Mr. Ames, I Presume

I never read for pleasure as a child. It's true. Except for comic books, the New York Newsday sports section, and an occasional magazine, reading was not my cup of tea. This was true throughout high school. If I read anything "literary," it was mandatory for class. Reading was work. Comic books were fun. Why would I want to read Crime and Punishment when I could read The Punisher. Then comic books fell by the wayside because they got too expensive and I wanted girls to like me. I still had magazines. Then there was the internet, full of useless, time-consuming material. That kept me busy. Crossword puzzles were always good for a train ride, too. Then I met my friend Phil.

Phil was an avid reader and his enthusiasm for fiction swept me up like a riptide. He recommended a few classics, which I read, and I was hooked. Ever since, I've been a reader. I've even been in a book club for over 2 years, although I haven't shown up in about four months and haven't read a book we picked in three months. I blame them [I mean I blame myself].

Last year, one of my book clubbers, a girl named Claire, recommended that I pick up a book by Jonathan Ames because she knew that I loved Charles Bukowski, an author/alcoholic/gambler/womanizer. Bukowski wrote so simply, so directly, so without remorse that he grabbed me. What did it was, he made me laugh. If you read a book and laugh out loud, you've found someone to keep reading. His subject matter, his sarcasm, his perspective, his disregard for his health, his spare language adding no excess. Where other authors [probably myself included] add words to create an illusion of substance, he served substance with no side-orders. Just the burger, no fries. When you read Bukowski, you think about how easy it would be for you to write. If he could do it, drunk half the time, with his kindergarten-like sentences, what's stopping you? But using big words and having lofty themes won't make you a better writer, unless your audience believes you and trusts you and wishes to join you on your journey. I joined Bukowski.

Claire also knew that I was a guy and, for some reason, every guy she knew who read Ames, loved Ames. So I went and read Ames and I laughed out loud and I loved Ames and I read more Ames and I laughed more and I told my friends who read books to read Ames and I lent my Ames books to my friends so they could read Ames and they loved Ames, but I wrote down in my little black Moleskine book who borrowed what so when I got tired of waiting for them to return my Ames I could confront them with the exact title they possessed and shame them into returning it. Then one day, I emailed Ames.

I did this for a couple reasons. The first, you need to read Ames to understand. He's just like you and me or, rather, he's just like you see yourself sometimes. Self-deprecating, to a fault. Questioning his crazy life, the awful situations he's in, the poor decisions he makes, the success he never seems to achieve, the love he never seems to obtain, the edge he constantly seems to teeter on, the malaise that sets in, the disgust for the stupidity around him, the fondness for the little bits of human understanding and camaraderie, the moments of confidence, the naked, raw, frightful honesty. He doesn't shy away from any of it; life. He hates it one second, but loves it non-stop throughout. Laughing along. The freaks that he uses and use him, simultaneously. Dark desires. Transvestites. Pessimism. Solitary moments of creation. He shares it all.

Two, in his non-fiction works, he sometimes runs into authors on the street and he wishes he could come up with something interesting to say to them. Why not myself? If I could run into a "celebrity," I think Ames would be a good choice. He'd have a beer with you and tell you some wild stories.

So I went to his website and sent an email, saying, more or less: I just read your book, I really enjoyed its honesty and frankness, now I'm a fan, I'm looking forward to reading more of your work, take care. I sent it off hoping for a response, but never received one. Then the other day, more than one year after my email, I received a response:

Jonathanames3@aol.com to me

show details 5:29 PM (8 hours ago)

Reply

sorry it's taken me so long to write back . . . i'm rather disorganized AND overwhelmed . . .

but thank you for your kind words!

'what's not to love?' and 'i love you more than you know' are also somewhat in the tradition of bukowski, should you want to try some other books of mine, and i have a new book coming out in a few weeks, 'the alcholic' . . .

thanks for your note and for taking the time to write!

all the best,

jonathan ames

When I saw the email, I thought it was funny. To think, here was this author writing back a stranger, one year later. I had already forgotten that I even sent the email. That's dedication.

I had already read the books he mentioned, and they were great. I'm also looking forward to The Alcoholic. Personally, I think he should have sent me a free copy. I mean, I wrote him a year ago! It'll probably be, for me, what The Stranger by Albert Camus was for weird, French people. If you come across an Ames book, pick it up, read a few pages, and enter a world you know, but keep to yourself, and if it goes well, send him an email. Tell him Jared sent you.

Jared