Author, book doctor, raker of muck

David Henry Sterry

Author: David Sterry

David Henry Sterry is the author of 16 books, a performer, muckraker, educator, book editor, activist, and book doctor. His first memoir, Chicken, was an international bestseller, and has been translated into 10 languages. “As laconic as Dashiell Hammett, as viscerally hallucinogenic as Hunter S Thompson. Sex, violence, drugs, love, hate, and great writing, what more could you ask for?” – The Irish Times.

Analorskerpy: A Trip to the Middle of My Own Damn Self

Las’ week I had me a analorskerpy. I’z purty sure that ain’t the teknickle term fer ‘er, but it give a much more cleaner picher than the fancy-ass name they give ‘er.

We’z all o’ us hez got over forty feets o’ ‘testines up inside us. Forty feet o’ wet tubin’ sercretin’ gasterd acids whilest a’suckin’ nutriments outcher food, then whuppin’ what’s left on thoo to the garbage ‘sposal so’z ya can give ‘er the ol’ heave-ho. An’ when ya hez yersel’ a analorskerpy, ever’ one of them forty foot’z gotta git scruternized. So they gotza li’l ol’ cam’ra set up on the tip o’ what look like a big ol’ copperheed ready to crawl up inside ya.

Now, the bastards’z tole me to quit on eatin’ fer a couple days afore they goes a’trekkin’ thoo me. No food ‘atawll. I supped on nuthin’ but cool mountain air. An’ then I hadda go yonder an’ fetch me up a bottle from the potherkery, an’ when I opened ‘er up, a blast o’ stankcome a’whuppin’ up an’ smackt the breath plum outta me, with a li’l whiffa faked-up limons spleshed over ‘er like cheap terlet water on a ten cent hootchie coochie girl. Well sir, I dropt me a teaspoon in a glass of water, an’ stirt ‘er up real good, jest like she say on the bottle, where it also say, “You may find Empterbowel a might tad badtasteful, an’ a compermenterry baivridge is suggesterd.”

Well sir, that festers my boil. Hell’s balls, I ain’t no eddjit, I done walkt thoo the woods, I bin to Granny’z house, an’ I know she’z a big bad wolf jest a’waitin’ to eat me. Jest tell ‘er like she is: “Watch out ever’body, this here Empterbowel ’z some powerful narsty mess.”

Well sir, couplla minutes after swollerin’ that Emptobowel, my guts starts inter gurglin’ an’ garglin’ an’ gloopin’ an’ gooplin’, while my ‘testines start doin’ a spasticated dance, like I’m a seethapatin’ volcaner, an’ I’m a’ready to blow. So I done like one of them fast-walkers I seed in the ‘lympicks, tryin’ to keep my personal parts all clinched up tighter ’an a hungry flea on a skinny dawg. Lordee-do, before I’z even touchin’ the throne, the ‘vakkawation have begun. Yessirree Bob, they’z leavin’ the city in droves, jumpin’ offa the burnin’ ship like s’ many rats. Then they’ze a calm in the storm. Fer about a minute an’ a haff, then I’m right back on the job, workin’ overtime like the bossman’s gotta fill a quoter double time.

My saynts o’ smell gets better’n Snuffler, Daddy’s ol’ coon dog what could track a wood tick in a hurrercane, tornader, an’ munsoon all put tiggether. I can sneff out bacon fryin’ three counties away, an’ ev’rywheres I go they’z chicken a’fryin’ an’ fraish corn bread a’bakin’ an’ pork rines so salty you can tas’e ‘em from cross the room. An’ I wants to eat ever’ dingdang scrap, bowl lickins an’ awll.

Well sir, nest day time hev jest plum decided to take a see-ester, an’ awll the clocks’z hez go’d on strike, cuz this here day won’t never end. Plus ya got the fact that I bin crownt King of the Shitters an’ I’z rulin’ my kingdom with a ahrn fist an’ a over-ective duckatee-buckus.

Fridee morn six of the hay-em, I’z up an’ Adam, nine’y minnis ‘til the bastard’z is gonna storm my beaches. They tell ya ya gotsta hev some other body drive ya to the proceeder, cuz ya won’t be in no shape to drive no place when they gits done with ya. Good thing too, cuz I ain’t et in two days an’ I’z seein’ chicken po’ pies an’ corn o’ the carb an’ barbeecue pork as we crawl ‘long to the hospital down yonder in Dickeysville. My bes’ girly Dolly’z a’drivin’ me. She bin workin’ on me to aysk when I needs a heppin’ han’ whin I needz it, but if’n ya aysk me, thet there ain’t no way to be no man. Now my momma’s bin on me to hitch up with Dolly proper an’ legal-like, an’ awlla Dolly’s friend’s harperein’ on ‘bout the same thang, an’ truth be tole, so’s awll my friends, which I ain’t none too captervated ‘bout, believe you me, an’ dog my cats if you don’t. Well sir, Dolly, she’s a drivin’ me, an’ she’z sweet on sweet, jest a’lovin’ an’ a’dovin’ on me, an’ the more nicer she’s bein’, the more I feel like rippin’ the tongue right out her heed, Lordy do, I ain’t proud o’ it, but tha’s the way I’z a’feelin’.

“How are ya, honeybaby?” sez Dolly, like a cool sassafras on a summer’s day in hell.

“How in tarnation ya think I am?” sez I, “my rosebud feels like I bin wipin’ ‘er with san’paper, I’z hungry ‘nough to eat frekka-seed rat, an’ I’m ‘bout to hev fo’ty foot o’ snake rammed right up my sensertive area, thanks for askin’.”

Well sir, that purt much put the kibosher on the chitty chat.

Seven ‘clock bang on I walks inter that there hos-spittle, an’ I’m here to tellya I’z like a wile beast, jest a’growllin’ an’ a’gruntin’, an’ ya better not be puttin’ yer han’ too near my mouth, cuz I’z lible take a bite outta ‘er.

Some ol’ narsty battle-ax they got mannin’ the main battle station says, “Howdy, welcome to Memorull Gener’l, what’s yer name?”

“Ahh! Grrr! Nnnnhhh! Waaaaaaaa!” is about awllz I kin seem to git out.

So Dolly, my bes’ girl, she steps on in, an’ sorter soothes ever’thang right on out, whilst I goes over inter the corner to set with m’ misery. Well sir, a body kin actual’ watch folks gittn’ ol’ right a’fore there eyes. I picks me up some meggzzine, an’ I starts a’readin’ ‘bout some purty boy sanger who’s gittin’ crazy lovin’ from suppermodels an’ ektrisses, an’ even some ‘lympic swammer who’s jest ‘bout the most finest girly ever put on God’s green earth. I keep a’readin’ an’ a’readin’ that there meggazine, jest a’frettin’ an’ a’stewin ‘an’ a’steamin’ on why I ain’t got me none of them suppermodels an’ ektrisses, an’ ‘lympic swammers.

Jest as I’z ‘bout to lose what li’l mind I gots left, I hearz the bastards’z ready fer me. Well alright then, I sez to myself, buckle yer chinstraps fellers, we’z goin’ in.

First thing they done, they makes me strip down to my birthdee suit, an’ puts me in what they calls a gown. Hell’s balls, that ain’t no gown. Ya shore as shit-fahr don’t feel like puttin’ on a tie-ara an’ ‘ttendin’ a fayn-see party wearin’ that blue piece of silliness with yer hine-korters a’fleppin’ in the breeze.

But jest as I’z about to go plum loco, I had me what the call a ‘static vision, like one of them holy rollin’ Methoosaller fellers in the Bible. I seed a big ol’ table filled up with a flapjacks, smuthered in dingleburry pree-zervs; a big ol’ thick slabber bacon; an’ a coupler aiggs fried up in a messa drippinz. An’ there was sweet li’l ol’ angels a’sangin’, an’ some feller with a lawng white beard a’hengin’ down, an’ even that ‘lympic ethlete girly, looking more purtier than the firs’ day of sprang. An’ Dolly was there, o’ course, tellin’ me ‘twould be fine an’ dayndee an’ I should try to hev me some fun with ‘er, an’ when we’z done, we’d hev us a big ol’ feast an’ she’d gimme some of that good ol’ time lovin’. Frien’s, I’m here to tell ya, ever’thing jest relaxed on down real sweet an’ harmonerus-like. An’ as I laid me down upon that gurtey, I had me a purfoun’ revvamalation. I’z ‘goin’ on a gran’ an’ great ad-venture. I’z a’goin on a trip right to the middle of my own self.

Then t’other nurse come a’marchin’ in, an’ ups an’ tells me it’s time fer me to take ma drugs. But I don’t want me no drugs. I wants to be wide ‘wake with awll guns a’blazin’.

Well she starts a’huffin’ an’ a’puffin’, an’ she blows purty good, but I ain’t a’cavin’ fer her nor no one.

