The Culture of Narcissism: American Life in an Age of Diminishing Expectations

Review “Lasch took in a remarkable range of contemporary experience, making many observations that, if anything, ring more true today. . . . [Readers] may want to seek solace in Lasch’s illuminations.” - Lee Siegel, The New York Times “Never has the case against narcissism been made with such an all-embracing sweep. . . . [Lasch] has brilliantly performed the first job of a social critic by prompting us to look at our reflection―shorn of vanity.” - Valerie Lloyd, Newsweek “Brilliantly on target [and] idiosyncratically compelling.” - Alan Wolfe, New Republic “This is the big intellectual book of the season, the one for everyone to feel guilty about not reading.” - Henry Allen, Washington Post “Formidable intellectual grasp and the kind of moral conviction rarely found in contemporary, value-neutral history and sociology. . . . Lasch is on to something quite real.” - Time “His vigorous appraisal of contemporary American life is to be admired as much for the perspicacity of his observations as for the contancy of this argument and the scope of his supporting references. . . . Few write with his penetration, intelligence, and historical expertise.” - Kirkus Reviews “Christopher Lasch has gone to the heart of our culture. The insights into personality and its social context are stunning. This is a courageous, important book.” - Michael Rogin, University of California, Berkeley “Cultural history at its best. . . . Provokes, startles, and keeps the reader arguing with himself as well as with the writer. . . . A book of fundamental importance.” - Bruce Mazlish, Massachusetts Institute of Technology About the Author Christopher Lasch (1932–1994), professor of history at the University of Rochester, wrote, among many other works, The True and Only Heaven: Progress and Its Critics and the best-selling Revolt of the Elites and the Betrayal of Democracy.

The Narcissism Epidemic: Living in the Age of Entitlement

Review ""The Narcissism Epidemic" is a must read, an essential antidote to a culture spinning out of control. Filled with facts, fascinating examples, and written in a highly readable style, Twenge and Campbell's outstanding book shows how narcissism has been on the rise and has taken over almost every part of our lives and how we can rescue our culture from ourselves. An outstanding accomplishment by two people who truly care about the debacle of self-worship. It should be read by anyone interested in the future of our country" -- Robert L. Leahy, Ph.D., author of "Anxiety Free: Unravel Your Fears Before They Unravel You""A must-read for anyone who is a parent, a relationship partner, in the workforce, in school, or on the job market. Twenge and Campbell not only define narcissism but detail its antecedents, consequences, and underlying processes in a way that brings together so much of what one sees in modern western culture. Grounded in research and peppered with media and anecdotal stories, The Narcissism Epidemic offers practical, much-needed solutions to coping in the age of entitlement." -- Kathleen Vohs, Ph.D., University of Minnesota McKnight Land-Grant Professor, Editor of "Self and Relationships: Connecting Intrapersonal and Interpersonal Processes""An important and illuminating book. Drs. Twenge and Campbell expertly analyze many strands of American culture and reveal an alarming tapestry of psychocultural narcissism. They also offer sound strategies for slowing this epidemic." -- Jean Kilbourne, Ed.D., author of "Can't Buy My Love: How Advertising Changes the Way We Think and Feel" and "So Sexy So Soon: The New Sexualized Childhood and What Parents Can Do to Protect Their Kids""Filled with important, disturbing research detailing the alarming cultural spread of narcissism today -- a serious social problem to which many people are unwittingly contributing without realizing the disastrous consequences. The authors give sound advice and provide an important resource for anyone who cares about compassion, empathy, and emotional connection rather than ME, ME, ME!" -- Karyl McBride, Ph.D., author of "Will I Ever Be Good Enough? Healing the Daughters of Narcissistic Mothers ""Phenomenal..."The Narcissism Epidemic" clearly and succinctly identifies the dangerous disease and the catastrophic ways it threatens our society and future, and reveals urgently needed solutions at every level. The chapter on parenting alone makes this book priceless and should be compulsory reading." -- Patrick Wanis PhD, Celebrity Life Coach, Human Behavior & Relationship Expert, author of "How to Find Happiness""The evidence Twenge and Campbell have compiled is