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APRIL 2007

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Not just a good idea but the law: Dr. Hoffmann’s argument; Mr. Ose’s case; the briefs of Messrs McNaughton,Trame, & Gunn; Ms Natale’s facts; Mr. Wright’s wit; Staccato, The Dream Journal and 5 Minutes With.

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SSttiillll,, aa mmaann hheeaarrss wwhhaatt hhee wwaannttssttoo hheeaarr aanndd ddiissrreeggaarrddss tthhee rreesstt

Here at The Blotter, what we don’t do is music reviews.I love music, but it’s not our bailiwick to talk about it. Thatsaid, I apologize in advance for stepping on Bart’s crank withsome of the stuff in this issue.

When I was fifteen I got a stereo receiver from RadioShack. OBTW, that was one long time ago. I was in love witha girl named Donnie and the theme to that little bit of pimplyconfusion was Reelin’ In The Years. Everlasting summer!Donnie kissed like a gourami, and drove her daddy’s caddie, andwho doesn’t like that? And although she didn’t, couldn’t possi-bly, last, my love for Steely Dan did. Ever after, they were thequixotic, absurdist musical-combo background for my life. Ieventually paid the words their due diligence, deciding to grab apiece of something that I think is going to last; latching ontotheir groove for good or bad. Was there ever anything so hip?I don’t think so. Sure, Coltrane, or Miles, but with heartbreak-ing diminished seventh chords in five-six time, and the unsenti-mental poetry of American post-graduate/post-WW2 & Korea& Vietnam Sturm-und-Drang? Throw back the little ones / andpan-fry the big ones / use tact, poise and reason / and gently squeezethem. Oh, say I, so that’s how you get chicks. I bought all of thevinyl. Then I got all of their cassettes. I gleaned Burroughs, andKerouac and grew a Zappaesque Fu-Manchu for good measure.

By joining Mr. Parker’s band and adapting to PretzelLogic, I survived a gig in the Navy. My freshman year in collegewas tinged with the bite of Dr. Wu. I endured a whole emptysummer without what was then the love of my life by puttingHere At The Western World on continuous loop reel-to-reel.Discovered you can’t play a Steely Dan bit (or indeed GlennGould’s Goldberg Variations) to death. Can’t be done. You can,however, force your parents to toss you out on your ear.

I navigated a long, dry break-up with said love withDeacon Blues’ I crawl like a viper / through these suburban streets/ make love to these women / languid and bittersweet runningthrough my head. Sure, there were those who accused them ofdisco. But I believe that Dan mainstays Walter Becker andDonald Fagan were actually writing love songs. Terrifically grimlove songs. Songs about girls on junk who dance like angels,

G. M. Somers.............Editor-in-ChiefMartin K. Smith .............Publisher-at-

Large, TreasurerMatthew Boyd ...............Micro-fiction

EditorLewis Copulsky ..................Marketing

DirectorBrace Boone III.................Director of

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Cover art: Michelle Natale’s “BurqaFigure”. See the centerfold for more

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snail-mail submissions)

All content copyright 2007 by theartist, not the magazine.

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April 2007

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girls entirely too young to know, too genetically close to know,girls arriving too late to save you, girls slightly crazy in all of thebest ways.

In ’94 I finally saw the Dan live in concert, as far as Icould tell. I stood in the back of a bandshell arena in Bethesda,Maryland. Almost everyone was as old as me, or older; we allneeded whatever prescriptive eyewear we could get to see whatwas going on on stage. It could have been pre-recorded, anima-tronic, and I wouldn’t have known. But it was well-amplified,even way out here, and as fans we were at worst only curmud-geonly. Everyone knew all the words, could whine along withthe boys, knew which songs used to have Skunk Baxter on leadaxe, or Michael McDonald’s pure falsetto howling the backvocals. The concert was good enough. I bought a Steely Danbaseball cap. I never wear it.

Sure, they’re still there, Citizen Dan, still the music ofleafless autumn and winter’s dirty snow. Incongruously, they’vebecome the agoraphobic what if everything goes wrong? voice oncool-jazz FM stations. They put appropriate closure on my 9 to5 career with their tongue-in-cheeky if Dave in acquisitions /wants to get in on the action / with his handicam in tow / well,we’re going out of business / everything must go. And my new phi-losophy is fairly Danian (Danesque? Danite?) you shouldn’t besurprised by anything when you’ve passed through contempt,doubt and cynicism and come out on the other side with mostof your teeth intact.

