I live with one of my adult sons and though he is in his early 20s, he’s never gotten past that adolescent stage in which a child’s sole purpose in life is to irritate his parent.
The Extortionist in Chief
In my case, he calls me all the things he knows that I hate. For example, he calls me Pig, though I am neurotically tidy. He calls me Racist, which I am not. Worst of all, he calls me a Trump Voter.
I would rather vote for my cat’s litter box than vote for Donald Trump, but my offspring nonetheless rags me. (Too bad Carlos’s kitty toilet was not on the 2024 ballot; it has more intelligent contents than Trump’s so-called brain.)
My son accuses me of being fascinated with the former and current president. Horrified is probably more like it, I tell him.
“Then why do you watch the news all the time?” he asks. “Why do you read so many books about this guy you profess to loathe?”
He calls it Trump Porn.
He is right about my reading habits. I’ve read a lot about Trump in the past decade, for the same reason that — despite our better judgment — we might occasionally sneak a peek at “Naked and Afraid” or “Keeping Up with the Kardashians.” We have to remind ourselves that such wretched things are possible.
I liked Bob Woodward’s three Trump books, particularly Peril, which he wrote with Robert Costa. I loved reading stories of how poorly Trump handled defeat.
Let’s not forget Cassidy Hutchinson’s vivid description of the Trump-thrown hamburger and the ketchup dripping down a White House wall. (From her book Enough.)
Maggie Haberman’s Confidence Man was an excellent book that showed that Trump was born a liar and a cheat and has watered and manured those traits steadily throughout his life.
I liked Jonathan Karl’s Betrayal, which told the story of what we thought was the end of Trump’s political career.
The fact that he is president again makes further reading of Trump Porn depressing on an epic scale.
But that doesn’t mean we can easily turn away from this kind of porn addiction.
Consider Injustice, the new book by Carol Leonnig and Aaron C. Davis, both Pulitzer winners, both formerly of the Washington Post. This is a detailed account of the Department of Justice investigation into Trump’s role in the January 6 insurrection and in his mishandling-of-documents case.
You’ve got to admit: it’s amazing how that dark day in our history — January 6, 2021 — has been recast by Trump and some of his Republican pals in Congress. Despite the fact that police were assaulted, it’s been painted as a rosy day in the park.
Injustice makes me proud of the lawyers whose hard work built a brick-wall case against Trump — a case that will never be presented.
It’s as if the Department of Justice is no more, having been largely dismantled and staffed with mouth-breathing Trump sycophants. He renamed the Department of Defense. Maybe he’ll rename Justice the Department That Lets Me Do Illegal Stuff.
This guy isn’t really president. He’s the extortionist-in-chief.
The subtitle of Injustice tells it all: “How Politics and Fear Vanquished America’s Justice Department.”
Special prosecutor Jack Smith is a central character in the book. At the moment, I can’t remember what Trump calls him. He probably uses his fall-back “radical left lunatic,” or calls him deranged. Instead, we see here a dogged and dedicated public servant, on the trail of the truth.
Jack Smith
He worked methodically and fairly to build a case.
There’s such a thing as too methodical, though, and a running theme of Injustice is that attorney general Merrick Garland’s tentative nature contributed to killing the case.
But like Smith, Garland wanted to do what was right — hard to do in a society where what is right doesn’t matter anymore.
What an old-fashioned concept — caring about truth and what’s right in the world.
Lord, I hope I live long enough to see this end.
For now, read this book and become enraged. Let’s all get angry and work to bring back those values of truth, integrity and honor.
Perhaps it’s time for an intervention. After a lifetime of feelings ranging from indifference to outright loathing, I’ve decided that I was all wrong about Barbra Streisand. I have, at this late stage of life, become a fan.
This troubles friends and family. Has a space alien sucked my brain from my head? What has happened to change my feelings about this singer and actor I professed to despise? And if I’ve changed about Barbra Streisand, can a switcheroo on Neil Diamond be far behind?
