The Idle Class

THE IDLE CLASS

VINCENT

GRIFFIN THE ART OF

also:

2013 music PREVIEW / randall shreve / arkansas writers mfa THE ARTS IN ARKANSAS / WINTER 2013

“Untitled”

by Vincent Griffin

DOWNLOAD THE IDLE CLASS MUSIC SAMPLER #1

Featuring Isaac Alexander, Randall Shreve, Teenagers, Amasa Hines, Shawn James, Benjamin Del Shreve, and more.

idleclassmag.com/issueonesampler

IN THIS ISSUE MUSIC 2013 MUSIC PREVIEW RANDALL SHREVE 2012 ALBUMS OF NOTE

art VINCENT GRIFFIN PAINTING WITH A TWIST

writing ARKANSAS WRITERS MFA TOAD SUCK REVIEW 5 WRITING TIPS POETRY FICTION: “RAISING CHILDREN” PHOTO BY JADE HOWARD

P. 14

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CONTRIBUTORS

Colley Bailey

Marty Shutter

Kara Bibb

Charles Gilbow

Gerard Matthews

Kayla Gruenewald

Nicholas Claro

Heather Canterbury

Jamie Holland

Martin Bemberg

Nicki Riley

Jillian Bogy

Jade Howard

Beth Post

Cody Davis

ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS: Cover by Vincent Griffin / Other contributors: Joshua Asante, Justin Bolle & Dr. Stephanie Vanderslice

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welcome to the idle class FOR FAR TOO LONG, WE’VE BEEN DIVIDED by our geographic regions in Arkansas. Sure the same can be said for most states, but there’s something about being in Pulaski County or up on the hill in Fayetteville that makes you forget about the rest of our state.

We’ve got a lot of great artistic nooks and crannies that need to be celebrated. That’s why we started this magazine.

It’s been a long haul. I’d like to thank Katie Wyatt along with Tim Freeman and Gabe Zeck at Parable. This wouldn’t be possible without our contributors, staff and local businesses that supported us through advertising. I’d like to dedicate this to all of you.

While putting this issue together, I had the pleasure of interviewing Joshua from the bands Velvet Kente and Amasa Hines. Besides having a prolifically creative mind, he dropped a little wisdom on me just before we parted ways. He said, “An artist who doesn’t believe in anything is hard to take seriously. You need conviction.”

I agree. And The Idle Class exists to celebrate such individuals and the creative life in Arkansas.

I hope you enjoy it.

Enjoy our great selection of cheeses, olive oils, local vegetables and cooking supplies for the food lover in your life!

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Kody Ford Editor/Publisher

A PUBLICATION OF

RIOT ACT MEDIA, LLC P.O. Box 4853 Fayetteville, AR 72702

editorial@idleclassmag.com EDITOR/PUBLISHER Kody Ford MANAGING EDITOR Andrew McClain

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music

SHAWN JAMES I RECENTLY CAUGHT UP WITH SHAWN James, the Fayetteville-based singer-songwriter, and his enthusiasm for his craft was evident even over the phone.

James has recently been actively touring regionally from Fayetteville.

“Fayetteville is great because it’s so central. Fayetteville is one of my favorite places I’ve ever lived. As far as regional touring goes, it’s better than any coastal spot,” James said. “Joplin has been a huge thing for us. We can hit Springfield. We’re going to Fort Worth.”

James has been playing music as long as he can remember. He was raised around music in a Pentecostal church and a Baptist school (“because of their music 6

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BY ANDREW MCCLAIN PHOTOGRAPHED BY COLLEY BAILEY program”) participating in orchestra for trumpet.

“In those settings, you’re always having to go by what’s written down. I just wanted to sit down with an instrument and play,” James said.

After forming a few rock bands in high school, James attended school for music production.

James’ ear for production is what caught my attention first, when listening to his music. In contrast to most popular folk/ Americana music, it has a strong sensibility about the way it presents itself. James, in additional to being an exceptional singer and songwriter, is a producer who knows what he wants. Listening to James’

music, his technical training in recording is obvious, but in the opposite way you might imagine.

“I’m kind of a minimalist. Every layer that you do use should be perfectly placed.

Everything has to be necessary,” James said.

What sounds like common sense coming from James (unfortunately) sounds crazy to many vocally-oriented producers. His powerful voice becomes even more powerful when it’s backed up with half a drum kit and a guitar.

“I’m all over the place genre-wise, from hard-hitting blues to more haunting, orchestral pieces. Most people stick to one genre and I find that idea extremely boring.

I want to incorporate everything,” James said.

This can make it a challenge for James to approach the making of a cohesivesounding album. His solution? He plans to release three concept-driven EPs in 2013, each centered around a certain animal and a certain aspect of his musical palette. The first one, The Wolf, is due out in January. It skews a little more folky, less bluesy, and includes choir vocals and a narrative about a boy raised by wolves.

The second, The Bear, James intends to make considerably more raw and bluesy, referencing Son House and Robert Johnson. The final EP is a little further off in the distance, but James wants to make it pianobased and call it The Hawk.

It’s becoming clear that James has a busy year ahead of him, so pay attention.

VISIT: SHAWNJAMESMUSIC.COM

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Joshua of VELVET KENTE & AMASA HINES

BY KODY FORD PhotoGRAPHED by heather canterbury FEW PEOPLE EMBODY THE SPIRIT OF The Idle Class like Joshua of Velvet Kente and Amasa Hines. The enigmatic musician is also a prolific artist, poet, and photographer. All of this blend seamlessly into stories that Joshua is constantly writing and telling through various types of media.

“I think of myself as a guy who likes to share imagery and that translates into my songs,” he says. “A lot of songs that come from a melody that stuck with me but that won’t go anywhere without a lyrical image.

I have to paint a picture in my head and seek out a way to express that.”

Part of his songwriting process involves the creation of characters that interact with each other in his head. Perhaps they play out scenarios from real life or perhaps it’s his imagination. Regardless, if everything works out right, then he’s got a song.

After almost four years in the Little Rock music scene, Velvet Kente are set to release their debut album Good News for Sinners this summer. But that’s not all that Josh has on his plate. His other band Amasa Hines, 8

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which features several members of VK, recently finished their still-untitled debut album, which will be released in March.

Also, Joshua will record a live EP entitled The Golden Burlap: A MadOdisee Mixtape, featuring the production of Madlib and Oddisee. It will be a free download.

In 2013, Joshua plans to manifest his artistic endeavors of the last few years into actual physical output in the form of the new albums and perhaps some art shows.

He is a man driven by belief in myself, not out of conceit, but by determination.

“I feel like I can do anything I want to do,” he says. “I just have to decide that it’s the thing that I want to do and get it done.

That’s not conceit. I just understand that the world is very accessible and small. There’s usually just one person between you and what you want. If they find you, you can’t be so self-deprecating that they can’t see your potential. It took me a while to get to that point.”

Visit: facebook.com/velvetkentemusic

SW/MM/NG GROWING UP IN THE LANDLOCKED state of Indiana, I was envious of the West Coast and all the great music that comes from there. When I moved to Arkansas that last thing I expected was to find a band that could somehow capture the essence of coastal pop music. To my surprise, I was introduced to the optimistic lyrics and beachy surf guitars of SW/MM/NG. SW/MM/NG is comprised of Joe Alexander (drums), Joel Paul (bass), Jared Hennessy (guitar), and Brian Kupillas (guitar/ vocals). They formed a little over a year ago and credit the size of Fayetteville small number of individuals in similar styles of music. Jared and Brian were interested in started a new project and kind of formed the foundation for what they do now.

Some of their musical influences are The Jesus and the Mary Chain, Galaxie 500, The Ramones, and The Velvet Underground.

Although, dare I say, their sound is somewhat reminiscent of Best Coast, Wavves,

BY KAYLA GRUENEWALD PhotoGRAPHED by NICKI RILEY and Surfer Blood.

Besides playing around Northwest Arkansas, Jared said, “We’ve also toured the East Coast and Midwest and have a tour scheduled for January that will take us through Oklahoma, Texas, and back to the Northeast again.”

They’re currently recording a full-length album called Feel Not Bad, which should be released some time this year. However, you can listen to a demo of it online at their Bandcamp page.

A favorite track off this demo is “Some Dreams Come True,” which I find myself listening to more often with this crummy cold weather outside while secretly wishing for summer to come back. If you’re making the same wishes, dreaming of living on some coast, or just want a reason to dance around, I would certainly recommend listening to these guys.

