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In Memoriam: John Martin

A picture of John Martin

I can say without hesitation that John Martin was the single biggest influence in my life.

Not because he published Bukowski—though that was the start—but because of what he built: The Black Sparrow Press. A press with vision, with guts…and a whole lotta style. The first BSP book I ever held was Burning in Water, Drowning in Flame, and I bought it minutes after walking out of the movie theater where I’d just seen Barfly.

I didn’t know who Charles Bukowski was. I just knew I liked the movie. And then there it was: a book in bright orange wraps with a title that looked like it had been pulled out of who-knows-where. I didn’t know yet that this book actually collected three of Bukowski’s earlier volumes. I didn’t know it would become, in my opinion, the best single-volume entry point into his poetry. All I knew was: I needed that book.

And then I devoured it.

I didn’t know yet that I was stepping into a whole universe—one built not just by Bukowski, but by a publisher with vision who had a designer with an eye for the extraordinary. And when I got to the end—to the colophon page—something happened. I had never even heard the word colophon. But there it was. Martin’s voice. His care. His note about the design, the typography, the printer, the limitations. It was the first time I realized a book is a made thing—not just a container for content, but a piece of art, crafted start to finish.

Of course, none of those Black Sparrow books would’ve looked or felt the way they did without Barbara Martin, John’s wife and the designer behind the press’s entire visual identity—those were hers. Her aesthetic became Black Sparrow’s signature, and it left a mark on every one of us who ever judged a book by its cover. Who can’t spot a BSP title from a mile away?

And while it would’ve been easy—maybe even profitable—to stick with “sure things” like Bukowski or Fante, John Martin did something braver. He took real financial risks on writers who had little-to-no audience at all: Curtis Zahn, Jack Anderson, Fielding Dawson, John Thomas, Ron Loewinsohn, Michael Gizzi—names few remember, but whose voices were preserved because Martin believed in them. That’s where his heroism lies. That’s what made Black Sparrow more than just another “indie” press.

Bukowski got me to the Beats, to the little mags and Marvin Malone and Gypsy Loy & Jon Webb. Hal Norse. Jack Micheline. Johnny Brewton and his work, too! The Beats got me to “academic” literature, for lack of a better term. And John Martin’s colophons—those little back-page meditations—led me, ultimately, to the founding of the synaesthesia press.

How about that?

All because I walked into a movie theater to see a Mickey Rourke flick. All because I grabbed a book in bright-orange wraps.

Rest in peace, John. And stay strong, Barbara. You made books that mean something. You built a life on championing voices most publishers wouldn’t touch. You made literature cool. And for at least one young man walking out of a movie theater and into the buzz of a mid-1980’s, new-and-used bookstore (when bookstores really buzzed), you changed everything.

Thank you.

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Starting Over with Blue Note 1500s (Because 10 Records Wasn’t Enough)

A Picture of Blue Note 1558 Sonny Rollins Volume 2.

I’m the first to admit a bad idea. Especially when I’ve made it.

Bikram Yoga, just off the top of my head. It’s tough enough sitting in a 105-degree room for 90 minutes. Add the same 26 postures, over and over, and you’re slow-roasting in a humidified cult. And yeah, the people who really love it? Like I said — culty. And kooky. Making for an unsustainable practice.

Picking up a skateboard after a couple decades, thinking I’d pick up right where I left off? Bad idea. I’m lucky I didn’t break an arm — or at least dislocate a shoulder. And how come adults don’t fall like kids do?

Pulling out the novel I submitted for my MA at the University of San Francisco? Still in the box I taped up in 1999. I’ve got a feeling that’s going to be a bad idea, too.

Then there was the day I sold off my entire record collection. Honestly? Not a bad idea. But when I shook The Record Dealer’s hand, I got a little verklempt. Not over the sale itself — more the sense that a chapter was ending. I blogged about it. Almost went a little cry baby.

The Record Dealer just smiled and said, “Don’t be upset. Just start collecting again!”

So I did…sort of.

And I made up a rule: only ten records, max. If I wanted to bring home an eleventh, I had to choose one to cut and trade back in. A brilliant idea, right?

Meh.

For reasons I can’t fully explain, it really didn’t stick. Elegant in theory; not so much in practice. Come to think of it, not-so-elegant in theory, either.

Which brings me to what will almost certainly be another bad idea: the Blue Note 1500 series.

