My Book Tour

A Passing

2009-11-04T15:46:00.000-08:00

Claude Levi-Strauss: 1908-1909

Wow. I didn't know he was still alive. Levi-Strauss was a structural anthropologist whose work had a huge impact well beyond his field. A couple of years ago, for a presentation at a popular culture conference, I used some of his ideas to theorize about homosocial male bonds in the television show Friends.

Claude Levi-Strauss, dead at 100. He shall be missed.

A Passing

2009-09-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

Mary Travers: 1936-2009

This one hurts me. One third of the folk group Peter, Paul, and Mary. I've loved their music since I was a kid, and even today it speaks to me. Some folk purists might have found things to criticize in the trio, but they were important figures in that they successfully packaged folk music for a mainstream audience. In so doing, they brought a message of peace and equality to many. We need more like her today, those who can show that it's cool and sexy to be kind.

As an adult, I really fell in love with Mary. I courted her through Youtube. The way she swished those blonde locks. That powerful voice. Her abiding convictions and activism. Marching at Selma. "Dust in the Wind" at the March on Washington. And always the hair. The way she jerked her head and swished that beautiful hair. Watching her, I always felt a profound sense of being born just slightly out of time.

Hammer on, Mary. We will miss you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_UKvpONl3No

A Passing: Walter Cronkite 1916-2009

2009-07-17T21:24:00.000-07:00

Rest in peace Chi Phi brother.
rj

MLA weighs in on Iran

2009-07-03T21:04:00.001-07:00

The Modern Language Association recently put out a statment regarding the report of police violence on college campuses in Iran. I like the statement, and it is altogether fitting that we should stand in solidarity with our fellow scholars and students. And I'm a proud MLA member. Still, it struck me a little funny when I pictured Ahmadinejad's reaction: What? The MLA has made a statement?! This is getting serious!

Indie Profile: Readers Oasis--Quartzsite, AZ

2009-06-28T02:14:00.000-07:00

Well, it is hard to say anything about Readers Oasis without first mentioning the owner-operator Paul Winer, who has his own unique way of beating the heat. I had passed this bookstore several times but I was usually on my way to the airport and hadn't had the chance to stop in. Finally, I set aside the time.

I had been "warned" about Paul some time ago, but I guess the details had slipped my mind. I was browsing the store when he suddenly appeared from around a corner and the effect of this mostly naked man suddenly upon me was startling. I tried to catch myself, but I think he saw me visibly flinch.

The store is an open-air diverse mix of books, magazines, music, videos, and memorabilia. It is located in the small desert town of Quartzsite, a community that balloons in the winter with RV-ing winter visitors. The store is homey and informal. I don't even think there is a cash register. Winer also keeps a sizable section of free merchandise, ready for the taking, quite a novelty in today's environment.

If you are looking for a specific book, and you want to find it quickly, Readers Oasis is probably not the best option. While there is some effort to section off areas by subject and genre, the divisions didn't seem very consistent. Nothing is alphabetized and many items are stacked one atop another. Come ready to browse leisurely in an eclectic, quirky atmosphere. It's definitely worth a stop.

Goindependent Rating: Three Emeralds

Reading and Discussion

2009-06-26T23:44:00.000-07:00

Here's a video of me reading and talking at an event at Lakeland Public Library in Florida.

I'll De-clare!

2009-06-23T01:00:00.000-07:00

I got my new passport this week.

First of all: Wow, can one man gain a lot of weight in ten years! I look like I ate the guy from the last passport picture, then grew a beard and got glasses, then ate at a Shoney’s breakfast buffet every weekend morning for the entire decade.

It is time for some changes, people. A healthy diet, a vigorous workout regime.

But this strays from my main point.

Does anyone think the new passports are a little hyper-nationalistic? The entire book is filled with quotations lauding the United States and illustrations that broadcast the tried-and-true idealizations of our country. Were the old passports like this?

The liberty bell and the constitution seem almost mandatory. Fine. The bald eagle and lady liberty, too. The grazing bison, Mt. Rushmore, a steamboat rolling down the mighty Mississippi, fields of grain, a farmer plowing behind two oxen, two cowboys driving a herd of longhorns, a Whitmanesque locomotive, smoke billowing from its stack, charging across the frontier, a testament to American progress.

On the page with the train is the quote from Promontory Point: “May God continue the unity of our country as the railroad unites the two great oceans of the world.” Seems a little manifest destiny-ish, no?

Do I have any problems with any of these photos, specifically? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. But the accumulative effect of them, along with the quotations. It just makes me wonder: When does patriotism become nationalism? And when does nationalism become jingoism?

Must we always mitigate the good with the bad? Do we need to remind ourselves that Washinginton and Jefferson owned slaves, that our taming of the Mississippi is causing coastal erosion at a football field a day, that nations of people were exterminated in our push across the continent.

I’m not anti-American. There is certainly plenty to be proud of, no? But what does that mean, to be proud of one’s citizenship status, especially a status we are born into by mere chance? Does the good done by my countrymen and countrywomen reflect on me in a way that should evoke personal pride? If so, should the bad done by my countrymen and countrywomen evoke in me shame? Isn’t that the logical extension?

But again…what is logic?

Probably, I’ve spent too many years in graduate school, sitting around tables and pontificating on stuff like this. Actually, I’m sure this is the case.

Happy travels.

Post Script

Of course, I'm never original. Many have already pointed out the obvious.
eg: http://www.tnr.com/politics/story.html?id=88301410-af84-4c65-9ae0-9ed47e62f586

Reading: Lake Wales Library

2009-06-21T02:12:00.000-07:00

This was a special night. It was last summer in Lake Wales, my hometown. I thought I had lost these photos when my camera was stolen in San Francisco, but I found them saved on my computer.

The event was sponsored by my hometown library along with the Florida Humanities Council. My talk was on "Writing Small Town Florida," and I really enjoyed it because it gave me a chance to talk about my town and my family, my friends and memories.

Many of my family members were in the audience, including three grandparents.

I worked on my prepared remarks right up until the event, still drafting as I sat waiting in the parking lot, the AC of my mother's car blasting into my face. It was a warm, humid evening.

I watched as a few people trickled into the library. I watched them, and I felt a bit nervous. There was something different about addressing a crowd of people made up of many who had known me for so long.

A short woman got out of a car and made her way deliberately toward the entrance. I recognized her and felt a rush of emotion. It was Mrs. Hoagland, my senior year high school English teacher. I would have never expected her to attend. It had been almost twenty years. Yet here she was.

I count Mrs. Hoagland as one of my chief influences early on, a woman who encouraged me and who expected nothing less than excellence. She was a kind of icon at our school, a right of passage. One thing I remember very well is a poetry unit she conducted. We were all charged with writing a series of poems based on her specific prompts. On a regular schedule, she would select some of our work for recognition and post the work outside her classroom door under the heading "Fame and Glory."

I remember trying to casually walk by her door on those mornings, surreptitiously checking to see who was chosen. I remember having to restrain my excitement the morning that mine was among them.

I still remember the poem by heart:

My grand possessions I hold dear

Betray and torment me

In the Darkness

My hanging coat inches toward me

Hoping to seal my doom

A crack on the floor is an evil Serpent

Sent by the Great Dark Prince

Terrified, I close my eyes

Hoping to find relief

But in my mind my foes remain

Where they binge on my helpless soul

Here is where they live and thrive

Until the coming of the distant morn

As I sat in the car and watched people gradually making their way into the entrance, on the radio I heard, for the very first time, Bon Jovi's "Who Says You Can't Go Home." Dear readers, forgive my lack of irony when I admit that I teared up.

I thought, as I listened to those lyrics, that such a coincidence as this would never be acceptable in a fictional story. It would be unbelievable, over the top, totally sentimental.

Among those pictured here is my grandmother, partly obscured in the back row. She was a basketball player in her youth. She once made a shot from half-court.

Facebook and Egocentrism

2009-06-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

Here I am again after another prolonged absence. I apologize, faithful readers. I hope you both will find it in your heart to forgive me.

My last entry is so topical, so embarrassingly so, that I need to get something else up.

So here are some thoughts.

I, like so many others, have fallen victim to Facebook hackers. What usually happens is that we get a message from one of our "friends" that asks us to follow a link. How they encourage you to follow a link varies and can be quite ingenious. My message, for example, stated that someone had posted a hilarious video of me that could be seen at this link. Of course, I was flooded with all of the horrifically embarrassing possibilities, and I clicked the link immediately to check the damage.

In reality, clicking on this link sent the same type of message to some or all of my Facebook friends. These friends are safe unless they actually click on the link like I did, whereupon they are potentially infected with a virus. Some people (the smart ones, ones that--perhaps--would never allow themselves to be recorded in horrifically embarrassing situations) do not click on the link. Others do click, and they fall subject to the same problem that I had.

So, to recap, one person is infected and spreads the infection to his or her friends who in turn infect their friends. It reminds me a lot of graduate school in this way.

What I've been struck with in this process has been the degree to which people (against all logic) are scrambling to place blame somewhere other than themselves. I see messages like "Don't blame me everyone! This thing started with [insert name of friend]. I didn't send it."

Of course you sent it!

You sent it the exact same way that the person sent it to you. Your friend clicked on something he or she shouldn't have. Then you did the same thing. If you didn't click, you wouldn't have to apologize to your friends. From my point of view, both users are equally culpable. Logic dictates that if you blame your "sender," then you should accept full blame with your "sendees."

But what is logic in human affairs?

I guess I understand the need to feel indignant. I suppose it's like being on the receiving end of a venereal disease. One doesn't see oneself in the long line of unfortunate infectees, all of whom became so in the same basely carnal way. We don't think of ourselves that way, as one in a long line of anything. We are each the central object in a universe designed to respond to our own needs and desires, our triumphs and heartbreaks.

It is why we have such difficulty imagining our own death, the notion that there could be a world without us, the unpleasant knowledge that--at bottom--we shed our mortal coil just like everyone else and that the world, the universe, goes on largely as it did before. What a concept.

On the bright side, we can find ourselves being very angry (justifiably or not) with those we haven't spoken to in the real world for years. Just another way the digital world can bring us closer.

In the meantime, keep a syringe of cyber-penicillin nearby.

