Ann Sterzinger’s THE TALKATIVE CORPSE (and a brief website progress update)

I thought that I would have this website completed by now, but NOPE. I bought the domain name and the web space last November and I’m still learning on the job.

I’m still having bad ideas, working on them for several days and then trashing it all when I figure out that it stinks.

I started out with NO vision for this site, but one is slowly cohering by trial and error. When it’s finished, I’m hoping that this Constant Bleeder bullshit is something decent. We’ll see.

In the meantime, here’s a piece about a good book that I just read:


Ann Sterzinger

The Talkative Corpse

Hopeless Books, 2013

In this novel, a 40 year old educated man toils in minimum wage helljobs in Chicago circa 2011-12. Also, his girlfriend dumped him and he’s late on the rent for his shitty apartment.

Life has been kicking this guy in the balls ever since the internet killed his old newspaper job. Anne Sterzinger’s John Jaggo is a man under EVERYONE’S boot heel. Is he The World’s Biggest Loser or is he a kind of tarnished saint who suffers for the sins of modern living? Sterzinger argues the latter. This book is his journal, written to be sealed up, buried and discovered by people in the future. If Jaggo’s given up on happiness now, he’ll take immortality in a hundred years or so. He writes like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane.

It’s an essential perspective on the follies of the early 21st century. Sterzinger knows the sting of fluorescent lights, the horror of customer service and the terror of shitbag bosses at low-level office computer drone jobs like John Steinbeck knows Salinas Valley. Her narrator is articulate (and funny) in a well-read way. He neatly disembowels the Occupy movement (Jaggo attends a demonstration and finds it less than inspiring, to put it mildly), while also having little fondness for the fruits of capitalism.

And while everyone today has something to say about technology, Sterzinger is among the very few to talk frankly about how it’s taking away our jobs. Whatever the hell it is that you do for a living, there’s someone somewhere working on a machine, a website or a program to make your job, or even your entire industry, obsolete.

Capitalism considers the working class to be cattle, at best (and a burden, at worst), and Socialism has slid into laughable irrelevance. Most people into Socialism in 2017 are privileged bumblers. Socialism needs a strong and galvanized working class to make any sense at all. Today’s working class ain’t buying it. They’re not on board. They don’t care. They’re too busy bracing themselves for their jobs to become worthless while the rest of the world enjoys the technological innovation that made it happen. For Socialism to be relevant, the working class needs to feel relevant. And that’s the exact opposite of what’s happening.

Some in Generation X got hit extra hard with this. They went to college in the very last moments that a degree in the Humanities was still considered worthwhile. They graduated into a precarious job market and so heavy in debt that a suspicious mind might think that said debt was the sole reason why they were lured into college in the first place.

On the upside, Ann Sterzinger is doing HER job as a novelist to document all of this shit. THE TALKATIVE CORPSE is a book about one sad man in 2011 and 2012, but it feels like the end of the world.

But it’s NOT the end of the world.

The brilliant stroke of this book is that it’s presented as an ancient artifact discovered by the people of an unimaginable future (their presence felt faintly in an introduction and a few scattered “translator’s notes”). Every tragedy is undercut by how its main character, and all of us, are now dust. You and I are far-gone fertilizer here, no matter what our problems or status. It’s poignant and in a way it makes us all laughable.

It’s a book that gives us exactly what we deserve.

Kenneth Davids’ THE SOFTNESS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HOLE

Kenneth Davids
The Softness on the Other Side of the Hole
Grove Press,  1968

Maybe YOU could resist a fifty-year-old paperback called The Softness on the Other Side of the Hole that you found in the vintage rack at a used bookstore, but I couldn’t. It was $3. The great title was worth at least $1 of that; the bizarre description on the back cover was worth the other $2 and more.

It gets flying right from its opening sentence when our hero, a homeless 72 year old hippie, innocently smokes a joint in the stall of a women’s restroom and a guy in the adjacent men’s room starts to flirt with him through the wall on the assumption that he’s speaking to a woman. Our geriatric pothead likes girls (or used to back when he could get the job done), but he eventually plays along because…

1) he’s high as a giraffe’s eye,

2) he’s a nice old man who likes to make people happy,

and

3) author Kenneth Davids has no interest in making a lick of sense (our 72 year old man somehow convincingly affects the voice of a woman in her 20s as he chats through a glory hole). Davids writes like he just took a couple monster bong hits and then went to type some stuff (and he probably did). He rambles, treats periods and commas as optional, and is most interested in ruminating on loneliness, aging, and drugged mind states–and building up to a taboo plot twist that’s the last atom bomb gross-out after some creepy sex acts and nightmare phallic drug hallucinations.

