An article published in The Source Weekly in Oregon, this is the result of my bigfoot expedition.
The Devil of Deschutes – Tracking Bigfoot in Our Backwoods
by Brad Lockwood
The hum of 97 fades as the lichen spreads, forest thickens, trees spray-painted for clearing and empty beer cans sparse now; lava rocks, caves, outcroppings and manzanita brush limiting sight to a few hundred feet. Here Kelly finds a hunk of vertebrae measuring around seven inches, other remains scattered elsewhere and nowhere to be found. So too are we, it’s easy to get lost here, northwest of Lava Butte, where cousins heard – and felt – something stalking them a few years back, just out of sight but blatant, territorial, hair along necks standing at attention until they fled.
Up ahead, Bob, a Newfoundland with a penchant for biting before befriending, halts and looks off into the distance, towards Green Mountain. He senses it too. His owner Kelly saw something when she was young, driving through northern California over a bridge – a big hairy creature beside the stream below. It was decades ago and only a split second, but she remembers it vividly. Mentioning it to her younger brother recently though, his memory has a homeless person in a heavy jacket. Still she knows what she saw.
We leave soon after, Bob strangely eager to get back into the car; he’s always up for a hike but not here, no thanks. Maybe with the light snowfall we can make it up to the epicenter of sightings in Deschutes County, a place where Bob definitely won’t go – To Todd Lake and the aptly named neighbors Devils Lake and Devils Hill. Devil is a Native designation for an inhospitable place, inhabited by “a race of beings of a different species, who are cannibals, and whom they hold in great dread.” as told by Paul Kane. Mentioned as an aside in his collection of sketches of and conversations with Native Americans, Kane (1810-1871) “the wandering artist” made Marco Polo look lazy, traveling and painting Natives from the Niagara to the Columbia, and even capturing St. Helens during an active period in 1840. In Washington State alone, where a giant, hairy species has been sighted most often in America, there are no less than ten lakes and hills named Devil.
Deschutes County also has distinction in the search for Sasquatch (meaning “wild man” in Coast Salish Indian, and just one of over 60 terms for the creature) or Bigfoot (the over-simplified American calling, based on big feet found in Northern California). At Todd Lake in 1942, and Three Sisters Wilderness in the 1950s, two of the most important sightings of Sasquatch occurred – One of the earliest and most credible, as well as yet another dubious snapshot and story that continues to confound any serious study of the elusive creature.
As told, in 1942 Don Hunter and his wife were driving past Todd Lake when they saw a “tall figure” in a meadow. When they got out of the car, the figure walked away into the woods on two legs. Not a bear and not so remarkable, other than the fact that Hunter was believable, as the head of the University of Oregon’s Audio Visual Department. Both Hunters saw the figure walk on two legs, and both spoke out; Don later teamed-up with Rene Dahinden to write a book, Sasquatch/Bigfoot: The Hunt for North America’s Incredible Creature, published in 1973 then reissued in 1993.
What Zack Hamilton saw – and captured on film – only miles away in the Three Sisters Wilderness, is another matter entirely. He was supposedly stalked by a creature for a while, took a compelling picture of it, then dropped off the film to be developed – But never returned to pick it up. As the story goes, the photo developer saw the picture of Sasquatch first then shared it with others, which sparked speculation. Yet the question must be asked: If you were stalked by a giant creature and managed to take a picture of it – and survived! Wouldn’t you at least make sure you picked up the developed film?
One of the earliest credible sightings combined with another less so, Deschutes County continues to be a hotspot for Sasquatch sightings; only exceeded Clackamas and Josephine Counties, northwest and southwest. Mostly focused on Todd Lake (with Devils Lake and Hill nearby), Three Sisters, Lava Butte and Paulina Peak, east of La Pine, the frequency of sightings is rather remarkable – 1996 had three different (documented) sightings in these areas. Given the discomfort in coming forward, especially regarding an unknown creature and being associated with a rather frenetic breed of believers, innumerable other sightings go unreported. Meanwhile the most recent was in Warm Springs in 2005, with tracks and hairs found, which were later tested and shown to be bear.
Don’t expect any sightings in downtown Bend: For Sasquatch one must look west, north and south. Sightings decline in-line with the drop in rainfall, making the high desert unsuitable and the Cascades ideal. One-third of all Sasquatch sightings in America come from three states: California, Oregon and Washington – Once plotted on a map, they draw a straight line, north to south. A distinct path from British Columbia, through Washington’s Gifford Pinchot National Forest (and Skamania County – the only county in America to declare killing a Sasquatch a felony), over the Columbia River into the Mount Hood and Willamette National Forests, spreading throughout Mounts Jefferson and Washington and Three Sisters Wildernesses. The Deschutes National Forest is over 1.6 million acres, add to that Mt. Hood (1.067 million acres), Willamette (1.686), Umatilla (1.094) and Wallowa-Whitman National Forest (2.261), there are nearly eight million interconnected acres. Only the random road or trail to avoid, the Cascades offer a super-highway for the any creature, human or unknown.
