Robert Polito, �Savage Art: A Biography of Jim Thompson�
Now that I�ve read this biography, I know there are three more Jim Thompson novels and one novelization that I haven�t read, though from the sounds of it, they weren�t very good.
I�m still gonna look for them.
The amazing thing is, after reading this book, I can see how much he took from his personal life to write these (mostly) incredible pulp-noir crime novels, and it�s a little discouraging.
My family, interesting as they are, is pretty damn boring in comparison. Yes, they made us put wheat germ on our ice cream. (Oh, sorry, ice milk � Ice cream was too decadent.) Sure, they had little grifts of their own, such as when they swindled my sister and me out of buying sugar-laced bubble gum by saying they would sell us two packs at home for the same price, which turned out to be a sugar-free horse hooves substitute (which they then made us spit out when we crammed the entire pack into our mouths in form of protest). And with all the hippies that my parents knew, I�m sure they weren�t nearly as whitebread as they seemed.
But in terms of vindictive femme fatales, low-level gangsters and people working on the short-term con, there�s not much to go on. There isn�t much to gleam from the later years as well. My father has turned into the cranky old guy who doesn�t understand the world and my mom is at the age where she breaks bones a lot. Not really literary inspiration gold. I guess that�s a good thing, as on the whole crime fiction doesn�t really interest me. I write about booze.
Ooh, almost forgot � new booze review!
Still though, I�ve used my experiences to get some stories told that I liked, and I could use this book as another point to go into another one. But as the random person I don�t know commented after I posted that last entry, all I do is write long-winded, boring, crappy reviews, and somebody ought to shut me up.
Which is precisely why I�m going into another story. Because I�m a dick.
Not to harp on the subject of this random commenter, because I don�t want him to think he bugged me � I think it�s funny, particularly as he said �again and again you prove to be a boring, crappy critic� meaning he read my stuff again and again. If that�s true he must not have any reading comprehension skills, as he should have known the least effective way to shut me up would be by asking, simply because of my contrary nature. Then again, the fact that I have a publicly posted blog means I�m an egomaniac, so attempting some sort of reverse psychology wouldn�t work either.
That�s right, I�m a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, then placed in a fish taco and lightly saut�ed in a garlic and butter sauce which tastes good, but keeps people at a distance.
Yes, indeed.
So yeah, my father has turned from the guy who used to embarrass me by breaking out into song whenever I brought people over, to the old crank that would yell at kids to keep off his lawn. If he had a lawn to yell at kids to keep off of. Which he doesn't. His memory is getting worse as well. I decided the hospital where he�s been getting all his care is too apathetic. I can�t blame them. He�ll get medication or therapy appointments, and he�ll follow the instructions for less than a week, then give it up because it�s either too hard or because he doesn�t see any improvement.
His memory is getting worse too, but I think it�s partly because he doesn�t do anything of interest so the days pass quickly with nothing to hold onto. I�ll try to suggest outings on my limited free time, but for the most part he doesn�t want to do anything, particularly because of the difference in schedules. I�m lucky if I�m up before three in the afternoon and by that time, he�s ready to call it a day after staring out the window for six hours. To try and compensate I�ve suggested projects for him, like getting his discharge papers in order so we can get him admitted into the veteran�s hospital, where it�s possible that they might actually give a shit about what happens to him.
The lack of memory retention has made that difficult as well, however, as I�ll call the next day and he�ll tell me that he found the divorce papers that I asked for.
�You got divorced from the navy?�
�No, I got divorced from your mother,� he says. �Isn�t that what you wanted?�
And then speaking of my mother, she recently caught her foot on a sprinkler head back in California and broke her knee, which lays her up in a full cast where she can�t drive or even get up the flight of stairs to her senior housing project, which for some reason figured elderly people don�t need no stinkin� elevators. She�s at the age where you break things a lot (and that�s a joke I�ve used for at least a decade now, so obviously it�s happened quite a bit).
When this happened in previous incidents, it just meant I was going to spend the next two months making frequent trips to her house to check on her and try and keep her entertained with my collection of movies that aren�t meant for watching with your parents � though it was incredibly amusing to see her get angry with Ben Affleck for being such a prude in Chasing Amy. Now, however, I have this incredibly inconvenient ocean between us, making visitation a little tough.
