Steffan Piper's Blog, page 4

Endrant -- Steffan Piper ... A Few Words about NOT Writing ...

The Seven Hundred Dollar Raincoat ...

Just a note: Today was a great day today. Putting up the FINAL cover for $700 Raincoat and getting that thing - completely off my desk - was the equivalent of lifting a lifetime's worth of self-doubt off my shoulders. Carrying the burden of storytelling is no easy matter.

I know I cannot express what putting a book out into the world actually means to me, as some people think we only do this for the money, because well, many do. Anyone who has read any of my books, knows too well that I write memoir and I'm very blunt about the things that have happened. Pat Conroy owes me a drink for sure.

Of all the books that I've written, so far, I've had a much more emotional investment in The $700 Raincoat because those days, like I said in the back of the book, seem like yesterday, and I can still see them vividly in my minds eye. While editing Fugue State was difficult, reworking this one was downright painful. Some of it I just had to hit 'accept change' and turn the page because I just couldn't bare to look.

Getting it out there and getting it read by people is the real therapy we get when we're so invested in our stories. I honestly hope that as time passes it becomes as popular as Greyhound already is. Yes, I didn't write a series of novels about a boy who stays innocent forever, I wrote stories about a boy who does grow up and does so alone.

Too long, didn't read? Sorry. I can be that way. I wrote 422 pages about The Persian Gulf War and my experience inside and around it.

I want to say thank you to everyone that has supported me with this book and lent me a hand. I didn't get to today alone. You may not have known the difficult time I was having, but it's time to step forward, but in some cases step further back. 1985, it seems. I have no Doc Brown.

Not everyone is going to be in your corner when it gets difficult to deal. Some folks are just going to smile and create some distance. I'm a big boy and used to it. When Monday morning comes and I hit *publish* on the paperback version ... I'm likely going to feel like a new person. Forgive me now if I start to behave like one.

I appreciate the hard work from all of you with your kind words, hard work and word of mouth. I'll do my best to be worthy of it and keep writing.

Be good.

No one's going to read this: PTSD.

I used to write a section in my blog called 'No one's going to read this, so let me tell you:” this is probably one of those.
I woke up this morning after a really bad nights sleep. I rarely dream about the military, but I think that's what they call PTSD, when you do. Especially if it's not the good kind of dream that you normally have. I have few nightmares, but this was something like that, but perhaps worse.
Every night, regardless of how long my day is, I always love to slip into bed at the end of it, because I know what I'm going to dream about. I can usually control it and shape it and direct it. I usually dream of women. Smiling faced females, frolicking around in their underwear, laughing, talking, cavorting with me, all of that. I can't tell my wife about this reality because she's insanely jealous, which is something I just don't understand at all. This truth would go over like a lead balloon with her. There would be tears, or if not tears, anger and lots of it.
I always wake up happy and I always smile when I slip into bed because every night I know what's coming. It may sound perverted but that's part of my reality. It keeps me smiling throughout the day. I usually laugh in my sleep, and on those nights, I always wake up feeling rested.
The other night, I asked myself before falling asleep why I always dream about the same thing. Why do I always dream about half-naked girls smiling and carousing around with their bare legs like warm hands reaching for me? It just didn't seem normal and I've often wondered what everyone else dreams about. I always ask my son what he dreamt of the night before and most of the time he doesn't have an answer. Sometimes he'll say “Oh, I can't tell you, papa.” When I ask my wife, she never has an answer either, thus I really feel left out in terms of wondering why I have 'nothing' to share.
Last night, I dreamt about Saudi Arabia and the days that followed when I came back in late 1991 - 1992. I remembered how full of sand everything was and how it was in everything I owned and how, after I had gotten back my uniforms that I didn't take overseas, how the sand had gotten into that stuff too. That sand was like a kind of lime, it had this white green tint to it, caked up around everything and seemed to have a smell that when transferred to ever other object that it connected with. Pretty soon, everything I owned after I came back had that smell and had sand around it, caked on it and in pockets and seams, books. My dress blues, my sneakers, my civilian clothes, paperwork. The shit wouldn't go away. Everything. My hands stunk for a long time as did my skin. I could just smell that place for far too long. The sand was the culprit.
The problem was that as that shitty, lime colored sand started taking over my uniform, and I remembered how other Marines who didn't go to Saudi would look at me. There was something wrong with me. Why was all my gear and clothing all fucked up? Why were my boots caked in this shit no matter how hard I cleaned them? 

