AlexanderParsons.com

2004
January 4, 2004: Touchdown in Lala-land.
As I drove into LA at 11 P.M. all of the footage of natural disasters I’d ever seen aired on the news flashed behind my eyes. This is where it happens, baby! Forget the Industry—the real drama is in earthquakes, mudslides, raging fires, race riots, and der Gröpenfuhrer. I don’t know why I bother to write fiction; all I need is a video camera.
March 5, 2004: New Books
Tony Hoagland is a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in poetry! His collection has one of the best titles I’ve seen: What Narcissism Means to Me. Other big news includes the release of John McNally’s newest book, The Book of Ralph, which opens with a story entitled “The Vomitorium.” How can you not run out and grab a copy? How can you resist your morbid curiosity regarding a term used for a room dedicated solely to upchucking? And McNally’s a good writer—funny as hell. Equally cool is the fact that Brett Block’s latest, The Grave of God’s Daughter. She won the Drue Heinz Award for her book of short stories, Destination Known, and this latest novel promises to be even better. Charlotte Bacon’s third book, There Is Room for You, is just out from FSG. It’s beautifully written. If you love vivid prose and India, this is just the thing. Finally, poet D.A. Powell is out and about promoting his newest volume of poems, Cocktails. He’ll be crisscrossing the country, so don’t miss a chance to hear him, especially when he reads with Super Poetesses Rachel Zucker and Matthea Harvey. Go to The Graywolf Press News site and you can find a reading schedule for Msrs. Powell and Hoagland.
And good fortune continues to shine. John Greenman was nominated for a 2004 Pushcart Prize for his story “The Cowboy Poet” in issue 15 of American Letters & Commentary. My story “Thunderbird” was also nominated. It appeared in the March 2003 volume of The Mid-American Review.
March 8, 2004: Poetfest
Robert Bly’s reading at UNH tonight at 6 P.M. in Murkland Auditorium (I know, the name brings to mind a dark, swampy expanse). Mr. Iron John! I’m not bringing any drums, but I am looking forward to the poetry. Charlie Simic will introduce him, likely in his offhandedly brilliant and inimitable manner. Can’t wait. This year we also had Susan Orlean to campus; next year we’re hoping for Russell Banks, among others.
April 12, 2004: AWP Block Party
Yeah, yeah, long time since the last entry. I still haven’t figured out this uploading pages thing.
The news: The 2004 AWP Conference in Chicago was a blast. Saw Lorrie Moore, Robert Boswell, Jane Hamilton, and Stuart Dybek read, as well as mini-readings (two minutes!) by Steven Schwartz, Antonya Nelson, Andrea Barrett, and Mc McIlvoy. A literary sampler! Also ran into a lot of old friends from New Mexico State, Iowa, and Austin. For the record, AWP is about a billion times more fun than MLA. People still wear a lot of black, but there’s very little tweed and a lot of exuberant drinking. It’s like a massive house party that lasts for four days and features all of the cultured drunks you could imagine being around. Okay, maybe not drunks, but drinkers. Plus you get to go to great talks and readings and meet editors from all of the literary magazines that regularly reject you. Or so I’ve heard.
I also read in Austin for UT’s Zero-to-Sixty young writers reading series on April 1. The Harry Ransom Center is one of the most amazing spaces I’ve read in. To start, they have a Guggenheim Bible on permanent display in the anteroom. Yeah, a real one. An actual tome. It looked even cooler than The Necronomicon in “Army of Darkness,” which is itself pretty impressive. Also, the glass facing of the building is stenciled with the signatures of the authors whose collections the Center holds. Beautiful place. Many thanks to all of my friends and former students who came—it was a perfect homecoming.
In terms of news among the literary folk, I’ve learned that my friend Chelsea Cain, who steadily took money from me for two years in an ongoing poker game in Iowa City (she was so confident of my ineptitude that she budgeted her winnings ahead of time), is publishing a new book with Bloomsbury, Diary of a Teenage Sleuth. It’s a mock diary by Nancy Drew that includes, in Chelsea’s words, “a torrid affair with Frank Hardy.” Brett Block’s novel, The Grave of God’s Daughter is out in stores everywhere, and John McNally, the Tasmanian Devil of literary readers is still on tour—check out www.bookofralph.com for more news. Fellow Texan author Mylène Dressler is also touring for her book The Floodmakers. You can find more info on her site, www.mylenedressler.com.
Finally, the first bound manuscripts of In the Shadows of the Sun just arrived. It’s pretty cool to see tangible evidence of so much work, even with the typos. Ahh, validation.
May 14, 2004: Le Tour and other stuff
Another semester winds down. I’m just recovering from the flu, my body’s way of telling me that I pushed too hard over the past few months. Happily, the Editors’ Roundtable at UNH went really well, as did the workshop of my first screenplay (many thanks to the Chesterfield fellows) and so I’ve been able to hack, cough, shiver, and sweat without any work related anxiety to heighten my misery. Ahead is the promise of a luxurious summer. Nothing but writing screenplays, short stories, and drinking Negra Modelo.