So I have six Steely Dan CDs in the iPod while I stompthe gym’s treadmill to control my cholesterol and blood pres-sure. We’re all getting old, and we know it. I’m pretty sure thevery idea would make the boys in the band chuckle a bit.

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this was in no way our intent, it is agas. Continue at your own risk.

When Garrison Somers tapped me towrite a piece on the merits of musicreviews, I had to chuckle. The previ-ous editor of The Blotter had told methat he did not want to publish musicreviews. “This is good writing,” JohnPence told me when I slipped him areview, “but it’s too informational forThe Blotter.”

So is Garry really breaking tradition,taking The Blotter in a brave newdirection? I mused as we chatted onthe phone that December morning,and then Garry reiterated his request,“You tell me the value of musicreviews today because I don’t like’em.”

Why me? Well, I have been pub dip-ping for over a decade in the livemusic capital. I’ll also admit that I’ma self-made groupie. And Garry is my

friend. Okay, I’ll oblige.

So off to Austin to do some fieldwork.Christmas Eve found me in the SaxonPub, listening to the band thatMSNBC has hailed “America’s BestBar Band.” Hmm, I ponder, is thismoniker one of the services of a musicreview—to find new fans for bands?

It worked in January of 1996 when Isat at my kitchen table, reading TheHouston Chronicle, looking forsomething to do one Friday night. Aphoto of a chanteuse named ToniPrice caught my eye, and the captionsaid that she was bringing some ofAustin’s best guitarists to my neigh-borhood bar. Indeed, she broughtalong Scrappy Jud Newcomb of Southby Southwest fame, and the lateChamp Hood, one of the originalsfrom Uncle Walt’s Band who latergraced Lyle Lovett’s Large Band.Needless to say, that night was not myonly trek to the Mucky Duck to seeToni Price. Before long I was makingpilgrimages to the Continental Clubin Austin for Toni’s Tuesday “HippyHour.” And pretty soon I took to fol-lowing Scrappy Jud Newcomb fromgig to gig all over Texas because hebecame my barometer for good music.

And that’s just how I happened to bein the Saxon on Christmas Eve: Ten

years later Scrappy was playing hisusual Sunday night gig with TheResentments. The Resentments ofteninvite a guest artist, and in the past,the extra chair has been warmed bythe likes of Bonnie Raitt, KrisKristofferson, and Ray WylieHubbard. My Christmas gift arrivedlong about nine o’clock whenResentment Stephen Bruton beganheckling audience member and blues-man Malford Milligan to leave hischair in the audience and comeonstage.

Malford fit right in, and in usualResentment fashion, contributed tothe stage banter that’s one of the hall-marks of the show. When Stephenasked Malford how he was doing,Malford said that he was doinggreat—had a new girlfriend. “Anddon’t tell her, but my prostate is this(makes a gesture the size of a boulder)big.”

“I think she knows now,” Stephen saidto audience laughter.

“Oh no, she’s not here tonight,”Malcolm said, in all seriousness. ThenMalford obliged us with an outpour-ing of his vocal gifts, which are flow-ing just fine thank you in spite of anenlarged gland.

“On Evangelists, Music Reviews and Getting It On,Austin-Style”by Heather Hoffman

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At the break I approached him to askhis opinion about music reviewers. “The Europeans do it better;Americans don’t know a thing aboutmusic,” Malford said. To prove hispoint, he recounted that an Americanwriter once asked him what it was liketo be a white man singing blackmusic. “He hadn’t done his home-work,” Milligan laughed and threwhis cornrows back, “or he would haveknown that I’m a black albino.”

Back at the table, I settled into myspot with my new friends, Robert andhis daughter, Kristin, from New YorkCity; they had traveled to Austin justto see what the Live Music Capitalhad to offer. I was reminded onceagain of the many times that I havetraveled to points unknown and trust-ed music reviewers in the local inde-pendent press to determine where tosample the evening’s air waves. That’show I found the Madam’s Organ onenight in D.C.

