.

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Phan Nhien Hao

was in town, so I took him to Kensington, South Philly and the Italian Market. We ended up in McGlinchey's, my old haunt. I bought my first beer here in 1982. It costed me 50 cents. There is a poem about McGlinchey's in my American Tatts, and a story, "555," included in my collection, Fake House, that begins in this bar before ending up in a Chinatown whorehouse. My New York Times article from June of 2009 mentions McGlinchey's. McGlinchey's is also the bar that made Sarah Stolfa famous.

I've hung out with Hao in Saigon, Hanoi, San Jose and Illinois. I even bought a used car from the guy. In 2006, Tupelo Press published a collection of Hao's poems in my translation, Night, Fish, and Charlie Parker. The title poem:

Night negotiating a plastic spoon
on a table littered with fish bones
all the illusions have been picked clean
Charlie Parker, a piece of bread not yet moldy
a black ocean and black notes
a few million years, a few small changes
at the bend in the road on the horizon
grows a strong type of tree
the black cat is in labor
gives birth to a few blue eggs.

One more:

Night in the South

A ringing phone on the carpet
a child is calling from the womb
night in the South
women open their doors to flirt
O spittle
the kind of germs belonging to wicked souls
returning to a cultured city
only to see ducks and chickens pecking on graves
shards of stars
encrusted in the deep dark horizon
the blue ocean and the monkish jellyfish
slackers are lining up
to buy cups of ice cream and a dripping night in the South
I walk on my hands
I drive 70 miles on the side of a mountain
the precipice is below
O the women, the jellyfish and the rosy cheeks
standing on the sidewalk with legs festively spread
all I have is jazz jazz jazz
and lots of gasoline in my bloody abyss.

The book also includes this interview:

Talking with Phan Nhien Hao


Linh Dinh In April of 1975, you were only 5 years old. You stayed in Vietnam until 1991, then immigrated to the U.S. Growing up in a Socialist environment, what did you read? How did these writers influence your thoughts and poetics?

Phan Nhien Hao It's true that in April of 1975, I was still very little. But I believe that the most important factors in shaping one's character are the things one learns in the first years of childhood. April of 1975 also affected my family in a tragic way, and I think this has determined my consciousness, although, like all children in South Vietnam after 1975, I grew up with a Socialist education. To overcome the political difficulties of my family background, I tried to be an excellent student throughout my elementary and secondary schools. I was one of the best literature students in the entire country. This means I had to memorize a lot of Socialist writing to compete in the best student contests. Thanks to this, I was admitted directly into the Teachers' College, and didn't have to join the military to fulfill my "international duties" in Cambodia. Although I had to study this literature to compete in the contests, I had from the beginning seen it as mechanical and tedious. Fortunately, my family managed to keep a library of books translated before 1975. I still remember hiding under the table at ten-years-old to read books that my uncle deemed inappropriate for my age. This library had truly contributed to the development of my literary consciousness. During my college years in Saigon, I also found many books published before 1975 to read. I don't think my studying Socialist literature has really affected my thoughts in any substantial way, because I was always secretly resisting it even as I was forced to study it, because my family background had taught me who I really was. And because I was living in the South, where there were still many books published before 1975.

LD Can you speak about the influence of surrealism in your poetry?

PNH I think the influence of surrealism has become too vast and deep in 20th century arts. Nowadays you can find traces of surrealism in nearly all modem and postmodern works. To me, surrealism is only the means to see beyond the surface of things, and, more importantly, it's a method to make associations in poetry. Surrealist associations allow the poet to place next to each other images that do not seem to go together in ordinary life, it allows the imagination to widen, and from there to create a richer reality. Another important element in surrealism is automatic writing, which I think is a very useful poetic device. This creates surprises in poetry, and frees it from the narrative task. And yet, I still try to build each poem as an integrated whole, linked by a unity of emotion, within the very ambiguity and unexpected shifts of the images. I think surrealism has become an element in contemporary poetry, so it's only natural that there are traces of surrealism in my poetry.

LD You have a degree in American literature from UCLA. Encountering American literature for the first time, what were your reactions? What do you see as the differences between American and Vietnamese literatures?

