The Love Song of Johnny Valentine by Teddy Wayne. 3.6 stars
I might have once paid to eat a half smoked cigar and a stamp soaked in tuna fish
I once ate a picture of some sushi.
It was about the size of a stamp and, because I was eating at a bizarre, brilliant restaurant, it tasted exactly like real sushi.* What was odd about that, besides most everything, is that since I’m a vegetarian, I’m not sure I remember what sushi tastes like. When I say that stamp tasted like sushi, I’m relying on the friend who was eating with me and some very old memories. If my friend had told me that picture didn’t taste like sushi, I wouldn’t have liked it half as much.
*The restaurant was called Moto and sadly, it no longer exists. I also ate a Cuban sandwich in the shape of a Cuban cigar served in an ashtray. The ashes at the end of the cigar were spices for the sandwich. At least I hope they were. I might have paid a lot of money to eat an old stamp soaked in tuna fish and half smoked cigar.
The Love Song of Teddy Valentine is narrated by an eleven year old Justin Bieber type pop star. It’s smart and insightful about the corrosive nature of fame and how notoriety and money warp every human relationship they touch. It captures exactly what it’s like to be a child star.
Unless it doesn’t.
I can’t be sure, because, obviously, I have no idea what it’s like to be an 11 year old pop star. Neither does the author. But then, Shakespeare didn’t really know anything about what it was like being king. Mostly that’s okay because characters like Hamlet are just human beings, doing what any human being does when the ghost of their dad demands they kill their step-father. The fact that Shakespeare made those characters members of the royal family is really beside the point.
This book however, like that picture of sushi, is great because it seems real. Oh sure, you’re thinking I could read an autobiography by a pop star to find out if this book was accurate, but that would never work because pop stars know as much about writing books as authors know about being pop stars. Which raises a fairly critical philosophical question. Novels are really just an expression of the ongoing hope that we can all understand each other. As a reader, I want to believe that there are enough commonalities between people so that I can try to see the world as others see it. But that may not be true. Maybe real empathy is impossible, because we can only see the world as we see it. Maybe I’ll never know what it’s like to be anyone else. Maybe we are all always strangers.
It's a depressing thought, if only because, if nothing else, it means I once paid thirty bucks to eat a stamp.*
*I am also fairly certain I wasn’t just given LSD at a fancy restaurant. But who can say for sure?
Ahhh, Claude - thanks for the smiles, laughs & (hopefully) empathetic nods.Fave sentences:
"But then, Shakespeare didn’t really know anything about what it was like being king."
"...but that would never work because pop stars know as much about writing books as authors know about being pop stars."
Kindof like whenever The NY Times writes about living in Los Angeles. My usual reaction is, "huh?"
If the only thing in the daily newspaper that makes you say ‘huh’ is how NY-ers describe people in LA, you’re way, way ahead of me.