Lower Haight Holler

thinking about courage

2011-03-01T18:01:00.000-08:00

who is the bravest person you know? I would love to hear the story.

All NIck Belardes All the Time! (plus some Tolkien!)

2009-08-05T10:37:00.000-07:00

Random Obsessions: Trivia You Can't Live Without - Nick Belardes

Genre: "Reference," but, please -- it's a trivia book.

While there are more books of weird facts, quirky stories, and mind-bending figures than there are dimples on a golf ball, Nick Belardes’ Random Obsessions leaves the rest of the trivia book genre looking puny and sophomoric by comparison. Divided into eight chapters covering such themes as weird scientific anomalies, freakish illnesses, the strangest jobs ever, and assorted tales of films, authors, inventions, and artists, the sections read more like an amusing free-association Mensa exercise than a run-of-the-mill book of random information.

Take Chapter 6: Eccentric Authors and Fantastic Art. A typical trivia book would list interesting factoids under clearly defined, encyclopedia-boring headings. Not Random Obsessions. The chapter starts with information about expatriate writer V.S. Naipaul, leaps to random expatriation facts, moves on to J.R.R. Tolkein, then on to info about famous art depicting war. Each chapter follows this setup: leaping from one topic to another, related, if off-beat topic, to still another. The entire book is like an intellectual and oddly fascinating playground. Goody, goody.

What to drink while reading Random Obsessions: I'd suggest a festive, yet sophisticated, cocktail for this one. My choice would be a Gimlet. As Julie Powell of Julie and Julia fame (and soon to be released bookish movie) says, Gimlets are "exquisitely civilized and not at all girly." Well said, ma'am. Although the traditional Gimlet recipe is about 2 oz. gin, 1/2 oz. Rose's lime juice, and 1/4 to 1/2 oz. simple syrup, that's sissy stuff, in my opinion. I'm with Terry Lennox from Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye when he tells Philip Marlowe that, "a real Gimlet is half gin and half Rose's Lime Juice and nothing else." Get thee behind me, simple syrup.

Verdict?: This is one trivia book that won't be relegated to Bathroom Status.

A fun interview with Publisher's Weekly!

2009-08-04T19:42:00.001-07:00

Selling Sex in a Recession
Publishers Weekly - New York,NY,USA
Brenda Knight, associate publisher of Cleis Press's Viva Editions, thinks she knows why .... Cleis andViva Editions has just formed a new partnership with ...

Please read this and let us know what YOU think!

Thanks!

Moving picture windows

2009-07-25T16:16:00.000-07:00

Thanks for tuning in to the second half of this story -it is not exactly an easy one to tell but I do feel it is important to share. Hopefully, my tale will help someone who is dealing with loss of a loved one and the overwhelming grief that comes with it. As you have read, I was safely tucked in the back of a car on the way to Yosemite with two incredibly supportive women -great writers both and unutterably kind. Though we had buckets of alcohol in the back, I sipped a single mimosa slowly and wondrously. Champagne is celebratory and I marveled I would be drinking it again as I slipped and slid around in what I had come to think of as "My Slough of Despair." I considered feeling guilty about it but I pictured Robert looking down upon me and saying."That's my hen. Look at her go." In my imaginings, he would be highly amused at the slightly absurd sight of our boozy and bookish cabal zooming up the side of a mountain in a stretch limo. It might have amused me, too, except I had forgotten how to laugh.

The beautiful scenery passed by my window at 60 mph and was soothingly meditational. Gorgeous flowering fields, wild weedy meadows, turning into a vast sentry of trees marching to Yosemite. We picked up a couple more writer riders along the way. I mumbled just enough niceties to get by before I turned back to the moving picture window that had become my escape. I was curled in the very comfortable back corner when, to my dismay, we suddenly arrived at the lodge and I was forced to emerge into actual daylight and try to pass as a human being. There was a big crowd at the check-in desk which delayed simply checking into my room. Finally, I was handed keys and ushered into a spacious room with a view and my very own balcony overlooking a meadow leading into a forested path. The path was a lure. It called to me silently and seductively.

This being a conference, nearly every moment was scheduled. I had 20 minutes to myself before the first meet and greet. I flung my suitcase in a corner, kicked off my boots and had a good cry for exactly 15 minutes allowing 5 for Visine, facewash, make-up and costume change.

Next installment- I finally meet Nick Belardes

Just Keep Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

2009-07-24T19:37:00.000-07:00

A book came out today that means a lot to me- Random Obsessions: Trivia You Can't Live Without. It is by Nick Belardes, a brilliant fellow if ever there was. Just looking at the quirky, colorful cover makes me smile and remember how I met "The PT Barnum of Bakersfield."

It was nearly two years ago and I was in a bad state. My long-term boyfriend had finally succumbed to the cancer he had been fighting. I was in a fog, very numb and sort of sleepwalking. I had committed to speaking at a Writers Conference and, while it seems pretty unimaginable that I would be able to even talk, let alone form full sentences, I did like the idea of being at a beautiful retreat lodge at Yosemite. I felt it might be healing if I could just get through my obligations and then walk in the woods and be with nature in one of the most beautiful places in the world. The gracious organizers offered me an out but I said I thought I could certainly meet with writers and offer basic publishing wisdom. Looking back , it seems kinda crazy even to me but I held onto my "chop wood, carry water," notion that small tasks could distract me, keep me busy, and keep me out of the fetal position I resumed when alone.

I took the train to Fresno and cried the entire way. I was reading "The Other Boleyn Sister" and I could get through a few pages, place the book in my lap, sob for a time, repeat. I had planned to nap but I was a bit worried that I had made a HUGE mistake in attending the conference and was going to embarrass myself and make people uncomfortable with the mess I regularly dissolved into.

Upon arriving at Fresno Amtrak, I was picked up by the lovely Hazel Dixon Cooper, author of "Born on a Rotten Day"and Cosmo's Bedside Astrologer. She was a dear and had a good stock of tissues for me and snacks for the road. We then met literary agent June Clark and climbed into a limo that swept us away enroute to Yosemite. The limo also had a good stock of liquor of which we availed ourselves heartily. Was I distracted? You bet! We chattered amiably and I noticed I could go AN ENTIRE MINUTE without thinking about Robert's death.

I looked at the beautiful scenery passing by the windows of the stretch limo (soon dubbed "The Boozemobile") and I thought to myself. "This just might work out after all."

100% Discount Shopping

2009-07-19T17:18:00.000-07:00

My "shopping bone" is broken. It broke long before the recession so I was already living fairly frugally. I admit to having been a shopper with Saturdays spent at Needless Markup (Neiman Marcus) for sales and Macy's and even Target and cute little boutiques with irresistible one-of-a-kind items that garner compliments and kvelling. But, a few years ago, I simply lost all interest in shopping. I would like to think it is some higher planetary awareness but that's not it. So, I took to turning down those Union Square shopping sprees with myriad excuses, finally admitting to my broken and apparently unhealed bone. Don't get me wrong, I still have a few weaknesses such as books, music, plants for the garden and scented candles.

