Two things

 YouTube vidy of my reading a couple weeks back at Magers & Quinn:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MV-J00OamnU

And, Amazon's got a relatively new feature for a series that is much nicer than their Author Page:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09FFDLBRD

On Ethna McKiernan

Last night I attended a book launch for my friend Ethna McKiernan's latest poetry collection. It was much more than that.

I met Ethna back in 1989 when Jeff the Cabby decided we should meet. Turned out we were both in the same issue of a magazine that'd just come out. I was immediately intimidated by Ethna's success. We hit it off anyway, and she invited me to join a writing group she headed up. The group met often at Irish Books & Media, which she owned. I suppose that wonderful thing lasted 4-5 years before my drinking made me uncomfortable in the mostly-sober group and I walked away.

A pandemic-era stage had been built outside Celtic Junction and last night I watched Ethna slip from a wheelchair onto a regular chair during a very nice reception that preceded the reading portion of event. For my part it mostly involved watching a photoshoot of the McKiernan family and seizing an opportunity to run up and say hi to my friend.

I quit drinking in 2006 and finished my first novel—started and workshopped in that writing group back in the early '90s. I reconnected with Ethna. She consented—offered?—to read the manuscript. I remember her telling me it would be an “important book.” Can't be right all the time... She invited me back into the group. Shipping costs, she said, had forced her to give up her business. She would soon begin doing outreach for the homeless—checking camps and underpasses to make sure her clients were safe.

Four poet friends of Ethna's joined her on stage and read a couple of poems apiece from her new book, Light Rolling Slowly Backwards.

In May, I had nearly finished my ninth novel. It's heavy on Walt Whitman and—needing a poet's eye to see if I'd done it right—I asked Ethna if she would read it. She graciously agreed and, forty pages later, emailed me back with mostly positive thoughts, some negatives, and an apology for not being quicker to respond: “I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer in November so my energy ebbs and wanes.”

They brought out a music stand and adjusted the microphone so Ethna could read. She read six or seven poems, a little shaky, though very emotional—and felt by all.

Yes, more than a book launch. A celebration of a life that still leaves me intimidated. A celebration of a friend.

If I Lie in a Combat Zone

 

September 22, 7pm at Magers & Quinn Booksellers, Uptown Minneapolis:

reading/launch of If I Lie in a Combat Zone, a novel by Will Tinkham

It goes like this:

Ordered to inspect a suspected Viet Cong tunnel in November of 1968, Private Walt Whitman von Funck crawls inside and falls in love. And tears a hole in his foot. Zow spends eight months nursing him back to health, while her brother and grandfather conduct midnight raids and accumulate prisoners, including a general.

During his convalescence, Walt and Zow wed; theirs is a love story that defies race, religion and bureaucratic red tape. Upon his return to Chu Lai Air Base with his pregnant wife and six prisoners, Stars and Stripes declares Walt a hero.

Till a U.S. Army doctor declares the foot wound self-inflicted.

Hailed, then jailed—repeatedly—Walt becomes a favorite of the anti-war crowd and a thorn in the side of President Nixon. Walt accepts offers to speak on college campuses. Protests involving gunfire and bombings become routine. It's almost as if they are targeting him.

Far from just another love story, If I Lie in a Combat Zone provides a fictional glimpse into child-actor Brandon deWilde's (“Come back, Shane!”) portrayal of Walt on Broadway, soldier-songwriter John Prine testing out tunes for Walt and Zow on a flight home from Germany, Joe Biden's first Senate run and Donald Trump's initial venture into housing discrimination.

Part IV: Chicago & Philadelphia via Green Bay

 

(Part IV of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)

Don't recall many specifics about my stay in Minneapolis—just another trip back home. I did run in an old friend, John Hazlett, who mentioned that his brother Kevin was living in New York City. He sets things up so that I could spend a week on Kevin's couch. This was significant since I had a place to stay near Chicago and a place to stay in Stamford, CT, which would be my last stop before reaching Bread Loaf. A week in NY made my schedule complete.

While home, there was a letter from Bread Loaf informing me that my first two choices to read my work, John Irving and Erica Jong, had to cancel. (Irving had to shoot the Garp movie.) I opted for John Gardner or Tim O'Brien, who I had been reading on the trip.

I made Chicago in less time than you could drive it as every ride happened before I could even set my pack down, none of the drivers stopped for gas or food, and next thing I knew I was in Glen Ellyn—a suburb right on the train tracks where Din Din had relatives who had stayed with us in San Jose.