One other natural anomaly makes our region ideal for the elusive: lava caves. Ever since Yeti sightings and stories emerged from the Himalayas, believers and pursuers have posited that the creature prefers mountaintops. However, such speculation hinders basic sustenance; what would a giant creature eat? In America at least, the answer may be huckleberries and the occasional animal for protein. Foraging for food and living in lava caves, the Cascades both sustain and hide myriad species.
Not for long, though. Sprawling developments and exurbs are trespassing on fragile ecosystems. Even in Skamania County, Washington, where the most Sasquatch sightings in America have been reported – tantalizingly grouped near Big Lava Bed, surrounded by Big and Little Huckleberry Mountains, and extending to Mounts Adams and St. Helens. General Moly Inc. has applied to commence mining operations twelve miles (as the crow flies) northeast of the Mount St. Helens crater, encompassing 900 acres running from the southern face of Goat Mountain to the headwaters of the Green River. Speculative and controversial, instead of the pursuing a standard prospecting agreement General Moly Inc. is seeking instead to lease the land and its contents for up to 20 years. If approved, the operation will be limited to core samples and drafting more definite proposals, which will have to again be approved by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) before any ore may be removed or new agreement reached.
“They’ve done their homework.” afforded Eric Hoffman, whose job at BLM in Portland is to accumulate and analyze the current public comment phase of the process. “In these neck of the woods we see very few hard-rock applications. From what we know about the deposit, it’s a result of hydro-thermal water activity from the crust and mantle – Basically the deposit is a big donut on the south face of Goat Mountain.”
When asked if the ongoing public comment period has raised any concerns about protecting the “big hairy creatures that may inhabit that area” (my words) Hoffman laughed, “Sasquatch? No, none. The majority of comments are about protecting the headwaters of the Green River.”
Interestingly, in addition to Zack Hamilton’s peculiar photo and story from Three Sisters, Mount St. Helens offers one of the earliest hoaxes. In 1924, near the lava tubes along the southeast side of Mount St. Helens, miners were attacked by “giant hairy apes” flinging rocks, forcing them to flee. Involving multiple witnesses, the story drew a firestorm of speculation and is often retold, giving the area the nickname “Ape Canyon” and making St. Helens a hotbed for sightings since. What is rarely retold is that several youths confessed to the attack a half-century later.
Sadly, second-hand stories, poorly translated/remembered Native lore, conspiracy theories, hoaxes and ancillary events (UFO sightings and abductions especially) make believing in Bigfoot akin to marrying into an inbred clan. The baggage is heavy - peers versus possible relations or competitors suspect - further complicated by the most famous Bigfoot hoax.
Not to waste more ink on this particular scam, but Roger Patterson’s supposed filming of a big, dark creature near Eureka in Northern California in 1967 was the spark that Bigfoot sightings needed. Similar to the spike in UFO sightings after the Roswell, New Mexico, incident, Americans suddenly knew what to look for – Or at least report. Multiple confessions (one deathbed) later, we now know who wore the (stolen) ape costume. Still, Bigfoot believers continue to point to Patterson’s few seconds of footage (shot on a stolen camera – see a trend?) as proof. For “the inside story” one need only skim "The Making of Bigfoot" by Greg Long to learn how malevolent (and profitable) Patterson’s hoax truly was.
Maybe more vexing is the reality that prior to Patterson’s footage there were hardly 200 documented sightings of a large, hairy creature in North America – with 120 of those in British Columbia – according to John A. Keel. Keel has made a career of documenting mysterious beings and events, typified by his best-selling book The Mothman Prophecies, which was recently made into a film starring Richard Gere. Predictably, since Patterson’s footage appeared the number of Sasquatch sightings has skyrocketed, with Anthropology Professor at Washington State University Grover Krantz estimating a quarter of a million “events.”
An AOL poll of a quarter-million Americans in 2005 found 60% believe in Bigfoot, which is just shy of a Gallup Poll showing three-quarters of Americans believing in some form of the paranormal, which is just shy of a Harris Poll showing 79% believe in God. To his credit, Krantz (who recently died) put his academic credentials and reputation on the line for science, positing that Sasquatch is actually a known animal, the great ape Gigantopithecus that went extinct in Asia some 300,000 years ago. No skeletons of Gigantopithecus have ever been found in the Americas, yet this lack of any evidence doesn’t deter believers.
