I paid a visit to the Morgan Library for the Mark Twain: A Skeptic’s Progress exhibit. There are manuscript pages from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Life on the Mississippi, as well as letters, notebooks, drawings and other stuff. When I go to manuscript exhibits I’m inevitably disappointed. I try to read them but the handwriting is always illegible and I get nowhere. The Morgan displays their handwritten manuscript for A Christmas Carol every holiday season and it’s a mess.

Take a look at one of the display descriptions. Hang in there. It’s shocking.

“Following the Equator (1897) is Twain’s recounting and fictional reworking of his “round-the-world” lecture tour, most of which was spent in and en route to Australasia, the South Seas, South Africa and India. He was already a severe critic of British and European imperialist and colonialist policies, but seeing their consequences firsthand only intensified his anger and conviction that Western ideals of human progress were a sham. He was especially enraged by whites’ hypocritical use of religious and “civilizing” rhetoric in the brutal exploitation of native peoples.

Still, as fiercely as Twain condemned Christianity and the West (the deleted passages regarding white rule are harsher than those published), he was equally unsparing in his evaluation of other cultures and religions. He regarded all religions and societies as systems of superstition and control ingeniously disguised as theology, ritual, and political ideology, the better to ease and exploit humanity’s fear of death and the unknown.”

Wow! That’s pretty accusatory stuff! I happen to agree with Twain. (Hope that doesn’t cost me any readers.) The book is full of illustrations. Take a look at this beauty:

This is how Twain saw the introduction of European society to Aboriginal Australia. On the platter, the “savage” is offered Law, Opium, Disease, Whiskey, Tobacco and Religion. There’s also a whip and a pair of shackles. Twain equates religion to, among other things, opium. Now, where have I heard that before? Who knew that Twain was such a Lefty?

The exhibit is open through January 2nd.

Today is the first day of autumn. I tried living in a part of the country that doesn’t have a change of seasons (unless you consider hot and really fucking hot to be seasons) and I just couldn’t do it. I need to swap my wardrobe out. I like my sweaters and coats and my scarves that are right out of a Dickens novel. Here comes thick stews and tossing The Daughters into a pile of raked leaves, all-day pots of hot coffee and Sunday football.

It was a sweltering, punishing summer to be in New York City but it was a good summer for the New Jersey shore. Hot with little rain to ruin the weekends. But that’s all over now. These guys are going to have to find something else to do with their time.

We had some brutal storms. There were a few hurricanes that pass by too far out to sea to do any damage, but in their wake they left deadly riptides. There were a few drownings this summer. Just imagine. You go to the beach to cool off for an afternoon and end up being pulled out to sea. If you’re ever caught in a riptide, you should swim parallel along shore until you’re out of it, and then back in to land. Too many try and swim directly in. If you get into a fistfight with a riptide, the riptide will kick your ass.

Mrs. Wife knows her way around the Jersey shore. She know how to avoid the Garden State Parkway traffic snarls by taking local roads and knows which beaches are the least populated with out-of-towners. (They’re snidely referred to as Bennies. I have no idea what it means.)

This place will close in a few weeks. For me, there are two things that signal the true end of summer; when Lighthouse closes for the season, and the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy. Once the last sausage and pepper truck rolls out of town, get out your gloves.

But that’s not a bad thing at all. I posted this video last year around this time. It’s Billie Holiday’s rendition of Autumn in New York. I have no idea who put this together but it’s simply beautiful. When I watch it, it makes me all goopy inside for New York.

Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They’re making me feel—I’m home

My pal, Mapstew, threw these questions over the pond some time ago but life got in the way and I haven’t had an opportunity to answer them until just now. Sorry for the delay, sir.

1. Why did you start blogging?

For the money. And the chicks.

2. If you could travel anywhere in the world, with no restrictions on cost, where would it be, and why?

My gut answer was London because I love that town. But Mrs. Wife and I could use a friggin’ break so I’m going to say one of the Caribbean islands. Have you ever been down there? It’s other-worldly. The color palate is like nothing you’ve ever seen before in nature.

3. Did you have a teacher in school that had a great influence on your life? If so, what?

No. Not one. I floated through high school like a wisp of steam. That was the extent of my formal education. There was a Lieutenant Commander in the Coast Guard named Kent Mathews who was the only person who ever showed what can be considered a fatherly interest in me. Not even my own Da could be bothered.