Next the Doctor an’ his Sideman comes a’breezin’ in.

“This here’s my first time, Doc, so be gen’le with me,” sez I, hevvin’ me some fun, jest like Dolly done said in my ‘static vision.

That Doctor, he laughs. He’z goin’ powerful bald, but he seems like a decent ‘nuff feller.

“Don’chew worry none,” sez he, “I’ll still respec’ ya in the mornin’.” Well, him an’ his Sideman laughs like a coupler hy-neaners. Truth tol’ ‘twas kinder funny, so I thowed a laugh in, too, an’ we’z awll laughin’ an’ carryin’ on like we’z asshole buddies. Meanwhiles I kin see Sideman lurkin’ in the corner, playin’ with them drugs. When you’z in a bekkless gown, ya gotta watch yer ass.

“Hey now,” sez I, wantin’ to ease on into her, “I don’t want none of them there drugs.”

“Ohhhhhh, you should hev them drugs,” says baldycoot Doctor.

“But I don’t want them drugs,” I sez, real firm-like.

“Ohhhhhh, you should take the drugs,” sez Sidekick, who seems like he wants to be the doctor when he’z growed up.

“I don’t hev to hev them drugs, that’s what they sez Doc, ain’t that right?” sez I.

“Well, uh, sher, but-“ he starts inter his hemmin’ an’ hawin’, but I cuts him awff cold.

“Then I don’t want no drugs,” sez I. “Enda story.

“Alrighty,” says Doc, whilst him an’ his Sideman goes inter noddin’ they heed at my foolish riddikerlessness, an’ rollin’ me inter another room, right smack dab in front of this big ol’ machine with a tellervision in front of ‘er.

“Now,” starts in Baldy Doc, “we’z gonna be blowin’ some err up inside of ya as we goes, an’ I wants ya to feel free to pass all the gas ya kin. Fact is, it akchul helps the proceeder.”

I’z powerful moved by that piece of information.

“Whoa there,” sez I, “wait jest a dad bern minute, Doc, lemme get this all straighted up an’ narrer-like, cuz this may be the only time I ever hear them wordz spoke in ma die-rection. You’z a’tellin’ me to blow hard an’ free, is that the size an’ shape of ‘er?”

“That’s about the size an’ shape of ‘er,” says Baldy Doc. “But I’d reckermmen’ them drugs.”

These here drug pusher’z drivin’ me plum cross-eyez.

“I don’t want none,” sez I, firm-like.

“Alrighty,” sez the Doctor, but he ain’t happy. Outta the fer corner of my eyez, I seez ‘im puttin’ ‘is glove on an’ slatherin’ ‘er up with a dollerp of pig fat.

Then I know’d fer shore, the invasion hev begun.

That ol’ Doc, he jest starts inter whippin’ that copperheed right on up my private pers’n’l parts.

“Yeouch! Ow! Whoa! Howdy doody dingle dangle dong! Hold on a damn second, wher’ez the fire, Doc?” Sez I, jumpin’ out ma skin.

“Ya want them drugs now?” esks the Doc hard an’ fast.

“Ohhhhh, you should hev them there drugs now,” chimes up Sideman.

“No, dingdangit, jest slow down a minute, whisper some sweet nothin’s in my ear fer jest one damn secon’ here, will ya Doc?” sez I, an’ I takes me a big ol’ deep breath, tellin’ m’sel’ to relax, like Dolly sez, an’ shore ‘nuff, ever’thing relaxes real nice-like.

“Well alright then,” sez I, when my inside’z awll passerfied, “Go on ahead an’ do yer worst.”

An’ that there air starts blowin’ a twister right up in me, an’ Lordy do, I start a’trumpittin’ like Josher fits the battle of Jerriker, an’ the walls come a’tumblin’ down.

Then I looks up at that there tellervision., an’ there I is. Damned if I ain’t all purty an’ pink on the inside, like a sweet baby’z butt. That Doc he’s really movin’ now, a’whuppin’ on thoo me, like that movie where some spess-ship flies inside a purty pink planet. Makes me right proud an’ happy. Tickled pink, ya might say.

“How’z I lookin’, Doc?” I esks ol’ Baldycoot.

“Lookin’ good,” sez he, an’ I know’d then an’ there that much as I pertended I did’t give me a hoot ‘bout this whole dingdang thang, I’z a mite herkimmer jerkimmer ‘bout ‘er deep down, thinkin’ I gots some monst’rus toomer growin’ like a fat wottymelon in my innerds.

I’z feelin’ so godd I ups an rips out five or six bigguns, mighty claps o’ thunder they was.

Then Baldycoot stops up short, all sudden-like,.

“What seems to be the pro’lem?” I asks, tryin’ to keep the shakes out ma voice.

“Why, nothin’,” he sez, an’ the way he sez it, I knowz shore as hellfire he’s a’lyin’ right to my face. Or to my pohstearer, in this here case. But I ain’t a’gonna lets him gets away with ‘er this here time.

“Then why in ternations did ya stop short there? I ain’t one of yer doped-up Johnny-come-latelies here, an’ I don’t want none of yer eddimacated riddickerlessness, Doc.” An’ he could tell by the spit in my eye I mean bidness.

“Well, see that there li’l ol’ brown lookin ‘spot?” he sez, like I’z his eedjit cousin,.

I looks real hard an’ I does seez ’er, plain as day. A li’l ol’ brown spot.

Jumpin jee-horse-a-fats, what the bejeezis is that there? This’z how I’z a‘gonna kick that ol’ bucket in the sky. Stomik kay-ncer. Tumer the size of a caynter-lope, with a useless johnson, a k’llostimmer bag so’z they kin empty me out oncet a day, til I whithers down to nothin’ but a li’l brown stain on the bed.

“What in ternations iz that there?” I esks him, sweat a’poppin’ up like mushrums in a field o’ cow doodles.

“That there’s a poh-lip,” says he.

Oh, Lordy do. A poh-lip. Wha’d he purrish of? they’ll esk. Poh-lips, they’ll say, “started his face, an’ ended up breakin’ out awll over his body, big narsty drippin’ sick-filled poh-lips.”

“It ain’t nothin’ really,” starts in Baldycoot, “Like a mole on yer back. An’ she’s brown, not black, so she ain’t nuthin. We’ll snip ‘er right out, easy as ya please.”

I’z berlin’ mad now. Why in hellsapoppin’s name do ya call ‘er a poh-lip if she’s jest a li’l ol’ mole?

Then these li’l ole snipper comes a’poppin’ out the end of that there snake, an’ snips off that mole like she’s bitin’ the heed awffa li’l brown church mouse.

Then Baldycoot start a’movi’n on thoo me aggin. But sudden-like he hits him a curve in my road an’ a twangin’ pain jangles right on up in me.

“Whoa thar, slow down, cowboy!” Pipes up I.

“Ya wants them drugs now?” Doc an’ his Sideman sez tiggither.

“Naw,” sez I, “Jest slow down for one dad bern second”.

But the bastard won’t slow down. No sir, he starts goin’ faster. Like he wants ‘er to hurt.

“Ya wants them drugs now?! Ya want them drugs now? Ya want them drugs now?” they start chay-ntin’ like the Devil’s Doctors, whilst he presses thoo harder still, that ache jest a’whuppin’ right up inter me.

“Alright, sweet Jeezis, gimme the dingdang drugs!” Finally sez I, not happy one ioter.

I swear on ma Pappy’s ass, they musta had that needle hov’rin’ over my boottock cheek, cuz the nest thing I ‘member I’z waking up on the gurtey back in t’other room, an’ I’z all ogly woggly oogliy moggily, which riles me up consider’ble, cuz that’s ‘xactly what I hudn’t wanted to be.

Plus which I di’nt get t’ see the finish line, an’ that makes me powerful sad.

Nurse come in an’ tells me to git back inter bed. I thanks her kin’ly, an’ tells her it ain’t necersserry, that I’z steady as a teetotlin’ parson at a temp’rense meetin’.

“Tell me flat-out now, an’ don’t snarfle with me,” sez I, “Is a poh-lip really jest a mole?” I’z tryin’ to sound cajjul, but I don’t believe I pullt ‘er awff.

“‘Twere brown, t’weren’t it, an’ not black?” sez I.

“Why course she were brown,” sez I.

“Well then, you’z fine,” sez she.

I don’t trus’ her. Ain’t one single body hev tol’ me the whole truth an’ nothin’ but the truth from the time they got their grubby hands on me But I ain’t in no condition to ar-gue, on accounnna my brain’s feelin’ like a pig-eyed trout bin lef’ out in the sun too long.

