SWAMPED

Life ain’t so easy in the Big Easy these days, but the city’s literature still shines.

Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick, New Orleans has been hammered again. Hurricane Gustav shat upon the Crescent City, and although estimates are still rolling in, we’re lookin’ at billions in damage. That’s a damn shame. I love N.O.—every time I slum my way across the Big Easy, I’m treated to the best food and ambience in America (along with one or two brushes with death just to make things interesting—like the time a homeless guy built like Mike Tyson nearly strangled me with a piss-colored dishcloth, but that’s another story.)

Then there’s the music. Lordy. If you’re a fan of older tunes with roots in the city, I suggest the Chess New Orleans compilation. Give those CDs a spin as you read John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces, without a doubt the best and most famous New Orleans novel. The Chess recording—mostly songs from the 1950s—will set the mood for Toole’s book. The two go together like red beans and rice. Of course, good reads about New Orleans are legion—more books have been written about/set in the Big Easy than just about anywhere in the American South. Recently I read Leonce Gaiter’s Bourbon Street, a period crime novel that nicely accompanies the Chess recordings as well.

Now, Gaiter’s book ain’t perfect, not by a long shot—for every metaphor that pops there are two that are duds. And the language can get clichéd and pulpy at times. But he builds some decent atmosphere. A decent end-of-summer read before moving on to the heavy duty stuff. BTW, if you find yourself book shopping in New Orleans, by all means stop by Faulkner House Books. Owner Joseph DeSalvo has some highly collectable first-editions. Be prepared to spend serious dough.      

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

APOCALYPSE HUH?!

Necrophiles and other deviants are taken seriously in Apocalypse Culture.

Every so often you’ll run across a book that opens your eyes to something—like it or not. Back in the late 1980s, that’s what Apocalypse Culture (edited by Adam Parfrey, veteran journalist of all things weird and publisher of Feral House books) did for a lot of people, including yours truly. The minute I cracked the spine of AC, I was disgusted, horrified, and confused. And I couldn’t put the goddamn thing down. I remember thinking, “What the fuck is this? Is this for real?”

Yes, it’s for real. It’s a collection of essays, arguments, interviews, and rantings on the offbeat, the twisted, the sick, and the downright strange. Mass murderers discuss their goals and motives—which seem so insanely logical that it’s frightening. And in my favorite piece, a necrophiliac talks about her (yes, her) desires and how she managed to hook up with her lifeless lovers.

You may not agree with the points of view expressed in the book—in fact, I’d say few folks would. And that’s a good thing. But Apocalypse Culture is notable for its variety and the cogent manner in which some of its authors defend lifestyles and behaviors that are off the charts. In a way, it’s a refreshing departure from the usual bullshit, middle-of-the-road soundbites and sanitized, non-controversial statements that pass for intelligent discourse nowadays. These people in Parfrey’s book may be far left of center (Jesus, they’re not even on the same playing field), but they’re earnest and open about themselves, and have at least given their chosen lifestyles and positions a great deal of thought—which is more than you can say for most Americans.

Twisted as these essays and articles may seem, they offer a perspective you won’t get anywhere else. The book is an interesting cultural artifact and a peek into a dim, psychological corner—not an instruction manual, as its detractors would have you believe. Karen Greenlee—the aforementioned corpse humper—is merely talking about who she is, what she does (or did—I don’t believe she’s still, um, “active”), and how she feels. Ditto every other piece in the book. You won’t get that kind of perspective on life by thumbing through Reader’s Digest.

If you make it through AC without becoming psychologically scarred, there’s a sequel (which I haven’t read yet): Apocalypse Culture II. And if you make it through that one without feeling the slightest twinge of discomfort, then you’re one sick fuck and you better keep your ass away from me and my family. However, if you contact Adam Parfrey, I’m sure he’ll be willing to include your story in Apocalypse Culture III, you perverted asshole.      

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

THE ROAD TO SUICIDE-VILLE

Revolutionary Road: A pitch-perfect examination of how middle class life can seriously fuck you up.

I just about pissed myself the other day when I found out that Sam Mendes (director of Jarhead and American Beauty) had recently completed a film adaptation of Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road (1961). For details on the flick, go here. Due to be released in late December, the movie stars Leonardo DiCaprio (Yes, the man-boy we all love to hate—but he’s actually a better-than-average actor once you suppress your initial gag reflex and pay attention to what he does. How’s that for a ringing endorsement?) and Kate Winslet (she of pale-and-heaving-bosoms aboard doomed ocean liner fame, like DiCaprio).

Now, understand that Revolutionary Road is probably one of the best American novels of the past 50 years, a pitch-perfect examination of how middle class life can seriously fuck you up. If you’re a fan of AMC’s Mad Men, then you have had a taste of the book’s mid-1950s/early 1960s flavor—but that’s only a weenie-on-a-toothpick sized sample of what you’ll find in Yates’ novel. Revolutionary Road has some of the most awkward, uncomfortable sex scenes you’ll ever read—just like real-life sex. And no one is better at illustrating the heady mix of anxiety, joy, fear, hope, disappointment, conventionality, and petty rebellion of American suburban life than Yates. I know, others have taken a stab at this, but Yates did it best and has yet to be topped. Ever had a fight with your wife or girlfriend, husband or boyfriend, or that blow-up doll you call a “companion?” Yates nails domestic disharmony and the snippy bitchiness between friends and lovers, and you’ll hear your own words spilling out of the mouths of protagonists April and Frank Wheeler.

If you don’t think that’s your cup of tea, then you need to change your brand of tea, because Yates’ book is a psychological rollercoaster with the most depressing ending in the history of depressing endings. Ever. You’ll want to slice open your wrists with a rusty flathead screwdriver. And then you’ll fight the urge to pay a meth-head to back a Ford F-150 over your crotch. Sound like fun? Seriously, though, there has been talk in Hollywood for years about making an adaptation of Revolutionary Road—but the project has oftentimes been scuttled because studio heads (read: pencil-pushing asswipes) found the ending too depressing. So here’s a note to Sam Mendes: I hope to God you didn’t fuck it up. America is popping anti-depressants like Mentos, so I think we’ve finally reached a point where we can take it.           

