Regulars

At the request of Darling Maggot, I want to mention some of the regulars here. I was actually thinking of doing this anyway, which is the strange thing about the Internet. Think about something and sometimes it happens.

Darling Maggot’s Lithium Journals: Nice new template which has no threat of crashing and is easy to read. It’s also easy to read because the writing’s good.

Banality Fair: My daily check for nice guy sarcastic bastards. But where’s Spiral Stairs?

Somewhere on the Masthead: Incredibly engaging writing. I’m on a daily quest to find out his secret identity, i.e. what "world-famous" magazine he works for. My guess is Rolling Stone or GQ or Juggs.

Headaches are Underrated: Don’t visit her site because it makes her nervous. It started rough with some political arguing but she keeps coming back, amazingly. A real nice personal, poetic site.

Empty Drum: His blog just started and he doesn’t update enough. But wait for the music. He is my songwriting mentor and other kinds of mentor. We lived in NYC together, played in a rock band, and…

Light Reading: Buy Jenny Davidson’s books. She helped me out with a publisher and she’s got a good blog which is smarter than me.

Indiscretions: She’s the smartest college student I’ve ever read.

Seeds of a Madness Flower: Billy’s been coming here the longest. Literally, he commented on the very first post, which got me thinking that maybe people would actually read this blog. Best blog title.

Damn, that's an impressive list of people. I’m sorry if I’ve left anyone out, and I have. We should have a party and meet each other, but that might be really awkward.

Generators

Today's discovery: the all-important Generator Blog.

Prepare to waste valuable time. Maybe I should apologize. Thank God for the Internet.

Yesterday

Yesterday, I sent out a mass e-mailing to tell people about the site. If YOU didn’t receive one, it’s cause you already know about the site. I sent it out to a bunch of people from long ago who probably don’t remember me and don’t know why the hell I have their e-mail address. Mostly, I did it to get a brief spike in traffic, which I Need.

I got a reply from Matthew Rose of Paris, France who asked me to alert people to his artwork. We know each other in passing. Once we belonged to the same writing site which lasted for about five minutes--set up by my roommate in Paris who’s a web designer. If you can picture my life in Paris: imagine a bitter, awkward type living with a Casanova who brings home girls with astounding ease. This was my life, partly. Going from bar to bar, drinking large amounts of pastis and rum punch and wine, my roommate bringing home new heart-breaking European girls every night, me frustrated and putting it into a book. Not quite the vision of a dashing writer taking Paris by storm. Anyway, check out Matthew Rose:

Art of Matthew Rose

The Library

My take from the library this weekend:

A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates

Aldous Huxley Recollected

The Scientist, a Novel Autobiography by John Lilly

CDs

Jimi Hendrix: Blues
Sonic Youth: Murray Street
The Pixies: Doolittle
Thelonious Monk: Live at the Five Spot w/ John Coltrane
Air: 10,000 HZ Legend

And for my wife, who’s going through a PKD phase:
Philip K. Dick: Eye in the Sky, The Man Who Japed, Clans of the Alphane Moon.

Libraries are some of the best places on earth. Sometimes I think they’re too good to be true and they’ll outlaw them. All that stuff for free. I haven’t been wanting to read fiction so I’m setting out to read some auto/biographies.

The reason I got the Pixies CD was because one of my sacrifices when moving to Wilmington, NC was losing all of my LP records. The couple who were subletting our apartment drove down from NYC with all our stuff one weekend--an angel-like move which restored my faith in humankind. I told the guy to keep the records as payment. I don’t know how much he got for them. There were some very good records in there. I used to be an LP snob. Now I really don’t care. LPs are a pain and less portable.

My wife rules for going through a Philip K. Dick phase.

UFO

I watched the Peter Jennings special about UFOs last night. Not so bad--sober, not as condescending as it could have been. It was good to see witness reports from rational people--police officers, pilots, real people--instead of trailer trash and new-agers clouded by wishful thinking. This is the one thing I tell people who don’t take UFOs seriously. There are a lot more credible witnesses than you’ve ever heard of. And the word "cover-up" sounds conspiratorial, as if the govt.’s hiding dead alien bodies in Roswell. Actually the cover-up is visible--the govt. reports such as Project Blue Book and the Condon Report were designed to sweep the entire subject under the rug: by the admission of people who worked on them.

