"So, this book of yours—is it just a collection of columns?"
Image by Rod Filbrandt
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Read Uptight Excerpt: Part II -- Preamble to "The Care and Feeding of Kunio While I'm in Mexico: Toward a Whole-Dog Approach"
The Uptight Seattleite (and his ghostwriting contributor David Stoesz) will appear at the University Book Store, 4326 University Way N.E., on Thurs., March 4 at 7 p.m. for a multicultural, multimedia, musically-inspired performance.
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When people ask me that, I admit the "just" stings a little. But only a little. It's nothing more than a stray piece of gravel to the cheek, kicked up by the Dodge Ram of thoughtlessness. You've gotta just shake your head sadly and keep pedaling.
Anyway, the answer is no, my just-published book—A Sensitive Liberal's Guide to Life: How to Banter With Your Barista, Hug Mindfully, and Relate to Friends Who Choose Kids Over Dogs (Gotham Books, trade paperback original, $15)—is not "just" columns. It contains bits of columns, but these bits have been synthesized into a greater whole. As if they'd been fed to a wise old giraffe in a folk tale and reconstituted into a lump of magical cud.
Indeed, readers accustomed to my usual free-slinging style may be surprised to hear that the book is arranged in thematic chapters. Don't worry! The structures of these chapters are loose enough to let plenty of spontaneous moonlight come shining through their slats. In other words, expect periodic flashes of off-topic truths.
Some parts of the book comprise letters from the column, along with my responses, and other parts are just me, hangin' and rappin' directly at the reader. I also share a bit of my process through a series of pages ripped—still warm from my back pocket—directly from my Moleskine. But the most important thing is fun, and we definitely have that in the book. Heck, sometimes our discussions about racial tension, environmental crime, and body shame get nuttier than a box of crackers!
But to get a teeny bit serious for a moment, I would like to thank you, the readers of Seattle Weekly, for all your observant and funny letters through the 3½ years we've been together. Though I was unfortunately unable to find a feasible way to compensate any of you monetarily, I've been assured it puts me in no legal jeopardy to admit you have my gratitude.
So here's a little taster of the book for you, a few selected morsels, starting with one of my most toothsome topics—food! Thanks again for everything, and I hope to see you at the University Book Store on Thursday night for the first of my several scheduled appearances! —The Uptight Seattleite
Jottings from my Moleskine: Grammar and physics. The preposition a wee arrow directing force and weight. On the mantel. Under the wardrobe. In the kitchen with Linda Ronstadt.
Do you have to buy organic?
Food is an intensely personal choice, and one that is at the nexus of complex issues involving science, economics, ethics, and the environment. Not everyone can make the right choice every time. And so you occasionally may find yourself supporting the irradiated Frankenfood spewed out by processing plants a thousand carbon-choked miles away, because it’s “all you can afford.” No need to get down on yourself for that. It may be an obvious truth that what’s bad for you is also bad for the planet, but it’s also a large truth, and may be hard to comprehend all at once.
I’m sure you do what you can. You might not have remembered to bring your reusable burlap sacks to the grocery store this time, but I’m sure you usually remember, right? If you have forgotten them, you might think that your only options now are paper or plastic. Not so! There’s another one staring you in the face: your own two hands.
Ask the bagger to construct a pyramid on your outstretched arms with the larger items on the bottom and the smaller ones on top. If you’ve got a half-dozen or so cans of soup, have him stack them into a radio tower on top of your pyramid. True, you’ll have to walk very gingerly, and you won’t be able to see where you’re going. But if you call out from behind your pyramid of groceries that “this is for the earth,” and describe what your car looks like, passersby will be happy to shout out directions. Another option is to ask the bagger to leave a pair of tunnels in front of your eyes. This may take some engineering skill on his part, but it will help if you suggest that he devise a single tunnel with a box of Grape-Nuts as its roof, and cleave it in twain with a Fruit Roll-Up.
OK, great job. Now consider taking it to the next level: juggling your items as you walk out of the store. When your performance catches people’s attention, then it’s “each one teach one” time. Flash a twinkly smile and chant, “Juggling resources, juggling resources, you know we can’t keep juggling resources!”
Master this and you’re ready to go up still one more level: leaving the store without carrying anything at all. Jam carrots into your sleeves. Apply your mouth to the bulk-honey spigot and suck down a week’s supply. Scoop from the granola bin directly into your pants. The store should be fine with this if you explain that you’ll pay the difference between your weight when you came in and your weight when you leave. And if you promise not to dishonestly reduce your weight by going to the bathroom between weigh-ins. They won’t let you use the restroom anyway.
