Apologies for my absence, dear reader.  The book has me busy, life is constantly happening, and I had unusual social obligations to meet.  They were unusual because I usually ignore most social obligations, since they seem to me to be pointless and silly.  Anyway, I’ve been busy.  More on the book soon, but for now…today’s business.

September 30, 1924.  Somewhere in the humid, gothic sprawl of New Orleans, a baby was born who would grow up to be the kind of writer that makes other writers want to either quit or drink themselves into oblivion trying to keep up.  Truman Capote, the man, the myth, the walking contradiction in a bespoke suit, was born on this day.  And if he were here, you can be your last cigarette he’d be holding court at some dimly lit bar, sipping something expensive, and eviscerating everyone in the room with that razor-sharp tongue of his.

Capote was a goddamn spectacle.  A high-wire act of wit, charm, and venom, all wrapped up in a voice that could cut glass.  He gave us Breakfast at Tiffany’s, an almost perfect novella, and In Cold Blood, a book that basically invented a whole new genre while making us all question whether we’re the good guys or just slightly better-dressed villains.

But let’s not kid ourselves – Truman wasn’t just about the words.  He was a true scenester…he was about the drama, the show.  He threw parties that make Gatsby look like a PTA meeting.  He burned bridges with the kind of flair that made you want to applaud even as the flames licked at your own feet.  He was the best kind of genius: a troublemaker, a provocateur, a man who knew that being boring was the only real sin.

So here’s to you, Truman…the man who taught us to turn your life into art and turn that art into legend.  Like any great author, he made us laugh, cry, and occasionally want to punch him in the face.  Happy birthday…the world’s a little duller without you.

I might go re-read Music for Chameleons and drink something that burns on the way down.  Because, as Truman taught me, life’s too short for cheap booze and bad prose.

N.P.: “Skulls” – Pearce Roswell