Belly Button Beach": Where hippos like to stand around In bathing suits too little-- Because we hope you will admire The button in our middle. But life's pleasures are fleeting, and Boynton has a brutal conclusion, surprising and inevitable. We love to show our belly b's-- We show them off with pride. But not in chilly wintertime-- When belly buttons hide. No, not in chilly wintertime-- When belly buttons hide. A mic-drop kind of performance. Not a word is wasted.