With clothes, I call myself a "camel shopper" and shop once a year for clothes when my friends start complaining about seeing certain frocks a few too many times or when I need to look passable for an out-of-town convention. I go into the stores with a list go straight to the needed sections, moving quickly and efficiently.

Street shopping is a whole different ball game -furniture I see on the sidewalk calls to me with a siren's siren. I explain to people who might be riding with me that my ten year old convertible Mustang, Shadowfax, is like a truck -just put the top down and place the bookcase, chair, nightstand, or what-have-you in the back and drive away. I LOVE to rescue these finds and take them home to sand, repaint, gild, and filigree away. Half of my furniture are foundlings - glistening with gold leaf, copper leaf, and reupholstered with good quality fabric scraps. People think they are fine antiques and maybe one day, they will be.

For now, though, they seat my friends, hold my clothes, provide a place for memorable dinner parties and give me a great feeling of satisfaction that I can create beauty and comfort in a creative way for me and my loved ones. No amount of pounding the pavement and pillaging malls can give you that.

Look for beauty everywhere -it is there just waiting to be seen.

The Philosopher's Stone

2009-06-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

Here is a rock so rare, it is extraterrestrial! Moldavite is the only known gem-quality crystal that comes from outer space. About twenty million years ago, there was a meteor shower in the Czech Republic’s Moldau Valley, leading to the only known occurrence of moldavite to this day. As a medieval scholar, I find the association with the legend of the Holy Grail and moldavite to be of utmost importance. For one, Excalibur, King Arthur’s sacred sword, was supposedly forged from the iron of a meteorite. In Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, the grail is a lapsit exillis (stone out of the heavens). Many other theories equate moldavite with the philosopher’s stone, the long-sought source of wisdom for all alchemists, and it is even thought to perhaps be the sacred stone of Islam in Mecca, the center of the Muslim faith.

As such, moldavite is widely believed to be one of the stones that will help humans evolve. I had heard miraculous stories about moldavite that, quite frankly, I didn’t believe until my friend Bill loaned me the book Moldavite: Starborn Stone of Transformation, by a couple, Robert Simmons and Kathy Warner. Upon reading this book, I grew so curious; I felt I had to get some moldavite. Kathy Warner wrote of her immediate spiritual connection and growth from the stone and how it helped her to trust in the universe enough to open a crystal shop, Heaven and Earth, in Gloucester, Massachusetts, with no money, no plan, a few rocks, and a lot of faith. I was also struck by the episodes in which the authors told of customers that came in, browsed their shop, and often had incredible encounters with the bottle-green tektite. Kathy even named the physical reaction the moldavite flush. People sweated, turned red, and either laughed or cried. But what really made me curious was Robert’s story of how he had no reaction at all to the moldavite for many months and then, after patient medication; he had a magnificent spiritual awakening. Robert’s story appealed to the skeptic in me. What if I got some moldavite and it had no effect on me? Well, just in case, I could take comfort in Robert’s long-delayed epiphany.

So the same friend who alerted me to the moldavite went to The Sword and The Rose on Carl Street in San Francisco, got a lovely green silver, and brought it back to me while I was at work. I took it out of the bag and touched it, noticing how it felt rather like a piece of textured plastic. Bill looked at me with that charming grin of his and a twinkle in his eye and told me that he had gotten some moldavite for several of our friends. He seemed excited. Bill was a moldavite initiate, and just having it around had already made me happier. For himself, he had gotten a moldavite pendant, and he showed me how he could also wear it as a headband. I noticed that the moldavite rested on the exact spot of Bill’s third eye. I didn’t really feel anything except that it did rapidly pick up the heat from my hand, and seemed to hold the heat. Anyway, I felt rather disappointed that I didn’t have a reaction like those I had read about in the book Moldavite. I was, after all, hoping to feel exhilarated and ecstatic. Who wouldn’t?

The next day, I was to go to my own birthday party at a place in San Francisco’s Chinatown called Li-Po, named for the great drunken Chinese poet. Apart from being a bit grimy, the bar is a re-creation of a Buddhist shrine set in a cave with lanterns, incense, and many sacred icons, including some fabulous Buddhas. I was looking forward to my party but was also worried about the deadline on this book, feeling stressed, and, as always, more concerned about my friend’s happiness than my own.

That morning, I woke up feeling a bit odd and couldn’t go to the office to write. For four months, I had worked seven days a week; I had assigned myself a strict per-day count, and if I didn’t make my word minimum, I would beat myself up and increase that incredible pressure on myself. I had planned to work all day and then go to the party. By midafternoon, I felt hot and uncomfortable, I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate on anything. By the evening, I was in the midst of a full-fledged fever and was nearly delirious for two days straight. I missed several days of work. I simply had to give in to my body and let it all go. I heard the party was fun and everybody got along great. For me, an almost compulsively social, not attending my own birthday party was unthinkable. Interestingly, it happened and there was no catastrophe. But, the big news was that I had put my health and myself first.

Afterward, I felt clear, and somehow lighter. Even though I was tragically far behind on all my various projects and duties, I wasn’t worried. I knew they would get done in good time.

A thought had flickered through my feverish mind as I lay in bed unable to lift the remote control to adjust the TV – could that have the moldavite? It seemed like a silly idea, and I figured I had just caught a flu that came on very suddenly. I had left Robert and Kathy’s book on my writing desk at my office and I figured I would reread the moldavite encounters section to see if anyone had had similar reactions. Here is what found as I paged through this book: “Also for many people, there seems to be a cleansing process involved. Here the moldavite energies go first where there are blockages. When these have been release, there usually follows a pleasant lightness of emotion.”

I have gone on to read many stories of people who at first felt ill or felt like they opened a door into a new reality. Others quit jobs made them miserable, got out of toxic relationships, moved across the country, and made other fairly drastic changes. Whatever the change may be, moldavite transforms with no turning back and absolutely no doubt.

I kept my moldavite crystal on my writing desk to accompany me during the transformative journey of writing this book. I plan to further explore the outer reaches of my moldavite revolution through meditation. I am ready to shed a lot of old habits, old possessions, old ideas, and old ways of being that no longer serve me. I want to grow in consciousness and cleanse my “doors of perception.”

I urge you to do the same!

Invisible Rescue

2009-06-19T18:02:00.000-07:00

This week has been odd, perhaps because of in incident that occurred Sunday night. I just can't stop thinking about it, in fact.

