The snow made the maples willow.

Withered women draped in white.

Waiting for the winter procession to end.

Their last chance to say I love you.

Swallowed by the wind.

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 said proudly: “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.”

“Now that’s my President,” she said.

I laughed and gave her a hug.

There’s nothing wrong with having hope…

Especially, when your holding a little girl.

I had a friend forward me this video by some local artists. Love it. Captures RI perfectly.

“There’s something weird to me, daddy,” my six year old girl said.

“What’s that, baby?”

“The more I listen to directions in art. The worse it is.”

I smiled.

“When I don’t listen to directions, it’s good.”

I gave her a hug.

Another poor, yet talented, artist in the making.

Three political lessons from the 1943 Chicken Little Cartoon:

1) To influence the masses, aim first at the least intelligent.

2) Undermine the faith of the masses in their leaders.

3) By the use of flattery, insignificant people can be made to look upon themselves as born leaders.

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.

But Santa Clause is still a great and magical con.

Sometimes the universe is an embryo.

The river seems more alive in the winter. The eagles are on their way. And the beavers have been hard at work.

Seeing how efficiently they can peel a tree, I hold my arms in a little closer, and heed the warning of their angry, slapping tails.

Walking in the park this week, I came across a wounded birch tree.

Perhaps Mother Nature has finally surrendered.

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.

On the way home, all I could think was “fuck David Sedaris.”

Three fucking stacks and you had to special-order Jim Thompson…

This is what we’re up against?

Some people feel writing it as “x-mas” is sacrilegious.

I say, lets embrace and promote the abbreviation.

Just like in Algebra, the X can be a variable.

Then everyone can celebrate it as a time of love, charity and goodwill…

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.

ISBN: 0-9673758-0-0

Published in 2008

Available from:

Amazon.com

MTV.com

Barnes & Noble.com

Or by special request at your local bookstore.

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.

“Imaginative!” – Anchorage Press, 2001.

Available at:

Amazon.com

Barnes & Noble