My friends are so worried, but before they call the white coats to take me away, let us ponder the sitch.
Why those earlier feelings, I now wonder.
Barbra Streisand at 24 (her lucky number)
I always admired the Voice. Good Lord, she has a gift. That I always acknowledged.
And I had liked some of her films. The Way We Were set me sniffling in the darkness of the theater. And I thought she did a beautiful job directing and acting in Yentl and The Prince of Tides.
So again — why did I tell everyone I couldn’t stand her?
Maybe it was the song choices she made and the over-the-top show-biz posturing whenever I saw her perform.
Again I wonder: why those feelings?
I was raised on musical comedy. As a kid, my parents took me to the theater every two weeks during summers. We saw all of the summer-stock / road-company shows that the theater scene — such as it was in Fort Worth, Texas — could offer.
So I grew up well versed in the works of Rodgers and Hammerstein and Lerner and Lowe, as well as other Broadway gods. Though I no longer care for musical comedy, that aspect of my upbringing still reverberates through me.
Whenever I would sing around the house, Ex-Wife No. 2 would chime, “Showtunes!”
No matter what I would sing — even “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” or “Masters of War” — it always came out sounding like a show tune.
But after Cream and Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath hit my adolescent turntable, I put away those original-Broadway-cast albums and never looked back.
Streisand came to represent that unsubtle over-the-top stage belting to me.
There was another reason I grew to dislike her. It was that Monster Diva vibe I’d pick up now and then. I’ve always liked my artists humble, falsely or not.
Ex-Wife No. 1 and I had gone to see A Star is Born — which we quickly renamed A Star is Boring — when it hit theaters back in 1976.
I hated the movie as I hated most movies that portrayed the rock’n’roll business. I can’t think of a rock’n’roll movie that got it right until Almost Famous in 2000. Seeing Barbra and Kris Kristofferson as rock stars just didn’t do it for me. Despite the fact that the film was written by Joan Didion and John Gregory Dunne, I still thought the movie was a festering gob of whale vomit.
The clincher came during the credits. As we watched them roll, Ex-Wife No. 1 seized on the wardrobe credit: “Miss Streisand’s clothes … from her closet.”
My Ex scoffed loud enough to turn the heads of departing theater-goers. Thereafter, whenever we saw Barbra’s picture in the paper or saw her on TV, My Ex would snarl, “Miss Streisand’s clothes … from her closet.”
So why, considering these feelings, did my mind seize on the idea of reading Barbra Streisand’s autobiography.?
When it was published two years ago, I was filled with the sudden and unexplained desire to read it — but for some reason didn’t actually pick it up until two weeks ago.
Once in my presence I gorged on it — all 970 pages.
I was a glutton for the book, like Henry the Eighth gnawing on a greasy turkey leg.
Streisand’s a great storyteller who propels readers through the narrative … all 970 pages, as I say.
Thousand-page bios or memoirs are more appropriate terrain for books about Josef Stalin or other historic characters.
Click on the cover to order
But Streisand never hits a dull patch in her storytelling. If Plato was right about the unexamined life not being worth living, then Streisand has certainly lived a worthwhile existence.
My Name is Barbra (Viking, $50) examines nearly everything about her life and has successfully turned me around. I am now a fan.
I’ve begun hitting eBay hard for old Streisand vinyl. I’ve rewatched Yentl and am searching my streaming services for the films I’ve missed along the way. (I have no plans to see A Star is Boring again, however.) I need to find The Mirror Has Two Faces. She directed that one too, and co-stars with Jeff Bridges, who has moved into the top position as my favorite actor. (Following the death of the great Gene Hackman.)
Here are some random thoughts about the book:
What is it with her mother? No matter what she did, Streisand could not please her mother. To say Ma was stingy with praise is to understate a critical problem in her daughter’s life. I can’t recall her mother ever saying, “Barbra, you got a good voice.” Nothing! Mother might’ve been resentful of her daughter’s extreme talent.
