Fairyland: A Memoir Of My Father
Fairyland: A Memoir of My Father was published last year. It got some attention in Atlanta, where the story started. A few weeks ago, a copy appeared at the Chamblee library. It was time.
Steve Abbott and Barbara Binder were grad students at Emory. They met, fell in love, and got married. On December 6, 1970, Alysia Rebecca Abbott was born.
As might be predicted for a couple that met at an SDS meeting, the Abbotts had an unconventional relationship. They lived for a while in a decaying mansion on Clifton Road, with a few dozen commune neighbors. Truth be told, the Abbotts might have wound up with a divorce. Instead, on August 28, 1973, Barbara was killed in an automobile accident.
Steve had always been bisexual. If you have any doubts, see this cover he drew for The Great Speckled Bird. After Barbara died, he took his daughter to San Francisco. After a couple of stops, they wound up at 545 Asbury Street. Steve wrote poetry. Alysia grew into a young lady.
When it was time, Alysia went to college in New York. Barbara Binder Abbott was from a “comfortable” family, and the Binders stayed in touch with their granddaughter. Meanwhile, Steve turned up HIV+. Eventually, his condition required Alysia to move home. On December 2, 1992, he took his last breath.
Alysia Abbott can tell a story. Fairyland is an entertaining read, even when the story is tough to take. Hopefully, there will be more reading product from the lady.
This is the dedication: “for my mother and my father, and for Annabel, so she may some time know where her mother “was at.”” Annabel has a brother, Finn. He is profoundly autistic. When the NPR book promotion interview was given, Finn could not talk.
A few months ago, PG heard Annabelle, a song by Gillian Welch. The chorus rhymes Jesus with please us. PG found this to be upsetting. He wondered if he was going to go the rest of his life being triggered by Jesus. And now, the author of this deeply moving book has a daughter, with a very similar name. Annabel will have an autistic younger brother to grow up with.
The second part of this feature is a repost. It is the story of a World Aids Day rally, December 1, 1992. The next day Steve Abbott died. Pictures today are from “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”.
1992 was a year for PG. His father died in February. In July, PG went to Europe. It was a bad, bad year for friends with aids. Several were recruited by the grim reaper.
By the time December 1 came around, PG was ready for another year. In those days, PG was working in an architect office downtown, and had lots of free time. There was a rally for World Aids Day at the state capitol, and PG saw a chance for free entertainment. A podium was set up in the rotunda, and a series of speakers declaimed. One man said to use a condom every time you FUCK. He seemed to enjoy screaming the F word in the state capitol.
A man named Doug Teper spoke. He was the only state legislator to speak, and he criticized the organizers for not inviting him. Later, PG … who lived in Mr. Teper’s district … asked him for a business card. Mr. Teper forgot to bring his business cards. (PG was standing next to Mr. Teper when a speaker demanded health care for everyone. PG leaned over and said, how are we going to pay for this? Mr. Teper shrugged. Twenty two years later, we still don’t know.)
In July, a close friend had died. Jim lived in Loganville, in Walton County. PG stood behind a statue of George Walton during the rally.
PG saw a person named Gene Holloway at the rally, and went to talk to him. Years earlier, when Betty Ford was the first lady, PG was taken to his eighteenth birthday party. A couple of years after the rally, PG saw an obituary for Gene Holloway.
Fleetwood Mac
PG has read the autobiography of Mick Fleetwood. If this had been a made up tale of fiction, no one would believe it. Mick is not the manufacturer of enemas, nor the namesake of a Cadillac Model. The possibility does exist that he has used those two products.
John Mayall gave his guitar player, Peter Green, some studio time as a birthday present. “The Green God” used a rhythm section from the Bluesbreakers, Mick Fleetwood (drums) and John McVie (bass). At the end of the day, Mr. Green wrote “Fleetwood Mac” on the can holding the tapes.
Before long, Mr. Green started his own band, and named it after the rhythm section. (Does anyone know the bass player and drummer of the Atlanta Rhythm Section?) Fleetwood Mac started as a blues band, and became popular in England. Mr. Fleetwood celebrated by getting together with Jenny Boyd, who became his wife. Miss Boyd is the sister of Patti Boyd, the wife of George Harrison, aka Layla.
The first Fleetwood Mac album in the USA was “Then Play On”. The first show in Atlanta was at the Oglethorpe University gym, and by all accounts was a wild night. PG saw the sign advertising the event, but did not attend.
About the time of “Then Play On”, Peter Green started to get a bit weird. He dropped out of the band, but Jeremy Spencer and Danny Kirwan were still playing guitars. For a little while. Jeremy Spencer took a walk outside a Los Angeles hotel, and got recruited by the Children of G-d. Danny Kirwan had some issues, and decided to leave the band. Bob Welch stopped by for a few years, joined by Christine McVie, the wife of John.
The band was managed at this time by Clifford Davies, who by all accounts was a nasty piece of work. A man named Bob Weston had joined the band, and lasted until he had an affair with Jenny Fleetwood. Mr. Weston was fired, and a tour canceled. Clifford Davies decided that he owned the name Fleetwood Mac, and hired a group of players to go out and do shows. Fleetwood and the Mcvies were not amused, and Mick Fleetwood took over as the manager of the band.
By 1974, the band was pushing along, and selling about 300,000 copies of each album. On Halloween night 1974, Fleetwood Mac played at the Omni with Jefferson Starship. PG was at the Municipal Auditorium that night, seeing Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt.
