My review of Richard Flanagan’s The Unknown Terrorist appears in today’s Philly Inquirer.

Ladies and gentlemen. I finally met Howard Junker. My last night in San Francisco. Two men. Pabst Blue Ribbon. It doesn’t get any sillier than that.

I am here to tell you that Mr. Junker imbibed Pabst Blue Ribbon with me. How many editors of literary journals would drink PBR? Would Wendy Lesser drink PBR? Or David Remnick? No! But Howard Junker did!

The only reason I was imbibing the stuff was because I am trying to acclimatize to Manhattan cocktail prices. Although it would appear that certain establishments in San Francisco are charging equally ridiculous prices. So perhaps I can return to better ales.

There will be more later. A lengthy post on leaving San Francisco. Another post, if I can find the time, on Richard Cheese and the remarkably dim audience at the Red Devil Lounge. But I suspect that BEA will trump all of this. Bear with me. I am now in transition!

Those two posts below are my last for Return of the Reluctant. I’ve really, really enjoyed this. Thanks Ed for the opportunity! If any of you liked my contributions, I have a blog of my own at http://www.patrickstephenson.net

Now I’m off to Rochester, MN for Memorial Day.

[To understand this entry, you must first read this entry. I originally posted this on my own blog, so keep in mind that it’s written from that perspective.]

My dad—briefly discussed in my entry I’m Not Counterculture beneath an excellent photo of Allen Ginsberg—happened to visit my blog Thursday afternoon. He mentioned this when he called at 7pm Thursday night and criticized the entry. He felt it was too personal for the Internet, and that by the end it became muddled and confusing. I thought about what he said all night.

What is writing—fiction or non-fiction, blog entry or not—without confession and revelation? I don’t necessarily mean confessions of past trauma, e.g. A CHILD CALLED IT or A MAN CALLED DAVE. I mean saying, ‘This is what I think about and who I am.’ Should I be a drone and JUST link to other sites, expressing myself by proxy, or should I be explicit? If a piece of writing isn’t to some extent personal, then I believe it’s merit-less, processed like SPIDER-MAN 3 through a billion people and corrupted by financial interests. Processed cheese, inorganic and cow pus-filled. Continue reading →