The most important part of any summer, however, is the Tour de France. Like last year, it promises to be an awesome race. I predict Jan Ulrich won’t do as well as last year, and Joseba Beloki will suffer even if he avoids crashing out. He’s had a bad year and isn’t over his wreck in last year’s Tour. Tyler Hamilton is looking good and I look to him and Iban Mayo to kick ass. As for Lance, this whole divorce/Cheryl Crowe thing has me worried. Yeah, he’s the Man and recently won the Tour of Georgia, but I have reservations, especially given that his team lost Roberto Heras and Ekimov is now, like, 900 years old. I’m hoping that Lance wins in a squeaker with Tyler and Iban close by. Look for Mayo to win some big mountain stages. The racer with the coolest name will be Igor Gonzalez de Galdeano! Rolls right off the tongue. Igor is a name you don’t see much these days. I think the Spanish have a lock on the best names (especially the Basques): Aitor Gonzales (don’t forget to add a Castillian lisp to the “s” sounds), David and Unai Etxebarria (etch-teh-BAR-eeaahhh!), Iñigo Landaluze, and Haimar Zubeldia. There’s an Italian guy in this year’s Giro d’Italia named Crescenzo D’Amore. I’m not sure what that means, but I can guess that his parents were inspired by something that happened between the sheets.
The news: First, a correction. Chelsea Cain’s forthcoming book is Confessions of a Teen Sleuth, NOT Diary of a Teen Sleuth and it is a faux memoir. I guess ‘confessions’ is juicier than ‘diary’ and I apologize to any potential readers who were put off by this grievous error. In my defense I can only say that all of the money Chelsea took from me in two years of poker resulted in a beat-down from a loan shark and the lasting effect is, sadly, a dented head and impaired memory. Thanks for the memories, Miz Cain.
Book recommendations: John McNally’s The Book of Ralph tops my list, followed closely by Stuart Dybek’s I Sailed with Magellan. Brett Block’s The Grave of God’s Daughter is also very good—it has the feel of a 1940s-era Brother’s Grimm tale. I’m rereading John Nichols’ The Milagro Beanfield War, which is making me homesick for Santa Fe and good red chile. James McManus’ Positively Fifth Street was also good read (nonfiction). It chronicles McManus’ experience at the World Poker Championships. Had I read this years ago I might not have sold my spare kidney to finance Chelsea’s winnings. The best article of the past month comes from the New York Times on May 3, in which they revealed that the Tennessee-based company Cracker Barrel is being sued for racist seating/serving policies at its restaurants. Nice. Other fascinating news from the Times: Gambian giant pouched rats are being used to sniff out landmines—apparently they’re better than dogs or metal detectors and the tame ones make good pets. The wild ones are savage, though. So be careful if you’re thinking, “Man, that’s the pet for me!” They’re up to 30 inches long, so an ornery one could probably eat your cat or small cousin.
The advance reader’s copies of In the Shadows of the Sun are scheduled for late June/early July. If any of you discerning readers know (or are) reviewers, drop me a note and I’ll try and get you a signed collector’s item that will double as a great attic insulator or rolling paper for those of you with hardy lungs (ahh, bond paper!). An excerpt from the novel is forthcoming in the Mid-American Review sometime next fall.
June 8, 2004: Supersize Me, Cadavers, and Morbid Facts You Can’t Live Without
Well, it’s still sunny in California and I have yet to witness any natural disasters. For some reason massive wildfires are lurching over my home state of New Mexico, but everything here is fine except the price of unleaded and the car-handling skills of most drivers. And the fact that obesity is ravaging the country. Yeah, I saw “Supersize Me” the other day. Pretty funny and disturbing. I didn’t completely buy Spurlock’s take on fast food—it messed him up pretty badly the first two weeks, but then it seemed like his body adjusted, which he glossed over—but I still loved the movie. Bottom line? A McDonald’s meal will give you the McGurgles, McHeadache, McNausea, and if it’s a Supersize Meal and you eat all of it you’re likely to McVomit. McYuck!
And on the subject of human health, I’ve just finished reading Mary Roach’s macabre and hilarious book Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers. It’s filled with fun facts. Such as? Well, let me list six. But be warned, this stuff is kind of morbid and gross. So read it as you’re eating something McSquishy—maybe a Supersized Big Mac. Ahem: 1) “To gibbet is to dip a corpse in tar and suspend it in a flat iron cage (the gibbet) in plain view of townsfolk while it rots and gets pecked apart by crows.” 2) Necrophilia was not a crime in any U.S. state until 1965. Currently only 16 states have necrophilia laws. So be careful where you get buried. Or stick with cremation. 3) In the 19th century grave robbing in England was enough of a problem that people bought various “antiresurrectionist products” such as: iron cages (mortsafes) set in concrete above the grave or around the coffin; spring-closure coffins, cast-iron corpse straps and double and triple coffins. Then again, you could go the route of the sarcophagus. Why so much grave robbing? Apparently there was a pretty sweet black market for cadavers used for dissection because the only legally acquirable ones were those of executed criminals. 4) Algor mortis (which I’d never heard of) is the cooling of a dead body. Barring temperature extremes, corpses lose about 1.5 degrees Fahrenheit per hour until they reach the temperature of the air around them. 5) Rigor mortis (Latin for “stiffness of death”) starts within four hours of death. It starts in the face and neck and moves down the body. Why? It has to do with ATP, anaerobic glycolysis, calcium ions, yadda yadda. Basically the myofilaments of your muscles lock up. Then they soften as your tissue starts to decompose, which is why rigor mortis fades away as you get juicy and, ah, fragrant. 6) According to the Urban Institute in 1991, a person is worth $2.7 million in terms of one’s economic value to society. At least in the U.S. I’d guess that this varies sharply from country to country. Other issues—party affiliation, obnoxiousness, halitosis, etc.—are also likely to adversely adjust your net worth.