From 1955 to 1957 (give or take), Blue Note released 99 albums, starting — of course — with 1501: Miles Davis Volume 1. The 1500s might be the most iconic run in jazz history. Legendary musicians. Unmistakable sound. And the cover art? Mid-century amazing. Clean layouts, bold typography, and some incredible Francis Wolff photos. A whole aesthetic summed up in less than 100 records.

Collectors have been chasing them for decades. Some pressings go for absurd money. Like, “you could’ve gone on a really nice vacation” money.

And yet, I’ve been thinking about this much longer than I’d like to admit. Perhaps waiting for a sign. A sign from wherever the signs come from that trigger The Collector to start collecting. Then, a few days ago, I walked into Grace Records. I’ve mentioned Grace before. Just like I’ve been blogging about this whole 10-record thing. I walked into Grace, and there, in one of the three boxes behind the cashier, that sign appeared. A wonderful, beautiful sign, solid black, highlighting The Man with the tenor saxophone in blue with amazing white & blue typography. And a first pressing!! For less than a hundred bucks! In decent shape!

So yeah. I’ve made another bad decision.

Besides, I’ve been lucky enough to visit Europe a whole lot. And Hawaii? It’s totally overrated.

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The Ad on the Back Page: Bukowski, Richmond & a Record That Barely Was

a picture of an ad for the Steve Richmond Charles Bukowski record!

I’m a sucker for vintage, underground newspapers—and even more so for their back-page ads. Sure, the content is great. Some of the articles in Berkeley Barb, The Oracle, and Open City are essential counterculture journalism. But the ads? That’s where the real treasures lie.

They’re flimsy things, barely held together if in collectible condition. Flip through and you’ll find offers for Super 8 adult films, pen pals from prison, rock shows I wish I’d seen—and the occasional rare gem you never knew existed.

Like this one.

Tucked away in the Open City First Anniversary Issue was an ad that stopped me cold. A hand-drawn offer for a long-playing record of poetry. One side: Charles Bukowski. One side: Steve Richmond. Each reading his own work. Send 3 bucks to Earth Rose in Venice, California, and you’d get it.

I’ve seen this record. I’ve heard it. I even managed to own one. But I’ve never seen this ad. And trust me—being both a Bukowski and a record geek, I would’ve stumbled upon it somewhere.

The record is mythical-level rare. Maybe a dozen copies survive. It’s so rare most Bukowski collectors don’t even know about it. Oh sure, they know 90 Minutes in Hell or certainly the few released later in his life. But this one? Richmond issued it himself under his Earth Rose imprint. And the story I was told? After releasing it, Richmond asked Bukowski what he thought about the record.

Buk’s reply: You sound like T.S. Eliot.

You sound like T.S. Eliot.

That was that. Richmond destroyed the rest of the pressing; only the handful he managed to sell survive.

And the ad survives, too. Maybe it was the only one Richmond could afford—I don’t know. But this is what keeps me thumbing through paper that feels like it might disintegrate at any moment—just to find one more gem.

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Crumbs of Cool

A picture of David Johannson and Johnny Thunders in Hollywood during their peak years as NY Dolls.

Some mornings I stare at my phone, and it’s like being hit by an avalanche of greatness. Sometimes I think what’s so great about any of this? Substack, X, YouTube, Instagram, Blue Sky, Threads, Facebook. On a good day, they’re all kinda brilliant. On a bad day, they’re all fucking garbage. Or maybe it’s the other way around. One thing’s for sure—I’m overwhelmed.

This morning, I stumbled on a photo of David Johansen and Johnny Thunders on Hollywood Boulevard. I’ve never seen it. I’ve seen others…just not this one. They’re in front of Frederick’s, just chillin’ on a trash can in peak New York Dolls mode. Then I’m reading a tight little essay on Modernism that enlightened me on À la recherche du temps perdu (spoiler: not a wine). Over on YouTube? A Minutemen video from the ’80s I didn’t know existed. Then the New York Times app pings me: the 10-minute audio news roundup. Just news. No editorializing. Well. Kinda. My kinda editorializing! But wait—should I listen to Sherman Alexie read Carver’s Where I’m Calling From instead? My New Yorker app is open too.

So I text my NYC Crew: “How often do you guys feel overwhelmed with all the stuff we have access to?”

NYC Crew 1 replies: “It makes me feel ick. Manipulated.”

As I read that, I’m literally listening to Haruomi Hosono—never heard of him until Tosh Berman’s Substack post, like, 30 minutes earlier. (Hosono is so good. So weird. Very cool. Kinda like Tosh!)

