John Irving and the Indigo Girls
I'm Collecting You
For some reason when I was in college I adopted a kind of a cowboy motif for myself; (some of you will remember this and laugh). Whether it was because I'd grown up on John Wayne, or because Garth Brooks had made it cool, (yeah, I know...) or for other reasons that I've forgotten (no doubt the movie Tombstone was a factor), I dressed myself for a couple years in cobra skin cowboy boots, too-tight jeans, a big black Stetson and, when the occasion warranted it, a bolo tie. (I'm ashamed to bring the whole thing up, but I'm going somewhere with this.)
Along with the look went a foray into the music that seemed appropriate. I've seen Alan Jackson. I've seen Charlie Daniels. I still think Randy Travis is cool. I've even seen the aforementioned Garth Brooks, (not knowing at the time that ten/fifteen years later we'd be reaping the sad results of his "Country as Top 40 Pop," but I digress). I especially liked the Judds.
My friend Ted loved me despite all of this nonsense, at a time when I needed someone to, and we spent lots of time together, I trying to get over a bad breakup and he trying to get me to listen to good music. We both met with some success.
One afternoon in particular, Ted told me, (based, as I remember it, on my digging the Judds,) that I'd like Indigo Girls. I'd recently made fun of some acquaintances for going to see the Girls, though I knew absolutely nothing about the band. Ted put on a record called Nomads - Indians - Saints and I was a believer from the first, "Clearing webs from a hovel." Two songs stood out that day: "Southland in the Springtime," and "Watershed," both of which, ("Watershed" especially,) still rank high among my favorites. Here was something truly worth listening to. (If you're not familiar with the Girls, I won't try to convert you here -- if you are, you know what I'm talking about.)
If all of this had happened today, I'd certainly have bought Nomads - Indians - Saints on my way home, but instead it took place in a world before Media Play and Best Buy and I had to track it down, possibly through the Columbia House mail order people. I had a new favorite album. I loved it so much, in fact, that for the better part of ten years I avoided any other Indigo Girls material; I was that afraid of a let-down. I just knew that nothing could measure up to Nomads... and didn't want to face the disappointment.
Then one afternoon several years later, (it was a Labor Day or Memorial Day or some such,) Ruthie and I went to hannaH & Dale's apartment on Greenwich for a cookout that was also attended by h & D's friends Laura and Josh. Laura was (and remains) a big Indigo Girls fan and was very persuasive that afternoon, assuaging my fears and convincing me to give the 1200 Curfews record a listen. This we were able to purchase on the way home and as I listened in the car, I wept for the wasted years. "Ghost," "Galileo," "Least Complicated," this was what I'd been denying myself for fear of disappointment? What a fool I'd been!
Looking back now on that day in Ted's apartment nearly fifteen years ago when he spun Nomads... for me, I can see a more significant event taking place than I was able to recognize at the time. Art can change people, and Indigo Girls have been a big part of Life around here.
Now flashback to several years, circa 1998, and Jared Perkins is recommending a book to me: A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving, in the same confident, "I-love-you-and-I-know-you-well-enough-to-know-that-this-will-matter-in-your-Life" tone that Ted had taken regarding Indigo Girls. I won't take the time to tell the whole story surrounding me and Jared and our discovering that book, (it's long and there's too much there that I'm ashamed of,) but it's probably enough to say that this is the book that inspired the only tattoo on my body. I couldn't put it down the first time through and stayed up late one night to hammer through the last hundred pages or so -- the ending absolutely kicked my ass. Greatest story I'd ever read (and a big part of why we don't use the word "fiction" much in our house). John Irving, I was convinced, was (at least) the Greatest Living American Author. So convinced, in fact, that until just last week I'd avoided reading any of the rest of his stuff. My old fear of disappointment rearing it's head.
But several weeks ago I picked up Irving's A Widow for One Year on tape at the library for listening to in the car. I'd gotten just far enough into it to know that I was going to enjoy it when the tape started to sound all warped and worn out. Crummy technology. Anyway the story had hooked me enough for me to gamble on reading the rest of it, and I wasn't disappointed. No, it's no Owen Meany -- I doubt anything will ever be that Perfect for me again -- but it was very good, (though not for everyone -- this isn't a recommendation, per se). Good enough that I'm on the John Irving bandwagon for good and plan to weave the rest of his stuff in with my continued pursuit of my Pulitzer Project, (which currently has me enjoying Steven Millhauser's, Martin Dressler,) and not be afraid anymore.
Makes me wonder what else I'm missing.
For some reason when I was in college I adopted a kind of a cowboy motif for myself; (some of you will remember this and laugh). Whether it was because I'd grown up on John Wayne, or because Garth Brooks had made it cool, (yeah, I know...) or for other reasons that I've forgotten (no doubt the movie Tombstone was a factor), I dressed myself for a couple years in cobra skin cowboy boots, too-tight jeans, a big black Stetson and, when the occasion warranted it, a bolo tie. (I'm ashamed to bring the whole thing up, but I'm going somewhere with this.)
Along with the look went a foray into the music that seemed appropriate. I've seen Alan Jackson. I've seen Charlie Daniels. I still think Randy Travis is cool. I've even seen the aforementioned Garth Brooks, (not knowing at the time that ten/fifteen years later we'd be reaping the sad results of his "Country as Top 40 Pop," but I digress). I especially liked the Judds.
