feeding the creatures of imagination

Among a long stretch of generally very satisfying reading lately (since about xmas week, and that makes sense, doesn't it? no better time of year for reading than this, when it's frigid outside and there's a fire in here and sleepy dogs with which to find an afternoon's fellowship of not moving) have been two books of essays, two very different books of essays. First was Katie Roiphe's In Praise of Messy Lives; the fact that Gawker seems to hate her is reason alone for me to love her. I didn't agree with everything in there, but agreed more often than not, and more than anything just like her attitude. And honestly, not to oversimplify, but has any great art ever come from a non-messy life? For real.

And then just the other day I finished When I Was A Child I Read Books by Marilynne Robinson, which, like much of what I eventually read, I bought when it was published a year ago but didn't find the right mood and moment until now. Although I haven't read her nonfiction before, I love Robinson's three novels, especially the more recent two. My friend Becky Sassi originally guided me to Robinson, and I remain thankful. Anyway, one passage from this new book of essays, just as a thought starter, and let me be clear I'm taking it completely out of context...this isn't an argument for or against what Robinson wrote, simply one out of context passage that got me thinking about what I like to read and what I like to write. Here it is:

"As a fiction writer I do have to deal with the nuts and bolts of temporal reality -- from time to time a character has to walk through a door and close it behind him, the creatures of imagination have to eat and sleep, as all other creatures do. I would have been a poet if I could, to have avoided this obligation to simulate the hourliness and dailiness of human life."

I love the nuts and bolts, myself. Take me through them. Show me how he lights his cigarette or how she scratches the itch on her wrist. Paint me the picture. Slow me down and make me see. For me, feeding the creatures of imagination is one of the most pleasurable aspects of being head zookeeper at this dysfunctional and questionable institution.

anniversary

Check it, we've got an East Coast/West Coast nativity smackdown going on. Red Santa refs in the center, and Flying Santa Fish observes from above.

From the "mostly meaningless anniversary" department: an email from an old friend the other day reminded me that 2012 has been the tenth year, solid decade, long time, since the publication of my first novel. September, to be specific. Decades don't stand as the endless time span they seemed to be when we were younger; now, decades are just so many marbles in a rapidly filling bag of time gone by. This one blue, this one green, but all of them smaller than they seemed when I bought them, and recollection of where specifically I picked them up is long gone.

The remembrance of that fairly insignificant mark in time, though, reminded me of another. One that stands in a little more importance for me. This year is the twentieth anniversary of my deployment to Somalia, and almost day-specific: December 26, 1992. Two days from now. Here's how it went: October of 1991 I began basic training in the snows of Fort Knox, Kentucky; January 1992 I began 88L10 army mariner school at Fort Eustis, Virginia; March 1992 I joined the 1098th medium boat company, first in maintenance platoon, and then second platoon. (In my twice after that in and out of 1098th, I would always be in second platoon.) In mid-December of 1992 they detached a group of us to the newly created 710th provisional boat company, and locked us on to post. And the day after Christmas we flew on to Mogadishu. Our mike boats were waiting for us when we arrived, a mile offshore on the MV American Cormorant. We celebrated New Year 1992/1993 on the main deck of the Cormorant, somewhere in the mix of Somalian and Kenyan waters between Kismaayo and Mombaso. Me, Yarddog, Kipp, Meder, Meir, Norm, Burrage.... I don't think Anne was on the Cormorant, I think she flew from Mog to Kenya. I could be wrong about that. And by mid-Jan 1993 we'd be back in Somalia.

But before I ever set eyes on Somalia, I remember Christmas Eve and Christmas, twenty years ago this week, at Fort Eustis. No snow of course, it was Virginia, but it was cold. Even though we were locked in, we all went off base on Christmas Day. Where? Steve Stalder's apartment? Was that his name? Am I making that up? I can see him clear as day, as if he was standing in front of me now. Tall and grinning, "Check!" It was him and the guys who had come back from the Gulf War the year before. They bought beer and brought us out and got us drunk. I got back to the barracks late Christmas night. My room was empty and alone: my stuff was all packed, and my roommate Derek had been moved out; he'd gotten in trouble and was awaiting discharge. In the dark and quiet barracks hallways I smoked cigarettes and plugged quarters in the pay phone and tried to convince this sometime girlfriend of mine, Leah, to come over, but it was Christmas and that wasn't happening. I went back to my room and tried to write, and that wasn't happening either. The next day we got on a bus, passing the Christmas lights draped over the bushes and around the doors and windows of on-base housing, off post through Newport News, to a waiting charter plane. Then we flew to Africa.

Back to books for a moment. After The Ice Beneath You in 2002, Voodoo Lounge and In Hoboken each followed on three-year schedules. Not intentional, but a respectable timespan. It's now been the end of the fourth year since In Hoboken was released, and it's reasonable to ask "Hello? Anytime soon?" All I can report now is that in 2012 I made my peace with the fact that this one is just going to take me longer, and I'm okay with that.

Merry Christmas, everyone. And to you Sea Dogs out there: double merry to you. I miss you. Bottles of whiskey and bottles of beer, I wish you all a happy new year.

in like a lion, then mellow as a muskrat

Hurricane Sandy. Global warming, baby. Well, we made out better than many around here. Our friends the Roemers had a massive tree crush both cars and then take out the deck and part of the dining room for good measure. Out on Long Island, Steve and Paulie Smalltype had no power for more than 2 weeks, and poor Kraus basically lost his house completely, just days after the birth of his first child (a daughter, who is fine). Crazy town. Here in the Dog House we lost power for a week. No worries. Power shmower. We made scrambled eggs on the wood stove.

Post-apocolypse we headed north for a fun weekend with Krissy and Logan in Burlington. Here's a bunch of Baumans, doing that not-gonna-smile thing that we do so well.

