The Medium Apple ~or ~ The Small Bachelor*

This was a delightful book, full of speakeasies and raids as well as other amusements from New York in the 1920’s.  The book is based on a musical comedy script, and I can easily see how this would work as a stage production: not too many sets, action occurring in a tight timeframe to cut down on costume changes, that sort of thing.**  There are some excellent descriptions of the neighborhoods, and these got me to thinking.  Despite living on the East Coast, I am not terribly familiar with the city of New York.  This is not to say that I have not traveled there.  The truth is that I have probably managed to pay my respects to Gotham about every one to two years, which is not bad given the state of things.  

I am both blessed and cursed by my hosts and/or traveling companions.  It seems that whenever I set foot in the metropolis, I have the good fortune to be with people who are current or past residents, meaning that they know their way around blindfolded.  From the moment that I alight from either a train station or an airport, I am whisked away by cabs and people barking knowledgeably about east this and west that, and whether it’s a good idea to go through the park.  It all goes by so quickly that my modus operandi is to sit still, say nothing, and offer prayers of thanksgiving when we inevitably make it to our destination on time and in one piece.  I am amazed by the fact that everyone seems to know instinctively how to discern the cardinal points, which I understand are key in navigating the city.  To be honest, the only time I know my north from my south is when I’m at my house, because it’s crucial for gardening.  I have a southern-facing garden, so woe betide me if I get any ideas of planting, say, impatiens or any other low-light flower in my beds. 

Many people have told me that the grid system makes getting through the city very easy indeed.  That would be true if one took away the blaring noises of horns and pedestrians who are understandably annoyed by a middle-aged tourist flailing around in the middle of the sidewalk trying to get an idea of where the sun is.  Because I can indeed figure out directions given the sun.  The only problem is that the city’s architects and planning department have insisted on constructing all of these tall buildings that obscure that useful celestial object.  My strength is, oddly enough, underground.  Give me the name of a stop and I can generally find my way there.  It helps that the subway system has maps on the wall, so I don’t have to waste valuable space unfurling one.  I have surprised myself by being able to pick my way around the city, although this should not be too much of a shock given that I’m familiar with the underground systems in five other cities.  The problem is that my friends seem to insist on traveling by foot or cab, thereby rendering me a useless lump along for the ride when we are en route.  If I were more paranoid, I would suspect that some sort of a plot was afoot among them. 

Certainly the city must have changed since Wodehouse’s day.  New York of the 1920’s is probably a distant memory in most parts.  Although Wodehouse lived until the 1970’s, I cannot offhand say that he often traveled into the city.  Perhaps he would be just as confused as I am about getting around if he were plonked in Times Square today, which is, admittedly, only cold comfort to my bruised pride. 

*Read August 2015

**Something else about this book that made me start is the fact that one of the characters, while working as a clairvoyant, takes the name Madame Eulalie.  Those of you who have had their second (or third, or, in my case, fourth) cup of coffee today might have noticed that it is also the name of the lingerie firm owned by Roderick Spode, the would-be dictator in the Jeeves and Wooster universe.  This makes me wonder if Wodehouse was referring to the Poe poem of the same name, which is yet another ponderable for me to consider when I have some free time.

The Common Genius of Wodehouse and Sedaris ~or~ Louder and Funnier*

A couple of years ago, I resumed the habit of subscribing to The New Yorker.  This is a dangerous addiction, replete with maddening consequences, that I have fallen prey to over the decades. Those in-depth pieces can be quite challenging to read whilst caring for a family of four humans and two felines.  If it was a monthly, this would be an easy feat, but those issues appear, almost taunting the subscriber, on a near-weekly basis.  They banish any smug feelings that you had upon reading, at last, the cartoon competition because you know that another issue will be lurking in the mailbox.  I read articles in snatches of time, mostly while brushing my teeth.  I used to be able to read while my son was watching the same episode of The Avengers for the 9,462^nd time, but my daughter is just about to walk, meaning that my husband and I spend quite a bit of our time hovering over her to ensure that she does not injure herself, our cats, and her brother’s toys (in that order, you’ll be pleased to know, although I suspect that my son would protest the fact that his belongings are relegated to third place). 

