I have another long post here that I have been waiting to publish. It’s called, The Senseless, Tragic Rape of Charles Bukowski’s Ghost: John Martin Speaks. It was meant to be the final part of the series (which was never meant to be a series in the first place) but I can’t bring myself to post it, so I think I’m going to mothball the thing.
The article, The senseless, tragic rape of Charles Bukowski’s ghost by John Martin’s Black Sparrow Press tells the story (read that first if you haven’t already), but for the curious there is an interesting bit of back-story.
In the 1990s I ran an artists/writers/photography site called smog.net, and it had a Bukowski section. The primary tool on the site was a works database. A pretty comprehensive resource (for its time), and a valuable tool for anyone who was researching – or simply curious about – Bukowski’s mountain of work.
Someone was talking about paper cutters today, and it brought back some unpleasant memories. For most of my life I worked at jobs that were dirty, difficult and dangerous.
I’m in the midst of a seemingly never ending task. A place I often find myself.
What makes my feeble mind encounter a ridiculous mound of sorting, scanning, building, fixing and otherwise general tedium and say, “There’s a great use of your time!”
If this stuff was really important, wouldn’t someone else have done it already?
If you’ve ever read anything by Charles Bukowski, you no doubt remember the feeling you had the first time you came across his work. For better or worse, Bukowski is one of those authors who you don’t easily forget or ignore. Very few people are ambivalent about him.
I am writing a book. I’ve written a few books, but this one is different. It’s really long.
It started as a short story about being on the road in a punk band, Sonny Vincent and The Extreme, back in 1980 and 81. One day I looked at it and thought, “I wonder what it would be like if I expanded this thing to cover my entire music career?” and now here I am, 106,000 words later, trying to beat the thing into submission.
The NSA “PRISM” outcry that is threatening to take over the Internet is pretty funny, considering the NSA exists for the sole purpose of listening to everything, and that is exactly what it has done for the past 60 years.
I guess no one cared in the past because it was only their telephone calls, telegrams, telexes and radio broadcasts being scanned. Now that it’s important shit like your Tweets, well, that’s not okay!
I’ve been considering running a month-long promotion to give away electronic versions of my books. I figure the typical person who would dig what I’m doing here might also be a book collector, so giving away the Kindle or iPad versions could spur some sales of the real things. You know, the ink on paper ones.
Offering the freebies is easy enough, but how to do it? I’m posting here, but since the blog has only recently been reanimated, readership is still pretty low. I could post on Google+, my favorite online doohickey (and I will), but what if I want to know more about the people who take me up on the offer (and be able to offer them stuff again, later)?
There was a purist school of thought in rock and roll in the 70s that said, no synthesizers! In fact, I think Queen even printed that on the back of their albums: No synthesizers!
But the fact is, musicians love new technology and are always looking for ways to change the sound their instruments make. There isn’t much difference between holding the rubber end of a toilet plunger over the end of your trumpet and sticking a whammy bar on your Stratocaster.
We’ve both hobnobbed with our share of celebrities, and while it is ridiculous and they are just people, it can still sometimes throw you off.
Here we are, in a new – something.
For years I had a blog, then I got tired of writing in it and shut it down. Now look at me, I’m back. Most of the posts from the old blog are back too, like it or not.
I was reading an article this morning about the author who was tasked by Jackie and Robert Kennedy to write about John Kennedy’s assassination in 1963. It’s an interesting article, but the thing that got me was something that was unrelated to the book.
If you look at the famous photo of Lyndon Johnson being sworn in as president on board Air Force One, you can see little spots of JFK’s blood on Jackie’s pink Chanel suit. White house advisors wanted her to change into a clean white dress before the swearing in, but she said, “No. Let them see what they’ve done.”
It occurred to me this morning how to solve all the problems in the Middle East.
People are angry over there, as you know. They blow themselves up, hack body parts off each other, drive jet airliners into buildings and generally shuffle around in an angry, aimless cloud of perpetual dust and confusion. They are surly, mean and fearless, and you don’t want to cross them on a good day, let alone when they haven’t had whatever narcotic they favor in a few days. It’s a brutal scene, and I think I know why.
Michael Jackson has dropped dead.
I did learn something from Jackson – no, not how to moonwalk – but rather this very important lesson: if you call yourself something, everyone will eventually quote it as fact. In Jackson’s case, it was the laughable and grandiose “King of Pop” title. One day his management started telling journalists to refer to him that way, and they did. Now in news stories of his death you read things like, “Known as the King of Pop…”
Sony Music, Warner, EMI, Columbia Pictures, et al continue their assault on the Pirate Bay in particular and file sharing in general with a short-sightedness that is awe inspiring. They are obviously confused and frightened, clinging to their 20th century model of thievery and exploitation while the world shifts beneath their feet. I know they can’t see the changes because they are too busy looking to the sky for the falling pennies, but you would think that they could feel it.