Piet Dogfael was born in the smallish river valley of New Hobbes. His mother, regardless of what his father had told him so many times, was not a whore. She was a seamstress, an adept seamstress, who perished when Piet was fourteen years old. Natalie Dogfael was tending to a dress of a cobblers wife. This particular cobbler, Jonathan Temper, was working in his back room when Natalie approached him, informing him that she had finished his wife’s dress. When she entered, the smash of the cobbler’s hammer popped the heel of a leather boot he was attending to, sending a shoe tack through the smokey air, piercing Natalies right eye ball. Distraught, struck with a hot pain in her eye cavity, she stumbled backwards and tripped over Jonathan Temper’s unfinished shoe pile and fell with gravity onto the cobbler’s wooden anvil. Natalie Dogfael cracked her skull and bled to death on the cobbler’s stone floor.

Piet’s father, whose name was never uttered from his son’s lips, suspected infidelities and presumed for no reason, that his wife was relating with the cobbler. He was certain that his wife did not in fact fall to her death, but rather that she was murdered by Jonathan Temper. As odd as the circumstances surrounding Natalie’s death were, no one suspected foul play other than one man, Piet Dogfael’s father. Unwavering as his stubborness was, Piet’s father took a walk to the cobbler’s home and with no hesitation or pulling from his conscience, killed Jonathan Temper with the man’s own cobbling hammer. Piet’s father was arrested and executed as was the procedure and at fourteen years of age, Piet was left an orphan.

Piet was now growing into middle age and had moved into 1017 Truet Street so he could be in closer proximity to his new place of employment: Truet Hills Cemetery. Piet had made a name for himself as an undertaker; he was trustworthy, punctual and of pleasant temperment. He had tried his hand at many trades. In seven years, Piet had attempted and failed  as a butcher, a salesman, street sweeper, and somewhat ironically, as a cobbler. But it was as a hand to the dead that Piet found his stroke and had loved this profession as he had the good Book. Piet’s life was not one of a wandering existence and he bickered with no one but himself.

Piet had met and fallen quite in love with a young women by the name of Lu and they had come to be engaged. Piet could not come to think of anyone or anything that he had ever loved more than he loved Lu, even his job, which he had loved with a particular queerness that no one truly understood but Piet. Piet and Lu had spent twenty one months in love and as lovers and it was fourteen days until the two were to be wed. Lu Ellen Struts died suddenly with no foresight into her illness. It so happens that Lu suffered from an ailment of the humours and neither her nor Piet could had ever known that it would ultimately kill her.

The graceful head in charge of Piet had pardoned the man from having to bury his own fiance but Piet declined this pardon and insisted on performing the task himself. Piet could not imagine any other set of hands placed on his beloved Lu, no, it had to be him. Something else about this opportunity pulled at him about the ribs, as if something was digging through him, like he did everyday through the earth beneath his boots, but unlike him, who dug only to get to the sixth foot, this undescribable something dug through his body to get at his heart. But what this thing, whatever it was, did not know, was that the treasure it sought had become untraceable as it would soon lay in the ground next to his beautiful, his lasting, his irreplaceable Lu.

Piet buried his fiance that evening at midnight and he could only tell her he loved her as he crawled six feet low into the plot he had just dug with such care, flipped her gently from his shoulder and laid her softly into the pine that rested snugly in the hole. Piet fit her well in her new terrestial home and kissed her blue lips, wept for only a minute, and nailed the top down over her…but then he paused and all together ceased his hammering and reversed his actions, removing the seven nails he had already driven into the pine and turned the top on its side and slid in next to the woman he loved so much and slept next to her for one more night, six feet beneath the top soil in the open coffin under the midnight’s humid canvas until the sun crept up over the flatline, awakening Piet with a jolt and for a moment he had forgotten where he was as he nudged Lu to wake her from the deep sleep he had thought she had been overwrought with. But, to Piet’s familiar and stifling dissapointment, Lu would not wake from her sleep that morning, nor any morning there after.