The Internet has certainly added anew availability to the music review,which used to leave my hands inked.The week before I left for Austin, Iwas baking sugar cookies in myCarolina kitchen and got a hankeringfor John Lennon’s “Whatever GetsYou Through the Night.” In mysearch to find the album name on thekitchen Apple, I came across a reviewof the album that revealed Elton Johnprovided backing vocals. With newzeal I hearkened the litany of “Listen,listen,” trying to pick out Sir Elton’schops.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t wake upevery morning to a music review onmy home page. And there’s plentynot to like about some of them. Takethe annoying five star system of rank-ing an album: hate it. Even worse ifyou try to stretch the accuracy of themeasurement by granting half stars—come on! And nothing peeves memore than the green reviewer whotries to tell me what a song means.Despite one reviewer’s take on BeaverNelson’s song “Clean it Up,” you can’tconvince me that it is really about

cleaning up after a party; my relation-ship odometer would lead me tobelieve that Beaver was talking aboutmaking do after an itinerant lovemoves on. But you be the judge:

So drive careful where you’re goingSend me a postcard overflowingDon’t mind the tears, it’s just themeaningWas worth every bit the cleaningAnd if you’re ever back this wayWe’ll make a mess again somedayI’ll just clean it up by myself

And yet, I do believe in the goodmusic review—they’re out there, andin the Triangle David Menconi hasthe knowledge and the writerlyinstincts to pen a solid review. AsDavid’s friend Peter Blackstock writesin the editor’s preface of the The Bestof No Depression—Writing AboutAmerican Music, reviewers attempt tocontribute to “the historical record ofthe music and its makers.” Because Iknow that Garrison Somers values his-torical fiction, I could quit while I’mahead with my editor.

But there’s a knock at the door. It’sthe Mormons. I tell them I have aproblem with evangelism. They lookat each other (they always come intwo’s—maybe a nod to Noah’s alter-native ark?—not likely) and one ofthem says, “My religion is just like anew CD—I listen to it, and it’s sogreat, I want to tell all my friendsabout it.”

Bingo! That’s just the feeling thatcame over me when I was sitting inthe Saxon Pub on Christmas Eve, andlong about midnight, Walter Tragertclosed out his set with a cover ofMarvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On.” Theimpulse was to reach for my cellphone, call the whole universe, andtell them to transport themselves toAustin tout de suite, but I knew thatno one could arrive in time to hear thesong. So I just had to sit there andtake it like a woman, all by my lone-some: “If the spirit moves you, let megroove you.” Now that’s what I’mtalking about!

April 2007

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I’ve lived in AlamanceCounty all my life. It’s funny, butpeople have long memories aroundhere. They’ll remember stuff from ahundred years ago and talk like it wasthe latest outrage popped up just theother day. Not that you need a partic-ularly long memory to get along inAlamance, lots of folks have moved infrom someplace else, ‘cuz they like thewhole idea of living at least five milesdown the road from the nearestBurger King, Winn Dixie, or Valv-O-Lene oil change place. Throw in thecows, and little ponds under every sec-ond bridge, and you’ve got a suburbiawaiting to happen for Greensboroyuppies and Chapel Hill city slickers.

Most everybody knowsAlamance County ‘cuz it was wherethe whole second half of Roots tookplace. No lie, that dude ChickenLegs? Kunta Kinte’s friend, whateverhis name was. Rednecks like to boastabout how they’ve gone to spit or pisson his grave. It all happened rightaround Green Level, just 15 milesnorth of the Haw River. Alex Haley,even though he was fromIndianapolis, he traced his family backright here, next thing you knew theyhad ended up in Alamance to try tostart a farm or something. Some seri-ous shit has gone down here, for real.And still does, on a lot of levels.

One thing that hasn’tchanged much is how you’re not sup-posed to mess around with the localcourts, or they’ll fuck with you rightback. That’s how I ended up serving atwo hour sentence the other week. Ihad gone to court for only one reason,because Mouse was about to go to jail,and he spent the whole weekendbeforehand hanging out with me.He’d decided the previous Friday notto show up for a pre-sentencing hear-ing. He was tired of all the bullshitand figured he’d just do his time, get it

over with. Probably end up with aslittle as eight months, but if the judgedecided he didn’t like him, he couldface a year and a half. They had dis-cretion like that. Which is why it did-n’t make too much sense for him to beskipping out on this hearing. Hislawyer had to plead for a continuance.

It was part of the leftovermysterious ways of the local good ol’boys, whose kin were born and raisedin Alamance since before the WarBetween the States. Maybe theycouldn’t completely control things anymore, with a whole world of choicesexisting beyond Green Level andGraham, black folks being state troop-ers, and gay dudes owning antiqueshops in Burlington. But they couldstill make things tough for anybodyunlucky enough to be poor and get introuble with the law, whether youwere black, white, Mexican, whatever.