The book serves many functions. It’s not just an autobiography, it’s also a manual on Yiddish terms and phrases. I love learning something new.
She’s modest. If it’s false modesty, so what? If I could sing like her, it’d be harder than hell to keep my ego in check. In my view, she does.
She brings up the “Miss Streisand’s clothes … from her closet” credit. It was the truth, but critics slammed her for the ego-centric feel of it. It hurt her. So now I feel guilty.
Fellow dudes: No matter how nice we are to our Beloveds, we will always pale next to James Brolin. Brolin, Streisand Husband No. 2, is one thoughtful and romantic motherfucker. I plan to keep this book handy to scan for romantic ideas.
Once, Jim Brolin was in bed with Streisand and in no hurry to sleep. He told her sleep was a waste because he didn’t want to miss a thing. Streisand told her songwriter friend Diane Warren about that and she used Brolin’s line to write “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing,” a hit for Aerosmith. Brolin deserved a writer’s credit.
She loves dogs. She even cloned one.
Speaking of Brolins, James’s son Josh Brolin, that wonderful actor (see No Country for Old Men) also writes poetry Who knew? Seems like an interesting guy.
We learn a lot about her first marriage, to Elliott Gould (speaking of wonderful actors). It reminds me of Gould’s charisma. If you’ve never seen The Long Goodbye, go watch it right now. Then watch every other movie Elliott Gould has ever made.
She and Gould sound like great parents. Jason Gould is a lucky dude.
I love her rants about Donald Trump. She’s more eloquent in her disdain than most MSNBC pundits.
If she believes in a cause, she generously supports it.
Despite her talent and her perceived power, studios sometimes still say no to Streisand projects. She doesn’t always get what she wants, which is a shame because when she does get what she wants — see Yentl, The Prince of Tides, etc. — what she wants is spectacular. Do we need further proof that Hollywood is a sexist town?
She loves to eat and loves to talk about food. Reading this book made me hungry.
She is a national treasure.
Okay, so maybe that last one is a little corny. Bob Dylan means so much to me and I think of him the same way. We’re lucky to be around when great artists stalk the earth.
And speaking of lucky: I feel blessed that I have lived long enough for these two artists in their mid-eighties to finally record a duet. (To hear Streisand and Dylan sing “The Very Thought of You,” click here.)
I have no problem admitting my errors. I’ve done a 180 on Barbra Streisand and I’m so happy I didn’t take my indifference to the grave. So what if it ain’t rock’n’roll? I have room in my heart for all kinds of music, as long as it’s good.
As my Late Sainted Mother always said, “If we all liked the same thing, it’d be a pretty dull world.”
I can like the RamonesandPerry Como. And I can like Barbara Streisand and Daddy Longlegs.
In fact, Streisand takes us so deep into her world and her artistic choices and her hopes and dreams that I can no longer call her Miss Streisand. Henceforth, she’s my pal.
In the 1980s, I became a prolific book critic for the Orlando Sentinel. Around 2000 or so, I began writing for the St. Petersburg Times (now the Tampa Bay Times) and then added Creative Loafing to the mix by the mid-2000s. I even carried the title of book editor for a while. Since moving to Massachusetts, I continued with Creative Loafing for a few years and wrote a dozen or so reviews for the Boston Globe.
Alas, the Sentinel, the Times and the Globe have cut back much of the space that used to go to books and to freelance book revievers.
I miss the reviewing and I miss working with book editors, especially the late Nancy Pate (Sentinel) and Colette Bancroft (Times).
I also miss being able to tell people about good books to read.
So, if you have interest, I’ll give you one-or-two sentence reviews of the stuff I’ve read so far this summer. (And it’s been a good summer — Michael Connelly, Carl Hiaasen and Stephen King all released new novels in May.)
. . . . . . . .
Mark Twain by Ron Chernow (Penguin, $45)
This book is huge (1,174 pages) and it sometimes difficult to read because of its size. We need to have a lecturn and a page turner to read this.