Or Krantz; still, the professor’s devotion didn’t necessarily extend to fully believing in his fellow believers. In his book Big Footprints, Krantz categorized those who pursue the creature as follows: Hardcore Hunters; Novices; Tranquilizers; Recorders; Professionals. Five distinct groups, among which Krantz didn’t include himself as a scientist and scholar, perhaps because his academic standing took a thrashing due to his outspokenness on the subject. And, because scientists avoid Sasquatch, virtually anyone can become an “expert” – But, in addition to professors, the ones with the most to lose in pursuing Sasquatch are the professionals.
Consider this: The day a Bigfoot/Sasquatch/Giant Biped/Primate/Hominoid is trapped/shot/tranquilized/hit by a car or remains stumbled upon, the “professional” pursuer is out of business. It’s a lucrative business too; while hardcore hunters, novices, tranquilizers and recorders usually use their own money – or beg from others to fund their next expedition – professionals have made the unknown into an industry. Interestingly, of those quarter-million Americans polled by AOL (with 60% believing in Bigfoot) 88% thought Bigfoot scholars “should be fired.” Grover Krantz included, perhaps professionals deserve disrespect.
So what about those who experience sightings? “I have no reason to disbelieve her.” offered one local woman I met who shared a friend’s sighting story. A schoolbus driver in Medford, her friend slammed on the brakes one afternoon to avoid hitting a giant, hairy creature standing in the middle of the road. Hustling the kids back on the bus, she’ll never forget the experience – Yet told select few. Same with my friend Kelly; I trust her – and her dog Bob’s instincts – especially because she remembers the northern California sighting clearly but doesn’t jump into rants about Sasquatch and UFOs. She merely saw something she couldn’t fully explain.
Nor can I: The explosion in sightings or the Sasquatch industry that has emerged in tandem. Over the course of two weeks I’ve covered hundreds of miles and dozens of documented sightings, from Portland to La Pine, and I still don’t know what to think. Interestingly, after a bar patron told the story of a Bigfoot trying to break into his aunt’s house near Benton, I conferred with a friend and realized that I’d heard him simply retelling the tale but my friend heard him being dismissive. It didn’t help that the only eyewitness (as opposed to the standard second-hand) story we heard was from a stripper near Scappoose, who recalled her experience on stage, leaning over and fondling herself, saying, “It was north of Orlando --- I saw a UFO in ’96!”
I want to believe but knowledge always gets in the way. I recently completed my next book about mankind’s belief in giants over time, finding that overzealous humans invariably undermine serious study, and regularly destroy the very evidence that may prove their point. Native lore often hurts as much as it helps: Sasquatch is a paranormal being, capable of hypnotizing animals and humans (perhaps explaining why many with rifles aimed and ready can’t pull the trigger), disappearing when in danger and often stealing women for sex. Curiously, British Columbia Natives also tell of Dzonoqua (one of many names) the “wild woman” who steals babies. Whether warning tales to keep a family close or something else, it is critical that, unlike Europeans, Natives had no memory of primates. To them, Sasquatch isn’t a “giant ape” but rather a “wild man” – and depicted as such in drawings and stories.
Memories are strange like that. Kelly saw Sasquatch while her brother saw a homeless man in a heavy jacket; I heard a convincing tale while my friend heard a dismissive one. Add to that the tendency to blanket Sasquatch with idealized attributes – compassion, peacefulness, solitary survival – and you have a rather enviable entity. Yet few exhibit or add another attribute maybe more elusive than Sasquatch itself: Patience.
If you were a creature that has existed in parallel with man for hundreds of millennia, witnessing the devastation and war wrought by human hubris, wouldn’t you avoid us as well? Seeing your habitations slashed and burned for strip-malls and McMansions, pristine forests littered with beer cans and waste, wouldn’t you wait it out? Homo Sapiens have dominated Earth for only a few thousand years, hardly a second in the sweeping hand of time, yet murdering one another and razing the environment necessary for survival. Wouldn’t your best defense be patience? Eventually they’ll kill themselves off, leaving the Earth to those who remain, creatures large and small, known and unknown.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
One Year After Losing Norman Mailer, Coffee with John Buffalo
Appearing this week in The Brooklyn Daily Eagle is my meeting with John Buffalo Mailer.
John Buffalo Mailer: A Brooklyn Jew with Cowboys in Arkansas
by Brad Lockwood (edit@brooklyneagle.net), published online 11-14-2008
www.brooklyneagle.com/categories/category.php?category_id=27&id=24556
By Brad Lockwood
It’s always an unnerving moment: Waiting to meet someone for the first time, wondering if you’ll recognize each other, or annoy a complete stranger. But John Buffalo Mailer is unmistakable, crossing Court Street and offering a handshake outside Le Petit Cafe in Carroll Gardens. He needs a coffee; his girlfriend, Peri Lyons, performed her cabaret-style show “Famous in France” last night and it was a late one. So we take a seat inside and are soon talking like old friends.
