Without Kubrick’s mind-bendingly poetic “2001,” there may never have been a more prosaic high-tech crowd-pleaser like “Star Wars.” And although without Dullea, there would likely still have been a “2001″ — it was not what you’d call an actor’s movie — it surely would not have been quite the same film. His all-American, blandly handsome visage brought the dazzlingly beautiful, enormously enigmatic film a hint of humanity.

Glimpsed through the glaring glass of his space helmet, Dullea’s was the face that launched a thousand trips. His was the eyeball of many colors. His was the irregular breath to which countless audience members paced their own, journeying through cinematic space on their personal magic carpet rides. An entire generation toked up or turned on and spaced out to the score and psychedelic imagery of the film that traced man’s technologically propelled trajectory from ape to space and brought the world HAL, the calm-voiced killer computer.

“2001″ was so closely associated with drugs, some critics who panned the film for being too obscure or just plain boring on first look went back stoned, reconsidered and gave it raves. Notable among them was Andrew Sarris of the Village Voice, whose opinion flipped from dismissive to favorable after viewing it, he wrote, “under the influence of a smoked substance … somewhat stronger and more authentic than oregano.”

In some theaters, audience members lay down on the floor in front of the front row of seats to let the colors and images wash over them (too blissed out, no doubt, to let a little popcorn and stickiness bum their highs). And it wasn’t just the youthful counterculture getting hip to Kubrick’s scene. “‘Space Odyssey’ is poetry. It asks for groovin’, not understanding,” wrote William Kloman in the New York Times. And Louise Sweeney of the Christian Scientist Monitor weighed in, “’2001′ is the ultimate trip” — a quote that was featured prominently in ads for the film.

Although “2001″ is still widely hailed as one of the best films of all time, the halcyon days of mainstream drug-taking at the movies has long since passed. (What, no one told you?) And so, you might imagine, has Dullea’s moment in the ultra-bright starlight. After all, his chiseled features haven’t graced the big screen in nearly a decade. And most of those “Star Wars” kids have never heard of him.

But, despite his waning name recognition, Keir Dullea, now 63, is still around, still practicing his craft and doing just fine, thank you. A New York-trained stage actor with “probably 30 plays” under his belt before he took his first film role in 1961 (playing a juvenile delinquent in “The Hoodlum Priest”), he has, he says, returned to “where my roots were originally.”

Before working with Kubrick, Dullea had also appeared in the original version of “The Thin Red Line” (1964), received critical acclaim and a Golden Globe Award for his sensitive portrayal of a disturbed teenager in the indie film “David and Lisa” (1963) and starred alongside Laurence Olivier in Otto Preminger’s “Bunny Lake Is Missing” (1965). Kubrick offered him the role of Bowman based solely on his work in those three films; the two first met on the set of “2001″ in London.

“I was overwhelmed to have been cast in a Stanley Kubrick film,” Dullea recalls now from his home in New York. “A Stanley Kubrick film, even that long ago, was really something.” But he says he had no idea of the “mindblowing” success the film would enjoy, nor of its incredible staying power. “It’s sort of like if the model for the Mona Lisa could have known that she’d be hanging in the Louvre for hundreds of years,” he says.

But what do you know of Mona Lisa’s modeling career after Leonardo Da Vinci painted her half-smiling portrait? As for Dullea’s career, he says appearing in the Kubrick film “didn’t have a negative effect. It didn’t really have a huge effect.”

After “2001,” the actor returned to the stage to play a sensitive blind man who falls for his eccentric neighbor in “Butterflies Are Free.” He moved to London in 1971 to reprise his role in the Tony Award-winning drama and stayed on for three years, in which he divorced his second wife and met his third. “I was in a ‘What’s It All About Alfie?’ time in my life,” he has said. “I was in no hurry to get back to New York.”

When he did return to the States, it was to play beautiful, hard-drinking Brick in a revival of Tennessee Williams’ “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” which moved to Broadway. His click in the role of clickless Brick led to other stage work. But Dullea found he still had a hankering for celluloid.

