Travis LaFrance

Tune Your Dial To Radio LaFrance

Sunday, March 13, our nation's radio waves will transmit more boldly than before. I will be interviewed by Wisconsin Public Radio for the show "To The Best of Our Knowledge," discussing my masterwork, Toro.

The segment will last about 15 minutes, and is syndicated nationally. Find a local station, or listen online.

On Strike

If they give me no justice, I shall give them no poem.

Credit Where Credit is Due

Just how much influence can an orator and freedom-fighter such as myself have on our electoral process? Let's look at the numbers.

In Philadelphia's 60th Ward, where I spread the word, the final tally was:

Kerry 7,719 (96%)
Bush 293 (4%)

Now let's look at a region where I was unable to canvass: Duchesne County, Utah.

Kerry 707 (13%)
Bush 4590 (87%)

Statistics don't lie. My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my country.

White Man in West Philly

It would be silly to presume that the denizens of the 60th ward, 5th precinct of West Philly had never seen a white person. But it's quite likely that they had never had one come knock on their door at 9:30 in the morning.

"What you want?" called a voice through the closed door. I was knocking doors on a series of collapsing row houses out by where West 53rd meets Walnut. Every block had a few boarded-up hovels with No Trespassing signs tacked to the plywood over the windows.

"I'm looking for Henry Jackson."

"He ain't here."

"How about Dinesha Taylor?"

"Nope."

"Dinea Taylor?"

"She's at work. What you want anyway?"

"My name is Travis LaFrance," I said, raising my voice to be heard through the door. "I've come to ensure that you take the opportunity to exercise your democratic duty, and make it to the polls today."

"You a cop?"

"This is the most important election of a generation, and Pennsylvania is a crucial state. You have the power to see that America pursues wise foreign policy and an equitable domestic agenda. If you open the door I can tell you where your polling place is."

"I know where it is. I'll vote later. I'm having my breakfast."

As the day warmed, the doors began to open. They eyed me suspiciously at first: a white guy with a list of everyone who lived in the house. One man in forties with long dreadlocks watched me down the stoop.

"Hold on," he called after me. "You're not a Republican are you?"

"I should say not, sir. I am a man of the people."

"Good thing," he said. "I was about to tell you you're in the wrong part of town."

Down with the People

Election day began well before dawn, leaping from my cot at the youth hostel in Philadelphia. My assignment was to a church in West Philly, and I'd been told to bring my car in order to drive voters to the polls. The basement of the church was a congregation of black faces of all ages, from teenagers to a little old granny in her church hat with a rose on it: this, I reflected, is real unity�the power of the Democrats.

The white guy in charge said, "Now if you don't put up the door hangers, you won't get paid."

Paid?

I was here as a volunteer in service to democracy. I asked around a bit and discovered this: the white people were volunteers and held positions of authority (e.g., getting to drive), while the black people were to get a hundred bucks cash for 13 hours of canvassing. The white guy looked at me.

"Put on one of our t-shirts and get a precinct list," he said. "We'll put you on doors."

That sounded sort of important. Perhaps I was to be the sentry at the polling place.

"Knocking on doors. You'll be with Nadja and Tyrell."

"But they told me to bring a car."

The man shrugged and turned away to his work. Fine. Let me be a foot soldier. I didn't get to be a hero to the Common Man by taking some paper-pushing managerial job. To the streets!

Then and Now

Then: Hemingway, Knut Hamsun, Travis LaFrance

Now: Solzhenitsyn, Frederick Douglass, Travis LaFrance

A cold wind portends the onset of the long winter of my dissent.

Democracy and Lobster. Part 2

"It's the Betsy Ross Bridge," I declared, passing the border from New Jersey into Pennsylvania. "We're following the footsteps of our founding fathers. And do you know which river we're crossing?"

Miss S. glanced down at the map, and I snatched it away.

"No peaking," I said. "It's the river that George Washington crossed on the way to Valley Forge."

"You know, when I was in high school, I was more interested in hooking up and finding out where the keggers were."

We exited the freeway onto Benjamin Franklin's hallowed cobblestone streets, and began searching for headquarters. The neighborhood seemed to have deteriorated somewhat from its colonial splendor, yet its modern-day vibrancy was evident. Checks cashed, lotto tickets. We buy gold. What else does civilization need? 3 out of 4 buildings were burned out or boarded up.

Miss S. and I parted ways, and I found my way up a staircase to a office where dozens of volunteers hovered around computer monitors and folding desks. I found my way to my contact and introduced myself. "I'm here to empower voters," I told her.

