"Moby Dick," Melville & me

(673 words)

I try and read “Moby Dick” every five years or so because I find I discover something new every time.

For instance: I just realized the only character in “Moby Dick” with a proper first and last name is Moby Dick. The rest — Ishmael, Ahab, Starbuck, Flask, Stubb, Pip, Queequeg, etc — have only one name.

Another Did You Know? The world’s most popular coffee chain was nearly named after Capt. Ahab’s accursed vessel, but marketing strategists opined people might be reluctant to pay $5.50 for a latte from a place whose name is pronounced “PEE-quod.”

Hence, Starbucks.

It’s trivia like this that led me to conjure what is, to me, one of my best lines:

“If fans of the band The Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us who revere the book ‘Moby Dick?’”

I find a way to work that one into nearly everyone of my talks. It always gets a surprised burst of laughter. It’s kind of an inside joke everyone can get so everyone who hears it feels a little smarter.

I feel a cruel sort of kinship to author Herman Melville. It’s easy to peg us both as colossal bottom-line failures.

In fact, Melville’s enduring masterpiece, “Moby Dick,” was judged such a flop he ceased writing novels and spent the remainder of his life as a customs house agent. I don’t know what that is, but I’ll wager the duty doesn’t require a stunt double.

And a flop it was.

One 1851 release review said: “The style of his tale is in places disfigured by mad (rather than bad) English; and its catastrophe is hastily, weakly, and obscurely managed.”

Another wrote: “Ahab's long soliloquies induce weariness or skipping,” which is true, by the way. I often skip dozens of pages at a time, but, ouch.

A PBS feature on Melville says it wasn’t until 30 years after his 1891 death — he was 71 — that critics and readers began to appreciate him and that by the 1940s, Americans at last recognized his genius.

Would I accept that swap, everlasting posthumous glory following a life of fret and woe over every measly cent?

Call him Ishmael.

Call me ChecksInTheMail.

I wonder if he, like me, contemplated dubious measures to secure fame or at least respectful acknowledgement when simply doing good work didn’t work.

It’s why I intend on naming my next book, “A New York Times Best Seller.” That way if any one ever asks, so, have you ever written a New York Times best seller? I can say, yes, in fact I did. In 2020 I wrote “A New York Times Best Seller.”

Financial stability, you see, is my great white whale. I, its Ahab. 

Among the slew of painful cancellations imposed by COVID-19 precautions were two high school career days. I’m disappointed because I love doing these. Understand, I’d never mislead a child considering his or her life path.

It’s why I always ask the students two questions. The first is who wants to be a writer? In any group of 20, a handful of, well, hands raise (I think about half are just being polite).

Then I ask my second question: “Now, who wants to be rich!”

Every single hand shoots up, including all the teachers.

“Want to become rich? Become a writer like me,” I say.

Then I spend the next 20 or so minutes regaling the students about the people I’ve met, the things I’ve done, etc.

“Truly,” I tell them, “I’m one of the richest men you’ve ever met. And it’s all thanks to being a writer.”

I truly believe that.

And I vow to continue believing it. Heck, I’m convinced my next book will be a New York Times best seller — and won’t that be swell!

Some of this may sound preposterous, like crazy talk from a guy who should bail on his dreams and put in an application down at the customs house.

But what do you expect from a stubborn old dickhead like me?

A return to re-runs! "Dickin' 'round with Moby and other whales"

A friend of mine said he was upset that it seemed like I’d gotten out of the habit of having regular re-runs on Sunday. He said not having re-runs meant it looked like I’d gotten blog lazy. It would be a fitting trajectory, in fact, because the blog is at its heart an exaltation of human laziness. But I’d hate to disappoint even one reader because on many days that seems like the sum total of readers in a Type-A world who enjoy reading about the duties of indolence.

I’ll submit my 1,500 post sometime this summer. Conceivably, I could now stop writing new posts and just recycle old posts from now through 2019.

But I’m not going to do that. I enjoy blogging too much. There’s something interesting enough to blog about every single day. If I could squeeze money out of it, I’d never cease.

I’m choosing to re-run this one because I just saw a trailer for the new Ron Howard movie, “In the Heart of the Sea,” to be released in March. It’s based on the outstanding Nathaniel Philbrick book that’s based on the real incident from which Melville based “Moby Dick.”

So, even if you think the following story is weak, none dare call it baseless.

Plus, this one starts out with what I think is one of the funniest lines I’ve ever written.

If people who revere the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us devoted to “Moby Dick”?

Hmmm . . .

There’s a bunch of us gathering today through Sunday for a 25-hour marathon “Moby Dick” reading at the New Bedford (Mass.) Whaling Museum. Hundreds of volunteers will take 10-minute turns reading aloud without interruption one of America’s great novels.

I wish I could be there.