I visited Z Budapest Sunday, who has had successful surgery on her hips and a very long stay in the hospital. (I will add, though, that she had a fantastic view from her gurney -a panorama of the East Bay with the scary beautiful Mormon Temple anti-Disney castle right in the center.) We chatted, talked book ideas, and watched 60 Minutes wherein the Bernie Madoff whistleblower was laying out just now lame the SEC, even scarier than Mormon fortresses! Then Alice Waters caressed vegetation in an erotic way during prime time whilst an emaciated bucket of botox stood uncomfortably by. Z and I tried to guess Alice Waters sun sign; Z felt Aquarius or Pisces, and I opined her to be an earth motherly Cancerian who just wants everybody to eat their veggies. (I'll get back to you on this, I promise. ) A nurse wandered in and out, somewhat aimlessly, wanting to kick me out and really not enjoying our New Age natterings. She did manage to bad vibe me out of the hospital around 8:30 pm and I drove away, contemplating the eroticism of certain mushrooms, and made my way out of downtown Oakland toward Berkeley.

As I drove slowly down San Pablo thinking about the bills I had to pay and deciding whether I could get by one more day without doing laundry, a little black car with a ravenhaired man and black dog came zooming across San Pablo, heading toward me and Shadowfax, my car. I braked but had nowhere to go, as plunging onto a pedestrian-filled sidewalk seemed an even worse idea. I braced for impact, figuring Shadowfax would be totalled and maybe me, too. But somehow, in some way I just can't figure out, his car made an impossible 90 degree angle turn when it was inches away and missed me. I was gasping in shock as was everyone who saw it. The black car zipped away; I noticed the dog sitting in the front seat seemed unconcerned by it all. I contemplated chasing the car but I was really too scared to move or breathe or blink. In my mind's eye, it seemed like an unseen hand (albeit a large one) batted the car away.

I know that sounds crazy and that's okay. I finally got the nerve to drive the remaining dozen or so blocks to my house. I was shaking and sheet-white. I practically crawled up the stairs. Shards of thoughts rattled around my brain -was it Robert? Do I have a guardian angel, even though I don't believe in them. I settled on a thought I could live with for the night, that "the universe" cut me slack because of the hospital visit. But, I keep wondering what happened.

What do YOU think?

A Lower Haight Life Lesson

2009-05-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

Your Differences Are Your Greatest Assets

When I first moved to foggy California, my best friend Kimberly and I had driven straight from West Virginia and crossed the country in only three days. We took turns driving our beat-up little car; I would sleep while Kim took a shift and vice versa. I remember being aggravated that I couldn’t get her to wake up and see the Great Arch of St Louis as we hurriedly drove by, the first rays of the morning sun glinting and sparkling all around us. The next night, I remember feeling immensely grateful she was a deep sleeper as we almost slid off the road at 3 am in an unseasonal Rocky Mountain blizzard. We didn’t have money for hotels so we two hicks hastened to what we knew was surely the land of milk and honey. Kim’s friend, Jeff Westbrook, lived in San Francisco and we were promised a basement floor with two pieces of foam for sleeping. In other words, paradise!

Our hosts, themselves Appalachian expats, had transformed themselves into glamorous urban creatures of enormous sophistication –long dyed-black hair, black jeans, vintage garb, piercings in odd places. It was very exciting and extremely intimidating, all at the same time. My first day, I was actually wearing a blue gingham patchwork dress, pretty chic for back home, which I now realized was not even good enough for a pillowcase in San Francisco. I was also shocked to discover the cost of living and what it would take to get by. I felt like an utter hayseed. Kimberly wasn’t feeling well and took to her foam. So, I was left to get to know Jeff, his cool girlfriend, and the punk rock band that lived at 808 Haight and practiced in the basement (Turns out the foam was excess sound proofing.) They were very nice but I could see the pity in their eyes as they extracted tales of growing up on a dirt road and my whole life story of about 90 seconds. They had lived in the largest city in West Virginia, so my farm girl accent was pretty pronounced, even to them. They were very kind and patient and took me out and around to parties and their regular hangouts. Upon being introduced around, people invariably commented on my accent and seemed terribly amused by it.

The $500.00 I had saved for the move was rapidly evaporating and I was realizing I needed to get a job as quickly as possible. I walked to the financial district to save the bus fare and applied for a temp job. As luck would have it, I got placed and started working the same day for Morgan Stanley, a fancy financial outfit. Relieved to have work, I threw myself into it and filed, answered phones, typed memos, and ran errands. I would have scrubbed the floor if anyone has asked. Interestingly, my newly arrived Appalachian Alien status seemed to be helpful at my new job. They didn’t even seem to notice my fashion failures and we quickly fell into comradely routines with quick lunches, not too much chat but just enough, and I felt like I belonged. As receptionist and all around office helper, I spent a lot of time on the phone and a funny thing happened- stockbrokers from New York and the like, seemed to LIKE my funny accent. Once I had that figured out, there was no stopping me, I was an out-and-proud hayseed! I confess to “working it” and finding my dirt-road origins to be an unfailing asset in business and in every other part of life. I now work in The Lower Haight, about a block from the famous foam-filled basement. I made a little movie with my fellow expats, “Lower Haight Holler” in which we celebrate being hicks in the city. I learned to not only appreciate but to treasure that what made me different was one of my greatest strengths.

An Unexpected Message

2009-04-28T14:06:00.000-07:00

Oftentimes, messages come with animals, either live or in spirit vision. If this happens to you, you should study the meaning of this animal, as it may well become your personal totem or power animal. Bear in mind, too, that your animal totem might be a real surprise. You may be a 300-pund linebacker, and your totem might be a mouse. Remember, the totem picks you; you don’t pick the totem.

I was surprised when my animal totem first came to me. For whatever reason, I thought I was not a nature girl. I did a personal vision quest, and while a trip to an exotic place such as the Amazon jungle was not in my immediate plans, I felt I could definitely journey to the shore and make it a spiritual trek. Between Santa Cruz and San Francisco, there is a wonderful national park by the Pacific Ocean called Big Basin. Big Basin features a waterfall with a very large creek that flows down a mountain directly into the ocean. For sheer physical beauty and drama, Big Basin is nearly unmatched. The waterfall is a “word of mouth” phenomenon that only occurs after the rainy season. If you go at any other time, the waterfall is dry and, for all intents and purposes, simply does not exist. I decided that, for my purposes, I could experience a little of the magic my fried Terrance McKenna wrote about in his mind-blowing book, True Hallucinations.

So I set off on the seven-mile journey up the mountain to find Berry Creek Falls. Because I was hit by a drunk driver some years back, hiking is hard for me, sometimes. But I was extremely motivated to discover this hidden watery jewel, and the beauty of the spring day was sheer joy to behold. Through flowering spring trees, a singing brook, and a lush green landscape, I felt like I had rediscovered Eden all by myself. After about five miles, my ankle, which had been smashed in the accident, was begging me for a respite. I moved down the bank of the big creek and dipped my throbbing leg into the cool water. It felt so good, and I was so hot and hungry, that it seemed absolutely essential that I plunge into the creek. I think I lay in the water for at least two hours, and I felt an enormous sense of release there. I wept, letting go of deep emotions and past pain as the water flowed around me. Lichen, moss, leaves, and some small sticks caught in my waist length hair, but these added to my sense that I was getting closer to nature. I was in my element and very glad of it.

