Tag Archives: hippies

CCLaP Fridays: The Blue Kind, by Kathryn Born

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Today’s book review: “The Blue Kind,” a dystopian drug novel by Chicago-area author Kathryn Born, and put out by academic imprint Switchgrass. I assert that “More novelists writing in science fiction should take these kinds of chances.”

Mondays with the Supremes: Part VIII: Longrunners: Hugo Black, William O. Douglas, and William Rehnquist

A limited-run series where I review three books about the Supreme Court of the United States, exploring its historical and ideological conflicts, and the transformations it wrought upon law and society.

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The Supreme Court means lifetime appointment. The three cases below indicate the importance of a Supreme Court nomination. It remains a means for the President to extend his legacy, at least in theory. Unlike Congress, where the members campaign to get re-elected, the Supreme Court is removed from such tawdry scenes of glad-handing and throwing sops to the ideological base. In very real terms, the Supreme Court is freed from re-upping their terms like the commoners in Congress and do not have to follow the fickle spasms of public opinion. Supreme Court justices also have very little worry of getting thrown out of office.

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Hugo Black
SCOTUS: 1937 – 1971
5th Longest Term.

Hugo Black came to the bench early into FDR’s second term. The President wanted to install justices more sympathetic to the New Deal and help the United States out of its economic tailspin. Black would to make decisions, good and bad, until he died during Nixon’s first term. Black, along with fellow FDR nominee William O. Douglas, were the liberal gruesome twosome for decades. They represented a left-leaning extremist bloc on the Court similar to the current Court’s ultraconservative bloc of Thomas and Scalia.

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Unlike Douglas, Black came to the Court with serious baggage. While the nomination process proved far less fractious and controversial than, say, Clarence Thomas or Robert Bork, Black had to answer for his involvement in the KKK. It was a truism in the South that the KKK smoothed obstacles to those seeking public office. Black told a skeptical public that the KKK was no more than a social club and he promptly resigned his membership once he became a Senator. He’s half-right. The KKK was a social club, while simultaneously acting as a Protestant extremist domestic terrorist group.

Once Black became a Supreme Court justice, he used his power to take a stance of civil rights absolutism. (The absolutism wasn’t complete, since he sided with FDR in the Korematsu case upholding the government’s case to imprison Japanese-Americans for national security reasons. But he also used the Korematsu case as precedent to overturn Brown v Board.) Throughout his career as a justice, the media and the general public saw his civil rights voting record through cynical eyes. Was this some mea culpa for KKK membership?

The Brethren chronicles Black’s civil rights absolutism, much to Chief Justice Burger’s chagrin and the annoyance of the pro-business conservative bloc. His decisions on Brown and other civil rights cases proisoned his legacy with certain generations in the South, but as a justice, he believed in personal honor, a literal interpretation of the Constitution, and freedom for all regardless of color. While his background with the KKK did have a role with his civil rights decisions, it is the opinion of this reviewer that one can read too much into this. But this opinion is tempered by the obvious fact that aspiring politicians will do anything and everything to achieve public office. Politicians are nothing if not expert opportunists with electorate consistently willing to satisfy this personal opportunism.

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William O. Douglas
SCOTUS: 1939 – 1975
Longest term.

To date, William O. Douglas has had the longest Supreme Court tenure, spanning his nomination by FDR and his retirement during the Ford Administration. A sprawling 36 years, 209 days. But like his liberal compatriot Black, Douglas had his share of personal misfortune and political opportunism. Unlike today’s Court, the Court of FDR relied on geographic representation to mirror the face of America. With its bevy of East Coast aristocrats, the foreign-born Austrian Jew Felix Frankfurter, FDR rounded out the Court with Black from the Deep South and Douglas from the Pacific Northwest.

He became the subject of two impeachment hearings (1953 and 1970), the first because of his stay of execution in the Rosenberg case, and the latter focusing on financial irregularities. The first case involved one of the most controversial treason trials in US history, the culture steeped in McCarthyism and anticommunist hysteria. The second time was based on pure political opportunism. Douglas did have his share of scandals, but by 1970 Nixon wanted to remake the Court in his image. The Brethren investigates the early Nixon years of the Court and the newly minted tenure of Chief Justice Burger. Scandal had driven the LBJ nominee Abe Fortas and Nixon figured he could boot out Douglas now that he had the chance.