When Swine Flew

2009-05-01T18:22:00.000-07:00

A Passing

2009-04-25T23:52:00.000-07:00

Beatrice Arthur (May 13, 1922 – April 25, 2009)

Remember Maude? Bea Arthur's character presented a non-apologetic, progressive, feminist character in a way that didn't totally alienate audiences. No small feat.

And the theme song was really cool.

Thank you Beatrice. You shall be missed.

Elegy to My Car

2009-04-25T18:29:00.001-07:00

Automobilus Maximas

What dreams may come when we have crushed this metal coil
Have handed over, stripped of parts, gutted, skeletalized,

and cubed-- shipped out to that undiscovered country,

fence-shrouded in piercing silence to mark
the days with the other ghosts of tread?

What dreams for thee who lived out your final days
So much the butt of jokes, for thee who had such moments,
Who sped down quiet desert roads playing Bob Dylan
Through 120 degree heat and rising
Through unseasonal Canyon snows
Through Joshua Tree, cold Christmas night,
Las Vegas, Yuma, San Luis, rocking shock-less
Characteristic even at night we’ve been told,
Outliving your peers, struggling valiently alongside
burnt-colored youngsters and hybrids

Take rest now, resident of quieter streets
Stacked with companions one atop another
Silent and Still
Detritus of progress, hidden, shameful

Ring out the grief that takes a bow
To those that here we’ll drive no more
Ring out the long-earned dusty miles
Ring out for them of parts and oil.

O Wagon! My Wagon! our mutual trek is done
Our undivided trip is set, our paths we tread alone.

My kingdom for a shoe

2009-04-25T08:02:00.000-07:00

In my dreams I am very often inappropriately shod. It's a running theme, in fact.

I'm back playing high school or college football, for example. Usually, I'm my 38-year-old self, but some loophole has allowed me to suit up for the team once again. I'm standing on the sidelines and waiting to get sent in, when I realize I'm not wearing any shoes. I look under the bench, searching for my cleats, but all I can find are a pair of penny loafers, which I put on reluctantly.

Last night I had somehow become an entry-level employee at some big financial firm. (I think I had left CNBC running in the background.) I'm at a table with all of the other new hires, a bunch of good-looking, young go-getters. We're all dressed in business attire. We are called in one-by-one to give a formal introduction of ourselves to the big-wigs and to explain how we think we can help the company. I'm confused, because I don't know anything about finance, but I try to scribble some notes down on an envelope. That's when I realize that I'm wearing flip-flops...with white socks.

whew!

2009-04-23T21:42:00.000-07:00

Book in the News

2009-04-18T23:42:00.000-07:00

http://www.cnn.com/2009/SHOWBIZ/books/04/18/latin.america.chavez.book/index.html

I'm sending Raúl Castro a copy of True Kin, just in case he wants to pass it along.

OK, I'm back, sort of

2009-04-15T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm somewhat surprised that, despite my long absence, this blog has some die-hard followers that extend beyond my mother and aunt. It has been some time since I've posted anything substantive. Quite a few things have happened. Or maybe very little has happened. I'm not sure.A few have inquired as to what I'm "waiting" for. I took my first two comprehensive exams. I haven't heard how I did, so I am waiting. I won't know until around 4/25. Wish me luck.

One interesting thing I did over the past few months was attend the national MLA conference in San Francisco. It was my first time on to both city and conference, and I was kind of excited about it, so much so that when I noticed that a young attractive woman (ahead of me in line as we boarded the plane) was reading from the conference program, I interjected, "Hey, you're going to MLA." I think that both she and I were slightly taken aback by my exuberance. I followed up with, "Um, me too." What followed was an awkward conversation where I further embarrassed myself and which ended with her returning to her reading.

I swore several complicated oaths against myself as I found my seat and settled in for the flight.

MLA is funny in that it attracts individuals who are virtually unknown in the mainstream world yet who are like rock stars in their own specialized community. I found myself thinking thoughts like, Oh my God, I'm standing right next to Gayatri Spivak. I could, like, stroke her hair if I wanted to. Or I can't believe I'm eating at the same buffet as Stanley Fish. OR What if I just ran up to Judith Butler and kissed her right on the lips. What would she do?

Having lived mostly in Florida and the Arizona desert, I'm used to warm outdoors and lovely over-cooled interiors. I found this somewhat reversed in San Fran; hence I found myself sweating a good bit more than I would have liked. There's no way to play it off when you're visibly sweating, no way to seem natural or relaxed.

Other than this, I was able to see people that I haven't seen for a long time. I also visited my publisher's display in the exhibit room. I was curious to see how prominently my book was displayed. Sadly, it was not even there among the hundreds of others. But I did get to meet some nice people from the press.

Of course, I broke from the formal events of the conference to explore the city. On the second night, I took a trip down to the famous Haight/Ashbury area and had a wonderful, wild time. I met lots of friendly people of many types. Unfortunately, my camera was also stolen, which contained many very cool photographs. That was a tough blow, and now that I think about it this was one of the reasons I kind of lost the desire to post.

So, in lieu of photos, I have rendered a likeness from memory (such as my memory is) from that night at "The Haight."

I was lucky enough to get a $300.00 stipend to attend the conference. This was for participating in a session geared toward community college instructors and was led by Gerald Graff, another luminary, and his wife Cathy Birkenstein. The session focused on their book for college writers, They Say/I Say. The book's premise is a little controversial, but for the most part I'm on board with them. Composition teachers, check it out.

Below is a faithful representation of a tender moment following the session.

....to be continued...

Waiting

2009-04-09T21:57:00.000-07:00

New Digs!

2009-02-13T00:48:00.001-08:00

A Passing: John Updike March 18, 1932 – January 27, 2009

2009-01-27T14:41:00.000-08:00

No matter what you think of his work, it's impossible not to recognize John Updike as one of the United State's premier men of letters in the 20th century. With over fifty books, including a number of bestsellers, two Pulitzers, two National Book Awards, countless essays and reviews, the man was a prolific success and recognized as a literary writer at the same time. This is increasingly hard to pull off, it appears. Considering him, he almost seems the last of dying breed.

I saw him speak once, at The Florida Suncoast Writer's Conference, circa 1997. After his keynote speech, I went up to the podium hoping to shake his hand, make that brief corporeal contact with a legend, but there were too many people lingering around him and I gave it up.

I always admired Updike's carefully crafted style. If his characters failed to move me, it was probably due in large part to my carefully cultivated disdain for middle-class suburbian life. The most recent work of Updike's that I read is a poem. I first heard it recited at an academic panel on scatology. It is called, "The Beautiful Bowel Movement." It showed me another side of him, one that I had to respect.

John Updike, dead at 76....He shall be missed.

Inauguration thoughts from Road Dog Kathy

2009-01-22T15:12:00.000-08:00

My inauguration was a bit frustrating, less than the momentous experience I was hoping for. I wanted to go down earlier, but my friends convinced me we could still get on the mall even if we didn't get up at 5 a.m., and alas, they were wrong. We got turned away. The mall was shut down by like 8:30 or 9. Hundreds of people were stuck in sort of no-man's land, not on the mall but not on the parade route either. Bleh. So we were lucky and had tickets to a Democratic Leadership Committee parade watch party, where we watched the inaug on TV and were served limitless champagne and oysters and bacon--wrapped scallops, etc. Not exactly the authentic and hard-fought experience of the common man rejoicing in this very uncommon moment of history. But, I suppose, it was moving wherever you were, and I did have some sort of inaug experience, even if it wasn't the one I had imagined. We did get to see the parade--we were right along the route, on 15th near the corner with Pennsylvania--and I did see the Man himself walk down the street. So... something.

Ric, what is the cure for deep pangs of historical regret? Why wasn't I on the mall? What can I do to stop asking myself that? Maybe you should post that: Why weren't we all on the mall? Or why aren't we all out there in our own ways, making history?

--Kathy Crutcher
Writer, Teacher, Philosopher

Post-Inauguration Comments from Down Under

2009-01-21T13:08:00.000-08:00

So let me tell you how I am feeling today after watching the inauguration concert and Obama's presidential address.
I feel very emotional. Throughout both, tears were filling my eyes and occasionally travelling further.
I feel, for the first time in many years, that something might be changing much for the better - and this despite a greybeard's realism.
I am starting to think, again for the first time in many years, that your people and your leadership might be capable of inspiring others again, instead of making your country hated or a laughing stock.
I feel that you might, just might, have some intelligent, compassionate, hard-headed but sensible--a powerful word when you think about it--role to play in the world, not only directly but indirectly, through the way you handle your internal challenges.
I love the inclusivity of what I have been seeing and hearing. Yes, it's all just words and images but words and images are so important.
I wondered how, in my own country, Aboriginal people might feel about seeing Obama up there, and the same for so many other colonised peoples. I noted how Obama had sent a letter to the people of Indonesia, thanking them for their role in his upbringing.
I feel more hopeful than in a long time, despite the dire situation of the planet, and of global politics.
I am aware of the structural impediments to change.
I feel like wishing you, and your country, well.
I feel the awesome responsibilities on Obama and those who work with him and who support him.
I feel, in a most un-Australian fashion, like wearing my heart on my sleeve for a change and saying 'Well done Yanks and bloody good luck!'

-- Graeme Parsons
Darwin, Australia

Passings

2009-01-18T18:01:00.000-08:00

Those readers who have known me for a long time might know of my affection for the Star Trek universe, an affection that culminated in a quasi-obsession in the early to mid-1990s.

The franchise lost two important members recently, and I wanted to take a moment to remember them here.

2009-01-16T06:21:00.000-08:00

Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Montalbán y Merino
(November 25, 1920 – January 14, 2009)

Some don't realize that Montalbán first played Khan Noonien Singh in an episode of the original Star Trek series, an episode entitled "Space Seed." He reprised his role, of course, in the motion picture Star Trek II: The Wrath of Kahn, delivering an inspired performance that anchors what many consider the best of the Trek movies. The character in Wrath is patterned in many ways after Melville's Captain Ahab, whom he quotes or paraphrases throughout the movie. Captain Kirk, whom Kahn blames for the death of his wife, becomes his elusive White Whale.

