I was in one of those warehouse sized discount stores the other day when I came across a table stacked with books. One of my old favorites jumped right out at me and I picked it up. I was surprised to see a brand new printing of the Jack Kerouac classic On the Road.That book had a major influence on me as a teenager and young man. I remember finding that and copies of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer and Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged in a box of my Mom’s books that was stashed in our basement. These books had all been controversial for different reasons and I remember feeling like I had come across a secret cache of some kind of forbidden fruit.
Kerouac had the idea for On The Road in the late 40’s and finished his first draft on one continuous scroll in 1951, although it wasn’t published until 1957. As I held this new edition in my hand I couldn’t stifle my ironic amusement at seeing the latest edition of On The Road being marketed in a discount store with the phrase “NOW! A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!” plastered all over the cover, along with glossy photos of the 20-something actors smiling with perfect teeth and stylishly coiffed hair who are presumably playing the roles of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady who were, in fact, unwashed, speed addled, pot smoking, besotted, penniless, rag tag vagabonds and not Barbie and Ken Dolls.
I admit to feeling some consternation that one of my own most revered icons from my wayward youth was NOW! A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!Sacrilege, I say! Not really, but it’s a little like the way I felt when I figured out there was no Santa Claus, or that my Davy Crockett toys had been sold in a garage sale. The death of the 60’s was hard enough to take back then, but do you have to keep rubbing it in in 2012 by making On The Road into Beverly Hills 90210?
So, they finally came out with a film version of On The Road. Well, it took ’em long enough. Kerouac wrote the thing 61 years ago. By the way, what kind of advertising genius still calls films “motion pictures”? The Golden Age of Hollywood is long gone, my friend. A friend of mine told me today that Allen Ginsberg bobbleheads are part of the marketing campaign. Seriously? Must you? That’s just like pouring salt in the wound. If you’re going to do that, then it seems like a Walt Whitman teddy bear would be huge. Or how about a Charles Bukowski doll that smokes, drinks and curses?
I must admit, I am kind of curious about this “major motion picture.” However, I know I’ll be watching this one at home on Movies on Demand, amongst the trappings of my bourgeois lifestyle as I lay draped in velvet and sipping an insouciant cabernet that doesn’t bite back.
Hi there boys and girls! This is the Lunch Laddy, Michael Gillan Maxwell bringing you another installment of the Lunch Lady Cookbook. Summer is a fleeting season and it won’t be long before lunch ladies across the nation will be at their posts with healthy heapin’ helpins’ of classic American Lunch Lady AWESOME. But I heard Summer say: “I ain’t dead yet!” and the Lunch Laddy still has a wild card or two to throw down before Labor Day. This installment of the Lunch Lady Cookbook is takin’ it old school. We’re gettin’ our act together and takin’ it on the road. The Lunch Lady Cookbook takes you out to eat at one of the grittiest and noisiest venues for classic American haute cuisine ~ the dirt track races!
Black Rock Speedway
The dirt track menu has the venerable, time honored comfort food that is the epicurean cornerstone of county fairs, amusement parks, rodeos, traveling carnivals, the circus and most sporting events. To say that it is a veritable cornucopia of healthy vegan delights would be more than a little white lie. There may be some nitrites, white flour, high fructose corn syrup and a smidgeon of hydrogenated oil in one or two of the offerings, but I’m not altogether sure and I don’t really want to know. This is not the place where one goes to sample whole foods masterpieces, gastronomic innovations, and strokes of gustatory genius. This is not cocktails at Noel Coward’s. We’re wearing tee shirts and ball caps, not silk smoking jackets and ascots. This is the dirt track for God’s sake.