Okay, Alex, that’s enough grossness, you’re probably thinking. What else can you tell me that’s book-related but not disturbing? Well, the new cover for In the Shadows of the Sun was just finished. The designer did an awesome job. Two of my dad’s photos are superimposed to make a cool atomic sunset over a ranch—it’s ideal. Check it out (there’s a bigger version in the website’s Press Kit section:
June 16, 2004: Dang!
That’s right, I saw the awesome “Napoleon Dynamite” the other day and since then I have said “dang” about 100 times and “sweet” about the same. I’ve also said “crapulent” and “bite me” a lot but this has nothing to do with the movie. If you liked “Rushmore” or “Welcome to the Dollhouse” then you’ll likely dig Jared Hess’s debut, which is visually brilliant. While the movie doesn’t have quite the same balance of humor and pathos as “Rushmore” (think the Bill Murray pool scene), it’s sweet and engaging and captures the awkwardness of people longing for connection without making jackasses of them—most of the time. Plus, someone gets hit in the head with a steak. Fellow Chesterfield fellow Prince Gomolvilas, master playwright and Hollywood scenester, gave me a “Vote for Pedro” button, which you will come to envy if you watch the movie. Thanks, Prince. AND I saw Rob Riener in the lobby in what was my first instance of a celebrity sighting. Yeah, I know, I’ve been here seven months and this is best I’ve come up with. I did see Tory Spelling at Whole Foods—baseball cap, surprisingly large head—but this hardly compares to Riener. I’ve probably seen other celebs, but I’m bad with names and faces. Yet another reason I don’t quite fit here.
The parents visited this week, which meant good food, wine, and a lot of time enjoying the best traffic LA has to offer. Also saw the Frank Gehry Walt Disney Concert Hall, which was comprised of shapes and angles reminiscent of curled posterboard and totally clad in brushed aluminum panels. Neat looking, but it probably caused the California brown out by itself. I mean, all that metal and those dished surfaces have to work just like a solar collector and make the interior of the building a heat sink. I wonder how many thousands of air conditioners it uses? Random Cali fact: There’s a casino here called Casino Morongo. What the hell?
Other news: Le Tour. Alexandre Vinokourov crashed out of the Tour de Suisse, which is a major bummer for you, the average viewer, as well as me, Vino himself, and T-Mobile teammate Jan Ulrich. Probably good for Lance, though, given that Vino and Ulrich were going to make his life hell in the mountains. Also, Joseba Beloki won’t make it, as he just quit his team. What does this mean? That the four favs remain just that: Mayo, Armstrong, Tyler, and Ulrich. If Tyler stays on the bike I think he could win. His team is very good. Armstrong’s going to have to fight for third or fourth this time around, I’m afraid. But the race is going to kick ass even if he doesn’t win. Cycling is cooler than you realize, people. So expand your cable package to include Outdoor Life Network and see for yourself. It’s not just about skinny Euros panting up hills. It’s Shakespearean in its drama, dammit! You might warm up by watching “The Triplets of Belleville” which does a good job capturing the suffering of the average cyclist.
On the book front, Hampton Sides just wrote a really nice blurb for In the Shadows of the Sun, as did Thom Jones. Hampton’s book Ghost Soldiers is about the liberation Americans from a Japanese POW camp, Cabanatuan, during World War II. It’s nonfiction and a very good read in addition to being exceptionally well researched. I’ve posted the blurbs on the main In the Shadows of the Sun page. Many thanks to both Hampton and Thom.
July 10, 2004: Sweet Dangness
Yes, I just wanted to work “dang” into one more journal entry (blog? Is this a blog? I hope not. Blog’s an ugly word—there’s something onomatopoeic about it: blah + ugh.) What’s with the dangness? A residual bit of “Napoleon Dynamite,” I think. At any rate, the sweet dangness I refer to is, of course, Superstar Uniballer† Lance Armstrong kicking ass in Le Tour. Yes, I know that I predicted that he might have to fight for third or fourth this year. But things have gone exceptionally well for the Austin Strongman, especially with Iban Mayo crashing out on the cobbles in Stage Three along with the rest of the Euskaltel-Euskadi weenies. Now Mayo trails by about five minutes, which has to be a huge relief for Monsieur Armstrong as he nears the mountains. Add to this the fact that two-time Giro d’Italia champion Gilberto Simoni is whinging like an Italian schoolgirl in an Australian rules rugby game and that Tyler has already executed one over-the-handlebars flip that’s busted up his back, and I’m thinking that if Armstrong can just stay on the bike through the mountains he may well win. Also, the Posties rode like banshees during the team time trial. Very impressive—they deserve their props. The only obstacle that remains, as always, is das überbiker Jan Ullrich.
On the writing front, I just finished the final proofreading of the typeset manuscript of In the Shadows of the Sun. This will probably be the last time I read it until, in my dotage, I find a remaindered copy in a dusty corner of my library and reread it with absolutely no awareness that I wrote it. Given the state of my memory this could happen as early as a month after the book’s release. It’s a good feeling, though, to sit down and see the evidence of all of those hours at the computer. A private satisfaction that is even better than when you get your hands on the first printed copy. Plus, once a manuscript is typeset it seems ten times better than it is. I have no idea why this is the case, but I think it’s covered in the Theory of Relativity.