So from Friday ‘til Tuesday, Ibabysat Mouse while he slipped deepinto a bender. He tried to make itextra special, knowing he’d be gonefor awhile. Nobody was allowed tocall him or know where he was, whichwas usually passed out on the floor atmy place, high or drunk on somepotent combination of stuff. Beforegetting caught for possession of mush-rooms, Mouse had been on probation

for a cocaine bust that happened tohim almost three years ago. Threeyears probation over a traffic stop thatyielded less than one measly eight-ballof coke. But that’s how the lawaround here keeps its pockets full. They’ll put you on probationand keep you on for as long as theycan, knowing you’ll eventually fuckup. It costs a lot of money to get bust-ed for drugs, besides! First they con-fiscate whatever stash you had, pluswhatever money you were carrying,then calculate how much the drugswere worth, and charge you drug taxeson that amount, like you were a bigtime dealer who should have reportedthe illicit sales as income or some-thing! What a crock of shit.

On Sunday afternoon, afterwe’d watched people say and do stu-pid things on this show TaxicabConfessions, beamed direct to my TVon one of the five new HBO’s we getwith our suburban cable package,Mouse let me know how he felt. Hesat up from where he was sloucheddown against the living room couch,and looked straight at me.

“Jimmy, I don’t wanna go inby myself,” Mouse said, then rightaway again he passed back out asleep.

But I was convinced. So onTuesday morning, we both walked

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”Good Neighbors”by Erik Ose

into the courthouse, and I thoughtMouse looked more at peace than I’dever seen him. Ready to face downthe judge, get his time, and be donewith it. I wasn’t so calm. Actually, Iwas already pissed off, about someother shit that happened to us downthe road from my place, at theExpressWay, where we stopped on ourway into town.

Now, this was some typicalAlamance County bullshit. I go inthere, all set to pay for the gas, andthere’s this guy in line right ahead ofme, trying to buy something. Noteven a beer, or whatever, it was onlyeight o’clock in the morning. I thinkit was a box of crackers and a cheesesandwich. They’re running his cardwhen I step up behind him with mycoffee, and almost immediately, hiscard won’t go through. I hate whenthat happens. The clerk always looksat you like you don’t belong in thestore, and it’s expected you’ll come outwith some lame story while you’refishing out another card, or scraping up the cash you need to pay.Only this guy didn’t have a choice,beyond that card, it was pretty clear hewas plain flat broke. And what doyou think happened next?

Even though it’s eight in themorning, okay, eight-thirty, there’sstill three of four other people in thatstore, just hanging out. No particularplace to go. What the fuck, are theystopping by on their way to work or

something? Do they wake up fromdreaming, take a shower, and thenhang out there all damn day long? Sowhen this guy’s card conks out, some-body starts snickering. Then anotherof them makes a comment. I couldalmost see the guy start sweating. He’sgoing through his jacket, putting allthe little shit he’s carrying in his pock-ets out on the counter, looking for themoney he obviously doesn’t have. Hetells the girl on duty he left his walletat home, and walked there. Nowthey’re all trading smiles, and every-body’s up in his business, real casual,sneering, and mean.

I could feel myself gettingred. I pulled out a five and laid itdown, that was enough to pay for mystuff and his. You should have seenhis face light up like a Christmas tree,embarrassed, but grateful. Everybodyelse shot me the evilest looks, like I’dblown their little game all to hell. Ididn’t give a fuck. I turned and left,and it got me thinking about howsome people around here really don’tknow any better to begin with.

So you’d think I would havebeen prepared for what happened atthe courthouse, but guess again. Justwhen you reckon you’ve seen theworst of human nature, somebodysteps up to the plate and does some-thing else to prove you wrong. Thatmay be harsh, but it’s a hard worldfilled with backwards folks some-times, people. Deal with it.

April 2007

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TThhee DDrreeaammJJoouurrnnaall

real dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts from yourown dream journals.. If nothingelse, we’d love to read them. Wewon’t publish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

I turn around in one ofthose Matrix-freeze frame 365degree looks. Everywhere thereare people that look very hungry,bones showing in their faces andarms and hands. They’re notreaching out to me, like I thoughtthey might, because I’m one ofthem. I’ve got to escape! There’sonly one opportunity: a verystrong-looking fellow, although hismuscles drape from his arms andchest from lack of sustenance. It’sPaul Senior from Orange CountyChoppers, and he will help me getout of this place, if I help him.People are always arriving andbeing taken away, so the camp isvery busy. No one should notice us.We find the one place where thebarbed wire doesn’t cover thefence, and grabbing the top we dosomersaults over and run.