Thirteen days later, after the family had mourned, Piet crept into the Truet Hills Cemetery at three in the morning on a Sunday and resurrected his would-be wife from the ground and carried her through the field of headstones and while holding her as dear as he could grasp, Piet ran into Man Risk, an officer whose sole purpose it was to apprehend the stealers of the dead. Piet was apprehended and held in jail. The next morning all charges were dropped by Piet’s handler, Thomas Howard. Thomas Howard however, could not let Piet keep the profession that he cared for so dearly and Piet was told to leave the grounds. In twenty four hours, Piet lost the only two things he had ever loved more than his mother: his beloved Lu and his beloved cemetery - and this, this is how Piet Dogfael fell into the lap of stealing the dead.

A remarkably materialistic communist who adores Leninism, yet cannot live without his Macintosh Laptop and every secondary piece of electronic gadgetry that is associated with it.

Seated uncomfortably, but as comfortable as is possible in this cold leather drivers seat, where no amount of body heat can warm it, he shifts his lower back, hoping to position his ass in a place that doesn’t eventually send pain from the lowest point of his spine to his scapulas and eventually - as has happened every night for the last four nights - deep into his neck. Sleeping in his car, even after only two weeks, has become tiresome and irritating - so much so that he cannot imagine what it must feel like to be always without home, as his condition was only temporary, he hoped. Having awareness of his present situation, he thinks of what feels like an endless stint in hobo-hood and becomes absolutely overwrought with a fury so intense that he is unable to enjoy the heat this thermal emotion has ignited in his numb body. His rage remains but is now accompanied by a distilled disapointment that he feels within himself. Here he sits - cold and without home, but not perishing due to the insulation, however thin it may be , of the steel frame and aluminum doors of the truck. How weak he feels, how utterly cowardly he thinks he is. Pity creeps in; survivng, perhaps even thriving in the cold rag doll he has become… yes, be sad he says outloud. Pretend you are weaker than you actually are. He agrees with himself that he does, in fact, lack the strength to realize that he will be o.k., someday. You will be just fine… No, you won’t.

As his ability to stay awake is retarded do to his discomfort coupled with the dropping temperature, his brain fires; an activity ignited by either the 19 degree temperature or the battling manic emotions fighting for their rightful place as the king of the mountain. Whatever the explanation, his synapses fire and he remembers something spoken to him in German, but only in English does it spill out gently from the far reaches of his brain, down the back of his throat, sprawling out, reaching outwards for his tongue; straining to release itself phonetically. His mouth opens but there is no sound. Instead, he must read his lips in the rear-view mirror: True greatness only comes with self-mastery.

He reads his lips again; blinks, seeing the words for a second time, reflected in the black drapery of his eyelids. He blinks once more, then closes his eyes for good. He would not achieve true greatness this night.

A breed of hobos who take advantage of the open door policy of public libraries by arriving at different times of the day and going to the periodicals wing to test out all the newspapers, surveying each and every publication for warmth and over-all body coverage.

INTRODUCTION

It is late at night in a shivery cold when this tale begins. September contributes with its bruising late evening winds and inexplicable dampness. It’s the end of the month, close to the first day of October, but Piet Dogfael had been sipping wet hens for a little over three hours at his favorite tavern, “The Pounce House” and could not think of, nor care to remember the very date as he paced in front of the rock laden courtyard; making sure to follow the shadows, using them to conceal his presence as he waited for his dear cousin and business partner who was more than a tad late. The sun had not yet set when Piet Dogfael arrived at the rusty arch of the St. Gloucester grave yard but by this time the sun had long ago fallen behind the Northern Hills and Piet had grown impatient with his cousin’s truancy. More than anything at this moment, Piet wishes to smoke the tobacco from the leather pouch that rests at his hip but resists the urge as he does not want to reveal his presence in any way and the smell of the Cavendish would certainly do just that. Piet cannot go the task alone and he cannot just up and leave, after all, there were ninety schillings waiting for him at the abode of the meditician who had hired he and his cousin, who was now even more truant then when this story began.

“Curse you, Humfrids!” Piet scream whispers as his visible breathe escapes his mouth and carries the malediction through the chilling autumn air.

“PIET!” A hushed yell reaches Piet’s ear.

“Humfrids… Humfrids, I am over here, cousin.” Piet’s cousin, Humfrids Bowler had finally arrived. He was seventy-three minutes late.

Piet decided not to give Humfrids a tongue lashing, enough time had already been wasted and the later it became the closer Man Risk came to entrap them in their criminality.

