All of us use pen-names, and they even did it back before people had to worry about employers and mothers googling our names and coming up with millions of words about dicks and assholes. Most of the “about the authors” now are pretty accurate. (I said MOST because there have been some notable outings in the last few years where people have gone WAY too far trying to bullshit the public and ended up getting cancelled.) But the ‘about the author’ sections in these pulp books are rarely interesting. I was thrilled to find one that that was so tongue-in-cheek that it rises to my favorite ever. It’s from Rough Trade’s Sea Meat.
Dirk Dirkson was born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1953 and attended Our Lady of the Evening High.
He later attended the University of West Virginia and was ejected one month later for running a call-boy sex service and was subsequently sentenced to serve five to ten in the state penitentiary, sentence suspended.
At this juncture, Dirkson moved to New York and became a male model for many leading gay-oriented sex magazines. He was voted Mr. Westway in 1980.
Dirkson penned his first novel, “The Postman Always Reams Twice,” in 1981. It was an immediate success, selling upwards of 73 copies the first year of publication. For the effort, Dirkson was also awarded the prestigious Roxanne Pulitzer Award, a small solid gold trombone.
His follow-up novel, “Talk Disgusting in My Ear“ was published the following year and was also a great success, outselling his first novel by a good ten copies. It was recently made into a movie and starred Jack Wrangler, Casey Donovan and Aldo Ray.
Dirkson’s next was “Even Midgets Started Out Small,” the poignant story of two dwarfs who fall madly in love and discover that they can no longer get into the movies at children’s prices. The novel is currently under option by Titanic Motion Pictures in Hollywood as a starring vehicle for Jane Fonda. Jessica Lange, Sissy Spacek, Meryl Streep and Liberace have also expressed interest in starring.
Dirkson is unmarried and lives with a guy named Phil, who Dirkson describes as “a nice person with a great body and shit for brains.”
Dirkson’s interests include jogging, tennis, anonymous sex with strangers in the toilet at Grand Central Station, small, intimate dinner parties, harassing nuns, nose-picking, the films of Fellini, Bergman, Welles and Edward D. Wood Jr., most notably “Plan Nine From Outer Space,” which Dirkson describes as “the CITIZEN KANE of shlock cinema.”
Dislikes include Maria Montez movies, people named Morty, designer jeans, quiche, sushi bars, American-made cars, warts, stretch marks, birth marks and Zeppo Marx. Other dislikes include hangovers, earaches, doctors who play golf, heroin addicts and reruns of “Gilligans Island.”
Dirkson is currently at work on his next novel, “Deadbeats, “ which he describes as a tender love story between a garbageman in Queens and a debutante from Fifth Avenue who attempt to break through their respective social barriers to find true love. Dirkson describes the story as a comedy with dramatic touches, and adds, “It’ll probably turn out shitty.”
Dirkson describes writing as “a real pain in the ass, especially when you hate what you’re writing. I’ve been pounding a typewriter for years and years, and let me tell you—if you’re lucky to squeeze a dime out of this business, you’re ahead of the game.
“My first novel was a blockbuster, right? So how come all I got was a dollar-seventy-nine in royalties? I’ll tell you something—you could take all the sincerity in this business and stuff it inside a flea’s navel and still have enough room left over for my agent’s heart.
“This agent of mine—Eddie ‘Boom Boom’ Valenti—is the biggest crook in the business. I mean, this guy can’t even get most of his clients work sold to a vanity house, for Chrissakes. I’m walking around in torn sneakers while he’s sitting behind the wheel of his Caddy and hanging out at Elaine’s.”
His bitterness regarding his agent aside, Dirkson claims that writing is “the ultimate form of creative expression. In no other medium can you achieve greater artistry, a sense of worth at the results and no better way to express your innermost thoughts and deepest, most intimate feelings. Also, you can work at home.”
Dirkson and his roommate Phil plan a visit to Europe this year and also plan to spend a quiet weekend in Tripoli as the personal guests of Moammar Kaddafi’s cousin, Amir Bagashelz.
“Sure, they hate our guts. But my books are translated into fifty languages, including Arabic. They love my stuff over in Libya, don’t ask me why. Kaddafi himself has read ever word I’ve ever written and always requests that I autograph the copies. He claims they turn his wives on. Can you imagine? This mad dog Libyan reading my books? Let me tell you, I didn’t know whether to be flattered or wonder if I was as crazy as he is. I mean, if he READS it and I’m the one who wrote it, well, that says something about me, doesn’t it? Not that I would ever dream of bombing an airport or maiming innocent people, although there are a few people in my life whose yogurt I would love to spike with nitro glycerin. Like my agent. Or my landlord.”
“By the way, how long does this interview go on? I’ve got to meet Phil at 3:30 this afternoon at the doctor’s. He’s got a yeast infection, but I think Phil will rise above it. Did I tell you about the time Ray Milland dropped by for coffee and danish? Well, he did. Also a big fan; wanted me to autograph a copy of my book for him. The waiter should be here with my dessert but he’s not. How much for the club sandwich and the onion rings? It’s on the publisher? Since when? In that case. I’ll have another bloody Mary. You’re kind of hot looking, what’s your name again? Lou? I had an Uncle Lou from Detroit once. Didn’t we meet at the Mineshaft? Or was it the St. Marks baths? You’ve never been to either? You free later on? Never mind Phil. You free? How about tomorrow? You’re a hot looking dude, I find you engaging, what’s wrong with that? You’re involved? Who’s the lucky guy? None of my business, right. We’re here to do an interview, I know. So are you free or what? You’re calling for the check? What about my bloody Mary? Okay, okay, I won’t come on to you anymore. Now were there any other questions you wanted to ask me? Oh, that’s enough, huh? Okay, well, thanks for lunch and a most pleasant afternoon. If you ever break up with… okay, I’m leaving. Wait, you sure you don’t want to get together? Nevermind, scratch that. I can take a hint. I’m leaving. Here I go. Out the door. I know when I’m not wanted. Hey, how about that Bloody Mary you promised me. No, nevermind. Forget it. I’m gone. Out. Kaput.
Look, if you reconsider, here’s my number…”