PNH In Vietnam, even before 1975, far fewer American writers were translated and introduced to Vietnamese readers than French writers. After 1975, only a handful of "progressive" American writers were translated. That's why, before coming to the US, I thought American literature was similar to European literature. My first reaction to American literature was disappointment. American literature seemed too monotonous, it wasn't a type of literature imbued with philosophy, with lots of experimentations, like contemporary French literature. But then I understood that the direct, non fussy quality of American literature is a feature that has been consciously and systematically built by American writers. It's an effort to create a distinct American literature, suitable to a consumer society and a pragmatic culture, with that American emphasis on results. My experience of American literature went hand in hand with my growing understanding of American culture and assimilation into American life, and not only something I learnt at school. That's why I think it would be hard for people living in Vietnam, where the influence of French culture is still very strong, to see the beauty of American literature. But I believe that an investigation into American literature would greatly benefit Vietnamese writers. It would make them less prone to heavy philosophizing, and improve their sense of humor. I just want to emphasize that, more than any other country, the U.S. is a multi-cultural society. And that's also true of American literature. The generalizations I've made about American literature are only its most salient features, and not all the particulars of American literature. In a free place like America, writers certainly do not have to compose in a single fashion.

LD How has being in exile affected your poetry?

PNH I feel lucky to have arrived in the U.S. at an age young enough to continue my education, but not too young that I only had a superficial knowledge of Vietnam. That's why I can compare, and detect the differences between the two cultures and literatures. Life is lonely here, but people do have an opportunity to do whatever they want, and say whatever they think, without someone to harass them. People don't starve to death here. And I don't think a poet can ask for more. The other issues are personal. The somewhat isolated life of an immigrant here has allowed me to turn inward more, and for my thinking to mature more. My knowledge of American literature and culture makes me want to write more directly and more vigorously. Life has its problems everywhere, but this is the exile life I have chosen, and I will never regret having made that decision.


First published in the Australia-based Vietnamese language journal, VIET, No. 8 (2001).

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Buried

in this commentary about the racial aspect of the Philly flash mobs, a revealing incident:

a man assaulted in Broad Street's upscale restaurant Bliss. A teenager, about 16 and wearing a Tiger Woods-style polo shirt, dashed in, punched a man in the head three times and raced out, I was told by the patron's friend, who I'll call Ralph because he asked anonymity. A police report was not filed. "What's the use?" he thought.

[...]

At Bliss, Ralph chased the teen but couldn't catch him. Some black passers-by who had no role in the attack laughed and taunted him, saying, "Look at the white boy, he's scared," Ralph said.

Some people may not want to hear this, but just as some white people don't like black people, some blacks don't like whites. But white people don't rampage in black neighborhoods.

Since a police report was not filed, this attack cannot be confirmed, but Stu Bykofsky is a well-established Philly columnist. In fact, the Philadelphia newspapers have not emphasized the racial angle, in stark contrast to comments by many readers. I will concur with Bykofsky that most of the black teens on South Street last weekend were peaceful. They were dressed up, strolling, out to impress and attract the opposite sex. I was on South Street until 10:20PM. My wife and I even ate at a table outside a Middle Eastern Restaurant, next to black drinkers at the adjacent bar. But the racial animosity behind violent acts perpetrated by some of these black teens cannot be ignored. Some of this racial anger is often quite out in the open, in the form of street harrangues delivered by a group calling themselves "The Israelite School of UPK." They would say things like, "St Patrick's Day is just another excuse for white people to have gay sex!" From one of their websites:

"How much more do you need to find out about MLK, he tried to marry a white woman.

He got caught screwing a white woman in a hotel in DC by the FBI, he told black people (gods chosen people) to integrate with the so called white man (the devil), which caused them to lose all of their businesess, get on drugs, catch AIDS, and murder each other."

These Israelites also consider Obama a tool so, at least here, they're more clear-minded than many respectable Americans! Here's a video of another Philadelphia group, The Gathering of Christ Church:

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Woman a random victim of assault 'game'; beaten, taunted by kids while walking through park; cops arrest girl, 12

Philadelphia Daily News, 3/22/10--In the same Southwest Philadelphia park where Belinda Moore used to play with her son, who died of asthma in 2005, she was brutally attacked Friday night by a group of kids who were playing what police said is a "game."

When the kids ripped Moore's hat off during the attack, she said they called her a "bald-headed b----." When she begged for the hat back, they stomped on it.

When she told them her son had died, that she'd been through so much already, she said they taunted her with his death.

And when she begged for mercy, they showed her none.

Police said they arrested one 12-year-old girl for the assault and have the names of another 12-year-old girl and an 11-year-old boy who were involved.

Police said Moore's was the second random beating this month by a group of kids in or near Finnegan Playground, at Grovers Avenue and 70th Street.

A 73-year-old man remains in the hospital as a result of a beating on March 13 that police believe may have been committed by some of the same juveniles.

Police learned through interviews that the beatings were a twisted "game" called "Catch and Wreck."

The only rules appear to be surrounding unsuspecting people and beating them senselessly.

Moore, 41, who is out of work, was on her way home after cleaning her mother's house for a few dollars and walked through the playground about 9:30 p.m. She noticed a group of boys and girls - she estimates 20, police say eight - but thought nothing of them.