Majel Barrett
(February 23, 1932 – December 18, 2008)

Barrett is by far the most ubiquitous actor in Trek history. The wife of late Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, she played "Number One," the Enterprise's first officer in the pilot episode "The Cage," which never aired in the series' original run. In the original series she played Nurse Christine Chapel, who had an unrequited crush on Mr. Spock. She has also supplied the voice for the ship's computer in, I believe, all of the series and films. Her best role, in my opinion, was the recurring character Lwaxana Troi, the sexy mother of ship's counselor Deanna Troi. Lwaxana was a favorite returner in Star Trek: The Next Generation and also made three appearances on Deep Space Nine.

Ricardo Montalbán and Majel Barrett, dead at 88 and 76 respectively. They shall be missed.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave" OR Calling All Arachnidologists!

2008-12-23T22:19:00.000-08:00

I've been using the winter break to study for my upcoming comprehensive exams. I have to say that I'm really enjoying the process. I think it is good to be confronted with how much we don't know about the things we think we know so much about.

As a writer, it makes me feel small and insignificant when I discover how many works and how many people are really involved in the Literary History of the United States until 1900. Many figures just get a passing nod in the Heath Anthology of American Literature. Many don't get that.

I'm also noticing that I have a lot of spider webs in my house. I guess I already knew this, but until recently I haven't taken the time to look closely and carefully at them.

I tend to give spiders the reign of my house. They just don't bother me enough to whisk them away with my broom, and I figure that if they pose me no danger and we aren't in competition with one another, why not be generous with my space? (Readers, please let me know if the type pictured is dangerous.) When I come through my front door, letting in small flying insects, I like to watch those insects get caught in the webs, then watch the spiders pounce suddenly, wrapping the tiny prey in silk, little snacks saved for later.

They remind me of cattle ropers when they do this.

Then they return to the center of their webs and sit motionless, patient.

Is it sadistic to enjoy this? Or do I just need a fuller social life?

A Bailout for Writers?

2008-12-12T19:09:00.000-08:00

Paul Greenberg explores the option in a recent NY Times article.

"[. . .] onetime best-selling novelist and story writer Ann Beattie mourned the situation of the modern writer, living in a world where people are more interested in 'being a writer' than in writing itself. 'There are too many of us, and M.F.A. programs graduate more every year, causing publishers to suffer snow-blindness, which has resulted in everyone getting lost,' she lamented."

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/12/14/books/review/Greenberg-t.html?ex=1386824400&en=09a9564cb990ba51&ei=5124&partner=facebook&exprod=facebook

More words from Father Chuck Messer

2008-11-22T13:27:00.000-08:00

Chuck's a very old friend of mine. He used to get me in trouble in kindergarten. Now he's an Episcopalian priest, and a progressive Christian voice.

Whatever our feelings about organized religion, I think it's important to recognize that there are voices within the churches that call for social justice and inclusiveness.

http://www.redeemeronline.com/Sermons/Sermons%20mp3/Chuck/C.%20Messer%2051108.mp3

Lake Wales High School Gym

2008-11-21T20:15:00.001-08:00

The home of my amateur wrestling exploits

Exploit, circa 1989

Signing: Largo Public Library

2008-11-21T19:41:00.001-08:00

I lived in Largo for a while, and I spent many lazy Sundays in the local library. It was small and cozy. It wasn't very busy, and they had a good selection of books.

The new facility is huge and amazing. My signing was also on a Sunday, and the place was literally filled with people and activity. It was great to see.

I also got to spend some time with my dear friend Nancy, who kept me company. I also realized that, in my absence, her children had grown into adults. Strange.

Ahh, St. Petersburg

2008-11-15T23:41:00.000-08:00

I spent several years living in St. Pete, Florida, and I have mostly positive memories. Here is where I--for better or worse--decided to make writing a primary focus in my life.

St. Pete is known as a retirement Mecca, full of old people, and it certainly is that. But it's also a lot more. The city has a pretty vibrant art, theater, and music scene. The community radio station, WMNF, is one of the country's best, and there is actually plenty to do.

Here's another true independent with a rich history. Haslam's is just west of downtown St. Pete. Like many independents today, they offer a mix of both new and used books. I had a little trouble setting up a reading here because of my book's price, but Ray was kind enough to give me a shot. It might have helped that one of the stories in True Kin is based, in part, on this bookstore, especially stories about the hijinks of Jack Kerouac's ghost.

I sold a few books, met some old friends and nice new people. (Somehow, I forgot my camera.) The time talking with Ray was really cool. This store is a must-visit when you're in the area.

This was my apartment building. It's also what I used as a model for Claire's apartment in "True Kin" (the novella). A few people have called me on this already.

I've never regained the same sense of coolness that I imagined myself as having when I lived here. These were my most bohemian years. Cool place. Cool neighbors. The place looks about the same as it did in my day, if a little more tidy. We shared a mailbox here, and I remember getting so many rejection letters in that box. I plastered my walls with them to the amusement of my friends.

The Garden (see below) was the hub of what a few of us called "the literary scene," a loose-nit group of literary types and hopeful writers. Mainly, it was me, Shannon, and "Gatsby," with many other some-time participants. We wrote collaborative poetry, read aloud in a back booth, shared our work, drank lots of beer and wine. It might sound really pretentious, but I think it was too innocent to be that.

On Fridays there was (and still is!) great jazz music by the Buster Cooper Trio.

That was our booth in the back.

That night, my friends Cheryl and Jake threw a party, and I got to see a lot of people from the old days. I met most of them through work at Barnes & Noble. I know, I know. I've been amazed how well we've maintained a connection through the years. I'm always uplifted by this group.

Oh, and I sold a bunch of books here. I kept going back to their office and signing them, my handwriting growing worse and worse.

Sage

Merci, mes amis.

The Historic Hotel Grand: Lake Wales Florida

2008-11-14T23:31:00.000-08:00

The Hotel Grand is the most prominent structure in downtown Lake Wales and has always attracted my imagination. It was built in the 1920s, at the end of a Florida real estate boom.

The inside is quite ornate, and the place must have been really something in its day. I'm told many famous people stayed there.

In my childhood, the hotel (then called the Walesbilt) was well past its prime, but it did have habitable rooms and a number of businesses on the ground floor. Soon after I graduated from high school this was no longer the case. Today the building is in full disrepair, with all entryways boarded up. It makes me sad when I drive by it.

There is hope. Development plans are often discussed but so is the possibility of demolition.

When I was in high school, one of my classmates fell from one of its upper stories and died. I don't know if it was an accident or suicide.

The Grand makes an occasional appearance in my prolific dream life, especially in dreams of the acrophobic variety. Usually, I am at its top and terrified about this prospect. In the worst cases, I am hanging out of a window, legs dangling, my fingertips slowly losing their grip.

Inkwood Books: Tampa Florida

2008-11-12T20:02:00.000-08:00

Inkwood Books is another proud independent, located near Tampa's historic Hyde Park. The store is a converted 1920s bungalow, with a friendly and casual atmosphere. They've been around for about seventeen years and they are staunchly independent and members of IndieBound. They are also stalwart supportors of local writers. I've attended many great readings here in the past. I'm really honored that they opened their doors to me.

The reading went well. I read from "Hurricane Party," a story that takes place in Tampa. I had a great time seeing old friends and meeting some new people. I even managed to sell a few books.

I had a nice little crowd eventually, including my dear friend Elle and a former workshop teacher, RS, who was forced to read many of the True Kin stories in their earliest form. Also in attendence was an ex-girlfriend whom I hadn't spoken to in over a decade as well as GOINDEPENDENT reader and contributor "Comprehension." He and I were actually grad students together back in the days before the millenium. ODQ, it was great seeing you.

"I am. This is how I smile."

I forgot your name, my friend, but it was good talking to you.

Brother's Wedding

2008-10-25T16:09:00.001-07:00

My brother tied the knot last weekend. It was a great time.

Friend

2008-10-25T15:58:00.000-07:00

My kindergarten classmate, the Rev. Chuck Messer, officiated the wedding. Here he is with my brother. (Chuck's the one dressed like Gandalf.) Here's a link to one of his recent sermons. It deals with the current financial situation.

http://www.redeemeronline.com/Sermons/Sermons%20mp3/Chuck/Messer101208.mp3

2008-09-25T00:22:00.000-07:00

There’s been a fair amount of talk about the historical nature of the nominations this election year, and with good reason. Barring the unexpected, it looks like an African American or a woman will occupy the executive branch for the next four years. We’ve recognized and celebrated this, and it is altogether fitting and proper that we should do so.

However, we haven’t said much about another fact represented by both Barack Obama and Sarah Palin.

They’re young!

Depending on where we set the mark, both Obama and Palin can be categorized as GENERATION X. (AKA the 13th Generation)

Remember us?

“Slackers,” the “unsung generation,” a bunch of self-centered and fickle kids with “a hazy sense of [our] own identity.”

Douglas Coupland, the novelist who popularized the term, was born in 1961. Palin was born in ’64, the same year as Rob Lowe and Obama. Demi Moore was born in ’62, the same year as David Foster Wallace, whom we lost recently.

We’re getting old guys, and I personally lament that fact on an almost-daily basis. But the other side is that we’re stepping forward—albeit hesitantly—onto the social, literary, and political stage. People are starting to listen to us.

Holy crap! Is it our turn already? Are we real, full-fledged grown-ups?

What will we do with our brief blip in history?

Stay tuned.

A Passing:

2008-09-13T22:19:00.000-07:00

David Foster Wallace

February 21 1962 -- September 12, 2008

This one is hard to believe folks. Whatever you thought of him, it would be difficult to deny David Foster Wallace's importance among contemporary novelists.

Like me and a number of the readers here, he was a graduate of the University of Arizona's MFA program, a man who had achieved literary success beyond what many of us dare to hope.

And yet.

Life is complicated, isn't it?

David Foster Wallace, dead at 46. He shall be missed.

A Mini-Documentary...on ME!

2008-08-23T17:12:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uN7cdDA24ic

I'm not sure if, by posting this, I am massaging my ego or opening myself up for ridicule. I'm not even sure that these two possibilities are mutually exclusive.

This brief sketch, put together by honorary Road Dog A.O., offers a glimpse of my life as overnight desk clerk at the Flamingo Hotel. See the related essay here.

Spanish Moss

2008-08-23T17:05:00.000-07:00

Ari, I never showed you a good example in Louisiana, so this
is for you.

Urban Think Signing, Orlando

2008-08-23T16:08:00.001-07:00

Tight Shirt!