We’re now in alabyrinthine hotel-like complex,and I try to find a way out. PaulSenior and I part ways, because weare being chased by security, and itis better to split up than to becaught together. There is a roomthat looks like a way out, but itleads past a man in a bed. He yellsto me that I am a stinking HIV-carrying Katrina survivor and Ineed to be eliminated like the scumthat I am. This bewilders me,because I wasn’t in the Gulf whenthe hurricane hit. When did westart putting all of the survivors inconcentration camps? The manpicks up the phone and dials some-one. By the time that I am finallyoutside, many security police andhospital orderlies are trying to sur-round me and inject me with asedative that will allow them toput me back inside. They grab atme, and try to wrap me up in blan-kets and nets and straight-jackets,telling me that it is all for my owngood.

BB - Pittsboro, NC

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Michelle Natale - Chapel Hill, NCMichelle Natale - Chapel Hill, NCwwwwww.cr.craavvenallengalleryenallengallery.com.com

Upper Left - Couple

Above - Rite of Spring

Right - Raven Fetish

Left - Maiden Voyage

We got seated, and the placewas near full of bodies. Everybodywith a reason to be there, bored, rest-less faces, and most people lookinglike they knew what to expect, havingbeen through the motions before.Mouse’s last name is Nash. His realname is Charlie, except he’s short, andhas red, beady eyes, you get the pic-ture. They go alphabetical, so we fig-ured it’d be awhile before his case gotcalled. I could hardly believe he waslooking at eight to eighteen months,variable, and still showed up, hungover, dazed and confused, but ready toface the music. Then again, what elsecould he do? The judge came in, weall stood up, and then sat down again.I didn’t know this judge by name, buthe was old and white, and one of thecounty’s regular judges. Business asusual.

Soon enough, I was almostasleep faced with the steady drone ofnames and faces and stories being toldbefore the court, most involving petty

drug offenses, with the occasionalassault and battery or domestic vio-lence case thrown in. When Mousepoked me, we’d been there for nearlytwo hours already.

“Hey, man, check this guyout.” Mouse pointed to the front ofthe courtroom, where a couple of theballiffs were helping somebody get uponto the witness stand. “He’s notlooking so good.”

This guy was maybe in hismid-forties, and he needed help justfinding his way across the room. Welater learned his name was Gary, andhe was half deaf and legally blind.When I first opened my eyes, I could-n’t believe what I was seeing. One ofthe bailiffs, this big dude with rolls offat just spilling over his belly, he wasactually snickering while he helped this guyGary get onto the stand! Next Garystarted feeling around for the bible,like he couldn’t find it, and for a sec-ond it almost looked like the other

bailiff was waving it around a little bitin front of him! Then the fat onegrabbed Gary’s hand, real fast, andsmacked it down on top of the bible,still grinning like a sick little kid.

Before I’d even had time toprocess all that shit, they sat himdown and we began to hear the detailsof his case. First off, Gary was sort ofmentally disabled, and had at leastone life threatening disease, I thinkdiabetes, so he was on disability. Fora couple years, he’d been assigned tothis one social worker, Miss Barnes, inanother town the next county over.Then, she claimed she started feelingthreatened by him, and took out arestraining order. A little while later,he supposedly violated it, and that’swhy he was in court that morning.Oh yeah, he lives in Alamance now, sothey were trying him here.

Later, when they put MissBarnes up on the stand, we found outhe’d been sending her money alongwith little presents and cards for two

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whole years, a few dollars here andthere, five or ten bucks sometimes.And that whole time she’d never said aword about it, or explained to him itwasn’t necessary to do that for her.Like maybe just sat him down andsaid, hey, I don’t need any presents ormoney, you don’t have to thank mefor helping you, it’s my job. This is aman who has a family, he mentioneda wife and a little girl, for chrissakes,and that damn check is supposed tobe feeding them.

For whatever reason, she washappy to get the money, and thecandy, and whatever other presents hegave her. I mean, maybe he got a bitsweet on her. Who knows. I’m noteven sure he knew the differencebetween gratitude and affection, fromwhat he said on the stand. Bottomline was, after Miss Barnes filed therestraining order, he got switched to adifferent social worker. But rightbefore it happened Gary’s check wasdue to arrive. He’d been calling herabout it, and she’d been stalling himfor a couple of weeks. By the time hefound out he got switched to the newsocial worker, it was the middle of themonth, and he really needed to pickup his check. So he called over to theplace, probably still not understand-ing exactly what was going on, andsome dumbass told him sure, come onby to get it.

His brother drove him overthere, and for some reason justdropped him off, then left. So he did-n’t even have a ride back. In fact, hewas actually standing across the streetfrom the Social Services building, noteven on the property, when MissBarnes just happened to be lookingout the frigging window and saw him.That’s when she called the police.Told them she was afraid he was stalk-ing her, when anybody with an ounceof common sense could see the manwas just trying to come pick up hischeck!

