Happy Birthday, Robert E. Howard

Happy Birthday, Robert E. Howard

It was 106 years ago, on January 22nd, that Robert E. Howard was born. It would be another 23 years before he would create the most profitable character during his short lifetime - Sailor Steve Costigan and his sidekick Mike the bulldog - and several more years before Conan would sweep through the pages of Weird Tales and into the minds and hearts of millions.

I know that I speak for all Robert E. Howard fans when I say that our lives, and indeed the world itself, would be far less interesting without his imaginative genius.

Long live the memory of America's greatest fantasist - Robert E. Howard (1906-1936)

The Complete Boxing Fiction and Verse: Volume One - In the Can

Good news, folks! Volume One of the highly anticipated Robert E. Howard boxing stories project is in the can. Patrice Louinet, Mark Finn and I have been working diligently to bring you the complete boxing stories in one definitive, handsome, must-have set. In fact, we are already working on Volume Two and I cannot wait to see these books on my shelf.

This set will include every known scrap of boxing related fiction and poetry produced by Pulp era author, Robert E. Howard. It will be a must for Howard collectors and completists as well as scholars and critics eager to get the inside scoop on this aspect of the Texas author's ouevre.

I don't want to get ahead of myself so I'll keep you posted with more details as we near publishing.

Glenn Lord, Howardian Herald 1931-2011

Glenn Lord, Director Emeritus of the Robert E. Howard Foundation, husband and father of two, died on December, 31st, 2011. Who is he and why should you care? I could try to quantify the man's work, his life, his impact upon the small but growing community of Robert E. Howard fans but I wonder if that would suffice; if it would paint a clear enough picture. Perhaps...

...I could say that Glenn was instrumental in shepherding Robert E. Howard's work back into publication, that he was responsible for hunting down nearly all of the lost transcripts that still existed years after the author's untimely demise, or that he was unrelenting in his search for information about an author that had almost faded from the literary scene. I could say that his promotional efforts paved the way for many Howard critics and fans by making ALL of the author's work available to the masses in easy to afford paperbacks as literary agent for Howard's literary estate. I could recite the compositional narratives that he produced in support of his life's passion, I could list his written promotion of the author Robert E. Howard beginning with his first essays and ending with his work as Director Emeritus of an organization that exists solely due to the efforts of two people: Robert E. Howard, the author whose work is valued by so many, and Glenn, the man who tracked it down and safeguarded it against the twin dangers of  Time and Indifference. I could say that he was also a true fan, interested not only in the commercially viable Conan stories but also in the lesser known works that help the rest of us to revel in the full depth and sophistication of an unparalleled imagination. I could say that he was an adventurer whose vision and dedication helped preserve a unique history that continues to shine long after he has passed. I could say that he was supremely dedicated to preserving the legacy of a long dead author the world had almost forgotten about as I recount the many miles, months and years he drove from town to town, spoke with countless people, and tallied for the rest of us the three dimensional life of Robert E. Howard.

I could say all that and more and not have gained an inch on the measuring stick of his life and importance to those of us who knew him. I knew Glenn, though I cannot say I knew him half as well as I would have liked. We maintained a correspondence for a short time in 2004-2005 as I prepared the volume of Robert E. Howard's boxing stories. He was always gracious in sharing his knowledge and eager to hear what new insights had been gleaned of Howard's work. I was lucky enough to meet him several times over the past decade and found him to be congenial, down to earth, and full of humor. I had never wanted to bother him but it was Leo Grin and Paul Herman at a Howard days celebration who finally convinced me that he would love to chat for a spell. It turned out that he was very interested in my ideas concerning the boxing stuff and we spent at least a little time together at each subsequent Howard Days discussing Howard and life in general. He was likeable, affable and a gentleman. I liked him very much.