And then of course, there�s me, as riddles wrapped in enigmas then placed in fish tacos and lightly saut�ed in a garlic and butter sauce are, well, kind of fragile.
The weird thing is that things for this particular fish taco named Dean have been going pretty well. I have editors from different sections of the paper asking if I�d be interested in writing for them. The work at the club, while filling most of my time, has treated me well. Seven months ago, I took all the random change I had and used it for food, mostly of the ramen variety. Last week I cashed in my change jar again and bought The Tick on DVD. Now, however, there are rumors that the owner is in the middle of negotiations to sell the place.
I don�t know if I�m supposed to be talking about this, so let me offer a piece of advice to the locals who read this column: Do NOT come down and berate him for entertaining the possibility of selling the joint. He�s getting harassed enough from his girlfriend and his mother (and from me, most likely). If you want to show support for the club, you can do so by coming. If you get in free, then for cry-eye, spend some money at the bar, particularly on the slower nights. The last two nights were so pathetic that I don�t blame him for wanting to wash his hands of the whole affair.
If he does sell the place, he�s told me that he�s set up to manage a newly opened club about fifteen minutes away and that he�ll bring me with him. That�s nice of him to offer, but the place he may take over is primarily centered around hip-hop and stays open until 4 a.m. which would wreak even more havoc on my sleeping habits and motivation to see the sun. I�m not sure I�m willing to do it, even with the obligations of trying to keep my father from killing himself.
What�s frustrating is that I (and others) see so much potential in the club, particularly as the main competition has been bulldozed to make room from Trump towers. Even with his refusal to pay for newspaper advertising, we�ve had several winning nights where the bar and the door made quite a bit of cash. Even my stupid punk night has caught on, so much so that Thursday night is the highest money making weekday night.
I leave for California on the tenth. Because of this possible sale, when I get back I might only have a week of steady work left.
Fish tacos.
Since my mom is locked up in a leg brace, she won�t be reading these entries. Theoretically, I could use this opportunity to state that I�m still really fucking upset about being forced to put wheat germ on my ice milk, but I thought I�d end with a nice story, since I�m often accused by her of being too negative.
And also, I wanted to make this entry even longer to piss off that guy who constantly reads and hates what I write.
A while back, I made some new fliers for my punk night at the club. I made an acetate of the universally recognized Circle Jerks skanking guy and superimposed a list of bands that I play behind him. Shortly thereafter, an older woman (probably around 30) came in as I was playing music and marched up to the booth.
�I would like to hear Alice Donut,� she said.
�Holy shit,� I said. �Really?�
She stared at me with a quizzical look.
�No, I mean, that�s something I never expected to hear,� I said. �But yeah, I have plenty. I play them all the time, but I was pretty sure I was the only person who knew who they were.�
Seriously, show of hands. How many of you know whom I�m talking about?
Yeah, ok. That�s a lot of hands, but I have cool friends so that�s not really a proper sample. Anyway, she told me she saw my flier that had Alice Donut listed and had to check it out, as she had the same sort of �holy shit!� reaction.
I talked about hearing them for the first time, a band that sounded really different, that I�ve always described as Dead Kennedys meeting the Velvet Underground and having a knife fight.
I told her about seeing them in San Jose when we talked our way into their dressing room under the pretense of doing an interview, which was for nothing more than a shitty photocopied �zine with a circulation of about 45 copies and they not only talked to us all night but gave us a ton of free beer as well, and then put us on their guest list for their next show up in San Francisco.
I told her that they reformed and put out their own album called Three Sisters, which was recorded on a Macintosh, and that is was probably the best album they�ve done, next to Untidy Suicides of Your Degenerate Children. She listened to all the stories, nodding with a weird smile on her face as I talked in-between putting on new records (which happened a lot, as most punk songs are two minutes long). Finally, she asked if I had the new album.
�I did,� I said, �but somebody broke into my car about a month ago and stole my CD player. Guess what CD was in there?�
This Friday she came in again, which was odd, because she normally only came in during my punk night. I was working behind the bar and she came up to my station and shoved a copy of �Three Sisters� into my hand.
�I�m friends with the guitar player, and I wrote him and told him about you,� she said. �He wanted you to have this.�
Goddamn it. Just when I was getting good at this whole cynicism thing.
