This is probably the greatest work of fiction since the 19th century. Think Moby Dick. Or the 20th century. Think Milton, Shakespeare, John Donne (Wallace Stevens, same thing), Keats, Swinburne, and all the moderns from Updike to Cheever to O’Hara to Barthelme. He played with Eliot. Did he leave Hem and Fitz alone? Not really. And Homer and the Book of Samuel. With make-up faces and art to match.
So last night Robert was singing along to Springsteen. Which was quite surprising to me. Why you ask. Because as long as we have been together it has always been Jagger, Jagger, and Jagger. The great Rolling Stones. Sympathy for the Devil, Jumpin Jack Flash, Gimme Shelter... Never Bruce.
But Robert is a Jersey boy too. Never said much good about Springsteen. Hates his politics. But there he was singing. Not just singing, but accompanying Bruce. He knows all the words. He knows all the tunes. And he joins the songfest in harmony.
Boy can he sing. And then he told me about his perfect pitch.
Tougher Than the Rest
He asked me if he was. Like every woman I told him I'd get back to him. (You bet he's tougher. Sheer cussedness.)
If I should fall behind
This is the one he actually came forward and sang in my ear. Perfectly. High romance.
No Surrender
This one goes back to his driving days. They never ever stopped going a hundred. He doubted Bruce could say the same thing.
Living Proof
He sang this for me too. He is.
Dancing in the Dark
And then we did.
Born to Run
Last because ancient history. He told me this is how he got through his first year in business school as a Jersey boy at Cornell. What he probably won't tell you is that he also listened full time to a German song called Autobahn by Kraftwerk. The rock star rising inside.
Rough Justice
As his wife I can tell you the Springsteen thing is probably just a night's pose. He is always for the ages. He doesn't belong to us, not New Jersey, not you, not anyone. He falls asleep dreaming of William Blake.
I don't know of anyone who has had a more amazing, interesting, and diverse life than Robert. There are so many rich tales of a life unique that they seem impossible for one person. And yet they are all true. I have known him a large part of my life and I still haven't heard it all. And we keep making new ones.
Robert has been posting stories of his life on Facebook in addition to posts on a huge variety of topics. Be sure to take a look and comment. The videos cover all different areas of his life from growing up in Salem NJ to his life as a corporate ronin to his life as writer.
There are moving stories about his grandfather Laird, who was afflicted with a hole in his back from a radiological error. There are tales of posh parties at the Hine estate in Greenwich Township. And so much more. Hear about his beloved father, the sole survivor of a group of six fighter pilots that fought in the European theater in World War II; summers at a man-made lake; and a boyhood trip to France.
You all must know that Robert is the author of The Boomer Bible. But you might not have seen the The Boomer Bible on the internet. Using the link below, you can access any of the chapters of The Boomer Bible and most importantly you can use a live intercolumn reference. What does this mean? Many parts of the text have references to other chapters in the book. Now you don't have to turn those pages; the links are all electronic. This is the vision that was in Robert's head when he created this book, and he was years ahead of his time. Technology has finally caught up to his vision.
What's it like to live with a writer? It's inspiring, it's maddening, it's crazy, it's delicious. But RFL is so much more than all of that.
He's the most widely read, creative person I have ever met. Just last night our conversation ranged from disecting current movie and TV fare, to quantum physics and the people and theories behind it (of which I knew little), to what really happened at the advent of the year 2000 (which alternate universe do you live in?). Here he is in his own words.
This latest entry requires
a bit of setup because it began as a dialogue across the divide between
conservatives and liberals. I discovered, on a "right-wing" website,
a link to Pussification, a deliberately outrageous satirical essay by one Kim
du Toit (kimdutoit.com), who delights in playing the unreconstructed male
chauvinist gun nut. I found the piece funny, sharp and, in the way of good
satire, incisively true in many essentials. Du Toit had also created a link to
an extended dissenting opinion at a website called Philosoraptor
(philosoraptor.blogspot.com). I read this essay as well and had a mixed
reaction to it. The prose resonated with the usual liberal tone of superiority,
and much of the argument marched down the predictable dogmatic path of secular
egalitarian orthodoxy. Nevertheless, I sensed here and there an intent, an
aspiration even, to be fair and even-handed: Philosoraptor went so far as to
allow that du Toit's argument included elements that in less 'neanderthal'
hands might be worthy of further thought. I also suspected that the attempt at
even-handedness was being undermined by youth, naivete, or both. https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1793819793/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_hsch_vapi_tpbk_p1_i4
Robert and I have been talking a lot about his writing and how it is unique. Disdaining the conventions of 20th century literature, he chooses to use his knowledge of Anglo Saxon poetry to influence his work. Today we have a very special treat, the author reading a verse from one of my favorites of his works, Epiphany Ship Part IV. Listen closely to the words, the meter, the sound. This is a powerful recitation.
