Christian Bauman's Blog

Nah, I ain't dead. Just been woodshedding. Here in the woodshed. So to speak.
Occasional twitter spurts @baumansbrain. Will get back to some longform over here eventually.
Keep in touch.

The Guardian is doing a great series called Interview with a Bookstore, and they just featured one of the world's finest, my hometown shop of Farley's in New Hope, Pennsylvania. As an added bonus, the quotes inside the article include a few from librarian-up-no-good and long-time Farley's employee, the fabulous Ms Kristina Bauman.

The photo the New York Times took of me for the feature they did when The Ice Beneath You came out in 2002 was taken in the Farley's stacks (wish I had that photo, I was skinny then...sadly the Times stripped the photos from their archive articles), and one of the two fabulous parties we had when In Hoboken came out was also squeezed into Farley's tight spaces. I've loved this store since I was a kid. Long may it rock.

I am so sad this week to have learned from Gregg about the untimely death of our friend Otto Bost. Otto was many things to many people: a musician and songwriter; a thoughtful and erudite radio interviewer and longtime host of Acoustic Eclectic on WDIY; the best sound man you could ever hope for; a great campfire or bar-room companion with a dry sense of humor and a humbling knowledge of music.

I spent a lot of time thinking about Otto this week, something I have not done in a long time as we no longer lived near each other or had reason to see each other on a regular basis (last time we shared a beer with Otto was perhaps a Pavlov's Dawgs concert at Godfrey Daniels several years ago?). We were friends, and, for a time, I think, good friends, but not blood brothers: we were friends in the ways of musicians, circling around a shared scene and shared love and passion for music. Yet I was surprised and almost startled this week when I began to recall all of the ways -- some of them deeply personal -- in which Otto crossed my life for a period of time beginning around 1990 (when I was 20 and he was 30) and lasting over the next decade or so.

We met, as so many of us did, at Godfrey Daniels. Was a period of about 2 years in 1989 and 1990 when I was one of just a couple of guys who were the regular hosts for the legendary Sunday night Open Mike. I was odd-man out, 19 years old vs dudes and chicks mostly twice my age; most kids my age off at college. I had a baby daughter and a job(s) and every Sunday night I was at Godfreys trying to figure out how to make this thing work ("this thing" being the whole situation: the instrument, the voice, the electronics, the mechanics, the breathing, the joking, the moving...what to leave in and what to leave out, baby). Otto began showing up then, didn't have much to say, gravitated toward the sound board, and we were all happy to have him there as he made us all sound so good. Then he pulled out his own guitar and man he sounded so good. Otto was one of the first (maybe the first) person who learned a song of mine ("Oscar") and then played it publicly, regularly. When I went off to the army, Otto started hosting more and more and eventually mostly took it over for a while -- one of a thirty+ year neverending cycle of us who have taken a turn at keeping the Godfreys Sunday-night tradition alive.

But about the crossings of our paths...   Way back then, Otto talked me off the ledge a couple of times, when my own life seemed so desperate or sad or worthless or just simply fucked; he'd take me out onto the sidewalk in front of Godfreys and hand me a beer and he'd talk quietly and calmly and bring me back to earth. He was a much better guitar player than I was or am, and he would call me on my shit, sometimes while I was on the stage; he wouldn't stand for unnecessary sloppiness. When I was in the army, Otto wrote me letters, some of which made it all the way to Mogadishu, where he knew things weren't good for me. That calm, quiet voice came through in his written word as well as his spoken voice. When I came home to Easton in 1995 he was there to welcome me, and bring me back into the new version of the Godfreys family. He'd play a small part in the recording of the best music I ever officially recorded (the album Road Dogs, Assassins, and the Queen of Ohio) and a large part in the album that was never released (Traveling Nation). We both went through divorce and we both had kids and it was a series of conversations with Otto on these subjects that led to the best song I ever wrote, "Big Bananas," and while the song isn't Otto's story per se anyone who knows him would be able to see him in it, I think. And then many years later after I'd discovered my true vocation was the written word of a novel, I put him in one of them (In Hoboken) as a walk-on character, simply because I knew he'd dig it.

I wish we could share another song together, Otto. Wish we could hang out once more in the dark of Godfreys on a winter Sunday night, and maybe grab a bowl of chili and a beer across the street. Wish I could have had the chance to tell you how much your friendship meant to me over the years. Safe travels, my friend, and I hope to see you on the other side someday.

