William de Kooning painted with Alzheimer’s. And to me, Grandma Moses’ work has a falling off, at the end. No reason you shouldn’t be able to write novels with Alzheimer’s.
– from BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS
The first time I had the distinct pleasure of reading the work of below-the-underground Florida writer Jack Saunders was at a used bookstore in Sarasota. I had come across a book called Forty. My version was published by a small Delray Beach-based press, which I think is what got my attention, though it was originally put out by Popular Reality, who achieved semi-notoriety some years back for publishing Confessions of a Holocaust Revisionist, a screed by an unreconstructed Holocaust denier. Forty is his fortieth novel. It chronicles his trip to Key West for Fantasy Fest ’86 where he meditates on how it’s a bitch to have to work for a living, eats Arby’s with his son and tries to sell copies of his previous 39 books.
It is self-indulgent, self-righteous and laboriously self-referential; it is a wild-ass good read. He has written more than 200 since, mostly in the form of what he calls his “daily typewriting,” thousands of words a day on a loose theme, at his website the Daily Bulletin.
I got in touch with Jack about a year ago via email and we had a nice conversation, mostly about what it’s like to live in Parker (pop. 4,317) and what it’s like to write dozens of books every year for a readership that he guesses is in “the high-one, low-two figures.” He ended up sending me a book and some pamphlets that he stapled himself, maybe the sincerest form of flattery, and afterward we began a running interview that I would like to share a little slice of with you, reader, annotated where useful.
Q: How did the job fair go Friday?
A: About like you’d expect. A lot of up-tight job-seekers.
Casting pearls before swine.
Of course, that sums up American letters, to me. Casting pearls before swine.
They don’t want to hear what you have to say.
Unless they do. But who would want to write that? It’s as bad as having a job.
Q: Are the apparatchiks [a perennial bugaboo in Saunders’ oeuvre, shares qualities with the Man] the enemy, or are they just agents of the enemy?
A: Fran Lebowitz said in the Soviet Union, capitalism triumphed over communism. In this country, capitalism triumphed over democracy.
The company is the enemy. More precisely, the corporation.
The apparatchiks are ticketpunchers, managers, people who rise in the organization, getting their ticket punched at every stop. I should add ticketpuncher to my glossary [many of his works contain a guide to his idiosyncratic vocabulary].
Careerists are the enemy. University writing programs train careerists.
To me writing is a call, a vocation, and one of the things a person with a call does is act out of principle, expose and resist expediency. If you do that in school you won’t make it through. You will be selected out.
In Disciplined Minds: A Critical Look at Salaried Professionals and the Soul-Battering System That Shapes Their Lives, Jeff Schmidt writes,
“The prospect of failing the qualifying test frightens the student, even the student who is best at answering the kind of questions used on the test. The student is frightened because his desired future as a professional in his field of interest is at stake. But he is also frightened because society does not guarantee his material security (except at a life-shortening subsistence level). It seems possible for the individual, if suddenly of no value to employers, to go overnight from a job to walking the streets, from being somebody to being nobody, from living in the suburbs to living on skid row, left to struggle for survival among the desperate at the bottom of society. It doesn’t matter that such individual downfall is very unlikely; by simply featuring the possibility, the system announces the fundamental insecurity of the individual. This insecurity unrelentingly haunts the student studying for the qualifying test. The student sees professional training as his chance for a secure future, with status and nonalienating work, his life free from the threat of a nightmarish trip to the bottom of the heap. An important part of his past is also riding on the qualifying test, because no matter how many years he has vested in preparation, coming close to passing is worth nothing in terms of attaining professional status. The years of preparation go down the drain along with the hoped-for career.”
[Not a bad point.]
Q: You talk about Lévi-Strauss and other leftist intellectuals here and there; are you a Marxist?
A: I’m not a Marxist. I’m not even a leftist. I’m a writer who read Lévi-Strauss in college, as an anthropology major, and was attracted to French structuralism rather than cultural evolutionism or historical particularism or whatever the reigning dogma was.
French structuralism was a dogma too.
Derrida and Paul De Man dancing at the edge of abyss.
It was dancing.
Q: What was your dad like?
A: Middle class.
He was college-educated. He taught Sunday School. He was a veteran of WWII. He had GI insurance, tried graduate school on the GI Bill but already had a family, the FHA helped him buy a house, or the VA, he had health insurance, at work, I think he died before he drew much social security and I think he might have used private insurance before he was on Medicare. But social security and Medicare kept him from having to take in his parents when they got old. He was a Democrat when Florida was Democratic but voted for Ike because Adlai Stephenson was too liberal for him. I hate to think Humphrey was too liberal and he voted for Nixon, but I don’t know. He was mayor or city councilman in Delray Beach during the civil rights era and was a moderate who smoothed troubled waters. Black civil rights leaders respected him.
I loved him but we didn’t agree on much. I think he feared for me, with my opposition to authority. After I had children I saw I was more like him than I realized.
I despise hypocrisy, shallowness, deceitfulness, and much of the can-do ethic that lets people hold their nose and put their shoulder to the grindstone. He saw that that would hold me back and make me dissatisfied with my lack of progress. Make me angry. Bitter, even.