My favorite memory was his praise of the Boxing Stories volume I put together for Bison Books (University of Nebraska Press.) We had scaled Caddo Peak with a group of folks and, due to the pervasive heat, I had asked if he was alright. "It's hot" he replied. We had reached the top and the sun was beating down fiercely when he shook off my offer of help as we covered the last few feet to the top. When we got to the top, he paused for a while and then said, "You know, that Boxing book you produced...that was well done." I stammered a 'thank you' before moving with him toward the center of the peak. Together we stared at the scene that was unfolding below. Beautiful fields, hills in the distance, and the Middleton Ranch below us as the sun began to descend across the sky. I made very little small talk. I have never wanted to be a pest - but he asked for my help several times on the way down but, in truth, he really didn't need it despite his age. "Thanks, Chris" were his last words to me in this life. He was always the star of any Howard get together and was never truly alone for very long. So many fans - all wanting to shake the hands of the man that saved a literary treasure from destruction. I never wanted to intrude. Now, I wish I had been more insistent.

Now, as I sit here and realize that what I've just written is woefully inadequate as a remembrance I can take solace in the fact that there are others far more capable of writing a worthy 'thank you' to a man and icon the likes of Glenn Lord. Dennis McHaney scolded some of us who lamented the loss of Glenn, and it's timing, as a harbinger of doom and gloom for the new year by insisting that it was a sad, capstone event for the past year and that we ought to look forward with renewed hope with Glenn's example as a guide. I think he is spot on.

Nevertheless, I just want to make one thing clear - thank you, Glenn Lord, for making my time on earth, through your tireless efforts of  Howard preservation and publication, better. I am better for having read the work of Robert E. Howard - thanks to you; I am better for having glimpsed the kind of drive necessary to see projects thru - thanks to you; I am better for your having taken the time and effort so long ago to preserve the work of a legend - it appears even legends require help to preserve a worthy legacy from those best equipped to deliver the goods so to speak. You had the goods my friend, in spades if I do say so myself, and my life is literally better for your influence.

Thank you Glenn Lord and may you always Rest in Peace.

A Farewell to Smokin' Joe Frazier - and an Indictment of Ali

Frazier fights Ali in 1971; Frazier  (inset)

The sport of boxing said farewell to heavyweight champion Joe Frazier who, after bravely battling liver cancer, heard the final bell toll on a life that was truly astonishing in it's fullness.

Smokin' Joe's funeral service was attended by an estimated crowd of more than 4,000 - a fitting display of respect and recognition for one of modern boxing's most iconic warriors. It is the kind of respect that this most esteemed heavyweight certainly deserved after a lifetime of professional and personal struggle.

This blog entry is not meant to serve as a eulogy, a biography, nor a list of accomplishments - all that information is readily available on the internet, at the library or in the Boxing Hall of Fame where one can learn about the amazing life of Smokin' Joe. But what I would like to do is attempt to define the importance of Joe Frazier to heavyweight boxing, especially when we attempt to define greatness, because any discussion of the greatest heavyweights that does not include Joe Frazier is, quite simply, flawed and incomplete.

Well, just who is the greatest? Ask just about anyone who thinks they know something about boxing just who "the greatest" heavyweight boxer was and it is likely that the answer you will hear starts with "Muhammad" and ends with "Ali" - AKA Cassius Clay. True or not, perception is critical in comparisons of greatness and nowhere is this more evident than when evaluating great boxers. Ali's antics outside the ring are as important to this particular discussion as his accomplishments inside it and help to define how greatness is perceived as well as earned.

Whether Ali is or isn't the greatest is not nearly as important as how he, or any boxer, becomes automatic entrants in this type of discussion. The reality is that greatness in boxing is defined as much by the quality of opposition as it is by records or championship belts. Like it or not, Ali simply would not be Ali as we remember him today were it not for the men he fought - colorful, respected, and feared men like Sonny Liston, George Foreman and the inimitable Smokin' Joe Frazier.

While I would like my thoughts on Ali  to wait for another day, focusing instead more directly upon Frazier, that looks to be impossible as they are forever entwined in our collective memory. I believe that Ali is remembered as much for his victimization as for the memorable ring wars he waged. Who doesn't recall his controversial name change, his refusal to fight in the Vietnam War, or the shocking image of Ali ravaged by Parkinson's disease lifting his shaking, withered arm to light the Olympic torch?

