Nine Inches, a collection of fiction stories from the pen of Tom Perrotta, and published in 2013, seemed to be calling to me last month as I browsed the shelves of my local library, though I’d never heard of Perrotta before. I should have been familiar with his name, however, since, as I later learned, he’s a successful author. In fact, two of his novels (Election; Little Children) have been turned into movies, and another (The Leftovers) into a television series.
With nothing to lose, I brought Nine Inches home. I’m glad I did. I mean, Perrotta can write. He sharply examines the human mind and emotions, effortlessly illuminating the quirks, insecurities, maladjustments and f*cked-up decisions that run rampant in our species, and which can propel people’s lives in unanticipated directions, some of them most unfortunate. He does so with sentence after sentence that go down as easily as your favorite comfort food and also, when needed, pack a hell of a punch.
Take the opening story in the volume, for instance. It’s titled Backrub, and chronicles the days and nights of Donald, a bright kid just out of high school. The victim of misaligned stars, he was rejected by every college he applied to. Wobbled by this injustice, he takes a job as a pizza delivery person and, after a while, not caring enough to want to try and right his ship, slides comfortably into dealing drugs. Perrotta’s gift for language shines in this paragraph near the story’s conclusion.
It all went down so fast. I barely had time to register the lights in my rearview mirror when I saw two more cop cars right in front of me, blocking the intersection. I got out with my hands on my head, like they told me to, and the next thing I knew I was lying facedown in the street, with my hands cuffed behind my back.
Perrotta’s writing style agrees with me. It’s taut and uncomplicated. He takes on a wide variety of subjects in Nine Inches (unfulfilling marriages, a lonely widow, an insecure teacher, to name a few), and brings them to life with clarity. While reading Perrotta’s stories, I subconsciously kept thinking to myself, “Man, this seems real.” That’s a solid compliment.
On the other hand, not all that much about the television series The Lincoln Lawyer seems truly real, except for some courtroom scenes. But that’s more than okay. Sure, Mickey Haller — aka The Lincoln Lawyer — is preternaturally quick on his feet. But that only adds to his likeability. He and the show’s other main characters are good people, loyal to each other, and don’t take shit from anyone. I’m down with all of that. (By the way, a film version of TLL came out in 2011. It’s good.)
My wife Sandy and I polished off season two of The Lincoln Lawyer recently, after watching season one earlier this year. Both rock, two even more than one. In the second season, Haller (played by Manuel Garcia-Rulfo), who does a good bit of his best work-related thinking while driving or being driven in one of his Lincolns, finds himself defending a lady accused of murder. Not all that many hours before she is brought up on charges, she and Haller were in bed together, enjoying the heck out of one another. What, you’d expect otherwise? But, hey, don’t prejudge the show. It’s quality escapist fun. The plot lines are tricky. The dialogue sparkles. And the actors give it their all. Sandy and I, for sure, are hoping that Netflix will renew The Lincoln Lawyer for a third run.
Which brings us, rather haphazardly, to another creation — The Well, a new song that instantly grabbed me when I heard it on the radio a couple of weeks ago. It’s the work of Briscoe, a group from Texas, and will appear on Briscoe’s first album, which is scheduled to be released next month.
The two main guys in Briscoe — Truett Heintzelman and Philip Lupton — are in their 20s. But they are looking far into the future in The Well, pondering whether memories of the joys of youth will help to sustain old age. I think the Briscoe boys are concerned about something that isn’t going to happen. They’ll be just fine, enjoying the moment, when they reach their “golden” years.
That quibble aside, there’s no denying that The Well, an old-timey type of song brought to high places by rocking drums, is catchy as can be. The blend of the stringed instruments with the quivering, giddy vocals makes me go weak in the knees. I’m smitten!
So, those are a few of the things that have rung my bell of late. What’s rung yours?