Steven M. Finkelstein

Hello again. I’m pleased to announce that I’ve had a story accepted for publication on an online blog called Glass Cases, which is operated by an administrator living right here in New York. The story, entitled “The Red Convertible,” appeared previously in my collection The Lean Years. The website for Glass Cases is www.bigglasscases.blogspot.com, and I’m told my story should be featured there in the next three to four weeks. When it does, I’ll mention it here on the site.

In other news, I’m hard at work on my new collection The Great Divide, which hopefully will appear here in the next few weeks, so stay tuned for that, as well as my annual year-in-review blog. Thank you, everyone, for supporting the site in 2009. More soon.

I knew it was going to be difficult to take a book as short as “Where the Wild Things Are” and stretch it into a feature length film, but to my pleasant surprise, Spike Jonze was up to the challenge. There’s any number of places he could have taken this material, and he took it to a place that is, if I may say so, very childlike. The opening sequence, where we are introduced to Max, and the troubles that he faces (an older sibling who has increasingly less time for him, a divorced mother who has a new love interest) gave me such vivid flashbacks to my own childhood that I got goosebumps. Max’s fears, discomfort, inability to express what is most troubling him: Jonze nailed it. I was actually a little disappointed when Max runs away and the scene shifts, to where the titular Wild Things are, a fantasy land that Max reaches by boat, as in the book. We are then introduced to the Wild Things, the most expressive (and dangerous) of which is Carrol, the voice of James Gandolfini, who is his typical mouth-breathing self. Max talks them into not eating him and making him king, and that is the setup for most of the rest of the movie, which is, for the most part, beautifully rendered, both visually, and in terms of the events that transpire: a series of games, private conversations with the various monsters, and Max’s eventually being sent home, back to the real world.

What makes it all work so well is how accurately the feeling of childhood is captured both in the “real” world and the fantasy one. The monsters get along so well with Max, at first, because they are like him, childlike, and all that entails. They can be contrary, obstinate, difficult to please, standoffish, and, frankly, selfish, cruel, and unfair, all like real children. Children have yet to learn to think and act as adults, and for the vast majority of them, they are the center of their own worlds. That is caught so splendidly here that it should remind many adults of what childhood is really like, if any of them have forgotten, and believe me, I’m sure many of them have. As an adult, you are almost taught to forget what it is like to be a child. It is the only way you can get along in the world without resorting to despair.

In the end, this is a singular vision that is almost entirely realized. The emotional ups and downs that Max and the monsters go through is another part of what childhood is all about: everything that happens, moment by moment, is either a calamity or the occasion for the most complete and unadulterated joy, and the reason for it is because everything is brand new and being experienced for the first time. It therefore follows that whether Max actually went anywhere at all and the question of how long he was gone is rendered unnecessary to think about. We need only know that he went somewhere, whether physically or not, that it was necessary for him to go, for a time, to learn the lessons that will help him to cope with the “real” world to which he returns…in the same way that adults go to a therapist, or a day spa, or climb inside a bottle. All of us, of any age, have monsters to battle, and the coping skills we’ve learned throughout our lives will enable us to do that…or they won’t. I think part of this movie is that we are seeing an early attempt at coming to terms with difficult and painful concepts, through the wide eyes of an unusually sensitive child.  Bottom line, this is a thought provoking movie, that both kids and adults should and will take something from, and it is worth seeing. My rating: 6/10.

Since moving to Boro Park, I’ve been reading at an accelerated rate, as I need something to do on the trains to and from work, and also something to read on the job while I’m in Long Island City on the weekends. I got a library card for the local library here in Brooklyn, but I found that I was quickly exhausting the possibilities in terms of what I was interested in there. It’s a small branch, and while I guess I could have tried to order some of the specific titles I’ve been looking for, instead, this past week I went to the Strand, the most excellent bookstore in Manhattan, boasting eight miles of books, and bought some of the ones I wanted. Among them I purchased two books of short stories by horror writer H.P. Lovecraft. I’d been meaning to get my hands on some of his work for some time, and now that I’m into one of them, I find his writing to be every bit as good as I was expecting. Better, actually.

