Print Matters

This year, I sought refuge from the madness that was 2017 in familiar places. Whether it was books, art, food, drink, music, or good company, I was soothed from the hyperactive panic that swirled around, shots fired in electronic bursts that sent tremors through the society at large. As exhausting as it all was, I found ways of shutting it off, if only for a little while. I pursued knowledge, while the idiot winds blew strong and steady, much like Hurricane Harvey, devouring our civilization with false ideas and twisted facts. If those last few words sound familiar, it’s because they’ve been said before and will be repeated again, as long as humanity walks this earth.

These days we are overwhelmed with information, and weeding through the multitude of printed matter, or sources of sound is challenging. Fortunately, I’ve had a pretty good track record this year, and I thought I would provide a year in review. I don’t know if it would be a helpful guide, because everyone’s tastes are different, and that is as it should be. I should also note, that I can drift into dark territory from time to time, seeking answers that often turn into more questions. I’ll try to keep it nice and neat so I don’t lose anybody in the weeds.

I started the year like most of the rest of the people in this country, wondering what the hell happened and where do we go from here? That led me to check out Hillbilly Ellegy by J.D. Vance. It was a good primer on the experience of a kid from Appalachia and his struggles to make something of his life, despite facing poverty, family drama, and the ubiquity of drug addiction in his environment. It also describes some of the anger, and desperation that led some in that region to turn to our generation’s greatest snake oil salesman. Marc Maron’s podcast hipped me to Sam Quinones book, Dreamland, which is a fascinating exploration of the connection between the homegrown opioid scourge that has been perpetuated by the pharmaceutical companies and a small village in Mexico, whose residents tapped into this built in market of addicts. It was terrifying and illuminating, like when you’re in a dark room and your flashlight hits an obscured corner and eyes flash back at you.

Next I read, White Trash: The 400-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg, which chronicles the disturbing roots of our current condition as a nation, and how the pursuit of a classless society in which equality is guaranteed to all, has rarely ever been the intention of the powers that be.

Veering away from the problems most associated with white Americans, I delved into the work of Ta-Nahesi Coates. I have followed his writing in The Atlantic Monthly, including his wrap up of the Obama years titled, My President was Black, and his take on the election of Donald Trump, The First White President; finding them both compelling, I read The Beautiful Struggle: A Memoir, in which Coates explores his relationship with his father and growing up in 90’s era Baltimore, and then Between the World and Me, which delves deep into the subject of race. Coates is a treasure, and his writing style is succinct and his opinions well researched.

I continued with the heavy subject matter by diving into Joan Didion’s books, The Year of Magical Thinking, and Blue Nights, which deal with the process of grieving, first, her husband’s death, and then her daughter’s. They are both heart-achingly beautiful and agonizing, but perhaps the best books I’ve ever read dealing with the subject of grief.

I was so enamored with her writing that I picked up Slouching Towards Bethlehem, which is a book of essays on the 60’s era, seen through the lens of woman who wandered Haight-Asbury with the hippies, and hung out in the rollicking Hollywood movie scene, when it was pregnant with young talent.

I checked out Jim Harrison’s, A Really Big Lunch, at CALS, which was full of humor and wit, and a welcome escape into poetry and gastronomy, that inspired me to buy a few bottles of fine wine and contemplate how to live a fuller life before we all get wasted in a nuclear holocaust, environmental catastrophe, or AI decides we're too stupid to share a planet with.

I came back down from the highs of food, drink and poetry with  The Wasting of Borneo: Dispatches from a Vanishing World by Alex Shoumatoff, which describes the complicated world of politics, development and the destruction of the natural world as told by a man whose spent a good portion of his life exploring the subject matter.  As with most books on grim topics, it does offer a lifeline at the end, and it's damn fine writing.

Throughout the year, I kept up with Harper’s, and The Atlantic, for good insight into politics and current events, and The Arkansas Times, which is my go to source for local news and entertainment. I perused other publications, but not religiously.  Cooking magazines and books tended to be my favorite, as I love to cook a good meal and enjoy it with family and friends.  I've learned to whip up a nice curry, and a passable version of bibimbap.  I finally found a good recipe for naan that brought curry night up to a standard of respectability.  I was heavy into what is known as Asian cuisine, although it seems impossibly broad to describe it that way, but it is what it is.  I recently found out that Lucky Peach, a great quarterly on the subject is folding, but fortunately, you can find back issues and cookbooks floating around out there in the wild world web.