Eventually, I became aware of the world outside my mossy mermaid creek bed. It was getting late, and lacking flashlight or fire, I could either wash out to sea or return to the world and my life. Refreshed, a little more lucid, a lot hungrier, but with no distinct vision, it seemed that it was going to take another trip for me to get any real enlightenment.

I started the journey of several miles down the incline, deep in thought. After a few minutes I noticed that I was not the only one walking in the woods. I stopped, and the other footsteps stopped, too. I started and the other footsteps started again. The steps were very close. It seemed that someone or something was walking just off to my left, practically beside me. I started to get frightened; being followed was not in my vision quest plans!

Carefully and quietly, I turned to look in the dimming light. To my utter amazement, there was a young female deer walking beside me. We looked at each other, and I am not sure who was more frightened. We walked together and soon grew fairly comfortable with each other’s presence. I touched her and she didn’t flinch or run away. This was miraculous. I marveled that she remained at my side. I grew up in West Virginia, where deer simply don’t “hang out” with humans. I came to realize that this doe was my animal totem. She picked me, and definitely let me know that she was there for me, escorting me down the mountain from my vision quest. At the end of the grassy hill, before it became sand and beach, she turned, and with a long gaze, gave me her goodbye. I was practically shaking with excitement and an indescribable bursting feeling inside.

All those Native American teachings I had heard were completely real and true. Never again did I doubt the veracity of vision and spirit from the elders.

The realm of the spirit is there. It’s just waiting for you to walk in.

Absinthe Epiphanies -Brenda Knight's Adventures in Prague

2007-11-09T12:24:00.000-08:00

Risks Worth Taking -Drinking Absinthe in Prague

A Tale of Two Pragues -A "Trip" to Middle Earth

I had the fortune of going to Prague for a literary festival a few years ago. As if that weren’t wonderful enough, I was accompanied by Laurence Ferlingetti and ruth weiss, two of the legendary poets who were also coming to Prague for the first time. We were enthralled with the city, and its undisturbed medieval beauty, despite some unfortunate Communist era architectural monstrosities in the suburbs. Also., we got to stay near the city gate on Templova Street in an apartment building that had been a Knights Templar stronghold a mere 800 years ago. Walking along the banks of the Charles River, it was like a dream. Get thee to Prague as soon as you can, it is a place of deep magic and will doubtless inspire you.

There seemed to be two Pragues, from what I could tell. One is the day-to-day Prague with citizens going about their business as they always have, intermixing with tourists and the many expats who (like I very nearly did) came to Prague to visit and simply never left. Then, there is the Prague by night, which has many discos and a glittery blend of Europeans and North American clubbers. Lit by candlelight and neon, this Prague takes on an otherworldly glow where pretty much anything is possible. For me, the most memorable public house of all is a bar whose name translates to “The Man With the Shot Out Eye,” a reference to Jan Hus. Our Beat contingent decided to visit on our last night in Prague and on this night the pivo (Czech for beer) and the absinthe was flowing. I was an “absinthe virgin” and everybody was guessing I would not be able to handle it. Perhaps it was the romance of this trip but I WAS able to handle the absinthe. I think.

That night, the bar was filled with mostly men, odds I was definitely appreciative of – Russians, Moravians, Slovenians, Slovakians, Czechs, Germans, Hungarians, Poles, Estonians. And, I’m sure it was NOT the absinthe, but they were the most interesting looking men, mostly with long hair and dark clothes, in short – pretty darn Goth. At one point, after my third glass of absinthe, all the colors in the room got just a little bit brighter and suffused with a sort of electric glow. I was talking to a particularly amiable young man with long blonde hair and he was explaining the wonders of the Eastern Bloc to me and I had a perceptual shift. It was right after that I had what I call my absinthe epiphany, in which I realized that J.R.R. Tolkien’s Riders of Rohan were the Slovakians, and that all of the peoples of his middle earth (minus the Hobbits) were right here in the bar with me. I was thunderstruck and so overcome with excitements at my sudden understanding of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, which I tried to explain it to all of my new friends. They heartily agreed; my new Slovakian friend insisted I was correct and he was a Rohirrin warrior and we swept out into the streets to take Prague by storm. The next day, a bit headachy and sad to be leaving my new second home, I realized that I had a minor absinthe-induced hallucination. When the first of the Lord of the Rings movies came out in 2002, I was pleased to see that the casting director apparently saw Middle Earth the way I do.

Risk Assessment: Even though I enjoy an excellent glass of wine more than most, I was scared to drink absinthe, associating it with madness and murder, the reasons it was outlawed. It took lots of cajoling by my Czech mates to get me to drink it. I am convinced they wanted to see a blonde American girl be repulsed by the harshness. I think they were just as surprised as I was to see that I not only enjoyed the "green fairy" drink but had a truly memorable experience. I'll never forget that night in the ancient city and taking the risk of daring to drink absinthe in the company of strangers as a favorite traveling memory!

A Best Mind of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah by Brenda Knight

2007-11-08T16:55:00.001-08:00

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.Below is his obit and tribute from Tom RobbinsFred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007by Tom RobbinsNovember 6th, 2007 10:57 AMFred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie EisenbergRemembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy GiulianiVeteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrahIn the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrahLike anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.

One of the Best Minds of the Beat Generation: Fred McDarrah

2007-11-08T16:37:00.000-08:00

I was taken aback when I read Fred's obit in The New York Times. He always seemed more alive then anyone else. Back when I was researching for my Beat book, I didn't really know what I was doing and I would just call people. (this was 94, 95, and 96, PreGoogle, if you can imagine researching in the way back machine) So, one of the people I called was Fred McDarrah as I knew his work and loved his photographs. He seemed to be always at the right place at the right time and has photos of Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Allen Ginsberg, and his rent-a-Beatnik pal Ted Joans to name just a few. I really enjoyed talking to him, now THAT was a New Yorker -his accent, I dearly loved. He had amazing stories and was a real guiding light and kept me on the right track in many ways. He had the killer instincts of an investigative reporter and ace journalist and that is how he should be remembered. Fred, you made your mark and it was big one, to be sure.

