ART SHOW TONIGHT

I was thinking about me and my girlfriend, circa 2006 when I painted this one. Irwin Court and the Arco. We were such little babies back then. Now we're big babies.

TONIGHT be there bro.

MORE ART SHOW WORK

The show is tomorrow. Check it out. All this and more

BAY BRIDGED

more art show preview

"expectant" acrylics on paper bag. b.g.

I'm using paper bags that I got from the grocery store for this project. I'm a big fan of using simple, reused materials for art, and the texture of those bags are perfect. There are some creases on the painting, from the paper's previous life as a paper bag, but I they look cool. In the same spirit of reuse, I got all these frames used, and fixed em up, rather than getting new frames.

Again, more info on the show is here. This painting will be for sale at the event.

sneak peak at friday's art show

"What Woman Do." Acrylics on paper. You can't tell from this picture, but it's in a nice frame. It is for sale. Send me an email if you are interested.

Otherwise, come down to the show on Friday! Check here for info!

story of the week: THE HAND

"the hand black" pen on paper. b.g.

I went all the way to Concord for the job interview. Five minutes in, they asked about the hand. I told them everything then needed to know: NOT YOUR BUSINESS. It's a long way to Concord. My mother said they were good people in Concord. That social worker told me they were good people. I don't ask for much.

I guess I was upset. Bad things don't happen, unless I am upset. I went to the passenger side first, and put my jacket and my file down on the seat, careful. Slammed the door on the hand. You know it hurt, enough to make you holler. But the real trouble was that the door slashed up my glove. I was mad enough to scream, but I held it together. Put the hand in my pocket. I would throw away the pants later, I thought, it didn't matter to me. What mattered was that I not make a mess in the car. The stench of the hand was everywhere. The oiliness poured out of the little cuts in the glove, soaking through my pants. I didn't make a sound. It had happened before that I had cut the glove. You've got to keep the mess contained. Ruin a pair of pants, that was fine. You didn't want to get the mess on the car upholstery. The key was to get home quick.
Damn them all, that got me all the way out there in Concord!
I made it 15 miles before the stench got to me. The hand felt hot with filth in my pocket. I could feel it seeping into the skin of my leg. Hot and wet. I had the windows open, but it wasn't any use. That stench was too strong. I started gagging. That was alright. I didn't think I was going to puke my guts out. I didn't think I was going to get sick. So much for the upholstery! That was all I could think. I didn't know I had so much inside of me to puke out. The whole dashboard was coated in frothy, milky mess. Anyhow, I rear-ended the car in front of me.
The asshole got out and came around to look at the damage. Licking his chops. He was a small guy with no hair. He looked at me. Pointed to the wreck like I hadn't seen it. I wanted to stay in the car, but he wasn't going to let me. I could see that. I got out and went over there. He looked at the vomit all over the front of my shirt, and then he looked at the hand. It was still in my pocket. I wasn't taking it out for anything.
Laugh it up, asshole, I thought. "Don't worry," I said, "I got insurance."
"What you got in the pocket?" He asked.
"It's hurt," I told him. "This isn't a hard situation. I'll pay for the damage." He still stood there looking at the hand.
Then I heard a police siren. He pulled up alongside us and got out. He was a big guy. He stood there and looked at everything.
"You need to keep your hands where we can see them," the cop said.
"Listen," I tried to be honest, "there's something wrong with the hand. It's better if I don't take it out."
"I need to see your hand, sir," the cop said like he was angry.

It was too much. The job interview, the drive, the crash and all these people looking at me. "Here!" I shouted, and I showed them. Both fat, stupid men jumped back. They made noises. "Here!" I shouted. "Here!"

"the hand" pen on paper. b.g.

Cool Summer Read: "Love Always"

found this copy for a buck at a book sale

I've been recommending this book recently to buddies who need something cool to read for summer. It's a funny, lazy, horny read about a bunch of lazy, bohemian rich people lounging around all summer having affairs and being adult burnouts.

"Chilly Scenes of Winter" was Beattie's first novel, and it's a lot more comprehensive in terms of characters, and more challenging in terms of story and concept. Beattie's short stories run the gamut of what literature can do: exploring an array of lives and perspectives, challenging readers and delving into compelling and beautiful writing.