"I remember thinking it was a beautiful night," she said. "Before I knew it, I had people circling me and chanting, 'Fight! Fight! Fight!' "

That's when one girl grabbed Moore's bag and another snatched her hat. Moore said she has lost much of her hair as a result of the depression she suffers because of her son's death.

"I was just begging them, 'Don't do this, I'm not bothering nobody. Give me my hat back,' " she said. "They were cussing at me and calling me a 'bald-headed b----.' "

Moore said she was then hit in the back with a stick and punched on one side of her face, then on the other, by different people.

She couldn't see who hit her or where the next punch was coming from because the kids continued to move in a circle around her the entire time, she said.

"Then they took a stick and knocked me in the knees until I fell down," she said. "They kicked me in the back. I was crying and begging for these people to stop and they just wouldn't stop.

"I just begged God to help me because I knew I didn't have no chance with these kids."

Moore said she was in a ball on the ground and somehow - she believes it was her prayer - mustered the strength to get up and run to a nearby house, where a resident helped her call 9-1-1.

Moore was able to run away with her hat and her bag, which had been ransacked. The gang took the little money she had. The bread and cupcake her mother had given her were smashed on the ground in front of her face.

"What did they get out of doing it to me? What did they get by hurting me?" she asked. "They don't even know what I was going through in my own life."

She said she was at Southwest Detectives until 2 the next morning. After that, she went home to shower and sleep before going to the hospital, where she was treated for swelling, bruises and a large contusion to her head.

Moore said she was told that police captured four juveniles - three girls and a boy - and that one of the kids responsible, a 12-year-old girl, was pregnant.

Police couldn't confirm that and said that only one 12-year-old girl was in custody, charged with aggravated assault, robbery and related crimes.

Police believe that the attack on Vincent Poppa, 73, was just as random. He was walking home from a Chinese-food store about 9:30 p.m. on March 13 when he was pushed to the ground by a group of five or six boys near the playground, police said.

He was punched, kicked and robbed of two bottles of soda and $200 he had with him. He remains at Methodist Hospital.

Moore said she was upset to hear she wasn't the first victim.

"I don't know if these kids hate society or hate life itself but I cannot believe they could do that to someone," she said. "Where is all that hatred coming from when you're only 11 or 12?"





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Another flash mob rocks South Street In the 'tsunami,' chants of 'Burn the city!'

Philadelphia Daily News, 3/22/10--Business owners yesterday called on Mayor Nutter to stop "flash mobs" on South Street after patrons couldn't shop, dine or get home on Saturday night because of the hordes of teens roaming the neighborhood.

Inspired by Twitter messages to "come to South Street," police say hundreds - business owners say thousands - of young teens stampeded down South Street in waves, jumping on top of cars, knocking over pedestrians and fighting and cursing.

"It was like a tsunami wave," said a store employee.

"The cops were overwhelmed," said a store manager.

The South Street business owners called on Nutter to impose a curfew of 10 p.m. or earlier after frightened managers locked their doors, only allowing customers inside.

Nutter did not return calls last night.

Saturday's was the sixth flash mob to hit the city since last May: three on South Street; two in the Gallery, including one that spread to Macy's; and one along Market Street East that spread to the area near City Hall.

Several store owners and managers documented the stampede with cell phones or store surveillance tape.

A pizza shop owner said that some in the mob were chanting, "Black Boys!" and "Burn the city."

One youth was overheard on his cell phone saying: "Bring baseball bats to South Street."

After enduring months of street construction during a recession, then one snowstorm after another, business owners were delighted that customers had returned to South Street to shop, eat and stroll on the first day of spring.

But the mood turned ominous as more and more teens showed up by 8 p.m. Between 9 and 10 p.m. the packed crowds reached a crescendo, according to police officials who deployed highway patrol, narcotics strike force and other units to assist officers on South Street. A parent, who had seen a text message or a post on Facebook, alerted police about the potential flash mob.

By 9 p.m., Yee Chau, manager of eModa, a clothing store, on South near 3rd, said "It was total mayhem. Kids were out of control. They were wall-to-wall. You couldn't see the sidewalks."

One armed owner, who showed the Daily News his gun permit, protected his business by standing outside with five assistants.

At Supper, a restaurant in the 900 block, bartender Kyle Fennie opened the locked door to let two woman customers out, but a mass of teens descended, and he let the women back inside. During a lull, he walked them to their cars.

About 10 p.m., police fanned out at either 2nd or 3rd Street and gradually moved the crowds west on South ot Broad. Kids started running at top speed, with some going around the block, and coming up behind the cops.

About 10:30 p.m. on South near 6th, Olympia Pizza II employee Seth Kaufman, 20, was in front of the pizza shop, trying to prevent kids from coming inside to fight with young customers who were eating.