VISIT: SWIMMINGFOREVER.BANDCAMP.COM

Damn arkansan

BY CHARLES GILBEAU PHOTOGRAPHED BY JAMIE HOLLAND 10

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DAMN ARKANSAN TOOK the stage at Smoke and Barrel at eleven o’clock. Drew Walls, and Caleb Rose run vox combos and various effects giving a heavily reverberated yet twangy sound bands such as Wilco have perfected.

Will runs a straight forward Ampeg on Fender rig and Chris plays a shared set from Travis of the previous band Hot Shot Karate.

It was a reunion show for HSK who put on wonderful show, but the crowd seemed to be saving their energy for Damn Arkansan.

Within their first song, the crowd began exuding behavior common to most music festivals. Random gyrations with attempts to not spill drinks, girls drunkenly swing dancing and struggling to keep clear of the wooden beam dead center of the dance floor. All in all an accurate representation of the band’s name.

Caleb and Chris hold

their ground stoically in the back light of the stage. The overall exuberance of the band seemed to be directed

by Will. The music picks up its pace when he comes forward. All the while Drew ceaselessly moves about the stage. Stomping his bare feet and kneeling in front of the drums; remaining still only to sing a play a bit of harmonica.

Throughout the show, they maintain a personable and intimate presence.

WIth so much sound being recycled in the Fayetteville music scene, Damn Arkansan is a refreshing taste of alt. country that has been missing from the rock n’ roll realm of Northwest Arkansas. The current rock scene in Fayetteville is dominated by two major categories. The easily danceable jam bands and the high-fi ambience of the indie rock bands. Damn Arkansan qualifies for the latter but still manages to

bring a high energy party atmosphere to their live performance.

While most local bands strive to attain such a relatable stage presence, Damn Arkansan is far more organic. They seem to have a physical need to be on stage having a good time.

The band consists of Drew (Five Star Harbor, Moby Spacers) on guitar and vocals, Caleb (Hot Shot Karate) on lead guitar and tenor vocals, Will Eubanks (Burn Baby Burn) on bass, and Chris Fletcher (Moby Spacers) on drums.

As prolific as they are in their songwriting and performance rate, they shy away from talking themselves up as many artists are wont to do. After releasing their first album, Brave Mistakes in 2012, they will release a six song EP this year.

VISIT: DAMNARKANSAN.COM

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ADAM FAUCETT & THE TALL GRASS

BY KODY FORD PhotoGRAPHED by heather canterbury

ADAM FAUCETT IS REALLY AN OPTIMIST. Behind the lush beard and tinted glasses is a forward thinking songwriter who’s doesn’t let a relentless touring schedule or couch surfing bring him down. He is a musician in it for the long haul, wherever that takes him.

“The best part [of his lifestyle] is that you get to be free,” Adam says. “I’m a lot happier now than when I was working. I feel like I cheated and won. Of course, the downside is that it’s easier to get drunk and sleep in a catinfested house.”

Currently, Adam is playing shows and recording new material. He estimates that he usually spends about half of each month on the road. His heavy touring and whiskeysoaked mix of folk, country and blues has caught the attention of national publications American Songwriter and Paste Magazine.

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Known for his dry wit and laid back demeanor, Adam has primarily performed solo since parting ways with his punk band Taught the Rabbits, a band he described as “folk turned up through amps.” Prior to TTR, he played solo here and there, an extension of his early love of music.

“When I was a kid, music really was like drugs for me,” Adam says. “Hearing Otis Redding sing scared me a little. It was something else.”

He has released four solo albums and is planning to release a fifth LP, which he is currently recording at Blue Chair Studios in Austin, AR, with engineer Darian Stribbling behind the board. The unnamed album will feature about 11 or 12 tracks and features Adam’s current band, The Tall Grass (composed of Johnny B on bass and Will Boyd on drums).

“This new album is slower and prettier,” Adam says. “It’s more of a realistic look at living this way. I’m not sure if a lot of people will identify with my woes. It’s got some darkness. Probably won’t interrupt any dance parties.”

On April 13, Adam will head to the Netherlands for a tour. He hopes to have a limited edition vinyl EP recorded and pressed before he makes the journey.

His time on the road can leave him jaded at times, although when he begins to describe a show he comes alive, caught in the memories of lights, the crowd, the adrenaline rush.

“Every town is the same once you’ve been around a while,” Adam says. “But if everybody is in a good mood, every place is awesome.”

He cites Tennessee and Virginia as two of his favorite states to play on the road.

Reflecting upon 2012, Adam feels that things turned out pretty well for his career and personal life.

“I finally got to play for over 600 people,” he says. “That was big. We were on the radio in Nashville. And one day me and my buddy’s dad threw spears at a tree for a few years. Lots of good times…Now I’m touring and got a new record. In my small, simple world, that’s all you need.”

As for the future, Adam plans to keep on keeping on. And maybe one day, he can live the good life.

“I’d like to think that I’ll come back as a dog,” Adam says. “It’d be like getting drunk on Ambien—sleep on concrete and eat garbage all the time. That’d be great.”

VISIT: ADAMFAUCETT.COM

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King of

THE DAPPER

GYPSIES

Randall Shreve releases Lovers, Lies & Butcher Knives

BY KODY FORD PHOTOGRAPHED BY JADE HOWARD & JILLIAN BOGY PHOTO BY JADE HOWARD

“YOU’RE A REALLY GOOD SINGER,” the woman said. “You don’t have to wear all of that makeup. Your voice is just fine.”

Randall Shreve heard these words in Louisville, KY - not exactly a bastion of culture. He had just finished his set at a local club. Throughout his musical career, he’d been told a lot of things—good and bad— but nothing quite like this.

“I’m not sure what she was trying to tell me,” Randall says. “It’s like somehow I thought makeup was Autotune. It’s interesting because when people don’t get you, they really don’t get you.”

Besides being known for his eyeliner, suave Rudolph Valentino mustache and felt pork pie hats, Randall has garnered quite a reputation as an innovative songwriter and master showman since moving back to Arkansas from New York City a few years ago.

In that time, he’s become known around the area for his style of melodic, aggressive cabaret rock, which can be heard on his albums The Entertainer and The Jester.

Now, he is releasing Lovers, Lies & Butcher Knives, a collection of B-sides recording during his time in Manhattan and in Arkansas.

Despite the macabre title, LLB features some of his most beautiful work. One such song is “Love Don’t Panic,” a gentle ballad of heartache in which a man cannot let go of a relationship despite his knowledge of the necessity. He sings: I don’t want to but God I need you.

Since I met youI can’t catch my breath.

You say no and I’ll go home And thank my stars that you won’t be my death.

Randall recorded the track in a Manhattan apartment circa 2008. “’Love Don’t Panic’ turned out really well; it’s shocking really,” Randall says. “It’s probably the prettiest song I’ve ever written. It’s definitely one of my favorites on the record.”

Much of these tracks feature the basic DNA of a Randall Shreve song—lush melody, dark themes, vivid lyrics. Fans of his early work The Cure for Yesterday will be pleased to hear a more traditional pop approach on some of the tracks. For fans that love his vaudeville style, tracks like “30 Pieces” and “The Toy” are sure to please.

Randall actually recorded “The Toy” for 2008’s The Entertainer, but cut the track because he felt it didn’t fit the story of the album. The song is also the first one recorded with his pianist Timothy Grace.

“On ‘The Toy,’ we intentionally went with minimalist production—guitar and piano,” Randall says. “For percussion, we banged on a fire extinguisher. I was really worried we’d blow it up. We were recording in Legacy Studios [in New York City], which was the nicest studio I’d been in at that point.”

“30 Pieces” has become a crowd favorite when Randall performs it with his band The Side Show, although they try to stay true to the minimalist version that can be heard on this album. According to Randall, he knew he’d found his sound after recording this track.

Also, included is his cover of “Hallelujah,” a seven-minute long opus that puts Randall’s powerful voice on display. Jeff Buckley comparisons typically ensue after he plays the song at solo shows. idleclassmag.com

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While this record is intended to serve as a collection of unreleased material, Randall says it still has a common theme.

“You get a lot of subconscious thought on this,” Randall says. “It wasn’t intended to have a theme, but there is one and it’s very clear cut. Heartache, betrayal, not much love. At least it’s not focused on the pretty parts of love.

For the most part, it’s a big break up album.”

He is pleased with the recordings and describes them as “more relaxed and more pure” than the “intentional” recordings on The Entertainer and The Jester. He plans to do an album release and perhaps a mini-tour in support of the album. He feels proud of the album and the way it fits into his catalogue.

