Archive for February 12, 2010

Overheard: “Mom, I Can’t Say THAT!” Subtitle: Gavin and Valentine’s Day

Ah, Valentine’s Day. What torture.

And when did it become almost exclusively about candy?

I’m reminded of one of my favorite comments made by Jigsaw Jones eleven years ago in The Case of the Secret Valentine. Jigsaw has just made an unnerving discovery: someone sent him a secret Valentine. He complains to Mila:

“You know what the worst part is,” I complained. “This girl is ruining a perfectly good holiday. I mean, I like Valentine’s Day. You get to eat cupcakes. Why does she have to drag love into it?”

Anyway, our family’s participation in the holiday has devolved over the years from our kids’  highly artistic, creative efforts at card-making to pure commercialism. Lisa now buys the cards at CVS, the kids fill ’em out, and we’re through it with a minimum of hassle.

Tip to parents: Things go so much easier when you eliminate tiresome concepts such as art, creativity, effort, and care!

Anyway, Lisa brought home some generic cards for Gavin. They contained benign messages like, I don’t know, “You’re a blast!” (cue rocket ship art), “You’re awesome!” and so on. You know the type.

Gavin looked at the cards and nearly died right there from mortification. He began twitching, scratching himself, blinking uncontrollably, clearly agitated.  “Mom, I can’t say that . . . to a girl!”

“What?”

Gavin could barely form the words. He finally sputtered,  “I can’t say that a girl is awesome.”

They talked about it, and Gavin made it clear that any expression of affection, admiration, or even grudging respect would be unacceptable. So Lisa, no dummy, surrendered to our fifth-grade boy’s abject terror. She instead bought  a holiday bag of mini Kit-Kat bars with the words “TO” and “FROM” printed on each individual bar. Gavin had only to fill out the names — which was about as much emotion as he was willing to expend.

At CVS, Lisa ran into another mother of a fifth-grade boy. She was on the same errand, dealing with a similar revolt. Looks like a lot of kids will be getting Kit Kat bars in school today. The next few years should be interesting.

Poetry Friday (Thursday Edition): Kristen Wiig reads from “the early poems” of Suzanne Somers

I’m loving Poetry Friday. I hope the head honchos let me into the club — I so need to be included in “the roundup.” I actually have a pretty strong collection of slender volumes of verse from my days in NYC when I was passionate about poverty poetry. People like Jack Spicer, Hilda Doolittle, Charles Olson, Denise Levertov, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, Robert Creeley, Ken Irby and many, many more.

But for today, well, today is special.

Today you get the underrated genius of Suzanne Somers, as read by Kristin Wiig of Saturday Night Live.


A thighmaster . . . and a poet!

Are you ready to celebrate Poetry Friday? Can you think of anything better?

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I soooo need this book. My favorite is the second poem, “Extra Love,” which begins at the 2:30 mark. Don’t miss it.

Looking at the book cover, and that title, I suddenly have this crazy idea that it — the book cover — should get married to this album cover:

Remember that one? Peter Frampton’s “I’m In You.” Clearly they belong together. Peas in a pod.

Yuck. I’ve been slimed.

Here’s a customer review that I found on Amazon of Touch Me: The Poems of Suzanne Somers:

Working at a bookstore back in the late 80s, we had a copy of this book in stock. The other booksellers and I would sometimes take it down from the shelf and read aloud one of Suzanne’s terrible poems… and double over with laughter! So bad, they’re very very funny. When it came time to return it to the publisher as unsold, my co-workers and I refused to part with it. Another time, a woman overheard one of our readings, thought the poems were as hysterical as we did, and wanted to buy our store’s only copy. We talked her out of it; we liked keeping the slim volume on the shelf, where we could take it down whenever we needed a laugh. Eventually, I moved on. Reminded of this book recently, I found it through Amazon’s used book services and now have a copy of my own. I post quotes from it on my FaceBook page, giving Suzanne full credit of course, and leave some of my friends begging for more. Get it; you won’t regret it. Favorites include “I Wore My Green Sweater Today,” “Organic Girl,” and “Sometimes I Want to Be a Little Girl.”

Okay, okay, settle down folks. I know you need more, more, more. Here’s “Organic Girl” by poet Suzanne Somers:

Organic girl dropped by last night

For nothing in particular

Except to tell me again how beautiful and serene she feels

On uncooked vegetables and wheat germ fortified by bean sprouts–

Mixed with yeast and egg whites on really big days–

She not only meditates regularly, but looks at me like I should

And lectures me about meat and ice cream

And other aggressive foods I shouldn’t eat.

