Category: My Ramblings!

Posted on by — Leave a comment

Five Things, Right Now | MIM, Narvik, Marilyn Monroe & Early Girlie!

A photograph of the Air Guitar featured at the Musical Instrument Museum (MIM), Phoenix Arizona

THING 1. MIM.

The Musical Instrument Museum sits on a stretch of North Phoenix that, in my mind at least, will always be desert. Fifty years ago I was riding dirt bikes out there. Literally. In MIM’s exact spot. Now that desert is home to one of the most remarkable museums I’ve ever visited. Leave it to an old dude to get sentimental about a patch of dirt mixed with dry washes, Saguaros, and Palo Verde trees. If you’re visiting Phoenix, MIM is worth at least half a day. If you’re an instrument junkie, it borders on being a destination all by itself. I had no idea so many instruments existed, let alone that someone had managed to gather them under one roof. You can wander from Swedish nyckelharpas to giant Belgian orchestrions to Roy Orbison’s Gibson ES-335 “Dot” he played during his stint as a Wilbury. Pictured here is an instrument I picked up in middle school, mastered by college, and have abandoned since: the Air Guitar. Its placard identifies as being made of “Nitrogen, Oxygen, Argon, Carbon Dioxide, and dreams.” Which is exactly why I played it: “Whole Lotta Love,” “Free Bird,” and just about everything on Van Halen’s first record were my early influences. Oh! Surprise bonus—the Chicken Posole soup. I came for the instruments, got sidetracked by an Air Guitar and left thinking about lunch. All in all, a pretty great day.

THING 2. The Bibliography.

Right now I’m finishing up a bibliography of the synaesthesia press. “Checklist”?  Feels like a better word? “Bibliography”? Maybe a little too formal, a little too academic? I dunno. What I’m really trying to do is document what I’ve published over the last thirty years before I forget everything. I’ve been surprised by my reaction to the project. Part of me is genuinely proud. Proud of the books. Proud of the authors. Proud of the broadsides, chapbooks, oddball Voltas, and all the strange little things I’ve published. Looking back, I can see threads running through the whole thing: Bukowski, Brautigan, Wallace Berman, Billy Childish, small presses, found photographs, letterpress printing. The other part of me wonders: is the whole exercise self-congratulatory? And if any of this really mattered, wouldn’t somebody else be writing it down? Probably not. The truth is that every publication has a story attached to it, and stories disappear faster than books. So for now, I’m trying to save the stories while I still remember them all. Now if I could just find find my copy of Harold Norse’s Sniffing Keyholes.

THING 3. Narvik. 

I watched Narvik and thought it was terrific. Not terrific “for a foreign film.” Or because it’s a foreign film. It’s terrific, period. Before watching it, I knew almost nothing about the Battle of Narvik. Somehow this chapter slipped through my WWII cracks. Which got me thinking: why do many middle-aged and older men—particularly white dudes—pop a boner over World War II? Patton Oswalt said something funny about that, but I forget it now. But that’s not what stayed with me about Narvik. Beneath the battle scenes and military history is a brutal moral question: would you save your own child if doing so meant betraying an Allied position to the Nazis? Not a spoiler alert, BTW. If you have Netflix, check it out.

THING 4. Marilyn In Manhattan: Her Year of Joy.

One of the (many) books on my nightstand right now is Elizabeth Winder’s Marilyn in Manhattan: Her Year of Joy. Like everyone, when I think about Marilyn, I think of sadness, addiction, loneliness, and the way her story ultimately ends. The idea that there was a year in which she was genuinely happy was enough to make me pull the book from the shelf. Here’s a Marilyn who is finally beginning to discover her own strength, independence, and sense of self. A woman trying to stand on her own two feet. Of course, she had to find her way to Manhattan to do that. Where else does a person go to reinvent themselves? (OK, shout out to San Francisco). My favorite scene so far comes before Marilyn even leaves Hollywood. Her roommate, Shelley Winters, invites a Welsh poet named Dylan Thomas over for dinner. Thomas proceeds to drink everything in sight before deciding he needs to get to Charlie Chaplin’s place in Calabasas, where The Party is underway. So Dylan goes. And Shelley goes. But Marilyn taps out. There’s your one-act play.

THING 5. Early Girlie!

In addition to Scot Sothern’s Sweet Adeline, I’ve been working on Early Girlie! and, if all goes according to plan, it will be available in July in an edition of 100 copies. The project grew out of a small box of anonymous color slides from the 1950’s I found years ago on one of my many flea market adventures. Most are “cheesecake” pictures—ordinary women posing in an era when even mildly risqué pictures could get you into some serious legal trouble. For example, all the pictures in Early Girlie! are pube-free. What always interests me isn’t the photographs—but the people and circumstances behind them. These were clearly commercial images, probably produced by a single photographer working with professional models. My guess is he started out in a camera club and either found a producer willing to back the work, or he (she?!) had enough money of their own to pay the models and recover the investment by retailing the finished sets. Bettie Page’s name is one of the few that survived the era. Most didn’t. I’ve always been fascinated by the small details that history leaves behind. Give me a name and I can spend an afternoon chasing it. There’s almost always a terrific story behind an unknown name. Unfortunately, in many cases the photographs survived while the names of the women who posed for them and the photogs who made them did not. Early Girlie! is a small square format featuring selections from the slides along with what I’m calling an “addendum” written by Eric Kroll laid-in to the book. Like many of the projects I enjoy most, it sits somewhere between photography, found imagery, vernacular history, collecting, and bookmaking. It’s also a reminder that sometimes the best publishing projects begin at a flea market and not with a manuscript.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

It Catches My Heart In Its Hands: The Soul of the Loujon Press

A picture of Jon Webb of the Loujon Press and patron Edwin Blair at the 1100 block of Royal in 1965.

