The package I ordered from Amazon finally arrived.  Inside was “The Darjeeling Limited” soundtrack (I’m a sucker for the sitar), and, for my son, who just turned 14, a hardcover copy of “Something Wicked This Way Comes” by Ray Bradbury and the paperback of “A Separate Peace,” by John Knowles.

They’re supposed to be part of his fun Summer Reading.  Ah, to idle away the long summer days, sitting in the shade of a tree with a good book.  Does it get any sweeter than that?

Apparently, for Rafael, it does.

I asked him to pause whatever game or facebooking he was doing on his Droid, and formally presented him with the two books.  I told him they meant something to me when I was his age, and handed them over.  I believe his response was “mmm hmm.”  Seeing that I wasn’t going to explode, he went back to his Droid.

I think he knew I wouldn’t – couldn’t – explode, lest I risk turning reading from something which is supposed to be fun into one of dad’s punishments.

What inevitably happens is that I’ll get fed up watching him watch “Tosh.0” for hours, and will, in a barely contained snit, decree, “OK, take a break.  No TV, no phone, no games.”

In our house, “break” is code for dad thinks you’re rotting your mind and wants you to pick up a book, one with more words than pictures.

Is it twisted that I threaten to make him read when I disapprove of his behavior?  Absolutely!  Will it make him resent reading his whole life long?  Probably!  Should I have never bought him his first Playstation?   Undoubtedly!  Should I take both our televisions and put them on the curb with a “free” sign taped to them?  (well, let’s not go overboard here  – those episodes of “Forensic Files” and “30 Rock” aren’t going to watch themselves).

This is all so basic.  I want him to be a certain way, and he’s just not.  That’s it.  I want him to love reading, and he doesn’t.  It makes me crazy.  I can’t help it.  I associate reading with inquistiveness, intelligence, patience and the development of the imagination.  I just don’t think that whatever skills you develop mastering Guitar Hero compare with the stimulation you get from reading Nabokov or Daniel Handler or J.K. Rowling.

A couple weeks ago I plucked an old copy of “Wampanaki Tales” off the living room bookshelf (a fun, slightly ribald story of life at summer camp) that I thought Rafael would really enjoy.  And he does not seem to mind it, even if I do have to unplug him and force him to read a chapter here and there.

Now here’s the catch: I didn’t read “Wampanaki Tales” until I was in my mid-twenties.  In fact, when I was a kid, if it wasn’t assigned for school, I barely read anything, assuming the backs of cereal boxes don’t count.  I wasn’t a natural, voracious reader, but I guess I am a hypocrite: I’m asking Rafael to do as I say and not as I did.  At fourteen, my best friend Travis would devour 1000 page James Michener epics with titles like “Texas” and “Poland.”  Another friend, Jeff, couldn’t get enough Stephen King.  

Those books were thick, man, thick!

I only have two specific memories of reading for pleasure when I was Rafael’s age and younger, and you can judge for yourself how “inquisitive” I was.  I bought the Fotonovel for the movie “Rocky II”.  It is literally the movie in still photographs, with a few captions describing what’s going in the photo.  That’s maybe fifteen words per page.  And it wasn’t even the first Rocky!  I was “reading” – if that’s what you can call it – a picture book of the sequel.  The sequel!   Ah, a young Samuel Johnson, I was.

And once, when my mom and her friend Julie Jonkers were going out for drinks, and I was stuck at Julie’s apartment with nothing to do, I rummaged through her daughter’s bookshelf.  Her daughter Brenda was a couple years older than me, and was also out that night.  Julie’s television was on the fritz.

I found Judy Blume’s book “Blubber,” about a fat girl who gets teased all the time, and read it in one sitting. 

I remember feeling surprised and proud.  Maybe that was the turning point.  Maybe the real lesson I learned reading “Blubber” was not to own your body, no matter what the size and shape, but that kids, when absolutely desperate, will crack open a book.

So here’s the crucial question: can you impose “artifical desperation” without turning reading into a punishment?  I came to love reading, but only later in life, and not under duress.  God knows what I would’ve thought of books had my mom taken away my Colecovision to make me read.

Now in fairness to Rafael, he did read the comic book series “Captain Underpants” when he was little, and later he also read Handler’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events,” and he enjoyed them both.

The other day I took him out – not to the library (see “hypocrite” above) – but to go see the movie “Exit ThroughThe Gift Shop.”  As we were leaving the theater, I asked him if he liked Wampanaki yet or if he’d lost interest in it.  “A little bit of both,” he answered. 

Aaggh!  What does that mean?!  But I pressed no further.  He did tell me, however, that he was really curious about Stephen Colbert’s book “I Am America (And So Can You!”)  He said he really liked a similar book I had given him a while ago, Jon Stewart’s “America (The Book),” which, although it does have some pictures, is mostly words. 

Words, baby, words!  I can’t tell you how fast I raced home, got on Amazon, and typed in C-O-L-B-E-R-T. 

Postscript: I’ve just changed my strategy.  I’ve decided to use more carrot than stick to jumpstart Rafael’s love of books.  I told him I’d give him five bucks for each book he reads this summer.  “Bribery’s” such an ugly word.  Let’s call it fiscal encouragement.  Besides, it’s a family tradition: my parents gave me 50 cents for every “A” I got in elementary school.  Now five bucks a book might seem high, but not if you adjust for inflation and a parent’s desperation.