Fan Mail Wednesday #76 (Tuesday Edition)

A few things first.

1) This is my 400th post since I started this massive distraction blog back in May 2008. Wow, that’s an average of 3.67 blog posts per day! Oh, wait . . .

2) I’m heading off to Seneca Falls for a couple of days worth of school visits. So I’m shifting Fan Mail Wednesday to Tuesday. Poetry Friday will slide over to Thursday. And by popular demand, I’m eliminating Mondays altogether. Thank you, thank you very much.

3) Don’t you love that iconic image I put up top every time I answer fan mail? Do any of you know what that is? It’s something called “a letter.” You see, back in the Olden Days people used to write on pieces of paper with pens, pencils, porcupine quills or buffalo fat.

Then they would seal the paper in envelopes, and people called “Mail Men” — later renamed, “Mail Men or Sometimes Women” — would walk around the great gaping Earth to deliver those letters to highly arbitrary people. At first it was delivered with the aid of a live tiger, then pony . . .

. . . then funny little car. We called it progress. I’m sure that in these heady days of e-mail and Facebook and teleportation technology, the old mail service sounds like a wild fantasy. But I promise I’m not pulling your leg: It really did happen. Funny little cars? Believe it! They used to be everywhere!

Even so, some folks — and not just the Amish — still try to send letters the old-fashioned way. It’s funny when that happens! Did you know that the United States Postal Service is on pace to lose $7 BILLION this year? That’s not easy to do! But like my Daddy used to say, “When the Government gets involved, anything is possible.” Dad voted for Barry Goldwater in 1964, no lie.

Take a look at this letter I recently received:

Here’s the back:

But inside, folded neatly, I found this Secret Message:

I wrote back:

Dear TJ:

I was home the other day when I heard the doorbell ring. Cha-cha-cha, CHA-cha-CHA, Shooby-Dooby-Doo, it chimed. When I got to the door, I found your letter. It was exhausted and hurt. I carried it inside, offered it a cup of Green Tea, and it told me its terrible story. Apparently, on its way to my house — via my publisher at Scholastic — the letter was ATTACKED BY BEARS!

It was a rough battle — those bears have TEETH! — but the letter managed to escape. It survived with only minor injuries.

As requested by you, TJ, I am writing back. Thank you for reading some of my books. I love that they have helped you “read more and read better.” That’s awesome. And it’s true, there are special editions put together by Barnes & Noble that collect four stories in one book. Talk about a bargain.

At this point, I’ve written forty Jigsaw Jones titles. I think my publisher is sick of them. Maybe even the whole world is sick of them, I don’t know. But I’d love to write another someday. I still get ideas for new stories — and sometimes those ideas come in the mail. When, that is, they aren’t eaten by bears.

Thanks for writing. Your friend,

JP

P.S. I’m sorry if you are a very serious person and can’t tolerate any silliness. My apologies. I’ll try to be more serious next time. Bears only eat blueberries, salmon, honey, and Eggo waffles — NOT LETTERS. This fan mail stuff gets me a little nutty sometimes.

Stories Behind the Story: The Case of the Class Clown

A while back, I got a surprising phone call about this book: a group (legitimate, apparently) named Arts Power wanted to turn it into a musical.

Okay, great. And so they have. I have not seen it, though I did have the opportunity to read the adaptation, which smartly compressed the cast to four characters. Really, it’s all up to the songs, and I haven’t heard ’em. But it’s definitely an honor to have that book plucked from the torrent and highlighted in this way. Break a leg, Arts Power!

As for the book itself . . .

I see that it is dedicated to teacher Mary Szczech and the children in her 1999-2000 classroom. When we first moved to the town of Delmar, this would be 11-12 years ago, I contacted the local elementary school in the hope of finding a teacher who would allow me to sit in on classes throughout the year. I understood that it would take a certain kind of teacher, open and confident. Enter Mary Szczech. My time in Mary’s classroom was so helpful to me — I learned so much — that I’ve adopted that research strategy for many subsequent projects. I like to get inside the classroom, soak up the atmosphere, all those little details I couldn’t possibly make  up.