I finally got comfortable doing what I’m doing and this is something different,” Randall says.

“These songs take longer to write.

Even when they do come out, it’s not as comfortable for me to show other people.

“Now I’m going back to how I started taking the band out of the equation. At these shows, we’re playing the most stripped-down version of the songs possible. It’s enjoyable though.”

Randall’s shows with the Side Show have evolved into can’t-miss happenings. As his network of friends has grown, burlesque dancers, fire breathers, and even PHOTO BY JILLIAN BOGY

jugglers have joined him at gigs, a veritable sideshow unto itself.

“The idea has always been to have it bigger and bigger and incorporate more and more,” Randall says. “This gives people much more to remember and more of an experience. Things have really snow-balled and we’re lucky to have so many like-minded artists willing to be a part of it.”

Besides the help of quirky and talented friends, Randall credits the fans as being a big driver of their audience growth and the live experience by dressing up for a night on the town, perhaps a night from a bygone era.

“People are often kind of intimidated to

explore other sides of themselves,” Randall says. “Our music helps them do that. I look forward to getting to the show to see what it will be like. Sometimes it feels like we’re all this band of dapper gypsies, all doing the same thing in the same place.”

VISIT: RANDALLSHREVE.COM DOWNLOAD “LOVE DON’T PANIC” ON THE IDLE CLASS MUSIC SAMPLER #1 AT IDLECLASSMAG. COM/ISSUEONESAMPLER.

ESSENTIAL RANDALL SHREVE

The Cure for Yesterday

The Entertainer

The Jester

Though he tends to disavow the album, TCFY shows the roots of a talented songwriter.

The tunes are lush pop melodies with a more radio-friendly sound than his later work.

Shreve found his voice and his eyeliner for this epic album of cabaret rock. The record has been compared to Jeff Buckley doing vaudeville.

At 15 tracks, it doesn’t wear thin or disappoint.

A darker record than it’s predecessors, this album hints at influences like Tom Waits and Nick Cave. However, Shreve and new band The Side Show include some great party rock tunes and love songs.

ESSENTIAL TRACKS “The Cure for Yesterday” & “Dancing in the Rain”

ESSENTIAL TRACKS “Welcome to the Show,” “Karma Girl” & “Beautiful”

ESEENTIAL TRACKS “The Ghost,” “Pale Blue” & “Pier 14” idleclassmag.com

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2012

Albums of Note Isaac Alexander - White Water Tavern 12/13/12 Photo by Joshua

A

braham Maslow devised a Hierarchy of Needs in 1968. This pyramid starts with Physical Needs for Survival and peaks with SelfActualization Needs. While it’s a very apt theory, Dr. Maslow forgot one thing--music. If you’re like the staff of The Idle Class, music is one of the basics alongsidefood, water, and shelter.

In 2012, a diverse and dynamic set of releases came out of The Natural State. Here are some of our favorites.

ISAAC ALEXANDER ANTIVENIN SUITE Max Recordings Antivenin Suite, the second solo effort from central Arkansas music stalwart Isaac Alexander, answers the question, “How do you follow up a debut solo record that is widely regarded as one of the best to ever come out of the state, period?” Just like this.

Suite picks up where See Thru Me left off, with expertly-crafted melodies that drift over precise instrumentation, all bolstered by weepingly honest lyrics and a loftiness that belies some of the album’s darker tracks. The

fourth track, “Unfit Mothers,” is a perfect example. The song starts off in a dirge of guitar swells and palm-muted chords, but the chorus absolutely soars, even though the lyrics lurk in the gutter.

Alexander has been crafting sweetly-catchy pop tunes for years in bands like the Boondogs, Big Silver and The Easys.

His solo records show his mastery of the form and an innate pop sensibility.

From Antivenin Suite’s aching opener, “Sincerely,” to the album’s closer, “What Love is All About,” you get the feeling that somehow this all comes easy for the songwriter. Of course, it helps to have a stable of morethan-capable musicians to round off the corners. Every strum of the guitar, stroke of a piano key, placement of a back-up vocal is intentional and well-placed.

All of these pieces add up to an album that serves as a soundtrack as suitable for a sunny-day drive as it is for a brief bout of withdrawn melancholy.

- Gerard Matthews Download “Chewing Gum Wrapper” on The Idle Class Sampler #1 BONNIE MONTGOMERY CRUEL Fast Weapons At some point we’re going to start asking ourselves what Bonnie Montgomery can’t do. In just the past few years, her folk opera Billy Blythe, about the childhood of former President Bill Clinton, raised many an eye-brow and caught the attention of major

media outlets and critics.

Her strong work ethic has made her a mainstay of the central Arkansas music scene.

And her at once sweet and honky-tonkin’ sound landed her an opening gig for dance-punk juggernauts Gossip.

Now comes Cruel, a threesong EP from Fast Weapons Records. It’s everything that’s great about Bonnie Montgomery and each of the songs – which range from the lilting Patsy Cline-esque title track (sorry but the Cline comparison is too obvious not to make) to the trot-along Zydeco and the matter-of-fact Crossroads – leave you wishing Cruel had turned into a ten-track affair.

Producer Nathan Howdeshell (of Gossip fame) was able to capture everything that Montgomery does so well – her honey-sweet and sometimes-somber voice, her lyrical honesty – all while adding his own deft touch, giving the songs a more measured and dark quality that suits her well.

Fans of Montgomery’s prior release, Live at the Cake Shop, will love the production quality, which is excellent, and Howdeshell’s punkish yet twangy guitar-work (especially on display on Zydeco) is a great complement to Montgomery’s truckalong strumming.

Cruel is a stellar effort – even the artwork and layout, beautifully executed by Isaac Alexander, is a testament to Montgomery’s classic and down-home style.

This EP will leave listeners looking forward to whatever Montgomery does next.

- Gerard Matthews idleclassmag.com

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EPIPHANY - SUCH IS LIFE Self-released It’s every MC’s dream not just to stand tall but to stand tall above and beyond his peers.

With Such Is Life, Little Rock MC and hip-hop ambassador to the world Epiphany succeeds, and to his credit, he acknowledges that if he’s seen farther, it is for having stood on the shoulders of giants - in his case, no role models to speak of, just some real cats whose hearts never go hollow.

The rest, he asserts, he cannot bring himself to follow.

Such Is Life brings orchestral beginnings, appropriate in that Piph has had quite the orchestrated career. Ask anyone who knows anything of the Arkansas music universe and you’ll find that Epiphany Morrow is the

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greatest musical and music business mind there is. One might even call his skill and career astronomical - in fact, he himself does in the lead-off track from his most recent album.

On 2010’s The Wait, you’ll find a great track entitled “You Don’t Have To Be A Star,” but Piph certainly is one in his own right, and astronomical indeed, the keyword in this recent album’s first track.

As the record continues, there are wows upon wows, as Piph and his producers incorporate more lo-fi, warm and swimming beat ambiences, only to explode into more cruise and blair-worthy sections. If music is food for the soul, and variety is the key to a good diet, then this album, in its variety and versatility, is certainly the healthiest of choices for the tonal stomach.

Epiphany’s word play and myriad other types of play are prominent on Such Is Life, to the point of imposing a requirement of multiple listenings and placing the lyrical content within his most recent effort among the great poetry one must first simply swallow, and then take one’s time digesting. But when it comes to great art, c’est la vie such is life.

- Martin Bemberg

–

THE SEE - PRETENDING AND ENDING Self-released In 2012, Little Rock’s The SEE put out an LP called “Pretending And Ending.” The quartet pulled the clever magic trick of recording a solid rock n’ roll album that sounds tight and clean (two characteristics that rarely enhance rock n’ roll).

The SEE’s sound is also the perfect thing to hear coming out of Arkansas right now. Maybe I have a terrible imagination, but I can’t imagine The SEE coming from anywhere else (alright, maybe Memphis or St. Louis or anywhere on the Mississippi River) but Little Rock seems particularly apt, in that there’s something that seems Midsouthern about their music.

The band has such a strong

sound, which is why it seems perverse that my instinct is to try to describe them by what they’re not: particularly Southern or rootsy, but that’s interesting because they’re certainly not arena-rocking either. I say it’s Midsouthern.

It’s driving, often anthemic rock music, with Joe Yoder’s distinctive vocals providing a richly wistful-but-resilient emotional backbone. And the album clocks in at 15 tracks (granted, some of them are very, very short) but I imagine that picking out a single was difficult - I might have gone with “Head Like a Stone,” but the boys went with “Bring It Back,” one of many single-worthy tracks on the album, which sounds professional and articulate beyond the band’s own years and status.