Intentionally, my first question is about his one-year stint as editor of High Times magazine. “What I remember of it…” he replies with a laugh. And then the prodigious Mailer mind emerges, with that serious stare. “It’s an important brand name. When it started in ‘74, it was time for another revolutionary paper.”
Offering the unique history of High Times, John says how one of its founders, Richard Stratton, was arrested and federal officials made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: “Give us [Hunter S.] Thompson and [Norman] Mailer and you can walk...” Stratton did refuse, was sentenced to 25 years, and won parole after eight. In 2004, Stratton asked John Buffalo Mailer to serve as executive editor of High Times. The impact was immediate—the old stoner magazine took on a fresh new look and was attracting excellent writers. “When we took the helm it had become mostly a grower’s magazine, which is okay. But we wanted to bring it back to being a place where Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists could write the stories they wanted to with no corporate media restrictions.”
A Mailer leading the required reading for marijuana aficionados was both a publicity coup and controversial, and John is reflective of his experience. “My theory on why marijuana is still illegal is that it would make production of industrial hemp in the U.S. a certainty, and hemp is a direct competitor to timber, cotton and oil. You can run a diesel car on hemp oil.
It has always been those particular industries that have been the biggest advocates for keeping it down.” With a wry grin, he adds, “There was a perverse pleasure in knowing the Feds had a subscription, and that somewhere, each month, one or two agents were most likely earning their pay while reading our rag, keeping a loose eye out for un-American material.”
Of his father’s infamous early drug use, John gives rare insight into Norman Mailer, and why he later quit: “When your brain is so finely tuned, drugs effect you differently. One puff wasn’t worth losing three days of work to him.”
It has been a year since Norman Mailer died, and John Buffalo is his youngest child. His mother, Norris Church Mailer, generously opened her Brooklyn Heights home to us recently, and the extraordinary literary history of this one family continues despite the loss of the patriarch. Norris is an acclaimed novelist, now completing a memoir, and most of the Mailer children are involved in the arts. John Buffalo’s résumé includes acting, directing, editing, producing and, of course, writing.
“I got published when I was a senior in college in a humble but classy publication called The Reading Room. But it was huge to me,” he remembers, while also addressing how his famous surname has affected his career.
“I try to focus on the work and not think about that any more than is psychologically necessary for my balance of mind. I’m incredibly proud of the legacy I come from—he’s half of me and there is no one in the world I would trade fathers with. No one. But being Norman Mailer’s son also forces you to step it up if you want to try to make a career in the arts. Aside from raised expectations, some justified, others not, one is left with the feeling that to publish or perform a piece that is not at a certain level of artistic integrity would be doing a disservice to the legacy. My hope is that I am never placed in a position of having to put work out there that I do not believe is up to that level. So, in that way, it keeps you honest.”
Perhaps the greatest praise John received was from his father. “The first time he said I was good enough, I believed him. This was of course after he had ripped me a new one on several stories I had shown him leading up to this first one he liked.”
Over a half-century between father and son, John describes their time together as “almost a grandfather relationship, where I could talk to him about anything. There was no ego battle between us, as there often is between fathers and sons of closer generations. The only drawback was I didn’t have him around long enough. I was aware of his mortality from a young age. But truly, no matter how long he lived, none of us could ever have gotten enough of him.”
Norman and John Buffalo Mailer co-authored the novel The Big Empty, released in 2005, and the response from critics was predictable. Anything written by Norman Mailer receives either critical praise or scorn, but some critics seemed to hope for a falling out between the father and son—speculation that John found rather surreal. “With The Big Empty people were looking for a fight that just wasn’t there. That book was my attempt to make his thoughts accessible to our generation. I like to think that, at least in some places, we managed to pull that off.”
Noting the strange mix of characters his father surrounded himself with, growing up around literary elites and convicted criminals, John is equally at ease with his father’s New York and his mother’s rural roots. John Buffalo Mailer exudes a wise modesty well beyond his thirty years. “I know people in all places. I’m a Brooklyn Jew with cowboy roots in Arkansas. I take a decent amount of pride in the feeling that there is not a bar in this country that I couldn’t feel comfortable in.”
Him mentioning Arkansas is to honor the influence of his mother, especially when speaking of growing up as a Mailer. “It was pretty groovy. I had a utopian childhood. My dad was 55 when I was born and ready to settle down—settling down for Norman Mailer, at least. I had eight older brothers and sisters, and I’d say we’re probably the closest family I know. And the credit goes entirely to my mom.”
