30 ▼ n o v «m b e r 7, 1997 T ju st out
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U nder Y our S kin
Portland author Lee Williams gets on your nerves with
his new book, After Nirvana
by Lisa McCormack
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everal years ago I was walking through
London’s Hampstead Heath with my
girlfriend. Halfway through the park I
was overcome—bladder nearly burst
ing Earl Grey. Still young and outdoorsy,
I found a private cove and crouched. I started to
look around, acting casual, nearly whistling, when
I saw a man walking along a nearby trail. My eyes
dropped to the ground. Everywhere I looked;
condom wrappers. Not only condom wrappers,
S
oaks
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but used condoms. Seediness closing in, I fin
ished my, uh, business and left.
Of course, everyone knows seediness exists,
and that it exists everywhere. Only when we walk
right into it do we remember to say, “Eeeww,
gross.” Eliciting a similar shudder of revulsion,
After Nirvana by Portland author Lee Williams
gives a very detailed map of the decaying under
belly of the City of Roses.
This thorny beast is no quick read. It isn’t easy,
The story of male
prostitutes has
been told before,
thus the plot is not
surprising. In fact,
the story of
male prostitutes
in Portland has
been told. These
characters may get
under your skin,
make you squirm a
little. But it's a
cheap, short-lived
thrill. There are
more poetic, subtler
ways to disturb a
reader.... The worst
part about this book
is how predictably
obvious and
superficial it is.
These characters may get under your skin, make
you squirm a little. But it’s a cheap, short-lived
thrill. There are more poetic, subtler ways to
disturb a reader. I’m not sure if shocking a reader
into fearing strangers is any better than watching
a bad episode of Millennium on the FOX network
(with all due respect to scriptwriter Chris Carter).
The worst part about this book is how predictably
obvious and superficial it is. Even the few mo
ments of tenderness between characters are ex
pected. “Look, honey, street kids have feelings
too!”
Williams’ detailed account of the underworld
never jumps outside our expectations. It’s nearly
cliché with its stories of bathhouse overlords and
porn films.
And I stumbled over Williams’ use of Port
land-specific references. How could anyone who
did not hail from the great Pacific Northwest
know what a Plaid Pantry was or care where West
Burnside crossed Third Avenue? He is quite un
forgiving in his use of unexplained references—
learn them quickly or he will leave you far behind.
For non-Portlanders, Williams’ detailed map will
only hinder their ability to read his story.
iM > .r
m .
A Novel
D M IR D B T M I
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and it definitely is not forgiving. When I put the
book down, Portland had lost its literary mystique
for me. Now 1 distrust strangers even more; I think
I shower more often.
On top of these unpleasant side effects, the
novel isn’t very, well, novel. We follow the four
characters as they live their lives on Southwest
Yamhill Street, West Burnside, in Washington
Park, up Southwest Third Avenue, at the Plaid
Pantry, etc., etc. There’s Branch (pimp guy),
Davy (quiet, yes man/boy prostitute), Nikki
(Davy’s girlfriend in a nonchalant, “that’s cool if
you have sex with guys” kind of way) and James
(gay guy with aspirations slightly higher than
street level). If you’ve seen My Own Private
Idaho, you know the story, minus the prodigal son
and Shakespearean plot lines.
The story of male prostitutes has been told
before, thus the plot is not surprising. In fact, the
story of male prostitutes in Portland has been told.
Then again, for those of us who walk down
Burnside every day, or pass by Hart’s video
arcade on Southwest Third, or spend time in any
of the local parks, he’s briefly push-pinned our
map full of seediness. I can’t help but wonder,
though, if he is trying to gratuitously cash in on the
Pacific Northwest Grunge (oh, sorry, After
Grunge) Lifestyle.
On the book’s dust jacket, David Bergman,
editor of Men on Men Five: Best New Gay Fic
tion, hails After Nirvana as a masterpiece. He
calls it the Catcher in the Rye of the ’90s, saying
it has “the same gut power, the same emotional
depth, a similar despairing poetry and an even
darker vision.”
I, of course, beg to differ, but mine is a differ
ent perspective.
After Nirvana by Lee Williams.
William Morrow, 1997; $20 cloth.