She glanced up at a clock on the wall. "You're just getting here now?" she said. Turns out the canvass crews were already out hitting the pavement. "I'm in a meeting right now. But I guess you could just go over to the hostel."

"Sounds great. Where is it?" I said. She told me an address. "Feel free to get directions on Mapquest. If you can find a computer. "

I waited for her meeting to end. She and a staff of five, most of them in their twenties, sat in a circle, laughing, massaging each other's feet, taking pictures of one another with their cell phones. One had a lapbook open: I could see that on the screen she was downloading a screen-saver image of a kitten.

After thirty minutes or so, I heard what was like music, a woman's voice asking, "Does anyone have a car?" So the next minute this delightful New Yorker was in my Corolla, the scent of Miss S.'s sunscreen still lingering. Turned out she was a writing student at a well-known Manhattan University. Impressed that she had the decorum to pretend that she didn't recognize the renowned prose stylist in her midst, I dropped this idealistic lass at the train station.

Then I headed out to a pub where pictures of Yeats and James Joyce hung from the wall, put away a few pints of Guinness and a plate of bangers and mash, then headed up to the hostel, a converted mansion on a sprawling estate with some sort of French name, where I passed the evening watching TV and reading the polls online.

It's been a tough day, but our democracy is stronger as a result of all my work.

Democracy and Lobster

I departed Brooklyn this morning to hit the Philadelphia pavement and get out the vote. Needless to say I had a lovely companion in tow, a certain Miss S, a sun-freckled Rocky Mountain flower on her first visit to the eastern seaboard. Miss S. is a Colorado native, a river guide and pilates instructor, the kind that wears plastic wraparound sunglasses and looks good in ski outfits. As we sped up and over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, we discovered a brilliant autumn morning, the leaves quivering and the colors in riot. I'm driving the Corolla, a modest sedan that allows me to travel in anonymity and bolsters my patriotism, for while I jaunt across the countryside, my contribution to the oil coffers of the enemy are negligible.

"Crab shack," said Miss S, as we passed into New Jersey. On her sight-seeing hitlist was a trip to the Jersey shore where she envisioned she'd find a clapboard seafood seller windbeaten in the fall gusts. I was supposed to begin my civic duty at 2 pm, and I agreed with Miss S. that a content citizen is a productive citizen. So we detoured over to the shore, sunlight pouring through the windshield, and drove into Asbury Park.

We found no crab shacks. In the stench of treated sewer we found boarded-up pleasure palaces, the skeletons of condominiums abandoned during construction, and mid-day drunks weaving along the boardwalk bellowing at no one in particular. We skedaddled southward and lo and behold, there on Shark River was a mom-and-pop seafood bistro, where although crab was scarce, the lobsters were live, and Miss S. called for two of them, as well as a crock of lobster bisque.

"Duty to country," I observed, fastening my bib, "requires that we love our country, and all the fine meals it has to offer. Waitress: a chilled bottle of pinot grigio when you have a moment."

"This is a bring-you-own type of place," said the server, returning to a booth where her toddler was wailing.

The shellfish arrived and we tore into them, splashing butter across the table. The bill arrived.

"Let me treat you," said Miss S.

"Oh no, allow me. "

"That's sweet of you."

"But if you insist," I relented, pushing the bill her way. "I always let the lady have her way."

By two thirty we were back on the highway, headed to Philadelphia, our Republic's fate awaiting the arrival of its native son, Travis LaFrance.

To Philadelphia!

I was in Boston with the Democrats. I was in New York with the Republicans. As the election season whirls feverishly toward its crescendo, it's only fitting that I place myself in the very cradle of American democracy, birthplace of the Constitution, home of fellow renaissance man Benjamin Franklin, first capitol of our nation, and now, the crucial metropolis of a crucial swing state. Philadelphia, sound a long toll on the Liberty Bell because here comes Travis LaFrance: cocksman, falconer, patriot.

On those same cobblestone streets where Benjamin Franklin trumpeted the virtue of a people's government, in those same colonial parlors where the rascally bachelor seduced the most refined matrons of the New World, so shall Travis caress the electorate with his callused--yet gentle--hands of good judgement.

Monday morning I travel, joining a veritable Brooklyn Brigade of Minutemen and Minutewoman racing by land, by sea, by bus and train and car to fight for our country and to depose the tyrant George II.

I'll be getting out the vote. To join me, volunteer at www.acthere.com. Or if you've any suggestions for how a Man of Letters should pass his leisure hours in the city of brotherly love, comment here, or drop me a line at travislafranceATtravislafranceDOTcom. Stay tuned for live reports.