I’ve been Dickin’ around for the better part of a month now. It all started when I saw Nathaniel Philbrick’s book, “Why Read Moby-Dick.” The slim volume obviously led to re-acquainting myself with Ishmael, Queequeg, Starbuck, mad Captain Ahab and that great white whale.

It’d been 10 years since I’d last read the book by Herman Melville, a man who overcame one of history’s nerdiest names to achieve literary immortality.

I, in fact, bought my “Moby Dick” at that very museum. It was June 2002. I was in New Bedford to write a feature story for People Magazine.

What the story was about is unimportant. What is important is that I had five days in New Bedford to immerse myself in whaling history, culture and to become acquainted with some of the sites and customs key to Melville’s 1851 story.

Did you know that Moby Dick was based on a true story?

In 1819, the 238-ton ship Essex set sail from Nantucket on a routine whaling mission. Fifteen months later in the farthest reaches of the South Pacific, she was attacked and sunk by an enraged 80-ton sperm whale. The aforementioned Philbrick details the story in his compelling 2000 book, “In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex.”

The sailors who survived the sinking were doomed to three months adrift in whale boats and desperation cannibalism to survive.

Melville took facts about the ill-fated Essex and extrapolated them into what can be called without exaggeration a true whale of a tale.

And did you know why men risked their lives to go the most remote reaches of the godforsaken globe to hunt the largest animals on earth?

These sailors craved whale sperm.

Now, it’s not what you think. And there was not even a bit of romance involved in getting the whales to part with their sperm or spermaceti, a substance that had nothing to do with whale reproduction. Not that it mattered.

No, these leviathans were slain and butchered aboard boats like the Essex to get at the vast oil-like spermaceti reservoirs that were used to light the world’s lamps and candles and provide unscented foundations for dozens of other of the day’s luxury goods.

For nearly 200 years whale spermaceit was considered among earth’s most precious resources. Fortunes rose and fell based on who was able to obtain it. 

Let’s for a moment, however, imagine without getting into whale porn how the story would be different if the sailors used, not deadly harpoons, but more traditional methods to extract true sperm. The sailors might ask the whale’s parents for an introduction, read it whale poems and earn its trust until intimacy ensued.

Or maybe they could find a really slutty whale and feed it a boatload of squid.

The former alternative scenario might make a dandy big-screen musical extravaganza with Nathan Lane playing Ahab.

It would be in keeping with the trajectory of the whale’s ever-softening reputation.

It’s like they’ve all lost their balls, although anatomically speaking I’ve never seen balls or a penis on any picture or drawing of a whale, even the one famously named Dick.

Moby Dick may be the last popular whale to enjoy a masculine-sounding handle (Melville never explained the name’s construction).

Check out these uni-sex names of current SeaWorld performers: Corky, Trua, Unna, Orkid and Tuar.

Huh?

Those aren’t killer whales. They’re Tele-Tubbies.

Of course, what the hell do I know?

I’m just another Dickhead, one who’ll remain forever fascinated about the story of whale named Dick who gave a one-legged captain an eternally hard time.

Dickin' 'round with Moby and other whales

If people who revere the Grateful Dead are called Deadheads, what does that make those of us devoted to “Moby Dick”?

Hmmm . . .

There’s a bunch of us gathering today through Sunday for a 25-hour marathon “Moby Dick” reading at the New Bedford (Mass.) Whaling Museum. Hundreds of volunteers will take 10-minute turns reading aloud without interruption one of America’s great novels.

I wish I could be there.

I’ve been Dickin’ around for the better part of a month now. It all started when I saw Nathaniel Philbrick’s book, “Why Read Moby-Dick.” The slim volume obviously led to re-acquainting myself with Ishmael, Queequeg, Starbuck, mad Captain Ahab and that great white whale.

It’d been 10 years since I’d last read the book by Herman Melville, a man who overcame one of history’s nerdiest names to achieve literary immortality.

I, in fact, bought my “Moby Dick” at that very museum. It was June 2002. I was in New Bedford to write a feature story for People Magazine.

What the story was about is unimportant. What is important is that I had five days in New Bedford to immerse myself in whaling history, culture and to become acquainted with some of the sites and customs key to Melville’s 1851 story.

Did you know that Moby Dick was based on a true story?

In 1819, the 238-ton ship Essex set sail from Nantucket on a routine whaling mission. Fifteen months later in the farthest reaches of the South Pacific, she was attacked and sunk by an enraged 80-ton sperm whale. The aforementioned Philbrick details the story in his compelling 2000 book, “In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex.”

The sailors who survived the sinking were doomed to three months adrift in whale boats and desperation cannibalism to survive.

Melville took facts about the ill-fated Essex and extrapolated them into what can be called without exaggeration a true whale of a tale.

And did you know why men risked their lives to go the most remote reaches of the godforsaken globe to hunt the largest animals on earth?

These sailors craved whale sperm.