In late 1974 Mick was looking for a studio. He came to a place, and an album came on the speakers, Mick was impressed by the guitar player. Soon after, Bob Welch felt the need to leave the band, and Mick thought the guitar player he heard at the studio was a good fit. (The band never did auditions, just asked people they liked to join). The guitar player was Lindsay Buckingham, and his girlfriend/musical partner was Stevie Nicks. This was the band that set sales records.
The first album with Buckingham/Nicks, simply titled “Fleetwood Mac”, became a phenomenon. The band was soon headlining in stadiums, and was on every fm radio station in the land. The band went into the studio to record a follow up. The second album took over a year to produce, and saw the McVies and the Fleetwoods get divorced. Buckingham and Nicks split their common law arrangement. Out of the turmoil came “Rumours”, which has sold roughly thirty million copies.
On August 29, 1978, PG got to see Fleetwood Mac at the Omni. Mick Fleetwood was on top of his game, pounding the skins with a glee that could be seen from the cheap seats. Fleetwood was a highlight, standing two meters tall and creating havoc on the drum stand.
Reading the book tells the rest of the story. Fleetwood’s father had died earlier that summer, and Mick was devastated. The band was straining under the pressures of super duper stardom. Mick had attempted a reconciliation with his wife, which was a painful failure. There was an affair between Mick and Stevie Nicks at this time. The idea that Mick Fleetwood could perform like he did that night tells you what a trooper he was.
The story continues. The book was written in 1991. There might be a volume two. This is a repost.
Harold Bloom
On September 3, 2000, Harold Bloom appeared on Booknotes to promote How to Read and Why. Other C-SPAN news that day involved Vice President Al Gore and Republican Presidential candidate George W. Bush. Mr. Bloom is a professor at Yale University. He has written many books, despite not knowing how to type. There is no false modesty on display.
A teacher is an entertainer, knowing the value of a good line. Over the years, platitudes pile up. Mr. Bloom has collects both books, and clever lines about books. “Oh, I read everything and anything. I’m a desperate reader. If I can’t find anything else, my wife is likely to find me obsessively re-reading cereal box tops in the morning. … I now call myself at times, partly in self-deprication, but partly, I suppose, with a certain fury Bloom brontosaurus bardolater; that is to say, not only a worshiper of Shakespeare, but a brontosaurus, a dinosaur. I’ve never learned how to type”
Fourteen years ago, the internet was still called the “World Wide Web.” It was very much a work in progress. Mr. Bloom viewed the information superhighway with horror. “But the Internet, which I acknowledge is an economic and commercial necessity–the Internet–and many people disagree with me on this, I know–the Internet, I think, is a terrible danger to the life of the mind. It’s a terrible danger to real reading because it’s a kind of great, gray ocean in which everything merges with everything else. And extremely difficult–it is extremely difficult for a young person to establish standards of reading or to find again what could be called intellectual and aesthetic standards of judgment in relation to what is available on it. There is no guidance.”
PG listened to the conversation with Mr. Bloom in the background. In the foreground, pictures were being edited.This is something you cannot do with a dead tree book. This went on happily until the shockwave player crashed, and the machine needed a reboot. This is something else that does not happen with traditional publishing.
“He got rather offended and explained to me, in rather hurt tones, that Sir So-and-so was the leading British authority on information retrieval. I told him honestly, and it’s still true, I did not know what information retrieval was, and I did not wish to find out, and I still don’t know what it is. I said, `Who is the other gentleman?’ And then he said, quite coldly, `He is our leading authority on software.’ I said, `I’ve never learned to type. I’m not at all sure what software is.’ He said, `It doesn’t matter.’ He said, `In any case, Professor Bloom, you ought to come. You will represent the book.’ I said, `This is ridiculous.’ I said, `You’re going to ask me to have a discussion with an authority on something called information retrieval and an authority on software, and I, wretched creature, am supposed to represent the book? I am highly inadequate to represent the book. Anybody would be. And I will not come. Goodbye, sir.’ But that is the British Library.”
Mr. Bloom tells of a visit to Stanford University. The only pleasant time he had was a conversation with the Provost, Condoleezza Rice. (spell check suggestion: Condolence) The rest of the time he decries the custom of teaching literature based on the ethnicity of the author. He tells the story of a desk, with the legs falling off. From clumsy carpentry, he moves onto brain surgery. “If you were being wheeled in for a brain operation, and you were told that the brain surgeon had been chosen on the basis of fairness, on the basis of universalism, on the basis of multiculturalism, you would jump right off the operating table. We do not enforce these things in the medical schools.”
This sounds nice in theory. In real life, the brain surgeon was determined by the willingness of a health insurance bully to pay. Reality is more frightening than fictitious furniture.
The Booknotes conversation took place during election season. The discussion of politicians was indicated. “Leon Trotsky, who was a great, though murderous, human being, but a remarkable writer. And in his own way, a remarkable literary critic.” “I find it powerfully offensive that one of the two major presidential candidates is perhaps the least distinguished graduate of the entire history of Yale University, and I’ve taught there for 46 years, though I never taught this gentleman. But he has boasted to the press, at least until his people told him to talk differently about it, but he began by boasting to the press that he had never read a book through since he left Yale. And indeed, he laughed, he hadn’t read many through there. And, of course, I believe him”
No discussion about Harold Bloom is complete without Naomi Wolf. “In the late fall of 1983, professor Harold Bloom did something banal, human, and destructive: He put his hand on a student’s inner thigh—a student whom he was tasked with teaching and grading. The student was me, a 20-year-old senior at Yale.” Is Bill Cosby going to be teaching at Yale?