Q: Why do you write about your own writing so much?
A: Writing is how I understand who I am and what I am about.
Why am I banging my head against the brick stone wall of the world’s indifference? Do I want to be abused? Am I an injustice collector? Would I rather be a failure than successful? Am I just another whiner, a sore loser who can’t hack it?
Q: Do you have to speak Spanish to truly understand the nature of Florida?
A: If you lived in Delray Beach when 28,000 Haitians moved in you needed to speak Creole. Or whatever the patois was called.
New York is the capital of Puerto Rico, Miami is the capital of Cuba, Delray Beach is the capital of Haiti.
Todd Solondz makes movies about Florida.
He writes about Jews from the suburbs of New Jersey.
We live in Florida now.
Storytelling, Happiness, and Life During Wartime are about Jews in Florida.
Eating at Arby’s. Richard Grayson writes about Jews in Florida.
King’s Point and Century Village are out west of Delray Beach where there used to be green-bean farms and dairies.
George Costanza’s father can’t run for president of the condo Homeowner’s Association because he was impeached. For being Jerry Stiller.
The call Leisureville Seizureville.
You have to understand old people.
Not just the green park benches in St. Petersburg, but everywhere.
Plus, Disneyworld is the biggest tourist attraction in the world.
You have to understand vacation families, kids wanting what they see on television, sugar, artificial sweeteners, fat, ugly fat, I could stand to lose a little weight.
I’m fat. I look like Bird in a leisure suit.
Bob Weinstock called me Bird.
He recorded Charlie Parker at Prestige Records.
My heros were Charlie Parker, Jackson Pollock, and Lenny Bruce.
More than Kerouac.
Although I consider Jack Kerouac a Florida writer.
I identify with Kerouac.
I’d call my last book, WEWAHTICHKA, FLORIDA WRITER: HEAP DRAGS UP, a book like Vanity of Duluoz, in which he talks about “…5,000 sneering college writing instructors.”
Why do I write about writing?
John D. MacDonald, a Florida writer, told Dan Rowan, “People are interested in the mechanics of a craft. Remember “The Violent World of Sam Huff?”
Writing is what I do.
Writing is what I know.
I know I don’t know, I wrote a how-to book about not knowing how.
I just write 1,000 words a day, seven days a week, and reply to interviews when people ask me questions.
Beats the shit out of me.
Mula me, my home Taegu.
Yesterday I covered a gathering of liberals and City Councilwoman Mary Mulhern in the most august part of Tampa apart from the Dairy Joy on Manhattan. Here’s the link:
I post these nourishing, hypaethral quotations partly apropos of the fuss being made yet again by restaurateurs over what beachgoers can do on “their” beaches (see “Who Owns the Beach?,” a CL Tampa story which features my old friends Tom and Kristy on the dispossessed’s behalf, and an ungracious knucklehead on his own) and partly because it’s just that time of the year again — the time where, largely in an act of self-defense, we give up hiding from the sun and begin to collectively lie down in a maelstrom of its keenest rays. Not that season, when the northerlings flock because their native habitats have finally become too dreary and dank; no, the Season, when for we natives anything seems possible but probably not worth the effort.
First, a juridical meditation on what the sea means to us as a people:
There is probably no custom more universal, more natural or more ancient, on the sea-coasts, not only of the United States, but of the world, than that of bathing in the salt waters of the ocean and the enjoyment of the wholesome recreation incident thereto. The lure of the ocean is universal; to battle with its refreshing breakers a delight. Many are they who have felt the life-giving touch of its healing waters and its clear dust-free air. Appearing constantly to change, it remains ever essentially the same. This primeval quality appeals to us. [Quoting Lord Byron now, awesomely:] ‘Changeless save to thy wild waves play, time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; such as creation’s dawn beheld, thou rollest now.’ The attraction of the ocean for mankind is as enduring as its own changelessness. The people of Florida — a State blessed with probably the finest bathing beaches in the world — are no exception to the rule.
Skill in the art of swimming is common amongst us. We love the oceans which surround our State. We, and our visitors, too, enjoy bathing in their refreshing waters. The constant enjoyment of this privilege of thus using the ocean and its fore-shore for ages without dispute should prove sufficient to establish it as an American common-law right, similar to that of fishing in the sea, even if this right had not come down to us as a part of the English common law, which it undoubtedly has.
– Justice Armstead Brown in White v. Hughes, 1939
Chief Justice James C. Adkins, 35 years later, puts the point even more directly in City of Daytona Beach v. Tona-Rama, Inc., saying simply:
No part of Florida is more exclusively hers, nor more properly utilized by her people than her beaches.
God damn right.
I’ll begin my series on filling station criticism with the one nearest my house — the Sunoco next to Pipo’s. Its location evokes the former ingenious Plant band called Azeele Corner and a lot of out-of-state drunkards from University of Tampa procuring Funyuns and Red Bull during the heat of the day, mid-Gasparilla. Let’s get right to it:
Gas: $3.25 for regular. (-11% nat’l avg.)