My friend Ted loved me despite all of this nonsense, at a time when I needed someone to, and we spent lots of time together, I trying to get over a bad breakup and he trying to get me to listen to good music. We both met with some success.
One afternoon in particular, Ted told me, (based, as I remember it, on my digging the Judds,) that I'd like Indigo Girls. I'd recently made fun of some acquaintances for going to see the Girls, though I knew absolutely nothing about the band. Ted put on a record called Nomads - Indians - Saints and I was a believer from the first, "Clearing webs from a hovel." Two songs stood out that day: "Southland in the Springtime," and "Watershed," both of which, ("Watershed" especially,) still rank high among my favorites. Here was something truly worth listening to. (If you're not familiar with the Girls, I won't try to convert you here -- if you are, you know what I'm talking about.)
If all of this had happened today, I'd certainly have bought Nomads - Indians - Saints on my way home, but instead it took place in a world before Media Play and Best Buy and I had to track it down, possibly through the Columbia House mail order people. I had a new favorite album. I loved it so much, in fact, that for the better part of ten years I avoided any other Indigo Girls material; I was that afraid of a let-down. I just knew that nothing could measure up to Nomads... and didn't want to face the disappointment.
Then one afternoon several years later, (it was a Labor Day or Memorial Day or some such,) Ruthie and I went to hannaH & Dale's apartment on Greenwich for a cookout that was also attended by h & D's friends Laura and Josh. Laura was (and remains) a big Indigo Girls fan and was very persuasive that afternoon, assuaging my fears and convincing me to give the 1200 Curfews record a listen. This we were able to purchase on the way home and as I listened in the car, I wept for the wasted years. "Ghost," "Galileo," "Least Complicated," this was what I'd been denying myself for fear of disappointment? What a fool I'd been!
Looking back now on that day in Ted's apartment nearly fifteen years ago when he spun Nomads... for me, I can see a more significant event taking place than I was able to recognize at the time. Art can change people, and Indigo Girls have been a big part of Life around here.
Now flashback to several years, circa 1998, and Jared Perkins is recommending a book to me: A Prayer for Owen Meany, by John Irving, in the same confident, "I-love-you-and-I-know-you-well-enough-to-know-that-this-will-matter-in-your-Life" tone that Ted had taken regarding Indigo Girls. I won't take the time to tell the whole story surrounding me and Jared and our discovering that book, (it's long and there's too much there that I'm ashamed of,) but it's probably enough to say that this is the book that inspired the only tattoo on my body. I couldn't put it down the first time through and stayed up late one night to hammer through the last hundred pages or so -- the ending absolutely kicked my ass. Greatest story I'd ever read (and a big part of why we don't use the word "fiction" much in our house). John Irving, I was convinced, was (at least) the Greatest Living American Author. So convinced, in fact, that until just last week I'd avoided reading any of the rest of his stuff. My old fear of disappointment rearing it's head.
But several weeks ago I picked up Irving's A Widow for One Year on tape at the library for listening to in the car. I'd gotten just far enough into it to know that I was going to enjoy it when the tape started to sound all warped and worn out. Crummy technology. Anyway the story had hooked me enough for me to gamble on reading the rest of it, and I wasn't disappointed. No, it's no Owen Meany -- I doubt anything will ever be that Perfect for me again -- but it was very good, (though not for everyone -- this isn't a recommendation, per se). Good enough that I'm on the John Irving bandwagon for good and plan to weave the rest of his stuff in with my continued pursuit of my Pulitzer Project, (which currently has me enjoying Steven Millhauser's, Martin Dressler,) and not be afraid anymore.
Makes me wonder what else I'm missing.
13 Comments:
cider house rules is very very good...and i'd never have read it if you hadn't introduced me to owen meany.
Well, you introduced me to John Irving, so I suspect in some economy of aesthetics and friendship (and the various and varied ways one is mediated through the other), we're even.
For the record:
1) I liked Cider House Rules as a movie, mostly because Irving himself did the screenplay.
2) Simon Birch managed to be midly enjoyable in spite of leaving me with the impression that it was made by someone who had read a review of A Prayer for Owen Meany while badly drunk.
3) For everything that is regrettable about Garth Brooks and his effect on country music, he is unquestionably one hell of a performer. It is Alan Jackson, ironically, who has become a parody of himself, guest appearances by Jimmy Buffett notwithstanding.
4) Randy Travis is, in fact, cool.
5) I have never worn -- nor, for that matter, even owned -- either a Stetson or a pair of boots, and never wanted to. My fashion disasters were decidely 80s-inspired, and included a mullet.
5a) Tombstone would have been as good a reason as any to have done so, however.
6) I know, Ty -- I should get my own blog.
Ted -- You probably should (get your own blog) but I kind of like the way you use mine.
Jared -- Hell with the books; let's just get together.
And for the record, I thought Simon Birch was profane.
This way, there's no pressure, see? Nobody really expects me to write anything. It's all on you; I'm just "value-added" or some shit like that.
So Ben, then you remember the Ted who wore a dangling "cross" earring, right?
Yeah, it's not just a legend.
This hardly strikes me as fair.
this is an amusing series of comments.
ted, i still hold to my convictions. i gotta keep some of them, ya know.
What's not fair?
The bit about the earring. I offered the mullet willingly...
(I think that was the same day I met Bonnie Raitt too. And we made fun of Mark Farner.)
If there were beer involved it would have been nearly perfect, then.
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