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

GEORGE OF THE LITERARY JUNGLE

Wrap your lips around these stories, baby.

Remember the first time you saw that Tarantino flick From Dusk till Dawn? Maybe you had a vague notion where the movie was headed. But about a third of the way through it (and if you’ve seen it, you know exactly at what point I’m talking about) the plot takes a left turn, careens off the road, and rattles through the mesquite and sagebrush at 80 miles an hour. That’s also the feeling you get when reading George Saunders’ short fiction. Saunders’ plots and characters sort of amble along at first, with fate throwing her customary curve balls, and people fucking things up as they generally do. And of course all of this happens in some slightly off-kilter setting, such as an amusement park or a museum devoted to an arcane subject. But at some point, Saunders will yank the wheel and you’ll find yourself careening through some strange territory.  

Probably the best Saunders short story collection is Pastoralia. The tales are reminiscent of Kurt Vonnegut’s work, and Saunders admits that KV is a major influence. Still, Saunders has a voice and post-modern spin all his own. And like KV’s work, Saunders’ stories are shot through with plenty of deadpan humor.

Saunders’ stories are best consumed in small portions. The plots and settings are so similar that they lose their flavor if you get greedy and gorge yourself on too many at once. And they’re not very filling—there are no deep connections with characters (really, you don’t give a shit what happens to them). But you can only take so much “serious” fiction before you feel like guzzling a pint of Clorox and then wrapping your lips around a Glock. So after a tough day at the office (berating your co-workers, cheating the public, stealing paperclips, ogling the new interns, inhaling a dozen Buffalo wings at Chili’s during lunch—whatever futile and desperate act fills that void once occupied by “ambition”) there’s nothing like a Saunders story to set your mind at ease. At least your life isn’t quite the train wreck it could be—just ask any character in a Saunders story about that.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

TWO-BUCK CHUCK

Charles Willeford's sleek, mean prose is worth more than two fuckin' bucks.

No doubt you’ve been known to haunt used book stores on occasion. Or maybe a book sale hosted by your local library. I make that assumption because that’s the type of person who would be reading this blog to begin with. If you’re averse to used book stores or haven’t set foot in a library since Reagan was regularly dropping a deuce in the White House, then fuck you, please visit this blog and let the grownups talk for a while.

Anyway, as much as I love trolling ratty book stores and library sales for decent reading material, there are three inherent drawbacks: 1) It’s too goddamn exhausting to elbow your way past the gargantuan hausfrau wedged between you and that table over there loaded with Really Good Books; 2) It’s difficult to hold your breath for an hour to avoid sucking in the pervasive odor of dried sweat, unwashed asses, and Camembert cheese that seems to swirl around people who frequent these places (present company excluded, of course)—why does “reader” have to equal “lonely, shit-stained derelict?”; and 3) It’s a little bit depressing to find a book you love languishing in a discount bin.

This third point was ably demonstrated the other day, when I discovered Charles Willeford’s The Way We Die Now for about two bucks at a local bibliophile hangout. What a goddamn shame. Willeford’s prose is sleek and mean, and his crime fiction is (prepare for a shocker) character driven, not propelled by the plot alone. Willeford didn’t get much props when was alive, and today certainly doesn’t get the credit he’s due. Consider yourself too “refined” to read crime fiction? Willeford will change your mind about that. He’s what they call a “writer’s writer” (Jesus, I hate that phrase … but it fits), and no Willeford novel should ever be moldering away on a chipped, folding table—which was probably sitting beneath bad pastry for a Mormon church fundraiser twelve hours previous—for two fuckin’ bucks. There’s no dignity in that.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

TEENAGE WASTELAND

Of hormones and pulp.

Tell me this: Is there anything in the universe more annoying than the American teenager? With all of their surly, awkward, pimpled-ness, can you think of a segment of American society that is more loathed and loved than teenagers? I mean, just about every corporation and manufacturer worth its weight in Clearasil panders to the teen demographic. Most of the films Hollywood defecates into the theaters are geared toward teen boys who have lots of money to blow and want to see more tits and s’plosions. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se.

Same goes for music. Teenage rage and mooning over unrequited love have spawned the best and worst in songs. And books. How else do you account for the enduring popularity of Jack Kerouac’s On The Road? Teenagers. God bless ’em.

So to understand the hormone-injected inspiration behind pop culture, you gotta understand the American teen. A good place to start is Teenage Confidential, by Michael Barson and Steven Heller. It’s a graphics-intensive romp through the history of the teen in the U.S., through movie posters, album and magazine covers, and advertising. Some of the copy adorning the movie posters is absolutely priceless (from the 1940s B-movie, Girls Under 21: “Too old for playthings … and too young for love!”). The book focuses on the’40s, ‘50s, and early ’60s, so you’ll have to look elsewhere for a fleshed out treatise on The Jackson 5.

Gotta love the book covers from mid-1950s pulps, too—young delinquents arching their backs in suggestive poses, black leather jackets, cigarettes tucked behind ears, and titles such as Juvenile Jungle, Teen-Age Mafia, and Hate Alley. As a fan of these schlocky paperbacks, I can tell you that the contents are every bit as melodramatic as the titles and cover art. Good stuff. I shudder to think how what the cover of a pulp novel about my teenage years would say. Probably something like, Tragically Responsible: The Story of a Boy Who Works Part-Time for Milstead’s T.V. & Appliance, Makes His Car Payment on Time, and Never Gets Laid … But Abuses Himself Fourteen Times a Day to Photos Ripped From the J.C. Penney Catalog!     