Piet informs Humfrids that it is already one and a half past midnight and that they must hurry. Humfrids agrees, apologizes again and they head to their hiding spot. Twenty-four hours earlier, the two of them met about a quarter kilometers from where they were standing and buried their items: two shovels, a large burlap sack, salt, protective dried figs and flower petals they had purchased from a witch and a loaf of bread in case their job took longer than they had figured earlier that day over sweet breads and lagers. The two young men had a difficult task ahead of them. It had rained and sleeted all day long before their present arrival, the sleet and the temperature from the four days earlier had made for stiff ground - if it had been six weeks previous, they’re task would have been much easier, but, because of the conditions just mentioned it would be a task not simply performed. Piet and Humfrids dig out their tools and duck under the archway on the East end of the grave yard. Their strongbox lay in the back grounds. The cemetery was very old and the dead ivory grew long and unkempt like the grey beard on the face of a centurion who was no longer able to groom himself. In the older cemeteries the newly deceased were placed in the ground nearest to the back. It was here that Charles Trumpet had been buried eight hours earlier.

The two men remove their shovels swiftly and begin to dig; they were both very apt at this task and moved around the plot effortlessly, almost gracefully. Their arms were long and they were both in true health minus the drinking and their frequent tobacco usage. Humfrids reaches the pine box first with his shovel, Mr. Trumpet had only been buried three feet down – it seemed the digger must have been alone that day, no one to watch him finish the required three feet that were not dug. The cousins could open a grave, remove a body and restore the soil between patrols of the night watch. The restoration of the plot was essential so relatives of the subject could mourn by the grave the following day, unaware that their loved one was gracing some anatomy slab in Abernathy. Piet places his hand on his cousins shoulder, “Humfrids, remember not to bend at your waist when you’re pulling up Mr. Trumpet. You must hoist with your knees, we missed three jobs from your back strain last time.” Humfrids stares back, “You, don’t lift with your back, pitchant.” Piet whispers to Humfrids that “pitchant” is not an actual slur and reminded him of how stupid he thought he was.

Charles Trumpet had retained his color and the make-up was not too excessive. He had a sly smile on his face that ignited a spark in Piet’s thought, the smile proposed that perhaps death was an occassion worth smiling for. Charles Trumpet was an alchemist and a well-liked one, so much so that if his body was to be discovered missing it was certain that more than one person would be upset. “Time, Humfrids.” Humfrids removes his pocket watch from his breast coat, clicks it open, “We have eight minutes less or more.” Piet and Humfrids pick up Mr. Trumpet and hoist him out of the pine box that had become his ephemeral resting vessel and up, out of the plot. They placed him gently outside, bringing him back out of the ground as they returned him to the human side of the earth, all the while making sure not to bruise the man’s person. The soil is put back and they carry the burlap bag out through the back of the cemetery they had been in so many times before, twenty yards from where they entered, making certain not to go out the front as to avoid the night watch. With almost three whole minutes to spare, they re-buried their tools and carried the body of Mr. Charles Trumpet to a house in Edinburgh.

Grabber always worked alone, except when he didn’t. Samir Gadott was 97% ex-Republican Guard and 100% vigilante. He left Kuwait in 1999 at the turn of the century to escape prosecution. He was wrongfully accused of raping and sharking a Korean female police guard stationed in Iraq. To this day he claims his innocence, and, afterall, Jack Grabber was the only one with the exonerating evidence, he just didn’t know it yet. This shiticane of torrid happenstances and habidashery created an almost unholy alliance between the two. One: a full-blooded American patriot and ex-Army Ranger with all the trimmings; the other: a full-blooded expatriate on the wrong side of the hemisphere with a penchant for trouble and urinating outdoors. Together: the ultimate odd couple.

An expression midway between anxiety and pleasure played on Samir Gadott’s lips. Grabber glanced at him then looked away. What are you thinking about? He asked. Gadott snapped back to attention. Said he was thinking about that rape charge that still loomed over his head from his Republican Guard days back in Kuwait. Said he was innocent, that it was entirely consensual. He said that a lot. Grabber just looked at him for a moment and replied that he hadn’t asked. And it was true; the truth didn’t matter much to Grabber. You don’t worry about a woman’s momentary discomfort when you’ve seen men get split in half with rocket propelled grenades right in front of your eyes. Hell, you don’t worry about their discomfort when you have split men in half with your own damn hands right in front of your own damn eyes. And plus, their tight military outfits… Grabber let his thoughts trail off and glanced back at Gadott who was lost in thought again, gently thrusting his hips back and forth and making panting noises. Grabber wondered what he was thinking about.