Look at Jon Webb. Leaning into his “ancient 8 by 12 Chandler & Price letterpress”, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Hand on hip. His tiny desk crowded with type furniture and paper. Ink cans stacked on a rough shelf above. The room itself looks less like a print shop than a hideout — a comparison Webb might have appreciated, or resented, having spent real time behind bars years earlier. It’s improvised, cramped, and seemingly on the edge of collapse.

In another photograph I’ve stumbled across, his wife, “Gypsy” Lou Webb, stands beside the press in her bathrobe, barefoot, surrounded by books and freshly printed pages stacked and collated in a disorder that somehow feels entirely alive. In yet another picture I managed to find (perhaps these three are the only ones to exist?), she’s seated beneath their handmade little bedroom loft beside their enormous dog. The loft itself built directly into the workspace because there was barely enough room for the three to live there, let alone make books. Jon looks down at her from above, surrounded by boxes of what I assume are either paper stock or freshly printed sheets. There’s a silent communication between them — a look that seems to say they both understood this life couldn’t possibly be sustainable, and yet neither one of them was willing to give it up.

To surrender most of the niceties in life in pursuit of something as impractical as hand-printing a literary journal for a small-but-devoted audience of counterculture readers in the early 1960s is heroic in a way that’s almost impossible to explain to most people then or now. Jon and Gypsy Lou Webb weren’t “fine press people” in the polished sense. They weren’t wealthy collectors producing decorative books for subscribers with deep pockets while carefully documenting the process in pursuit of more followers. The Loujon Press came and went out of struggle. Out of obsession. Out of a desire to create something that would outlive them both.

And surviving them is exactly what the small handful of books Loujon Press managed to publish did.

Published by the Loujon Press in New Orleans in 1963 in an edition of just 777 copies, It Catches My Heart In Its Hands remains one of the towering achievements not only of Charles Bukowski’s publishing history, but of twentieth century American small press poetry itself. The work collected here — written between 1955 and 1963 — captures Bukowski operating at the height of his powers. There’s no literary perfume sprayed over these poems. No academic posturing. No attempt to impress anybody. These are poems written by a man who actually lived through what he describes: bars, rented rooms, dead-end jobs, loneliness, cheap sex, tiny moments of grace followed by long stretches of defeat. Bukowski understood something many poets never do: style without lived experience is pretension at best, fakery at its worst. The poems in It Catches bleed because the life behind them bled first.

And yet somehow the workmanship of the physical book equals the writing inside it. This never happens.

I’ve handled my share of “artists’ books” and “fine press books” over the years that were technically beautiful but spiritually dead. The printing is precise. The papers expensive. The binding impressive. But the object itself? Soulless. Pick it up, admire it, and feel almost nothing. It Catches My Heart In Its Hands is a wholly different experience. The moment you handle it, you understand you’re holding something genuinely important. Not “important” because of scarcity alone — though 777 copies is certainly small — but because every single creative decision inside the book feels necessary and earned which pushes the poetry contained within to another level.

The illustrated, printed cork cover alone is unforgettable. The book opens like a folio, not a conventional book. The delicate Japanese tissue sheet separates the outer cover from the illustrated inner wrapper. The papers move through shades of “whitestone, saffron, bayberry, peacock, ivory, bittersweet, gobelin, and tabasco” like steps in a staircase leading deeper into the object. Nothing feels arbitrary. Nothing feels ornamental for ornament’s sake. The book is made and not manufactured.

And then there’s Webb’s colophon — one of the great colophons in American small press history. Less a technical description than a short story about survival. Webb writes of moths, spiders, rats, rain, loosened showers of nineteenth-century dust and plaster falling constantly into the workspace while he fought to finish the book. Money was always short. Help was always scarce. Gypsy Lou sold artwork to tourists in Jackson Square to keep them alive. Reading the colophon, you honestly begin to wonder how the book ever made it into existence at all. Which somehow makes the finished object feel even more miraculous.

Not many photographs of the Webbs exist, which makes the few surviving images deeply moving. In one I’m showing you, seated beside Webb is Ed Blair — oil man, renowned collector of Beat literature, and one of Loujon’s primary patrons. We met on two occasions. Ed was kind but curt; deeply factual, maybe even to a fault, but willing to share stories if you listened carefully. He once took me to the studio’s exact location, now hidden behind a plain modern wall that gives no indication of what once took place there. Blair’s support helped keep the operation alive during periods when survival itself seemed uncertain. Years ago, while going through the Jon Webb / Bukowski papers at the University of Arizona in Tucson, I came across a receipt showing Blair had advanced Webb money for 200 copies of It Catches My Heart In Its Hands. Blair never actually took delivery of those books, and Webb eventually repaid the advance. Even in the world of small presses — a world built largely on favors, trust, and desperation — that detail says something meaningful about their relationship.

And maybe that’s why the copy that sits in my library has always felt haunted to me in the best possible way. Bukowski signed and dated it December 16, 1963 — the exact day I entered this world some 800 miles north in Chicago, Illinois. The very day when, in New Orleans, Jon and Gypsy Lou were fighting moths, debt, rainwater, exhaustion, and impossible deadlines to create books that mattered, while Bukowski sat there with beer in hand in their cramped little space and signed the book now in my possession on the same winter day I took my first breath. That strange collision of time — poet, printer, book, and reader unknowingly entering each other’s lives on the exact same date — transforms my copy from merely collectible into something deeply personal. A book that found me long before I found it, and one that profoundly shaped my life thereafter.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

Five Things Right Now: New York Antiquarian Book Fair, MoMA & Dashwood Books

A rare copy of the Richard Brautigan book Revenge of the Lawn featuring an alternate picture of the cover and a letter composed by Brautigan to Elizabeth Vetter.

