Sunday, January 15, 2017

276. The Heartland vs. New York

         For two new poems of mine in the Winter 2017 issue of GNU Journal, an online literary mag, go here and scroll down to pp. 34 and 35.  Then decide if your serene is ninny or deep, and see if the proverbs apply at all to you.

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        A recent New York Times article explored the meaning of “the heartland,” since it was voters in this region that gave the election to Donald Trump.  But what exactly is the heartland?  Obviously, it’s a central region  far from the coasts, but this is rather vague.  I have always taken it to mean the Midwest, where I’m from.  A recent survey said that residents of twelve states described them as being in the Midwest, which then includes everything from Ohio west to Nebraska, and from Minnesota south to Missouri.  But if you think of it as all of the nation that is far from the coasts, you would have to include everything as far west as the Rocky Mountains and as far east as the Appalachians, and states like Tennessee and Arkansas that have always been considered Southern.  Another definition sees the heartland as the nation’s breadbasket, which then includes all states with a large percentage of farmland: the states of the Great Plains -- the Dakotas, Nebraska, Kansas, and Oklahoma – plus Texas, Iowa, and parts of other states like Illinois and Missouri.  It has even been suggested that the heartland is where baseball is popular, which takes in the traditional Midwest.  Given these conflicting definitions, perhaps it is best to endorse the opinion of some historians that the heartland is above all a state of mind.

         So what is this state of mind, and how does it differ from New York?  I think at once of Midwestern values: a laid-back way of looking at things, as opposed to the fast pace and intensity of New York.  Midwesterners think of their part of the country as the norm, compared with which the rest of the country – which most definitely includes New York -- is abnormal or at least not normal.  “Come back to the real America,” a Midwestern friend once said to me, and he was only half joking; he really thought his part of the country was the authentic America, and the two coasts a kind of aberration.  This “authentic” America thinks of itself as quiet, sane, reasonable, not given to extremes.  It believes in what it thinks are traditional American values; it is patriotic, honors the flag, is usually – though not always – inclined to trust the government.  And it goes to church, meaning one of the well-established churches, Catholic or Protestant, rather than some new sect that is noisy, self-promoting, and evangelical; here too it shuns extremes.   

         All of which may be a myth, since there are Midwesterners who are not altogether sane and reasonable, who are vastly suspicious of government, and don’t go to church.  But in the 1930s and 1940s – yes, way back then -- I grew up in a traditional Midwest and can certify that it did once exist, and probably still does so, albeit in a modified form.

         The Midwest that I grew up in – Evanston, the first suburb north of Chicago -- was suburban, well educated, professional, not grievously  wounded by the Great Depression, and very WASP.  It flourished on the very fringe of  Chicago, a great, noisy, hectic metropolis that both beckoned and repelled us Evanstonians, who flocked to it for jobs and shopping and theater, while at the same time distancing ourselves from it as an utterly corrupt (and Democratic) city that reeked of vice, crime, and liquor.  As regards the last, I must explain that Evanston back then was officially bone dry, and had been ever since the founding of Northwestern University, whose 1855 charter forbade the sale of liquor within four miles of the campus – a ban that preceded the development of the town itself.  Teetotaling Evanstonians looked with horror at Howard Street, the boundary between Evanston and Chicago, where liquor stores lined the south side of the street, as if eyeing Evanston with scorn and cupidity.  Not that all Evanstonians eschewed alcohol; the strange fumes emanating from the discarded bottles of one neighboring house, detected by me on childhood expeditions up the alley behind our house, told me otherwise, but to get the stuff one had to drive south to Chicago or west to regions just beyond the ban, a forbidden zone sought out regularly by bibulous Northwestern students.

         This heartland of my childhood was WASP to the core, and Republican.  WASP, but not rabidly so.  When a new family moved onto a block, one neighbor might say to another, “They’re Catholic, you know,” to which the other might reply with a muted “Oh.”  Likewise, “They’re Jewish, you know,” or more circumspectly, “They’re of a certain religion.”  Yes, there were African Americans (a term then unknown), but one hardly knew them, for they lived in circumscribed enclaves and weren’t allowed on the public beaches, except for one beach reserved for them.  The churches were aware of these practices, disapproved, but weren’t ready to launch a campaign to rectify the situation.  All in all, the status quo reigned supreme, and as I grew up I accepted it as the norm, even though that vast metropolis south of Howard Street was a mix of ethic groups – Polish, Swedish, Italian, Irish, and what have you – unknown to Evanston.

