Patricia Highsmith’s THE BLUNDERER

Posted on November 2nd, 2016 by Adam-Troy Castro

THE BLUNDERER by Patricia Highsmith (1956), fifth novel out of eight collected in the indispensable Library of America omnibus, WOMEN CRIME WRITERS OF THE 40s and 50s. I have loved all the contents so far and so it is with this current story about a man trapped in a loveless, passive-aggressive marriage who slowly turns to fantasies of murdering his wife. What distinguishes this novel is the razor-sharp portrait of the union, and in particular of the wife, …a woman who loves him desperately only when he makes sounds about leaving her, and the rest of the time can barely stand the sight of him, making his life a relentless series of jabs and barbs and indignities. She’s also cut him off from his family and friends, and she makes him miserable whenever he tries to connect with anyone outside the marriage. The novel is clear, and indeed comes out and says in so many words, that these are manifestations of mental illness, making the case for how totally trapped he feels before initiating his fascination with a case he’s read about in the newspapers, of another man whose wife has been murdered, and who seems to have an airtight alibi. Inexorably, our protagonist begins to look upon the other fellow as role model. What makes this novel work is the author’s relentless focus on character. The wife is terrible, but terrible in a specific way, not outside the realm of human experience; and the husband is trapped by her threats of suicide if he leaves, but not so trapped that he couldn’t just tell bite the bullet and walk out, if he chose. I’m more than halfway in, and he’s committed no crime yet, but the sense of looming tragedy is inexorable.

Patricia Highsmith was a master, of course, one whose stories I’ve encountered via their myriad film adaptations, including STRANGERS ON A TRAIN, THE TWO FACES OF JANUARY, and THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY. But I have not, until now, indulged in her narratives in print. This is an omission I plan to correct

And, again: WOMEN CRIME WRITERS OF THE ‘40s and ‘50s. Library of America. Gorgeous two-volume set, designed to last; not a dud in it, so far. Expensive, but worth the price.

Tags: Mystery, Patricia Highsmith | Category Books, Mystery

A Past Rant On The Subject of Ann Coulter

Posted on November 2nd, 2016 by Adam-Troy Castro

From five years ago today (Nov 1, 2011) , a rant on the subject of Ann Coulter, shared anew because of the — trigger warning for vomitous imagery — rather septic wordsmithery, of which I am perversely proud.

(quote)

I have, from time to time in my life, met people who proudly declared that they liked the blonde nazi swizzle stick.

They never had fangs.

One was a kindly gentleman sharing a hospital room with my father; one was a nice lady with whom I was having dinner; one was a friend of many years. I would never have accused any of them of the profound mental illness that all common sense tells me, would have to be wreaking havoc to one’s thinking process, in order to happily listen to the acidic, hate-mongering nonsense that daily spews from the Hilda Speck of the right. This is not about “conservatism.” This is about simple human decency.

I was sometimes moved to ask these kind and generous people how they reacted to specific quotes from the peroxide pustule of putridity: like how they felt about her accusing 9/11 widows of celebrating the deaths of their husbands, or calling for the bombing of the New York Times building, or — well, there are any number of examples, but I will certainly be asking the question of the latest diseased foolishness she just tossed into the body politic, like a stupidity grenade, “Our blacks are so much better than their blacks.” How could anybody even think of saying something like that without thinking they’d never be able to appear in public again, without being pelted with cream pies? How can anybody think that this woman, probably born of monkey pus baked in a woman-shaped cookie mold, deserves air time let alone the status of respected opinion-maker?

Her one positive attribute is that she’s not quite as bad as Pam Geller, but the two of them are racing to the finish line of a loathesomeness triathlon.

People: if you have sensitive stomachs, you may want to avoid the next paragraph, a fable.