I read Daniel Clowes’ Ghost World, a coming of age graphic novel that was adapted into a movie, but naturally, the book was better.  I also picked up Wilson, the plot of which revolves around a sad, miserable, middle aged man who bitches and complains about the vapid nature of modern life. It sounds pretty familiar, and like some guy you probably know. It seems like it would be boring, but, trust me, it’s funny.

I read Nelson Algren’s A Walk on the Wild Side, which is a classic work of fiction, so classic that Lou Reed ripped off the title for a song that is more famous than the book. It follows a young tramp through a series of raunchy adventures, the majority of which take place in New Orleans in the early 20th century. To some, it might be difficult, as it is from a bygone era, and the slang and references can be challenging, but believe me, there is gravy to be sopped up in those pages.

Sticking with fiction, I also read Thus Bad Begins, by Javier Marias. It is a potboiler filled with mystery and suspense, unfolding at a slow but steady pace, to be savored like a fine wine. It is filled with insightful history regarding the Franco era in Spain, which still reverberates to this day.

Chester Himes, If He Hollers Let Him Go, follows Bob Jones, a black man living in Los Angeles in the 1940’s who can’t catch a break as he is battered and beaten down by the everyday racism he faces. I’d heard about Himes and he was an interesting character in his own right. It is amazing that his books were published at all considering how he pulled no punches.  It might not suit all readers, especially those who can't take a punch.

I then read from James Baldwin’s Collected Essays, which, although it was written about another era, will always seem current. His lucid telling of life in Jim Crow’s America, his exile in Europe, and his remembrances of the great personages of the Civil Rights’ era, is transcendent, and it is almost as if you can hear his voice in the back of your head as the words unfold on the page.

Domonique Goblet’s Pretending is Lying, is a lush graphic novel I stumbled onto, that is both beautifully drawn, and wonderfully written.  She recounts her life with an alcoholic father, her distant mother, and her distracted lover in a full spectrum of penciled pages.

As the days grew long, and perhaps the longest year of our lives was coming to a close, I decided to pick up a couple of autobiographical works from a couple of my punk rock mentors. The first was The Portable Henry Rollins, which, if you know Henry, you know to expect that it will be loud, vicious, and a bit grating and obnoxious, but if you were a fan of Black Flag, you’ll get over it. I wasn’t impressed with the writing at all, but, it helped to explain where all the rage came from.

I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp, by Richard Hell, was also full of juvenile immaturity and macho bluster, but along the way, you can catch a glimpse of some interesting characters from what had to have been the best time to have lived in New York City, the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. I honestly don’t know why he is considered a serious writer, hopefully his poetry is better.

Larry Brown’s Big Bad Love, was one of my favorites of the year. I don’t know why it had taken me this long to read this one, I guess it just didn’t come around. This collection of short stories goes down like a smooth whiskey, leaving you with a warm tummy and a bit of a sour aftertaste, that invites you to have one more.

Scream, by Tama Janowitz was a book that I happened upon at the library and decided to give a go. It turned out to be a surprisingly entertaining story of a girl whose family is as dysfunctional as it gets. Janowitz also was an associate of Warhol, Lou Reed and various other interesting personalities, which made for some cool detours along the way.

I read John Fante, based on the recommendation of Bukowski, whose opinion I will always consider solid, at least when it comes to betting horses, and books. Fante’s Ask the Dust, is the tale of a down and out writer in 1930’s Los Angeles that delves into love and madness.

I also packed in a couple of random Bukowski tomes this year including Love is a Dog from Hell, but if you know his work and like it, I’d be wasting space recommending it, because you’re probably already halfway through, or have it on your list. I’ve never read one I didn’t like.

Evicted, by Matthew Desmond, lived up to all of the hype. It is an exhaustive account of families bouncing around from one fraught low rent dump to the next, and it’s great tragedy lies in the fact that many of the people who need to read this book, won’t, or either it likely won’t sway their opinion. It should undoubtedly be required reading, especially for anyone wanting to hold public office.