But who really remembers Joe Frazier? He seems always a prop to Ali's story line and while I contend that Ali earned public respect through collective sympathy engendered by a media machine hungry to anoint the next Jack Johnson, it was Joe Frazier who earned respect simply by being a man. A true, honest and tough man who helped others outside the ring while meeting the best face to face inside it. In other words - he wasn't just a step on Ali's personal ladder of social ascendancy and sainthood, he was as historically important as Ali.

While Ali is, I concede, a fascinating historical figure - and an all time great heavyweight - his life is more interesting for the conflict which defined him and the era in which he fought. Frazier, however, is known more for what he did in the ring against Ali than what he did for others outside it. This kind of oversight is, sadly, always lamented AFTER these men have passed away, silencing forever their personal perspective - leaving us only the slim pickings of a media machine that chooses more often than not to manufacture heroes rather than recognize real ones.

Frazier spent most of his life in Philadelphia and was as much the face and spirit of this town as the fictional "Rocky" whose image has been cast in stone at Philadelphia's Art Museum. Even a casual glimpse at the city's charitable foundations bears, almost everywhere, the indelible imprint of Joe Frazier. It's not often you will hear me agree with Jesse Jackson but I can't help but nod my head in enthusiastic agreement with the Reverend when he said, "There deserves to be a statue of Joe Frazier in downtown Philadelphia." Indeed. It seems Frazier's charity is forgotten or ignored when we consider this Philadelphia sports hero especially against the melodramatic backdrop of Ali's considerable shadow.

We tend to remember Ali as a martyr, a champion of the people, a social victim who is still celebrated as a hero, even a role model, with statues of his own - testaments to his courage, if not his character. But that social celebration is myopic, in my opinion, failing as it does to remember that Ali was also as selfish and self serving as the very institutions in which he felt victimized by. He was willing to crush someone to get what he wanted, even if what he said was laced with lies, propaganda, and racism. Just consider the things he said about Joe Frazier, a man who was every bit as courageous, every bit the symbol of the struggle for equality as Ali has become venerated for. More to the point, Frazier found a way to carve out an identity that was not at odds with society nor was restricted in his actions by his own selfish narrative. Whereas Ali relied on public self flagellation for the social ills of the 60s to emerge a champion outside the ring, it was Joe who was revered by all who actually knew him no matter what decade.

Undersized and possessed of an indomitable spirit, Smokin' Joe refused to allow Ali's absurd and disgraceful character attacks define him. Unlike Sonny Liston before him, Joe Frazier was no man's fool, nor prop, and he was able to etch out his own glorious legacy despite Ali's despicable behavior. And he did it without stooping to the seamy depths of which Ali seemed almost to revel in. After having been called an "Uncle Tom", a "House Nigger", a "Gorilla" by the socially revered Ali - Joe maintained his dignity and his manhood by refusing to give in to the bully.

Just as he did in his three amazing fights with Ali, he fought that propaganda with fire and brimstone, keeping the feud as personal as Ali had made it and never backing down. Asked what he thought of Ali lighting the torch for the 1996 Olympics he said, "...if it had been me I'd have pushed him into the flame." While that may seem harsh, the indignities heaped upon Frazier and his family because of Ali's inflammatory attacks is hard to fathom now due to the whitewashing Ali's life has undergone in the media since their memorable battles. From death threats to social ridicule, the Frazier family has endured too much at the hands of the "saintly" Ali  and his blind followers, and while it was nice to see Ali say something nice, for once, about Joe in public he could have retracted his ridiculous comments of the past at any point in his life but chose to wait until Joe could no longer respond.

I tend to walk a lonely line and refuse to state definitively who I believe is the single greatest heavyweight boxer ever and instead try to consider boxers as they defined their eras. I also recognize that the brutal nature of this sport rarely allows an individual to definitively claim an era as his own. This stance has allowed me to immerse myself in the lore of the sport as a whole rather than trying to focus all my energies upon one man.