A year ago this week was the Hypothermia reunion. Bummed we didn't do that again this year; I feel a return next year, though. Heading into a nice weekend nonetheless. Gonna listen to a little Cagno tomorrow night in Dtown...see some movies...eat big. Plane to Paris Sunday night. Happy Thanksgiving all.

awesome sammy at the junior ryder cup

What's new? We're down to 2 dogs, from a high of 4. Long story there. Teach na madre still, just a little less bow-wow.  Fiona has a cast, but on the mend and still playing soccer. Kristina says she made a rasher of bacon, which is especially fascinating if you know anything about Kristina. What else? I have a reading project this week: first I'm re-reading Dracula for the first time in many years, maybe since I was a teenager. On the heels of that I'm going to pivot to Salems Lot, the 70s version of Dracula, and one of the books that changed my life. I'm not alone in that, in my generation. Again, long time since I've revisited those pages. Overdue. As for writing, guy named David Abrams wrote a novel called Fobbit, his first. A fellow army vet, albeit from a different era. I reviewed it for the NY Times, you can read more here.

You may have heard today that the US team lost the bi-annual Ryder Cup to their European counterparts (again). True, true. But let it not go without saying that in the Junior Ryder Cup -- US and European teams containing the best golfers in the 15 to 17 age group -- the US prevailed! And why do I care? Because my niece Samantha Wagner was on that US team. Okay, she's not techincally my niece, she's my first cousin, but I'm 42 and she's 15 and uncle/niece works fine for us, and for her brother CJ (another stellar golfer, and likely future US Senator from the great state of Florida). That's Sam below, at Olympia Fields last Tuesday.

Truly, one of the proudest days in our family. Sam and CJ are amazing kids, and to see Sammy so completely in her element, kicking ass, having fun...it was awesome.

happy birthday woody

July 14 was the 100th birthday of Woodrow Wilson Guthrie, or Woody as he was known. There's been quite a lot of media attention lately, given the birthday (including this news of the publication of his unpublished novel with two unlikely but cool editors). I've said quite a bit about Woody over the years. I discovered Woody (in the spiritual sense...I'd known about him for years, but without big emotion one way or the other) the way many in my generation did: through Joe Klein's remarkable biography of him. I was 19, living in New Jersey, but going to school once a week at HB Studio (a theater school) in the West Village of New York. I thought I wanted to be an actor, but wasn't very happy. It was slowly starting to dawn on me that I might be a better writer, and might be a happier person for it. Spending a night a week with Jack Hardy and his band of pirates helped me to see clear to that. And discovering Klein's bio of Woody had a lot to do with it, too. I found it in a bookstore in the Village on a cold day. I devoured it (appropriately, at the White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas died). Besides simply introducing me to Woody, the book started changing how I thought about myself, what I thought about my art and its purpose and its place in my life, and how I might want to live my life. When I was a guest on Fresh Air many years later, Terry Gross made a comment about how strange it was that a "folkie" like me would end up as a soldier, and yet it was reading Woody's biography that was one of the first major steps leading up to me joining the army in 1991.

The pic above, one of my favorites, is Carol Sharar, Gregg Cagno, and myself sitting in the grass behind the stage at a park in Pennsylvania moments before we performed Woody's song "Do Re Mi" with Pete Seeger in 1995...hands down one of the coolest moments of my life. The moment got trumped several years later. Gregg and I and Carol's sister Linda were on the road, touring as Camp Hoboken, and made a side trip to Okemah, Oklahoma, so I could see Woody's home town. The pic below is of the three water towers that stand over the town, labeled HOT, COLD, and HOME OF WOODY GUTHRIE. I think he would have dug that. We were driven around town by Woody's cousin Debbie Tanner. At the end of the day, she made a phone call, then handed us directions. After a bit of a drive we found ourselves at the home of Mary Jo Gurhtire, Woody's little sister.

That's us with her, below. She looks just like him. In fact, when a statue was made of Woody, the sculptor used Mary Jo as the model. As with Pete, we sang "Do Re Mi" (along with a bunch of other songs). An amazing afternoon. I'll never forget it.

Late that night, our weary trio checked into a no-tell motel off an Oklahoma interstate for some sleep. Long story short, within an hour we found ourselves itching like crazy, then dropping our clothes shamelessly. We were all covered in deer tics. We'd picked them up while poking around in the overgrown ruins of Woody's childhood home. We finally got rid of the tics, but sleep wasn't going to happen after that. I recall we spent most of the night playing guitar, drinking, and watching out the window as a particularly fierce storm passed by the motel.

And almost 20 years later, here's our merry trio, reunited, below. Damn, we old. July also saw the 18th Annual Black Potatoe Fest in Clinton, NJ, run by our old pals Matt and Beth Williams. Linda came down to play a set, and we couldn't help but join her for one. We sang Don Brody's "99 Years" (you'll find the lyrics to that one intertwined in my "In Hoboken").
[UPDATE: some nice person just posted the song on YouTube...Linda does verse 1, Gregg has 2, and I have 3. Reaching for those high notes, but squeaking by...]

And here's the almost full Camp Hoboken reunion, sans Mr. Grula. He's down in Florida, working for Mr. Chen. (We all work for Mr. Chen, but that's another story.)

Was great to see old pals The Collins Brothers Band rocking the stage that day, as well.

Not a bad way to spend mid-summer. I'm a lucky guy.
And what else?
Krissy and Logan got a new dog. Mab, her name is. They came by recently to introduce me and Fiona to her. She's a good dog.

move out

On the heels of new short fiction, below, also got some new short nonfiction, too. Quick essay, me fantasizing what it would be like if I could talk in business meetings the way I used to talk in the army.