         And this heartland was also Republican, and in this regard the Evanstonians of my acquaintance did indeed show passion.  This was the era of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and the New Deal, both of them deplored by white, middle-class Evanston.  Not every aspect of the New Deal was denounced, but Evanston Republicans thought of FDR’s greatly expanded Washington bureaucracy as a maze of inefficient agencies  overstaffed with plodding bureaucrats determined to damp down American enterprise with burdensome restrictions.   As for FDR, he was a disaster for the nation, triply and quadruply so when, against all precedent, he ran for a third, and then a fourth, term.  The denigration of the president was taken to a new level by my father, a corporation attorney, who argued fervently that the Commander in Chief wasn’t quite right in the head, having been stricken with polio years before.  As proof he cited a photo of FDR at his office in the White House, his desk topped with mementos and souvenirs accumulated over the years – Tinkertoys, my father called them, insisting that no sane man, and least of all a president of the United states, would clutter up his desk with such trivia.  (My father’s office desk was piled high with papers that only he could make sense of, but these were not Tinkertoys.)

         When it came to foreign affairs, the Midwest of my childhood was decidedly – though not exclusively – isolationist.  It thought of itself as a sane, peace-loving heartland, immune to the warmongering of the east and west coasts, which it viewed as being obsessively concerned with the nefarious doings of totalitarian states in far distant places.  And the supreme isolationist was my father, who nursed vivid memories of World War I and how our allies had entered into secret agreements of which we naïve Americans had no knowledge at the time. 

         When World War II came, courtesy of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Evanston outdid no one in professions of patriotism, and immediately put a guard around our waterworks to prevent sabotage by the treacherous Japanese.  Even the rabidly isolationist Chicago Tribune, a fanatical foe of the president, proclaimed  MY  COUNTRY  RIGHT  OR  WRONG.  But my father was an isolationist to the end, denouncing government bungling (of which there was plenty) and insisting that there were secret agreements that we, the public, knew nothing about – a claim that in the end proved correct.  That we should go to war with Japan, when each was the other’s best trading partner, was insane.  “If the king of Sweden came over here and ran for president,” he announced, “I’d vote for him,” Sweden having remained neutral in both world wars.  In war-ravaged Great Britain my father would probably have been locked up for undermining wartime morale; here his extreme opinions were respected, but not shared, by our neighbors.  (An interesting question: were he alive today, would my father have voted for Trump?  It’s hard to say.  He might have admired the Donald’s contempt for the norms, his rejection of the politically correct, but he would have had trouble supporting a confessed woman-groper.)

         When, many years later, I came to live in New York, as a child of the heartland I was baffled by newspapers in languages I couldn’t read or identify.  My forays into the wilds of Chicago had only gone so far; I had never seen an Orthodox Jew before, or dined in a Chinese restaurant.  That New York differed greatly from the Midwest of my childhood was borne in upon me in a thousand ways.  New Yorkers are intense, highly motivated, cosmopolitan, opinionated yet tolerant, skeptical, diverse.  Nothing about them is muted; they sign petitions, write letters, demonstrate.  They think big, they talk loud, they do.  Are there exceptions?  Of course.  But the New Yorkers of my acquaintance are a far cry from the Midwest of my childhood, whose suburban confines stopped abruptly short of the vast, unruly, corrupt, and fascinating city of Chicago.  Yes, the “heartland” is probably above all a state of mind and therefore subjective – a state of mind far removed from such monstrous and complex conglomerations as New York.  And if many of us have forsaken the heartland for New York, we also retreat on occasion to our heartland for a bit of sanity and repose.  It’s hard to conceive of New York without the heartland, or the heartland without New York; they need each other intensely.

