RIP Gunnar Hansen

I just found out that Gunnar Hansen, the actor famous for playing Leatherface in the first Texas Chainsaw Massacre, died from pancreatic cancer yesterday.  He was 68.  Hansen had made a bit of a comeback in the past 15 years playing in B-grade horror movies and appearing at fan festivals, and he was written up in the Wall Street Journal for his successes in continuing to carve out an interesting side career so long after that film.

In spite of his recent film appearances, he remained most famous for Chainsaw, and for his refusals to appear in any of the sequels (he always claimed the money they offered was an insult, though it's hard to believe he was getting paid much better for his appearances in flicks with knock-off parody titles like Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers and Chainsaw Sally).

Back in the 1990s, I was lucky enough to have dinner with Hansen, through the introduction of a mutual friend. I found him to be a charming and gracious man, and we mostly talked about writing. He autographed my copy of Islands on the Edge of Time, his excellent travel memoir that details his exploration and research of United States barrier islands. 

Hansen also worked as a screenwriter, wrote a memoir, and wrote many magazine articles.  He had an undergraduate degree in English and a very interesting master's degree in Scandinavian studies, and he worked as an adjunct college teacher in his younger years.  He was an all-around Renaissance man with a wide range of interests, serious intellectual acumen, and a natural ability, because of his size and physical charisma, to be scary on screen.  

I know he will be missed by his friends, family, and fans, but he will also be well remembered by this writer, who was inspired by his depth of character and gentlemanly demeanor that so humorously contrasted with his on-screen persona. 

My So-Called Pen Name

The use of pseudonyms has a long and respected history in the world of letters. In the past, female writers with high-minded literary aspirations (such as George Eliot -- real name Mary Ann Evans -- and the Bronte sisters) adopted male pen names in order to be taken seriously by the establishment. Other writers, such as Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, have adopted pen names because their real names seemed too ordinary or otherwise out-of-step with the work they were producing. Pen names help writers to shape their image and their message. This doesn't just mean improving marketing and sales, although that can be part of it; it's also about the writer creating his own identity and advancing his own story, in writer-like fashion. The poet James Dickey (actually his real name) has become famous after his death for all the half-truths he told as a way of advancing his own mythology. But the truth is that writers as artists used to creating stories and characters do this impulsively to some extent; they experiment with their identities and consider how their persona fits with the writing.

Hemingway's study (original photo).  Hemingway did not use a pen name.

The story of my own pen name, which barely qualifies as a pen name at all, is rather mundane in comparison to the stories of these great writers, of course. When publishing, I use the name "D. Brian Anderson," which is an abbreviated form of my actual full name "David Brian Anderson."  Clever, yes? I have been doing this since my first nonfiction book was published, but why? At first glance, it might seem rather pretentious (and it is considered pretentious, by some) to use a first initial like this, as if I fashioning myself to be some kind of W. Somerset Maugham or F. Scott Fitzgerald.

But the truth is that I adopted my "pen name" because there were too many other Brian Andersons lurking around. It turns out it's a very ordinary name.  When I worked for the Lunar and Planetary Institute, a NASA subcontractor, there were at least two other Brian Andersons working for NASA in the Houston area at the same time. I used to get annoying calls from a collection agent looking for one of them.

And that's the least of it. There are several semi-famous Brian Andersons, people who are well known and well respected in their fields -- certainly more well known than I am.  There's Brian Anderson the professional skateboarder, Brian Anderson the sportscaster,  Brian Anderson the retired major-league pitcher, Brian Anderson the current outfielder, and Brian Anderson the Australian academic.

This is just the top of the list. I used to have a more comprehensive list on my old geocities website (since deleted). It seemed weird and interesting to collect these in-name-only doppelgangers.

So as it was, when you google "Brian Anderson," you're going to get a whole lot of people besides me.  You may never find me, in fact.  But when you google "D. Brian Anderson," you'll get me (at least last time I checked).  Since I'm not a commercial author, this is not in any way designed to "increase sales," but it is just hoped that it might help the occasional reader or fellow writer get in touch. 

P.S. Here's an article I found while researching this post; it's a general reflection on the idea of using first initials.

School Nightmares

A common anxiety-based nightmare, as confirmed by the very cool book The Pop-up Book of Nightmares, involves finding yourself in a classroom and realizing you haven't studied for a test or haven't been to school all semester. In my experience, the test usually has something to do with math, and it's usually a high-school setting.  This common nightmare is of course closely related to the one in which you realize you are naked in school or in some other public setting.  In the latter nightmare, you're literally dealing with your fear of being exposed, whereas in the former, you're facing the fear of being exposed as an intellectual or academic fraud. Often, there's the added pressure of the clock running out, or the time being hard to figure out.