The one star comments about the book are festive. “His prose is at times crisp, yet his reasoning wanders about like somnambulist on a treadmill.” “Instead I found myself dragged into a solipsistic rant of Mr. Bloom’s favorite books.” “Please do not waste your money on this book. Each section is devoted ostensibly to a “critique” of a work that Mr. Bloom recommends to his unwashed readers.” Pictures are from “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”.
Choke
Maybe the best comment about Choke was a one star amazon review. “0 of 1 people found the following review helpful DONT REMEMBER BUYING THIS By nicon September 18, 2013 Format: PaperbackVerified Purchase I DONT REMEMBER BUYING THIS SO I DONT WANT TO RATED IT UNFAIRLY PLEASE REMOVE FROM MY OPINION PAGE OF MY ACCOUNT”
PG was on planet earth 58 years before trying to pronounce Chuck Palahniuk. (Paula-nick) Even seeing a video of “Fight Club” did not steal CP virginity. It was not until September 17, 2012. There was a book report, about a book called Rattled. The last sentence was a link to an internet badge, I write like Chuck Palahniuk
A little while later, PG was on a podcast kick. He would listen to people selling product, with freely offered opinions. A public radio show from California called Bookworm appeared, and yes, Chuck Palahniuk had a new book to sell. CP said, among other things, that he wrote books for people who don’t like to read books.
On some youtube opinion party, CP told a story. He was working as a truck mechanic, and writing in his spare time. There was a writers workshop in town. CP read a story about an ill fated romance with an inflatable plastic inamorata. A lady told CP that he was no longer welcome in their group. However, a local man, Tom Spanbauer might be willing to help. This was another writing group, not a counselor. Has CP used the services of the psych industry?
Twenty one years ago, Tom Spanbauer appeared at a gathering in North Carolina. PG tried to find a copy of The Man Who Fell in Love with the Moon, and wound up borrowing a friends copy. At the end of the weekend, friend got Mr. Spanbauer to autograph his book. PG saw his bookmark in the book, and got the bookmark autographed.
And it came to pass that many CP videos were played. Included in this youtubefest is guts, which just might be the grossest thing PG has ever heard. When a copy of Choke appeared at the Chamblee library, PG was ready. Or so he thought.
This is a weird book. A line is repeated throughout, what would Jesus NOT do? One possible answer is producing genetic material from the foreskin of the baby Jesus, and then inserting this dna product into the lady parts of Ida Mancini. This is probably the output of a fevered, sick, horny imagination, which Choke has in abundance.
Most book reports make an effort to tell you the plot. Victor Mancini is a sick puppy. His “mother,” Ida Mancini, is in a nursing home with Alzheimers. This might be the most mental health Miss Mancini has ever enjoyed.
Victor works at a historic fantasy park. Every one of the players is a drug addict, which might be in character for 1734. Victor makes spare change by pretending to choke in restaurants, and be rescued by strangers. These people become his friends, and send him money.
The fun never stops. There is a 12 step program for sex fiends, which provides Victor with female friends. Even though Victor is 90% creep, he many female companions. A lady at his mother’s nuthouse wants to have Victor impregnate her. The plan is to abort the baby, inject the fetus into Ida Mancini, and save the life of the old biddie. The outcome of this scheme is a spoiler.
For all the high spirited fun and games, Choke can be a depressing piece of work. The scenes in the hospital, with the ladies gone bye bye, are not pleasant. Alzheimer is a tough business to deal with. The writing here is dangerous. While Tom Spanbauer likes to promote the idea of dangerous writing, some readers have enough problems already. This is partially covered by the first chapter of Choke, which is a warning that the story you are about to read might cause brain damage.
Pictures are from The Library of Congress. It was written like James Joyce.
Allan Gurganus
PG had mixed feelings about driving to Dickhater to see Allan Gurganus. He was having a fine time downloading historic pictures at home. Clairmont Road is one red light after another. Being hot and miserable did not help. PG was not feeling especially liberal, or hip, and did not want to wade into the grooviness of the Dickhater Book Festival. You have to get out of your comfort zone.
Chamblee54 has crossed pixels with Allan Gurganus several times. There was a book show podcast. At 13:25 in the show, Mr. Gurganus says “I’m not an ironist. That’s why I’m worth reading.”
There had been a speech Mr. Gurganus made in Key West. After a while, the authorial wisdom became one platitude too many, and the file was turned off. The next speaker at the event was Gore Vidal, who was a hoot. Alas, the DBF is real life. Gore Vidal has gone to hang out with Bobby Kennedy. The only refuge, after the appearance by Mr. Gurganus, is Popeyes Fried Chicken.
The DBF event was promoting a book, Local Souls. PG got to page 62 in Local Souls, when he saw the protagonist living in a suburb of Atlanta called Collonus Springs. During the DBF appearance, Mr. Gurganus read a story from Local Souls.
Part of the Gurganus legend is his two grandfathers fighting on opposite sides at the battle of Shiloh. He sticks by his story that one grandfather shot the other. It is rather improbable, but a good story.
The event started on time. The DBF hostess said to turn your cell phones off, and encouraged people to buy, donate, and then buy some more. Local poet Franklin Abbott then introduced Mr. Gurganus, who walked up to the desk wearing a sport coat. Mr. Gurganus is from North Carolina, and should know better than to wear a jacket in Atlanta on labor day sunday afternoon.
