Shedding Regret

Couldn't sleep last night, so I watched most of "Factotum", which I liked very much (and will finish later today), then for some reason I felt the need to see the Bill Hicks docu, "It's Just A Ride". I take Hicks in concentrated doses, then lay off for months at a time. He's not the kind of comic you casually dip into, appreciating this or that clever line before going on your way. With Hicks, you have to submerge yourself completely, like cranking up Hendrix's "Star Spangled Banner" till the walls shake and your hair is blown backwards. You have to feel Hick's pain, anger, and anguish as your own, otherwise, you won't get the joke, even when there isn't one.



Watching Hicks in the dark early hours, screaming into his mike about our soulless, mediocre culture -- which, by the way, has only gotten worse since his death -- I not only felt reconnected to a vital creative source, I experienced a deep sensation of regret.



Now, I try not to regret things in my life, for we all know that reality is a butterfly's dream, and that the mirage is a lie keeping us from truly understanding the point to this existence. I understand and appreciate all that. But I am flawed in so many ways, and one of my chief flaws is regret. I regret all the stupid and destructive decisions I've made over the years, my selfishness, my cruelty, my cowardice, my fucked up sense of reasoning in moments when clarity was called for, and all the bullshit in between. I struggle with this daily, and have, for the most part, moved past the deeper recesses. But as I watched Hicks last night, an old regret resurfaced. An angry, foot-stomping, blow-the-windows-out-with-a-shotgun type of regret. So, if I lay it out here once and for all, perhaps I can finally rid myself of the nasty thing.

While in the final editing stages of "Mr. Mike," I spent a lot of time with my editor at Avon/William Morrow, going over the pages, making cuts, changes, etc. One day, sitting in his Manhattan midtown office just off Sixth Ave., he asked what project I wanted to do next. I had two ideas: the first, an American version of Bill Buford's "Among The Thugs," a frightening, first-hand look at British soccer fan culture; and the second, the one I really wanted to tackle, an in-depth bio of Bill Hicks. I learned many things about writing a bio with "Mr. Mike," and I knew that I wouldn't make the same mistakes I made with that book when researching and writing about Hicks.

My editor leaned back in his chair, smiled, then waved off the Hicks idea.

"That's a paperback book," he said. "You're more of a hard cover author."

"So publish it in soft cover," I replied. "Doesn't matter to me. Besides, it'll be cheaper and might sell more copies."

"But you don't want to be typecast as a comedy biographer, do you?"

"I don't know. But I love Hicks's work, and I think I could write a kick-ass book about him."

He shook his head, still smiling that gator smile of his. "No. You should do the sports book instead. That could be fun."

It was clear that my dear editor wasn't going to sign off on a Bill Hicks book. No matter what I said, he rejected it, even though Hicks had and still has a much larger following than Michael O'Donoghue ever did. Hicks's fans would eagerly pay for a good book about his life and work, and I felt that I could deliver such a book. But I was hitting the corporate wall with this idea, so I dropped it and wrote "American Fan" as my editor suggested.

The first regret I had regarding this episode was that I didn't walk over to my editor, lean in close to his face and say, "You know what? I'm writing the Hicks book. You don't want to publish it? Fine. I'll find someone who will." Then walk out. I was too frightened to piss off someone who was publishing my first book, and would give me a decent advance to write another. Plus, I was married with two young kids. What was I going to do -- finance the Hicks book myself, which would require a lot of travel and unpaid work time? The strain would affect the book, assuming I could afford to finish and sell it. Still, looking back, I could have found some way to get the Hicks book off the ground. Instead, I retreated, like the well-behaved author I thought I had to be.

Several months later, I was back in my editor's office, discussing the sports book before going out to lunch. I asked him what new projects he had lined up for the next few publishing seasons, and he casually told me that he had just signed a young writer to work on a Bill Hicks bio.

I was stunned. Then furious. But I kept my anger in check, and gently reminded this two-timing jerk that the Hicks bio was my idea, which he obviously knew. Didn't matter. All he did was smile and tell me, again, that it was a minor project and not worthy of my attention.

Biting my lip, I asked him who was writing the book.

"A girl named Cynthia True."

"Who's that?"

"She writes for Time Out New York."

"Time Out New York!!" I practically yelled. "Are you fucking kidding me? They hire caption writers there. You hired a fucking caption writer to cover Hicks's life?"

"Cynthia's great. She's already been to Texas to talk to Hicks's parents. She'll do him justice."

Needless to say, I drank more of my lunch than ate it.

God, I was so fucking mad. And I felt betrayed. But again, for the sake of my "career," I swallowed the poisoned cock without protest and went on with my life. But this news gnawed at me for quite some time.

When "American Fan" was in the pipeline, waiting to be released, Avon/William Morrow was bought by Rupert Murdoch's HarperCollins. My book would still come out as planned, but my editor soon disappeared in the Murdochian bowels, plugging into the Borg and assuming his anonymous place. We rarely spoke; and after HarperCollins torpedoed "Fan," a book they despised, my old editor ceased returning my calls and emails. I haven't heard from him since.

After moving to Michigan and embarking on my custodial career, I was in the local library, perusing the new releases when I came across Cynthia True's book. I froze. Part of me wanted to simply ignore the thing and move on, but my angry curiosity was too much to repress, and I thought for a moment that, hey, maybe she did a good job. Maybe I should calm down and give it a chance. So I grabbed the book, sat down, and started to read.

It was awful. Unbelievably so. I mean, I was so shocked by True's amateurish attempts to write at all, much less about a comic legend like Hicks, that I couldn't get mad. The absurdity of it actually made me laugh. But this was a madman's laughter, the only sane response I could muster. I flipped through the pages and read segments at random. It didn't get any better. I started to think that this was an elaborate FUCK YOU! from my old editor to me, as well as to Hicks. It certainly felt that way. I put the book back on the shelf and haven't looked at a single word of it since then. Too painful. And yes, it filled me with regret.

The wife has suggested that I write another Hicks bio. As she rightly points out, many great artists have more than one book written about them, and Hicks certainly deserves better. I've thought about it, and the possibility hit me again last night. But my fucking regret clouded my thoughts, which is why I wrote this post. And I'm glad I did. I do feel better about this, and perhaps I'll put out some feelers to see if another book would be accepted. We'll see.

In the meantime, here's my little ode to Hicks that I'm sure many of you have already read (Hicks's mother did, and sent me a very sweet email). Don't know if it would serve as a book proposal, but it's not a bad start.