Like a slug in a sandpaper trenchcoat

The winners of San Jose State University's Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest were announced this week, and they were sublimely craptastic. The Bulwer-Lytton competition enables amateur writers to come up with "purple prose"--or overly flowery, garish writing that oftentimes changes perspective through a flighty narrative--a kind of ode to author Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

Bulwer-Lytton was a Victorian-era writer and politician known for the clichéd novel opener: "It was a dark and stormy night." He was also known for such phrases as "the great unwashed," "the pursuit of the almighty dollar," and "the pen is mightier than the sword." Apparently the only work that was widely received when he wrote it in 1834 was The Last Days of Pompeii, which, according to wikipedia:

...culminates in the cataclysmic destruction of the city of Pompeii by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD...uses its characters to contrast the decadent culture of first-century Rome with both older cultures and coming trends. The protagonist, Glaucus, represents the Greeks who have been subordinated by Rome, and his nemesis Arbaces the still older culture of Egypt. Olinthus is the chief representative of the nascent Christian religion, which is presented favorably but not uncritically. The Witch of Vesuvius, though she has no supernatural powers, shows Bulwer-Lytton's interest in the occult - a theme which would emerge in his later writing, particularly The Coming Race.

The winning entry in Bulwer-Lytton's legacy competition came from Communications Director Garrison Spik of Washington, D.C., who cites Devo, Nathaniel Hawthorne and the film "Curse of Bigfoot" as inspirations.

Spik's winning submission:

"Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped 'Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.' "

Brilliantly pretentious. A professor from SJ State explained to the Washington Post why the passage was such a winning failure:

"It starts out in a familiar vein, one more attempt to define the nature of someone's exquisite love," says Scott Rice gravely. Rice is the lit professor at San Jose State University who founded the contest back in 1982. "But mentioning a cab is somewhat of a step down, and finally at the end it degenerates all the way to a manhole cover with the little detail about Piscataway."

Here's a few of my favorite runner-ups:

"The mongrel dog began to lick her cheek voraciously with his sopping wet tongue, so wide and flat and soft, a miniature pink fleshy cape soaked through the oozing with liquid salivary gratitude; after all, she had rescued him from the clutches of Bernard, the curmudgeonly one-eyed dogcatcher, whose tongue--she remembered vividly the tongues of all her lovers--was coarse and lethargic, like a slug in a sandpaper trenchcoat."
--Christopher Wey
Pittsburgh, PA

"Mike Hummer had been a private detective so long he could remember Preparation A, his hair reminded everyone of a rat who'd bitten into an electrical cord, but he could still run faster than greased owl snot when he was on a bad guy's trail, and they said his friskings were a lot like getting a vasectomy at Sears."
--Robert B. Robeson
Lincoln, Nebraska

"Our tale takes place one century before the reign of Alboin, the Lombard king who would one day conquer most of Italy and who would end up being murdered by his own wife (quite rightfully, I'd say, since Albion made a drinking cup out of her daddy's skull and forced her to drink from it), when our little Sonnebert was seven years old."
--Edo Steinberg
Beer-Sheva, Israel

I would like to add my own beginning passage. It's something I came across a few days ago when I was cleaning out my documents. I was under the influence of pulp/noir detective stories, and, at the time, was working in a London pub and obsessing over the Liverpudlian restaurant manager. Sadly, I was not aiming for humor when I wrote this. And yes, I thought "eyeshaunting" sounded really good at the time. Here goes:

Adam. Who was this mysterious deep-set eyeshaunting slender, graceful work of art, and of all names that of the original man? Adam: tall and lanky, brilliant sun behind his every move as he breezes through the colorless masses in a parkside London pub on an unforgivably humid summer day. With sun-kissed hair and one eyebrow arched at the sight of a stranger, I was about to find out.

Apologies for any nausea induced upon reading the above passage.

This used to be my playground.

Searchlight

The other night I was watching the Daily Show and had a childhood flashback brought on by Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid. Reid was on the show to push his new memoir, The Good Fight: Hard Lessons From Searchlight to Washington (excerpt here). You see, I lived in the town of Searchlight, NV at age 5. It was my kindergarten year in the desert. And it seems like nothing more than a dream whenever I look back on it.

My mother and stepfather at the time were both in the gaming industry, and my step-grandad (an attorney from Napa) had property in Searchlight for some reason, so we lived in one of his homes for a while. It was one of perhaps six or seven houses among scatterings of trailer homes. The population at this time was around 200 people.

About one hour's drive east of Vegas and teetering on the edge of the Mojave Desert, Searchlight has always seemed like a fantasy world to me, where danger and excitement lurked around every corner. Basically, I was scared shitless on many an occasion. Looking back on it now though, I only see all of the fun things that us kids could explore.

Searchlight was named after a brand of matches. Gold was found there in 1897, and by 1940, a total of about $4.5 million in gold was found in the area. There was a point when Searchlight was larger than Las Vegas, and the coal industry was booming.