Other good writing news includes the fact that my buddy Greg Hammond just had his story “Romantic Comedy” accepted in Gulf Coast. This will be Greg’s first published story and I can say that it is a very fine piece of work. Of course, it has the dubious distinction of having been rewritten perhaps 709 times over a period of 27 years. Greg told me that after the initial euphoria from the news he curled up and cried like a baby.‡ Aaahhrr, Madam Muse, ye be a harsh mistress! (Okay, no more pirate references, though I would like to point out that “Dodgeball” was a great movie except for the presence of the pirate guy.)
†Does Lance really only have one testicle? I haven’t given much thought to this, but it came up during a Tour discussion earlier today with a fellow screenwriter whom I’ll call “Chuck.” I had always assumed that Lance had lost just one family jewel from cancer, but Chuck, an Austin resident of 15 years, said that it—the lost testicles issue—is always written about as a kind of non-denial denial. That is, there’s rarely an assertion that he has one testicle, only that he is missing one. Chuck went further, arguing that the loss of testicles might allow Lance to sit easier in the saddle and also cut back a bit on the weight he has to haul up the mountains. . . . At this point I asked Chuck how his wife was doing and then we admired a passing woman’s, uh, splendid features until we felt like fully secure heterosexuals (okay, I stared—Chuck was a good husband and looked demurely elsewhere).
‡I made this up. But it feels good to call Greg a crybaby. Maybe because he drives a bitchin’ Pontiac Grand Am and I don’t. Sweet chariot, Greg. Sweet chariot. I’d like to point out that Greg’s previous chariot was a tricked-out Yugo (yep, that’s it to the left of the bitchin’ 4x4 Camaro, which is what Greg would have bought if he hadn’t spent so much money getting his mullet trimmed).‡†

‡†Okay, I made all of this up with the help of some photos from www.mulletsgalore.com. It’s just that I realized that until Greg gets his own blog—or sues me—I can say whatever I want and all he can do is leave threatening messages on my cellphone! This is a major, revelatory moment here, people. I predict that soon I will have no friends, just fearful sycophants. Which is okay by me. Doesn’t Greg look angry in this candid shot?

July 15, 2004: Domestique, my ass!
I’m deep in screenplay mode and while we’re not supposed to talk about our work, I will say that the latest amazing creation features vicuñas and World’s Strongest Man champions Magnús ver Magnússen and Svend Carlsen, as well as a few misguided bounty hunters. Can you guess the genre? Below is a vicuña, in case you were wondering, as well as Mighty Svend hoisting an Atlas stone.

Okay, so my Tour de France obsession has reached a new level. Yes, I dreamt that I was racing for U.S. Postal. Not only that, but I got out in front and promptly took a wrong turn because I didn’t know where the course led. Then Roberto Heras yelled at me. But this is not as bad as my buddy John, who dreamt that he and I were racing for Lance. Apparently Lance told us to ride like hell for about a 100 miles and we were on our cruddy bikes with our lame-o gear and out of shape and there was no way this was going to happen (John and I did a lot of road biking together when we studied at Iowa when not huffing glue). Tellingly, John’s reaction was to be apologetic and guiltily tell Lance that he couldn’t do it. I, on the other hand, was a jerk. According to John I told Lance I wouldn’t be his domestique (support rider) and there was no fucking way I was riding my guts out for him. What this means, of course, is that John has a problem with guilt, has an unhealthy Lance Armstrong obsession, and thinks I’m a selfish asshole. Below is a picture of John after our last bike ride. As you can tell, he’s a delicate boy.

I’m plugging the nonfiction book Shadow Divers, which my friend Jon Karp edited. Robert Kurzon, the writer, did a fantastic job. The book is an amazing read. It’s paced like a thriller, features compelling characters, and is hugely informative in terms of the rigors of deep sea diving and the fallout of obsession. It’s about a couple of guys who find a U-boat wreck off the coast of New Jersey and then spend a lot of time trying to figure out which one it was, what was on board, etc. Super summer reading (but good enough to be read any time of year).
July 19, 2004: I had to get it on!
Hit the bowling lanes with a few of the screenwriting fellows today in the spirit of “The Big Lebowski.” Thankfully no one was wearing purple jumpsuits or hairnets. Captain Destructo bowled a 110 and 124 but in the end the destruction I visited on the pins was not enough to overcome Waingro McNally, who hit a bunch of strikes when not yelling “I had to get it on, man! I had to get it on!” The Texas Tornado C. Burmeister and Rogerette also put in solid performances and in general it’s fair to say that the integrity of the Chesterfield program, such as it is, was preserved.
[Capt. Destructo] [Waingro McNally]
We also discussed the bowling ball as a weapon, which reminded me of another New York Times article I read awhile back. In it, a “69-year-old man tried to kill three law enforcement officers by dropping a 16-pound bowling ball at them from the terrace of his 17th-floor apartment.” (The cops have a term for this kind of assault: airmail.) When the cops went up and knocked apartment, the guy—Mr. Stiff—answered the door with a pair of binoculars around his neck and they found another bowling ball on his terrace. Clearly a criminal mastermind! He was charged with attempted assault, murder, etc. and also, get this, criminal possession of a weapon. Does this mean that something as innocuous as a chair becomes “criminal possession of a weapon” if you try to smack someone with it? And does that mean that if I got good enough at martial arts I would be in criminal possession of a weapon merely by inhabiting my own body were I to karate chop someone or deliver an Apache rotor mega spin kick?

