Writer wanted

I have no intention of turning this blog into an obituary column. There are still a few people out there for whom I have the utmost respect -- they are getting fewer and fewer though -- and I can barely resist the urge to advice them to undergo a complete medical checkup and please folks, resist the urge to swallow the barrel of a gun and aim at the bats. I mean, shit, this is totally selfish of me but I need to know that some of the people I admire are still alive. The way it actually felt good to know that somewhere in Colorado there was a crazy bastard eating acid while shooting guns and writing articles. It's true that his late writings had lost part of its panache -- or maybe it's just me, Thompson never became a mere parody of his former self, but I have to admit I was always afraid it might happen because, well, these things happen, right? -- but he was still the Good Doctor, the crook always ready to inject you with a speedball of sheer craziness and paranoia.

My first reaction was not to believe it. Hunter shooting himself? No fucking way. Not when you have tried acid and you know how strong your mind has to be to endure the tremendous stimulation and not let your brains explode. Not when you know that this guy was the kind to fight any cause he deemed right with the endless energy of a mad dog.

But then, I came to admit that Thompson probably did not kill himself in an act of despair. That his suicide was the logical continuation of the way he had always lived, playing by his own rules only.

And I am not theorizing about suicide here, talking from a safe place and encouraging people to do it. I have saved a few friends from committing suicides so I know what I'm talking about. A close friend of mine willingly drove her car off the road just at the end of the last party I had when I left France. I spent most of my last weekend in France in the ER.

All I'm saying is that Hunter S. Thompson's suicide -- tragic and devastating as it is for his family, friends and readers -- makes sense. The way Hemingway's does to.

Not less tragic is that with Thompson's death, we are really turning a page of American literature. Since the news of his death, I've been racking my brains, trying to think of someone I might have forgotten when I say that the times of writers with balls is over. I'm talking about authors clearly having hints of genius in their LIVES and not only in their writings. Writers who would put themselves in dangerous (mental or physical) situations and then come back and write about it. Where are the William S. Burroughs, the Lord Byrons, the Thompsons of our times? Writers about which you can't figure out which one of their lives or their writings are the most exciting. (And if you reply Paris Hilton to this question then we really do have to define such words as "writing" and "exciting.")

If you can think of anybody, please by all means let me know. Maybe I forgot someone. Maybe I don't know him/her yet.

Houellebecq is definitely not my man. I thought for a time Maurice G. Dantec, now exiled in Canada, might be. But the more he goes the less he qualifies. Despite his impressive culture this guy is just sinking deeper and deeper in the stupid dialectic of religions. Remember what I was saying here? Well, Dantec is a good example of that -- another acid head who met fucking Jeeeesus. Chloe Delaume is quite interesting and I like her but even if her aspirations are pure, her writing sometimes leaves me cold. I wish she would theorize less and write more.

And that's about it for the French. Please, don't mention Houellebecq. Now if we turn towards the U.S., well... Palahniuk is an interesting guy as far as balls are concerned in writing, but even though I can tell he really is a great down to earth no-star-ego guy, his genius is more in his writing than in his life. Who else? Stephen Elliott maybe...

But you know, mentioning about Elliott made me realize something about Delaume and others. Burroughs and Thompson really grabbed the bull by the horn, whereas today's writers with interesting lives appear to me more like being the victims of their lives.

Is Salinger still hiding his ass somewhere? Is he dead already? I think he's still alive but I'd need to check that. Come on, there must be one crazy bastard somewhere still alive, writing.

Maybe in a jail, maybe in exile.

Just let me know.

Mahalo, Doc...

hunter s. thompson (1937-2005)

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson dispatching a recalcitrant typewriter

www.gonzo.org

snow

Somehow, February snow is nothing like December snow. It's more like a cheap version. Tiny helpless flakes just good enough to old on the cold metal of cars. Every year it's the same. THe first months just suck for suck's sake. Or is it me. Every beginning of a new year is like when you're running, 2 minutes away from fainting, and just when you think you crossed the finish line you see you're the only one of the class slowing downs and then you hear the gym teacher yell something like: "Last lap guys!" So, to forget the pain, to forget the distance still to go you start thinking backwards and trying to figure out whether you made a mistake or the gym teacher is just pushing his luck for a perfect murder.