It went on in the courtroomlike that for awhile. Gary had a court

appointed lawyer, but he wasn’t worthshit, and wasn’t doing a thing for him.After what happened to me at theExpressWay that morning, I was real-ly starting to get hot. It wasn’t onlythe good ol’ boys in charge of thecourt who were coughing and grin-ning. I could hear people in thecourtroom start chuckling too when-ever he’d say anything on the standthat sounded a little strange. And thejudge didn’t give a fuck. He wasn’tmaking fun of Gary like the others,but you could clearly see he had nosympathy for the guy.

It just wasn’t right. Here’s aman who deserves to have his casethrown clear out of court, and instead,when it came time to sentence him,the judge ignored everything Garysaid in his own defense, all the holesin Miss Barnes’ story, and gave him sixmonths. Then they stood him up andstarted taking him away.

That’s when I stood up, too.Mouse did a doubletake and looked atme in horror, suddenly more nervousfor me than he was for himself. But Ihad to say something. I started offwith “WHAT ABOUT HIS DIGNI-TY? LET THE MAN HAVE HISDIGNITY, FOR CHRISSAKES!DIDN’T YOU HEAR WHAT HESAID? THIS JUST AIN’T RIGHT!

IT’S A TRAVESTY! IT’S AN OUT-RAGE!” That’s about as far as I gotbefore the balliffs reached my side andpulled me out to the end of the aisle.The judge was banging his gavel, butI kept on shouting. So the judge citedme for contempt on the spot, andthey straight yanked me out of theroom, my heels dragging on the car-pet.

I was locked up downstairsfor two hours, and had to pay a $50fine plus court costs. When they letme out, I had to leave the building forthe day. Later I found out the judgegave Mouse eighteen months. Nosurprise there. Hopefully it wasn’t anyworse because of what I did. I won-dered if he might see Gary while hewas in. Crazy when you reach a pointfeeling more in common with thepeople locked up than you do withthe ones who put them there.

You know, I don’t want to saythere’s no good people in AlamanceCounty. I’m from here, and I knowthere’s lots of ‘em. But I didn’t runinto too many that morning, exceptfor the ones getting the short end ofthe stick. I guess when you stop andthink about it, at the end of the daythe answer’s not very profound. It’sreally just a question of how you treatyour neighbors.

April 2007

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Authors are busy. Must ask pertinent,pithy questions. Get on your game!Mutual friend introduced me to JoannaCatherine Scott. Award winning novel-ist and poet. Check her out atjoannacatherinescott.com. Hey, I askher, I have this idea where I interviewyou for only five minutes. Surprisingly,she says OK. Here we go. Your CV,please: Born in England, raised inAustralia, took graduate degree inPhilosophy at Duke, and now live inChapel Hill. Latest novel is The Roadfrom Chapel Hill (Penguin/Berkley,2006). Told from the points of viewof three radically different youngSoutherners displaced by war, it dealswith resistance to the Confederacy inCivil War North Carolina. Its originalinspiration comes from the true story

of a runaway slave from Chapel Hill.Three previous novels: The LuckyGourd Shop, set in South Korea, is thestory of her adopted children’s birthmother. It was a nominee for BookSense Book-of-the-Year. Cassandra,Lost is based on the true story ofCassandra van Pradelles, a Marylandheiress who eloped with a lieutenantfrom General Rochambeau’s Frencharmy after the Revolution and waseventually slaughtered by the NewOrleans pirate Jean Lafitte. Charlieand the Children, also inspired by atrue story, tells about an American GIwho fathers an Amerasian son inVietnam, abandons him, and is heldcaptive by the Viet Cong. Married? Yes, to Joe Rogers, whothese days works with Re/Max, a love-ly man and full of patience with mynonsense.Children? Six. (I know, I know). Ihave a girl and two boys from my firsthusband, an Australian. A Koreanfamily of two girls and a boy Joe and Iadopted when we were living in thePhilippines. Ages range from 24 to42. My two birth sons live inAdelaide, Australia, my birth daughterin Sarasota, Florida. My Korean sonlives in Fairbanks, Alaska. He waswith the 172nd Stryker Brigade inBaghdad and has just returned. Mytwo Korean daughters are living tem-porarily at home. The older has a hus-band in the Special Forces in Iraq. Theyounger married a traditional Koreanand left him after two and a halfmonths. Place of birth? Bexley Heath, Kent,England, during an air raid. The nurs-es wrapped me in a towel and put mein a box beneath my mother’s bed.This was so that if the hospital washit, mother and child would go asone.Boxers or briefs? None of your busi-ness.