In my most recent school-based nightmare, I'm taking the GRE and I can't find a pencil that is sharp enough, and then when I try to sharpen one, the sharpener grinds it into a nub. In another recent dream, I find myself waking up in the classroom, hungover, and the instructor tells me I have ten minutes to prepare for my presentation, which I know I have carefully prepared, but I don't have it with me. I rush back to my dormitory room, but I can't find the right folder -- just lots of other folders, and they're all wet or fall apart when I pick them up. (I'm using the literary present to describe the action of these dreams.)

Nightmares like this raise all sorts of interesting questions, like what did people have nightmares about before school or automobiles existed?  I also wonder if people who haven't continued in school continue to have school nightmares.  I haven't been in undergraduate school for almost 25 years, but in that time, I think I've been teaching or taking classes for all but four years.  I can't remember if I had a lot of school dreams during those four years, but I would bet that I did not. 

I also have nightmares about not being prepared to teach a class or facing down particularly disruptive students, and even some pleasant dreams about appreciative students, but the most common nightmare by far has me returning to school as a student, facing down my lack of preparedness or dealing with my intellectual shortcomings. In addition to still being a student myself (a student of guitar and a doctoral student), having this nightmare makes me more compassionate toward students, as it helps me remember how difficult and stressful going to school can be. 

Presents for teachers

The end of each semester always brings about new opportunities to reflect on relationships with students and the effects you've had on each other.  This semester, a student gave me a Christmas present, which is rare enough that it always kind of reminds me -- in a self-deprecating way -- of the heartbreaking end of the film The Browning Version.  This particular present, while unexpected, was certainly much appreciated as a symbolic gesture.  As indicated by her card, this student enjoyed the class and wanted to express those good feelings with a gift.  In return, the gift prompted me to reflect in a more personal way on my students (all of them) as individuals and to think about how they have changed, even if only in small ways, over the semester. As college instructors, we're not always encouraged or expected to connect with our students on this level, since the traditional college model, whether it's appropriate or not, emphasizes rigor and mastery of the complex subject matter, and our students, after all, are increasingly self-reliant adults. I am perhaps not the friendliest guy around, even though I try not to be downright aloof, so when I do inspire this kind of personal connection it's always a bonus that makes me realize some of my efforts to get students to be successful and more confident in their actual abilities have worked.

Browning Version, 1951 version

Gifts like this always remind of the elementary-school tradition that encourages all students to buy their teachers presents for the holidays.  Memories of this tradition are not all-around pleasant. When I was in the second grade, I was roundly humiliated when I gave my teacher, Mrs. Tribble, a white-haired older woman with perfectly straight teeth, a three-pack of Irish Spring bar soap.  Most of the other students had given Mrs. Tribble pretty baubles or affectionately sensible items like little teddy bears or novelty coffee mugs. Most of the other students, it would seem, had some parental guidance and financial assistance in this regard. I seem to remember wandering around Target with a couple of dollars stuffed into my Toughskins jeans, wondering what I could possibly get for a teacher. The soap seemed practical, but I also remember being fond of the jaunty Irish Spring TV commercials, so I'm sure that was a factor. 

The other students laughed uproariously at my measly and inappropriate gift, probably in part because they thought it implied that I thought the teacher needed a bath.  Mrs. Tribble, to her credit, added the soap to her stack of gifts and said with some pride, "I'm going to smell so good."  It's sort of amazing to think about all the strange and unexpected situations that elementary-school teachers have to be ready for.      

Slang and drunkenness

Whenever I discuss examples of slang and informal language with students, we're always collectively and pleasantly struck by how many slang expressions exist for the standard "drunk" or "drunken."  As far as I know, and I'm no linguist, there's really only one standard or common word for the state of being intoxicated by alcohol: drunk. There are a few more formal ways of saying this, including the aforementioned "intoxicated" and similar terms like "inebriated."  But there are perhaps hundreds of informal or slang terms milling about. Naming just a few from the top of my 45-year-old brain (and young people tend to be the main purveyors and inventors of slang), we might say a drunk person is wasted, slammed, lit, shit-faced, fucked up, hammered, plowed, or happy.

Each of these words perhaps suggests a different degree of drunkenness, although most slang terms for drunk connote a state of inebriation that is beyond being simply buzzed or pleasantly affected by alcohol. Indeed, most of these informal terms, which often involve figurative language, are designed to conjure images of the drunk person being out of control (George Carlin had a great bit about "shit-faced" in particular), and the words exist in order to convey something more out of control than drunk.  He wasn't just drunk; he was wasted.  Some words seem to imply a happier state of inebriation, as well. Personally, I'd rather be "lit" (which has a nice connotation of warmth) than "wasted" (which suggests being poisoned or damaged).

In spite of this, these informal terms are mostly used in the spirit of celebrating or poking fun at the exploits of good friends.  We don't normally say, "She was so wasted she had to go to the hospital."  Instead, we say, "Oh my god, she was so wasted!" when attempting to convey the idea that a good time was had by all.

