The idea, I thought, was a simple one: rent for a night the West Hollywood motel room where Jim Morrison lived on and off for three years, hold a séance with a few friends, and afterward throw a party. It seemed a fitting homage to Morrison, a party-hardy mystic who believed himself possessed by the spirit of a Pueblo Indian he had seen as a boy while traveling through New Mexico and happening upon the aftermath of a deadly accident. Indians scattered on dawn’s highway bleeding, he famously wrote of the incident in “Newborn Awakening,” his poem set to music by his band, the Doors, seven years after he died. Ghosts crowd the young child’s fragile eggshell mind.
My father’s farm in Virginia is called Oak Hill. When he bought it, not long after he divorced my mother, there was in fact a cluster of enormous oak trees that shaded a white clapboard, nineteenth-century house that stood on the hill in the center of the farm, but the house burned down before my father could move into it. Some of the oaks survived the fire, which occurred on a Halloween night, but despite whispers that the previous owner had torched the house, no charges were ever filed. I remember surveying the charred remains and spotting, not charred even slightly, an old board game called Why, the Alfred Hitchock Mystery Game, which, according to the blurb on the box, involved “real thinking, planning, and memory.” I took the game home with me—I lived a twenty-minute drive from the farm with my mother, brother, and sister—but I never played it, and don’t know what became of it. Maybe my memory wouldn’t be so faulty if I had better developed it by playing Why.
It was around 9:30 P.M., and I was waiting for the bus in Hollywood after being momentarily paroled from my job as a so-called telefundraiser. When I applied for the job, I didn’t think I stood a chance of being hired at that company or any other, having been out of the mainstream work force for the majority of my adult life, which I’ve spent eking out a living as an actor and screenwriter. The entertainment business used to be said to be recession-proof, but if that was ever true in the past, it’s true no longer; the minute the economy went to hell four years ago, I received fewer and fewer offers of acting and screenwriting jobs, until finally I received none at all. Even production-assistant jobs were, in my case anyway, scarce, though I did manage to PA for a couple of days on a teenage space musical financed by NASA, as well as on a Disney Channel spot in which Miley Cyrus was interviewed alongside her achy-breaky father to mark the end of Hannah Montana.
I never thought I looked like James Dean, as people used to say I did, especially after I moved to New York to study acting. We shared the same coloring, but I was tall and lanky, while he was short and muscular. My face was round, and his was rectangular. Moreover, I strove as an actor to be as natural as possible, and Dean’s acting struck me as excessive, which is now what I most enjoy about it. His excess wasn’t of the soap-opera sort; it was quirkily personal, as when he rolls a cold bottle of milk over his brow to calm himself in Rebel Without a Cause. His character in Rebel is lacking the love—that is, milk—of his shrewish mother, and the symbolic way it’s expressed is one of many Kabuki-like gestures in Dean’s performances, particularly in scenes involving parents. His biography speaks to the reason. His mother died when he was nine, and afterward his father sent him to live on a relative’s farm in far-away Indiana.
June 10, 2012
1. Both Charlie’s Angels and the Manson girls were guided by mysterious older men named—you know.
2. Charles Townsend, a.k.a. Charlie of Charlie’s Angels, was a de-facto pimp with an apparent harem of young women other than his trio of gun-wielding detectives; Charlie Manson, a.k.a. Jesus Christ, was a convicted pimp with a documented harem of young women other than his trio of knife-wielding assassins.
3. Charlie’s Angels were observed communicating with Charles Townsend via the telephone; Charlie Manson was said to communicate with his girls via telepathy.
4. In the field, as it were, Charlie’s Angels worked alongside Charles Townsend’s male proxy, an ostensible eunuch named Bosley; the Manson girls, in the field, worked alongside Manson’s male proxy, Tex Watson, who, though not a eunuch, strikingly favored the eunuchlike Mr. Spock.
It was 4:30 p.m. by the time we got on the road. Me, Melinda, and Jane. The sky over the southern San Joaquin Valley was heavy with rain clouds. I drove. The road was slick. The San Emigdio Mountains were topped with snow. “You sure are quiet,” I said to Jane. Normally she was ruling the conversation. She called it a “Janeopoly.” I figured she was plotting out her novel, Puro Amor. Not long ago she told me she could write entire paragraphs in her head and remember them for transcribing later.