When I comes out, there’z my bes’ girl Dolly, an’ she’s powerful purty an’ a heapin’ heppin’ o’ fine lovin’ pulkertude. It’z plenty good to let her jest take care of me, an’ she’s real good at it. I’z glad I weren’t hevvin’ no relations with awll them suppermodels an’ ektrisses an’ ‘lympic swammers. I’z glad I’z hevin’ relations with my one an’ on’y bes’ girly, an’ I start inter thankin’ maybe getting’ hitched up legal an’ proper-like might not be such a bad idear after awll. Then she takes me to Elmer’s Home Cookin’, what is ma fav’ert establishment of eateration, an’ we hev us a feast fit fer a coupl’ o’ Kings.

An’ as I’z tuckin’ inter ma flapjacks smothered in dingleberry pre-severves, I thinks – Lordy do, I hev bin to the middle of me, an’ my insides looks fine.

Lost Sex, Huckleberries, and Heavily Caffeinated Beverages: The Putting Your Passion Into Print 2001 Northwest Book Tour

13 events in 15 days. Here we go. Berkeley Barnes & Noble, we kick off on a lovely sun-drenched Saturday afternoon, followed by a manic 14 hour, 850 mile road race up the 5 in our Rav 4 to Eagle Harbor Bookstore on Bainbridge Island, north of Seattle, where a the drenching turns from sun to rain, a fine mist hanging thick amidst the autumn ruby reds, canary yellows, orange oranges, and of course, the emerald green, green, everywhere green.

We were greeted with a glow of warmth by Mary Gleystein, who immediately made us a cup of tea. Never underestimate the power of a cup of tea after a 14 hour, 850 mile road race up the 5. By the time we started our event, the place was packed, every seat taken, and excitement buzzed in the damp Northwestern air. When we were done, the applause seemed enthusiastic. Either that or they were very nice and really good at faking it. Then there were, as there always are, lots and lots of questions. One guy said, “I have a stupid question.” David said, “There are no stupid questions.” He said, “You haven’t heard my question yet.” He got a big laugh. Turns out it wasn’t a stupid question at all. It was a smart question. In fact these people asked lots of smart questions. They brought up stuff we hadn’t thought of. Stuff we later included our event. Then we signed lots of Satchel Sez: The Wit Wisdom and World of Leroy Satchel Paige-s and Pride & Promiscuity: The Lost Sex Scenes of Jane Austin –s. People thanked us profusely, chatted nicely, and bought books. In short, it was a real gas.

Next Stop: Port Townsend, Washington, where we were wined and dined on garlic chicken and blackberry pie you could plotz dead away from, treated like royalty by the lovely and talented Gillards, parents of Jessica (more on her later). And O my, it was so spectacular there, big huge trees, glorious vistas of Pacific Ocean blue, Monet painting fall colors, surrounded by more green than you’ve ever seen. Arielle immediately wanted to move there. So David, a veteran of the Pacific Northwest who wants no part of living there ever again, craftily took her out golfing the next day and by the time they were done with nine, they were a couple of drowned rats pouring rain out of their shoes. So much for moving to the Pacific Northwest.

Next Stop: Vancouver, Washington, just over the river from Portland, 200 miles later. By the time we started our event, Rebecca at the Barnes & Noble was scouring the place frantically for more chairs, cuz there were already fifty of them filled, and people were still showing up. The highlight of this event was during the Q&A when a tall thin handsome fellow stood, and in a thick German accent, and said, “I am very nice to work vith, unt full of joy, unt I vant to know if Arielle vill be mine agent.” Brought the house down. Again we signed many books, again we were thanked profusely, and again we had a solid solid gas.

Next Stop: Bend, Oregon, 150 miles south of Portland. 6:30 AM, Kristy Miller, perky hostess of “Good Morning Central Oregon”, welcomes us on-air, and interviews us for 7 minutes. She was charming and sweet and we were thrilled and honored to be in all seven homes in Central Oregon who were watching the show that morning.

Next Stop: Bellevue, just outside Seattle, 350 miles later, and 12 hours later, Alison at Barnes & Noble gets David a heavily caffeinated beverage. At that night’s event, a woman told a story about an industrious young man who wanted to get hired by a captain of industry. This industrious young man found out that the captain of industry loved pizza with pineapple, Canadian bacon, and triple cheese. Well, the industrious young man had a pineapple, Canadian bacon and triple cheese pizza from the finest pizzeria in town delivered to the captain of industry. He taped his query letter and resume to the inside of the pizza box, so when the captain of industry opened it, he was staring right at it. The industrious young man was hired that very day. We will subsequently tell this story at every subsequent event.

Next Stop: Downtown Seattle, Northwest Book Fest. For an hour and a half we pressed flesh, made introductions, pitched our books, and met a big bunch of Northwest book buyers.

Next Stop: Paulina Springs, Sisters, Oregon, just west of Bend, 5 hours of hard driving and 350 miles later. By now we had memorized every inch of road between Seattle and Central Oregon. Luckily it’s beautiful country to memorize. Driving south from Portland to Bend, with Mt. Hood posing like a picture postcard through the windshield, and beauty growing thick all around us, we were intoxicated again and again by the gorgeousity of it all.

911 said the sign at the edge of town as we pulled into town. We weren’t sure if that was the population, or a cry for help. This was the only store where we were doing an event solely based around Satchel Sez. This was at the insistence of Kate Cerino, who greeted us as we walked into the store at 4:40 for our 5:00 event. Apart from Kate, none of the 911 Sisterites were there. Our expectations, extremely low to begin with, plummeted as we spied the 30 empty seats sadly facing one lone chair, which was staring off self-consciously.

As we strolled around Sisters, we noticed that all the shops were closed, and no one was around. It was like a Twilight Zone episode. We began to wonder if there really were 911 people in Sisters, or if we were going to be abducted by author-starved aliens who would make us write books day and night for the rest of eternity.

Well, imagine our surprise at 5:00 when we returned to find Paulina Springs Bookstore packed with 35 of its 911 occupants. 3% of the population. If this was LA there would’ve been 300,000 people there. Our jaws hit the floor. Those melancholy chairs were now full and happy, brimming with Sisters bottoms, all waiting for us to say something intelligent, insightful and witty about Satchel Paige.

I scanned the crowd, and it suddenly hit me: there were only two people under the age of sixty in the audience. Talk about your target audience. Afterwards, the crowd shared their own Satchel Paige stories. It was America at its best, oral history flying all around us, right there in Paulina Springs Bookstore, Sisters, Oregon, population 911. Turns out almost everyone there had seen Satchel pitch, which is not as strange as it might seem, since he barnstormed North America from Moosejaw to Miami.

Towards the end of the event the Oldest-Man-in-the-Room raised his hand. In a voice weathered with age but still going gangbusters, he said, “I was the batboy on Satchel Paige’s team. My uncle was his manager. I used to ride in his car with him. He was fast. He would have made a great race car driver, Ol’ Satch.” He stole the whole show in about twenty seconds.

After the event, the Oldest-Man-In-the-Room approached David. He had several hundred thousand miles on him, but his smile was wide, his mind was tack-sharp, and he had incredible posture. Made us stop slouching just looking at him. He thanked us for writing the book. Then he told David that he had one of Satchel’s old gloves. David said he would love to buy it from him. The man said, “No, sir, I want you to have it. Give me your address and I’ll mail it to you.” David insisted on paying for it, but the old man wouldn’t hear of it. He gave David his pen, and David wrote down the address. The Oldest-Main-in-the-Room carefully folded the paper and put it in his pocket. Then he stuck out his hand and David took it. It was old and thin, but the grip was strong, with a nice pump at the end. “I hope I’m shaking hands as well as that when I’m 80,” thought David. After he and the Oldest-Main-in-the-Room said their heartfelt farewells, David was distracted by someone asking him to sign a book, and this led to another signature, then another. As David signed the books, he was so happy that the buyers asked him to make the inscriptions out to their grand-sons and grand-daughters. Then it hit him: this is why he wanted to write the book in the first place, so the next generation would know about Satchel and his 6 Rules for Staying Young. As David signed, he felt a tug on my sleeve. It was the Oldest-Main-in-the-Room. David smiled to myself. He figured the old man probably forgot something. “Sonny, you got my pen.” David cracked up, handed him the pen, and smiled as he watched the Oldest-Main-in-the-Room walk away slow but steady, overjoyed at 44 to be called Sonny.

We thanked Kate, she thanked us, then we all patted each other on the back for quite some time. We promised her we’d be back when David’s memoir Chicken comes out in February, and she said she was looking forward to it.

We sold more books at this event than at any other. And had the most solid of gases. Again proving: You just never know.

Next Stop: Bend, Oregon. David had another highly caffeinated beverage. The highlight of this event was meeting a children’s author who lives off the grid with her husband and her animals, and sometimes gets snowed in for two months in the winter. She was so cool.

