100 Years of Vonnegut: A Short Report

Intrepid META-SPIEL readers will know that today, November 11, is the birthday of our patron saint of farting around, Kurt Vonnegut.

Especially intrepid META-SPIEL readers will further know that today is the 100th anniversary of such birth.

I am therefore most accordingly writing tonight from that famed center of commerce and culture, Indianapolis, Indiana, on the occasion of finally finally visiting the Kurt Vonnegut Museum & Library.

My report of the occasion - that being Vonnecon - is necessarily brief. I anticipate having deeper musings to offer on an impending Phthursday.

Five of us arrived in ample time for chocolate cake. The festivities were shared by attendees ranging in age from… well, 9 to whatever.

Indeed a thrilling time was had by all:

On loan from Mark Vonnegut is, naturally, his father’s clarinet:

Artwork, none of it normal, is found throughout the facility:

A representative from the other essential Indiana museum - that being for Eugene V. Debs - was present, complete with the dinner program information from the November 7, 1981 Eugene V. Debs Award Dinner held at the Terre Haute Holiday Inn, the evening’s awardee natually being Kurt, presented such award by some small town mayor:

I especially liked the presence of numerous Vonnegut novels in other languages - which makes perfect sense but which nevertheless struck me oddly, because Vonnegut was ever the Midwesterner, and how exactly would something like Sirens of Titan translate to Russian?

My absolute favorite artifact though was found in a room being hosted by a current editor from the very much still existing Saturday Evening Post. The walls were adorned with rejection letters from powerhouse magazines of the 1950s, many of which were bizarre on their own, but none more fabulous than this one:

1. The penman of this letter is one Knox Burger.

2. He signs as merely Knox.

3. The initial sentence concludes you have not arranged your final situation so that it falls into place with all the necessary reverberations.

Ostensibly this is Mr. Burger’s way of explaining an inadequacy inherent to the then-form of the short story “Case of the Phantom Roadhouse” but, come on, that as a standalone sentence is sufficient to dismiss anything, anywhere, anytime.

You have not arranged your final situation. Indeed, Knox, indeed.

It has been a while since I’ve actually read Kurt. Many of the books on my shelf I haven’t read in about 20 years. Admittedly I generally approach books from the perspective that I have new books waiting, why would I read old ones? But I think it’s high time to go back and read them all anew. To kick off another 100 years of Vonnegut. And to draw inspiration accordingly. After all, we all have final situations to arrange.

I am inclined to start with Player Piano and move forward from there with occasional short stories sprinkled in. Do my META-HEADS want to join in on any of this endeavor? (Note: please, please, do not call yourselves META-HEADS.)

(Please.)

Anyway. Next week I’ll have more to say about Kurt, about Indianapolis, about who knows what else. For now, I hope you’ll take one rule away for the second 100 years, the rule which I hope you followed for the last 100:

Goddamn it, you’ve got to be kind.