William Powers and Martha Sherrill
My Darling Bobo man:
PRINT
DISCUSS
E-MAIL
RSS
RECOMMEND...
Facebook
MySpace
Mixx
Digg
Reddit
del.icio.us
Furl
Ma.gnolia
Sphere
StumbleUponI know you were secretly hoping that I'd pull up the rear and discuss real news events in this missive (as we plotted on the phone), but I'm afraid there's simply nothing to write about. Tell you about Denver? The sky is nice here, and huge. But aside from a miserable story about a parking feud between a couple of neighbors in Aurora which resulted in the shooting death of a high-school teacher and his 14-year-old daughter, there is little to report, news-wise. What a sad string of violent crimes has plagued this place. Boy, for all the New Agers and old hippies and mountaineers who flock to this region--not to mention the transcendent natural beauty of the Rockies--you'd think it would be a little more peaceful. Tonight I'm heading for Boulder to give a book reading. Boulder is a hotbed of American Buddhists but also, lest we forget, the old pageant grounds of the JonBenet Ramsey family.
As for our own social situation--that is, our resplendent Boboism--I'm afraid I'm not even close to turning away and becoming anti- or un-Bobo yet. Perhaps this hasn't occurred to you yet, but my father was a diehard Bobo and my mother is a Bobo too--an opera singer in the suburbs--making me a second-generation participant in this now amusing subgroup. My parents were devoted to Adele Davis and liver-and-whey-shakes. My father was grinding his own coffee beans in the 1950s. I am devoted to Bronson vitamins, royal jelly capsules, and organic vegetables. And since we've been back from Kamakura, I make trips to a little Japanese market in Bethesda, Md., to buy the freshest green tea possible. Meanwhile, you and I alternately dream about a family-room addition out back and moving to Spain.
In fact, now that I've written a bizarre book about an esoteric subject--complete with descriptions of past lives, channeling, auspicious cloud formations, and the magical properties of Tibetan Buddhist stupas--I feel myself more Bobo than ever. And I embrace that. But isn't there some tension inherent in all this? Which side of the Bobo paradox will win in the end--the Bourgeois or the Bohemian? It's nice to believe one is drifting toward the latter, but who wants to give up having solid glass shower doors and drinking expensive wine?
You are reading this and wincing. I can tell. You hate that I've brought your wine cache into this public conversation. (What do you think about while you're down in the basement rearranging your bottles?) Anyway, I need to sign off and regroup for a string of interviews and appearances. Talking about Buddhism is like trying to describe the color of water. To prepare, I'm going to try out a 10-minute guided meditation that I noticed on Beliefnet.com.
Namaste, my love.
- Your New Small Business Committee Chairwoman
- Count Yourself In On the Money-making
- The Obama Stimulus Plan and Small Business
I Have Seen the Future of Apple, and It Is Boring
Blogs Are Full of Hot Air. But Are They Causing Global Warming?
Handsomest Surgeon General Ever?
Why Obama Really Picked Panetta To Run the CIA
How Many Albinos Are There in Tanzania, Anyway?
The Pentagon Is Building Robots To Raise Children
Reader Response from The Fray--to be read after the final entry:
Would I rather die with Vanity Fair's McDonald's Happy Meal in hand compared to The New Yorker's Chicken Kiev [Tuesday]? I'll put it to you this way. Were the plane I was travelling on about to plunge into the Atlantic, I think I would prefer to be found in the company of a beautifully presented albeit content-lite Vanity Fair reader who was willing to share the last few moments of our lives in sweaty, unseemly embrace than with our solid, reassuring and cautious friend of the New Yorker. Long live VF!
--Brendan
(To reply, click here.)
[ Ckeav says: I think it would be better to die with a copy of the old New Yorker in hand, like a 1973 issue you just haven't gotten to yet.]
I know what you mean about those hokey hometown newspapers [Tuesday]. I feel exactly the same way when I read the Post. But aren't those darling local journalists just so cute for trying?
--Q-Chan
(To reply, click here.)
Light Years was just about my favorite book until I began reading Burning the Days. I was amazed when I read what you wrote about Salter [Wednesday], and how he had fallen in your estimation--I am so thrilled to see that I am not the only romantic who gets attached to my notions of a writer. In order to maintain my illusions about Salter, I put Burning the Days down. His coldness and selfishness began to bother me, and I recognized so many of the characters from his life in Burning the Days. It was ruining my enjoyment of Light Years, like having the magician show you his tricks in a seedy bar when he is rudely ordering a waitress around wearing a five o'clock shadow and a dirty t-shirt. Light Years is such a beautiful book, his writing is stunning...why let his personality get in the way of my experience?
--CP
(To reply, click here.)
[Interested in Ms Sherrill's book? BT reader Mark was--he bought it on the strength of "The Breakfast Table", and reviews it here.]
(6/9)