Below is his obit and tribute from Tom Robbins

Fred W. McDarrah, 1926-2007
by Tom Robbins
November 6th, 2007 10:57 AM
Fred W. McDarrah, April 1978photo: Janie Eisenberg
Remembering Fred W. McDarrah (1926-2007) The Voice work of the photographer, from Bob Dylan to Andy Warhol to Rudy Giuliani

Veteran Village Voice photographer Fred W. McDarrah died in his sleep at home in Greenwich Village early Tuesday morning. He was 81.
Over a 50-year span, McDarrah documented the rise of the Beat Generation, the city’s postmodern art movement, its off-off-Broadway actors, troubadours, politicians, agitators and social protests.
Fred captured Jack Kerouac frolicking with women at a New Year’s bash in 1958, Andy Warhol adjusting a movie-camera lens in his silver-covered factory, and Bob Dylan offering a salute of recognition outside Sheridan Square near the Voice’s old office.
Not just a social chronicler, McDarrah was a great photo-journalist. He photographed the still-smoldering ruins of the Weather Underground bomb factory on W. 12th Street. His unerring eye for gesture and detail caught lawyer Roy Cohn whispering what appeared to be tough orders in the ear of a young Donald Trump.
For years, McDarrah was the Voice's only photographer and, for decades, he ran the Voice’s photo department, where he helped train dozens of young photographers, including James Hamilton, Sylvia Plachy, Robin Holland and Marc Asnin. His mailbox was simply marked "McPhoto."
An exhibit of McDarrah’s photos of artists presented last year by the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea was hailed by The New York Times as “a visual encyclopedia of the era’s cultural scene.” It included candid shots of Janis Joplin, artist Jasper Johns, and avant-garde artist Charlotte Moorman.
Wayne Barrett Remembers McDarrah
In the days when politicians routinely let reporters and photographers inside their fundraising extravaganzas, Fred McDarrah never missed a fat cat with a fork or a knife in his hand. He got his camera right under their double chins. If they waved him away in anger, he took an extra shot. He circled the world of New York politics with me for two decades, responding to every brusque rejection with an irresistible charm and a grin wider than his lens. It wasn't just that Fred loved to photo the New York predator class and their political prey, he understood who they were and what they wanted. He collected names and public price tags as well as pictures. I remember standing with him in the rain outside Studio 54 for the birthday party of that infamous fixer Roy Cohn as we rushed toward every opening limo door, squeezing the story out of the street. I remember stakeouts that dragged on for hours and his edgy exuberance, a kid-like quality he carried with his camera into his 70s. Fred loved his town and his craft and his era and his family, and he has left a legacy of prints unparalleled in our time.
J. Hoberman Remembers McDarrah
Like anyone who ever looked at the Village Voice during the ‘60s, I was familiar with Fred McDarrah's world—long before I met him. Fred spent that decade (and three more) documenting the city’s be-ins, demonstrations, peace marches, happenings, free concerts, coffee-house readings, loft performances, jazz bars, and underground movie emporia, not to mention the flotsam and jetsam of Sheridan Square, Bleecker Street, Avenue C, St Marks Place, and the Bowery. He was a real newspaper guy and a genuine historian of his times. His street and studio portraits of downtown artists, avant-garde luminaries, local pols and boho celebs were often definitive.
Fred was a feisty, wiry Son of Brooklyn who knew how to get to the front of a crowd, hold onto his light, and make the most of any given situation. In 1960, he invented a sort of human catering service called Rent-a-Beatnik. Did I say he was feisty? Fred wrote irate letters to the Voice editor both before and after he became the paper’s staff photographer. (A proud populist, he always took regular issue with film critic Andrew Sarris’s annual ten best lists.) Fred was free with friendly counsel and fiercely protective of his work, as I learned when I, as Village Voice greenhorn, I asked him on behalf of an avant-garde filmmaker friend, if she could use one of his best known photographs in her movie. Fred lost his smile and gave me an earful. (I considered it career advice.) And he was right, the work he furnished the Voice for pennies was only going to grow more valuable. Fred may have been a terrific journalist but, as he’d have been the first to tell you, he wasn’t a hippie.

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More Runnin' Scared

Get Lit!

2007-10-02T15:20:00.000-07:00

Hey everybody -when you are not attending Nick 2.0's Flash Fiction course, you need to be at this embarrassment of writerly riches. LitQuake is a veritable literary orgy! My dear friend Nina Lesowitz has been stellar in helping organize this. Check it:

Mere days remain before the opening of Litquake, San Francisco’s Literary Festival, As always, we aim to please a wide variety of the populace—not an easy feat in San Francisco. This year's festival is exceptionally rich, starting with a stellar opening night that boasts a lineup of actors, the literati, and musicians honoring Tales of the City author Armistead Maupin. And, as always, the week will conclude when the masses take to Valencia Street for the Lit Crawl.Below are a few of the many and varied highlights. Listen to the literate Jane Smiley converse with the bifurcated Daniel Handler; toast a young generation of poets and spoken-word artists with Youth Speaks; and marvel at the convolutions (verbal and tattooed) when the San Francisco Chronicle's Mark Morford talks dharma with Tattooed Buddha Noah Levine.We can't wait to see you there!Wednesday, October 10, 7 pm Jane Smiley in Conversation with Daniel HandlerDelancey Street Foundation, 600 Embarcadero. $15Doors open at 6:30 pm, event begins at 7 pm.Tickets on sale through City Box Office
We can’t promise he’ll wear a fez or play the accordion, as he’s been known to do at his public appearances, but Daniel Handler (best known as the lyrically strange Lemony Snicket) will do his best to spice up the author Q&A format as he interviews Pulitzer Prize winner Jane Smiley (Ten Days in the Hills), no slouch in the wit department herself.
Tuesday, October 11, 6:30 pmYouth Speaks All StarsTheater Building, School of the Arts, 555 Portola Drive at O’Shaughnessy. FREE
Litquake is honored to partner with Youth Speaks to present an entire new generation of poets and spoken-word artists as part of this year’s festival. Featuring an all-star cast of young poets, and a few special guests, the lineup includes poets seen on HBO’s Def Poetry, National Poetry Slam Champions, newly published authors, and the current Youth Speaks Teen Poetry Slam Champions.Thursday, October 11, 7:30 pm Tattooed Buddha:An Evening with Dharma Punk Noah LevineRoxie Theater. 3117 16th Street. FREE
Punk rocker turned Buddhist teacher/bestselling author Noah Levine talks dharma with San Francisco Chronicle columnist Mark Morford. Audience Q&A follows. In addition, selected clips will be screened from Meditate and Destroy, a new documentary about Noah’s life and work. Book sales and author signing after the event. Presented in conjunction with HarperOne, publisher of Levine’s books Dharma Punx and Against the Stream.

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Song for Andrew Meyer

2007-09-30T16:02:00.000-07:00

Song for Andrew Meyer

Lillian and I lament
we were not there
in Florida with you.

And I say, anyone who uses the words impeach, Secret society, and blow-job in one sentence is my kinda guy.

Andrew Meyer, you are America's conscience
and you took a taser for it
while the sheepish crowd sat silent
only you kept telling the truth
and you took a taser for it

but you give us hope
that somebody out there is thinking
and maybe the next generation
is not so dead
not so anesthetized by 900 channels of satellite tv
not so mesmerized by Hollywood social x-rays

Lillian and I lament
we can't go back in time
and take back our Cuyahoga County votes
for Senator Skull and Bones.