His remarks bore little resemblance to the speech in Key West. There was not much to say in front of the reading, except to mention that he had been overserved on Saturday night. He did not mention his sexual orientation, as if anyone needs to be reminded.
After the reading came the inevitable Q&A. The reading had been about a flood which tore up his hometown in North Carolina. Most of the conversation was about the flood, and about making good fiction out of bad life. Maybe it was the biblical aspect of the flood that dominated his appearance this sunday afternoon, in an old courthouse.
PG had a question, but did not get to ask it. As the author was led away by the hostess, PG went over and asked if he could take a picture. The hostess was determined to get him into the book signing room. There were books to sell.
While walking with the author into the book signing, PG got to ask his question. In the Dharma Bums, Jack Kerouac spent the winter in Rocky Mount, NC. It really did happen. The tree where Mr. Kerouac saw the Buddah was on the property of Mr. Gurganus’s grandfather.
The Funeral Of Elvis
PG was going to write about some depressing subject. People that are not kind to each other. People in Israel and people in Gaza just don’t seem to get along. Somebody driving a “faded red F-150 pickup truck” in Livonia MI was mean to a little girl. (HT to Neo Prodigy.) This is a repost.
There is a saying, “if a story seems too bad to be true, it probably isn’t”. PG tried to google that phrase, and got confused. Then he seemed to remember reading it in a column by Molly Ivins. Another google adventure, and there was this film. Miss Ivins, who met her maker January 31, 2007, was promoting a book. She sat down with a bald headed man to talk about it. PG could only listen to 24:30 of this video before being seized with the urge to write a story. There is a transcript, which makes “borrowing” so much easier. This film has 34 minutes to go, which just might yield another story or two.
Molly Ivins was a Texas woman. These days there is a lot of talk about Texas, with Governor Big Hair aiming to be the next POTUS under indictment. Mr. Perry claims that his record as Texas Governor qualifies him to have his finger on the nuclear trigger. Miss Ivins repeats something that PG has heard before… “in our state we have the weak governor system, so that really not a great deal is required of the governor, not necessarily to know much or do much. And we’ve had a lot of governors who did neither. “ It makes you wonder how much of that “economic miracle” is because of hair spray.
Texas politics makes about as much sense as Georgia politics. For a lady, with a way with words, it is a gold mine. “the need you have for descriptive terms for stupid when you write about Texas politics is practically infinite. Now I’m not claiming that our state Legislature is dumber than the average state Legislature, but it tends to be dumb in such an outstanding way. It’s, again, that Texas quality of exaggeration and being slightly larger than life. And there are a fair number of people in the Texas Legislature of whom it could fairly be said, `If dumb was dirt, they would cover about an acre.’ And I’m not necessarily opposed to that. I’m–agree with an old state senator who always said that, `If you took all the fools out of the Legislature, it would not be a representative body anymore.'”
We could go through this conversation for a long time, but you probably want to skip ahead and look at pictures. ( Which are from The Library of Congress ) There is one story in this transcript that is too good not to borrow. For some reason, Molly Ivins went to work for The New York Times, aka the gray lady. In August of 1977, she was in the right place at the right time.
Mr. LAMB: And how long did you spend with The New York Times as a reporter?
Ms. IVINS: Six years with The New York Times. Some of it in New York as a political reporter at City Hall in Albany and then later as bureau chief out in the Rocky Mountains.
Mr. LAMB: Would you take a little time and tell us about reporting on the funeral of Elvis Presley?
Ms. IVINS: Oh, now there is something that when I’ve been standing in the checkout line at the grocery store and if I really need to impress people, I just let fall that I covered Elvis’ funeral. And, boy, people just practically draw back with awe. It may yet turn out to be my greatest claim to fame.
I was sitting in The New York City Times one day when I noticed a whole no–knot of editors up around the desk having a–a great scrum of concern, you could tell. It looked sort of like an anthill that had just been stepped on. And it turns out–The New York Times has a large obituary desk, and they prepare obituaries for anybody of prominence who might croak. But it turns out–you may recall that Elvis Presley died untimely and they were completely unprepared.
Now this is an enormous news organization. They have rock music critics and classical music critics and opera critics, but they didn’t have anybody who knew about Elvis Presley’s kind of music. So they’re lookin’ across a whole acre of reporters, and you could see them decide, `Ah-ha, Ivins. She talks funny. She’ll know about Mr. Presley.’
So I wound up writing Elvis’ obituary for The New York Times. I had to refer to him throughout as Mr. Presley. It was agonizing. That’s the style at The New York Times–Mr. Presley. Give me a break. And the next day they sold more newspapers than they did after John Kennedy was assassinated, so that even the editors of The New York Times, who had not quite, you know, been culturally aton–tuned to Elvis, decided that we should send someone to report on the funeral. And I drew that assignment. What a scene it was.
Mr. LAMB: You–you say in the book that you got in the cab and you said, `Take me to Graceland.’ The cabbie peels out of the airport doing 80 and then turns full around to the backseat and drawls, `Ain’t it a shame Elvis had to die while the Shriners are in town?’
