I was a kid when I read Putrid Scum by Crad Kilodney, and it might even be one of those books I just thought I’d read. Too bad half of my voracious reading years went in one ear and out the other- the plague of stoner’s short-term memory loss. I remember little of this one, and yet, in a vague, ethereal way, it is so totally familiar. And either way, I’m just stunned. This is just brilliant. It’s insightful, astonishing, blunt, and utterly psychotic.
I’m not a longtime Kilodney fan- I enjoyed him in a roundabout way through a close friend who was. I didn’t read all of his books, but some passed through my hands. Some I remember- The Charnel House of Bad Poetry is classic noir. The guy’s titles are their own art- I was vaguely jealous of the random insanities he would blatantly allow on his covers. Overall, my friend was a big Henry Miller fan, and I admit I could never get through a Miller, and didn’t care much for his watercolours, either.
For those who don’t know what I’m talking about, Crad Kilodney is a Canadian cult figure. Not everyone has heard of him, not by a long shot, but he has his peeps out there, those who were somehow transformed by his strangeness. Crad sold his own books on the streets of Toronto for years, living on pennies but determined to do nothing else with his life. He was a fixture of Yonge and Isabella, something of a prankster, and a fellow who gave meaning to the old writer-ly descriptives like ‘curmudgeonly, cranky, grouchy, and cantankerous.
Of course, Crad blames his depression and misery on the stupidity of the human race, taking pride in his bird’s eye view of the populace from the front lines. It’s a fascinating close-up of an artist standing right in the thick of it all, yet somehow completely invisible. Crad has spent his life, however, refusing to see beyond himself- and this would have been his ticket into a small sense of contentment instead of contempt. I wish it for him in his older age. Millions, after all, endure the same shit, different pile, and not nearly as interesting. I can think of worse things, like retail and prostitution and ice fishing. And I cannot think of a single thing cooler or more interesting.
In this spirit of positivity, I could criticize the outbursts of murderous rage that pepper Putrid Scum. However, they are uproarious and gutbustingly funny. If I were an honest writer, which I try to be – so did Henry Miller, but he concluded that it’s impossible to tell the truth, for truth is always changing- I would have to admit that I, too, had the solace of fantasies of strangulating certain members of the public. I confess to frightening daydreams, explicit in their gore, born of frustration and psychotic duress. Humanity’s sick greed and foul grubby soul has made me weep and dream of muder. But man’s heart of darkness is nothing new, and writers have been experiencing it and recording it for thousands of years. Indeed, it is our job.
(It seems Crad knows this, given an exchange he relates late in his book: a man with a pipe says to the writer, ““Let me say something to you, young Mr. Kilodney who wishes to be a writer…Bitterness and cynicism are so common that they have no value for personal redemption, and suffering in and of itself is not ennobling. One must comprehend misery, yes, but one must rise above it, by which I mean that you must have a sense of gratitude as well…Be grateful that you have any books at all. Be grateful that you’re not crippled…Don’t expect me to feel too terribly sorry for you, because you have no idea what things there are in this world. You claim to admire Henry Miller. But Henry Miller rose above all his miseries. He was perpetually grateful….you’ll never really be great until you’ve evolved spiritually…and that means having all the shit knocked out of your head so the light can shine in.”)
Putrid Scum lets you look right into that head, devoid of light, for anyone who has wanted to know something of Crad Kilodney. And for all his outrageous grumpiness, this truth-drenched diatribe is all about ‘happiness writes in white’ and ‘the heart wants what it wants.’ This one is brilliant. It’s simple, quotidian, and psychotic. This is Crad, 17 years before he met me, yet he’s looking into those writer’s terrors that are striking me blind.