It’s tightly-crafted, hardworking rock music that’s just big enough to overwhelm any bar. But maybe an arena, if that’s what the boys want.

- Andrew McClain

contributor) Martin Bemberg released yet another record under his Bartin Memberg moniker.

The album is called Weird Mercy and features new tracks as well as some from his earlier release Ready for the Good Things.

From the opening track “Ready for the Good Things,” Martin displays a sense of hopefulness. Love is a common theme in his music, especially after getting married last year. However, Martin avoids the trap of approaching love with a maudlin sensibility. His low-key vocal delivery grounds the track and instills it with a slacker ethos.

Some of the other tunes get more adventurous. “Sloppy Gospel” has the spirit of Animal Collective without the pretension.

The production gives the vocals a big room effect on his hymnlike chorus. The melody of “Stay the Way You Say Hello” is reminiscent of The Magnetic Fields.

Weird Mercy is an adventurous album that maintains a sense BARTIN MEMBERG - WEIRD of familiarity. Martin grounds his MERCY songs in melody so even when ‘ville wave records he gets experimental the songs Released in the last days of 2012, keep a sense of familiarity. prolific songwriter (and Idle Class - Kody Ford

NOT DEFINABLE AS...

BENJAMIN DEL SHREVE - THE DIAMOND Self-released Benjamin Del Shreve sheds the rock-n-roll bravado that shaped his first two releases and finds a new skin on The Diamond. The album is an ode to the human spirit - pastoral and poetic, the music and lyrics paint pictures of flowers, sleeping beauties, and love both bitter and sweet.

Shreve quietly adores his muse on “Southern Rain,” “Old Soul” and “Good Morning, Pretty Angel.” Adores her in falsetto in “Flower Gathering” & begs everyone to clap and sing along with him in “Mt. Sequoyah” and the title track “The Diamond.”

Honest and hell-bent, The Diamond and Shreve will leave you smiling.

- Kara Bibb

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ART

CUT/PASTE Collage. Design. Drawing. Music.

VINCENT GRIFFIN never met a creative outlet that he didn’t like.

Or couldn’t mix.

BY KODY FORD PHOTGRAPHED BY JUSTIN BOLLE

ELEANOR ROOSEVELT SAID, “Do what you feel in your heart to be right-for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.”

For Vincent Griffin, this quote serves as a mantra for his creative impulses. Many people devote their lives to mastering a single medium, whether it is painting or songwriting or something else. Vincent knows no boundaries as an artist. The process doesn’t end when he puts down his pen, steps away from his computer or finishes his latest collage; it’s a seamless flow of inspiration and creation, a way of life.

“I try not to separate [artistic mediums] in my mind,” Vincent says. “I think it’s important to be transparent and let whatever medium is best for the situation to take importance. Everyday I am learning new things and being inspired by my peers in that aspect.”

Vincent is a consummate artist, who works in graphic design, drawing, collage and any other outlet that piques his interest. When he’s not busy with visual art, he fronts the musical collective Bear

Colony, who released their sophomore album Soft Eyes in late 2012 (see p. 25). Lately, collage has been one of his favorite avenues of expression.

“I really love doing collage and it’s something I have done off and on since I was in high school, so it feels really natural,” Vincent says. “I think with most children who take art classes, you are taught to try and make things look a certain way… more real, more perfect, etc. and the older I have gotten I’ve found myself trying to undo those things.”

He added, “I want to be sloppier at drawing, I want edges of collages to be torn or warped. I’m not interested in perfection. I want a certain aspect of life in what I am creating, some kind of movement and spontaneity. That’s when the most beautiful, inspiring accidents happen.”

Vincent’s collages are mash-ups primarily derived from images that span a time frame of Eisenhower to Reagan. Constantly on the hunt, he snags any book that catches his eye when visiting thrift stores.

“I really like the way those publications were printed and

also how they have aged over time,” Vincent says. “Here lately, I have tried to think more about what subconsciously happens when you remove important features of the imagery and replace it with something seemingly meaningless.”

Vincent has personal favorites, which he tends to favor due to the success of artistic experimentation during the collage process. However, he’s not overly sentimental about any of them because he is constantly creating new images, which causes him to move on rather quickly and not become too attached.

Traditional mediums such as painting no longer challenge Vincent, only leaving him impatient and bored.

“The older I have gotten, the more immediate things need to be in order to hold my attention,” Vincent says.

“I have been working with manipulating video and also learning open frameworks so that I can make video installations/art more interactive.

I’m very interested in destroying walls that would keep people from creating. I think it’s important for everyone to

“I’m not interested in perfection. I want a certain aspect of life in what I am creating, some kind of movement and spontaneity.

That’s when the most beautiful, inspiring accidents happen.”

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have some sort of creative outlet and to feel like they are putting something into the world.”

So what does challenge an artist and musician of Vincent’s caliber? It’s hard to say, but he finds that the creative juices long after dusk.

“Every time I sit down to make something I think it’s a challenge,” Vincent says.

“Which is why I usually wait till later in the night to create. I find my guard is down a lot more and I don’t have the energy to fight all these different insecurities. John Stezaker talked about this idea in a recent interview and I think it perfectly sums up how I feel….

“My rule is to be guided by the image and not to try to control it. That is why I try to work at night too, because I find at night you can release control more easily...I’m open to seeing things that I wouldn’t see in the daytime because then my vision is still directed by searching and finding and looking. It’s always when you give up the search that you find the image. Fascination depends upon a separation. And that’s what I think collage can do.”

Prior to working prolifically with collages, Vincent participated in the #adrawingaday group, which involved sketching something daily. At one point, he did a series of all 44 U.S. Presidents. The challenge of daily output while being held accountable by his peers appealed to Vincent.

He says, “At the time I was

BEAR COLONY - SOFT EYES

Bear Colony – Soft Eyes Esperanza Plantation, 2012

A

fter a five-year hiatus, Bear Colony returned in 2012 with their sophomore album Soft Eyes. While their first record We Came Here to Die had a more pop sound (think Postal Service), their newest offering features a darker sound that borders on the shoegaze subgenre.

Comprised of Vincent Griffin (vocals, guitar, sampler, maracas); David Huff (bass and music tech); Lee Actkinson (guitar, outer space noises, and programming); Stephen Tucker (guitar); Matthew Putman (drums) and Adam Putman of Fayetteville (music engineering), the band functions more as a collective than a traditional band.

Soft Eyes is easily one of the best albums to come out of Arkansas in 2012. The densely

layered arrangements are complex but not distracting.

Every sound is an instrument playing it’s part as each song blends into the next, creating a symphony of nostalgia, sadness and hope.

Dealing with matters of life and death is nothing new for Bear Colony. WCHTD focused on a health scare that left Griffin fearing for his life. As the band recorded the album, Griffin’s mother was in her last days in the grips of cancer.

Shortly before she passed away, she was able to listen to her son’s latest work.

According to Matthew Putman, “Soft Eyes is an ode to the interpersonal, and the experience we share with those close to us, from youth to everyday living to the dying process. It’s our shared path. Life is a lesson in impermanence, and I think we tried to reflect that in the album.” - Kody Ford idleclassmag.com

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“horse” drawing a whole lot and just documenting different objects I found interesting so I decided to try and set a goal of doing a ‘drawing’ or make something everyday. Don’t get me wrong…some days it’s really tedious to sit down and make something. I have way more duds than I do things that I feel are successful but I found myself submerged in a community of great folks who were/are very supportive and it’s pretty neat to be tagged in someone’s creations each day. I think these pockets of creative people are everywhere encouraging each other and making really beautiful things.”

Eventually, he began to tire of drawings and switched to collages, which he had been making already, but not sharing with the group.

Once he made the #adrawingaday switch to collages, he became more serious about his craft and began studying artists who defined the medium, pulling things that spoke to him and finding inspiration.

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“Untitled” Vincent’s creative process has also shapes his approach to writing music for Bear Colony.

He finds them to be indistinguishable.

“I listen to music when I am creating visual pieces and when I am making music I usually am creating visual scenes in my mind,” he says. “I work in the same way with both mediums; usually long bouts of collecting, listening, reading, spending time away and then really short intense periods of creation. I think that is why it takes a while for us to create albums.

We like to build up and rip apart the layers.”

Vincent primarily sells work at shows or via email solicitation. Anyone interested in his artwork can find selections on his website or on Instagram.