As the crowd pushed the door to get inside, Kaufman pushed back. The crowd pushed again, and inside, the owners, 66-year-old Peter Psihogios, his wife, Harula, 58, and son Paul, 30, were pushing back on the store's double glass doors to keep them shut.

Kaufman said that kids slugged him, and he slugged them back, and then he was jumped, with kids kicking and punching him until he fell.

The elder Psihogios tried to bring Kaufman inside, but he was punched in the head.

Kaufman has bruises all over his body from face to legs.

"He saved our establishment from them coming in," said Paul Psihogios. "We owe him a lot of gratitude."

Numerous South Street residents reported hearing what they thought were gunshots about 11:15 p.m. around 13th Street south of South but police could not confirm it.

Barbara Bender, manager of South Street Souvlaki, near 5th Street, had to close at 9:30 p.m.

"It was devastating," she said. "People had been out buying and spending. It was great to see.

"Then kids were running this way and that, until the police had it under control at 11 p.m.

"Really, the mayor should address this with a 10 p.m. curfew for those under 18," she added. "Maybe the city should entertain kids to keep them from causing trouble."

Police said the incident was over by 1 a.m.

No property damage was reported but two juveniles and an adult were arrested in four incidents, police said. They included:

* About 11 p.m. a 27-year-old woman was walking on South near 15th when a large group of male and female juveniles ganged up on her, kicking and punching her until she fell to the ground, where they continued to kick her in the face and head. She was taken to Hahnemann University Hospital, where she was treated for bruises, abrasions and a large laceration on her upper lip. She has since been released. No arrests were made.

* A 17-year-old boy, whose name was not released, was arrested on a gun violation, after getting into a verbal exchange with a police officer, who ordered him to move his car from South Street near 12th. The teen got out of his car, took off his jacket and threw it into the back seat. The officer, who went over to the car, saw a handgun hanging out of the jacket in plain sight; 17-year-olds are prohibited from owning guns.

* A juvenile was arrested for obstructing traffic on South near 4th.

* An adult was arrested for disorderly conduct on South at 5th.






...................................

'Too many kids'

They wanted ice cream on South Street.

They ended up praying they'd get out alive.

Philadelphia Daily News, 3/22/10--Patrice DeLisser, 40, of Worcester, Montgomery County, was taking her cousin, who had just relocated to the area from Connecticut, and her own three children - ages 7, 9 and 14 - to South Street so she could show off the "eclectic" neighborhood.

DeLisser was looking for a place to park about 10 p.m. when she pulled onto South Street from 12th and came upon a mass of teens blocking the roadway.

"I commented to my cousin something is wrong here, it's too many kids," she said. "They were standing around and looking and waiting and then all of a sudden it was like the running of the bulls. Kids were running and screaming, 'Someone has gun.'

"I turned to my right and saw someone walking down the middle of the street with a gun in his belt. It was like the OK Corral. The handle and trigger were sticking out, the barrel was in his pants. He looked about 16 or 17. He was just walking. They were running away from him . . .

"My little one was screaming and crying in the car 'I don't want to die.' "

DeLisser was inching along South Street, trying to reach a street to turn on but "there was no moving, their bodies were everywhere."

Then the mass of teens came running from the other direction, screaming that someone else had a gun, leaving DeLisser's car possibly sandwiched between two armed teens.

"They're running for their lives," she said. "People were climbing over my car. My kids were just screaming, yelling in the back seat."

"My one daughter, she is 14, she is praying in the back seat. All I hear is 'Jesus, please save us, please save us.'"

[...]








................................................
I was on South Street, but left at 10:20. Three images from around 9PM:

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Two attacked in Philadelphia’s violent playground ‘game’

In the tradition of bum burning, wilding and happy slapping:


Philadelphia Inquirer, 3/21/10--Two residents of Southwest Philadelphia were injured - one of them seriously - in separate, recent attacks by youth engaging in a violent game they have dubbed "Catch and Wreck," police said tonight.

Lt. John Walker of Southwest Detectives said tonight a 12-year-old girl has been charged with aggravated assault and related offenses in connection with an attack on a 42-year-old woman Friday night, and additional arrests are expected.

In the game, a group of children between the ages of nine and 15 congregating at the Finnegan Playground at 69th Street and Grovers Avenue beat, strike and stomp adults they believe may be homeless, Walker said. He said neither victim in the two attacks was homeless.

Vincent Poppa, 73, remains hospitalized at Methodist Hospital a full week after he was hit in the back of the head with a gun, knocked unconscious and stomped by a group of four or five male youths near the playground around 9 p.m. March 13.

[...]