Slushies, Ice Cream
Cotton Candy
It is here that one may dine on such delicacies as fried dough with powdered sugar, giant pretzels, cotton candy, nachos smothered with melted cheese, pulled pork, Slush Puppies, ice cream cones, french fries with vinegar, sausage, chili, salt potatoes, Texas hots, and of course, the uncontested foundation of all classic cuisine Americana: burgers and dogs! This is not just another Friday night out on the town. This is the mecca of midway concession delights. This is a sacred pilgrimage. Of course, any selection one makes from the menu may be embellished and enhanced with any number of old stalwarts from the condiment trough including yellow mustard and (fancy) ketchup, chopped onions, dill relish, chili relish, sweet relish, powdered sugar, vinegar and a half dozen other gooey, slippery, slimy, gloppy things guaranteed to turn your shirt into a dish towel. Unless, of course, you have the foresight to wear a bib. However, that could turn out to be a tragic fashion choice at a venue like the dirt track races. Let’s not forget that a healthy layer of sand and grime and grit will enhance any selection you have made, especially if you are seated with the Lunch Laddy at Turn 4. Think of it as extra fiber in your diet.
Menu
The switchboard is lighting up with callers who just want to know: “Lunch Laddy ~ what did YOU choose for your dirt track dining entree?” I must confess, my mind was already made up before I even left the house. I would settle for nothing less than a hot dog and a beer. The Lunch Lady Cookbook dog was served on a white bun in a cardboard tray and smothered with chopped onions, (Fancy) ketchup, yellow mustard and chili relish. The dog was sublime ~ an insouciant little sausage with just the right amount of nitrites and grease. I could bite it but it didn’t bite back. It would not have been complete unless it was washed down with a cold can of beer. (And then another one, for good measure.)
Dirt Track Dining
Beverage pairing: Labatt’s Blue ~ chilled to perfection, drunk from the can.
Music Pairing: Whatever heavy metal tunes that were pulsating from the speakers. All I know is that the guitar tone felt like a bag of hammers being dropped on my head.
As for the races, it was the Lunch Laddy’s first visit so it was like sacrificing a virgin to the volcano. The Lunch Laddy sat just above track level coming out of turn 4 and surrendered himself to the volcanic din of mechanical mayhem, the ambrosia of burning rubber and fuel combustion engine exhaust, the sweet caress of filth and grit massaging his skin and blinding his eyes, the earsplitting shriek and howling maelstrom that is blood sport spectacle for the whole family on a Friday night somewhere in America. What’s not to love?
3 Cars and a Cloud of DustRounding Turn 4The Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the Crowd
So, until next time, this is the Lunch Laddy signing off.
Greg Brown at The Hangar Theater ~ Ithaca, N.Y. March 16, 2012
Dan Smalls Presents presented Greg Brown played at Ithaca’s Hangar Theater on Friday March 16. Hats off to Dan Smalls for bringing someone like Greg Brown to a venue like The Hangar. It was the perfect venue for this concert; small, intimate, with great acoustics, and not a bad seat in the house. It’s the kind of venue that allowed Greg Brown to establish a personal rapport with an appreciative audience. Perfect fit – Slam Dunk – Total Home Run!
Greg Brown has been an icon on the singer-songwriter scene for a long, long time. He’s from Iowa, born there, grew up there, and even with the peripatetic life style of a troubadour, he still calls it home. My curiosity was piqued by this because I grew up in the midwest and spent a couple of formative years of my childhood in Iowa. I’d heard some of his music, the odd track here and there on various anthologies, and he was a regular on A Prairie Home Companion, but it wasn’t until his epic 2000 release, Convenant, that I got totally hooked. This is one of those rare collections on which every song is a perfect, sparkling jewel. I’ve almost worn out the grooves on this CD from playing it so much. Oh wait, CDs don’t have grooves, but you get the picture. After 12 years and a lot of other music, this still remains one of my favorite collections of anyone’s music. I’ve been waiting to see Greg Brown ever since Covenant came out, and his performance at The Hangar exceeded all my expectations. Part of the beauty was that nearly every song he played was new to me. His planned playlist did not stop him from spontaneously going down unexpected roads. He also played songs “that he wasn’t sure he could remember” and “that just popped into my head.” His cover of Merle Haggard’s Where Did America Go was so poignant, heartfelt and timely that it almost brought me to tears. I so admire that kind of authenticity, and I am honored that he felt comfortable enough with us to take those risks.