"Love Always" is more like an HBO miniseries. In fact, it's a precursor of "Sex In the City" (I'm a huge fan). Bring it to the beach, or take it on the airplane and read the whole thing before you land.

ann "adult burnout" beattie

Last Day/First Day

"The Kids" acrylics on paper. b.g.

Today one of my jobs ends. It's a bummer, and it's also not. I'm going to miss going to the job, but I won't miss the extra work. And I'm excited by all the prospect of stepping up all the writing and art I want to get done.

And, in fact, I have a good deal of art to do. Some of my paintings are going to be in a San Francisco art show at the end of this month. I'll have more details on that soon.

In other news, I've plotted out next week's Story of the Week. Look for that on Monday.

Sweet Maupin

oh wow, how cool.

My girlfriend goes to estate sales, to pick up cool clothes for her shop (visit here). I go along and look for cool books. Here's two that I found, which are cool.

We went up to a sale in the Marin hills. It was a fancy pants area, outside of San Rafael. I got both for a buck. They say "First Edition" on the inside cover, but they are odd books. They're paperback trade copies, and they are awkward sized. I know that Maupin released "Tales of the City" serially in the San Francisco Examiner (I think that was the newspaper), so Maupin has a sort of irregular method of releasing his work. Maybe he released part two and three of his series in these big paperback books? Anyhow, I really enjoyed "Tales of the City" and I'm looking forward to cracking these two as well.

I don't know if these two are really the first first first editions. But I dig them.

Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer"

I found it filed next to a bunch of vintage children books.

After I picked this edition up from an antique shop in the 'burbs, I realized that the proprietor overcharged me by two bucks. Unless there's an obscene sales tax on books now, or unless she's an idiot, I think she ripped me off 200 pennies.

I hope she used those lovely dollar bills to buy herself some hot coco. In the meantime, I paid a ridiculously small price for the 1st printing of the 1st legal American edition of Henry Miller's "Tropic of Cancer."

I win.

Cheever Posturing and Purchasing

my nice new copy of the Cheev's stories.

Like most people, I didn't actually read that new autobiography of John Cheever. But I did pretend to know a great deal about John Cheever's work and life, so that people would think I was the literary fancy-lad I always try to pass off as. Didn't Cheever have sex with his brother, or something? That was just one of the many "facts" I used to impress friends.

In any case, all my posturing reinforced a longstanding desire I have had to own a copy of "The Stories of John Cheever." Ever since I saw that picture of that girl reading "TSOJC" in Vice Magazine, I have wanted to give the Cheev a try.

But whenever I went out to buy a copy, I was rebuffed by the terrible condition of the books. And at such prices! It was as if everyone who ever read a copy of it felt it necessary to literarily chew on it. Then, just the other day, I went to the thrift store and picked up a nearly mint copy for a pathetically small asking price. I win.

Finally! Now I'm going to be the Cheever expert like never before!

STORY OF THE WEEK: The Effect

"masks in black" ink on paper. b.g.

I woke up before my wife, so if she was immediately effected, I'm not sure. Quietly, I got dressed and prepared for the day like normal. My first indication that something was wrong was when I went downstairs to have breakfast. Scott and Alex, my two sons, were already up and eating cereal when I walked in the room. Both of them looked up, and gazed at me as if I were a stranger.