THING 1: The New York Antiquarian Book Fair.

I was going to write this Five Things Right Now around five pieces I would’ve taken home from the Antiquarian Book Fair—if money didn’t matter: the Joseph Cornell archive with a Marilyn Monroe biography cut to pieces and worked over in his hand; a copy of Revenge of the Lawn with an alternate photo of cover girl Elizabeth Vetter laid in, along with a letter from Richard Brautigan to her; a late 19th-century flyer from a Worcester shop—The Massachusetts Spy—bragging their jobbers could turn out 1,000 impressions an hour; and Hunter S. Thompson’s library card, expiring in 1962. But that version started to feel a little too much like a wish list. So I scrapped it and went with something better—the five things I actually got to experience on my trip to New York City. I come every year for the Book Fair. But not just the Book Fair. I come because it’s New York. The best city in the world. At least when the sun’s out.

THING 2: Face Value: Celebrity Press Photography (through June 21, 2026 at MOMA.).

Of course Duchamp’s retrospective at Museum of Modern Art is worth your time. It opens with what he called his “swimming lessons”—early paintings that look a lot like what everyone else was doing at the turn of the century. Nothing wrong with that. Some are actually pretty good. But if he hadn’t pushed past that—into things no one else was doing—you don’t get a 2026 Duchamp retrospective. From there it’s everything: Nude Descending a Staircase, the urinal, the shovel, the hat rack, all the zines before anyone called them zines, the altered and conceptual work, and the Rotoreliefs—Esquivons les ecchymoses des esquimaux aux mots exquis. It even spills outward—Warhol’s Screen Test of Duchamp, and all the reproductions. Which raises a great question: what’s “real” here, anyway? But writing about Duchamp feels a little too obvious. I usually try to avoid the obvious—even when it might suit me best. So I’ll leave it at this: go to the first floor, then take the escalator down. Face Value: Celebrity Press Photography features rows of old Hollywood faces, most of them forgotten. This is the thing that stuck with me most.

THING 3: Dashwood Books.

Dashwood Books is a tiny shop right on the edge of NoHo and basically brushing up against the East Village. They specialize in new, used, and rare photobooks. It’s run by A Beautiful Soul named Miwa, who really knows everything there is to know about photobooks. And photozines. Probably photographers and photos, too. “Hey Miwa—what do I need to see today?” No hesitation. She pulls three or four books and lays them on out in front of me on the counter. Might be a new one. Might be a zine. Might be collectible. But always essential.

THING 4: The Auction Previews.

Here’s the thing about going to Sotheby’s or Christie’s to see what they’re offering in their upcoming auctions: it’s free. And you get to see art you’re probably never going to see again, unless it’s in a catalogue raisonné. An amazing painting moving from one rich collector to another. Because the last people placing bids on these works are usually the institutions. So this trip I found myself standing right in front of Brown and Blacks in Reds by Mark Rothko. Or a bright green Brigitte Bardot portrait by Andy Warhol. La Chaise Lorraine by Henri Matisse. Basquiat’s Museum Security (Broadway Meltdown) and Le Compotier by René Magritte. You get the idea.

THING 5: Trojan Ska Box Set (Volume 1).

The best way to navigate the New York public transport system is to wear shades and make absolutely sure your earbuds are securely fastened in place. This way you’ll probably be left undisturbed. Then, to manage potential anxiety (especially while traveling alone), just stream any one of the Trojan Records box sets. This time it’s Volume 1 for me: “I’m in the Mood for Ska” by Lord Tanamo; “Get Up Edina” by Desmond Dekker; and Stranger Cole with Patsy Todd doing “When I Call Your Name.” Seriously, it’s the only way to travel. Just remember not to smile at anyone.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

5 Things Right Now: Arizona Travel, Book Culture, Records & Tucson Food

This is a photograph by Jim Camp of the famous staircase at the Gadsden Hotel in Douglas Arizona.

THING 1: The Grand Staircase at the Hotel Gadsden.

The lobby of the Hotel Gadsden in Douglas is grand in a way you don’t expect. Marble, columns, a sweep of stairs that feels like it belongs in New York City and not an Arizona border town. You walk in off the street and it’s like stepping into a different version of the town. They’ll tell you Pancho Villa once rode his horse up those stairs to look out the window. Whether that’s true or not almost doesn’t matter. The story fits the space. (They’ll also tell you Wyatt Earp was “running wild” around the same time; he was, in fact, sitting on a Hollywood movie set advising Tom Mix.) What caught me, though, were the telephone booths along the wall. Still there. And inside, the vintage ads—printed and still as new (I actually thought about stealing them)—advising you to use the Yellow Pages to find what you need. The lobby is grand. The booths are, too. Because It all feels like stepping out of our times, which is exactly why you should visit. You know…the next time you find yourself in Douglas Arizona.

THING 2: The Booksellers.

This is my second time watching The Booksellers, currently streaming free on YouTube. The first time was when it initially dropped a few years ago. First time I just took it all in—the faces, the shops, all those amazing books and the stories behind them, the whole world of it. Second time I came away a bit more reassured, for lack of a better term. After everything—Amazon, the Kindle, shifting entertainment habits—the book is still standing. Still being bought, sold, argued over, collected, and rediscovered. It’s easy to say reading isn’t what it was 50 years ago. Of course it isn’t. Nothing is. Look at everything competing for attention now that didn’t exist then. And still, books are holding their ground. Not dominant, maybe—but persistent. Durable. I’ve decided my favorite bookseller in the film is Rebecca Romney. She’s working hard to bring book collecting to a younger audience. While The Old Duffers whine about its decline, Ms. Romney makes a simple point: there are plenty of ways to reinvent the business if you’re willing to adapt. I love that.