Greg Brown is tough to hang a label on. Is he a folk singer – a singer of Americana – a blues musician – a humorist – a story teller ? He is all of these and more. Although, one thing I know for sure, he’s not an opera singer. But I like that about him. His voice is deep, rich and sonorous; often dipping so low down into the bass range that it almost feels like he’s slipping off the edge of the planet, or at least off the edge of his chair, and taking you with him. His vocal style is so relaxed, loose and casual that it feels like he’s not even really trying to sing, almost approaching the notes with a loose approximation before finally zeroing in. But it works – damn it – it really works. His voice reminds me of the most comfortable pair of jeans you’ve ever worn, or a 20 year old Kentucky bourbon that slides down like velvet and warms you right down to where you live. And it’s not an affectation. It’s Greg Brown singing only the way Greg Brown can sing. He fully inhabits his voice and uses it as a true vehicle to tell the stories in his songs.
This is all supported by flawless, crisp guitar technique. An absolute virtuoso of finger picking technique mixed with rich, lustrous strumming, he frequently employs dropped note tunings to add a deep bottom end. Greg Brown is also one wicked good blues player. The first few songs were so deeply rooted in the blues it felt like my feet were stuck in Mississippi River mud. He sings songs and tells stories about people and places, Iowa farmers, long, quiet highways in the midwest that go on forever, love, loss, nature, raising children, dogs, sticky situations, aging and everyday life. Greg Brown is truly authentic and one of a kind. It was a great concert. I loved it, and I’ve already listened to Covenant twice today. If you listen to Pandora Radio, create a Greg Brown station. You won’t regret it. Another thing you won’t regret is going to a Dan Smalls Presents show at The Hangar Theater. If you go, look for me, I’ll be there!
Todd Snider at The Haunt ~ Ithaca, N.Y. ~ March 11, 2012
Todd Snider has, in his own words, “been drivin’ around the country for the past 15 years, playin’ and singin’ my songs to anyone who would listen.” It seems that I’ve been wanting to see him play live for over half that long, but he never seemed to play anywhere nearby. So when promoter Dan Smalls booked him at The Haunt in Ithaca, N.Y. I ran to buy tickets like my pants were on fire. Never mind that the gig was on a Sunday night at a bar where I knew I’d be standing in the same spot for almost three hours. While that never used to bother me back in my more free wheeling days, it gave me cause to pause. I like to think I’ve mellowed and “age like wine” like the character from his song by the same name, and I wondered if I’d have the grit and stamina for it. Turns out I did, and then some. The Haunt couldn’t have been a better place to catch Todd Snider as he came through Ithaca with his three piece band on a spring-like Sunday night in early March. I thought back to all of the fabulous shows I had seen at the old Haunt in the alley on Green Street, and this turned out to be every bit as good as any one of those; hands down.
Portland based Ashleigh Flynn opened with a forty minute set that featured many of the songs from her most current release, American Dream. Accompanying herself on acoustic guitar and harmonica, she delivered a fast moving set that was lean and spare in its simplicity, yet lush and rich in content and presence. She writes extraordinary songs about ordinary people who live humble, but authentic lives. It’s Americana songwriting at its best, with stories that have the arc of a novel in a four minute song and leave you feeling like you actually know the characters. She played a solid set and she’s definitely worth checking out.
I don’t know if Todd Snider has ever had his “smilin’ face on the cover of the Rollin’ Stone”, but he has been steadily gathering a dedicated following of hardcore fans who know he’s the real deal. The folks at The Haunt were no exception. People showed up expecting to see him play; and play, he did. Although his studio albums are collaborations with other musicians, I had the impression that he’s spent a large part of his touring career going solo. Even though I knew he was playing with a band this time out, I guess I expected him to play acoustic guitar and mix it up with periods of the storytelling for which he is so well known and much loved. Not gonna happen, but that’s OK. He launched into his set on electric guitar and didn’t put it down all night. His sound was ragged, snarly and gritty and solidly anchored by an East Nashville rhythm section on bass and drums. Overall, they played like a classic power trio. I expected it to be a high energy show, but I had no idea this guy could rock as hard as he does. Snider and the boys exploded out of the gate with a scorcher and rolled right on through with a blazing, nonstop 90 minute set that worked the crowd into a lather, rocked the house right off its foundation, and left my ears ringing just like the old days.
