Take it away, Bill Withers.

I finished reading Sarah Vowell's 2000 Take the Cannoli: Stories from the New World. Yes, yes, yes, I have a prospectus to revise, but my air of certainty tricks the equally powerful and crippling side of self-doubt that I can find the initiative to complete that insipid task. Vowell's new book The Wordy Shipmates was published recently and recommended to a critical, snarky, and frequently caustic snot like myself. (Crap, there I go with passive voice like I was instructed to avoid.) As an avid fan of Coppola's 1972 The Godfather, for the very same reasons she lays out in the book, I thought I would read it first. A collection of short stories, I guess I enjoyed the book. I have a problem with Sedaris, Vowell, and, at points, Ira Glass. They get on my nerves and I feel like they're the wordy nerds who are settling high school scores from when they were the downtrodden and less glamorous folk whose intelligence and wit was ignored for those who seemed dashing and displayed those lovely traits of the most superior high school students: "leadership qualities."

Reading through the book, I found myself entertained, a bit bored at points, and at other moments ticked off. But in a blinding epiphany, I realized why I cringe: I identify with them and find that they are closer to me than maybe I'd like, or I'd like to be closer to them. In other words, I'm uncomfortable because it hits close to home and I never displayed "leadership qualities" in high school, nor did many of my friends. Between my self-loathing and status anxiety, I don't know if I'll ever be able to appreciate their work to the fullest.

But I get the feeling that Ms. Vowell wouldn't make a mistake that I find grating: confusing Bill Withers for Al Green or any other African-American singer of the 70s. Who cares? Nobody, and I guess that's the point.