There was once a man who showed up at his community’s Labor Day picnic, on a bright shiny day, beneath a clear blue sky; and he looked out at the vast, teeming public buffet, with the cold cuts, the carved turkey, the noodle pudding, the watermelon slices; the apples, the honey cakes; the pride and joy of a community’s generosity; and he walked up to the table, currently being overlooked because of the play and conviviality taking place all around him, and he hopped up onto one end of the displayed bounty, kicked off his pants, revealed buttocks warty and unwashed, and began to emit an explosion of septic foulness, that he’d been storing in his bowels for over a week of straining self-control, in preparation for this very occasion. He spewed. As the masses screamed in horror, mothers covering the eyes of their precious children and the sensitive oldsters doubling over to fertilize the bushes with the commestibles revulsion had rendered their bellies no longer able to tolerate, he hopped from one end of the table to the other, kicking crockery aside, writing his name in a single exquisitely calligraphed shit-cable, as unbroken as toothpaste squeezed from a fresh tube. It snaked and circled and hopped the punch bowl and contributed to the raisin bread and garnished the melon balls and so on until, finally, at the end of the twenty feet of lovingly-displayed food now unfit for human consumption, the last of it emerged from his proud sphincter in a tapering, blackened curlicue, with a single undigested kernel of corn as punctuation mark. Then he grinned at everybody and sang “Mammy.”

Later, asked why he would have done such an awful thing, he explained, “Well, at least they paid attention to me.”

You need look no further than that story to completely understand Ann Coulter.

Tags: Ann Coulter, Assholes, Politics, Republicans | Category Commentary, Humor, Politics

How I Nefariously Ruined My High School Graduation Ceremony

Posted on October 28th, 2016 by Adam-Troy Castro

This is the story of how I fiendishly ruined my high school graduation.

It was an act of nefarious genius, a prank that nobody could prove was a prank, one last act of defiance before I left those hallowed halls forever.

Well, okay, let me specify that this is not precisely accurate. That ceremony with the caps and gowns? Was not what I ruined. What I ruined was the ceremony that came a few days before it, the award ceremony, where various students of note received their certificates of honor and their commendations and their scholarships and grants and so on.

In all such ceremonies, I feel sorry for the kid who wins the award for perfect attendance. What a low bar! But I, never a great student, was only one level above him. I was to win a little plaque for getting a good grade on my Regents Test, and this was to be one of the first awards in a ceremony projected to last about an hour and a half. I would have to get my little award, return to my seat, and then sit there quietly as a parade of the more accomplished got increasingly more impressive honors, while I ached to leave. Think any of the Academy Awards for technical achievement, that the home audience cannot give a flying fuck about.

This, if you know me, is a recipe for disaster.

So there I am in the high school auditorium, tucked between my parents and a good friend also up for one of the little awards, hating what is about to come.

On the stage is the High School Principal, standing at a lectern, and sitting down the Vice Principal, the Superintendent of Schools, and the entire Board of Education. And during the awards that come before mine the students climb the steps, come on stage, receive their largesse from the Principal, shake his hand, cross before the other dignitaries, and descend the steps on the other side. Easy, peasy.

Then my name is called.

I turn to my friend and tell him, “Watch me ruin the ceremony for everybody.”

I say this. I actually come out and say it.

Then I file out of my row, climb the steps, accept my dinky little plaque from the Principal, shake his hand, and rather than leave right away, MAKE A POINT OF STOPPING AT EVERY SEATED OFFICIAL TO SHAKE HIS HAND, before leaving the stage.

When I get back down and file back to my row, my Dad says, “That was very nice.”

When I sit next to my friend, he says, “That was vicious.”

And so it turned out to be. For the rest of the night, many dozens of presentations, every kid who ascended those stairs had to honor my example, shaking the hands of every official in the row. The ceremony was elongated by almost two hours. The Board of Education finally surrendered to the inevitable and stood up, looking stiff and uncomfortable as every student passed them. I saw them muttering to one another. I have it on good authority, from an unimpeachable source within their ranks, that they were complaining about what I had done. That rotten ACHIEVING KID!

And following the ceremony?

All the adults told me what a fine young example I had been.

DOZENS OF KIDS came up to me, in a mixture of irritation and admiration, demanding to know whether I HAD DONE THAT ON PURPOSE.

I produced the friend who had been sitting next to me, to testify that I had announced my attentions immediately before the vile deed.

By being nice, I made the whole night an ordeal for everybody.

Which is what I intended.

I’m telling you, I’m a stinker.

Tags: Assholes, humor, True Stories | Category Humor, Life Wisdom, True Stories