Dead Beat: Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column

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Saturday, February 23, 2008

Hudson and Horace Get Oscar Hunger

Hudson and Horace are back. It's that time of year they tell me. Oscar night approaching.

"Didn't the writers give up on that?" I ask.

Hudson shakes his head. "No, Dad. They came back for that."

"No principles!"

"You ought to know, D.B."

"Hudson! I have never, NEVER, do you hear me, prostituted my writing for fame."

"Couldn't if you tried, you mean."

"Damn you, dog, it's outside and twenty below for you tonight. I'll show you couldn't if I tried. Now out you get. OUT, I say. HUDSON... HUDSON..."

"Couldn't if you tried."

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Tentin Quarantino - Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column

Horace tears out of the tools shed.

"Did someone mention Quarantino?"

"Go back to your semi-comatose state, Horace. Quarantine. Quarantine."

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column - Bob Shacochis is a Scallywag

Dead Beat was getting concerned. Horace was missing from the tool shed. The door was flung open but no wild expositories.

"Greece, Rome?" Hudson suggests.

But lo and behold I hear him wandering up the lane late at night muttering to himself, "Few cross the river of time and are able to reach non-being. Most of them run up and down only on this side of the river. But those who when they know the law follow the path of the law, they shall reach the other shore and go beyond the realm of death..."

"You Horace?"

" Great effort is required to arrest decay and restore vigor. One must exercise proper deliberation, plan carefully before making a move, and be alert in guarding against relapse following a renaissance..."

"Yeah, it's you."

Turns out he has been attending the AWP (Association of Writers and Writing Programs) Conference in Atlanta, Georgia. Bob Shacochis no less running a panel on: Literary Gossip: Do's and Don'ts. Salon C 2nd Floor.

"If you don't have anything nice to say, sit by me," Dorothy Parker supposedly said. Gossip can hurt, and yet who can resist it? Certainly not writers. Is gossip always backbiting and character assassination, or is it really just talk about people, talk that is interesting and honest? Why aren't men said to gossip? Certainly they do. Panelists provide infamous examples of literary gossip and discuss how to transform scandal into engaging fiction. Is living well- and writing well-the best revenge?

"So what did you learn Horace?"

"Yon Shacochis is a scallywag."

"Yup. What else?"

"Good sense is both the first principal and the parent source of good writing."

"You're bluffing, Horace. You didn't learn that from B.S."

"Geraldo Rivera is Kurt Vonnegut's ex-son in law."

"Now you're talking my language. What's the scoop on Bobby himself? How many brewskis?"

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column

Horace once again rushes out from the tool shed: “Neither your wife, nor your son, desires your recovery; all your neighbors, acquaintances, nay the very boys and girls hate you. Do you wonder that no one tenders you the affection which you do not merit, since you prefer your money to everything else? If you think to retain, and preserve as friends, the relations which nature gives you, without taking any pains; wretch that you are, you lose your labor equally, as if any one should train an ass…”

“What do you say, Horace?”

“I verily say, that Hudson is the father of Anna Nicole Smiths’s infant daughter. So be obedient to the rein, and run in the Campus. Finally, let there be some end to your search; and, as your riches increase, be in less dread of poverty; and begin to cease from your toil, that being acquired which you coveted: nor do as did one Umidius (it is no tedious story), who was so rich that he measured his money, so sordid that he never clothed him self any better than a slave; and, even to his last moments, was in dread lest want of bread should oppress him: but his freed-woman, the bravest of all the daughters of Tyndarus, cut him in two with a hatchet.”

“Hudson?”

“”It’s looking that way.”

Tasting the Sweet Smell of Success - Hudson and Homer Hit the Oscars

So Hudson comes in with this Hangdog expression.

“Where’ve you been?” I ask. He didn’t come in when called last night.

“On the town with Horace.”

“Hudson and Horace!” Dead Beat cannot think of a worse combination.

“Where?”

“Oscar parties. Marty Scorsese, Vanity Fair, you know.”