It’s trash, but it’s a trip. It was put out by the old Grove Press and it plays like psychedelics-sprinkled pornography for a few quick chapters, especially when the old man gets lost in the fantasy that he’s a girl, and then it makes left turns into places where the most shameless boners won’t remain standing.

I give it a thumbs (and ONLY thumbs) up.

David Cole’s REPUBLICAN PARTY ANIMAL

David Cole
REPUBLICAN PARTY ANIMAL
2014, Feral House

When your life is ruined by a lie, you’ve lost all of your friends and everything you’ve worked for collapses overnight, it seems like you have a few options left to consider. You could eat a bullet for lunch. You could become a strident, droning victim and bore everyone until we not only lose interest in your trial, but we start to think that you deserved it. Or you could joke mercilessly about the whole affair, preferably in a book that reads like a thousand dirty secrets told in confidence between two bar stools—and that’s the path that David Cole takes, thank God.

Now, let’s get one thing straight here: Infamous Jewish “Holocaust denier” David Cole is, uh, not a Holocaust denier. This is not a fact that I got from fake news (whatever that is) or some blowhard on social media. I got it from Cole’s own words in this very volume. David Cole says that the Holocaust happened. David Cole agrees with the mainstream that European Jews during the Third Reich were rounded up, forced into camps and killed in large numbers. There’s nothing wrong with my copy of the book. No pages were ripped out. Everything is spelled right. The ink didn’t come off on my hands. I wasn’t on drugs. My old Kindergarten teacher once told me that I read very well.

David Cole acknowledges the Holocaust (let’s say it again). It’s here in professionally typeset plain English. So can anyone who’s EVER hated him for that FINALLY shut up? If you question Cole’s authority on the Holocaust, how about we at least buy that he’s an authority on what’s in his own head? Sounds reasonable to me.

The (very) brief summary of what makes Cole such a hot lump of coal deemed unfit for sensitive hands: He questions that Auschwitz was an extermination camp.

While Cole believes that other camps, such as Treblinka, were true blue death destinations, he posits that Auschwitz was more likely a labor camp for a warring country who really needed it. Its famous gas chambers, mere legend. He doesn’t say that Auschwitz was a country club, but he thinks the facts have become distorted over the years and that it’s his job as a researcher to set the record straight.

Is Cole correct? I don’t know. He’s read more Holocaust literature, interviewed more people on the matter and done more personal inspections of the original site than I’ll ever do. I say we leave it for the historians to argue. If you’re not an active participant in Holocaust research, neck-deep in the reading and well-weathered on the traveling, I don’t care what you have to say. When non-historians get in on this, they tend to bring in their politics. Pundits win and history loses.

Pursuing this matter in the face of violent resistance (and I do mean real violence, with punches thrown and death threats from high places) is only Cole’s FIRST self-destructive act. He’d have a few more, including one literal faking of his death and a changing of his professional name and a path that lead to working with the most image-conscious human beings on Earth outside of high school kids: politicians. Los Angeles resident Cole was a real up-and-coming mover and shaker of the little-acknowledged, well-moneyed, but marginalized Hollywood right wing. He hobnobbed with everybody in the scene, worked the room from front to back and threw legendary parties. Powerful people loved David Cole. They admired his work ethic. They wanted to team up with him. The kid had a future.

Then these people found out about Cole’s controversial Holocaust past (through machinations best revealed in the book) and they pretended to never know him.

Such is life in the big leagues. Anyone who has anything to lose will always distance themselves from the pariah. All sides of the political spectrum are fat with lies and hungry for more. They play to people who don’t read far past the headlines. They know how truth distorts the very moment that more than one mouth is talking about it and they take advantage of that (except when it’s working against them). Cole, a quick-thinking achiever who admits that he’s comfortable being a manipulative weasel, felt comfortable among other weasels. And then they chewed him up.

This is his story. Sounds like a good book to me.

As with any memoir from a disgraced person, this one invites suspicion of its accuracy. What do Cole’s relentlessly bashed ex-friends and ex-girlfriends here have to say? I don’t know (none of them seem to be writers), but what makes Cole believable is that he’s funny. This book is not a screed or a plea for mercy. It’s a laugh-out-loud take on a screwball-worthy situation. Cole seems like the kind of guy who could find out that he’s got a terminal disease and then start joking about it five minutes later. I always believe truly funny people because they’re not afraid to make themselves look pathetic. There’s too much humor in the sad truth to reach for some boring lie.

David Cole’s fall is the worst thing that ever happened to him—and he sees both its tragedy and its comedy. Any real seeker of truth ought to be able to do that.