SlapDashittery
Monday, February 23, 2009
I’m a pretty self-absorbed cat by and large, and SlapDashittery is certainly a reflection of that quasi-despicable personality-trait; I rarely, if ever, mention who I’m reading online, opting to eschew the "shout-out" nature of blogging, for fear of... what, exactly? I’m not sure. All I know is that there was a damn good reason for my lack of community-concern, and that I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. Suffice it to say, I’m convinced it was super-valid and not at all arbitrary... and if ellipses implied sarcasm, you guys just got three big scoops of good old fashioned sarcasm gumbo. Just like my grandma used to make.
In desperate need of perspective after isolating myself almost totally from persons both real and cyber for, oh, three months, I found a bucketful whilst skipping along my old interweb stomping grounds, slowly easing myself back into it like a burn victim into a lake, finally coming across something called "Interviews 2009", where a triangle of random blogophiles are given the opportunity to both interview and be interviewed. This, of course, is the brainchild of Mr. Freeman, a man who, by my estimation, runs shit, internet-wise. Like, all of it; he’s the red thread in my woolly cyberland sweater, and it’s a good thing that he’s as accommodating as he is likeable, because otherwise there’d be no red thread in my sweater, and who are you really if your sweater doesn’t have a red thread? You’d be warm, perhaps, but your sweater would be a hideous mess of taupey-garbage. You’d lack pizzazz is what I’m getting at, however clumsily.
For this project, I was given the name of Rodger Jacobs to interview, a professional writer and author of the startlingly good Carver’s Dog. After our brief correspondence, Jacobs’ fabulous answers, and a quick perusal of his blog, I’m a fan, unashamedly. Odd, too, because usually gushing makes me feel a great deal of shame.
(Interjection: The sad truth is that it took me three fucking days to write the above piddle. The interview questions were written quickly, Mr. Jacobs responded promptly, and then, having only to post said components to achieve even a modicum of expedience, I dicked around all weekend with that opening. Therein lies the formula, my long-suffering readers, the curtain pulled back to reveal my fallback, emergency trigger: self-referential indulgence so immense that’s it recalls a self-devouring Ouroboros without the uplifting implication of phoenix-like re-creation.)
Right, what were we doing? Ah, yes – the interview with Mr. Rodger Jacobs:
You’ve accomplished staggeringly more than I have in your career, yet I still refer to myself as a writer. In your experience, is hubris an endearing personality trait?
I'm asked this question quite frequently and I must say that I am quite confident that my hubris, which some do indeed find sickening, has been the key to my marginal success. Anyway you look at it (unless one clings to a religious doctrine that speaks otherwise), it's a solipsistic world. If you don't believe in yourself, then who the hell is going to?
Dogs, cats or allergies?
Cats are fun for flinging against the wall but I have severe allergies to the buggers so I gave up that sport ages ago. Cats freak me out. You can look in their glassy orbs and see a devious and cunning mind at play. And yet William S. Burroughs adored cats so they can't be all bad. I've had a number of dogs (mostly Shetland Sheepdogs) as household pets throughout my adult life but the transitory nature of my life the last few years forbids that practice.
Any peculiar superstitions and/or habits?
I read a lot of books, 24 or more per year. In this day and age a lot of people would consider that habit a bit on the odd side.
Are you a longhand-man, a laptopper, or a slashie (longhand/laptopper)?
Oh man. I go back to the days of the IBM Selectric and I didn't even own a computer until 1998. I write everything in longhand for the first draft and then input my notes and graphs on the laptop. I write in three-ring looseleaf notebooks that I pick up by the dozens at the 99 Cent Store. I have a separate notebook for every book I review for Pop Matters, crammed with interview notes, thoughts, etc. I can't bring myself to throw them away so I had to invest in binders to store them in. (Hey, this is starting to sound like a peculiar habit and/or superstition).
Were you surprised when Hunter S. Thompson took himself out? Saddened? Understanding? Question mark? (Please feel free to answer any or none of the above.)
Oh, Hunter, Hunter, Hunter. Damn near everything I know about writing I learned from Dr. Gonzo and I still miss him and mourn his loss as if he was a member of my own family. Shortly after Hunter's untimely, self-inflicted demise, one of my cyberstalkers sent me an interesting e-mail. She wrote: "When the mystics kill themselves, it’s a sure sign. Rodger, are you a viable sperm donor? I have the desire to become pregnant with the soul of Hunter S. Thompson."
That's a true story; you can read the semi-fictionalized version of it, "A Sexual Obsession with Soup Pots", here.
