So perhaps the coolest thing about writing a subversive novel that poses as popular fiction, is that you get to talk politics a lot.
Headed out for the Fargo book stop this week. And talked politics for about 48 non-stop hours. Really radical and subversive (albeit non-violent, he says for the NSA minders at the Booman Tribune) politics. I will tell you all about the trip. But let’s start with a little publicity.
Another week, another article about Direct Actions. The interview with John Strand for the High Plains Reader was all part of the Fargo trip. Much fun. Talk about the book. Talk about the dangerous path Bush is leading us down. Man this is a cool job.
The Fargo trip also included forty minutes on late night AM radio, talking with good people from the heartland, a discussion on the roll back of civil rights during the “war on terror” with North Dakota Dem and friends, and a book signing at B. Dalton in the upscale strip mall commercial section of Fargo. And all the perks of authordom. Nice hotel. Great food. And more killer ale. If you’re ever going to Fargo and you want to treat yourself like royalty, you need to read this diary. If the closest you will ever get to Fargo is the “cult classics” section of the local video store, you still need to read this diary.
Driving To The Heartland
I drove to Fargo. It’s about a thirteen hour trip from East Lansing. And of course, the thirteenth hour is most unlucky.
I drove because, as an optimist, I had a couple of cases of books I thought the good people of Fargo might want to buy. And because I have this creepy feeling that despite my peaceful nature, the topic of the book, along with my several diaries here at the Booman Tribune, and my warnings of fascism in recent radio interviews, might have elevated me to the level of dissenters who are not allowed to fly. I’m sure I’m being overly paranoid here, but I didn’t want to miss my Fargo appearances because of an airport snafu. And there was the haunting memory of that thirty-foot turbulence related loss of altitude back in Las Vegas a couple of years ago. So I drove. I just drove.
And while driving to the heartland, I confirmed many stereotypes. Big cities, like Chicago, have really awful traffic. What are Chicagoans thinking? If I were Barack Obama I would forget all about being President until I figured out how to allow people of reasonable intelligence to use I-294 to circumvent travel through downtown Chicago. Every other city in America seems to have puzzled this problem through by now. So why not the home of Da Bears?
Other stereotypes confirmed: Cheese is a headline food in Wisconsin. Signs literally lead with “CHEESE” as if the food were a big name draw like Wayne Newton on a Saturday night.
And my personal favorite: There really are evangelical radio channels in the heartland that are converting people right as they drive through on the highway. I very nearly broke with the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster somewhere in Minnesota, after listening to some sort of proselytizing Lutheran (it was really probably Pentecostal Baptist, or something, but how could I not say it was a Lutheran when I was driving through Minnesota). At first I thought it was a SNL-like parody of religion on a progressive station. I was scrolling through the bottom of the FM dial, you know, where you usually find NPR broadcasts, and I start getting these random verses of scripture through the static. And then I come across this damn funny parody of religion. There is melodramatic organ music punctuating bits of obviously sarcastic religious statements, similar to the organ music that used to be played before important Red Wing face-offs at the old Olympia Stadium. “Dum-dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-Da-Duh.” The guy was telling some kind of story. About a book he had never read. The bible. “Dum-dum-dum-dum. Dum-dum-dum-dum. Da-da-da-da-Da-Duh.” And then he read it. I was cracking up. But then, it was going on too long, and the guy was becoming a missionary or some shit. And I started to understand, that this was not written for my entertainment. It was written by someone concerned about me donating $29.95 to their mega-church, and also with saving me from the eternal damnation that must accompany anyone of the self-proclaimed pastafarian faith. I laughed pretty hard. But I was completely weirded out, too. People actually listen to that shit to get closer to god? This was a strange land I was traveling through.
Fargo itself was not above typecasting. The weather. Despite the forecast by Punxsutawney Phil, I was enjoying a drive to the heartland in balmy spring weather. In the beginning of February. Sunshine. Dry. No snow to be found for most of the trip. Until I got within 30 miles of Fargo. The thirteenth hour.
At that point, some guy who was supposed to be the key grip of this little movie I was starring in, decided to turn on the wind machine. And I was instantly driving in what was the first blizzard of my life.
As a Michigan native, I know all about bad weather driving. Before global warming, we used to drive on ice all the time. I know not to pump the breaks, and to allow plenty of distance to stop. I know to avoid sudden turns as your car passes through snowy patches. But because we have buildings in Michigan, and more than a few trees, I was mostly unfamiliar with instantaneous and blinding whiteouts. One minute it is spring and I’m cruising along at 75. The next minute I can’t see the road. There is a wall of white in front of my car, illuminated by my headlights.
It was explained to me after the fact. Wind really gets blowing out there in the miles and miles of empty farm fields. And even if there isn’t much snow, you get these blizzards. Not much snow on the highway. It is just blowing past you. Taking away your ability to see. I was told that if I would have looked up, I could have seen the most beautiful starry night. But the only bright glowing points in my field of vision were my knuckles, drained of blood by my death grip as I hunched over the steering wheel, straining to keep my eyes from blinking so that I might not miss the flashes of roadway that would infrequently become visible in front of my car.
My first plan was to follow a professional. I got behind a semi that had passed me. His taillights were visible for tens of feet ahead, so I sped up and followed the glowing red embers. I don’t normally like to put my life in the hands of the greasy types of guys you see at truck stops in the U.S.A., but what were my options, really. It wasn’t like there were any exit signs that were visible. So I wasn’t getting off the highway.
