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.<\/p>\n
That’s what we called it.\u00c2\u00a0 We outsiders, we Jews, "The City of Salt".\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 Reminds me of that guy New York George, who opened a restaurant in the shade of the Scientology Center.\u00c2\u00a0 Wasn’t long until George too was a Scientologist…it was good for business.<\/p>\n
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.\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 Big Wheels screamed down the street as we hid inside with our multiple pairs of skis and very little cash.\u00c2\u00a0 But we knew what was important, sliding down the hill, we were not in pursuit of cash.\u00c2\u00a0 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.<\/p>\n
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.\u00c2\u00a0 Their set was black and white, seeming to deny their interest, but they were addicted.\u00c2\u00a0 And after living in Vermont with no reception for four years, I was not, I’d broken the habit.<\/p>\n
So I ended up retreating to my favorite haunt.\u00c2\u00a0 The library.<\/p>\n
It was brand new.\u00c2\u00a0 About forty streets north.\u00c2\u00a0 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?<\/p>\n
But I also combed the stacks.\u00c2\u00a0 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.<\/p>\n
I checked out Bob Greene’s Alice Cooper book.\u00c2\u00a0 I enjoyed that.<\/p>\n
And then I kept combing the aisles.\u00c2\u00a0 I started to read Salinger.\u00c2\u00a0 I’m not sure why, could I have just stumbled upon it?\u00c2\u00a0 I don’t recall.<\/p>\n
Not "The Catcher In The Rye".\u00c2\u00a0 We’d read that in high school.\u00c2\u00a0 Liked it, didn’t love it.\u00c2\u00a0 But "Nine Stories" and "Franny and Zooey".\u00c2\u00a0 And "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction". I’d never even heard of the last.\u00c2\u00a0 And I read it last.\u00c2\u00a0 And it kind of left me hanging.\u00c2\u00a0 I wanted more, but there was no more.<\/p>\n
Salinger stopped writing.<\/p>\n
And America could not tolerate it.\u00c2\u00a0 The public felt it was entitled to more.\u00c2\u00a0 Salinger owed them.<\/p>\n
The obits have been fascinating.\u00c2\u00a0 Stunning to read that "The Catcher In The Rye", the definitive classic, was panned upon release by so many.\u00c2\u00a0 But even more interesting has been the insight into the man. Not the cranky old sot who wouldn’t deliver, but the real Jerry.<\/p>\n
He had no tolerance for phonies.<\/p>\n
In other words, Salinger was a character in his books.\u00c2\u00a0 Keeping the straight world at arm’s length. Incorruptible.<\/p>\n
We all start off incorruptible.\u00c2\u00a0 But then that fades.\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 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.<\/p>\n
Or else you’re an outsider who trades solely on that, creating nothing of value, but putting down the works of others.\u00c2\u00a0 You know them.\u00c2\u00a0 The black jeans crowd.\u00c2\u00a0 Nothing is ever hip enough for them, except for stuff you just can’t comprehend.\u00c2\u00a0 As Salinger said, "A community of seriously hip observers is a scary and depressing thing."<\/p>\n
So either you can sell out or be a nerd.\u00c2\u00a0 It’s hard to be an individual.\u00c2\u00a0 In a world that’s sorting out your totals constantly.\u00c2\u00a0 Are you a winner or a loser?\u00c2\u00a0 It’s either\/or.\u00c2\u00a0 Pick a side.\u00c2\u00a0 But what if you don’t want to pick a side?<\/p>\n
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."<\/p>\n
I don’t get higher education.\u00c2\u00a0 Who cares about those subjects?\u00c2\u00a0 Or else they’re teaching something cool that’s unteachable, like the music business.\u00c2\u00a0 How do you teach that?\u00c2\u00a0 You’ve got to EXPERIENCE that!<\/p>\n
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.\u00c2\u00a0 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.<\/p>\n
And now I’m sounding like Salinger.\u00c2\u00a0 Bitter by your judgment, but angry that true heart, genuine emotions don’t have much currency in modern life.\u00c2\u00a0 It’s all fake.\u00c2\u00a0 Lying so you can play the corporate game like a pinball machine.\u00c2\u00a0 You win, and then you want to shoot yourself?<\/p>\n
I haven’t read a lick of Salinger in decades, not since I returned that last volume to that library in Utah.\u00c2\u00a0 I don’t reread, makes no sense, not with so much more to still read.\u00c2\u00a0 But that doesn’t mean I forget what I read.\u00c2\u00a0 What I remember most is the way it made me feel.\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 Real life was about being open, hopeful, taking risks, sharing joy.\u00c2\u00a0 Being honest.<\/p>\n
That’s what’s gone today, honesty.\u00c2\u00a0 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.\u00c2\u00a0 But not necessarily.<\/p>\n
We revere those who refuse to play the game, who work hard, search out their own path.\u00c2\u00a0 We call these people artists.\u00c2\u00a0 They’re in short supply.\u00c2\u00a0 But we recognize them when we see them, we flock to them, we want more.<\/p>\n
We always wanted more Salinger.<\/p>\n
We still want more Lennon.<\/p>\n
We don’t want much of the hit parade.<\/p>\n
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