Next Stop: Kah Nee Tah Indian Reservation, 75 miles north, home of Warm Springs Tribe, in the High Desert country, eating huckleberry pancakes with huckleberry sause and huckleberries with huckleberry cream looking out over ancient red clay and wild horses that sniff at the laughing wind and the crying sky.

Next Stop: Portland, Oregon, 75 miles north, Reed College, David’s alma mater, where our lovely and talented intern Jessica (who is a current Reedy) sent up a smashing event. Again, by the time we started, the chairs were all full, and students had to sit on the floor. And they just kept coming. About twenty minutes in David felt someone behind him, and there were 3 students sitting there. David was shocked at the turn-out on a Tuesday night. “I woulda never gone to something like this when I was at Reed, I was way too busy hanging out.”

Next Stops: Seattle University Village Barnes & Noble on Friday, 200 miles later, Portland’s Annie Blooms on Saturday, 200 miles later, Seattle’s Elliot Bay on Sunday, 200 miles later, and finally Beaverton’s Border’s, 200 miles later.

As we motored home, we were tired, but it was that good kind of tired. We felt like we did something really hard, but we did it as best we could, and we learned so much about books, ourselves, and life. We loved seeing the country, meeting the people, hanging out with David’s mom and sister, watching their friend Margit dance, feeling the magic, and falling ever-deeper in love. And it was glorious pulling up our driveway, 4,000 miles later, so nice to be home sweet home.

Plus we wrote our next book. It’s called Putting Your Passion Into Print.

State of Satchel: 11/1/01
We’ve just returned from our Northwest 2001 Tour, so we thought we’d take this moment to review what we’ve achieved so far, and what we plan for the future.

Book store Events
Barnes & Noble Colma: South San Francisco
Next Chapter Books: Davis, California
B & N: Fremont, Ca
B & N: Walnut Creek, Ca
SF Public Library:
With a Clean Well Lighted Place for Books, and
The Lila Wallace Reader’s Digest Foundation)
B & N: Berkeley
Eagle Harbor Books: Bainbridge Island, Washington
B & N: Vancouver, Washington
B & N: Bellevue, Washington
Paulina Springs: Sisters, Oregon
B & N: Bend, Oregon
Reed College: Portland, Oregon
B & N: University of Washington Village, Seattle, Washington
Annie Bloom’s: Portland, Oregon
Elliot Bay Books: Seattle, Washington
Borders: Beaverton, Oregon
Borders: San Rafael

On Tour: Olympia, Washington to Antwerp, Belgium to the Gold Coast, Australia

Back home again home again, after six weeks on the road: Portland, Eugene, Olympia, Portland again, San Francisco, Palo Alto a half dozen times, Portland once more, New York City, then Belgium: Antwerp, Gent, Brussels, Sint Niklaas, Mechelen, Aalst, Roeselare, Hasselt, Turnhout, Knokke, and Leuven, more NY, then Surfer’s Paradise on the Gold Coast of Australia.

And the one thing everyone has in common overseas is that they are horrified by and scared shitless of Junior Bush, they urged me as an American to make sure he doesn’t get to be emperor for another four years.

The Sex Worker Art Show was half a gas and half a horror. I did the first four shows with them, and I had a blast, met all manner of fascinating human, played to packed houses. Left the tour in SF, then taught at Stanford for the next month. The first night of class we asked who among the 33 students had an advanced degree, master, or Phd., EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM RAISED THEIR HAND. Me and Arielle were the least educated people in the class. The students were so smart and dedicated and they all had great book ideas, we all liked it so much we’re doing another five weeks in April.

Then on to NYC, where I rejoined the Sex Worker Art Show, with the intention of continuing on to the conclusion, only to be blindsided brutally (story soon to follow).

Then on to Belgium, Arielle met me at the Newark Airport and we flew over together. We had no idea what to expect. Imagine our delight when we were picked up and swept away to a five star hotel in the ancient sacred heart of olde Antwerpen, the diamond/fashion center of Europe, where waffles waft their magic aroma from street corners, and chocolates croon your name from sweet boutiques. Turns out I was on the Saint Amour tour, bringing together 10 of the greatest writers from Belgium and Holland. And me. I felt like one of those: What’s Wrong With This Picture things. What am I doing here? Well, the whole tour was about love, so I suppose I was somewhat qualified. Strapping Viking poet babes, and dark brooding novelists, a string quartet doing Bach so beautiful it made your balls weep, three glorious gorgeous female singers who do these ancient sounding songs in Polish Dutch and French, they are food for the ears and the eyes. And the grand old man of Belgian literature, Hugo Claus, this guy was once married to the softporn star Sylvia Kristel, of Emmanuel fame, he’s Arthur Miller, Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald all rolled into one.

And me. One of these things is not like the other, one of these things just doesn’t belong. What am I doing here? With me is the other token American Jonathan Ames, a fine fellow performing a story entitled, Bald, Impotent and Depressed. He and I fell in together like peas in pods. Every day we got fed breakfast at the hotel, we talked about writing and art and sex and love and getting rid of Bush, who as I mentioned, they’re all utterly disgusted by and terrified of, then we would wander the city, and at about five we loaded into the van, drive an hour, unload into some gorgeous 500 year old multi-tiered cake of a theater that has acoustics so perfect you can whisper into the mike and it will travel to every ear in the place and back again.

At seven we were fed a fabulous gourmet meal. People drank a lot of alcohol. Everyone except me and Jonathan the two sober American freaks. The shows started at eightish. The music is beautiful the singers like angels who tasted a touch of hell. The emcee is a delightfully droll old school intellectual with deep gravel and fine beer in his voice. The terrible thing is everyone reads in Dutch, so I can’t understand a word of it. Eleven nights in a row, hearing what I can only assume are these most beautiful words, and I can’t understand a word of it. In the show I’m last. Jonathan is second to last. Then me. They project the text to Jonathan’s reading, and to mine, on a 20 foot screen behind us in Dutch. The screen consists of 150 antique woman slips sewed together. So every night my Dutch words are projected onto old lady slips behind me while I act them out in English.

I closed the whole show with 12 minutes of the Rainbow hippiechick chapter of Chicken, which climaxes with a cork-popping rip-roaring Tantric climax, and that’s how the Saint Amour show ends, with me orgasming my way across Belgium. A little known fact: writers are treated much more like god/rockstars in Europe than in America, and as a writer I have to say, I like that. I came this close to trashing my hotel room, that’s how much of a rockstar I felt like. One night out for drinks the great man motioned me over. Hugo Claus wants to talk to me. He’s all white mane and old lion skin, magic eyes dancing inside sagging skin, and ancient scarred voice. I ask him what his poems are about. He nods knowingly and says, “Oh you know, love and war and sex and women and money and ice cream and dogs, things like that.” He’s dry on dry, and got the big laugh outta me. Then he says that I remind him of vaudeville, of burlesque. He tells me in his rich voice thick with age that he once saw the exotic dancer Tempest Storm. She was one of the great burlesque entertainers of the 20th century. Hugo told me about the time he watched her stand perfectly still, and make her breasts swing back and forth, higher and higher, and it was like a beautiful poem, Hugo said, watching her beautiful breasts dance all on their own. He was a gorgeous man, Hugo Claus. We saw five hundred year old cathedrals where holy and unholy ghosts fly around the huge ceiling with all that stained light firing through the windows where angels and saints and devils and saviors act out cryptic religious scenarios. We learned the glorious aroma of waffle wiffling around a corner, grabbing you inside your nostril and towing you into the waffle winkle (Belgium for store), and the astonishing warming quality of a sweet hot waffle on a cold European day. I was so sad to leave Belgium, I could have gone on the St. Amour tour forever. Hanging with those mind-boggling writers, eating that damn-that’s-good food, performing in front of all those rapt and appreciative Belgians in those monumentally exquisite theaters, and actually getting paid for it. A slice of heaven. But Australia was calling. 12 hours back to SF. 30 hours later, it’s 16 hours to Brisbane, DownUnder. Luckily the movies “Love Actually”, and the great Dutch soccer documentary about the two worst teams in the world were playing. G’Day! I was whisked off to Surfer’s Paradise, where I was performing in the Gold Coast Art Festival. The ocean the surf the sand immense and exquisite, of course it’s summer Down Under, so it was balmy breezy, easy on the senses. The Aussies were everything they were advertised to be. Warm, sweet, bawdy, affectionate, open, inclusive, generous, curious, sexy, and fun. The first night of my show was a deluge of Biblical proportions, 50 mile an hour winds, lashings of hard rain like the goddesses were whipping the earth in an S&M frenzy. The phones in the theater rang off hooks, and I kept hearing people saying, “No, the shows are going. No, they ARE going on.” As I prepared backstage for my Australian debut, I was interrupted when I stepped into a large puddle where the torrential, relentless rain had pounded its way in. As I dried my feet, and I listened to the tsunami crash down on the Gold Coast, I tried not to take it personally. Was the universe trying to tell me something? Have I offended the gods and goddesses in some way. But somehow people did manage to show up. I did three nights, we had great crowds, and they were lovely. I met more performers, I met people from all over the Gold Coast, and again I was quite sad to go home. Back of course overjoyed to be back in the U S of A. My time on the road and overseas was mind expanding and soul growing. It made me realize how much I want Junior Bush out of office, and that I have to do something about it. At this point America is s a dirty word in some parts of the world. I now prefer when I’m overseas to say I’m from California. But even this is tainted, as now we are tarred with the legacy of the Terminator Governor. This has got to change. In the rest of the world, you really feel like you’re part of the rest of the world. There’s none of that love-it-or-leave-it shit in Europe. They have Euros in Europe. I was also most happy to see that on three different continents, people understood and responded to my very American though apparently universal story of a boy on his own trying to get by. From grrrrrrrrrls in clubs, bourgeois literarti in Europe, dating couples Down Under, queers in bars, UK grannies, SF trannies, tattooed students, mothers and brothers and sisters and husbands and sons and wives. And I met people who have become a part of me, amazing people who made me laugh and marvel and brought great joy into my world, which has become so much bigger. For this, and for all of it, I am so grateful. The HBO deal is being hammered out by lawyers, hammering being the operative word. Me and Arielle will now finish the book Putting Your Passion Into Print. We teach PYPIP again at Stanford. I’m finishing up my a novel, a memoir about my time at Chippendale’s, and I’m polishing up a young adult novel. Then in late April, Xaviera Hollander is bringing me to Amsterdam for about 10 shows. Then to the Brighton Theatre Fest, then three more dates in England. In Philadelphia in June. But here now, it’s great to be home with Milo and Arielle.