An hour or so later we zoomed down the Hollywood Freeway, took the Highland Avenue exit and headed west onto Hollywood Boulevard, on our way to Book Soup. We were nearly late for the reading.
The bookstore was small, cramped, packed floor-to-ceiling with shelves. The reading area was an aisle essentially, a few folding chairs leading to a podium. Bunched in the crowd were some writers from TNB, several of whom I’d never met. Kimberly M. Wetherell, filmmaker and writer, wore black glasses, her red hair a fire of loveliness. She mentioned that I was no longer two dimensional—no longer just words on a screen. I said something about being a figment of her imagination.
Duke Haney, author of Banned For Life and Subversia, stood in a corner wearing a black newsboy cap and a leather jacket. He was talking to Rachel Pollon, another TNBer. She stood about half his size and got shy when I asked her to talk on camera. “Meet Hank,” Duke said, pointing to another tall guy. Hank stepped forward and handed me a photo of a face with the word “awesome” on it.
Lenore Zion had long, curly hair—different than when I last saw her. She looked younger. She asked what I had been up to. I mumbled something about 2010 being a year to write off and later bought her book, My Dead Pets Are Interesting.
Greg Boose came up and offered me a friendly hello. He was taller than I expected, and handsome. His wife, Claire Bidwell Smith, was taller than expected, too. Both have striking eyes the color of the sea. Greg asked me how long I was staying in town. I wanted to say a week. I wanted to say I had a suitcase and was looking for a nice padded bus bench. “Probably headed back tonight,” I told him. “Though maybe I’ll just stay and find my way back in the morning.”
Joe Daly, TNB’s music editor, came over and introduced himself. His hair was shaggy, he was unshaven, he looked like rock and roll. For some reason I had expected his hair to be short.
I met Ben Loory, too. He has a gentle soul and a contemplative smile. Later, when he read a story of his called “The Well” and said he might cry, I almost started crying myself.
I didn’t get to meet Victoria Patterson. She read an essay about farts in literature, and her hands were shaking as she read. It was hilarious. Everyone laughed and held their gas.
Then there was the master of ceremonies, Greg Olear, author of the new novel Fathermucker. A dark sweater covered his “Brave New World” T-shirt. He gave me a guy hug and we made small talk. I met his wife, Stephanie, too—not a writer, but a ferocious singer. Steph was all hugs. She talked to a college friend from Syracuse, and they laughed about old times.
After the event, many of us headed over to Mirabelle, a nearby bar and restaurant. Brad Listi carried a sack of books and asked what I was up to and where I’d been. I didn’t want to dish out my sob story right then, so I just talked opportunities, my new book of poetry, the interest of an agent in my novel Anhinga, and so on.
Inside the bar, Jane came suddenly to life. She talked and talked and I grew quiet as she and a new friend walked to where Ben, Duke and the others were hanging out. Greg was at the bar drinking a beer. He ordered me some water. I listened to Stephanie and her friend talking about their college days. I was content.
Melinda was quiet. She used to write (Lenore recognized her from her defunct blog), and she does have a voice. But now, for the most part, she just comes to my Random Writers Workshop, where I prod people like her to write novels and dream big. Jesse from the workshop was there, too. He downed a few drinks and talked shop with Ben Loory.
We were there for about an hour before heading home. Jane fell asleep in the back of the car and began snoring. Rain poured over Interstate 5, turning into slush as we hit the Tejon Pass, the hump over the San Andreas Fault that marks the downward slide into the Central Valley.
“You okay?” Melinda asked. She could tell I couldn’t see the lines on the road.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Just gotta see the lanes. I don’t mind driving in storms.” I was smiling a little, eyes straight ahead. I felt strangely at ease, like I was passing through a kind of personal storm, releasing it, washing it away on the rain-slicked desert road.
As we rolled back into Bakersfield, Jane woke up. By now it was one o’clock, and still raining. I pulled into Melinda’s driveway. We got out. Jane said a quick goodbye, ran to her car, and drove away. A pile of leaves in the neighbor’s gutter had caused a flood in front of Melinda’s house. I grabbed a hoe from the garage and started moving the pile. Melinda watched me briefly, then went inside, to bed. I stayed outside and pushed and pulled and hacked at the pile of leaves and branches until a stream was created. I stood alone in the rain and watched the water flow down the street. Rain came down against the lawns and streets of Bakersfield in the night. It was quiet otherwise, no signs of life, and I stood alone in the rain, content to know that the flood was gone.
