I Have Been Interviewed

Dennis Cozzalio isn't the only esteemed blogger to have been interviewed recently. I, too, sat down not long ago with a journalist to tell my story -- and it's about damn time, but never mind -- of maturity and art and creation and wisdom. I was more than happy to do this, but the interviewer doesn't have a website, or a magazine, or a newsletter, and said that he just wanted to do this for the "hell of it". I said, okay, then can I put the interview up on my blog? As it's been three months and I haven't heard back, I'm going to take that as a "yes". So enjoy!

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How did you get started writing? How did you begin?

How did I begin…what an interesting question. Well, I’ll tell you how I began: I picked up a pen. And I put that pen to paper.

Why?

Why not? [Laughs] No, I’m only joking. I did it because of a mixture of things. Anger. Anger at the world and its governments. Also love for people. And also because some dreams deserve to be shared, and I believed that I dreamed such dreams. For instance, my first short story was about a robot who learned how to cry. When that image came to me, of a big metal robot with lightbulb eyes, and a, like a grate for a mouth, and from one of those lightbulb eyes there fell a single tear…well, what could I do? Keep it to myself? That would have been a criminal act.

A crime against art?

No, a literal crime. This would have been a legal issue, I believe. There is a law in the books against withholding beauty from mankind. I think that’s in there somewhere, but I’ll admit I haven’t studied law in ages! [Laughs]

Still, who would know? How could you have been caught?

I would have turned myself in.

I see. So did you ever publish that story? I confess that I’m not familiar with it. What was it called, by the way?

It was called O, And Daylight Does Break on This Metal Man, which is a line from a poem I’d written just a few hours previously. No, I never did publish it, but not from a lack of trying. I sent it off to Ploughshares and The New Yorker, and I never heard a thing. Also, at the time, I was convinced there was a short fiction magazine called Dragynfyre, and I sent it off to them, as well, but it turns out they didn’t exist. Maybe that was a band. Was that a band?

I don’t know.

Well, anyway. So the story didn’t get published, but do you know what I did?

What?

I persevered.

Moving on from your early years, I just wanted to ask you: over the past decade or so, your work has tackled a number of sensitive, topical issues, such as racism, modern imperialism, government misdeeds, war and poverty. Why do you stress the political in your work so strongly?

Because if not me, who? No one is talking about these issues. When I get on the internet every morning, do you know what sites I’m looking at? Youtube! Or celebrity gossip sites! Trash, in other words! Where’s the good, hard news, the investigative reporting? Where are the liberal bloggers trying to pull down the curtains to reveal that Oz is just another flying monkey? They simply don’t exist. So I had to step in, because as somebody once said, “Art is a cudgel.” And I am that cudgel.

You once said – not in an interview, but actually in a PS at the end of one of your stories – that your job as an artist is to ask questions. What did you mean by that?

Let me answer your question this way: as an artist, I wear many hats. I am a monologuist, and I am a horrorist, and, at my most political, I am an ambiguist. Because the important thing is not to answer questions, but to ask them. Especially if the question has never been asked before, which none of mine have been. Answering questions is easy, asking them is hard. Once a question is asked, you have something to answer. If the question has never been asked, what do you have? A black void of ignorance.

So if answering the questions is easy, do you have answers to the questions you’ve asked in your work?

No.

What are you working on now?

Well, I have several more monologues in the works. One is about an old minority man who is upset about health care. It’s called Poor Man, Heal Thyself. Then I have a new horror novel that I’m putting the finishing touches on, and I think this one is going to be particularly interesting. Imagine, if you’re able, a town out in the Midwest somewhere, that is being overrun by old demons from the past, and the reason there are demons is because of something the town elders once did, some black secret which has since been covered up by all the adults over the years. And guess who alone has the power to defeat these demons? Go on, guess.

I don’t know.

The children!

How is it that children are powerful enough to defeat these demons?

Because of innocence.

I see. Does the novel have a title?

Yes, it’s going to be called The Deading.

That’s magnificent.

Thank you.

My War with John Updike

Any artist worth a damn is going to make enemies. Being an artist who is worth several damns myself, I have, in turn, made several enemies. Most of these individuals have taken issue with me and my work on political or religious grounds. Knowing that people who dislike me for these reasons exist somewhere in the world and are currently speaking ill of me -- whispering about me in hypocritical hisses -- does not bother me in the least. Quite the reverse! As I may have mentioned before, I am an artist, and as such one of my responsibilities is to inform people when they are thinking incorrectly, and instruct them to adjust their beliefs and opinions accordingly. I don't ask for thanks -- I'm happy to do it, really -- and I don't expect everyone to appreciate my unique brand of acidic truth-telling. I'm comfortable weathering that particular storm.