He spent six years in Hollywood, making several movies that weren’t particularly notable, and after realizing just how much he’d “cooled off,” he returned to New York in 1981 to concentrate on the stage in earnest. He has worked on and off Broadway and in regional theaters in Connecticut, California, Illinois, New Jersey and Pennsylvania. And like most successful New York actors, he has made a guest appearance or two on TV, including a turn on the soap “The Guiding Light.”

Dullea says he prefers the stage to film because “it’s much more of an actor’s medium.” He likes the thrill of performing in front of a live audience and the chance to explore the nooks and crannies of a part over time. “You don’t have an opportunity to do that in film,” he says. “Once they print it and take it and you’re on to filming other parts of a film, that’s it.”

He did step away from the footlights and back under the klieg lights in 1984 to appear in Peter Hyams’ ambitious sequel to “2001,” “2010: The Year We Make Contact,” which he calls a “strange experience.” The film featured a faithful reproduction of the original set and, aside from Dullea, a whole new cast. It was, he muses, “like growing up in a small town that you hadn’t been back to since you were a kid, and then you come back and the town is essentially the same. It’s still got the town square, the town green in the center, the clapboard church and the town hall at one end, the barbershop and the statue in the middle. It looks exactly the same, but not a soul that you knew is alive or around.”

The prerecorded voice of HAL was the one “comforting, familiar element,” Dullea says of “2010,” noting, however, that this feature, too, differed in that Kubrick hadn’t yet cast the actor who would voice the computer when “2001″ was being shot. “I worked with the assistant director, who did the voice off camera,” he recalls of the original film. “And he was a cockney… It was like having Michael Caine play HAL.”

The years have apparently treated Dullea well. He still looks strapping in the head shot that runs alongside his bio in programs, and his voice over the phone sounds sexy as ever — well-trained but with hints of the New Yorker around the edges. Not surprisingly, he’s been lucky in love, “unexpectedly blessed twice in his life,” as he puts it. His wife of many years, British director Susie Fuller, died about a year and a half ago, but he’s just returned from honeymooning in Sicily with his new wife, actress Mia Dillon, whom Fuller once directed.

And new husband isn’t the only role on the horizon for Dullea. When I spoke with him earlier this month, he was preparing to jet off to Los Angeles to “share a dais” with Steven Spielberg at the Directors Guild of America’s tribute to Kubrick. Then it was on to Montreal, where he would continue shooting an ABC-produced TV movie about Audrey Hepburn, in which he plays father to Jennifer Love Hewitt’s Hepburn. “I thought, ‘Gee, it’d be fun to do a film,’” he says. Then, it’s back to the stage for a “summer circuit tour” of “Deathtrap” with his new bride.

So, does all the “Star Wars” hoopla give the actor flashbacks of the film that rocketed him into the limelight and even helped define our culture as it nears the next century? (Interesting aside: Kubrick struggled over whether to call his film “two thousand and one” or “twenty oh one” and wondered if it would shape the way we think of the number at the millennium.) No, says the actor, confessing to being not much of a sci-fi fan himself (and, incidentally, “in the dark ages when it comes to anything having to do with computers,” a fact he refuses to attribute to HAL, but rather to being “born in the wrong time”). He says, “I think there was a lot of curiosity in the media about Stanley Kubrick, but nothing like the curiosity about ‘Star Wars’ this time around. ’2001′ just emerged.”

When the film did pervade the far-out, spaced-out culture like a big cloud of hash smoke, it made Dullea a real part of history. “The first moon landing happened that summer,” he recalls. “So I remember taking sort of a proprietary interest.” CBS even summoned him to the studio to comment. And while he was chatting with Harry Reasoner, he says, “suddenly voices said, ‘Hey, they’re coming out.’ So I ran into the control room, and there was Arthur C. Clarke [the sci-fi legend who penned '2001'] sitting there. We both watched that moment together. He had tears in his eyes.”

