Its common knowledge that most products in a store are Made in China.
I try my damndest not to purchase those items. As well as Indonesia, India, Taiwan, etc. I understand the arguments for globalization, but I still want to consume goods made in the USA or Europe, where labor standards are considerably better. Hence why most of my kids toys are Playmobil. Of course I have plenty of Made in China goods, but mostly they are purchased second-hand or out of sheer necessity.
Today I got a large check for some freelance writing, and decided to go splurge on some things I’ve needed.
Off to the local deparment store…First I checked a set of spoons – Made in China – so I put em back. Then I checked a comforter – Made in China – and put it back. Then a pair of running shoes – Made in China – and put em back on the shelf.
The one thing I purchased? The ONE thing I could find Made in the USA?
I’ve already railed about the fact that I couldn’t find one Jim Thompson book at the local bookstores. NOT ONE! But there were three stacks of hardcovers by that poster-child for commercialized intellectualism…That pretentious megaphone for self-important intellectuals hiding their own insecurities… Mr. David Sedaris.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I saw an ad for “An Evening with David Sedaris” at the APOLLO THEATER!!!
The prince of saccharine satire will now be gracing the same stage as Richard Pryor, Bill Withers, Ella Fitzgerald, Sammy Davis Jr., Lionel Hampton, James Brown, Michael Jackson, Marvin Gaye, Redd Foxx, Duke Ellington, Diana Ross and countless other legends.
Some may say that this is the perfect venue for such an “independent” thinker. Some even may say that I’m envious. Some may say I’m a Midwestern Yokel that doesn’t understand New York.
Bullshit to the first. Bullshit to the second (I know I’ll never be as successful as David). And “maybe” to the third — even this Midwest Yokel can see that this is fucking sacrilege.
Its just another example of how our entire culture is becoming diluted, polluted and pussified.
Seriously. Think about this… The Apollo Theater is hosting the man who wrote the fucking Santaland Diaries.
Nothing is pure anymore. Everyone and everything is selling out. Its all getting purified by corporate focus groups and people without any fucking guts.
The Great Recession. Who is to blame? The socialist liberals or the imperialistic neo-cons? In politics, I suppose that answer depends on which team you belong. Its easy to blame the other party. But, the more you blame the ills of the country solely on the other party, the more your own party controls you.
No one can be sheriff forever. America included. Empires rise and fall, and its not because a society allowed gay marriage, or loosened regulations on bankers, or didn’t do this, or didn’t do that. There are many “reasons” we assume are the reason for our downfall, but most are based on correlation, rather than causation. And unfortunately, people are too busy calling each others names and making irrational assumptions, rather than discussing our politics and viewpoints between each other in a manner which brings about results, rather than elevates defenses. No solutions can ever be reached from name-calling or failing to look inward — admitting our own faults so that we can then find a balanced middle ground. And that first fault we have to admit is impatience. A sin that our entire society, red and blue, is guilty. Impatience is the leading causation of practically all our societal and cultural ills. Impatience and selfishness are nearly interchangeable, but even the selfless can be impatient.
Impatience is our greatest weakness. Impatience brings short term happiness, but leads to long term sadness. Look at our culture. Instant gratification for any want, any desire, any need. Fast food, fast sex, fast fucking forward! Long, loving, stable marriages which result in more well-adjusted children, take extreme patience to succeed. Yet, 40% of children are born out of wedlock. 50% of marriages fail. And so many people want that honeymoon lust, but are too impatient to wait and work for it. Too selfish to make the sacrifices of themselves and make it work with a mate that may not be perfect. And yet, those in long-lasting marriages are shown to have better, more frequent sex, and have a longer-lasting, and better quality of life. But movies glamorize women and men who dash from the altar for their “true” love.
Impatience leads to obesity. Who has TIME to work out? Who has TIME to make their own fresh meals? Who has TIME to pack their own lunches instead of racing through the drive-thru every day? Well, with the average American watching 4 hours of television per day, I’d say we have a lot of time.
Impatience leads to disconnect and loneliness. We are too impatient to put things on layaway. We want it now. Put it on the credit card! Get it now. Instant gratification! Buy now, pay later! Where is the patience in saving. Where is the humility? The satisfaction. We are too impatient to work for what we want. Why do that if we can steal it? Make it easy by becoming an athelete an actress or country star? 9/11 happened and we wanted instantly to know who did it, why they did it, and why they weren’t in custody yet. We went to war impatiently. We want instant voting results. We want instant information. Who needs to learn critical thinking skills, or learn history, when we can just google it? And what about the peace and tranquility of a walk in the woods? Human for millennia have experienced that individual joy, but now, we worry if we don’t have our cell phone? Fuck Twitter. Fuck Facebook. We are instantly accessible. We have no time for our self. No time. No patience!
