New Website and My Fake ID

I'm going to try to reel in my disgust over the Super Bowl and not subject you to a rant about how my friend Mike in Miami is right, and after Brady went all Hollywood, he hasn't won shit.  On the biggest stage, with a chance to seek revenge against the Giants and that mole-faced little bastard Eli who ruined his chance at perfection four years ago in the desert, Tom Terrific was anything but.  I am sickened and disgusted, and reminded of something my granddaddy once said to me and one of life's great truisms: sports will only break your heart, boy.

(Oh, and fuck you, Wes Welker.)

But the good news is...the new website is here!  The new website is here.  And here it is: http://www.joeclifford.com/.  Very important.  Starting tomorrow, this is where you'll also go to find the blog.  You can still type in the old address, which will direct you here anyway.  The only issue might be if you use an RSS Reader (whatever the fuck that is).  My webguy says that if you do you'll want the new address.  So there you go.

Pretty cool new graphic, eh?  (Thanks, Zenaida!)  Don't worry.  The content is not going to change.  Candy and Cigarettes is still committed to bringing you the very finest in goofy You Tube clips and funny cat pics.  But we wanted to look, y'know, more professional and shit.  Some of the features should make your life easier. Like, for instance, you can just leave a comment now without having to sign up with a Google account.  Which is pretty cool.  Gone, too, are some of the bells and whistles, the MySpace-like glitter of a tweeny girl heavily crushing on the Beibs. Which is long overdue, really; we're all supposed to be grownups here.  (Though I am sad to lose the flames.  Fire is cool.)

So take a look around the new site.  Let me know what you think, or what you hate. I think it should be a lot more user friendly, with greater accessibility to my work. Hope you agree.  If not, I can fix stuff, since it's all been converted to Wordpress, which means I no longer have to rely on others to do my updates.  It's all about self-sufficiency.

*

We had a Super Bowl party on the hill yesterday.  Lots of people.  Tons of food. Which might've been cool if the Pats won.  But they lost.  What could've been a joyous celebration quickly turned into: Who the hell are all these people and why are they eating my food?

Got a couple cool mementos from my past, though.  One, Noah, who played guitar in my first band in CT, Something Like Paisley, brought a burned disc of our long-lost college rock classic So It Goes (still one of the best memories of my life was driving down the Berlin Turnpike at 18, flipping through the stations and hearing one of my songs [the cringe-worthily titled..."Electric Sun."  Good tune.  Awful title] on the radio.  Trinity College's WRTC.  But still).

I've been getting the rough mixes of these from our old engineer in Connecticut, Jeff, who has been painfully pulling the songs, track by track, off nearly 20-year-old, disintegrating 1/2" tape, importing the tunes into some modern, space-age software for a later mix down (it's like living in the future).  But what Noah brought over is the original record, in all it's intended, power pop shimmery glory, which he dug out of his mom's attic on a Christmas trip back east.  It's the first time these songs have been heard (as originally mixed) in probably close to a decade.  I am going to remaster all this shit later and put it up on iTunes.  Best music I ever made. Seriously.  Which is really, really depressing if you think about it.

The other trinket delivered was further proof that I, too, was once young.  My first fake ID.

                                                                 Now that is a crisp, flinty glow!

Rich found it in his stuff at his house.  He must've used it too at one point.  (And, no, we never really looked alike, except in the way that all clean shaven, angelic 18-year-old boys all look the same.)  The funny part about my having a fake ID is I didn't drink.  Like, at all.  Didn't touch a drop of alcohol until I was 21 (and within the year I'd be addicted to meth.  Which is a lesson to all you parents out there.  It's all about moderation). What did I need a fake ID for?  Fuck if I know.

The name on the ID belonged to Chris Judd, my co-frontman in Paisley, who would go on to develop schizophrenia and swell to close to 400 lbs., becoming a shut-in.  I haven't spoken to him in over a decade either.  It's a shame.  He was a great songwriter and singer, and more importantly, he was a good friend.  A much better friend to me than I was to him.  (What else is new?)

Finding old pictures of yourself like this presents a weird sensation.  On the one hand, I am obviously younger (and ridiculously feminine looking.  I mean, seriously, I've dated women who weren't as pretty as that).  Yet...this is still what I see, for the most part, when I look in the mirror.  Sure, I catch the wrinkles and gray, the ravage of the hard years, but when I look into my own eyes, I still see a 16-year-old boy (or 18, in this case).  And I don't feel much older than that.  It's like in many ways I remained trapped in this state of perpetual adolescence, angst and violent mood swings very much included.