Scott said "hi, daddy," with his normal cheerfulness, but he had a look on his face like he wanted to throw up. I frowned, said "good morning," and asked him what was wrong. He didn't reply, only looked at me with that same awful face. Becoming alarmed, I went over to him. He yelped, like a dog does when it's scared.
Alarmed, I called to my wife to come down. Scott was backing up and giving me such a look that I felt shaken to my core. I had the idea that he might be having a seizure, or some other kind of emergency, and I reached out to grab him. Before I knew what was happening, his little brother had sunk his teeth into the soft skin between my thumb and fingers.
I howled and struck Alex, sending the little boy tumbling to the floor. Scott was sobbing. I suppose that was when my life truly came to an end. My wife had come down just as I had struck Alex, and, having seen it happen, she flew across the room, screaming.
"You monster! You monster!" She bellowed. I stared at her, in a nauseous daze. The look on her face was beyond anything I had ever seen, and not only from her. It was blind, animal rage, something I had never seen on the face of a fellow human being in my life. I stammered, attempting to defend myself, but she wouldn't hear any of it. She only appeared to become angrier and angrier. She began shoving me.
"Out! Get out!" She screeched. The boys were also yelling now, cursing me, saying words I didn't know that they knew. There's something that happens to a person, when faced with something like that. Something breaks apart inside of that person. Everything else that has happened to me since then has been terrible, but all of it has been easy compared to the scene in that house when I left. I got in the car and took off.
I was in a daze. After driving around aimlessly from probably a half-hour, I took stock of my situation. My co-worker Steve was a good friend, and the only one of my friends whom I knew exactly where to find. So I went to the office.
As I crossed the lobby, conversations ceased. Still jolted by my earlier experience, I guess I was extremely sensitive. I noticed every little thing. I heard the little grunts and noises people were making as I walked past. I felt like I could feel a heat rising off of the crowd. People were coming closer, closing in around me. "Mortal danger," the term rang oddly in my mind, sounding sort of strange, not faux-serious like it does on T.V. "I'm in mortal danger," I thought, testing the word out. In a stupid panic, I did something that nearly got me killed: I hurried onto the elevator.
Just as the doors shut, someone in the crowd lunged in my direction. They were pounding on the doors as the elevator slid safely up the shaft.
I ran across the office as soon as the doors opened again. I think I already knew what to expect. But it's harder than a person would assume to really know things that are horrible. I went into Steve's office and shut the door.
"Something is wrong, Steve," I hadn't known that I was crying until I heard the sound of my voice. Once I knew, I immediately started sobbing.
"Oh my God," Steve stared at me. "Toby? What is...wrong with you?" The look of astonishment twisted into a sneer as he said this, and he jumped out of his seat. His face became flushed bright red, and he balled up his fists tight. "I...can't even...look at you," he hissed, disgustedly. He swayed strangely, and then, stiffly, he started to walk around his desk and towards me. "You better get the hell outta here, Toby," he said slowly. "You won't understand, but I think I'm going to hit you in the face if you stay here."
I started to say his name, and took a blow to the head that almost sent me crashing to the floor. I managed to duck out of the way of his second swing and clumsily I managed to make it back out the door. But it wasn't any better out there. Practically everyone in the office had already been effected, and they were all gathered around waiting for me. I didn't wait for it this time. I went through them as fast as I could.
They were grabbing at my clothes, shouting my name. I didn't hear anything at all. I guess it takes a while for "the effect" to sink in, because they weren't attacking me yet. As I reached the elevators, the doors opened. About six or seven of the larger guys from the lobby were there. They saw me and started yelling.
Suddenly, everywhere around me there were people yelling. I made it to the stairwell before anyone could get a good grip on me. In my rush, I went over the railing. I probably fell five stories. I don't know how I wasn't killed, right then and there. Maybe I should have been. Instead, that fall saved my life. I had enough of a head start to reach my car.
The authorities have quarantined me in Muir Woods. Some other stuff happened after I called the cops. One of the policemen that came out to meet me tried to kill me. I had agreed to meet the police in a parking lot in Novato. I told them to stay away from me, but that one cop had decided to go closer to try and calm me down. They had to taze him, and I fled before any of the rest of them could be effected. They followed me in the helicopter, talking to me on my cell phone. Eventually we figured out the quarantine idea. At first they sent in some scientists in Hazmat suits to get some blood samples. After their third visit to check up on me, it was clear that my condition was effecting them as well, at a slower rate. They stood around calling me names, and threatening me for a full three minutes before I took off running into the woods. Now the authorities air drop supplies and instructions for me. I talk to a therapist on my cell phone.
They say that they can't "cure" anyone of my effect. I don't know when I'll see my family again, and my therapist has admitted to me that several people from the office have been arrested for trying to enter the quarantine. I don't know how long I want to continue living, but for the time being I am trying to keep myself occupied. I find myself increasingly concerned with the other people who are suffering from the same "effect" as I am. My therapist tells me that the government hasn't come into contact with anyone suffering from the "effect" aside from me. But he doesn't tell me that I am wrong. I worry about those people. I'm sure they are out there, and I hope that they haven't had to experience what I have. I wish them well. I wish them well with all my heart.

"masks" ink on paper. b.g.

SOME ART FOR SUNDAY

"expectant" acrylics on paper. b.g.

"flowers" acrylics on paper. b.g.

"nightbulb" acrylics on paper. b.g.

HONORABLE MENTION: ETHAN JAMISON

I wanted to share the artwork of Ethan Jamison with you all. He's a Bay Area painter and photographer whom I admire. His art is messy but geometric, chaotic but measured, free but pre-meditated. The balance of all of these contrasts is a thing of beauty.