Eveningland was a great little book of stories set in Alabama. Written by Michael Knight, it was sheer coincidence that I finished it before the most recent election. It wasn’t political in the least, and that was fine with me. Knight is punchy and efficient, good for any fan of short fiction.

The last book I’ve read this year, and maybe the last one I’ll finish before we ring in the new year was Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House. It reminded me how much I miss his voice and his insight on the world of human affairs.  His combination of black humor, brevity and razor sharp instinct for cutting straight to the bone is a rare gift.  I can imagine him floating through the ether out there, a residual cloud of cigarette smoke hovering about his protoplasmic essence, pondering the absurdity of it all while having laughing fits at the great cosmic gag.

This year hung around like a two day hangover.  We vowed to stop drinking as we retched into the porcelain bowl, but I hope you had a good stack of reading material there to peer at through bleary eyes, I know I did.  So in light of that, raise your glasses high and prepare to stumble through another weird one.  Cheers!

My Last Ride

(This is a piece that I wrote last year, a story about some adventures I had hitchhiking, a lifetime ago.)

It is cold, and the wind fans the dry patches of grass in the ditch where I am laying.  I am still and quiet, trying to keep myself warm by thinking of the Thanksgiving dinner that I would have had if I had stayed home, and not gone off to try and shed my skin again.  The stars above me are brilliant and bright, I welcome their company.  I am trying to stay awake, although there is nothing more that I want in this world than sleep.  I hear the occasional hum of tires on asphalt in the distance, and every so often, the rustling of some creature of the night.  I hope it is not the man who is out there, looking for me.  By now, the fear has bled out, and I am spent.  If I am found, I wonder if there is enough strength left in my limbs to strike out in my own defense, because until I felt my legs give way, I ran.  

I ran and did not look back until I could no longer hear his cursing, as he fumbled around for a flashlight and pursued me through the red dirt somewhere in Western Oklahoma.  If I am killed, I will disappear into the landscape, my ghost cut loose to roam these lonely roads that are the guts of America.  In the long hours that pass, from the dark of midnight until the sun begins to lighten the Eastern sky, I dream my death.  It is not at all what I expected when I set out from Fayetteville, a few short weeks ago. 

I did not hesitate when Poppy asked me to walk away from my job,  It was warm, for November, and we were out back sharing a joint while Carolyn, my co-worker covered the register.   Poppy said that if we left in the morning, we could make Albuquerque by the weekend.  He told me that Albuquerque is a good place to spend the winter, and he knew a few people out there that wouldn’t mind if we crashed on the couch.  When we walked back inside, I told Carolyn that I was leaving.  

I left her with my uniform shirt, and told her to hang on to my last paycheck.  We pilfered some snacks and cigarettes from the shelves and went to collect my things from the place where I had stashed them.  That night we had a party in the way that kids do, as if we were setting out on an expedition to Mars, and that we would never see our friends gathered in a room like this one again.  

In the morning we untangled ourselves from the bodies splayed out amongst flooded ashtrays and crushed cans.  We tossed our packs on our backs and marched like soldiers off to fight a war.  By noon we had made it as far as Van Buren, and feeling the wind in our sails, we decided to find a place to have a cup of coffee and sit down to eat.  We made it to the parking lot of a convenience store before we encountered our first sign of trouble, a police cruiser that followed slowly behind us and flashed lights.  

We sat on the hood of his squad car while townspeople slowed down and leered at me, a Manson family reject, and Poppy, a punk rock version of Jimi Hendrix.  When the cop felt satisfied, that we had been made to feel unwelcome in this small place that he protected from those whose only threat was their disregard for the things he held sacred, he drove us out past the limits of his control, and set us free.  We pieced together one short ride after the next until we crossed the border and it was the evening of the first day.  We spent that night under an overpass outside of Oklahoma City, as the wind came roaring in from the north and we struggled to sleep in our thin Army surplus jackets and quilted blankets. 