I was cleaning out a book shelf the other day, going through the stacks of paperbacks and papers piled up behind the front row of books on the shelves. I made a lot of fun discoveries that day, including some of my army medals, the American flag that was placed on my grandfather's coffin, the typed manuscript for the screenplay of The Ice Beneath You I wrote with Matt Walker, and I found two pocket-sized bibles. The first I recognized immediately. My father gave it to me when I was 13 and going to live in India for the year. There was a scrawled note inside from him about all the answers to all my questions etc etc etc blah blah blah...not much to say about that or him, but if you're curious you can read the first essay listed on this page.

Of much more interest was the second little bible, which I didn't recognize at all, until I opened the cover. See picture above. I love life's little surprises. I have no memory of this bible, but apparently I wrote that because it's my handwriting for sure. I have a vague memory of the activity itself. I'll translate for you. "DOD MEPPS Station, Newark" means Department of Defense Military Entry Point (or something like that). That was the actual day I entered active duty. I went to Newark (no memory whatsoever how I got there, maybe my recruiter drive me?), did the final selection for what my job would be (Waterborne, not what I'd planned, but a happy result), went through the torture session where the mean Marine takes you into the back room and tries to get you to confess to drugs and other assorted illegalities and/or immoralities, then I took the oath with a bunch of other pimply kids. They put us up for the night in a really crappy motel in Newark, and the next morning flew us to Ft Knox, Kentucky for basic training. It was either waiting to go to the motel that first day, or waiting to go to the airport the next morning, that the "sad looking chubby fellow with facial hair" walked around the recruit TV lounge with a box of little bibles and gave one to each of us. I wasn't religious but I was scared shitless, so it seemed like a good idea to take the bible. Did I write that inscription then? A week later? A month later? Given that the date is on it, and given the far more memorable things that were about to happen to me, I think it's safe to say I wrote that right there and then. I knew where I was going and what my unit would be (Delta 2/46, as it says there), because they made us write it down so we could tell our families or whoever. But did I know I'd be in 2nd Platoon? Who knows. Maybe I did write it later.

I wonder what that guy was thinking, walking around, handing us those bibles. I think he was about our age, but he sure wasn't army-bound. What did he think of us? Was he deeply religious? Did anyone ever say to him, "Sorry, I'm a Jew?" Or just pass it by, like I almost did? I don't know who he was or what he was thinking. But he's been documented. I hope he's doing well, wherever he is.

I know what I was thinking. I was terrified.

It passed.

I remember that the first time I had the chance to read something that wasn't an army manual, about four weeks later, on the first Sunday that they gave us a few hours off, it wasn't this bible I reached for, but a copy of the Louisville newspaper. I read that bad boy cover to cover, ads and all, every word.

Having spent most of the winter feeling about as confident as Mr. C.F. Earbrass, shown here, I decided that February in Quebec is as good a time as any in my life to embark in a Twitterly direction. So, you know, here it is.
I expect it will continue in the past week's current vein, with an over-index on food, wine, and dogs, because...well, because. You know. That's my life right now. The good parts. We'll see.
I do intend to keep this blog up, at about the same rate it's been for the past few years. All of this is speculation on what my life and decisions will be; never a good indicator of reality. We'll see, we'll see.

It has been an Earbrassian winter, now that I think on it. Full of Unstrung Harps and attendant anxieties and, well, general weirdness. More on all that later.

Time to make the coffee. Need to get the spirits up. Maybe some music, maybe this will help.

It's been a long while since I checked in here. Been a few gray months at Chez Booman. I'm very sad to report my old man passed away a few weeks ago, after a relatively brief but what felt like endless and uncomfortable illness for him. It was a surprise, he was only 10. Boris was a grouchy, arrogant, selfish old bastard and I loved him dearly. Dogs aplenty all around us these days, but it's just not the same without Big B, King of the Pugs, Master of the Universe. RIP ol' fella.


