Good prose, for those who enjoy it

Pull up a stool and let me tell you about Inman Majors.

I guess I've mentioned him to you before. He wrote a fantastic novel called "The Millionaires." It's based on the Butcher banking scandal that rocked Knoxville in the early 1980s. Good stuff.

After I read the book, I heard him give a reading at the history center downtown. Later I chatted with him a minute. Then I tracked down his other two novels. "Swimming in Sky" spoke to my soul; "Wonderdog" is hilarious.

My friend Bridget, who is reading "The Millionaires," says Majors' books are definitely "guy novels." And they are. But his use of language is fantastic; sometimes the words flow together like the rushing current of a river's rapids, fast as you please, brilliant stream-of-consciousness.

Too bad I already have earned a bachelor's degree because I would have loved to have taken his creative writing class at James Madison. Can't do that now, but maybe I can sit in on one of his classes in the fullness of time.

I would recommend "Swimming in Sky" to any 30-something dude who feels adrift, maybe has a love-hate relationship with your hometown, both comforted and repulsed by it.

I swear, sometimes I think I'm going nuts. Other times, the reassurance of this valley protects me from whatever it is I fear out there in the great unknown.

I don't know. Maybe I just need some sleep.

But, if you love good writing, do yourself a favor and pick up an Inman Majors novel. I will be shocked if you're disappointed.

A Southern tale, better than naked art

My buddy John Martin Ramsey says that I go to the Bistro at the Bijou because I like nude art. If you've been there, you know what he means.

Funny line, yes. But, not really. I like the food. And, it's usually quiet on a sleepy summer weekday afternoon.

Thus it was today, when I met Fountain City historian Dr. Jim Tumblin there just after 5. I was nursing a cold beverage when Dr. Jim arrived. He spent the day downtown researching a column.

Dr. Jim seemed to enjoy his gumbo. I ordered an excellent fish sandwich (I think it was halibut). We laughed about local politics. Jim told me about a terrible rock band he went to hear last week. "They didn't rock, so I went home," says our favorite octogenarian.

It was a nice way to escape the heat. Boy, has that heat shown its face early this year, as if August has morphed into June, two months too soon.

Could have stayed in the Bistro for another hour or two, but I came downtown to hear Inman Majors read from his excellent new novel, "The Millionaires." It is a fine book.

Majors didn't say much about the novel's obvious connection to the Jake and C.H. Butcher banking scandal of the early 1980s. And, although it is certainly there, that Butcher stuff isn't the entire picture. From what he said tonight, Majors did what any writer worth a damn does -- scribbles what he knows. I suspect that has as much to do with his characters as anybody associated with that colorful clan from Maynardville.

But, those who remember the Butcher brothers, and the World's Fair, and the Knoxville of what seems like a bygone era will find much here that is familiar. At its best, though, "The Millionaires" is less about plot and more about character, piercing into sibling rivalries and ties running deeper than blood. Majors said tonight he has always been fascinated by his parents' generation -- the Southerners who made the leap from the family farm to the suburbs.

Others have criticized his technique -- not using apostrophes, writing some chapters as a screenplay -- but all of that is what makes this novel vibrant. Ignore the naysayers.

As all good storytellers should do, Majors keeps his audience glued to his story (I once stayed up reading until 7:30 a.m.). The two brothers at the center of the tale -- bankers Roland and J.T. Cole -- are what they are, but I found myself drawn to Roland's wife Libby, and to the central character of the book, political operative Mike Teague.

Libby handled her life with a dignified, understated grace. She knew about Roland's affairs. She knew about going home alone. She knew about unfulfilled dreams. The story ends before we know, but I suspect Libby endured her husband's fall from grace without so much as a public flinch. I thought about Libby long after I turned out the light.

Teague is the empathetic character in this tragic tale. Teague is a guy doing a job, fighting to keep his optimism, struggling to do what he thinks is right. In the end he is a victim of someone else's ambition run amok. And, yet, he lands on his feet.