This week’s issue (well, it’s September 29 as I write this, so whichever week that is in the magazine world) features an essay by the incomparable David Sedaris.  One aspect of his writing that amazes me is his ability to take the mickey out of himself.  This is a quality that he has always possessed, and I always wondered how his success would change his ability to do so.  I read the beginning of his musings on the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage shortly before leaving the house.  While on the train, I began this month’s Wodehouse, which is a collection of essays that were originally published in various periodicals.** Oddly enough, I came across this passage: “The books which I write seem to appeal to a rather specialized public.  Invalids like me.  So do convicts.  And I am all right with the dog-stealers.”

A chord sounded, and I was reminded of an hour earlier when I, my mouth filled with Crest foam, read Mr. Sedaris’ description of himself as an aging, rumpled figure, picking up littler around his home in the countryside.  Of course, there are a lot of comics who rely on self-deprecation.  It’s a good way to gain audience sympathy, especially in first person narratives.  We all know that these two authors have made piles of cash with their writing, but there is a joy in knowing that they are not perfect.  It’s a nice conceit that has played through the decades nicely.  I am also struck by the wildly different subject matter; Sedaris and gay marriage and Wodehouse his literary public.  Something tells me that, in another hundred years or so, one of the major essayists of the 22^nd century will be poking fun about his or her ability to cope with something that we have yet to even imagine, using an old trope on a new issue. 

*Read October 2015.  Still have to catch up on August's book, I know.

**I think that I will be on a non-fiction Wodehouse kick this fall.  As I approach the final year of this project, I decided that I wanted the last book I read to be Sunset at Blandings, which means that I should get around to this group of books that I’ve been putting off. 

Quick Service ~or~ A Peke in the Poke*

I have not had the pleasure of meeting many Pekingese dogs.  Labrador and golden retrievers, yes, pugs and mutts aplenty.  Corgis have also recently made an appearance, given the recent fascination with them, and it seems that I cannot take my usual walk without encountering at least three fluffy bums.  The only time I met a Peke was at a barbeque.  There I was, happily eating charred meat and a variety of salads whilst trying to have a discussion with a Paleo diet enthusiast without rolling my eyes, when I felt a soft snuffling presence at my feet.  I discovered a delightful little leonine face looking up at me with hope.  Obviously, he was angling for a sausage, but he did it in such a charming way that I almost gave in.  The pup’s owner scolded him (to my shame, I forget his name), and off he trotted.  Happily though, he made a return appearance a little later and we passed a happy half hour filled with ear-scritches.  I walked away that night totally entranced by the sweet little being.**

There are Pekes galore romping through the Wodehousian oeuvre.  There is one named Patricia who graces the pages of Quick Service.  She is owned by Beatrice Chavender, an American widow.  There was, of course, another widowed Peke enthusiast in Wodehouse’s life, and that was his wife, Ethel.  Plum describes Pekes with such tender humor that I can only imagine that he was quite fond of them himself.  For instance, he describes the sounds they make while walk as a “whoffle” and this passage in particular struck me as something that only a devoted animal-lover could compose: “If there was one thing this Pekinese prided herself on, it was her voice.  She might not be big, she might look like a section of hearthrug, but she could bark” (p.108). 

While I was reading Quick Service, I started to form a theory about Wodehouse and dogs.  Mrs. Chavender is, for all appearances, of the Domineering Aunt-type.  This type never cracks.  Think of the feelings of terror that Bertie Wooster experiences even when he is separated from his Aunt Agatha by the Channel. 

Beatrice is of a different mold, and I am starting to wonder if Patricia is an indication that she is really a softie underneath.  During the action of the book, she becomes very sympathetic in a way that I was not expecting.  In future, I shall suspect that being a Peke-owner is Plum’s code for “don’t worry, this one is all right.”