The great thing is, now that Crad and I have clandestine ham and pink wine encounters in his garret, listening to Debussy and playing Scrabble, I’ve got him for backbone. Our friendship was accidental, yet absolutely fated. There was just no way a do-it-yourselfer like me could have as a mentor the poetry-circle professor type, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
You’ll never forget the not-so-merry prankster who tape-recorded the conversations of Yonge Street idiots while wearing a placard with changing adverts for the books he was hand-selling. Lesbian Zoo Stories. Esoteric Phlegm Stories. The man was not exactly approachable, but if you did risk it, he was affable enough and maybe you picked up a few unforgettable titles like Gainfully Employed in Limbo, Foul Pus From Dead Dogs, Simple Stories for Idiots, or my own personal favourite, Lightning Struck My Dick. Of course, Crad’s press was called Charnel House. Look up the word ‘charnel’ if you have to. Lovely.
Geist Magazine said there were ‘few rewards’ in Putrid Scum, and though they conceded that he’d written some interesting short stories over the years, he ‘bottomed out on this one.’ I couldn’t believe my eyes because it’s clear that the Geist staff didn’t get this book at all. Because it’s Absolut Crad. It’s the treasure trove where we see his softer side- seriously! – the one I think I glimpse occasionally across the table at Swiss Chalet. A remarkable man. He is not a painter or a southerner (though he did dabble in collage and comes from Queens) but in a way, Crad’s our northern Outsider Artist. He did it his way. He got to be a lot more famous than the hosts of journalism grads, the nameless minions like myself with stories of the week: Cats and Secondhand Smoke. How to Market Your New Marketing Pamphlet. Phil Butrimskly Plays Guitar at the Rivoli. Remember us? Of course not.
Putrid Scum is the autobiography of every authentic artist, misfit, miscreant, and hopeless hopeful. If you are not a real writer, you’ll know by the end of the book, and you’ll be saved from a merciless existence by smartly heading back into community college and learning about plumbing or bus driving or any other perfectly respectable if not memorable trade. For as Salmond Rushdie said, there is no good reason to be a writer unless you absolutely must. There are enough books.
If nothing else, you’ll be frightened away by Crad’s hideous sex stories, which awkwardly arise throughout the chapters, as naturally- or unnaturally- as they might in life, I suppose. You will cringe by the blunt frankness of terminology and by the woeful understanding- in youth, of course-of women, by the fumbling mechanics of what he observes is ‘the most natural act in the world.’
But then, if you’re trying to tell the truth, you can’t make up stories about the perpetually sex-starved Playmate who really understands you. (What ladies do you know who want to climb into bed with hardcore porn rags on the first date? I’m sure they’re out there….) Crad probably grew up visualizing something along the lines of the brilliant and poetic sexpot Anais Nin dishing out to Henry Miller- and funding the printing of Tropic of Cancer. But reality was far more banal and awkward affair.
Finally, I conclude with a few of my very favourite passages. These ones echo thoughts I’ve had a million times:
“Another middle-aged man told me to get a job. In fact, a lot of people told me to get a job…A job…If a rich eccentric paid you $500 a week to stand in a vacant lot and pick your nose for eight hours a day, you’d have …a job. You’d be a productive member of society. You’d pay taxes.”
“Every writer must face his private demons, and one of mine was The Futility of Words.”
“Later, I put on a record that I knew would depress me and lay down in bed. I looked at the ceiling and imagined swords running through me, like the Ten of Swords in the Tarot deck, while angels in heaven looked down in pity. I reached over to the bookshelf beside my bed and felt the accumulated dust on the shelves and on top of the books. Books gathering dust. Me turning to dust. A whole life destined to become dust…I put out the light and got under the blanket. What is the correct way to be? How do you change what you are? What will become of me?”
And finally, my favourite, the one where Crad Kilodney’s fate, his life’s work, his truth, his persona, his past, his destiny, and all of his writings come together in a single summation. “When I got home, I took out a diary, and a revelation came to me, which I set down at once: “Now I understand! My life is a satire on the life of a writer!””
Crad cracks a smile! Pictured here with feline friend Justice!
Putrid Scum
by Crad Kilodney.
Charnel House, 1991.
Visit reader and writer Lorette C. Luzajic at www.thegirlcanwrite.net.
