Twin Flame Game: Home is Where the Heat Is

My mom and I enjoyed reading and discussing Where the Crawdads Sing so much that we decided to do it again with another novel.  This time I chose, and I went with Kevin Wilson's Nothing to See Here.  I wanted something that could, ahem, spark conversation, so a book about twins who burst into flames seemed perfect.  Upon hearing this, my sister wanted in too, and our book club of two grew to three. 

Nothing to See Here begins with Madison and Lillian.  One rich, one poor.  Best friends and perhaps something more.  Forged in the fire of a Tennessee boarding school in the '80s, their friendship is intense, rendering them twin flames of another kind until an incident nearly snuffs out their fire.  Although they write to each other regularly, they don't meet again until 1995, when they're almost thirty.  And that's only because Madison needs Lillian to do her a favor -- raising her senator husband's combustible stepkids.  

Told in Lillian's irreverent voice, Nothing to See Here is part satire and part southern gothic.  The twins, ten-year-old Bessie and Roland, are nearly feral and young for their age despite having survived their mother's death.  They're banished to a balloon-and-polka-dot-bedecked house behind Madison's mansion, and it's Lillian's job to keep them from burning it down.  It's also up to her to hide their flaming freak flags to protect their father's precious career.  Not that they're igniting all the time.  Only when they get upset.  Or slighted.  Or unsure.  Or lonely.  So yeah, the threat of pyrotechnics is real, although the fire doesn't hurt them and is, weirdly, lovely.  Determined to avoid anti-anxiety meds and forbidden to turn to therapy, Lillian relies on yoga and other homegrown remedies to keep the kids even-keeled.  Sometimes it seems like she's treating their conflagrations like panic attacks.  Which they sort of are, if the tingles that precede them -- not to mention the aforesaid emotional triggers -- are any indication.  As Lillian's relationship with Madison becomes more complicated, her bond with the children deepens.  Because despite the constant threat of third-degree burns and the senator's brand of clean-cut creepiness, Lillian loves taking care of them.

Nothing to See Here is about putting out fires, both literal and figurative.  It's also about the power of appearances and what it takes to get to the top.  But mostly it's about family, reminding us that those who love and accept us will stand by us even when it means getting burned.  And Lillian gets that.  Long wronged by a world where she doesn't belong, she finally steps up to do what's right -- and finds something she never knew she needed. 

This was an unusual book, definitely thought-provoking.  Now I'm reading something that can best be described as a beach book.  I thought that was what I craved after Where the Crawdads Sing, Sicker in the Head, and now Nothing to See Here.  But instead it feels a little too easy, like a place I've already been.  It makes me wonder if these messier narratives have ruined me for chick lit for good.

I guess like Bessie and Roland, I just want to feel my feelings -- with a fire extinguisher at the ready.

Punch Line? Feeling Fine! The Tears of a Clown are the Saddest

Judd Apatow's Sicker in the Head hit me the same way that his first book, Sick in the Head did.  Which is to say that it's not a laugh-a-minute collection of interviews with comedians and entertainers, but an introspective look at how the comedy sausage is made.  And one of the main ingredients, unsurprisingly, is emotional damage.  Because for all its seeming frivolity, comedy is a coping mechanism.  And if laughter is the best medicine, then comedians self medicate.  Apatow puts it best in his foreword:

"I have always seen comedy as a lifeline -- which is why I've been interviewing comedians about why they do what they do since I was fifteen years old.  Without comedy, I don't know how I would survive.  When the pandemic was at full force, I grabbed my family and made a really silly movie.  I didn't know what else to do.  Is that healthy?  Is it denial?  Is it medicine?  Is it sick?  I am not sure.  But now I know that when the world seems to be collapsing my reaction is to make a movie about a group of people having a meltdown during a pandemic as they attempt to make a movie about flying dinosaurs." (Apatow XII)

Apatow picks the brains of many beloved funny people, including Jimmy Kimmel, John Mulaney, Mindy Kaling, Pete Davidson, and Samantha Bee, ending, appropriately, with Will Ferrell.  Because who better than the guy who wrote "I've got a fever -- and the only prescription is more cowbell" to close a conversation about being sick in the head?  Ferrell talks about that, how the idea for the famous Blue Oyster Cult sketch came to him because he roots for the underdog:

"Even just the notion of driving along and listening to "(Don't Fear) The Reaper," by Blue Oyster Cult and hearing a faint sound of a cowbell.  I don't know how I had that idea.  I remember, the first time I heard that song, for some reason I focused on the cowbell, and I immediately thought, What's that guy's life like?  Does he ever get to hang out?  The sad weirdo who's trying to be a part of the group really appeals to me." (451)

Me too, Will.  Me too.