For a guy that I thought, from what I heard
was a disciplinarian (editorially speaking),
he looked like he was out of uniform. Looked
like he hung with David Crosby.
Up goes a picture
of William Burroughs on the wall
it became a fixture
for reds, freaks, hacks and all ...
He settled right in. Third or fourth day on
the job, he rings the neck of Sports Service
for selling T-shirts at the National events
that have something like the "1984 Cajun Nationals"
on front and the "1984 Mile-High Nationals"
on the back.
Carney barker sons-of-bitches
who do they think they're foolin'
double our pleasure, get rich quick,
it's time they got some schooling ...
... and they did. John got it so that the SS
boys had to let the customer at the tent know
that they were buying such an item. Bravo ...
NHRA CHRISTMAS PARTY 198-whatever
Don't worry I'll have the stuff there, leave
it to me. I package in a nice little Tupperware
container. Slip into plastic and then into a
paper bag, get on top of my Honda CH150, trigger
the little bastard, shift it into gear and head
for the party, satin slash pocket jacket, rippling
in the wind. Into the garage area, dismount
and head upstairs to the awaiting revelry.
I'm greeted by "Mean John" with a copy of "Elements
of Style" by Strunk & White, something he insisted
that all of us ND writers check out. Readily
agreed, It was time to uphold my end of the
party.
Somehow it escaped my pocket
on the way to the seasonal noise
shit's got more value than a locket
just ask any of the awaiting boys.
I retraced my steps and in the middle of a
mild middle class intersection there was my
package dead center at the "X." I did a loop
around the area to check for fleas and then
came by and swept it up in a hurry.
The plastic had cracked
but the contents were in tact
repackage the goods
and we're out of the woods--
and I made good.
You were there for two years and you got bored
and moved. In came Karen, the beach and the
wedding, maybe setting the stage for my eventual
beheading. I dunno.
People who think along our lines are being
pitched daily. Radical creativity, the daring
to think outside is being put into mothballs.
$25,000 a year, and "yes, sir", that's the way
to get ahead. Stay the course. Conserve.
The late Stevie Collison, one of many Super
Stock editors, said that you interviewed him
and ran down the usual dozens, experience, can-you-meet-deadlines,
etc., etc. Your last question, vibrated with
me like a string plucked by Segovia, "Do you
smoke pot?"
Collison: "Yes"
Raffa: "Good, I don't want any lames running
around here."
"Mean John", you insisted on doing it your
way. I don't mean to overplay the drugs and
the fun. You would never be as respected as
I think you are, solely on your recreational
bendings. I thought you were bright, insightful,
and obviously intelligent. People in this publication
will probably enumerate those accomplishments.
"Mean John" ... well, of course, "Mean John",
he was an editor joined at the hip with quality
in whatever enterprise he undertook. Undertakings
that he insisted were true and creatively presented,
and attitude he enforced.
Years ago, in the looser days at National DRAGSTER,
guys like Raffa and Neil Britt, encouraged we
writers to stretch it out a little in the creativity
department. Folks of that intellectual temperament
are sorely lacking these days ... I mean it's
like Edward R. Murrow vs. Sean Hannity, an independent
free-thinking professional journalist vs. a
hopeless corporate lapdog. The "Boss" is always
right, no matter what the issue.
And in closing, why the mix of prose and questionable
poetry? I'm not sure on my end of the stick,
but it's the kind of approach Raffa would've
weighed and pondered over ... is this worth
a sh*t? Who knows? I think it's the kind of
approach he'd have dug, failed or realized.
That's how I feel about him. For me, and I
suspect like many others, he made a difference.
(One of the few times I think I really came
up short in a debate was with Raffa.) You learned
something from the guy. In these days of encouraged
stupidity that's welcome relief.
We need more of it ... not less of it, as in
the case of my pal, John Raffa.
|
