What Would Kinky Do?: How to Unscrew a Screwed-Up World

by Kinky Friedman

  Then I saw the light: If you want mankind to honor you, you've got to get off your ass. I called Lana Nelson, Willie's daughter, and Doug Holloway, Willie's illegitimate son, promised each of them two or three hundred dollars, and soon the wheels were turning. (To quote Sammy Allred again, "When Kinky offers you two or three hundred dollars, you always know which one it's going to be.") Lana and Doug graciously refused the cash, and two weeks later Willie was in the studio with his band, recording a brilliant version of "Ride 'em, Jew-boy." Later that night I sat in my car, listened to the cut, and smiled for the first time in two hundred years.

  After Willie, we selected artists who, like him, walk their own roads. These were all people who, if someone in the record business said it couldn't be done, would spend the rest of their lives proving them wrong. Fortunately, they turned out to be the kind of stars a hopeful little Jewboy could make a wish upon. The only pain, disappointment, and humiliation I felt was when I was turned down flat by one particular person.

  After all I've been through, I'm not reticent about mentioning that performer by name. The artist who rejected me was k.d. lang. I'd sent her my song "Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed." I still can't understand it.

  As far as the actual recordings went, the artists chose their own song, studio, city, and planet. (We put the songs on the CD in the exact chronological order in which they were recorded; we didn't need the bungling hand of a record company mortal to play God.) Several of the songs were cut in Austin, but that didn't pose a problem, as I stayed the hell away. It's always a good idea for a songwriter to steer clear of the studio when someone is recording his song. On a tribute record, particularly, the honoree should be either dead or working in Branson— anywhere but lurking around the studio. I'm proud to say that I wasn't present for any of the fifteen guest-artist performances on Pearls in the Snow. Instead, I retired into a rather petulant snit, only emerging two years later, when everything was completed. I left the recording duties in the much more capable hands of Kacey, who served as supervising producer and turned out to be a pretty fair engineer as well. Of course, with a name like Kacey Jones, I was not all that surprised.

  Money was an issue, of course. You've got to have money to make your own tribute album. If you're dead, you probably don't have any and the project moves along without you (or dies with you). If you're alive, the musicians and studio personnel, despite their obvious affection for you, like to get paid. Cognizant of this, I went to see my friend Johnny Marks in San Antonio. Johnny coughed up some bucks and officially became our executive producer. The bucks lasted until Dwight Yoakam did forty-nine overdubs on "Rapid City, South Dakota." Now we had a problem. With Willie, Dwight, Delbert McClinton, Lee Roy Parnell, Asleep at the Wheel, and the Geezinslaw Brothers already recorded, we had everybody in the can but Prince Albert, yet we still had only half a tribute album. "Half a hero's better than no hero at all," I said to Kacey one afternoon. "Get out of the studio," she said, "and get more money."

  With my artistic feelers hurt now that the artist in me had been overtaken by the loan shark, I proceeded to fat-arm my friend John McCall in Austin. John ponied up more bucks and officially became, along with Johnny, coexecutive producer of Pearls in the Snow. As time went by, I repeatedly assured both former friends that the album would definitely be a financial pleasure. At about the two-year point, I changed my tune slightly. "Money may buy you a fine dog," I advised them, "but only love can make it wag its tail." This bit of folksy wisdom failed to comfort or amuse either man.

  Nevertheless, McCall's money carried us through Guy Clark, Marty Stuart, Tompall Glaser, Chuck E. Weiss and the G-d Damn Liars, Billy Swan, Lyle Lovett, a rather triumphant if somewhat tedious reunion of the original Texas Jewboys, and Tom Waits. I don't know what studio Tom recorded his cut in, but you can hear roosters crowing in the background. This notwithstanding, his version of "Highway Cafe" remains one of my favorites. As Captain Midnight wrote in his liner notes, "If this music doesn't reach down and touch you, remember . . . it's only a fucking record."