........................

And just after writing that I got a call from Vanessa who studies at Penn. U. and for kicks she read me what her students wrote in their essays and one hour later the whole street is white with snow.

At least there's snow so that's enough for me to be happy!

The Blue Hour

Read THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, by old Salinger.

Reading a collection of short stories by O. Henry.

Because I'm bored I started working again on translating a book in French. Because I know someone who works for the publisher, I know that the book (who is already about a year old) has not been sold in France yet. Which is strange because it's not too bad a book, really. So on the one hand I'm pretty much sure that nobody else is busy translating it. On the other hand, it's very unlikely that the translation will interest any French publisher. Let's say I'm doing it for the exercice's sake. I have done three chapters so far, and it's not the first time I'm translating something and I really like that. Except when now and then you stumble upon a critical sentence or word and you spend 20 minutes on it trying to make it sound good in French without losing all the information and the tone.

In Beerlight City

Read WAITING PERIOD, by Hubert Selby Jr. I usually love this guy's style, but I have to say that I wouldn't recommend this book. In my most humble opinion, he didn't choose the best way to narrate his story. I have nothing against stream of consciousness. THE SOUND AND THE FURY is one of my all-time favorite book. But I think it wasn't Selby's thing. He should have stuck to his usual 3rd person narration.

Reading SLAUGHTERMATIC, by Steve Aylett. Interesting...

And I'm back and I'm back again...

Saturday—

Saturday I was working for Brunch at my new place. I was lucky, by five something I could leave. I went directly to the place where I went Thursday. We were three tonight. Maureen, Katia, a Russian girl I was meeting for the first time and me. When the boss arrived and profusely thanked me for not letting him down and asked me how I was doing. I said I had just finished my shift and I was exhausted but it was ok. He said Good.

Then the customers arrived and the show started.

Around midnight Katia left. There were still some customers, and they were still drinking like this was the last day booze was legal.

Around half past free, the boss, Maureen and me are sitting at one of the table of the empty restaurant, counting the cash. Maureen and I made $100 tips each. Then the boss said how tired he was, stood up, closed the book and went to the door to take out the trash.

I said, “Wow, where you going? Maybe now’s the time to settle this thing between us.”
He said that it was not the moment. That he needed to figure everything out.
I said, “What do you need to figure out. You had two big parties. Tonight only you made almost one grand. You owe me 200 bucks. Ain’t nothing to figure out.”

Maureen was still sitting at the table, silent. Thursday she had left before me and the next day my boss had told her that he had given me the money he owed me just after she left. They are good friends, but she’s not a stupid girl. I still don’t understand how she can be friend with an asshole like that. Women…

The boss, he said, “Listen, I’m too tired to argue with you. I appreciate that you came. I’ll figure this out and we’ll talk about that later. You’re not alone, I have to take care of the others.”
“What do you mean? If I could wait more than 3 months for $300, she can wait a couple of days for the fifty or something you’re going to give her. It’s almost four, I did two shift and I’m still here. And next time, you’re going to give me the usual shit, ignoring me when I arrive, then finally saying you can’t give me anything today. So let’s settle this for good."

I was standing at one hand of the counter by then. And he was standing at the corner of the counter, just next to me. If I had planned what was going to happen, I would have done things slightly differently. First thing, I would have step back a little bit to give me more time. But the truth is I didn’t think. Even now, I can’t remember what he said that made my brains snapped. But trust me it was really bullshit. Maybe something like, You came tonight to make money on me and now blah blah blah. Or maybe the paternalist routine he often tried to pull on me. I can’t remember. All I know is that he just said that little thing and my mind went blank. Or rather red. I grabbed something on the counter—maybe a glass and threw it as hard as I could on the table on the barman side, where all the bottles and glasses were. I don’t know what I broke exactly. Probably not much. But the glass that I threw, yeah, this one I can tell it went in a billion directions at once.