THING 3: Eric Kroll.

I’ll start kinda Wiki-ish: Eric Kroll (born 1946) is an American photographer, writer, and curator known for his work exploring fetish, eroticism, and subcultural imagery. He has collaborated with numerous artists and models across decades. Kroll’s photographs and publications have become an important record of late 20th-century counterculture. Here’s my story: I met Eric in Los Angeles around 2007, after blowing out a Norman flash pack—something I managed to do more than once back in the day. You blow a pack by shooting too fast, which was a bad habit. When you blow a Norman pack, they make a loud pop and flames would actually emit from their outlets. Kinda crazy! Anyways, I was working with a model who knew Kroll. She invited me to dinner with him after we wrapped our work day. As we grubbed, she mentioned my gear problem to Kroll, and without hesitation—without even really knowing me—he offered to loan me his flash pack. Which is like walking onto a construction site without your tool belt and expecting someone to loan you theirs. We’ve been friends ever since.

THING 4: Mississippi Records.

If I were really collecting records again, I’d just buy everything Mississippi Records issues. Period. Based in Portland—I was in their shop years ago—they’ve built a whole label around reissuing music you’ve never heard of… but should have. Blues, gospel, international records, private press stuff—things that somehow slipped through the cracks. Actually, I take that back. These records are so obscure they never had a crack to slip through. If that makes sense. Michael Hurley. A soundtrack by Yo La Tengo from a movie you didn’t know existed. Alan Lomax’s field recordings of Fred McDowell! All very affordable. The packaging is simple. They don’t sell you what you want in as much as they sell you something you didn’t know even existed. And half the time, it ends up being better than most of the records you’ve been listening to lately. Certainly more interesting. And If I’m not careful, this is how I end up, again, with way too many records.

THING 5: La Indita.

Speaking of Kroll, this is where we dined. If you can count on Kroll for one thing (besides great photos), it’s great food. La Indita bills itself as “Native American and Regional Mexican Food”—specifically Tohono O’Odham and Purépecha style. I’m no expert, but I do consider myself a bit of a “foodie”. I learned the Tohono O’Odham side leans desert—simple, direct, built around what grows there. Tepary beans, squash, corn. Food which grows where most food can’t. The Purépecha influence (from Michoacán) brings in another layer—more masa-based dishes, different textures, a little more structure to the plate. You start getting handmade corn preparations that feel closer to central Mexican cooking, but still distinct from what most of us think of as “Mexican food.” Anyways, I just ordered, ate, and figured it out as I went. It’s not fancy. It’s just really good. Which is what dinner should be.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

Souvenirs de Kiki & Kiki’s Memoirs: Paris, Montparnasse, and the Making of Kiki’s Memoirs.

If I could climb into a time machine, I’d set the dials for Paris—1920, give or take. Woody Allen has already taken us there, which maybe cheapens my fantasy a bit, but who cares? I’d find a small place on the Left Bank, live on baguettes and wine, and spend my days wandering without much purpose—a true man of leisure. Le flâneur. I’d drift from place to place: into La Closerie des Lilas or Le Dôme, hoping to bump into the Fitzgeralds or Hem; over to 31 bis Rue Campagne-Première to sit for Man Ray; treat Joyce to an omelet at Restaurant Polidor and tell him stories from the future; gossip with Gerty and Alice over tea. Coffee? Both? I don’t know. I do know I’d like to call her Gerty. And I know that’s the world The Book of Montparnasse—Kiki’s Memoirs was made in.

Kiki didn’t sit down one day and decide to become an author. I imagine it had been swimming around in her head for a while, though. Isn’t that the way it works? By the time her memoirs were put together, she was the center of Montparnasse—a model, a performer, a presence people orbited. And a sex worker. Her book comes out of that world, like memories do—wanting to be told.

Souvenirs de Kiki was first published in Paris in 1929 by Henri Broca, who not only helped shape the text but issued it himself in what appears to have been a small limitation of 250. The book was produced in simple brown paper wraps, with a portrait of Kiki by Moïse Kisling affixed to the front cover, and illustrated throughout with photographs, including images by Man Ray with a preface by Foujita. This is the source text—the version closest to Kiki’s own voice before it was translated, introduced, and reframed for an English audience. Copies are scarce today, inconsistently cataloged, and often turn up under slight variations of the title, which makes them harder to track down. I found two copies in boards offered by significant booksellers, though these are likely later rebindings rather than a separate issue. In its original state, Souvenirs de Kiki looks like a book meant to circulate locally—handled, read, passed from one set of hands to another within the Montparnasse circle it came from.

Man Ray is there—not just photographing her, but, more importantly, her partner. Hemingway steps up later with an introduction, giving the English edition a kind of literary street cred. And then there’s Edward Titus, who I really didn’t know until now: expat, collector, publisher, bookseller. He sounds like someone I know. He ran a shop on the Left Bank called At the Sign of the Black Manikin. An old spelling—manikin for mannequin. Something staged. Something displayed. The artist’s model. The muse? Of course he’d name his press after the human form, set out for view. (I’d love to ask him, “Why black, Ed?”) And of course it would be a place turning out books like Kiki’s, a Paris edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, and other sexually frank material—the kind of books that didn’t travel easily.

