Sing a Worried Song is out ...
and I'm outa here too
“It takes a worried man to sing a worried song. I’m worried now, but I won’t be worried long.” It’s an old folk song that Arthur Beauchamp can’t get out of his head. But poor old Arthur will have lots to worry about, including his possible violent death.
Whatever happens to him is out of my hands now. Sing a Worried Song is out in hardcover and as an e-book as of today, April 1, 2015. Now I must return to my untitled, half-finished work-in-progress.
I’m on my way to ferry and airport.
I’m going off to commune where there’s no phone, no Internet, no email.
The Blog / April 22
He that filches my good name
Good afternoon, Bill, wherever you are. Still not receiving? Or are you finally tuned in to your blog? I suspect the latter. I see you sitting tight, hoping I’ll go away. I know now why you ran off. Not to escape the horrors of civilization. To avoid me, Bry Pomerantz.
Not just because of the vast guilt and remorse you feel over plagiarizing plot, twists and title of Needles. Yes, the book’s goddamn title—you don’t remember who came up with that? How did I feel when my name didn’t even appear in your acknowledgments? Imagine the sense of being buried alive. But now you have defamed me. You’ll be singing a very worried song if I sue for libel, bub.
You had erased all your files from your computer (or so you thought), but you forgot to clean out your trash, and there it was, Worried Song2.doc, which I took to be an early draft. I got a few hundred pages into it. I appear as your nemesis. I am the literary analogue of the fucked up character who so prominently lurks throughout its early pages. Brian Pomeroy. Way to come up with an original name.
The Blog / April 13
My Near-Death Experience
Just had a near-death experience. I was strolling up your driveway when an old pickup rattled down the hill toward me. My only hope was to cannonball into the second growth. Blue Dodge, crumpled fender, peace decal: I told myself to remember these specifics if I survived.
The Blog / April 7
Good morning, Blogosphere, I’m back. Hey, Bill, in case you stop by an Internet shop—do they exist where you are?—to check your emails, I have sent a couple to your old Yahoo account. No answer. But of course, anything from muy amigo mio, unheard from for thirty-three years, goes straight into Spam.
I was hoping you might at least glance at your website, your blog, and see my entreaties to make contact. Or maybe one of your cult following of good-humoured, nonconforming eco-liberals, or a relative, your agent, publisher, somebody who knows where the fuck you are, will get word to you that Bry Pomerantz has hacked into both your writing studio and your blog.
The Blog / April 4
The Wild Hippie Lawyer
Yeah, I clipped that item from the National Post. I had no idea. The deep end? You may have tiptoed near the edge. But divorce? Shacking up with hippies?
Flashback to this summery scene: I was sitting on a bench in Stanley Park. A bench I hoped to sleep on if it didn’t rain. The Screenwriters Guild had just denied my appeal to get my membership reinstated. I was homeless, hungover, as taut as a stretched condom, exhausted from ranting on the public pathways.
The final blow had just been delivered that morning: Sue announced I was domestically redundant, and gave me my walking papers. (You won’t know Sue, she was after your time. She’s a lawyer. Also, expensively, an afficionada of fine chopped flake.)
Aimlessly, I reached over to a trash bin from whose gaping mouth protruded the front section of the National Post. Yes, I’m guilty. I occasionally look at the National Post. I am not one of your leftie poseurs who boast of never reading it, as if that’s a mark of intellectual and spiritual attainment.
And there’s this front-page memoir about a son’s attempt to rediscover his dad, a peripatetic counterculture libertarian, who “crossed paths with the noteworthy, including Bill Deverell, his wild hippie lawyer in Vancouver, later to become a best-selling crime novelist.”
And several pages in I discover that casual, almost throwaway, quote about how you finally cracked up. You went off to live with hippies? Is that where you went last Wednesday, to “commune,” as you put it? Where does one find a hippie nowadays? Let alone an entire colony? Haven’t they evolved into something else? New Agers? Scientologists? Hedge fund traders?
I thought at first Vermeulen might have been joking, but there’s nothing in the article to qualify those bald statements of fact. If Ben Vermeulen is the guy I’m thinking of, he’s a stand-up businessman, and obviously a close friend of yours. The Post is a responsible national daily. They fact-check these things. So I’m worried about you.
Maybe it was the pressure of pumping out all those novels. Or maybe the isolation got to you, too many years on a backward little island. No Starbucks, no Tim Horton’s, no Wal-marts, no big deal. But no movie houses, no concert halls, no clip joints, no bawdy shops, no buskers, no action. I thought your marriage was rocklike, Bill—she was dynamic. I say that even though she thought I was creepy and full of crap.
I’ve kept that Post article all this time, plagued by a horoscopish kind of feeling that our lives were bound to reconnect. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I phoned your number on your island. Your answering machine was more plugged than Pablo’s nose after an all-nighter.
I have tried to conjure up a picture of you in your phoneless state of bliss: a grizzled rake explaining to a nubile Libra how their stars are about to be aligned. The picture didn’t take. Can’t see you lasting half a day in a commune, Bill. I don’t see you abiding the olfactory horror of patchouli oil, or whatever they use to disguise the smells of the unwashed. I don’t remember you as one who spurns the bourgeois comforts.
More in the next few days, inshallah. Want you to understand that I’m pirating your blog only to spice it up.
Posted by Bry Pomerantz on April 4, 2015
The Blog / April 2
Guess Who Just Hacked Your Blog…
That’s your parting shot? “I’m going off to commune where there’s no phone, no Internet, no email.”
You’re off to commune with whom, some hippie muse? Shit, man, we must have missed each other by a crotch hair.
Maybe that was you getting on the ferry as I was getting off. I said to myself, that can’t be Bill. That wild Einsteinian jungle of hair, the cheap sunglasses, the shirt half tucked in. No, couldn’t be you, I decided—you were always a snappy dresser. Back then. In those times of yore.
Don’t bother scrolling down to see who hacked into your blog—yes, it’s me, Bry Pomerantz, faded wunderkind of the big screen, your long-lost, long-ignored side kicker.