Another day passed and the grass thinned and the land looked empty as we drifted in a sea of dirt.  We felt the first pangs of hunger and our lips chapped and bled from the grit that constantly whipped our faces.  

A lifetime of experience was compressed into the span of five days as we watched one car after another drive by and told each other truths and fictions, to pass the time.  Every so often, a pickup truck would slow down and we would hop in the back as we inched our way a little further down the road.   We crossed into Texas, our heads hung low and our bellies empty, but we talked about Albuquerque like it was the promised land and there was no turning back.

In the afternoon of our last day in the wilderness, we saw the familiar silhouette of a Volkswagen van crest a hill and gear down, throwing up a cloud of debris as we ran to meet it.  The smiling face of asaint with eyes bloodshot, beamed down on us and we knew that we were delivered.  As the miles ticked by on the odometer, we filled the cabin up with a thick heavy smoke and watched it drift out the windows, until we spilled out onto the sidewalks of Albuquerque at long last.  

We beat a path towards the University, picking up a bottle on our way to find a cozy spot on the flat roof of a building on campus, where our driver told us no one would bother us, if we kept to ourselves.

The two weeks that I spent in that fabled city was a tale not worth telling.  True, the weather was mild, and we found spaces in the corners where we could crash.  But, for me, there was a point when things began to turn.  The easy life got to be just as monotonous as standing behind a register collecting someone else’s money, and when Poppy told me he was taking off with a girl to California, I knew I’d better go home while I still had a few dollars in my pocket.

I don’t remember saying goodbye, I just remember walking away and sitting on my backpack looking to the West at the painted sky, and the sun glinting off the chrome on the cab of a Peterbilt.  I climbed in and looked across at the driver, a great beast of a man, his face hidden behind a cloud of cigarette smoke. 

The first words the trucker said as we took on speed were, “You ain’t one of them goddamn queers, are you?  Because I will kill a faggot.”  I considered the circumstances, and knew that there was no right answer.  I felt the pressure of the folding knife so far out of reach in my pocket.  I answered, “No.”, and saw him glare at me.  He began to rant, and the hate that was covered by pale, scabby flesh made my stomach churn and I began to feel sick.  He would pause, and wait, playing a game to see if I would crack, if he would find his reason, his excuse.  For hours the game continued and the tension made me tired.  I leaned on the door, pretending to drift off to sleep, with one hand searching for the handle.  Through slitted eyes I watched him, wondering what the end of all of this would be.  By the time we crossed into Oklahoma, it was late, and the world was dark.  He didn’t slow down when he hit the off ramp and it wasn’t until we were well out of sight that he began to brake.  

I waited for my chance and I pulled the handle and launched myself out the cab, tumbling ass over elbows as the truck lurched to a stop in the gravel.  I fell face first over a barbed wire fence, and felt it pull at me.  I let it take my flesh, but I did not stop.

That night in my fitful sleep, I dreamed my death, and I flew up and over the spiteful land until I reached the shore of a distant sea.  When I woke to the dawn of a new day, I was hungry and alone, but it didn’t matter.  I got a ride from a kind man who had been a traveler too.  He said that he picked up everyone that he passed on the side of the road, because he’d been there.   He let me make a call to Carolyn’s mom who lived in Norman.  He bought me eggs and hash browns, and we talked until she arrived.  Carolyn’s mom took me as far as she could, but when I saw the look on her face as the gas gauge slipped over into the red, I gave her the last of my money and waved goodbye.  

When the rain started to fall, cold and hard I began to walk, and I let the cars pass by me without a gesture.  I walked back into town, bedeviled by the wind and the water.  I went straight over to Carolyn’s, took the key from under the mat and let myself in.  I peeled away the clothing so heavy and wet, and lay down on the warm rug to take my rest. 

