So what does a novel set in 1919 Colorado have to do with the Detroit of the 1960s?

My historical novel, Zeppelins Over Denver, was released in early May by The Ridgeway Press in Michigan, Detroit to be exact.

The novel, set in the Colorado of 1919, doesn’t have much to do with either Detroit or Michigan, but its life has a lot to do with a couple of determined Detroiters. It’s the press co-founded by M.L. Liebler, a poet and author whose resume is about five miles long. As he writes about in Hound Dog: A Poet’s Memoir or Rock, Revolution, and Redemption (Cornerstone Press), he’s a Detroit native, a resident of St. Clair Shores his entire life. He was there to experienced the rise of Motown and the Detroit rock scene that flourished in the 1960s, 1970s and beyond.

He pursued an advanced degree with the vigor he brought to music and poetry. His title at Wayne State University is professor of English and Labor Studies, a one-two punch that shouts Detroit. It has been my good fortune to work with M.L. in the literary arts world, mostly through the YMCA Writers Voice Project. It was launched from New York’s West Side Y (now at the the Central YMCA of New York) by the late Jason Shinder. It has been a facet of Y programming across the U.S., in places as far-flung as the Cheyenne Family YMCA in Cheyenne, Wyo., where my wife Christine supervised the program. Sadly, the Writer's Voice program Chris supervised vanished when the Cheyenne Y closed last year. A sad day on the lone prairie.

As coordinator of the literary program at the Wyoming Arts Council, I enlisted M.L. as a judge for our literary fellowships and had the pleasure of driving him across that vast state and introducing him to The Legend of the Jackalope as well as a batch of very fine poets and writers. M.L took me on when I was failing to find a publisher. I will be eternally grateful to him for that. He was ably assisted by WSU student and editor/designer Brandon Wade. I will have more to say about this as time passes and I look for ways to lift up this blog.

Meanwhile, excuse me while I figure out intriguing ways to promote a book published by one of America's stalwart small presses. It was launched by the Ridgeway Press and Artist Collection 52 years ago. Its roots are deep in the Detroit alternative arts scene. Here's a description taken from Detroit's Book Beat:

Ridgeway Press & Collective is one of Detroit’s vital independent literary-artistic forces. With weekly online meetings, shared vacations, and a screwball newsletter, this band of creatives has remained together, loyal to the call of Ridgeway Dada. 

Riding along on Peter Richardson's Brand New Beat: The Wild Rise of Rolling Stone Magazine

I read the new book by Peter Richardson, "Brand New Beat: The Wild Rise of Rolling Stone Magazine." It's published by the University of California Press. Early reviews say the book does a credible job tracing the influence of Rolling Stone with its "new journalism" or, as Hunter S. Thompson fans and critics called it, "gonzo journalism." Thompson influenced many of us but in different ways. He was criticized for his unorthodox style of reporting the 1972 U.S. presidential campaign. The establishment press had its way of covering campaigns and Thompson had his own glorious approach.

Others viewed it differently. Said novelist Nelson Algren in a 1979 review of "The Great Shark Hunt" in the Chicago Tribune: "Now that the dust of the '60s has settled, his [Thompson's] hallucinated vision strikes one as having been. after all, the sanest." 

The book's original 1973 cover has
a secret to reveal.

Thompson and Algren are both long gone. Both of these rowdy writers documented brutal eras: Thompson the 1960s and '70s; Algren the Great Depression through the 1970s. We may never see their like again. We need them now. Wouldn't it be thrilling to see Dr. Gonzo clash with Trump's oily apparatchiks?

Thompson's writing in RS influenced my writing but not my lifestyle. Both would have considered me a square. That said, I read everything Hunter S. Thompson wrote. I read every feature in Rolling Stone of the '70s and it shaped my attitude and my writing.  Once I unlocked the secret of reading at five, I absorbed everything: cereal boxes, billboards, all the books the librarians let me check out. The three important books in my life: "Catch-22" by Joseph Heller,  "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" by Ken Kesey, and "Slaughterhouse-Five," by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. I was so wild about "Catch-22" that I forced it upon my Catholic high school friends and we were as impressed it as they were surfing and girls. It was funny. It had something to tell us. Heller was a messenger and, in 1968, we really had to listen. One of the book's suggested titles was "Snowden's Secret." Heller teases the secret throughout the book; its revelation toward the end is almost too much for Yossarian to bear. 

Every book I read told a secret. I loved the act of reading but was blissfully unaware that I also was unlocking life's secrets. 

Richardson spills plenty of Rolling Stone's secrets along the way. The magazine's biggest secret is that is existed at all. It spilled the secrets of my generation, the good (music coverage), the bad (Manson), the ugly (Altamont). It was fun. It was cool to be in the circle of readers. It shaped me into a different person than the one expected by me as a young man and those around me. 