compelling and appalling.... Twenge and Campbell marshal statistics, polls, charts, studies and anecdotes to assemble a complete picture of the epidemic's current state of contagion, brought on by the Internet, reality television, a booming economy, easy credit and other developments over the past decade. The authors dismantle the prevailing myths that have made us inclined to tolerate and even encourage narcissism: that it's a function of high self-esteem, that it's a function of low self-esteem, that a little narcissism is healthy, that narcissists are in fact superior, that you have to love yourself to be able to love someone else." -- "New York Times Style Magazine""The other night, when I was reading Twenge and Campbell's excellent and timely new book, my husband was busy framing a fake "Sports Illustrated" cover, with a picture of our 7-year old over the caption, "Player of the Year." "The Narcissism Epidemic" will hew close to the bone, rouse, and provoke many readers as it shines a spotlight on an important -- and highly costly -- trend in our lives. Rooted in hard data and illuminated with revealing anecdotes, stories, and solutions, "The Narcissism Epidemic" is both a pleasure and an education. But enough about this book. Let's talk about me." -- Sonja Lyubomirsky, Ph.D., author of "The How of Happiness: A Scientific Approach to Getting the Life You Want""This insightful book shows us how the epidemic of narcissism touches almost all aspects of our lives. Twenge and Campbell's astute analysis and salient anecdotes powerfully map the problem and the high price we all pay. They expertly show us the kinds of actions we can take to free ourselves of the epidemic's ruthless grip and how the future wellbeing of humane society depends on our doing so." -- Diane E. Levin, Ph.D., Professor of Education at Wheelock College and co-author of "So Sexy So Soon: The New Sexualized Childhood and What Parents Can Do to Protect Their Kids" About the Author Jean M. Twenge, PhD, a professor of psychology at San Diego State University, is the author of more than a hundred scientific publications and several books based on her research, including Generations , iGen , and Generation Me . Her research has been covered in Time , The Atlantic, Newsweek , The New York Times , USA TODAY , and The Washington Post . She has also been featured on Today , Good Morning America , Fox and Friends , CBS This Morning , and NPR. She lives in San Diego with her husband and three daughters. W. Keith Campbell , Ph.D., Associate Professor of Psychology at the University of Georgia, is the author of more than 65 scientific journal articles and book chapters and the book, When You Love a Man Who Loves Himself: How to Deal with a One-way Relationship (Sourcebooks, 2005). He has published more than 30 journal articles and chapters on narcissism, more than any other academic researcher. He is also a contributing author of the study on the rise in narcissism covered by the Associated Press. His research has appeared in USA Today, Newsweek, and The Washington Post, and he has been featured on Fox News’ The Big Story and made numerous radio appearances. He holds a BA from the University of California at Berkeley, an MA from San Diego State University, and a Ph.D. from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He lives in Athens, Georgia, with his wife and daughter. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Narcissism Epidemic Read more

Allowing Magnificence: Living the Expanded Version of Your Life

About the Author Susan Winter (Older Women/Younger Men, New Horizon Press) is an evolutionary relationship expert and social futurist specializing in emerging models of human consciousness. Susan writes, speaks and coaches on today's innovative life choices and advanced thought systems. As a former national television anchor, she is regularly asked to present her insight on the many aspects of social evolution. Appearances include: THE OPRAH SHOW, THE TODAY SHOW, ABC/CBS/NBC EVENING NEWS, VH1, CNN, and MSNBC. Interviews include: COSMO (US/UK), HARPERS BAZAAR (US/UK/AUS), GOOD HOUSEKEEPING, THE NEW YORK TIMES, WASHINGTON POST, LONDON TIMES, CHICAGO TRIBUNE, THE LOS ANGELES TIMES, and NEW YORK MAGAZINE. Susan is the co-host of Love Online Radio heard on iTunes. All podcasts and articles can be found on: www.SusanWinter.net. In her off-duty life, Susan enjoys the novelty of being a fantasy action figure model. Her comic book and action figure characters include: Lady Death (Chaos Comics), Knockout (Vertigo/DC Comics) and The Matrix's Lady in Red. Living in Manhattan and Arizona, Susan divides her time between dynamic stimulation and creative solitude.