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

NEW AND NOTEWORTHY

New tomes concerning the Spice Girls, indie band survival techniques, and cool.

The Indie Band Survival Guide: The Complete Manual for the Do-It-Yourself Musician, by Randy Cherktow and Jason Feehan (St. Martin’s Griffin) 

Someday I’ll write a guide. It will be called, The Fuck Up’s Guide to Life: The Complete Manual for Underachievers, or How to Get Paid Spewing Bitterness and Invective on The Internet. Until that day, my fellow slack asses, you must content yourself with the Cherktow and Feehan manual—just the ticket your piss-poor band has been waiting for. Read up, learn how to market yourselves, build a cult following, stumble into obscurity, toss your musical hopes and dreams into the dust bin, and become an orderly at a retirement community earning minimum wage. How’s that for a career arc? Seriously, though, if you’re serious about making it in the music biz, and if you have a modicum of talent to pull it off, you might want to get a hold of this book. Useful as hell.

Clawing at the Limits of Cool: Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and the Greatest Jazz Collaboration Ever, by Farah Jasmine Griffin and Salim Washington (Thomas Dunne Books)

You like jazz? Yeah, me neither. But you gotta appreciate its role in American history and literature. Without it, we wouldn’t have Jack Kerouac and the dope-addled Beat movement of the 1950s and ’60s. And without that, well, we’d all still be reading Jane Austen and Evelyn Waugh with our thumbs up our collective asses. So any history of Jazz greats is at least worth a nod of respect. Plus it’s bound to have some great heroine-related tales, since Miles Davis injected enough junk to bring down a water buffalo. 

Spice Girls Revisited, by David Sinclair (Music Sales, 2^nd edition) 

WTF? This book required a second edition? Who are the assholes who bought all of the first editions? I lose faith in humanity a little more each day.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

RATED EX

Perhaps you’ve gotten this far through life and never heard of Frederick Exley. Let me introduce you.

Exley, or “Ex,” was one of those “one hit wonder” kind of novelists. In 1968 he published A Fan’s Notes, and if you haven’t read it, then you need to turn off your computer, fire up that shitty minivan, and head on over to the local soul-killing, super-sanitized Mega Bookstore and get it. Chances are they won’t have it, and you’ll have to contend with the dull-eyed stare of the 20-year-old clerk when she says, “Would that be, like, maybe a study guide or something? Like, maybe, Cliff’s Notes?” If she says that, you have my permission to set the place on fire.   

Anyway, A Fan’s Notes is a brilliant piece of semi-autobiographical fiction (in the same vein as On the Road) chronicling Exley’s obsession with football legend Frank Gifford (husband to that insufferable ditz Kathie Lee Gifford) and the New York Giants. Now, before you freak out at the idea of reading a “sports” book, let me explain something: A Fan’s Notes is only tangentially about sports. It’s more like a memoir of alcoholism and mental illness. And not fitting in. Anywhere. Walter Kirn described it best in Slate about a decade ago: “A Fan’s Notes divides the world into two camps: tortured, bewildered misfits (Exleys) and serene, fair-haired conformists (Giffords).” Nerds versus jocks, if you want to over-simplify it. But with boozing, sex, and electroconvulsive therapy thrown in for good measure.

Exley penned two other books which were flops. You can skip those. But despite some elements in Notes that seem a little dated and kitschy now (Perpetual angst! Stints in mental hospitals!), the book is really more relevant than ever with its examination of celebrity, obsession, middle class perfection, and what it means to constantly encounter images of beautiful, successful people living a life you will never, ever know—you loser. Stick with A Fan’s Notes, and soon you, too, will be hating all the pretty people. As if you didn’t already.

P.S.: For an excellent biography of Ex, check out Jonathan Yardley’s Misfit.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

BOOZE CREWS

Harry Crews: one-stop shoppin’ for no-bullshit, hard-drinkin’ prose.

How on God’s green earth could I have missed this: Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon, along with Lydia Lunch and Sadie Mae, teamed up in the late 1980s to form a band called Harry Crews. They released one album, Naked in Garden Hills (1989). Considering the fact that I’ve been on gorging myself on Sonic Youth for the past two months, how in the name of all things holy did I miss that one?

Now, I’m also a big fan of Harry Crews the writer, ever since I read Car way back in high school—which was far more bizarre than my half-congealed, teenage-reptilian brain could handle. Whereupon I promptly scurried back to the safety of Penthouse Forum as my primary source of literary sustenance. But I couldn’t shake Crews’ no-nonsense, hard drinkin’ prose, and went on to consume about a half dozen of his other novels over the course of a year. Crews navigates the same psychological back roads as Larry Brown (another writer often cited as a musician’s favorite), but often steers into darker territory, usually when you least expect—or want—it. For starters, try Classic Crews: A Harry Crews Reader to sample from the buffet of one of America’s most distinctive writers.  

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

BIG TITUS AND THE HOLDING COMPANY

Bite me, Tolkien. Peake is better.

My fifth-grade teacher was a fool for J.R.R. Tolkien. The walls of his classroom were adorned with crude paintings of characters from The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings (this was in the days when teachers could get away with that). If we didn’t feel like doing our math, this teacher would permit us to drop everything and read a novel, such was his passion for fiction. The room was stocked to the rafters with books—including multiple copies of the LOTR trilogy. In Mr. R’s class I read the C.S. Lewis books, the Black Stallion books, a novelization of the first Alien movie, countless Heinlein books, and Watership Down, among others. I pretty much owe my addiction to books to this guy, and I can thank him for the fact that I can’t solve a math problem to save my sorry white ass. But I have to disagree with Mr. R on his choice of “fantasy” lit. I’ve become a big fan of Mervyn Peake’s trilogy The Gormenghast Novels [amazon link: ]. Kudos to you if you know about it … you, me, and about four others in this country. The books, beginning with Titus Groan (the best of the three), trace the life of Titus and the Gormenghast family in their sprawling, decaying castle—with nary an orc or a broadsword in sight (thank God). The tale and the language are lush, rich, dark, Dickensian, and something you must experience to appreciate. Don’t expect panoramic battles and plucky elves. This is far darker, more complex stuff that walks a fine line between fantasy and realism.     

