In 1997 the synaesthesia press published Bad, Mad and Dying, a limited-edition chapbook featuring work by Alan Catlin, Errol Miller, and Jack Micheline.
The book was issued in three states. Twenty-six lettered copies featured an original painting by Jack Micheline mounted on the cover. Copies 1 through 50 were signed by all three contributors on the page containing their work. The remainder of the edition was numbered.
Alan Catlin’s contribution, “Finnegan’s Wake,” takes place in a bar on St. Patrick’s Day. Catlin, a poet and bartender from upstate New York, knew that territory well. His work has appeared in countless literary magazines over the years, and his story here moves toward a conclusion I’ll simply describe as fatal.
Errol Miller, a Louisiana writer whose fiction has appeared in hundreds of little magazines, contributed “The Pool Hall Affair.” Like much of Miller’s work, it combines sharp observation with the sort of storytelling that seems increasingly rare today.
And then there was Jack Micheline.
What can be said about Jack? He was there at the beginning. An original Beat. Jack Kerouac wrote the introduction to Micheline’s classic first book, River of Red Wine. Bukowski admired him. Ginsberg respected him; Harold Norse did not. More importantly, Jack remained Jack: unpredictable, generous, funny, and completely original.
In fact, Jack gave the book its title.
We were standing on Mission Street waiting for the #16 bus.
“I got a couple good stories to publish,” I told him.
“I got a poem, man. It’s good. You want it?”
“Of course. Now all I need is a title.”
“What’re the other stories about?”
I explained Alan’s and Errol’s pieces. Jack leaned against the building at 17th and Mission—the old fish market—and thought about it for a minute. Long enough that I started wondering if he was making fun of the whole idea.
Then he looked up.
“I got it, man. Bad, Mad and Dying. That’s a tough title.”
He was right.
“Now I need a cover,” I said.
“Give me two days. Come to my room Friday. You’ll have your cover.”
Two days later I made my way back into the Mission to The Curtis Hotel. Room 22. And Jack delievered.
Jack also contributed an illustration that appears in the center of the book—a picture-poem in the tradition of Kenneth Patchen. It depicts four horses, accompanied by a brief poem celebrating a long-shot winner at a Tennessee racetrack in 1948. It’s pure Micheline: unexpected, oddly beautiful, and unlike anything anyone else would have created.
Looking back, what I remember most is not the edition size or the production details. It’s standing on a San Francisco street corner with Jack Micheline while he casually pulled a title out of thin air.
Some books are planned.
Others just happen.