Then I turned around and started yelling stuff about him and that’s when he grabbed me by the collar and kept his arm stretched at full length so that I couldn’t touch him. The way he hold me, it’s pretty much the way you would hold a snake if you’re the kind of person that doesn’t like snake that much. I couldn’t do anything in this position, but I kept yelling my throat off at him, pushing on his arm with my chest in a desperate attempt to reduce the distance between us and thus have his head at punching distance. I heard him say, “You broke something in my restaurant, now I have two solutions—“ I didn’t hear the rest. I was too busy insulting him. But that would have made me laugh if I had been in the mood for that, because until that night I had never ever broke anything in any of the restaurant where I had worked—and also because earlier in the evening HE had broken a cocktail glass when he tried to show off.

At this point, I thought the best thing that could happen was that he punched me. If he did, he would probably let go of me just after and if I’m not knocked out then it would be my turn. Even then, with my throat hurting from yelling and all the red in my eyes, I knew I had fucked up. It felt good to break the glass or whatever it was. But really, I shouldn’t have done that when he was that close to me. All he had had to do was stretched his arm and I was fucked. Finally Maureen came between us, screaming, “Let him go!” This is always an awkward moment, when someone tries to break up a fight. Usually, that’s when the opponents feel like it’s safe to show some little extra anger and if it lasts more than 20 seconds the scene quickly sink into ridicule. So I stopped trying to move forward and yelling.

Now I'm back, now I'm back again

Thursday—

Really, I’m not even supposed to be here anymore. Not at this place. And not so late. When I entered, my intent was only to stay a couple minutes. Now it’s three something in the morning and someone is putting a badge under my nose. The badge is not as big and flashy as the one you play with when you’re a kid but this one as something special to it that makes it more powerful. Maybe it’s because this one is no fake. It looks heavy and the gold shines against the black leather of the wallet. When the guy flipped his wallet open and showed me his badge, I had the time to read what was carved on it.

D— J—
District Attorney

Like I said, when I came in, I didn’t plan to stay. I was tired and hungry. All I wanted when I pushed the door of the restaurant where I used to work, is get back the $200 my former boss still owes me. But the boss was out when I arrived. And my friend Maureen was at the counter instead of the usual waiter. After the usual greetings, Maureen asked me if I want to work tonight? There was a party of twenty something about to come and she was the only waitress. I looked around the places and noticed the white tablecloth, the flower in little vases on the table, the wine glasses. I asked her if really she couldn’t make do. For the first time I explained to her the situation. “This guy owes me money already, I’m not too excited at the idea of putting on some more work for nothing.” But she said please and she looked me with her large, pleading eyes. I should have left right then.

But I stayed. And when the boss arrived, he was all sweet and sugar and he too asked me to stay. He said he would appreciate. Every word he said made me more and more angry with him but I let it go. On the one hand I like Maureen and she needed help. Twenty people is not too much for one waiter, but the configuration of the restaurant, with its rows of tables along the lateral walls and the counter set perpendicularly in between make it difficult if you’re alone.

Before I said yes, I mouth to Maureen, “I do it for YOU.” Customers had already started to arrive. It was seven o’clock. Nine hours later, I’m sitting at the table of the last customers drinking wine and talking with the passion you have when you had a little too much wine. When they leave, I ask one of the guy whom I found pretty cool, “Don’t tell me you’re a lawyer too?”
“No, worse—I’m a D.A.”
“You’re kidding.”
And then he opened his wallet and showed me his badge.

My boss paid me for the night. But he still didn’t pay me for the tab he has. He said, “I have another party Saturday. Twenty people. If you come, I’ll give you the rest.”
I asked if Maureen would work too and she said yes. So I said, that if she was working then I’ll come.

retour

During the past days for some reason I've been thinking a lot about Barton Dawes, the hero of a Stephen King's novel I read many years ago. These days, I couldn't (and still can't, I think) read nonfiction anymore. I gave up on the collection of essays on Burroughs. Now this is very unusual for me, as I always make a point of always finishing any book I start. Exceptions, I can still name them. Illusions perdues de Balzac. The Lord of the Ring, by Tolkien. And also one by Wittgenstein. Balzac and Tolkien just bored me beyond measures. As for Witty, well, to be honest, when I reached the middle of the book I had to admit I probably didn't understood more than 30% of it and it would be plain stupid to go on.

The truth is, these days I need fiction badly. So I returned to Barnes & Nobles (I'm kind of boycotting The Strand, plus I have a special discount when I buy books at B&N) and bought Roadwork because I really needed to refresh up my old memories of Barton Dawes's story. I finished the book today.