Besides his role as trainer Frankie Dunn, Clint Eastwood also wished to play the character of female boxer Maggie Fitzgerald in Million Dollar Baby. However, he was told “no” by the studio because his breasts were too big.

Clint Eastwood’s academy award winning movie Million Dollar Baby didn’t always focus on boxing. In fact, the original script was turned down by Warner Bros. as it was a detailed account of a week-long period in 1996 when Mr. Eastwood attempted to sell his newborn baby for a million dollars.

In 1978’s non-academy award winning movie Every Which Way But Loose, Clint Eastwood plays the caretaker of a fist fighting orangutan. The two divorced in 1980.

A little known bit of Eastwood trivia is that the first two raisins were created by Dole Foods at the behest of Paramount studios. The reason? Mr. Eastwood was bashful about showing his craggy, old, and shrivelled balls during a scheduled nude scene and the studio needed something that would look just like them on film.

Clint Eastwood was elected mayor of “Carmel-by-the-Sea” in California. However, Mr. Eastwood immediately absconded when he arrived to take office and discovered that it was not in fact a town but a gay water park.

Clint Eastwood’s favorite drink is from the oldest bottle of scotch known to man: a Glenfiddich Rare Collection from 1937 (a 71 year old Scotch!). The bottle is forty-three years younger than he is.

Numerous shots of Clint Eastwood astride horses in his films have misled viewers into thinking that the actor himself is an avid rider. Rather it was just a ploy many of his producers used to cover up his bow-legged gait after long nights spent “jammin’ with the extras.”

Clint Eastwood is an enormous fan of golf…because he is truly, truly old.

In a recent interview, Clint Eastwood was asked of which of his award winning films he was most proud. Mr. Eastwood responded, “the smash hit, Reindeer Games.” When the interviewer reminded Mr. Eastwood that he did not direct Reindeer Games, Mr. Eastwood mumbled, “carrots” and pooped his pants.

Fellow film director Spike Lee and Clint Eastwood were involved in a feud over the lack of African American soldiers in Mr. Eastwood’s WWII epic, Flags of Our Fathers. Mr. Eastwood has told Mr. Lee to “shut his face” and Lee has accused Eastwood of reliving his “Dirty Harry days.” The spat seemed to end abruptly when Mr. Eastwood said, “I don’t see how anyone could vote for this character over John McCain.”

The Lowbrow Sopisticates have 72 years of writing experience between the lot of them. Each one born in a different part of the country, each one bringing their own unique style to the world of writing. Here we have an on-going series of interviews; with the LBS themselves and some of them conducted with the influentially famous, with the LBS asking the questions. So without any further ado, ladies and gentlemen - d.r. monroe of the Lowbrow Sophisticates:

INTERVIEWER
Mr. Sophisticate, you were saying a while ago that you don’t like interviews.

d.r. monroe:
The reason I don’t like interviews is that I seem to react violently to personal questions. You chuckle, but seriously, the mere thought of personal questions sends me into a violent rage. Hence, the drinking. On the other hand, if you were to ask me questions about, lets say, writing in general or my colleagues here at LBS, you would receive an entirely different reaction; one not so rage-filled.

INTERVIEWER
How about yourself as a writer?

d.r. monroe:
What did I just fucking say!? I’ll answer this in this way: Look, Do I have anything new to say? I don’t think so. If it wasn’t me writing about what I write about it would be someone else doing it. Shakespeare, Hemingway, Childs, Grisham have all written about the same thing. So, “myself as a writer” is a moot point.

INTERVIEWER
But even if there seems nothing more to be said, isn’t perhaps the individuality of the writer important?

d.r. monroe:
Now that… that’s a good question. It’s well known that individuality is stupid. Just kidding. If you look at the individuality of a personality versus the individuality of a writing persona, you could be dealing with two fundamentally different entities. I know a couple of HUGE douche bags, they literally have the worst personalities I have ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with, however, they can write like the wind. So, as an individual per se, they blow ass, but as a writer? They blow less ass.