         A note on banks:  Followers of this blog know my love for banks, by which I mean the big international banks, the ones whose names everyone knows.  Consider then the captions of articles on page B1 of the Business Day section of the New York Times of Friday, December 23:

Money Laundering Case
Hangs Over Goldman

Deutsche Bank to Settle U.S. Inquiry
Into Mortgages for $7.2 Billion

Hedge Fund Math:
Heads or Tails, They Win

And inside, on page B2:

Justice Department Sues Barclay’s Over Mortgage-Backed Securities

How like that naughty New York Times to hit these guys when they’re down.  Give them a chance!  They may be able to explain transactions like money laundering and dealing in faulty mortgages.  After all, everyone does it – everyone in banking, that is.  So let’s not be too hasty.  Besides, the incoming administration will probably view these matters differently.  Too much regulation harms the economy and impedes prosperity, and prosperity is what we need. So Godspeed, Goldman Sachs and Deutsche Bank, and more power to you, Barclay’s!  Be patient and soon all will be well.

         Our president elect, like many a president before him, is not bothered by such trivia.  Among his new appointees to date are six (count ’em, six) graduates of Goldman Sachs: chief White House strategist, Secretary of the Treasury (how these boys like to get close to the money!), director of the National Economic Council, head of the Securities and Exchange Commission, a White House advisor, and another Sachsie likely to be named to a position that is as yet unannounced.  (For more on Goldman Sachs, see post #158, “Goldman Sachs: Vampire Squid or Martyred Innocent?” Dec. 21, 2014.)

          A note on profanity:  Apropos of post #263, "The Golden Age of Profanity," in which I confessed to indulging in an inordinate amount of indecent and inappropriate utterances, it turns out that, according to the AARP Magazine of January 2017 (p. 14), cussing has several benefits:

  • It shows a wider vocabulary, which indicates intelligence.
  • It has health benefits, helps reduce physical pain.
  • It helps us to communicate more persuasively and to forge better teams in the workplace.  (57% of workers swear on the job.)
I would add:
  • It relieves stress, helps us get through the day.
One caveat: If you swear too often (as I certainly do), the power of swearing won't be there when you need it.  So cherish those cuss words, nurture them, and save them up for that occasional necessary blast.


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          Browder poems: 
 For my short poem “I Crackle” and a stunning photo of me, go hereFor five acceptable poems, click here and scroll down.  To avoid five terrible poems, don't click here.  For my poem "The Other," inspired by the Orlando massacre, click here.   

          BROWDERBOOKS:  No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World, my selection of posts from this blog, has received these awards: the Tenth Annual National Indie Excellence Award for Regional Non-Fiction; first place in the Travel category of the 2015-2016 Reader Views Literary Awards; and Honorable Mention in the Culture category of the Eric Hoffer Book Awards for 2016.  For the Reader Views review by Sheri Hoyte, go here.  As always, the book is available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.


No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World

The Pleasuring of Men (Gival Press, 2011), my historical novel about a young male prostitute in the late 1860s in New York who falls in love with his most difficult client, is likewise available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.




         Coming soon:  Maybe something on the Rose Reading Room of the New York Public Library, where Jack Kerouac and I have spent precious hours, and after that, the changing skyline of New York. 

         ©   2017   Clifford Browder


         

Sunday, January 8, 2017

275. Diversity in New York


         Recently someone asked me what I liked about New York.  Without hesitation I said, “The intensity … and the diversity.”  For the intensity, just watch New Yorkers striding purposefully to work in the morning; these people are doers.  For the diversity, consider: my new podiatrist is from India, and her assistant is from Guyana.  My dentist is a Chinese-American from Hong Kong, and her assistant is from Ecuador.  At election time instructions come to voters in English, Spanish, Chinese, and at least one other language – Japanese? Korean? – that I can’t identify. 

         But my health insurance plan tops this, since its monthly notice of claims filed includes phone numbers for translations into Spanish, French, French Creole, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Polish, Arabic, Chinese, Cantonese Chinese, Tagalog, Vietnamese, Korean, Hindi, and Japanese.  So it is that I now know how to say “attention” – in the sense of “pay attention” -- in multiple languages, as for example 1. paunawa, 2. chú ´y, 3. atansyon, 4. uwaga, 5. atenção.  (Can you identify these five languages?  The answers are listed at the end of this post.)  And not long ago I met a woman specializing in international equity sales who is from Indonesia. 