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

COLD AS A WITCH’S TEAT

Let it be known that CSI ain't shit.

Let it be known that I hate television crime dramas. Perhaps “hate” isn’t correct. Let’s try fucking loathe to the core of my being. Shows like Bones and Cold Case are as realistic as Pamela Anderson’s ta-tas. And about as deep and meaningful as her various marriages. But I’m a sucker for real crime—murder, mayhem, and the numerous ways human beings have concocted for making each other miserable. And the crime that goes unsolved has special appeal. It’s agonizing for victims and the victimized, and somewhere in the back of everyone’s mind lurks this thought: Some piece of shit got away with it. Actually got away with it. So let me recommend Stacy Horn’s The Restless Sleep: Inside New York City’s Cold Case Squad.

Horn, an accomplished NPR contributor, takes you alongside cops with egos bigger than Manhattan as they try to bust cases that are beyond cold—they’re in a deep freeze. You get a fly-on-the-wall POV as she buddies up with law enforcement and hangs out with victims’ families. At no extra charge, you also get a brief lesson on the history of detective work in the Big Apple and how cold cases are mishandled. Yes, you read that right: mishandled—thanks to bureaucratic fuck-ups, office politics, and incompetence. None of which are the detectives’ fault. Factor in the ravages of time, and it’s nothing short of a miracle that any of these crimes get solved at all. But some do, and it’s that miniscule glint of hope that keeps the cops on the case, trying to close the book on some 9,000 unsolved murders since 1985 in NYC alone. Half a dozen pages into this book, you’ll want to scoop out your eyeballs with the corner of a TV Guide every time one of those goddamn CSI shows comes on. Just like me.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

GATES CRASHER

On David Gates and bad bands. Yes, I’m talking to you.

Maybe you were in a band in high school. Or maybe you were like me: You hooked up with a bunch of guys (or gals) just out of high school with the misdirected notion of forming a band, and the whole concept went down in flames faster than you can say “thank you, everybody—goodnight!” Your experience was probably much like mine—when the bandmates managed to get together, they ended up fucking around more than anything else. Drinking. Smoking. Occasional drug use. And one or two horribly executed cover tunes. Truth is, none of us (and I’d dare say none of you) should have been allowed within 100 miles of an instrument. Well, except the drummer. Seems like the drummer could always pull off a passably mediocre cover of Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow,” while the rest of us sounded like a busload of Scottish bagpipe players rolling down Mount Kilimanjaro.

One of my favorite writers of all time perfectly captures the mood and miscues of a bunch of fuckups slaughtering another band’s song. In David Gates’ (not the lead singer of Bread) Preston Falls (1999), anti-hero Doug Willis falls in with a bunch of musically retarded idiots who stumble through songs in a booze and drug-fueled stupor that will seem all too familiar to those of you who once harbored delusions of musical grandeur. Gates’ ear for dialogue, however, is pitch perfect, and he completely nails the sheer idiocy of a pack of overgrown boys arguing over which song to butcher next.

Gates is a senior writer with Newsweek, and covers music and books for that publication. He’s a fine journalist as well, and his reviews outshine the usual lusterless fluff found in news magazines. And while you’re hunting down Preston Falls, check out Gates’ first novel, Jernigan (1991). It’s every bit as good as reston Falls, and the novel’s sad-sack protagonist will make you feel really good about how awful your life has turned out.

One piece of advice, while we’re on the topic of youthful forays into music. If your shitty cover band recorded anything, do the world a favor and destroy said recording. Please, think of the children. I’m still hunting down a cassette tape loaded with my former band’s caterwauling. Please, God, don’t let my daughter find that—I’d rather she stumble upon my stash of amputee porn.      

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

ON DECK

What’s stacked on my nightstand (next to the empty beer bottles, soft-core porn, and bag of beef jerky) and next in line to be read.

Just for shits and giggles, here’s a look at what’s in the batter’s circle for the coming weeks. These are books I just picked up at a local used book store. I won’t blog about all of them, but here’s a peek at some of what I’ll be reading (as soon as I finish plowing through David Brooks’ On Paradise Drive, a defense of the ’burbs. It’s hellishly slow, people, but I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna give up on it.

The Wall of the Sky, The Wall of the Eye, by Jonathan Lethem

Lethem has quickly become one of my favorite novelists. His tales are inventive and engaging, without being overly coy. Some writers try too damned hard to be “post-modern” and it really chaps my ass. Lethem spins a good yarn and knows when to let the line go taut, and when to let out some slack. 

Amnesia Moon, by Jonathan Lethem

Can’t believe I’ve never read this one.

Shalimar the Clown, by Salman Rushdie

You remember Rushdie. Back in the late 1980s the Ayatollah Khomeini called for his death after Rushdie wrote The Satanic Verses (which I’ve been meaning to re-read.) Shalimar is supposed to be damned good. If it’s not, I’ll issue my own fatwa and demand that the head of every critic who praised the novel be ground into dime-sized pieces and sprinkled liberally over the dry patches in my shitty lawn. Yeah. Right there next to the Dodge Dart up on blocks. 

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

Barbeau, Beatlemania and Brother don’t preach.