VISIT: LandandShape.com @Vincetagram

“stairway”

“Untitled”

“Untitled”

PAINTING WITH A TWIST KODY IS CALLING. ‘HEY, YOU WANNA GO DRINK and paint and write a story about it? Tomorrow.”

“Ok,” I say.

“It’s at six, or seven.”

“I’d rather not get all drunk and carry a painting back on my bike though,” I say.

“I’ll drive you, I’ll pick you up with the photographer.”

“There’s a photographer involved?”

“He’s from Chicago too.”

“Will drinking be enough?”

BY MARTY SHUTTER PHOTOGRAPHED BY CODY DAVIS

Painting With A Twist is well lit and tucked in the corner of the Evelyn Hills Shopping Center off College Avenue in Fayetteville. There are around 30 women ready behind blank canvases. They are idly drinking.

Each have paper-plate palettes, easel and water cup with brushes ready. We are three boys and cross the scene to the bar, introduce ourselves to Susan, the proprietor. Paintings hang around us as evidence of classes past.

“I’ll have the holiday beer.”

“It’s the last one.”

“Are they always this cheap?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.” I take my stool next to Cody [the photographer] and his camera and Kody [the editor] and his phone. Hannah, our instructor, ascends the painting stage to her easel and blank canvas. She is younger than the painters, has a brighter smile and takes our focus. She sets us students immediately to whitewashing our canvases.

She demonstrates a diagonal stroke, starts us.

Music. Hannah and an assistant manage the music and its volume as music directors in a play. They circle us gently directing our brushwork. “Here use the tip of the brush for a point or line, press harder for wider strokes,” he says. I try it out.

Sing-a longs pause for instruction and triumphantly return carrying the familiar choruses and refrains of every Neil Young, Diamond and Gangam Style we painters all know better than painting. Singing. Everyone in the room sings.

“Sweet Caroline” be-

gins. After her first pleasantly rambling bars, I turn to Cody painting, “I’ve never been so excited for a chorus in my life.”

Hannah hears, “It works every time.” She laughs, passing.

“Really?!” I say.

“Oh yeah.”

Everyone: “SWEET CAROLINE !!!!!! Bah Dah Dah! GOOD TIMES!” It works. And we’ve finished the colored background of our image. Each of us is painting theoretically the same thing. Tonight a brown tree set against a wave of color and dotted

with dots and leaves is our aim.

We begin the branches with swirls and curve and pull the trunk up into the sky, we dot the wood with yellow, red leaves, white dots, add black depth to bark and fill the ground with dead leaves and yellow things. In between, obviously, is dancing, competitions and T-shirt prizes and liquor, good beer prices.

“Every now and then we get the odd man out.”

Hannah’s partner says. I’ve swirled my branches beyond what is natural and begun attempting a 3D

rendering of a tree in space, which is of course in this 2D realm is merely a headache of a brush exercise. You get something though. So I kept going.

And to add to the mangled haze of circled tree I take the big brush, glob brown and black on, placed my finger three inches from the canvas from the canvas and swank it splattering fireengine red with the brush several times until I have a nice spray of twists and turns. This was three or four beers in.

I splattered the leaves around beer five.

and place them in permanence in the first place.”

Her face says, what?

“It’ll probably be about how being here in your class evoked so many buried emotions of being a child in class. It made me wonder about my impulses as a kid, the repercussions of them in a school setting, the effect of those repercusWe line up for the photo- sions on the formation of graph, holding our paintings my personality, the resulting and I listen to those around affect of how immediate some: ciety responds to that per“Oh, beautiful!” sonality, and then ultimately “Mine looks stupid.” my own assessment of soci“Oh Cheryl shut up, ety’s response to me. Again, you’re drunk.”

Kody just wants me to do “It’s stupid, I ruined the a review, not freak you out “I was a teacher in Chitrunk.” too much, so it might just be cago!” says the talkative one “No you didn’t, it looks a few hundred words.” in class. She is next to me. all gnarly like uncle Charles’ Let’s call her Jane because spruce.” ** we never shared our names.

“You’re right.”

The Idle Class liked that She is tough, and reminds “See.” place. Go with your friends me of a brave and mildly “No. I’m drunk.” and a buzz. Don’t be afraid hungry bird. She is the kid to interpret the rules for in class who spoke up to We thank Susan for the yourself sometimes. They clarify instruction at each seat and the canvas, Hanwere incredibly accommoturn. Yes, but which brush!? nah and her assistant for dating to my rambling focus Red? Fire engine, or this instruction and beer. unlike regular life where Auburn? How long should “Can I call you and ask a they’ll throw you in jail for we blow dry them? few questions?” I say. it.

“I’m from Chicago too.

“Well, what’s the story In the car, Kody says, I miss her like a woman,” I about?” Hannah says.

“What the hell, out of the said.

“Kody wants me to do Ethos into permanence?”

“Ah. You’re doing it a..”

“Well, even the kind of wrong. It’s ok. My son-in“Cause I do my own art. permanence a painting is, law is up there. University This is teaching.” is an illusion,” I say. “But of Chicago. Genius.”

“Yeah. Of course.” don’t let me forget it in your “Smart school. I’ve “Kody wants a pretty trunk.” threatened to get into Ecostraight-forward piece about nomics up there.” this place. I’m thinking VISIT: PAINTINGWIThATWIST. “Friedman?” she asks. more like something like COM/fayetteville “Right. Know the beast what gives us the authority to slay the beast.” to pull images out the Ethos 32

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And now we’re the kids talking in class as Hannah lands the lesson on signatures. Here I am again— four yeas old in a class talking, twisting up the assignment, getting drunk and wasting people’s time. None or some of this may be true and all of it may just be an impression.

IN MEMORY OF DADDY Fundraiser for the American Cancer Society Painting with a Twist: Fayetteville Feb. 24, 2013, 2 PM

SHORTLY AFTER SUSAN JEAN opened painting with a twist in fall of 2011, her father was diagnosed with stomach cancer right after her mother finished treatment for stage four lung cancer. Her mother survived but her father passed away on Feb. 15, 2012.

Now almost a year later, Susan has decided to throw a fundraiser, appropriately titled “In Memory of Daddy.” Proceeds will go to the American Cancer Society.

People can come throughout the afternoon and choose from three paintings—“The Razorwild,” “Looking Up,” and “Two Birds on Red.” Her instructors will be on hand and the usual revelry of dancing, hula hooping and drinking will occur.

Susan also plans to have a silent auction featuring paintings by local celebrities and nationally-renowned motivational speaker, Erik Wahl.

All participants will take their paintings home at the end of the day. Make reservations online.

VISIT: Paintingwithatwist.com/ fayetteville/calendar

WRITING

WRITER'S BLOCKS

UNIVERSITY OF CENTRAL ARKANSAS LAUNCHES ARKANSAS WRITERS MFA TO TEACH ESSENTIALS OF THE CRAFT

BY ANDREW MCCLAIN ILLUSTRATED BY BETH POST

AFTER SEVERAL YEARS OF WAITING for approval, the University of Central Arkansas has finally launched its Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing.

In 2008, Marc Spitzer started writing a proposal for an MFA program. The writing department staff met weekly to expand and edit the proposal into an airtight 20 pages, with an appendix nearly five times that length.

“This department has grown so much, especially in creative writing. We have a major, a minor, and we now have more undergraduate classes in creative writing than any other college in the state, so it’s a really natural next step,” said Stephanie Vanderslice, Program Director.

The program was approved in the fall of 2011, and the first class started in the fall of 2012.

There are six students in the inaugural class. “We’ve never intended it to be a huge program,” Vanderslice said “because we want the students to get individual attention.” The program, at full capacity, could hold 18-24 students.

Vanderslice refers to the six students as “The Sinister Six” in an email.

Louie Land, one of the six, said “Because the MFA in creative writing at UCA is brand-new, so new that we are the first class, I knew my work would probably be getting closer attention than most students get in their MFA programs because there simply aren’t as many of us and the faculty and staff would be working hard to create a name for their program. I was also drawn to the fact that there is a strong undergraduate writing major here.”

He added, “I also jumped at the oppor-

tunity to not only teach Comp or Intro to Creative Writing but also to take pedagogy classes. Not only would I gain experience teaching my discipline, I would also understand the theory and would be able to articulate what I do when I teach and why I do it.”

The teaching staff is all existing UCA writing staff, though the program may require additional faculty by the third year.

“Different students have different specialties, but they can take courses in other areas even if they come here with a different speciality,” said Vanderslice.