What else? Fiona stopped by the Statue of Liberty recently, and re-created one of her favorite pictures. Not too shabby. She added the Elton shades to mix two of her top heros at the same time.

And Kristina moved back to Burlington last week, leaving behind a very sad Farleys Bookshop, where she has been in residence (literally) for the past year, in addition to many years of employment there beforehand. She leaves behind a score of notes and illustrations all around the place...

Happy summer!

hardy, berlin, lomax, farleys...

Great picture of Jack Hardy above was taken by Brian Rose just a few months before Jack's untimely death one year ago. When I heard about Jack's death I wrote this long post. My old pal Jon Colcord (a fellow veteran, Hardy fan, one of the guys I dedicated The Ice Beneath You to, and a folk dj up in New Hampshire) got in touch recently and asked if I would read the piece for a Hardy tribute show he was doing. I did, and you can hear it here. An all-around terrific show that Jon put together...a good remembrance if you're a Hardy fan, and a good introduction if like so many others you're just getting into him now. Jack always said that the dead get fatter royalty checks.

In other news, I'm in Berlin this morning. I've been to Germany a few times before, but this is my first time in Berlin. I've always fascinated by Germany and the Germans. In World War 2 my grandfather was a US Army sergeant posted at a German POW camp (ironically right down the road from Ft Eustis, Virginia, where I would spend my 4 years in the service), and he befriended some of the former German soldiers...all of them working class, like him, pulled into the German war machine. The year I lived in India when I was a kid I discovered Robert Ludlum, and (like the Bourne movie writers who came later) realized what a great setting this country is for a thriller. Of course some of my German curiosity stems from ethnicity. Although I always felt a stronger psychic kinship with my Irish roots, the fact is that when your name is Christian William Bauman at some point you just can't get away from the fact that your blood is at least partially German. I wish I knew more about my German side. But whoever those Baumans were they came to the States a long time ago. Unlikely that I will ever know more. Anyway, just a few months ago I read In the Garden of Beasts, the eerie history by Erik Larson of an American family living in Berlin in the beginning of the Third Reich. Their neighborhood is where my hotel is. Directly across the street from my hotel is the building that was the headquarters of the German army in the war. It opens onto a courtyard where the 1944 coup leaders were shot.

But enough of that ancient history and evil times. I love Germany and am enjoying Berlin. And spring must be coming...James Taylor is on his way.

What else? Well, if you want a good way to kill a whole year (or maybe a whole decade), you can lose yourself here: they put the entire Alan Lomax archive online.

And finally, a little bit ago I wrote about Jim Farley passing away, and my love of his bookstore. There's a cool article about Farleys here, with the whole history.

radioactivity and two of my favorite people

Two of my favorite people here...one a buddy (Gregg), and one a stranger (Pierre, more on him below). Picture is from backstage at New Hope's 2012 Winterfest concert, always a good time. Winterfest isn't exactly Quebec's Carnival, but hey we try. Anyway, that's Gregg Cagno on the left. If you're reading this blog it's likely you know who he is, but here's one thing I wrote about Gregg. (That link goes to the original blog entry...jpg of the magazine article is below, just right-click it and expand.)

The guy on the right in that B&W pic above is Pierre Robert, quite simply the world's greatest DJ/broadcaster/radio concierge...whatever you want to call it. I'm very old school with radio, and consider "DJ" to be a compliment, so we'll call it that. Anyway, in my definition of things, Pierre has ascended from being one of the world's most unique and lovable DJs to assuming the throne of "simply the best." It helps that the station he's on, WMMR in Philadelphia, is one of the country's last great commercial stations. It's not freeform exactly, but it's as close as you can come in major commercial broadcasting. (In fact, Pierre did a brilliant broadcast on Thanksgiving weekend this year where he mapped the station's "Everything That Rocks" mantra and did this generational connections thing where he spun triple-plays of seemingly unrelated but oh-so-related-in-his-mind songs, all of which were about ten years apart from each other. I'm not doing a good job of describing it, but it was kick-ass. The fact that it started with an impassioned monologue on and song from CSN and then went on in the course of the hour+ to include Foo Fighters, Green Day, blah blah you name it...all wrapped in Pierre's wit and wisdom...lovely.) These days I'm 41 and old and if I'm in the car I tend to be NPR news on WHYY (mornings) or god-i-need-a-drink jazz on WRTI (evenings...home of the second greatest radio concierge, "BP with the GM")...but if I'm cruising around on the weekend, the odds are good that I need to rock out loud, and it's a comfort to know that WMMR is always there for me.

But back to Pierre, through a slight digression first.

It's a little known fact but I am a radio obsessive. When I was a boy, my father was in radio, both as a DJ and then later as a suit. And even as a suit, he usually kept his hand in as a broadcaster, wherever he was. My father is a whole other story that I don't want to get into right now, but of the few positive things he introduced into my life, radio was probably the biggest one. I could cue a record and run a board when I was 7 years old, skills I learned both directly and indirectly from him, at a slew of stations across the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania, as well as the old WIFI in Philly (and all the other stations that filled 1 Bala Plaza, where I wandered unnoticed while my distractable Dad took phone calls or did whatever it was that he did), and a couple of religious stations whose call letters I forget. When I was pre-teen I built my own radio studio in the attic of my mom and step-father's house (no, it didn't actually work, but that's besides the point) where I would quite happily spend entire summer days (let's be honest, entire summer weeks) reading the news and commercial spots (all written by me) and spinning records. As the songs played I indulged my other obsession: reading. I'm sure psychologically all of this was supposed to bring me closer to my Dad or some shit. The side result was three things: 1. A huge and useless backlog of lyrics and liner notes that I still have memorized; 2. A huge amount of novels read at a very young age; 3. A deep and abiding love of all things radio.