“No, I don’t know Hudson. Dead Beat has never been to the Oscars, Dead Beat has never even been to an Oscar party, Dead Beat has never really been to a party in fact, Dead Beat….”

“Leave it out Dad! You got nominated for an Irish Blog Award, didn’t you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It’s like I was saying to Marty at the party….”

“Marty at the party, Hudson?”

“Yeah, Scorsie. I was telling Scorsie….”

“Martin Scorsese?”

“To you, Dead Beat, to you…. Anyway there Horace and I are, gridlocked, Gwyneth, Tom, Nicole, Leonardo, Cate, Kate, you know how it is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“So streets in a two-block circumference of Morton's were closed off by police, there are three fire engines in attendance since stars tend to flout the no-smoking laws….”

“You didn’t Hudson?”

“One cigar, Dad, maybe two, three at the most. Anyway Madonna is hitching up her skirt and placing a wine glass between her thighs, Dame Helen Mirren is missing, probably sitting in the toilet, staring at her Oscar and talking to it….”
“Get to the point, Hudson.”

“There is no point, Dad. These are the Oscars we are talking about. I was down at the grand Beverly Hills Hotel when a stream of expensively-wrapped packages arrived culminating in a planet-sized floral bouquet, vast enough for its aroma to linger after it had been dispatched upstairs. "What is that amazing smell?," Horace asked the receptionist. "It's the smell of success, the sweet smell of success." I have made it, Dad, Hudson has tasted the sweet smell of success.”

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Horace's Gossip Column: Maud Gonne Checks Out of Rehab

Horace again, Dead Beat's Gossip Columnist, storming out of the tool shed, paper in hand.

"I offer this. Be careful what you say and to whom, about whom. Run from a curious man he'll love telling others. Secrets that you trust to open ears won't be well kept. And once a word escpaes, it flies. You can't recall it..."

"What you got this time, Horace?"

"More to tell on Maud Gonne."

"Horace, Horace, Horace, I told you already it better be juicy. None of this ancient folklore. W. B. Yeats pining for her and all that."

"She shaved her head. She just checked out of rehab."

Dead Beat rushes over, throws his arms around him in delight. "You might just keep the job, Horace. You might just." Dead Beat steps back swiftly, holds his nose. " One thing though: You got to take a bath."

Colum Mc Cann

Colum McCann is the author of two collections of short stories and three novels, including This Side of Brightness and Dancer both of which were international best-sellers. His most recent novel, "Zoli," a story of a Gypsy poet and intellectual, was recently published in England, Ireland, Germany and the United States to great acclaim. His fiction has been published in 26 languages and has appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, and GQ amongst others. He currently teaches in Hunter College in New York, in the Creative Writing program, with fellow novelists Peter Carey and Jenny Shute.

Dermot Healy

Born in Finea, Co. Westmeath in 1947 but like Dead Beat grew up in Cavan. "Too much up here," he berated D.B. one night, in The Farnham Arms Hotel, pointing to his head, "and not enough down here," pointing to his heart. Dead Beat needless to say heeded his advice and is the better writer for it. His books include Banished Misfortune (stories), Fighting with Shadows, A Goat's Song and Sudden Times (novels, Harvill Press) and The Bend for Home (memoir). He has written and directed plays, including The Long Swim, On Broken Wings and Mister Staines, and wrote the screenplay for Our Boys, directed by Cathal Black. His poetry includes The Ballyconnell Colours, The Reed Bed, and What The Hammer (Gallery Press)

Aidan Higgins

Aidan Higgins was born in Celbridge, Co Kildare in 1927. His novels include Langrishe Go Down (London, Calder & Boyars, 1966), which won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize. Balcony of Europe (1972) was short-listed for the Booker Prize; Scenes from a Receding Past (John Calder/Dallas, Riverrun,1977); Bornholm Night-Ferry (London, Allison & Busby, 1983); and Lions of the Grunewald (Secker & Warburg, 1993). His short fiction includes Felo de Se (London, John Calder, 1960 [as Killachter Meadow, New York, The Grove Press, 1961; and as Asylum and Other Stories, London, John Calder/Dallas, Riverrun, 1978]); Helsingor Station & Other Departures (London, Secker & Warburg,1989) and Selected Fictions (Dalkey Archive Press, 1993). His memoir, Donkey's Years, was published by Secker & Warburg, 1995. Dog Days and The Whole Hog followed.