The 60-hour program is designed to take three years to complete, with the last year being thesis work. Classes will cover topics like composition theory. The program focuses on pedagogy and publishing.

“We wanted to make sure this program was different. We wanted to offer students something they couldn’t necessarily get at any other MFA program,” Vanderslice said, which is the idea behind a professional development class called “Getting The Most Out of Your MFA,” which is unique to the Arkansas Writers MFA program.

Stacey Margaret Jones, another of the six, has actually taught in UCA’s writing department before. “I began hearing about the prospect of the MFA at UCA through the grapevine several years before it launched,” Jones said, “I was eagerly awaiting the opportunity to apply.”

As the Sinister Six finish their first of three years, the staff celebrate the completion of a long-awaited goal: the establishment of a truly unique Arkansas institution.

VISIT: uca.edu/writing/mfa idleclassmag.com

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Toad Suck Review crease the literary currency of the region.”

The journal, on its third issue, has become a crucial part of the MFA program’s curriculum. In their Editing and Publishing class, grad students proofread submissions and work with authors through the editing process.

Spitzer also mentions opportunities for graduate assistantships at the journal.“Our Assistant Editor Scotty Lewis is the webmaster for our online presence, and our other Assistant Editor John Mitchel

BY ANDREW MCCLAIN works on a list of top secret duties. We expect to AN INTEGRAL PART OF continue to be able to offer the Arkansas Writers MFA two assistantships per year program is the Toad Suck for students to work on the Review, a literary journal Toad Suck Review in order published out of the Unito gain valuable editing versity of Central Arkansas’ and publishing experiwriting department. ence.”

Writing professor and The Toad Suck Review editor-in-chief Mark Spitzer editorial staff will read explains “The Toad Suck Re- from their original work at view was designed to attract the Third Annual Toad Suck attention to UCA as a center Review Launchapalooza for the creative arts in Arkan- event at Michelangelo’s sas. The main two aspects of rooftop in downtown Conour mission were to foster way on Friday, February 15. a literary culture through The event is free and starts publishing awesome works at 7:00pm. of literature and producing Lifetime subscriptions events in the area to inare $75. Copies can be 36

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purchased at a discount ($10 per issue) at the Campus Bookstore or ordered directly from the address below for $15 per issue (no shipping and handling necessary, but add $13 for international orders). Make checks payable to “UCA” or send a PayPal payment to toadsuckreview@gmail. com.

Toad Suck Review Department of Writing University of Central Arkansas 201 Donaghey Street Thompson Hall Conway, AR 72035

spice up your writing UCA Professor & HuffPo blogger Dr. Stephanie Vanderslice gives you 5 ways to make your writing better NOW. 1. Blocked? Lower your standards; first drafts always stink it up. That’s what revision is for.

2. Make writing “dates” with yourself during which you set aside all distractions (especially social media) in order to write.

Put them on your calendar at the beginning of the week.

3. Check out one of the many great sites that offer writing prompts online, like easystreetprompts.com, named a top writing

site by Writer’s Digest and written by Conway’s own Monda Strange Fason.

4. Carry a small notebook or notepad around so that you can jot down ideas as you get them--if you don’t, they disappear.

I like to use a sticky note pad; then I can transfer the idea to a larger journal.

5. Read at the beginning of a writing session, for ten minutes or so, a writer or book you admire. Often reading other writers, just for a few minutes, gets the juices flowing.

For more writing advice, check out The Geek’s Guide to the Writing Life by searching Stephanie Vanderslice and Geeks Guide over at the HuffingtonPost.com.

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POETRY

STRING OF LIGHTS Winter comes on like a gas stove Hissing and clicking Then lights up With more flame Than you anticipate So you pull the match back Investigate your hands as though they may be ruined And before then In a fit of hysteria The interiors of SUVs fill up and spill out With DVDs, players, and sweatshirts from the Gap and Old Navy Chests adorned with cheap stitching Cheap taste But then the bells begin to ring With the opening and jarring of doors And the adorers And somebody, somewhere Has been chopping down trees Little ones, big ones, shabby ones, and Great White Firs And somebody, somewhere Has learned to tie a knot in three different ways And I think about that As I investigate and tighten the lights on a string And it makes me feel better To know We are all drawing from the same source

- KARA BIBb

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RELEVANCE, THE STRUGGLE I’m one of these old TV’s flashing in a corner, selling you cigarettes and love and Oldsmobiles.

Relevance is my struggle.

Most of us lose before struggle is apparent, or becomes so.

And you’re one of those magnets, I’ve never seen and only hear of.

They say when a picture is skewed, when colors won’t obey static arrives irreliably you will realign me.

Only being close.

People come back remember clear pictures fading along our own old friends flash on gathered faces, I’m behind it all, wondering where are you tonight who you’re aligned with and how long this picture keeps its show.

- MARTY SHUTTER

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Raising Children

Fiction

By Nicolas Claro “untitled” by vincent griffin

IT IS TUESDAY, APRIL 15th and my son, Arnold, has been in prison for four years, two months, and just shy of a week. He’s serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole. Sometimes I wonder why I keep track of the days, the point eludes me, but, regardless, I still do, every day. I miss my son, although I haven’t paid him a visit in a long time. He knows it’s difficult for me to go there; to hold the phone to my ear and speak with him, where he sits only a few feet in front of me, but, somehow, through the pane of glass it feels like he’s somewhere else, far, far away. In the past, I expressed my apologies about this and was surprised when he admitted he doesn’t like me visiting. It’s not because we have a bad father/son relationship— we don’t, never have—but because he says saying goodbye each time is harder than the previous one (I couldn’t agree more) and decided rather we should save them up—all those goodbyes—and use the last one when one of us eventually croaks. However, even with the absence of visitation, we do a good job in maintaining regular contact with one another.

We write letters. I try and write a few times a month, with just enough time between each letter so I actually have something

to say.

He writes more frequently; it’s not at all uncommon for me to get two or three letters a week. The content doesn’t vary too often. Most of them touch on the dayto-day, abject monotony of prison life. He writes about how the food reminds him of middle-school lunches; of talks with his cellmate Harry (also a “lifer”); laundry and cook duties; his bunk, which is a cement slab of concrete and how he misses four-post beds and down comforters. Sometimes he’ll write about things he witnesses, like scuffles between rival gangs, or blacks, Latinos, or some other minority group and Neo-Nazis or a different sect of white supremacists—there are multiple, he says. I think for my sake he doesn’t go into too much detail about that kind of thing anymore. At first he left nothing out, probably since it was new to him, and, as his father, it was difficult for me to stomach the scenes which he described; but now, he’ll simply write, Things got pretty ugly between so-and-so, and leave it at that. Still I find myself writing a line or two about how I worry, and, when I do, he’ll pen something about how he isn’t afraid of being attacked or forced into a compromising situation in the shower. I keep quiet, no one really bothers me, he’s written. The only time I really hear my voice is when I’m reading, and if someone doesn’t like what I’m saying, they can take it up with Solzhenitsyn for all

I care. Even so, I’ve encouraged him to discuss other things, to branch out and get creative, but he’s positive the only way to write is to write about what you know, and I do my best to encourage him to dream a little. He’s got all the time in the world to do so.

notices me as I make my way toward the aisle filled with Hallmark Cards and envelopes. There are a few helium balloons tied to racks that hold various kinds of colorful wrapping paper and decorative tissue paper, along with bows, ribbons. I squat down, resting my forearms on my thighs and scan A warm, damp breeze over the cards, which are filters in through the wincategorized: Wedding Andow I’ve cracked in my niversary, Thinking Of You, Honda as I coast down the Love & Friendship, Sympahill, which makes up St. thy, also, Christian SympaChristopher Avenue. I pass thy and, finally, near the end by the busy back lot of the of the aisle, Birthday.