The scientists, of course, discount every witness, no matter how credible. This devalues the perception of millions and millions of people--a sort of delusion in itself. The SETI people were smug as usual--after all, if UFOs are real, they’re out of a job. They’re too busy trying to get TV signals from another planet, which may be more unlikely than UFOs.

The people at Posthuman Blues didn’t seem to like the show, didn’t go far enough. The show wasn’t for people who know anything about the subject, it was for people who think it’s a joke. Michio Kaku’s final sentiment was good: it's too important to scoff at and not treat seriously. I read his book, Visions: How Science Will Revolutionize the 21st Century, as research for my future-novel, which was an interesting read. I recommend Posthuman Blues if you have any interest in weird science whatsoever.

The most pathetic thing about the show were the commercials. Inventions for exercise equipment and cooking utensils that you only see on daytime TV. I guess they couldn’t sell commercial space for this show. Kind of sad and lonesome. Actually, I thought about buying the Tupperware lazy Susan. First time I ever wanted to buy something off TV. Maybe the UFO show was making me suggestible. I am the resident dishwasher in our house and this invention would change my life.

Cloverfield Press

I am stunned. I am actually getting published somewhere. It's been so long since something's been accepted and I haven't felt this way for a while. I sent my story to friends of my brother’s who have started up a literary press. They publish stories in individual volumes. Hand-numbered, nice paper, very classy. Maybe it is who you know, somewhat--our kids play together--but they had to like it. I wasn’t sure how anyone would take this story: futurist, sexual, confessional. It’s the first chapter of "The American Book of the Dead" but I worked on it a long while trying to make it a self-contained story.

Two weeks ago they gave my wife and I a car. For free: a 91 Toyota Camry. They are my new heroes. Their press is here: Cloverfield. "Gentleman Reptile" is due out in October.

The American Book

When researching my new novel about UFOs, World War III, life after death, and so on, I read a huge number of esoteric books. When I sat down to write the book, it started reading like non-fiction. I had no patience to write dialogue. I’ve taken some time away from the book, which is a good thing because now I think I can write it like a novel. I still, somehow, have the desire to write the book, even though it’s been years since I first conceived of it and I’m a far different person. Every time I read a story about George Bush it gets me energized to write the book--about a crazed fundamentalist president, among other things which I won’t talk about for fear of losing The Urge.

It also makes me fearful to read about this administration. I try to stay away from it if I can. I read about the recent Porter Goss hearings, in which he spread more fear, and where he said something so profoundly stupid as "The War in Iraq hasn’t created new terrorists, but it has been a training ground for terrorists." I’m barely paraphrasing. That night I had a vivid dream about plane crashes and going to war--buying guns to protect my family and not knowing how to use them.

After Sept. 11 I would have plane crash dreams all the time. I had seen the planes hit the towers and it shook me on an unconscious level which didn’t leave me for a long while. Read my entry in The American Book of the Dead about September 11. The blog’s been abandoned, but that chapter sums up my experience and will probably end up in the book.

Just read Art Spiegelman’s In the Shadow of No Towers--a Christmas gift from my dad--which reminded me of my devout paranoia after September 11. Much of that paranoia has left me and I've worried that I won’t be able to write my book with the same fervor, but I think fear is not the greatest catalyst for writing. Fear has no subtlety maybe. It led me to conjure up ideas that will go into the book, but it's not a great mindset for writing the book itself. This is my hope as I continue on.

Here’s an Amazon list where you can see the kinds of books I was reading as I geared up to write a deranged novel. Some grammar problems in that list, if I remember, but I haven’t bothered to fix them. I was living in North Carolina and living at the New Hanover Public Library as well. Made friends with the librarian who loved my daughter. Ordering far-out books from distant universities. All that insane information which will probably become mainstream before too long.

Hunter Thompson

Hunter Thompson Kills Himself

I just learned this. I didn't have it in me to write an obit for Arthur Miller, but Hunter Thompson is something else. I haven't read him for a while, I'll admit, but I went through my phase where I read everything by him: Fear and Loathing, Hell's Angels, Curse of Lono...I really loved the movie, "Where the Buffalo Roam," with Bill Murray as Hunter Thompson. For some reason, that movie gets a lot of bad reviews. Way better, to me, than Johnny Depp in the Fear and Loathing movie--which was all insane with none of the artistry. Sure, the man did a lot of drugs, but you can't be such a good writer without taking writing seriously. The poetry was gone from that movie. I have the same problem with the film version of Jesus' Son. All of the darkness with none of the lyricism.