In the Marine Corps, it's the 'Esprit de Corps' which makes you a Marine and having your gear and uniform 'squared away' is a huge part of it, especially around other Marines. They now looked at me like a shitbird (the worst kind of anything), like I was unsat (unsatisfactory), like I was deserving of a Big Chicken Dinner, a bad conduct discharge. All because of this fucking sand and these feelings I couldn't shake that I no longer belonged. No one helped, no one said 'what's wrong, why is your shit so fucked up?” No one saw the problem that was so clear in my dream last night.
In retrospect, I probably should've burned all that stuff I brought back, but nobody really had a clue. Nobody was taking preventative measures. The day I discharged, I took every piece of military gear I had, and I made the point of putting them into black trash bags and throwing everything into the dumpster outside, in plain view of everyone. They were mortified at the sight of it. There was value associated with a military uniform, both monetarily and prestige.
In my dream last night, someone did ask my those questions though and I had a response. Perhaps it was my way of finding something all these years later. After -- I had already written 'Fugue State'.
Another Marine asked me “Why is your shit so fucked up? How come you only have one seabag of stuff?”
“When I came in here,” I responded, “I watched you carry in three seabags. One had your uniforms, one had your civilian clothes and the other had your problems.”
“And you?”
“I have more problems than gear. The gear I have is all fucked up and my problems are everywhere.”
In my dream, that was the best I had as a comeback, however lame, but now I understand.
In psychiatry, they would call all my dreams of the naked girls, 'masking'. I'm not stupid, but most people don't like lifting up rocks inside their head to see what's under them. Why do I mask the way I feel about my pain and my failures, especially those concerning being in the military, with panty wearing girls? Every night? I'm a shallow jackass? Doubt it. Some people might say that.
Maybe I have to. I dream every night. Many days, lucidly.
Do you dream lucidly? Do you know what that is? Lucid dreaming is where you're in the dream and it's like your awake. The night before I had a dream where I 'woke up' in my sleeping bag, in a shelter, on the Appalachian Trail, from one specific night back in 2006. Yes, my dream started with me waking up. Lucid dreaming is part of the Universe's way of fucking with you when you least expect it. It wasn't a dream that was made up, or not real, it was me reliving a moment where I had woken up, around 5:30 in the morning, to discover that I was covered in snow in the hiking shelter. That's what I dreamt of. That moment where I woke up. I relived it. Lucid dreaming. Sometimes it sucks, most times it's awesome. Naked girls, good. Hiking, good. Military breakdowns, bad.
Last night's was the worst. Feeling like I didn't belong, like I wasn't a part of everyone else and I was worthless, along with being back in the barracks (which is what I dreamt of) was something I wouldn't want repeating on a regular basis. I guess I have my answer as to why I dream of girls.

I don't think that's perversion. I think it's self-preservation. It's a little before five am and I'm going to go back to bed.

The Seven Hundred Dollar Raincoat ...

On August 8th, 2013, I launched my much-anticipated next novel 'The Seven Hundred Dollar Raincoat'. I could say a lot of different things to you at this point, but maybe what I put in the book would say it better ...

Note from the author …


I used to occupy an apartment up on Hollywood Blvd behind the Rock n Roll Ralph's grocery store. That's what the locals always called it, as you could always find some random member of any late eighties, early nineties hair band buying booze and frozen steaks in some half-inebriated state. It's also the location for the opening scene in The Big Lebowski. Back then, I was just a quiet observer and those were definitely the days to remember. I just never thought they'd fade as quickly as they did. Maybe it was the internet, maybe it was the turbulence of broken love affairs, maybe it was something else. Maybe it was me. Maybe the people I knew back then just decided to finally grow up. I guess I should be glad to say that I knew them while they were young and still in their prime.
Maybe the truth was that they got to see me during a period of my life where I was clueless and lost. Hmmm .... wait ... this sounds all too familiar.
Hollywood has changed a lot since I used to live there. Those days were almost like a very quick second Golden Age that evaporated between the point of, them cleaning the homeless and vagabond youth from the streets, to the point where gentrification just took over en masse and they re-did everything that the eye could see from Fairfax to the parking lots just past Vine. The place ain't the same at all, and it definitely suffers for it as well. Most people I know won't go near the place, not because they feel out of place, but just because the place itself – is out of place. When everything nosedives down there again, it may improve. Some places are always meant to be ghettos. Too many good books have been written painting it as a wasteland for it to ever be an adult extension of a commercial version of Disneyland.
Love life back then? You just read about it. Who knows the paths of some of those people that we once told we loved and would always care about. A decade and a half on, other priorities in life are now far more pressing than youthful folly. All I can say is I know I pissed some people off. Royally. Forgiveness is its own reward, although I have no problem apologizing openly. I'm honestly sorry.
Friends? Hard to say about most of them as well. Some of them thought they we're either, above the law, were above the law, or ended up in the hands of the law. A few of them had an impact on my life and I'll always miss them. Most of the others met their own fates elsewhere and have ceased being a concern or harangue on others, and thankfully, too.
Lessons I learned from that point in time:
1. Don't trust anyone with anything important to you.2. Never divulge your secrets to someone who says they love you.3. Never lie to someone who says they love you.4. Life is a lot like a magic trick, you can never tell them how yours works. They won't understand.5. Sometimes, you have to put the past behind you.6. Look out for yourself, no one else will.7. Don't get in a car with someone who owes you money – a lot of money.8. Don't volunteer to pick people up from the airport.9. If you think someone is more interested in your medicine cabinet than you – you're probably right.10. You may have to suffer fools, but you don't have to do it gladly.11. Most of the strip clubs in Hollywood are owned by the same two assholes.
Thank you for taking the time to read my books and give it thought.
All the best,
Steffan

