Dear Fahrenheit 451

by Annie Spence

  We pulled you from the shelf for review because you were on our list of books that haven’t been checked out in a long time. But we’re actually getting rid of you because your pages suggest that patrons bring you along with two large mirrors and a tub of Vaseline into a space “warm enough for you to be nude for about one hour.” That’s just not the kind of environment we like to encourage library readers to venture into with material that other people will subsequently touch.

  I don’t know who was working here in 1992 that looked in Publishers Weekly magazine and thought, “Oh cool, a book for people to hold in one hand while they squeeze their lubed-up balls with the other. We’ll take it!” Library budgets were bigger in those days. Perhaps they could afford to replace books that were basically tea-bagged.

  It could be that your author had a table at the ALA conference and it was post–cocktail hour and someone was coming off of a lively Collection Development seminar, so what the hell? Maybe they saw the promise to change relationships “beyond your wildest dreams” on the back cover or the unattributed blurb quotes that call you a masterpiece. Whoever bought you, either they aren’t working here anymore or they’re staying mum, because no one has stepped forward to claim you.

  We’re just not a good fit. You lead with big words like “tumescence” (spoiler alert: it’s when women get mean before their periods, but actually they’re just in heat); but the word you end up using most is “crotch.” As in “the crotch area will be the most sensitive area of your body.” Then, the first step you advise in learning how to pleasure yourself is to tidy up your house, which is where I would have checked out if you hadn’t already lost me with the Vaseline business.

  So it’s not that you’re bad, it’s just that your style is a little too “interactive” for us. Not to harp on this, but sometimes books get checked out, like, eighty times before they are replaced or discarded. That’s a lot of crotches.

  For a single reader, though? Sure. We’re not prudes over here. Working in Adult Reference, we get a good many “adult services” jokes thrown our way, and we respond to them with great poise and nary a nostril flare of disdain. This is how I know that you probably do have an audience among our patrons. And why I am certain that you must go.

  All right, I’m going to go tear through our budgeted monthly supply of hand sanitizer. Try to keep your pages to yourself until I find some gloves and/or tongs.

  Stay in Touch (just not touching me),

  CARICATURES AND CARTOONS—COMICS—Guisewite, Cathy

  —Chocolate and Feminism, Aack!

  Dear Another Saturday Night of Wild and Reckless Abandon: A Cathy Collection,

  One of my girlfriends had the nerve to roll her eyes at you as she scanned my coffee table. Oh hell no.

  “Is that, like, the lady that loves chocolate?” she asked.

  Well, sure, Cathy loves chocolate. She also can’t control herself around donuts or guacamole. She hates how her thighs look in pastels, she lets her overbearing mother guilt her into shit, and she dates a total drip named Irving. So fucking what?

  I had to give my girl a little lesson in Cathy, Cathy. Because when you’re not talking about dating insecurities and how to eat feelings, you were one of the first to address the contradictions of the woman who’s trying to “have it all.” You discuss the wage gap, mansplaining, and sexual harassment. You try to explain fluid gender roles in a way Cathy’s mom might understand. Yeah, Cathy has a messy room and frets over her terrible hair. She’s trying to figure it out. That’s what makes her so lovable. That’s why she’s got that heart on her sweatshirt all the time, friend. She’s putting it all out there.

  I’m proud to put you right by my Gloria Steinem essays and Bad Feminist. You may be a collection of cartoons that I occasionally cut up to mail as valentines, but you’re part of the sisterhood. You’re my favorite ’80s woman. So, aack on girl.

  Tiny Heart,

  AUTOBIOGRAPHIES—CELEBRITY

  —Inspiration

  —Yourself, Believing In

  —Juicy Bits

  Dear Celebrity Autobiographies1,

  Thank you for being so uplifting. When I read one of you guys, I really feel like I have the ability to make something of myself and maybe even snag a little fame one day, if I simply keep believing in me.