On the subject of Brooklyn now being touted as the Mecca for writers, he nods approvingly and says, “Brooklyn, there’s an extraordinary tradition for writers here. A certain ‘Fuggetaboutit!’ attitude that allows us to write tough, ballsy stuff while maintaining a certain level of sweetness and understanding. A lot of the writers who come from Brooklyn are sensitive tough guys.”
Former editor of High Times, and presently a contributing editor for Stop Smiling magazine, as well as the newly launched Tar magazine—in addition to being a playwright, actor, producer and screenwriter—John Buffalo Mailer’s range may be his hallmark. “I love screenwriting. It’s the easiest form of writing. I love the mode, but to get a movie made with something to say isn’t automatic these days… I feel like movies are the last venue where you can still hold an audience’s attention for two hours.”
He’s well grounded yet experimental, and recalls his father’s foundation in literature yet fickle interest in Hollywood and other arts. “He hit it at 25 and was looking for ways to be anything but a writer. He would say he had a guardian angel watching over him, to make sure whatever else he did failed, to remind him, ‘Look, dummy, you’re here to write novels!’”
In addition to his screenplay, and wanting to “write a play that my buddies from Coney Island and top theatre critics can enjoy together,” John also has an article in the latest edition of Playboy. “New Orleans through the eyes of strippers” is how he describes it, and an attempt to take a different look at the city.
“It’s a favorable portrait; the city is 80 percent back—the media has given a very negative view, as if you step off the plane and are greeted with gun shots. It’s just not like that.” When asked why he’s focusing on strippers for his article, John explains, “Well, it is Playboy for one. And, when I was down there, I found the girls and other people in the service industry were the ones who understood the hurting and trying to rebuild they’re the real residents. It’s a fascinating lens: How are the locals doing? I use the term ‘strippers’ loosely; it’s the bartenders and service workers. New Orleans, if we let that city die, I’m really concerned for the soul of our country.”
Of his many titles, there’s one that he doesn’t mention—and why our waitress has been so attentive. In 2002 People Magazine named John Buffalo Mailer one of the “Sexiest Men Alive.” He blushed a bit when I brought it up, then described his reaction: “When it was coming out I was 24 and drove across the country to cash in on it.” He was heading to Hollywood, suddenly one of the “Sexiest Men Alive” with several acting auditions scheduled.
And then tragedy almost struck. A truck driver fell asleep, a car swerved to avoid him, a frantic moment behind the wheel, and John was spinning around the road narrowly dodging each of the oncoming cars as his vehicle skidded to the other side of the highway. As he describes it, “miraculously, a 15-car pile up didn’t happen that morning, and I don’t use that word lightly.” Shaken, he nearly turned back, but decided to continue. “I was in the middle of the country and friends were calling me on the east and west coasts telling me their reactions to seeing my picture in People—But I hadn’t seen it yet! I finally got to Needles, Calif., and bought three copies. As the cashier was ringing me up, she asked me, ‘Who do you know in here?’ Then her son, who was bagging my groceries, opened the magazine, looked at me, then read out loud, ‘John Buffalo Mailer.’ And I thought to myself, ‘Sh*t, man! I made it!’”
With a light laugh, he then admits those initial Hollywood auditions didn’t work out. When his mother was diagnosed with her second round of cancer, he took the job at High Times, and moved back to Brooklyn.
Somewhere, a guardian angel is watching as John Buffalo Mailer and I leave each other, as he heads home, back to work, to write.
John Buffalo Mailer: A Brooklyn Jew with Cowboys in Arkansas
by Brad Lockwood (edit@brooklyneagle.net), published online 11-14-2008
www.brooklyneagle.com/categories/category.php?category_id=27&id=24556
By Brad Lockwood
It’s always an unnerving moment: Waiting to meet someone for the first time, wondering if you’ll recognize each other, or annoy a complete stranger. But John Buffalo Mailer is unmistakable, crossing Court Street and offering a handshake outside Le Petit Cafe in Carroll Gardens. He needs a coffee; his girlfriend, Peri Lyons, performed her cabaret-style show “Famous in France” last night and it was a late one. So we take a seat inside and are soon talking like old friends.
Intentionally, my first question is about his one-year stint as editor of High Times magazine. “What I remember of it…” he replies with a laugh. And then the prodigious Mailer mind emerges, with that serious stare. “It’s an important brand name. When it started in ‘74, it was time for another revolutionary paper.”
