BYEBYE AND SHLORT IS HERE

My new “gentri-fi” novel Byebye and Shlort is here! It’s got what you need: comedy, tragedy, language traps, language weapons, mayhem, friendship, frenemies, migration, deportation, drugs, yuppies, nonprofits, landlords, gentrification, displacement, homelessness, death from exposure, everyone’s excuse for how we can’t live any other way, and of course beer and weed!

It’s my love letter to San José, in hope that the people through education and cooperation can get the city we deserve, as the guy says. Hope I can go on living in San José for a few more years! Of course you can all make me rich by purchasing the book and send me off to Aptos…

Check “where to buy” to both buy a copy and use your library system! The list will be growing as Éxitos Gnosis and I build the circle of friends and co-conspirators.

I’m especially excited that the book will be at Bluestockings in Manhattan! You can call Hennepin County and Denver libraries and tell them to take that offer that they got this past week!

Anyone who reads the book can keep the world turning by rating it on Goodreads as well. ¡Viva la anarquía!

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Noel Scott Engel 1943-1976

HOLY SHIT SCOTT WALKER DIED!

Hard to put into a flat dead blog how much of a presence he’s had in my life the last 15 years. How about a video.

As for his death: Was it me??? My new book, which prints within a few weeks, has his song in the epigraph. It just went to the printer today and I find out Scott died. Shit!!  Too much Pynchon in my life right now. Time to drink. Vaya con los ancianos, Scott!!!

BYEBYE AND SHLORT EARNS 4.5/5 STARS

Time to visit www.exitosngnosis.com and pre-order your Byebye and Shlort, recipient of a 4.5/5 score from IndieReader! It’s much cheaper before May! Or be smart and tell your library to get it for you!
Review here: https://indiereader.com/2019/03/byebye-and-shlort/

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Guadalupe River Near Flood Stage 14.2.19

The Guadalupe River swelled up to 7 feet, just shy of flood stage, on Thursday the 14th. There was an advisory either that night or the night before that the river would reach its flood stage of 8 feet but I don’t think the water made it that high.
Not nearly as cool as snow reaching the full length of the Santa Isabel foothills on the fifth (Karl Mondon of the BANG took some cool pictures that suggest the full extent), but unlike all yall reading this I don’t have a drone nor the unlimited free time to film that rare event, so the high river will have to do.

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The angle above, taken from the western, high-ground arm of the bike trail, should be useful for comparison on low-water days. The eastern, low-ground arm of the trail is submerged about a meter or so here. The arrogant ecocidal piers of highways 280 and 87 stand on concrete feet right in the river from here until San Fernando Street.

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Both flood channels are fully engaged as water tops their concrete curbs above and below.

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Down the way a few blocks, Willow Glen Manor still exists, for now. Yes, it’s that bad. The clearance is less than 4 meters now. The bridge I’m standing on will be gone soon too, as it’s not only leaning to the west (drive over it and bounce down that 2-inch gap) but it’s so undermined by homeless campers’ hand-dug terracing that one day the river is going to turn it like a spigot handle. But don’t listen to me, see South Bay Clean Creeks Coalition for more on that.
The warning that came over cellphones etc. warned that Willow Glen would flood, but no such luck. The term flood would have been interpreted with exaggeration in the case of that district anyhow. We’ll have to wait yet for the Old-Testament destruction of that haven of narcissism and girlfriend-experiences.
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Here’s some sewers running at overflow down over the bike path onto Willow, where it made a significant eddy just above a storm drain that goes to the river. It hadn’t rained all day, so I think this is coming up from the local storm sewers and not down from the freeway.

BYEBYE AND SHLORT – NEW NOVEL MAY 2019 BY EUGENIO NEGRO

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Son of Amity by Peter Nathaniel Malae

DEAR MALAE: I swear I offered this to a bunch of publications in the straight community but no one wanted it, at least not from me, so here it is on an insignificant blog. I tried! Feel free to use. –N

Peter Nathaniel Malae’s new book Son of Amity begins with themes familiar to his readers: violence, incarceration, cultures tangled and erased by poverty, hatred for the consumer and the less-dedicated, and perhaps the Californian writer’s greatest contribution to twenty-first century literature: an identifiable search for the use of masculinity in our time.

As before, the economy of description is refreshingly socio-economic. Malae’s mission to portray common people brings us undernourished, overfed, jelly-spined poor whites, but also dignified and convincing portraits of men forgotten in prison and in Bush’s Middle-East conflict, and women rejected, imprisoned, by the ignorance in their environments.

But this is no rerun of What We Are: like Jimmy Baca before him, the author’s own evolution since he disappeared into the “Pacific Northwest” makes the reader an attractive offer to evolve according to his characters’ examples. There are three males in this dialect-rendered story. Which is the titular Son of Amity?

Here Malae repurposes his previous characterizations to disarming effect. For a start the writer’s voice, mercifully, is separating from the narrator’s. Malae always demonstrates an ear for specific slang, something that really impresses academics, but in Son of Amity, especially the memories of prison, we finally get to observe what this slang, in its various pressure and quantity, really means between characters.

Central to the three adults’ seemingly-doomed cohabitation is a highly-realistic evolution of characters’ wills and desires, something unfit in What We Are’s immediacy. Starting with revenge for a rape, the characters’ common ground shifts under them as the victim of the violence takes the will to both choose forgiveness and transform the violence into a child: Malietoa to his Samoan uncle, Tophat to his veteran father, the latter crippled by the former.

The use for masculinity is found in a shared faith in family centered around the child Benji, and not in an act or a gesture. The outcast’s longing for a family to serve –and worth serving –in previous work has arrived. As What We Are’s exasperation before an expanded mind rouses similar feelings to Immigrants in Our Own Land, so this meditation on refocused life approaches the glorious beauty of Black Mesa Poems.

Throughout the book, Malae turns his previous work’s conceits against themselves using time and natural renewal: here we hopelessly serve our past even as the future offers us a ride without reservations, in this case the innocent child at the lead. The book’s greatest charm lies in watching the three adults reluctantly choose the boy’s inspiration over their baggage. Who, then, is the Son of Amity? I would argue that it’s the boy, and I propose that the narcissistic masses of this country read this book and follow their own Malietoa, their own Tophat.

Malae never neglects the portraiture of people trying to both live up to the past and make some way of living in the present. Perhaps the clearest symbols of this are Pika’s Samoan umu Thanksgiving turkey at the book’s finale and Michael’s worship of the Vietnam vets. But the conceit and the dignity lies in Sissy’s internal monologue throughout, in which the urban, feminist, progressive reader must coexist with the fact that Sissy’s post-rape decisions come from a need to move forward without any plan.

Highly recommended for those needing an immediate dose of reality.

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10-Year-old Mezcal for $28

I used to get Camichín from my man for years, and then he ran out about 2 years ago. Only now my man mentions that he has this Monte Albán –con gusano –that came with the liquor store when he bought it NINE years ago, and he never changed the price. God damned if it’s not good. Tastes clean, with wood and smoke, COMO DIOS MANDA, PENDEJOS! We’ll see if it lasts through tomorrow.

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