Walker said police learned about the "catch and wreck" game when they brought a large group of neighborhood youths to Southwest Detectives for questioning Friday night after Moore was assaulted.

"They were all saying the same thing, laughing at us, like we didn't know what it meant," Walker said. "They said, 'It's something stupid we do for fun.'"

Police, he said, believe it's a new phenomenon.

"It's bizarre mindset these kids have developed," Walker said. "We're hoping we can nip it in the bud."




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John Yau

at Dirty Frank's in Philadelphia, 3/16/10:

[John is old school. At two bars and one sushi joint, he drank me under the table... ]


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Final destination Iran?

Herald Scotland, 3/14/10:


Hundreds of powerful US “bunker-buster” bombs are being shipped from California to the British island of Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean in preparation for a possible attack on Iran.

The Sunday Herald can reveal that the US government signed a contract in January to transport 10 ammunition containers to the island. According to a cargo manifest from the US navy, this included 387 “Blu” bombs used for blasting hardened or underground structures.

Experts say that they are being put in place for an assault on Iran’s controversial nuclear facilities. There has long been speculation that the US military is preparing for such an attack, should diplomacy fail to persuade Iran not to make nuclear weapons.

[...]

“They are gearing up totally for the destruction of Iran,” said Dan Plesch, director of the Centre for International Studies and Diplomacy at the University of London, co-author of a recent study on US preparations for an attack on Iran. “US bombers are ready today to destroy 10,000 targets in Iran in a few hours,” he added.

The preparations were being made by the US military, but it would be up to President Obama to make the final decision. He may decide that it would be better for the US to act instead of Israel, Plesch argued.

[...]






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French bread spiked with LSD in CIA experiment

The Telegraph, 3/11/10:

A 50-year mystery over the 'cursed bread' of Pont-Saint-Esprit, which left residents suffering hallucinations, has been solved after a writer discovered the US had spiked the bread with LSD as part of an experiment.

In 1951, a quiet, picturesque village in southern France was suddenly and mysteriously struck down with mass insanity and hallucinations. At least five people died, dozens were interned in asylums and hundreds afflicted.

For decades it was assumed that the local bread had been unwittingly poisoned with a psychedelic mould. Now, however, an American investigative journalist has uncovered evidence suggesting the CIA peppered local food with the hallucinogenic drug LSD as part of a mind control experiment at the height of the Cold War.

[...]





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North Tyneside high street 'revived' by fake shop front

BBC, 3/3/10--Fake businesses are to be used to lessen the impact of the recession on high streets in North Tyneside.

With 140 empty shops in the borough, council bosses think they have come up with a unique way of ensuring shopping areas remain as vibrant as possible.

[...]





[Speaking of broke lads, my favorite English businesses are the Ladbrokes off-track betting parlors. I do miss England, miss that long, brisk hike by the North Sea, my face pecked by a freezing rain, then a mound of greasy yet delicious chips at the end. I don't miss the pea soup, no, not even with a squirt of mint.]




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Indonesians rioting against bank bailout

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Meanwhile, in the U.S. of A., it's American Idol, Project Runway and March Madness!



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Study finds median wealth for single black women at $5

Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, 3/9/10--Women of all races bring home less income and own fewer assets, on average, than men of the same race, but for single black women the disparities are so overwhelmingly great that even in their prime working years their median wealth amounts to only $5.

[...]

Among the most startling revelations in the wealth data is that while single white women in the prime of their working years (ages 36 to 49) have a median wealth of $42,600 (still only 61 percent of their single white male counterparts), the median wealth for single black women is only $5.

[...]











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Dictionary

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Glenside, PA

3/8/10:

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Calling All Rebels

Chris Hedges, 3/8/10:


There are no constraints left to halt America’s slide into a totalitarian capitalism. Electoral politics are a sham. The media have been debased and defanged by corporate owners. The working class has been impoverished and is now being plunged into profound despair. The legal system has been corrupted to serve corporate interests. Popular institutions, from labor unions to political parties, have been destroyed or emasculated by corporate power. And any form of protest, no matter how tepid, is blocked by an internal security apparatus that is starting to rival that of the East German secret police. The mounting anger and hatred, coursing through the bloodstream of the body politic, make violence and counter-violence inevitable. Brace yourself. The American empire is over. And the descent is going to be horrifying.

[...]



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Then All At Once

Wise and lyrical, the latest from James Howard Kunstler:


I was plying the interstate highways of New England this weekend -- there is no sane way to get from Albany, New York, to the vicinity of Middletown, Connecticut, by public transit -- marveling at the vistas of normality all around me: the freeway lanes with their orderly streams of happy motorists, the chain stores floating like islands on the gray undulating landscape, the corporate towers of Springfield, Mass, and then Hartford, gleaming in the persistent pre-spring sunshine, as though they physically represented the wished-for dynamism of economies in recovery. "I see dead people..." said the kid in that horror movie. I see dying ways of life.