Offering the unique history of High Times, John says how one of its founders, Richard Stratton, was arrested and federal officials made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: “Give us [Hunter S.] Thompson and [Norman] Mailer and you can walk...” Stratton did refuse, was sentenced to 25 years, and won parole after eight. In 2004, Stratton asked John Buffalo Mailer to serve as executive editor of High Times. The impact was immediate—the old stoner magazine took on a fresh new look and was attracting excellent writers. “When we took the helm it had become mostly a grower’s magazine, which is okay. But we wanted to bring it back to being a place where Pulitzer Prize-winning journalists could write the stories they wanted to with no corporate media restrictions.”
A Mailer leading the required reading for marijuana aficionados was both a publicity coup and controversial, and John is reflective of his experience. “My theory on why marijuana is still illegal is that it would make production of industrial hemp in the U.S. a certainty, and hemp is a direct competitor to timber, cotton and oil. You can run a diesel car on hemp oil.
It has always been those particular industries that have been the biggest advocates for keeping it down.” With a wry grin, he adds, “There was a perverse pleasure in knowing the Feds had a subscription, and that somewhere, each month, one or two agents were most likely earning their pay while reading our rag, keeping a loose eye out for un-American material.”
Of his father’s infamous early drug use, John gives rare insight into Norman Mailer, and why he later quit: “When your brain is so finely tuned, drugs effect you differently. One puff wasn’t worth losing three days of work to him.”
It has been a year since Norman Mailer died, and John Buffalo is his youngest child. His mother, Norris Church Mailer, generously opened her Brooklyn Heights home to us recently, and the extraordinary literary history of this one family continues despite the loss of the patriarch. Norris is an acclaimed novelist, now completing a memoir, and most of the Mailer children are involved in the arts. John Buffalo’s résumé includes acting, directing, editing, producing and, of course, writing.
“I got published when I was a senior in college in a humble but classy publication called The Reading Room. But it was huge to me,” he remembers, while also addressing how his famous surname has affected his career.
“I try to focus on the work and not think about that any more than is psychologically necessary for my balance of mind. I’m incredibly proud of the legacy I come from—he’s half of me and there is no one in the world I would trade fathers with. No one. But being Norman Mailer’s son also forces you to step it up if you want to try to make a career in the arts. Aside from raised expectations, some justified, others not, one is left with the feeling that to publish or perform a piece that is not at a certain level of artistic integrity would be doing a disservice to the legacy. My hope is that I am never placed in a position of having to put work out there that I do not believe is up to that level. So, in that way, it keeps you honest.”
Perhaps the greatest praise John received was from his father. “The first time he said I was good enough, I believed him. This was of course after he had ripped me a new one on several stories I had shown him leading up to this first one he liked.”
Over a half-century between father and son, John describes their time together as “almost a grandfather relationship, where I could talk to him about anything. There was no ego battle between us, as there often is between fathers and sons of closer generations. The only drawback was I didn’t have him around long enough. I was aware of his mortality from a young age. But truly, no matter how long he lived, none of us could ever have gotten enough of him.”
Norman and John Buffalo Mailer co-authored the novel The Big Empty, released in 2005, and the response from critics was predictable. Anything written by Norman Mailer receives either critical praise or scorn, but some critics seemed to hope for a falling out between the father and son—speculation that John found rather surreal. “With The Big Empty people were looking for a fight that just wasn’t there. That book was my attempt to make his thoughts accessible to our generation. I like to think that, at least in some places, we managed to pull that off.”
Noting the strange mix of characters his father surrounded himself with, growing up around literary elites and convicted criminals, John is equally at ease with his father’s New York and his mother’s rural roots. John Buffalo Mailer exudes a wise modesty well beyond his thirty years. “I know people in all places. I’m a Brooklyn Jew with cowboy roots in Arkansas. I take a decent amount of pride in the feeling that there is not a bar in this country that I couldn’t feel comfortable in.”
Him mentioning Arkansas is to honor the influence of his mother, especially when speaking of growing up as a Mailer. “It was pretty groovy. I had a utopian childhood. My dad was 55 when I was born and ready to settle down—settling down for Norman Mailer, at least. I had eight older brothers and sisters, and I’d say we’re probably the closest family I know. And the credit goes entirely to my mom.”
On the subject of Brooklyn now being touted as the Mecca for writers, he nods approvingly and says, “Brooklyn, there’s an extraordinary tradition for writers here. A certain ‘Fuggetaboutit!’ attitude that allows us to write tough, ballsy stuff while maintaining a certain level of sweetness and understanding. A lot of the writers who come from Brooklyn are sensitive tough guys.”
Former editor of High Times, and presently a contributing editor for Stop Smiling magazine, as well as the newly launched Tar magazine—in addition to being a playwright, actor, producer and screenwriter—John Buffalo Mailer’s range may be his hallmark. “I love screenwriting. It’s the easiest form of writing. I love the mode, but to get a movie made with something to say isn’t automatic these days… I feel like movies are the last venue where you can still hold an audience’s attention for two hours.”