John Kerry, you pretended to be America's conscience
but now we know you are part of the machine
and your concession was doubtless a backroom deal
sealed with a secret society handshake

John Kerry, you are not the man who went to Viet Nam, came back and decried it.
John Kerry, the Infant of Prague lost a hand for you and you didn't deserve it

Andrew Meyer, you're the best hope of a nation

the truth and beauty of truth and beauty aren't lost on you.

And Lillian and I, we sing this song for you.

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Andrew Meyer--Tasered by Police
Florida forcibly removed twenty-one year old student Andrew Meyer from a forum with Democratic Senator John Kerry. Meyer reportedly asked Kerry why he did not contest the The University of Florida taser incident is an event on September 17, 2007 in which police from the University of Florida forcibly removed twenty-one year old student Andrew Meyer from a forum with Democratic Senator John Kerry. Meyer reportedly asked Kerry why he did not contest the 2004 presidential election and why Kerry has not advocated for President Bush's impeachment. Meyer mentioned... (more) (less)
From: ChilderickViews: 198,000Added: 1 week ago
Tags: Andrew Meyer Taser Tasered Police John Kerry Brutality Force Abuse University Of Florida Student Childerick Free SpeechTime: 03:52

That First Cup of Coffee

2007-09-27T15:29:00.000-07:00

It is no surprise to me that Jeannette Wall's memoir, The Glass Castle, is a big deal nowadays. Her tale of growing up in the coal-mined hills of West Virginia seems like the most surreal of fictions unless you grew up there, too. It's about time somebody cashed in on this enseamed world of lard sandwiches, dank root cellars, and relatives who were "dropped on their soft spots." Uncles who were dropped on their heads were to be avoided at all costs, let me tell you. I used to be embarrassed to tell people I was from West Virginia until I figured out it gave me some kind of "freak cred," and made me as exotic as an eland, the African deer of which only five in the world remain. So, we fellow West Virginians clung to each other, formed tiny little clans in the strange urban streets of San Francisco and marveled at our escapes.

Jeff Westbrook had started an underground railroad at 808 Haight Street and I opened the second station when I got my first apartment all my very own in The Lower Haight. In order to save up the money for first and last, I had to walk everywhere to save bus fare and subsisted on a bag of apples, some potatoes, and Lipton tea. Every dime I earned had to go to the deposit. I had chiseled my way in to the apartment with Southern sincerity but I had to make good on my promise. Once, I was so hungry, I broke down and went to the corner store to call my mom and beg for money enough to buy groceries. She was very quiet on the other end of the phone and replied, "I'd rather see you starve than live in that sinful city. The only money I'll give you is a plane ticket home." I hung up, her words an evisceration. The Lebanese guy that ran the corner store followed me out the door, "you come everyday, and I feed you. You so nice, we be friends." I accepted the bag of groceries he handed me but I never walked on that block again; I knew I would have had to pay for the groceries in the strange-smelling back room of the corner store. I decided that every time I felt the raw, grinding ache of hunger, that it was me getting stronger, not weaker. I ceased to care about food because I had a plan -my best friend was moving out to San Francisco and needed a place to stay. And that was all that mattered.

I discovered you can get used to being hungry; it changes things. My stomach even stopped growling and gurgling. I developed hollows and angles I had forgotten about. I drank so much water and Lipton tea that I drowned my hunger for hours at a time. The only trick was to keep all this hidden. The clothes I had brought with me from West Virginia started to hang on me but I got clever with knotting and belting and HIDING.

My co-workers at the very fancy investment brokerage thought I was a bit stuck up because I never went out to lunch but worked straight through the mile-long days. My boss was proud of my fierce dedication to my work and bragged about it to another manager, "Brenda is going places in this company; she is HUNGRY." Even the social x-ray girls that strode in each day in a constant stream of new garments seemed to approve, inquiring as to my dietary secrets. This not-eating-thing was great for my career! Plus, it gave more time to poke around in the computer system, a maze of back-door access to Fortune 500 companies. I could get lost in there for hours and discovered many things I had no business knowing about

We had to be there at 4:30 in the morning to be up with stock market in New York City but that was ok, I wasn't really sleeping anyway. I found an in-between state; I called it my theta-beta slip stream. And, I had the most interesting dreams where I wandered through TransAmerican cityscapes made of marzipan, sugared butter icing, peppermint street lamps and roads lined not with yellow brick but disco flashing jolly ranchers. I learned that, while in the theta beta, I could achieve a synesthesia state of altered consciousness wherein I could travel in the astral plane, lifting out of the corroded carcass of my body, all the while experiencing an untrammeled joy. Finally rid of the flesh bag that pinned me to the planet, weighed down by chemicals sloshing around inside me and creating emotions, like fear, hate, shame, love. I grew expert at measuring the pre-dawn light levels when I would have to descend, crashing down into the supine corpus that carted my consciousness to work and back. I was quickly becoming a savant of shame, my pride preventing me from telling anyone, even the WV clan about my rental starvation mode. I refused all invitations out, preferring instead to curl up on my futon-on-the-floor nest and jack into this addictive new visionary state.

One deadly dull day at work, I took the elevator up to the roof to sip some Lipton's and get away from the overly-cheery Mordred-Stanley-ites. They were jacking into Moloch on a daily basis and I mostly couldn't stand them. I had seen the best minds of my generation, starving hysterical naked and we didn't care about the latest trendy fucking shoe! Plus, they were pressuring me to get am MBA after work, which meant I would have less time to dream and my days would stretch from 4:30 am to 11:30 pm. Soon, I was going to have to let them in on the fact that I was crazed on something, just not ambition. As I pressed the R button, a woman shot inside the elevator at the last possible second, parting the sheet-metal doors with immaculately-manicured hands. I had long ago eschewed eye-contact with the world but she was friendly in a way I found non-threatening. Even in my peripheral vision, I could see she was beautiful in a way that was not of this earth, perhaps she was a Nephilim? She gazed down at me and said, "I've been seeing you around for a few weeks now, right?"

"Ummmm, yeah, almost six weeks now."

"Where are you from? Texas? I can't quite place the accent. My boyfriend says the most beautiful women are from Texas."

I dreaded explaining that I had moved from what the early French settlers of my home place called, "hell on earth," but I could also tell she wouldn't be mean about it. More often than not, people said, "oh, you wear shoes; I thought hillbillies didn't!" That kind of tired shit made me wary of providing strangers with too much information that was inevitably used against me.

"I'm from West Virginia, along the Ohio River. It's really pretty there but I moved here so I wouldn't have to be a truck stop waitress."

"Ohhhhhhhhh," she cooed with her pink, pillowy lips. It seemed to excite her. "My name is Barbara Jean, nice to meet you."

