Brain salve

As you can see, from the walking stick in the lower left hand corner, I'm still convalescing from my recent hip replacement. It has not been easy. Perhaps as a MOSL, Man of Semi-Leisure, I expected it to be. But forced immobility is just not in my non-sedentary nature. 

As you can also see I've tried to make the most of my supine hours laying around the house by boning up on David Sedaris. Reading is an activity that also demands non-activity. And doesn't come naturally to me. Or my age-shortened attention span, which is best suited for Facebook Reels or glimpses of Trump Truth Social posts, which spike my blood pressure and delay my full recovery.

I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day, years ago. It's a great beach read. I know I had it stuffed in my luggage when taking many family vacations. But reading on the beach, between bouts of toddler tantrums, sunscreen application, Mojitos and the occasional dip in the water, is not the same as sitting in a recliner, sipping a small tumbler of bourbon and nursing a surgical gash that is 14 inches long (at least from my POV). 

It allowed me time to absorb the nuances of his writing. It allowed me to sit with the composition. And savor his flights of fancy and self deprecation. In other words, unlike my prior skimming, it stuck.

Noteworthy for me, because when it comes to artistic material, my memory is as limited as a discarded Zune. Ms. Muse and I will often talk about movies. Her catalogue is very different than mine. But her recollection of that catalogue is nothing short of astounding. She knows scenes, dialogue, and even specific shots. 

And don't get me started on lyrics to TV opening theme songs!

Similarly, I was talking with my friend Jim J. recently, who was currently eyeball deep into Zuckerman Unbound by Philip Roth. Here too, as in all literary discussions, I found myself woefully unequipped. I've read a few Philip Roth books. I read a couple of his books in college, when a certain co-ed persuaded me to join her and sign up for a class of Jewish American Literature. I wasn't pursuing a deeper understanding of Bellow, Malamud and Wiesel. I was pursuing something else.

Jim also has an encyclopedic memory of what he has read. And must read, as a Professor of Screenwriting at Fordham University. When I inquired about Zuckerman, he said:

"You read Portnoy's Complaint, right?"

And I had.

"Remember when Portnoy..."

That's where he lost me. 

I suppose I could've fumbled my way like a book report given by a 7th grader who hadn't read the book, but I demurred: "Yeah, I don't remember a thing."

Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to Sedaris. For one thing, his short stories are short. Not clogged up with a lot of purple prose. He can meander quite a bit, but each meandering brings up a new volley of observations and quips about his (our) frailties.

Most importantly, they're funny. Many a day I found myself laughing out loud. And no, that wasn't the oxycodone, which I have put away and replaced with industrial strength Tylenol. 

If you are unfamiliar with David Sedaris and need a laugh (who doesn't these days?" I suggest you start here. Pay special attention to his efforts to become a painter, his days as a mover in NYC, and his feeble attempts to learn French -- hence the title.

Also, if you get a chance, go to one of his readings. You might see me at the next one.