Salinger RIP

I'm a Salinger fan. His writing didn't hide his distate for phonies, but it didn't attack them either. His works sort of defended the theory that in a world of phonies, it's better to be phony than not. If you're a phony then this means nothing to you. If you are sometimes a phony then it's only a vague sense of loss. If you are a phony but think you aren't then this will make sense but you will also know you are lying to yourself and that you can't win. If you are not a phony then life is hellish as it stands so this is no consolation. You're probably calling me a phony right now...which I am...sometimes.

Anyway, the writer is dead. He lived in Cornish, which is south of Lebanon on the NH VT border. It's like an hour from here. He lived in a house with no number. I meant to go visit him and ask him to sign my red hunting cap. I guess that will never happen.

I wonder if living outside of new yorker essays and dinners in Washington and prologues to new editions changed his writing. Was he happy with his style and was afraid it would change? Because I don't think his style works today. It's kind of phony. Dry. Unaffected. What's he trying to prove? Fuck Salinger! You think you're too good for us? For love Esme?? Farewell to Banana Fish?? That's a bunch of phony bullshit. I quoted you just three days ago and you don't have the respect to come out and mingle? Asshole!

And another thing, you cunt, I wish I could go live in a cabin and study yoga and zen and eat turkey wraps but I can't. See? I can't do that. So what the fuck? I wish I were as cool and rich as you to write about people killing themselves and shit and then buy a cabin and prey on teenage girls. Bravo! You phony bastard! The highlight of my day was talking to my librarian crush Courtney about you dying. Wait, I got an idea. I'm going to write a J.D. Salinger story. And let me tell you that I'm on the floor right now with a broken back. Ain't no girls waiting outside the door of this group home. Nope. I'm dirt poor. Borrowing other people's food stamps to stay alive. But do you think I can do it? Let's see...
What shall I call it? Something pretentious, like

"The Pink Blankey Man"
by J.D. "I'm so fucking special" Salinger (AKA Oggy Bleacher)

Prim had wet herself so she went to the bathroom. Her pink blankey dragged on the ground. She saw her father in the hallway, weeping.
"Daddy, are you ok?"
"No. No, Prim. What are you doing up?"
"I wet myself from a bad dream. There was a wolf and then the ice cream melted."
"Yes. Yes."
"What time is it? Is it school time?"
"No. Go back to bed. Oh, Prim?"
"Yes, daddy?"
"Never mind. Go to bed."
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Prim, yes, Buttercup."
"Will you be my pink blankey man again."
"Not tonight. No. I don't think so."
"Just once more. Then I won't ask again."
"I...no. It's...your mother...no."
"Once more?"
"Ok."
And Prim's father picked up the pink blankey and wore it as a cape and flew and said, "Captain Frabjulous of the Pink Blankey brigade to the rescue."
"But you don't say it right," called Prim. "Say it right." She bounced in place. "Say it right!"
Prim's father dropped the pink blankey.
"That was right. That was how I always said it."
Prim knew it wasn't right. She couldn't explain how it was different but it was different.
"Ok." she said. "OK. I'll go night night."
Her father was silent, lit from behind by a desk light, as Prim shuffled into the bathroom. She stopped at the door and couldn't find the light switch. In the dark she thought she saw a wolf hide in the toilet. She was startled but her father was quiet so she said nothing. She found the light switch and clutched her blankey to her chest as she turned the light on. But she knew the blankey would offer her no protection. It was merely a pink blankey, after all. There was no wolf but in the trash Prim saw a box that said "Pregnancy Test". She went back to bed but didn't sleep.

the end



There. you think I gotta go live in a fucking cabin now? Huh, you phony moron? No. I still gotta get up tomorrow and collect aluminum. My back is killing me. I can't bend my fingers. Be a man. Stop reading Hermann Hesse. Asshole! I can't wait for your estate to publish all your crappy books that you've been sitting on. Look at me. I'm just dying to read them.
ok, now you can rest in peace.