*Read September 2015.

**If my life circumstances were different, I would have gone out the next day and adopted a Peke.  Were it not for my self-control tempered by the suspicion that my family would have me committed, I would have a fleet of small dogs.  The composition of the group at the moment would consist of: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, a Papillon, a long-haired Dachshund, a miniature Poodle, a Havanese, and now a Pekingese.  It’s for the best that I do not have a lot of spare time, space, or money at my disposal.  My cats, for one, would probably use this as the excuse they have been waiting for and make a break for it.  For now, though, when I need a moment of comfort, I can picture my Fleet of happy, bouncing dogs. 

Dynamite Uncles and American Women ~or~ Musings on “Uncle Dynamite”

The main character of this month’s Wodehouse*, Frederick Altamont Cornwallis, Earl of Ickenham, has appeared in other volumes.  He is a lively sort of chap who enjoys sorting out the problems of the young.  All in all, I enjoy spending time with him.  There are a lot of uncles like that in Wodehouse, and many feature in my own life and I enjoy them just as much, if not more.  I am fortunate to have a smattering of them, two on my mother’s side and four on my father’s (two of whom are, sadly, no longer with us).  The elder of the maternal uncles also pulls double-duty as my godfather.  When I was a lass in pigtails, I suspect that he used playground excursions with me to lure in attractive women.  Fittingly enough, I informed him that he needed to marry the woman who is now his wife, so that arrangement worked itself out handily.  The younger of the maternal uncles is the one who shares my Wodehouse mania, and we have a lot of other odd quirks in common, which is comforting in this mad world of ours.  One of the paternal uncles is on the other side of the country, but is an unusually liberal host.  The other is a plumber with a sweetly sympathetic side; he was the one who originally put the thought in my ear head it would not be a bad thing for me to have a second husband.  It is also handy to have him in the family when my house decides to act up.

I desperately miss the two dearly departed uncles, both of whom had great senses of humor.  There are also a passel of uncles scattered around Eastern Europe in the small villages that I’m related to (yes, the entire villages, or so it seemed to me when I visited last).  I also acquired a couple more via my marriage, although sadly I have not gotten to know them quite so well yet.  All of this musing is to say that I thoroughly agree with Wodehouse’s take on good uncles.  He always seems to be more fluent when it comes to writing about relationships that are slightly more separated.  For some reason, I get the feeling that it is far more rare to see parents interacting with their children.  One is more apt to see uncles and aunts interacting with their nieces and nephews.  There are indeed some fathers, and rarely some mothers, which is an interesting plot choice.

***

Another thing which caught my attention is this quotation on page 99: “Sally was just the sort of girl who appealed to him most, the sort America seems to turn out in thousands, gay, grave, and adventurous, enjoying life with an almost Ickenhamian relish and resolutely refusing to allow its little difficulties to daunt her spirit.”  On the whole, it is very nice to see something positive written about an American. When I lived in the UK, not a Sunday went by that the Times did not make at least one disparaging remark against Americans (its leftist counterpart, The Guardian, probably also had some things to say, but the Sunday Times had a better Style section so that was the one that made its way to my room).  I’m not saying that we don’t do things that merit critique, but it’s refreshing to see something positive, even if it was written in 1948. 

***

And finally, I noticed that there were quite a few comments that served as internal advertisements for the quality of Wodehouse’s writing.  A typical example presented itself on page 121:

                “ ‘I like your dialogue,’ said Lord Ickenham critically.  ‘It’s crisp and good.  Do you ever write?’

                ‘No.’

                ‘You should.  You’d make a packet…’”

That one of Wodehouse’s characters was complimenting the dialogue of another, which Wodehouse himself wrote, amused me.  Sometimes, even the best need to have a few compliments lobbed their way to help them carry on.  It’s nice to see that Wodehouse was not above giving himself some.  

*Read July 2015