[...]













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Glenside, PA

3/8/10:

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Corn Madness

A must-read letter, posted at Dmitry Orlov's always excellent blog, 3/6/10:


Dear Dmitry,

I hope you don't mind that this is in Russian. I think that this way I can be more completely honest. I am a relatively recent graduate of one of the many faceless post-Soviet institutions of higher learning, with a degree in philosophy. Last year I moved to the USA and married an American woman.

The question of when the modern capitalist system is going to collapse has interested me since my student years, and I have approached it from various directions: from the commonplace conspiracy theories to the serious works of Oswald Spengler and Noam Chomsky. Unfortunately, I still can't fathom what it is that is keeping this system going.

[...]



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Twelve New England towns demand 9/11 reinvestigation

Russia Today, 3/4/10:


A new movement to reinvestigate the 9/11 attacks is gaining pace in the US. With major public support, 12 towns are set to decide whether to ask the federal government for a new independent probe.

New York is dubbed as the Empire State for its wealth and resources and is rightfully regarded as America’s most famous city, a beacon of fashion, finance and fast paced action.

New Hampshire is the Granite State of so-called self sufficiency. Less flash and cash, most famous for hosting the first U.S. presidential primary.

New York and New Hampshire are more than 200 miles apart, but for all that distance, the two US locations intersect on one issue: the 9/11 attacks. While it was in Manhattan where three buildings fell, the people of Keene, New Hampshire are pushing for a new probe to find out why.

At 81 years old, Gerhard Bedding devotes nearly all his time to the Vote for Answers campaign. Though the movement for a new 9/11 investigation began in the Big Apple, it’s seeing more success in New Hampshire.

“This is so central to the future of this country. There is no future, as far as I’m concerned, if we do not get to the bottom of this, because we steep in lies upon lies, and soon we do not know what is what anymore,” Bedding said. “I do believe truth matters.”

[...]

.

I will read with Sueyeun Juliette Lee,

who has just published her second book, Underground National (Factory School, 2010).


Reception and Poetry Reading
Celebrating a Book Release and New Exhibition
Friday, March 5th, 2010
5:30-7:30 gallery opening and reception
7:30-8:30 poetry reading

Asian Arts Initiative
1219 Vine Street, Philadelphia





[I also have a book, Borderless Bodies, from Factory School.]

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Post Hotdog, Sober, Mr. Lee

Between 20 and 30, many of us were artists, writers or musicians. We painted houses, tended bars, waited tables, but we also rehearsed with our bands, be they called Strapping Fieldhands, Missing Foundation or Baby Flamehead. We sculpted or painted all night, tried to get our poems published. With slim evidence, we believed we were special, and maybe we were, even if it has come to nothing.

I’m 46 now, and yesterday, I ran into Scott Lee, whom I hadn’t seen in more than a decade. He hasn’t changed much, just a tad pudgier at 42. Still the same black, thick rimmed glasses, the grinning, easygoing manner. “Hey, let’s go for a beer,” I suggested. We were standing just outside a Hard Rock Café. “Want to go in there?” Scott asked.

“Hell, no, let’s go to a real place.”

“We can go to the beer garden?”

“OK.”

The beer garden is located inside Reading Terminal, an indoor market with many eateries, mostly ethnic, and stalls selling specialty foods. You can have scrapple served by an Amish lady under a bonnet, try some obscure cheese, take home a hunk of swordfish. Though not really a beer garden, this bar is not a bad place to sit. A bit touristy. Yuengling, a not too special, local beer, is treated like a micro brew here, and charged accordingly. No background music, which is nice. This afternoon, a quiet television showed the USA, Canada gold medal hockey game.

For about 15 years, Scott and I were regulars at Dirty Frank’s, a low life, vaguely artistic bar, with junk paintings and photographs, earnest and inept, sometimes funky, on its wall. The juke box was pretty good, though. I remember hearing Patsy Cline, and Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing, Sing,” with Gene Krupa’s joyously manic drumming.

I’ve written about Frank’s and mentioned Skinny Dave, the trust funded junkie. He’s gone now. Hey, the next one’s on me, Skinny! Seeing me write on a scrap of paper, Skinny said, “You’re lucky you can do that. I have nothing to do.” I likened Sheila, the bartender, to Sheila-na-Gig, whom she’d never heard of, though it’s her namesake. “It’s an Irish goddess stretching out her enormous vulva, like this,” and I made a motion with my hands, like Superman ripping open his shirt.