We Have A Winner!

A very lucky Mary in an unnamed eastern state is the proud owner of Travis LaFrance's historic ballot chads, purchased on eBay at what today may seem a staggering price, but which historians will term a pittance. Congratulations to a true patriot.

Manning LaPhone Bank

As any patriot should, I signed up this week at ACT to get on the phone and call voters in Ohio, imploring them to get out and do their patriotic duty next Tuesday. I reported to a drab office space in Brooklyn, where the organizer distributed lists of voters and a script to read from. He suggested, however , that we alter the script to reflect our own personality. So with a little work, I trotted out this little prose poem, a document surely to be filed alongside the Federalist Papers by historians studying the effect of the written word on our politics.

SCRIPT

Hello, is ---------- available? This is Travis LaFrance calling. Yes, the Travis LaFrance. I'm not calling on behalf of any political party or organization, simply as one patriot to another, to remind you that the fate of the republic and the western canon are in your hands next week. As much as we'd all like someone of my insight and wisdom to simply choose our leaders, this is a democracy, and I am allowed only one vote.

Surely you're hoping that I've decided to run for office. Not the case. I love politics passionately, but still she is but my mistress. My wife shall always be literature, in sickness and in health.

With regards to the upcoming election, have you read and/or purchased a copy of my latest masterwork, Toro?

If Yes: Your enlightenment is evident, my dear friend. I don't imagine you need any more guidance on how to cast your vote.

If No: Good God! Our Democracy is imperiled! If you hope to make an informed vote next Tuesday, you simply have to join the 21st Century and read the book. It's available from all the leading chains, or, if you have a credit card handy, I can take your order now.

I'm sure you appreciate my taking the time to call, but I'm going to have to let you go, and get on to the next caller.

If Female: One of the crucial components of democracy is citizen-to-citizen interaction. I am planning a trip to Akron in the coming weeks. Perhaps you know of a candlelit bistro where we could meet for a liquer and discuss the political process?

If Male: Good night, and God Bless America.

END OF SCRIPT

If you'd like to get a phone call from me on election day, and you're an Ohio voter under the age of 25 (female preferred), simply sign up at Operation Ohio, and request a call from Travis LaFrance. Or if you'd like to call Ohio in these last crucial days, sign up at ACThere.

The Bidding War Begins . . .

Since my announcement yesterday of the historical sale, at auction, of my authentic absentee ballot chads, bidding has been spirited. You can follow the excitement from your own console by checking the eBay Bid history page. Teenagesxsymbol opened with the minimum bid of $10.00, only to be quickly outbid by 57 cents by Sloejim. But then alaskawaterdog arrived on the scene, and in a high-stakes slugfest, the price soared to 15, 19, then 20, where it rests now. Remember: the bid winner also gets a signed hardcover copy of The Making of Toro.

Make a bid now!

Buy My Historic 2004 Chads!

Just as Jack London had his Wolf House and Hemingway his Finca Vigia, so does Travis LaFrance maintain a humble manor in the hinterland, a rough-hewn reservoir of genius at which I fill my canteen between urban sabbaticals and jaunts to the exotic. With the considerable royalties earned from my masterwork, Toro, I bought modest parcel on an unpaved byway through the magnificent canyon country of Grand County, Utah. There in the oblong casbah known locally as Travicello, I have done good work, and honed such gentlemanly pursuits as falconry, horticulture, and animal husbandry. Despite my rigorous traveling itinerary, I suppose I shall own Travicello till my ashes are spread beneath the shade of the mighty sycamores I planted. After that my kin will bequeath the single-wide villa to one of the historical societies dedicated to my legacy, who may likely remove its wheels to indicate that its permanence on the landscape is as certain as that of my works in the canon.

The keeping of this permanent address while residing in Whitman's Brooklyn brings up complications at election time. I opt to exercise my vote where I the soil is mine�and today I cast my absentee ballot for the County of Grand, Utah. While pollsters have opined that Beehive State, with its Mormon majority, is a lost cause for we Democrats, I say: let the chips fall where they may. I punched the hole for Straight Democratic Ticket, and shall thus send my man Kerry to White House, Matheson to Congress, and the other Matheson to the Governor's Mansion. I punched holes for my local officers and propositions as well, and the paper chads gathered like confetti on the table. As I dropped the ballot into the mailbox on 4th Avenue, I felt as if I'd poured the decisive tablespoon into the surging lake about to overflow its levee. Indeed, the flood has begun, in which the Travis LaFrance, in the tradition of London and James Cain and John Steinbeck, shall lead the nation through its philistine drought to the oasis of enlightenment, literature, and the long-awaited revival of the Democratic Party.