April 24, 25 the Gallery Donkersloot – Leidsegracht 76, Amsterdam 8 pm
April 26, 27 gallery Treehouse , Voetboogstraat 11,Amsterdam 8 pm
April 28 – Polanen theater, Polanenstraat 174, Amsterdam 8 pm
April 29 gallery treehouse Voetboogstraat 11,Amsterdam 8 pm
May 1 – Polanen theater, Polanenstraat 174, Amsterdam 8 pm
May 2 – Concordia theater, Hoge zand 42, Den Haag – 4 pm
May 3 – Concordia theater, Hoge zand 42, Den Haag , 8 pm
www.xavierahollander.com/hbtheatre.htm

Wed 5th May – 21 South St Theatre, Reading
Thur, Fri, Sat 6th – Sat. 8th Komedia Theatre – Brighton Theatre Festival
Sun 9th – MAC – Birmingham Cannon Hill Park
Thur 13th – The Point – Eastleigh Town Hall Centre, Leigh Road, Hants

Blue Sky (215-627-1144) Philadelphia – www.blueskyarts.org
Thu-Sat June 10, 11 – Performance and Q&A; Sat, June 12 – Solo Performance Workshop, Performance and Q&A

Thanks. xxox d

Black Sheep, Benedict Arnold Day & So Many Kilts: Holiday in the UK

3 weeks in England and it only rained three times which I take as sign from god that we are leading a blessed life. From london to bath to yeovil to chester to ilkley to howarth to yorkshire to newcastle to edinborough back to newcastle back to london.FleshmarketClose

IMG_0682The vast barren expanses of the lonely romantic moors where you could practically hear Heathcliff crying out in anguished tortured to Cathy –

Fireworks on Guy Fawkes day in Bath – this I really love by the way, Guy Fawkes tried to blow up parliament and they have a national holiday for him – it’d be like having Benedict Arnold Day, a very funny old lady told me, “Too bad he didn’t do a better job of it!” –

Cows herded right past our car on a tiny country road by an incredibly R. Crumb looking woman cowherder –

RoyalMileMime2Scones and clotted cream and jam and tea and honey and crustless cucumber sandwiches at Castle Combe in a serious 17th century castle (fantastic golf course by the way, old and green and enormous hills looking out over the most beautiful bucolic countryside, ponies nuzzling me up the path on the way to the 18th tee box, and the highlight of my trip, a downhill 307 yard drive on a par four which rolled to within 10 feet of the cup, missed the eagle, tapped in the birdie)-scone in rural uk

Sheep ScottishCountryside4A sheep sitting like a fleecy buddah in the middle of the 12th fairway at ilkley –

A ferret eating the guts out of a bunny on the 8th fairway at Islington (an omen apparently, I shot my worst round, I stopped keeping track at 100 on the 13th hole when I chipped back and forth over the green too many times to mention in polite company) – s

So many sausages and beans and eggs O my god and so much great indian food – the curries the lamb the chicken the cardomum –

Visiting newcastle, my roots, was truly inspiring, the thick geordie accents, all my relatives were so sweet and lovely to us, there is a feeling of family and community there which I do not find in america, many of the people having never been more then 10 miles from the house in which they were born. We asked one man how to get to london and he said, “Ya gan up t’ the roondaboot, tayke a left, then, no no ya cannit gan that way – ya gan throo the roondaboot, then when ya see wor Tetchie wi’ his auld dog Wonky, ya gan 3 more streets an’ tayke a left, right? No, no, that doesn’t gan through. Ehn, ya know, I divn’t think ya can get to London from here.” –

Watching the England v Scotland football matches – in Edinborough all the men clad in tartan kilts and royal blue Scotland uniform tops getting totally tanked before the match – lionglasgow

Giving our leftovers to a homeless guy wrapped in a blanket on a bridge in scotland, he looked kind of stunned and said, “For me?” and he gazed up so incredibly astonished and grateful which is frankly how you want a homeless person to look when you give them something, they have a much more civilized class of homeless in The UK I must say –

The most romantic walk over the river thames with a full moon shining down and the lights of london twinkling, it was just so beautiful –

“the ratcatcher”, a scottish film which I would highly recommend –

and by the way if you ever need directions in london, ask a hansom cab driver, they should throw out parliament and fill it with hansom cab drivers, that would put england back on the map –

by the way if you’re in london a great course to play is sandy lodge, 45 minutes from central london and exquisitely maintained –

IMG_961

at harrods a spice girl wannabe with long straight blond hair wearing aqua and black boots so loud they jammed radar, turned to us at a cash register and said, “I think you should go to another register, this is going to take a very long time.” The woman at the next register told us Rude Spice had asked her for “The most expensive biscuits in the store.” –

in coxlodge, where my father was born and raised, we went to the Legion pup (one cousin was working there, the other refused to go, claiming he didn’t want to get Legionaire’s Diseace) on Saturday night. It was odd, the women outnumbered the men by at least 2 to 1, we thought, what’s all this then, and the emcee, in huge black and white trousers with a black and white fright wig (arielle sais, “david, that would you be you if your parents hadn’t moved to america) introduced 5 members of the Gateshead Fire Department, who did the most amazing strip tease I have ever witnessed, and as most of you know I have witnessed enough strip teases to last a hundred lifetimes. Turns out it was full monty night at the Legion. And they did the full monty. They were a bit clumsy, a little overweight, but had a commitment and passion which I found intoxicating. And one of them had the smallest willy I have ever seen on a man. Now that is courage under fire. – so a grand time was had by all, and we’re in nyc until december 1, then back to la – love and kisses, d

CastleCombe5 copy




Satchel Sez by David Sterry and Arielle Eckstut

Satchel_PaigeBuy the book.

HAPPY 100th BIRTHDAY, SATCHEL!
Satchel Sez
The Wit, Wisdom, and World of Leroy “Satchel” Paige
by David Sterry and Arielle Eckstut

Who was the highest paid athlete in America in 1945? Which baseball player is credited with 300 shutouts, 55 no-hitters, and 64 consecutive scoreless innings? Which pitcher won three games on the very same day? Hall of Famer Leroy “Satchel” Paige is known for these memorable milestones, but perhaps more important, he is remembered for being one of the great philosophers of the twentieth century. Satchel Sez (Three Rivers Press, May 2001) is a tribute to this classic American folk philosopher in the grand tradition of Will Rogers, Mark Twain and Yogi Berra. From his days as the biggest star of the Negro Leagues to his extraordinary performances in the majors, Satchel Sez chronicles the amazing life and times of this write-your-own-rules hero who had a panache all his own, both on and off the field.
“Just take the ball and throw it where you want to. Home plate don’t move.”

After a quarter century of unparalleled brilliance in the Negro Leagues, Paige finally made it to the Cleveland Indians in 1948. At the age of 47 (or 40, or 42, or 44, depending on what day you asked), Satchel was the oldest rookie ever to grace the Major Leagues. When The Sporting News named him “Rookie of the Year,” the forty-something Paige declined the position because, as he put it, “I wasn’t sure what year the gentlemen had in mind.” Once with the Indians, Satchel played to thunderous standing ovations all across the nation, setting the attendance record for night games at 78,382 and inspiring Americans of every age, class and color.
“Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.”