I sometimes struggle with kicking off the mystery proper. There are books in the series when the actual “client with a case” doesn’t show up until 3-4 chapters into the book. Other times, like this one, Jigsaw is in detective mode from page one. Here we find Jigsaw, Mila, and Athena Lorenzo (the client) up Jigsaw’s tree house. Strange as it sounds, when they are up there, I know I’m on firm ground.

* Jigsaw’s father has a scene in the book when Mila overhears him talking to a bunch of raisins: “Listen here, you dried-up grapes. I need you to concentrate.” When questioned, he claims to be training them. “You’ve heard of a flea circus? Well, I’m starting a raisin circus.” Thus the theme of practical jokes — in good taste and poor — is established. When my son Nick was little, I used to perform the same raisin trick for him. And in that way, you see my curious attachments in this series: I strongly identify with Jigsaw . . . and his father. I’m both guys.

* As for the case, a series of pranks has been running through the school. Somebody is pulling fast ones all over the place. This presents a major conflict for Jigsaw, since he suspects one of his best friends, Ralphie Jordan:

That night, I took a long, hot bath. I lay perfectly still, thinking about my good pal Ralphie Jordan. It sounded like the kind of pranks he’d pull. I put my head under the water and counted as high as I could. When I came up for air, I knew two things: Catching Ralphie wouldn’t be easy. And it wouldn’t be fun.

* Another suspect emerges, though Jigsaw himself doesn’t at first notice. It’s the humor-challenged Helen Zuckerman, who’s been telling a lot of corny jokes lately:

For some reason, Helen Zuckerman had decided to become funny. Which is sort of like deciding to become a tall redhead. Some things you just can’t change. And Helen Zuckerman, no matter how hard she tried, was about as funny as a spelling test.

* One of the things I learned during my visits to Mary Szczech’s class was the clap-clap thing, which I put into my books:

Ms. Gleason clapped her hands softly, clap-clap. That was our signal to be quiet. We all clapped back, CLAP-CLAP-CLAP.

* I put another true life event into this story. At the time of this book, we owned a basset hound named Seamus, who was a slave to his nose and pretty much untrainable. One morning Seamus got out and Lisa had to run around the neighborhood in her bathrobe trying to catch him. So naturally Ms. Gleason tells her students:

“Wow, what a morning! My crazy basset hound, Brutus, got loose again. You should have seen me. I was in my bathrobe, chasing Brutus through my neighbor’s garden!”

We all laughed. We loved it when Ms. Gleason told us her Brutus stories. Her dog sounded like a real nut.

What else?

* The students fix two broken sentences to start the morning, and I took that practice directly from Mrs. Szczech’s classroom: that boy don’t go to pottsford school any more and ms willard will learn us how to multiply this year said irving

Can you find what’s wrong?

* The raisin trick returns, when Mr. Jones puts his “five best swimmers” into a glass of seltzer. Try it sometime.

* In almost every book, I like to reference a real-life title. In this one, Jigsaw and his father are reading Shiloh together. As a parent, I love those quiet moments together.

My dad closed the book and stood up to leave.

“Hey, Dad . . .”

“Yeah?”

“You were funny tonight, with the raisins.”

He looked at me suspiciously. “Funny how?” he asked, rubbing his chin. “Funny strange? Or funny ha-ha?”

I smiled. “Just plain funny.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said, leaning down to kiss me. “I try.”

* The school librarian is named Mrs. Kranepool, after the original New York Met, a player beloved by my mother. Do you see how the writing process works for me? I’m constantly drawing upon my own life for ideas. It’s not all daydreams and wild leaps of the imagination.

All interior artwork shown from The Case of the Class Clown was illustrated by Jamie Smith. The cover illustration was done by R. W. Alley.

Overheard: “It’s Cadbury Egg Season!”

My wife is attuned to earth’s natural rhythms, the first buds of Spring, of planting and, later, the summer harvest. When the season is ripe, Lisa loves to go out to pick apples, strawberries, raspberries, whatever’s in season. She’ll even go so far as to cook a fresh beet (waaaaay overboard, if you ask me).

Which is why I always get a kick out of it when, around this time of year, she enters a store and suddenly yelps, “It’s Cadbury Egg season!”

Lisa is referring, in case there’s any doubt, to the mini eggs. She has no use for the cream-filled monsters. But those delicious little eggs, with the perfect light candy covering? She can’t resist them. After all, they’re in season. And then, sadly, they’ll vanish. Get ’em while they’re ripe on the vine!