Post Office, which is on my Apart from today being agenda later to visit, and just another number in a eventually pull into an open growing chain of days Arparking space at the end of nold sits in prison, it’s also the block, just outside the two days before his 27th drugstore, which is the first birthday. For his special days destination I have on the since his incarceration, I’ve docket for my morning. The aimed to find a dopey card, sight of the PO reminds me which I can write something to double-check the backequally as dopey inside, seat, to see if I’ve forgotten that, I hope, at least gets the box (I haven’t) that I Arnold’s cheeks to pop and have prewritten the prison’s dimple a little from a smile. address on aim to fill and So far, the birthday cards mail off. As I slam the door in front of me are all amiss; shut, the loud bells bong out mostly cards for very young from the Episcopal Church, children with cartoon charwelcoming 10 AM, and they acters I’m unfamiliar with, are over and rung out of and the few that fall outside my ears by the time I take of that mix are either bora pause beneath the sensor ing, or too serious, or both. and wait as the door to the I rise, smacking my lips in drugstore slides soundlessly disappointment, and think open. about heading over to the An elderly woman beWalgreens on the south side hind the counter is rubbing of town to try my luck there. her hands together, a plas“Finding everything,” a tic bag between them, in a nearby, mousey voice says. vigorous attempt to open “Or did you need some it as a male customer with help?” his back toward me loudly To my right stands a taps his foot, impatiently young female pharmacy waiting as his few items sit employee. Her nametag is on the countertop. Neither pinned crookedly on her idleclassmag.com

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white dress shirt and sits at an angle like a sinking ship.

She stands with her hands clasped in front of her at the waist and she rocks slightly back and forth on her heels. Her thick eyebrows are raised above her eyes, which are bright and eager.

It’s probably her first day.

“It’s my son’s birthday in a couple days,” I say. “Just looking for a card is all.”

She gives me a slight, diffident once-over and, I’m sure, notices my ebbing hairline and splashes of silver in my beard, and has come to the conclusion my son isn’t a child or anywhere close to it. She looks over the cards in front of me.

“As I’m sure you saw, most of these here are for little kiddos. There’s a whole bunch more on the other side where I’m sure you’ll find one that’ll be perfect for your son. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

I stop the urge to say something like Oh, I bet, as she turns and begins walking slowly, as if I asked to use her phone because my beater kicked the bucket a few blocks down and am now being ushered into an unfamiliar home.

I would have had no difficulty simply walking around the other side, ducking beneath the cluster of balloons and finding the cards on my own, but she gives a quick glance over her shoulder, her eyes looking just as eager as they did before, and even gives me a little hey-come-on wave.

I’m sure now more than 42

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ever she’s a new employee and, as not to disappoint, I follow. After a moment I find a card, thank the young woman, and pay.

My second order of business for the day is finding Arnold a present to fill the birthday package with. Last year I got him a deck of cards, a sketchpad with some charcoal, and a Hustler mag that I took the liberty of leaving a note inside of, saying that I hope this helps him out, if he hasn’t already turned fullfledged homo—a joke I was hesitant to crack on the first spread of photos, though he assured me in a letter a few days later that he got a laugh out of it. His laugh now, to me, is a forgotten noise, though I do remember it being a good one. I’ve also made a mental note to squeeze in a few titles of “lighter” reading. He’s fallen into a particular liking for the Russian’s over the last several months and, given his situation, I can be anything except surprised.

As I stroll down the street, matching envelope and card in hand (I opted for a the one with a cartoon pirate manning the helm of a ship on tumultuous water, he pointing his cutlass at something off frame, and I’ve decided later to write a dumb joke I overheard about a pirate’s favorite letter: R not being it, but rather the “Sea”) I notice the morning has adopted a pick-up-and-go pace. Shopkeepers have flipped their OPEN signs around in windows and doors for passerby

to see. Across the street, a group of women wearing neon-colored shorts, white tank tops, with their hair all done up in the same topknot style, are jogging in a tidy row, their footfalls slapping against the pavement with gushy whump, whump, whumps. In either direction, traffic is zipping along, though it is heavier in the direction toward campus.

I pass a restaurant, whose doors will not be open for nearly an hour, and a young man in a pressed black shirt and slacks with an apron slung over his shoulders, the straps flapping in the wind like streamers, halts a moment from sweeping up cigarette butts and other clutter to let me pass. I give him a smile and a quick, militarystyle salute as to say thank you. In return, he gives me a nod before getting back to sweeping. This is the sort of stuff I imagine Arnold is really missing out on; the minor things that a lot of people overlook, though they can bring a little added happiness to your day. And, who doesn’t want that?

When Arnold was growing up, I saw a lot of that sort of goodness in him. He dishing out little acts of kindness while also being the first to voice recognition if one was dealt to him—the dogooder always the recipient of an I appreciate that very much. And that’s the thing that bothers me the most: Arnold was a good kid, a helpful and respectful boy, a do-gooder, or whatever you want to label it as. Then he fucked everything up, and

what he did will overshadow forever every bit of goddamn good he’d ever done in his life.

When I reach the end of the block, I shuffle over to the curb’s edge and wait at the crosswalk. Just across the street there’s a little strip mall filled with all sorts of shops, (including the adult store where I bought the nudie-mag last year) and I hope inside one of them I can find him a book or two to wean him off the Russkis for at least a little while.

A few cars pass by, the driver in each looking forward, either squinting against the sun in one direction, or ducking below their rearview mirrors while heading in the other, all seemingly occupied with thoughts of reaching their destination, since no one seems to see me and I’m forced to wait. But I see where they’ll be a slight break in the traffic and I know I’ll not have to stand around for much longer.

One of the shops, located in the middle of the strip mall, occupying Suite #4, is a consignment store called Martindale’s and has been there for about as long as I can remember. Although the stores original owner, Suellen Martindale, passed away some time ago, the shop remains open, run by her son, Skip. There is always a good deal of random knickknacks in there, and I’m thinking I’ll be able to find Arnold a little something.

I don’t know Skip all that well. He has a daughter my

son’s age, and when they were in middle-school and during the first couple years of high school, before either of them got a license, he and I would shoot the breeze in the parking lot until the bell announced class was out. Though the moment either one of our children arrived, we’d be off on our separate ways without so much as lifting a finger to say goodbye. And since those days, I see him rarely.

This is given to the fact I do not visit his shop often and, also, from our previous talks, I know he’s a straightlaced Southern Baptist who doesn’t drink, smoke, or partake in anything known to be excessively fun or enjoyable.

Finally, the break in the traffic arrives and I dart across the street.

A little bell above the door pings, announcing my entrance into Martindale’s.

Skip, who’s sitting in an old claw-footed chair behind an ancient cash register, which I can’t remember if he actually uses or if it’s just there for show, slowly brings down the paper he has fanned out in front of him and gives me a friendly smile.

“Mornin’, William,” he says, and goes back to his paper.

“How’s business, Skip?”

“Just fine,” he says from behind the paper.

The store is sectioned off in little showrooms. Each one appears to have some sort of thematic to it. Just as the room I’m passing now on my right, which is

filled with all things rooster: including a pair of oven mitts, several framed prints, a weather vane, calendar, two bloated, lazily rolledup rugs and, much to my amazement, a giant stuffed rooster perched on a piece of driftwood, forever in its regal cock-a-doodle-do pose.

I pass in and out of a few more rooms; glancing over their inventory, though see little, if anything, I could by for my son. There’s old guitars, baseball hats, gloves (no sign of any balls), harpoon guns, nets, skis, vases, salt and pepper shakers, old, sad looking action figures, the paint on them faded probably from being discarded in backyards, which is no doubt why they wound up here. As I reach the end of the long hallway, and I think, my options (a similar feeling runs through me, much like the one I had while scanning over birthday cards) I am pleased to see, standing in a small stack beneath a folding table, which has several typewriters sitting atop it with sheets of paper jutting out them (the paper reads: LOOK! TYPES LIKE NEW! SEE!), a stack of Hardy Boy novels.

I have fond memories of reading these books to Arnold when he was younger and I remember him enjoying them very much. I kneel down and lift the entire stack, which is made up of six books, and set them on the table next to the typewriters and go through each one. Nearly all of them are idleclassmag.com

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in great condition. Only a few of them have some scratches on the covers or dog-eared pages. I re-stack them, setting the card and envelope at the top, and begin walking back toward the front of the shop.

As I near the register, I see someone, a woman, has Skip up and out of his chair.

His paper is neatly folded and tucked in the pit of his arm. He has his hands deep in the pockets of his trousers and he’s leaning forward, nodding at every word the woman is speaking. The woman is wearing a flannel and jeans, which are tucked into a pair of cowboy boots.

Her long, almond-brown hair is tied back into a ponytail. I recognize her voice and my knees and legs suddenly go a little wonky and my nerves are instantly shot to hell. I am panicking.

The woman Skip is conversing with is Courtney Helm. We’ve managed not to see one another for years, mostly, I think, because it was rumored she moved out east. Though, if that was just a rumor, I accredit our not crossing one another’s paths to the most absolute, sheerest, blind luck.

