When I was 18 I threw a spectacularly bad book* from the window of a speeding train, just because I couldn't stand its existence. The train was the Empire Builder, and I was on the final leg of a transcontinental ride from St. Paul to visit my sister in Los Angeles all alone. The trip took 3.5 days. Despite having my own berth and access to facilities, crossing the desert at night at ninety miles-per-hour was infuriatingly hot, noisy and confining. I'd spent 70 hours in an ever-wobbling, CLAK CLAK CLAKITY tubular waiting room. It smelled of feet and teryiaki beef in there, and I may have been a little cranky. I definitely had a cluster headache.
The fact that my last piece of reading material (and the only thing left in my luggage that could transport or at least entertain me) was so offensively awful, both in style and content, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Windows opened on Amtrak in 1988. It was a paperback, and therefore biodegradable. What a satisfying fling!
Since then I have been know to fling other books. Seriously, there are people in my life who call me "the Pitcher." When they give me books as gifts they dramatically pat the bindings and say things like, "Good luck, little buddy. I hope you make it." Har har. Some people think they are so funny.
Once I tossed a paperback out the attic window of a relative's house. I was helping her pack and came across a famously demonic novel** that had, in the movie version, scarred my childhood. Since this person is and was a devoted Christian, I freed her of that Satan's foothold right then and there. I'm telling you: the Pitcher.
Last night my neighbor, Sweet Trev, saw me standing out in the yard, ankle deep in snow, photographing something in the bushes (and no, if you're wondering, I was not wearing pants). He was exercising he and his wife Boua's new puppy.
Trev (waving): How's it going?
Me: Excellent!
Trev: (totally unflustered that I have a flashlight, an iPad and am pantless in the dark): Taking pictures, huh?
Me: (pawing at a bush) Yup! I flung this insultingly crappy autism book*** out the window and now I have to prove to a friend that I actually did it. You know, she's one of those, "No picture, it didn't happen."
Trev: So she thinks you lie, huh?
Me: Maybe.
Trev: Doesn't she know people call you "the Pitcher?"
Me: (placing the flashlight over the discarded bookturd to enhance the photo****): She will now!
Trev: Awesome!
I think all the book-flinging I have done my whole adulthood has led up to this most recent one. Though the book didn't make it far (I was home, most of the windows were frozen shut, and I had two wild autistic boys playing "How to Train a Dragon" and trying to parasail off the furniture in the living room), it was the most deserving of a pitch into the dirt than any I have ever tossed.
This book dishonored autistic motherhood.
This book gave false hope.
This book disrespected the autism family experience.
And there is no room for that in the presence of the Pitcher.
*
**
***
****Book titles and photographic evidence will be provided upon email request: bluecollardaughter@gmail.com
The fact that my last piece of reading material (and the only thing left in my luggage that could transport or at least entertain me) was so offensively awful, both in style and content, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Windows opened on Amtrak in 1988. It was a paperback, and therefore biodegradable. What a satisfying fling!
Since then I have been know to fling other books. Seriously, there are people in my life who call me "the Pitcher." When they give me books as gifts they dramatically pat the bindings and say things like, "Good luck, little buddy. I hope you make it." Har har. Some people think they are so funny.
Once I tossed a paperback out the attic window of a relative's house. I was helping her pack and came across a famously demonic novel** that had, in the movie version, scarred my childhood. Since this person is and was a devoted Christian, I freed her of that Satan's foothold right then and there. I'm telling you: the Pitcher.
Last night my neighbor, Sweet Trev, saw me standing out in the yard, ankle deep in snow, photographing something in the bushes (and no, if you're wondering, I was not wearing pants). He was exercising he and his wife Boua's new puppy.
Trev (waving): How's it going?
Me: Excellent!
Trev: (totally unflustered that I have a flashlight, an iPad and am pantless in the dark): Taking pictures, huh?
Me: (pawing at a bush) Yup! I flung this insultingly crappy autism book*** out the window and now I have to prove to a friend that I actually did it. You know, she's one of those, "No picture, it didn't happen."
Trev: So she thinks you lie, huh?
Me: Maybe.
Trev: Doesn't she know people call you "the Pitcher?"
Me: (placing the flashlight over the discarded bookturd to enhance the photo****): She will now!
Trev: Awesome!
I think all the book-flinging I have done my whole adulthood has led up to this most recent one. Though the book didn't make it far (I was home, most of the windows were frozen shut, and I had two wild autistic boys playing "How to Train a Dragon" and trying to parasail off the furniture in the living room), it was the most deserving of a pitch into the dirt than any I have ever tossed.
This book dishonored autistic motherhood.
This book gave false hope.
This book disrespected the autism family experience.
And there is no room for that in the presence of the Pitcher.
*
**
***
****Book titles and photographic evidence will be provided upon email request: bluecollardaughter@gmail.com
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