INTERVIEWER
And your contemporaries?

d.r. monroe:
I try not to focus on our contemporaries, and there are a handful of good ones. I think as a writer or a novelist who hasn’t ever sold one of his novels (in my case), I can only focus on myself. I must write for myself, no one else. If I’m wasting my time on what others are doing that’s time not spent on writing.  So I ask myself, “Is it worth poisoning them with homemade pastries?” and the answer is simple, yes.

INTERVIEWER
Is there any possible formula to follow in order to be a good novelist?

d.r. monroe:
Try to be better than yourself. Like I mentioned earlier about our contemporaries, why waste the time. Young Einstein knew that he could never surpass real Einstein, so he worked within a realm he was familiar with. We must do the same. I heard from the t.v. too that there is in fact a mathematical formula that reveals the secret to being a good novelist, but it was $19.99 and I don’t have any money.

INTERVIEWER
Do you mean the writer should be completely ruthless?

d.r. monroe:
He will be if he is a good writer. He has no peace until then. Ruthless, yes. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the “The Left Behind” series is worth any
number of old ladies.

INTERVIEWER
Then what would be the best environment for a writer?

d.r. monroe:
Art is not concerned with environment; it doesn’t care where it is. If you’re asking me personally, then of course I will become very, very angry, so I’ll assume you’re not. So the only environment the artist needs is whatever peace, whatever solitude, and whatever pleasure he can get at not too high a cost. My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey. I also wouldn’t mind a hot tub filled with pink champagne to write in.

INTERVIEWER
Bourbon, you mean?

d.r. monroe:
Sure. I don’t care, as long as its got alcohol. Wet Hens? You bet. I once rang the gin out of a wet sock that was outside to finish a short story.

INTERVIEWER
Does the writer need economic freedom?

d.r. monroe:
No. The writer doesn’t need economic freedom. All he needs is a pencil and some paper. I’ve never known anything good in writing to come from having accepted any free gift of money, unless someone wants to publish my book for free, or even if they need a lot of money from me. Why? Wait… did someone say something to you? Do you want to publish my book?

INTERVIEWER
Can working for the movies hurt your own writing?

d.r. monroe:
No, not at all. If you’re a great writer, the venue you write in means nothing. Nothing. The Lowbrow Sophisticates have actually written 14 movies together.

INTERVIEWER
What technique do you use to arrive at your standard?

d.r. monroe:
As a young writer I can say this, the young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. With that being said, I follow a very strict theory that I of course cannot haphazardly give away here. THAT would be foolish.

INTERVIEWER
Then would you deny the validity of technique?

d.r. monroe:
I can honestly say that I do not deny the validity of anything, technique included.  You make your own technique and that becomes yours, your own. You can’t copy technique, that is, a great Japanese chef cannot teach an apprentice his technique, he can just show him a way, his way, but the young apprentice will adapt his master’s to his own, its the only way. [ed. note: immediately following this seemingly profound statement, Dan farted very loudly].

INTERVIEWER
Can an artist use Christianity simply as a tool, as a carpenter would borrow a hammer?

d.r. monroe:
The carpenter we are speaking of never lacks that hammer. [Ed. Note: I feel compelled to mention that after Dan said this confidently, he looked at his compatriots (assuming I could not see him) and mouthed, "What the fuck is he talking about"]

INTERVIEWER
How much of your writing is based on personal experience?

d.r. monroe:
“How much” is not important. But, all of it, for me, is based on personal experience. That’s not a personal question is it?

INTERVIEWER
Some people say they can’t understand your guys’ writing, even after they read it two or three times. What approach would you suggest for them?

d.r. monroe:
Read it four, five or even eleven times.

INTERVIEWER
You mentioned experience, observation, and imagination as being important for the writer. Would you include inspiration?

d.r. monroe:
I understand inspiration completely, but I don’t think you can separate inspiration from personal experience, so I would have to say that your question is a dumb one.

INTERVIEWER
As a writer you are said to be obsessed with violence.

d.r. monroe:
That’s like saying the jam maker is obsessed with his beets.  Violence is simply one of the jam maker’s tools. The writer can no more build with one tool than the jam maker can. Jam.