Lovecraft, who died early in the twentieth century at the age of forty-three, reads like a (relatively) modern Edgar Allan Poe. Like so many other masters of their craft, he did not achieve significant financial success or recognition in his life, instead living in more or less abject poverty even while churning out some of the most noteworthy, and indeed, disturbing horror fiction anyone but his idol, Poe, ever produced. He never wrote a novel, restricting his vision to short stories, but since I am an avid admirer of the short story form, I have nothing but respect for him despite that. His stories, hideously claustrophobic, Gothic, and infused with his many bizarre phobias, plumb the depths of what scares and repels us with such seeming ease that the antiquated language does little to lessen the effect of the terror he is trying to convey; in fact, if anything, it increases it. It doesn’t get much better than this, in terms of horror writing, as the imaginative forces at work in these stories are no less than jaw dropping. As a fellow writer, it is fitting that I both admire and envy this man his abilities simultaneously, as I see in the work of so many others since his death echoes of the techniques he either invented or perfected. I wish that I could write like this, I can’t deny it, but there’s a flip side of it, too. Like Poe, the only way to conjure up such horrors out of the deep, subterranean depths of the human experience is to be a little touched yourself, or, in the case of Lovecraft, to be so deranged as to seem a danger to yourself and others. Truly, few have an imagination like this, and you can’t help but wonder what voices were speaking to this man; I’d never wish to hear them. It makes a “horror” writer like Stephen King seem such a rank amateur, though. He is a novice, and can never hope to be more than that, even though he remains a writer I enjoy; Lovecraft is a master. I’m very much looking forward to reading the rest of this collection I’m working on, and getting started on the other.

In other news, I’m in the process of compiling the material for “The Great Divide,” my new collection of stories, fragments, and oddments that hopefully I’ll be posting here on the website around the end of next month. As promised, it will feature quite a bit of rarely and never before seen material, and you’ll be able to check it out absolutely free of charge…lucky you. I’ll have further updates as the process moves along. That’s all for now, kids. Stay warm.

I don’t think I could have written up a more perfect script for the postseason, as a Yankee fan. First, they took  three straight from the Twins in the Divisional Playoffs. No surprise there. Minnesota didn’t even deserve to be in the tournament. They only squeaked in because the Tigers folded down the stretch. I was there in person for Game 2, a fantastic extra inning affair ended by a long ball from Mark Texeira, my first game at the new Stadium, and my first postseason baseball game. I’ll never forget it. Then it was on to the ALCS, where the Yanks had to contend with the Angels, a team they’d had a notoriously difficult time handling in clutch situations. The Yanks wanted payback, and they got it, knocking out the Angels in six, with some impressive heroics along the way. But then it was time to separate the men from the boys, and the defending champions stood in the way of the Bombers hoisting number twenty-seven. The Phils are tough, undoubtedly the best in the National League. I had every reason to think the Yanks could be in trouble, and I had my doubts, especially after they lost Game 1 at the stadium to Cliff Lee. But since then, the Yanks have come roaring back, winning three in a row, and now they are on the cusp of ending it, tonight. Jimmy Rollins said the Phils would win it in five. He’s like Terrell Owens and Chad Johnson (or Ocho Cinco, if you’d like), of the Bengals. They should just keep their mouth shut and play the game. Babe Ruth was the only one who ever proved himself a truly successful sports prognosticator, boys, and what do you know, he was a Yankee.

What better way, to, than for the go-ahead RBI last night to come from the lonely Yankee, Alex Rodriguez, who got the Yanks ahead again in the 9th, snapping a 4-4 tie when Joba Chamberlain gave up a crucial home run in the bottom of the 8th. Joba looked dejected, and I can’t say I blame him, but I had a feeling it was going to be okay. The Yanks have had so many come from behind wins and clutch hits this past season that it’s become their stock-in-trade. But A-Rod delivering the goods was the icing on the cake. I haven’t been a fan of this guy, I admit. Not because of the steroids, but because he hasn’t come through on the biggest stage, when the Yanks have needed him most. Not so this year. He’s been in the midst of the action, in each round of the playoffs, and now, he’s on the verge of getting himself some jewelery. If it happens, in my opinion, it’s well deserved. This guy is making me a fan, winning me over with his actions on the field, and he’s doing more than that: he’s becoming a Yankee and earning his pinstripes right before my eyes. This city never forgets its postseason heroes, and I’ll be pleased and proud when Alex becomes one of them.

Of course, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The Yanks still need to win that crucial fourth game, if not tonight, then either Wednesday or Thursday when the series comes back to the Bronx. But frankly, I don’t think there is a Game 6. I think it ends tonight, in Philly. Cliff Lee is a great pitcher, but I don’t think that’s going to matter. The Yanks will find a way. I had some doubts earlier in the postseason, even earlier in the Series. No more. The momentum the Yankees have is championship momentum. The Phils have run into a buzz saw, and no offense to Philly fans, but it just looks like the Yankees want it more. Why wouldn’t they? This is probably the last year you’ll see Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui in pinstripes, maybe Andy Pettite too. A-Rod, Jeter, and Posada are getting older. How many more chances will this core group have?

The bottom line is, this feels like a team of destiny, the team that brings back number 27 to the city. I can’t wait for it all. The pageantry, the elation, the parade, buying the championship gear and sporting it to other cities so I can get booed. It’s all part of the fun. And it’s yet another affirmation that I’m here to stay, in the city of my dreams. This championship, if I can be blatantly selfish for a moment, is about the fans, the players, the city, and the team, but it’s also about me. It’s a welcoming present that I can cherish and remember for years to come. So let’s hear it, now, everybody, one time for me! Let’s go Yankees, clap-clap, clap-clap-clap!