While he drew heavily from his latest release, Agnostic Hymns & Stoner Fables, he also played lots of old favorites, including several from his watershed 2004 release, East Nashville Skyline. As good as his songwriting is, he covers other artists’ songs with so much authentic heart and soul you’d swear they are his own. One of those was a gritty version of the Fred Eaglesmith classic, Alcohol and Pills that got everybody in the place singing along. After The Ballad of the Kingsmen from that same album, which is a story within a story that uses the Kingsmen classic as the centerpiece, he launched into a raucous cover of the actual song Louie Louie that sounded like the ultimate garage band on steroids. One of his encore numbers was a boisterous cover of the Chuck Berry classic, School Day, which had us all shouting out the refrain “Hail hail rock and roll” at the top of our lungs and pogo dancing.
Snider’s show was a nonstop thrill ride of songs for everyman. His work is a subversive celebration of the whole catastrophe, from the sublime to the ridiculous; a rebellious and irreverent reflection on modern culture and society. His poignant stories of marginal characters are filled with humane compassion, absurd hilarity, acerbic wit, and wry observations of human nature. To quote him from his own official website (http://www.toddsnider.net/home.cfm) “I want to inspire people,” Snider says. “I want to inspire them to leave home, to do things traditionally considered wrong. If you listen to my record and vandalize your school, godspeed.”
If you get a chance to catch him on this tour, do it. You won’t be sorry. Before the night is over, you’ll be pogo dancing and singing along to every song.
Hey all! Alice B. Tolas here. Just Kidding. It’s really, me, Michael G. Maxwell turning in an over due book report for my book journal, “Alice. B Toklas” inspired by writer Jules Archer – http://julesjustwrite.com/
I mentioned in an earlier post, that novels demand a singular sort of attention from my feeble, ADD-addled brain. Kidding about the ADD part. I think. Anyway – really more a case of a lack of discipline on my part. But it DID happen. I picked up a novel that immediately took me off the path of reading several books of Flash Fiction and Poetry. I peeked at a book my wife had recently finished, read the liner notes and a couple of pages and I was hooked. I careened off the path upon upon which I had been traveling so comfortably, and steered off onto an uncharted course across the hinterlands.
The book is Aleph by Paulo Coelho. As a practicing Caustic, Mystic, Gnostic, I’m relatively certain that Mr. Coelho wrote this book specifically for me. It’s the story of a soul journey across dimensions and an epic voyage across space and time on the Trans-Siberian Railroad, from Moscow to Vladisvostok. (I know what you’re thinking. It sounds like that Seinfeld episode about an erotic movie named “Rochelle Rochelle – A Young Girl’s Strange, Erotic Journey from Milan to Minsk.” Well, maybe it might be a little bit like that. There are some erotic interludes and a few nipply moments. But titillating as that may be, it is mainly about the spiritual journey we each take to fulfill our own personal destiny, sacred life contract, and take care of karma, practice dharma and find excuses to weave the phrase “Shama Lama Ding Dong” into conversation.
Anyway, it is a totally engaging book. It draws you into the lives of modern day pilgrims who are on epic journey on the Trans-Siberian Railroad and on the path to self realization. There’s plenty of sexual tension, internal and external landscape, philosophy, existential angst, spiritual quest, steel wheels clacking on rails, vodka and Siberian shamans to keep the pages turning and to provoke thought, raise questions and inspire self examination. It’s about getting in the flow, living in the vortex and allowing Qi to flow through you, and being in the Aleph, where all things, past, present and future, are happening simultaneously, all at once, in the web of time and parallel dimensions and possible realities. Oh yeah- there’s a shit load of past life regression, and some very intense flashbacks to the Spanish Inquisition that gave me a profound and lasting case of the Willies. Seriously. But at least there’s vodka to keep me grounded. In the book, that is.
It’s a good book and it’s stayed with me long after finishing it. By the way, the language is beautiful, and that’s after being translated from Portuguese. I can only imagine that it is even richer in the mother tongue. I recommend it. Not necessarily learning Portuguese, but reading the book.