  The final responsibility I had before the CD was released was to obtain participation agreements from all the artists. It was a formality, but it had to be done, and as CEO of Kinkajou Records, it fell to me. (A kinkajou, by the way, is a cuddly little Central American mammal with a prehensile tail.) So it was, with contract in hand, that I accosted Willie Nelson on his golf course one fine afternoon late last summer. I'd drawn up the one-page contract myself, and if not entirely legally binding, it was at least a fairly humorous document. It concluded with the following statement: "Trust me. As a Jewish record company president, I will not fuck you."

  Without hesitation, Willie graciously signed his name on the appropriate line. Underneath his signature, the greatest living country music star in the world today wrote, "Please fuck me."

  But when all is said and done, every tribute album is really a tribute to all that has gone before. Just prior to Pearls in the Snow being released, I was playing a tape of it for Willie on his bus on the way to Gruene Hall, where he was doing a benefit for flood victims. Both of us were now straying rather dangerously off the reservation. We were listening to Lee Roy's poignant version of one of my earliest songs, "Nashville Casualty and Life."

  "That sounds great," said Willie. "Sounds a lot like Merle."

  "The influence wasn't Merle Haggard," I said. "Lee Roy told me that for two weeks before he went in the studio, he was listening to Lefty Frizzell."

  "So was Merle," said Willie.

  WHAT WOULD KINKY READ?

  1. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," by Edgar Allan Poe, 1843. This brilliantly tragic and peculiarly moral poet and author is widely regarded to have written the first, and certainly the most seminal, modern detective story. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" has influenced generations of mystery writers all over the world for its pioneering demonstration of deductive reasoning.

  2. "The Monkey's Paw," by W. W. Jacobs, 1845. Poe's great body of work and Robert Louis Stevenson's "Bottle Imp" notwithstanding, "The Monkey's Paw" may well be the most frightening, macabre, and downright spookiest story ever written. Always good to keep the night-light on for this one.

  3. "A Study in Scarlet," by Arthur Conan Doyle, who first sent it off not very optimistically to Strand magazine in 1891. Conan Doyle's depiction of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson is clearly the most celebrated latent homosexual relationship in all of literature. The Sherlock Holmes stories can be read many times in the same lifetime for their fog, friendship, and unique, oddly comforting flavor.

  4. A Pocket Full of Rye/The Mystery of the Blue Train, by Agatha Christie. Though Hercule Poirot's head may be shaped like an egg, he is not Agatha Christie's greatest invention. Beyond question, that honor belongs to Miss Jane Marple, who divines great insights from the citizens of St. Mary Mead and applies these qualities to the world in general. Never underestimate Miss Marple.

  5. Busman's Honeymoon, by Dorothy L. Sayers, 1937. Sayers is somewhat of a pointy-headed intellectual, perhaps, but her WASPY, dapper detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, is witty, eloquent, and fun. The books harken back to a more innocent, romantic era which, given our current spiritual ambience, is a welcome break.

  6. Maigret and the Headless Corpse, by Georges Simenon, 1955. Simenon, who had every human weakness known to God and man, somehow managed to create a magnificently moral mender of destinies in the person of Inspector Maigret. This peerless series can be seen as a remarkable guide to the sometimes rather perverse study of human nature. Simenon wrote about seven million books, all beginning with the word "Maigret," and every one of them is killer bee.

  7. The Widows of Broome, by Arthur W. Upheld. This Australian series features the half-aboriginal detective Napoleon Bonaparte who knows the outback better than Crocodile Dundee. These books are wild and weird and beautiful like the people and the country they describe. They offer sparkling insights into nature as well as human nature. Not to mention that The Widows of Broome is
scary as hell.

  8. The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler. Philip Marlowe, a spiritual pioneer in the American hard-boiled detective genre, is a man who walks his own road right through the middle of the mean streets of L.A.

  Chandler once observed: "Scarcely anything in literature is worth a damn except what is written between the lines." He writes between the lines better than almost anyone before or since.

  9. The Green Ripper, by John D. MacDonald. MacDonald's knight-out-of-time Travis McGee has become an enduring American hero. This stellar series reflects great compassion for human vulnerability, great sympathy for the ecology of this planet, and great empathy for the rare enough triumphs of love, justice, and life.