         So it has always been.  Back in Dutch days, New Amsterdam was inhabited by Dutch, Walloons, Norwegians, Germans, Italians, Sephardic Jews, Huguenots from France, Bohemians, Africans both free and slave, English refugees from the puritanical New England colonies, Mohawks, Munsees, Montauks, and others – a population like no other on the continent.

         Let’s fast forward to 2016 and expand the notion of diversity.  When I went to a Mexican restaurant on Hudson Street recently, I took a table in front that gave me a good view of the front half of the restaurant.  Sitting at the bar were two men, obviously partners, who were talking briskly to a woman who was clearly a close friend.  At the end of the bar was a woman with long blond hair who was hunched over her mobile device, giving no heed to anyone or anything else.  At a table to my left was a Chinese-American gentleman with a Caucasian woman.  And to my right, at a large table against the wall, were four men, a three-year-old girl, and an infant.  One of the men was cradling the infant in his arms, while a younger man beside him looked on fondly; I gradually realized that this was a gay male couple with a child.  And the other two men?  One black and one white, they were sitting with their backs to me and with the three-year-old girl between them, and here again I gradually realized that this was a second gay male couple with a child. 

         At one point the three at the bar began talking with those at the table, with appropriate oohs and aahs over the two kids.  Then a heterosexual couple came in, the man with a dark beard and the woman with long blond hair, and sat at a table at a certain distance from the other diners, seemingly oblivious of them.  On the wall I noticed two signs:

DON’T  WORRY
BE  HAPPY

DEAR  SANTA
IS  IT  TOO  LATE
TO  BE  GOOD?

         Finally the two gay couples got up to leave, with all the bustle and to-do involved in preparing young children for the rigors of a wintry day: scarves, mittens, coats, and a stroller for the infant.  As they left, one of the men turned to me and said with a smile, “West Village – all the gay guys,” and departed.  The hetero couple was still dining quietly at their table, and the woman at the end of the bar was still hunched over her mobile device.  And the menu and the waiter were Mexican.

         A propos of diversity, this blog has been invaded again by the Russians.  For a recent week there were 875 Russian page views, versus 311 for the U.S.  And for the past month, 3063 Russian versus 1363 U.S.  At intervals, this has happened before, but why?  I have no idea; ask Putin.  And here, by country, are the top page views for the past week, a rather typical one:

U.S.                     247
France                   32
United Kingdom    21
Ukraine                 17
Germany               16
Russia                   12
Australia                 7
Indonesia                7
India                       7
China                      6   


         Answers to language quiz:

1.    Tagalog
2.    Vietnamese
3.    French Creole
4.    Polish
5.    Portuguese 

     Diversity -- that's what this city and this nation are all about.  Are you listening, Mr. Donald?


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          Browder poems: 
 For my short poem “I Crackle” and a stunning photo of me, go hereFor five acceptable poems, click here and scroll down.  To avoid five terrible poems, don't click here.  For my poem "The Other," inspired by the Orlando massacre, click here.   

          BROWDERBOOKS:  No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World, my selection of posts from this blog, has received these awards: the Tenth Annual National Indie Excellence Award for Regional Non-Fiction; first place in the Travel category of the 2015-2016 Reader Views Literary Awards; and Honorable Mention in the Culture category of the Eric Hoffer Book Awards for 2016.  For the Reader Views review by Sheri Hoyte, go here.  As always, the book is available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.


No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World

The Pleasuring of Men (Gival Press, 2011), my historical novel about a young male prostitute in the late 1860s in New York who falls in love with his most difficult client, is likewise available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.







         Coming soon:  The heartland vs. New York.  But what is “the heartland”?  The Midwest, where I’m from?   Anything between the two coasts?  The region where baseball is most popular?  We shall ponder.


         ©   2017   Clifford Browder

Sunday, January 1, 2017

274. Sneaking through Customs and Good Riddance Day


         This post is about two things: sneaking something forbidden through the U.S. Customs, and getting rid of things.  Such is life: we accumulate things we want and get rid of things we don't want.   Which isn't always easy.  As we shall see, both endeavors involve a grinder.