Urban Think! Bookstore is the type that I have looked forward to visiting. It's located in the Thornton Park neighborhood of downtown, very near Lake Eola Park. It's really a charming area, with no mouse ears in sight and not too many chain establishments. They offer a diverse selection of books, including many regional picks and works by Florida authors. They also display work by local artists and sell non-book gift items made locally. Their Signature Series has brought in an impressive list of writers.

Inside the store is an Infusion Tea, an urban vegetarian teahouse that offers a nice beer and wine menu. Take that, Barnes & Noble. I was really glad to see this, and I think more independents might think of marketing this combination that has worked so well for the book superstores.

The staff, including the manager Jim, is friendly in a laid-back, non-oversolicitous way. The store is a proud member of Indie Bound, and based on their literature they take their role in the community seriously.

I didn't give a reading here, just sat at a table with my books. It was interesting observing the different responses to me, some friendly and inquisitive, but many who seemed not to want to make eye contact with me. It's funny; I completely relate to the latter folk. To be drawn in can lead to the obligation to act interested for several seconds or, even worse, to make a purchase out of pity or obligation.

I did sell a few books, and I met a pretty young Ohio State Alum, a journalism grad now working in real estate.

Despite the inauspicious start to my day (see two posts down), I'm really glad I made this stop. That's Urban Think! Downtown Orlando. Check it out.

It's not the heat; it's the stupidity

2008-08-12T22:44:00.000-07:00

Backing up a bit...

So, during my brother’s bachelor weekend, I had a reading scheduled in Orlando, at Urban Think Bookstore. After the first night of Rays’ baseball and subsequent debauchery, I was forced to rally the following morning and make the nearly cross-state journey to Orlando. I put on my khakis from the night before and pulled out the shirt I had intended to wear, a shirt that I soon discovered had shrunk with the first washing. No remedy; it was all that I had clean.

I left in a disheveled mess, my shirt bursting at the seams, my two brothers still in bed and—in my opinion—not giving me the appropriate pity.

I got into the rental car and cranked up the air conditioner. I was soon out on the interstate. The put-on-your-seat belt tone kept sounding, which annoyed me. I couldn’t be bothered with such pedestrian concerns.

…

Actually, that tone was a gas tank warning.

I was in the middle lane when I felt the engine give way. I knew immediately what was wrong, and luckily I was able to pull alongside the end of a merging lane, right up against a wall, cars roaring by me.

Bad, bad, bad.

Stupid!

I called AAA and described my predicament. I would be late for the event, but I was alive. It could have been worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I got out of the car and waited. At the coming event, I had planned to read from “Kerouac’s Ghost,” and I hadn’t reviewed it yet, so I practiced, reading out loud from my book, on the side of I-4 in the humid Florida heat.

Medium story short: I was not rescued by AAA but rather Florida Highway Patrol’s Road Ranger program, by two really nice guys who sent me on my way with no charges and best wishes.

Requisite Gator Pic

2008-08-11T17:50:00.000-07:00

Two alligators on the shore of a canal at my Grandad's house off the Kissimmee River.

Lake Ashton Reading

2008-08-11T11:47:00.000-07:00

Lake Ashton is an upscale retirement community, and they invited me to read briefly as part of their weekly coffee and pastry informational meeting. I took a great shot of all of the golf carts lined up at the meeting area (see above) but it didn't come out well.

As many of you know, I'm not crazy about closed-community living, but this place is really nice. I can certainly see the appeal. Fish the afternoon away, a little twighlight shuffleboard, and square-dancing at night. Sign me up.

No, Florida isn't the South

2008-08-11T11:43:00.000-07:00

My Lakeland Reading

2008-08-06T09:22:00.001-07:00

The City of Lakeland showed up for my Lakeland reading and recorded the entire event. It's not my best performance (and I'm a bit more oily than I'd like) but you can find it through this link. Follow the "In Person Series, Ric Jahna link.)

http://www.lakelandgov.net/news/whatsnew.html

Best wishes,
R

Hooner's Bachelor Weekend

2008-08-04T15:33:00.000-07:00

My brother Hooner will be leaving the ranks of the unmarried in October, and this weekend my brother Tick and I took him on a bachelor celebration in St. Petersburg.

Hooner arrived on Thursday early evening, and I talked him into a spontaneous trip to to Vero Beach on the Florida East Coast. I had an intense desire to go body surfing, and the Gulf Coast just doesn't have the waves. We left a little after midnight, and early into the trip I felt my enthusiasm wane. Still, it was good to be back in Vero, our family's common vacation destination throughout my childhood. I hadn't been there for over fifteen years.

-
After very little sleep, we arrived at the beach the following morning only to find the Atlantic completely serene and waveless. I have never seen anything like it. It was clear that there would be no surfing of any kind.

That afternoon, Tick joined us and we departed for St. Petersburg. The weekend had all of the mishaps and hijinks that we could have asked for. The trip was anchored by three Tampa Bay Rays baseball games, all of which we won in either convincing or spectacular style. There was plenty of merrymaking before and after games that sometimes went overboard (Bob set firecrackers off in the bathroom). My diet went out the window, as I enjoyed such delicacies as pancakes, pizza, and fried mozzarella. We topped the trip off with a trip to a menswear store where we were fitted for our wedding suits.

Good times.

First Reading, Lakeland Library

2008-08-04T15:20:00.000-07:00

The Lakeland Library reading was a lot of fun. The attendees were really interesting and supportive. I read from "Independence Day, 1983," and it seemed to go over pretty well.

Thanks so much to Brenda Patterson and all of those who attended.

Old Friend

2008-08-04T15:12:00.000-07:00

Among those in attendance was my dear old friend Bob, LWHS classmate c/o '89.
Thanks for coming out Buddy!

Rain from back porch view

2008-07-29T23:27:00.000-07:00

Nice welcome home.

Me with aunts and cousin, much love

2008-07-29T22:51:00.000-07:00

Lot where our trailer was, ages 0-4

2008-07-29T21:27:00.000-07:00

Gena, Brother Road-Dog Nick's Dog

2008-07-29T21:24:00.000-07:00

2008-07-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

Legion Field: Home of the Mighty Fighting Highlanders!

My home from ages 4-14

2008-07-29T21:21:00.000-07:00

View of Lake Aurora from Grandparents' Living Room

2008-07-29T21:19:00.000-07:00

Feeding the Fish

2008-07-29T07:18:00.000-07:00

The fish weren't as active as they usually are. My grandad thinks they are a bit full on the Mayfly larvae.

Below is a softshell turtle. (Good eatin')

Our famous Spook Hill: A free, if somewhat anticlimactic, tourist attraction

2008-07-29T07:11:00.000-07:00

Lake Wales

2008-07-28T10:30:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow to Florida

2008-07-25T13:39:00.000-07:00

http://www.mapquest.com/mq/3-7ubXbF0fp0PwkhRmhuCu

Get the sun screen ready.

Sunday Morning Rain

2008-07-22T17:44:00.000-07:00

I woke very early Sunday morning, and to my great surprise I found it raining. Ah, rain: giver of life. I realize now how much I took you for granted. I decided it was a good omen.

And here is my haiku that it inspired.

Early morning rain
brings thoughts of home, where we say
"Lord knows we need it."

Here there be dragons.

2008-07-22T14:51:00.000-07:00

After the rain, around noon, I realized that I could study no further without a copy of Poe's The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. I drove into town, to the library, which I learned is closed all day on Sundays.

Upon returning home, as I turned into my driveway, I encountered this monstrosity. My first thought was that it was an iguana, and I had a moment of confusion, having to remind myself that I was in the desert, not the Florida Keys.

Other than the Gila monster, I didn't realize we had a species of lizard this large. Thankfully, I knew it wasn't a Gila monster. I've written here before on my aversion to snakes and elsewhere on my preoccupation with alligators. While this was neither, it resembled both enough to keep me in my car until it receded into "the burning bowels of this earth."

And yet I did in fact like him or her (probably a her,) this lizard. To come across it like that, with my camera within reach, it was pretty cool.

Our friend, I later learned, was a COMMON CHUCKWALLA or Sauromalus ater. Just as I figured, it presented no danger to me, also pretty cool.

My first attempt at adding video here

2008-07-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

Let's see if it works.

Parker, AZ Indies

2008-07-19T05:36:00.000-07:00

One of the things I like about Parker is that it has a lot of locally owned businesses. With only a handfull of the restaurant chains and no Wal-Mart within 40 miles, independents have a real fighting chance here. Joshua St. Mall is home to several, but the whole downtown area is full of them.

I recently spoke to one owner who has been operating here for 35 years. I had hoped to do an in-depth profile on the business, but this owner frowned and explained that "I have negative connotations associated with the word 'blog.'"

Humph!

How this person passed up the opportunity to be featured in such a premier and celebrated forum as Go Independent is truly beyond me.

Now, Tiffany's Bistro, which you can see in the second photo below, is one of our newer additions. They make killer sandwiches. Pay them a visit when you're in town.

Views

2008-07-18T13:45:00.000-07:00

"Standing on the bare ground -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinte space, -- all mean egoism vanishes. I become a transparent eyeball. I am nothing. I see all. The currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God"

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Not quite that, but early the other morning I went out on my back porch to switch my laundry and caught some nice light against the cliff. The sun was shining, but there were some darkish clouds forming, fueling hope for rain. (It did not, of course, rain.)

As far as back porch views go, mine is not bad. I've had much worse. Having grown up in a mostly flat Central Florida, I still find myself moved occasionally by the mountains that surround me. That morning was one of those times. The moment seemed to demand the sensibilities of a poet. So here's my haiku:

Summer desert morn

Socks and underwear drying

Wild heat hours away

Ouch.

Think About It

2008-07-17T12:20:00.000-07:00

I realize that this is just a rough mock-up, but it gives you a general idea of what I'm thinking. Who's in? Feel free to submit a draft of your own vision.

Transportation: Option 5--See The Potential

2008-07-17T10:54:00.000-07:00

Road-doggers,

I realize that the dream of the single, sustained book tour/road trip has been revised and postponed, but on my walk from the mechanic to my office today I spied this bargain.

You must view it the way you might a first draft of a short story, not in its current state but in its potential for greatness. And we could also make its restoration a group project. Have you guys ever seen Grease? Imagine us in our own auto-restorage montage, wearing jump suits, having paint and grease fights, wrenching along to the music as the van is transformed before our eyes. Forget that few of us have any automobile knowledge whatsoever. I know Nick J and J-man have a few skills. Nick C--former mechanic and tugboat crewman--what do you say? We need you!

