What follows is the first installment of The Coarse Grind, my column that was never published. A local zine and arts collective had asked me to write 3 drafts under 600 words. I ended up writing 5 of them and sent the first 3 to the editor. We had a correspondence then, that included the phrase “curating for millennials”, but ended with me accusing her of being “disingenuous” and “silly”. I can see her point now, almost 3 years later, while reading these over. I don’t know who could be expected to read anything as long as 600 words as even major news outlets race to publish first, and edit and redact later. Besides the horror in realizing how long ago this was, I’m emboldened reading these, in full faith that you, good reader, will read 600 words every week, even if it’s the same old story. That’s the boon and bane of the blogging business-you’ll never run out of material as long as you keep writing about yourself. Christ.
Stay tuned for the next 2 installments of The Coarse Grind.
New Journalism
Christmas Eve ’95 I slept in Cromwell Park. I’d been thrown out of my mom’s house for not having health insurance. It needed to happen. And the rest…I suppose. What happened was I fell through about 5 years of daylabor and shitjobs, another 5 as a mad Boehme, 3 on the getting-sober circuit and shit about 3 years working down here, in the Pearl of the South. What also happened is I decided to be a writer. I had to be, as clichéd as that might sound. I was working a string of jobs that were boring the life out of me. I dealt with it the only way I knew how-with a typewriter and booze.
One of the first things I did when I got here was get a library card. Checked out Locked in the Arms of a Crazy Life, a biography of Charles Bukowski by Howard Sounes. It was profound for me to discover the great poet had started writing poetry at the age of 35. I was 34. Another thing I did when I got down here was pitch to Verbicide Magazine and write blues legend Steve James a letter, to say hello and ask for an interview. Those first months in Austin were a fertile time, days and months planting seeds and business cards. It was like I landed, dropped my bags and said,
“In 3 years I will be a writer.”
Then I got a job. Then I got laid off. I stayed on unemployment way past any reasonable amount of time, and fell sadly short of my goal of becoming a writer in 3 years. I had to go back to work. It was one of many crises of doubt I had experienced, going all the way back to being homeless in my hometown in 1995. I wanted to be a writer.
I landed a live in gig, in a big yellow mansion inconveniently located off west 6th. A perfectly annoying backdrop and foil for this phase of my life which I can proudly announce to you is “being a writer”. This is the being a writer period, the being a writer time. Now it always was, I guess, but I didn’t know it then. Neither do you. But I appreciate you reading. It completes me. I feel received. Like radio-a magic jolt to it, an urgent zing to these words coming at you-can’t you feel it? Right? Wow.
What do I do now that I am a writer? That I’ve cleaned my guns enough to crank out 8-1,200 words, neat and fine, on a whim or otherwise? That of anything and everything that ever happens I not only have a ticket out of but a ticket into? That’s right, good reader. I got an inroad to the best game in town and the players? Well shit the players are me&you darling and isn’t that nice?
Now that I’m a writer think I’ll bring it back for you. Tell you how I got here and that I’d like you to join me. In the late night or in the bright morning, I’d like you to join me on the savage road-this is the new stuff-join me in this new media, this new age-this moment. Let’s do some shit. Send out our signal into the hungry land. Let’s send out a song of love or better let’s send ‘em some anger. Let us burn.
Going for the Throat 