Douglas drove a weed up Nixon’s ass because he was a strident social libertarian. Born in Minnesota, he grew up in Washington state and Oregon, imbuing him with a sense of environmental mission and a strong dislike for government meddling. His background makes him similar to fellow Westerner Sandra Day O’Connor. In the West, the bustle and reach of DC seems distant. Coupled with vast spaces and a different set of social problems (water rigts vs. civil rights), Douglas became one of the leading spokesmen on environmentalism.

His 36 year Supreme Court tenure was only one facet of his government service. He was a gun-toting head of he Security and Exchange Commission (back when the SEC actually meant something, not its present manifestation as the meter maid to deregulated kamikaze capitalism), a Senator, and a Vice Presidential nominee in 1944. The span from 1939 to 1944 involved an amateurish Douglas grandstanding to the crowds, using the bully pulpit of the Supreme Court as a means to curry favor for a successful VP campaign. It was not to be. Following the defeat, Douglas re-assessed the situation and instead decided to make his legacy the Supreme Court.

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During his time on the Court, he wrote revolutionary decisions on various topics including civil rights, free speech, and the environment. His political philosophy of civil libertarianism stems in part from his disastrous personal life. He had multiple wives and, prior to his death, had wed a young bride decades his junior. Because of his advanced age, chronic health problems, and difficulty communicating following a stroke, Douglas retired from the Court. Unfortunately, Douglas still wanted to participate. His tenure ended with a whimper, not a bang, as the Brethren illustrates. The last days of Douglas on the Court involved the frail elderly and incontinent Justice wheeled around by a young nurse. It was a tragic end to a magnificent judicial career.

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William Rehnquist
SCOTUS: 1972 – 2005
8th Longest Term.
Associate Justice: 1971 – 1986
Chief Justice: 1986 – 2005

Rehnquist was a Nixon nominee who came to the Court seeking to reshape the rampant liberalism of the Warren Court. He begin his term as an associate justice and then was nominated by President Reagan for Chief Justice. Unlike other justices who gradually transition into their ideological niche, Rehnquist’s promotion from associate justice to Chief Justice required a different skill set.

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When he began on the Court as an associate justice, he was a hardline conservative from the Justice Department. He quickly established his conservative bona fides with hardline opinions and an intellectual brilliance in the decisions he wrote. In ideological terms, he belonged to the same hardline conservatism of justices Clarence Thomas and Antonin Scalia. Ironically, Rehnquist’s personal appearance offset his hardline ideology. Nixon and older jurists thought his longer hair and sideburns made him look like a hippie. “Cut those sideburns, Mattingly!”

In 1986, Rehnquist became the fifth associate justice to be promoted to the position of Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. Like Hugo Black, Rehnquist’s confirmation hearing sparked controversy, because he had written a memo for Justice Robert Jackson arguing upholding Plessy v Ferguson‘s separate but equal doctrine. As stated in previous installments, the Chief Justice faces a different set of challenges and tasks than an associate justice. The Chief Justice is part administrator and part caretaker of the Court’s historical legacy. Now it was the Rehnquist Court. Throughout his tenure as Chief Justice, Rehnquist nursed the usual conservative crusades: repeal Roe and Lochner, the latter associated with the role of government regulating commerce, and making it easier for law enforcement to prosecute criminals. The balance was a tricky one, since the shadow of Chief Justice Taney’s decision in Dred Scott and Chief Justice Burger’s bungling ineptitude meant the Supreme Court needed to a firm hand. Now Rehnquist needed to work as a strategist, not as an ideological tactician.

