After breaking my leg, I moved into a house on Peony Way, in the cinder block suburbs, 103 streets south of the Temple, in the heart of The City of Salt.

That’s what we called it.  We outsiders, we Jews, "The City of Salt".  It gave us some distance, prevented us from being swallowed up by the Mormons, who were out to convert you at every turn, even at Snowbird.  Reminds me of that guy New York George, who opened a restaurant in the shade of the Scientology Center.  Wasn’t long until George too was a Scientologist…it was good for business.

But I wasn’t supposed to be down in the flats, I was supposed to be up in the canyon, Little Cottonwood Canyon, to be exact, I’d lined up a job being a waiter at the Goldminer’s Daughter not long after Labor Day.  But I’d broken my leg in the interim, and not only did I lose a few months of the ski season, I forfeited the gig too.  But hunting down my old Middlebury buddy who’d followed me out to Utah, I learned that he’d quit his job at the Alta Peruvian and moved in with two renegades in Sandy, on the aforementioned Peony Way, where ski bums stood out like alta kachers at a rap show.  Big Wheels screamed down the street as we hid inside with our multiple pairs of skis and very little cash.  But we knew what was important, sliding down the hill, we were not in pursuit of cash.  At least that’s what I thought, until the second winter when too many people stopped skiing and started working day jobs, even for the phone company, then I knew I had to get out of there.

But after selling hot dogs up at Snowbird during the day, and skiing The Greatest Snow On Earth, I came home to a house with a couple maybe in love, at least they were sleeping together, who watched TV each and every night.  Their set was black and white, seeming to deny their interest, but they were addicted.  And after living in Vermont with no reception for four years, I was not, I’d broken the habit.

So I ended up retreating to my favorite haunt.  The library.

It was brand new.  About forty streets north.  You could check out cassettes, which I did, returning them after two weeks and then removing them once again, who else would want the latest Todd Rundgren opus?

But I also combed the stacks.  Looking for something to read, something to placate my loneliness, this was still months before I finally found my people, on a snowy night downtown, plotting to move to Mammoth Lakes for the spring while "Physical Graffiti" blared in the background.

I checked out Bob Greene’s Alice Cooper book.  I enjoyed that.

And then I kept combing the aisles.  I started to read Salinger.  I’m not sure why, could I have just stumbled upon it?  I don’t recall.

Not "The Catcher In The Rye".  We’d read that in high school.  Liked it, didn’t love it.  But "Nine Stories" and "Franny and Zooey".  And "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction". I’d never even heard of the last.  And I read it last.  And it kind of left me hanging.  I wanted more, but there was no more.

Salinger stopped writing.

And America could not tolerate it.  The public felt it was entitled to more.  Salinger owed them.

The obits have been fascinating.  Stunning to read that "The Catcher In The Rye", the definitive classic, was panned upon release by so many.  But even more interesting has been the insight into the man. Not the cranky old sot who wouldn’t deliver, but the real Jerry.

He had no tolerance for phonies.

In other words, Salinger was a character in his books.  Keeping the straight world at arm’s length. Incorruptible.

We all start off incorruptible.  But then that fades.  We cheat on tests to get good grades to insure we go to the right college so we can get into the right graduate school and rape and plunder.  And since you’ve got to have the totems, the car and the house, and ultimately the family too, you end up being on the hook for a lot of bread, you can’t walk away, you start rationalizing your life, criticizing those who don’t agree with you, you sacrificed, they should too.

Or else you’re an outsider who trades solely on that, creating nothing of value, but putting down the works of others.  You know them.  The black jeans crowd.  Nothing is ever hip enough for them, except for stuff you just can’t comprehend.  As Salinger said, "A community of seriously hip observers is a scary and depressing thing."

So either you can sell out or be a nerd.  It’s hard to be an individual.  In a world that’s sorting out your totals constantly.  Are you a winner or a loser?  It’s either/or.  Pick a side.  But what if you don’t want to pick a side?

In Lillian Ross’ remembrance in the "New Yorker", she quotes Salinger’s letter stating: "I think I despise every school and college in the world, but the ones with the best reputation first."

I don’t get higher education.  Who cares about those subjects?  Or else they’re teaching something cool that’s unteachable, like the music business.  How do you teach that?  You’ve got to EXPERIENCE that!

Elite schooling teaches you how the system works, you’re thrown in with a bunch of other sharp people, but you don’t learn much in the classroom.  But that’s not something you can say in the halls of academia, with all the tenured professors and suck-ups, thinking that if they just get straight A’s, their lives will work.

And now I’m sounding like Salinger.  Bitter by your judgment, but angry that true heart, genuine emotions don’t have much currency in modern life.  It’s all fake.  Lying so you can play the corporate game like a pinball machine.  You win, and then you want to shoot yourself?

I haven’t read a lick of Salinger in decades, not since I returned that last volume to that library in Utah.  I don’t reread, makes no sense, not with so much more to still read.  But that doesn’t mean I forget what I read.  What I remember most is the way it made me feel.  Reading Salinger made me feel human, warm, like the game I had a hard time playing, of winners and losers on the economic totem pole, didn’t make much sense.  Real life was about being open, hopeful, taking risks, sharing joy.  Being honest.

That’s what’s gone today, honesty.  If you’re honest, you’re outside the game, and if you’re not playing the game, you’re judging us, so we judge you in turn, you’re a loser.  But not necessarily.

We revere those who refuse to play the game, who work hard, search out their own path.  We call these people artists.  They’re in short supply.  But we recognize them when we see them, we flock to them, we want more.

We always wanted more Salinger.

We still want more Lennon.

We don’t want much of the hit parade.