The Beat in Dead Beat

This Is The Beat Generation by John Clellon Holmes

The New York Times Magazine, November 16, 1952

Several months ago, a national magazine ran a story under the heading 'Youth' and the subhead 'Mother Is Bugged At Me.' It concerned an eighteen-year-old California girl who had been picked up for smoking marijuana and wanted to talk about it. While a reporter took down her ideas in the uptempo language of 'tea,' someone snapped a picture. In view of her contention that she was part of a whole new culture where one out of every five people you meet is a user, it was an arresting photograph. In the pale, attentive face, with its soft eyes and intelligent mouth, there was no hint of corruption. It was a face which could only be deemed criminal through an enormous effort of reighteousness. Its only complaint seemed to be: 'Why don't people leave us alone?' It was the face of a beat generation. That clean young face has been making the newspapers steadily since the war. Standing before a judge in a Bronx courthouse, being arraigned for stealing a car, it looked up into the camera with curious laughter and no guilt. The same face, with a more serious bent, stared from the pages of Life magazine, representing a graduating class of ex-GI's, and said that as it believed small business to be dead, it intended to become a comfortable cog in the largest corporation it could find. A little younger, a little more bewildered, it was this same face that the photographers caught in Illinois when the first non-virgin club was uncovered. The young copywriter, leaning down the bar on Third Avenue, quietly drinking himself into relaxation, and the energetic hotrod driver of Los Angeles, who plays Russian Roulette with a jalopy, are separated only by a continent and a few years. They are the extremes. In between them fall the secretaries wondering whether to sleep with their boyfriends now or wait; the mechanic berring up with the guys and driving off to Detroit on a whim; the models studiously name-dropping at a cocktail party. But the face is the same. Bright, level, realistic, challenging. Any attempt to label an entire generation is unrewarding, and yet the generation which went through the last war, or at least could get a drink easily once it was over, seems to possess a uniform, general quality which demands an adjective ... The origins of the word 'beat' are obscure, but the meaning is only too clear to most Americans. More than mere weariness, it implies the feeling of having been used, of being raw. It involves a sort of nakedness of mind, and, ultimately, of soul; a feeling of being reduced to the bedrock of consciousness. In short, it means being undramatically pushed up against the wall of oneself. A man is beat whenever he goes for broke and wagers the sum of his resources on a single number; and the young generation has done that continually from early youth. Its members have an instinctive individuality, needing no bohemianism or imposed eccentricity to express it. Brought up during the collective bad circumstances of a dreary depression, weaned during the collective uprooting of a global war, they distrust collectivity. But they have never been able to keep the world out of their dreams. The fancies of their childhood inhabited the half-light of Munich, the Nazi-Soviet pact, and the eventual blackout. Their adolescence was spent in a topsy-turvy world of war bonds, swing shifts, and troop movements. They grew to independent mind on beachheads, in gin mills and USO's, in past-midnight arrivals and pre-dawn departures. Their brothers, husbands, fathers or boy friends turned up dead one day at the other end of a telegram. At the four trembling corners of the world, or in the home town invaded by factories or lonely servicemen, they had intimate experience with the nadir and the zenith of human conduct, and little time for much that came between. The peace they inherited was only as secure as the next headline. It was a cold peace. Their own lust for freedon, and the ability to live at a pace that kills (to which the war had adjusted them), led to black markets, bebop, narcotics, sexual promiscuity, hucksterism, and Jean-Paul Sartre. The beatness set in later. It is a postwar generation, and, in a world which seems to mark its cycles by its wars, it is already being compared to that other postwar generation, which dubbed itself 'lost'. The Roaring Twenties, and the generation that made them roar, are going through a sentimental revival, and the comparison is valuable. The Lost Generation was discovered in a roadster, laughing hysterically because nothing meant anything anymore. It migrated to Europe, unsure whether it was looking for the 'orgiastic future' or escaping from the 'puritanical past.' Its symbols were the flapper, the flask of bootleg whiskey, and an attitude of desparate frivolity best expressed by the line: 'Tennis, anyone?' It was caught up in the romance of disillusionment, until even that became an illusion. Every act