  The typical outline for your genre is so tasty to me. Like a tiny party-snack cheesecakey thing that you feel you can only take if you say “Oh, fine, I’ll try one” beforehand, even though no one was asking you to try one. Your formula usually goes:

  • birth and home life, including a tidbit about a moment in youth that made celebrity or celebrity’s relatives realize they were fated for stardom

  • “those were the days” poverty while trying to break into industry

  • steady course upstream in career/first marriage

  • major setbacks/drugs

  • redemption and humble-brag about inner strength

  • recent project plug about how current work is most important thing celebrity has ever done

  More or less.

  I’m not saying you don’t each have unique qualities! You do! But pulling one of you off the shelf and knowing you’re going to hold up to that characteristic Celebrity Do Tell2 formula makes the glee bubble up inside me.

  Dolly’s sweet nostalgia for Smoky Mountains life, a teenage Rob Lowe gallivanting with Tom Cruise and the Sheen boys, Carrie Fisher dishing the deets about Star Wars, Paul Simon and electroshock therapy. You get to tell your own stories. And no matter what kind of topsy-turvy path you guys take, you always come out with unbroken faith in your self-worth and in life’s ability to work out for the good.

  Other reasons I love you? You have amazing subtitles. (See fun quiz here!) You bring people that don’t normally read into the library (here’s lookin’ at you, Stori Telling by Tori Spelling!). Your glossy picture inserts are the tops. And I enjoy scanning your acknowledgments section to see if I recognize any other celebrities by the private nicknames you give them.

  Thanks for the inspiration and the juicy ex-lover stuff.

  Yours Truly,

  Celebrity Autobiographies: Fun with Subtitles!

  Match the titles and authors to their subtitles.

  Melissa Explains It All by Melissa Joan Hart

  Tales of Mirth, Mischief, and Manipulation

  Soulacoaster by R. Kelly

  The Hardest (Working) Man in Showbiz

  The Book of Joan by Melissa Rivers

  Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee

  Landing on My Feet by Kerri Strug

  Sex, Drugs, Money, and God

  Navel Gazing by Michael Ian Black

  A Diary of Dreams

  Ron Jeremy by Ron Jeremy

  The Diary of Me

  Life and Def by Russell Simmons

  Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life

  Bedwetter by Sarah Silverman

  Unleash Your Inner Rock God, Win in Life and Business

  The Art of Men by Kirstie Alley

  Short-Term Memories of Longtime Friends

  Me, Inc. by Gene Simmons

  True Tales of Bodies, Mostly Mine

  Make ’Em Laugh by Debbie Reynolds

  I Prefer Mine Al Dente

  Cash by Johnny Cash

  The Autobiography

  Answer Key: Melissa Explains It All by Melissa Joan Hart … Tales from My Abnormally Normal Life; Soulacoaster by R. Kelly … The Diary of Me (no explanation for the romanized “of”); The Book of Joan by Melissa Rivers … Tales of Mirth, Mischief, and Manipulation; Landing on My Feet by Kerri Strug … A Diary of Dreams; Navel Gazing by Michael Ian Black … True Tales of Bodies, Mostly Mine; Bedwetter by Sarah Silverman … Stories of Courage, Redemption, and Pee; The Art of Men by Kirstie Alley … I Prefer Mine Al Dente; Me, Inc. by Gene Simmons … Unleash Your Inner Rock God, Win in Life and Business; Make ’Em Laugh by Debbie Reynolds … Short-Term Memories of Longtime Friends; Cash by Johnny Cash … The Autobiography (b
ecause he’s fucking Johnny Cash and he doesn’t need a subtitle).

  BIOGRAPHIES—CELEBRITY

  —Journeys, Dark

  —Nazis

  —Dead Puppies

  —Karate

  Dear Celebrity Biographies,1

  Thanks for keeping shit real. When I read one of you guys, I never ever ever want to be or know a famous person.

  Your genre’s tradition of going deep and getting dark is simultaneously addicting and dispiriting. Recklessly, I want to be the person that knows more interesting facts than any of my friends about the Supremes (Flo 4 Ever). But your provocative party banter and smug superiority add a leaden weight to my soul. You’re like the good dip at the party that’s still too hot to eat. I don’t want anyone else to get to that shit before I do, but I know that lava mystery cheese is gonna burn my tongue.