The last five years of the 1970s were, according to the author, the magazine's golden era. The '70s were a golden era for many of us Boomers, locked into our 20s and early 30s. The mag helped us through those years, helped us get a handle on being young in America. Mischief was afoot. Cults were big. Rock grew into a giant industry. Right-wingers plotted their takeover of America which fizzled with Nixon but they wouldn't let that happen under Reagan and the cons who followed. Jann Wenner moved the Stone to New York where da big money was an it gradually grew into something much larger but also smaller. I read it only occasionally now. I like the political coverage and introduction to new music styles and new bands. 

The thing I love about Rolling Stone is that it taught me to write. It was a writer's workshop if you were paying attention. Hunter Thompson and Joe Eszterhas. I also was learning how to write like a traditional journalist while learning about "new journalism." I was too much of a straight arrow to be gonzo but the techniques are in me and enter into my fiction. Woodward and Bernstein caused a rise in J-School students while Thompson, Tom Wolfe, Joan Didion, Tim O'Brien, Joni Mitchell, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Harry Crews, and Toni Morrison taught us to by-God write like we meant every damn word. This is a short list of my writing heroes/heroines, one befitting a blogger who keeps on truckin'.

Richardson's book was published by University of California Press. It is a university press, a key player in the publishing universe. As you might expect, documentation is required. Richardson provides it in spades. A "Random Notes" section brings readers up to date on the key players. That is followed by Acknowledgements, Notes (lots and lots of notes), and Index. Use the book as a handy guide to a decade, 1967-76, that could be called "the shadow 60s" for its many USA-rockin' events. 

If androids dream of electric sheep, why are there no sheep in my dreams?

I discovered Philip K. Dick and his mind-blowing novels at just the right time. In November 1975 I was a non-trad student at the University of Florida. Non-trad because many in my 1969 high school graduating class had claimed their diplomas and were now looking for work in all the wrong places. Meanwhile, we laggards and slow-learners were on campus with a younger crowd and a passel of Vietnam veterans. And the Krishnas -- can't forget them and the Krishna lunch. 

I spent many of my waking hours at the library where I gobbled up novels I missed reading in high school and copies of Rolling Stone, Esquire, The New Yorker, and any other pub that featured great writers -- Hunter S. Thompson and Joe Eszterhas among them -- and Esquire carried Harry Crews' Grits column and its annual dubious achievement awards. I learned snark from the witty DA awards and writing through Crews in print and in person in his creative writing class. 

A profile of PK Dick arrived in the Nov. 6, 1975 Stone. Great graphics by G.K. Bellows showed the author, book in hand, with an alien invader coming through his window. The header: "The True Stories of Philip K. Dick: Burgling the most brilliant sci-fi mind on Earth -- it is Earth isn't it?" Paul Williams wrote the piece. Was this the same Paul Williams from TV and film? No, it was Paul Williams, founder of Crawdaddy, who RS called "the first rock critic" and who died in 2013. He also loved sci-fi.

So I had to look up the RS piece. I printed it out and the type was too small for these tired eyes. So I enlarged the e-piece and read the whole thing. I remembered most of it from '75. I found as many PK Dick books as I could, in libraries and second-hand bookstores, and wrapped "Ubik" and "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" into the folds of my brain that also held Shakespeare in Elizabethan English, Chaucer in Middle English, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge's dreamscapes, all from my UF classes. All in books. 

Williams notes in his final paragraph that some PK Dick movies were being discussed. "Blade Runner" came out in 1982, just a few weeks after PK Dick died. It blew our minds. It wasn't Dick's novel but it was beautiful. There now is a Director's Cut and a Final Cut as well as sequels. And many movies based on other novels. 

What is PK Dick thinking out in the Bardo? You may have to go to Colorado to get an inkling of that. Dick's ashes were interred in a Fort Morgan, Colo., cemetery next to the grave of his twin sister who died at six weeks. She is the basis of the "phantom twin," a recurrent theme of his. Fort Morgan was in the middle of the Dust Bowl in 1928 so I assumed the worst about the sister's fate. Go to Fort Morgan on a winter's day in January. Stand outside in the winter gales and think of the many things that could doom an infant in 1928-29. 

Dick, who lived most of his life in California, including mystical Marin County, is buried on the prairie. Only 112 miles from my one-time home of Cheyenne, Wyo., the setting of Hawthorne Abendsen, the author of "The Grasshopper Lies Heavy," an alternate history of World War II (the Allies win!) in "The Man in the High Castle." Dick had the mountains and prairie in his bones which made the Rocky Mountains the best place for the opposition to the Japanese and German conquerors on the coasts.

Dig up that '75 Stone article and find out about the author's situation in a tumultuous year, 1971. There's a mystery at the story's center: why did someone burgle Philip K. Dick's house in San Rafael, blow up his 1,100-pound asbestos-and-steel safe, home to his precious manuscripts, and flood the floor with water and asbestos? All sorts of wild things were going on in 1970s California. Dick posits possibilities and Williams follows leads to no avail. 

The answer is out there somewhere.