in its drama of lostness was a tragic or ironic third act, and T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land was more than the dead-end statement of a perceptive poet. The pervading atmosphere of that poem was an almost objectless sense of loss, through which the reader felt immediately that the cohesion of things had disappeared. It was, for an entire generation, an image which expressed, with dreadful accuracy, its own spiritual condition. But the wild boys of today are not lost. Their flushed, often scoffing, always intent faces elude the word, and it would sound phony to them. For this generation lacks that eloquent air of bereavement which made so many of the exploits of the Lost Generation symbolic actions. Furthermore, the repeatedinventory of shattered ideals, and the laments about the mud in moral currents, which so obsessed the Lost Generation, do not concern young people today. They take these things frighteningly for granted. They were brought up in these ruins and no longer notice them. They drink to 'come down' or to 'get high,' not to illustrate anything. Their excursions into drugs or promiscuity come out of curiousity, not disillusionment. Only the most bitter among them would call their reality a nightmare and protest that they have indeed lost something, the future. For ever since they were old enough to imagine one, that has been in jeapordy anyway. The absence of personal and social values is to them, not a revelation shaking the ground beneath them, but a problem demanding a day-to-day solution. How to live seems to them much more crucial than why. And it is precisely at this point that the copywriter and the hotrod driver meet and their identical beatness becomes significant, for, unlike the Lost Generation, which was occupied with the loss of faith, the Beat Generation is becoming more and more occupied with the need for it. As such, it is a disturbing illustration of Voltaire's reliable old joke: 'If there were no God, it would be necessary to invent him.' Not content to bemoan his absence, they are busily and haphazardly inventing totems for him on all sides. For the giggling nihilist, eating up the highway at ninety miles an hour and steering with his feet, is no Harry Crosby, the poet of the Lost Generation who planned to fly his plane into the sun one day because he could no longer accept the modern world. On the contrary, the hotrod driver invites death only to outwit it. He is affirming the life within him in the only way he knows how, at the extreme. The eager-faced girl, picked up on a dope charge, is not one of those 'women and girls carried screaming with drink or drugs from public places,' of whom Fitzgerald wrote. Instead, with persuasive seriousness, she describes the sense of community she has found in marijuana, which society never gave her. The copywriter, just as drunk by midnight as his Lost Generation counterpart, probably reads God and Man at Yale during his Sunday afternoon hangover. The difference is this almost exaggerated will to believe in something, if only in themselves. It is a will to believe, even in the face of an inability to do so in conventional terms. And that is bound to lead to excesses in one direction or another. The shock that older people feel at the sight of this Beat Generation is, at its deepest level, not so much repugnance at the facts, as it is distress at the attitudes which move it. Though worried by this distress, they most often argue or legislate in terms of the facts rather than the attitudes. The newspaper reader, studying the eyes of young dope addicts, can only find an outlet for his horror and bewilderment in demands that passers be given the electric chair. Sociologists, with a more academic concern, are just as troubled by the legions of young men whose topmost ambition seems to be to find a secure birth in a monolithic corporation. Contemporary historians express mild surprise at the lack of organized movements, political, religous, or otherwise, among the young. The articles they write remind us that being one's own boss and being a natural joiner are two of our most cherished national traits. Everywhere people with tidy moralities shake their heads and wonder what is happening to the younger generation. Perhaps they have not noticed that, behind the excess on the one hand, and the conformity on the other, lies that wait-and-see detachment that results from having to fall back for support more on one's capacity for human endurance than on one's philosophy of life. Not that the Beat Generation is immune to ideas; they fascinate it. Its wars, both past and future, were and will be wars of ideas. It knows, however, that in the final, private moment of conflict a man is really fighting another man, and not an idea. And that the same goes for love. So it is a generation with a greater facility for entertaining ideas than for believing in them. But it is also the first generation in several centuries for which the act of faith has been an obsessive