I stayed with them over the weekend. Took the train into Chicago on Saturday, wandered around and was surprised to find a massive beach. Of course I knew the city was on Lake Michigan but I just didn't associate Chicago with beaches. There, I sat in the sand near a lovely young woman in a remarkably skimpy bikini. In time, I mustered up the courage to speak with her.

I asked her a stupid question as to the whereabouts of a street that turned out to be the very one I'd crossed to get there. She pointed out her boyfriend, shamelessly flirting with another woman at the water's edge. My new friend claimed to be a model and a fledgling actress, and offered to show me around town—to get even with her boyfriend, no doubt.

As we prepared to sneak away, the boyfriend returned, nixing that plan. I wandered aimless about town and took the 6:00 train rather than the one at midnight.

Monday morning, the woman of the house had to go into Chicago and offered me a ride. A bit unnerved by the rush-hour traffic, she ended up dumping me smack in the middle of a snarl of highways—forcing me to make a dash for the nearest ramp and legal hitchhiking ground.

A car pulled in front of me. “We gotta get you off this road, bub,” the guy said as I climbed in. “Cop just pulled someone over back there and you'd be next.”

I thanked him for looking out for me, and he left me at the top of a ramp. A more legal place to be—or so I thought. Some time passed before a police car pulled over. “You gotta be thirty feet off the road's shoulder,” the cop said.

I peered down into the ditch—some twenty feet deep—at the ramp's edge. “Nobody'll see me down there,” I said. He said he'd be back in a half-hour and I better be gone. I wasn't.

Upon his return, he pointed down the highway. “There's an oasis about a mile down the road,” he lied. Five miles, easy. Maybe closer to ten. I had to ask directions several times. I recall climbing a fence and wading through a small stream.

Finally the oasis came in sight: a huge truck stop with restaurants and always a Howard Johnson. While sizing up the trucks parked there as possible rides, I spotted a guy exiting the Howard Johnson restaurant and walking toward me. “How far are you goin'?” he asked.

“New York City,” I said.

He stopped in his tracks. “Oh, sorry,” he said and turned back.

“How far are you goin'?” I called after him.

“Atlantic City,” he replied. I kid you not.

“I think we can work something out,” I said, picking up my pack and following him to his car. He was from Green Bay and wanted to spend his 21^st birthday gambling in Atlantic City. Alone. His first trip out of Green Bay. Good luck...

Most people picking up hitchhikers are looking for someone to talk to or someone to listen to. Not this guy. Not Green Bay. I started out telling him about my run-in with the cop and my trek to the oasis. Didn't even get a smile or a shake of the head. I told him of the guy with the machete and the limo ride. T thought playing poker on a Nevada highway might spark a gambling conversation. Nothing. Green Bay never said a word that didn't pertain to the business at hand. I guess I must've driven some, we never stopped except for gas.

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, Green Bay declared: “I want to see the Liberty Bell.” He had maps and guidebooks and I tried to navigate us there. At least we were talking. But we never found it. Drove round and round Philadelphia but couldn't find the damn bell. He was dejected but I had to tell him I really needed to reach New York before it got dark.

Green Bay had no business alone in Atlantic City. I could only hope—for his sake—that he couldn't find a casino either and turned back for home.

Next up: My Nine Hour Trip from Philly to NYC

Part III: Maria vs Mario, Lawnchairs, a Limo & a T-Bird

 

(Part III of my series on a hitchhiking trip from CA to VT and the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop back in 1982. Chronicled here before I forget it entirely.)

Okay, maybe it was only 18-inches long, but a big knife. Okay, maybe a foot. Anyhow, the guy could slice up a cantaloupe at 60 mph, played a steady stream of good music out of his tape deck and provided interesting conversation clear into Utah.

Things get hazy here—it has been 39 years. I guess I decided to kill some time in Denver, having a couple of friends living there, so we parted company in Salt Lake City. The ride out of Salt Lake was memorable for its creepiness.

I wanna say it was a Corvair. Went by me as I exited a gas station with some snacks and directions. I followed those directions out onto a highway that went easterly on by the airport and out of town. And there was the Corvair again, the driver had to be in his 70s—picture Edmund Gwenn in Miracle on 34^th Street or The Trouble with Harry. Small talk quickly led to this kindly old gent talking about a girl he knew in his teens.