Review "The authors of the 6th edition of The Theory and Practice of Group Psychotherapy do an excellent job of presenting the art and science of leading psychotherapy groups. The material is suitable for mental health professionals across disciplines who want to build their knowledge and expertise for leading psychotherapy groups. This is an essential resource for learning and enhancing group leadership skills for all types of groups."― Nina W. Brown, professor and eminent scholar, Old Dominion University "Once again, Yalom and Leszcz have hit it out of the park. The breadth and depth of the research covered is truly impressive. However, it's the remarkably engaging writing style that seamlessly weaves these empirically informed group psychotherapy principles within an interpersonal framework that makes this book a one-of-a-kind classic. The instructive and compelling clinical examples support beginning therapists, while the contemporary group interventions invites the experienced group leader into new territory."― Gary Burlingame, professor and chair of psychology, Brigham Young University "Reading this eagerly awaited 6th edition of what is truly a classic in the field is like returning home after a time away: the comforting feeling of revisiting familiar tried-and-true notions intermingled with the excitement of new discoveries and developments in the field. This volume, like its predecessors, speaks so clearly to the group therapist, novice, and expert alike, in experience-near, clinician-friendly language, making the group experience come alive in the mind. It represents the state of the art of group therapy today."― Les R. Greene, distinguished life fellow, American Group Psychotherapy Association "This new edition affords us the treasured opportunity to benefit from the wisdom and expertise of the phenomenal partnership of Irv Yalom and Molyn Leszcz. This work retains the strengths of past editions in terms of invaluable clinical insights and case examples, but introduces new material that enhances this edition. In response to the challenges posed by the COVID-19 pandemic, they have included a chapter on online groups. I look forward to sharing this updated edition and valued resource that is informed by recent research findings with my students and colleagues!"― Alexis D. Abernethy, professor of psychology, Fuller Seminary "The partnership between Yalom and Leszcz brings new originality to a text that-like no other-has already shaped the field that it helped to spawn fifty years ago. Grounded in current scholarship, their further development of the interpersonal model-wide-ranging and comprehensive-gives this book renewed standing for therapists of all orientations-a lasting treasure for practitioners and teachers alike."― John Schlapobersky, author of from The Couch to The Circle: Group-Analytic Psychotherapy in Practice "This book is a real classic. In view of an increasing acceptance of group psychotherapy within health systems of different countries, this recent edition is a truly essential help for clinicians and excellently bridges research results and clinical wisdom. It updates theory and practice issues of groups that meanwhile have supported generations of group psychotherapists."― Bernhard Strauss, University of Jena, Germany About the Author Irvin D. Yalom, MD , is professor emeritus of psychiatry at the Stanford University School of Medicine. He was the recipient of the 1974 Edward Strecker Award and the 1979 Foundations' Fund Prize in Psychiatry. He is the author of When Nietzsche Wept (winner of the 1993 Commonwealth Club gold medal for fiction); Love's Executioner , a memoir; Becoming Myself , a group therapy novel; The Schopenhauer Cure ; and the classic textbooks Inpatient Group Psychotherapy and Existential Psychotherapy , among many other books. He lives in Palo Alto, California. Molyn Leszcz, MD, FRCPC, CGP, DFAGPA , is professor of psychiatry at the University of Toronto. He is an award-winning clinical educator. Dr. Leszcz is the president of the American Group Psychotherapy Association (AGPA) and a distinguished fellow of the American Group Psychotherapy Association. He is the coauthor of Psychotherapy Essentials to Go: Achieving Psychotherapy Effectiveness . He lives in Toronto, Canada.

The Freud Reader

About the Author Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) is one of the twentieth century's greatest minds and the founder of the psychoanalytic school of psychology. His many works include The Ego and the Id ; An Outline of Psycho-Analysis ; Inhibitions; Symptoms and Anxiety ; New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis ; Civilization and Its Discontent , and others. Peter Gay (1923―2015) was the author of more than twenty-five books, including the National Book Award winner The Enlightenment , the best-selling Weimar Culture , and the widely translated Freud: A Life for Our Time .