I don't want to do the usual boring synopsis and I don't want to tell you much else. If you like good writing -- no, scratch that -- if you like GREAT writing, go buy this book. If you grew up in Knoxville, Inman's tale is a must read. If you are a political junkie, and like Southern tales of power and corruption and complexity, run don't walk to your local store or to Amazon.com.

The book is called "The Millionaires" and the author is Inman Majors.

Be forewarned -- it will keep you up nights. It might even make you do something really crazy. Like leave a cool bistro on a hot summer afternoon.

So much for that naked art.

The gusts of the afternoon

The sound of laughter came wafting into my living room as the sun descended into its slumber.

I awoke with a start, knocking the book I am reading and my eyeglasses off my lap and into the floor. I squinted in order for my two bad eyes to see the clock on my cell phone. Six forty-seven p.m. Time for dinner.

The headache, this awful migraine, has finally begun to ease. Worst one I've ever had. Now, I just feel sore, as if I'm recovering from a bad blow to the head. Which I am, if you think about it.

Here, let me share with you a descriptive passage from this book I'm reading, "The Millionaires" by Inman Majors. Lean back and listen to this:

"The cicadas scattered, electric, competing music then distracted or resting or satisfied and quiet for a time. Wind chimes whistling and changing in the air and the women making jokes about havoc wreaked on hair. The smell of chlorine, faint and clean, honeysuckle on the breeze, the hint, just the faintest trace, of musky mold in the table umbrella above."

Is that good or what?

I think so-called Southern writers have a more tangible sense of place, a keener appreciation of land and home, than do other American writers. Maybe that's true. Maybe it's also a bunch of BS. Typical Southern arrogance. I don't know.

Reading this book has given me an idea for a novel. I will share it with you later. Had I nothing but time, I could probably have it banged out in a few months. As it is, we'll see.

A baseball game is playing softly on television, providing peaceful background white noise, as I continue to ease my nuclear-bombed head and figure out these 23 flavors that make up a Dr. Pepper.

The night is quiet, comfortable, rendered still after the gusts of the afternoon.

4 a.m.

Curious are the thoughts one has at 4 a.m.

I am tempted to do the stream of consciousness thing again. Just to give you an example. But, nah. Faulkner was the master; I am nowhere near that ballpark. I'm too sleepy to do it anyway.

You ever get so tired you aren't tired? That's me tonight.

Had a big day, though. My nephew (well, he isn't really my nephew, but he calls me Uncle Jake and I reciprocate) celebrated his fourth birthday. Who knew, but it seems Transformers are the rage again. Something old, something new.

Watching him tear open his presents, slinging the paper to this side and that, made me smile. Ah, the innocent enthusiasm of the young. Sad, isn't it, that we later outgrow it.

I developed one of my trademark headaches. Thank God this one was sinus rather than migraine. So, I sneaked downstairs at Shelton's to the cool basement, sat down in the recliner, and napped while the Cubs beat the Cards.

Later I kept a friend company while she shopped. Funny the things you overhear at the Halls Walmart at 11 on a Saturday night. Unfortunately for me and my headache, that was the squall of a brat.

But, I enjoyed the companionship and the laughter over a country version of "Gin and Juice." Even bought a six-pack of IBC root beer. Made me forget all about the headache.

Now I'm trying to wind down, but am kept up by a new novel written by one Inman Majors, nephew to Tennessee football's first son, Johnny Majors. Its title is "The Millionaires." It is a not so thinly disguised fictionalization of the Butcher banking scandal of the late 1970s and early 1980s.

I am too tired to go into that tale for those unfamiliar with it, so I will save it for a future blog, when I review the book in question. I knew about Inman from a Metro Pulse story written a few years back. But I had no idea about this novel, which was apparently released in January. For whatever reason, local media has been silent about it.

Well, the clock reads 4:30 and I guess I'd better turn in. I will drop by again soon. Hope you're enjoying a good night's sleep.

I wish I was.