But the content? Can’t remember if I’ve read any biographies of Mark Twain, though I did read the first part of his autobiography, about his early days in journalism.
I can’t imagine any biography topping this one. Ron Chernow has amassed an enormous amount of information and woven it into a rich, lively narrative.
He’s also assessed Twain — Sam Clemens, of course — by today’s standards, discussing the question of his racial attitudes and his banning by school boards.
This is a tremendous book and will be the fastest 1,174 pages you’ll ever read.
. . . . . . . .
What Kind of Paradise by Janelle Brown (Random House, $30)
What a wonderful novel.
Imagine: the Unabomber took his 4-year-old daughter to the cabin when he went off the grid. Fourteen years later, she leaves behind the only life she’s known in order to discover the free world.
That’s essentially the plot of What Kind of Paradise by Janelle Brown.
There are few novels where I feel I am absolutely inside the head of another human being. I recall Sam, the adolescent girl in the middle of Bobbie Ann Mason‘s brilliant novel, In Country. Fatherless, she seeks to learn about the identity of the man — her father — who died in Vietnam before she was born.
Yea, me, an old guy … I feel that I am inside a girl’s head at a time of turmoil.
This is why we read — or at least, that’s why I read.
This book so well recalls Mason’s ealier masterpiece, which came out in the mid-1980s.
I thank both authors for taking me into a world so unlike my own.
. . . . . . .
To Anyone Who Ever Asks by Howard Fishman (Dutton, $32)
Speaking of disappearing, this nonfiction book tells the story of a unique and much admired singer-songwriter, ahead of her time, who just … disappears one day, never to be heard from again.
It’s another huge book, so well done that you find yourself ripping through this telling of Conne Converse‘s life.
It makes us thirst to hear her music, much of which is difficult to find. This calls for a significant eBay search.
Howard Fishman tells her story with grace and does not waste a word. It’s another huge book so well done you are propelled through the narrative.
This book came out a couple of years ago. You’ll probably have to order it from your friendly neighborhood bookseller.
. . . . . .
Fleishman is in Trouble by Taffy Brodesser-Akner (Random House, $27)
I’ve read both of Taffy Brodesser-Akner’s novels this summer. (You can see Long Island Compromise at the right in the picture.) Fleishman is her first novel, and it came out in 2019. It’s the story of a marriage falling apart and a spouse who disappears.
This book was utterly absorbing. I carried it with me wherever I weant and would steal moments at long stoplights to jump back into the story.
By the way, it was adapted by its author, whose unwieldy name invites typographical errors. The television adaptation (which starred an excellent Jesse Eisenberg) is on Hulu, if memory serves.
If you’re not married, this book will make you sink to your knees and thank a higher power that you are single.
. . . . . . .
Three Days in June by Anne Tyler (Knopf, $27)
I’m an Anne Tyler junkie and have read all of her novels. Those books are like three-course meals as she explores the minds of characters caught between the familes into which they were born and the families they choose.
This novel is short, yet full of the characteristic Tyler insights and observations. It’s not that huge meal, but more like sampling a few appetizers. Literary Tapas! Short enough to read in an afternoon.
Her writing is perfect. I urge you to read all of her work. Start with Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant or Saint Maybe.
I’m so glad I had a friend who turned me onto Tyler because she said I reminded her of the protagonist in Saint Maybe. I had to read that book to see if I too saw the resemblance. I did (it was a compliment) and from that moment I was hooked by Anne Tyler.
. . . . . . .
Nightshade by Michael Connelly (Little, Brown, $30)
Michael Connelly is my crack. I confess my addiction up front.
I’ve never met a Connelly novel that I did not immediately devour.
Connellly has so many great characters — Harry Bosch, Renee Ballard, Mickey Haller, Terry McCaleb, Jack McEvoy and others. This book introduces a new character — Stillwell, a detective who’s been exiled from downtown LA to Catalina Island.