However, over the years I have somehow managed to make another kind of enemy: that of the aesthetic variety. Or, at least, they claim their problems with me stem from an objective dislike of my art, but I have my suspicions that these specific bushes of vitriol have roots that run deeper, into their hearts and psyches. But that's neither here nor there. No, today I want to offer a rebuttal to the extraordinarily harsh -- but, of course, ultimately inconsequential -- words directed towards me and my life's creative work by a man who is generally regarded as one of America's "greatest" "writers", John Updike.

One year ago, I published a collection of my monologues. Currently and inexplicably out of print, the title of my collection was (is!) Speak Up! Speak Out!. In an especially brief review of the book published in The New Yorker, Updike said the title should be “Rampaging Tedium”. He also went on to say that “clearly, we are dealing here with a third-tier Eric Bogosian, as if a first-tier Eric Bogosian was somehow worth our time.” Okay, hold it right there, Psoriasis. I once wrote an appreciation of Eric Bogosian (I’m still looking for the right place to publish it) in which I said “Eric Bogosian is not just our country’s Dario Fo: he’s Dario Fo wrapped in the skin of Lenny Bruce and infused with the hot-wired, kick-ass, rage-filled savior-soul of Bill Hicks. He writes like a gutter-dwelling angel from Hell on meth!” If Updike doesn’t think someone like that is worth his time, then maybe he should go back to reading his precious Chris Bohjalian novels, or whatever the hell he reads.

Then, Updike pulls this card: “Mr. R.’s collection is a bewildering 23 pages long; the book costs an offensive fourteen dollars. That's nearly fifty cents a page.” First off, thanks for the algebra lesson, Dr. Math. Second, this is what Updike has been reduced to? Whining about how much books cost?? Whatever happened to the guy who wrote Rabbit Re-Do and The Vampires of Eastwidge? Those were pretty big books in their day, I thought. Plus, it’s not like he can’t afford it. Last I heard, Pulitzer winners rake in some pretty sweet coin.

Later, Updike blathers thusly: "Mr. R. seems to think that simplistic speech-making is the same thing as good writing. And by simplistic, I mean 'depressingly ignorant'. I have a hard time imagining even the most knee-jerk, closed-off college student would find much worth in what Mr. R. has to say in these pieces. That in itself might be forgivable, however, if the writing itself rose even an inch above worthless cliche', but it never does. He's happy to wallow in the endlessly worked-over sludge of the amateur polemicist." When I read that part, this is what I said: "Huh?" Literally, that's what I said. Since I'm sure you're just as confused as I was about what Updike thinks he's saying here, allow me to translate: "I'm too old! I don't understand! I'm on my way out!" Updike is terrified because he's part of the Old Guard, and us Young Guns (as I like to call artists of my generation and general thought-patterns) are coming up fast. He knows he's out of date, and that our Wave of Change is going to drown out his old-timey BS.

You see, there are two primary artistic media that are about to render all others irrelevant: monologues and YouTube. If I'd been able to, I never would have published my monologues, or even performed them at open mikes, or on street corners; I simply would have filmed (or, really, "videoed") them and put them right on YouTube. Unfortunately, I don't have a video camera. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is because, Mr. Updike, they cost a hell of a lot more than $14!

I won't lie to you: when I read his review, I was furious. I don't mind admitting this, because I am human, and I embrace my humanity. I also acted on this anger, a fact which also fails to shame me, by sending Updike an e-mail. The e-mail consisted of simply this:



I love emoticons, because they really represent, and speak to, the full range of human emotion. They certainly do a better job of it than Updike's dried-up old books. And the proof that my e-mail struck a nerve is that not only didn't he respond, he also changed his e-mail address. Game, set, match. Also, check-mate.

So, there you go. Updike's review was like a fly on the dinner table: mildly annoying until you smash it with a magazine. After that, it's on with your life. In short, I've moved on.

Have I Ever Mentioned that I'm a Brilliant Artist?

I am, I admit, very mysterious. The only thing that many of you, my Dear Readers, know about me is that, in the world of film and literature analysis and criticism, I have no equal. But I can't help imagining many, if not all of you, sitting at home, or at work, reading my humble little musings and thinking, "Who is this man?? Where did he come from?? Why have I been so blessed that I have his words in my world??"

The answer to your first question is that I am but a man. Extraordinary? Perhaps, but still simply a man. The answer to your second question is that I come from everywhere and nowhere. In a sense -- and this is important! -- I am "everyman". Or actually it should probably be "Everyman". I am like you! Or like Old Gus, who delivers your morning paper, or like Kim Sook, your Korean grocer, who always has a kind word and a wink for you! Or like Danny, the little boy who loves collecting bottle caps. I am all of them! And none of them... The answer to your third question is "I don't know, but thank you for the compliment."

It is not my intention today to reveal very much about myself, because I have my own life to lead, and I'd rather it not be cluttered up by strangers knocking on my door and asking if they can touch my shirt, or sending me letters, asking if I can send them a piece of my shirt, or whatever it is people like you do. You're like lampreys, every last one of you (no offense). However, I would like to open up one part of my life to you, Dear Readers, that has hitherto gone unreferenced on this "blog", and that part of my life has to do with one of my great creative passions. For I am a monologuist.