Sneaking through Customs

         Sneaking something through customs has always been a bit of an adventure and a trial for international travelers, and New York, a frequent destination, is the site of many such incidents.  When I went to Europe in the early 1950s, bringing back a forbidden volume of Henry Miller, whose works were available in Paris, was a common undertaking.  Hearing of my planned trip, a college friend asked me to bring him a copy of Tropic of Cancer, which of course I did.  Arriving by ship, I disembarked properly dressed in a (seedy) jacket and tie, and had no trouble sneaking my illicit item through customs.  (Later I got my own copy of Tropic of Cancer, read it, and found it hilarious.  That’s right: not pornographic, just flat-out hilarious, as Miller recounts his sexual escapades in Paris over a period of years.)

File:Bordercontrol.jpg
Today, people too are scanned.  Look at that woman's piercing gaze.

         In 1963 I went again to Europe and returned with no illicit import concealed.  Once again, dressed properly in a jacket and tie, I had no trouble with customs.  But the inspector who whizzed me through gestured toward a young man nearby, showed me a closed switchblade knife, and said, “Those two Columbia College kids got caught.  Dirty books and a switchblade knife!  I get nervous even looking at a switchblade.”  I had to agree about the switchblade: it wasn’t a necessity for a college education.  As for the “dirty books,” he was probably referring to Miller’s output, which was still taboo, and in that regard I was in silent disagreement.  One of the kids was sitting nearby, his back against a wall, while his buddy was being lectured inside by the inspector’s superior.  The one I saw, who looked sheepishly chagrinned and annoyed, was in shirt sleeves and jeans with a ragged jacket  – just the kind of kid that I would search, were I an American customs inspector.  I almost went over to say to him, “For God’s sake, if you’re going to sneak in some Henry Miller, as I did once, don’t dress casual like a college kid.  Dress like I did: jacket and tie, neat, tidy, and bourgeois as they come.”

         The U.S. Customs in those days seemed to be a stronghold of puritanism, viewing imports from a moral point of view in accordance with the laws of the time, even after much of the nation had relaxed into easygoing tolerance.  Three works that originally could not get legally past U.S. Customs had acquired legendary fame and were passionately desired by all rebels of a literary bent: Joyce’s Ulysses (quite legal by my time), Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.  How book-mad Americans had lusted for this forbidden triad!

         Joyce’s Ulysses had seemingly blazed the way toward acceptance.  Published in Paris in 1922, it was banned as obscene until Random House, possessing the rights to publish it in the U.S., decided in 1933 to bring a test case challenging the law and informed the Customs Service in advance.  When the anticipated copy arrived at the port of New York, the local official in charge at first declined to seize it, saying that “everybody brings that in.”  He and his superior were finally persuaded to seize it, so the case could go to court.  An assistant district attorney assigned to the case pronounced it a “literary masterpiece” but, under the law, obscene. 

         The U.S. District Court in New York then brought suit against the book, rather than the author, declaring it obscene and therefore subject to seizure and destruction, while Random House argued that it was not obscene but protected under the First Amendment.  The U.S. argued specifically that the work contained sexual titillation, especially Molly Bloom’s soliloquy, and “unparlorlike” language; that it was blasphemous, especially regarding the Catholic Church; and that it expressed coarse thoughts and desires that were usually repressed.  Random House’s attorney stressed the work’s artistic integrity and moral seriousness, and called it a classic work of literature.  In his historic ruling  Judge John M. Woolsey decided that Ulysses was not pornographic, and added that if sex was on the mind of many characters in the book, the locale was Celtic and the season, spring.  As a result, Random House immediately began publishing the book, which at last was legally available in the U.S.  It  remained banned in Great Britain until 1936, and if Ireland never officially banned it, it was never available there for decades.

         By the time I reached college, Ulysses was an accepted but challenging classic; no need to sneak it past customs.  But Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, likewise first published in France (ah, those naughty Gauls!), had a much longer wait for legality – from 1934 until 1964.  A clandestine publication of the book in New York in 1940 cost the publisher three years in prison.  When Grove Press got the rights from Miller and published it here in 1961, it provoked over 60 obscenity lawsuits in more than 21 states.  The resulting court opinions varied; a Pennsylvania Supreme Court justice pronounced it “a cesspool, an open  sewer, a pit of putrefaction, a slimy gathering of all that is rotten in the debris of human depravity” – an opinion that must have inspired many an adventurous reader to seek the book out.  Finally, in 1964, the U.S. Supreme Court overruled state court rulings that found the work obscene.