We want the cheapest, best products NOW. And we don’t want to pay too much. We’ve consumed ourselves out of jobs because the market sought the cheapest products, the things that make our lives easier, so we have more time, more time, more time. The patient people overseas took those jobs, and want to work for their spoils. We want the biggest house now. Go deep into debt to get it! So what if the average garage nowadays is the same square footage as the average house in the 1950s. We want that mansion now. We deserve it. We’re baby boomers! We’ve had it all our life! We are the best, we have the best, and we want it all now and we’re gonna pass that onto our kids too!
Road rage – impatient drivers. Drunk driving – too impatient to call a cab. Get where you want NOW. Robberies – too impatient to work for school and get a job. Drop outs – too impatient to get that diploma.
We don’t want patient answers. We don’t want solutions that will take fifty years to implement, but give centuries of prosperity. We want our economy reversed in weeks, not years. We want our wars won in months, our marriages fixed in days, our children perfected by pills. Epiphanies! Miracles! We fill our kids with medication, rather than putting in the time to understand and change their behavior. We placate them with television and video games. We want our packages delivered yesterday. Our kids in designer clothes before we can afford them. We want a flat stomach with a fast, fancy machine. Its all impatience.
The greatest art. The greatest loves. The greatest friendships. ALL come from patience.
We can blame this Recession on conspiracies and con artists. We can blame our enemies for any of our ills. We can blame everyone for everything. But in the end, we are to blame. You. Me. Your mother and your son. We are impatient. We don’t want to wait. And we all know, that the impatient hare didn’t win, it was the humble turtle that won the race.
So the “passive voice” weaves its way into my narratives.
Get it?
Anyway, I got a rejection letter today for my story, “She Works on Tuesdays.” The editors gave me some very detailed feedback, for which I am always quite grateful. But this time, the rejection actually confirmed what I was trying to achieve in the story – they “despised” the main character, it lacked a distinct plot, and the main character was acted upon by his environment, rather than him making the decisive actions.
It was all true. I can’t argue with their feedback. But, it was the first time I’d received a rejection letter that actually turned down my story for devices I’d planned on using! (grin) It was very interesting. I wanted the character to be despised, plus for the bar environment to act upon him – to influence his actions – cause that’s what happens to drunks.
It made me realize something — I combine my art and the Taoist philosophy a lot more than I realize, which is why I use the passive voice so often. Taoists believe we are to react to changes in our environment for optimum results in life. We can not fight nature, so we adapt and change and “go with the flow.” That is not to say one should never make decisions nor take initiative. But, we should pick and choose our battles. We should know when to step forward, and when to step back — To paraphrase: A new twig bends in the wind, while an old brittle branch will break…The stiff and unbending is the disciple of death, the gentle and yielding is the disciple of life.
Therefore, sometimes the passive voice is useful. It is a rule that needs to be bent – not necessarily broken.
When I was about fifteen years old, I read Larry Bird’s biography. I forget the name, but I remember it said that he started “hitting his shots” when he was fourteen…As a bench-ridden basketball player, that made me start practicing alone in a neighbors driveway everyday for the next year.
But I never did master the jumpshot.
I realized though, that we read biographies of people we admire, to find similarities in our own lives. To find some parallels, no matter how small, to give us confidence to keep going. To keep pursuing those dreams.
To find that our heroes were humans.
On the recommendation of a friend, I’ve been reading Savage Art – the biography of Jim Thompson. Like me, he supported his family by writing whatever he can, whenever he can, for whoever he can. A man who became a literary whore to put food on the table. His fiction, while incredibly brilliant, never sold enough to pay the bankers and the grocers — until he was dead of course.
We pay our bills by tapping that keyboard. And in our spare time we escape to a hotel room or garage to work on the fiction and novels and artistry that sustain us. Our mental soul. Capturing those fleeting moments of inspiration, when the kids are in bed or the wife is on the rag.
I thought about that tonight. Sitting there in my recliner as my two older girls danced around the room after dinner. Pretending they were ice skating across the hardwood in their pink plush slippers. Ignorant to my trials. How I didn’t know if a check would be in the mail next week. If someone might want an article or press release or story written…and then actually come through in paying me. Argh, the uncertainty and anxiety!
I’ve borrowed from family. I’ve eaten from restaurant trash. I’ve washed and pawned and pulled weeds for a jug of milk.
Yet I’ve also splurged after a payday. Bought imported cheese and fresh flanks of salmon. Pretty pink dolls and new crayons for the girls…a refreshing change from the second-hand store.
Its foreign to have money. So maybe that’s why I blow it so fast.