Check out his blog: friendlydamage.blogspot.com

Enjoy:

"Wants" by Grace Paley, and How To Be Cool

my neat copy of "the little disturbances of man."

One of the short stories I gave my students was "Wants" by Grace Paley. Is there any short story as perfect and as touching as "Wants?" It's the first story in "Enormous Changes at the Last Minute," which reminds me how "Gimmie Shelter" is the first track on "Let It Bleed." That song is good.

(A side question: Does it make me seem like a cool, hip, young fresh perspective to talk about literature in terms of epic rock music? Or does it make me seem more like a middle-aged losery Midwestern high school English teacher than I already do? Would it be cooler if I compared "Wants" to Modest Mouse's "3rd Planet" on "Moon and Antarctica?" Or "King Of Carrot Flowers" off Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane over the Sea?" Maybe those are too college-esque of comparisons, and in fact reinforce the English teacher thing?

How about I compare "Wants" being the first story in "ECATLM" to "Straight Outta Compton" being the first track on NWA's "Straight Outta Compton?" Is that cool? Is that too old? Is it obvious that I'm becoming lamer, year in and year out? What is the new, cool stuff? Cee-lo? Mos Def? Is Lil' Wayne still considered young and hip? I kind of like that one song. Maybe I should compare "Wants" to that one Lil' Wayne song. I wish I knew what it was called.)

my cool copy of "later the same day" by grace paley.

Ryan the Truck

"first editions" ryan the truck

Ryan LaPlant, who goes by Ryan the Truck, is a comic artist living and working in Oakland. He recently agreed to turn several of my short stories into comic zines. I'm way excited. He sent me the first one today. Frequent readers of the Brendan Garbee Blog may recognize the story from one of last week's posts.

I'll continue updating his work on here, and you can find him on the Facebook. If you wanna know more, or get on a snail mail list for the zines, send me an email.

In the meantime, a Ryan Truck sampler:

"mrs. henry" ryan the truck

"old people" ryan the truck

"tree goats" ryan the truck

"they burn the house" ryan the truck

STORY OF THE WEEK: HARD TO KNOW YOU CAN'T GO BACK

"human man" acrylics on paper. b.g.

The light against the nylon walls of the tent gets me feeling a little down. The air's wet inside, but it's warm. The whole world outside is creaking and chirping, everything that wakes up with the dawn's first tepid blue light starts making noise. I'm horny and lonely. It's hard to know that you can't go back, even when you know it. Becky's furry little body is pulsating under her blanket, her rhythmic breathing like a little drum beat. I rub her belly a little and she sighs in her sleep.

I unzip the tent fly and step out into the fog. It's coming billowing up over the ridge of the hill in big drafts. Everything tastes like the sea. I see some quail going along in the brush, little black figurines marching along in a little clan. Maybe I'd think it was cute, except it makes me feel lonely. I should get the dog up, I think, to chase 'em away. I undo my pants to piss, and then hear a voice behind me.
There's a older gentleman there, maybe 20 feet across the wet grass. I hear Becky scrambling up, and she lets out a warning bark before I tell her to shut up. I can't see him very well. I wonder if he's got a gun, or what. Some people I met the night before, back in Fairfax, told me that the local landowners could be a little nutso about trespassers. I hold both my hands up, so that he knows I'm not up to anything, and I come around the other side of the tent so he can see me. "You're out here camping?" He asks. "Just camping, sir," I say. "Did you cut my fences?" "I hopped them, sir." "There are hefty fines for trespassing."
I don't say anything and we just stare at each other.
"You're from the city?" He asks after a while. "San Francisco, yes." "And you're on a vacation, or what?" "No, sir." I don't know what else to say. "I had to leave my apartment, and I didn't know..." I stop. "I can pack up and be out of here if you give me a minute."
"Alright," he says gruffly. "I'll go back to my house and call the police. If you stick around, they'll pick you up."
And then he turns around and goes back to his house. I can see it now, a big black shape looming over my little tent. Becky whines inside of the tent. I go back in and rub her. The warmth and the sour smell of our blankets makes me want to lay down. I sigh and pack up. The loneliness is crushing right now, but I'll feel differently later. I'll feel better when the sun is out, and I can stretch out and take a nap in some brush and forget this and everything. We go quickly over the ridge and down the rise. Within ten minutes, we're over the fence and into another field. I could stop and look over the maps, to figure out which direction to the sea, but I'm nervous about the cops, so we push ahead across the field, hoping it isn't more private property. Every little living thing in the grass gets silent as me and Becky cross, and I can hear my own breathing. I'm expecting to hear a gunshot. Some crazed rancher with a shotgun. The fog is dispersing already. The gray soup of sky starts to churn. A little bit of sunlight it coming through. I feel like a G.I. in a war movie...there's the fence...I start running, and Becky shoots off in front of me...I go so quick over the wire that I slice my gloves up a little. Doesn't cut all the way through to the skin. On the other side of the fence, we're in a dense patch of trees. My heart is still pounding and I'm still trying to move quickly, too quickly, so I'm already off-balance when I catch my foot on a root. Down the hill I go. It's steeper than I thought, but I manage to get my backpack off and roll with the fall. Down, down, down. I take a few blows from roots and rocks and stuff, but I'm not too badly beat up when I land in the rough, spiny and dew-drenched grass. Loud, low animal noises all around me. I get up slowly, trying to feel in my body for any bad pains. Big, black cows stand around staring at me, chewing curd slowly and gazing with pitch black gentle wet eyes. They aren't scared or anything, just gentle and peaceful, watching me. Becky looks to me for guidance, and then, when I don't say anything, she starts to cautiously investigate the big, black animals. They gaze at her with those same all-trusting eyes. I get up, and they start to move away a little.