Vampyres of Hollywood: A Novel, by Adrienne Barbeau and Michael Scott (Thomas Dunne Books, released July 8)

Alright, vampire books make me want to shove my face into a wood chipper. I mean, come on, can you think of a concept that has been more overhyped and overplayed than a damn blood sucker story? My thinking is this—there are three reasons to pen a vampire story nowadays: 1) you’re an Anne Rice geek and you scribble out fan fiction just because Lestat makes your genitals tingle and you don’t care if your work is ever published; 2) you’re committing career suicide; 3) your name is Adrienne Barbeau. Perhaps—just perhaps—if you’re a chesty queen of horror and sci-fi flicks, you can get away with a story about vampires. In Hollywood. Literal vampires, mind you—not the celeb leeches we’ve all come to know and loathe. Hell, she was married to John Carpenter, so she’s gotta know something about writing dark fantasy, right? Yeah.    

Life With My Sister Madonna, by Christopher Ciccone and Wendy Leigh (Simon Spotlight Entertainment, released July 15)

It was bound to happen: Madonna Louise Ciccone Ritchie’s little brother has finally penned the book we all expected. He apparently rats out his sister, exposing every dope-fueled tryst and all-too-public lezzie make-out session. Do we really give a shit about this stuff anymore? Apparently someone out there does, or books like this wouldn’t see the light of day. I won’t be reading it, but if someone would kindly e-mail or fax the naughty bits involving Madonna locking lips with Gwyneth Paltrow, I might be persuaded to read it. Alone. (God, what I wouldn’t give for explicit photos ….)

Beatlemania Forever: The Beatles Encyclopedia, by W. Fraser Sandercombe (Collector’s Guide Publishing, released August 1)

Another Beatles book you say? Damn straight. Beatles books are like prostitutes—sometimes kinda nice to look at, but rarely worth the cover price. That’s why your local used book store is packed to the rafters with the things. But this one has the potential to be a pretty decent one, if only because of its comprehensive coverage of the Fab Four. And those peripherally connected to the band, too. Time will tell.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

EXTREME TAKEOVER

Just Because You’re Paranoid Doesn’t Mean They’re Not After You

I have a soft spot for extremists—political, cultural, and otherwise. Some of the best music has come from the fringes of society, as have the most interesting characters and social movements. Notice that I did not say the most palatable characters and social movements. Certainly some of the people and ideas coming from the far, far, right and the way out, wacked-out left are about as pleasant as a night of sodomy and post-coital snuggles with the grizzly.

But that’s I love about Jon Ronson’s Them: Adventures With Extremists (Simon & Schuster, 2002). Ronson introduces you to a rogue’s gallery of kooks, crackpots and major-league pricks, and you don’t have to leave the comfort of your double-wide. I mean, do you really feel like spending a few hours of your Saturday hanging out with a Klansman? Didn’t think so. That’s why Ronson has done it for you. The book feels like a particularly gritty and realistic episode of “The X-Files,” sans Scully and her persistent, sultry sneer.

Sometimes you may have trouble believing half of what Ronson says and does. But don’t worry about it too much. When was the last time you told a story and hewed to the truth down to every insignificant detail? If you make a habit of doing that shit, please don’t invite me to your house for a few cold ones. You’re a boring ass.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

PARANOIA THEY DESTROY YA

But it makes for enjoyable reading.

Last time I wrote a bit about Jon Ronson’s Them, which to a certain extent deals with conspiracy theorists and others of that ilk. If you’re itching to dive into the political and cultural underworld, I’d recommend finding a copy of Jonathan Vankin and John Whalen’s The 70 Greatest Conspiracies of All Time (Citadel, 2000). It’s a virtual catalog of nutso thinking and baseless panic. Or maybe not. Could be some basis of truth to the notion that “Somebody Out There” is “Behind It All.” I doubt it, but maybe I’m just part of the system, and don’t even realize it.  The thing with conspiracies and their attendant theorists, however, is that the entire idea usually hangs on a tattered framework of circumstantial evidence and illogical leaps from Point A to Point B, not to mention enough wishful thinking to fill a hangar at Area 51. But it makes for enjoyable reading. 

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

THE STONY LONESOME

Journalist and crazy bastard Ted Conover becomes a screw.

Other than good drugs and bad women (or maybe bad drugs and good women), probably few things have influenced music like prison. That’s right: incarceration. The Man in Black figured that out pretty early on. And if Akon (“Locked Up”) and Nelly (“Fly Away”) are to be believed, it ain’t no picnic, either. I’ve never done hard time, nor would I want to. Look at my picture—I’d be somebody’s bitch in twelve seconds. But I’ve often been curious about the prison guards; guys and gals whose day-to-day grind involves cozying up to the worst scumbags and cheats in the country. (And what do I do? I sit in an air conditioned office and complain bitterly when Subway forgets the jalapeños on my foot-long BMT.) So I looted every used bookstore in the Intermountain West until I found Ted Conover’s New Jack: Guarding Sing Sing (Vintage, 2001). Yes, I realize I could’ve just ordered the goddamn thing from Amazon, but I’m into the thrill of discovery and all that shit. Anyway, Conover, a journalist and a crazy bastard, gets a job as a prison guard at one of the nation’s roughest joints—not just because he’s a writer and needs a view of the inside, but also for the experience itself. He does a masterful job of putting you in his shoes through just about the most unpleasant work environment this side of the septic industry. You’ll love it.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

REVOLUTION CALLING

A guide to really understanding the Beatles.

Periodically, I throw out a plug for Ian MacDonald’s Revolution in the Head: The Beatles’ Records and the Sixties (Chicago Review Press, third edition, 2007). Even if you’re not a dyed-in-the-polyester Beatles fan, the book is still worth an examination. MacDonald breaks down the Beatles’ catalog, delving into the background of each tune and where it fits into the decade that gave us crappy-but-good-TV, guiltless sex and sexless guilt, and a shitload of good music. Plenty of semi-useless trivia (i.e. John Lennon wrote a Bob Dylan parody called “Stuck Inside of Lexicon With the Roget’s Thesaurus Blues Again.” And the line “I am the Eggman” in “I Am the Walrus” was allegedly inspired by a friend of Lennon’s who had a thing for cracking eggs on the bodies of women he boinked. Yeah. Throw those little gems into a quasi-interesting conversation and see what happens.) This book totally changed my understanding of the Fab Four. I can’t count how many times I’ve scrambled for it after hearing a snippet from, say, “Lady Madonna” on the local FM “oldies” station. Which brings up something else for another time: The term “oldies” has got to go. “Super hits of the sixties and seventies!” What a crock of warmed-over wombat semen. Jesus.     