Here's the thing about Thompson, though: a careful study of his work, beginning with the product he churned out in the late 80s, reveals a man who was tiring of the whole game, the whole system. Consider the following from 1988:
"Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested... Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll."
If you were forced to break your arm patting yourself on the back, what would you most likely brag about?
A few years ago I got into a bit of trouble with the IRS; when I could no longer afford to make my monthly tax payments in a timely manner I attempted to do an Offer In Compromise (OIC) on the back taxes, pennies on the dollar essentially. The IRS can be very amenable to these arrangements but they were not with me, explaining, in essence, that they had no doubt in my future ability to pay what I owe. I was rather mystified by the response. A year later a former IRS collections agent explained it to me: The IRS will rarely, if ever, accept an OIC from anyone who works in the creative arts because their data shows that artists and writers and actors and singers and circus clowns never retire. We just keep producing our shit until a shovel of dirt is thrown on our faces.
I relate my experience with the IRS only to underscore that as long as a writer is above ground, he or she continues to evolve. I'm a better writer today than I was the same time last year but one year from now I'll be saying the same thing.
In that regard, it's perhaps better to address work that I am, well, not ashamed of but better to place in the "Things I Did For Money" category. Back in the late 80s I wrote a horrendous 3-hour feature documentary, hosted by the lovely Rita Moreno, called "Women: First and Foremost." I think it was the universe's idea of a grand cosmic, karmic joke: a former mens magazine writer forced to write a show honoring women's history. I'm certainly not embarrassed, conversely, by the work I did in the adult film industry for way too many years because either way you look at it, I was being paid to write and earning a decent income. How many people can make that claim?
I'm very proud of the book review work I do for Pop Matters. It has opened a lot of doors for me in the publishing world and has led to more work for other clients and I've been afforded the opportunity to interview terrific writers like Marissa Silver, Willy Vlautin, and Rudy Wurlitzer.
Of all the things that bring you the most joy, name me one book, one movie and one album.
Goddamn. Just one? Maybe Bob Dylan's haunting soundtrack to "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid" for album. "The Wild Bunch" for movie (is there a Peckinpah theme here?) and probably Updike's "Rabbit Run" for book, though I'm currently reading Roberto Bolano's "2666" and I must say that this just might be the most perfect novel written in any language in the last 100 years.
If you were of the mind to construct an answer completely from whole cloth, where would you tell me that ideas came from?
I have to go with the words of Judge Alex Kozinski of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit on this one: "Nothing today, likely nothing since we tamed fire, is genuinely new: culture, like science and technology, grows by accretion, each new creator building on the works of those who came before." That's not an answer cut from whole cloth but I would've said the same thing, basically.
At the very core of him, is The Man benevolent or is he out to get us?
I'm under court order not to discuss that.
Do you name drop when given the chance, and, if so, could you drop one on me?
I could drop dozens of names but I don't know the practical use of the application. I got my start as a writer from actor Stacy Keach and subsequently, in the early 80s, I was hired to write vanity screenplays for several film actors, including Randy Quaid and P.J. Soles. But in the long run, actors are not human, they're some weird half-man, half-dog, narcissistic hybrid.
Personally, I've been more impressed by some of the writers I have met and befriended over the years, as well as colorful folks on the fringes of pop culture, such as John Allen Cassady, the son of Beat icon Neal Cassady, whom I once spent an evening getting drunk with in San Francisco.
How often do you Google yourself? Be honest.
I subscribe to Google alerts, they let me know when someone in the world wide web has dropped my name and I can then call my lawyer and take appropriate action.
If you could spend one night picking someone’s brain, alive or dead, who would that someone be?
I would say F. Scott Fitzgerald but I would only have one question and I would shout it rather loud and harsh: "Why were you such a self-pitying whiner?" No, I think I would rather explore the mind of William S. Burroughs.
How do you feel about leather pants?
Depends on who's wearing them. Rosie O'Donnell? Not so much. Amber Tamblyn is a different matter.
Where in the world is Osama Bin Laden? Or, for that matter, Carmen Sandiego?
They're both fictional characters so I don't see an operational answer here.
If it became clear that you absolutely had to have a word tattooed on your forehead, what would that word be?
Try the swordfish.
What’s the most insulting thing you’ve ever said?
Oh man. I insult people all the time. It's that hubris thing you mentioned earlier. Last year I wrote a review of Bruce Olds' novel "The Moments Lost" that concluded with this damnation:
"Alliterations and long-lost words serve no point except to break the reader away from what might otherwise be an engrossing moment. Watching Olds conduct linguistic handstands is an experience no Kafka-esque freak show can rival. It takes skill to write without cheap gimmicks and parlor tricks but Olds has forgotten this simple fact and revels in his assumed superiority with words."