Kiki’s Memoirs was published a year later by Titus’s Black Manikin Press. It was translated by Samuel Putnam and introduced by Ernest Hemingway. It was issued in printed wraps with a fragile glassine jacket and a red wraparound band—the kind of elements that rarely survive intact. The kind of stuff collectors go nuts for. The print run is commonly cited at 1,000 copies. No limited or special copies were issued. Distribution was limited. The book was sold in Paris, sometimes directly by Kiki herself, who was known to sign copies. Story goes she charged 30 francs, which also included a fresh kiss next to her signature. The book was considered obscene in the United States, and with distribution costs factored in, most copies probably stayed in Paris.

The Fitzgeralds, Jimmy Joyce and Hem, Gerty Stein and Alice…Kiki’s the one I’d want to meet most. Maybe second only to Zelda. I should mention—in this version of my time-traveling tale, I speak French fluently. No translator. No English. Just Kiki telling it the way it was meant to be told. Straight from the source. So be honest, Kiki—did Picasso make for a better lover or better pictures? Between Man Ray and the painters—who knew what they were doing? And if she had a copy of her memoirs on the table, I wouldn’t hesitate.

Thirty francs for a signature sealed with Kiki’s kiss on the title page? That, my friends, is a bargain.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

5 Things Right Now: Lurie, Flea, Basquiat, and the Film That Lingers.

The Lounge Lizards in 1981 Photo by David Corio/Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images

THING 1:  The History of Bones AudioBook Version.

Before I get into why I prefer audiobooks read by the author, I should credit the Lounge Lizards photo above, taken in 1981, to David Corio/Michael Ochs Archive/Getty Images. I wish I could have seen them live, but in 1981, if someone had put on a Lounge Lizards record at a party, I would’ve been the guy who changed it. My first record collection had a decent run of spoken word LPs, but only if the author was doing the reading. No Basil Rathbone reading Milton. Give me Kurt Vonnegut reading from Breakfast of Champions. Or ee cummings reading his own work. And now it’s John Lurie reading The History of Bones. I read the book when it came out a few years ago. Now I’m letting him read it back to me. When the author reads their own work, it just lands differently. Which makes sense, right? Book or audiobook, I give this one 5 outta 5.

THING 2: The Bombardment.

A few days later and it’s still with me. It starts quiet. Then there’s The First Mistake. Then it just things just…unfold. What stayed with me wasn’t strategy or war or anything like that—it was the kids. The smallness of their world, and how quickly that can all disappear. I’m not trying to make a political point here, but during the excruciating last 20 minutes or so, I couldn’t help but think about that recent tragedy in Iran—the girls’ school. Same feeling. Different place, different time, same outcome. Kids caught in something they didn’t choose. You’re aware there’s films you watch and move on from. And there’s ones that linger. It’s on Netflix btw.

THING 3:  Honora.

I’ve had Flea’s record on repeat since it dropped. And sure—this one hits my jazz nerve. It actually honors jazz. Loose, spacious, musician-forward. The kind of record I can sit with or let run in the background while I work—which is why I love jazz so much. What it really shows is Flea’s range. Not just as a bassist, but as a listener—someone who knows when to step forward and when to leave space. The cover of Wichita Lineman (Glen Campbell!) with Nick Cave is the standout. The track with Thom Yorke is strong, too. Maggot Brain! A Frank Ocean cover!! This is Flea outside his band, and I think he’s terrific.

THING 4:  Hillel Slovak.

Since I’m writing about Flea, it makes sense to mention the Red Hot Chili’s documentary. It ends up being as much about Hillel Slovak as it is about the band—tracing things from before they were fully formed up through Blood Sugar Sex Magik. I was lucky enough to see Hillel play twice and then a handful of times later with John Frusciante. They’ve always been great live. But with Hillel, they really were something else. Even if you weren’t a fan of the music. Of course a big part of that were the small venues. Catching those early shows was predictable in the most unpredictable way, if that makes any sense. That version of the band—the one still figuring itself out—that’s the one I still think about when I think about RHCP. It’s also on Netflix btw.

THING 5: Jean-Michel Basquiat: The Making of An Icon.

Anything Basquiat grabs my attention; so, when I was in a bookstore the other day, I picked up Kenny Schachter’s book. I flipped it open at random and landed right on the section after Basquiat’s overdose. That stretch where his apartment gets picked over by the “friends” who knew he was gone. Then his father steps in. Finds the key to a storage locker holding nearly 200 paintings. And that’s when the real work starts. Taxes unpaid. An estate suddenly worth real money. And the part no one really talks about—the business of art. I’ve been just as fascinated with art as a business as living with art. How do you handle that much inventory without collapsing the market? How do you build a collector base after the artist is gone? How do you turn all that chaos into something valuable? Basquiat’s story doesn’t end with his death. It’s where the business of Basquiat really begins.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

Five Things Right Now: Kiki, Peaches, Blue Note Jazz & Sci-Fi

A picture of the cover of Kiki's Memoirs

THING 1: The Education of a French Model — Kiki’s Memoirs Introduced by Ernest Hemingway (Bridgehead Books / Seven Siren’s Press edition).

I’m almost through Memoirs of a French Model. My copy is a later  edition and one marketed as an Ernest Hemingway title. I mean just look at it. And I’ll admit—after reading Hemingway’s introduction, I had a moment where I thought: did Hem actually write this? And if he did, was the whole affair a little… transactional? Kiki was more than just a “muse.” She was a sex worker in Montparnasse—as well as a model, performer, and survivor. And I don’t think it’s crazy to wonder what the real exchange was here. An introduction from Hemingway carries weight, even in 1929 when this book was first published. And Kiki had something to sell. The book itself? It’s OK. Interesting in spots. Not exactly great. Far too brief. She introduces us to characters that you have to research a bit; I would have preferred Kiki telling me about them instead. Then you hit the middle section of this edition. And suddenly you’re not in her memoir anymore—you’re in a “dirty book.” Full-page photographs of nude women presented as “Kiki’s Friends”; in other words, nudes pulled from a stock photography house. Models Kiki didn’t know and who had no idea their naked images would be folded into The Mythology of Montparnasse. Which is what makes this edition so cool. It’s not just a memoir—it’s part literary artifact, part soft core porno (although kinda hardcore for 1955), and part marketing sleight-of-hand. (I won’t even go into the Sam Roth story.) A “dirty book” dressed up as a legitimate Hemingway title—a trick to both sell it and dodge U.S. obscenity laws. Which is exactly why I love it.