December 18, 2010
So we’ve found ourselves in possession of this wonderful photograph, taken by Heather D’Augustine:
We think this is a great image to use to promote D. R. Haney’s Subversia, the maiden TNB Book, because, and I’m pretty sure Don Draper mentioned this in his pitch to the folks at London Fog, and even Peggy Olsen would agree, if you can build your ad campaign around either a photo of an infirm dude in a hospital bed or a photo of a woman’s pretty legs, you go with the legs.
The only problem is, we can’t seem to come up with a decent tagline. So we figured, hey, Milo’s limerick contest went pretty well, and everyone digs that cartoon caption contest on the back page of The New Yorker (I actually can’t stand that contest, but whatever)– why don’t we do the same thing?
So here it is: Think of a good tagline for the picture. Post it in the comments section below. Enter as often as you like.
The criteria, naturally, is something that will make a visitor to the site want to click on the slide and buy the book. It doesn’t have to be the funniest or the sexiest or anything other than, simply, terrific ad copy.
The contest closes at the stroke of midnight, PST, on Monday, December 27. The winner receives a signed copy of Subversia, plus a personal note from the author…and the honor of having bested the best minds of the TNB Universe.
Thanks, folks. Now go make Don Draper proud (and Duke happy).
How I Became Human, a mini-documentary about D.R. Haney, author of SUBVERSIA, the rippingly good new nonfiction collection from TNB Books, now available in print, e-book, and (coming soon!) audio book formats.
How I Became Human was directed and edited by Timothy Murray.
Buy a copy of SUBVERSIA at:
Amazon (Print & Kindle editions)
Barnes & Noble (Print & Nook editions)
**Please note that the iBook version of SUBVERSIA (coming soon) will include How I Became Human in its backmatter — similar to a “DVD extra.” You can read the iBook edition, then watch the documentary on your iPhone or iPad!
Special thanks to Hukilau for their help in design, programming, and distribution of all digital editions.
November 30, 2010
It has come to my attention, and perhaps yours as well, that virtually everyone in the digital age considers him- or herself an artist. A glance at Facebook is like a trek through the Casbah, with so many people hawking their photos, their music, their writings, and so on.
How can a seasoned artist make a buck in such a climate? It was never easy, and it’s getting harder all the time, as the competition expands. Soon aspiring creative types will outnumber regular folk, who can only spend but so much money on things that—let’s face it—are almost always headed for permanent obscurity. Then, too, a lot of “artists” give their stuff away for free, leading audiences to think all creative output should be free, unless, for instance, it’s written by Jonathan Franzen, whose wealth must approach Illuminati levels if he charges by the metaphor.
What have we learned about D. R. HANEY?
Well, he likes to talk. Even to himself.
He’s an actor. But unlike most actors, he’s not afraid to tell you what he really thinks about Johnny Depp.
He’s also a model. For porn. Child porn.
He resisted the urge to commit murder.
Members of the TNB Book Club received a complimentary copy of the e-book edition of D.R. Haney‘s SUBVERSIA this week. And the print edition is now on sale online at Powell’s, Amazon, and Barnes & Noble. (The e-book and audio book editions are forthcoming and will be available where books are sold online very soon.)
With this in mind, we figured we’d start up a discussion thread about SUBVERSIA here on The Feed. Please feel free to talk amongst yourselves, to talk about Duke’s sexy sideways head on the book jacket, and to ponder the wonder that is Duke’s majestic prose.
And if you have any questions or comments for Mr. Haney, please feel free to drop them on the comment board below. He’ll be checking in regularly to chat with readers, respond to inquiries, fend off savage ad hominem attacks on his character, and engage in collegial brouhaha….
This past week, I got a Kindle. I have not been so changed by a reading experience since Stephen King’s Needful Things, which was the book that made me realize I wanted to tell stories. It’s the sort of genius-level device that demonstrates the fact that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. Truly wonderful.