4. If you could spend the day with a famous person, who would it be, and what would you do?

I’d like to go to Central Park on a balmy summer afternoon and sit on one of the big rocks by the 59th Street entrance and have a chat with Jesus Christ. I’d ask him, “Are you really the son of God?” I’d ask if he really did rise from the dead and if so, why didn’t he show himself to the masses? It would have made things a hell of a lot easier for a lot of people. Then I’d ask him to perform one miracle; get someone to pay me to write so I can stop this goddamn daily commuting. Oops. Sorry, JC.

5. Toilet paper—over or under?

Over. And, yes, it matters to me. So much so that I change it when it’s under.

6. Name one thing in your life that you would do over if possible.

I think I’d relive the six years I spent in the Coast Guard. It was, pound-for-pound, the most satisfying job I‘ve ever had. It was a blast! I couldn’t believe they were paying me! I was on a search and rescue team for a bit and had a hand in saving some lives. More than once! You can’t imagine the god-like feeling you get when you pull someone out of the ocean who would have died if you hadn‘t showed up. The look of gratitude on their face can’t be described.

7. Tell us about your pets, if any.

We have a fish named Dennis. Mrs. Wife and I pray nightly for his longevity because The Daughters have gotten it into their heads that once Dennis dies, we’re getting a cat. I think they want to work their way up the evolutionary ladder.

8. Do you live in a small town or a large town?

C’mon. Are you kidding? I’m in THE large town.

If Oprah Winfrey married Deepak Chopra, she’d be Oprah Chopra.

Tee-hee.

That’s my all-time favorite metaphor for something really bad happened. An elephant stepped on my guitar. Isn’t that just beautifully descriptive? Well, an elephant stepped on my guitar and it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill-I-dropped-my-phone-in-the-pool-again thing. I didn’t feel much like writing. Or reading blogs. Or sleeping. Or eating.

But in the midst of the strum und drang, a couple of really nice things happened. First, I received a few “are you okay?” emails from some of you. Others posted a “where the fuck are you” comment. (Not those exact words, perhaps, but that’s the spirit of the messages.) Thank you all for your concern. It’s meaningful to me and I’ll never forget it.

Here’s another really nice thing that happened to me over the last two weeks while the walls were on fire. Last June, I was contacted by the editor of an online literary publication in Chicago. He is a regular reader here. His site has been around for a few years and it was due for a retooling. As part of the relaunch, he asked me if I was interested in writing a monthly column on rare books. First I said yes and then I went through the “I’m not smart enough, good enough, etc., etc.” guilt trip that I usually lay on myself. Then I grew some hair on my sack, sat down and banged out a column. It was easy! The damn thing practically wrote itself! The site just relaunched. It’s the world famous Undie Press and my column is called Books You Cannot Read.

I’m from Ohio. We frown on any type of self-congratulatory behavior. We consider it undignified and déclassé. We believe in modesty. But I’m going to go out on a dangerous limb and say that I’m really pleased with my first attempt. I invite to you hop over and have a look. It’s a quick read and it’s a pretty good show, if you don’t mind my saying so. Plus, you’ll get to see my real name. How‘s that for incentive, bitches? No stalking, please.

I’m WAY behind on my theater posts. The season is well underway. Thank you all, again. I wish I could find the right words.

I’ve written about this dump before. When I visit my family in Cleveland, I always make a point to stop in for a few beers at The Suburban Inn on Bagley Road. It’s a cinder block building in a parking lot right next to a Shell gas station. “Bar” is too nice a name for it. “Bar” implies warmth and hospitality. Like on Cheers. If you’re in an establishment that only serves the kind of vodka that will give you a pounding headache and the floor is sticky and the air smells like stale beer, what would you call that? Purgatory? I like it.

When you open the door you’re hit with a massive billow of cigarette smoke—it’s like walking into a gas chamber—and a warning. The State of Ohio has outlawed smoking in bars but the proprietors of the Suburban Inn don’t give a damn what the State of Ohio says. A hand lettered sign cautions:

I always thought the sign was a joke amongst the employees. The Law couldn’t possibly give a shit about a dive like The Suburban Inn? Could they? On the contrary. I read in an Ohio newspaper that the The Suburban Inn has amassed a whopping $49,000 in fines for smoking violations that they steadfastly refuse to pay. The most in Ohio! You go girl!

The law doesn’t know the half of it. Do you guys know what these are? They’re called pull tabs. This is the front.

Good thing The Man doesn’t read my blog, eh?