Under Rehnquist’s leadership, the Court handed down many 5-4 split decisions. In order to avoid the weak decisions (as opposed to a very strong unanimous vote), Rehnquist needed finesse and to corral fellow justices with “join memos.” But one should not be deceived by the position of power and the power to write a Court opinion. Again, recalling the Chief Justice’s administrative duties, it became Rehnquist’s job to decide what cases would be heard, in what order, and which justice to assign writing the decision. While Rehnquist achieved a lot to repair the Court’s reputation following Chief Justice Burger, the Rehnquist Court lost a lot of institutional credibility when the Bush v Gore decision fell along party lines. Unlike the Court’s self-created mythos of being above the political fray, the decision made the Court appear like nothing more than hired guns of the Republican Party. Public cynicism would only deepen when the Rehnquist Court acted as a legitimizing force to the morally questionable foreign and domestic policies of the second Bush administration. Then again, cynicism isn’t necessarily a bad thing, especially when the planners think liberating a Middle Eastern nation will be “a cake walk” and institutionalized torture and death squads were caused “by a few bad apples.” The public needs to keep a vigilant eye over its judicial interpreters and a heavy dollop of cynicism might be what is required.

Up next: Cass Gilbert’s Steps

Democracy is not for the People, by Josef Kaplan @thethepoetryblog

Are Michael Bay’s Transformers movies and the trend of using drones for assassination part of the same moral sickness?

Critical Appraisals: A Spy in the Ruins, by Christopher Bernard

Described by Anna Sears as “A Bildungsroman hallucinogenic in its intensity,” A Spy in the Ruins by Christopher Bernard constructs a postapocalyptic anti-narrative replete with verbal richness, political aggression, and erotic tenderness.  The back cover blurb by Jack Foley asserts Spy “is a book not for the faint of criticism.”  A book this intense, word-drunk, and ferocious demands a proper dissection and investigation.

Spy is an idiosyncratic book about the Sixties and the moral consequences.  At the same time, it encompasses much more in formal experimentalism and in vicious verbal assaults.  The only other fiction where one encounters lacerating indictments “our vexed, complicated, technomiserable situation” (again, Jack Foley) are in the works of Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Alexander Theroux, and Thomas Bernhard.  Despite the formalistic challenges presented in the text, an almost physical immediacy haunts the text.

While the current trend in literary circles is to bow before the Cult of the Sentence, crafting polished gems befitting the pages of the New Yorker, Bernard rips apart and defiles the sentence.  It takes a while to adjust to the flow of the novel.  Bernard creates scenes with run-on unpunctuated sentences followed by.  Brief.  Breaks.  In the text.  This is off-putting at first, but eventually this becomes a means to instill a specific tone for the novel.  With the breaks and the run-ons, Bernard’s style balances between that of a prose poem and an epigram.

The plot of the novel follows the life story of “the solitary one,” an unnamed (for the most part) male whose formative experiences include some political activism in the Sixties.  Divided into ten chapters with an overarching framing device, Spy follows the Solitary One from birth to death.  Besides the narrative style, the first half of the novel is notable for its insistent vagueness.  There are discrete scenes and characters, but lacking in proper names and location.  It creates a mythic, dream-like quality, apropos since Foley (again) compares Spy to Finnegans Wake.  (In his blurb, Foley likens Spy to both Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, a comparison the novel almost achieves.)

The only time the novel really fails to deliver is in passages obviously set in the Sixties but seemingly clouded in a willful vagueness.  The Kennedy assassination is described as a leader killed in a Southern city.  It is only when the accretion of historical facts lean against the mythic edifice of the novel that things begin to strain.

The Solitary One endures a brutal upbringing, only leavened by his nascent sexual experiences with a female schoolmate.  But his upbringing drain these erotic scenes of their joy and later corrode and curdle in his later relationships.  The last sections involve him enduring a one-way conversation with his former lover.  The scene possesses a vicious mood with the Solitary One desperately wanting to answer, but prevented by his deteriorating health.

Prior to that, Spy has chapters increasing in specificity.  A screenplay has a Him and Her where we see a relationship fracture amidst the earnest political discussions one witnesses in bright-eyed college students.  The ninth chapter begins as an espionage novel and ends as a Therouvian indictment of modern culture’s shallowness and rot.  Characters get specific names, but we are unsure whether this is a realistic depiction or whether the hospitalized Solitary One is making this up in his head, retconning the past to make his mistakes more palatable.  The chapter is less Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy than Malone Dies.