It’s back. It hasn’t reared it’s ugly head in years. I felt a twinge of it returning late last fall and I hoped it would go away by simply trying to ignore it. Even though I used my most sophisticated techniques, cultivated by years of successfully practicing out right DENIAL in other areas of my life, it kept cropping up around the fringes of my imagination. I am now coming to terms with the fact that it never really completely went away after all. At this point it has reached a stage-4, full-on flare up, and I must turn and face the truth. Sometimes the only thing to do is to embrace your enemy with a manly bear hug and a big ol’ slobbering wet kiss.
I’m talking about G.A.S. my friends. It’s insidious. It’s chronic. It can be fatal. To your bank account. The terminal stage is a death bed confession to your wife, significant other, soul mate, cocker spaniel or other suitable proxy – as to how many GUITARS you REALLY own. This is no harmless sniffle, this is G.A.S. people. I’m talking about (gasp!) GUITAR ACQUISITION SYNDROME. G.A.S. is very real and very serious. It usually manifests during one’s teenage years, as it did with me. But sometimes it may not show up until much later. This is known as Adult Onset G.A.S. and can be far more serious. Adult onset G.A.S. is sometimes mistaken for a midlife crisis, and usually starts with a diabolical little voice whispering in your ear that “you’re never too old to rock and roll.” Adult Onset G.A.S. is usually a more rapid slide into the abyss as you probably have enough money in your bank account, or at least access to a couple of smoking credit cards to get yourself in really deep, really fast.
Guitar Store
I was stricken with G.A.S. at the tender age of 14. What brought it on was a picture of Elvis holding a Gibson with a sunburst finish on the sleeve of the 45 “Devil in Disguise”. I wasn’t actually much of an Elvis fan, but that song had some serious mojo and really cool licks. Although it certainly didn’t hurt to have Scotty Moore blazing away on guitar. What really got me was the picture of the Elvis guitar with a sunburst finish. I just had to have it. In my case, it was a $25 HARMONY with F Holes and a sunburst finish. It was as heavy as a boat anchor with the action so high that it nearly ripped the flesh right off your fingers just trying to make a G chord. It was the boot camp of guitars. If you survived that, you could play anything. The driving force behind my quest for another, and better guitar, was not so much G.A.S. as it was the primal instinct for survival. I knew that all the fingers on my left hand would fall off if I kept trying to play my Harmony. As a 14 year old boy, there were darker forces threatening my right hand, but we won’t get into that here.
At this point, I should make it clear, that though G.A.S. may start with guitars, as it progresses, it includes any and all stringed instruments; everything from banjos and mandolins to ouds and diddly sticks. The current flare up of G. A.S. has brought on a subversive stalking of an instrument that has occupied my thoughts in a manner bordering on obsession. I want a ukelele. There – I said it out loud. C’mon – sing it with me people -UKELELE! I’m not going to get into the whole history of the instrument here, although it is really fascinating.
Martin Ukelele (Wikipedia)
I did have a uke as a kid, but that was more like a toy and I quickly lost interest. And let’s face it, back in the 60’s they were anything but hip. Ukeleles generally conjured up images of collegiate crooners from the Roaring 20’s wearing full length racoon fur coats and straw boaters.
Roaring 20’s (Wikipedia)
I remember Arthur Godfrey on our black and white TV playing a uke. He was about as hip as Lawrence Welk or Liberace, and then there was Tiny Tim. Wow. What can I say about Tiny Tim, God rest his soul. He was a pop sensation there for a while, but no way could he cut heads with someone like Keith Richards from the Stones. All this stuff is on Wikipedia if you don’t know what the Hell I’m talking about. Just hit the G spot – and by that, I mean Google.
Men in Fur Coats (Wikipedia)
Moving along here, because this is getting really wordy and I sense I’ve already lost most of you. I had noticed that there had been a resurgence of interest in ukeleles in recent years, but what really got me going on all of this was hearing a great tune from Eddie Vedder on Pandora. I thought he was accompanying himself on mandolin, and I really liked the sound. Upon further investigation, I learned it was a uke and that he had cut an entire album and even went out on tour playing songs with various ukeleles. I gotta say, that’s when I got bitten by the bug. Not too long after that my friend’s daughter asked me what musical instrument her Dad might want for Christmas. I did what I always do in such circumstances. I told her to buy him something that actually I really wanted – a uke.