INTERVIEWER
Can you say how you started as a writer?

d.r. monroe:
I was living in Lacrosse, Wisconsin, doing whatever kind of work was necessary to earn a little money now and then. I met Abraham Daddy. We would walk about the city in the afternoon and talk to the homeless. In the evenings we would meet again and sit over a bottle or two while I talked and he listened. In the forenoon I would never see him. He was secluded, working. The next day we would repeat. I began to write my first book. At once I found that writing was exhilarating. I even forgot that I hadn’t seen Mr. Daddy for three weeks until he walked in my door, the first time he ever came to see me, and said, “What’s wrong? Are you mad at me?” I told him I was writing a book. He said, “My God,” and walked out. That was the last time I saw him. I later learned that he had been shot by a man who thought he was the Sheriff of Nottingham, it was weird. That’s how I became a writer.

INTERVIEWER
What were the kinds of work you were doing to earn that “little money now and then”?

d.r. monroe:

(Nothing but silence and uncomfortably, he started giggling).

INTERVIEWER
Do you read your contemporaries?

d.r. monroe:
No, absolutely not. I haven’t read a book in over twelve years. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Shakespeare. I read Melville occasionally and, of the poets, Marlowe, Campion, Jonson, Herrick, Donne, Keats, and Shelley. I still read these guys of course, ‘cause they’re dead.

INTERVIEWER
And Freud?

d.r. monroe:
Freud? Of course, but I have yet to find another individual who has a closer understanding of the psyche as my mother does.

INTERVIEWER
Do you ever read mystery stories?

d.r. monroe:
Of course. A good mystery is like a good toe stubbing. It’s painful, annoying, and when you’re done, you hope you never do it again.

INTERVIEWER
What about your favorite characters?

d.r. monroe:
Zarathustra. Always Zarathustra.

INTERVIEWER
Alright, I appreciate your time and would like to ask one more question: Do you have any final thoughts? I don’t mean that Im going to kill you or anything, (sigh), ugh, is there anything you would like to end this interview on?

d.r. monroe:
The written word is dying. The number of people that read when they don’t absolutely have to is getting smaller by the day. Books, they don’t mean anything, not to anyone, not anymore.

After a rigorous 4 day literary tour in Montana, Adam Bradford Ross was gracious enough to let me ask him a few questions about his style and career. He had me meet him at a strip club before it opened, apparently he has a key. When I arrived he ushered me to a table in the back. He was barefoot and the place smelled of hot wings.

INTERVIEWER
It must be a great advantage for the writer to have a memory as good as yours. I don’t suppose
you have to do much note-taking?

ROSS
Well, a good memory doesn’t make the ideas any better, really. If someone had a skill, like, of always being able to recall their nightmares every night it would be a notable gift in a sense but would you really envy that person? That’s how I see my memory in relation to my writing. I have this inborn gift that everything I see is recorded inside my head for posterity… but I think that posterity will probably opt to flip on the television instead.

INTERVIEWER
Then you don’t spend much time prefiguring your work?

ROSS
Quite the contrary. I spend the vast majority of my time prefiguring my work. Probably, if I were honest with you, I would admit that I spend about 90% of my time prefiguring the work and 10% of my time in the actual writing. If I was really honest with you I’d admit it’s closer to 100%. That and internet gambling are the reason that I’ve only finished one story in my 29 years.

INTERVIEWER
Is the act of writing easy for you?

ROSS
That’s like asking the Dalai Lama if he finds it easy to dunk a basketball. He’d say “yes” but only because he’s never tried it.

INTERVIEWER
Then it’s rare that your work comes out right the first time?

ROSS
It’s rare that my work comes out. Period. So I don’t have to struggle with issues of “quality”.

INTERVIEWER
Does the fact that you’re dealing with humor slow down the production?

ROSS
Yes, absolutely, but only because I’m not funny.

INTERVIEWER
Do you envy those who write at high speed, as against your method of constant revision?

ROSS
Did you listen to my answers to your previous questions?

INTERVIEWER
(Nodding head absently) Yes, I’d have to agree. And what about your drawings, you have said that they often don’t come out the way you intended?