Most importantly, we need to come up with a good name. Grease Lit-ning? Omnibus? Groo-Van? I'm open to suggestions.

With Age Comes...

2008-07-16T13:19:00.000-07:00

I've been studying for my upcoming comprehensive exams, most recently reading a lot of Emerson and Whitman. I remember encountering them as a young English major many years ago and embracing their wild optimism and their celebration of the individual self. Now, when I read them, what I mostly see are clear symptoms of bipolar disorder.

Consider this passage from Emerson's Nature:

"Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear."

A textbook manic episode?

I'm not sure if my reaction is part of our current tendency to read pathology into everything, an adept amateur diagnosis, or a projection of my own jadedness.

Here's a stanza from Whitman's Leaves of Grass:

Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
Earth of the slumbering and liquid trees!
Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt!
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth!
Smile, for your lover comes.

Of how many potentially great poets are psychotropic drugs robbing us today?

Back to the books.

Not a Review: Brief and Late Thoughts on _The Kite Runner_

2008-07-11T03:37:00.000-07:00

I recently listened to the unabridged audio version of Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner. I wasn't sure I would like it, which is one of the reasons I got it in audio from my local library. Something this popular can't be very good, I figured. I was prepared to dismiss it.

And I will admit that I found plenty of passages and tropes that made the MFA student in me wince a little. Although it is quite well written overall, this is not a book that would survive the fiction workshop unscathed. (Is there any such book?) And yet, I have to admit that I was deeply moved by the story. It remains with me days after having listened to it.

"There is a way to be good again." I keep pondering this line.

All of this has to say something about a work's literary value. I'm not saying anything new here. For decades now critics have been seeking to rescue books like Uncle Tom's Cabin and Charlotte Temple from being dismissed as mere popular or sentimental writings.

Minutes ago I finished watching the movie version of The Kite Runner, which I thought was a worthy interpretation of the book, although--as usual--the film fell well short of the depth and texture of the novel.

Taking the two together I feel that I have a better appreciation of Afghani history and the plight of this country's people. It's an example of how a focused narrative can foster interest and emotional investment in ways that newscasts and histories rarely can. This is one of the reasons the novel will never die.

Readers, what do you think?

I look forward to seeing some of you in Florida soon!

"For you, a thousand times over!"

Guest Column! Ari Olmos Reports from His Life Abroad

2008-07-07T00:59:00.001-07:00

Isla del Sol

by Ari Olmos

If I ever feel impelled to sequester myself on a remote island 3000 meters above sea-level, I won't have any doubts as to where to go. Isla del Sol.On my way back from La Paz, I spent one night on the island at Don Ricardo's hostel. I arrived as green and ill-prepared as you could possibly get. While everyone else had hip-strapping backpacks, I alone tried to hump a rolling suitcase up the steep dirt trail. No matter how many times I stopped to catch my breath, my chest would begin to pound after two minutes' ascent. But while the Danish girl and the medical-school-bound Seattle snowboarder I met on the boat never made it to the top, I am really, really glad that I did.One of the most extraordinary views I have ever seen awaited me at the top. The enormity of Lago Titicaca. Glaciers visible in the distance. The water lit up by a sun of other-worldly proportions.

But when I reached the hostel, Don Ricardo was nowhere to be found. It was Saturday, and music blared from a reunion at the town's only school. I had chosen the hostel due to the gushing recommendation in Lonely Planet, and I was reluctant to go elsewhere. Eventually, a neighbor checked me in, offering me my pick of one of 4 rooms that had keys already resting in the locks, assuring me that I did not need a receipt. I accepted this distrustfully, and took the nicest room of the lot. As I was sweaty from the hike, my first action was to attempt to use the shower in the tiny bathroom.

The shower had no curtain and was not separated from the toilet, and the brown clay or concrete floor was freezing. There was no water heater, but an electric showerhead that was supposed to deliver legitimately hot water. I waited, shivering, for the water to warm up. When it didn't, I fumbled with the temperature knob, and when that didn't work, unwilling to concede defeat, I ran my hand over the green and yellow wires that stuck out suspiciously from the unit. It took me a second to register the sensation that came next. I'd been shocked before, but never for more than an instant. I'd never felt like current was passing through me continuously. I could swear there was a buzzing sound in my ears, and before I knew it, I was screaming. I wrenched my hand away, snapping the plastic pipe in two.

I got the water off, and took a moment to gather myself. The situation, I decided, was unenviable. I didn't have a receipt. The showerhead was dangling by a cord next to the window. No one had heard me scream. I hadn't succeeded in taking that much needed shower.

But I did not dwell.

I dressed again, and headed up to the summit to catch the sunset. I passed a restaurant with a few tourists, and knew that wasn't my scene. On the road, an old man called to me from his bodega, and invited me to buy snacks or drink a mate at the table behind his shop. I took him up on the latter. I let him serve me mate de coca, and I pulled out my notebook and attempted a little writing. Pretty soon, the feel of the mug in my hand, the warm drink in my throat, and the mood-altering view made me forget all about my troubles.

In another hour, it was pitch black. Moonless night. I stopped at a restaurant and ate delicious fresh trucha, then I staggered back to Don Ricardo's in the dark, by the light of my cell phone. This time Don Ricardo was to be found. He and another guest, a woman of around 30, were talking and preparing soup. Don Ricardo greeted me in his Argentinian Spanish, the sound of the Argentine "je" recalling my brother's guitar teacher, a chill and friendly dude.

It was night now and freezing cold outside. It was dark, and not a streetlight was to be seen. The mood in that warm room, with the soup cooking, was instantly intimate. Don Ricardo offered me a portion, and while he cooked for the three of us, I spoke with the woman. She was British, of Brazilian parents, living in Sao Paulo. She was doing a masters in art therapy. I told her a little about the work I was doing at SKIP. I told her I had thought about teaching creative writing to the SKIP kids, and she showed me a book of exercises she had with her. Writing as therapy. Writing without the aim of writing perfectly, but solely serving the writer as a form of release. I told her about the recently-discovered joy of learning the guitar--playing for the sake of playing, with no grand hopes or expectations. A tape played faintly. A woman singing in French, the instrumentation mellow and slightly electronic, music I'd never heard.

Soon thereafter, she produced a deck of tarot cards and asked me if I would like to draw one. I told her I would. "Think of a question," she told me, "you would like answered." She shuffled the cards a few times, then fanned the cards out on the table face-down. At first, I could not think of one. Then I thought to myself: why not ask the scariest unaskable question?

Should I pursue writing as my career?

I am not a superstitious person, but at that moment, the question seemed to rise through my blood, through my soul. It seemed to me that my entire trip to Peru had been about accepting the reality that I could not hack it as a full-time writer, about making the transition to writing as a hobby. Taking the pressure off. Getting writing back in perspective. Certainly it was not healthy to view writing as the only thing, to hinge my whole self-esteem on this one thing I could not yet do.

I'd traveled to Bolivia specifically to talk to my uncle about working for his development company, Chemonics. I was telling anyone who cared to ask that my work at SKIP was the most worthwhile thing I'd done since I graduated college. It wasn't that I was hedging in all this thinking, hedging against the possibility of a bad card. On the contrary. I was ready. If the answer was no, my reaction would be relief.

She told me to close my eyes and draw a card using my left hand. I did as she said. The card I drew was the 6 of batones. Six of clubs. The picture was of six muscular arms spiraling out from a center circle, each of the 6 fist brandishing a club.

The significance, she read to me from a book, was great success. Great success and achievement await you. Be careful, the fortune admonished, to guard against excessive hubris. Great success can bread arrogance.

I mused, at the time--what if I was to take as a given that I would eventually be highly successful at writing at some unknown time in the next 50 years. How would that change my approach? How would that free me? I cannot say I took my card seriously, though there was a certain pleasure in a good omen reaching me at such an unexpected time and place.

The next morning, I woke before sunrise, and hiked for two hours before breakfast. I hiked purposefully but without destination, without any care for seeing the sights tourists were supposed to see. I reached the point of the southern part of the island, and sat down and meditated for a few minutes and felt very much at peace.

Ari Olmos is a man of many talents. Writer, Filmmaker, Snowboarder, Chess Champion: These are only a few words that apply. We here at Go Independent call him dear friend.

No One Tells Me Anything

2008-07-06T03:44:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how, in this world of information technology, key information can still fail to reach those who most need it.

Apparently, this week, ending today July 6, was designated "Independents Week." This is a national initiative. Linked below are some clear reasons for shopping at local independent businesses.

http://localfirstaz.com/about/why-shop-locally.html

Not a Review: Late and Brief Impressions on Two Indie Films

2008-06-30T01:44:00.000-07:00

A Mighty Heart: Honestly, it’s just so good to see Angelina Jolie in something other than a tabloid or a big-budget, broad-stroke, hopeful blockbuster. This movie allowed her to interpret a character with some depth, and it was a nice reminder that she is—whatever else she may or may not be—a woman of acting talent. It reminded me of why I fell in love with her in Girl Interrupted. A far overdue pleasure. (And of course a sad and tragic story)

The Year of the Dog: Here, Molly Shannon gets to demonstrate the deeper ranges of her talents. This is a strong performance that may force us to think differently of her, although I’ve always sensed a certain tragic understanding beneath many of her SNL characters. She gets something. This is Mike White’s directorial debut. (He also wrote it.) Some of his previous work is pretty lackluster in my opinion, but he was also a writer on Freaks and Geeks, the quickly canceled and now—in my opinion deservedly--uber-appreciated television series. I have an annoying habit of, three minutes into a film, listing the three possible plot outcomes with a self-satisfied roll of the eyes. The Year of the Dog made me look stupid. If possible, go into this one cold. Don’t even read the DVD cover.

Indie Profile: The Hill Top Motel, Kingman AZ

2008-06-21T07:18:00.000-07:00

The Hill Top doesn’t pretend to be what it’s not. It does indeed rest on a hill top, right on the side of the historic Route 66. It offers a view below of basically nothing, a razed and languished desert floor.

This single-storied 50s motor lodge has been independently owned and operated, by the same family, for over twenty years.