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

SETTIN’ YOUR WORLD ON FIRE

“The Inferno,” in dumb-ass, American English.

If you remember anything from 12^th grade lit, it’s probably Dante Alighieri’s “Inferno,” the most engaging part of the Divine Comedy. Or perhaps the only thing you recall about 12^th grade English is how Nikki Potter’s breasts seemed to grow unfathomably larger as the semester progressed—but maybe that’s just me. Needless to say, if your class touched on Dante’s work (as some of the better high schools do), chances are you read one of the dense, fancy-pants English translations, and you most certainly did not read the original Italian version. But I recently found an adaptation that should be in every high school in the land—and on your shelves, too. Dante’s Inferno by Sandow Birk and Marcus Sanders (Chronicle Books, 2004) is an adaptation of Dante’s tale in plain old American English, accompanied by Birk’s black-and-white, comic-book-style illustrations depicting hell as, well, any major American city in the New Millennium (although San Francisco and Los Angeles seem to be more prominent). There are the familiar images of Virgil leading Dante past the gluttons, but in Birk’s version, these fatties wallow on a sticky sidewalk with signs for Sizzler, McDonald’s and In-N-Out Burger looming in the background.

The text is equally interesting, primarily for the manner in which Sanders and Birk turn the language and imagery on its head. By way of comparison, here’s a bit from Canto VI, when Dante encounters the three-headed beast Cerberus, as rendered by Charles S. Singleton in his translation by Princeton University Press (line breaks altered to make this easier on your web-weary eyes):

When Cerberus the great worm perceived us, he opened his mouths and showed his fangs; he was aquiver in every limb. And my leader, reaching out his open hands, took up earth, and with full fists threw it into the ravenous gullets. As the dog that barking craves, and then grows quiet when he snaps up his food, straining and struggling only to devour it, such became the foul faces of the demon Cerberus, who so thunders on the souls that they would fain be deaf.

Now, the same scene a la Sanders and Birk (same deal—line breaks eliminated):

When Cerberus saw us coming, he flipped out. He growled with all three of his mouths, and you could see his sharp teeth while his whole body twitched like he had the DTs or something. But Virgil wasn’t even worried, and he grabbed a handful of that stinking mud and he threw it straight into the mongrel’s three greedy mouths. Like the crazed crack addict jonesing for a rock who instantly calms down after he scores and gets his first drag of smoke,  Cerberus’ disgusting barking heads sniffed at the mud and lapped at it so intently that they seemed oblivious to anything else.

See what I mean? Not necessarily better, but certainly different—a good spin on an old favorite. Sure, Birk and Co. have totally stripped Dante’s lush language from the story—and hardcore Dante fans will gnash their teeth, wail, and rend their clothes. But here’s my take: sometimes you’re in the mood for a Coors Light, not Cabernet Sauvignon.  

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

EVERYONE KNOWS IT’S WENDY

Dave Thomas, You Were A God Among Men

When I was in college, my girlfriend (who foolishly became my wife some years later) worked at Wendy’s. At closing time, I’d tap on the drive-through window, and she’d let me in so could gorge myself on all the free leftover burgers, ice cream, and chili I could cram down my gullet. Eat. Puke. Eat again. Jesus, I loved Wendy’s. Still do. That’s why I just about shit up my back when I learned about Joe Wendroth’s book, Letters to Wendy’s (Wave Books, 2000). Here’s the fiendishly clever idea: The book is a series of notes to Wendy’s management, ostensibly written on comment cards, from an unnamed narrator who sings the praises of the fast food chain. He also posits a few suggestions, such as establishing Wendy’s as a place for public executions. It’s sort of like a collection of prose poems, really. Sometimes disgusting, sometimes pornographic, always a thrill, the book can be read in about the same time it takes a typical Wendy’s crew to close down the restaurant for a night—couple of hours, max. My newfound purpose in life is to read this book while at Wendy’s, and film the whole thing for YouTube. Look for it.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams. 

NO COUNTRY FOR PANSIES

You will read this archaic, pseudo-biblical diction, pal--and you will like it.

I’m late to the game on this, but I read Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men not too long ago. Yes, I know there was a movie by the same name that won some awards at some kind of big-time movie show or some shit like that. But I refused to see the movie before reading book. The reason is simple, folks: I refuse to let some Hollywood starlet humper (some of you call them “directors”) dictate how I will experience a story. That’s between me and Mr. McCarthy, thank you very much.

Anyhow, after thoroughly enjoying NC for OM, I dove right into McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Holy Jesus. What a beautiful, bloody, ass kicking tale that is. Forget about those supposed badasses you’ve seen in celluloid Westerns. Clint Eastwood is a corset-clad, simpering little milksop compared to the dirt-eating boys in Blood Meridian. Yeah, I know the complaints about Meridian: “I don’t understand it, the language is too hard to follow … why can’t he write it in plain English?” Suck it up. Sometimes reading is hard. McCarthy is employing an archaic, pseudo-biblical diction that’s perfect for this kind of story. If you don’t want to work that hard for your entertainment, stick to pawing your way through your girlfriend’s Victoria Secret catalog, tough guy.    

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

PORK FROM HEAVEN

George Carlin is probably hand-delivering the pork to J.C.

Well, you did it, America. You’ve killed George Carlin.