  Audrey Hepburn being starved during the Occupation. Lance Armstrong shooting up his own blood in the back of a bus. Gypsy Rose Lee’s mom killing puppies and throwing people out of windows. Marvin Gaye trying out for the NFL and getting weird with the hookers. You’re endlessly fascinating, but you keep it so real that I sometimes can’t go on. I had to take a two-year break between Peter Guralnick’s Elvis biographies just to be able to read and still cope with life.

  Other things I love about you: when I’m curled up on the floor after finishing you, in a weird, dark head space, I imagine the torment your authors must have gone through—spending years or even decades obsessing about the histories of their subjects but still exercising copious restraint in order to write from an unbiased viewpoint. And then I find comfort knowing that somewhere else in the world, Peter Guralnick can’t sleep either because he’s wondering the same thing I am: why did Elvis love karate so much?

  Please don’t ever come out with anything about Mr. Rogers. It might kill me.

  Warm Regards,

  JUVENILE—Kirk, Ellen

  —Trucks

  —Trucks, Just

  Dear My Truck Book,

  Just fucking enough already. It’s always the same with you. I picked you up at the used-book sale when my son was just starting to talk and I thought his fascination with dump trucks was cute. I thought this stage was going to morph into farm equipment or boats, and then hopefully something more interesting like bugs or weather or anything but more fucking trucks.

  You’re only six pages long, but you take a half hour to read because you point out all your parts. Your wheels and windshields and mudflaps. All that shit. And I read you like fifteen times a day. Do you know how much of my life I’ve spent reading you so far? I don’t, because I’ve been too busy reading to add it all up. Also, librarians aren’t that good at math.

  Have you ever heard of a narrative arc? Just one time I’d like to open you and see an actual driver in one of your trucks. What’s his name? What’s his home life like? How high is his cholesterol? Nope. Not My Truck Book. It’s just “this truck picks up garbage” and “this one puts out fires.”

  I’d cut you out of my life forever, but I know how much you mean to the kid. So here’s the deal. You’re going up on the shelf where he can’t see you. And don’t be surprised if I invite other books home with me. My son likes apples. I’m hoping that’s going to be a new thing. I’m pushing for apples because they can’t possibly have as many parts to identify as MORE TRUCKS.

  Roger That?

  SHORT STORIES AND ESSAYS—Sedaris, David

  —Holiday Merriment

  —Drinking

  —Dismemberment

  Dear Holidays on Ice,

  You are as snugly settled into my holiday habits as Pfeffernüsse cookies, Judy Garland singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and the traditional shot of Crown Royal taken before gift giving commences each year. In fact, you’re the opening act. You on audio, terrible road conditions, and some celebratory gas station jerky unite to bring the very first shimmer of Christmas to my sanguine heart.

  As one of five kids, I was awfully lonely living in Chicago and being away from my big family in Michigan as they prepared for the festivities (in the Midwest, that’s mostly making hot dip and uncreasing the wrapping paper you saved last year). And the five hours of slushy, icy, semi-truck-y driving that lay between me and my happy childhood home seemed like a shitty way to kick off the holiday.

  I got you one year, thinking you might lift my melancholy spirits and allow me to ease my vise grip on the steering wheel while I traveled. And, old friend, you didn’t disappoint.

  Is it strange that a collection of essays about prostitutes and unfit Santa’s helpers, stories of theater critics who skewer children’s nativity plays, and families who sacrifice body parts in order to one-up the neighbors is a sacred part of my holiday season? Not if you knew my family. Which is what is so fantastic about you. You’re outrageous in the most relatable way.

  You are about all the things we think about (or groan about) over the Christmas season: commercialization, odd and uncomfortable traditions, and selfish people pretending to be good for the sake of the family Christmas letter to name a few. We’ve all been there! But you say it funnier. Your offhand delivery of shopping-mall-elf lectures that sternly remind elves to wear underwear, your casual mention of a woman who may or may not have committed murder in an attempt to frame her husband’s adult Vietnamese love child. Oh, the way your character Thaddeus Bristol refers to six-year-olds as porkers and sadists! It’s a good goddamn time is what it is.