Have you invented words when the thesaurus failed you, and, if so, which of your concoctions are you most proud of?
I don't invent new words, I inspire them.
Are you an argumentor or an ignorist?
Depends on my mood at the time but mostly the former. Why? You spoiling for a fight, punk?
Is there any one thing that still routinely gives you that childlike pang of excitement in your belly?
Receiving a book in the mail (which happens about twice a month, so you'd think I'd get over the thrill of it)..
All right: you’re hanging by your feet from a rapidly splintering plank of wood hanging over a pit of molten lava; everything you might have had has fallen from your pockets save for a spoon you managed to expertly grab before it too tumbled into the melting pot. Your legs are manacled with a piece of tightly-wound chain-link fence, and a grotesquely obese half-man, half-manatee is racing down the plank overtop of you, bounding with inappropriate glee and completely unaware of anything other than the overzealous taste of his strawberry lollipop. My question to you, sir, is: liquor or beer?
Morphine laced with a dash of paprika.
Oh, and, if you like, how would you extricate yourself from the above pickle?
I once knew a woman who held a grudge agianst Bozo the Clown. I kid you not. When she was 5-years-old she sat in on a taping of a Bozo TV show and she was called down from the audience to participate in a drawing for a new bicycle. She lost. She blamed Bozo and hated him from that day forward. That little girl is now 53 years old and still clings to her hatred of Larry Harmon's creation. Somehow I would channel that misguided rage and use it to extricate myself.
In desperate need of perspective after isolating myself almost totally from persons both real and cyber for, oh, three months, I found a bucketful whilst skipping along my old interweb stomping grounds, slowly easing myself back into it like a burn victim into a lake, finally coming across something called "Interviews 2009", where a triangle of random blogophiles are given the opportunity to both interview and be interviewed. This, of course, is the brainchild of Mr. Freeman, a man who, by my estimation, runs shit, internet-wise. Like, all of it; he’s the red thread in my woolly cyberland sweater, and it’s a good thing that he’s as accommodating as he is likeable, because otherwise there’d be no red thread in my sweater, and who are you really if your sweater doesn’t have a red thread? You’d be warm, perhaps, but your sweater would be a hideous mess of taupey-garbage. You’d lack pizzazz is what I’m getting at, however clumsily.
For this project, I was given the name of Rodger Jacobs to interview, a professional writer and author of the startlingly good Carver’s Dog. After our brief correspondence, Jacobs’ fabulous answers, and a quick perusal of his blog, I’m a fan, unashamedly. Odd, too, because usually gushing makes me feel a great deal of shame.
(Interjection: The sad truth is that it took me three fucking days to write the above piddle. The interview questions were written quickly, Mr. Jacobs responded promptly, and then, having only to post said components to achieve even a modicum of expedience, I dicked around all weekend with that opening. Therein lies the formula, my long-suffering readers, the curtain pulled back to reveal my fallback, emergency trigger: self-referential indulgence so immense that’s it recalls a self-devouring Ouroboros without the uplifting implication of phoenix-like re-creation.)
Right, what were we doing? Ah, yes – the interview with Mr. Rodger Jacobs:
You’ve accomplished staggeringly more than I have in your career, yet I still refer to myself as a writer. In your experience, is hubris an endearing personality trait?
I'm asked this question quite frequently and I must say that I am quite confident that my hubris, which some do indeed find sickening, has been the key to my marginal success. Anyway you look at it (unless one clings to a religious doctrine that speaks otherwise), it's a solipsistic world. If you don't believe in yourself, then who the hell is going to?
Dogs, cats or allergies?
Cats are fun for flinging against the wall but I have severe allergies to the buggers so I gave up that sport ages ago. Cats freak me out. You can look in their glassy orbs and see a devious and cunning mind at play. And yet William S. Burroughs adored cats so they can't be all bad. I've had a number of dogs (mostly Shetland Sheepdogs) as household pets throughout my adult life but the transitory nature of my life the last few years forbids that practice.
Any peculiar superstitions and/or habits?
I read a lot of books, 24 or more per year. In this day and age a lot of people would consider that habit a bit on the odd side.
Are you a longhand-man, a laptopper, or a slashie (longhand/laptopper)?
Oh man. I go back to the days of the IBM Selectric and I didn't even own a computer until 1998. I write everything in longhand for the first draft and then input my notes and graphs on the laptop. I write in three-ring looseleaf notebooks that I pick up by the dozens at the 99 Cent Store. I have a separate notebook for every book I review for Pop Matters, crammed with interview notes, thoughts, etc. I can't bring myself to throw them away so I had to invest in binders to store them in. (Hey, this is starting to sound like a peculiar habit and/or superstition).