I did my best to follow the semi for as long as I could. We whipped around a couple of drivers who had no plan, or at least had no semi to follow, until I finally got hung up behind one of the slower cars as my guiding trucker sped off into the blizzard. I passed the slower car. But now I was alone.
I started to have a Jack London moment. I started to think of the possibilities. How strange my obituary would look in the Fargo Forum. Stranger pulls off the highway in a blizzard and freezes in local farmer’s field, the lead would say. I needed a dog I could cut open. But it was just me and the snow.
I hunkered down, went as slow as possible and tried to drive by feel — and those fleeting breaks where you think you might see a broken white line like a ghost beneath your tire.
There were times when I had to stop. Completely disoriented. Unsure of which way the road went. Unsure if I felt concrete under my wheels. Or shoulder. Or high plains grass. These were the most terrifying moments. It took some courage to press the gas again. To move in an unknown direction to an unknowable future. But cars were huddled behind me. And I am sure I was not the only driver wondering just when the next semi would rip out of the fog in the rear view mirror to end life as it had been known on earth.
I started to curse the North Dakotans lined up behind me. I felt like some kind of Lutheran version of Brigham Young leading these stupid fuckers to the promised land of Moorehead. Didn’t they realize that I was a blind prophet. I had no idea where the fuck I was going. On more than one occasion the snow broke to show my car pointed in some very odd directions. Once pointed 45 degrees toward a farmer’s field. Once in the opposite direction, toward the median. And once, most interestingly, to show me that I was headed toward the abutment of an overpass.
Suffice it to say that the last hour lasted many hours. And that when I finally arrived in Fargo-Moorehead, where the buildings blocked the snow, I was exhausted. And ready to be given an honorary degree in whiteout driving. When I closed my eyes, I drifted to sleep to a screen of blinding white, with red flashes.
Meeting Bloggers
This is my fourth experience with meeting bloggers in the real world. And it has always been the same story. You meet people here who have the coolest thoughts. You like them for their ideas. You form images of them, and what they must be. And when you lay eyes on them, they are not what you thought. But somehow more. When they become real people, they are instantly fleshed out like a fictional character brought to life. That is how it was meeting North Dakota Democrat.
I don’t really do pictures, but he is a good looking guy. He’s of Scandinavian descent, and he got all the really good genes that my own Swedish ancestors somehow forgot to pass my way. Tall and blond with a beard. Youthful looking, but obviously worldly and rugged. And he talks like me. In loops.
From the moment I met him, we basically talked politics for eleven hours straight. About what it means to be liberal or progressive. About farmers and their politics in the heartland. About the environment and the media and the Bush administration. About bird flu and just what it means. About Alito and where to go from here. About non-violent actions for change. If it wouldn’t have been for his kind wife giving us a call on the cell phone, we would have talked right through my scheduled book talk. As it was, we made it just on time.
Bourgeois Fargo
I suppose that if I actually lived the rhetoric I talked, I’d be some kind of corrupt party leader. For as much as I like to talk about left-leaning political philosophy, I still enjoy the royal treatment from time to time. And I’d like to share these travel tips, just in case you ever decide you want to drive in a blizzard.
Stay at the Hotel Donaldson. It is a slice of cosmopolitan life within a mile of the Mississippi river. In the center of the old downtown of Fargo. It is elegant. Each room decorated with the trappings of a local artist. Sleek. Hip. Cool. With chocolates on the pillow. Real chocolates. The staff is friendly and the lounge is a great place to grab an ale. Winter white something or another. Deliciousness.
And when it comes time for a meal, saunter (remember to cover your skin when sauntering in Fargo in the wintertime) north on Broadway a couple of blocks to Monte’s Downtown. You’ll be greeted by a maitre d’ in a purple beret, and he’ll let you talk loudly about politics, as long as it is not Republican politics. Order the mushroom soup or the walleye or the filet mignon. Or all three. And all will be right with the world.
Fargo Lecturing
Be prepared for the questioners. They will sound just like extras from the movie “Fargo.” And you will want to laugh. But they are not extras. This is how they sound. They are not doing it for your amusement. Just buckle down, stay on message, and wait for the urge to laugh uncontrollably to pass.
Really, the book talk was a lot of fun. Is was a small crowd, made up almost entirely of ND Dems friends, except for the one taciturn man who everyone figured for an FBI agent. The session was fun and informative. It is just good to talk real loud about progressive ideas in a public place, unashamed. I remember feeling that way in Washington D.C., with the Booman contingent at the peace rally. There aren’t enough of those opportunities.
Book Sales
I’ll never forget my best rejection letter for the novel. It spurred me onward. A larger firm had pulled it off the slush pile. Gave it a full read. Liked it, but said, “it is not a guaranteed commercial success.”
While I didn’t like to hear those words, I think the business people in that firm were sensing something about my future in Fargo. Fargo was not a commercial success. But I sold some books. Had a hell of a good time talking to people. Made some invaluable contacts for my second novel (about organic farming and bio engineered foods). And what the heck can you expect when they are having the tenth anniversary of the “Fargo” film festival on the weekend you choose to visit.
So all in all. It worked out well. And I thought I’d share it. I was happy to roll back into East Lansing in time to watch the Steelers get one for the thumb. Nice to see the Bus go out in a good way. We should all be so lucky.
And as Kip, from “Napoleon Dynamite,” was fond of saying, once he found his groove, “Peace out.”