I had a shortwave, which was amazing. And AM was amazing (for some reason getting a midnight broadcast from Singapore on shortwave or a midnight broadcast from Chicago on AM was equally cool to me). But as I entered my teen years my late-night radio listening began to focus more and more on FM, and where I lived there were only two stations that mattered: an hour north of me, Z95 in Allentown, and an hour south of me, the mighty WMMR in Philadelphia. My entree into WMMR was the legendary (and still rocking) Michael Tearson, and his late-night "For Headphones Only" show. Too much fun. But the guy who nailed it, the guy who symbolized everything I thought rock radio should be, was the guy who was on mid-day (then, later on, mornings, which made no sense, and now back mid-day again). An hour might go by and Pierre Robert might say very little...or he might just decide to talk for a full hour, which was just as awesome. He was about community, he was about equality ("Excuse me, fellow citizen..."). He knew more about arcane music facts than any other human being I'd ever heard, and he sprinkled the knowledge like shiny diamonds across the landscape of his broadcasts. He was generous. And, if you listened to him over the years, it was also clear that he loved radio as much as I did. Without a doubt my favorite Pierre Robert broadcast was similar to the Thanksgiving weekend broadcast I described above in that I heard it quite by accident, because due to circumstances I wasn't able to listen to Pierre much at the time (like now, honestly). Looking at the Wikipedia entry, this broadcast would have been in January 2004. It was Pierre describing the memorial service for Ed Sciaky, that he had just attended. Ed was another legendary Philly DJ, also with time at WMMR, but people my age probably more closely identified him with WYSP. Pierre spent a long time just talking about Ed Sciaky and his life and his love of music and radio, and then talked of all the amazingly diverse radio folks who came out to pay tribute...all the rock guys, of course, but also people like Ed Cunningham from WHYY (small side note on him below).

Anyway, Pierre has just always symbolized everything cool in Philadelphia ("always" self-servingly defined in my Generation X context). I remember being in high school and going with Gregg (remember him? See up top) to see Tom Petty and Bob Dylan at the old Spectrum (as I recall, Dylan sucked and Petty rocked) but seeing Pierre in person up on the second level was as cool as the concert itself. It's just a very simple outcome from an impossible-to-duplicate formula: when you turn on your radio and Pierre is there, it makes you happy. What could be better than that. The promise of radio, citizens...it's a beautiful thing.

+++

Last side note: to prove just how large of a radio geek I am, is this small story: Knowing what a radiohead I am, it should be no surprise to you that the number 2 and 3 coolest things that ever happened in my writing career weren't book related but were being a guest on Terry Gross and the approximately 10 or so commentaries I did for All Things Considered (those were #2 and #3 respectively). But what was #1? I was in the lobby of WHYY, waiting to be interviewed by Terry Gross, when who comes walking past me but Ed Cunningham, this giant voice of radio from my youth and still broadcasting today. Ed was concerned about the weather and asked the receptionist if he would need an umbrella. As he walked to the door he happened to glance at the visitor's couches where I sat, and he said, "Hi there." That was cool moment #1 with a bullet.

time to mind the pollacks

Very cold and very snowy this weekend. I was sitting by the fire yesterday, avoiding writing, and came across this very good, recent interview with Neal Pollack. The interview referenced an older interview with Mr. Pollack (follow the links, I'm too lazy to do it all here) which I distinctly remember, especially the opening line, which I loved. All of us loved Neal Pollack back then, and if you didn't then you didn't get it, and if you don't anymore, then I'm afraid you probably didn't really back then either. Jesus, that didn't make any sense. Sorry.

Although it has been a long time since I've heard from him, Neal and I were friendly once, in that Y2k-uber-email way of a decade ago. I forget exactly how we connected, but it was probably through Atrios. Neal and I were both rabble-rousing back then, and Atrios often hosted our individual rants. As one of very very few pissed-off writers back then who had actually been to war, I was skeptical of everyone. Neal took about two sentences of Neal Prose to win me over.

Neal was a god when those of us in our generation who write needed a god. He was an organic god, real and smelly and not something you would bring home to meet the folks, so to speak. He wasn't presented to us by the Times or the Guardian or the New Yorker, he made no best seller list, there was nothing sanitized about him. Which of course did him no good in the end, but it was good for the rest of us. Even better, he was genuinely a kick-ass person, at least that bit of him I got to witness. He cared. He would tell you to fuck off, but he cared.

I think I only met him in person once (the same night of my singular meeting with the aforementioned Atrios), at the old 215 Literary Festival in Philly. Right around when The Ice Beneath You was published. We were on the bill together, and I walked into the joint, a pretentious early hipster hole, and I thought to myself "Fuck, I can't spend the evening with a bunch of people who think it's retro cool to drink Pabst." At that moment, an angry man yelled across the bar, "Oh for fuck's sake...Pabst? Really?" That was Neal, and I was glad to meet him. He opened a door or two for me, or tried, and I appreciated that. I hope I did the same for him, but I don't know. I was very naive, and he was light-years ahead of me. A few years later he really pissed me off with something, which he is probably completely unaware of, but it hardly matters. He's a killer writer, a better and more honest person than a slew of our better-known peers, and I hope it all works out for him (which means I hope he keeps writing, and makes a living doing it).

stoneham-et-tewkesberry

A hairy crimble and a snappy goo year from Stoneham. Above, Fiona about to light out for the territories. Below, the view from the window at a mostly empty Feu Follett late on Christmas night, enjoying a good dinner while we welcomed some much needed powder from the sky. Another bunch expected today through tomorrow, fingers crossed.

hypothermia reunion

So... we actually did it. The Friday after turkey day, 25 years (give or take) after our last gig, we set up shop at the Pattenburg Inn off of ol' Route 78. The sign to the left there pretty much says it all. Bang for your buck, my friends. Bang for your buck.