Bernard marries the formal experimentalism of James Joyce with the unflinching emotional brutality of Samuel Beckett.  Written in 2005, A Spy in the Ruins has a bold experimentalism welded to a strident and intelligent point of view.  It stands toe-to-toe with Infinite Jest, Angels in America, and The Savage Detectives as an epic that has a lot to say and does so in a new invigorating way.

 

CCLaP Fridays: On Being Human: the Culture

Today in my CCLaP essay series “On Being Human,” it’s ‘The Culture’ novels by Iain Banks, in which humans, aliens, and machines all live in a post-scarcity utopia. Banks’s novels follow eccentrics and troublemakers in a society where humans can switch gender, become aliens, and even become machines.

Mondays with the Supremes: Part I: Inside the Secret World of the Supreme Court

From the Onion.

A limited-run series where I review three books about the Supreme Court of the United States, exploring its historical and ideological conflicts, and the transformations it wrought upon law and society.

The Brethren: Inside the Supreme Court, by Bob Woodward and Scott Armstrong (1979)

The Nine: Inside the Secret World of the Supreme Court, by Jeffrey Toobin (2007)

Scorpions: The Battles and Triumphs of FDR’s Great Supreme Court Justices, by Noah Feldman (2010)

I.     INSIDE THE SECRET WORLD OF THE SUPREME COURT

The Supreme Court of the United States is one of several institutions in our country that radiates majesty, secrecy, and opacity.  Like the Central Intelligence Agency and National Security Agency, it is shrouded in secrecy, periodically issuing decisions with great import to the daily lives of American citizens.  It also possess similarities to the Federal Reserve with a group of unelected individuals commanding great power.  Furthermore, Supreme Court Justices, like Federal Reserve Governors, have a tendency to speak in opaque terminology.  Discovering the importance of a Supreme Court decision sometimes involves digging through mountains of legalese and knowledge of the case’s labyrinthine history up the ladder of the US Justice system.

Supreme Court Justices possess a federal position unlike any other.  While Federal Reserve Chairmen must be re-appointed, once one is on the Supreme Court, one is given a lifetime appointment.  It makes it a hotly contested position, coupled with the small number of seats on the Supreme Court (only nine, despite the best efforts of FDR).  Appointed by the President and confirmed by the Senate, the average voter has little direct influence in the process.  In the past, the voter had even less, since US Senators were not elected via direct election.  (The 17th Amendment, passed in 1913, worked to change the deliberative, glacial, and otherwise necrotic institution.)

These three books under review, The Brethren, by Bob Woodward and Scott Armstrong, The Nine, by Jeffrey Toobin, and Scorpions, by Noah Feldman, work to remove the secretive veil that covers the Supreme Court.  Each book attempts to reveal to readers a “secret history.”  (Similar secret histories have included James Bamford’s series of investigative works on the National Security Agency and William Greider’s exploration of the inner workings of the Federal Reserve.  One can also add the vast, albeit dubious, literature associated with secret societies, and the equally vast literature associated with detailing the histories of the world’s numerous intelligence agencies.)

The books refract off each other in fascinating ways.  One can read punctuated biographies of specific justices.  In The Brethren, President Nixon appoints William Rehnquist to the Supreme Court from his previous position in the Justice Department.  The Nine follows his ascent to Chief Justice following his appointment by President Reagan.  Scorpions explores how Rehnquist, working as a clerk for Justice Robert Jackson, wrote a memorandum affirming Plessy v Ferguson’s segregationist policies.  The memorandum would come back to haunt Rehnquist during both confirmation hearings.  Justices Hugo Black and William O. Douglas were both appointed by FDR (as recounted in Scorpions) shuffle off the mortal coin in The Brethren in its detailing of the Court during the Nixon and Ford years.