It's also a bit like The Shawshank Redemption.  Remember the part where Red finally gets his parole?  They ask him if he feels he's rehabilitated, and he delivers this great speech about how that word doesn't mean anything to him anymore.  But is he sorry for what he did?  Not a day goes by that he's not sorry.   Most of all though he wishes he could go back and talk to that crazy, angry kid?  Save everyone a lot of time and hassle; get another chance to get it right.

I guess in way I do get to do that.  Maybe that's what being a dad really is all about. As my boy, Holden, grows up, I get to impart wisdom and share my life experience, point out the potential pitfalls and how best to avoid danger.  And he'll think (or say) I don't know what I'm talking about, and set off to discover the answers on his own.  We've been doing this dance since the dawn of time, right?  If it wasn't true, it wouldn't be a Cat Stevens song.

And on that note... Don't forget.  Starting tomorrow, you can find us here: http://www.joeclifford.com/candy-and-cigarettes-blog/.  Same Bat-time.  New Bat-channel.  Bookmark us!

Reading between the Lines

Got this the other day.

Hi Joe, 

I hope you don't mind my contacting you. I got your details from your blog.  

My name's Ben and I'm currently putting together a new free online magazine. It's going to have a different theme every issue and the content is going to be sourced from various creatives I know and admire around the world... The theme for issue 1 is STREETS.

The magazine will contain photography, short stories, poems, factual writing, illustrations, and we would love to feature some of your work if you are interested in taking part.

I am in touch with the guys from the Railroad Poetry Project and that's how I discovered your stuff. I really like the style of your poetry; it feels raw and honest. Essentially it feels very street even if that isn't the basis of the poem. Also I like that the tag line on your website is 'Sometimes the safest place to be in a riot is in the street'. That's perfect.

So, I wonder if you'd be interested in showing any of your work in our first issue? If you are up for it, it would be great to have something in the next week or so, yeah, I know, short notice! Sorry.

I really enjoyed 'Places I Refuse to Sleep' from Railroad 2 and felt that would work with our theme. But if you have something that would be more applicable then that would be great. 

I'll look forward to hearing from you,

Ben Turner

http://www.povmagazine.co.uk/

I get letters like this from time to time, as you know (http://tinyurl.com/3m6cdvo), but it's always nice.  Especially the part about apologizing for interrupting me, like I am some big, important writer high on a golden throne of awesomeness with no time to mingle with the lowly masses, a "let them eat cake" of literary disconnect.  Of course, I shatter that illusion by responding within about 7 seconds with an attachment of 8 pieces from which to choose.  Image is everything in this world, and I'd probably be smart to play it cool.  Like with the ladies, jumping too eagerly at opportunity reeks of desperation, which stinks worse than the refried beans Justine leaves in the back of the fridge until a nice urine-yellow film forms (she's a pack rat).  But I don't pretend to be something I am not (one of my more redeemable traits).  Or as a girl who once desperately wanted to sleep with me said, "Joe, what I like best about you is you're not completely full of bullshit."  (Wonder if she'd feel the same way if I looked like Chad Kroeger.)

You don't get rich playing another man's game, and I am one needy mutherfucker.  So, yeah, Ben.  No problem.  Awesome.  Here you go. 

I sent off what few remaining pieces I have left that haven't been published (I know, boo-fucking-hoo me).  I only have two (good) short stories that haven't been taken, and maybe half a dozen poems, some going back ten years, since I don't actively write that shit anymore.  Of course, I have the memoir.  Which almost feels like cheating, goddamn thing is so chockfull of kick-ass writing.  So I found a couple selections, cut and pasted, titled them, and sent them off. Then I get this.

Hi Joe,

So, thanks again for sending those documents over. I've just heard back from my colleague on the magazine. If you don't want to get a big ego ignore the next sentence... but in his words:  "I've read all of them and they are nothing short of brilliant--captivating, emotive and engaging"...

Ben Turner

Somewhere Jenny Dreadful is going, Damn you, Joe, for getting a letter like this.  Well, don't worry, Jenny, because in the writing world, what goes up (ego) will come crashing down in about 3, 2, 1...

