Page 8
Daily Nebraskan
Wednesday, November 17, 1982
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Photo courtesy of Delacorte Press
Buy the hamburger,
hut don't buy the book
So the Wind Won't Blow It All Away
Richard Brautigan
Delacorte Press
I've read a number of Richard Brautigan novels over
the last few years and none of them were as bad as "So
the Wind Won't Blow It All Away."
Actually, I shouldn't say "bad," as that implies that
this is a bad novel, which it really isn't. It's only bad when
compared to his earlier works.
The book centers on a childhood episode in which
the narrator accidentally shoots and kills a friend of
his.
It might be said that this book examines in detail
the role that seemingly innocent decisions play in our
lives, such as whether and when to take a particular
Book Review
class, what party to go to, etc. In this case, the decision
is whether to buy a hamburger or a box of bullets.
The narrator opts to buy the bullets, the bullets that
eventually will kill his friend.
On another level, the novel also deals with acceptance.
The incident took place on Feb. 17, 1948, as the
narrator mentions several times. He also tells us that he
is looking back on this in August 1979. Obviously, the
narrator, who is never mentioned by name, is still unable
to accept what happened that day.
Immediately after the incident, he embarked on a
mission to learn everything he can about hamburgers,
because he passed up the hamburger on that fateful
day when he bought the bullets.
And even today he still thinks about it. There is this,
for example, on the first page of the book:
"For the rest of my life I'll think about that ham
burger. I'll be sitting there at the counter, holding it in
my hands with tears streaming down my cheeks."
Unlike some of Brautigan 's other books, most notably
"Dreaming of Babylon," which may well be the funniest
novel ever written, this book isn't particularly funny.
Not that it doesn't have its funny moments. Like this
admission:
"I was a strange kid.
"I guess you could safely add very. "
But the fact remains that a lot of this book is just
dull, though not for long stretches. After all, the whole
book is only 131 pages.
The book also jumps back and forth between dif
ferent time periods in the past. This isn't too confusing
to the reader because Brautigan makes it pretty clear
when he does this. But it does hurt the continuity of the
story.
Of course, Brautigan has always been a pretty strange
writer. It wouldn't be realistic to suddenly expect him
to start writing like John Cheever.
Still it would be nice if he returned to the Brautigan
of old. As a character says to Woody Allen in "Stardust
Memories," "I love your movies, especially the funny
ones."
Perhaps Brautigan is in danger of becoming stereo
typed, just as Woody Allen has been.
By Jeff Goodwin
Letterman keeps late-night TV cool
By Pat Higgins
NBC owns late-night TV. Johnny is better than ever,
as he rolls along in his guise as the guru of cool. SCTV
is the best of the quasi-hip young adult shows, and then
there's Letterman.
He's been getting a lot of publicity lately (cover of
Rolling Stone, attacks on him in Lampoon), and he
deserves the attention.
Letterman is as funny and as fine an interviewer as
Johnny. Letterman's advantage is that he is able to get
fr Television
L J-J Review
guests like Hunter Thompson and James Brown, instead
of Vegas show biz fogies.
Although Letterman wears a suit, the twinkle in his
eye indicates there is a little bit of subversion in his
soul. Spontaneity is part of his act, too, something that
Johnny tends to avoid.
For example, Bill Murray was scheduled one night
but he hadn't shown up, and Letterman was getting
nervous. The phone conveniently located on his desk
rings, and it was Murray.
"Party, David," the unidentified voice said to the
befuddled Letterman. "It's me, David - Bill Murray.
I'm at a great party. Roberto Duran's sparring partner's
ex-girlfriends are here. You gotta come over - party."
Letterman said something about having to do a show
and the fact that Murray had promised to be there.
"Forget that stuff. NBC can cover for you. They're
ready for situations like this. They'll pull out the 75
Series or something," Murray cajoled.
The screen goes blank and what is this? It's the '75
Series. To be exact, it's the bottom of the 10th of the
sixth game with Carlton Fisk coming up to hit his me
morable home run. What happened to Letterman?
Evidently the lure of the party proved too powerful,
and he abandoned ship. Finally, responsibility wins out
and he returns with a belligerent Murray in tow. This
is the stuff from which TV legends are born.
Paul Shaeffer and band also deserve credit for good
fade-outs as they rock out pretty decently, especially
for TV - sure beats Doc and company.
Although Letterman has all the moves, he has a dan
gerous tendency to be too cute for his own good. But
the bottom line is that Letterman is cool. As Letterman
says at least once a week,
"If that isn't enough then, by gosh, don't you think
that it ought to be?"
Zen and the art of vacuuming
As anyone who's bounced off the bottom even once
knows, poverty is hell. When you're down so low it's all
up to you, you see how money's freedom and you're
alienated from an inalienable right.
It's mean irony, to languish in all the free time you've
ever lusted for, unabje to enjoy, impotent of means, flat
out. To survive, you must be a stoic and stick-in-the-mud
homebody.
The first neurotic weeks are typically conceded to be
the worst. Yet they're only the natural lag that a mind
ana ooay teei, converting trom consumerism to inaction.