Brahms or Bach, Sting or Bono? I ampossibly the last person on earth wholoves silence. In it I can hear my voic-es speak.What are the pluses and minuses of liv-ing in Chapel Hill? The only minus isthat it’s a long way from my two sonsin Australia. However, so is every-where. The pluses, for me, are thehigh level of education, the easy acces-sibility of the UNC and Dukelibraries for research, and the wonder-ful friendships I have made with allsorts of people through my work, thelatest being an inmate on Death Rowwhom I just love, and from whom Iam learning a great deal about thehorrors of life as a throwaway ghettochild. The experience has made mevery humble. To be born into my lifeby the blind dice toss of fate: howlucky can a person be?Does living in Chapel Hill impose limi-tations on your thematic ideas or thekinds of conversations you overhear foruse in your writing? The only limita-tions I have are those imposed by myown inability to research and concep-tualize. I’ve published books set inVietnam, Cambodia and Laos, SouthKorea, the Philippines, RevolutionaryFrance, early New Orleans, Civil WarNorth Carolina, and Florence, Italy. Ithink I don’t have too much of a prob-lem. As for eavesdropping, I do it allthe time, not to steal conversations,but to expand my understanding ofpeople and the way they get theirthoughts across.Is it frustrating having another authorwith the same name as yours? Did any-one ever call asking for her and did youredirect them, or just take the call? Doyou ever consider putting a secret “myspace” on the web that talks behind herback? Not at all frustrating, valuablein fact. As they say, all publicity isgood publicity. Mine works for herand hers works for me, so we both

The B l o t t e r

www.blotterrag.com

Five Minutes With: Joanna Catherine Scott

CREATIVEMETALSMITHSDon H. Johnson | Kim Maitland117 E. Franklin St., Chapel Hill

919-967-2037 creativemetalsmiths.comClosed Mondays.

Trace of Arc, inaugural performance by FreeAssociation Theatre Ensemble. At our friendsMarket Street Books at Arts & Letters CommunityCenter - Southern Village, Chapel Hill. For info, visithttp://www.brownpapertickets.com/event/10693.Tickets $12; students $8. Reservations: 539-0993,1-800-838-3006, www.brownpapertickets.com. Tixmay be purchased at the door - same price - butseating is limited so we recommend purchasing tixin advance. General admission - arrive early. Showincludes some adult content. FATE is a new theatrecompany founded by Julya M. Mirro with Rachel S.Zielinski. The ensemble is Collin L. Beck, DonnisCollins, Lisa Klein, Bonnie Perron, and LamontReed, under the direction of Julya M. Mirro.

benefit. For instance, the ChicagoTribune did a big piece on the twoJoanna Scotts. What’s not to likeabout that? Yes, I sometimes get mailor packages for her. When I do, I callher editor and ask what she wants meto do, send directly to Joanna or viathe publisher. Since we share a pub-lisher, this is a good tactic, since theysend me free copies of my own booksfor my trouble.

I would never say bad thingsbehind anybody’s back, or even totheir face. Joanna is a very goodwriter. I’m just glad I get confusedwith her and not with some schmuckwho cannot write. What is the worst job you ever had? I’vebeen a schoolteacher, a universitytutor, a companion maid, a waitress, adocument analyst, a librarian, a travel-ing management consultant, anewsletter editor, an ambassador’swife, can’t think what else. Would notdelete one of them from my life. Theyhave all been grist for what I do nowas a full-time writer. What is your dream job, the kind of jobyou wake up in a sweat about? You’ve got the wrong babe for that. Itend to dream about whatever bookI’m working on. No time to waste onpanicked sweating. Sorry, out of time, thanks much.

The Hound in the Treeby Louis Bourgeois

Vernon and I slipped out the back ofthe school and uncovered our pelletrifles from a heap of damp leaves.Those nuns were a bitch to get awayfrom but we managed it just the same.We walked slowly to the back of thewoods, shooting whatever we saw.Vernon had to his credit one graysquirrel and a good size thrush. I hadtwo blue jays and a small dove. I wasjealous of Vernon’s squirrel.