Before the internet, one had to leave one’s apartment to chatter, so the bar was the obvious destination, but even if there were other places to socialize, we probably wouldn’t have gone anyway, because we were truly fond of our liquid bread, sharpened, every now and then, with a shot of Jameson. Who are “we”? Me, Scott and so many others, hundreds of millions of others. In any case, there was nowhere else for us to loiter and gaze, so our boozy ways could be scientifically blamed on our alienating environment. We had no choice, man, we had to drink to be social.

Scott and I had both gone to art schools, he at the Academy, I at the University of the Arts. We were also the only Asians who frequented Dirty Frank’s. “Some people still think I’m you!” Scott chuckled. “Hey, aren’t you the poet who got that huge award?”

“That’s pretty funny.”

“You used to get seriously shitfaced,” I reminisced.

“Yes, but so did you.”

“Yeah, but you would be sitting on the sidewalk, not knowing where you were.”

“Yeah.”

“I did black out once or twice, though. I was bad too.”

“I also blacked out. People would say, You did this, you did that, and I had no idea what they were talking about.”

“We were never as bad as Jay.”

“Yeah, Jay would pick fights with the bouncer. When Jay gave Dago shit one time, Dago just bounced him with his belly.”

“Dago died.”

“Yes, he did, and one time, Jay and this guy were kicked out of the bar. They were both fucked up and jawing at each other. Jay had his dukes up, but this guy just loaded up and gave Jay a perfect roundhouse kick, right to the jaw.”

“Man, that’s not fair.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“If you could do that to a guy, you shouldn’t be doing it, especially when the guy’s fucked up.”

“I agree.”

I was seldomly an angry drunk, vehement, yes, even now, but never an in your face, I’m about to go berserk or incite you to kill me kind of drunken asshole. Being 5-6, I should add, that would not be wise. If I were 6-5 or even 5-7, I would live differently, I’m sure. If I were 6-5, I wouldn’t be sweating over linebreaks, assonances and caesuras.

It was a challenge to stay sober for more than a day. Three straight days and it was time for a celebration, by having more drinks. The bar exposed me to all types of people, but the conversations eventually became tedious, mostly, and repetitive. The loud music didn’t help. On any given night, however, one could hear something appalling or poignant, charming or abject. Never assume you really know how people talk. Each man is awed by his own scars and sharpness, loves his own voice, so everyone is constantly refining his own routine, adding a fresh phrase here and there, getting his timing down.

Alcohol released tucked away emotions, some frightful, some silly, but the distortions that it caused made each sensation or insight suspect by next morning. On top of a hangover, one also felt regret and embarassment, usually, but evening came and it’s back to the bar again, because there was simply nowhere else to go. Drunk, people could be oddly beautiful, vulnerable and sad, their faces softened by that red-tinted light. That’s something a drunk would say. Truth is, my thinking and writing improved after I had weaned myself from the frothy fermentation. I haven’t had a drink in two days. The maudlin self pity and self hatred also dissipated almost entirely. “There is so much violence here,” a friend sneered as he observed a full bar on a Saturday night. “I had to stop drinking,” another friend said, laughing, “because whenever I got really drunk, I just loved everybody,” as in making out to whomever she was next to.

Scott has spent much of his working life as a waiter, usually at upscale places like Suzanna Foo, Ciboulette and Anjou, joints I could only press my nose against. Last year, Scott was unemployed for 10 months, but his landlord never kicked him out, although he didn’t pay rent that whole time. “Greek guy. Old school. Really nice,” he said. “His mom and girlfriend were really giving him shit for letting me slide.”

“So did you finally pay him off?’

“Yeah, I got work and I sold a painting.”

“For how much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Ten thousand bucks?! Shit, man, that’s great!”

“No, man, it was worth at least 20,000.”

“No way... Ten thousand dollars is excellent.”

The most I ever sold a painting for was $800. Scott continues to paint, though he has never shown in a gallery. Before I quit, even I had gallery exposure. Without a studio, Scott works in his small apartment. “Anyway, I was so broke, one time I lined up to get free food in front of the library.”

“I’ve seen those lines.”

“I was just standing there with all these people when this guy, a black guy, started to give me shit. He said, ‘Mr. Lee, you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t belong here.’”

“How did he know your name was Lee?”

“He didn’t. He just called me that because I was Asian.”

“That’s pretty funny.”

“He kept telling me to get out of line. I was dressed well, so that probably pissed him off. I had a job interview that day. I was dressed really well, but I was still hungry.”

“So what happened?”

“I told him to stop calling me Mr. Lee. He said, “So what is your name?’ ‘It is actually Lee,’ I said, ‘but stop calling me Mr. Lee, Tyronne!’ All these other black guys just cracked up and I stood there until I got my damn hotdog.”