I David Wood
The trickier part is afterward when you must resist the
dreaded vicious circle of depression, desire, hope, expec
tation and failure, followed by despondency.
You learn to hang no hopes on the world, as much of it
is illusion. You've got to resort to soundproofing a nook
in your head to do your main hanging in. Television is
a good first step in acquiring this knack.
Nash Rambler didn't have a TV, but he didn't need
one. Whether spending or scrimping, he did nothing unless
it was with fervor, with mind, body and soul. He'd luckily
been reading a lot of Zen literature at the time he was
burned and again when things leaped from the skillet into
the fire, only to be nuked and sent to hell, and so he
picked up on situational numbness with a flair.
He lost touch with the world in a big way. Before long,
only CheckRite kept any interest in him. By the time he
was eventually blackballed from every check counter
in town, he no longer felt pain. He thought of joining
the Army, having a lobotomy and living out his life in
mindless bliss on a government pension, as the recruiting
office also managed to keep tabs on his address. But the
pipe dream was discarded as illusion.
He idled ambiguous days away rifling the public
library for things to read. His tastes wavered between
the overlapping topics of Zen, neurology, cognitive
theory, artificial intelligence and cybernetics. Reading and
the severe meditations it produced, besides seeing him
through life's ugliest hours, also taught him survival tactics
that'd give him guerrilla control over his mind.
Rambler was offered a figurative golden apple one
day. He was hungry and bit. It came in the form of words
overheard while donating plasma. An unhappy brute
next to him was going on and on about how unending
his hatred was for his job and boss. He thundered
that he was "no man's mealy fetch-it. I quit, there in
his face, like God's own truth."
Rambler couldn't avoid hearing him and being amazed
at how violently blood splashed into his donor bag. He
was just one in nine Americans unemployed, but he
wailed like a martyr nailed to a cross with blood-letting
needles.
A nurse intervened long enough to snip away the
bloated bag, and Rambler snuck a question in edgewise.
"The swine were who?"
With a sneer and some well-turned expletives, the brute
said he'd worked for Snidely Bros. Building Services.
Then he burst, "What's the needlin' for, chump? Ya
fishin' for a job? Well, go to Snidely's, say you know
Garcia and it's cinched. But a real man'd be a bum,
scumbag!" A spitting tirade followed.
Rambler fixated on the information and speculated on
the immediate, eten though he knew it was a blatant
excursion into the unknowable; But even a Zen master
would've had problems erasing thoughts amidst a clamor
ous donor room. A mind, body and soul naturally get
flighty and feisty when the blood's a pint low. Rambler
flexed mental muscles that should be kept supple, and
when his fabled Zen invisible ego popped, like a bubble,
it was hard to reinflate.
Whoever Garcia was, his name worked like gold, and
Rambler cinched a janitor position on a bank crew. He
took to the job like a shark to spilled innards, rapidly
surmising that vacuuming was a superb was to meditate.
He became a model worker and was left alone mostly,
except when, because of his perpetual grin, co-workers
approached him to ask about finding drugs.
Life ebbed into silence again. "The Buddhist behind
the broom," as his co-workers called him, was one with
his vacuum sweeper and the universe until, one day, he
was baited by another golden apple. Its form this time
was a young banker who worked late into the night
on the computers.
Rambler hadn't solicited the acquaintance. It'd just
happened when he was innocently following the path of
least resistance with his sweeper. "I ask a favor," the
banker said, tapping Rambler's shoulder with one hand
and flashing a twenty with the other. He'd hair like gold,
skin like bronze, muscles like steel, but it was his voice
that was truly commanding.
A silver DeLorean drove up outside the bank three
minutes later, precisely as the banker said it would.
Rambler recited the code words he was entrusted with,
and a sultry woman in midnight blue handed him a
sealed envelope and squealed off into the evening.
Along the way on the low-resistance path, Rambler
chanced to read the nameplate on the door he .returned
to.
RANDY EWING
OPERATIONS
"It's the janitor," Rambler said, knocking.
"Come on in," the metallic-tough Ewing said, opening
the door and dispensing another twenty. He gestured
Rambler toward a plush seat, as he had a phone cradled
to his ear. "It's the janitor. Ill have to get back to you,
J.R. Yes, you'll know about it. I'll let you know about
it, J.R. Bye."
He repeated the words "I'll let you know" again after
hanging up. He sat, put his fingertips together and stared
into the reflection of himself he saw in the picture of
himself on his desk. He finally turned to Rambler and
said, "The package."
Ewing tossed the package into a lower drawer he
opened and closed quickly. He then yanked open an
upper drawer and came up with a silver spoon full of
white crystals. He offered it to Rambler.
"Drugs are false chariots for where I'm going,"
Rambler said strangely. Ewing took a rolled SI, 000 bill
to the heap and elegantly snorted. "But as a vacuumer,
I'm impressed," Rambler said.
"I like your style, kid. I'm always looking for a good
man. The name's Ewing, Randy Ewing," Ewing said,
unrolling and extending his $1,000 tooter to Rambler!
To be continued