Ms. IVINS: That’s exactly what he said. `Shame Elvis had to die while the Shriners are in town.’ And I kind of raised by eyebrows. And sure enough, I realized what he–what he meant after I had been there for awhile because, you know, Shriners in convention–I don’t know if you’ve ever seen a whole lot of Shriners in convention, but they were having a huge national convention that very week in Memphis. And they tend to wear their little red fezzes, and sometimes they drink too much and they march around the hotel hallways tooting on New Year’s Eve horns and riding those funny little tricycles and generally cutting up and having a good time. That’s your Shriners in convention, always something very edifying and enjoyable to watch. But they–every–every hotel room in Memphis was occupied with celebrating Shriners, and then Elvis dies and all these tens of thousands of grieving, hysterical Elvis Presley fans descend on the town.
So you got a whole bunch of sobbing, hysterical Elvis fans, you got a whole bunch of cavorting Shriners. And on top of that they were holding a cheerleading camp. And the cheerleading camp–I don’t know if your memory–with the ethos of the cheerleading camp, but the deal is that every school sends its team–team of cheerleaders to cheerleading camp.
And your effort there at the camp is to win the spirit stick, which looks, to the uninitiated eye, a whole lot like a broom handle painted red, white and blue. But it is the spirit stick. And should your team win it for three days running, you get to keep it. But that has never happened. And the way you earn the spirit stick is you show most spirit. You cheer for breakfast, lunch and dinner. You cheer when the pizza man brings the pizza. You do handsprings end over end down the hallway to the bathroom. I tell you, those young people will throw–show an amount of spirit that would just astonish you in an effort to win that stick.
So here I was for an entire week, dealing with these three groups of people: the young cheerleaders trying to win the spirit stick, the cavorting Shriners and the grieving, hysterical Elvis fans. And I want to assure you that The New York Times is not the kind of newspaper that will let you write about that kind of rich human comedy.
Mr. LAMB: Why?
Ms. IVINS: Because The New York Times, at least in my day, was a very stuffy, pompous newspaper.
Mr. LAMB: What about today?
Ms. IVINS: A little bit better, little bit better than it was.
Mr. LAMB: And…
Ms. IVINS: Has–has–it has a tendency, recidivist tendencies, though. You–you will notice if you read The Times, it–it collapses into pomposity and stuffiness with some regularity.
Mr. LAMB: Why did you leave it?
Ms. IVINS: Well, I–I actually got into trouble at The New York City Times for describing a community chu–chicken killing out West as a gang pluck. Abe Rosenthal was then the editor of the Times and he was not amused.
Mr. LAMB: Did–but did they let it go? Did they let it…
Ms. IVINS: Oh, no. It never made it in the paper. Good heavens, no. Such a thing would never get in The Times in my day.
POSTSCRIPT PG found some pictures, marked up the text, and was ready to post the story. He decided to listen to a bit more of the discussion between Molly Ivins and the bald headed man. When he got to this point, it became apparent that he could listen to Molly Ivins talk, or he could post his story, but he could not do both at the same time.
Ms. IVINS: Oh, well, of course, I’m gonna make fun of it. I mean, Berkeley, California, if you are from Texas, is just hilarious.
Mr. LAMB: Why?
Ms. IVINS: Well, of course, it is just the absolute center of liberalism and political correctness. And it is a veritable hotbed of people, of–bless their hearts, who all think alike, in a liberal way. And, of course, I’m sometimes called a liberal myself, and you would think I would have felt right at home there. But I just am so used to–I’m so used to Texas that I found the culture at Berkeley hysterical.
Wild Tales: A Rock & Roll Life
The recent book by Graham Nash, Wild Tales: A Rock & Roll Life, begins in the same place as “Songs for Beginners.” England is at war, and the luftwaffe is visiting Manchester regularly. Young mothers go to a safe place in North England to have their babies. One turned out different.
The Nash family lived in what was called a “council home.” In America, it would be called a project. Things did not get better when father went to prison. Years later, when Graham came home for a visit, he saw his mother making out with another man.
Now, in stories like this, it is music that saves the young man. He meets Allan Clarke in school, and the two sing well together. Various singing groups follow, more musicians are recruited, and they name a band after Buddy Holly.
Mr. Nash spoke an event to promote this book. At seventy two, he has a full head of snow white hair. Many of the stories in the book were told here, some with details added. One of these tales is the time the Everly Brothers came to Manchester. Graham and Allan were determined to meet their heroes, and hung out on the steps of a hotel until late at night. Finally, the Everly Brothers arrived. They spent a half hour talking to the star struck young men. This story is on Page 43.
So the Hollies make it big, and go to America. Graham Nash meets Mama Cass, who introduces him to David Crosby and Steohen Stills. Somehow, he meets Joni Mitchell. Graham makes beautiful music with all three, not always playing the same instrument. Joni is well known for her open tuning.
Grahams mind is expanding, with a little help from his friends. The decision to leave the Hollies is made. Atlantic records trades Richie Furay to Epic records for Graham Nash. A music publishing contract is torn up. Don’t try this at home.
One day, Joni and Graham go into a thrift store. Joni buys a vase. They go home. Graham says “I’ll light the fire, while you put the flowers in the vase that you bought today.”
Crosby Stills & Nash become superstars. Neil Young, bless his heart, joins the band. They go to Woodstock, and get scared shitless. Joni Mitchell stays in New York City, because her manager does not want her to miss the Dick Cavett Show on Monday. (Listen to Grace at 10:05) Joni writes a song about the event she missed.
Time marches on. The various relationships, both musical and romantic, come and go. A man makes a bet with Graham that he cannot write a song in a half hour. The result is “Just a song before I go.”