The Psychological Birth of the Human Infant: Symbiosis and Individuation

Buy, Outfit, Sail: How To Inexpensively and Safely Buy, Outfit, and Sail a Small Vessel Around the World

You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck: The Further Adventures of America's Everyman Outdoorsman

Review "I had never heard of Bill Heavey until an editor asked me to review his latest collection of essays, most of which originally appeared in Field & Stream. Now, I can't imagine not reading his magazine columns, which are nominally about hunting and fishing, but are really about life. The title of his latest book alone is almost worth the price: "You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck."" -- The Advocate From the Inside Flap In two decades at Field & Stream, the nation's biggest outdoor magazine, Bill Heavey has become America's everyman outdoorsman.Why? Because he believes that "hunting and fishing are too important and too much fun to be left to the experts." Because he believes that enthusiasm trumps skill. And because he was born with a skewed perspective and the inability to take anything--himself included--seriously.When he forgets his hat on a freezing winter hunt he improvises, cutting open the juice-stained plush golden retriever puppy his daughter left in the car and using that as head- gear. Trying to impress a lady, he flips his canoe and loses everything in the boat. When ants invade his home, he arms himself with a caulk gun and--over the course of an epic battle-- develops a grudging respect for his enemy.Heavey buys the ticket, takes the ride. And takes you along with him. He nearly freezes to death in 30-below cold after becoming lost while profiling a trapper in the Alaskan tundra. In Nicaragua, where he discovers an untapped tarpon paradise, he also finds beer that comes"with a napkin over the mouth of the bottle and a straw poked through the napkin, the local version of bug armor." Throughout, he is alive both to the ridiculousness and poignancy of life.You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck collects more than sixty of Heavey's best stories from over two decades at Field & Stream, as well as work from the Washington Post and Washingtonian. Filled with Heavey's trademark wit and candor, You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck is a far-ranging and enlightening read, tracing a life lived outdoors through the good, the bad, and the downright hilarious. From the Back Cover "Bill Heavey is the man who put the 'lure' in failure. He's my kind of fisherman,deer hunter, and wing shot. Which is to say the, um, very amateur kind. But who wants to hear about some braggart's cast and blast triumphs when you can hear about Bill catching a 14-inch largemouth bass on pink Shakespeare Ladies' Spincast Combo? Even I have never done that. At least not sober."--P. J. O'ROURKE"I've read Bill Heavey's page since the earliest days of my career. He's one of my all-time favorite writers. He's funny, fearless, and always up for anything. If he could fish as well as he writes, I'd be in trouble. Fortunately, he can't."--KEVIN VANDAM, winningest professional bass angler of all time"If you think of Bill Heavey as 'just' a humorist, you'll be selling him short, but it's his intelligent, unforced humor that hits you first and stays with you the longest."--JOHN GIERACH, author of At the Grave of the Unknown Fisherman and All Fishermen Are Liars"Bill Heavey isn't just one of my favorite writers, though he is. He's also one of my heroes, proof that you can make an adult living by being witty and insightful and by spending an awful lot of time outdoors. That's the dream, and it's chronicled in this book. Buy three copies."--TUCKER CARLSON"The art of the story, a casualty of the era of Internet fixation, is a thing of beauty in Bill Heavey's voice."--SAN FRANCISCO CHRONICLE"Bill Heavey is James Thurber in camouflage overalls, an unrelenting geyser of slapstick comedy and serrated wit. If he doesn't make you laugh, consult a coroner."--JONATHAN MILES, author of Dear American Airlines About the Author Bill Heavey is an editor at large for Field & Stream , where he has written since 1993. His work has appeared in numerous publications including Men’s Journal, Outside , Washington Post , Los Angeles Times , and Best American Magazine Writing . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck The Further Adventures of America's Everyman Outdoorsman By Bill Heavey Grove Atlantic, Inc. Copyright © 2014 Bill HeaveyAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-8021-2302-2 Contents Introduction, Part I: Taking the Bait, 1988–1999, Partners, Fallback Flats, Shopping Is Fun, but Not for Men, Monster in a Box, The Girls of Summer, A Chip off the Old Root, Can I Tell You Something?, A Bowhunting Obsession, The Waiting, It's a Bass World After All, A Morning in the Blind, Alone with a Pretty Woman in a Small Room with a Big Mirror, Birth, Death, and Doves, Truce and Consequences, Part II: It's Always November Somewhere, 2000-2004, Worthy, American Scene: Rod and Reel Repair, Tree-Stand Day, Finally ... Uncle Danny, Suddenly, She Was Gone, Killing Time, Bubble Boy, A Sportsman's Life: Drum Roll, Spring