I know what you’ll say. “He always had problems with his ticker!” And it was probably nothing more than a good, old fashioned heart attack that claimed his life on June 22. Genetics, hard livin’ and an atrocious diet, most likely. But I’ll tell you something: I prefer to think of Carlin cashing in his chips because of something he saw you doing on television, America. He shot up from the La-Z-Boy, pointed at the TV with an impossibly long finger, furrowed his brow in that oddly plastic way he had, and exclaimed, “What the fuck?” And that’s when the chest pains began. I have no idea what he was watching—maybe another round of moral cluck-clucking about all those knocked-up teen girls in Massachusetts. Who knows. But Jesus, America. I’m sure it’s something you’ve done that pushed Carlin over the edge. Fuck knows you’ve given me chest pains on more than one occasion. (And in some small measure, we all owe G.C. a debt of gratitude for the freedom to say the word fuck in certain circumstances. The litany of tributes and memorials that have come in the last few days will cover that territory, so I won’t go into detail here. But for a crash course, click here. 

George Carlin wrote a handful of books, most notably Brain Droppings (1997), Napalm & Silly Putty (2001) and When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (2004). But of course you don’t get the whole Carlin experience by reading his books, good as they are. Your best bet is to snag his DVDs. Five minutes in you’ll be struck by how many of today’s comics pale in comparison, and how little they have to say (I’m lookin’ at you, Dane Cook.)

When I was a young’un, there were a few HBO programs my parents expressly forbade. Such as Risky Business—primarily because of the Tom Cruise/Rebecca DeMornay scene on the train, still one of the hottest goddamn simulated sex scenes in cinematic history. The other program on the shit list was, well, anything with George Carlin. But many years later I had an opportunity to catch G.C. live in Salt Lake City—which is the most mind-humping juxtaposition of mental imagery in and of itself. Several people walked out during the show (especially after he began skewering the Mormons—what did they expect?). He was in rare form.

Goodnight, George.   

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

What do a bag of crack, an expertly scripted porn flick and a strawberry shortcake have in common?

Last week, I recommended Under the Influence, a look at the “war on drugs” from 30,000 feet. Want to get down to ground level and get a sense for what the “war” does to people? Check out Eric Schlosser’s Reefer Madness: Sex, Drugs and Cheap Labor in the American Black Market (Mariner Books, 2004). Granted, the whole book is not dedicated to the topic, but the section of the book Schlosser dedicates to the legal, political, and judicial twists of dope enforcement will make your skin crawl. Schlosser is a top-notch journalist—and he gets down and dirty with folks whose lives have been seriously fucked by a legal system gone haywire. The rest of the book—with sections on immigrant farm workers and the porn industry—makes for compelling reading as well. Schlosser chronicles the lives of real people caught up in each of these facets of an underground economy that is more far-reaching, profitable, and stable than today’s politicos would dare admit. Hell, with drugs, sex, and strawberry pickers in one book, how could you go wrong? I know I’ll never look at a bag o’ crack, an expertly scripted porn flick, or a strawberry shortcake the same way again. (P.S.: I’m combining all three in a special Schlosser-themed party at my house next Saturday. Come on over.)

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

New releases for the week of June 24 – July 1.

Here we are again with another round of new releases. The usual spate of warnings apply: purchase at your own risk, as I have not had a chance to check these out. Your mileage may vary. Not responsible for lost or stolen items. Consult your physician before undertaking any exercise program. Side effects include anal bleeding, insanity and death. If you wake up dead, contact your doctor immediately. And so on.

Rock Star Babylon: Outrageous Rumors, Legends, and Raucous True Tales of Rock and Roll Icons, by Jon Holmes (Plume, released June 24)

Looks to be something like 288 pages of Ozzy Osbourne-esque tales of gnawing the heads off small mammals, imbibing too much (of anything … food, sex, dope, Tide bleach, etc.) and then laughing about it: “Ha ha. Boy was I fucked up that time I killed a hooker and dumped her body in a ravine south of Las Vegas. The music was great, though. Good times.” Seriously, haven’t we seen and heard this kind of stuff somewhere before? Oh, yeah, on just about every washed-up-celeb reality show and VH-1 retrospective of the past decade. Still, if you can’t get enough naughty rock n’ roller material to fill your otherwise meaningless existence, this may be the book for you.

Counterculture Kaleidoscope: Musical and Cultural Perspectives on Late Sixties San Francisco, by Nadya Zimmerman (University of Michigan Press, released June 28)

What the hell is going on? We’ve been hit by a spate of books analyzing the late 1960s and its music/culture, presumably because 40 years have passed since the era choked on its own vomit and died. In another 40 years, will publishers be cranking these things out because it’s the “80^th anniversary”? I’ll be too old to give a shit. Nonetheless, Zimmerman’s book is an “academic” look at the movement, with her main points being: a) the “hippie” movement of the era was, in fact, an organized rebellion; and b) contemporary critics and culture have tarnished the whole shebang by commercializing 1960s clichés to create a crass “hip consumerism.” In other words, you’re a fake and a fuckface because you’ve got that shitty tie-dye shirt you bought at Target.

’Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky: Jimi Hendrix: Voodoo Child, by David Henderson (Atria, released July 1)    

Initially published in ’78, this book is regarded as one of the best biographies of Hendrix. Henderson is an old-guard “New Journalist,” and his prose hums like a high-tension power line. This re-release reportedly includes information previously unavailable to Henderson when he was first putting the book together. Should be a good one.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

STRAIGHT TALK ABOUT BAMMY

Disinformation gives you the real deal on dope.

Let’s make a list of the greatest influences on rock music. We’ll want to throw the blues on the list, along with gospel. And teen angst—hormonal and otherwise. Oh yeah, and drugs. Can’t forget the dope.