No story involving David Crosby is complete without a drug lecture. One story was so explosive, the legal department called Graham before the book was published, just to confirm the story. It is on page 263. David sold his Mercedes for crack. The man who bought it od’d. David broke into his house, stole the bill of sale and car keys, took the car, and sold it again.
Somehow, David Crosby is still alive today. So is Graham Nash, Stephen Stills, Neil Young, and Joni Mitchell. This might be surprising to some. Even if Graham were to fall over dead today, he leaves a fine body of work behind him. This book is just another part. Pictures today are from “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”. .
Bulwer-Lytton 2014 Part Four
This is the fourth, and final, report on the 2014 Bulwer-Lytton fiction writing contest, at least for 2014. Parts one, two, and three were previously published. Pictures are from The Library of Congress.
Dr. Fulton Crisp DMD, stoic superintendent of the prestigious Northwoods Dental College, entered the symposium for new students, took the dais amid the clamor of the first day of classes, produced a #6 dental pick from a pocket, held it aloft for all to see and spoke the immortal words, “May I have your attention please, this is not a drill, repeat this is not a drill.” — Jim Biggie, Melrose MA
As Farmer Brown’s train pulled out of the station at 10:00am traveling east at 50 mph, he had no idea that at that very same moment Farmer Green was 100 miles away on a west-bound train heading straight for him at 60mph and that because of a tragic track-switching mistake he was going to die in a fiery head-on train crash at exactly … uhm … well … err … sometime later that day.
Shanon Conner, San Angelo TX
This is a tale of love, pain, loss, and redemption – and of a baboon, Amelia.
Talha bin Hamid, Karachi, Pakistan
There it stood regally atop the marble counter, the clear, sensuously curvaceous container, with its golden cargo, crowned with a spherical stopper, with its tapered base in intimate contact with the neck of the vessel, a vitreous phallus waiting to deprive the oleaginous content of its extra-virginity.
Anthony Newman, Collinsville CT
Long, sleek legs protruded from her tantalizingly round abdomen; thick, bristly hairs clung to his skin, communicating “I need you” in her innocent, nymphean way; wide, multifaceted eyes stared lustrously into him – yes, the little maggot he’d taken in but weeks before had blossomed into a voluptuous young housefly, and he feared he could no longer resist her beauty.
Zachary Bezemek, West Bloomfield MI
Perhaps it was the unnatural angle of her neck that bothered Clint, or perhaps it was the fact that she was beautiful – far too beautiful to be having a body bag zipped up over her, but he knew one thing for certain: the untouched chocolate mud cake on the counter was looking more appetizing by the minute. — Dave Roberts, Oatley, NSW, Australia
Fearing his subordinates were after his job, and having denied their requests for promotions, Edgar Bergen felt the first pangs of job insecurity upon discovering Charlie McCarthy and Mortimer Snerd poring intently over dog-eared and well-worn copies of Ventriloquism for Dummies.
John Tracy, Shoreline WA
The full moon over distant hill bathed the lovers in joyful radiance, glowworms merrily winked and glimmered, swamp gas emanated an ethereal shimmer, and fireflies twinkled, flickered and fluttered – pinging their pinprick flashes like optical exclamation points, the whole light show engendering a veritable cornucopian cacophony of Kinkadesque scintillation. — Kenneth Leake, Fairbanks AK
The cheesemonger’s wares reminded me of the days of my feckless youth – the soft white clouds of paneer encapsulated my leisurely summer in Gujarat, the block of sweet, caramel-brown Brunost made my autumn sojourn in Oslo float to mind, and the pungent scent of Stilton, its yellowish-white wedges embellished with veins of blue-green mould, brought back memories of discovering the Staffordshire Strangler’s first five corpses. — Vina Prasad, Singapore
It was cool but muggy – I was schvitzing like a mohel at his first bris – and one thing was for certain: that Rosetta Stone course in Yiddish was worth the gelt. — Kelben Graf, Milwaukie OR
Bulwer-Lytton 2014 Part Three
This is part three of the chamblee54 exhibition of the 2014 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. Parts one, and two, were previously published. There will be a part three, sometime. The writers will be forgiven. Pictures are from The Library of Congress.
He was a stolid man, prone to excessive and extended bursts of emotionlessness; but when Maurice loved, he loved with the passion of a dog itching its face against the grain of a firm pile carpet.
Stephen Sanford, Seattle WA
Cole kissed Anastasia, not in a lingering manner as a connoisseur might sip a glass of ‘82 La Pin, but open-mouthed and desperate, like a hobo wrapping his mouth around a bottle of Strawberry Ripple in the alley behind the 7-11. — Terri Meeker, Nixa MO
The Contessa’s heart was pounding hard and fast, like an out-of-balance clothes washer, which can get that way if you mix jeans with a lot of light things, though the new ones have some sensor thing to counteract that or shut off, but the Contessa’s heart didn’t have anything like that, so she had to sit down and tell Don Rolando to keep his hands to himself for a while. — John Hardi, Falls Church VA
The young lovers’ lips latched to each other not unlike the way in which two coital snails would, with much slime and suction, frothing as if someone had just poured salt on them.