The owner/operator is polite enough, in his own distant, understated way. His giant, intimidating dogs, however, require some getting used to. These dogs (great Danes, I want to say) are liable to come charging out from his residence, but up close they are actually quite friendly and lovable. One wonders, however, if a single command from their master might put an individual in immediate peril.

The rooms are clean and come with microwave and refrigerator. Televisions provide clear cable with several movie channels. They sometimes allow pets, but they don’t designate pet rooms, which is a potential problem for people like me with allergies. But I had no problems.

They advertise free internet, but I wasn't able to get consistent access. That may have been me though.

They have a nice cactus garden around their sign, if that matters at all.

The hotel is in walking distance of a saloon-type bar and restaurant, but it closes at ten, (at least on summer weeknights.)

For forty-four dollars a night, this is a pretty good deal. I have nothing to complain about here.

Food For....?

2008-06-19T04:54:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, Father’s Day, I was grading essays in my office. The sun was fading outside, and I thought I’d take a walk while there was still some light.

I drove just outside of town and took a left into what I thought was the open desert. I had actually turned too soon, and the narrow road led me to our small, local cemetery. I had been here before. It was a good place. The last time I was here I saw a group of road runners (a bevy?).

I got out of my car and walked. I found a grave, “Joe Garcia, 1928-2006." On the same stone was etched “Beloved Wife, Etta Garcia 1933- ”

In the distance I watched a woman bowing over a gravesite. By the time I got closer, she had turned and recognized me. “I thought that was you,” she said. I recognized her, a friend. I hadn't expected this. “My father,” she said, indicating the grave she had just left. “Twelve years, it’s been.”

She pointed up to the front of the cemetary, near the entrance. "I came with my friend." I squinted and could see a large man on his hands and knees. "He just lost his little brother two weeks ago."

I nodded. What can you say?

“I come here sometimes,” I said. “I mean, my father’s alive, but…”

We parted, and further down the road I saw a very pretty young woman standing with her feet wide, just standing. Very still. She had a tattoo that ran up her left calf.

I walked to the end of the center path, paused in a flower garden, and turned around.

As I neared my car, the pretty young woman called to me.

“Hi!” she said.

A former student. How did I miss that?

She was with her mother, a very old lady with jet-black hair.

“We’re just here visiting Dad and Grandpa,” she said.

Her mother made her way slowly to their car and opened the passenger door. We talked briefly, my former student and I, about school, about the classes she was taking in the fall, about her plans for the future.

This week in class we read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery.” Also, “Embalming Mr. Jones.”

Readers! Can it be that we will all die some day?

Gather Ye Coy Mistresses While Ye May!

Make your scratch on anonymity.

Reluctant Capitalists: Bookselling and the Culture of Consumption

2008-06-19T02:46:00.000-07:00

By Laura J. Miller

http://www.inkwoodbooks.com/NASApp/store/Product?s=showproduct&isbn=9780226525907

Reviews

http://www.hbs.edu/bhr/archives/bookreviews/81/mwinship.pdf

http://www.slate.com/id/2141725/

Just so you know

2008-06-17T00:42:00.001-07:00

Announcement to teachers: Young students in English 100 will not necessarily find funny the witty banter of Ira Glass and Sarah Vowell.

We're working on writing "Process Analysis" essays this week, and I found an old episode of This American Life that dealt with the theme of "How-To's." I listened to it over the weekend and thought it was terrific, figured it would be an intertaining diversion. More importantly, I wouldn't have to develop a full lesson plan.

Early in the episode, Ira is trying to teach Sarah how to drive a car. I knew I was doomed one minute in. One of my students, an intelligent and focused young scholar, squinted and looked at me very seriously. "I don't understand," she whispered. "Is it supposed to be funny?"

Well, if you have to ask...

Luckily, in the same program, Junot Diaz reads his "How to Date a Brown Girl (Black Girl, White Girl, or Halfie)” This went over much better and sparked some interesting discussion.

This was a good education in audience. The segment was designed to appeal largely to listeners of This American Life and NPR in general. Inside jokes aren't funny when you're not on the inside. Oh, and I am an old man. I must remember this. Live and learn. That's part of the fun of teaching.

Last Night

2008-06-13T04:40:00.000-07:00

I had a strange dream last night. Actually, it wasn’t strange at all in terms of the overall canon of my dreams. But this one deals with upcoming events and has a literary thread, so here goes:

I am traveling alone in some vague part of the country. I guess I have to assume that it is somewhere in Georgia because I am aware that I am looking for “The Flannery O’Conner House.” In reality, I am not sure that any such place exists, but her being a relatively important writer, it seems like a solid guess that it does (exist). http://www.andalusiafarm.org/

I am on what seems to be a central avenue in a local town, nondescript, lined on both sides by what seems like pre-fabricated homes. I ask a local townsman where the Flannery O’Connor house is, and he gives me vague instructions, points me farther down the main street and to the left. I walk forward, turn left and find a lovely independent bookstore. I realize that I don’t have my video camera. How can I profile this store? How can I convey its local awesomeness to the rest of the country? I don’t even have a basic still camera. I am at a loss.

I stumble toward the entrance. (Why am I stumbling?) I enter, and inside it is silent, still: quiet. I walk around, looking for someone, anyone. The store is wonderfully eclectic. There are sections for children’s books, fiction, local writers, and Georgia history. I was right; I’m in Georgia. The store is furnished with soft couches and recliners. I smell coffee brewing. I consider taking a nap.

Finally, an old woman descends a staircase and greets me. She is the owner, she tells me. I ask her about the O’Connor house, and she nods as if annoyed, says that “Yes, it is just up the road.”

I want to tell her that I’m not just some know-nothing tourist, that I want to profile her store, to value what she is doing here, but she turns on her heel and motions for me to follow.

At this point, I’m stubling over my words. I want to know if she sells disposable cameras. She pauses. She seems bothered. She nods, yes. But you'll have to wait, she says. Her partner handles that. She begins to make her way carefully up the stairs. I follow at a respectful distance. As we reach the top of the stairs, the room opens up to me. It is not books that are kept up here but rather used furniture. All types: desks, recliners, couches, love seats, end tables. And here, suddenly, is her partner.

She is short, this partner, mid-thirties to early forties. I don’t remember her name if, in fact, it was given to me at all. This partner and I follow the older lady, who tells her that I’m looking for the O’Connor House and asks if she (the partner) can take me there.

The short partner says, “Yes, please follow me.”

I pursue, and the younger partner takes a right, down a very narrow, tile-lined corridor. I trail along, and the corridor takes a sharp left. By the time I take that turn I realize that I have inadvertently followed her into a small restroom. She is already sitting—pants a her ankles--on the toilet.

[Insert Freudian analysis here.]

“I’m so sorry,” I say, so embarrassed, and turn quickly out of the corridor, back into the main room. I’m looking for the hall to the staircase, and I think I’ve found it. I enter, and—despite all logic—here I am upon her again, her squatted humbly on the throne, and here I am saying, “Oh, God, I’m sorry. So terribly sorry,” and I turn into what I am sure is the main room. Yes, there is furniture all around. The old lady looks at me suspiciously, but then her partner is with us again, looking refreshed and sturdy.

“Had to pee, did you,” the old woman says to her younger partner.

“More than that,” the partner says. "I’m so proud of myself. My bowls are more regular than they’ve ever been.”

I give her “the thumbs up” and say, “Cool.”

That’s all I remember. I don’t think I made it to the O’Connor House. I would remember the peacocks, no?

Indie Profile: The DuBeau Hostel, Flagstaff, AZ

2008-06-11T00:33:00.000-07:00

I chose the DuBeau largely for nostalgic reasons. On my previously mentioned bus trip, I stayed here and had a wonderful time. My new friends and I drank beers around the fire in the the evening (maybe there was a fire), telling stories and singing songs deep into the night. My fellow travellers included Arizonans ("white" and Navajo) on weekend trips, Australians, Brits, Californians, Swedes, and an older New Zealander couple. The Australians actually had a full-sized didgeridoo. It played alongside an acoustic guitar and a homemade wooden flute of some kind. This was--and I don't say this often--a lovely night. I was twenty-five, and I'd just had my first short story published in a Tampa Bay Weekly. In the morning I would visit the Grand Canyon and in the mean time I was surrounded by gentle and loving people from all over the globe. The world seemed rife with wonderful possibilities.

Twelve years later, there was no fire (I'm not sure there ever was) and I was--it was very evident to me--quite old. Still, I was treated with great tolerance and even friendliness as I eavesdropped on the conversations of travellers, young people pondering good questions and with good motives. It was heartening.

The DuBeau is locally owned and operated, with friendly staff and a general communal atmosphere. The facilities are actually converted from an old hotel, one of the oldest in Arizona. The hostel has a full kitchen available for guests and provides a free breakfast from 7 -10 a.m. The recreation room has free Foosball and pool. The location is unbeatable, right in the heart of downtown, just a short walk to bars, coffee shops, etc.

The cost of a private room with a double bed is $40, including the tax, the other reason I chose to stay there. The hostel caters primarily (and according to whom you speak, exclusively) to international travellers. I wouldn't be surprised if they sometimes turn people away on these grounds. They may be more lenient in renting the private rooms. I was asked if I had a passport or a student ID, and thanks to my ongoing apprenticeship I did have the latter. Will I ever not?

The rooms are charmingly rustic. Quarters are not air conditioned, which is usually not a problem due to the mild climate. I did bring my own fan due to my excessive sweating problem.
*
If you can get in, the DuBeau is a local treat for the thrifty traveller and perhaps a quaint diversion for the hopelessly middle-classed respectables looking to "rough it" for a night or two

Flagstaff et al

2008-06-09T23:20:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I went to a conference in one of my favorite places, Flagstaff, Arizona. When I left Parker it was 112 degrees. I bought a AAA membership and took the old car north. She held up admirably well. The conference was fair, and my presentation went off passingly decent, but I mostly enjoyed hanging around the city, reading and relaxing in the cool weather. At the same time, I was disappointed with the lack of independent bookstores in a city that I would imagine able to sustain a couple. Starrlight Books is a small and quaint downtown store with, from what I could tell, only used books. There is also a Bookman's in town, part of a small Arizona chain of used book superstores. I'm not sure how I feel about this concept. Perspectives? *

But that's all I found. If you know of others, please let me know.