THING 2: Peaches — No Lube, How Rude!

It’s been a decade since her last record and twenty-six years since her first and Peaches, at 52, is still creating, still pushing, and still making people uncomfortable. She changed outfits throughout her show—each one landing somewhere between Berlin’s KitKatClub and performance-art-as-fashion. The crowd skews wide—people who’ve been there since The Teaches of Peaches, mixed with younger kids who were in diapers when it first dropped. But everyone understands the assignment: participation, not observation. A Peaches show is a reminder that when live music really works, it’s as much about the performance as it is about the music.

THING 3: The Opener — Curtis Fuller.

I’ve been spending time with The Opener, part of that Blue Note 1500 run I can’t seem to leave alone. Jazz, for me, does two things: it holds up to close listening, but it’s also the only music I can leave on while I work without it getting in the way. I found The Opener the way I usually find music—chasing a label as much as the sound. The 1500 series has a reputation that goes beyond collectibility, and once you start hearing why, it’s hard to stop. They’re not just good—they’re consistent in a way that makes you wonder how they were put together. Then you look at Fuller’s lineup for The Opener: Hank Mobley, Bobby Timmons, Paul Chambers, Art Taylor. Fuller didn’t fuck around. Neither did Blue Note.

THING 4: Project Hail Mary.

The last time I spent any time with Project Hail Mary was reading the book soon after it was published—the first sci-fi I’d read since Philip K. Dick. Truth is, Andy Weir and PKD are about the extent of my sci-fi reading experience. (I don’t count Slaughterhouse-Five as sci-fi.) My brother first made me aware of Weir after reading and raving about The Martian years ago. (The Martian is part of the Mountain Range of Unread Books that lies due east of my bed.) We all know the cliché—books are better than movies—just like we all know how clichés come to be. So yea. In this case, the movie respects the source without feeling stiff, overfaithful, or commandeered by a heavy-handed, know-it-all director. Which, for me, is plenty! I’m not looking for reinvention—I just want to feel like I’m back inside the story again for a couple hours. Side note: always mix your popcorn with plain M&M’s.

THING 5: Kiki’s Memoirs—Introduction by Ernest Hemingway  (Black Manikin Press edition).

At the onset of reading The Education of a French Model, of course I got pulled into the object as much as the text. And the story about the book, which I’ve learned is often as compelling as the story in a book. Which, of course, sent me down the path of the true first edition in English, published in 1930 Paris by Edward W. Titus at his Black Manikin Press. Which, of course, led me to a copy I couldn’t pass on…of course. Unread, unopened, the fragile glassine jacket and original red wrap-around band still intact, coming out of a noted Ernest Hemingway collector’s library, all housed in a custom black leather slipcase! I’ll call it a flex—or sheepishly admit—the slipcase probably cost that collector more than I paid for the whole she-bang. How could I pass on that?! But it makes me wonder about Hemingway’s collectibility in 2026. Does anyone care about Hemingway anymore? A rhetorical question, of course. All I care about is how effin’ cool this book is. Side note: if I could set the dial on a time machine, I’m going straight to 1920 Montparnasse…and just for the decade, please.

Posted on by — 2 Comments

Five Things Right Now: Dream Syndicate, Dylan, Costello, Kinks & The Sound

THING 1: The Dream Syndicate — The Days of Wine and Roses (1982)

In last week’s Five Things I mentioned something I’ve started doing in the mornings: listening to a record I don’t know by a band I do. And since coming up with five new “things” on any sort of regular basis isn’t as easy as it sounds (for me, anyways), I figured I’d keep it simple this time—five records I’ve spent time with this week. Some of which I’m guessing you don’t know either. And remember, I ain’t no music critic. I just love music. So—keep that in mind what I ask, do remember The Dream Syndicate? Cause I do. But I’d never actually sat down with any of their records. The Days of Wine and Roses sounds like a lot of records you’re probably familiar with… made long after this one. Which is a good thing.

THING 2:  Bob Dylan & The Band — Before the Flood (1974)

Before the Flood is Dylan’s live album from his ’74 tour with The Band—and here’s what struck me on my first (and only) listen: it’s full of his hits. The last time I saw Dylan, well over a decade ago at the Hollywood Palladium, that was exactly what he avoided playing. So have things changed since 2009? I know he’s still out there, still touring. Imagine that. Part of me thinks Dylan wants to make his exit on the road—which, if I were him, is exactly how I’d want to go too. In the back of a touring bus… somewhere between Cleveland and Nashville.

THING 3: Elvis Costello — All This Useless Beauty (1996)

This one caught me off guard. Quiet, restrained—almost delicate in places. Not the Costello I usually reach for. Which is to say, don’t go into it expecting “Watching the Detectives.” But “Complicated Shadows”—there’s something about it that just settles in. One of those songs that doesn’t demand attention… but ends up holding it anyway. I’m glad I found this record.