I can hear you asking, "You mean like Eric Bogosian??" Yes, but better. When my monologues are at their best, which is most of the time, they showcase my stunning ear for human speech in all its gritty, idiosyncratic poetry, as well as a complex understanding of social issues -- you might say that, as an artist, I've been cursed with a social conscience. You will not find easy stereotypes in my work, for I do not see the world, nor do I paint it, in black and white. No, I paint in shades of grey. And incidentally, when I say "paint", I mean "write monologues". Of course, writing monologues is only half of the creative process, and it is true that I also perform them on stage. I will perform them anywhere, really; you might even spy me opening the eyes of the world through my art on a street corner in your city! All I need, really, is my vast collection of wigs and character-appropriate costumes, as well as some kind of bucket, in which admirers are required to place money. And please note, if you see me performing, that I did say "required". My art is not about money, but come on. You don't steal cable TV, do you?

Today, I would like to offer to you the transcript of one of my finest monologues. It is called How Much is a Hero?, and our character is a gruff, hard-drinking fireman named Paddy Hoolihan, who is ending the night's shift at his favorite watering hole. While this is a monologue, Paddy's words are being spoken to a bartender. You'll just have to imagine that part. That's what art's all about, you know. But that's enough from me! Let's hear from ol' Paddy Hoolihan. I think you'll find him quite a character...

Hey there, Mickey! Yeah, that's right, you got it, it's me, ol' Paddy Hoolihan, just comin' in for a few drinks! What's that you say?...Naw, I won't start any trouble tonight! I'm just an old fireman, takin' a load off. People say I drink too much, but I don't think so, do you?...Haw haw! I'm keepin' you in business, did you say? Well, that's true enough, old friend! Haw haw! Give me a glass of whiskey, and also two beers. That's right, the regular! Boy, I sure do need it tonight, I don't mind tellin' you. Saw some shit tonight, my friend. That pre-school down on Abraham Lincoln Street went up like it was made out of fireworks. Yeah, that's right, the one on Abraham Lincoln Street . That's right, the one where all the African-American kids go, the ones from Abraham Lincoln Projects...I agree, Mickey, that name is ironic. All them kids...I tell you, it makes you not want to get up in the morning. One little kid ran out and he was on fire and he was holding his stuffed animal toy, and he was screaming "Why!?" After I put him out, all's I could say was, "I don't know, son. I don't know!" But you know, it got me to thinkin', seeing that little boy's stuffed animal toy. The other day, you see, I took my little nephew out toy shopping, and he was all crazy about buyin' that new toy, what do they call it? Oh, yeah, that's right, it's called the Action Hero Toy. Now, my little nephew, he's just a little kid, and he can't say the whole name, so he just calls it a "Hero". Also, he can't read numbers, which is important to my story. So we're in the toy store, and we get to these what do you call them's, oh yeah, the Action Hero Toys. So my nephew says to me, he says, "Uncle? How much is a 'Hero'?" Now, he was talkin' about the toy, you understand. But it got me to thinkin', how much is a hero? A real hero?...What's that you say? I've had too much to drink?? I've only had a glass of whiskey and two beers! Gimme another round, before I sock you one! So anyway, like I'm sayin', I thought, because of what my nephew said, "How much is a hero?" Why, I imagine to some people, a hero's cheap. You know, like politicians and corporations and whatnot. Those people, they see a hero, and they think, "Well, I can just get a picture of that brave fireman who saved that poor family and slap it on a t-shirt with the word 'Hero' on it, sell it for forty dollars, and I'll be rich in a year!" Heck, you could maybe even buy the t-shirts on "Hero dot com"! (pause for laugh). But heck, Mickey, forty dollars? For a hero? A hero's a guy who says that danger isn't enough to keep him from doing the right thing. He's a guy who thinks that maybe his neck's no more valuable than the next guy's. A guy who sees smoke, and smells fire, and he don't think about runnin' away from it. He thinks about runnin' to it, with nothin' but a bucket o' dirty water in his mitts. He's a guy who would say to Mr. Politician, "Stick your forty dollars, you ain't puttin' me on no t-shirt!" (there will probably be applause here. Pause until it ends) What's that, Mickey? Next round's on the house? Why, that's mighty good of you. But can I ask why you're being so nice all of a sudden?...Because you think I'm a hero??? Aw, that's just loony talk! I ain't no hero. I'm just a guy doin' his job. Doin' an honest job for honest pay. If that job means I gotta put my life on the line to save a bunch of kids, well, that's what they pay me for. Ain't that right?...Huh? Whuzzat? Well, sure, Mickey, of course I want my regular again! Why do you even gotta ask?...Huh? Because you changed the name?? Well, what are you gonna call it? I'm the only one who ever orders it, after all!...Whuzzat?? You...you're gonna call it...the Hero???

The End. And you're most welcome.