When I lived there, abandoned coal mines were our playgrounds, and water towers were always fun to climb. There was an old wooden shack across the street from our house that looked like it could have been a saloon from Wild West days. I would stare at it from my bedroom window in equal parts awe and terror, imagining all the ghosts pent up inside. Me and my stepbrother would rummage through it all the time and find green and gray glass bottles that must have dated back to around 1oo years.

I remember climbing through an old cement truck and almost getting stuck inside one day. This was probably one of my first moments of mortal dread. But there would be many others.

Another favorite pastime was chasing lizards. They came in all shapes and sizes, and I'll never forget following a big green one that was around four feet long through a trailer park one day, along with at least five other children.

The first time I saw owls was in Searchlight; I could hear them in the trees at night. The first day we moved into our new home, a florescent orange-striped snake slithered beneath our building, much to the alarm of our German Shepard. Oh, and then there were the tarantulas.

The tarantulas were probably three times the size of my tiny child hands, and I was more afraid of them than dying in a cement truck. My parents told me they hid in the dark and wouldn't come out when it was light out. I clung to this tidbit of information, refusing to turn off a very bright ceiling lamp in my room every single night before I went to bed.

My schoolhouse, serving K-12 with two teachers, had two rooms. I recall eating Hungry-Man meals on my desktop, skipping double dutch at break, and walking down a hill to our library housed in a small trailer. The convenience store served as our grocery store when mom was too busy to make the trek to Vegas. We ate a lot of ice cream, and used the empty cartons to capture tarantulas.

Now I'm left really wanting to read Reid's memoir. Here's an excerpt about Searchlight:

It's an interesting man who makes his way to the middle of nowhere seeking his life and fortune. That's what my grandfather, John Reid, did, when he was drawn to Searchlight from California just after the turn of the century. And that, of course, is also the story of our country--a certain vagabond spirit, in the best sense of that word. The middle of nowhere is a hard place to live. So many of our fathers were drunks, and some of our mothers as well.

When I was a kid I didn't realize Searchlight was the middle of nowhere. I figured everybody on earth lived like we did, and I thought my town was the center of the known universe. The landscape, scarred with hundreds of claims, some active, many abandoned, was so interesting to a boy looking for adventure.

Sometimes I feel like a cat with only a few more lives to go.

Pete and Pete

Am I the only person in the world to own the DVD of this show, and to occasionally reflect upon the bizarre genius that was once broadcast on Nickelodeon? I was 13 at the time it came out, barely young enough to watch Nick without being considered a complete nerd. This was also the only show I could watch and bond with my five year-old brother.


(Above: Young Pete and Artie, the Strongest Man in the World)

But seriously, how many children's television programs are based upon two red-headed brothers named Pete, the younger of which has a mysterious sailor's tattoo of a woman on his arm he likes to call "Petunia" and make dance by shaking his arm? And how many shows are genius enough to attract cameos by Debbie Harry, Michael Stipe, LL Cool J, the redhead from the B-52s, and Iggy Pop?

The young Pete (shown above), was fantastic because he was like Pee-Wee Herman or something, you could live vicariously through him because he committed acts you dared not attempt: wearing adults' clothes that dragged to the floor, striking against bedtimes by staying up for nearly a week, taking dynamite with you to go trout fishing. But it was the elder Pete's narration that made the show so enchanting and at times poetic.

And how about the summer vacation episode, where Mr. Tastee disappears and Artie battles it out with killer bees from the Yucatan Peninsula and the dad discovers a '78 Cutlass Supreme on the beach using a metal detector and the whole family hops in and they drive it home?

Mr. Tastee: I have to go, kid-os. I'm an ice cream man. I'm what the summer is: fireflies, thunderstorms, butt sweat on a hot car seat..

And what about the kick-ass music by Polaris? I've spent years trying to track this band down because they were so f**ing good. Here is the intro to the show, complete with Polaris. Enjoy:

IN MEMORY OF ENRICO


Last night I shared a beer with a man who lives in North Beach and we discovered that we had more than a lot to talk about. He was a bit older, a lawyer, and had lived in the city for quite some time. I was drinking a beer inspired by the comedian Lenny Bruce, and this guy, Bobby, told me a story about how Bruce, tripped up on smack or something, threw himself out the window of a two-story hotel off Columbus Ave because he saw his friend walking down the street. When his friend, horrified, asked him what on Earth he was doing, Bruce replied, "I really needed to talk to you, and this seemed like a good short cut."

But then, speaking about North Beach and SF history, Bobby broke the news to me: Enrico Banducci, the "King of North Beach" had passed away the day before at age 85.

Enrico was a San Francisco icon. And for the West Coast bohemian/beatnik scene, a legend. I had the honor and privilege of working as a bartender at his 50-something year-old restaurant, Enrico's, when I first moved to San Francisco a year ago. I met him briefly and only once, while he was being filmed for a documentary. While we didn't exactly engage in conversation, my impression of him was that he was one of the those people, not unlike the Dalai Lama, that exuded vivacity, teamed with innocence and joy. He had a smile a mile long, and was wearing that silly little black beret that he is known for. I loved him immediately.

