Thom Nickels

Nice pictures while providing a good exercise on spotting mistakes. Photo on p. 10 shows Gimbel Brothers store but caption reads "Gimbles". Photo on p. 21 with automobiles in the foreground and captioned "c. 1873". Photo on p. 25 with horses and buggies and captioned "c. 1965". Pages 32 and 109 are identical. Photo of "a handsome Victorian cottage" on p. 70 -- with vinyl siding. Boyd Theater on p. 96 captioned as "c. 1930" but the 1952 movie The Greatest Show on Earth is playing there. Ray and Diana Vagelas Laboratories in caption on p. 128, but building in photo shows Roy and Diana Vagelos in block letters. Photo on p. 130 captioned as "c. 1980" but street signs and lights indicate c. 1935. Photos on pp. 94 and 140 captioned as "Anna Venturi House" -- her name was Vanna, as mentioned in the quote that is also in the caption on p. 140. Does Arcadia Publishing have an editor, proofreader, or anyone who reads the manuscripts they publish?… (meer)

Call me squeamish, but I don’t much want to hear about sexual encounters that result in somebody having to spray Lysol. I’m funny that way. Whether memoir or creative nonfiction, certain types of prose offer guideposts to a writer’s progress. With “Tropic of Libra,” Thom Nickles maps out a landscape of back alleys, back rooms, steam rooms and tearooms, terrain so long removed from contemporary queer consciousness as to have become virtually mythologized.

Suddenly, it all seems like yesterday. Despite the fact that I virtually grew up in some of the Philadelphia bars that Nickles writes about, I’ve never met the man (that I’m aware of), which is probably just as well, because “Tropic of Libra” is already an uncomfortably personal work. On many levels, it would appear to be a simple journal, a grubby litany of grudges and defeats, of slights and sex acts … with the emphasis resolutely on the latter. The fact that the book is set in actual locations – clubs and restaurants and apartment buildings – adds to the verisimilitude of course, as do the appearances of well-known locals, often with their names only slightly disguised. But everyone addresses the narrator as “Billy,” and therefore “Tropic of Libra” is Billy’s diary and a work of fiction. Right? The obvious comparisons to Henry Miller are not entirely misplaced, and echoes of Genet, Ginsberg and Reechy resonate loudly. There’s even a touch of sainted Samuel R. Delaney. It’s a heady mix. But who would have thought all these erotic adventures could grow so monotonous? Or so disturbing?

Ever listen to a fanatic go on about religion? Well, Billy isn’t exactly kneeling in prayer. Always on the verge of homelessness, he starves from one freelance writing assignment to the next, while burying himself in sex the way some people lose themselves in drink. In pursuit of his bliss, he employs a foolproof technique. By approaching men on the street and offering them oral sex, he gets to service a lot of strangers. He also gets beaten up a lot. And robbed. But the real downside is that Billy invests emotionally in all these hustlers and addicts, all these guys he meets in restrooms. (Of the street boys who “steal small trinkets and nick knacks” no more need be said.) Not surprisingly, these relationships prove uniformly squalid and awful, even though the men seldom seem more than shadows. (Occasionally, one of them may display behavior so pathological that he begins to come into focus, but inevitably the character just wanders out of the narrative before acquiring many contours.) All Billy’s paramours appear damaged and miserable, so it is difficult distinguishing between them. Even the narrator – who believes himself a romantic – scarcely makes an effort.

At no time is there any indication of irony or any other literary device. Still, Billy’s heart is always broken. Desperately seeking direction, he embraces astrology and tarot cards, psychic readings and dream analysis, all of which he exhaustively describes and none of which discourages him from wallowing in the most grotesque and pathetic liaisons imaginable. Taking responsibility for his life is not his strong suit. Everyone betrays him. Editors stab him in the back. Lovers dump him. Acquaintances avoid him. Poor Billy. His diary becomes painfully evocative of mental illness, plunging into the sort of morass most people instinctively avoid. A blur of grungy sex, crying jags and psychotic rages, the text grows intensely obsessive, if only through repetition. It is difficult to know how to evaluate all this. When tryst after tryst results in roommates and neighbors complaining about bad smells, is it a motif … or just a rut? Surely erotic fiction needn’t be so depressing. Nickles may have invented a whole new genre here – call it Neurotica.

Then it just ends. A number of pieces appended to the diary appear to be short stories. Others are apparently articles that have turned up in various gay presses over the years, and it never becomes clear how the work as a whole is meant to benefit from these inclusions (aside from being fleshed out to book length). An interview with some guy who knew Marlene Dietrich just rambles, followed by an equally pointless essay about watching a porn star dance. Then a science fiction story recycles incidents from the diary. Is this another guidepost? Perhaps the reader is meant to assume that Billy wrote these sections? A few more clues might have helped. One of these later segments features a narrator institutionalized after a breakdown. If only this had been integrated into the main text, it could have provided some form of resolution. As it stands, the reader must sift through random sleaze and confusion while struggling to make connections … much like the protagonist.… (meer)