The Brethren by Bob Woodward and Scott Armstrong was the first expose of the inner workings of the Supreme Court.  The book covers the Supreme Court terms from 1968 to 1975.  Justice Potter Stewart’s dissatisfaction with Chief Justice Warren Burger’s shenanigans prompted the authors to interview justices, clerks, and other personnel working with the highest court.  On the surface, one would assume the book is a tawdry exposé, but in actuality, Woodward and Armstrong wrote a limited-scope institutional investigation, exploring the personalities, protocol, and positioning that made the Supreme Court a uniquely American civic organization.  One reads about the factions, horse-trading, and decision writing.  The intellectual and ideological components that go into the construction of the finalized Supreme Court decision make for fascinating reading.  Instead of wrangling the necessary votes in Congress, one has to contend with only nine votes, or, at minimum, five votes in order to create a judicial majority and possibly overturn legislation.

The Brethren’s major accomplishment involved making the reader see the Supreme Court as simply another American civic institution.  The Court is an institution with its rivalries and it reaches decisions every bit as partisan and shady as those made in Congress or the Oval Office.  Woodward and Armstrong helped de-mythologize an institution deadly serious about preserving its autonomy, prestige, and authority, even if that involves wrapping itself in quasi-religious pomp and circumstance.

If one deigns to call him or herself an “informed voter,” it helps to know what our alleged representatives are doing, especially at the highest echelons of power, and how the power structure operates.  Responsible citizenship involves more than parroting back empty slogans befitting a bumper sticker and preening about with an “I Voted” sticker like you just won the Congressional Medal of Honor.  The fact that voters cannot elect Supreme Court justices should prompt more people to read books relating the zenith of the Judicial Branch.

Up next: Matters of Protocol

After Lyletown, by K.C. Frederick

A game of tennis with a good friend signifies that Alan Ripley has achieved “the good life.”  It is 1988 and Alan works as a Boston area real estate lawyer, has a loving wife working in academia, and a growing son.  The idealistic picture of late twentieth century domestic bliss fractures when Rory Dekker enters Alan’s life.  Alan met Rory twenty years ago as the intense fires of Sixties idealism curdled into resignation and rage.  With Nixon ascendant, Alan and his friends decide to “make a difference.”

Inspired by a seductive ideologue named Lily Culp and aided by a couple ex-cons, the tiny cadre of revolutionaries decide to participate in a heist.  The heist involved raiding a gun store, stealing the weapons, and distributing them to blacks.  It all seemed to make sense, at least on paper.  Then the day Alan should have participated in this nascent revolutionary action, he becomes sick and has to bow out.  The Lyletown Six became the Lyletown Five.  In the resulting melee, one person died, the others fled, and Rory ended up serving hard time.  Now Rory has returned into Alan’s life and Alan doesn’t know why.  Blackmail?  Revenge?  The reunion of friends possesses an ominous tinge.

After Lyletown by K.C. Frederick is a meticulously constructed narrative that Alan and Rory dealing with the consequences from the events of the Sixties.  On the surface, the premise is reminiscent of a thriller.  The novel itself operates on a much smaller, much more psychological level.  It is a novel of interiors.  Much is given over to Alan thinking and rethinking his decisions in the past and calculating the degree of his culpability.  The superficial portrait of the upper middle class real estate lawyer is only part of the picture.  Between the fires of Sixties idealism and thriving in Reagan’s America, Alan suffered one failed marriage and a dead-ended literary career.  He then reinvented himself as a law student, divorced his first wife Martha, and remarrying an attractive literary scholar named Julia.

Because of Rory’s silence in prison, Alan thinks he owes the ex-con something.  This is exacerbated by Alan’s realization that he could have lost everything if Rory chose to expose Alan’s part in the botched heist.  To further complicate matters, Alan chose to not reveal this part of his life to Julia.

What follows is a series of meetings between Alan and Rory.  Alan mired in self-guilt, Rory noticeably vague on his current situation.  Rory says he needs money, but doesn’t elaborate.  Alan, with lawyerly rationalizations, decides best not to ask, since too much knowledge would make him more culpable, especially if Rory’s plans for the money aren’t exactly legal.