Blue Moon beer (original photo)

It's interesting that we have so many words for such a common, if rather unfortunate, human condition, but I think that's just the point.  My theory is that because drunkenness is such an ordinary and rather pathetic human failing, we tend to make it more colorful through language.  The words are varied because the experience itself does not lend itself to all that much variety. Yes, people do lots of different things while drunk, but drunk is drunk, and watching someone be drunk, in spite of what sober people may say, is never quite as interesting as these colorful words imply.  Yet the human love affair with alcohol continues, as does the never-ending march of words to help us identify and describe the condition of having had one too many.
     

The Game is Seven-Card Stud

My younger sister, Wendy Freedman, is a professional poker player.  I say this not to brag but as an introduction to my blog topic, but I mostly mention it as a way to boost my page views via Google searches, since she is the closest thing we have to a famous person in the family.  This is what she looks like:

She is one of the few female professional poker players, as far as I know. Poker has traditionally been a male-dominated game, even within amateur ranks, where it is typically viewed as a male-bonding activity, an alternative to the all-male Tuesday-night bowling league or barfly softball game. Compared to those games, it is a more sedentary game and tends to attract a slightly rougher crowd, those inclined to drink beer, smoke cigars, and tell dirty jokes in the dark. Poker also rewards slightly menacing, duplicitous, and mysterious behavior, as your goal (to put it crudely, since I'm not a poker player) is to fool your opponent and take his money, regardless of whether your hand is better or not.

My sister and I have had a few conversations about whether poker constitutes gambling or not, and I won't rehash those friendly debates here, but suffice it to say that while poker, like all card games, involves the luck of the draw, it is mostly about psychological domination and strategy, or how you play those cards. This is why poker is such a natural symbol for the aggressive nature of modern life and a specifically American view of individualist success.  You are dealt a certain hand, but what matters most is how you play those cards. Poker is a modern game, and it aptly represents the "winner-take-all" strategy for success in a cut-throat American capitalist society.  In that way, poker is a perfect symbol for a naturalistic view of life. This is one reason poker figures so prominently in a number of Jack London stories and novels, including Burning Daylight.

Poker also emerges as an important symbol in Tennessee Williams's masterpiece, Streetcar Named Desire.  During the play's famous poker night scene, to which the women are pointedly not invited, Stanley erupts in a display of violence and physically abuses his wife.  The poker game serves as a display of masculine male power, and this patriarchal power structure remains closed to women, although they receive the brunt of its ugliness.  The play ends on the line, "The game is seven-card stud," suggesting that, as Blanche is carted off to the asylum and Stella submits to Stanley's power, the structure remains firmly intact. The game continues and women remain oblivious to its rules, even as they are subject to its power. This is one reason my sister is cool, because she has infiltrated this game, questioned its traditional male power, and benefited from the outcome. 

Excuse Me

I'm a big champion of manners and politeness, as I think these are the oils that keep the engines of society running smoothly. Still, even though I've been in Houston forty years, I'm a little uncomfortable when students and others say, "Yes, sir" to me.  This is a very Southern custom, and while I appreciate the gentility of it, and I'm not offended at the idea that I'm old enough to be called "sir," I am always secretly worried that they might being slightly sarcastic, as in "Yes, sir!"  Since this is the South (or Texas's version of the South), however, I am mostly sure they are just being polite in the way they were brought up to be.

It's an interesting problem or paradox, this perception of politeness as rudeness or aloofness. I've noticed something similar when I say "excuse me" as I'm trying to get around someone in a crowded situation.  Sometimes, people will take the "excuse me" as a euphemism for "you're in the damn way."  It's annoying that people would take my attempt to be polite as code for "get out of the way," since of course I'm trying to avoid being rude, but maybe polite language often disguises something less polite, a less noble motivation or a hidden, nasty thought. After all, what Northerners sometimes dislike about Southern politeness is its lack of directness or perceived lack of honesty. Similarly, while I tend to be overly polite with people I don't know well (my being introverted and hard of hearing compounds this effect), some people take this as a sign of aloofness or unwillingness to be social. 

This paradox is also a great source of tension and conflict in Streetcar Named Desire, as the working-class and very direct Stanley confronts Blanche about her secrets and lies, which she conveniently covers up with her upper-class veneer of propriety.  She says Belle Reeve, the family plantation, was "lost" -- a romantic and mystical way of obfuscating the fact that the plantation was foreclosed upon.  She refers to her indiscretions (another polite word) as "meetings with strangers."  When she is forced to be honest, the result is ugly and violent.

So yes, it's a human balancing act, this ongoing struggle between honesty and politeness. Being honest (or direct, as its sometimes referred to by people who are probably too blunt and impolite in their communication) is not always the best policy, in spite of the common saying. Yet being polite when the situation calls for more directness should also be avoided. Perhaps when I want to get around people, I should simply say hello and ask them if I can't get around them, instead of using a curt, standard expression.  But I'll probably keep on saying, "Excuse me."