Beyond the cows is the sea.

"between" acrylics on paper. b.g.

"blue field" acrylics on paper. b.g.

"cow of poseidon" acrylics on paper. b.g.

"sea home" acrylics on paper. b.g.

Bean and the Coat

flyer art. acrylics on paper. b.g.

A few months back, Bevan Herbekian tapped me to do some art for his upcoming album "Bean and the Coat." I figure he won't mind too much if I give you all a sneak peak.

back cover art. acrylics on paper. b.g.

SOME ART FOR A SATURDAY

from "the bean and the coat" album art. acrylics on paper. b.g.

"date night" ink on paper. b.g.

A Carver Problem

my neato edition of "what we talk about..."

I've been teaching short stories to some kids for the past few weeks, and I have a Raymond Carver problem.

See, I think Carver's stories are pretty essential to "getting" short stories. I don't even like reading him that much, some of the time. Some of his stuff makes my hair stand on end, like the one where the man and the woman rip the baby in half. Jesus.

No extra words, no playing around. He has complicated ideas and challenging images, and he tells them in the simplest language. And Carver's short stories aren't "summarized novels" at all. If anything, they're extended poems. I would love to give my kids some Carver. I think it would blow their minds.

But I can't give them any Carver! He's always talking about boozing and fucking!

"I can't believe I wrote that! I must have been wasted!" -Carver in Heaven

HONORABLE MENTION: FRIED CHICKEN AND COFFEE

I've been checking out this so-called "blogazine" recently, and I'm really digging it. This guy Rusty Barnes is the boss, and he seems really cool. He has a very serious, very literary journal called "Night Train," which seems cool. But I've been really into his "Fried Chicken and Coffee" publication.

He publishes a bunch of stories about growing up and living in rural America. I guess that was Barnes's experience (he grew up in Appalachia), and he wants to celebrate/re-experience/talk about it with all of us and other writers. I've only actually read two of the stories, so far. "Sunday Afternoon at Earl's" by Randy Lowens and "Bent Country" by Sheldon Lee Compton. I thought both of them were rad.

They both had a sweeping, jolting style that was full of attitude. I really like the whole "regional" narrative idea, because I'm pretty region-bound. I've never left the Bay Area, either in residence or in my fiction. Also, I like the "blogazine" concept. I guess I finally have a name for what, exactly, the Brendan Garbee Blog is.

Birthday Wish: Yashar Kemal's "Memed"

image of the first novel, found on turkish web site gittigidiyor.com

My birthday is a month away, so I have to start dropping hints. I picked up "Memed My Hawk" by Turkish author Yashar Kemal a little over a year ago, and I loved it. It's a terrific novel, a fable of a young man who has to become a hero to fight greedy landowners. Filled with epic, sweeping language of the rural Turkish countryside. Filled with pain, suffering, wonder, joy and courage. Absolutely perfect.

