Tinfoil + Raccoon

Dave Wallace, Nice Guy, 1962-2008

Saturday evening, the news came through on FriendFeed that iconic author David Foster Wallace had died, apparently by his own hands, on Friday night, September 12. The friend who posted the news was a huge fan and others followed with expressions of genuine sadness and shock. I had taken several stabs at Wallace's fiction, but always gave up, feeling distinctly unmo and unclever enough. Even so, I grieved along with DFW's fans.

Why am I writing about the passing of one of the most influential authors of our time if he's never been on my Must Read list? Even though his writing was anthemic to Team C & I (Cynicism and Irony), it's not at all how I experienced David Foster Wallace. I guess I'd like you to know that he was just a really nice guy. Dave taught at Illinois State University in Normal, and lived in my hometown, Bloomington, IL until he left to take an endowed creative writing chair at Pomona College in Claremont, CA in 2002. I became acquainted with Dave through a coworker who was close to him as a friend, and who also did a lot of research for him. Even though I don't think I ever formally met him, I do a have a vivid image of him at the reference desk, scruffy and bandanaed, talking to my friend.

When my friend was in the process of a cross-country move, she asked if I could take one of Dave's requests, as she was without internet access and up to her waist with U-Haul boxes. I was pretty excited about helping out Perhaps the Most Influential Writer of Our Generation, and in no small measure intimidated, for fear of a sudden reference skills failure. Who wants to look incompetent to a Macarthur Genius? As is, I performed adequately (phew!) and was rewarded with an acknowledgment in Everything and More: A Compact History of Infinity. Unfortunately, as difficult impossible as Infinite Jest was for me, this book was all alien script, given my distinct unmathiness. Regardless, I'm pretty proud about being even a minuscule footnote in such a rich sliver of literary history. All of our transactions were via email, and I was very surprised to find him a charming, chatty, gracious and warm correspondent.

After my friend got settled, I was retired as a reference pinch hitter to the literati. Maybe a year or so after that, I decided that I wanted to take a writing course at ISU and was sort of thinking about an MFA program. Dave was in the English department and teaching a 200-level fiction course. Of course I wanted to take a class with him, but he said that I would be frustrated and way out of my element, and suggested I start at the 300-level. Several weeks into the class, I was glad to have taken his advice and was particularly pleased that he passed along that another student in the class, a friend of his, was impressed with my work. I know that it wasn't Dave saying he was impressed with my work, but he trusted his friend's opinion. As a teacher and a writer, he had to know that this casual comment would be a great motivator for me, and it was.

I'm still slightly mortified about the one time I had a conversation of any length with Dave. By that time, he had left for his new teaching gig, and my friend, who had relocated to Florida, was back in town for a funeral. Despite the sad occasion for her visit, we had a small party, . In keeping with the theme, let's call it a wake. Which we used as an excuse to pass a bottle (okay two bottles) of tequila around and around.  Somewhere around midnight, both deep in our cups (aka "grunk"), my friend decided to call Dave. Apparently more incapacitated than me and unable to string a sentence together, she passed the phone to me. I did my best, a semi-lucid drunk talking to a recovering alcoholic, thinking, "this is both inappropriate and incredibly embarrassing." But, you know what?  Dave was as gracious and kind on the phone as he was via email and wound down the conversation by tucking me in and gently stepping back, like a parent leaving a toddler's room at bedtime, wishing me a good evening, but making it clear that it was bedtime.

Dave deserved such a gentle end to his day on Friday, but who knows why he felt that alone. People with chronic, clinical depression become so adept at masking that they frequently give those around them little or no opportunity to help.

Recently, another friend started talking about a suicide plan. You hear something like that and think that it's just venting during a crappy patch of life. We all have bad, bad days, but clinical, black dog depression is not something that's going to get better with a Hallmark "coping" card and a hug. I knew that my friend had cut his partner out of any discussions about how serious his depression was and decided it was my responsibility to put his partner back in the loop. I called and emailed his partner and shared every detail I knew, even if it meant making my friend angry. He did make an attempt, but people were around to intervene and get him help. My friend is alive, and we're still friends. If you value your relationship with someone like this, learn the signs and don't be afraid to intervene, even if it means losing a friendship.

And Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson

Anne Bancroft gave one of the best film performances, IMHO, as the delightfully lecherous Mrs. Robinson, in The Graduate.  I've been thinking about getting my own grey streak lately, but it's coming along nicely on its own.  Anyway, sadly, she's passed on. She also played Anne Macy Sullivan (Helen Keller's "Teacher") in 1962's "The Miracle Worker," for which she won an Oscar. If you haven't seen The Graduate, what the heck are you waiting for?