Well she did, and it is absolutely gorgeous, curvaceous and voluptuous. Hey, get your mind out of the gutter, you perv, we’re still talking about ukeleles here. Anyway I confess I have uke envy. It’s kind of like penis envy amongst us male bonding types, only different. I’m going to cash in all my empty beer bottles and count up the change I’ve been hoarding and see how far that gets me. G.A.S. has it’s cold and bony fingers wrapped around my soul. With a uke, it’s 4 strings, 3 chords and I’m good to go all night.
This is my first book report for 2012. Remember book reports? Almost nothing could induce panic and dread like a book report, if you hadn’t actually read the book and were trying to fake it. My teachers could be like something out of the Spanish Inquisition if I tried to put that kind of crap past them. However, book reports were really cool if you actually had read the book, and especially if you enjoyed the book. They were an occasion to celebrate and share.
I seem to be ordering a lot of books online lately. The books I’ve been buying are Poetry and Flash Fiction by authors whose work I find exciting, engaging, tough, gritty, edgy and most importantly, truly authentic. I like these guys with the same kind of passion I had for the Beat Poets when I was a snot nosed twenty-something. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a snot-nosed twenty-something. We’ve all been there, or maybe you ARE there, in which case please don’t take offense. I’m a geezer and I have cranky opinions.
Anyway, I’ve been ordering these books online. Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE bookstores, but I live somewhere between East Jesus and West Buttcrack and the nearest book store is 30 miles away. Not to mention the fact that it is highly unlikely that those bookstores would have these specific books that I want to buy and read and keep forever in my personal library. It’s a five hour drive to The Strand Bookstore in New York City and a Homeric odyssey and a pilgrimage on a biblical scale to the City Lights Bookstore in San Francisco, so this is where the internet is my best friend. I am also driven by the 21st century lust for instant gratification. So if I can order a book with three clicks and a cloud of dust, then what’s not to love? Two of the books I recently ordered just arrived in the mail. I got the same feeling of elation I used to get as a kid when the prize from the coupon in my Count Chocula cereal box arrived in the mail.
These books arrived like the cavalry in a Cowboy and Indian movie – in a nick of time and not a moment too soon. I just finished reading a novel that I LOVED – “After Life” by Rhian Ellis. (More on that in another post) If I am a slow learner, (which has been my story and I’m stickin’ to it) I am even more of a slow reader, – but , especially when it comes to novels. However, I actually think it’s more a case of me not wanting to come to the end of a good novel. When I read a good novel, I inhabit that world, I become the protagonist. It’s not escapism as much as it is inter-dimensional travel. When I come to the end of a novel I have been immersed in reading, there is a sense of loss and “What the Hell do I do now?” It’s like a bad break-up and rebound relationships are almost always a disaster. What you need is a change of pace. This is where my mail order bride – er – I mean – books – come in.
Book Store
While novels demand a more singular kind of attention from my ADDHD addled brain, Poetry and Flash Fiction are different for me. With Poetry and Flash Fiction, each small piece has the potential of being self contained, dense and rich – a kind of verbal amuse-bouche that you might consume in a few short bites, but that has so much unique character you need a palette cleanser before returning. (I learned all that from Top Chef being on television within earshot of my writing space.) Anyway, I am able to read a number of books of Poetry or Flash Fiction simultaneously and it happens in a natural systematic fashion. Because I will read a Poem or a Flash Fiction piece in one sitting (even though I may read each piece more than once) I can then read another author’s work, without losing my connection to either one. I don’t do this well with novels. What usually happens when I try that is that I don’t finish any of them.