What you’re really wondering is, What happens when someone drops a 16-pound bowling ball from the 17th floor of building? Less than you might imagine, provided it doesn’t land on someone. There was no mention of the ball cracking or exploding, and it left a measly 3.5 inch crater in the mud. I think Letterman has it right—watermelons are the best high altitude projectile.
On the subject of assault, I also found this on the BBC online news site earlier today: “A man in the US state of Florida was arrested after he allegedly used his pet alligator to hit his girlfriend.”
[Bowling Ball] [Criminal Possession of a Melon]

July 21, 2004: Rip Their Balls Off, Lance (but lose the socks)
Okay, so you’re wondering about my Tour silence and no doubt feeling adrift. Sure, Lance is in the lead, but what’s really going on? Well, today was the decisive moment. Monsieur Lance crushed everyone on the time trial up L’Alpe d’Huez, though everyone doesn’t include Iban Mayo and Tyler Hamilton, the pair that beat him on a similar mountain time-trial a few weeks prior to the Tour in the Dauphiné Libéré (they were my pre-race favorites). Both had already dropped out of the race. Basically this Tour has been incredibly dull in spite of the fact that it’s historic in terms of Lance winning it a sixth time (the writing is, as they say, on the road).
The most interesting aspect of today’s stage was, in fact, the writing on the road. Fans show up on mountain routes a few days ahead of the scheduled stage to camp, drink, and scrawl chalk messages on the pavement, generally in support of their favorite bikers. Then they drunkenly cheer as the cyclists pant their way uphill. One message read “Fuck Lance” but I was happy to see another reading “Rip Their Balls Off Lance” which is pretty much what he did today. I’d have liked to have been there. My message? A big picture of Dubya saying “Bring it on” that every cyclist would ride over (illustrated by Sylvain Chomet, creator of “The Triplets of Belleville”). It’s not so much an issue of politics (that’s for a different blog) as this: Bush said “Lance is going to win and I’m going to win” a few days ago. Now, Lance has worked damned hard and is a champion for the ages. Bush is the son of a president and by comparison to Lance hasn’t worked damned hard (click here for his number of vacation days vs. that of the average American) and he definitely benefited from family connections to reach the presidency in the first place, whereas Lance has risen to the top all on his own. Bush has no business trying to link his accomplishments to Lance’s. They don’t belong in the same sentence.
Side rant: Fashion issues in cycling. Seeing Richard Virenque (noted French doper and climber) motor past in, yes, a red-and-white polka dot jersey reminded me of the pink jersey the race leader of the Giro d’Italia has the dubious honor of wearing. There’s something indescribably cheesy about this subset of Euro fashion. Even Lance is wearing black socks. Something must be done! Otherwise cycling is doomed to lower ratings than hansom cab racing, jai alai, or curling.
Okay, as your reward for wading through this cycling update I provide the following link, which makes me feel like I fall on the mellow side of the paranoid-about-impending-apocalypse spectrum. Click here for the End of the World.

August 13, 2004: On Death, Ritual, and Refrigerators
Forty-one hundred and seven miles of driving, one death in the family, and one Armstrong Tour victory since I last checked in with ye faithful readers. Sadly, my grandfather died just shy of his 93rd birthday and while I like to keep the tone light in this journal I feel compelled to have a moment of respectful, banter-free appreciation for Dr. H. McIlvaine Parsons, behavioral psychologist, toast-master, old-school Yalie, benign authority, and long-time limericist. He was a good guy and I’ll miss him.
Perhaps the oddest aspect of Mac’s death has been dealing with his ashes. They arrived in a black plastic box that weighed about twenty-five pounds. It was hard to get my mind around how a cube of ash was once the body of someone I knew well, that the bone shards were once part of his spine or skull or legs, that the grey ash was once part of his neurons or irises—things that were singularly him. It gives literal meaning to the phrase “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” and reinforces a strangely comforting sense of equality and connection between us all. I felt a profound sense of what it is to be connected to a larger cycle of life. We are all of us comprised of the same component elements and these same atoms and molecules have been and will be integrated into a million more incarnations... After such reflections I put part of Mac in a tin in the console of my Honda and drove to Nonquit, Mass., where part of him now resides in Buzzard’s Bay, a place he and his companion, Carol, loved. As I drove cross-country I listened to The Pirate Hunter, a book about Captain Kidd. I learned that in Madagascar the Malagasies used to celebrate a death as when you died you were headed to a really keen place. They’d have a big party, dance, and wrap your bones in bright cloth. Then, a year later, they’d dig you up, rub and rewrap your bones, and have another party. It seems a good way to integrate death into life.
On the subject of weight (literal and otherwise), as I was unpacking some glasses at my new Dover, N.H. pad, I came across a crumpled New York Times article entitled “On the Final Journey, One Size Doesn’t Fit All.” It reads, “Perhaps nowhere is the issue of obesity in America more vividly illustrated than at Goliath Casket of Lynn, Ind., specialty manufacturers of oversize coffins. There one can see a triple-wide coffin—44 inches across, compared with 24 inches for a standard model. With extra bracing, reinforced hinges and handles, the triple-wide is designed to handle 700 pounds without losing what the euphemism-happy funeral industry calls its 'integrity.' ... [S]ales have been increasing around 20 percent annually.” That’s a big coffin, I tell you what. I mean, my refrigerator’s only about half as wide. And in terms of lugging such a thing to the grave, I’m wondering if you have to hire on a special pall-bearer crew of dudes from the World’s Strongest Man Competition or if you otherwise have had to have been a very popular dude so that the requisite twenty-odd mourners will show to haul you through the cemetery.