“Maria was always good for a blowjob,” he said with an old-guy giggle—all of which caught me completely off-guard. Then he started talking about her brother Mario. “And if you couldn't find Maria, Mario was always available in a pinch.” Another giggle. “After all, when it comes to blowjobs, it doesn't really matter whether its a Maria or a Mario, now does it?”

“I'm strictly a Maria kind of guy,” I responded as politely as I could, and he let me out near the airport.

Spent some time with buddies in Denver, I'm sure, but I can't distinguish it from other times I've been there.

Got one long ride through Nebraska, four frat boys crammed into the front of a pick-up. I was alone in the truck bed when the rains came. It poured but—tucked up against the cab—I barely got wet. I think they bought me lunch and said they'd drop me near the entrance to I-29 heading up to Sioux Falls. Though nowhere near any freeway, they did drop me in the middle of the stockyards and it stunk like hell. I'm sure that they had a good laugh over that.

Passed on a ride from a Charles Manson-looking fellow in a rusty, white station wagon—the only ride I turned down on the trip—and got a ride from a blonde—the only woman to stop the whole way. Older than I, probably in her mid-30s, she was very nice and missed the Augustana College exit—my friends Scott and Lois lived nearby—and I settled for downtown.

Found a bar, a couple beers and directions to their street. No one home. Having no schedule myself, I may not have given them any indication that I might be stopping by. I dragged my pack through their fence gate to the back porch. Fully aware that the neighbors could've called the police, I napped—prepared to be awakened by the authorities. Didn't happen. I walked to find a six-pack and some food and returned—the neighbors thinking nothing of some guy coming and going from the back porch next door.

I left Scott and Lois a note, attached to a lawnchair, containing the lyrics to a song called “Lawnchairs are Everywhere”. Din Din, my old roommate, had received a $1,500 grant from DaAnza College to shoot a film of a short story of mine—one of three I sent in to get the Bread Loaf scholarship—starring me. Instead, he decided to remake a music video of the Lawnchair song he'd shot in the summer of '81—before MTV. It had featured our dodgy roommate's girlfriend, who tried to take over the remake and was fired. Replaced by me. In drag. I've never forgiven Din Din for not doing my story.

First ride the next morning was in a limousine. No kiddin'. I don't recall who the guy was but he had a young boy along and we ate breakfast in the back. I think they were headed for Clear Lake, Iowa, so the ride wasn't a long one.

I'm guessing it was a late 50s Thunderbird, red, classic car plates—my next ride. I admitted I didn't know much about cars but told him my dad would go nuts over his. A very nice guy. I don't recall where he was headed but it was not the Twin Cities. Before I knew what had happened, he had decided on a detour and ultimately drove me right into my parents' driveway.

Sure 'nough, Dad stepped out of the garage, gave me—the son he hadn't seen in a year or two—a wave and started checking out the T-Bird.

Part II: Desert Poker and Knee-deep in Porn

 Solely for my own benefit, I am recounting here my 1982 hitchhiking trek from CA to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, VT. This is Part II.

There's a spot in the middle of Nevada where several smaller highways intersect the interstate, and there I found a group of hitchhikers patiently waiting their turn for an eastbound ride. One fellow stood thumbing a ride on the shoulder while four more played poker in the dust. The gamblers were the next four in line to hitchhike, as I found out from others who sat in the desert heat waiting for their opportunity to lose money while waiting for their opportunity to proceed eastward. Those were the rules.

 (The fellow on the left is cheating.)

I sat in the dirt anticipating a Reno-like eight-hour stretch here when a car pulled over and picked up the designated hitchhiker, quickly replaced by a card player, and the longest-tenured guy in “the bullpen” moved into the game. Soon the whole process repeated itself until I found myself next in line for a card game I wanted no part of. My funds were limited, as were my poker skills.

The game seemed to be heating up as an RV pulled over—the one guy running to jump in—followed by another car that also pulled onto the shoulder. The pot seemed to have grown too big for any of the participants to risk leaving, so I ran to the waiting vehicle.

Tossing my pack in, I jumped in and found my own knees in my face—the floor of the backseat full of nudie magazines. I thanked the two guys in the front for stopping while shifting magazines till my feet found their way to the floor. They asked where I was going.

“First Minneapolis,” I said. “Ultimately Vermont.”

“You're in luck, we're goin' to Sioux Falls,” said the passenger. Luck indeed! I had friends in Sioux Falls and a roof over my head for a night or two. Having seen enough of Nevada's scenery, I picked a magazine off the pile.

“What's in Sioux Falls for you guys?” I asked, just to be sociable.