But as unpalatable as the fictional Homar would be as a real live person, he’s an absolutely delicious character, making a series of hilariously nearsighted (and outright bad) decisions to propel himself through this far-fetched (and downright funny) narrative.

Each wacky, action-packed chapter of “Busy Monsters” is an installment in the serialized memoirs Charles publishes in his weekly magazine column; he periodically pauses in the midst of his adventures to hammer out another segment on deadline “for my slave-driving editor.” Amusingly, the people Charles meets in each chapter have all read his preceding serialized installments — and have opinions on Charles’ story and style that may echo the reader’s own thoughts and responses. “I have a nagging suspicion that only about forty percent of what you write is true,” one character tells Charles upon meeting him. “I also think your people all speak alike.”

It’s a clever device, and less gimmicky than you might think, in part because Giraldi, who teaches writing at Boston University and is a fiction editor at the literary magazine AGNI, seems completely in control. The voice he has given Charles is singular and arresting; it’s flowery but a bit thorny, too — occasionally overwhelming like a heavy perfume — and filled with quirky turns of phrase, unexpected literary and cultural allusions, self-aware asides, and highfalutin word choices that would make Roget swell with pride.

The plot, too, is an exciting yet masterfully managed hodgepodge. “Stunned by love and some would say stupid from too much sex, I decided I had to drive down South to kill a man,” the book begins. A different author might try to stretch the suspense stirred by that opening setup into an entire novel; Giraldi settles that plot point in the first chapter and then takes us all sorts of other surprising places.

One moment Charlie is drunk with love and breaking into a Virginia state trooper’s home with blood on his mind and “a killer’s knife tucked into my boot,” the next he’s mad with heartbreak, firing a borrowed rifle at the hull of a squid hunter’s ship. The latter escapade lands him in a pleasant Maine jail, where he enjoys gourmet prison food and shares a cell with a computer geek interested in the Loch Ness monster. And then he’s off to Washington state on a misguided mission to impress his far-flung former fiancée by bagging Bigfoot, accompanying a man whose business card reads “ROMP: I BRING IT BACK DEAD.”

Let us pause here for a description of Romp, courtesy of Charles’ friend Groot: “Hunter. Scholar. Priest. Negro. Prophet. Man of jazz and all items sacrosanct. Shaves with obsidian. Has razzle and the necessary dazzle to mix it with. Also copulated with Florence Ballard [of the singing group the Supremes] in 1974.”

Giraldi’s characters are all similarly kooky and compelling. We meet people like Sandy McDougal, Charles’s wall-eyed ex-girlfriend, who has traded academia for alien abduction and taken up with a pint-size Filipino flim-flam man; Morris Hammerstein, an enlightened Jewish astronomer and family man who ends up boxing an angry lesbian (stereotypes are self-consciously abundant in Charles’ narratives) in his backyard; and Richie Lombardo, a famous body builder with a couple of Ivy League-educated Asian call girls named Mimi from Madam Chung’s House of Superior Entertainment going at it near the basement barbells in his luxe New Jersey manse.

After all his randy and reckless romps hither and thither, by the time Charles finally, in the story’s finale, makes a decent decision — “People? This is how I develop here, people: by taking charge of this situation in a sensible fashion, by choosing order over chaos, by pushing instead of being pulled. I am asserting my will,” he tells a passel of characters urging a more dramatic and dangerous choice — readers may be ready to see him go. The same cannot be said of this entertaining debut’s author. Having invited him in, we’ll want to see Giraldi stick around awhile.

Tyler dodged the question, but the answer may well be “no.” In his wildly galloping memoir (not to be confused with Aerosmith’s 2003 exercise in group autobiography, “Walk This Way”), the man who has long fired up the blue-jean-wearing masses with songs including “Dream On,” “Sweet Emotion,” “Walk This Way” and “Dude (Looks Like a Lady),” singing and strutting his way into rock ‘n’ roll history, seems to have left no story untold, no score unsettled, no secret unrevealed.