October 3, 2004: ¡Pensamientos Aleatorios!
Back in L.A. and the car alarms are as sonorous as ever. Why don’t we hear them more in contemporary music? It’s the best sound ever for falling asleep after an exhausting 14-hour cross-country trip in which a bankrupt airline has lost your luggage for no apparent reason other than general malaise. I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.
Which brings me to taxidermy. Maybe when United goes under someone will taxidermy a few of their employees as lasting examples of corporate incompetents/incompetence. That said, stuffing animals or people seems like a strange, olde timey past-time. I mean, I know it’s supposed to commemorate one’s victories over nature and all, but even if the subject doesn’t look creepy and ratty, but rather incredibly life-like, it still has the feel of the wax museum to it. Unsettling at best. By the way, did you know the English used to travel to Egypt and bring back mummies for unwrapping soirées? (Nope, no kidding. Talk about respect for other cultures.)
When, after all, do you ever see taxidermied animals? I’ll tell you when. At restaurants that are not chains or franchises and make no claim to the 20th century beyond the use of electric lighting. Example 1: The Outpost in Carrizozo, New Mexico. It’s a restaurant with lynx, oryx (don’t ask), deer, mountain goat, buffalo and practically every other animal that ever walked, crawled, or breathed in the southwest. Example 2: Fox’s Lobster House in York Beach, Maine (“One nibble on the nubble and you’re hooked!”), which has a ratty fox above on a high shelf in the anteroom. (Not to impugn their lobster, which is awesome.) I’m not sure that taxidermy and dining are things you want to put together. It’s like the flawed concept behind stores like Fashion Barn, Lingerie Shack, or anything with Shanty in the name. Certainly, though, there’s a logical connection between the two—killing what you eat and all that. Perhaps it’s good that we recognize what ends up on the plate. And perhaps it would be even better to honor what’s on the plate. That’s right. What if you could have the animal you eat taxidermied while you’re eating? Then you could take it home and mount it on the wall and contemplate your victory-by-proxy. In this way taxidermy could be more fully rewoven into our cultural tapestry. Our furry, bewhiskered tapestry.
At any rate, as I contemplated taxidermy last night I wondered what I could rightfully claim taxidermy rights to. The list was pretty lame: one deer (struck by my car in 2000), a couple of rabbits (car), and a few trout (car again). So much for the great white hunter. I felt especially insecure after finding this on a taxidermy services site:
Yep. It’s a hippo.
People also taxidermy squirrels. It’s the opening of squirrel hunting season in Louisiana and I have to say that I share in their excitement. This is because several squirrels moved into the crawlspace between my second and third floor. The result: bruised knuckles, fist-marks on the ceiling, the faint smell of paprika seeping from behind the outlets, the almost inaudible hum of rodent sonic bombs. Talk about man’s struggle against nature! One of the squirrels has also threatened me. He chatters at me when I leave and tried a little B&E the other morning. Six A.M. and I hear this clawing near my head. Tom DeLay, as I’ve named him, is trying to claw his way beneath the windowscreen and when I rip up the blinds and stare at him he chatters at me like I’m at fault. Little wanker. I know I should leave the screens shut, but I have this issue of bees as well (hive, bathroom vent, you get the picture). Sometimes it’s like that movie “Swarm” when I get up. I’m okay with bees, too. But not Tom. I would like to kill and barbeque him and feast on his nutty flesh. And maybe stuff him. Or put him on a stake to warn off future squirrel incursions. The English Admiralty used to execute pirates and then posthumously tar them and place them in cages attached to buoys that marked the shipping lanes near London (tarring kept the seagulls from devouring them). I’m thinking they knew what they were doing.
All right, now a brief plug for my work, which is supposed to be the focus of this web journal. An excerpt from In the Shadows of the Sun is coming out this month in the Mid-American Review (Vol. 25.1). It’s titled “Beneath a Paling Sky,” and takes place on the Bataan Death March. Check it out. Support new writers! Eat squirrel!
November 17, 2004: Godless Mo’fos!
Dag. Two weeks since the election and I’m still wondering What the f---. I have to admit that after the initial disappointment with the results I tuned out the news for about a week (thereby freeing up roughly 1000 hours which I then wasted on mindless visits to espn.com (the Raiders, sadly, really, really, really suck; Al Davis must die!), velonews.com & cyclingnews.com (Tyler doped; Lance probably dopes; most professional cyclists likely dope [aside: if everyone dopes, does it matter?]), and realultimatepower.net (ninjas, happily, still rule and kick pirate ass!). Yeah, I know—fifty billion sites and all I can think to visit are these four.
At any rate, I have to admit that I was—truly—surprised that the world didn’t end with Generalissimo el Busho’s election. I have three thoughts on this political development and how to deal with it. No, four. Before reading on, consider skipping to a different entry if you feel that an irate political rant is not the thing for you. Or if you’re offended by cursing. And keep in mind that I’m a registered independent.
Rant begins here:
1) Voter fraud. I don’t buy it. Bottom line is that Bush won the popular election, like it or not.