Dream City

It takes the better part of a day to cross the mountains from the sweltering heat of Guayaquil to the cool, damp air of Cuenca in a shuttle bus. In the fashion of a true Guayaquileño, the driver of our van goes slow when he should go fast, fast when he should go slow, and occasionally steers with his knee while he texts on a vintage Blackberry.  The blind curves of the winding road are seen as an opportunity to challenge slower traffic as well as the fortitude of his human cargo.  Maybe he suspects that I find his driving skills to be less than professional, because I see him looking at me in the rear view mirror with disdain.  Perhaps it is some motive that I cannot divine, but whatever has drawn his ire, I try to deflect it, hoping that he will concentrate more closely on the road ahead.  The view from the window is enchanting, as we cross through various climate zones and the culture of the coast, with it’s striving hustle, gives way to the mountain peoples measured calm.  As I fight the nausea and the urge to expel this morning’s modest breakfast, I keep being drawn into vistas that pass, as elusive as butterflies.  From the dense forests of the foothills, to the foggy peaks of the Andes, I want to shout at the driver to stop and indulge my desire to walk this land at a pace it’s grandeur demands.  The hillsides, thick with foliage, and lakes that mirror the sky above, inspire vivid daydreaming of wild adventures and exploration.   

Having spent much of my life in Central Arkansas, with it’s low hills and meandering waterways, I am always awed by geologically volatile places.  The Andes are young, and like youth everywhere, they tend to be loud and audacious.  Every so often, one of the volcanoes that run down the rugged spine of the Ecuadorean high country spews red hot magma into the atmosphere and the old gods of the earth demand their tribute.  In return they allow us to see the inner workings of a planet that is daily taken for granted as we look ever inward and the small miracles that are offered to us go unobserved.  I wonder if the other passengers in the van think of this country in the way that I do, or if it is just the space that separates two places; a daily or weekly commute to be endured.  With a glance at faces lit by tiny screens, I know the answer, but I deny it the light of day so as not to spoil my fantasies.  Fortunately my wife, who is accompanying me, has not seen enough of the mountains to be immune to their charms, even though this is her native country. 

By early afternoon, we make it to the suburbs of Cuenca, with it’s new constructions and curious abstract architecture.  Even the homicidal driver has not dampened my mood although he has very nearly killed several children and hunchbacked elderly women.  As the streets narrow towards the center of town, he seems to speed up and pedestrians, accustomed to the mania, move at the precise moment necessary to avoid being casualties.  When we arrive at the terminal, our chauffeur is the first to exit as if fleeing the scene of a crime.  We extract our gear and stretch compacted limbs as a cold, hard rain begins to fall.  By the time we hail a taxi, to make the final leg of our journey, we are soaked to the bone.  

We drop our backpacks off at the hotel, a converted colonial residence with rooms that open onto the courtyard, and hit the cobblestone.  One of the first things that you will notice about Cuenca is the abundance of bakeries, each and every one beckoning you to stop and have a bite to eat, and wash it down with the ubiquitous Nescafe.  We gave in to our cravings and grabbed a croissant as we began our tour of the city, heading over to the flower market in front of the San Marino Cathedral.  Naturally, it is a good place to take a few pictures and marvel at the variety of colorful blooms on display.  To our surprise, there was a street fair to showcase the skill of the local pâtissier’s that rivaled the palette of the floral vendors.  We indulged ourselves, yet again, and set out to see as much of Cuenca as we could, all the while keeping in mind we had only 48 hours to pack it in. 

Justin Booth, Outlaw Poet

Justin Booth is a man whose history is written all over his face, and as he is quick to point out, “I photograph well.”  He is full of an energy that makes him hard to capture, but in the spaces in- between, there is truth to his claim.  I had him in mind for a project, that turned in to something else, as my photo projects often do.  We met at Dizzy’s, where he spends his afternoons sipping whiskey and making conversation.  I watch him and listen, occasionally interrupting, asking him to pause while I take a shot.  He tells me about his recent trip to New York, where he read in a bar in the Bowery, and of his upcoming book release.  We talk about fighting, prison, and life on the street, and how all of those things make good poetry.  It is easy to admire a man who started out by selling books, photocopied himself, on a downtown corner, and who still goes back to visit the homeless camps where he once resided.  Justin writes poems that pair well with a strong drink, and read easy in a noisy beer hall.

His book, “The Singer, The Lesbian, and and the One With the Feet: 69 Bipolar Love Poems”, is being released through Cowboy Buddha Publishing, and will drop on Feb. 15.  Do yourself a favor and head over to the back room of Vino’s to support local writer’s.