Unfortunately, fame did not protect Paige from the cruelty of racism. Though Satchel was a man of remarkable humor and deep intelligence, he was more often than not portrayed
as a simpleton, or worse yet, baseball’s Stepin Fetchit. Satchel earnestly voiced his frustration with the racism he encountered. As he so poignantly said, “Baseball has turned me from a second-class citizen to a second-class immortal.”
“I never had a job. I just played baseball.”

Satchel’s witty quips and savvy observations—on everything from health to wealth, from race relations to baseball—are an enduring part of American mythology. Satchel Sez is a fact-packed, fun-filled collection of quotes, stories (from Willie Mays, Buck O’Neil, and many others), statistics, vintage newspaper articles, photos, and memorabilia of Leroy “Satchel” Paige. What better to way to celebrate the first–of many–of Paige’s centennial birthdays than with this definitive collection?!
“How old would you be if you didn’t know how old were?”

Bone, Cornhole Charley and Me

This whole mad shitski started at NBA’s crib, which is seven shades of narsty, with, like, black banana peels and nacho Dorito fossils from 1984 buried under three layers of tall boys, with this skanko-funk-o-rama hangin so thick you can taste it. NBA, naturally, he’s toasted like a bagel. Me, I’m layin low cuz my main squeeze Squeegie had totally tweaked my shit, an I hadda meet Harry Three Balls at Muscle Beach at midnight, so I thought what the fuck, right? I’m workin on a most worthy stick of Slim Jim, the spicy beefy jerky salty meat treat. NBA, who can’t d-up for shit, has no j, an the weakest wackest tweakiest tude in Venice, the home of weak wack tweaky tudes. Interesting note: even though NBA wears size 15s, seriously, dude’s got canoes at the end of his pegs, Wannabe, she’s this freaky deaky baby I sometimes do a hang with, she tells me the brother-man is surprisingly light in the breadbasket department, which pissed Wannabe off no end, cuz she likes her man to be packin serious meat, which was the only reason she was doin a hang with NBA in the first place, cuz she hates the sad-sack ruckerty-ruck.

So then who busts in like three thermofuckinnuclear devises, but Dickhead, Kosher the Mouth, an Cornhole Charley, an individual who lives up to his name every day an in every way. Now Kosher the Mouth, who is actually some kinda Hindu dudenik, this fucker has the gift man, he can flap serious gum. I hear fuckazoid’s got 7 degrees an speaks 14 languages. Or 14 degrees an speaks 7 languages, I can never remember. An Dickhead, this piassanthrope, he’s like, 9 feet tall an 5 feet wide, weighs a metric ton, an he never says a word unless Cornhole Charley tells him to, an as far as anyfucker can remember, Cornhole Charley never told him to. All you need to know about Mount Dickhead is, he’s the one gave Boy Boy a involuntary sex-change operation, turned him into Girl Girl.

So yo, when these most excellent specimens bust their humps into a room, heads, like, turn. I offer them some of my spicy beefy Slim Jim but they ix-nay the erky-jay. Then all of a sudden I realize somefucker’s missin. Then I realize it’s not a who, it’s a what, an the what is Bone, Cornhole Charley’s weightlifter dog. Sweet Hairy Jesus, this dog, he’s, like, right outta Jurrasic Park, man, he’s a muscle with a mouth at the end. A mouth with a lockable jaw. An only Cornhole Charley’s got the key.

So check this out, accordin to the Mouth, Greaceball an Macho Raul put the snatch on Bone, an they said they’d off the dog if they don’t get 10 G’s large, an if Cornhole tries to muscle up, they’ll skull-fuck Bone and kill him until he’s most dead.

So I’m thinkin’, like, what the fuck are these boys smokin? I mean, come on, this is one of those scams you think up after a couple dozen bong hits an then laugh your ass off at how retarded it is. First of all, you gotta get Bone offa Corhole Charley. Then you gotta stash him in some place where he doesn’t tear your nads off an chew ‘em like jawbreakers. An then you gotta get Cornhole Charley to dole out the caish, which everyfucker knows Cornhole Charley hates worse than his old man, who he killed after cornholin the sorry punkinhead. Enough said. Then again Macho Raul is the brains of the outfit, an everyfucker knows Macho Raul’s got more hair than brains, but serious, he does have some mad hair, looks like you could surf on the boy’s head, straight up.

So, I’m wondering exactly what this shit has to do with me, an hopin nothin. Well, by an by, after I’ve got everyfucker toasty with my tasty shit, the Mouth informs me that Macho Raul wants a independent third party to facilitate the exchange of money for canine, I swear that’s how puzzboy talks, like he was born in a fuckin thesaurus, it’s a piss just to listen to the mofo blow.

So yo, like, you guessed it, it’s up to me myself and I to deliver the dead presidents, ten large, which as far as dead presidents go, is serious cheese, then bring back the Bone. What an honor, fuck me! right? Well, I’m startin to sketch, cuz, nacherly, all I can see is pre-historic Ginsu teeth chompin on my nads.

But the thing is, with these fuckfuckboys, they don’t ask, they tell. An them what says no to Cornhole Charley stands a excellent chance of getting themselves an future generations heinously cornholed. So I’m tryin to be cool as a dude whose bricks are shitting bricks can be, an I say, “Muchachos, I am honored by your total, like, faith in my shit, but I am quite tweaky at the moment, an I’m afraid I might fuck up your shit cuz my nuts are so numb.”

So the Mouth, he looks at Cornhole Charley, who gives him, like, I swear, one nano-nod, an the Mouth, he says, “We have complete confidence in your alacrity.”

Which I took to mean I was fucked.

So next thing I know we’re piling into Cornhole Charley’s tricked-out monster ride, an off we, like, go, mon frere. An this ride is sweeeeeeet. I mean the tunes are so huge it’s like Li’l Kim is giving you a lap dance while she’s rapping her shit, which I’m not even that into, I’m into more of a Zep, Crue, Ozzie sitcheation myself, but the point is, tunes were huge, made your scrotum hum, man. An the seats were all some kinda way plush shit, man, I swear, it was like being inside a chick you dig big time. Dickhead is drivin, an Cornhole Charley is looking like he’s just itchin to cornhole somethin, an the Mouth is talkin some shit about how the war against drugs is the same shit made Al Capone into a superstar, an he looks at me like it’s my turn to talk an I go: “True.”

So then we, like, stop, an the Mouth hands me a paper bag with 10 large in it. I’m serious, like a total old school brown paper bag, with 10 fuckin G, like we’re in some dumbass Cagney Tarantino movie, an all I can see is me getting my shit blown away in some sick slow mo blood bath, my bullet-riddled corpse spewing my red juice.

An for what? A dog on steroids. Life is one long tweak, neighbor.

So the Mouth tells me to give these bucket-heads the money, an fetch Bone back into the car, an I get to keep 5 hun if I don’t fuck it up. He doesn’t say what’s gonna happen if I do fuck it up, but it’s pretty obvious that me myself and I will be transformed into a cornhol-ee.

So I slide like KY out of the Dream Machine an ooze under the bridge up past the ferris wheel. An I’m standin there holding the bag, an my dick, only not necessarily in that order. Then all of a sudden I hear this bark, right, only it’s like some cartoon shit, like that huge pigdog thing in Ghostbusters. An I’m like, “Where have I heard that shit before?” An then it hits me like a ton of shit bricks: that’s the patented Bone bark.

So then Greaceball comes outta the woods an he’s got Bone on a leash. Or, I should say, Bone yanks Greaceball outta the woods, with Greaceball hangin on for dear life.

So then Bone stops dead still, an he stares me the fuck down, senoir, an his nose starts twitchin, an he’s RCA Victor doggin me, with that big huge Bone head all slanty, like he’s trying to figure some shit out, only his brain is 3 sizes too small.

So all of a sudden Bone bolts, an he almost rips the arm out the poor dipstick’s socket, straight up, it was mad crazy shit, an the Greaceball falls eyeballs over asshole straight on his head.