Canoe Tricks, The Kid in the Photo, None Dare Call It Happiness, Snoop, Paradise Lost, Only So Many, As Good as It Gets, Camp Rules, All Alone in Tarpon Paradise, Good Cop, Bald Cop, Part III: Not Entirely Untrue Stories, 2005–2009, The 2005 Elmer Awards, On Track, Lost in the Woods, Stalking the Highlands, Daycare Fishing, Always on Call, The Wild Card, Good Grief, A Sinking Feeling, I've Been Caught, Unsinkable, Have Gun, Will Travel?, What I Believe, You Can't Touch This, Current Crazy, Clay-Bird Brain, How to Be the Man, Part IV: I Wouldn't Try That if I Were Me, 2010–2014, The Last Mountain Man, Handy Man, Salute to Turkeys, None for All, Lizard Lust, School's Out, My Late Season, Making the Cut, Casting a Spell, Caulk This Way, Rash Words, Unholy Mackerel, Son of a Gun, The Old Warrior, Acknowledgments, CHAPTER 1 PARTNERS "Think they might be moving," says a voice on the phone. It's Greg. We last spoke four months ago, but he talks as if the conversation has been interrupted by someone burping instead of winter. Every spring when the sun reaches a certain angle and the water's edging up toward 60 degrees, Greg and I seem to find each other. It's been like this for six years now. "I'm working a job nearby," he continues, not waiting for me to say hello. "Primer's got to dry for at least five hours. I got the boat on the car, and if I pick you up in fifteen —" "'Preciate all this advance notice, bud," I interrupt sarcastically. "Why?" he asks, his voice full of innocent surprise. "You busy looking through GQ to see how many pleats your pants are gonna have this summer? Want me to call you back in July?" I'm already smiling. These are ritual insults, our way of saying we missed each other over the season of antifreeze, catalog fishing, and despair. Greg is an artist and self-employed floor refinisher who drives what's left of a midseventies station wagon the size of Brazil. In his part of town, the guy at the corner store passes your donuts through a Plexiglas wall with 9 mm spiderwebs on it. I, on the other hand, labor with the tips of my fingers in an office with windows that can only be opened by throwing heavy furniture through them, and live in an area where espresso shops have suddenly begun to grow like shower mold. In a universe without fish, we would probably not be friends. As it is, there are times when we're almost telepathic. "Think they're still deep?" I ask casually. "I'm thinking shallow. Find someplace the sun will have warmed some rocks near —" "Like that riprap below the ferry where it —" "Nope. Motor-accessible. That'll be a mob scene." He thinks for a moment. "'Member where that carp hit on a red shad Slug-Go last —" "Too open," I tell him. "No structure. What about that skinny water up —" "Okay," he agrees. "Yeah." "Make it twenty minutes," I tell him. "I got three rods to string up. And, uh, Greg?" "What?" he asks impatiently. "Park up the street. I don't want any of my friends seeing me get into your car." I hang up before he can get a word in. The fact is, of course, we enjoy each other. Greg routinely and publicly tells me I'm spineless yuppie scum who has sold his soul for mammon. (He especially likes to do this in the dives we stop in for coffee on the way home.) I return the favor, explaining that he digs the starving artist act because it lets him simultaneously dress like a slob and feel superior to people like me who have full-time jobs. But that's just the surface noise. Here are the important things I know about Greg: He will be ten minutes late; he will park right out front; and his car will smell like it always does — a mixture of resins and solvents, unwashed dog (a 140-pound bloodhound with minimal saliva control), and Berkley PowerBaits (the car doubles as a tackle box). Out on the water, he is one of the best guys with a spinning rod I've ever seen. Because he's wiry to start with and because waltzing a 250-pound floor sander has given him wrists like twin boa constrictors, he can throw a 1/16-ounce rig thirty yards back into overhanging trees and never have the lure rise five feet off the water, the fishing equivalent of hitting a one-iron three hundred yards. He's an aggressive caster, and he loses more lures than I do. But when he's hot, he can throw from his off side around a tree and drop a plug into an opening the size of a shoe box as if that lure wasn't even considering landing anywhere else. Like all fishermen, we both have our odd proclivities. I, for example, am fond beyond all reason of the four-inch white grub. I'm comfortable with it, I believe in it, and I generally make the fish prove they don't want it before I take it off one of my three active rods. Greg, on the other hand, is just plain bent. He will throw any crankbait in the book, as long as it's a Countdown Sinking or Original Floating model Rapala in silver or gold. These, Greg maintains with the demented reasonableness of people who only shop on Mars because everything is always on sale there, are the only hard-bodied lures that look like real fish. And yet he routinely throws plastics in shades they won't sell to minors except in New York City. One favorite crawfish pattern — hazardous-waste-orange claws on an about-to-be-sick-fuchsia