Were you surprised when Hunter S. Thompson took himself out? Saddened? Understanding? Question mark? (Please feel free to answer any or none of the above.)
Oh, Hunter, Hunter, Hunter. Damn near everything I know about writing I learned from Dr. Gonzo and I still miss him and mourn his loss as if he was a member of my own family. Shortly after Hunter's untimely, self-inflicted demise, one of my cyberstalkers sent me an interesting e-mail. She wrote: "When the mystics kill themselves, it’s a sure sign. Rodger, are you a viable sperm donor? I have the desire to become pregnant with the soul of Hunter S. Thompson."
That's a true story; you can read the semi-fictionalized version of it, "A Sexual Obsession with Soup Pots", here.
Here's the thing about Thompson, though: a careful study of his work, beginning with the product he churned out in the late 80s, reveals a man who was tiring of the whole game, the whole system. Consider the following from 1988:
"Maybe there is no Heaven. Or maybe this is all pure gibberish — a product of the demented imagination of a lazy drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out where the real winds blow — to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested... Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll."
If you were forced to break your arm patting yourself on the back, what would you most likely brag about?
A few years ago I got into a bit of trouble with the IRS; when I could no longer afford to make my monthly tax payments in a timely manner I attempted to do an Offer In Compromise (OIC) on the back taxes, pennies on the dollar essentially. The IRS can be very amenable to these arrangements but they were not with me, explaining, in essence, that they had no doubt in my future ability to pay what I owe. I was rather mystified by the response. A year later a former IRS collections agent explained it to me: The IRS will rarely, if ever, accept an OIC from anyone who works in the creative arts because their data shows that artists and writers and actors and singers and circus clowns never retire. We just keep producing our shit until a shovel of dirt is thrown on our faces.
I relate my experience with the IRS only to underscore that as long as a writer is above ground, he or she continues to evolve. I'm a better writer today than I was the same time last year but one year from now I'll be saying the same thing.
In that regard, it's perhaps better to address work that I am, well, not ashamed of but better to place in the "Things I Did For Money" category. Back in the late 80s I wrote a horrendous 3-hour feature documentary, hosted by the lovely Rita Moreno, called "Women: First and Foremost." I think it was the universe's idea of a grand cosmic, karmic joke: a former mens magazine writer forced to write a show honoring women's history. I'm certainly not embarrassed, conversely, by the work I did in the adult film industry for way too many years because either way you look at it, I was being paid to write and earning a decent income. How many people can make that claim?
I'm very proud of the book review work I do for Pop Matters. It has opened a lot of doors for me in the publishing world and has led to more work for other clients and I've been afforded the opportunity to interview terrific writers like Marissa Silver, Willy Vlautin, and Rudy Wurlitzer.
Of all the things that bring you the most joy, name me one book, one movie and one album.
Goddamn. Just one? Maybe Bob Dylan's haunting soundtrack to "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid" for album. "The Wild Bunch" for movie (is there a Peckinpah theme here?) and probably Updike's "Rabbit Run" for book, though I'm currently reading Roberto Bolano's "2666" and I must say that this just might be the most perfect novel written in any language in the last 100 years.
If you were of the mind to construct an answer completely from whole cloth, where would you tell me that ideas came from?
I have to go with the words of Judge Alex Kozinski of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit on this one: "Nothing today, likely nothing since we tamed fire, is genuinely new: culture, like science and technology, grows by accretion, each new creator building on the works of those who came before." That's not an answer cut from whole cloth but I would've said the same thing, basically.
At the very core of him, is The Man benevolent or is he out to get us?
I'm under court order not to discuss that.
Do you name drop when given the chance, and, if so, could you drop one on me?
I could drop dozens of names but I don't know the practical use of the application. I got my start as a writer from actor Stacy Keach and subsequently, in the early 80s, I was hired to write vanity screenplays for several film actors, including Randy Quaid and P.J. Soles. But in the long run, actors are not human, they're some weird half-man, half-dog, narcissistic hybrid.
Personally, I've been more impressed by some of the writers I have met and befriended over the years, as well as colorful folks on the fringes of pop culture, such as John Allen Cassady, the son of Beat icon Neal Cassady, whom I once spent an evening getting drunk with in San Francisco.
How often do you Google yourself? Be honest.
I subscribe to Google alerts, they let me know when someone in the world wide web has dropped my name and I can then call my lawyer and take appropriate action.
If you could spend one night picking someone’s brain, alive or dead, who would that someone be?
I would say F. Scott Fitzgerald but I would only have one question and I would shout it rather loud and harsh: "Why were you such a self-pitying whiner?" No, I think I would rather explore the mind of William S. Burroughs.