         And that third in the triad of forbidden books, D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover?  Published privately in Italy in 1928, and then in France and Australia in 1929, it was taboo here until 1959, when Grove Press (yes, them again) published it, and a U.S. Court of Appeals judge famously established the principle of “redeeming social or literary value” as a defense against the charge of obscenity.

         Today it isn’t literary masterpieces that the U.S. Customs confiscates, but food, narcotics, weapons, and anything deemed hazardous.  Food?  If, arriving on an international flight, you try to bring fruit or vegetables into the U.S., customs will seize them.  Why?  Because they may contain insects, viruses, or disease.  What then happens to the confiscated items?  The food is taken to a grinding room in the terminal and eliminated.  And if, being fibrous, an item resists the grinders, it is delivered to an incinerator.  Also into the incinerator go narcotics and counterfeit foods like fake Viagra.  There will always be customs officers, vigilantly guarding our health and morals, and there will always be those who try to sneak stuff in.

Good Riddance Day

         I had never heard of it till recently.  It seems that between 12:00 noon and 1:00 p.m. on Wednesday, December 27, some hundred people flocked to Times Square to “shred it and forget it” – to destroy unwanted objects associated with embarrassing and painful memories from 2016, so as to clear the way for a happier and more prosperous 2017.  This new event was inspired by a Latin American tradition in which New Year’s revelers stuff dolls with objects representing bad memories and then set the dolls on fire.

         On this occasion a year ago, people deposited scraps of paper associated with bad memories in a shredder bin for subsequent shredding.  Another participant shed empty containers of prescription pills that harbored bad memories of sickness and misery, and a man brought a laptop whose slow load times had frustrated him for years.  Since the laptop was too thick to go safely into a paper shredder, he pounded it with a mallet, and when the host of the event decided that he hadn’t done enough, she took the mallet and smashed the laptop to smithereens.  Other items deposited included a woman’s memories of an ex-girlfriend, and someone else’s photo of Donald Trump.  All this before a camera-wielding crowd of onlookers.

         And this year?  “He did me dirty,” said a mother of six from the Bronx, who with her four adult daughters as witnesses, scrawled her spouse’s name on a piece of paper and tossed it into the shredder, while onlookers cheered.  Many others did the same, ridding themselves of an ex.  A woman from Harlem brought a push-cart full of old personal records to shred, explaining, “I’m here to shred my whole life.  I need a fresh start for 2017.”  Anti-Trump shredders were numerous, though a tourist from Liverpool shredded “American negativity,” saying, “You guys need to give him a fair chance.”  Another participant deposited computer parts on the ground and smashed them with a hammer, computers seeming to rival the president-elect as candidates for riddance.  A woman wrote “stress” on a scrap of paper and stuck it in the shredder.  A bankruptcy survivor contributed a shoulder bag full of medical bills and bank statements.  And a woman who had flown all the way from San Francisco shredded the hairpiece she had worn after undergoing chemotherapy.  After the hour-long event all participants departed feeling lighter, relieved, ready for a new start.


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          My poems
 For my short poem “I Crackle” and a stunning photo of me, go hereFor five acceptable poems, click here and scroll down.  To avoid five terrible poems, don't click here.  For my poem "The Other," inspired by the Orlando massacre, click here.   

          My books:  No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World, my selection of posts from this blog, has received these awards: the Tenth Annual National Indie Excellence Award for Regional Non-Fiction; first place in the Travel category of the 2015-2016 Reader Views Literary Awards; and Honorable Mention in the Culture category of the Eric Hoffer Book Awards for 2016.  For the Reader Views review by Sheri Hoyte, go here.  As always, the book is available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.


No Place for Normal: New York / Stories from the Most Exciting City in the World

The Pleasuring of Men (Gival Press, 2011), my historical novel about a young male prostitute in the late 1860s in New York who falls in love with his most difficult client, is likewise available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble.





         Coming soon:  Maybe something more on diversity in the city.


         ©   2016   Clifford Browder