  But you’re real sweet too. “Dinah the Christmas Whore,” for example, is a beautiful tale of helping the less fortunate, and the warmth and wit in this story put a smile on my face that even the elf who wants to be a dentist in Rudolph can’t rival.

  You know what you are like? You’re like rock candy. I only eat it once a year. It’s got sharp edges, but it’s warm and sweet if you give it time. And the powdered sugar on it makes me choke. (I guess that one doesn’t fit. Maybe if the powdered sugar was, like, your irreverent humor and the choking is guffawing. There. There you have it.)

  You’ve been with me all these years. I live closer to home now and can barely finish you before I pull in the driveway. Sometimes, I’m tempted to stay in the car with you just a little bit longer. Because you are my Christmas, Holidays. And you’re part of the family now. Lord help us, you fit right in.

  Happy Holidays,

  ROMANCE—Various Authors

  —Love, Smothered By

  Dear Harlequin Romance Spinner Rack,

  I never feel as susceptible to warts as I do when I’m weeding you guys. That’s not meant as an insult, but you do get around. I mean, you’re popular. Teenagers, the exceptionally old, and heavy smokers (again, mostly teens and the elderly) love you. What’s not to love? You’re bold. You’re quick. You’re to the point. No need for back-of-the-book blurbs—your titles say it all:

  To Lasso a Lady

  Into His Private Domain

  One Night, So Pregnant!

  A patron might approach me with a quandary: “I don’t know what I feel like reading, but I know I like taboo affairs and Turkish men.” With a glance I can zero in on Falling for My Mediterranean Boss. Done and done. Who’s next?

  You are brimming with romantic possibilities. A full rack of full racks. But that’s just it. You’re too full. It’s claustrophobic over here. It’s an orgy of Rebel Ranchers, City Surgeons, Billionaire Daddys, and Gentle Tyrants.

  With new titles appearing (it feels like) daily, there’s not room for everyone. Plus, paperback erotica is having a moment and we need to make room for Trailer Park Virgin, etcetera. Now I know that’s not really your scene, but if you’re lucky enough to stay here, you’re going to have to get along with the others. Have a safe word. That’s all I’ll say about that.

  The rest of you will be going in a box in the breezeway with a TAKE ME HOME! sign on you. I’m not going to lie. It’s no picnic in there either. You’ll be rifled through and thrown into haphazard piles by folks who can remember each of
the eight hundred Harlequin titles they’ve read but forget every Friday that we close at 5:00. EVERY Friday, dammit. Let’s go, people. Get your smut and keep moving!

  Listen, I know it’s not ideal. But you’ve had Her Moment in the Spotlight. I hope you can Escape to Happiness—somewhere else.

  Love Is Fire (I don’t know what that means; it’s just one of your titles),

  FICTION—Lee, Harper

  —Readers, Books That Make

  Dear To Kill a Mockingbird,

  You’re one of thousands of books I’ve borrowed from my big sister. You may even recognize some of your old shelf buddies here (I’m not great at the returning part). I wanted to take the time while you’re visiting to say thank you.

  We’re all readers in my family, because my parents liked to read and they believed in education and encouraged us to always expand our knowledge. And because we were broke and didn’t have cable and the library was free. And because my mother would have lost her damn mind if she hadn’t come up with a way to keep all five of us quiet at the same time.

  My siblings helped to mold me into a book lover in their signature ways. My sister Renee read me bedtime stories. My sister Kristin gave me a book called Alone with the Devil: Famous Cases of a Courtroom Psychiatrist when I was eight years old and wanted to read “big kid” stuff, which taught me that books can have a lasting (damaging) effect on you. My brother, Adam, reveled in the art of the oral storytelling tradition, with tales about how the doctors would probably amputate my broken arm and about our fabled “other brother” Peter, who was sent away for bad behavior.