Q: You make fun of yourself.
Besides calling yourself a hack writer, a cult writer, a vernacular writer, a Florida
writer, and an underground writer, you call yourself a hospitality industry report
writer and folk art critic, an ecotourism specialist, or ecotourism czar of South
Walton County, an adventure travel correspondent for outdoor magazines, a roving,
or raving correspondent for the L. A. (Lower Alabama) Free Press, you have
to give the shit away, and a senior fellow at the prestigious left-wing think-tank
the Point and Shoot Institute (PSI).
A: An angry would-be writer, a contented online writer, when I am angry
as shit, about being snubbed by bloggers.
As if little magazines,
zines, ezines, and the online journal (OLJ) community, not to mention New York and
Hollywood, were not enough.
Blogs?
Q: But on the whole you're very light.
"Minor poet."
A: I stole that from Women.
Bukowski was funny.
My mission statement is to write world literature from Point and Shoot, Florida.
When the blogs snub me.
I'm like a flea with a hard-on, hollering, "Raise
the bridge."
I do make fun of that.
At the same time, it hurts.
And it makes me mad.
Q: One reason you've had trouble breaking through is you are so hard to classify. You're all over the map.
A: Yes, and too prolific.
And I write about taboo subjects. In
colloquial language.
I see all those as pluses.
Q: The Celebrated Jumping Mullet of Bay County, Florida.
Salvage archeologist. Buzzard Cult.
Those are funny.
The mullet
culture versus the corporate cubicle dot-com culture.
A: Red Tape, Whited Sepulchers, and Blue-Nosed Chauvinism.
172 pamphlets, chapbooks, or four-page sheets.
75 books on the web in five
years.
250 books, and counting.
Maybe I deserve a fête.
An homage.
Q: A Brew Handbuch. Which you write yourself.
A Festschrift.
Courtesy of Blaster Al. Her breast-shaped pears.
A pear review.
A: A pun is the lowest form of humor.
The Gillis Brothers have
a line in a song, "They all said they would be there, but nobody came."