  10. The League of Frightened Men, by Rex Stout. Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin are two of my all-time favorites. Like Chandler and MacDonald, (not to mention Jesus, van Gogh, and Emily Dickinson), Rex Stout was underappreciated in his day. Like every other author on this list, Stout is now a ranking member of the Dead Detective's Society, having many years ago stepped on a rainbow. Possibly because their creators have all checked out of this mortal motel, their fictional children seem more than ever alive today.

  QUESTIONS FROM A BRITISH JOURNALIST-1999

  Can we start by talking about your latest book?

  My latest book, entitled Spanking Watson, deals with my quest for the perfect Dr. Watson. It also deals rather extensively for the first time with the lesbian dance class in the loft above my own. It is at the same time more profound and more profane than my previous work. I leave it to the reader to determine what is profound and what is profane.

  Who were the writers who inspired you in your fledgling efforts?

  Well, it wasn't J. R. R. R. R. R. Tolkien, though I do admire the fact that he invented his own language and geography and was almost certainly clinically insane at the time of his best work. So were van Gogh, Emily Dickinson, and Jesus, of course. My early writing influences, however, were probably Simenon, Hank Williams, and Conan Doyle.

  Is any of your early work publishable—or will it remain in a bottom drawer?

  It was brilliant! And now it's lost to the ages! If I find any of that early shit I'll let you know. It probably is publishable. A lot of people are killing a lot of trees these days.

  How do you regard your writing peers?

  I belong to the Dead Poet's Society. Show me a book by a dead guy and it's probably going to be pretty good. Show me a book by a living human being and it's almost certain to be a dreary, derivative tissue of horseshit.

  Violence and sexuality?

  I don't do sex and violence very well so the point is kind of moot. I don't believe, however, in trying to protect people who hang themselves while masturbating: Who am I to try to stop them?

  Tell me a little about your working methods?

  When I write I pretend like I'm Oscar Wilde behind bars with my hair on fire. Also, you have to be pretty miserable to write humorous fiction that's worth a shit. The duller and more unhappy my life is, the sharper and funnier is my prose. So I fight happiness at every turn. I also strive not to be too successful in my lifetime. That's the kiss of death for immortality.

  What do you feel is the principal appeal of the kind of fiction you write?

  That would be hard to say. My life is a work of fiction. I'm merely writing an unauthorized autobiography over and over again. Hopefully, I'm getting a little better at it every time. But people are so perverse it's hard to imagine why they think something's funny. Especially Germans. I'm killing a lot of trees in the Black Forest these days. Maybe a few of them will fall on unsuspecting Germans.

  Is music a factor in your inspiration?

  As a former country singer and songwriter, my books are largely fueled, I believe, by the leftover lyrics of my life on the road. I wasn't that great a country singer but you have to fail at one thing before you can succeed at another. An eight-year-old who knew my situation, once asked me if I heard music in my head while I typed my novels. I told him yes. I thought it was a pretty insightful question for an eight-year-old. That kid will probably drive his car into a tree before he finishes high school. A lot of people are killing a lot of trees these days.

  Do you remember a teacher or mentor who inspired you?

  I had a few encouraging teachers along the way and I'm sure they've gone to Jesus by now and I don't really remember them too well. Miss Jean Brodie was pretty helpful. Of course, if you've taken as much Peruvian marching powder as I have, you're doing well to remember that today is Tuesday and the next meal's lunch.

  Which comes first with you: plot or characters?

  A plot can never come; only a character can. So I agree with George Bernard Shaw that plots are for cemeteries. I also agree with Raymond Chandler that plots are merely excuses for characters to go places and say things. Unfortunately, I don't agree with anybody else.

  Is there a city that gets your creative juices flowing?

  New York, of course. But the farther I'm away from it, the clearer it becomes in my mind. The characters become clearer too, the farther I get away from them. This includes myself, though it's rather difficult to get geographically away from yourself. It's not something you want to try at home. Anyway, it doesn't really work. A few weeks after you've gotten as far away as you can, you always see yourself in the rearview mirror.