body — could only have been thought up by someone deep inside the penal system of one of those Scandinavian countries where everybody goes crazy six months a year due to light deprivation. All of this is especially galling because Greg catches more fish than I do. Actually, I can handle that part. (I'm five years younger and better-looking.) The real problem in the relationship is that he can fish whenever he wants and I can't. This has necessitated my developing a number of chronic-but-unspecified medical problems that flare up on short notice April through November and seem to be related to barometric pressure and water temperature. (I think people at work know I'm faking, but as any criminal prosecutor will tell you, knowing and proving are two different animals.) Greg and I once tried getting together socially, that is to say with our girlfriends. But I think we did it more because we felt we were supposed to than because we actually wanted to. The results were predictable: a dinner of lasagna and long silences that neither of us has ever mentioned again. Last year, however, I heard a local gallery was having a show of his work. He didn't invite me; I just decided to show up. One of the paintings was a memorial triptych for a friend who died when a drunk's car jumped a curb and drove through his windshield. It was painted on a piece of ancient wood he'd gotten off the front of a boarded-up store in his neighborhood and combined some strange images: a detailed calendar of the waxing and waning of the moon over several months; painstakingly rendered bits of the cotton plant shown as seedling, bud, flower, and withered stalk; a fireman's yellow boot and, off in a corner, a larger image of the full moon in whose shadows you finally saw the face of the dead man smiling faintly at you, his name, simon, scratched below. It's a haunting piece, unflinching, charged with the knowledge of how quickly what we take for granted passes into nothingness. It's too bleak for people who want something that matches the green sofa in the den and doesn't take up too much wall space. It's like one of those books people admire but don't read. And Greg knows this, of course. But it's like the way he is about Rapalas — he's just not the compromising sort. The critic in a major newspaper the next day lauded the show, praising its "elegiac power" and calling my fishing buddy "a master of metaphor." I didn't say anything about all this to Greg. He'd seen me that night and nodded, but I'd left him, dressed in clothes only slightly more stylish than what he fishes in, surrounded by men in black silk shirts buttoned up to their necks and women who had gone to great pains to make themselves look as if they'd been freeze-dried, brought back to life, and then painted by undertakers. But the next time we went fishing, Greg uncharacteristically threw a large silver Rapala high into a sycamore, where it spun around a limb four times, sealing its fate. "Damn," he said. "Just threw five bucks up a tree." We looked at it for a moment, waiting as if it might fall. It didn't. "Look at it this way," I finally said. "At least you're a master of metaphor." He looked at me to see if I was consoling him on the loss of a lure, acknowledging his art, or simply pulling his chain. I think he realized it was all three about the same time I did. He smiled, then bit the line, laid his rod across the thwarts, and began to paddle. "Running outta daylight," he announced. "We got time for one more stop on the way back. The big eddy by the island or the bar off the point?" "Your pick," I told him. He pondered. "The sandbar," he finally murmured almost to himself as I picked up my paddle and fell to under the failing light. "I'm betting they're moving into the shallows to feed." CHAPTER 2 FALLBACK FLATS It's the place you can get to in under an hour, the place that gets pounded like a dead tree at a woodpecker convention, the place big fish avoid, the place where the waters are stocked with compromise. It's the place you go when time is short and the act of fishing is more important than the catching. In short, it's your fallback. My personal version is a scenic portion of a good-sized river fifteen minutes from my front door. I could draw you its features in my sleep: the two-foot ledge running diagonal to the current; chunky little islands in the middle where some resident Canadas have opened their own fertilizer farm; a line of celery grass off a sandbar that tapers into the current the way the last hairs of your eyebrow peter out into the skin on your temple. While I'd hardly ever been skunked here, neither had I ever unhooked a smallmouth over thirteen inches in the ten years I'd been visiting. Until last Friday, that is. It was one of those days they couldn't put enough numbers on your paycheck to make it worthwhile, when you feel like you might pour sugar in your boss's gas tank unless you get away to a place where the only thing tugging at you will be a fish. I couldn't slide out early enough to make it to Lunker City, a two-hour drive. So I did what big people do: I waited until 4:59 and hit the gas for Fallback Flats. The way I look at it, thirteen inches of fish is a hell of a lot