Now, it’s not what you think. And there was not even a bit of romance involved in getting the whales to part with their sperm or spermaceti, a substance that had nothing to do with whale reproduction. Not that it mattered.

No, these leviathans were slain and butchered aboard boats like the Essex to get at the vast oil-like spermaceti reservoirs that were used to light the world’s lamps and candles and provide unscented foundations for dozens of other of the day’s luxury goods.

For nearly 200 years whale spermaceit was considered among earth’s most precious resources. Fortunes rose and fell based on who was able to obtain it.

Let’s for a moment, however, imagine without getting into whale porn how the story would be different if the sailors used, not deadly harpoons, but more traditional methods to extract true sperm. The sailors might ask the whale’s parents for an introduction, read it whale poems and earn its trust until intimacy ensued.

Or maybe they could find a really slutty whale and feed it a boatload of squid.

The former alternative scenario might make a dandy big-screen musical extravaganza with Nathan Lane playing Ahab.

It would be in keeping with the trajectory of the whale’s ever-softening reputation.

It’s like they’ve all lost their balls, although anatomically speaking I’ve never seen balls or a penis on any picture or drawing of a whale, even the one famously named Dick.

Moby Dick may be the last popular whale to enjoy a masculine-sounding handle (Melville never explained the name’s construction).

Check out these uni-sex names of current SeaWorld performers: Corky, Trua, Unna, Orkid and Tuar.

Huh?

Those aren’t killer whales. They’re Tele-Tubbies.

Of course, what the hell do I know?

I’m just another Dickhead, one who’ll remain forever fascinated about the story of a whale named Dick who gave a one-legged captain an eternally hard time.

Put some clothes on, America!

I passed up an opportunity to frolic with the family at the local water park this weekend and it was all because of one stranger’s big toe.

The offender’s neighboring toes weren’t about to win any beauty contests. They looked like witch teeth.

But it was the big toe on his right foot that has me avoiding water parks the way “Jaws” had us all avoiding oceans.

The cracked, yellowish purple nail extended from the foot the way departure planks extend from pirate ships. It seemed to stab out in menace at unassuming passersby. I saw it nearly harpoon a pudgy toddler mesmerized by his fudgesickle

You’d think a toe that dangerous would be banned from water parks for fear it would rupture inflatable rafts by the hundreds.

I know nothing of podiatry, but even a layman could see this damaged toe needed amputating.

I’d recommend from just above the waist.

Yet the owner of this toe bounded about without shame or care that the toe was disgusting to refined gents like myself, if anyone who stands in line to slide down into a pool filled with the urine of 9 year olds can be considered refined.

Understand, I love human beings and I love being human, but our level of over-exposure is verging on toxic.

I recently spent two days at a wonderful midwestern water park and concluded the water park is man’s most delightful non-alcoholic diversion since the advent of the bicycle. On a hot day, it simply can’t be beat.

Yet, the recreation’s rise has coincided with a time when our wanton exhibitionism (reality TV, YouTube . . . self-absorbed blogging!) has never been higher while we as a race have never been been en masse more visually repellent.

First of all, we are well beyond what the art critics used to call Rubenesque. Obesity has reached epidemic proportions. I’m surprised the earth still manages to revolve in just 24 hours. It’s got to be working harder than ever.

If we keep supersizing at the rate we’re going, the earth is going to have a heart attack before even we do.

I remember 10 years ago doing a story about the disappearance of the great American freak show and hearing legendary side show impresario Ward Hall lament that side shows have disappeared because people can see freakish behavior -- extreme body art, piercings, etc. -- at any mall in America.

“Thirty years ago I had a 300-pound Howard Huge that people gawked at for his enormity,” he said, “now the guy selling kettle corn three stick joints down from me weighs 400 pounds.”

We’ve lost our collective modesty and think nothing of letting it all hang out.

Tattoos were something exotic when Ishmael encountered Queequeg in “Moby Dick.”

Now they are so ubiquitous I believe it’s time they be regulated -- not for sanitary reasons, but artistic ones.

Nobody should be allowed to tattoo anything until they’ve mastered drawing on paper the little smiling pony the mail order art schools used to require for entry.

The country is rife with quack doctors, shyster lawyers and hack journalists, but one weekend at the water park convinces me no occupation is as poorly staffed as the one relied upon to decorate our nation’s hillbillies, rednecks and urban posers with replica tattoos to ensure their individuality.

The time in my life when even very drunk women were eager to see any part of me without clothing are now in the rear view mirror. And it’s taking a bigger and bigger mirror to for me to view my rear.

But what I can see ain’t pretty. There are fatty deposits, moles, ragged old hockey scars and unsightly patches of hair that make my back look like it belongs to a mange-ravaged gorilla.

It’s not something you want to see in a Speedo.

Then again in these days when we’re all just three stick joints from a garishly tattooed Howard Huge, what is?