I also must confess that I am irrevocably connected to the physical book, with printed pages I can turn and dog-ear and spill coffee on and cover photos of the author or illustrations I can look at and go back to. Somehow all this helps keep me connected with the writing and even more so with the author. It reminds me of the many hours I spent looking at album cover art while listening to vinyl records. I know, like I said, I’m a geezer with cranky opinions. I still have a land line too. In fact the phone just rang as I was writing this and I was able to screen that call. It was someone who wanted to whisper sweet nothings in my ear and sell me stuff I don’t want or need. I’m not getting those kinds of calls on my cell phone. But album cover art added a whole other dimension to the music you were listening to. It’s not the same with the covers of tapes, CDs or downloaded cover art from I Tunes. Again, it’s not like I refuse to use anything but an abacus and an Etch-a-Sketch. I’m listening to Pandora as I write this and I have 28 hours of music on my I Phone, so it’s not like I don’t play well in that electronic world. It’s just that album covers have the same kind of mojo for me that books have. Not to mention the occasional surprise when 30 year old sticks, stems and seeds fall out of the crease of my Derek and the Dominos double album cover.
This is not all to say that I don’t read constantly in the electronic realm. I do. Probably too much. I read almost all of my news online, I post work online, and interact extensively through social media, writing forums, and blogs. I love my I Mac, I Pad, I Pod, I Phone, MacBook Pro and Dell laptop, Kindle and I Books and E Books. However, I am finding that I am more apt to grab a hard copy of something to read in the bathroom, where all of the heavy lifting and profound thinking gets done, than to plunk myself down on the throne for the duration with my Kindle. I also have several books that I never finished reading on my Kindle. It’s not because they’re not good books. They ARE good books. It’s not them, it’s me. Out of sight, out of mind.
Anyway, this is supposed to be an entry for my Book Journal – “Alice B. Toklas,” so I’ll try to come to the point, which for me is difficult, in case you hadn’t noticed. First of all, I got the idea for a Book Journal from Jules Archer, who writes tough but luminous poetry and flash fiction and laugh out loud funny, sometimes irreverent, but always thought provoking posts on her blog: Jules Just Write.http://julesjustwrite.com/ More on all of this in another post) One of the books Jules mentioned was an old favorite of mine: On Writing; A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. Although, I’d read this book before, this is the kind of book a writer could read once a year and come away with new learning each time. I think this was the third time I’ve read this, and probably the best. It’s that slow learner thing. Another point that Jules made in a blog post was a resolution to read the work of more women authors. Whether or not this is happening consciously with me, it certainly seems to be happening, nonetheless. Maybe it’s just that I admire these authors for being honest, authentic, and sometimes “in your face” in ways I only aspire to be.
Book Shelf
So – my Alice B. Toklas Book Journal report for January-February goes like this. This is just a list. More detail to follow.
Excavating the Present/ Lisa Harris & (Poetry/Visual Art Collaboration) Unearthing Eternity Nancy Valle
The Empty City Berit Ellingsen (Novel)
On Writing Stephen King (Memoir)
After Life Rhian Ellis (Novel)
Flash Fiction Fridays Robert Vaughan (Flash Fiction Anthology) (Editor, author, anthologist and contributor)
Disparate Pathos Meg Tuite (Flash Fiction Chap Book)
Damn Sure Right Meg Pokrass (Flash Fiction)
Blank Cake Misti Rainwater-Lite (Poetry)
Pieces for the Left Hand Robert J. Lennon (Flash Fiction)
Some closing thoughts on all of this. There’s a lot of engaging, inspiring, and life-changing Art, Music and Literature out there that you won’t find in the New York Times, Rolling Stone, USA Today or on Yahoo and Facebook. Most of the really take-no-prisoners, brash, audacious, fresh and original stuff out there is not floating down the mainstream like a big old fat slow ball right over the middle of the plate. While the well mapped out route may get you up and down the mountain safely, sometimes getting lost on that random herd path is what leads you to your true adventure. It’s going to be found in places where you least expect it, when you stretch for it, reach for it, beat the bushes. It’s going to be found with indie musicians, writers, artists – off the beaten path, down back alleys, and in alternative venues. That’s not to say there’s not great stuff in the mainstream, but I think the real game is to be found with those diamonds in the rough, sometimes right in your own backyard. Your Own Backyard – hey – that would be a really cool name for a website!