problem, quite aside from the reasons for having a particular faith or not having it. It exhibits on every side, and in a bewildering number of facets, a perfect craving to believe. Though it is certainly a generation of extremes, including both the hipster and the radical young Republican in its ranks, it renders unto Caesar (i.e, society) what is Caesar's and unto God what is God's. For the wildest hipster, making a mystique of bop, drugs and the night life, there is no desire to shatter the 'square' society in which he lives, only to elude it. To get on a soapbox or write a manifesto would seem to him absurd. Looking at the normal world, where most everything is a 'drag' for him, he nevertheless says: 'Well, that's the Forest of Arden after all. And even it jumps if you look at it right.' Equally, the young Republican, though often seeming to hold up Babbitt as his culture hero, is neither vulgar nor materialistic, as Babbitt was. He conforms because he believes it is socially practical, not necessarily virtuous. Both positions, however, are the result of more or less the same conviction -- namely that the valueless abyss of modern life is unbearable. For beneath the excess and the conformity, there is something other than detachment. There are the stirrings of a quest. What the hipster is looking for in his 'coolness' (withdrawal) or 'flipness' (ecstasy) is, after all, a feeling on somewhereness, not just another diversion. The young Republican feels that there is a point beyond which change becomes chaos, and what he wants is not simply privelege or wealth, but a stable position from which to operate. Both have had enough of homelessness, valuelessness, faithlessnes. The variety and the extremity of their solutions are only a final indication that for today's young people there is not as yet a single external pivot around which they can, as a generation, group their observations and their aspirations. There is no single philosophy, no single party, no single attitude. The failure of most orthodox moral and social concepts to reflect fully the life they have known is probably the reason for this, but because of it each person becomes a walking, self-contained unit, compelled to meet, or at least endure, the problem of being young in a seemingly helpless world in his own way. More than anything else, this is what is responsible for this generation's reluctance to name itself, its reluctance to discuss itself as a group, sometimes its reluctance to be itself. For invented gods invariably disappoint those who worship them. Only the need for them goes on, and it is this need, exhausting one object after another, which projects the Beat Generation forward into the future and will one day deprive it of its beatness. Dostoyevski wrote in the early 1880's that 'Young Russia is talking of nothing but the eternal questions now.' With appropriate changes, something very like this is beginning to happen in America, in an American way; a re-evaluation of which the exploits and attitudes of this generation are only symptoms. No single comparison of one generation against another can accurately measure effects, but it seems obvious that a lost generation, occupied with disillusionment and trying to keep busy among the broken stones, is poetically moving, but not very dangerous. But a beat generation, driven by a desparate craving for belief and as yet unable to accept the moderations which are offered it, is quite another matter. Thirty years later, after all, the generation of which Dostoyevski wrote was meeting in cellars and making bombs. This generation may make no bombs; it will probably be asked to drop some, and have some dropped on it, however, and this fact is never far from its mind. It is one of the pressures which created it and will play a large part in what will happen to it. There are those who believe that in generations such as this there is always the constant possibility of a great new moral idea, conceived in desparation, coming to life. Others note the self-indulgence, the waste, the apparent social irresponsibility, and disagree. But its ability to keep its eyes open, and yet avoid cynicism; its ever-increasing conviction that the problem of modern life is essentially a spiritual problem; and that capacity for sudden wisdom which people who live hard and go far possess, are assets and bear watching. And, anyway, the clear, challenging faces are worth it.

Dead Beat

Alter Egos - I Am Done Watching This

Saturday, February 23, 2008

Hudson and Horace Get Oscar Hunger

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Tentin Quarantino - Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column - Bob Shacochis is a Scallywag

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Horace's Od(e)ious Gossip Column

Tasting the Sweet Smell of Success - Hudson and Homer Hit the Oscars

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Horace's Gossip Column: Maud Gonne Checks Out of Rehab

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