ROSS
Yes, this is true, and it’s a matter of execution not conception. I get an idea for a drawing and I go right to the table to start into it. Within an hour I’ve completely worn out the black [crayon] and am forced to switch to other colors that really aren’t appropriate for the idea at all. So, for instance, once I was drawing a picture for the New Yorker of the grim reaper taking my wife away moments after she asked me to take out the garbage bins. In my anger and inspiration I soon had worn through the entire black crayon and so the reaper’s sickle ended up pink.

INTERVIEWER
But the head of the New Yorker still published it.

ROSS
Yes, but that was incidental. It was breast cancer awareness month so it just made me look benevolent. I was on quite a tear with the ladies for a bit after that one, I might add.

INTERVIEWER
Can the New Yorker be effective in developing you as a writer?

ROSS
Meh.

INTERVIEWER
It’s strange that one of the main ingredients of humor—low comedy—has never been accepted for The New Yorker.

ROSS
Yes, this is true. They are all sophistication but no low brow. Someone should start a website that combines the two.

INTERVIEWER
In the long run did The New Yorker have much direct influence on your own work?

ROSS
Absolutely, they rejected scores of my stories.

INTERVIEWER
Henry James was a strong influence?

ROSS
Yes, no doubt, but I’m not sure to whom.

INTERVIEWER
But there were things to be learned from him?

ROSS
Oh yes, yes, certainly but at the moment I just haven’t the time. NBC’s fall lineup kicks off soon and besides, it’s autumn.

INTERVIEWER
How about Mark Twain? Pretty much everybody believes him to have been the major influence on American humorists.

ROSS
It will surprise you but I haven’t read a word of him yet. I’ll ask my son to read one of his books to me next week.

INTERVIEWER
Could we ask you why you’ve never attempted a long work?

ROSS
I haven’t put much thought into it, but if I have to give an off-the-cuff answer I’d say it’s because my short works are so awful.

INTERVIEWER
Perhaps the fact that you’re writing humor imposes a limit on the length of a work.

ROSS
That and a dearth of talent just about do the trick.

INTERVIEWER
Wasn’t Faulkner’s criterion whether or not the author dared to go out on a limb?

ROSS
Yes.

INTERVIEWER
Though you’ve never done a long serious work you have written stories—“Tomorrow is Wednesday” and “Showing Pink” in particular—in which the mood is far from humorous.

ROSS
(a hint of anger in his voice) You didn’t think those were funny?

INTERVIEWER
Some critics think that much of your work can be traced to the depicting of trivia as a basis for humor. In fact, there’s been some criticism—

ROSS
It’s made to seem as if this is some conscious decision on my part; my theory of comedy so to speak. It’s made to seem like I am trying to start a school of writing. None of this could be further from the truth. My comedy is rooted in trivia because I’m a trivial guy trying to write comedy.

INTERVIEWER
Would you care to define humor in terms of your own work?

ROSS
Humor, probably for me and certainly for my readers, is that which causes laughter and occurs in between the times spent reading my works.

INTERVIEWER
Does it bother you to talk about the stories on which you’re working? It bothers many writers, though it would seem that particularly the humorous story is polished through retelling.

ROSS
Humorous stories can be polished through telling and retelling. If the story is fairly humorous to begin with then perhaps two tellings is sufficient. I haven’t been so lucky. My first idea tends to be rather vague and so many, many retellings are required before some of the humor begins to creep in at last. I once had a the idea for a comedic story where I had to retell it so many times before I hit upon one joke that worked that I got layringitis and couldn’t talk for a week. During which time, it should be added, I forgot the story altogether. This is how I write my stories.

INTERVIEWER
You write them?

ROSS
In a sense though I have such a sense of repulsion for my finished works that I feel like there’s a remove there. Because they don’t end up like I had first pictured them (at all) it feels as though I weren’t really the writer after all. It would be more accurate to say of my stories that I ghost write them.

INTERVIEWER
How about the new crop of writers? Do you note any good humorists coming along with them?

ROSS
Child is quite good.

INTERVIEWER
Has the shift in the mood of the times had any effect on your own work?

ROSS
It hasn’t. I’ve always had a very post-9-11 mindset.

INTERVIEWER
No matter what the “mental climate,” though, you would continue writing?

ROSS
Yes, unless my mental climate was “brain cancer” then I think I would put down the pen… maybe take up singing.

INTERVIEWER
In your case there wouldn’t be much chance of this?

ROSS
Not true, it runs like wildfire through my mother’s side of the family.