Starving, Scott also went into Whole Foods to stuff his mouth with sample salami and cheese. He probably swallowed the toothpicks. Once, making one too many passes, he was browbeated into leaving. “I felt like shit.” He never shoplifted, though. “Remember Jeannie?” he continued.

“No.”

“One time I was passed out in front of Sabra, that Middle Eastern place, and she carried me home.”

Scott is about 5-9, 170 pounds. “On her shoulder?”

“Yeah, she carried me home and put me in bed. I had a dream that all these dogs were biting me. They were all over me, man, then one of the dogs started to french kiss me. I opened my eyes and it was Jeannie.”

“I don’t remember this Jeannie at all.”

“Last I heard, she went down to Florida and became a porn star.”

One paints or writes because one must, even when one’s audience is negligible, the praises reciprocal bullshit, the attacks accurate, for now, and one suspects that even mediocrity might be way out of reach. One writes or paints even when the dogs are biting.







[This piece will be in Volume 1 of Vertebrae Journal, out of San Diego.]

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PoemTalk 29: Al Filreis, Rae Armantrout, Tom Devaney and I

discuss Kit Robinson's "Return on Word." Go here for text of poem.






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Out of Work? U.S. Offers Lots of Lousy, Unsafe Jobs for Low Pay

Jeffrey Burke:

Feb. 25 (Bloomberg) -- Bend, grab head, cut through stem, unbend, shake head, bag head, put bagged head on platform. Repeat -- hundreds of times.

In this back-breaking way, a 31-member crew harvested 30,000 heads of Yuma, Arizona, iceberg lettuce one day in early 2008. It’s one of the stints Gabriel Thompson undertakes for “Working in the Shadows: A Year of Doing the Jobs (Most) Americans Won’t Do.” He also clocks in at a poultry plant, a wholesale florist operation and as a restaurant delivery man.

In “Catching Out: The Secret World of Day Laborers,” Dick J. Reavis looks at the labor hall, where workers go each morning in the hope of “catching out” a job ticket for a few hours of low-level, low-paying toil.

The two journalists bring back from the margins reports of exploitation, injury, injustice and numbed resignation. It can be eye-opening to see what the body and mind will endure, yet it isn’t pleasant reading, not least because neither writer holds out much hope of better prospects.

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dear linh dinh

do you remember me?

My name is Richard Chiem and I am an underground writer of love stories in San Diego. I had the pleasure of attending UCSD while you were a reader there for the New Writing Series and I remember my leg hurting like a second anus under cancer, when I arrived late to your reading shamelessly, finding a place to sit down near the door way, so you were a side view man, suddenly an endless man into the microphone. Do you remember that reading space? it's a deceptively large black, vacuum of a room and the air is very eerie inside. Colder too inside. It all seemed like a perfect setting, finer dust particles floating in the air and florescent lighting like jellyfish, and I remembered I had a small need to destroy something, but for goodness for the good of mankind and you began reading steadily. You stuttered a few words purposely which somehow, was felt profoundly in your audience's hair and slight skin imperfections. Poetry that disturbed the comfortable and comforted the disturbed. I was young. 19. Kid. Boy. Toy.

The word anus had become your listener's favorite word, interchangeable with love or mangoes. Microphone distortions or back feed. Anus like a sound.

We spoke shortly and you signed inside my copy of Borderless Bodies. I don't know. I don't remember what we spoke of. But I remembered your handshake. A sensory handshake. Like you were giving me a quarter made of flesh. I felt like a visceral person.

The evening before your reading, I had been driving around aimlessly with an upset lover, upset with our affections, what we do, how we talk to one another and already, I just wanted to see the ocean. Have the waves have me, and my girlfriend is no longer upset, because she said, I had this look in my eye. She said, a loss. I said out loud, the word fizz and we made love in the back of her car, falling asleep because we only had two condoms stored away in the glove compartment, next to your book, Borderless Bodies. Three A.M. was the tentative time before flashlights beamed into our head windshields and I already knew the feeling. I had forgotten it was a bad spot parked near the shores and now the police officers are telling me to get out of the car and I am naked as I came.

I had hurt my leg clumsily over a loose rock on the pavement, a freak accident, rushing to put my clothes on in front of the police officers, which they allowed me to do. They all smelled like bad leather, so almost like pigs. I fell and hit my head and I still had to give them my license and registration and as I reached for those two documents, your book fell to the wet pavement, Borderless Bodies.

What is that, asked the police officer.

Borderless Bodies. By Linh Dinh. It's good.

My name is Richard Chiem and I am an underground writer of love stories in San Diego. I apologize for being late to your reading years ago. I am deeply moved by your work and I apologize for being sentimental, but I thought I return the favor with a small narrative, of your real presence in a random occurrence. The anus like sound.

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