Category Archives: Literature

It’s a tradition of mine to read a little – okay, a lot – of Dorothy Parker on Valentine’s Day. It grounds me, and reminds me of all those Valentine’s Days spent without a Goddamn Valentine – but in a healthy, independent, if slightly-bitter, way. And even though I’ve had a Valentine for the last dozen years, I still read a bit of Ms. Parker on this Hallmark holiday because it never hurts to be reminded from whence we came. Besides, this one goes out to all my single friends, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being single. Nobody knew that better than Ms. Parker, in her own way.

I realized I could live a moral life, that I should, as an adult, live a life dictated by duty. If I chose I could find beauty by living in the real world; I could probably find beauty by working day after day at meaningful drudge. I often had that anxious, desolate feeling that I was wasting my time, that I was wasting an afternoon, a weekend, a whole life, by not choosing to do the right thing – the work that would simultaneously wear me out and sustain me. I was striving for the, ah, mature life. Here, I said to myself, I’ve been waylaid by the most sinful temptations, and if I don’t change now I might wander around forever wadded up with stupidity of my own making. I’d gotten distracted by laziness, by narcissism, and I’d also become clever in a despicable way, clever like a mild version of Milton’s Satan, Satan-lite, if you will. I could think rationally, but without any sort of spirituality. I was disconnected from anything moral, or from a sense of awe.

~ Jane Hamilton, The Short History of a Prince

Given my druthers, I’d live in a hotel. Everything about them fascinates me – and I travel as much to experience a new location as I do to experience a new property. Given that, ‘Heads in Beds’ is my new favorite book. It’s the story of Jacob Tomsky’s hotel adventures, and his journey from a parking valet to a front desk agent, and it held me captivated from page one. At turns riotous, clever, despondent, and inspiring, the tale has you rooting for Tomsky as he navigates the often-soul-sucking service world, where the customer is always (yet never) right. While most of us only know what it’s like to be on the receiving side of the counter, it’s a testament to Tomsky’s voice and narrative that we feel like one of the insiders. If anything, this book is a powerful defense of those helping us out on a daily basis, and a much-needed reminder that no one is better than anyone else just because they have more money.

Author Jacob Tomsky

Tomsky gives a face to the faceless, reminding all of us guests that behind the uniform and name-tag is another human being. In Tomsky’s case, it’s a guy who only wants to help you out while making a living providing exceptional service. In the end, ‘Heads in Beds’ will not only leave you a better hotel guest, but a better person. That’s worth more than a Benny.

The warning comes at the very beginning – at once a challenge and a disclaimer: “This book is not about living your dream. It will not inspire you. You will not be emboldened to attempt anything more than making a fresh pot of coffee.” This is the world of ‘The Bucolic Plague: How Two Manhattanites Became Gentlemen Farmers’ by Josh Kilmer-Purcell. It’s a defiant and unlikely way to start, as well as a nifty (and effective) bit of reverse psychology. Yet that’s not what draws me in – I’m instantly a fan of the self-deprecating (and at times self-lancing) style of Kilmer-Purcell’s prose. With an explosive opening salvo soaked in goat shit, the book begins with the kind of hilarious drama only a former drag queen could so gorgeously conjure, but quickly quiets down into the strange yet satisfying journey from New York City to the tiny town of Sharon Springs, NY. Along the way, a cast of colorful characters, and the steady guiding hand of his practically-perfect partner Dr. Brent Ridge, come together to illuminate the path they took on their way to becoming the Beekman Boys.

On the weekend before Halloween, I find myself sitting on the porch of the American Hotel and delving into ‘The Bucolic Plague’ while on our first trip to Sharon Springs, NY. A few doors down was the Beekman 1802 Mercantile, an impossibly charming store where all sorts of soaps and goat milk deliciousness were on display, tickling the eye and nose and belly with their rich goodness. A woman named Megan had been at the register, welcoming Andy and I to the store and to the town, and we perused the sweetly-scented surroundings before settling on some soap. The next day I returned to browse again (it turns out there really isn’t that much to do in Sharon Springs) at which point I pick up the signed copy of the book, which now rests in my hands as I rock the remainder of the day away. Another lovely lady, Maria, had been watching over the shop that day, her friendly smile and exuberant description and invitation to the then-upcoming Victorian Stroll was infectious – it seems in Sharon Springs everyone is instantly a friend, and I wonder why it can’t be like that everywhere.

Back on the porch, I am already fifty pages into the book when I realize it is dinner time. Such is the spell cast by an intoxicating writer. I will finish the book quickly in a few sittings, enthralled by the journey of thee two gentlemen. It is a nifty keepsake from our weekend in Sharon Springs, but far more than that it is an inspiration. Just as Oprah Winfrey and Martha Stewart wield their power over a nation of people striving for their ‘Best Life’, so too do the Beekman Boys hold sway over those of us misfits just looking for little ways to make our lives better. Oddly enough, the book succeeds most in doing exactly what Kilmer-Purcell purports it won’t do, in the form of motivating and inspiring. Their story, beneath the surface, may not be the slice of super-successful perfection that we demand from our public figures, but because of that it’s more relatable, and the home-grown jewels they’ve produced are more precious.