Twelver of Yuengling: $10.49
32s: OE, Bud Light, High Life, Natty Light, Natty Ice, Coors Light (?), Corona (?!). Also carry tall boys of Smirnoff Ice, perfect for Tampa Prep parties
Specialties: Decent selection of craft beers (Ybor Gold, Victory, Abita, etc.); intriguing kids’ drink called BellyWashers® which are supposed to be a healthy alternative to sugary drinks, with basketballs and hockey pucks for caps; ICEES!
Register Impulse Buys: “lighter leashes,” 5-Hour Energy
For the most part I have a mild fondness for this place. Lately there are always a bunch of cops congregating in the vacant lot across the street, which I think used to be a dry cleaners. Good gas station.
Right now I’m in the middle of conducting an interview via email of below-the-underground Florida writer Jack Saunders. At one point in our conversation he brandished this song, by way of criticizing how little is left of Hemingway’s Key West. It was penned by infamous half-joking bigot and “Gulf and Western” outlaw singer-songwriter David Allan Coe.
Click play and read along for a weirdo trip down the A1A:
There’s sailboats and conch shells and palm trees galore,
But Jimmy Buffett doesn’t live in Key West anymore.
Sister “Spare Change” has a bumper sticker on the door,
Says Jimmy Buffett doesn’t live in Key West anymore.
Hey smugglers hate those Buffett songs, snitching on the sly
Bringing heat where it’s already too damn hot to die.
Son of a son of a son of a bitch, what’s all that bullshit for?
Jimmy Buffett, he don’t live in Key West anymore.
Sailing to the Carribean Jimmy might well be,
Pictures up in Rollin’ Stone for all the world to see.
The rich keep getting richer, the poor they just stay poor,
And Jimmy Buffett doesn’t live in Key West anymore.
Now Jimmy’s moved to Malibu, with all them other stars,
He’s not down on Duval Street hanging out in bars.
All them goddamn tourists got to be a bore
Jimmy Buffett doesn’t live in Key West anymore.
So don’t tell me I sound like Jimmy Buffett
Just because I got that island beat.
Jimmy might have grown up on the ocean,
Me, I kinda grown up on the street.
Music’s just a way of life, me I’m livin’ free
So don’t lay all that Key West Jimmy Buffett shit on me.
Now “Divers Do It Deeper” must have really made them mad
Some of them reviewers said it really sounded bad.
Well they liked Margaritaville, me I liked it too
Someday Jimmy, why don’t we just both get drunk and screw?
Oh, all those creepy mother fuckers that think music is a whore,
Tell ’em that you just don’t live in Key West anymore.
There’s sailboats and conch shells and palm trees galore,
But Jimmy Buffett, he don’t live in Key West anymore
Sister “Spare Change” has a bumper sticker on her door,
Says Jimmy Buffett, he don’t live here any more.
All right boys, sound like Jimmy Buffett now —
The obstinacy, the mockery, the pure “Fuck You”-ery: here is some Florida shit that usually only comes out in dive bars or on the analyst’s couch. Rarely the kind of thing you can refer to in anything recorded, it’s fascinating stuff and irrevocably part of some corpus of Florida art.
Chag Pesach Same’ach to you and yrs. ‘Sbeen a tour de Floride these past few days. From Tampa to Sarasota to Miami and not yet back in two tanks and a single Surfer Blood CD. Yes, I am deaf now.
Below, a review of the Wu-Tang show I wrote up last night for the good folks over at Beached Miami. It was a crazy blazy time. Special thanks to Joe Abboud for sending me off from srq, proper as the Queen.
Follow the Trampa Bay Times on Twitter!
Below is a timely reminder at the edge of winter from Florida Commissioner of Agriculture W.A. McRae, waxing more promotional than agricultural (his son, as it happens, later served as Chief Justice of the U.S District Court for the Middle District of Florida, appointed to the bench by President Kennedy):
When the North is wrapt in snow and ice, the ground frozen rough and jagged, the howling winds sweep across the plains and pour through the crevices of the house with a shivering moan, when stock must be housed and fed to keep them from freezing and clothes of an oppressive weight must be worn to keep warm, it is pleasant to dwell where summer-weight clothes suffice and the tepid sea waves invite the pleasant ablution.
When food in the North must be bacon, dried and canned fruits and vegetables, it is pleasant to have fresh fruit from the tree. When in the North trees are bare and vegetation has left no trace behind of its presence or intention of return, it is pleasant to recline in a hammock beneath live oak, palm and pine draped as a bride on nuptial day and drink in the beauties of tropical verdure, while fanned by balmy breezes from the bosom of the Gulf Stream.
Sho’ nuff. It’s been pretty mild in a lot of northern climes this year but let’s face it — they ain’t going to the beach in Delaware yet and if they do, I dare ’em to get in the water. So change out those light sweaters and shorts for t-shirts and swim trunks, ’cause spring’s a-springin’ baby, and there’s nothing the snowbirds can do about it except go home. I can already feel the roads de-congesting and my sinuses re-congesting!
Au revoir wintertime, we hardly knew ye.
Follow the Trampa Bay Times on Twitter!