We saw him walking and quickly scuf-fled on the wet morning ground to hidein some bushes. He was a tall man car-rying an inert floppy eared bloodhound. We watched him walk for along time and tried our best not tomove even though the gnats and mos-quitoes were eating us up from head totoe. The man wasn’t exactly old, but hewasn’t young either. I had the sensethat he’d seen us but he didn’t showany signs of it. He finally stopped walk-ing and put the dead hound in the hol-low of a huge black oak tree. The dogwould barely fit and the man had tostruggle hard to push the entire doginto the tree trunk. When he was fin-ished pushing the dog down into thetree, you couldn’t see any of the dog atall, not even his amazingly long ears.The man stood in front of the tree for amoment and whispered what must havebeen a prayer. Then he bowed his headand made the sign of the cross andturned and began walking back the wayhe came; he did not look down toward

Vernon and me, where we were bitingdown hard on our tongues so as not toscratch our gnat and mosquito bites.

We both trembled, because we knewthat the man knew we were there evenif he didn’t see us.

SSttaaccccaattoo MMiiccrrooffiiccttiioonnis the that which cannot be explained of

Staccato Magazine, Matthew Boyd, Editor.

Your submissions, 1/2K words or less, tostaccatomag@yahoo.com.

Don’t try. Do.

April 2007

page 13

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Outside, the war breathes heavy under the permanent epilogue and heavy smoke fromhis pockets that gush gray day gray against the wind.Inside, we close the blinds and forget. We knock over the salt and pepper shakers as we roll across the kitchen table.

“Seasoning”by Robert Gunn

“The wood’s wet” my grandpa saidand I kept on striking matches, he used tograb grandma by the wrists and call herJackie Kennedy and say her fingers were on fire.

“It’s wet” he insisted, pressing my shoulder.I shrugged him off and tried another match.Somehow I always had to babysit Grandpawhile Doob got to holler bloody murder in the forest.

“It won’t work it’s wet.” Smiling secretly, I said okGrandpa, and tried to add more leaves, I just wanted toget the damned fire going so I could warm up after splashingaround in the nameless creek behind the cabin.

He wandered off and I kept at it, striking match after match,but the wood wouldn’t catch, and I was ready to give up and swim anywayswhen he returned with more wood and threw it on the fire. “Try it now...”I only had one match left so I cupped it steady and brought it to the new wood,and it caught.

“Senility”by Zacharia T. McNaughton

CONTRIBUTORS

Dr. Heather Hoffman is our residentresident and cut her teeth on 45’s ofNancy Sinatra and The FifthDimension. Her favorite band thisside of the Mississippi is The OldCeremony.

Erik Ose wishes we could all just getalong. He has written numerous shortstories and is working on a novel. Helives in Chapel Hill with his wife andtheir four-legged herd.

Michelle Natale has a distinguishedresume in arts and letters. Her inspira-tion often comes from walks in thewoods with her dog, Bear. Or was ither bear, Dog? I forget.Louis Bourgeois is a New Orleansnative, and co-founder and editor ofVox (www.voxjournal.com), an experi-mental literary journal based inOxford, MS. For all you philistines,that’s where Mr. Faulkner hailed from.

Zacharia T. McNaughton lives, worksand plays in Toledo, Ohio. He dreamsof one day travelling to distant exo-planets and in the meantime, compul-sively checks NASA’s and ESA’s web-sites for updates on their space pro-grams.

Davide Trame of Venice writes “I aman Italian teacher of English. Mypoetry collection “Re-emerging” ispublished as an email book bywww.gattopublishing.com. I havebeen writing exclusively in Englishsince 1993.” This is grim for those ofus who have been writing exclusivelyin English for longer than that.

Robert Gunn has a cool writer’s name,is an English major at U.Ga, and playsin an Athens-based band An Epic AtBest.

John Wright has been lookingthrough your garbage for comic stripideas. You’re going to be very angrywith him next month.

April 2007

page 15

It comes with large vaults of sky,with layers of silver and black and behindblades of unpredictable brightness.It envelops you with the suddenturmoil of north and southand veins aglow with anger and hilariousness.It casts its sweeping breath along streets and stones,bangs shutters and roofs, and the hearts of homesdown into the unknown of your irises.And it swarms, with light sandand the pride of what is brand-newand grows in its own howling.

You gaze at a binthat has been picked up and hascavorted in the air, the metal frameshattered on the beach, foamflooding the debris.

At home you close yourself in, outsidethe sky sounds as a drum,runs its own rhythm;as a world ready to be thrashed about,torn, turned upside down:behind the fear you feel gladto be scared by openness,you skin like the skin of the aironce more cleansed and naked,on the shore bared to the walloping future.

“March Wind”by Davide Trame