Facing the setting sun, I’m sitting at the northeast corner of the bar at Chico Feo, elevated by a bar stool and decking and looking down at a picnic table where White people in their early thirties chat. From this perspective, the attractive young blonde’s nose ring makes it look as if she has the sniffles, the metal of her nose ring glinting, looking like liquid. 

Bobby Burns’ immortal words come to mind:

O wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!

But so what if from my angle it looks as if her nose is running?  It’s not. The fellow sitting across from her sees a remarkably good-looking hipster with brilliant white teeth. She’s smiling and nodding her head, reaching for her Samurai Sling, her nose ring merely a nose ring.

No thanks, Bobby Burns. I don’t want to see myself as others see me – as sporty codger, vain old man, yellow-toothed toper, dead-end hedonist, whatever. The actual problem of being a septuagenarian is that people don’t see you at all – you’re invisible ­– which reminds me of a string of Washington Post crossword puzzle clues I encountered a couple of Sundays ago.

33 Across: Nurse’s remark, continuing at 61 across

61 Across: See 33 across

85 Across: Physician’s response to the nurse

33 Across: doctor the invisible

61 Across: man is in the waiting room

85 Across: Tell him I can’t see him.


Alchemizing One of John Berryman’s Hangovers

Alchemizing One of John Berryman’s Hangovers

with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles

from John Berryman’s “Dream Song 14”

In my dyspeptic little world,

birds don’t sing in the trees overhead,

but perched aloft on limbs,

they shit on pedestrians,

trudging to jobs that they despise

on a neverending


Monday morning.

La la, la la la.


There once was a MAGA from Dallas

that had Trump tattooed on his phallus.

Whenever he pumped,

he’d choke Donald Trump

who eventually became quite callous.

Different Sides of the Same Coin

Warren Moise and I experienced similar childhoods in that we grew up as White males in relatively small South Carolina towns in the Fifties and Sixties, both graduating from high schools that were integrated in the 1970-1971 school year.

Here’s a quote from the back cover of Warren’s excellent historical memoir The Class of ’71.[1]

When the Class of ’71 began first grade as young children in 1959, they lived in a totally segregated society. Except for some few prior student transfers and with limited other exceptions, the Black and White members of the Class of ’71 had never met, played music together, gone to church with one another, eaten food at the same lunch counters, or swum together in the same pools. All of that would change on the first day of their senior year. 

In Summerville, South Carolina, where I lived, even physicians’ waiting rooms were segregated into White and Black sections. In fact, Bryan’s, the Black owned barbershop that I patronized, only cut White people’s hair.  John F. Kennedy, Malcom X, Martin Luther King, and Robert Kennedy were assassinated within five years of one another when we were students. A cultural revolution was underway. 

Again, to quote Warren:

Soul music, oxford shirts, and oxblood Wejuns penny loafers were disappearing from the streets of Gamecock City[2]every day, It was as if the 1960s were burning rubber in a Chevelle V-8 Super Sport on Highway 15 South leaving town toward Paxville. At the same moment, the 1970s were rollin’ into town on Highway 15 North inside a Volkswagen van painted with slogans of peace, love, and daisies.

Warren and I met our freshman year in Thornwell dorm the fall of 1971 at the University of South Carolina and became fast friends, deciding to room together in Tenement Nine on the Horseshoe the next year, which we did until Warren left college to pursue a musical career.[3]

Warren and I circa 1972

We also shared houses when Warren returned to USC to earn his undergraduate degree in history in 1974 -1976. Unfortunately, we more or less lost contact after school. Oddly enough, fortyish years later we both ended up writing books about being in high school the same year. My novel Today, Oh Boy takes place during the course of one day, October 12, 1970, a month or two after Warren began his senior year at Edmunds high school.[4]

So, The Class of ’71 and Today, Oh Boy cover some of the same terrain, small towns transitioning from the Old to New South, the tumultuous raging of hormones, adolescent crushes, physical violence engendered by culture clashes. 

In my not-all-that-humble opinion, they offer interesting perspectives from non-fictive and fictive landscapes in that pivotal school year that ended the Sixties and ushered in the Seventies.

We better stop
Hey, what’s that sound?
Everybody look, what’s going down?

from “For What It’s Worth,” lyrics by Stephen Stills

[1] I don’t know if there’s such a thing as a historical memoir. The Class of ’71 contains multitudes – it’s a history of Sumter County, a coming-of-age story, a judicial and political chronicle of desegregation, a sociological review of the cultural changes of the late Sixties, a profile of serial killer Pee Wee Gaskins. In short, it’s difficult to succinctly classify. Here’s some more expansive. You can purchase the book HERE.  It’s a great read propelled by well-crafted prose. 

[2] I.e., Sumter, South Carolina.

[3] You can read the horror story of the roommate who replaced him HERE BTW, Warren’s musical career was successful. He’s a member of the Beach Music Hall of Fame, though he abandoned life on the road for a career in law.

[4] Actually, I decided to delay Summerville’s integration until the next year, which we novelists have the freedom to do. You can purchase Today, Oh Boy HERE.

The I Ain’t Got No Health Insurance Blues

The I Ain’t Got No Health Insurance Blues

Too bad I ain’t got no 

            self-help-guru instincts

                        as far as

                                    copping a livable income 

is concerned.

                        I should be able to come up with  


                                    or nine 



                                    or so 


                                    that lead to Psychological Salvation!

                                                Potential titles of bestsellers:

                                                How to Dismantle Your Ego

                                                Slow Down, You’re Thinking Too Fast

                                                We Are They and They Are We

The problem is that I don’t follow 

them steps myself. 

I think to write a book like that 

that you need credentials of super-duper success. 

Why buy a book from someone 

who claims to know the wayful path

but who lives in a tiny two-bedroom duplex house 

on the border of a bad neighborhood?  

So I live on a tree-lined street where doors slam, 

                                                            car alarms blare

                        children squeal 

                                                            leaf blowers roar

                        keyboards quietly click.