Larry "Red" Creevan, 33

There's a nice picture of Larry Creevan in Saturday's paper. He's wearing a suit and tie, and grinning, looking like he could be a bank teller or Sunday School teacher or somebody's dad.  The first time we saw Larry in the suit was a few years ago.  He came in to the library late on a Saturday morning, looking downright spiffy, and we remarked to him that he looked sharp. Larry, also known as Red, smiled and shone, ducked his head and blushed, which is a remarkable thing to see on someone who is perpetually some shade of red.  He was going to a family wedding, and didn't have any place to go until the ceremony, since the shelter was closed during the day. He wanted to stay crisp, and so he sat, looking alternately mortified and pleased, as other folks admired and ribbed him for his snazzy outfit.  That suit was also Larry's going-to-court suit, because he knew it was important to look respectable when going before a judge. 

A colleague stopped by my desk today to say that she thought she'd seen Larry's picture in the obituary section on Saturday.  I dug out the paper, and verified that it was him.  Red was one of our favorites, sometimes a regular, sometimes gone for months at a time.  Mostly, he'd sit quietly and read when he was in.  We knew he had a horrible alcohol addiction and could tell when he'd been drinking by his level of effusiveness.  He was painfully, cripplingly shy, and it seemed that alcohol was the only thing that would make it possible for him to look you in the eye, and say more than hello.  He may have gotten a little loud once or twice, but we tended to cut him slack because he seemed so good-hearted and fragile.

Artrice Kilgore, Can Collector

You don't know Artrice Kilgore, and really, neither did I.  I knew him only by sight, as an inexplicably cheerful canner who pushed a shopping cart around my neighborhood, making his living by digging through trash, in search of homeless gold--aluminum cans.  I last saw him a couple weeks ago as I was walking up to buy beer at the convenience store we call Monster Mart.   It was one of the first truly gorgeous spring days of the year, and I pulled out my green straw hat for the occasion.  As I turned the corner at the end of my block, I saw a couple of men pushing a shopping cart, right down the middle of the road, headed in my direction.  They were enjoying the day every bit as much as I, and I offered them a "howd'ya do" as we met each other.  The man I now know as Artrice paused for a second, said "good afternoon," and added with genuine enthusiasm, "I like that hat!"  I thanked him and we headed off in our opposite directions.

This morning, I went for coffee and grabbed today's paper. On the front page was a story that explained all the sirens I heard in my neighborhood last night.  The driver of an SUV that police were attempting to pull over fled and tore through my neighborhood, trashing two other cars, someone's house, and at least one life, that of Artrice Kilgore, who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Another person, also a bystander,  remains in critical condition.  The driver, who had an outstanding warrant for selling drugs to an undercover officer, and was intoxicated last night, is in the county jail, and apparently unharmed by the chaos he caused.

Artrice, according to what little documentation I could find about him, lived most of his adult life on the street. It's a shame he had to die there. 

Photographer Josh Ritchie captured this image of Artrice while documenting homelessness in Bloomington, IL.

UPDATE 4/16: Skully points us to a story in today's Pantagraph about Artrice.

Thompson Tribute from Corpse

There are lots of Hunter S. Thompson tributes and remembrances floating around right now, and here's another one from the literary magazine, Exquisite Corpse.  Imagine Thompson, Andrei Codrescu, Amy Carter and Douglas Brinkley all playing pool in New Orleans.... 

Hunter S. Thompson, Author, 67

When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
    --Hunter S. Thompson

Wow.  Hunter S. Thompson, father of Gonzo journalism, died Sunday, February 20, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, according to this CNN story.  I'd like to nominate him as the patron saint of bloggers. Thompson's last column, Shotgun Golf with Bill Murray,  is here at ESPN.

More links about Thompson at the NYT, Wikipedia,  and Disinformation. 

I have spent half my life trying to get away from journalism, but I am still mired in it - a low trade and a habit worse than heroin, a strange seedy world full of misfits and drunkards and failures.
--1988, Generation of Swine

I've never tried to pose as a goddam reporter. l don't defend what I do in the context of straight journalism, and if some people regard me as a reporter who's gone bad rather than a writer who's just doing his job--well, they're probably the same dingbats who think John Chancellor's an acid freak and [Walter] Cronkite is a white slaver.
--1974, Nov. "Playboy Interview: Hunter Thompson." Playboy.

Quotes source: Hunter S. Thompson by Arthur J. Kaul

"That Foot is Me:" John Vernon, Actor, 72

Character actor John Vernon, perhaps best known for his role as the much reviled Dean Vernon Wormer in the movie Animal House  (which is the Raccoon's favorite movie, ever), died this week at the age of 72.

"Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son." (Animal House soundboard)

Jerry Scoggins, 93: Y'all Come Back Now, Y'Hear

Jerry Scoggins, a country-singing stockbroker whose claim to fame was the theme song to The Beverly Hillbillies, passed away on Dec. 7 at the age of 93 according to this AP story via Yahoo! News. Backed by bluegrass legends Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, Scoggins sang his way to an instant (and his only) hit with The Ballad of Jed Clampett in 1963.  He came out of retirement in 1993 to reprise the tune for the big screen Beverly Hillbillies movie.

Gorillas Hold "Wake" at Zoo

Although I'm a "raccoon" I've always been deeply affected by our cousins, the apes. I'm not a huge fan of zoos, but seeing primates at the zoo especially breaks my heart.  Here's a story about a community of gorillas who recently mourned their matriarch, Babs, at the Brookfield Zoo.   It's too bad that they had no choice but to mourn in public. 

This story reminds me of one the best books I read this past year (really, in a very long time): Songs of the Gorilla Nation: My Journey Through Autism by Dawn Prince-Hughes. Prince-Hughes grew up with undiagnosed autism, struggling to make sense of the world and her place in it.  It was only by observing, and later working with gorillas at a zoo, that she learned how to become a part of a human community.  It was an awesome and beautiful book in every way. 

Walter Bock, Artist. 85

Last night, I attended a memorial service for Walter Bock, a prolific artist who passed away in October at the age of 85.  I met Walt  when he was younger--maybe 20 years ago--at my first grown-up dinner party.  He was there with a much younger woman, Chris, and I didn't quite get their relationship.  Nonetheless, I enjoyed their company and remembered them.  About a decade later, I read an article about Chris, who was the principle violist for two symphony orchestras, and learned that she and Walter were husband and wife.  A few years ago, I had a daughter in need of viola lessons, and ran into Chris and Walter at a coffee shop. I re-introduced myself  and found Walt and Chris to be every bit as warm and cordial as I remembered them.   We arranged for my daughter to take lessons at Chris' home studio, and I got to know Chris and Walt, and their much-loved kitties, as I sat in their living room, reading or writing during lessons. 

Walt seemed a little frail when Olivia first started lessons, but he still had a studio and would get out for walks by himself.  When he passed through the living room, he'd always stop to chat, offering to turn on a light or wonder if I'd be more comfortable on the couch.   Mostly we'd chat about the weather or the cats, and Walt never made me feel like I was intruding.   I truly enjoyed these quiet little moments with Walt, brief though they were, and had no idea about the rich 80 + years held inside this quiet, gentle man. 

In the past year, it became apparent that Walt's health was in serious decline. I recognized symptoms of dementia, and Chris was fiercly protective of his health.  Any sniffle was enough for us to postpone a lesson.  Walt developed what was likely aspiration pneumonia a couple months ago and spent his final days in a nursing facility. Chris put her professional life on hold and was with Walt as much as possible, talking to him, washing his face, and playing the concert of her life, as she worked through a repetoire of Walt's favorite music, even as he appeared to be unaware. 

Last night, I got a much fuller picture of Walt's life: as a young man who body surfed off the coast of St. Augustine, as a competent leader of a Navy crew in World War II, as a professor of art, as a friend, as a father and as Chris' partner. One by one, friends pieced together Walt's life last night.  Each knew him in slightly different way, but it was clear that everyone cherished his presence in their lives.  One of the last people to speak was Walt's son, John, who knew his father mostly through thousands of letters, and through his art.  I talked to John later, wondering if it was hard for him to hear stories from other people who had a more immediate knowledge of his father.  Although John did not spend  a great deal of time with Walt, he didn't appear to feel cheated by this physical absence and spoke with great love and respect for his father.

I was most struck by comments made by a professional colleague of Walt's, Doug Hartley, who taught with Walt at Illinois State.  He talked about Walt's utter lack of pretension, and how he had to be strong-armed into doing a one-man show.  It seems that Walt didn't have much, if any, ego tied up in his considerable body of work.  Hartley talked about the thousands of canvases that Walt amassed, rolled up and tucked away.  It seems that Walt didn't create art so that he would have a finished product to show the world.  He was just so full of life and experiences, that his canvases served as a drip cloth for all that spilled out. 

I wouldn't call the Walt I knew a shadow, exactly. He was faded, certainly, but with flashes of outline and color that gave me a glimpse of what he once had been.  Last night, the canvas was unfurled and restored.  We all stood back and admired it.   

Shortly before he died, Chris began to organize and collect his work for presentation on the web. You can learn more about Walt and see his work at Waltbock.com