He rips into venal ex-managers and jealous ex-wives. (No fan of lawyers or monogamy he.) He goes into detail about the drugs he’s done (he seems to have done them all, fondly describing where and how he did them and with whom and how they affected him) and the women he’s done (ditto). He describes long-standing grievances with fellow band members (he and guitarist Joe Perry weren’t called the “Toxic Twins” for nothing: “JOE’S A CREEP — I’M AN ASSHOLE,” he writes emphatically) and even goes so far as to reveal their relative endowments.

While the book is unapologetically profane, inarguably self-serving and at times ragingly uncontrolled (like a memoir amped up on speed), it’s also bracingly honest, frequently funny (as “Idol” watchers and Aerosmith fans know, Tyler has a way with a clever turn of phrase) and admirably human. Tyler’s now 63 and a grandpa. He’s gotten clean (several times), had children by three different women (two of whom he’d married), broken up and gotten back together with his band (who knows how many times?), and has finally made peace with many of his demons: the drug addictions, the romantic betrayals, the parenting failures, the ego-driven battles with band mates.

“I may be a monster,” he writes, in apparent hope that the reader might see “the more spiritual side of me” beneath the bad boy stereotype, “but I’m a sensitive monster.”

Ultimately, Tyler seems torn between the urge to preserve his carefully cultivated rock star pose and the desire to drop the mask. “It’s hard to tell who I am by the trail left by my musical career,” he writes. “I am the Demon of Screamin’, the dude that looks like a lady, the rag doll that married Lucy in the Sky. But I’m also something more than the rock ‘n’ roll junky whore who got his foot inside the door.”

Beneath Tyler’s sex-and-drugs-and-rock-’n'-roll tough talk and raging narcissism — Tyler calls it LSD: Lead Singer Disorder — there’s a surprising self-awareness, a capacity for empathy, an ability to connect. That’s a big part of what has attracted all those fans and all those women — and now, one imagines, all those readers.

And now for our list:

“Frog and Toad Are Friends” by Arnold Lobel (Ages 4-8)

The thing about Lobel’s Frog and Toad — see also the equally wonderful “Days With Frog and Toad,” “Frog and Toad All Year” and “Frog and Toad Together” — is that, despite the whole amphibian thing, they’re so damn human. Toad is crabby, self-doubting and, let’s face it, somewhat prone to depression. Frog has a sunny, can-do disposition. And they may be an odd couple, of the Oscar and Felix variety, but they are also kind, supportive, considerate, loving friends. And though these stories are, of course, beloved by children of both sexes, the way these two very different fellows take care of each other — and delight in each other’s company — seems like a particularly valuable example for young boys.

“Diary of a Wimpy Kid” by Jeff Kinney (Ages 9-12)

Kinney’s “Wimpy Kid” series may not be writing at its finest, but it has struck a major chord with boys, capturing the attention of even the most reluctant readers. Described as “a novel in cartoons” — with lots of drawn illustrations, a lined-paper format and a font that looks like handwriting — it has an undeniable charm, evoking the misery that is middle school in spare, deft strokes. Its beleaguered narrator, Greg Heffley, isn’t the most sympathetic character, selling out his best friend Rowley when the occasion suits him, but he has a keen eye for demoralizing details. Like the cheese that lies rotting and repulsive on his school blacktop, spawning the terrors of “Cheese Touch.” “It’s basically like the Cooties,” Greg explains. “If you get the Cheese Touch, you’re stuck with it until you pass it on to someone else. The only way to protect yourself from the Cheese Touch is to cross your fingers.” If that doesn’t take you right back to middle school, well, you’re luckier than some of us.