more than zero inches, which is what you catch if you stay home. Traffic was worse than usual and I knew I'd be lucky to get an hour on the water. Redemption came just as the sun was becoming tangled in the trees and three night herons flapped silently overhead (why is it getting to be that you see more kinds of wild birds near cities than in the country?). I was massaging the rocky bottom just upstream of the ledge with a four-inch Scoundrel "live"-colored worm (call me crazy, but I was actually fishing a worm-colored worm) Texas-rigged on an 1/8-ounce slip sinker, when there came the most tentative of taps, the twitch of a sleeping baby's finger. I raised my rod tip and held my breath, not quite sure I'd felt what I thought I'd felt. When I felt a second bump, I set that hook like it was connected to the backside of an IRS auditor. The ball of adrenaline on the other end began stripping six-pound on a diving break for points north and east and I just held on. My spinning reel was making a sound like someone pulling masking tape off a roll, my arms were shaking, and I knew instantly this was not a catfish because although the fish stayed down, the line was cutting all through the water in a kind of fevered handwriting that could only spell "smallmouth." I couldn't remember if this was the rod I hadn't changed line on for three months or the fresh one, and I didn't have time to check. But I made a bunch of promises about product loyalty to whoever's line this was, because I wanted this fish. He jumped once, fifteen yards out and as big as I'd imagined, then put on a final surge close to the boat when he saw what I looked like. But I kept pressure on him, and then it was over. He was dark and heavy, and as soon as I lifted him the hook fell from his mouth and thocked the deck of the canoe as if he'd been holding on to it out of pure courtesy. "Oh, buddy, look at you," I said, as if greeting an infant. I held him down gently with one hand and measured with the other. When stretched full out, my hand measures exactly nine inches from thumb to little finger. The bass was all of that and an inch more and just over three pounds on my right-hand heft-ometer. He stared back with his wild orange eye and snapped his body, refusing to be friends. How many thousand empty casts had I made at this place to arrive at the one connecting me to this creature? I had the sensation of watching an odometer turn over, of it all beginning again. I lowered him back into the water, my thumb still in his mouth, and swished him back and forth a couple of times while he lay stunned. I don't think anybody had ever treated him in this manner before. He wasn't used to it. Suddenly, with a vicious swipe of his head, he was gone. I held my hand up. There was a little line of blood coming from where he'd nicked my thumb. I sucked it and smiled. The sun had gone for the night, leaving a soft molten glow on the underside of the farthest clouds. I was back the next morning before the crowds, armed with fresh line and high hopes that the river hadn't undergone a mood swing during the night. It hadn't. I hammered them. I got 'em on the Scoundrel, on a three-inch white grub, on a six-inch red shad Slug-Go with insert weights. They weren't in the eddies or more obvious still water, but holding in the tiniest pockets in relatively strong current about four feet deep. None were as big as the one from the night before, but by fallback standards they were trophies. I didn't keep strict count, but I bet there were five fish in the 14–16-inch range, including one brawler who got loose in the boat and fought his way forward until he wrapped himself up in my sweatshirt. I fished for several hours, concentrating so hard it was like being in a trance. When I finally took a break, everything around me seemed more vivid: the throbbing of a drowned limb caught in the current, the river's endless self-applause as it completed a little ladder of riffles, the ancient scalloped rocks that look like shoulder blades. You can fish for years, not thinking about anything but where your next cast will be, and then look up and see everything around you as if it had just been created. That's how it felt that day. I wasn't able to get back to that place for a week, and then I found about what I expected, which wasn't much. But it was okay. I'd had my moment of glory, the mystery had been restored. About a month later a friend called up and said he'd like to get out on the water. "I don't have much time," he said almost apologetically, "but we could hit that place nearby on the river if you're up for it." "You think we're gonna catch anything there?" I asked, not having decided whether I wanted to tell what had really happened. "Well, prob'ly not," he admitted. "I just want to get out. But we gotta get lucky there someday." "Come on over," I told him. "We'll give it a shot." CHAPTER 3 SHOPPING IS FUN, BUT NOT FOR MEN I have just made the biggest mistake of my life. I have agreed to go shopping with my current girlfriend. "C'mon," she urged. "We'll start small. A shirt and a pair of pants. You dress like you haven't bought any clothes in twenty years." Actually, it's only been ten years. It was at Sunny's