Let me just say, I had a great time. Twenty years without drumsticks in my hands and I'd forgotten how much fun it is to pound the shit out of a 5-piece drum kit. And whatever instrument, there's not much more fun than plugging your way through some good ol rock and roll with a bunch of guys who never fail to crack you up. No one can make you laugh like guys you went to high school with. No hiding from those fellas. Mike, Matt, Karl, Gregg...all good, man. All good.

So, we came out swinging...literally, me flailing away at those cymbals. Who's gonna tell me to keep it quiet? My music teacher from high school who was sitting at the bar, perhaps. But he kindly kept it to himself.

One good long set, then we took a break, drank some beer, polished up the cowbells. After the break we did a little acoustic set. I even sang a few.

Then back behind the drums for the second set. Karl strapped on a squeezebox for "Squeezebox." Priceless. And love the shot over the bottles below.

If you missed it, here's a clip from Matt's movie, this clip about the history of Hypothermia, with some painful footage of my 16-year-old hairstyle choice and a cowbell-less "Don't Fear the Reaper" from the stage at North Hunterdon High School.

And the music aside, it was so great to see so many people I haven't seen in such a long time. This was about the closest I've come to a high school reunion, and it was really cool to see Nic, Virg, Graham, Nancy (or rather, N. Elise), Kenny C.... Everything I wrote here a few years ago basically sums it up.

i'm no better a drummer at 41 than i was at 16

Oh, the horror. Oh, the humanity. Cats and dogs, living together. Cowbells will be rung.

You know...I think Hypothermia must have been a much more influential band than we realized back in 1986. An article in this week's New Yorker says that Occupy Wall Street might fail due to "the pressure of hypothermia." Damn.

See you on Black Friday. More info here.

In other news, speaking of Occupy Wall Street, my friend Chris Hedges has been up to some mischief.

And in other other news, five years after having it painted, we finally got the sign up yesterday. It's got nothing to do with education. It's Gaelic, for "The Dog House."

farleys forever

I stopped in at Farleys Bookshop the other night for a wine & cheese & cigar memorial for owner Jim Farley, who passed away last week. I didn't really know Jim, but boy do I know his shop and some of the people he's cultivated. Farleys Bookshop -- half a block in from the Delaware River in New Hope -- is almost a piece of fiction itself, or, rather, from a piece of fiction. It is so good, so perfect, that it doesn't seem possible that it exists in the modern world. It calls to mind a little bit of Penelope Fitzgerald's The Bookshop, but, more, something out of Dickens. Or a shop found deep inside Diagon Alley. That Farleys is the best book store in the greater Philadelphia area is without question; to me, it is the best book store in the country. It is wood and plaster and towering, teetering stacks and aisles too narrow for those widely hipped. If you get invited upstairs for some reason the stacks become mountains; these are decades worth of galleys and advance reader copies, which any bookstore gets ten of a day. Any normal merchant would throw most of these out. But not at Farleys. Because who can throw out a book? Indeed. You may read inside of Farleys, for as long as you need to, without fear of raised eyebrows or grublmed admonition.

When I was a boy growing up in Hunterdon County, across the river, a winter day in Farleys was to slip the bounds of reality into a transcendent universe ruled by the greater magisterium of literature and language. When my first novel was published and The New York Times photographer came to snap the requisite so-serious-young-author photo, it was in front of a leaning Farleys stack that I posed. The happiest book release party I ever had (In Hoboken) was in the back room there. And still, when I need to disappear for while, it is on my top five list of locations from which to vanish. In a town with an abnormally large population of writers -- living and ghosts -- Farleys is the nexus around which we all orbit.

Not just real estate, though. People...Rebekah Farley...Julian...they seem to know where everything is. Books and otherwise. I'm prejudiced, of course. One of my daughters works there. But still. In what sounds like an overall interesting life (he went to seminary with Mr. Rogers...he lived in Paris), building Farleys was an achievement for which we could never thank Jim Farley enough.

In other news, last weekend I took the picture below. That's Fiona, just below the top lip of Trail 41 (a blue) on the new mountain at Stoneham, in Quebec. It was the height of perfect autumn in Quebec last weekend, 70 degrees with no humidity and clear blue skies (for the most part). So strange and funny to see this place that I have only ever seen under four feet of snow, sans snow.

From the wildflowers of Quebec, I arrived back home in New Hope on Monday to garden flowers in a vase, picked by Kristina while I was gone. Not impressed by the flowers is Ms. Thing, who is generally not impressed by much.

there is a town in north ontario

As August naps its way toward completion, Bill Donahue and I had a long chat about where I live and why. He distilled that down into this piece. But as it turns out, I'm currently not where I live right now. I'm here:

Staying there (look up). Doing this (look right). And walking, and fishing, and a lot of eating. No shortage of sleeping, either. Spending a lot of time thinking about someone in Boston.

Here for another few days. Then in the car headed southeast to take a peek at Niagara Falls, from the Canadian side. Last there when I was six, I believe. I wonder if it will remember me.

Ontario is nice. For the last 15 years or so we've spent part of each February in Quebec. The Canadians got it going on. They just do. When the zombie apocalypse hits, look for me here. Actually, don't look for me here, because you might bring something unwanted with you. But here is where I will be.

a tough week to be a folksinger

About a decade before I published In Hoboken, the great songwriter Bill Morrissey published his first (and tragically, last) novel, Edson, expertly edited by the legendary Gary Fisketjon. Reading that novel was a lot like diving into one of Bill's songs. Interestingly (to me, anyway), one of the sub-themes of Edson was parallel to an In Hoboken sub-theme: one generation of musicians coming to grips/terms with another. Just that the point of view was reversed (one looking down, one looking up). Bill Morrissey sure had a way with words, and it's a good read, if you get a chance. I found out this week that Mr. Morrissey passed away. So close on the heels of Jack Hardy it just doesn't seem fair. I didn't know Bill Morrissey, but I knew his songs for sure. It's a sad thing.