"My name is Brenda; where do you work in this building?" I asked. We shook hands, my nail-bitten ones rough against her satiny skin.

"Oh, I don't work here this is where my agency is and I have to come here to book jobs" She was traveling to the roof to smoke and proffered a pack of cigarettes with her picture on the back. "Oh, you're the More Cigarette Girl!" I suddenly recognized her from billboards and ads in glossy magazines where the women all looked just like her. I was not a smoker but suddenly sharing a cigarette with Barbara Jean seemed like the best idea in years. Plus, it made me kindaqueasy high and I liked it. Shockingly, she said, "I noticed you because you have great tits." I thanked her, bemused that a supermodel would notice any part of my anatomy and felt like today was my lucky day. Today, I could have MORE.

Towards the end of the cigarette, we had discovered we were the both Pisces, lived near each other, and were currently dating older men. My beau, The Vise, was on the road with his band and was not around to feed and take care of me. He seemed to think I needed shielding and protection and I resented that he sometimes treated me like I was a little girl. I suddenly realized I had not been taking advantage of my freedom to act like a big girl. Barbara Jean said, "Let's go out tonight!" and all memory of the fact that I was flat broke flew out of my head. We set our plans and I went home and spent two hours until I found just the right dress, a low-cut number that had never failed me. She picked me up in a slouchy Citroen and we lurched up Fillmore Street to a very expensive restaurant. "Uh, Barbara Jean, I should probably tell you that I don't have much money."

"I know, but we don't need money. We sit at the bar and everything we need will be provided. Men will buy it for us," she grinned leeringly, her pillowy lips now a searing red. We parked her crazy car and went into the poshest place I had even seen, me following like a duckling. I was starting to feel ill; picturing having to wash dishes to pay for food or, worse, being kicked out into the street. I slithered off to the ladies room and reapplied lipstick and steadied myself for perching on a stool, awaiting drinks and food to rain down from the heavens. Sure enough, within moments, we were set up with champagne and oysters. "Hmmm," I thought, "this does work." I envisioned my future of free food and buckets of champagne, all in return for a smile and some kind words. In truth, it was not that easy and I started feeling like I was back at the corner store. The truth was I was getting a little tipsy and a lot uncomfortable. Barbara Jean was a pro at this men-buying-you-things business and I just wanted to get out of there. At some point, Barbara Jean went out to smoke one of her More Cigarettes with the man who had bought us steaks and she never came back.

The bartender came over to me, leaned forward and said, "If you can wait until my shift is over, I can take you home." Strangely, he only lived three blocks away from me and I was more than ready to accept a ride back to my nest. I felt safe again and he provided me with my own booth; I of course, had a book in my purse and happily began reading, my stomach full for the first time in weeks. A kind of bliss took over my body and I felt stupidly sleepy. When I awoke, I had no idea where I was and felt terrified. A hangover rasped at my temples and I stumbled around, looking for shoes and purse. I looked out the window and recognized the corner of Oak and Steiner. "Fuck!" It was a little before 4 am and I had to be at work in a half hour. Grimacing, I started the long march to Market and Second Street to the octagonal building that housed the global financiers for whom I worked. I felt like a fraud, slunking along in my slutty dress, wondering if people could smell the stink of strangers and alcohol off me. It was fear alone that propelled me there and I drank coffee for the first time that morning. It tasted awful but I needed something to pull me into the world of numbers that dominated my days. I could tell from a few sideways glances that some of my co-workers did not approve of my night-into-day garb but mostly they were too preoccupied with the tickertape world of money markets. Japan was getting its ass kicked that day. "Fuckers deserve it," I thought, adrenaline-surging on coffee.

The memory of Barbara Jean and the cave-cocoon of the bartender's bedroom stored itself in the dinosaur part of my brain. I did not exactly know what had taken place but I knew I didn't like it. I focused on pulling together the reports on international shipments due into the Port of Los Angeles. Fucking tons of frozen orange juice and frozen French fries were off loading into America by a Japanese-owned conglomerate and it was a BIG FUCKING deal. I logged onto a secret server that showed every cargo loader in the Pacific Ocean, the exact destination and what was being hauled across the surface of the earth. Suddenly, I felt like I understood how the world worked and it seemed to me, it was irrevocably broken. I felt pity for Americans blindly consuming fetid foods marketed as "fresh" that came from god-knows-where. The caffeine inside me raged. I stood up and looked at the 360 degree view my company so prized in this luxurious downtown building. "I've got to do something!" I thought feverishly.

Right then, Diane, the snotty receptionist, buzzed to tell me I had a call. It was Vise, calling from Philly, where he and his band were holed up in a flea-bitten motel. I had a toll-free number at work and we took full advantage, even figuring out how to conference our friends so nobody ever had to pay for a phone call, ever. Nobody had showed up for their punkabilly swing band's gig and he needed some verbal crack. Usually, I was up for it. Tea-drinking Brenda would talk baby-talk with Vise and give unbelievably good phone on cue. Coffee drinking Brenda was a stone-cold bitch who would just as soon cut you as say hello. "How you doin,' baby?" Vise asked in his New-York-Jew-turned Cali punk accent. "I'm really busy today," I replied in a voice that could've caused another ice age. He whined nasally for what seemed like an eternity about how few people had come to the club and how people had spit on him. I refrained from explaining to him in no uncertain terms exactly why nobody would ever want to see his band and begged off. "Are you ok? You just don't sound like yourself..." I took another swig of acid-y cold coffee and promised to call later. Relieved, I hung up with a thunk.

He was causing me to lose focus and I had to get back to that server! If I could just get in that back door to the container ships, I could stop them from coming into port. This was to be used only in extreme emergencies such as typhoon warnings, or to manipulate the stock market but I had to stop all this fucked up food from flooding in and sickening the masses. And, only I could do it.

Stay tuned for Part Two: Barbara Jean Reappears and Lillian Arrives

86’d on the Sabbath

2007-09-17T16:20:00.000-07:00

If there is a god (dess), he, she, or "it," to use Kerouac's word, must truly have a sick since of humor.

When I got my first job in publishing at HarperCollins, working with religious texts, I most certainly did not mention that I had gotten kicked out of church camp at the tender age of 14. Blackballed, actually—a letter was sent to church camps across America warning them that “Brenda is a danger to the mission and positive message of the First Day Adventist Church” and, as such, I was to be barred from the door of every church in the country. My mother is still embarrassed by it all, and I think she is secretly glad I live 3000 miles away. At the time, I thought it was much ado about a whole lot of nothing, but now realize that it may have been the single coolest moment of my life.

I was 14, deep into a tenth read of LOTR, and working at getting through Herman Hesse, Kerouac, and Thomas Mann in between. I was also reading serialized installments of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas because my best friend Abby’s dad (also our school principal) had a subscription to Playboy which we sneaked and read while he watched PBS. We hid in the attic while Abby smoked cigarettes and I burned incense and embroidered progressive rock band logos on my hip huggers. My look can only be described as “bohemian elven queen,” with nearly knee-length hair, and Abby was, well, just really perfect and beautiful. We were in an escalated academic program but we had incredibly bad attitudes. And, as you have doubtless heard before, it’s hard to be bored in a really small town.