As soon as I heard that Robert Vaughan had put together this collection of short fiction I ordered it immediately because I knew it would be great. Drawn from his radio show “Flash Fiction Fridays”, Mr. Vaughan has assembled a collection of short fiction from some of the best authors out there today. Don’t let the label “short fiction” fool you into thinking that these pieces are like light snacks without substance. Brevity is power. This is the undiluted stuff. Each piece is a little package of dynamite, full of vivid imagery, emotion and humanity. The physical book is a slick and professional, aesthetically pleasing, high quality volume and it was on my doorstep within three business days. I can only hope that Robert Vaughan is already working on this year’s collection!
Flash Fiction Friday is a monthly radio program aired on WUWM’s Lake Effect in Milwaukee, WI. Each month host Robert Vaughan selects local writers who come in, do a quick flash interview and read their flash fiction piece on the air. Then, Robert reads a national writer’s piece and ties the two together with a theme that he discusses with his co-host, Stephanie Lecci. After doing this every month in 2011, Vaughan decided to create an anthology to honor the writers who shared their work on the radio program. Writers include Meg Tuite, Sheldon Lee Compton, Susan Gibb, Len Kuntz, Julie Innis, Sam Rasnake, Susan Tepper, Joani Reese, Christopher Allen, Sara Lippmann and many more.
I admit it. I’m drawn to Elvis on velvet paintings for reasons that are unexplainable to others and mysterious even to me. I am a product of mid century, middle class America with all its brash audacity, materialism and obsession with youth, celebrity and pop culture. A conversation with a friend led me down memory lane and reflections on Elvis on velvet, among other things. “Elvis on Velvet” was actually the name of our band at one time – and was always my personal favorite! I had a magnificent Elvis on velvet painting with the cheesiest frame imaginable that I’d lean up against my amp when we played out. It depicted Elvis with a single tear dripping down one cheek as he hunched over the microphone. I liked to imagine that he was singing “In the Ghetto.” The other people in the band eventually voted it down because they didn’t want people to think we were Elvis impersonators or an Elvis tribute band when, in fact, we played no Elvis whatsoever. It wasn’t that we disrespected The King’s status as an icon of popular American culture or the contribution he made to rock and roll. We were just moving in a different direction. The band played under a number of other dubious monikers including: “The Dead Salesmen”, “Watching Dave Work”, “Instant Jesus”, “Liquid Jesus”, “Night Soil”, “The Channel Cats”, “The Underdogs”, “Spark Doggy” and “All Thumbs Buddha” before settling on “Regular Genius” which stuck for 10 years and 2 CDs. I also had an Elvis lamp that should be in the Smithsonian. It totally rivaled the leg lamp Darren McGavin won as a “major prize” in the Christmas Story. I was finally persuaded to store it up in the attic, but it would scare the absolute bejeezus out of anyone going up into the attic because it looked like someone with piercing blue eyes and a massive pompadour haircut was up there lurking in the shadows. Both artifacts are now in loving homes where they are loved, appreciated and well cared for. The Elvis on Velvet painting is in a friend’s garage – AKA his “Sports Bar” and man cave. I once turned around in heavy traffic to go back to a rummage sale on someone’s front lawn where I thought I had spied an Elvis lamp. Much to my chagrin, it turned out to be a Michael Jackson lamp. This was twenty years before Michael Jackson’s sad and untimely demise; so, at the time it had nowhere near the heavy mojo that an Elvis lamp had. My Elvis on velvet painting and Elvis lamp now reside in the same mystical corners of my memory as my Davy Crockett paraphernalia, my Harmony guitar, my brother’s Indian motorcycle and Skeletor’s Castle Gray Skull. Actually, it’s a better place for all that stuff to be, because ultimately, that’s all it really is – it’s just more “stuff.” I guess we’re not the first culture to elevate our celebrities and popular figures to the level of religious icons and the pantheon of gods. One only has to go back through history to find numerous examples of this. Porphyrius was a renowned charioteer in Rome during the 5th and 6th centuries AD. He is famous for having seven monuments built in his honor in the Hippodrome. I’m not saying that an Elvis on velvet painting is in the same league as a monument to Porphyrius in the hippodrome, but only time will tell.
Your Own Back Yard - Michael Gillan Maxwell 