Today we have a great treat in this wonderful video. See the selfies, see the portraits, see the descriptions. A fine description of the man. The genius.
Instapunk.com, an RFL blog that spanned 10 years, is only available now via the Wayback machine. While some believe the Wayback machine will be around for a long time, we don't. Today we are asking fans to go to Instapunk via the link below, find an interesting entry you like, and print and keep it. We are trying to preserve the items for future generations, the ones who will come after. Please let us know what you print and why you chose it. We want to hear from you.
Have you ever loved a pet? Had your heart stolen? Grieved the loss of your best companion?
I love the stories in this book. All about life with dogs, cats, and other critters. They make me smile, laugh, cry. They will touch your heart the way they do mine.
Available today, after many long months of battle with the Amazon publishing monopoly.
You need to buy it. Proof that R. F. Laird has understood and anticipated all the political wars of the past 20 years. The long and short of it: in all that time he has never been wrong about anything important while all his supposed allies stood around pontificating. He warned us McCain was no good but fought for McCain because the alternative was Obama. He declared in his InstaPunk blog that Romney would never be president but fought for him despite withering conservative invective because the alternative was Obama. He wanted to bow out then, 2012, but he was the only voice who proposed that it might be the time for one Donald Trump. He’s stayed in since, because all the idiot Never-Trumpers were still rattling their empty saber sheaths around and, more disturbingly, all you fair weather pro-Trump pundits were still rattling your empty saber sheaths around. He knew who you were. Has always known. Read “Gloves Off.”
From here on, books on Amazon and Kindle are likely to be your only access to the mind of a man who makes the unusual FB genius pundits look like the kindergartners they are.
RFL tells me “No.” I’m the only one on earth with the power to overrule him. The Amazon author page:
Today practices begin in preparation for the Canadian Grand Prix this Sunday. We look at our favorite driver's writing about his experiences with cars.
R. F. Laird created Shuteye Town 1999 as an amazing graphic suite. Huge. What is it? Shuteye Town 1999 is a game, but not completely. A puzzle but not completely. A book but not completely. Think Labyrinth. Think Satire. Think Harder than beating a computer at chess. You know. Challenging entertainment. And if you've never played a video game? Doesn't matter at all. There isn't anything anywhere quite like this.
Sometimes we have to engage with lawyers. Sometimes we need them, sometimes they are after us.Yesterday R. F. had a long go round with a lawyer who was trying to intimidate him and accuse him of being threatening to a client. By the end, they were on collegial speaking terms, Could you do that? Try this piece of Shuteye Town.
He's been in a funk. Not knowing what to do next or if he had anything more to do. And out of the blue comes a letter from his prep school, Mercersburg Academy. They announced the completion of a 2-year "investigation" into allegations of improper sexual conduct by former faculty. One of those faculty was his teacher and friend. Allegations made 7 years after his death. No defense accorded him, no police involved. But they conclude allegations of activities that allegedly took place in the '90s are legitimate and strip this long dead man of his honors for his many years of service to the school. He's a nonperson.
Now he has a mission. Get the school to retract what they've done. Period. So he's gone to war.
A Flourish of Razors
by Boz Baker
1.
RRRRRRRRRRooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!
Omigod, I’m thinking, feeling this Harley noise under my all too soft and
thoroughly unprepared butt, I’m going to die, right here on South Street, before
I get word one of this Great American Cultural Movement on paper.
Screeeeeech!!!! Oh Jesus! Did I say Cultural Movement? Did I even think it? No,
this is nothing less than cultural war, and that’s kultural with a K, the way
almost everything’s spelled with a K by the punk bands of Philadelphia. K for
kayo and K for kill and, now that I mention it, K for kamikaze, like this
feeling I’m having right now on the back of a deathbound chopper that’s being
piloted by an honest to God madman who calls himself Johnny Dodge. And then
we’re perpendicular to the ground and the Harley wheel is pawing the air — I’m
staring straight ahead at a baby blue heaven that has preempted my horizon and
all thoughts of such minutiae as the connotative difference between cultural with
a c and kultural with a k — and Johnny is wailing like a banshee above me, a
frozen mountain climber dangling from a chrome precipice of handlebars, my
hands clawing and digging into his almost nonexistent gut, and I have this
sudden instantaneous revelation, lasting no more than the split second of
motionlessness at the apogee of our wheelie, of what this punk thing is all
about and why I haven’t been able to get the hang of it till now.