I’ve never been to Catalina, but after Conelly’s evocative writing, I feel like a local.
Seriously: this guy’s writing is intoxicasting as a drug.
Light up! Enjoy, before his novels are designated controlled substances by the DEA.
. . . . . . .
Fever Beach by Carl Hiaasen (Knopf, $30)
Carl Hiaasen‘s books are propelled by rage humor. He’s so angry at injustice that he can only channel his operatic temper through vicious comedy.
How many authors — after 30 years of writing novels — are still peaking? Hiaasen’s last novel, Squeeze Me, was his masterpiece. Fever Beach is a suitable follow up.
The world sucks and it’s being run by assholes. You will enjoy his rage against the machine.
And by the way, you will not find a word out of place. This man is an immaculate storyteller.
. . . . . . .
Not by Type by E Jean Carroll (St. Martin’s, $30)
E Jean Carroll reached out to me in the early 1990s after I’d published my first book on Hunter S. Thompson and she was working on hers.
We crossed paths online again years later when my BU administrator turned out to be E Jean’s former PA.
E Jean is an Indiana University graduate. And … a cheerleader! There’s a good chance I lusted after her when I as a high school kid in the stands and she was jumping like popcorn on the sidelines.
Not My Type is Carroll’s account of her Trump trials. It’s unsparing, brutal and quite funny at times.
And I have always liked E Jean’s humor. I now also admire her resiliance and restraint.
I’ve read a lot of Trump Porn, including excellent books by Bob Woodward and Maggie Haberman. This book is a must-read for all of you out there preparing articles of impeachment.
. . . . . . .
A Few Words in Defense of Our Country by Robert Hilburn (DaCapo Press, $34)
It’s been a Randy Newman summer here at the ol’ homestead.
What a great artist! Has there ever been a more vicious song than “Sail Away”? His songs should be used to teach American history.
Robert Hilburn gives us the blow-by-blow of Newman’s life and gives us a new appreciation of this American treasure.
Hilburn’s writing is exceptional.
Alas, I wish the publisher had a better copy editor. I was shocked by not only the copy editing but the presece of a few minor errors of fact. Minor they may be but if newspaper and book publishers paid and respected excellent copy editors, it would be an even-more-groovy world.
. . . . . .
Hold the Line by Michael Fanone (Atria Books, $28)
I’ve been interested in this guy ever since he came into mass consciousness after the January 6 attack on the nation’s capitol.
Michael Fanone has written a powerful memoir. He was defending the Capitol on January 6 and was tasered by the rioters. He suffered a heart attack and a brain injury.
The first part of the book deals with his earlier career as an undercover cop. It’s nice to see the lid lifted on policing and Fanone does not shrink from telling the bad along with the good. This part reminded me of Serpico by Peter Maas.
Fanone holds back nothing. He drops a lot of fucks and motherfuckers here and there, and does so deftly.
Some of these words are used to describe such weasels as Jim Jordan of Ohio and Lindsay Graham of the great state of South Carolina. Those guys are botches of humanity. Same goes for former House speaker Kevin McCarthy.
When you finish this book, you will want to call Fanone and ask him to run for congress.
He is a great American.
. . . . .
Never Flinch by Stephen King (Scribner, $32)
Steve, Old Boy, I enjoy your work but can you cut back on the appositives and all the off-tangent parenthetical stuff?
Minor bitches, these.
Stephen King once again gives us his wonderful protagonist, Holly Gibney, who first showed up in Mr Mercedes.
King said she was planned as a minor character who soon grasped his heart. he has confessed that he fell in love with her.
That’s understandale.
King just keeps getting better and better.
These Gibney novels are catnip. Read them in whatever order you want. The Mr Mercedes trilogy is a good place to start. Or you can start with The Outsider.
Get off your ass and read one of these books!
. . . . .
I’ve also been reading a lot of older stuff this summer.
