Q: Ernest Hemingway called himself Ernie Hemorrhoid, the Poor Man's Pyle.
A: Pyle once drove around the Southwest and wrote six 1,000-word pieces
a week for the Scripps Howard chain.
Hemingway never did that.
I
do that.
I write about chili cook-offs. Take pictures of the chefs, the chili.
Fish fries.
A ULA read-off is like a chili cook-off.
May the best chef win.
Q: Possum Day at Wausau.
A: There you go.
Willeford's publisher sent Cockfighter to
the shredder, when it didn't sell.
Willeford could have lived off selling
them to men who fight roosters, out of the back of his van. It's a classic. You have
to buy a bootleg copy.
Q: Charles Willeford.
A: Yes. He's my other hero.
Q: "...destined for oblivion, lacking even cult status."
A: Yes. That was him before Miami Blues.
Q: Bukowski Never Did This is not Miami Blues.
A: No, but maybe it's Post Office.
An underground writer
procedural novel.
Q: You don't have beatnik chicks throwing themselves at you.
A: Existentialists.
Q: You paid to have Glori-Anne Gilbert sit on your lap.
A: No, I was commissioned to write a story about attending Glamourcon '99.
Roger Jackson paid to have Glori-Anne Gilbert sit on my lap.
I wrote I
Only Read It for the Ads.
I get paid to write. I am a total professional.
I just don't get paid to write very much, or very often.
Q: And some books you write on spec.
A: Yes. Like INSIDE UNDERGROUND WRITING.
Who cares about underground
writing at all? Much less wants a look inside.
That's like INSIDE WATCH REPAIR.
A watch, you throw it away and get another one.
Q: When do you leave for Philadelphia?
A: Tomorrow morning early.
Q: What are you going to do today?
A: Clean the house. Do some shopping. Pack.
Q: When will you be home?
A: Sunday night late.
Q: So you'll be writing in longhand in a journal until Monday, then catch up.
A: Yes.