Some passages in the novel seem a bit too on-point, like when Alan visits an elderly Polish woman who is his client in an eviction case.  The woman worked for the Polish resistance and lives on a modest pension.  The woman’s work in the resistance seems like an obvious mirror to Alan’s work with the Lyletown Five.  On the other hand, Julia’s father fought in the Second World War but refused to talk about it.  The war left him taciturn and tortured on a deep psychological level.  The omnipresence of war creates these peculiar ripple effects.  Since the story is set in the Late 80s/Early 90s, the reader could project the future for Tommy and how the future War on Terror will effect him.

The novel is an exploration of how war, prison, and affluence effect individuals, told at an unhurried pace.  The writing shimmers with descriptions of Innisfree, the Vermont cabin Julia’s father built, and Boston bars (dive bars and trendy Yuppie havens alike).  Not a narrative of spectacular confrontations but one that builds menace with a slow intensity and allows for the exploration of human interrelationships damaged by bad personal and foreign policy decisions.

Drive Me Out of My Mind, by Chad Faries

These days memoirs are a dime a dozen, glutting the market with tales of the self-absorbed.  Fortunately, Chad Faries stands out in this crowded field with his unique tale of childhood in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.  Drive Me Out of My Mind: 24 Houses in 10 Years, a Memoir, follows Chad’s childhood from roughly 1971 to 1980.  Chad’s singularly strange upbringing and poetic sensibility create a memoir unlike any other.  Most memoirs focus on bourgeois nuclear families and the travails of growing up middle-class in the suburbs.  In childhood, Chad discerned the differences of his family and “families on TV.”

Chad’s non-traditional family includes his mother, his aunts, and his grandmother.  On occasions, he encounters the Man-Worth-Mentioning, a father figure who isn’t a danger to him or his mother.

In abandoned mining towns in the UP, Texas trailer parks, and a central Wisconsin university town, Chad witnesses a cavalcade of father figures.  Throughout his memoir, we see his relationship with his mother grow stronger and stronger, despite her many failings and weaknesses.  Throughout the tale, the mood is both childishly naïve and culturally postapocalyptic.  His transformation from child of the post-Sixties lumpenproletariat to university professor makes him, in the words of the late Hunter S. Thompson, like “a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger.”

Because Chad is a poet, he creates a memoir that is both feral and visionary.  Other critics have compared him to David Sedaris (and like Sedaris, Chad is indeed funny), but his kaleidoscopic vision comes closer to that of reclusive visionary artist Henry Darger and the early years of Iggy Pop.  Scenes of graphic violence combine with passages of strong maternal love and a boy trying to find his place in the world.  In order to make sense of the chaos, the drugs, and the poverty, he seeks comfort in a Barbie doll and his homemade Green Lantern ring.

The Green Lantern ring becomes a talisman.  During the tough times, Chad, like his hero, uses his ring and his imagination to make things materialize to solve whatever problem faces him and the ones he loves.  Each chapter ends with the words, “And then we moved.”  In a life of wild events and constant movement, it provides a kind of refrain, contextualizing the events.

The memoir ends with a transcribed interview between Chad and his relatives in 1981 – 1982.  In the chapter, he is getting a tattoo from his aunt while he talks with his mother about her life experiences.  The chapter comments upon everything that came before as it calls into question what was true and what was misremembered.  Like tattooing, the memoir is a process, with words and memories creating a compelling narrative whereas a tattoo artist creates art from ink on skin.  Drive Me Out of My Mind is a visionary memoir of love and art and passion and scars, an indelible life where the raw materials of abandoned mines, a Marvel superhero, and controlled substances create a visionary artwork.

 

Digging Deeper: A Memoir of the Seventies, by Peter Weissman

Peter Weissman’s I Think, Therefore Who Am I? took place during the Summer of Love.  It was an intimate exploration of the Sixties, the most glorified or vilified decade in recent history, depending on how far one lives from Real America™ (patent pending).  His second volume of memoirs, Digging Deeper: a Memoir of the Seventies, chronicles Weissman’s life during a decade not liked by anyone, except perhaps the occasional roaming hipster burnishing his or her sense of ironic superiority.

