Madeline

Over the years I've tried to badger all my friends into reading my all-time super-slice Peter Leroy, including HERE; after a decade and a half I have had zero success at getting anyone to read the book...until today, with BayonneMike throwing me, and I quote, a "pity read." :)

Thanks BM!

In most posts on the book I've mentioned Proust's influence on the author; he himself is unrelenting in his praise of Proust's style and how it shaped his own writing. But I just realized that Peter Leroy is dedicated to the author's wife, who is named Madeline (whom I met when the author came to my college.) And having finally read Swann's Way, I discovered that the single defining "this is Proust" moment comes as the narrator is tasting a madeline cookie. Wtf? Bit of a strange coincidence, n'est-pas? Be like me marrying some chick named Imjustaregulargirlatamidwesterncollegewhoneverdreamedshedbewritingintoamagazinewithastorylikethis, no?

Obviously It's NOT a Coincidence

I've seen the episode several times but never really noticed Dr. Melfi's reason for why Tony might be passing out whenever he's got a pile of meat in his hands:

Tony tells Dr Melfi what he has remembered. She recalls the attack which led to Tony beginning therapy, happened when he was cooking meat. She says his very first attack happened when he short circuited after witnessing his parents’ sexuality, the violence and blood associated with the food he was about to eat, and the thought that some day he would have to bring home the bacon like his father. Melfi relates this to an experience of writer Marcel Proust, which inspired a seven-volume classic. She says understanding root causes will make Tony less vulnerable to future attacks.

I guess I noticed it because I mentioned it in a post last year, along with badgering everybody to buy Peter Leroy!  :)

In most posts on the book I've mentioned Proust's influence on the author; he himself is unrelenting in his praise of Proust's style and how it shaped his own writing. But I just realized that Peter Leroy is dedicated to the author's wife, who is named Madeline (whom I met when the author came to my college.) And having finally read Swann's Way, I discovered that the single defining "this is Proust" moment comes as the narrator is tasting a madeline cookie. Wtf? Bit of a strange coincidence, n'est-pas? Be like me marrying some chick named Imjustaregulargirlatamidwesterncollegewhoneverdreamedshedbewritingintoamagazinewithastorylikethis, no?

For Madeline

The most beautiful girl I've ever met. My true love, and I fucking blew it. Have fun with this one. I deserve it.

Xmastime vs. Proust: The Thrilla of Vanilla

Over at Mentalfloss we see the veeeeeeeeeeery curiously similar story arcs to the defining novels of both myself with Williamsburg Rats: A Manny's Your of Duty and a scrappy little number by Marcel Proust called Remembrance of Things Past, a personal superslice of superslices. Let's take a quick look at the particulars, shall we?

1. Proust self-published the first volume.
I too self-published my first novel! And my second. And probably my third. But I will rest easy knowing that 100 years from now, people will be discussing my books on Mentalfloss and (blah blah blah something about hovercrafts and soylent green blah blahblah)

2. The last three books were released posthumously.

At this point any novel of any critical note I'll ever write would probably be released posthumously; some may say my first two already were.

3. Proust didn’t like the original English title.

I can't remember what the original title to my book - I *think* it was "The Manny Tapes"? But luckily Eric Kraft, author of my all-time favorite book Peter Leroy, suggested I should have "Williamsburg" in the title, so blammo! Thanks, Eric! 🤗

4. Proust’s evocative madeleine could have been toast.

Uuuuuuuuuummmmmmm...I was once madly in love with a girl named Madeline with the kind of frantic romantic energy one would normally associate withe the French, and you people already know what I think of toast OMG THIS ONE TRULY IS EERIE!!! I would have NARY A PROBLEM AT ALL claiming that MY madeleine would be none other than toast!!!!!

5. That madeleine scene is referenced in The Sopranos and Ratatouille.

My book hasn't been in any tv shows yet but once the inevitable (fingers crossed!) reboot of Wings is announced you better believe I'm hammering away to make that shit happen.

6. Many acclaimed 20th-century writers praised the books …

According to "Amazon Customer" on 1/15/2023 my book is, and I quote, "Surprisingly Good" so I'm not really sweatin' it with the critics myself, rats you very much.

7. … But not everyone was a fan.

