THE HAPLESSNESS OF THE HYPER-GRAPHIAC

I've written a couple of memoirs. The first, RELIGIOPATH, I wrote in 1992. I was working for PAPER magazine at the time, so had the use of an old IBM Selectric typewriter and a desk overlooking the corner of Prince and Broadway, above Blimpies. Everyday I'd walk to the office from E7th and Ave. C and start banging away on the metal beast. I was just short of 40 years old, living with a 23 year old Grad student/stripper, so I had no problem pouring out my heart through my fingers. Computers were called "word processors" at the time and the the internet was still being dreamed up by the military. The book was a rambling tomb that focused on my days in SF in the 70's and the East Village in the 80's. 600 pages in I gave up , wrapped it in a paper bag and tossed it in the closet. No editor would lift it, let alone read it.
    I wrote a religious column for PAPER. If you've ever seen this magazine you'll be amazed to know that my column THE HOLY CORNER  actually lasted 10 years. Like Franco in Spanish history class, there's little evidence of my years there. In this case those who forget history will never be forced to repeat it. I loved the couple hundred word, once a month, exercise in column writing.  I pretty much had a free rein. I was proud of my work. But when i moved upstate in 1995, leaving the stripper, and empty parking space on E7th and the marshal's padlock on my door, my attention (and column) turned to hunting. The editors at PAPER could only be stretched so far. Gold watch? I was lucky to get a phone call informing me my services were no longer needed.
   My next writing gig was as an outdoor columnist for THE RIVER REPORTER in Narrowsburg. My column OUT OF THE WOODS mixed tales of working as a carpenter for rich celebs like Michael Douglas and of course hunting. Once again the editors questioned the validity of all the name dropping alongside missed shots and hunting missteps. Wasn't I supposed to be an expert with good advice for the readership? I have no idea where they got that idea. Suffice to say the job did not last. About this time computers had developed an on/off button and were becoming simple enough for me to consider. I succumbed and bought a mac in 2002. My next memoir was called LUCKY MIKE. Get the irony? The wife I had moved to the sticks with had left, my band broke up, my art career was non-existent, I was broke as usual and once again I seemed to have a lot to say. I still didn't have internet but the little mac was a helluva lot fasted than the Selectric. No white out.
   It took a couple of months to bang out LUCKY MIKE. It picked up where RELIGIOPATH left off and dealt with my failed romances along with some of my ancient Indian killer/hillbilly roots. Once again I shopped it around to no avail. Publishing a memoir seemed as easy as putting out a record or having a show in a decent gallery. Then, out of pure frustration, I got dial up internet. I'd heard of these things called "blogs".  Within days I'd tossed LUCKY MIKE in another closet and started a blog by the same name. I just couldn't believe that with a touch of a little button in the hills of Glen Wild I could publish my writing world wide. This was the answer. Technology had finally caught up with my compulsion to write. Fuck publishing. The whole world could read my words at the click of a mouse. Millions could, and would know my inner thoughts. What I didn't realize was how many other dumb fucks thought the same thing at the same time. So to my half dozen loyal readers let me just say thank you. As long as you are out there I'll keep writing. As I'm sure you've realized by now- it's not like I can stop.