On my ride back to the desert, to my amazement, I hit a snowstorm. I don't see snow that often, and I certainly didn't expect to see it falling in late May. It was there suddenly, then gone before I knew it, but I enjoyed what I saw. In no real hurry to get home, and wanting to give my car every opportunity to make it back, I stopped for the night in Kingman. Kingman is the hometown of Andy Devine, which they announce prolifically. I googled him when I got home, but at the time I admit I only knew the name from the Jimmy Buffet song "Pencil-thin Mustache."

I got a room at a 50's travel lodge on the Historic Route 66 (review forthcoming).

I thought I would write, but since there was HBO I ended up watching Bottle Rocket, which I've been meaning to see and which I liked a lot. The Wilson brothers, for me, seem to have a take on the world that I really identify with. Both of them, especially Owen, deliver dialogue in a special way that I can't quite name but which is really suggestive toward something. Is that vague enough? I also watched Knocked Up, which was about what I expected it to be in all the good and bad ways.

The next morning I drove home.

It was nice to get out of town.

Book News

2008-06-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

It's out!

As some of you know, the book is out. It's a few weeks early and so far only in stock at a few online venues, but copies are beginning to trickle in other places as well. Thanks to all of those who have already purchased a copy.

The Real Cactus Motor Lodge

2008-06-04T02:32:00.000-07:00

This shows us at our best. The Flamingo Hotel: Tucson, AZ. We had our merits. Independently owned and operated. The old website is down. The last I heard, it was to become a Howard Johnson's.

In Response To Great Demand

2008-05-28T11:11:00.001-07:00

In the past I referred to my tenure living and working in a 1950s motor lodge. In response to the great demand for more information on this period, I am happily enclosing an essay I wrote during that time, c. June 2006. I shopped this around at a few journals and got a little interest but no takers. Now I happily unveil it to Go Independent readers.

Reasons Why—One Year Later—

You Still Live

and Work at
The Cactus Motor

Lodge in Tucson, Arizona

By Ric Jahna

Because, when you claim to be a writer, one way to prove that you’re by-God serious, absent any writerly accomplishments, is to enter a low-paying, unassuming job, the less prestigious the better, this in the name of gathering interesting material and focusing on the work. This way, you can cast the low-end nature of your life as a sort of artistic asset, even the fact that some of your neighbors are prostitutes or, if not prostitutes, at least strippers on the skids. It’s a slippery slope for people in a jam, a point you make—with practiced matter-of-factness—to your hopelessly respectable friends, waiting for that flinch of disapproval or judgment that lets you pounce—but in a controlled, understated way—eyeing them with an expression of measured pity before declaring that, indeed, there are many things in heaven and earth that may not penetrate their rigid domes of middle-class decorum, and then you can wait and watch them stew, backtrack, and make qualifications for being the classist, prejudging, wealth-hungering capitalists that they are, while you shake your head as if to imply there’s no hope for them.

This, and because knowing the whole time that while, in the name of art, you freely choose to debase yourself through such modest circumstances, you are, in truth, no stranger to more erudite pursuits. You can and do discuss potential applications of Foucauldian discursive analysis in relation to popular media of the 1990s, or argue over the most pressing narratological questions facing prose writers today, and occasionally, when meeting the infrequent visiting scholar to the university—someone attracted by the $34.99 advertised on your marquee—you’re able to drop such elements into conversation, not right away but at some point when you are getting the said scholar extra towels or a plunger for the toilet. Here, discreetly, you might let it slip that you have two master’s degrees—yes, and one’s an MFA: that’s terminal, you know—and that you are revising a novel, and watch the surprise in the visiting scholar’s face as you reveal intimate knowledge of the university and answer most any logistical question he or she has, and here at some point there is probably a pause where the visiting scholar ponders, but does not ask, the question: Why is it you’re working in a run-down motel? And again you can smile with heroic satisfaction.

Also, because sometimes, once in a while, Justin, Star, Ari, Ken, and Linda will visit you after the bars close, and you can open up the lounge area and offer them coffee or tea and sit around on the couches and wittily discuss potential applications of Foucauldian discursive analysis in relation to popular media of the 1990s, or argue over the most pressing narratological questions facing prose writers today, and at times like this it does not seem so ludicrous to imagine yourselves as some latter day, Southwestern version of the Algonquin Round Table.

*
Not to mention the fact that, despite your Marxist leanings, you are no great fan of the exercise of actual physical labor and, when you think about it, you admit that your responsibilities as overnight front desk clerk are few, and having your room maybe twenty yards from your job is convenient, with no utilities to worry about and free cable to boot, but more than this there’s the fact that you are indeed treated to some fairly interesting situations, can actually say "I’ve seen some wild shit, man," things that will stick with you, fodder for the great writing you will produce in the future, when all these heroics are over and you can fondly recollect your tenure at the Cactus Motor Lodge, in Tucson AZ, crazy fights that saw guns pulled, beer bottles broken over heads, but nicer things too—like that one time when a national women’s roller derby tournament was in town—with about five teams in your hotel alone—and how that one night, as you pecked away at your laptop, you were startled by a sudden ruckus in the pool area, so with flashlight and portable phone in hand you bounded out the side door and onto the deck where the pool was churning and alive with a dozen roller derby bodies, then some of them climbing out of the pool, naked—yes, totally naked—before jumping back in, and you stood transfixed in the moment and yet already making notes on how this might play out on the page, how you will describe the scene, stressing certain points in order to subtly allude to some mythical parallel, most likely the Diana and Actaeon story, because that’s what you think they look like, neo-goddesses and nymphs, and you the spying hunter—you watching stealthily as they bathe and frolic shamelessly, nipples erect in the crisp fall air, their lithe bodies blue in the desert moonlight.

First Time

2008-05-17T15:55:00.000-07:00

I was chased by a three-legged dog today.

On Snakes

2008-05-15T21:57:00.000-07:00

I don't like spiders and snakes
And that ain't what it takes to love me
You fool, you foolI don't like spiders and snakes
And that ain't what it takes to love me
Like I wanna be loved by you

--Jim Stafford, fellow Polk County son

One of my students was recently bitten by a rattlesnake. As desert dwellers, we know they are out there, but everyone always assures that actually being bitten is quite rare. Still, in the past three years, two people I know have been struck, both at night. The notion of it brings up my own tremulous feelings toward venomous snakes, a class of creatures fairly prolific where I grew up in rural Central Florida, or at least in my perception of the place. They became and remain a bit of a preoccupation for me. (Phobia?) They manifest with disturbing regularity in my dreams: everywhere then, ubiquitous, much so that to step a toe to the open ground is an imminent danger, or attacking directly sometimes, forcing me to grab one at the “neck” (the safest place I reason) to avoid the bite, but then I feel the contracting of the muscles, the head inching out of my grasp with gradual determination until it has enough room to turn back and strike.

In the real world I’ve had a few close calls. Three of them are burned in my memory in all of their serpentine terror.

1. Jogging barefoot through the woods on a trail behind my house, early autumn, the summer heat breaking into a crisp, wistful chill and I am suddenly upon a Florida rattler, stopping short, my toes maybe six inches from its long body, elongated, lethargically crossing the trail, me turning and chest racing as I sprint my way back home.

2. Sitting in the shallows of Lake Aurora, just behind my Grandparents house, alone, just having cracked open a fresh-water mussel and watching the minnows tear away at the pinkish meat, alone in my thoughts, until I look down and—I swear—one millimeter from my big toe is the enormous head of a cottonmouth water moccasin. How I sprang away from its hungry fangs is still beyond me.

3. Tubing down the river at Ichetucknee Springs with my church youth group, the water so cold—too cold—and me not finding any way to keep my body out of it, this cold water, deciding then to walk along the shore, tube hiked over shoulder, until the shore disappeared and forced me to make my way up an incline of woods where I could cross behind a pine tree and descend back to the shore again. My hand braced against the pine and one foot raised, ready to plant it down on …another rattlesnake, a pygmy I think, coiled there in the nether recess, waiting. Me, lunging away, my bare feet bruised against rocks and tree roots, a pointy stick, tube flying in the air and me diving toward the river and landing hard in the shallows just beyond the bank.

An Experiment

2008-05-14T22:34:00.000-07:00

I'm giving up the TV. Or at least my cable, which is almost the same since we don't get antenna reception where I live. The good goes out with the bad: no more PBS or Discovery. No more IFC. Still, I think it's the right move. I have a problem with the tube, a problem that sees me waste many hours a week. I didn't own a set last year, and some pretty good things happened. We'll see if I can last a while.

Featured Art: _Crouching_

2008-05-08T14:31:00.000-07:00

charcoal and paper

http://www.absolutearts.com/cgi-bin/portfolio/art/your-art.cgi?login=sahli&title=Crouching-1108522549t.jpg

2008-05-08T10:56:00.000-07:00

"The best-laid schemes of mice and men / Go oft awry"

2008-05-07T00:19:00.000-07:00

Fellow mortals,

The rising cost of crude oil, along with a number of other factors, persuaded those of us here at Go Independent to consider alternate tour plans.

We've decided to focus on the West Coast during July and Florida in August. We'll visit other locations periodically in subsequent months. You can see the newly proposed "leg one" above. A working schedule of readings is forthcoming.

Independent Profile: Yuma Cabana

2008-05-06T01:27:00.000-07:00

This independent, family-run motel sits proudly on Fourth Avenue in Yuma, Arizona. It’s the best deal in the area by far, with clean rooms, friendly staff, and solid internet access. The pool is actually something like sparkling. Prices run higher during the season, but in the late spring and summer months a single room costs 44.95.

I have a weakness for 1950s motor lodges, due in part to my year spent living and working in one. More on that later.

This particular place also reminds me of last August, of embarking on a new chapter: a new job, that unsettled feeling, a hotel room and a rental car, attending an orientation where every face you meet is new and and mysterious. And there's you playing that one version of yourself--polite and professional, guarded.

It was hot then, approaching 120 degrees in the late afternoon.

Tonight it is cool. It's pleasant and lovely, and I’m overwhelmed by all that I should be doing.

A Riddle

2008-05-06T00:50:00.000-07:00

This just occurred to me.

What living American figure played God, played the President of the United States,
and played a murderer?

Junot Diaz wins a Pulitzer

2008-04-30T20:35:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Junot Diaz, who wins a Pulitzer Prize in Fiction for his first novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao.

