Dave Wood

Recently a friend asked me with all the writing I do why haven’t I ever written my autobiography? I replied that many years ago I learned that I was boring and that any piece of writing that contained more than 800 words was more than my readers could tolerate; thus the entire story of my life was impossible.

I discovered I was boring when I picked up a copy of the Twin Cities Reader, a giveaway Minneapolis weekly which annually featured a story about local writers who should “Get Out of Town.” It sort of hurt when the columnist who penned the piece put me at the top of his list because I was so boring that I could even make Istanbul, Turkey tedious because I complained about the filthy public toilets, advising future tourists to use the loos of a nearby McDonald’s.  (“Try one of their Big Meses!”) My name was followed by Macalester College prof Susan Allen Toth, who was “too persnickety’ and Minnesota Twins star Kirby Puckett, whose misbehavior had already driven him out of his stall in the parking lot next to mine never to return, which was in a way flattering. Since then, I’ve stuck to an 800- word format and then got the hell out.

“But you must have had some journalistic friends who weren’t as boring as you. Couldn’t you write about your interaction with them?” my friend insisted.

You bet I could, dear friend! Thus begins my three-part series, A Trio of Eccentrical Treats. Part one will deal with one that young readers have probably never heard about: Eddie Schwartz, freelancer who proclaimed that “I was game to write about anything, but I prefer Houses of Ill Fame and dingy saloons.” Not that he was a sex mad alcoholic, but just one of those old-fashioned journalists who preferred the underbelly of society.

I first met the white-maned scribe at a party thrown by MPLS-ST. PAUL magazine publisher Burt Cohen for the year’s freelance contributors. As the old-timer scarfed down his ninth jumbo shrimp and marinated water chestnuts wrapped in bacon, he opined “Burt’s pay is seldom adequate, but I never miss these fabulous shrimp each Christmas.”

Don’t get me wrong, for I found Eddie had a serious side. He was a four-star opponent of book censorship (thank goodness he’s not still alive what with the nutball censors these days who are driving our librarians crazy). Eddie was also a good friend of Anais Nin, the risqué French-born novelist known for her erotica. He and wife Mae frequently entertained Erskine Caldwell. I told Eddie I got my sex education by reading Caldwell’s sexual romps through the deep South in Caldwell’s “God’s Little Acre.” Eddie nevertheless cautioned me that Caldwell was socially and politically sound. I replied that I had read a critic who said that Caldwell’s books contained “too much meat and not enough sociological potatoes.’’ 

Caldwell’s response: I want to meet Wood the next time I come to town. Unfortunately, every time my literary hero came to see Eddie, I was out of town on assignments.

Eddie occasionally worked for me when I was Star Tribune book review editor. He liked being back in his long ago digs at 530 Portland, where the Tribune used to be and want to buy me lunch at his favorite restaurant. I accepted and ended up at my least favorite restaurant, a joint just off Hennepin Ave. festooned with oriental decorations and serving Egg Foo Yung that resembled and tasted like burnt scrambled eggs. Undaunted, I accepted, and when I arrived with Eddie and was told by its Chinese owner that Eddie had been dining at his place for at least fifty years, we were seated with a flurry of obsequious welcomes from the waitstaff. Eddie ordered. “I’ll have the usual.’”

The usual turned out to be braised short ribs with boiled potatoes, gravy, carrots and onions. “It’s the Wednesday special. I don’t eat Chinese, not my cup of, er, tea,” Eddie explained.  “I’ll have the same,” said I. It was the best short ribs and carrots and tiny potatoes I’ve ever eaten.

How’s that for Eddie as an eccentric? Tune in next week for Number II in my gallery of eccentricals (I think I just invented a word!)