I saw Rick Moody read at the James Merrill House in Stonington, CT a year or so ago. He read two stories, the first about a New England family, not unlike those that call Stonington their home, out on their boat, drinking their daiquiris, or something. The small audience lapped it up. The predominant hair color was white; car models, Buick and Cadillac. My dad made a face after the story.
On the ride over (in his Neon) he told me he read that Moody wrote like a writer I’d never heard of named John Cheever, in terms of plot. He wrote, my dad said, about how difficult it is to be white and rich and/or middle-upper class. “Bo-ring,” we said, almost in unison.
His second story was called “Boys,” and each new thought and sentence started with the word “boys”. More than anything from that day, I remember Moody launching into a digression, mid-story, about how the boys masturbated. The trust he gained with his Stonington, CT-friendly starting story was lost with this fun, loose, genuine, and ultimately touching story about friendship. I turned to my dad, who was grinning, glad to have been proven wrong, glad to know that the long drive was worth it, that Moody wasn’t a one-rich-trick-pony.
I had Moody sign my newly-purchased used (unread) copy of The Ice Storm, as well as a story (also unread) from The Best American Nonrequired Reading (2006). He suggested I check out his music column on a site called The Rumpus.
And then I started reading Rick Moody.