Courtney is the mother of Parker Helm—the young man my son killed after an argument got out of hand at a bar. Both of them had been drunk and carried the fight outside into the parking lot. They wound up on the ground and Arnold got Parker into a some sort of chokehold, but didn’t let go until he realized he’d gone too far and couldn’t go 44

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back.

My last encounter with Courtney took place only days after the guilty verdict was served and my son was carted off to begin his sentence. At the time, I frequented a little diner a few days a week, always around 7 in the morning, on the far edge of town. It’s the kind of place that always has people in it, though in most cases I never recognized any of them, which was one reason why I liked the place so much. And even though it was consistently busy, it was never balls-to-the-wall, which lends enough time for the waitress to top off your coffee after a few sips and also dispense some good, early morning wisecracks and harmless flirting while doing so.

That morning, I’d placed my usual order of grits, three eggs scrambled and extra toast, along with a coffee, with a fluffy haired waitress who was thick at the waist and put an exaggerated bounce to her step which made her look as if she were ice skating away from the table, rather than walking. As I waited, I leafed through a back issue of National Geographic and read an article about permafrost.

I didn’t get a chance to finish the article. There had been a loud noise, not of the typical percussion of forks and knives against plates, or the hiss of food hitting the griddle, or even the loud whoosh of someone pushing through the double doors followed by

the loud slap of them coming to a close. Instead there were several loud bangs; the last of which was accompanied by the crash and shatter of something breaking into pieces. Like everyone else that morning, I began scanning over the crowd to find the source of the ruckus.

A few tables away stood Courtney Helm. A chair was lying on its back just behind her, and nearby on the ground were triangular fragments and flakes of a broken plate, along with a mess of food, which was still steaming. When our eyes met, she lifted a hand, pointing. Her arm was trembling, along with the rest of her body.

“What kind of person raises a child who is capable of doing what your son did to mine!” she’d yelled.

In my peripheral, I saw the waitress that had taken my order. She apparently hadn’t heard the commotion, since she calmly walked over and set my order in front of me. I whispered for her to put it in a carry-out container and got up to my feet as she went off to bag my breakfast. As I stood there, I realized I had nothing to say to Courtney.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to say something to her, but rather I simply didn’t know what I could say. I didn’t have an answer.

“What kind of person!” she went again. “Huh? Tell me, you son-of-abitch!”

All eyes were on me. I thought my heart was going

to burst from my chest and I hurriedly shuffled out of the restaurant, looking back only the one time to see my waitress holding a brown paper bag in one hand and the check in the other. She had a look of sadness and confusion imprinted on her face, like everyone else around her.

“I am, yes,” I spit out clumsily as I take my wallet out.

It is at this moment when Courtney walks up next to me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” she says and directs a quick glance at me, then returns her view to Skip. “Where’d you say that room was again?”

Courtney and Skip are “Just a moment,” Skip still chatting. I take this opsays, waiting for the register portunity to duck into the to finish tallying my total. rooster-filled showroom and Courtney nods and stays wait until, I hope, the coast put. Nervously, I begin will clear up and I can get flapping the card, beating the hell out of here. it against my thigh, and I can’t decipher what look in the opposite directhey are talking about and tion. Although I keep Skip while I’m eavesdropping, in my sight, who is taking I make an effort to keep his sweet time bagging the my eyes off the big, stuffed books, glancing over the rooster, whose fake, plastic cover of each one before and beady eyes stare down tucking it away in the paper at me from his perch. sack.

“Okay, great.” I hear “I thought that was you, Courtney say. She must be Mr. Frobie,” I hear Courtcloser than before. ney say. “You wear a beard There is a break in the now.” conversation, though I wait Reluctantly, I turn tofor another fifteen seconds ward her. She is shorter to pass before I peep out than I remember; her head and see Skip about to tend only barely reaches up to back to his chair and paper. my shoulders. She doesn’t I shuffle over quickly and set have much of an expression the books a little too loudly on her face. Her lips are on the counter, removing closed, though not pressed the card and envelope from together, and her eyes seem the top book. only to be taking in what Skip turns around and is in front of her. Her eyewalks up to the register and brows are not slanted. says, “Y’all set then?”

“Please,” I say. My voice He takes a moment to is shaky; it is the voice of a adjust his glasses before coward. “It’s William, or-or flipping to the inside of the Will, if you’d prefer.” back cover of each of the I did not realize I was books, where the prices are, still beating the card against and starts plugging away on my leg until Courtney grabs the register, which appears my hand and gives it a soft to be working just fine. squeeze.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” she says. “But I was so angry.”

“Oh, please don’t,” I say.

“You don’t have to. I should.

I don’t think I’ve ever told you sorry, for all that’s happened.” I’m surprised at the length it takes for me to begin speaking again. “I am sorry. And Arnold, he’s sorry too. ” I can see her eyes vibrating and filling with water, such as mine have already.

Courtney glances down at our hands, which are still clasped together, and for a moment she stares, then takes the card from my hand, turns it over, then back, before opening it.

“Is it today?” she asks.

“The seventeenth,” I say.

I look over at Skip, who has a confused look on his face.

He stands motionless; all of the books are finally in the bag, set out in front of him. The drawer is sticking out of the register. I move the bag aside and ask him for a pen. At first he doesn’t stir, until I ask again and he removes one from his shirt pocket. I hold out the pen to Courtney. “Would you write something to him?”

Courtney licks her lips and bobs her head a few times, then says, “Yes, I will.” She pauses briefly.

“How old is he going to be?”

“Twenty-seven,” I barely manage to say in a whisper.

She sets the card on the counter and begins writing.

I stand back and watch. As she writes, my heart slows down to its normal pace.

Skip, I think, has finally idleclassmag.com

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put the pieces together and looks at me and then to Courtney and sucks in his lips and walks out from behind the counter and into another room. When I look back, Courtney has filled up both inside pages, then flips the card over and continues to write. When she is done, she sets the pen on the counter and hands me the card. There is only a little white space left on the very back.

“Thank you,” I say.

Courtney looks around a moment. “I wrote my address in there,” she says.

Skip, in almost a tiptoe, comes back into the room.

When he gets behind the register he tells me my total, and I pay him. I take the bag and drop the card in it.

“I better go mail this off,” I say to Courtney. “He’ll write you, you know.”

“I’ll read it,” she says.

I am able only to smile, and this causes a single tear to pop out of my eye, which then rolls down my cheek and is lost in my beard.

When I push through the door, I hear Skip redirecting Courtney to the room she inquired about earlier, and in an instant, their conversation and the dinging of the bell above the door are lost when it closes.

I have crossed through the parking lot and stand at the corner of the block on the sidewalk. People pass by, moving around me, while cars hum on the road.

I set the bag on the ground, 46

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bend down a little, and pull the card out. I stand hunched over and begin reading over what Courtney has written. When I finish, I pause, and read it over again.

I must have started to cry, because a woman came up and got down next to me, placing her hand on my back.

“Are you okay?” she says.

I slide the card back into the bag, picking it up off the ground and get to my feet, the woman coming up along with me. I run the back of my hand across my face and clear my throat.

“Things are a little better,” I say.

The woman says nothing more and walks away.

When I look on out toward the street, I see two cars, one in each lane, waiting for me to cross.

I then start walking back to my car. I pass by the restaurant, where the server had been sweeping earlier.

The door is propped open and soft music spills out from the lobby. There is a sign propped on the sidewalk with the daily lunch specials written in chalk on it. I tuck the bag up to my chest, placing both hands beneath it and start running.

As I do so, I am met with a few looks by those I pass; perhaps them thinking I’ve stolen something. I round the corner to my car and am nearly out of breath. I place the bag on hood and open the back door, retrieving the box. I tuck each book in the

box and am happy to see they all fit in there without a problem. I take the card and set it on top of the books and head across the street.

There is a line in the Post Office, though it seems to be moving quickly. I hear one of the employees say: “I can help who’s next. Sir, sir, if you’ll just step up right here.” I take up one of the pens, held down to the counter by a small chain, and look over the space left on the back of the card. A mixture of emotions is stirring in me at this moment; a blend of closure which brings about a certain happiness, though there’s still sadness, too; a sadness myself, Courtney, and Arnold all share in our own way, though I hope after my son reads Courtney words, there will be a small load off of that weight for him.

As I stand here, I am happy to feel these emotions all at once, though I doubt I will ever feel the combination again, and I am happy for that, too. I put the tip of the pen down, but I decide not to leave down the joke.

Instead, I write only: To my son, Wishing you a happy birthday.

All my love, Dad I then tape up the package and wait in line to mail it off.

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