2) Schadenfreude. My way to get through the next four years is via schadenfreude, which translates as “a malicious satisfaction in the misfortunes of others.” Meaning that now that this dude’s again in power we deserve what we get. And what we’re gonna get is more of the same lame-o foreign policy, divisive politics, and a widening gap between the rich and poor. All punctuated by offensive lapses in judgment (witness Abu Ghraib, the security situation in Iraq, or the Texas gerrymandering DeLay-o bullshit) in which people “take full responsibility for their actions” by not admitting any guilt or facing any consequences for their actions. Yee-haw! And, yes, the concept of schadenfreude in this environment is somewhat nihilistic, as Dubya’s blundering and self-described “crusade” (nice word choice, yes?) against terrorism will likely come at great cost to our nation. But that seems to be the mood of the country: Vote against economic self-interest and foreign policy that promotes stability and global goodwill because what really, really matters is that gays shouldn’t get married. Yeah, man. That’s substantive. That’s the big picture. Values, you godless mo’fos! If gays marry, well, we might as well nuke everyone. Arma-fuckin-geddon! (By the way, that’s using “fuck” as an infix—cool, eh?) Men and men, women and women, cats and dogs living happily together! What next? I mean, holy crap! We could end up at war to the tune of 1000+ Americans dead and a cost of 200+billion, witness fundamentalist states arming themselves with nukes, and lose many of the rights to due process we’ve fought so hard to preserve. Oh, wait... Well, fuck. Okay, but let’s stay on message: What’s important is, we got to land people on Mars, drill the crap out of Alaska, outlaw abortion, and keep after those gays. That’s progress. That’s the big picture, amigos. Stay in line, ’cause separation of church and state is bull and the Supreme Court is gonna prove it in just a year or two. And that means that Values with a capital 'V' are coming for you. That’s right, you, mo’fo! You writing the f---ing blog with all the curse words. Pansy foul-mouthed artist mo’fo. Get ready for Jesusland! We know what’s good for you even if you don’t!
3) Hubris. By this I mean that power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Even if the current administration has no students of history, it will still suffer the consequences of colonialism as have other nations before us (the Portugese in Angola, the English in, well, Iraq & Afghanistan, etc. etc.). When you have the power they have it’s inevitable that they’ll overstep. When you promote Condi Rice to Secretary of State, Wolfowitz to National Security Advisor (it’ll happen, just watch), and in effect reward incompetence with promotion, it’s just a matter of time until you overstep. Bush believes that his presidency is a manifestation of divine will and it feels good! Good! Kicking righteous ass! Kicking the shit out of evildoers in the service of the Lord’s strategery! We’re headed back to the maxim that fucked the French and generations upon generations of peons, serfs, and, well, everyone but those in power: The king is appointed by God and may act accordingly. But sooner or later the bread runs out, and when it does, even Values won’t get in the way of hunger.
4) ACLU. If you have spare change, channel it into an organization that means something to you. It’s a variation on my approach to having an overwhelming amount of work to deal with: I write up a list and then do the things I can accomplish most quickly. That way, no matter how long the list, I feel a sense of tangible progress. It gives me a grip on hopelessness. So I’m giving money to the ACLU. Even with Ashcroft out (and how appropriate was it that he had gallstones that were blocking his bile duct, by the way?) we’re in for a rough ride. Start local and work your way outward.
Rant ends here.
Okay, I’m feeling better. Ahh, catharsis. I know that this blog is supposed to be about literary news or cycling, but sometimes the wider world bears down like an out-of-control semi filled with ball bearings and dynamite. And you, you sorry unfortunate, you’re in a crappy two-cylinder Geo Metro in the middle of the Jersey Turnpike. Brace yourself!
On to the literary. First, the ARCs (advance reader copy) of Shadows just came in and they look very, very cool. They even have foil lettering. Sweet! It pains me to have to send any of them out even though I’m trying to get some blurbs/writer endorsements for the final book jacket. You can check out the Nan Talese Books catalogue to see the whole list of books due out this spring and summer. A lengthy excerpt (65 pgs.) from Shadows is coming out in the spring issue of Puerto del Sol (Vol. 40.1). It’s titled “El Malpais” (The Badlands). Many thanks to the crew there for taking it on. Their magazine is cool, so check it out here. Second, Mark Poirier’s new book, Modern Ranch Living, is out in stores everywhere. Visit his website and play “Mark Pong” and get a listing of when and where he’s reading—you won’t regret reading his work.
Finally, it’s my brother’s birthday. So: Happy Birthday, you Lexus-driving, stock-trading, lacrosse-playing maniac! I toast you from the hinterlands of New England. Now go out and buy yourself something nice.
December 23, 2004: Mmmm, delicious evangelicals; Leviticus 25:4
Yes, the struggle of Man vs. Nature continues. The latest chemical weapon is paprika. And, man, if Chemical Ali had had this, he would have annihilated the human race. I first tried using this powdered death chili about a week ago. The squirrels started acting up—perhaps having returned from a vacation home deeper in the condo complex—and as I listened to them thump through the crawlspace above my head and chew very near the fusebox, I decided enough was enough. I unscrewed the electrical and cable plates from the walls and then inserted a tube filled with paprika and blew the powder into the wallspace. Thus began the terrible collateral damage. For whatever reason, the stuff came flying back out, right into my eyes. The agony. You have no idea. My eyes felt like smoking coals. I lost two contact lenses and my youthful optimism in under sixty seconds. But this only strengthened my resolve. By 3 A.M. I had successfully aerated the squirrels’ love nest and, man, did they not appreciate that. It sounded like World War III up there: chattering, thumping, clawing, death threats, cussing like I’ve never heard—they’re definitely the size of rottweilers and meaner than Texas Republicans. I think there are two; I’ve named them Tom DeLay and Karl Rove. Failing the paprika/Anthrax, the next step is firearms. So if anyone knows of a cheap elephant gun (.410 caliber or above) just give me a ring.