Two books on my desk this week, both re-reads from childhood. The beautifully bound hardback there is The Juniper Tree, an uncensored collection of Grimm with all the blood and badness you can handle, as the stories were originally intended. This is the collection from the late 70s with illustrations from Maurice Sendak. I think it's some of his most striking and memorable work. Those illustrations became the font of my dreams and imagination when I first saw them as a boy. Dark and weird and awesome. (In what was a coincidence or perhaps not, I also recently re-read Peter Straub's Shadowland, which if you've read it you know is chock full of Grimmness. Why that novel never saw the success of Ghost Story or Koko I'll never know; it's a masterpiece, and the recent re-read did nothing to dissuade me of that opinion.) Next to it there is an old paperback of The Stand. I decided I wanted to revisit that this winter but couldn't find either of my copies. After some research it turns out you can't get the original version anymore, just the updated door stop that was published in the 1990s. While there were some additions in there I truly loved -- including Flagg's rebirth at the end -- they don't trump my dissatisfaction with the time updating Mr. King did when he reissued it, moving the action forward a decade. That book was to me (like Salems Lot and Dead Zone, as examples) a product of its time and powerfully connected to it, and having all the cultural references change was something I was never happy with. So I tracked down a copy of the original online and ordered it. There was no picture with it, so when I opened the envelope I was pleasantly surprised (read: ecstatic) to find a dog-eared paperback of the very version I first read when I was 11 or 12 or so and then re-read at least once a year through my teen years. The pages are yellow and crumpled and it smells like a paperback.

On my end, the pencils are down on The Night Door. The powers that be are doing what they do to find it a home, and perhaps the next time I write here there may be some news. We'll see.

Went down to New Orleans at the front of the month to visit Kristina and The Doctor. They're all settled into new home in Marigny. I particularly love the mantle, pictured above, which is decorated with Krissy's collection of Gorey-illustrated books. Not his own, mind you. Ones he did the covers for back when that was his job. You can see some of them here in this story. Kristina has actually tracked them down over the years. Cool stuff. (On a related note, check this out and see if your life parallels with a Gorey book. If your personal style can best be described as "librarian up to no good," this might be you.)

The humidity aside, we had a short but great visit. They're in a very cool neighborhood.


We kinda went on a food binge. Three great meals a day for three days. So many amazing meals to be had in New Orleans. Pic below is of my second-favorite place we had breakfast, not too far from Chez Bauman et Bartram. My favorite place I forgot to take a picture of. They served cupcakes after breakfast. We went twice.


Night Door update: Diana and I are knee deep in dotting i's and crossing t's, a time-consuming process when you're dealing with a 600-page manuscript. Almost done, though.

Yesterday, the 19th Annual NJ Black Potatoe (sic, it was named for Quayle's gaffe) Music Fest was also the sight of the 20th anniversary of Camp Hoboken. Great sets from so many who were around back then, as well as great stuff from kids of the kids: PD Brody and Molly Brody were both in fine form and voice. So much fun.


Having been -- what? a decade or so? a long time, anyway -- eons since I played a full set of my own stuff, I was a little anxious, but got by with a little help from my dogs. Karl, Gregg, Carol, Kenny, Connie, Linda...y'all the best. Thanks for picking up what I was putting down.


And I fully embraced this new-fangled thing that didn't exist back in the day: musicians taking endless selfies of ourselves while onstage.


And why not. We're not 25 any more, but 20 years on we can still bring it. Consider it brought. Close enough for jazz or government work, anyway. All we were missing was Mr. Grula. Maybe he'll make the 50th anniversary.


What else is going on?Oh yeah...my cousin Jon, of whom I have written before.We're all familiar, I think, with the email auto-reply. Usually of this variety: "I'm on vaca. Please see Joe Blow with any issues." Or maybe this variety: "I'm at a conference in London. Will get back to you, but response might be delayed."
None of that mamby pamby auto-reply for Dr. Slaght. I emailed him a few weeks back and this is what auto-replied: <<< I will be leading an ethnographical expedition to the southern RussianFar East from May 21-June 6, 2015 to explore patterns of Dutch
colonization and seek the lost city of Hotte. Please accept my
apologies for any delays in correspondence that result. >>>

That's beautiful.Check out this YouTube clip of Jon giving a talk at the Bronx Zoo about bear-eating tigers and bear-eating bears and why one should always follow the raven.

Bugsy is starting to make himself at home. Neither Boris or Buddha like him much, but they're grudgingly allowing him a spot on the bed.

Just back from Firefly, awesome time again. Like last year, spent most of the afternoons writing, then off to music and debauchery in the evening. Much muddier than last year:


Sunny on Sunday, though. Citizen Cope nailed it. Let the drummer kick, indeed.


But the big news of the past few months is the wedding. Krissy and Logan made it official, and it was officially an amazing day. Not gonna say much because -- well, I'll just start crying again. So proud of them both, and happy they had such a beautiful day.


Both the girls looking beautiful here. And now, the married couple is off to their new digs in New Orleans. A good city for a big adventure.

AdAge magazine publishes a very old, very scary, very skinny photo of me from 1995...juxtaposed with photo of me at my desk in 2015. So not fair putting these pictures next to each other. (The article is about people who have made left turns in life. I don't know anything about that.)