Surplus, the one in Georgetown. I bought nine identical pairs of black socks. I understand that is also where Ralph Nader shops. We leave behind the world of sunlight and fresh air as we descend into the fifth circle of Mazza Gallerie in my Honda. Lose your ticket stub and you stay here until Jesus comes back. "Where are we going?" I ask as calmly as possible. "Filene's," says my companion. "You'll like it. It's cheap." We take the elevator up with a young women's professional gum-chewing team. All have on the kind of canvas coats men wear on dairy farms. "Tourists?" I whisper. "No. Those are barn jackets. They're in." On the way to Filene's we pass stores that are anything but cheap. Places that sell only Belgian chocolate molded into shapes like a tennis racket or a woman's leg or a Mercedes hood ornament. Places that sell platinum fountain pens shaped like overstuffed sausages and endorsed by men who have walked on the moon. A store that sells only bonsai trees. There is a sign in the window: will hold your tree while you shop. Why bother? They could just pin it to your lapel. It's warm and airless in Filene's, which appears to operate without sales staff, just people who put merchandise back on hangers after it has been flung on the ground and trampled. Men, I am reminded as my brain begins to shut down, are basically hunters. We like to focus on a single thing to the exclusion of all else, stalk or run it to ground, and then kill it with spear or credit card. Then we go watch television. Women are gatherers. They have wide-angle vision and can actually look at hundreds of things simultaneously, imagining how they would taste or feel, what they could be combined with, and how often they would need to be dry-cleaned. What's more, women can do this for virtually unlimited amounts of time. My friend, I'm vaguely aware, is as charged as the Energizer Bunny, while I've got all the zip of a man on a chloroform binge. (Continues...) Excerpted from You're Not Lost if You Can Still See the Truck by Bill Heavey . Copyright © 2014 Bill Heavey. Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. 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Donabe: Classic and Modern Japanese Clay Pot Cooking [A One-Pot Cookbook]

Review “Donabe represents so much more than simply cooking food. It’s the creation of an experience that is completely unique, one that brings together the people you love in a moment that not only will satisfy your appetite, but nourishes your soul. This book will feed your spirit for years to come.”-Morgan Spurlock, Filmmaker, Foodie & Donabe Enthusiast About the Author NAOKO TAKEI MOORE is a Japanese home-cooking expert who teaches cooking classes in Los Angeles, California. Her company, toiro kitchen, sells donabe and Japanese artisan products, with a mission of promoting donabe in the U.S. Visit her blog Happy Donabe Life at naokomoore.com. KYLE CONNAUGHTON began his culinary career in L.A. with an apprenticeship at one of the oldest Japanese restaurants in the city and continued training in both pastry and savory at Spago Beverly Hills, The Dining Room at Ritz Carlton, Lucques, Hama Sushi, and A.O.C. This was followed by several years cooking in Japan for the famed chef Michel Bras and in numerous traditional Japanese cuisine restaurants. In 2006, Kyle joined Heston Blumenthal to become the Head Chef of Research and Development for the Fat Duck Experimental Kitchen. He is a contributor to the "Modernist Cuisine" series and a co-developer of the Culinary Science Bachelors Degree program for the Culinary Institute of America. Kyle is currently the owner-chef of Single Thread Farm-Restaurant-Inn, a 3 Michelin-starred restaurant. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Advantages of Donabe Cooking Many people who use donabe say it makes food taste better. The secret is the material: clay. Donabe takes a much longer time to build heat and cool down than other cookware, such as stainless steel. This characteristic is the key to all the natural flavor donabe can draw out of straightforward ingredients. Because donabe builds heat slowly, it allows the flavors of a dish to build gradually. Donabe can help make your mushroom soup taste more savory and your rice taste sweeter. When a dish is higher in natural umami flavor, less seasoning and less fat are needed to complete the flavors. We like to say that donabe is a friendly cookware for health-conscious people. Once the heat has built within the donabe, you can lower the flame and it will maintain a steady and gentle heat distribution. The donabe also works like a cushion for that heat, taking the direct flame from the stove and evenly distributing it across the surface and to the food. During cooking, donabe’s glaze promotes natural far-infrared radiation, which is the same effect that glowing charcoal gives to food. Donabe ware is known for its remarkable heat retention. It cools down slowly, so it stays warm on the table for a long time. This trait also makes it perfect for cooking with carryover heat. That’s why donabe is ideal for slow-cooking. Donabe is an energy-efficient and eco-friendly cooking vessel because, once heated, it requires little energy to function. Read more