But Banducci wasn't, as I initially assumed, simply known for his restaurant that once served as a major social scene for San Francisco glitterati and eccentrics alike--he established the hungry i. The hungry i was a nightclub that, under Enrico's conception and direction, launched the careers of the stage-frightened young comedian Woody Allen and a feisty 19 year-old named Barbara Streisand.

Visting North Beach now, it's nearly impossible to imagine the glory that it once was. Today it is reduced to a red light district of flashy strip joints and street walkers, with Little Italy tourists pouring in to experience fading remnants of a the beats and of west coast jazz clubs. While Enrico Banducci will never revisit his restaurant, or Tosca, or City Lights again, one can only hope that his legacy will not be forgotten.

Here are some touching comments from the San Francisco Chronicle's article about him:

--In 1966 I was very young sailor new to the city. Looking for something to entertain myself I bought a ticket to see Woody Allen perform at the Hungary i. Couldn't ask for a better introduction to San Francisco. Thanks Enrico.

--I was so lucky to know him - the sparkle in his eyes never faded - he was always charming and kind and funny - I will miss him forever

--Damn, another one gone. All the Chartreuse that I drank at Enrico's would float a washing machine. Anybody remember the time Bob Dylan got kicked out of Tosca? I was the one that pushed him out the door with my foot for the bartender. Enrico's was a singular moment at the end of the heyday of our empire. No one under 50 will ever nor can they ever know of what the old city was made.

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN. THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON...

I really can't finish that title as it relates to the contents of this post. My stepbro is going to absolutely ream me, or never speak to me again for mocking him and his videos. I know his videos are very important and sacred. And I realize it must take an enormous amount of time and energy to spin the records for the background music, edit the video and come up with cool special effects, AND be able to capture circus freak-like talents for use on youtube.

Tim L was my stepbro for nearly 10 years growing up. We lived together in South Lake Tahoe and mostly spent our time vandalizing the neighborhood, competitively injuring ourselves on our non-bmx bikes which we treated as such, and generally causing a great deal of mischief.

He tends to get real mad when I don't watch his videos, which usually consist of montages of him doing backflips off of people's roofs.

But I just think this one of him climbing up a tree is sooo great, it makes me laugh so damn hard every time I watch it and I don't know why.

MY HIGH SCHOOL REUNION


A shot from Lisa W's sweet sixteen. There's nothing more foul in all the world than rich white teenagers receiving new cars with bows on top.

My reunion was crap. There, I said it. Completely anti-climactic, a super-low turnout of under 70 for a class of 300+, and a recent tragedy less than one week prior which saw our "Most Friendliest" as a meat cleaver-wielding child killer didn't help matters. All this made for a sad event indeed.

However, I did get to see about five or so awesome folks that have actually maintained their awesome tendencies, if not completely expanded upon them. And I stole a time capsule from a girl in my class that was appallingly snobby in high school. And it had some really intimate collectibles. And they were LOLADOF funny ("Laugh Out Loud And Dying On Floor" for those not hip with the new lingo). This girl didn't make it to the reunion, and since I never made my own time capsule, I rejoiced at living vicariously through Lisa W.'s.

Lisa W. was on the dance team with me. She had dark brown hair past her ass and was extremely lanky with stalky green bean legs. I never counted her as one of the more intimidating beauties in our school, especially since she had a speech impediment which made it difficult for her to pronounce her R's, replacing them W's. She thought she was a real gem though, that's for sure. And judging from the suitors that passed notes to her in class, a bit of a "woman of the night". One of them, who we'll refer to as "J", was a friend of mine, and made an annual event out of asking me out. I, in return, made it an annual event to flatly reject him. But Lisa W. dated him, and boy was that ever a train wreck. After Lisa brutally dumped him, he wrote this note to her in class:

Though time may pass a thousand shadows, the only scene I feel is your touch through the looking glass...I'll see you again when time permits the fate of young love. That day I love you and farewell.

Later, when "J" still can't move on, and Lisa W has a new boy toy, he writes:

Lisa, you're the best damn tease in the nation's powerhouse.

She responds:

Ya tease to please, not please to tease. Do it right or not at all.

What that means I may never know. I certainly didn't know it in high school, maybe that's why my dating life was so nonexistent as a youth.

The best was the letter she wrote to herself though:

Dear Me (Lisa),
I wanted to write a letter to myself so that in 10yrs I can remember what I was like...I hope that when I read this in 10yrs Ames and Shans will still be my friends. Amy is the goofy one, she reminds me of Phoebe on "Friends"...Luke calls me "chicken legs" cuz I'm so skinny. I don't think that but oh well...Well I have finally gotten into modeling and now I'm just waiting to hear from agents. I'm working at Contempo Casuals and I love the beach. I hope that in 10yrs I have a house on the beach or near it w/horses... Being 17 is so fun, no responsibilities, but when I'm 27 I will be reading this. That's pretty scary. "Smile its the second best thing for your lips, the first is chapstick." Well I best be on my way--oh and one more thing. No matter how hard mom tries, my room is never clean.
Love always, Lisa Class '97'

Oh Lisa, thank you for deep insights on...chapstick.