Reading Thompon’s biography was not a validation, or even inspiration. It was a realization that many artists go through the same thing. That we all find our ways to provide. We all take our chances. We all figure out a way to make it fucking work!
And its good to read about Jim selling his dry and drab non-fiction. Like an impressionist who slaps coats of latex on kitchens and living rooms so he can buy new oils. Thompson utilized his talent to make money, rather than some fucking warehouse job or teaching gig.
At the same time, who are we to put a dream ahead of our children’s security? How selfish…How selfish!!!!!!
But its all I know how to do. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. Its fucking hard. I could easily sit in a cubicle all day writing commercials. I could teach fucking high-school kids how to frame a god-damned story. But this is what I’m doing. Like so many others have. And hopefully, hopefully! It will pay off.
I’ll keep on going, even though the odds are against me…Cause I’m no Jim Thompson.
A few years ago my best friend Odin died. He had a heart attack at ten years of age. The morning it happened, I raced him to the fire station at 60mph through the residential streets. The paramedics couldn’t revive him.
I took his fat, furry body home and cried over it. Not wanting to let him go.
I contemplated a taxidermist. A cremation and bronze urn. A seamstress weaving his fur into a nice winter hat.
I gathered a party to go check out the vagrant camp this past weekend. My dog, along with an old friend and his wolf-hybrid.
I figured two men and two dogs were enough to guarantee we wouldn’t be roped and raped by some drunken snowman.
We walked a mile through the woods to the camp, through the dead, toppled trees and over the massive broken shards of river ice, melting on the shore.
The camp was set in the middle of a crescent of downed trees, which opened up to the river, facing an island, filled with eagles dipping into the water for catfish.
We made our way through the trees and looked for footprints around the tent. There were none. Just a tiny path from the river to a pond, packed hard by a busy muskrat.
The wooden bench was covered in snow, as was the black coffee cup.
I wondered for a minute if he might still be inside. Frozen blue under that tarp…But probably not, as the dogs weren’t interested — they were off snacking on eagle shit.
My friend opened the flap. Inside were some socks. Cigarette butts. A bent soda can.
As I watched the State of the Union last night, my six year old was at my feet drawing in her sketchbook.
The President said: “It’s because of this spirit — this great decency and great strength — that I have never been more hopeful about America’s future than I am tonight.”
The audience applauded.
My little girl chimed in: “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
I grinned. Not knowing she was listening. Let alone paying attention.
“Despite our hardships, our union is strong. We do not give up. We do not quit. We do not allow fear or division to break our spirit. In this new decade, it’s time the American people get a government that matches their decency; that embodies their strength.”
I trailblazed through the woods today, looking for the bald eagles that migrate here each Winter. There was only one bird so far, and he flew away before I could snap a picture. So I decide to investigate the campsite I stumbled upon a few weeks ago. At that time, I had determined it to be either A) S&M playground B) Serial killer hideout. C) Drunken vagrants home. Or D) All of the above.
Needless to say, any of these answers was scary to me, but my curiosity nearly always trumps my judgment.
So my dog and I maneuvered through the woods — over, under and around fallen trees. There were tracks in the snow. Boots about the size of mine. This morning’s snow had dusted the prints, however, so whoever it was hadn’t been here in a while. Maybe he was asleep, dead, or retreated someplace warmer.
The camp was hidden behind a crescent of fallen trees on a strip of land between the river and a pond. I let the dog go ahead and sniff about, figuring she’d take the brunt of any attack. Or at least start barking.
There was an old blue tarp, set up like a pup tent, suspended by a rope stretching between two trees and tall enough for a man to stand up in.
I shouted “Hello?!”
No answer.
I stayed back from the camp. Just close enough to see a coffee cup on the bench in the snow. It wasn’t steaming.
I half-expected some haggard river rat to attack me Guerilla-style from the trees. Or some crazy old drunk to come flying out of the tent and stab me with a piece of drift wood.
“Hello?” I shouted again.
Still no answer. So I turned and left. I didn’t want to have him catch me going through his stuff. And, he could have been hiding in some brush watching me.
I’m not scared of vagrants. But I am scared of men who live in the woods during Winter. Its the type of scenario horror movies are based on.
I hurried out of the woods, unsure if I should tell someone, or just let the man go on living? The father in me says tell the authorities. The writer in me wants to document his story. The scofflaw in me wants to just leave him alone. I just don’t know.
Above – Vagrant camp in December. Below – Vagrant camp in October.
Walking my dog in the woods is therapeutic. Especially when we’re trailblazing along the river. I find something new each trip. A beaver slapping the water with his tail. A dead duck laying in an angelic pose. Baby dolls hanging from nooses in the trees. Or a lone flower, colored a shade of purple I’ve never seen.
