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A Good Time For Pie

There’s a great piece up at Grantland today about Pulp Fiction on its twentieth anniversary.

Twenty years. Man. Can’t remember how many times I saw it in the theater – the old Loew’s Oriental on 86th Street where the screen was crooked and rats raced under the seats – a few times in the first couple of weeks, I think. It lit everything up. I was 16. The world was Pulp Fiction. Got into Hemingway a couple of years later, when I first read The Sun Also Rises as a freshman in college. The influence of Hemingway on QT is something I never really thought about, but it makes a lot of sense, especially in terms of Hem’s role as the “stylistic and philosophical headmaster” of the hard-boiled tradition (I think it was Foster Hirsch who said that).

pulpfiction

 

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My Uncle Joe

My Uncle Joe passed away. He died too young. But he died the way he lived, on his own terms. He was a great guy—someone who lived on the edge of things. He got out of the neighborhood young, played stand-up bass in jazz bands, worked at food carts in the Village. Some of my friends knew him well—he’d come up and hang out when we were in Cochecton. He was my earliest model for an artist and thinker. He could fix anything. He was a caretaker. He was full of love and goodness. He knew how much of this racket is bullshit. I learned something from him every time we talked. The worst thing right now is thinking about my grandmother walking into his old bedroom and looking at pictures of him as a kid. I keep breaking down thinking about that. I also keep thinking about all the times—back when I lived in New Paltz—that I didn’t drive across the river to see him play in Beacon. Last time we were home in July—I think he must have known things could get really bad for him—he wanted to take me, my wife, and our son out for Chinese food in the city. We decided we couldn’t do it because it was our last day in Brooklyn with my grandparents. He’d been down a few days before to see us, we took solace in that. He’d insisted on mowing the grass until he couldn’t anymore. I took over after a few minutes and then we drove to Home Depot to get a part for something that needed repairing in my grandparents’ house. He was having trouble breathing. He wanted an Orange Crush. I’d never seen him drink a soda. That made me worried, and I never shook that worry. My mother and grandparents worried about him constantly. They tried to get him to go see a doctor, but he wouldn’t. He wanted no part of it. He’d covered his belly button when he came to visit my grandmother in the hospital last winter, saying that was how bad spirits got in. My mother and grandparents gave him space just as they always had—they respected his wishes. I don’t know what to say. I loved him. I’m so sorry he’s gone. My daughter will be in the world soon, and I hope she carries a big piece of him with her. Here he is with my son Eamon a few years ago. Rest easy, man.

unclejoe

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All Things Broken, All Things Saved

Alex Shakespeare’s review of Gravesend in the Bob Lewis memorial issue of North Dakota Quarterly. This is my favorite thing anyone’s written about the book. Thanks so much, Alex. And I’m really honored that it’s in an issue paying tribute to Mr. Lewis. (Sorry if this is a clunky way to share it – hope it’s not too tough to read).

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All You Folks in Heaven Not Too Busy Ringing the Bell

An incredible oral history of Jason Molina’s masterpiece, The Magnolia Electric Co. My favorite record ever. If you haven’t heard it, please go buy it right now. Here’s my Rumpus essay on the album from right after Molina passed away.

Other big Molina news: Didn’t It Rain is being reissued later this year. I was twenty-three, living in Austin, when I found it at 33 Degrees. It was my first Molina, and it changed things for me. I’d never heard an album that sounded so much like the way I felt. Can’t wait for this. 

Other stuff:

If you’re into e-books and against Amazon, you can now get Gravesend and other Broken River titles here.

My So-Called Life first aired twenty years ago this week. I was fifteen, a week away from being sixteen. I watched that first episode and never missed one the whole run. Taped them on VHS without commercials. I had Claire Danes’s picture up in my locker all junior year. One time my friend told me he was taking me to a party in the city and that she’d be there. I was heartbroken when it turned out to be bullshit. I still cry when I hear that goddamn Buffalo Tom song. I still have Sonnet 130 memorized. This is a good essay revisiting the show.

The entirety of the The Basement Tapes is being released soon.

Scorsese. The Ramones. Yes.

David Lynch does the Ice Bucket thing. Genius.

Here’s an essay I published in Trop back in February about Yusuf Hawkins, who was killed 25 years ago this past Saturday. All this time and the same shit keeps happening over and over in one form or another.

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Writing Process Blog Tour

Well, I’m almost a full week behind on this. My friend Abigail Greenbaum invited to take part in this writing process blog tour (she billed it as a literary internet chain letter, which I like). Our good friend Anya Groner did it the week before. They’re two of my favorite writers and they responded to these questions with their typical genius. Here I am, late, fucking the whole show up. After my answers, I’ll pass the baton to two other writers I greatly admire.

1) What are you working on?
I just finished a draft of my second novel. I’ve spent the last several months pretty immersed in it. I finished it yesterday, so I need some distance from it before I can really talk about it in more detail. It’s out with three of my most trusted readers right now, so I’ll know if it’s worth anything soon.

2) How does your work differ from others’ work in the same genre?
It’s sadder.

3) Why do you write what you do?
Everything’s shaped by where I’m from and my family and the stuff I read and watch and listen to. I was lucky enough to find James Ellroy, Jim Thompson, and Elmore Leonard really young. I watched a ton of movies as a kid, too. I was never censored. I got obsessed with David Lynch when I was about thirteen and that changed the way I see things.

4) How does your writing process work?
I write whenever the fuck I can, to be honest. I need a lot of coffee. When I’m working on a novel, I’m drinking a lot of espresso. Maybe two or three pots a day. Short stories are different. They come when they come. I don’t seem to need coffee with them. I’m influenced by everything I’m reading and listening to and watching. I need to take long walks. I have good ideas when I’m out walking. I’ll write in a notebook if I have one with me; otherwise, I’ll write in my phone. When I’m working on a novel, I’m pretty happy if I get a page or two a day. I like it when I’m hitting solid singles. I work best in the mornings, but it all depends on my job and my family and commitments. I seem to work better the busier I am. Give me two hours in the morning before work and I’ll get more done than if I have all day to sit at my desk. I don’t really have an office. I have a desk in our bedroom. My computer’s on a desk with all my son’s toys. I like to work in coffee shops. I like noise.

Next up:

Lori Jakiela, who wrote one of my favorite books from last year, a memoir called The Bridge to Take When Things Get Serious.

And my old friend Irene McGarrity. We went to college and grad school together, and I’ve always loved her stories.

 

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ALIAS KID TWIST

Tyler Keith’s new solo record peels off the line like that primer grey ’55 Chevy from Two Lane Blacktop. It’s gritty and raw and muscled up, punk country noir at its goddamn best. Preorder/support here.

Oxford pals: Tyler Keith and the Apostles play tonight at Proud Larry’s with NERVS opening. Come on out. Here’s the Facebook event page.

And here’s Tyler’s Outsiders song, which also appears on The End of All Music’s great Record Store Day cassette comp.


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