An Bone, he’s barkin like a fuckin mad dog, bustin his big huge balls straight at me myself an I, an about ten feet away the dog takes a leap, flying like Air Bone, baby, this big square head bustin straight at my face, an all I can think is: I’m a Dead Man Walkin. An it was totally tweaky how long Bone was flying like Rocket J. Squirrel straight at my ass, I swear, he took like a month an a half to get to me. An I start thinkin about all this crazy shit, like my buds Jujie Fruit, an Blunt, an Killer Bud, an One Fish, an Rodney the Human Cat, an then I was thinkin about what a snarky fucker I was to Squeegie, just cuz she said I wasn’t nice to her old lady, which if you wanna know truth, I wasn’t, an her old lady is actually cool, but I was really actually snarkin cuz Squeegy wouldn’t lend me a hun to get a half that I was gonna turn over for double, boom, it was like taking dope from a nodding horsehead, but she wants me to straighten up an fly right, which, okay I said I would do, so really it was me that was the fuck-up from the get-go, straight-up. So there I was, with this killin machine flying at my juggler, an I can’t get Squeegy out of my mind, seriously, mofo, all I can think about is what a cool-as-shit chick she is, you know, an how I never tell her how fuckin cool her shit is, an I, like, vow then an there, I’m gonna be her righteous buck from now on.

So finally old Bone, he comes crashing down on me like some canine Smart Bomb, an he starts growlin an pokin that gnarled-out snout in my scrotal area, bitin at it an nippin at it with those ferocious choppers, an I’m thinking, well, that’s it: goodbye johnson, adios Senior Pepe, so long shlong. But no, he’s snarfling around my pocket, an I’m just trying not to unload my shit, for real, an I mean totally straight-up.

So then boom! it hits me, why the Bone is out of his tiny pre-historic brain: spicy beefy Slim Jim herkimer jerkimer! So chop chop I wrangle the jerky out, an never have I been so happy to give up my meat. See, I always give Bone some salty meaty treaty whenever I’m holdin, an of course the Bone, he digs it the most, wagglin his ass around an lookin at me like he’s got a mad schoolboy crush on my ass.

So yo, check this out, I look up just in time to see Dickhead an Kosher the Mouth grabbin old Greaceball by the scruff of his shit, and playing ricky ticky fucking tavvy on his skull, while Cornhole Charley does the 50 yard dash to me an Bone. An when this intergallactic landmass shouts out, “Bone!”, the dog, he goes runnin over to Cornhole Charley, an it was like one of those sucky fuckin phone commercials, man, they’re runnin to each other like young lovers in love. Straight up, Cornhole Charley gets down on all fours, an him an Bone are lickin each other, an growlin an howlin an moanin, these two big lunkheads, you know, slappin an nuzzlin, it was kinda, like, beautiful an shit, only don’t tell Cornhole Charley I said that or I’m one cornholed bitch, straight-up.

So when they’re done with their, like love fest, Cornhole Charley gets up an he walks over to Greaceball, who’s cryin like a neutered poodle, dude, seriously, it was pathetic how fast that ass-munch lost his shit, which is always the way with these low-levels dudes, an I mean, come on, you don’t steal somefucker’s dog, yo, that makes you, like, King of the Scumbags, in my book. Not a man’s dog. An especially not Cornhole Charley’s dog. That shit is just, like, saying, “Please, hurt me, the sooner the better.”

So they drag weeny-meister Greaceball, moanin and snivellin like the weak bitch he is, behind the bridge in the shadows. Then many ungodly sounds follow, with some narsty Bone noises thrown in for good, like, measure an shit. An I hear Macho Raul was located pronto, an is by no means so macho anymore.

So yo, when they’re all done, I give em back the whole 10 G’s. Then ol’ Cornhole, he did some shit I will never forget, for real, and straight up. He comes over all serious-like, an for a second I thought I had fucked up somehow an he was gonna clean my clock, an unclog my pipes, and corn my whole.

But instead, guess what that nutty fucker did? This mad crazy hump, the baddest man in the whole damn town, he laid a massive crazy hug on me, picked me right off the fucking ground, man. It may sound all cheese-filled, but Cornhole Charly gave me much love, man, an I was feeling him.

So when he finally puts me down, he’s like, kinda choked up an shit, an to tell you the truth, so was I, not to be a freak about it, but I couldn’t help it,, straight up, I was all moistened.

So then the Mouth hands me a gran. a thousan dead fuckin presidents, pop my cherry, can you believe that shit, I mean, how cool is that, like fuck me to nth, right!

An as they were givin me the adioses, I laid a stick of Slim Jim spicy beefy meaty treat on Bone for the road.

Hey, karma’s karma, neighbor.

Then I headed down the beach for Squeegie’s, an when I got there, I told her I was a sorry sad sack, an I told her how righteous an mad cool her shit is, then she danced with my monkey long into the night, yo. Long into the night.

Chicken in Erotica.com: “A page-turner”

“Terrifically readable… Sterry’s an adventurer who happens to feel and think deeply. He’s written a thoroughly absorbing story sensitively and with great compassion… A page-turner… This is a strange story told easily and well.”

— Eileen Berdon, Erotica.com

To see more & buy book, click here.

What People Said About Chicken: A-1 Ho Show

Chicken: A 1-Ho Show

“The show was great to see! David is an awesome performer/actor/writer. Pure poetry in motion. Nice to finally get the hetero male perspective of sex work.”
– Annie Sprinkles.

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“The show was absolute amazing and to let me know if he’s showing it again as I’d love to invite more friends!”

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“I loved the show. What struck me most was the love you had for your life and how it came through in the show (healing is so wonderful ain’t it? I loved the simplicity in set and the choice to use only the bench as a prop/set piece … the choreography/direction was marvelous… your writing is wonderfully poetic, and your love for words comes shining through.”

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“I wish I knew enough superlative adjectives to use in praise of Chicken. All I can say is that it was wonderful. He was mesmerizing and pulled me into the life of a naive Texas boy thrown out on the street and into the arms of the wolves in Hollywood. He is truly a gifted actor and the way he not just described in words but make real through his body language and movement the people in his world to life was awsome – man or woman they were equally real to me. I felt not only his truths but theirs. Thank you David for letting me (and the rest of the world) so truthfully into your experiences.

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“The performance last night was nothing short of spectacular. Your writing is so wonderfully poetic, funny, and sad. I love works that can make me laugh and cry. Yours did the trick. And I loved the physicality of the show. You really brought the writing to life–so animated, very rich 3D imagery and characterizations. I’m certainly going to tell everyone I know to see the show.”

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“L-O-V-E-D the show. Honest and truly. We talked about it the whole walk home.”

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“You are not just a great actor. You are a shape shifter. I saw you look different for each character. I SAW Sunny, his ‘fro, his caftan, SAW Kristi, I SAW the teenie bopper runaway. I saw your face go silly-putty-sideways, and your Dad come out….You could wipe the floor with Robin Williams in a goofy character face-off. I LOVED Sunny. Some of my best friends have been 70s black hippie faggots. Vocally, just for the pure Barry White honey of the voice, I loved Sexy. You have transmitted your pain into art, and now the artistic rendering of your tormentor brings pleasure. That’s alchemy. Shamanism, magic, healing. Of course, laughter is the strongest medicine… You’re also a word candy daddy, West Coast writers’ school: Tom Robbins, Rob Brezhney, David Sterry dishing out chewy delicious mouthfuls of succulent syllables. Basically, you rock. Love the opening stroll down H’wood blvd, with those split second portraits. Dynamite, dude.”

***

Chicken in Time Out San Francisco

“A funny, poignant story that examines issues both hard-hitting and universal.”

— Time Out San Francisco

The San Francisco Weekly on Chicken: “Humor, energy, & a sharp eye

sfweekly.jpg“Sterry tells a sad and harrowing story with humor, energy, and a sharp eye for the sort of characters an ‘industrial sex technician’ might meet in the weird aftermath of the ‘60s.”

— Michael Scott Moore, The San Francisco Weekly (Theater section)

 

To buy Chicken, click here.

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The San Francisco Examiner on Chicken: “A Rare Pleasure”

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“Experiencing [Sterry’s] natural ear for rhythm and timing, we are reminded of what a rare pleasure it is to see a writer perform his own work. Much like beat poetry, Sterry’s carefully crafted, simple language infuses mundane situations with dream-like profundity…Sterry’s portrayal of his 17-year-old self is immediately honest and believable. In fact, the character’s insecure teenage naiveté juxtaposed with Sterry’s masterful control of poetic dialogue is what balances the show…Sterry remarkably creates and portrays his characters.”

— Emily Klein, The San Francisco Examiner

To buy Chicken click here.

The San Francisco Chronicle Reviews Chicken, the 1-Ho Show

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“Poignant, humorous…a rare pleasure…funny, moving and original…an exceptional, comically idiosyncratic and revealingly honest look at life in difficult times…Much of the material in the 85-minute one-act is hilarious…Sterry is a sharp comic, using his limber body and versatile voice to create memorably funny portraits of the hungry, lonely, wealthy women who employ his services…Sterry needs no other prop than a wooden bench to get full comic mileage out of the ludicrousness of sex in some wonderfully varied and graphic guises. But what sets “Chicken” apart and gives it depth is the hard, sad reality beneath its Rabelaisian humor…[“Chicken”] is richly entertaining and thought-provoking… [It] speaks cleverly and provocatively to anyone who’s ever been or had a child.”