He’s well grounded yet experimental, and recalls his father’s foundation in literature yet fickle interest in Hollywood and other arts. “He hit it at 25 and was looking for ways to be anything but a writer. He would say he had a guardian angel watching over him, to make sure whatever else he did failed, to remind him, ‘Look, dummy, you’re here to write novels!’”
In addition to his screenplay, and wanting to “write a play that my buddies from Coney Island and top theatre critics can enjoy together,” John also has an article in the latest edition of Playboy. “New Orleans through the eyes of strippers” is how he describes it, and an attempt to take a different look at the city.
“It’s a favorable portrait; the city is 80 percent back—the media has given a very negative view, as if you step off the plane and are greeted with gun shots. It’s just not like that.” When asked why he’s focusing on strippers for his article, John explains, “Well, it is Playboy for one. And, when I was down there, I found the girls and other people in the service industry were the ones who understood the hurting and trying to rebuild they’re the real residents. It’s a fascinating lens: How are the locals doing? I use the term ‘strippers’ loosely; it’s the bartenders and service workers. New Orleans, if we let that city die, I’m really concerned for the soul of our country.”
Of his many titles, there’s one that he doesn’t mention—and why our waitress has been so attentive. In 2002 People Magazine named John Buffalo Mailer one of the “Sexiest Men Alive.” He blushed a bit when I brought it up, then described his reaction: “When it was coming out I was 24 and drove across the country to cash in on it.” He was heading to Hollywood, suddenly one of the “Sexiest Men Alive” with several acting auditions scheduled.
And then tragedy almost struck. A truck driver fell asleep, a car swerved to avoid him, a frantic moment behind the wheel, and John was spinning around the road narrowly dodging each of the oncoming cars as his vehicle skidded to the other side of the highway. As he describes it, “miraculously, a 15-car pile up didn’t happen that morning, and I don’t use that word lightly.” Shaken, he nearly turned back, but decided to continue. “I was in the middle of the country and friends were calling me on the east and west coasts telling me their reactions to seeing my picture in People—But I hadn’t seen it yet! I finally got to Needles, Calif., and bought three copies. As the cashier was ringing me up, she asked me, ‘Who do you know in here?’ Then her son, who was bagging my groceries, opened the magazine, looked at me, then read out loud, ‘John Buffalo Mailer.’ And I thought to myself, ‘Sh*t, man! I made it!’”
With a light laugh, he then admits those initial Hollywood auditions didn’t work out. When his mother was diagnosed with her second round of cancer, he took the job at High Times, and moved back to Brooklyn.
Somewhere, a guardian angel is watching as John Buffalo Mailer and I leave each other, as he heads home, back to work, to write.
Live From the Scene of the Crime
The bodies cover sidewalks; skulls crushed like post-Halloween pumpkins on concrete. The carnage is complete. Brooks Brothers suits soiled, orphaned Gucci loafers lay beside splayed feet – one sock has a hole at the heel, a sight as disturbing as today’s Dow Jones ticker.
We don’t know if they are Wall Street traders or Republicans, later autopsies and DNA testing for coke and STDs will confirm that much, but the mass suicides in New York this week have made distraught souls falling forty stories commonplace.
“Look. There’s another...” I said to the bum beside me, too numb by now to raise my voice.
“That’s Al from Derivatives.” the bum replied, “Yep, I know those triple-chins...”
Informing that he’s a former Lehman Brothers accountant the bum rifled pockets, “Al loved pastrami. See the mustard stains on his shirt?” I snatched his wallet, an AMEX and teens, no pictures of any wife. “I wonder if they’ve found his kiddie-porn yet...”
The economy of New York City is failing so rapidly that novelist Candace Bushnell may have to create a new character: Impoverished Panache. A sequel to “Sex in the City” has been announced yet its creator is suddenly speaking to her servants, asking pedestrians where this “subway-thingy” may be found.
“East Coast Elite” are frantically trying to make under $250K, to spare ourselves the taxes Obama promises. It isn’t easy; if you know anyone who needs money, please send them to New York. It’s a helluva deal: Rent at least a grand per hundred square feet, and the “recession special” at Gray’s Papaya for two hotdogs and a juice drink recently raised to $4.45. A pack of smokes is $9.67 and a movie $11.50; the steep expense of this city surely ensures everyone vast riches. Get here quick!