Unfortunately for me that pretty much accounts for everybody else in the world who's not "Amazon Customer". We'll call this one advantage, Proust.

8. In Search of Lost Time is the longest novel ever published.

I was gonna make a "hey, Williamsburg Rats FEELS like the longest novel ever published!" joke here but I'm working on not being so self-hating so at this point I'll just politely suggest you buy the book and see for yourself.

I Don't Know Why...

...I go on and on about croissants; I suppose, in some way, they're my madeline.

House of Usher

I'm watching the Roger Corman classic Fall of the House of Usher, and I greatly admire dude's steadfasted insistence on being with his fiancee Madeline. But I must say. Between the super-creepy graveyard decor of the neighborhood, the insanely spooky brother and the, you know, CRYPTS OF DEAD PEOPLE THROUGHOUT THE HOUSE, I might actually leave fairly immediately after arrival. With all that spookiness going on, unless she can wrap her tongue around my prostate while writing out the Colonel's secret recipe, I'd be like "you know what...she ain't THAT hot..." and gets to steppin out on my merry way. "So, this is your place, huh?...you know, I think we should start seeing other people..." That make me a loveless, un-romantic asshole? Really?

Checkmate (I'm a Douche!!)

Earlier today I stumbled upon The Kings of New York by Michael Weiner, a great story about the nation's #1 high school chess team made up of troubled kids at a public school in Canarsie. One quick note: flipping to the acknowldgements I read someone telling a story of the great Bobby Fischer walking in and pulverizing a young hot shot in a few moves using a bit of a trick - he didn't mention, and the kid didn't even notice that Fischer had his King in check. I never realized you could even do that, I always assumed you had to announce "check!" every time. ME!!! Misinformed about something!!!!!!

A few years back I was a substitute teaching at a special ed school out in the Rockaways. Mostly grown-up crack babies, many violent, these kids were pretty fucked up. They weren't sitting around reading Madeline L'Engle if you know what I mean. One day I found myself at the end of the day with a class of 11 year olds. Most of the class were kinda good kids, so I gave them the period off to play quietly and just hang out. Your tax dollars at work. Anyway, one kid named Shareef asked me to play chess with him. We had started playing every once in a while, mostly me explaining over and over how the pieces moved til he'd get frustrated and quit/scream at me, or until another fight broke out and I'd hafta shut the class down. I set the board up, and reviewed what the pieces did and we began. I'd make a move, then it'd be like "Jermaine, sit down! Shaniqua shut up! Why is Neil Diamond here?!!?" etc etc, not really paying attention. I'd glance at the board after he'd move, make a move and then get back to screaming at children. No big whoop. All of a sudden I looked down and realized....oh, shit. This kid was a few moves away from beating me. While not paying attention, I had opened myself up to getting beat by this 11 year old special needs kid. Holy shit.

I thought for a minute. On one hand, I could go ahead with the game, and give the kid a real thrill by beating me. Give him a little ray of light in his unbelievably dark world, give him something to talk and think about. A tiny tiny slice of hope, even if only for a short while. As his teacher, wasn't that my real job anyway? You can get out of here, you are capable of doing great things, etc etc?

Of couse I decided upon another direction: I stalled for a few seconds and waited for the inevitable. It came - a mild outburst from across the room, some yelling/slapping etc that I normally wouldn't have even noticed in a class like that.

"THAT'S IT!!!" I yell jumping up from my seat, pretending to look furious. "That's IT!! Everyone back in their seats, free time is over!! And dammit Shareef, put away that chess board, the game's over!!" and huffed off to the front of the room acting pissed. What. a. fucking. douche.

House of Usher

I'm watching the Roger Corman classic Fall of the House of Usher, and I greatly admire dude's steadfasted insistence on being with his fiancee Madeline. But I must say. Between the super-creepy graveyard decor of the neighborhood, the insanely spooky brother and the, you know, CRYPTS OF DEAD PEOPLE THROUGHOUT THE HOUSE, I might actually leave fairly immediately after arrival. With all that spookiness going on, unless she can wrap her tongue around my prostate while writing out the Colonel's secret recipe, I'd be like "you know what...she ain't THAT hot..." and gets to steppin out on my merry way. "So, this is your place, huh?...you know, I think we should start seeing other people..." That make me a loveless, un-romantic asshole? Really?