M. EARL
SMITH Reviews
Egghead, or: You Can’t Survive on Ideas Alone by Bo
Burnham, with drawings by Chance Bone
(Grand
Central Press, 2013)
Ah, Bo Burnham. Aside from being a
scorned generation’s poet laureate, Burnham also finds himself the stand-up
idol of a group of young people that may be as hard and as cynical as his
comedy. Yet, unlike most shock jocks of his era, who are defined by a biting
wit and a streak of independence (both of which Burnham has), Burnham is more
than willing to pay homage to both the comedians and artists that influenced
his style.
In a sense, Egghead is just that: a gigantic nod to Shel Silverstein, the
wonderfully talented poet and artist who managed to straddle the line between
childhood innocence and puerile adolescent innuendo. If Silverstein was a
master at straddling that line, however, Burnham blows completely by it, middle
finger extended self-righteously in the air. What follows is double entendre
for the sake of double entendre, (“I put a chameleon on a red dildo/He blushed”
is not highbrow writing by anyone’s standards.), along with juvenile wisecracks
that serve both as a challenge to the form and as humorous fodder for
thirteen-year-old boys everywhere (See: “Why do poets always talk about the
ocean’s waves/about their single file march to shore/and yet never talk about
my grandmother’s farts…”)
To call Burnham’s volume a
collection of dick and fart jokes, however, sells short what he accomplishes
with the volume. Frustrations with relationships in a new society are abound
(“I want to have sex really quickly then seriously stop all this kissing
bullshit because you need your personal space, apparently.”), as are thoughts
on racism (“’Get out of here!’ shouted one of the Squares/’Why?’ asked one of
the Circles/’Because this is a metaphor for racism!’”) and even trans issues (“I’m
Xia Cobolt, a twelve-year-old Pan-Asian/Euroamerican girl/And I’m a fugitive.”).
All the while, Burnham manages to maintain both his trademark sharp wit and his
genial “aw, shucks” humor. What follows is a volume that is both
painfully-self-aware and artistically arrogant, much like Burnham’s standup
acts.
Of course, the volume would not be
complete without the sketches provided by Chance Bone. A lot can be said with
pen and ink, and while one could argue that Bone’s sketches serve the same
function as a Kurt Cobain guitar solo (a repeat of what we have already heard,
or, in this case, read), I would argue that Bone manages to capture a succinct
view of Burnham’s minds-eye. The artwork and poetry meshes well, although it
must be pointed out that Silverstein could capture much the same attitude and
artistic space as Burnham and Bone by himself.
That
does not mean that one should pass on this volume. Less a parody or rip-off,
and more a homage, Burnham’s genius is such that he can completely cop
another’s style and still create something unique. In an era where mainstream
poetry is sorely devoid of any brave new thoughts, Burnham’s volume is filled
with just that…even if he must borrow a similar motif to share
them.
*****
From
works for children to the macabre, from academic research to sports journalism,
and from opinion essays to the erotic, M. Earl Smith is a writer that seeks to
stretch the boundaries of genre and style. A native of Southeast Tennessee, M.
Earl moved to Ohio at nineteen and, with success, reinvented himself as a
writer after parting ways with his wife of eleven years. After graduating from
Chatfield College (with highest honors) in 2015, M. Earl became the first
student from Chatfield to matriculate at an Ivy League institution when he
enrolled at the University of Pennsylvania, in Philadelphia. The proud father
of two wonderful children (Nicholas and Leah), M. Earl studies creative writing
and history at UPenn. When he’s not studying, M. Earl splits time between
Philadelphia, Cincinnati, and Chattanooga, with road trips to New York City,
Wichita, Kansas, and Northampton, Massachusetts in between.
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