In the same week, we lost Dan Peek. You may remember him as one third of the original America. Funny thing...because Dan was gone from the band for so long, I tend to think of America as just Gerry and Dewey. But Dan Peek wrote my favorite America song, "Rainy Day." Cagno taught me how to play that, a very long time ago. If you get a chance, the NY Times obit of Dan is a good read. The others I read just pissed me off, with descriptions of America as that "soft, vanilla good-times band from the 70s." Really? Come on. Why does America always get the "CSN-lite" label? Too easy. Go back and listen to those first handful of albums (produced, by the way, by the great George Martin...and he didn't work with just anyone). Killer songwriting. Great musicianship. They're a kick-ass band. Always were. And Gerry and Dewey are still out working it.

Anyway, a moment for the late, great Bill Morrissey, and a moment for the late, great Dan Peek.

on a mission from god

Anyone who knows about me and music would probably picture something like this image. Backstage at the legendary Caffe Lena in Saratoga Springs, circa 1995ish. Which explains the hair-do. (My bad hair aside, I loved the Lena. Played there bookoo between 95 and 99...alone a handful of times, opened for the late great Odetta there, and of course Camp Hoboken.)

But this year, when I say "We're getting the band back together," it ain't folkie, and I don't have to change any guitar strings. Long before I hopped the decade-long endless Greyhound Bus trip in search of Woody Guthrie, I played drums in Hypothermia (named for the cold loft where we practiced), our high school cover band (our being: me, Gregg Cagno, Karl Dietel, Matt Angus Williams, and Mike Slaven, plus others who came and went). And Matt called a few months ago to say those very words: we're putting the band back together. Mission from God. For one night, anyway. The Friday night after Thanksgiving, this coming November. Problem is, I haven't played drums in 20+ years, I didn't play particularly well even when I was playing regularly, and I don't have a drum set. Well, I can't fix the first two problems, but we got the third one licked. Fiona and I drove up to Chez Angus a few weeks ago and picked up a 5-piece he's loaning us for the summer. And so...I started test driving.

Lordy, how my neighbors love me! They just can't get enough. Fiona's digging in, too...see below. One thing I had forgotten: how truly satisfying it is to bang the shit out of drums after a long day. I may not BE good, but I FEEL good.

the best tool in hitchhiking

Fiona above, demonstrating what it feels like to live with four dogs. Pictures and thousands of words and all that. Yep.

We're deep in spring here in Pennsylvania. Wet and green. A few things...

I'd like to thank the kids and teachers of Solebury School (esp Lauren Janis and Scott Eckstein) who made feel so welcome on Friday when I spent some time with them. We talked about "real life" to fiction and other scary prospects.

What else? I ran the Broad Street Run in Philly a few weeks ago. Context: this is a 10-mile run. I haven't run 10 miles since Fort Eustis, more than fifteen years ago. Still, 10 miles isn't the end of the world, or so I told myself. Easy to train for. Except for the whole popping out of the shoulder while skiing incident this winter, which kept me from training for anything. Still, I'm stubborn like that, so showed up for the run anyway. And finished! In just under 2 hours. Couldn't walk for the rest of the week, but what the hell.

And speaking of Fort Eustis...yeah, I was planning on going to this, and who knows perhaps I'll still be able to make it, but at the moment it doesn't look good. Really bummed. As said above, it's been 15 years, and I haven't been back since. Fingers crossed. But if I don't make it this year, will absolutely be there next year.

And the title of this post? This was a quote I heard on All Things Considered the other day, an interview with a kid hitchhiking in Texas. He said the best tool in hitchhiking is a smile. Ain't that the truth. Keep it in mind. We all gotta stick our thumb out sooner or later.

***

Oh yeah, important update: the mighty Hypothermia returns! Day after Thanksgiving. Somewhere near Clinton, NJ. Stay tuned.

sing hallelujah, for the guttersnipe lives

I am devestated to learn that my friend Jack Hardy has passed away. Linda Sharar just called with the news. Jack and I hadn't talked in about 2 years, and I didn't know he was sick. Our last communication was a letter he sent me about 2 years ago, a great, long, Hardy letter, giving me his opinion on my turning him into "Geoff Mason" in In Hoboken, and reminiscing about some of the old days; it was a great letter, like the kind he used to write me when I was a soldier in Somalia...and that great letter has been sitting on my desk since the day I got it, waiting for me to respond. Ah, Jack. I'm sorry, man. I'm having trouble imagining the world without you in it. I don't even know what to say. At a complete loss.

UPDATE: The Times ran an obituary of Jack yesterday. I think he would have been pleased, although he would have grumbled about the innaccuracies and the stuff left out. "Fucking journalists and editors," he would have sneered...although with a small twinkle in his eye to show how pleased he was that the thing got done. Let me put it this way: if the Times hadn't run an obit of him, I believe he would have haunted them.

