How to Humble Yourself in Just a Few Easy Steps!

Have too many things been going right for you in a consecutive stretch of time? Are you dreading with dire anticipation the uppance bound to come? Are you still hungover from your tenure at a highly exclusive private university and find you are still so naturally snobby that you can't help but think you need to get knocked down a peg or two?

If any or many of these apply to you, read on and see how yours truly, who had begun to fancy himself pretty good at this life thing in the past week or so, experienced several surprises, twists of fate, and ego checks that have left him so affected that he's found himself unable to find any useful or coherent way to tie these events together -- because really, how can one live without a telos? -- except to use this cheap and not-so-accurate device. Shall we?

1) Talk excessively about how excited you are about seeing a movie, adamantly refuse to see it on account of presuming it will frighten you, then get the courage to go see it with a friend...who quickly comments that it was no big deal.

Okay, I'm the king of oversimplifications here -- a pattern you'll notice repeating itself throughout this tenuously-coherent post -- but after anticipating for some time (and also after reading several summaries of the film's plot [and successfully seeking out an animated .gif of the monster itself {yup I'm that vain...and yup, I did it again}]), I finally saw Cloverfield.

And, of course, I brought Christi with me, since she's the resident fanatic of scary-type films, not to mention the least likely to mock me mercilessly if I got too frightened.

In the end, I thought the film had its share of Davie-no-likey moments (the sequence in the subway, for instance, was an unpleasant few minutes, to be sure), but it kept me on the edge of my seat throughout, even though I knew what was coming. Seemed to me like a real winner.

Until the film ended. And Christi and I started talking.

Firstly, I want to make it perfectly clear that my own opinion on the film was not swayed in any way by Christi's immediate post-film utterance ("Oh, thank God"). I stand by my assertion that it's a 75-minute edge-of-your-seat thrill ride that, for the most part, doesn't really let up in the excitement department.

The problem is, the film doesn't exactly hold up to scrupulous analysis. Like not at all. In fact, the more I think about it, the more hard-pressed I find myself to recommend it. At the end of the day, Cloverfield works best (and, in fact, may work only) as mindless entertainment experienced with as little prior knowledge as possible. Which, unfortunately, means that unless you're an obsessive J.J. Abrams fanboy, you're not likely to find yourself watching this over and over again when it comes out on DVD.

Which means, in a couple of ways, I had to eat my words on this one. Strike one.

2) Read through stacks of pleasure books that you have no business reading all while attempting at all costs to (unsuccessfully) avoid the professor for whom you still have work due.

Okay, so maybe you're not all in the same situation as I am, forced to submit papers late because your attempts to hastily construct worthwhile arguments failed the I-can-do-this-over-Christmas-break test. But when you've got these kinds of responsibilities on your head, you probably have no business buying a bunch of books that have no redeeming value to your education, no matter how awesome Vladimir Nabokov and Philip Roth may be.

Nonetheless, the call of the Barnes & Noble -- particularly one conveniently situated in the student center in which one is spending the hour before one's next class, which comprises the final four hours of what has already been, to this point a nine-hour-long day -- proved too strong to resist. Of course, I was driven partly by altruism: it was the only store in the area that carried the mass-market paperback edition of Pat Conroy's The Prince of Tides, the book Danielle's been wanting to read as of late. And when you're me, and you're buying a book from a bookstore, you simply can't resist leaving until you've acquired one for yourself.

Which is how Cormac McCarthy's The Road ended up on the list of fun books for me to read.

Now don't you give me that look! I know it was a former Oprah's Book Club pick, but it's a fucking Pulitzer Prize winner, for God's sake! Hell, if she can take three Faulkner books off the market of Books That Can Be Read By People Who Value Their Penises, I'm allowed a pass here and there too.

Which brings me to...

3) Refuse for weeks and weeks to buy a novel written by your former professor on account of it being in hardcover and thereby too expensive...then give in and buy it when you find it in the bargain bin.

Let me preface this by saying that I mean no disrespect to Sophie Gee. She's a great professor, I loved both of the classes of hers that I took while at Princeton (an opinion not swayed at all by the Pre-Pre-Pre-Pre-Party that took place one fateful November morning), and I'm sure she's a very talented writer of historical fiction. But unless a book is so unbelievably good that I can't wait for the paperback, or it's in the bargain section of the Barnes & Noble, I'll take a trade paperback, thank you.