My mother had not yet given up on me—I still reeled in all A’s, and how much trouble can you get into if you read all the time? What she didn’t know was that by then, I felt a growing bond with the Gonzo journalist himself. As I read each Playboy installment, I felt this frisson down my spine, realizing that you could chuck it all and hit the road with a pal and explore America and all the big, beautiful world outside the protective flood walls of Point Pleasant, West Virginia. Just watch and wait and make sure your driving buddy has as poor impulse control as yourself.

So mom signed me up for church camp, and off we went. In retrospect, it surprises me that she didn’t notice that all I took with me was some books, suntan lotion, and a wardrobe comprised of the aforementioned hip huggers, short shorts, a sun-faded bikini, and some halter tops. Not exactly church camp uniform, but PERFECT for hitting the road if the opportunity presented itself. The one thing I looked forward to was lying by the pool and reading.

One of the camp counselors was a sweet lady named Carol. She let me sleep in (I am a Double Pisces, so sleeping in is way more important than breakfast) and seemed to understand how deeply bored I was. I explained to her that “shuffleboard was not my thing” and asked if there was any way I could sit in her car and listen to the radio and read. Miraculously, she went for it. So I fired up the radio, dug a paperback out of my purse, and set to reading. Usually, music and books are more than enough, but this time I was restless—switching stations, looking out the window, and flipping my hair. The other camp misfit, a girl named Debbie with fire-engine read hair, spotted me and leaned in the window. “Whatcha doing?” she asked. I told her Mrs. Jones was letting me read in her car. “Cool, can I come in?” I opened the driver's side and let Debbie in. I remember thinking that Debbie was neither Mexican nor an attorney like the Hunter S. Thompson’s infamous partner-in-crime Raoul Duke, but that maybe she'd do.

And Debbie knew something I did not: she recognized the significance of this contraption on the dash of Counselor Jones's dashboard. “Hey, she has a CB radio!”

Debbie also knew how to work the CB, since her dad had one he monitored police action and highway traffic with. Within minutes, we had come up with “handles” and were going live on the air. I was amazed by how friendly the truckers seemed to be. Why would they want to talk to two teenage girls? We didn’t mention our tender ages of thirteen and fourteen to them, but they seemed mightily interested that we were camping out in the woods. We also neglected to mention that we were at church camp—it was just really nice to tell our new friends how wretchedly bored we were. They wanted to know where we were, but I couldn’t explain at all since I had been reading while my mother drove to the remote location of the retreat center. Debbie, however, seemed to know exactly where we were, and was more than happy to tell them. All the "breaker one" and 10-4 business seemed like a fun secret code with which to transmit secret messages.

A knock at the window interrupted our wireless reverie and Mrs. Jones hustled us out of her car and into Bible class. The rest of the day went back to a headache-inducing buzz of boredom, and I forgot all about talking with Debbie on the CB radio. That night I mounted my top bunk, read with a flashlight until the battery dimmed and woke up very, very late. I could feel something was a bit off. The campus was completely silent, not another soul to be found. I walked around a bit nervously—had aliens abducted everyone else and left me behind?

I walked down the road and could hear voices coming from the hall of worship. Odd. Very odd. I peeked in and one of the nastier camp counselors grabbed me by the elbows, murmuring about "what you've done." Some primitive instinct in me told me to remain silent, and I was hustled off to the office where Debbie, her mother, Mrs. Jones and Reverend Gibbs awaited me. Debbie could not look me in the eye. They told me to sit down and I refused, arms folded across my hot pink halter top. "How could you do this?"

Finally, I relented and said," Do what?" in my most sullen tone.

Only then did I discover that, in the middle of the night, a group of truckers had come in and crashed though the camp gates. When not greeted warmly, they tore up part of the camp until the police came. (In addition to sleeping late, I am also a HEAVY sleeper.) Mrs. Jones was in a lot of trouble, having not been strict enough with me, and Debbie had sold me down the river in record speed, claiming it was all my idea.

I tried to picture these men in their big trucks, yelling out our names. It sounded scary and in no way like the nice, friendly men we were talking to on the CB radio. Mrs. Jones looked pinched and nervous, and Debbie looked guilty as sin, her wild red hair tangled.

I decided silence was my best and only option and dreaded the drive home with my mom, as I was certain to be kicked out of camp on my embroidered ass. Then Reverend Gibbs announced that they were holding a "special service to pray for my soul." Now I was getting pissed off. This sounded REALLY LAME. Once again I was steered back to the hall of worship by my elbow and placed in a chair in the front, not unlike "Exhibit A" in a criminal trial. It all seemed potentially embarrassing, but I DIDN'T CARE.

I had only read about acid in Hunter S.'s neon prose, but this seemed like a really bad trip. People intoned and prayed "for the lost Brenda to once again find her way," and a few people even went up and rededicated themselves to Jesus. There was no way Jesus could have gotten through the enormous block of Artic ice that had formed around my soul, though. Not even with a blow torch and the help of some Goetian demons. I was a goner.

But I couldn’t help but notice that what was becoming known as "the Brenda inviting the truckers to camp incident" was turning into a banner day for Jesus and the camp. I was not a bearded lady, but I was sure selling tickets to this circus. I quickly formulated a plan to try to get myself 86'd ASAP.

When, FINALLY, every other person was "saved" or resaved or whatever, they gave me one last chance to give up my life of sin and run into the loving arms of the savior. I announced to the 300 people present that I "did not need saving" and that I "was agnostic" and wasn't sure I really "believed in God." But here was my ace in the hole: I had read that Emperor Constantine, who had overseen the editing of the bible at the Counsel of Nicene, was a pagan. I decided to fill in the freshly resaved hordes in on that fun fact.

Lacking a cross or pillory, all they could do was march me outside the broken gate of the camp with my beat-up suitcase. To further punish Mrs. Jones, she was assigned to guard me so I did not return to the grounds and infect the rest of the kids with my sinfulness.

Needless to say, I was grounded for the rest of summer, and my mother informed me I was not allowed to go to camp anymore. A month later, we found out about the letter that had been sent out to warn other church camps against me. A copy was sent to our church where my mother was secretary, and she was inconsolable. She couldn’t stop crying and wailing about “the shame I had brought to this house.”

I was secretly flattered by the letter (kind of like a press release, right?) and relieved when my mother said I could stop going to church. But The Incident had lit a curiosity in me—I was determined to know which chapters were left out of the bible by Constantine and his early Christian cronies. Thus began my fascination with the apocrypha, particularly those regarding the infancy and childhood of Jesus himself.

I am not alone in this interest, as evidenced below.