My next thought was: how will future curators commemorate this moment. And then it occurred to me: what greater piece of history for future curators than the very chads from the ballot of Travis LaFrance. So I've put these historical items up on sale at Ebay. Package includes eight chads, list of candidates, a photocopy of the punched ballot card, as well as the "Q-Ring Punching Device" I used. Make a bid today!

http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=3936270669

On Assignment

You've wondered where I was all week. Once again one of our leading magazines has shipped me off into some heart of danger and adventure--where the meek don't dare and the cell phones don't ring. My contract forbids me to divulge any more. But rest easy: I'll be back at my station next week sometime.

Greatness at the Brie Platter

Perhaps what distinguishes me best from my generation�those toady show-offs whose high-minded noodling delights the literati but falls flat in the heartland�is that I write for, by, and about the Common Man. My prose pulses with the blood of the worker, the Okie, the immigrant, outcast and the downtrodden. To wit, I have taken up residence in an converted factory in Brooklyn, in a corridor of car shops and taquerias wedged between the Green-Wood cemetery and the Gowanus Canal. Realtors call this unblossomed bud of bohemia Park Slope South, but I prefer the less aspiring, more demonstrative Industrial Slope.

Out my window the graveyard's gothic steeple pokes up through dense green canopy, and in the foreground sits a body shop where recent arrivals from our southern frontera swing their mighty hammers at dented fenders, and during the most productive mornings the high pitched thunder of their pneumatic belt sander wails in glorious harmony with the syncopated tapping of my keyboard. So robust is the local culture that many soft-palmed amenities of the city�the New York Times, white women, sit-down restaurants�have yet to gain a toehold here. My hard-wrought art is my life, and versa-vice.

During the days I work at home, breaking fast occasionally for a plate of the rice and beans favored by indigenous people around the globe, and in the evening my responsibilities as a celebrity and man of letters beckon me into that glittering island across the water. Just the other night I was invited to the 24th story of a midtown building for a fundraising soiree for the Kerry-Edwards ticket. A $200 contribution was suggested.

I arrived at a smartly-furnished apartment with breathtaking view of the Williamsburg Bridge on one side, and the Empire State Building: at first glance this enclave of the left-leaning intelligensia seemed hardly different from the Republican fete I attended last month. But observing closer I found the tell-tale distinctions: a wall of books with titles by Kundera and Garcia Marquez, John Coltrane blowing softly in the background. Gone were the plastic trays of ready-made deli snacks and in were the discs of brie and pies of homemade quiche. Red wine was abundant, while beer was scarce and whiskey unavailable. If you listened carefully you could hear languages other than English.

Conversation was perhaps predictable: atheism, whose foundation was funding whose institute, and what a dumbass you'd have to be to vote for the president. This was a class of people who worked their whole lives to simulatneously right the world's wrong and distinguish themselves from the dumbasses�whether it be winning the spelling bee, teaching violin to the underprivelged, landing a spot in the AP class, collecting textbooks to send to El Salvador, or placing into an fancy college where they might major in anthroplogy. They hold the old-fashioned belief that ignorance is a plague, and education is the cure, and they believe that with hard work and study they can rise above mediocrity.

And just when they found a job with benefits at a nonprofit in New York City and thought they'd finally left the jocks and dipshits behind�they turned around to discover that those same dumbasses had risen up and installed one of their own in the White House, a walking example that family connections still trump merit, and a know-nothing crusader who would desecrate our temples of enlightenment with the soft-brained superstitions of prayer and patriotism.

And now, wine glass in hand, they were fighting back. By evening's end I had joined the crusade with 7 or 8 glasses of Merlot and two helpings of baked ziti, not to mention a shovel load of French cheeses.

There was still the issue of the contribution. The hosts had set out forms and envelopes beside a chart where each person could graph his own donation, as we worked toward the goal of $5,000. I reached for my wallet and discovered a lonely ten dollar bill.

I reflected.

The contributions that an artist such as Travis LaFrance makes by simply attending a political event cannot be measured in dollars. How much does one pay for aesthetic legitimacy�to brush elbows with greatness at the quiche platter?

I slid the ten-spot into the envelope and placed it with the others. Then with a magic marker I filled in share on the donation chart, which, tabulating the in-kind contribution of my mere presence, I rounded up to a neat $500.

"Thanks, Travis," said the hostess, admiring the stature of my addition to the graph. "Way to keep the momentum going!"

"But of course," I said with a wink. "One would expect nothing less."