They both laughed. “See that RV up ahead?” the driver asked. “That's my old man. He come out to take me back to go to court.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “They wanna put me away for a real, lo-o-ong time.” The two had another laugh over that.

They didn't elaborate. I didn't ask. I did slip my handy map book inside the girlie mag, figured I had parts of three states and twenty-some hours—barring stops—to spend with a guy facing a stretch in prison and a buddy who found that hilarious. I picked the next good-sized town on the map.

“Come to think of it,” I began, “my brother's got a friend in Winnemucca he wanted me to look up because the guy owes him some money.” As the Winnemucca exit and a Motel 6 sign came into view, I said: “Just dump me here and I'll cut across this field.” The field stretched out maybe 150 yards between the interstate and the motel, a chain-link fence cut across at about the halfway point.

Dusk had set in. I trudged through thigh-high grass to the fence, climbed it and splashed down into knee-high water. Marshland in Nevada? Climbing back over, I sloshed back to the highway and a mile or so to the Winnemucca exit, then the same distance down main street—passing 'No Vacancy' signs along the way—and got the last room at the Motel 6. I believe I was overcharged. Seems there was a rodeo in town.

Back out to the interstate the next morning, I passed a couple also looking for a ride, so I moved on toward an entrance ramp that might offer me more opportunity. Before I could get there a guy pulled over. “Don't like picking up couples,” he said as I climbed in. “Nothing but trouble.” He was 35 – 40 and heading for New York City.

“Wow... Tom Waits,” I said of the music coming from his tape deck. “Haven't heard anything but lousy country music since I left California.” He seemed like a great guy. One I could've traveled all the way to New York with—except that I still had two months to kill before Bread Loaf began.

“Got some groceries in back,” he said. “Oughta be a melon on top.”

I reached back into the bag and pulled out a cantaloupe.

He reached under his seat and pulled out a two-foot-long machete.

This is what they call, in the biz, a cliffhanger. Next time: Lawnchairs are everywhere.

All Just to Get to a Writers' Workshop

 

Mostly for my own benefit, I'm gonna chronicle my 1982 hitchhiking trip from California to Vermont and back on this page. Judging from the frequency of past posts, I may complete the task by its 40^th anniversary next summer.

My roommate Din Din and I stood in our San Jose, California kitchen trying to figure out our plans for the upcoming summer—or more precisely my plans. Din had house painting jobs lined up back in Minneapolis while I was clinging to a longshot of getting a scholarship to the Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop in Middlebury, Vermont. It was my last day to decide whether to stay on with our somewhat dodgy third roommate—which I didn't want to do—or scramble for temporary quarters—of which there were none.

“I won't hear from Bread Loaf till July,” I said. “And it's a pipe dream anyway.”

Then the phone rang. Honest. A woman asked if I'd like a working scholarship to Bread Loaf. “Are you serious?” I said. She asked if I'd be arriving by plane or bus. “Hitchhiking, I guess,” I said. I had little money and two-and-a-half months to kill before the workshop. She wished me luck.

I climbed into a pick-up truck headed for Sacramento. It would be the first of twelve straight pick-ups to deliver me through northern California that day. This first one dropped me off on the highway resulting in the police ordering me off and I walked most of the way through the capital city before a second pick-up gave me a lift.

The day's last pick-up dropped in Reno and—though I'd swore I wouldn't spend money on lodging—I checked into a cheap motel for the night. I did not take advantage of the free gambling chip they gave me.

photo: newtoreno.com

The next morning found me eagerly standing, thumb out, on an entrance ramp heading east.

That afternoon found me still in that same spot, eight hours later. A car finally pulled over. “I saw you in this same spot this morning on my way to work,” the guy said as I crammed my backpack into the backseat. No shit, I muttered. “Of course, I'm turning to go to Carson City.” The Carson City exit was maybe 100 yards up the road.

Now forced to cross rush-hour Carson City traffic, I finally settled under an overpass on the interstate—where the police frown on hitchhikers. Another pick-up stopped. A cowboy. “Only going as far as Sparks,” he said. I could see the exit just ahead. I took the ride just to get off the highway.

“I can offer you a beer and a bunk,” the cowboy said. “Course I'm a gay guy.”

It was late afternoon. “No, thanks,” I said and ended up on the Sparks ramp till the sun went down. I trudged over to a nearby park. Though tempted to walk back to Reno and that motel, I climbed atop a picnic table to sleep.

Next installment: Desert poker, knee-deep in porn, and a machete.