  How would you describe your relationship with your publisher and editor?

  Not as friendly as Holmes and Watson, but not quite as latent homosexual.

  Do you bear your potential reader in mind when writing or do you write for yourself?

  If you keep the reader in mind you're an artistic whore. If you write for yourself you're a self-absorbed asshole. It's like trying to decide whether to kill yourself or go bowling. I suppose I write with an utter disregard, not to say a hard-on, for the reader, but this is not necessarily unhealthy.

  Is reading important these days or a pleasant throwback to a vanishing past?

  Reading is as important as ever. It's just that nothing else is. It's amazing how enduring some dead people's work really is. Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince," for example. It's kind of nice to know that a tortured homosexual can reach across an ocean and a century to touch a man and a cat.

  Should a writer be of the world, or is a monastic solitariness useful at times?

  I lead a lonely, ascetic, monastic lifestyle and it helps with my work. I don't like people anyway. They always look at me with pity in their eyes. I surround myself instead with animals and distance and croaked heroes who've crossed the rainbow bridge slightly ahead of the Kinkster.

  Is the religious sense a help or hindrance for a writer?

  I wouldn't know. I'm a Jehovah's Bystander. I think there might be a God but I don't want to get involved.

  How do you feel about the fact that a writer is often a commodity, to be packaged and sold by a publisher?

  A lot of people are killing a lot of trees these days.

  What can you tell me about your next book?

  It's entitled The Mile High Club. It's very similar to my last book except hopefully more profound and more profane. I'll leave it to the reader to determine which portions are profound and which are profane.

  DOES NOT COMPUTE

  ude, you're getting a Dell! You may be going to hell, but at least you'll be able to take your computer with you. You see, I believe the Internet is the work of Satan. As far as I can tell, this seductive spiderweb of insanity has only two possible functions. One is to connect a short, fat, sixty-five-year-old man in New Jersey who's pretending to be a tall, young Norwegian chap to a vice cop in San Diego who's pretending to be a fifteen-year-old girl. The other purpose of this international network is to establish, once and for all, who is everybody's favorite Star Trek captain.

  Needless to say, I've never used the Internet, owned a computer, or had an e-mail address. Then again, why would anybody with a brain the size of a small Welsh mining town ever need those things? If you require inf
ormation on a certain subject, go to one of those places, I forget what you call them, with a lot of books inside and two lions out front. Pick a title, sit on the steps, and read between the lions. This may seem like a rather Neanderthal method of education, but at least you won't be tempted to pretend to be someone you're not and you won't get carpal tunnel syndrome. In fact, the only things you're liable to get are a little bit of knowledge and some pigeon droppings on your coat—which most people will tell you, and most computers won't, means good luck.

  Good luck, of course, is better than a good hard drive anytime. I'm not really sure what a hard drive is, but I've heard grownups speak of it in positive tones. I've always found it ridiculous to hear people talk about how expensive, sophisticated, fast, or small their computers are. There must be something Freudian here, but I don't know what it is. I'm sure Freud himself didn't know what a hard drive was since he'd never even been up to Amarillo.

  Of course, one reason I don't use a computer is because I'm too much of a genius to learn how. In fact, I write on the last typewriter in Texas. I think that computers contribute to the homogenization of everyone's brain. The technological revolution is not bringing us closer together—it's merely making us more the same. I have this archaic idea that you should try to get it right the first time. And if you don't, you should tear out the page and throw it in the fire. If you know you can change everything with some kind of electronic mouse, you'll never know what it's like to fly without the magic feather. You'll never feel like Oscar Wilde behind bars with his hair on fire. Even Oscar had trouble with this sometimes. Maybe technology could have saved him. Maybe he could have called Emily Dickinson from a pay phone in the rain. Maybe Davy Crockett could have e-mailed Sylvia Plath from inside the Alamo, and she wouldn't have had to put her head inside the oven. But technology can't save everybody, and it may not be able to save anybody. There's no time between the windmill and the world to buy a van Gogh, help Mozart out of the gutter, Sharansky out of the gulag, Rosa out of the back of the bus, or Anne out of the attic.