To this end I have spent a great deal of time studying the greats of every era and it has allowed me to see that greatness seems dependent upon greatness. For every Ali  there has to be a Frazier - someone who shines just as bright and who ultimately deserves as much recognition and respect. Try as I might I can not separate the two historically but when it comes to a comparison  - mano y mano - I come away with the feeling that it was Joe Frazier who was the ultimate champion - in and out of the ring.

I would be happy to discuss the particulars of any and all of the characterizations I have put forth above. Additionally, I welcome actual discussion of each fighters deserved recognition in the discussion of  "greatest heavyweights boxers"- and that includes discussions of their ring records, opponents, styles etc. This could be fun if I have any followers who would like to comment. I censor no one.

Rest in Peace Joe Frazier - one of the Greatest

Dreams in the Fire reviewed by author Charles Gramlich

Dreams in the Fire has been reviewed by author and contributor, Charles Gramlich. Gramlich, who has authored several novels, numerous poetry and short story collections as well as a multitude of academic essays was not only kind enough to join the stellar DitF author roster with his excellent story, A Gathering of Ravens, but also reviewed the anthology for the followers of his prolific blog, Razored Zen (http://charlesgramlich.blogspot.com/2011/09/dreams-in-fire-review.html)

Thanks Charles!

Dreams in the Fire can still be ordered here: Dreams in the Fire

Don't wait! Get yours now as this anthology will only be available for a short time.

Howard Pugilistica - the Howard Boxing Stories Project

The wheels of progress finally begin to move and I have some positive news to report : I have wrapped up the second proofing of the contents of volume one and am now in the midst of writing the introduction which is tentatively titled:  Dornálaí - Boxing's Influence on Robert E. Howard.  With the title, I tried to reflect Howard's intense interest in all things Gaelic by using what I hope is the proper term for 'Boxer' in the Gaelic language.  (If this is not an accurate translation please let me know by leaving a comment with reference - thanks!)

We are shooting for four volumes and have already completed the initial proofing of volumes two and three. I am very excited and cannot wait for this set to be completed. Patrice Louinet and Mark Finn will be handling the reins for volume two and four while Patrice and I will head up volumes one and three. Mark and I have also come up with a gem of an idea that will be sure to set Howard fandom on fire! More to come soon!

the grub

How lucky? Howard, Dempsey and Cash

I have been thinking about Johnny Cash, Robert E. Howard and Jack Dempsey. I never thought much, until lately, why it is that I like the things that I like. I mean, what could a punch-drunk bard like myself gain from studying and enjoying real artists who create real art?  Yep, even though I am moved by that creative steam engine called Americana I am just as amazd that I have had the good fortune to recognize and experience it. But, how did it happen? Must have been a mistake. You see, I'm one of those wanna-be sports warriors; good enough to compete with anyone at almost anything but not quite good enough to be anybody worth mentioning and, like the composer Salieri in Amadeus, I am capable of recognizing greatness in others rather than achieving it for myself - at least so far. I think the same goes for literature and music. I have managed to carve out a little respect writing stories, poems and criticism and, without embarassing myself, can thump the low end with my electric bass. So, while it is true that I aspire to the heights of those mentioned above I recognize that I will likely never create anything half as beautiful as their most mundane accomplishments let alone the genius they are capable of. And that leaves me...in awe of three people.
Let's take Robert E. Howard as an example. I wrote an article, Born to Edit Boxing Stories, for a print publication called The Cimmerian. I hadn't realized, even as I was writing what should have been a kind of cathartic release/confession, just how unlikely it was that I ended up a fan, and caretaker of, Robert E. Howard and his literary legacy. Seriously folks, I'm not much in the way of a caretaker for myself let alone of  the legacy of one of America's greatest authors and creative minds. Currently, I am writing the introduction to what will be the definitive collection of Howard's boxing fiction. It's a pretty big deal, make no mistake, and yet I feel none of the anxiety I should feel. I know the stories, I know the author's intent and can make literary connections that no one has yet made but still...we're talking about me, Chris Gruber, that is steering this ship into portage. I'm not some natural wordsmith, born to the trade like some offspring of Oates and Hemingway whose genetic disposition paves the way to literary and critical stardom before they've shed the placenta. It's me- Chris Gruber, a simple guy who is as likely to be hiking or mountain biking, hitting the heavy bag or doing pull ups, as he is to be typing furiously at the keyboard, trying to convey some kind of undiscovered knowledge to the masses. It just doesn't compute and yet here I am...thank you Robert E. Howard.