No sooner do I get done exchanging an e-mail with Ben (who had asked where he could pick up a copy of what must surely be a printed copy of the memoir, to which I responded it's not out yet, but I just sent out a batch of queries to small, independent publishers and shall remain hopeful), when I open an e-mail that has just come in.  It reads,

Dear joseph clifford,



We have reviewed "Junkie Love" and have decided that it's not for us. We appreciate the chance to look at your work and wish you the best with it.



Sincerely,



Publishing Company I Will Not Name for Fear of Looking Unprofessional

I know.  You're thinking, "Well, where's the rest?  Did you check the back?" Ain't no back; it's a goddamn e-mail.  That was the whole thing.  And as so often is the case when you rely on outside sources of validation, the ego dick went limp, and my vagina started to hurt.  

The only thing that kept me out of a season long funk was this piece I had read earlier in the morning over at Chunk Wendig's wonderful Terrible Minds http://tinyurl.com/7lmn8o7.  If you are pressed for time, the gist is, Toughen up, crybaby; this is the way the game works.  And it's good to be reminded of that.  I like Wendig because he writes the way I try to, only better, funnier, his skin a little thicker.  Then again, he is a little more successful.

One of the best ways to get confidence is to have success.  I am less susceptible to being devastated by rejection letters these days because I've enjoyed a modicum of it.  Chicken?  Egg?  Who the fuck knows.

Still, reading those two e-mails, virtually back to back, you might see why I am left scratching my completely full luxurious head of non-thinning hair.  Like Wendig writes, these kinds of impersonal rejections can't be weighed too heavily, because there is nothing to them.  It is possible this particular editor really did read the manuscript (I can't recall the specifics of guidelines, and this particular publisher is now closed for the rest of the year), and might just think I suck slimy moose dick.  Usually these places ask for a synopsis, maybe chapter-by-chapter outline, and an actual chapter or two from the book. He (or she) could've read this, and unlike Ben and his partner, simply not saw anything redeemable.  But I doubt it.  And it's not because I have some conceited, unwavering belief in my genius.  It's more like when someone actually does take the time out to read something, you can usually see that in the response. Stuff like "reviewed" and not "read," and no specifics other than my name and book's title leads me to believe that this editor did the same fucking thing I did when I was editing literary magazines: he read until his didn't feel like reading anymore.  And that can happen at any time.   

For me, that varied.  Could be I had a bad night's sleep, or had just suffered a break-up, was trying to quit smoking, endured a particularly unfulfilling fiction workshop, that "not so fresh" feeling, who knows, but there were plenty of times I picked up a submission, read a line or two, or just the title, maybe the guy's name (I had a strict "No Chad" policy), and wrote "No."  Seems kinda counterintuitive, I know, so readily dismissing another's work, especially being a fellow writer.  Except that as an editor, you get tons and tons of shit to read. Every fucking day.  And this was just some rinky dink literary journal.  Book publishers?  Fuck, man, they get thousands pouring in.  And adding to their ire, these submissions come from folks who have never read a single goddamn book they've published, which they (no doubt) lost money on.  (I sometimes buy books from the publishers I am soliciting; unfortunately, however, often I do not.  And no, I did not in this particular instance).

My guess is this guy (or gal) saw the title (Junkie Love), looked over the query, went, "Another fucking story by a former drug addict?  And it's only Tuesday. Next!"  And how do I blame him for that?  Actually, I don't think one way or another about the guy. What I do give a shit about his how to get reactions like I got from Ben and the guys at PoV (and here's that link again to their site: http://www.povmagazine.co.uk/--they're looking for good shit, from down in the bowels of hell, so you should submit.  I'm talking to you, Ms. Bean).  The obvious difference is Ben wanted to read it.  He'd seen my work, liked it, sought me out, and so when I sent him something, I had his full attention; I wasn't just another fucking blind submission from some cocksucker who doesn't even know the books we publish.

I guess this fills me with both hope and dread.  Hope, because when I get someone to actually read my memoir, they are seldom less than impressed.   And dread, because I don't know how to get publishers to do that.  They've never met me, don't know how charming and good looking I am, that I'd be a rock star on any book tour, and oh yeah, that I have a really really good book here if they'd just give it a chance.  I was hoping an agent would help, but we kept smacking our heads against the "junkie" tag, and in the rare instances we got acquisition editors all squishy, sales' departments slapped the big kabosh. But the book was at least getting some consideration.  This new approach, blind submission shuffled with the rest of the drek in the slush pile?  Oh, vey.

Maybe it's like Bob Dylan sings.  The only thing we know how to do is to keep on keeping on...