Okay, so in the wake of the elections I’ve given up reading the paper and resumed reading, well, books. Here are some of the gems:
♦ Alessandro Barrico’s Silk and Without Blood. Great formal innovation; Barrico has wonderful range.
♦ Louise Erdrich’s Four Souls. Very fine; a continuation of Love Medicine that deals with the forebears of Medicine’s characters.
♦ Barry Lopez’s Arctic Dreams. Amazing detail and breadth of knowledge. Everything you ever wanted to know about the Arctic. Also depressing; as usual, humans are crapping where they eat.
♦ Anna Applebaum’s Gulag. This is a comprehensive history of the Russian gulag system. It’s a bit dull at times, but generally fascinating and has opened my eyes to some new teaching approaches. The fascinating thing about the gulags is how similar they were to the Japanese POW camps. The lesson: people are depressingly adept at mistreating each other and prone to do so. Abu Ghraib is just the latest case in point. Another truism: wretches like Stalin and Beria never have to own up to their misdeeds—not then, not now. The Chilean dictator Pinochet is the latest example of this (and I bet you can think of a few more, too).
♦ Annie Proulx’s Bad Dirt has a few great stories, but generally doesn’t measure up to her excellent collection Close Range. I’m rereading The Shipping News, which is outstanding—there’s something appealing about the way she uses incomplete, abbreviated, or truncated sentences to create a bluntness that helps to define both the Newfoundland setting and the nature of the events that beset Quoyle; the strike of a ballpeen hammer that makes you see stars.
♦ Larry McMurtry’s The Last Picture Show. I reread this and was freshly struck with his deft characterization and deep understanding of the human psyche. This book never gets old.
And on the subject of The Last Picture Show, the big news is that Mr. McMurtry, one of my favorite writers of all time, blurbed Shadows. I still can’t quite believe it. Possibly the coolest thing to ever happen to me not involving a girl. I mean, the dude is a God of Letters. The Last Picture Show. Anything for Billy. Lonesome Dove. The Danny Deck books. Pulitzer Prize. Man oh man. Thank you, Mr. McMurtry. (I’m not giving away the blurb; it’ll wait until the book comes out.)
In other news, my story “Graveyard Dogs” received an honorable mention in the 2004 Pushcart Prize compendium. Also, the Fall issue of Mid-American Review is out with the excerpt from Shadows. Robert Boswell also has a great story in there; in fact, I believe he’s coming out with a collection from Knopf next year. This is very cool given that his other two collections, Living to be One Hundred and Dancing in the Movies, are two of my favorites of all time.
I’m done with political rants, though if you’re still nursing your hurts or animosities over the election then you can get good and riled up at fuckthesouth.com. A few thoughts, though, on a societal move toward values and God’s Law given that there’s so much noise about doing as the Bible says (this comes from an email forwarded me, author unknown) as it relates to same sex marriage:
“As you said ‘in the eyes of God marriage is based between a man a woman.’ I try to share that knowledge with as many people as I can. When someone tries to defend the homosexual lifestyle, for example, I simply remind them that Leviticus 18:22 clearly states it to be an abomination... End of debate. I do need some advice from you, however, regarding some other elements of God’s Laws and how to follow them.
1. Leviticus 25:4 states that I may possess slaves, both male and female, provided they are purchased from neighboring nations. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans, but not Canadians. Can you clarify? Why can’t I own Canadians?
2. I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
3. I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanness—Lev. 15:19-24. The problem is how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
4. When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord—Lev. 1:9. The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. Should I smite them?
5. I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself, or should I ask the police to do it?
6. Most of my male friends get their hair trimmed, including the hair around their temples, even though this is expressly forbidden by Lev. 19:27. How should they die?
7. My uncle has a farm. He violates Lev. 19:19 by planting two different crops in the same field, as does his wife by wearing garments made of two different kinds of thread (cotton/polyester blend). He also tends to curse and blaspheme a lot. Is it really necessary that we go to all the trouble of getting the whole town together to stone them? Lev. 24:10-16. Couldn’t we just burn them to death at a private family affair, like we do with people who sleep with their in-laws? (Lev. 20:14)”
Isn’t “smite” a great verb? I think that it should come back in vogue in contexts other than those having to do with love. No more love-smitten. Let’s work smite and smote into the political lexicon (I’m still a bit unclear on how this verb works—smitten and smote are interchangeable?). E.g. It is my hope that Ronnie Earle, the Travis County District Attorney, will smite Tom DeLay for misuse of corporate funds so completely that Mr. DeLay will whine and shiver like an arthritic dog at the mere memory of just how thoroughly and deservedly he was smote for his crapulent congressional redistricting of Texas.
That’s it until I return to the wilds of New Hampshire for the lovely winter. Until then, may your house, condo, apartment, or shaque d’amor remain free of squirrels. I’d say Merry Christmas, but that assumes everyone is Christian (and that hasn’t happened—not yet!). I, for example, am heathen and will be celebrating by roasting an evangelical on the 25th.
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