How do you feel about leather pants?
Depends on who's wearing them. Rosie O'Donnell? Not so much. Amber Tamblyn is a different matter.
Where in the world is Osama Bin Laden? Or, for that matter, Carmen Sandiego?
They're both fictional characters so I don't see an operational answer here.
If it became clear that you absolutely had to have a word tattooed on your forehead, what would that word be?
Try the swordfish.
What’s the most insulting thing you’ve ever said?
Oh man. I insult people all the time. It's that hubris thing you mentioned earlier. Last year I wrote a review of Bruce Olds' novel "The Moments Lost" that concluded with this damnation:
"Alliterations and long-lost words serve no point except to break the reader away from what might otherwise be an engrossing moment. Watching Olds conduct linguistic handstands is an experience no Kafka-esque freak show can rival. It takes skill to write without cheap gimmicks and parlor tricks but Olds has forgotten this simple fact and revels in his assumed superiority with words."
Have you invented words when the thesaurus failed you, and, if so, which of your concoctions are you most proud of?
I don't invent new words, I inspire them.
Are you an argumentor or an ignorist?
Depends on my mood at the time but mostly the former. Why? You spoiling for a fight, punk?
Is there any one thing that still routinely gives you that childlike pang of excitement in your belly?
Receiving a book in the mail (which happens about twice a month, so you'd think I'd get over the thrill of it)..
All right: you’re hanging by your feet from a rapidly splintering plank of wood hanging over a pit of molten lava; everything you might have had has fallen from your pockets save for a spoon you managed to expertly grab before it too tumbled into the melting pot. Your legs are manacled with a piece of tightly-wound chain-link fence, and a grotesquely obese half-man, half-manatee is racing down the plank overtop of you, bounding with inappropriate glee and completely unaware of anything other than the overzealous taste of his strawberry lollipop. My question to you, sir, is: liquor or beer?
Morphine laced with a dash of paprika.
Oh, and, if you like, how would you extricate yourself from the above pickle?
I once knew a woman who held a grudge agianst Bozo the Clown. I kid you not. When she was 5-years-old she sat in on a taping of a Bozo TV show and she was called down from the audience to participate in a drawing for a new bicycle. She lost. She blamed Bozo and hated him from that day forward. That little girl is now 53 years old and still clings to her hatred of Larry Harmon's creation. Somehow I would channel that misguided rage and use it to extricate myself.
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9 Comments:
Sublimely done, sir, your questions were a such delight and challenge to answer that I gladly gave up an hour of work on Saturday to comply.
"a such delight"?!
I sound like a goddamn ESL student. That's what I get for posting comments before I've inhaled my first cup of morning java.
This is the best so far and I'm not just saying that because you said such nice things about me...
This was outstanding. I've never read the guy, but I must fly over there right now and stalk him appropriately.
Ry, don't run from your internet fans. Be our friend. We love you. Mostly.
Rodger: I'm still in shock that I did the exact same thing at your place - it was so inadvertent that I didn't even get to enjoy it.
Freeman: Sure you are...
Angel: I'm totally friendly! Unfortunately, as you might have guessed, I'm also totally flaky. If you include narcissism, I'm like a triple-threat of conflicting personality defects!
Yes, sometimes friendliness is indeed a character flaw... which actually might go a long way towards explaining the way my mind works. God - is it as obvious to you as it is to me that I'm at about a 3 on the sleepometer?
bootiful. but not in Mr Freeman's sense. Wonder if he has a catalogue.
Nice work. You know your writing is starting to remind me a bit of Hunter S.
I wish I lived the Rum Diaries sometimes.
and : "Rodger Jacobs has been a journalist for Eye Magazine and Hustler, among others, a documentary writer and producer, screenwriter, playwright, magazine editor, true crime writer, book critic, columnist, and live event producer."
great CV. where's the adult enterainment link mentioned?
I don't believe there's a specific adult entertainment link mentioned in Ryan's posting, SSG. In any event, there's certainly no individual link for the work I did in the Flesh Pond. I wrote about 200 adult films and videos under the name Martin Brimmer, edited a bunch of mens mags, and was a trade journalist for X Biz World and Adult Video News under my own name and various pseudos (X Biz is a legit trade journal so I used my real name for those features).
Rodger is also a good name for a writer in the flesh pond. As is brimmer.
Hey, it was in your review of LA photography book, the min bio, but no mention of adult entertainment, that's all. Don't make you any less credible...
You know, I've written so long using bad grammar to sound a certain way i've almost forgot what's right and what's wrong. bummer.
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