I remember my friend, Bill Stephens, haranguing me daily in high school about Robert E. Howard. He would verbally berate me for not acknowledging that I was wasting my time reading and admiring a hack like Howard when I ought to be bowing down at the classical Fantasy feet of Tolkien. I like Tolkien, alot in fact, but he in no way came close to the kind of visceral reading experience I obtained from a Howard short story. I wrote several essays in high school English class about Robert E. Howard fiction and each time the teacher would attack my paper in the most humiliating way, going so far as to suggest that I was making up, entirely, everything I had written - you know, how Howard's stories are allegorical statements of profound significance, yadda, yadda, yadda. Nevertheless, I kept on keeping on and now we're here - with me explaining how Howard's boxing fiction served as a kind of canvass upon which he could paint some of the most remarkable American fiction ever produced. American fiction, inspired by the Great Depression, rural poverty, and of course, boxing during the Golden Age of Sports. Or, at least that's what Ring Lardner and other contemporaries kept saying.

I also remember the first time I ever heard a Johnny Cash song. My cousin Todd had invited my brother Sean and I to Pekin, Illinois to drink and be merry as only close cousins can do. We drove through farm fields, mud bogs, you name it and the whole time the merriment was cloaked in this divine music. It was storytelling at it's best set to a musical score that made me melancholy and reflective. So, I did what any young man who had had a little too much on his mind, and tongue, would do - I jumped out of that moving truck. I needed some time to think about what it was that I was hearing. Until I heard those mournful Cash tunes, I had hated country music - or so I thought. Here was this guy, crooning and moaning, shouting and yodeling - he was saying something that I hadn't heard before but I knew instinctively was pure Americana. I understood it at the DNA level, you know what I am saying? Before too long, my brother and cousin figured out that I had jumped ship and came back looking for me. I stood up, waved my arms so they could see me - a new man with a new perspective and a white hot desire to consume that which I knew was tailor made for me: Johnny Cash, the Dean of American music. Thanks, Johnny Cash.

During my research of Robert E. Howard and his interest in boxing I was able to indulge a fascination I have had with the great boxers of the past. I studied the lives of some of boxing's most colorful and successful adherents, from Jim Jeffries to James Braddock, and spent a great deal of time thrilling to the adventures of that most enduring American Icon - Jack Dempsey. The manner in which he lived his life is both an inspiration and a caution and, in the end, it is a story of strife and success that represents the very fabric of perceived American greatness. From the humble beginnings of his Colorado days as Kid Blackie, where he was forced to fight for bologna strips just to survive, a nobody going nowhere fast to the incredible heights of world champion and movie star, a fearsome, scowling warrior who was tenacious, rugged, and most inportantly determined to "make it" no matter the cost. Finally, even after his roller coaster youth had passed him by, the nation bore witness to the man and his exploits and despite his reluctance was annointed by the masses as an American Legend. What a boxer, what a man, what a life. Thanks Jack Dempsey.
What amount of  star crossing voo-doo was worked that I might find myself enamored of these men, intimately aware of their lives and willing to chronicle those instances that set them apart as men worth studying, worth learning from, and ultimately, worth telling others about? Fortune, perhaps? Maybe - but whether or not it be fate or some other power, what is clear to me is that I am fortunate to have had these men and their endeavors as a kind of backdrop to my own life and can distill my own experience through the looking glass of their lives. They are American and so am I and their lives and work speak to me. How lucky am I, really?