“Danny the Champion of the World” by Roald Dahl (Ages 9-12)

If there is a more moving depiction of the relationship between a son and his father in all of literature than the one in this rollicking adventure tale, we’d sure like to know about it. “It is impossible to tell you how much I loved my father,” Dahl’s narrator, Danny, tells us. “When he was sitting close to me on my bunk I would reach out and slide my hand into his, and then he would fold his long fingers around my fist, holding it tight.” But Danny’s love for his dad — a filling station owner and widower who is raising his only child in a gypsy caravan — is apparent in every line, every moment of this story. Danny’s dad, he tells us, is an “eye-smiler,” whose eyes flash and twinkle when he is amused, but who never much moves his mouth. “I was glad my father was an eye-smiler,” Danny writes, “because it is impossible to make your eyes twinkle if you aren’t feeling twinkly yourself.” This gentle, funny, genuinely wonderful book will leave boys (and their parents) eye-smiling and deliciously amused.

“The Lightning Thief” by Rick Riordan (Ages 9-12)

Start your son on this first book in Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series and watch him read away his summer. When we first meet Percy, he just seems like a troubled kid on the verge of getting kicked out of yet another school. In fact, he’s gone through six schools in six years: Bad things just seem to keep happening to him. It isn’t long before Percy (short for Perseus), and we, learn that those strange things he thinks he’s been hallucinating are actually real. Mythological monsters and gods — satyrs, minotaurs, centaurs — really are populating his life and he himself is a half-blood: His father, whom he never knew and had been told had been “lost at sea,” is, in fact, Poseidon. This popular series is a great read for any myth-minded kid who cut his teeth on “D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths.” Come to think of it, it’s a great read for any kid. Come to think of it again, it’s just a great read.

“The Giver” by Lois Lowry (Young Adult)

This book about a futuristic world that initially seems utopian (no crime, no poverty, no illness, abundantly good manners), but, as it turns out, is less than ideal (no color, no music, no sunshine), is creepy yet altogether compelling. As it begins, 11-year-old Jonas is apprehensively anticipating his Ceremony of Twelve, when he will receive his adult Assignment from the Committee of Elders. Will he be a Nurturer or a judge, like the parents who are raising him? Will be a Caretaker of the Old, like his friend Fiona? But Jonas does not receive a conventional assignment: He is selected to become the community’s next Receiver of Memory, tasked absorbing the collective recollection of pain and pleasure, which the community has long since eschewed in pursuit of comfort, stability and Sameness. Jonas meets daily with the previous Receiver, now the Giver, and learns to appreciate a world with choice and compassion — and love.

“Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse” by Kevin Henkes (Ages 4-8)

Plenty of people have other favorites by Henkes — “Chrysanthemum,” “Owen,” “Sheila Rae, the Brave,” “Chester’s Way.” But “Lilly’s Purple Plastic Purse” stands out for its emotional nuance. Lilly, a young mouse who wears fabulous red cowboy boots, adores her teacher, Mr. Slinger. One day, Lilly brings her new purse to school, and is seriously excited to show it to the class. Asked to wait, she can’t quite manage to restrain herself, repeatedly interrupting the class to show off her new treasure. When Mr. Slinger takes the purse away until the end of the school day, Lilly, infuriated, gets revenge by drawing a mean picture of him and slipping it into his bag. Then, on the way home, she finds that Mr. Slinger has written her a sweet note, “Today was a difficult day. Tomorrow will be better.” Lilly is filled with sickening regret. But she apologizes and is forgiven and, best of all, manages to forgive herself. Mr. Slinger’s words, and Lilly’s acceptance of herself — on good days and bad — are lessons that any fabulous little girl (or grown woman) who occasionally struggles to control her impulses can take to heart.

“Eloise” by Kay Thompson, Drawings by Hilary Knight (Ages 7 and up)

There’s a reason this book about a 6-year-old girl making all manner of mischief in New York’s Plaza Hotel, originally published in 1955, is beloved by girls and women everywhere. Actually, there are myriad reasons, Knight’s breathtakingly elegant, deliciously expressive illustrations significantly among them. But mostly, it’s Eloise herself — that never-bored, perpetually inventive little girl, who orders everything from room service with a definitive “and charge it please, Thank you very much,” torments her tutor, adores her nanny, misses her absent mom (though she’d never say so), braids her pet turtle Skipperdee’s ears first thing each morning (“Otherwise he gets cross and develops a rash”), and generally spends her days, well, pretty much as she pleases. She’s a far cry from the overscheduled, helicopter-parented children of today.