Here's a brief but interesting interview on PBS.
http://www.pbs.org/newshour/bb/entertainment/jan-june08/diaz_04-29.html

Transportation: Option 4--Greyhound?!

2008-04-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

Don’t smirk. It has been suggested by otherwise clear-thinking roaddogs.

I actually have quite a bit of experience traveling Greyhound. Most memorable is one summer trip, my first attempt at a cross-country quest. This was over ten years ago. It was to be my journey west, an adventure into that land of ever-reaching frontier, a space where one could slough off the burdens of the past and re-create oneself anew. I would begin in Tampa, Florida and end on the western shore, standing bare-chested and staring out upon the profound depths of the Pacific.

There were, of course, obstacles, mainly Greyhound related:

Time: I only had two weeks, after which time I had to return to my job working as a direct care counselor in a group home for emotionally handicapped boys. And Greyhound is slow. Its routes are often circuitous, and layovers are commonplace. Often, buses are overbooked and passengers are made to wait until the next one comes along.

Sleep: I had a hard time doing this. I had (and still have) restless leg syndrome, although I don’t think there was a name for the condition at the time. I need room to stretch out, squirm around a while before settling down to sleep. Unless you’ve felt the sensation, it’s hard to understand how unsettling this disorder can be. It’s definitely hard to explain.

Calls of nature: While traveling, your options are a bus bathroom or a bus station bathroom. Neither is a big inconvenience for an occasional visit, but days-on-end without a private, spacious facility can be taxing.

Dealings with the staff: Greyhound staffers don’t make a great deal of money, and they do work hard. They are sometimes on edge. They deal with many disgruntled travelers, who are themselves often downtrodden and disenfranchised. Things get tense. I consider myself, overall, a patient and peace-loving person, but just over a year ago (on a different trip) I found myself in a shouting match with one Greyhound driver whom I had perceived as slighting me and several others who had been waiting dutifully in line. (He started it.)

Cost: Although the coach may be the cheapest option in some respects, it is often necessary to take taxis to and from Greyhound Stations, an expense that can add up fast.

Suffice it to say that, when I reached Tucson after days of travel (it seems like four. Could that be right?), I had to get off. I stepped out of the bus into the hot dry air. The downtown bank thermometer registered 107 degrees. Dry heat, I thought. Here was that phenomenon I had heard so much about but never experienced, being a lifelong resident of the humid Sunshine State. I walked around the downtown Tucson area, got on random busses, looked at things, and eventually took a room at the Motel 6. Don Delillo’s Underworld had just come out, and I was reading a copy for a review I was going to write for a Tampa Bay weekly. I lay reading in bed, in the ice-cool air of my room, until the words blurred and I drifted to sleep. I slept very well.

The next morning I made my way to the campus of the University of Arizona. I had lunch at a little on-campus bistro. On the television above my booth I watched a feature about Tony Mandarich, a football player who had overcome many obstacles to make his impressive NFL comeback. His future looked very promising.

I liked the campus very much: the cacti and the mountains in the distance. I sought out the English Department and asked if they offered an MFA in creative writing. They did. They gave me an informational packet. On the lovely green of the court lawn, I sat in the shadow a giant saguaro. I opened the packet and leisurely read an essay by C.E. (Buzz) Poverman. The essay discussed, in clear terms, what an MFA can and can NOT offer a writing student.

I left Tucson a bit reluctantly but with the resolve that I still had places to go, things to see. I did the math on making it to the coast and back. I could still do it, but it would be close. Instead, I headed north to the Grand Canyon. I had a wonderful time. There’s a story about that, which I might try to tell here at some point.

Within a month after my return to Florida, on an otherwise typical work evening, I was struck in the teeth by a bar of soap wrapped in aluminum foil. It had been launched (at point-blank range) by a short, stocky client, whom I had just directed to take his shower immediately or risk losing his evening “goal-trip points.”

I recoiled backward in surprise and pain, checking my mouth for teeth particles or blood. There was neither.

Graduate school, I thought. Wait, there was some blood, but my teeth were there—numb and throbbing—but intact. I would go to graduate school. And soon! The fastest route was to attend the nearest university in the Tampa Bay area. I did this. And no regrets there. Four years later, however, I found myself back in Tucson, a happy participant in the fiction track of the MFA program. I took a plane to get there.

This is my testimony.

Let us not take Greyhound.

A Passing: Aimé Césaire 1913-2008

2008-04-23T14:09:00.000-07:00

I first came across the work of Aimé Césaire when I was writing my master's thesis and trying to learn as much as possible about anti-colonial writing. Césaire was a French Martinican, a poet, prose writer, and activist. He was one of the principals of the négritude movement that strove to forge a positive black racial identity in the face of colonial oppression. His efforts influeced Black Pride movements all over the world, including the United States. His anti-colonial stance also paved the way for the postcolonial (post-colonial, (post)colonial) critique that is so in vogue in critical theory right now. Edward Said writes of his debt to Cesaire in Culture and Imperialism.

Aimé Césaire, dead at 94. He shall be missed.

http://www.iht.com/articles/ap/2008/04/17/europe/EU-GEN-France-Obit-Cesaire.php

Guest Column!

2008-04-15T22:46:00.000-07:00

Road Dog Ace gives her report from the corporate cubicle.

Your blogmaster said I could use this space to guest-rant. I have tentative road dog status as of right now. I'm at a crossroads.

Things I hate about my corporate job:

-My cube. It's exceptionally salmon-colored. I have a puppy calendar up that my coworker gave me. The puppies are alternately wearing hairbows, pearls, and neckties. I also have a sign that says "Check your reserves and document!" This was company mandated. I'm mad that I know what this means and it matters to me.

-My boss. He looks like the Warden from Shawshank, so much so that we've taken to calling him that full time. My coworker (one of the few who is genuinely human) called him that to his face when hungover one morning a few weeks back. It wasn't received well. Just today, the Warden made fun of me for 15 minutes because I wrote "her" when I meant "here" in an e-mail. 15 minutes. Of my life. My precious, beautiful life.

-The fluorescent light which is competing with my stress level over which will give me cancer first.

-My claimants, my insureds (repugnant, all of you!), my claim files, my zombie coworkers who swear that they used to have dreams too but then claims is so stable and layoff-proof and they have families and mortgages and then you get realistic and comfortable and life gets in the way, etc.

But there are life-affirming things too. I'm going home to see my sister run a half-marathon. She hates her corporate job too. Some cacti were blooming last week. I've gotten 3 sizeable paychecks for things I wrote this year and I won't even apologize by telling you what I wrote or for whom. I know I won't be eaten up here and I won't have a mortgage or children for a long while if ever. My dream has not withered and died. It's still a raisin in a dry, room-temperature cabinet, I think. I'm really tired though. This work hurts my head and my pride. Office Space is a superior film, yes, but it's not funny any more. Not at all. It's just true.

So back to the topic of this blog: Independent book stores are glorious. How could anything "independent" not be? Let's not just visit them, let's buy one! Let's really really commit to never making any money but doing it with integrity. Maybe you guys have already committed to that.

If so, damn your integrity. I hope a little rubs off on me.
Question: Stay at horrendous cubicle job with evil "Warden" boss or quit and come on part of the Book trek and be irresponsible as is, I believe, my birthright?
--Ace in AZ

About the author: Despite her corporate day job, Ace is a top-notch writer of literary fiction. She is also one hell of a poker player. I think I financed half of her MFA with the money I lost to her.

Transportation: Option 3--A Really Cool Van

2008-04-12T12:14:00.000-07:00

This would offer certain space advantages. And it definitely has more panache than my car. I believe the back seat converts into a bed.

I live with a stigma, 'tis...um...

2008-04-10T14:47:00.000-07:00

Well, I figured out why I've been squinting to read lately. Today, I had my first eye exam since elementary school. Afterwards, a young pretty woman took me to a wall of potential frames for my new eyeware. She asked me what I had in mind. I thought for a moment. "Do you know Allen Ginsberg?" I said. "The poet?" She looked at me very seriously, shaking her head slowly in regret.

Book News

2008-04-09T15:08:00.000-07:00

My cover can now be seen on Booksense and other online venues. I'm happy with the image. It's of a faded family portrait, which I think goes well with the subject matter.
Check it out here: http://www.inkwoodbooks.com/NASApp/store/Product?s=showproduct&isbn=9780814251676

Amazon has it listed with a deep discount. I would love to get a few independent stores to match the price, at least during the tour.

My editor tells me that the files will go to the printer in a few days. Somebody pinch me! Not that I have a hard time believing any of this. I just really like to be pinched. I'm into it; sue me.

And So Much Green

2008-04-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

The trees, shrubs, and cacti come alive suddenly. I admire anything that can get by on so little, that can bide away in obscurity--waiting--ready to spring forth when the opportunity strikes. Surely there is meaning here.

Desert Blooms

2008-04-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

I recently took some time out of my grueling schedule and drove deep into the desert. We've had some really nice blooms over the past few weeks. My photos don't do them justice, but the purple and yellow blossoms are striking in this usually brown part of the world.

Transportation: Option 2 -- My Car

2008-04-02T12:29:00.000-07:00

I realize that she's not much to look at, but this 1985 Nissan Sentra stationwagon still has some life in her. This car has only 85,000 miles on it. The air conditioner even works. This would probably limit our capacity to four (maybe five) at a time, with space in the back for "luggage." If we go with this option, you can bring one moderately-sized bag (measurement requirements forthcoming) and one personal carry-on, like a back pack, briefcase, etc.

Journeypersons, let me know your thoughts.

Pardon my French

2008-03-20T23:10:00.000-07:00

On the 31st of this month I will be taking my French proficiency exam toward my current degree. As of tonight, I will be entering a period of total immersion. With the exception of my required duties, all of my interactions will be conducted in my target language. Please ensure that all comments to this blog are conducted in Parisian French.

Merci

Predecessors: The Merry Pranksters

2008-03-18T03:17:00.000-07:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Merry_Pranksters

Featured Word: "Busking"

2008-03-13T22:45:00.000-07:00

According to Wikipedia, busking is "the practice of doing live performances in public places to entertain people, usually to solicit donations and tips."

You can read the somwhat interesting full article here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Busking

Ace has raised the possibility of busking on this summer's trip. Can anyone swallow a sword?