One thing I'd like to say (and this isn't just to avoid the haunting I deserve for failing to reply to Jack's last letter to me...in fact, I'd love a haunting, Jack, if you could arrange it). But here's the thing: the press and everyone talks about Jack as a mentor, and influence, and the guy who had the weekly songwriter's dinners, and the guy who founded Fast Folk. That's what everyone always says about Jack. What I'd like to hear a little more of, and what I'd like to talk about now, is Jack as an artist. So let me just say this: Jack was an incredible artist. To call him a poet is akin to saying Dylan Thomas liked an evening nightcap. He was a master carver of words, slicing and sorting the lyrics like he sliced and carved his subjects. And Jack was an incredible performer. He had a beautiful voice, a great tenor that could go higher than you'd imagine if you knew him, and then dip all scratchy into spooky nether-regions. He was funny, and could hold an audience in his palm. He was a journeyman, and this was his craft. We all learned from him. Way back in the day, I used to marvel at Gorka's stage presence, and the technical brilliance of it, and take notes (yes, literally)...the way he owned and controlled a vocal microphone, for instance. I knew Jack, then, but had not seem him perform in public. One night Jack came out to Godfrey Daniels for a rare night there, and we all barrelled out to see him. And goddamn if it didn't become instantly clear that JG had cribbed directly from Jack's playbook. Very cool.

That aside, in my opinion Jack was at his best around a campfire. With a Texas (or Massacussetts or Colorado) dark breeze blowing and the fire popping and just a shadow of his face visible...that was Jack's realm. That's where I'll remember him.

As I said above, it was Linda who called to tell me about Jack's death. I'm glad it was her. Besides the comfort of hearing it from a friend rather than in the paper, I think Lonnie had a similar place in her heart for Jack as I did, in her own way. Our times as regulars in his apartment didn't overlap, actually, but we were both relatively young when we met Jack, both had mixed feelings, both grew to love him in our own ways. I wrote her an email the other night, trying to talk about that. I loved Jack, plain and simply. Some if it was idolization, and I'm okay with that. But his acceptance of me (you see, he didn't accept everyone) so early on, when I wasn't all that good frankly, his ability to see the flame of something in me below all the smoke, his willingness to have me around and encouragement, meant so much to me. I was a basic wreck of a human being at 19, 20, 21 years old (the years of my life I consistently attended the weekly gatherings in his apartment), and Jack's encouragement meant the world to me. Jack made me feel like I had something worth offering, when the picture couldn't have looked more different. And the fact that some people thought he was an asshole only endeared me to him more. He once referred to me on a radio show or article or something as a fellow ne'er-do-well, and I consider it one of the greatest compliments I ever received. I'm so sad today. Pasta and asparagus and olive oil, and come on by anytime, Jack. I could use a haunting. Did I mention I was pleased to meetcha?

(If you don't know Jack's work and are intimidated by the volume of stuff available when you search online, just order the single CD "Retrospective" from Brambus Records in Germany. No, you can't get it on itunes. Buy the CD, pay the foreign premium, and listen to this work of art. And then go buy "The Passing" from Prime CD records, which you can get on itunes, I believe.)

best nonrequired reading

I just found out a nonfiction piece of mine from last year got a nice "Notable" mention in the 2010 Best Nonrequired Reading. The essay is called "Our Father," and can be found through this link to it at the NY Times.

What's the piece about? Hard to say. Here's how it's described at Identity Theory, who published it: Entwined contemplations of author Chris Hedges (War Is A Force That Gives Us Meaning) and former ad-man Bruce Bauman, and their respective relationships to this essay’s author (a ne’er-do-well novelist and ex-soldier); one poem by Gerald Stern and that poet’s perceptions of God and Paul Giamatti; the writing process of an older book by Hedges (wherein there be soldiers) and the contents of a more recent book by Hedges (wherein there be Fascists); Ocean City, New Jersey tongue-talkers who later go on to become hosts of the 700 Club; what it means to be a born-again Episcopalian Jew; Ralph Nader’s time in the army; and trying quite unsuccessfully to stop the war in Iraq.

Yep. That's about it. Easy. As easy as anything about your family can be.

Anyway, my great thanks to Identity Theory for publishing it, as well as publishing a whole slew of my stuff over the past 10 years. Matt B and his friends are great people, and IDt should be on your weekly reading list.

no snow yet, but soon

Bacon bagel sandwiches on this Christmas Eve morning, and tonight: our time-honored Indian buffet in front of the wood stove. Presents in the morning, then the long drive to Vermont. Merry Crimble and a Happy Goo Year.

boo!

The occasion of this -- the only known photo with two Baumans smiling at the same time -- was sitting on the tailgate celebrating the successful move-in of Kristina and Logan to their new studio apartment in Lambertville. They got a great place, just steps from the best sandwiches in the river towns: Ennis deli (which I wrote about in this essay). They'll be around for a year, and then we'll see where their adventures take them...

It's so good to have Krissy local again, though. She came over yesterday with a new bow and arrow set. When asked where she acquired the weaponry, she answered with the immortal words of Timmy Turner: "Internet."

Krissy, Fiona, and friend Lexi pummeled the hell out of a cardboard box for an hour or so. Very, very fun. Scared the cat.

And then when the sun went down, it was over to Gayle's for annual pumpkin carving. A smaller group this year, but good to see everyone, and some wicked jack-o-lanterns as a result. We lit them all and scattered them around the garden afterward, then sat by the fire and drank our beer and watched the pumpkins flicker and glow. Tonight, back to Lambertville for the main event. Happy Halloween, y'all.

prepare to be boarded!

That's pretty much the best possible title for the pic below... "prepare to be boarded." What could be more menacing than our band of 11-year-old pirates stalking a rusty shipwreck? Nice. (Ignore the drowning 40-year-old novelist in the foreground.)


Many many thanks to Marrit and Anneke Gorter and family for hosting us in Aruba (and the trip to the secret beach!). What a cool place, and what a cool family.

A good summer all around. Busy, like no summer before. But no shortage of nice moments. My nephew and niece CJ and Samantha Wagner are kicking serious butt
in the world of golf. They passed through Pennsylvania last month and we got to see CJ play (that's him to the right). I don't know much about golf beyond cocktails and golf carts, but sure am proud of those two.