A minute later, Crew 2 chimes in: “I feel bad when I get sucked into Twitter and can’t pull away.” But in 1990, if someone said they got lost in a novel for hours, we didn’t call that a problem. Unless maybe it was Danielle Steele. Wasn’t she ridiculous?

So yeah, maybe the algorithm’s feeding me crumbs. But mine? Only the cool crumbs, damnit! Sometimes they’re delicious, too. Other times, they’re a madeleine dipped in tea. Which—as I now know—is how you start remembering everything.

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The Floating Gnome

A picture of a found photo of a parade float.

I don’t believe in reincarnation. But sometimes, I get this odd déjà vu when I’m rifling through a big box of loose photos at a flea market. Something stirs—part memory, part imagination. The “memory” seems to linger more than the imagination, that’s for sure. The memory? Why does it feel like I might have been at that parade?

I can spend hours digging in a single box of old pictures. I have, too. Many times. And discarded photo albums! Turning those pages creates a strange intimacy—flipping through the days of someone else’s life.

We make more photos in a single day now than were made in the first 150 years (give or take) of analogue photography. Today’s photos live on phones. Disposable. Delete-able. Quickly forgotten. But every analogue shot? Those mattered. You had either 12, or sometimes 24, and if you splurged, 36 shots in a roll. It made a photog to think. The photog had to slow down. I need to slow down.

I’m not even sure why I’m writing about all this. I guess it’s The Floating Gnome. That’s what I call this parade float photo I found. Four black photo corners, affixed to a comic book backer board, then slid into its poly bag and ready to find a new home.

That’s what I do with these pictures. I find them, and save them, then savor them. Eventually, I sell them. They deserve to be saved—from the city dump, mainly. They deserve better. They’re tiny little masterpieces in their own right.

But sometimes I wonder—did I see that gnome in another life, in some other city long ago? The woman holding the rifle. How do I know her? Those flappers laughing in front of the Model-T and showing a little leg. Was I married to the one in the middle — in a life I can only recall in some weird space in my mind? I don’t know. But some of these pictures feel oddly familiar. Actually, more than I’d like to admit.

Or maybe I just love weird, old photos.

Hey — don’t judge.

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I Subscribe to The Surfer’s Journal (and I Don’t Even Surf)

A Picture of the Surfer's Journal

I’m no surfer. I tried it once—on tiny waves in Hawaii, the summer of 2006, while on vacation with a porn star. Vacationing with a porn star should be a whole other blog…but a vacation in which I managed to ride a few tiny waves is what you get now. Doesn’t matter if the waves were small, surfing them was exhilarating.

Closest you can get to surfing is skating, and I skated when I was a kid. A lot…on the street, in homemade, wooden half-pipes and in Phoenix’s one skate park  — Highroller. I even recall skating at this weird, temporary skatepark that was made out of blue, fiberglass pieces that were assembled and disassembled as the park moved from place to place. I’ve only suffered one broken bone in my life, and it happened in Highroller’s concrete half pipe. Which is about the time I called it quits.

It didn’t take long to realize I liked the culture of skating more than I actually liked to skate. Tony Alva and Jay Adams. The idea of trespassing into someone’s back yard to skate their empty pool (no empties where I grew up in Arizona…and if so, would I have had the balls to trespass?). Skateboarder Magazine. Punk rock. Dogtown and Badlands. Stacey Peralta and The Logan family. 360’s and hand stands. Memories of begging my dad for plywood and two-by-fours from the homes he built, so my friends and I could build our own half-pipe (he finally said yes!). Oh — and Big Brother!

All things I love to this day. And I love The Surfer’s Journal. It’s my only magazine subscription. Mainly because it’s one of those rare magazines that still feels like something. Embossed cover. Thick, toothy paper. It’s a quarterly, so it’s substantial. Gorgeous photography. Layouts I want to linger over. Flipping through an issue of Surfer’s Journal reminds me of why I love books and printed matter in the first place: the experience of the object. It’s very tangible…which, to me, is a thing.

The writing’s good, too. Lifestyle stories, mainly. Beautiful photography. When I read TSJ, it makes me want to surf.

In fact, in my next life I shall surf.

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Synaesthesia Picks: Top 5 Collectibles of the Month — May 2025 Edition

Pictures of the Yvan Goll book Les Cercles Magiques illustrated by Fernand Léger.

