Skip to main content

Michael Chabon: "Pops"

This is a tiny collection of essays about being a father. Chabon is smart, lively, and subversive, and he finds small moments of absurdity all over the place:

*A grave Richard Ford corners a young Chabon at a party and says, "Whatever you do, don't have kids. They will ruin your writing career." (Chabon thinks, Maybe Richard Ford has a point. Or maybe not.)
*An essay on euphemism. What word do you use when you're reading "Huck Finn," and someone says the N-word for the ten-thousandth time? Chabon congratulates himself on his own sensitivity, until one of his kids points out he had no problem saying "Injun Joe," over and over again, while reading "Tom Sawyer."
*An essay on what to do when your son becomes a dick. Chabon candidly acknowledges dickishness in his own past, then describes puncturing his son's ego in a breathtaking way. It's strange to see a parent writing with such a frosty, unapologetic tone about a struggle with a teenager.

All along, Chabon resists conventional piety and keeps a nice contrarian hum just under the surface. Many parents would throw up their hands when a son dramatically changes his wardrobe every single day; movingly, Chabon sees a real struggle in this wardrobe issue, and he steps back and lets his son make many, many sartorial mistakes. And he grants his son dignity by refusing to say, These wardrobe questions don't actually matter. Because--to a teenager--the questions do matter.

I'd like to meet Michael Chabon, but if I can't do that, I'm happy to have this book. It's a kind of indirect challenge to the reader, a chance to look more closely at daily life. It's worth reading, then re-reading.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...