I’ve been on a hard-boiled crime-fiction binge, reading James M. Cain, Jim Thompson and Raymond Chandler. I love the way those dudes write. I believe they can clear out all the useless stuff in our brains. Reading their books is like using a mental supposiitory.
I also read the only major work of Flannery O’Connor‘s that I’d never read — The Violent Bear it Away. I’d read her stories, her only other novel (Wise Blood) and even her prayer journal. I was surprised by the fluid nature of this narrative. It was one of those novels you inhale.
If you’ve never read any of her work, I urge you to read Flannery O’Connor. She is life-changing.
He’s so angry — over the environment, greed, political imbeciles, and general assholery.
Yet instead of standing on a mountaintop to spew screeds about injustice, he uses humor to craft magnificently twisted tales in which the bad guys get what they deserve. (Besides, there are no mountaintops in Florida.)
He makes us laugh as he eviscerates the unjust. I just finished his latest, Squeeze Me, and in the modern landscape, there is much that angers Hiaasen.
I’ll give nothing away, but a lot of the action takes place at the Florida estate of the President of the United States. He’s a rotund toupee-wearing blowhard referred to only by his Secret Service name, Mastodon.
It’s a wonderful book. A couple of times, I had to close the book and sit and laugh for a moment. I had a chuckle every other page or so.
But as I was reading — and laughing — all I could think about was the righteous anger underneath. I’ve read all of Carl’s novels and they are without exception excellent books. I marvel at his word choice and the music of his language.
What a great, distinctive voice.
His writing is masterful and his passion is there, the foundation underneath the humor. I’ve always been fond of Double Whammy and Native Tongue and Lucky You. But hell, I love all of his novels. I can’t think of one that wasn’t simultaneously funny and thought provoking. You rarely find someone who can succeed on both of those platforms.
He’s deft, this Hiaasen fellow.
Every now and then, I recall Native Tongue, which is about a corrupt South Florida theme park called the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. Every afternoon at 3, the park watches a parade called the Pageant of Florida History, featuring tributes to wastewater and break-dancing migrant workers. I’ve broken out in random laughter on the subway when that crosses my mind. (Usually my fellow passengers scoot away from me when this happens.)
But this new book — Squeeze Me — may be his best work. It so well reflects our time, set as it is in the post-Covid-19 world. Carl has us laughing just to keep us from crying.
It’s funny. When someone is a social critic, those on the far right think they’re unpatriotic or anti-American. Seems to me the critics are the ones who love their country long after a weaker soul would have given up on the enterprise.
Carl’s so angry about the maggots destroying the environment and our system of democratic government. That anger inspires him to make us see, through laughter, the lurking tragedy. When I think of what’s behind the anger, I recall John Lee Hooker, who sang, “It’s in him and it’s got to come out.”
Lucky for us, he channels his Wagnerian rage into his novels. Rarely has fury been so funny.
I hope he’s OK, though. This book makes me wish I could buy him a bowl of soup.
Actor Bryan Cranston‘s portrayal of President Lyndon Johnson was more than a triumph of prosthetics and make up.
Watching “All the Way,” I felt that they had exhumed the former president. Cranston was justly rewarded for his performance by the Screen Actors Guild.
This is what he said in his acceptance speech: “I’m often asked, how would Lyndon Johnson think about Donald Trump? I honestly feel that 36 would put his arm around 45 and earnestly wish him success. And he would also whisper in his ear something he said often, as a form of encouragement, and a cautionary tale: “Just don’t piss in the soup that all of us gotta eat.’”
“This may be the year when we finally come face to face with ourselves; finally just lay back and say it — that we are really just a nation of 220 million used car salesmen with all the money we need to buy guns, and no qualms at all about killing anybody else in the world who tries to make us uncomfortable….. [W]hat a fantastic monument to all the best instincts of the human race this country might have been, if we could have kept it out of the hands of greedy little hustlers…. Jesus! Where will it end? How low do you have to stoop in this country to be president?”