While the procurement and running of the Beekman Farm and Mansion provide the narrative drive of ‘The Bucolic Plague’, it’s the relationship between Josh and Brent that forms the underlying foundation to the proceedings. Never heavy-handed or over-wrought with anything other than brutal honesty, it is tinged with a keen sensitivity to the trials and tribulations of any long-term couple. The book shifts on the dynamics between the two men – tense here, hopeful there – evolving and revolving around what it takes to stay in love, what it takes to pursue your dreams, and what it takes to try for both.

The best part may be that there is no definitive happy ending – and so their journey continues, luckily enough to be documented on The Fabulous Beekman Boys (on the Cooking Channel) as well as their (as of this writing) ongoing success on The Amazing Race (a show only the Beekman Boys could get me to sit through, and one that turns out to be highly addictive – a good-enough reason why I don’t usually watch TV.) More than that though, and no matter how things go at the Beekman Mansion, this book is a badly-needed reminder of what it means to inhabit this world, how we must help each other, how the things we once thought mattered change and become something else. It is a gorgeously rendered literary bouquet, as transitory and fleeting in its beauty as it is resonant and lasting in its spirit.

Near the end comes the beginning ~ of understanding, and of all the things that brought them to purchase the Beekman mansion: “Because we’re vain, kindhearted, ambitious, shallow, deep, humble, trendy, old-fashioned, rich, poor, proud, and vulnerable. Those are merely the beginnings of the reasons we bought the Beekman.”

We want so much for things to be perfect, for our lives to be exactly as those idealized on the covers of magazines and the eponymous talk-shows of lifestyle gurus, but that’s not the way most of us can live. The best we can hope for – and the greatest we can achieve – is happiness. The love of another person. The joy of another Spring. The bloom of another flower. Nothing is ever perfect ~ and why would we want it to be?

A friend had warned me that I would grow tired of it before it was over. I scoffed at the notion – at page 200 I was still enthralled with the Dickensian atmosphere of ‘An Instance of the Fingerpost’ by Iain Pears, and loving the historical world of Restoration England in the 1600’s. Yet he insisted that I would soon find the book unnecessarily long. I fought him for a bit, then let it go, content with the knowledge that if I was enjoying a book a few hundred pages in, I wouldn’t find it tough to finish in the least. Then I looked forward to composing a snotty little told-you-so message proving myself right for the cajillionth time.

As it turns out, by page 400 I was starting to wonder if I might be wrong. And by the time the FOURTH narrator began his take on the tale, I had to admit defeat. It was getting difficult to trudge through the last couple of hundred pages. But I did it, even if it took me three times longer than it normally does to finish a book. This post is dedicated to James, who was right when I was wrong ~ which happened at just about the 500 page mark as he had predicted. (And essential component of growing up is learning how to accept when you’re wrong. Perhaps there is hope for me after all.)

On the trusted advice of a friend, I read my first John Irving book, A Prayer for Owen Meany, a few months ago. I loved it so much that I was reluctant to start another. It’s also good to have a break between books by the same author – no matter how different the content or form, there’s something stale about beginning that second book. A few months’ time is enough to break the spell, so when I spotted Irving’s latest, Last Night in Twisted River, I picked it up. (It was a spur-of-the-moment purchase as well, since I was about to see a movie alone and had nothing to read before it began. I can do anything alone as long as I have a book with me. Most people use their cel phone for safety in solitude – I’ve always relied on a book.)

It took a few tries, but eventually I got into it, and by the middle of the story I couldn’t put it down. He is indeed a masterful story-teller, and I loved how he wove a bit of what I’m assuming is his own writing process into the book. He also created another favorite character of mine (in addition to Owen Meany) – Ketchum is my new hero. Rough, tough, ornery, and prickly – he’s my kind of man, hiding a fierce loyalty and love for a few select friends.

In the book, the protagonist is an author, and one of the criticisms made about his writing is that it features such unsavory characters. The same might be said about Last Night in Twisted River, but not by me. Some of them may be hard to love, but some of us know what that’s like. The thing I admire most about Irving is his way of conveying that love through the smallest of gestures.

It’s in a fleece vest, or an oiled knife, or a dancing moose. It’s there in the most obvious places, but also in the most senseless acts of violence – the bludgeoning of a woman in the throes of passion or the self-severing of a hand. It’s not easy to find tenderness or compassion in such a harsh world, but Irving makes his heartbreaking aches a source of solace, even in the coldest Winter.