The Only True Freedom

Hello there from Poland.

When you move to another country, especially a large city, you eventually find other foreigners like yourself. I found my people within my first few days in Poland — a motley crew of Europeans and Americans. A group of people who came together based on geography and circumstance.

I was in Poland because of a feeling, an ache, or an absence in my soul that I could not put into words, so I was envious of those who had specific reasons for being there. Some were escaping debt or alimony payments. Some fell in love with a Pole and followed them here. Some were trust fund babies spinning their wheels until the money opened up. Some had a plan, and Poland was the next item on their checklist before moving on.

The question you’ll always get as a foreigner is, “Why are you here?” It was a question I dreaded because my go-to answer was boring: “I was offered a job, so I came.”

But the boring answer was better than what I was thinking: Hey. Don’t you feel like everything’s wrong? Like we went to sleep one night and reality was overwritten. We didn’t know the difference when we woke, but there’s this feeling, like a hair between our teeth, an impossible itch — a longing for something we don't remember. I thought it was just back home, but now I think it might be everywhere. Don't you feel it, too?

Yeah, I’m a hit at parties.

Why do you ask?

The Hat Inside the Hat…

Stephen King’s The Gunslinger (which I talk about below) does a trick I love in storytelling. It’s a device I first noticed in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, where you have a story inside a story inside a story. In the case of Frankenstein, it goes four levels deep.

1. The explorer, Robert Walton, writes letters to his sister about the story of Frankenstein.

2. Frankenstein tells his story to Walton.

3. The creature tells Frankenstein his story.

4. An old man tells a story within the creature’s story to Frankenstein.

This might not be something that the average reader might pick up on, but this is nerdy gold to me — especially when the levels go deeper.

It’s also one of my favorite things to do in stand-up.

The story inside the story for stand-up comedy works like this: I start telling a story but switch to another story before I reach the punchline and then switch to another story, etc. Eventually, you work your way back. The delight comes from the audience realizing that you haven’t lost the plot. From the outside, it looks chaotic, but really, it’s organized disorganization.

My go-to version of this trick is my ladder story.

I start telling a true story about the time I decided to be cool and slide down a particularly high ladder at work. When I get to the descent part of the story, I talk about how long the slide down the ladder felt, which allowed me the chance to reflect on other moments when I tried to be cool and failed spectacularly. I tell motorcycle riding fail stories. I tell dating fail stories. I tell a tragically embarrassing story about a time I met a girlfriend’s mother. And then the punchline to the last story brings me back to the disastrous end of the ladder story.

There is a 12-15 minute gap between the two parts of the ladder story, long enough for the audience to forget the story.

My dream would be to create an entire set in which you keep going down one level of story until you get to the halfway point of the show, then conclude every story going upward — essentially ending where I began.

Road to the Dark Tower

[One of you wrote to tell me that you sometimes skip this section of the newsletter for fear of being spoiled. I make a point to talk about these books without ruining the experience for people who haven’t read it yet. I promise that if I do go into spoilers, I’ll warn you in advance.]

Over the last couple of years, writer Matt Fraction has been reading Stephen King’s Dark Tower books for the first time and sharing his perceptive thoughts on the Kingcast podcast (he still has two books to go). And the Talking Scared podcast has recently started its journey with the series.

I got out my trusty paperback copy of The Gunslinger and thought I might give the series another go. I last read all of the books in 2005, which is insane because for most of my life, it felt like the story was never going to be finished — so knowing we’re 21 years since King wrapped up the series is pretty wild.

In case you don’t know about King’s Dark Tower books, this is considered his magnum opus. A seven-volume epic that brings together King’s entire oeuvre. It’s also one of the best documentations of a writer’s evolving writing style (it took King over 25 years to write, and he’s still adding to it — the third Talisman book will be a DT story). It’s a remarkable achievement no matter how you slice it.

I always considered the first book, The Gunslinger, to be the weakest of the series. In fact, one of the Kingcast’s hosts made an argument for skipping the first book and starting with the second, and if you like it, then go back. I see his point. The second book (which I’m reading now) is stronger and more in line with what you know of King and his work. But the second book has a “Holy shit!” moment within the first 10 pages that doesn’t land as hard if you haven’t read the previous book.

The Gunslinger, like a lot of the books I’ve been revisiting lately, is not what I remembered (much to my delight). Now, some of this might have to do with the fact that the edition I read had been revised and expanded, but honestly, I only noticed the difference in a few parts.

(One of the expansions — the addition of one word! — was disheartening. I’m not going to point it out directly, but I’m sure fans of the series know what I’m talking about. One of the sticking points with a lot of King readers is how great he is at setting up stories only to fumble the ball at the end. The ending-ending of the Dark Tower books really delivers in the sense that you don’t quite see it coming and, of course, it couldn’t end any other way. The expansion in the first book comes dangerously close to giving it all away.)

The Gunslinger is a solid start to the series. If anything, it keeps its cards too close to the vest at times, so it’s impossible for readers to fully grasp just how weird the story is going to get. And I can’t stress this enough — the story gets fucking weird. Bonkers, really. The first book is missing the folksy voice the series has in its second half, but that’s more about how King had changed as a writer.

I’ve read that people see this as King’s Lord of the Rings (and he was certainly inspired by it), but it’s such a singular achievement on so many levels that comparing the two does the series a disservice. Even though it borrows from ideas that cross numerous cultures and myths, it’s such a deeply American story in ways I haven’t seen done in other epics. This is The Odyssey if you fed it a steady diet of spaghetti westerns and comic books. Ultimately, it’s the Secret Wars of King’s version of the MCU. And while it feels easy to make these grand comparisons, there really is nothing else like it.

Fight for What You’re Worth

Here is one of the most heartbreaking photos I’ve seen in a while.

This is Jerry Siegel, aged 61, working a clerking job to make ends meet in 1975.

If you don’t know, Siegel and his friend, Joe Shuster, created Superman in 1938. Unfortunately for these young creators, they cashed a check for $130 (about $2,814 today) which gave the comic-book publisher Detective Comics, Inc. (now DC) the rights to the character.

So by the time Siegel was in his 60s — despite the occasional low-paid (and often uncredited) comic book work — he was struggling financially and in poor health. And that’s how the creator of Superman ended up with a clerking job while DC was making money hand over fist with the property.

The characters Siegel and Shuster created are worth billions today.

Keep Warm

When I was a child living outside of Buffalo, I’d be down the street waiting for the school bus. Eventually, I’d get bored and wander into the huge piles of snow and just sink into it. I’d lie there looking up at the infinite gray sky, feeling the cold slowly work its way through my winter outfit. My five-year-old brain was full of imagination and possibilities, so much so, that the school bus would come and go without me even noticing (my hearing impairment probably factored in too).

Once it was clear that I missed the bus, I’d wander across the street to Mrs. Garrison’s house, who would take me in with open arms and a cup of hot cocoa. I’d stay there all day until one of my parents returned from work.

That’s the thing about childhood — there was always a gentle giant close by to pick you up and keep you warm. I wish I could say that was true about all of life.

Have yourself a great week!