* * * 

Acknowledgments ...
Over the many years of the life of this book, I've been thankful to receive a lot of wise advice, assistance and guidance from some very positive people.
Thanks to Courtney Abruzzo and Mark Espinosa for being the very first readers and editors, and helping to make this manuscript cogent and tell a compelling story.
Thanks to David Downing for doing the heavy lifting on my editing and developmental work for the better part of 2013.
Thanks to Allison Dickson for layout and eBook formatting.
Thanks also go to Terry Goodman over at Amazon Publishing who pushed this book up a hill for me like Sisyphus, only to see it get cast asunder. Things like that happen in publishing everyday though. I ain't mad at ya.

The Lone Ranger, Tonto and White Guilt ...

Just went and saw The Lone Ranger 2013. I saw it. It was very funny and did not feel like two and a half hours. Go see it. I laughed the whole way through and well worth my $9. Here's a film that has gotten a bad rap, because of people's absurd and out-of-control political behavior and schizophrenic breakdown about White vs. Non-White.

If I hear another person say: "The reason why the Lone Ranger wears a mask is because he's guilty about being white," -- I'm going to slap them, hard, and not because the bird on my head is upset by it. 

In the film, the reason why he wears the mask is very clearly defined and is worn for the same reason a masked man wears a mask, like Batman, or Spiderman or even Superman, does -- in every other movie or film about a superhero. Confusing that, intentionally, is incredibly sad and just feeds into a group of people who are trying to be as negative as they can about everything they see.

And really? People are uncomfortable about *actual history* represented in a Disney film? First of all -- it's a Disney Film. Second, have we sunk to such lows now that presenting "Manifest Destiny" as a backdrop in a film, and the historical reminder of that, however far removed in time, angers asshats on one side of the political spectrum because they feel it as an attack? Wow, did you just forget about American History for the entirety of your adult life -- and now re-informed -- you have to have a fit and whine all over Conservative media?

I have family that worked on the railroads. I'm Irish. I had family that worked -- for -- the railroads, going back several generations. I have absolutely no guilty feelings at all about what ** I ** have done, because ** I ** have always done my best to be good to people and not marginalize large groups of folks, or try to discount their struggle because it is either inconvenient to me or uncomfortable. That's life. It happens. 'White privilege' is a reality. Address it in your heart and move on. Even Louis C.K. speaks on it justly.

I used to wonder why their was ever a need for Holocaust Museums, Auschwitz, and other historical atrocities preserved. Like, how could someone ever forget about Nazi Germany, Hitler and Heinrich Himmler? Did they not read any William L. Shirer growing up? Does that name NOT ring a bell? How could you have missed that book, if so? Or is it just a pattern of education in history in your life?

But now I get it. Some people will struggle hard not to remember basic historical realities, and it makes me wonder why someone alive today would feel the pain of that, a hundred and fifty years later -- unless they, too, still harbor those same persecuting and condescending beliefs that folks represented as the 'bad guy' in films and TV did, so long ago. If that's you. I feel bad for you.

If these things bother you -- then you need to search your heart and probably cleanse your soul. Maybe burning some sage around yourself for awhile would be a good place to start.

I wrote last week about being an Irish Catholic, and how I felt Christians getting upset about the ridiculous notion of Depp representing Native American Spirituality as a bad thing, and that "he should've been a Christian Missionary" -- as completely effing absurd and ludicrous. I still agree with that sentiment after seeing the film. Completely.

If you interpret American History as "White Guilt" you seriously need to go back to school because you've clearly been away -- far away --for way too long.

"Don't do that again!" -- Tonto.

A few thoughts about Greyhound and The American Library Association ...

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Endrant -- Facebook, Systems, Gun Control ...

Endrant -- How much did you write last night?

Just a few thoughts on writing, Bukowski, Palm Desert and getting it done.

Endrant -- A Few Thoughts ...

Driving around Palm Desert. Sharing a few thoughts with you on the state of things.

End Rant ... A Few Thoughts ...

Driving around Palm Desert. Sharing a few thoughts with you on the state of things.