THING 4: The Sound — from the lion’s mouth (1981)

I kinda broke my rule here. Up to this listen, I didn’t know anything about The Sound. Couldn’t even tell you where they’re from (I assume England). But I do know Harold Bloom’s idea of “the anxiety of influence”—the notion that artists are always wrestling with what came before them. Sometimes to the point of imitation. Which is a polite way of saying they’re still searching for their own voice. It’s a tough thing to shake. As creatives, we all know that. It’s unavoidable. But listening to this, I kept thinking: if I want to hear The Cure or Joy Division—with U2’s Bono fronting—I’ll just put on The Cure or Joy Division and imagine the rest. Which is a polite way of saying From the Lion’s Mouth is, for me, a one-and-done.

THING 5: The Kinks — Muswell Hillbillies (1971)

Muswell Hillbillies is The Kinks leaning into Ray Davies’ love of character sketches—oddball Londoners, working-class survivors, people who feel like they’ve stepped out of a pub story. It’s funny, a little melancholy, and packed with detail. A strange record, too. It just kind of wanders along, telling stories. Which makes it a pretty great soundtrack for my morning mile with Molly.

Posted on by — 2 Comments

Five Things Right Now: Valley Art Theatre, Blood Meridian, Meat Puppets & 33⅓ Books

THING 1: Jitney.

I recently saw Jitney. I’m not much of a theater guy. I think if I lived in Manhattan, I’d be a theater guy. My friend Mark a theater guy. He’s my go-to when it comes to Everything Theater. He knows what’s great and has never steered me wrong. When I get to spend time in my most favorite city in the world, Mark and I usually go on a ManDate, usually off Broadway, usually to attend the theater. We’ve seen some terrific performances. So when he told me August Wilson’s acknowledged masterpiece was playing in Phoenix, I took my mom. On a MomDate. To see Jitney. Cause ManDates and MomDates are just about all the Hot Action I get these days. And of course Mark was right. Set in a 1970s Pittsburgh “jitney” — a cab stand for unlicensed taxis that pick up customers in neighborhoods a Yellow Cab won’t — it’s about work, pride, fathers and sons. The most surprising part? Decent theater in Phoenix, Arizona! Good things do happen outside NYC. Sometimes. That’s a joke. Kind of.

THING 2: The Single-Screen Theater.

A few days ago I drove past the Valley Art on Mill Avenue in Tempe. It’s shuttered. Dark. The marquee still has letters on it though—big, black, and in all caps: MOVIES ARE FOREVER. SEE YOU SOON. For decades the Valley Art was the last single-screen theater still standing and in operation in the Phoenix area. You’ve probably seen a movie in a single-screen. My first visit there was to catch The Atomic Café, my freshman year at ASU in the fall of ’82. But it was also where I saw one of my first punk shows. I grew up an arena rock kid—Styx, REO Speedwagon, The Who, BÖC. Thousands of people. Giant stages. The dank smell of weed a few minutes after the lights dimmed. Always a good fist fight in the parking lot after the show. But I digress. I caught the Meat Puppets at the Valley Art in November of ’84 with maybe a hundred other people in the room. I couldn’t get over the fact that, if I wanted to, I could actually reach out and touch the band. But I digress. I still love the experience of a movie in a theater. Last one for me was Nürnberg, through it all knowing it’s better here than streaming at home. But the Valley Art is a dinosaur, and we all know how large corporations feel about dinosaurs.

THING 3: The 33⅓ Series.

If you’re into music, the 33⅓ series is one of the more interesting publishing projects of the last twenty years. Each book focuses on a single album—sometimes a famous one, sometimes something a little more obscure—and the writers take wildly different approaches to it. Some read like memoirs. Others are cultural history. A few are almost like long essays about why a particular record mattered at a certain moment. The one I’m currently peddling is the Colin Meloy signed volume on his take of Let It Be by the Replacements. If you know the record, you know why it deserves a book. If you don’t know the record, the book is a pretty good place to start. A better place to start, of course, is with Let It Be. Anyway, an album you love and see if someone’s written a 33⅓ book about it. Chances are they have. It’s a fun way to spend an afternoon with a record you already know. I’m digging into Bruce Eaton’s take on Big Star’s Radio City.

THING 4: Listening to a Record I Don’t Know by a Band I Do.

I’m not a morning person. And I’m certainly not a morning-exercise person. But every now and then I manage to drag myself out of bed for my “morning mile with Molly.”  My pooch Molly loves her morning walks, and so do I.  Lately—with airbuds firmly inserted—I’m listening to something I don’t know much about. I’ve probably heard of the band. Or know a band’s famous record or two. But my general, self-imposed rule for My Morning Mile with Molly: Listen to a Record You Don’t Know by a Band You Do. This morning it was the 13th Floor Elevators—Easter Everywhere. 13th Floor Elevators! Love their first record. Never heard a lick on their second. I’ve never even heard of Easter Everywhere. And you know what? This sort of thing just…lands differently. I really can’t explain it any better than that. So this week pick a record you don’t know by a band you do and listen. On a walk. In the car. At your coffee shop. I’m learning the best way to really discover a band is by listening to the records I’ve skipped…for whatever reason.

THING 5: Blood Meridian

I’m rereading McCarthy’s masterpiece—mainly cause of my recent obsession with Tombstone—and, just as I remember, it is the most brutal book I’ve ever read. Dead babies hanging from trees. Eyes pulled from their sockets. The terrifying episode at the end of Chapter 4 when the Kid and his crew are slaughtered by the Comanches. The violence is relentless, and McCarthy doesn’t treat the American West the way most Western novels do. No romance. No heroic gloss. Pretty much everyone is a bad guy and his West seems older, harsher, and completely indifferent to the people moving through it. I love it. If you don’t know the book, McCarthy’s story unfolds mostly across the Texas–Mexico borderlands in the late 1840s, following a gang of scalp hunters through deserts and badlands. The land dominates everything, and McCarthy’s landscape is as much a character as anyone in the book. Give it a try. It’s not an easy book; meaning, it’s violent and unsettling and sometimes it feels more like a surrealistic fever dream than a traditional novel and every once in a while I do get a tiny-bit annoyed with McCarthy’s Faulknerian prosey. Just feels a little forced is all. But I’m no lit critic, and if you’re interested in the mythology of the American West, you won’t find a darker—or more honest—version of it anywhere.