It’s been a month of poetic rarities, visual wonders, and all sorts of weird stuff—books and ephemera that blur the line between object and artifact. I’ve been working hard getting my stuff researched, photographed and catalogued.

Here are five standouts that made me pause, marvel, and (maybe) even think, I can’t believe this is still available. But hey, I bought them in the first place…so yea. I’m slightly biased.

1. Yvan Goll & Fernand Léger – Les Cercles Magiques (1951)

A surrealist collaboration between poet Yvan Goll and modernist painter Fernand Léger, this limited edition (one of 750) is a visual and literary gem. How about that cover? It might be my most very favorite thing I’ve listed this year. In fact, it is. Maybe I shouldn’t sell it? Léger’s six illustrations dance alongside Goll’s poetic circles, creating a harmonious interplay of text and image. That cover! Printed in Paris and entirely in French, this is one of those rare pieces that feels like holding an exhibit in your hands. Did I mention that cover?! A must-have for collectors of avant-garde literature and fine press art books. Tu parles français ? Il ne faut jamais juger un livre à sa couverture.


2. Robert Creeley – A Day Book (1972)

This unpaginated, abstract collection of poetry and journal fragments captures Creeley at his most meditative and experimental. Issued by Scribner’s with a cover by pop artist Robert Indiana, A Day Book isn’t just a poetic document—it’s a visual one. It reflects a moment when poetry refused categorization and leaned hard into thought, rhythm, and introspection. For fans of the Black Mountain poets, this one doesn’t show up often in collectible condition. And with the glassine jacket! WOOT.


3. Amphora 8 (1972) – Featuring Bukowski, Norse, and More

I kinda miss going to Hal’s old place on Albion and listening to him complain about his car insurance. And no, he never tried to hit on me. But he did tell me some great stories.


4. Sing Out! Folk Music ‘zines Featuring Woody Guthrie

A lot of early Sing Out! issues featuring contributions and appearances by Woody Guthrie—including his lyrics, columns, and artwork. These magazines weren’t just publications; they were community / communist (?) manifestos. Founded in the aftermath of the Almanac Singers and fueled by the folk revival, Sing Out! was a hub for voices like Pete Seeger, Lead Belly, and of course, Guthrie. Betcha Dylan read them, too.


5. Kenneth Patchen – The Best Hope (1968 Poem-Postcard)

One of Patchen’s evocative poem-paintings reproduced as a postcard and issued by Leslie Tobin Imports in 1968. Hand-lettered in Patchen’s unmistakable style, the text reads: “The best hope is that one of these days the ground will get disgusted enough just to walk away…” A short burst of poetic despair, rendered with quiet grace. I’ve been paying attention to Patchen stuff for years. I haven’t seen many of these Leslie Tobin Poem-Post Cards…ever.

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Junk in the Trunk, Ginger on the Shelf: One More for the 10-Record Rule

front cover of Ginger Baker's Air Force

“Junk in the Trunk” is marketed as a “Vintage + Artisan Market” market, which is fine by me. At least I know what I’m getting myself into. I know I’m not going to clamor through filthy boxes and creepy Chevy vans crammed with vintage porn, but I certainly will find a terrific Iced Americano to go with my $25 entrance fee. In other words, Junk in the Trunk is the kind of place you’d expect to find in North Scottsdale, where  avocado toast is $15, and for $48 you can find a sweet-smelling, hand-poured candle, or a reclaimed mahogany cheese board engraved with the phrase “Brie Mine”.

I didn’t think I’d score a double-record Afrobeat-prog-jazz hybrid with 14-minute drum solos. And yet, there it was, buried between Night Moves and Rumors. And for just a sawski? I was all in. Which is the only reason to go to vintage and artisan markets.

The only thing I really know about Ginger Baker is he played drums for Cream, and he’s got a knack for punching people in the face. And sure, in the almost 50 years I’ve been paying attention to records, I’ve come across Ginger Baker’s Air Force more than once. It’s not a rare record. But it’s kinda undeniably cool. I especially like the way Martin Sharp designed it. I mean it took some balls for Sharp to hand ATCO Records a design with all the information about the record — including the band’s name — on its back cover.  For the front? A weird, surreal wave-of-something crashing down on some exclamation points and a floating target and musical note with people running around God-knows-where. And are those brown things Ampersands? Who knows!? One thing’s for sure, ATCO had bigger balls for green lighting it.