What else? Matt Walker and I are valiantly progressing at snail's pace toward a finished screenplay for The Ice Beneath You. It's been a cool experience, working with Matt on this. It almost doesn't matter if we ever finish...the process is a good time. But finish we will, and soon, I think.

And I've set a goal for end of autumn to finish The Dog House. And I mean it. Really. I do. And I will. Watch me.

I have to, actually. Because I'm ready to go back and finish The Night Door. It's had enough time to marinate. But that's a winter book, so I need to be ready to do it by winter. And I can't do it until I finish Dog House. So there it is.

And that's about it, I guess. Except: I can't stop listening to Peter Mulvey's Notes From Elsewhere and Kitchen Radio albums lately. Check em, if you haven't. Peter's as good an album as any to slip into autumn with, and those two in particular are good slip-into-autmn albums. Know Peter's stuff? No? You should. Really. I wrote about him in this piece I did for The New York Times around the time when In Hoboken came out. He's the most, indeed.

Additional note: Over at Ward Six, the blog of novelists J. Robert Lennon and Rhian Ellis, a discussion on Kindles and iPads and Hardbacks and Paperbacks. My comment to this discussion was easy to write because it seems this is Topic #1 these days for many writers. And then a conversation about why we (writers) do this, and who do we do it for.

"he didn't do well at academics"

As a boy, Saturday night was huge fun because it meant I'd get to listen to A Prairie Home Companion while eating dinner. From that one sentence, you can pretty much extrapolate how I feel about Garrison Keillor. So you should be able to tell what this means to me (scroll down after the link). Thanks, Garrison. I couldn't think of a cooler 40th birthday present.

a pirate looks at forty

A PIRATE LOOKS AT FORTY, or, REMEMBERING ALICIA'S APARTMENT, NORTHAMPTON, MA (a long post, go get a coffee)

This is the forty-eight-hour period when Kristina turns twenty-two and I turn…well, you know. (The pic here of the two of us is from a few years back, on the Upper West Side, I think. I was still in my "fat Bauman" phase, yikes. But Krissy looks fierce, in the best possible way. I love it.)

My title above is a slight tweaking of a Jimmy Buffet title (“A Pirate’s Look at Forty”). Love the song, but always thought Jimmy put an “s” in the wrong place. Stronger this way. Not that Jimmy asked me. But it’s my post, so I’ll put the “s” where I please. Jimmy will understand.

As a brief aside, I always liked Jimmy Buffet. Back in the day, Jimmy was an ass-kicker, and still somewhat obscure. We loved him, down at Fort Eustis, Virginia, back in the early 1990s. Can’t think of a better songwriter for a bunch of slightly crazed waterborne soldiers. This was an environment, after all, where lines like “This morning, I shot six holes in my freezer” (from “Boat Drinks”) and “I have been drunk now for over two weeks” (the aforementioned “Pirate”) held no shock factor but were simply straight journalism about us. Jimmy was singing about how we lived, and we didn’t think much about it.

Eventually, I left behind the sea dogs and pirates of army life and fell in with a different group of ne’er-do-wells. Musicians and artists, and those brave or unfortunate enough to live with us. The violence slipped away, but the alcohol consumption didn’t decrease much. We moved in expanding and contracting circles with a magnet somewhere in Massachusetts holding our center of gravity loosely in place. We were very young and had no idea we were very young.

Who among us thought -- did any of us have even an inkling of premonition -- that the age of forty was a possibility? Did any of us see us at forty? That would have been hard to see, us gathered in a cold apartment kitchen on a Northampton morning, tousle-haired and sock feet with sweaters layered and bacon sizzling and coffee pressed so strong. The Story on their second album, from a cassette deck on the counter, those harmonies and alternate tunings floating behind our brave and limitless winter. Could any of us in that room have cut through the thick-pad gauze of slow collective hangover, still wrapped in the fumes of the night’s tequila, cut through to see us at forty?

Us, pulled apart and pulled back together over and over in the fifteen years of future to come, passed through madness, sadness, marriage, divorce, death, childbirth, babies.

And could any of us been so prescient as to know that this music we were hearing for the first time, this music that pointed us toward the future, would someday point backward, that all of us in the kitchen so alive would be ghosts soon, and this music would speak not of the tomorrow we were desperately trying to channel and control and own but a yesterday we would desperately be trying to remember?

Of course eventually we do gather in kitchens again, in smaller groups, those of us who made it this far. Our popcorn turned to pasta, beer turned to wine. In quieter conversations, and more averse to risk. I used to laugh the frenetic laugh of the perpetually nervous. That, thankfully, has changed for the better. Although I’m not sure any of us are any less scared; simply afraid of different things.

...and with a double major, so there

She did it! Artist, photographer, author, anthropologist, traveler, sympathetic friend, recovering skier, forgiving daughter, all-around wicked cool woman, the only person in the world whose name is inked permanently on my arm...and now college graduate. Kristina bid adieu to UVM on Sunday. It was a ridiculously beautiful morning in Vermont, and a splendid time was had by all.

Two of my favorite essays I ever wrote for All Things Considered were about Kristina. It's not easy writing about family. In fact, it's not easy being in a family. I could never, ever capture complex, beautiful Kristina in a piece of writing. Impossible. But memories help put a picture together, even an imperfect picture. This one from 2004 is really just a reminder of how far we've all come. But this one from 2003 is hands-down my favorite thing I wrote for NPR. When I think of my "little Krissy" and how patient and amazing and curious and smart and funny she was (all those traits just strengthened since then), this is the memory I have.

And now back home. Nothing more telling that life is back to normal than this: I walked in the door last night to find a big bag of Poly-Fil on the kitchen table, this white fluffy synthetic stuff. I said, "What's up with this?" The answer: "Fiona decided today she needed to make voodoo dolls." Of course.