“Ramona the Pest” by Beverly Cleary (Ages 7-12)

There are those who would make a strong case that Barbara Park’s more recent Junie B. Jones series is the better girl-starring series for this age group. Then there are those who remember devouring Cleary’s books by the pile when they themselves were around 7. Those people will point to the books’ enduring popularity, and the fact that the adventures (er … misadventures) of the irrepressible Romana can still deeply absorb girls — and yes, boys, too — just transitioning to chapter books, and make them laugh and laugh. If Ramona is a pest, she’s a pest many children can truly relate to.

“Little Women,” by Louisa May Alcott (Ages 9-12)

Ah, the March sisters — coltish tomboy Jo; frail, sweet Beth; beautiful, practical Meg; pampered, artistic Amy — living in genteel poverty with their mother, Marmee, in their New England home and struggling to make the best of things while their father is away, fighting in the Civil War. As wonderfully warm and endearingly romantic as you may remember them to be, the stories that make up the novel are surprisingly insightful, fresh and modern. It’s a book worth returning to, if you haven’t picked it up since childhood, and a lovely book for girls in the midst of their own.

“Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” by Judy Blume (Ages 9-12)

For many girls and young women, this book pretty much wraps up their preteen years: the angst over their changing bodies (or bodies that aren’t changing fast enough), the confusion over fitting in socially and staking a claim to their own beliefs, the deep desire to know right now what life will bring them at its own pace. Blume’s protagonist, 11-year-old Margaret, whose family moves to the New Jersey suburbs from New York City when she’s on the brink of sixth grade — that universally difficult year — contends with all of this, chatting with God in her bed at night though she has been raised in a non-religious home. Grown-ups who read this book years or even decades ago (it was initially released in 1970) can probably conjure images of first bras and first periods. And while they may recall how personal and real the book felt, they may have forgotten how funny it is, too.

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Is your favorite book sorely lacking from this list? Let’s face it, any list of five great books for girls is, by definition, woefully inadequate. Where, you might ask, looking over this handful of literary selections, is Frances Hodgson Burnett’s “The Secret Garden”? Or Roald Dahl’s “Matilda”? Or L.M. Mongtomery’s “Anne of Green Gables”? Or Astrid Lindren’s “Pippi Longstocking”? Or Madeline L’Engle’s “A Wrinkle in Time”? Or Alice, or Madeline, or Coraline? Or, frankly, a host of other long-loved favorites?

If your most treasured read hasn’t been included here, don’t shake your fist in the air and curse the gods at the injustice of it all: Blog about your own summer reading suggestions for kids on Open Salon (make sure to explain what makes them so great). Don’t forget to tag your post “Building a bookworm.” We’ll be cross-posting your submissions on Salon in the coming weeks.

Karim’s story, told in diary format, is compelling; his voice makes the book a standout. Working to improve his grasp of American idiom, Karim carries a voice recorder everywhere so that, later, he can look up expressions he doesn’t know. “This will help me to study the American voices I hear and to transmit their conversations without error,” he tells his teenage seatmate on the flight over the Atlantic. Karim also notes that the journal will help him to remember. “I have a robust memory for some details, but it is complex to continue acquiring data and archive them all,” he observes, “and even now I am forgetting some older memories, as if my brain is a hard drive and time is a magnet.”

The reader comes to share Karim’s fascination with language, and to be thoroughly charmed by his “Karim-esque” phrasing — as well as his perspective on American culture. Who could resist rooting for a character who finds inspiration in Jackson Pollock’s paintings and Leonard Cohen’s lyrics, and who describes a cloying Christmas movie as “unrealistic and false although it still made me feel slightly enhanced”? Wayne has given us a character to adore and a book that leaves us feeling, as Karim might say, greatly enhanced.