Permission for a brief digression. Can we not agree on the unequivocal superiority of the trade paperback to all other forms of book? Hardcovers look pretty, sure, but it's awkward to have to deal with the jacket and still keep it pretty-looking. And the mass-market paperback is of shoddy construction, printed on shoddy paper, and just begs to be abused. Books demand respect. That's why I demand the trade paperback, and so should you.

So despite the fact that I refuse to buy the newest book by Chuck Palahniuk (the one contemporary author whose books I will pick up as soon as humanly possible) until it comes out in paperback, I was tempted when I saw Professor Gee's novel, The Scandal of the Season, in hardcover at my local B&N over winter break. It seemed fascinating (it's a historical fiction narrative that concerns the writing of the great Alexander Pope poem, "The Rape of the Lock"), but for $24.00, I simply couldn't. Professor Gee would have to wait until paperback for the miniscule residuals she'd make off my purchase of her book.

But then something strange happened. I was walking through the Barnes & Noble just a few weeks after first seeing the book, and I found it unceremoniously discarded to the bargain table. So naturally, I gave it another look. $6.98 seemed much more reasonable (and is, in truth, far cheaper than the average trade paperback), but, anal-retentive bibliophile that I am, I simply couldn't spend the money on a book whose jacket had been folded, torn, and bent in such unpleasant ways. Sorry, Professor Gee, but I just can't.

I had cast the book to the back of my mind when, on a recent trip to yet another Barnes & Noble (have you noticed I like books?), I found it again. In another bargain section. This time for three dollars and ninety-eight cents. This time, I took pause. Less than four dollars is a seriously good deal for a hardcover. Especially when my B&N member discount would bring the total to $3.58. All I needed to do was find one with a jacket in pristine condition, to my excessively exacting standards.

And goddamn it, I found one. So, of course, I ate my words (again) and bought the fucking book. For about three-and-a-half bucks.

Professor Gee will make almost no money off my purchase, sadly, but I get the sense that a Princeton professor is probably doing pretty okay on her salary. And would likely get more value out of knowing that a former student enjoyed her work. And, naturally, should I enjoy the book, I'll absolutely pass that along to her.

I really wish any narrative threads associated with this book ended here, but sadly it doesn't. Next on my unfortunate list...

4) Get hopelessly pwn3d when your girlfriend, who has never read "The Rape of the Lock," grossly mistakes its subject matter.

First of all, this is really not as bad as you think it's going to be. She didn't mistake that word. It was the L-word she got caught up on.

See, she didn't know it was a great satirical poem that not only criticizes the triviality of a family feud that stems from the unwelcome snipping of a lock of hair but also lampoons common poetical conventions of the time. Nor did she realize it was the source of the quote, made famous by its appearance on the Genus Edition box of Trivial Pursuit, "What mighty Contests rise from trivial Things." No, no. She had no idea.

So when she verbally assailed my purchase of The Scandal of the Season saying, "I had no idea you were so interested in shipping," I was understandably confused. It took me a minute or so to put the pieces of all of it together.

(You may want to take a minute, at this time, to try and figure it out yourself before I reveal it below.)

She had interpreted "lock" not as pieces of hair, or even as a security device constructed by, say, the Master company. No, she'd heard "lock" and thought of the kind of lock that appears in the Panama Canal. And, running with this thought, she presumed the poem must concern some robbery or misappropriation occurring on the Canal. Which, naturally, must mean the book and its source poem must concern shipping, and why the fuck would I give a shit about any of that?

First I laughed. Then I cried. Huge, wailing, baby tears. In fact, I still well up thinking about it.

So there you have it! Four foolproof ways to put yourself back in your place, if you find you've been overstepping your bounds a bit.

Of course, if you find the humiliation to be too overwhelming, you can at least take solace in the fact that, even through all this, sometimes things do go right. Even if those good things have been unexpectedly delayed by about three months. And you know that can only mean one thing...

Time to go listen to the new Volta!