Peter S. Bjorkman, Rocklin CA
His ex-wife’s personality was like chocolate – not the smoky, tangy, exquisitely rich and full-bodied type, but the over-sweet, tooth-cracking, factory-processed, made-with-vegetable-oil kind that leaves one with diabetes and an aneurysm the size of a grape. — Shalom Chung, Hong Kong
It seemed fair to say that her werewolfism was putting a strain on their relationship, the way she had earned the ire of the neighbors by devouring their pets and howling far past the bedtimes of their children, but bring it up to her, and she’d just snarl, “Why do you keep harping on this?” around a mouthful of the Smiths’ cat. — Eva Niessner, Cockeysville MD
Raoul’s deep slate eyes sucked Natalie in, and there she remained lodged like the wadded knee-hi clogging the tube of her Hoover Electrosuction Model 612 that once belonged to her grandmother, or some other dead relative, its vacuum bag so overstuffed with gunk, shed skin cells, and insect exoskeletons it nearly exploded like Natalie’s heart bursting with love for Raoul.
Wendy White Lees, Ho-Ho-Kus NJ
Over KFC, Raul broke up with Sheila a second time (the first time shrinking her heart until it was only fit for a tiny doll), tearing what was left of her heart to shreds, like the shreds of coleslaw now clinging to Raul’s beard; a fitting analogy since the aforementioned doll Sheila was thinking of was a Cabbage Patch doll. — Amelia Kynaston, Las Vegas NV
Pet detective Drake Leghorn ducked reporters at the entrance to the small hobby farm and headed down to the tiny pond where a lone goose was frantically calling for her mate and he wondered why – when so many come to look upon the graceful mating pair – why would someone want to take a gander?— Howie McLennon, Ottawa ON
Six months old, and already their love had picked up memories like lint, which, now that Maddie thought about it, was appropriate, since she and Brian met at the laundromat, when Maddie found herself hampered by a stubborn washing machine coin slot, but then snickered at the thought of being “hampered” while doing laundry, and then found herself explaining her snicker to the nearest laundromat patron, who turned out to be Brian and who, better yet, turned out to have a sense of humor even, well, dryer than her own. — Kirsten Wilson, Superior CO
Some stories are so compelling they almost seem to write themselves, but not this one.
Elizabeth (Betsy) Dorfman, Bainbridge Island WA
Bulwer-Lytton 2014 Part Two
What follows is part two of the 2014 rendering of the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest. The opposite of pro is con. In some systems of logic, this makes the opposite of contest is protest. Maybe someone needs to protest this abuse of the english language.
Yesterday was the overview.. Today is the first part of contest selections. If you go to the contest page, you can see all the entries that the “Grand Panjandrum” saw fit to expose. This collection was whittled down, and divided into three parts.
Here is another description of the contest. It is the intro to the 2012 post at chamblee54. When all this is over, there will be more pictures, from The Library of Congress. They were taken by Dorothea Lange, as part of the Farm Service Administration project.
Once upon a time, there was a writer named Edward Bulwer-Lytton. While some of his product is acceptable, Lord Lytton is responsible for the opening line “It was a dark and stormy night”. Years after his timely demise, an English professor, at San Jose State University, chose to name a contest for bad writing after Lord Lytton. Scott Rice recently overcame his embarrassment to announce the selections of the 2012 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.
PG has written about BLFC before. The announcement of a new crop of perps is a good excuse for text to go between the pictures. This post is written in the style of Margaret Mitchell. After the 4800 word clunkathon published yesterday, the contest selections will be edited.
When the dead moose floated into view the famished crew cheered – this had to mean land! – but Captain Walgrove, flinty-eyed and clear headed thanks to the starvation cleanse in progress, gave fateful orders to remain on the original course and await the appearance of a second and confirming moose. — Elizabeth (Betsy) Dorfman, Bainbridge Island WA
As he girded himself against the noxious, sulfurous fumes that belched from the chasm in preparation for descent into the bowels of the mountain where mighty pressure and unimaginable heat made rock run in syrupy rivers, Bob paused to consider the unlikely series of events that had led him to become the Great God Vulcan’s proctologist. — Stan Hunter Kranc, State College PA
Finally after ninety-seven long days adrift Captain Pertwee was rescued, mercifully ending his miserable diet of rainwater and strips of sun dried Haddock which was actually far ghastlier than it sounded what with George Haddock being his former first mate. — Phillip Davies, Cardiff, U.K.
Hard-boiled private dick Harrison Bogart couldn’t tell if it was the third big glass of cheap whiskey he’d just finished, or the way the rain-moistened blouse clung so tightly to the perfect figure of the dame who just appeared panting in his office doorway, but he was certain of one thing … he had the hottest mother-in-law in the world. — Carl Turney, Bayswater, Victoria, Australia
“One cannot easily shake off old habits,” was all that retired Detective Tim O’Hara could say when, after rifling through the dead old man’s pockets (which, as he expected, were all empty), inspecting his throat, and forcing open his cold, stiff hand to get his fingerprints, he was gently but firmly pulled away from the coffin by his brother Harry and piloted out of the parlor under the perplexed stares of uncle Mel’s friends and relatives. — Jorge Stolfi, Campinas, SP, Brazil
When the CSI investigator lifted the sheet revealing the mutilated body with the Ginsu Knife still protruding from the bloody chest, Detective Miller wondered why anybody would ever need two of them, even if he only had to pay extra shipping and handling. — Brian Brandt, Lansdale PA
After years of Dame Gothel’s tyrrany, Rapunzel was only seconds from freedom, until, with an agonized scream, the prince plunged to his death in the thorns below, grasping a handful of detached blond strands–the golden stair having been irreparably weakened by the deficiency of Vitamins B3, B6, and B7 in his love’s new celiac-friendly diet. — Kevin Hogg, Cranbrook BC
With her interest in dime-store cowboy novels finally fading and Christmas just days away, little Lizzy Borden sat quietly in the corner and crossed “tomahawk” off her Christmas list, writing instead the word AXE, carefully in her best penmanship, which made her mother and father so proud.