And sometimes, though rarely, I come across another human being.
One day I found a rowboat anchored cockeyed on the shore. I shrugged it off. A few steps later I saw a man carrying a shovel and black duffle bag. I held my breath as he neared and tried not to think of what he buried.
“Norwegian Elkhound,” he said.
“Huh?” I stopped.
“Nice dog.”
“Oh, thanks,” I smiled. My dog sniffed him and then ran ahead. A hundred yards later I looked back to see him rowing away. I convinced myself he was probably just a mushroom hunter.
Then this weekend I came across a campsite. Or something like that. Its not unusual to find remnants of a small fire, littered with beer cans. But this was different. It had something extra. The site had a bench or a bed, I couldn’t tell which at first. It was fashioned out of two rotting logs and a wooden plank. I could have dismissed this as a fisherman’s bench, but it was slightly too low to be both functional and comfortable. And it was set at a height to avoid snakes and spiders, and low enough that it would not be painful to roll off.
There was also a rope hanging from the tree.
A poorly fashioned, but sharp spear on the ground.
A discarded, soiled t-shirt.
And a romantic river view…
As with the mushroom hunter, there’s probably an innocent explanation, but I’m still thankful no one was home.
The evolution of the modern bookstore – Borders. I took my three-year old there today to spend a giftcard. A children’s book for her, and a novel for me.I had a shortlist in my mind: “Belly of the Beast” by Jack Henry Abbott; “The Brotherhood of the Grape” by John Fante; or anything by Jim Thompson. Most were titles/authors a friend had loaned me, and now I wanted copies of my own. As we walked in, I had to stop and check the sign on the door again…
Yep, Borders Bookstore — So why is the fucking lobby filled with toys?
We passed by islands of books by comedians and reality stars. Rows of adolescent vampire novels, celebrity memoirs, and kid’s books with little toys packaged on the front.
We made it to the Literature section. It had all the name-brands. The classics and the commercial. Everything you were supposed to read.
My daughter sat in one of the big leather chairs and flipped through a copy of “The Story of Ferdinand.” I sang the alphabet song in my head as I scanned the shelves — T for Thompson, F for Fante, A for Abbott.
Nothing.
So I went to a computer. I typed my own name in first of course, Devin Hansen. The screen showed all the titles I wrote, each accompanied with the line “Not in Stock.” Of course. I didn’t expect differently.
Then I typed in the other author’s names. Famous writers that were far more talented than I’d ever hope to be.
“Not in stock.”
I asked a clerk. She clicked away on the same keyboard and said: “Well, we can order them for you…”
“Nevermind.”
I sat in the brown chair next to my daughter. Next to a kiosk of bookmarks and journals. Next to a stack of David Sedaris books. Three stacks, in fact. Three shit piles of smug, saccharine satire. Three stacks by the poster-child for commercialized intellectualism. A pretentious, megaphone for self-important intellectuals that need constant affirmation to bury their own insecurities.
He was there, this darling of the publishing industry, among the toys, DVDs, music, and anything else you wanted to numb yourself. You could even sip a coffee while you decided. Maybe a Kenyan roast. All while surrounded by hunched-over students, attention-seeking writers, and tattooed girls talking anarchy over a plate of biscotti.
I paid for “The Story of Ferdinand.” Then gave the gift-card, still with a large balance, to some old lady walking into the store. She smiled and patted my daughter on the head.
Synopsis: A collection of published and unpublished fiction for drunkards, deviants and derelicts. These twenty-three grungy yet whimsical stories explore the simple pleasures and punishments that we all experience. Especially those who find it hard to escape the barstool.
Authors Note: This is a sentimental book for me. It took about 2 years to write, and is based on my time as a bar owner. During its composition, I endured some deep introspection. I’m very pleased with this book and hope that you’ll enjoy it as well.
“Sponsored By…” was my first full-length novel, and took nearly three years to write. The idea had been in my head for years, and I finally put it on paper while I was supposed to be working in my cubicle. I quit that job after it was published, and have been working for myself ever since. I am very happy with this book, despite some clunky dialogue. I made it very over-the-top, with outlandish characters and situations, to mock the entire advertising industry.
I also titled each chapter with a well-known advertising slogan, hoping to get sued and get some promotion for the book, but that never happened. The central theme is an attack on unbridled American consumption, underlined with a love story. I think had I written this book after my children were born, it would be better. But, I am still pleased with the writing, the plot, and the story-line. Its as relevant today as it ever was. Actually, at least one of my ideas came to life. The “Flogo”. Clouds bearing corporate logos. We’ll see what other ad ideas in this dystopian novel come true.