It’s so bad that Mayor Michael Bloomberg decreed a third term essential for our shared survival. Ignoring the fact that two separate voter referendums made two terms the limit (even “America’s Mayor” Rudy G. didn’t get an extension after 9-11) billionaire Bloomberg and the City Council have ensured themselves employment throughout this recession. “Freedom of choice” was their mantra while selling what Russia’s Vladimir Putin didn’t dare attempt.
I love New York. The way tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk and gape upward, blocking busy locals, encouraging muggings and murder. Bodega cashiers charge for cigarettes and booze based on mood. The fall foliage and smell of urine mix and make us sentimental, wondering where else we can see a B-list star then step over a corpse on the same block. Lindsay Lohan and her butch are regularly seen on the 4-train. Uma Thurman lives across from me in Greenwich Village. But don’t approach her or even look too long; she had a stalker so her entourage includes five bodyguards – Three for her and two to keep her ex Ethan Hawke away. We are all grateful.
Gun sales are up 40% in 2008 nationwide but illegal in Gotham. So we’re sharpening sticks and carrying stones in case of attack from despondent Republicans and unemployed lobbyists. Red Bull and a half-cup of extra virgin olive oil make a fine ad hoc incendiary. Understanding that "small town America" has few minorities (because they are now the minority), this is how a conversation between different races goes in New York:
“I’m African-American.”
“No you aren’t. Fool! You’re from Jersey and late for a bar mitzvah.”
“So! Obama’s African-American!”
“True. His mother was from Kansas. His daddy hit that Jayhawk yum-yum, saw he made a son, said ‘See ya! I’ll be in Kenya...’”
“Don’t talk about our president-elect like that!”
“Sorry. Have fun at the bar mitzvah...”
“Shalom.”
We don’t know if they are Wall Street traders or Republicans, later autopsies and DNA testing for coke and STDs will confirm that much, but the mass suicides in New York this week have made distraught souls falling forty stories commonplace.
“Look. There’s another...” I said to the bum beside me, too numb by now to raise my voice.
“That’s Al from Derivatives.” the bum replied, “Yep, I know those triple-chins...”
Informing that he’s a former Lehman Brothers accountant the bum rifled pockets, “Al loved pastrami. See the mustard stains on his shirt?” I snatched his wallet, an AMEX and teens, no pictures of any wife. “I wonder if they’ve found his kiddie-porn yet...”
The economy of New York City is failing so rapidly that novelist Candace Bushnell may have to create a new character: Impoverished Panache. A sequel to “Sex in the City” has been announced yet its creator is suddenly speaking to her servants, asking pedestrians where this “subway-thingy” may be found.
“East Coast Elite” are frantically trying to make under $250K, to spare ourselves the taxes Obama promises. It isn’t easy; if you know anyone who needs money, please send them to New York. It’s a helluva deal: Rent at least a grand per hundred square feet, and the “recession special” at Gray’s Papaya for two hotdogs and a juice drink recently raised to $4.45. A pack of smokes is $9.67 and a movie $11.50; the steep expense of this city surely ensures everyone vast riches. Get here quick!
It’s so bad that Mayor Michael Bloomberg decreed a third term essential for our shared survival. Ignoring the fact that two separate voter referendums made two terms the limit (even “America’s Mayor” Rudy G. didn’t get an extension after 9-11) billionaire Bloomberg and the City Council have ensured themselves employment throughout this recession. “Freedom of choice” was their mantra while selling what Russia’s Vladimir Putin didn’t dare attempt.
I love New York. The way tourists stop in the middle of the sidewalk and gape upward, blocking busy locals, encouraging muggings and murder. Bodega cashiers charge for cigarettes and booze based on mood. The fall foliage and smell of urine mix and make us sentimental, wondering where else we can see a B-list star then step over a corpse on the same block. Lindsay Lohan and her butch are regularly seen on the 4-train. Uma Thurman lives across from me in Greenwich Village. But don’t approach her or even look too long; she had a stalker so her entourage includes five bodyguards – Three for her and two to keep her ex Ethan Hawke away. We are all grateful.
Gun sales are up 40% in 2008 nationwide but illegal in Gotham. So we’re sharpening sticks and carrying stones in case of attack from despondent Republicans and unemployed lobbyists. Red Bull and a half-cup of extra virgin olive oil make a fine ad hoc incendiary. Understanding that "small town America" has few minorities (because they are now the minority), this is how a conversation between different races goes in New York:
“I’m African-American.”
“No you aren’t. Fool! You’re from Jersey and late for a bar mitzvah.”
“So! Obama’s African-American!”
“True. His mother was from Kansas. His daddy hit that Jayhawk yum-yum, saw he made a son, said ‘See ya! I’ll be in Kenya...’”
“Don’t talk about our president-elect like that!”
“Sorry. Have fun at the bar mitzvah...”
“Shalom.”
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