"Memed" was reissued by the New York Review of Books. If you haven't checked out the NYRB "Classics" collection, I strongly urge you to do so. I've found some incredible authors and works through them that I probably never would have encountered otherwise.

Kemal's "Memed" sequal, "They Burn the Thistles," is also a NYRB reissue. I read and absolutely loved that one as well. It was awesome. As I read the last line of the book, I got tears in my eyes. But that was all I could find. I know that there are several other novels in the "Memed" series, but I can't find copies anywhere. I believe they've been translated into English, but I'm not sure if they've ever gotten a U.S. release.

August 28. I turn 26 years old. I'm just saying.

rad picture of kemal found at muammeryanmaz.com

epic picture of kemal found at trekearth.com

"Boonville" by Robert Mailer Anderson

my copy of "boonville" by robert mailer anderson

I just gave my buddy Jason File a copy of Robert Mailer Anderson's "Boonville." This upcoming weekend File is heading up the coast, to Mendocino, and I had been sitting on an extra copy of "Boonville" for a while. Figured he might dig it. I did.

Why did I have two copies? Well, in the course of about four years I've owned four copies. I lost one, sold another, and just recently picked up the latest two editions at a thrift store. Weird to find them at the thrift store, and weirder still to find, as I did, a signed first edition there. Maybe the previous owner died suddenly, and an unwitting relative donated it. Anyhow, it's mine now! Anderson even doodled a little bit on the title page, and wrote some Boontling. I'm pretty proud of it as a part of my rag-tag collection.

I think File will dig it. I read it a few years back, when I was a news reporter. I hated the job and was sick to death with everything. The best part of my day was riding the BART train and reading a cool book. "Boonville" really hit a nerve for me.

It's about a young guy who goes to Boonville and meets all kinds of crazy people. I got really into the vibe, being a young guy who went daily to a strange town, to report on all kinds of crazy people. I felt a kinship.

And the descriptions of Northern California really worked for me as well. I'm born and raised Nor Cal. Even though it's the best place on Earth, there's surprisingly little representation of the region.

Anyways, I'm thinking it might be time to read it again. Or maybe Robert Mailer Anderson will write a new novel, so I can read that.

One last interesting note: I didn't know until I got my hardback copy, but the novel was originally published by ZYZZYVA. I'm a fan of ZYZZYVA and of ZYZZYVA Czar Howard Junker. So that's a neat thing for me to know.

portrait of the artist as a chris isaak song, found on flicker

for those that don't know mendocino county. found at wildnatureimages.com

zyzzyva czar howard junker, cool publisher of "boonville"

James Agee and the Search for the Holy Grail

I really like books. I have for a very long time. Back when I was in college, I got in the habit of combing used book bins for groovy-looking paperbacks. I kept up the habit since then, accumulating a bunch of fun, cool books. Then one day I found a hardback of "Less Than Zero" by Bret Easton Ellis at the junk shop. I looked inside, and saw that "FIRST PRINTING" there. Something changed that day.


First it manifested as feverish searches through thrift stores, used book shop discount bins, junk antique shops. Then it progressed to garage sales, then estate sales. Finally, I found my way to ebay.


Books! Books! First Edition! First American Edition! First Pressing! First Drop Of Ink! Everything at mind-bogglingly low prices! I began bidding on books as fast as I could!


Before I knew it, I had won a copy of "A Death In the Family" by James Agee for way, way more money than I had to spend. Apparently a bidding war had broken out. Panting, in a sweat, I examined the seller's description of what I had just blindly purchased.


In tiny letters near the bottom of the description were the heartbreaking words: "First Edition. Third Printing"

It wasn't the "True First!" I contacted the seller and informed him of the mistake. He told me he had the "True First," avaliable for even more money than I had to blow.

A few weeks, and several poverty-stricken days later, my edition arrived. Something was wrong. It wasn't heavy enough. It was small. I felt sick to my stomach. The publishing date was correct, and seemed to indicate that it was a "First," but something was wrong ... I looked at the title page ... the title page of the "First" "ADITF" is usually in blue ink ... mine was black! Still, I didn't give up hope. It could still be a first ... I turned to page 80. The "First" "ADITF" always has a typo on page 80.

NO TYPO!!!!