— Robert Hurwitt, Head Theater Critic to The San Francisco Chronicle

To buy the book on Amazon.  To buy the book on Indiebound.

Josh Cohen, WZZR on Chicken: “I Couldn’t Put it Down”

“Written so well… eloquent, amazing… I couldn’t put it down!”

— Josh Cohen, WZZR Radio

To buy, click here.

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Chicken Review: “Dark wit and considerable compassion… wickedly funny, baroque”

“Jawdropping… Even as confessional memoirs go, David Sterry’s Chicken stands out from the rest. Alternately farcical, grotesque, brutal and sad… A carefully crafted piece of work… Gives the famous encounter between Dennis Hopper and Isabella Rossellini in “Blue Velvet” a run for its money.”

“Dark wit and considerable compassion… wickedly funny, baroque… sadly, even touchingly human, thanks to Sterry’s matter-of-fact empathy for his disturbed customers… Chicken gets its soul from Sterry’s nuanced portrait of his growing anguish as the work takes him to increasingly scary places, physically and emotionally.”

— Wendy Smith, Amazon

To see more & buy Chicken click here.

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Spectator Magazine Dr. Carol Queen on Chicken: “Super-readable roller coaster”all

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“His memoir is a super-readable roller coaster — the story of a young man who sees more of the sexual world in one year than most people ever do.”

— Dr. Carol Queen, Spectator Magazine

To buy Chicken click here.

chicken 10 year anniversary cover

Readers Write About Chicken: “Like Kerouac, I HAD to read it in one sitting”

Chicken: Self-Portrait of a Young Man for Rent – to buy click here.

chicken 10 year 10-10-13Incredible… this book, it’s like Kerouac. I loved it so much, I HAD to read it in one sitting. I can’t wait for the next book.

I really can’t express how splendid, wonderful, excellent, clever…. (I’m running out of adjectives) the presentation was yesterday. Sterry held a very tough audience absolutely RIVETED for 3 full hours! the beautiful prose coupled with his performance talent is a killer combination. (I kept wanting to stop the reading in order to point out specific narrative techniques you used–how *skillfully* the “technical” aspects of writing contributed to the power of the book. I guess I’ll have to  assign it as a classroom text in order to deconstruct it on that level. Alice La Plant – SF State University Professor

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I tore through your book in a matter of hours: read it while walking to work, on the BART, in line at the store. Loved it. – SF

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I am really looking forward to reading your next book – you are an incredibly gifted writer. The book broke my heart, turned me on, and gave me the vicarious thrill of walking in a man’s shoes (yours) for a day. Thank you for sharing your experiences, and yourself, with me and the world. As with all great books, the last page left me screaming No Wait- I Still Don’t Know What Happened – Juline Koken – NYC

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I just finished the book. First, my gratitude for the testimony, for positing the story in the world. Then for the cockygiddyjoygift of your style, grace, clarity, humour and generosity. all this seeping and fuming between bouts of mouth-drying horror and lumpy-throat sexiness. Thanks – Dr. Leon Johnson, University of Oregon

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Very powerful–sad, funny, accomplished… Susan Boloton, Workman Press

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I was skeptical about reading this memoir because the sex industry is not a subject that I’m especially drawn to. My friend read and loved this book and strongly suggested that I read it. I took her advice and once I began to read I was completely unable to put Chicken down. The writing style of this book flowed so smoothly and was crafted so skillfully that I felt that I was watching the story happen rather than reading it off of a page. This book was fascinating and I commend David Sterry for his honesty and courage. – San Francisco

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Just finished you book and enjoyed it very much. Thought I’d reach out and let you know that you touched at least this reader. You have an excellent and articulate voice – looking forward to your next work. Adios, Patrick

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Your book has been such a sumptuous meal, a feast on this day where I starved for inspiration. Thanks! For being not only so brave to tell your story but also for being such a true artist. You are so lush, your poetry so rich, phrases pop out at me like valuable diamonds never before seen, never before measured. The juxtaposition of your childhood and the narrative story is brilliant. You taught me so much, you are a magic beacon of light. Grazie mille, Daisy – Hollywood

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I hate to invade your email privacy, however, I must tell you that since I received “Chicken” by mail yesterday, I was able to put it down only twice before finishing it. I could all too well identify with your horrors and through your confessions am finding catharsis. (Even though I only finished it ten minutes ago) Congratulations, and thank you. Kyle Bastien – Vancouver

***

Ye flipping gods. The first passage I peeked at was howlingly funny, so I was expecting something lighter, more tongue-in cheek, maybe even flippant. What I have here is merciless writing, zero to wrenching in less than fifteen pages, at a pace that leaves no time for the reader to wallow. – Oregon

***

Wow, not only was your book incredibly interesting but your style of writing was THE MOST engaging and enjoyable book I have ever read. I read nonfiction and memoirs, about a book every week and yours was awesome. Good for you with your survival, courage and talent not to mention all of your hard work. I so much appreciate the opportunity to have read your book. I hope you are creating another book that I and others can enjoy. Your perspective, your style, your visions, descriptions and feelings, the way you ran words and sentences together for an amazing affect was a joy to participate in and I thank you again for sharing. Good Luck to you. Congradulations on a fabulous piece of art! Sincerly, Nancy Malone

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I love your book. You are so poetic. You have the same wonderfully vivid style. Candye Kane, San Diego

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i just wanted to tell you how incredible your book, “chicken” is. it reads “on the road”, like a chicken kerouac. i loved it so much, i HAD to read it in one sitting. i can’t wait for your next book. -a fan. – Alger Batts

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I was so moved by your first chapter. I myself am a survivor of sexual abuse so hearing you talk about it definitely makes me feel strong and hopeful for my own situation. (I have been dealing for a year now… I was abused as a five year old by my stepfather… and haven’t been able to write–much less talk–about it yet.) I was one of those teary eyed people after hearing you both read and talk about it, and I wanted to come up to you after class…. but it still has a huge emotional impact on me and I’m one of those girls that hates to cry. Anyway, I didn’t e-mail you to write you my life story, I only wanted to thank you for the generosity to express yours. And to express it so beautifully. So thank you very much. I wish you much luck and lots of return on your book! I’ve already told three people they HAVE to read it… and buy it! UC Berkeley Student – Megan Allen

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I nabbed his review copy of Chicken. It obviously took a rare amount of courage to write and publish it – such candour and humour about such a dangerous and soul-destroying situation. Your book describes perfectly the dark split between double lives – I am unfortunately well familiar with it. Aside from this being fan mail, would you like me to send you a check? I feel guilty about reading Chicken without buying it. – Dawna Rae from Toronto

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I was blown away. Not just a reading of good material, a performance…It was very intimidating and awfully impressive. – Jan Nash

***

I love his writing style; it brings you into the story. You will not want to put it down. The fact that this is an autobiography makes the story even more horrifying. Yet since it is a catharsis of a true survivor, it seems that David brings somehow to an unexpected redemption. You must read this book

The Observer on Chicken: “Very funny. A side of the sex-worker’s story that’s rarely heard”

observer-329.jpg“It’s a breezy read, pleasingly free of self-pity. Sterry judges the tone carefully. He’s unflinching and perceptive without being mawkish, and often very funny. And the side of the sex-worker’s story he tells is a rarely heard one.

— The Observer

To buy Chicken click here.

chicken 10 year anniversary cover

Details Magazine

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“Priceless material…”

— Details Magazine

BBC 1

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“Humorous and charming… Outrageous and entertaining…”

— Michael Williams, BBC 1

BBC Radio

BBC Radio

 

A beautiful book… a real work of literature… wonderfully written.”

— Vanessa Feltz, BBC Radio

Chicken Review, Book News, UK

“Jawdropping… Even as confessional memoirs go, David Sterry’s Chicken stands out from the rest. Alternately farcical, grotesque, brutal and sad… A carefully crafted piece of work… Gives the famous encounter between Dennis Hoppe and Isabella Rossellini in ‘Blue Velvet’ a run for its money.” — Benedicte Page, Book News, UK

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The New York Times Review of Chicken

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“David Henry Sterry has honed a vibrant outrageous style, and turned out this studiously wild souvenir of a checkered past.” — Janet Maslin, The New York Times

The San Francisco Bay Guardian Reviews Chicken

San Francisco Bay Guardian[A] refreshingly affectionate portrayal of a naïve young man’s first taste of Los Angeles in mid 1970s…Sterry expertly and economically brings the parade of pimps, nuns, debutantes, rapists, and sexual deviants who populate his past to life…he attacks his evocative prose like a grizzled beatnik poet hitting a home run.

— The San Francisco Bay Guardian

To buy: Indiebound.  Amazon.

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