Frank McWilliams, Telford PA
It was a bright and cloudless day, as young Lizzie hummed a cheerful tune to herself, whilst drying and replacing the last knife on its hook, and reminiscing how Mother and Father Borden (lying bleeding in their respective pools of blood upstairs) had been so inappropriately cross with her, such a short while ago. — Carl Turney, Bayswater, Victoria, Australia
Roger proved unable to select a bedspread, due to his raging ennui; however, he was able to purchase an assault rifle, which is probably why his wife left him, although it may have been the ferrets.
Elizabeth (Betsy) Dorfman, Bainbridge Island WA
Little Altars Everywhere
Little Altars Everywhere is a book written by Rebecca Wells. LAE was written before Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, with the same characters.
Arguably, you should read Little Alters before you read Divine Secrets. Life does not work that way. Many saw the Ya-Ya movie who will never even know there were books. In PG’s case, he heard about Ya-Ya long before he found it at a yard sale. A few months later, while trolling the shelves of the Chamblee library, he thought to look under Wells, and found Little Alters.
A central character is Viviane Abbott Walker. Mother of four. Ya-Ya. Alcoholic. Catholic. Does not have a problem with hitting children. According to one son, a child molester. In Ya-Ya, we learn that her true love is killed in World War II. There are some other weird scenes during her childhood. Maybe she is a monster, but she came by it honestly. In Little Alters, all you see is the drinking, the religion, and the bad behavior.
These books are set in Louisiana. This apparently is another world, one that is incomprehensible to others. Atlanta is full of former Louisianans, and is a bit whacky in it’s own way. Thornton LA is a place that works all five senses.
Miss Wells writes about the smells. The cold cream on Vivi’s face, when she crawls in bed with Little Shep. The way Willetta’s smells, like Lipton tea and Ajax. The dark waters of the bayou, full of stuff you don’t want to know about.
Smells are said to be the sensation that goes directly to the brain, without a filter. The direct connection to the animal heart. To know how something smells is to know the essence.
Little Alters is a collection of chapters. Each one tells a different story. Each one is told in a different voice. There is no beginning and end, but a big bulge in the middle. Life is short but wide.
Two of the chapter stories are told by Willetta and Chaney. They are a black couple that lives on the farm, and work for the Walkers. Miss Wells tells their story in the voice of old, country black people. Some might say this is not proper, for a white woman to try and talk like a black man. It is done with compassion and accuracy. Whether Miss Wells should do this is up to the individual to decide.
Little Alters can be a dangerous book for lunch hour reading. One day, PG was in a mid summer funk. The chapter that day was Big Shep’s story. He was on the local draft board during Vietnam. Neighbors came to him. They begged him to keep their sons out of that war. Sometimes he could help, sometimes he could not.
One of the ones to go was Lincoln. He was Chaney’s younger brother. During the Tet offensive, Lincoln was killed. The story of Big Shep going to the funeral home was not cheerful, nor should it be.
This book report is written on a monday morning. At this point in his life, PG gets up early. In many ways, the best part of the day is the couple of hours before going down Buford Hiway to the place days are spent. Little Alters will soon be returned to the Chamblee library. There is no telling what will replace it. Pictures today are from The Library of Congress.
Football Player Flotus
PG is an old fogie. An example might be last night. He stayed home, listening to stuff on the internet, and working on pictures. Facebook can bring a sample of the real world into a boring life.
just another night of queens, fags and a 6 person lesbian restroom fight that resulted in a trash can catching on fire(?), shutting the bar down(?) leaving everyone to fight for their life and escape just in time to see a misplaced hetero trying to conceal the fact that he is puking his guts out in front of everyone with his beer still in his hand. …I feel so PG…
While this was going on, PG was listening to a podcast. Allan Gurganus was on yet another radio show, promoting yet another book. At 13:25 in the show, Mr. Gurganus says “I’m not an ironist. That’s why I’m worth reading.”
Twitter to the rescue. Retweeted by thefieldnegro HoodiesUpMusicLoud™ @MrMilitantNegro This is what racist dumbfuckery looks like: Was Michelle Obama really born as a man?
People in the spotlight are the target of rumors. It is part of the game. Some of them are far fetched. When the FLOTUS is a WOC, this nonsense becomes “racist.”
Here is the story: Shocking New Revelation about Michelle Obama: A Must Read, Christwire Exclusive. The story was in Christwire. CW is a satirical website, sort of like the Onion on crystal meth. A lot of people don’t get the joke.
The current edition of Christwire has a story, One Hit Wonder Cher Once a Peace Activist Now Promotes Hate & Violence. There is a picture. It shows what Cher might look like today, without the plastic surgery. She could have a new career in horror movies.
The FLOTUS story was picked up by the popup ad happy Examiner. In the best internet tradition, the comments are better than the story. “The First Yeti’s look is uncanny ~ Many wonder if she is a tranny ~ Perhaps she’s got a knack ~ To tuck her gear back ~ And carry it in her fanny?
Pictures by “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”.
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