I flipped it over and opened up the dust jacket. There, in the bottom right corner, was the small circular stamp in dust jacket, which marks BOOK OF THE MONTH CLUB EDITIONS! I HAD BEEN CHEATED! NO!!!

On a serious note, don't trust this guy. He sucks.

So now I go to thrift stores, to garage sales. I browse causally. People come over to my house and check out my book collection. They compliment me on how nice it is. I force a smile and say thank you. Sometimes, late at night, I have the gnawing desire. Go on ebay. Give it another try.

Instead, I watch Oprah.

do you see it? the tiny mark of a "Book-Of-the-Month Club" Edition? in the bottom right corner.

I ain't mad at you, Agee. I just wish you were the "True First"

Walker Percy and the Knotheads

my edition of "the moviegoer" by Percy

I recently purchased five boxes full of books, all for $20, from a guy trying to downsize his collection. There were quite a few gems in there, including this novel from Walker Percy.

Percy may be familiar to some as the guy who helped John Kennedy Toole's mother publish the late author's "A Confederacy of Dunces." He's a pretty good writer.

"The Moviegoer" is about a young guy sorting his life out in New Orleans. There are elements of "modern" America (circa the early 60's) versus the traditional South. And there are some philosophical, psychological themes that are sort of weird and interesting.

"The Moviegoer" is his first novel, and it feels like a "first novel," somehow. He published it when he was 45, which makes me feel better about my own writing career. Following his model, I've got 20 more years to get my first novel published!

Anyhow, I was reading about Percy on the Internet, and I noticed an interesting footnote. In his novel "Love in the Ruins," (which I also got in those five book boxes) Percy renames the Republican Party the "Knothead Party." Percy, who was a lifelong Catholic Conservative, is apparently using the term to make fun of the G.O.P.'s embrace and celebration of foolishness and anti-intellectualism.

That term "Knothead" is becoming more and more popular among political pundits now, as a way to describe the Republican's post-Obama dilemma.

picture of Walker Percy, found at St. Tammany Parish Library's Web site

story of the week: FOURTH OF JULY, '96

some americans, ink on paper, 2009

"I was watching the light change before I knew I was awake. The light outside was red, but then almost as soon as I came into awareness, the red began to fade away as if it had been some remnant of my sleeping consciousness, and then the light was orange and hot, and then hotter still and white, a bright, blazing white light coming through the blinds."

FOURTH OF JULY, '96.pdf
click that title for the link dude

I'M CHANGING THE FORMAT OF THE BLOG. There's still going to be the story of the week, but it is going to be available as a downloadable PDF complete with illustrations. I think the format is a little easier on the eyes this way. You can read it on your computer, or you can print it out. It'll look something like this when you click on the link above, depending on how you have your reader set up:

LEMME KNOW HOW THE CHANGE WORKS FOR YOU!

C O O L D U D E

"Clark Gifford's Body" and the Iranian Uprising

I read Kenneth Fearing's "Clark Gifford's Body" over the same weekend that the Iranian election rioting started. It was kind of a trip. "CGB" concerns a political uprising spurred by pirate radio broadcasts. Compare that to the Iranian uprising, which was spurred and organized by Internet postings.

The message is clear, in both cases: Technology brings people together, and that is a very dangerous thing. In fact, if Fearing were still around, I'm sure he would be doing the news circuit proclaiming "CGB" as a prophetic work.

The parallels are pretty deep, aside from the fact that Fearing wouldn't even have been able to conceptualize the Internet (he died in 1961). The biggest difference is that the Iranian Twitter uprising was easier to start and easier to maintain than Clark Gifford's radio broadcast uprising. In both cases, a defeated opposition party leader (Gifford and Mousavi) challenges the ruling government, utilizing relatively new and unexplored technology to reach people. In both cases, that technology is then used to coordinate and coax an uprising. And in both cases, the ruling party cracks down with stunning violence and oppression.

Hopefully for Mr. Mousavi, his parallel to Mr. Gifford ends there. Because, as the title of the novel suggests, Gifford doesn't leave the uprising alive.

I've also been thinking about the current relevancy of George Orwell's visions of technology as the long arm of an oppressive government. Certainly parallels can be drawn to the Federal government's wire-tapping programs. And some of the news and the rumors I hear about Russia's programs to monitor citizens definitely is in that Orwell line. Who is more "prophetic" in the end? Fearing or Orwell?

I guess it underscores the complexity of this situation that both Fearing and Orwell can be right.