The memoir begins with Weissman crawling from the muck of hallucinogenic incoherence.  Weissman’s inability to speak to others provides a dark comedic undertone to the opening chapters.  Through willpower and workplace demands, Weissman transitions from an introverted state brought about by his extensive experimentation with drugs.  One of Weissman’s first jobs is for a marketing research firm.  Verbal connections established through the short-term exchanges he has over the phone.

While working he meets Noreen again (she appeared in his previous volume of memoirs).  She helps Weissman in his reintegration to society.  Then, like clockwork, the pair become a couple and then a married couple.  One of the underlying themes in Digging Deeper is negotiating with “Normal Society.”  Weissman, a Red Diaper Baby, faces additional challenges, since the Sixties weren’t simply an extended vacation by rich college kids to take lots of drugs and sleep around (at least according to historians siding with the conservative victors).  The Sixties brought with it a revolutionary promise.  The promise remained unfulfilled, resulting in the cavalcade of characters Weissman profiles in Digging Deeper.  He works with disgruntled Postal Service employees, dines with wannabe artists, and spiritual con artists.  Realizing the revolution has been lost or simply co-opted, Weissman chronicles these engagements and negotiations with a detached precision leavened with cynical observations.

Weissman and Noreen eventually move to the Bay Area.  He works at the Post Office with a multiracial work force, including a patchwork of black and white supervisors and managers reflecting the explosive calculus of affirmative action.  The Post Office scenes have the flavor of Barney Miller-meet-the Wire, where race, class, and capital expose the fissures of the socioeconomic system in its latter years of global dominance.  The sequence where he delivers mail to wealthy patrons of an apartment complex is especially cutting, the shrill spoiled scions of money old and new sounding like the entitled dingbats from Arrested Development.  (For added irony, Noreen is the daughter of a major chemical magnate.  The magnate prides himself in his part in developing napalm, one of Vietnam’s more horrifying legacies.)  However, Weissman’s rage against the capitalist machine isn’t exactly pure.  Unable to work on his writing, supporting his wife, and dealing with the frustrations of everyday coalesce into his need to get a hobby.  That hobby is horseracing.

I Think, Therefore Who Am I? gave a street-level view of adolescent exploration during the Summer of Love.  Digging Deeper expands on that vision, examining a decade rather than a year, and showing the travails of growing up.  Forced from the Eden of psychedelic visions and personal experimentation, Weissman has to perform that alchemical miracle of turning sweat into greenbacks.

The Reckoning by Howard Owen

In Howard Owen’s ninth novel, The Reckoning, the lives of George James and Freeman Hawk meet again after decades of separation.  Freeman was an African-American civil rights activist who fled to Canada to avoid getting drafted.  George James was a scion of the old money South and an heir to the Old Dominion Ham Company.  Owen shifts between past and present, reflecting the tense relationship between George James, widowed and alcoholic, and his son Jake.  Freeman Hawk returned to George, but George’s idealization of Freeman makes the opaque circumstances harder to pick up.  George tells Jake how Freeman led the nascent anti-war movement at New Hope College.  The menacing forces that swirl around Freeman’s reappearance cast the novel as a garden-variety thriller.

The thriller aspect is deepened with extended flashbacks into the lives of Freeman and George.  Beyond the memories and stories of the two men lay something more ominous.  Deceptions pile on top of more deceptions until nothing remains but a wilderness of mirrors.

Owen crafts a Balzackian novel, equal parts potboiler and historical epic.  (Like Balzac, Mr. Owen is surprisingly prolific, working as a newspaper editor and churning out novels.)  Tracing the James family back to their Jewish predecessor who fought in the Civil War leads to George’s son Jacob, heir apparent and juvenile delinquent.  Jake finds solace in the isolation of running whereas his father, unable to deal with life’s hardships, descends into the soothing abyss of alcoholism.  And like any good novel by Balzac, this tale has its share of history, bloodshed, crime, and slivers of redemption.