Like a lot of high school sophomores, I had to read The Catcher in the Rye. And like a lot of high school sophomores in 1988, I didn’t really get what the big deal was about that book (besides the fact that Mark David Chapman carried it around before shooting John Lennon). I didn’t see why my teacher and so many other adults considered it such a brilliant piece of literature.

Tom Henderson, the narrator of King Dork, doesn’t understand the fuss, either. He views the teachers who push Catcher on their students as members of some oddly obsessed literary cult. In fact, Tom finds a lot to dislike about school in general, and this is where the book excels. it’s an exaggerated catalog of the petty cruelties and pointless busywork that is inflicted upon most American high school students. But King Dork truly shines in its portrayal of Tom, a confused, sensitive, withdrawn, creative, and typically libidinous adolescent whose greatest dream is to start a rock band with his equally disenchanted friend Sam. And like any pair of teenagers with visions of pop culture grandiosity, they spend most of their time inventing new names for their band (my favorite: The Mordor Apes). The book also has something of a mystery threaded into the plot–an element that feels undercooked and a bit forced. But this is a strong debut for Frank Portman and I look forward to his next work.

I’m now working on The Subtle Knife, the second volume in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy.

Even though I have a law degree, a career, and a whole resume full of professional and academic achievements, I can’t seem to escape other people’s compulsion to pat me on the head (or its verbal equivalent). This past week has given me ample material for discrete rolling of the eyes.

• Over the holiday weekend, I was at someone’s house and another guest seemed to be under the assumption that I required an interpreter, since most of her questions for me were directed at a third person (“Where did Mark go to school?”).
• On the elevator this morning, an older woman asked me how I was doing. “Fine,” I replied. This answer must have impressed her, because she gleefully said to my nurse, “Oh, he’s so positive! That’s what we like to hear.”

I’ve decided the people I meet in life fall into three categories. First is the Hopelessly Clueless. They simply aren’t capable of regarding me as an equal and will never confront their own biases about my disability. I interact them only when circumstance absolutely requires it. The second group is the Redeemably Clueless. They act awkwardly in my presence at first, but they usually are open to a little friendly instruction (think of me as the Henry Higgins to their Eliza Doolittle). The third group is the Cool People. Right from the start, their interactions with me are free of condescension or self-consciousness. Most of my friends probably fall into this last group.

Hmm, maybe I should turn the above paragraph into a paper. I’ll call it something like The Siegel Taxonomy: Observations on Disability and Social Dynamics.

A federal judge has ruled that the Treasury Department must make U.S. currency more accessible to the blind. NPR has full coverage. It’s about time. Other countries have found various ways to modify their currencies to make them easier to use for people with visual impairments. There really is no excuse for us to be lagging behind. I don’t buy the argument that changing the size of our bills would disrupt business (vending machines and cash registers are cited as examples). The countries in the euro zone seem to have managed the shift to an entirely new currency without suffering riots in the streets. Any changes made here would likely be less dramatic.

I’m having a hard time getting the book done. It’s currently measuring in at 550 pages and I probably have only another fifty pages to go, but I just can’t get myself across the finish line. Fatigue is likely a major factor. After three years, I’m getting a little sick of the story and the characters. And the evil little Gollum in my head is telling me it’s a pile of crap, so why bother? But it needs to get done, if for no other reason than because I’ll feel guilty if I don’t. So I’m recommiting myself to finishing the task at hand.

But work will have to resume tomorrow. Got a concert to go to.

I’m going to see the new Bond film later this afternoon with a friend. Reviews indicate that this iteration of Bond is grittier and more realistic, which is fine with me as I’ve found the last few films rather silly. I am quite fond of the Sean Connery era and can watch those film repeatedly, but my greatest enthusiasm for things Bond-related is reserved for On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Maybe it’s because I like to imagine myself as George Lazenby in that Alpine chalet, surrounded by a veritable United Nations of libidinous (your word for the day) hotties.

Worst Bond film: Moonraker, without a doubt. A relative once gave me a VHS copy of that movie as a holiday gift. Even though I was only ten at the time, my artistic sensibilities were sufficiently honed to quickly realize how hard that movie sucked ass. Avoid it at all costs.