One more thing. I’ve trimmed my collection down. I’m trying hard to stick to this self-imposed 10-record-rule. I went to Eastside and got some trade cred with the Billy Childish and Martin Frawley records, and I gave my niece Diet Cig as a gift. And here’s a piece of friendly, record-collector advice: if you’re around Tempe and into Billy Childish, I’d run down there ASAP and grab “Blues That Kills” by “Wild” Billy Childish and The Chatham Singers.

One last piece of friendly, record-collector advice: something tells me I’m not holding on to Ginger Baker’s Air Force for more than a listen…or half a one.

 

 

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The Accidental Diptych: Discovering 35mm Half-Frame Film

A Jim Camp photograph taken with his Kodak EKTAR camera

There’s a particular kind of magic that comes from forgetting where you are — not physically, but photographically. That’s part of why I love shooting 35mm film on my Kodak Ektar H35. (Boy, did that sound like a commercial…or what?)

The camera’s half-frame format splits a standard 36-exposure 35mm roll into 72 17.5mm images, and that simple doubling shifts everything. When I get my pics back from the lab, each one made ends up married to another — a diptych dictated not by concept or sequence, but by time, accident, and the peculiar rhythms of life. Separated by a thick, black line. I almost forgot to mention the beautiful, lo-fi quality, too — from the camera itself to the pictures it makes.

I’ll go hours, days, weeks, and sometimes months between frames. I’ll shoot one image and then forget about it. Life moves. I move. And when the roll finally finishes and I develop it? There’s often a surreal, poetic dissonance waiting for me: a stranger in hot pink fur next to a tiny dog in a red Adirondack chair. I made that picture hours apart in a day spent in NYC. But different moods. Different places. And the same frame.

What I love about this format isn’t the economy — though that’s part of it. It’s the randomness, the surprise. The way memory, film, and time get scrambled into something new. It’s like flipping through a stranger’s photo album and finding out it’s yours.

More soon (who knows when!), as I keep working my way toward another 72 in the can to drop at my local film lab.

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When Sunday Mornings Meant The Bruiser and The Crusher and Not Mass.

A photo from the May 17 Phoenix Championship Wrestling show PCWAZ Wrestling in Mesa

Here’s how old I am: I grew up with exactly nine TV channels — and none of them ran 24 hours a day.

And trust me — nine stations was plenty. I was in big-city Chicago, after all — a major media market. My VHF lineup covered the basics: ABC, CBS, NBC, and PBS. Then came the two UHF channels, 32 and 44. I won’t bore you with the technical differences between VHF and UHF (ask ChatGPT if you’re curious), but trust me: UHF was where the cool stuff aired.

Channel 32 showed old reruns: Batman and The Little Rascals and The Munsters and Get Smart! But 44? 44 was sacred. Because Sunday mornings in the 1970s meant only one thing on every channel except 44: church. Seriously, every station was full of people praying and priests mumbling Latin and handing out communion. Except Channel 44…and Bob Luce Wrestling. I never missed Sunday Morning wrestling.

Sometimes tuning in meant wrapping foil around the rabbit ears just to kill the snow and static and to minimize “ghosts”. Bob Luce brought cigar-chomping Dick the Bruiser, his tag partner The Crusher! Baron Von Raschke and his “claw”! Big Cat Ernie Ladd and his thumb! Moose Cholak! Ox Baker!

Luce wasn’t just a promoter — he was a ringmaster in a plaid sport coat. His shows jumped from grainy locker-room rants to shaky in-ring chaos, always hyping “the wildest card of the century” at the International Amphitheatre. (Remind me to tell you about the time the roof caved in there during the Ice Follies.) Like all great promoters, Luce didn’t sell wrestling. He sold spectacle. Good versus Evil. And for a Chicago kid glued to 44 every Sunday, there was nothing like it. The only thing I hated? When they’d suddenly “run out of time” and end the show mid-match.

And why didn’t I beg my dad take me to the International Amphitheatre for Luce’s live shows? It’s a question that baffles me to this day. I guess it just never crossed my mind.

I quit paying attention sometime around The Rock, Stone Cold, Hulk Hogan as heel and what would be the end of Bischoff’s fantastic WCW run. But wrestling’s always stuck with me. Always. These days, I use vintage wrestling imagery as source material for my art. So when Dom Vitalli from Phoenix Championship Wrestling offered me a ringside spot to shoot pictures for his local league, guess who showed up two hours early with a couple of cameras hanging around my neck just to hang backstage with the wrestlers.

Let’s just say I was way more excited for tag teams, body oil, and shaved men than I should’ve been.