So every young writer--especially male--will probably have his Hunter Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski phase. Which isn't to say that these guys shouldn't be read after a certain age, but it may be best in your early twenties--when you're looking for debauchery and a way to be artful about it. There aren't too many American literary legends, especially in the second half of the 20th century, and he was one of them. He was unapologetic, bold in ways I wish I could be. Suicide is a stupid, brutal, horrible thing, but shit, I knew nothing about his life. It may be unsurprising. I have a book about John Lennon which ends with the sentence, alone on a page: "What a fucking ending."

Update: Here's a good collection of Hunter Thompson links from Rox Populi.

Update 2: Hunter Thompson killed himself on Kurt Cobain's birthday.

Reunion

I mentioned a couple months ago that I was invited to my 20 year elementary school reunion. It was this weekend. I didn’t go. I am chickenshit. Also I was feeling a little sick, but I think that was my body making a reason not to go. I wasn’t in the mood to be assessed. One of the reasons I thought about going was so I could ask somebody for a job, which is absolutely not a good reason to go to your class reunion. My best friend in elementary school, who I haven’t seen in twenty years, is (last I heard) a head writer on "NYPD Blue."

Rented Woody Allen’s "Anything Else" this weekend. Wasn’t so great but I always like a Woody Allen movie. There may be no more romantic movies. The city looks like it’s always lit at sunset. Even the apartments are lit a burnt yellow. I used to believe that the people in Woody Allen movies existed somewhere and I could one day be part of them, where everyone’s sharp and self-aware, as if they know what every moment signifies--like a novel--which may be the greatest lie of fiction. I didn’t understand that the characters are all written in his own voice. I own a copy of "Manhattan" and I put it on every once in a while when I need to believe there are people out there who breathe sophistication. It’s been a while so I don’t know if it will still have the same effect. The main character in "Anything Else," played by Jason Biggs, seemed panicky and uptight to me, rather than smart and romantic. Incidentally, maybe, Jason Biggs looks like a member of my family.

The only time I’ve had an experience that felt like living inside a Woody Allen movie was going to film critic Pauline Kael’s 80th birthday party. There’s a group photo , taken on the roof, of me standing there with Paul Schrader (wrote "Taxi Driver," others) NYer critic David Denby and 100 other intellectually luminescent people. One of my father’s good friends is Marshall Brickman who co-wrote "Annie Hall," "Manhattan," with Woody Allen, and even his parties overlooking Central Park West didn’t feel like a Woody Allen movie. People usually seem to be very concerned, vaguely desperate, that their current conversation isn’t interesting enough, whether they’re 60 or 30.

This post might seem like I am very well-connected. I’ve been to Woody Allen’s writing partner’s apartment and Pauline Kael’s house. It’s not always about who you know. If it was, I would be far more successful. Just going to someone’s house doesn’t solve anything. There’s something else at work. Actually, this has more to do with my father, who’s also a struggling novelist. I haven’t written about it here, but part of the reason for my deep discouragement with the publishing industry is that my dad has had hard luck as well, at exactly the same time. It compounds the frustration.

Feeling good now though. I’m listening to Duke Ellington, Small Groups. No more romantic music. No more romantic instrument than the clarinet. Rain outside, jazz inside. Great literate romance hits me ever so often and it’s a beautiful thing. Both internal and external. This may just be my way of describing a good mood. I know I'm in a bad way when I can't listen to music. Yes, I am up and down, but part of a good mood is feeling what’s possible, the future--if only it lasted.

Rejection Letter

Just got this rejection letter. I sent out a few copies of the first chapter of my novel "North of Sunset" to mix it up and see what would happen. I got this from a woman at "Night Train."

"I thoroughly enjoyed reading the first chapter of your
novel "North of Sunset". However, I didn't feel the
chapter worked as a freestanding short story enough to
consider it for Night Train. It ended very open-ended
without any kind of resolution. But it did make me
want to read more...

I have a feeling you will enjoy much success with your
book! Thanks for thinking of us."

I don’t mind rejection letters at all if they’re thoughtful and encouraging. Most aren't though. I don’t think I’ll be posting all of my rejection letters from the last round of submissions because they’re probably not going to be as nice as this and many are form letters.