Narcotics have been responsible for more good, bad, and indifferent rock songs than just about anything else (attention songwriters: I’m still waiting for that generation-defining song about knocking off a Walgreen’s for a handful of OxyContin). And dope has also been to blame for ushering a fair number of quality musicians into the afterlife. Add to that the United States’ complicated and contradictory relationship with the stuff and you’ve got a recipe for disaster: the U.S. “war on drugs”—a seriously misguided attempt to fix a problem by bludgeoning it to death with a tire iron.

Recently I snagged a copy of Under The Influence: The Disinformation Guide to Drugs (2004, The Disinformation Company Ltd.), edited by High Times contributor, musician, DJ, and journalist Preston Peet. Peet’s book includes an ensemble cast of cops, commentators, academics and old-fashioned rabble rousers, all writing succinctly and eloquently about the FUBAR manner in which law enforcement, the justice system, politicians and the public all approach the so-called “war on drugs.” It’s a good book to have in your arsenal for those late-night, booze fueled (my drug of choice is in liquid form, ladies and gents) arguments with the conservative Republican inbreeder who showed up at your party uninvited. Toss him a couple of toddlers to chew on (after all, they eat children, don’t they?), crack open the book, and begin your spiel. You’ll be ignored, but do it anyway.

A disclaimer: I’m in no way advocating drug use. I’m simply arguing that it’s inherently idiotic to send a 60-year-old ex-hippie to San Quentin for selling bags of bammy out of an Airstream trailer. And the government will seize the Airstream and the land it sits on as part of the bust—they’d snag the old hippie’s soul if they could figure out how to do it. It makes no sense to throw non-violent offenders into the clink for participating in an underground economy. Under the Influence lays out some pretty rational arguments along these lines—and more.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

NEW & NOTEWORTHY

Today we’ll take a look at some upcoming books you may want to check out. Keep in mind that some of these may not be worth a quart of lukewarm monkey jizz, but they have the potential to be pretty good reads. Emphasis on potential. Consider yourself warned: Don’t blame me if these things turn out to be ossified dog turds between covers.

Join Together: Forty Years of the Rock Music Festival, by Marley Brant (Backbeat Books, released June 15)

If the sum total of your knowledge of rock festivals begins and ends with Lollapalooza, it’s time for a little history lesson. And a swift kick in the ass. Author Marley Brant provides the former, and I’ll provide the latter (just shoot me an e-mail and we’ll line that up). Yes, Altamont and the Woodstocks (the original and the pale imitators) are here—along with the lesser-known music fests. This book is touted to put the festivals in their proper social context. Now you’ll know why Altamont was such a glorious fuckfest of fists and felony arrests.

Goodbye 20^th Century: A Biography of Sonic Youth, by David Browne (Da Capo Press, released June 14)

Worshipers at the altar of Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon should get a kick out of this bio, complete with never-before-seen pics and a slew of interviews with Sonic Youth bandmates, hangers-on, and friends of friends tangentially connected to the band. The book will reportedly be a fairly exhaustive account of SY from the early days on the Lower East Side to today.

The Gospel According to Bruce Springsteen: Rock and Redemption, from Asbury Park to Magic, by Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz (Westminster John Knox Press, released June 16)

Uh, make that the Reverend Jeffrey B. Symynkywicz, pastor of the First Parish Universalist Church of Stoughton, Mass. This book joins similar titles by Westminster John Knox—part of the publishing arm of the Presbyterian Church (USA)—examining the roles of pop culture icons in shaping faith in America. Or something. Previous titles in The Gospel According to … series focused on the Beatles and (wait for it … wait …) Oprah Winfrey. But you have to admit that the blue collar ballads of The Boss have a certain spiritual appeal, and are far more interesting than another reading of Leviticus. The good Rev. Symynkywicz analyzes this intersection of faith and music—so if you’re a militant atheist of the Christopher Hitchens mold, you probably won’t dig it. Otherwise, it may just fill a gap in your collection of Saint Springsteen scripture.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.

Reading is fundamental, and finding a good book is as good as locating that great album in the used record store. Harry Crews and Jonathan Lethem are as cool as David Bowie and Devendra Banhart, right? Each week, alongside our various and sundry music tips, BLURT’s gonna blow you toward good reads, music-related and otherwise. First up: a little of both.

LOOKING AT LIT RIFFS

A short story collection that reinforces the songwriters’ constant entreaty to ‘Never mind what my song is about—what do you think it means?’

For most of us, a goddamn great song (and maybe even the gawdawful ones) will knit together a little narrative in your head every time you hear it. You can’t help it. Your brain will construct a story and try to figure out what the song is about, maybe conjuring something far afield from what the songwriter intended, but hey, once inside the cranium it becomes your song and all the gray matter packed beneath that bad haircut you’re currently sporting can pretty much have its way with the tune.

That’s the idea behind Lit Riffs (Pocket Books/MTV Books, 2004), a book I just came across at Borders after cruising through a half-dozen clearance bins of publishers’ scat like Rachael Ray cookbooks. In Lit Riffs, great writers—such as Jonathan Lethem, Aimee Bender, Neal Pollack, and so on—offer up stories based on songs. My fave so far is Tom Perrotta’s “Dirty Mouth,” inspired by Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” (You know Perrotta—we can thank him for the ambitious resume-builder Tracy Flick in his novel Election, played to terminal perkiness by Reese Witherspoon in the movie by the same name.) Perotta’s tale is about swearing. Cussing. Four-letter words. And the linguistic S&M that occurs when kids start throwing those gems around. Good stuff. Reminds me of the time my mom blistered my backside for screaming, “Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn!” to a rival gang of seven-year-olds across the street. If I could go back in time, I’d kick my own ass for yelling that.

Jason Matthew Smith is a Texan who never developed an accent, thanks to a steady diet of television reruns during his formative years. He now lives in Utah, where everyone thinks he sounds just like John Astin, the original Gomez Addams.