Posted on by — Leave a comment

Five Things, Right Now.

THING 1: The Dusty Ramblers Project.

The band is part of what I’m calling “the CattleTrack Scene” — although I’m sure I’m not the only one calling it that. The CattleTrack Scene: the creatives orbiting in-and-around (about) a 2-mile strip of road called Cattletrack in Scottsdale, where the desert homes (among them is Fritz Scholder’s estate), studios, and back-porch stages blur together and the art feels very much lived. If I had to label them, I’ll borrow one and call The Ramblers “Sonoran Americana”: pedal steel and acoustic guitars under open sky and violins and petal-steel guitars that breathe in our warm air and don’t really ask for a whole lot of attention. Their sets move easily between covers I forgot I loved and originals that sound like they’ve been around even longer than the band’s “many years” of playing together. Big bonus points here: one of the band’s members, Brent Bond, runs Santos Press, so yea…I’m partial to The Ramblers due to Brent’s work both singing with them as well as pulling paper through his Vandy Universal 1.

THING 2: Heroic Harry and His Partner Blasting Boy.

I’m a collector. Have been my whole life. But you know this. I can’t remember, though, if I told you it started with my love of comics — specifically The Hulk and Daredevil — when I was maybe 9 or 10 years old. They’re the first thing I ever collected. Here’s something I know I’ve never mentioned: I loved them so much, I even attempted to draw my own. Fast forward to 2010-ish. I’m poking around one of my favorite, SoCal flea market haunts when I stumble upon a stack of discarded paper. Among that paper? Heroic Harry and His Partner Blasting Boy. Pencil on lined paper, 2 issues staple-bound, multiple covers, logos, issue numbers, villains, time-warps — a fully realized comic book universe imagined by some unknown kid who believed in his characters enough to publish them under the proud banner of “Bravo Comics Group.” I’ve held onto it all these years because it reminded me of my childhood, when I did the exact same thing: folded notebook paper in half, invented my own superhero, numbered the issues like collectors would someday argue over them. There’s something very honest about that level of conviction.

THING 3: Michael Rutter’s Upstairs Girls: Prostitution in the American West.

Whory Dory. Rockin’ Chair Emma. Poker Alice. Fuzzy Girl. Little Gertie. Cuttin’ Lil’ Slasher. Big Nose Kate. Those names aren’t pulp inventions. They’re pulled from documents — arrest records, city directories, newspapers — and they live again in Michael Rutter’s Upstairs Girls: Prostitution in the American West, which has been sitting on my nightstand…when it’s not sitting on my lap. Rutter’s book is less moral judgment and more ledger book: who worked where, what they charged, how they moved from boomtown to boomtown as mining camps rose and collapsed. Prostitution in the West was infrastructure: brothels stood near saloons, hotels, assay offices. Women rented cribs, upstairs rooms, and paid city fines and license fees, navigated madams, pimps, lawmen, gamblers, and the steady churn of silver and gold money. In Tombstone around 1880, they were as much a part of the street life as the Cowboys and the Earps or walking up Allen or Toughnut to Hop Town to score some opium under gaslight lamps.

THING 4: The Annual VNSA Book sale. 

The VNSA Book Sale is tomorrow, which means I’ll be up crazy-early — a rare event unless I’m catching a flight to Paris, Amsterdam, or, paybe, New York City. Short of a flea market at dawn, this is about the only thing that pulls me out of bed before sunrise. The sale is put on by the Volunteer Nonprofit Service Association, a Phoenix organization that began in 1957 to support the Visiting Nurse Service, raising money to provide in-home healthcare for people who needed it most. What started as a modest fundraiser has grown into one of the largest used book sales in the Southwest, filling the Arizona State Fairgrounds with tens of thousands of donated volumes. In recent years they’ve added a “rare book” section — which, yes, will be my first stop — but I’m just as excited about the art book tables and the long rows of hardback fiction where some real surprises tend to hide. Massive sales like this are democratic in the best way: high and low sharing the same folding tables, treasures misfiled, forgotten first printings sandwiched between book club editions. It’s part treasure hunt, part civic ritual, and part reminder that books still circulate hand to hand in this desert city. Did I mention the massive line to get in?

THING 5: The Discipline of Letting Things Go.

I don’t really need the money I earn from selling books. It’s a nice supplement to whopping Social Security check, sure, but that’s not why I get up early for flea markets or wander into junk shops. It’s my idea of rescuing things. And I use that word deliberately. So much paper ephemera — books, handmade comics, forgotten art — is one bad decision away from a dumpster. I’ve always felt a kind of obligation to intervene. But lately I’m learning that rescue doesn’t mean permanent custody. Some of the things closest to me — the Heroic Harry comic I held for fifteen-odd years, the record collection I swore I’d never break down, books I loved enough to read twice — eventually deserve to move on. Letting go is its own discipline. It clears space. It sharpens taste. It reminds me that collecting isn’t about possession; it’s about stewardship. I get to hold something for a while, appreciate it, understand it, then send it back out into the world. What’s next? Maybe even the books inscribed to me. Why not. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the story doesn’t end when an object leaves my shelf.

Sometimes that’s when it actually begins again.