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Vol. 21, No. 3, 2022
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Robert J. Lewis
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Don Dewey
Chris Barry
Howard Richler
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Mady Bourdage
Chantal Levesque Denis Beaumont
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Ernesto Zedillo
Pico Iyer
Edward Said
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Bill Moyers
Barbara Ehrenreich
Leon Wieseltier
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Charles Lewis
John Lavery
Tariq Ali
Michael Albert
Rochelle Gurstein
Alex Waterhouse-Hayward





Former lead singer of the legendary 222s, arguably Montreal's first punk rock band, Chris is now a freelance writer based in Montreal. You can check out his writing at where he combines the sardonic humour of David Foster Wallace and the deliciously contrived irreverence of Anthony Bourdain.


I’ve never been particularly interested in my family history, not that there aren’t a few characters of note mixed in among the seemingly endless charade of troubled individuals who colour my genetic makeup. After all, none other than Robert Stanley Weir, the lyricist of “O Canada,” is my great-great grandfather, or great-granduncle, or something like that, which I guess, if it actually meant anything to anybody, could afford me bragging rights on the message board.

But when push comes to shove, like, really, what do I care about any of them? What has some ancestor’s accomplishments—or misery—got to do with me? It’s not like I’m next in line to collect Bobby Weir’s SOCAN royalties. Can you even collect royalties on a 140-year-old national anthem? Probably not, and even if you could I’m way too far down the list of descendants to jump aboard that potential gravy train.. Any family wealth that might’ve come my way was long ago blown on wine, women and… song, I suppose. Well, okay, maybe not so much from all the joyous vocalizing, but booze has certainly enjoyed a starring role, with mental illness prominently featured alongside it in the handbill.

Nope, for a good hundred years or so each new generation of Barrys has experienced increasingly downward social mobility, culminating with me, I suppose, being the only male of my generation and remaining blissfully childless.

And then there’s my mother’s side of the family.

You see, over the past year or so, with nothing much better to do in this time of plague, I’ll admit that I’ve taken a modicum of interest in my Uncle Kenneth, my mother’s older brother who one can safely assume no longer inhabits this plane, albeit nobody’s quite sure exactly when he jumped ship for the heavens.

Did he die a broken man? Probably. But I’m no longer inclined to believe he exited in the same fashion as his younger brother, Malcolm, who met his own lonely demise in a doorway along Montreal’s Ste-Catherine street, homeless with more dope or alcohol in him than his relatively young body could withstand. But how and where did Uncle Kenneth die? Nobody knows. There is no public record of his passing. As he was throughout much of his life, Kenneth remains a bit of an enigma.

But lemme get to why I’m writing about the fucker in the first place. Not long before the apocalypse hit by way of Wuhan last year, my mother, who has faithfully worked the books and records booth at the annual St. Thomas church fall fair for as long as I can remember, passed me a well-worn paperback she came across in the line of duty called The Damned and the Destroyed, a 1962 crime thriller written by one Kenneth Orvis. First published in Canada by McClelland & Stewart, its cover promised a tale of drug addiction and crime that was “brutal” and “frightening in its intensity,” set just as Montreal’s celebrated reputation as North America’s capitol of vice was being dismantled by way of newly elected mayor Johnny Drapeau and his corruption-bustin’ partner-in-crime, lawyer Pax Plante.

Yes, it was about heroin, a beast I’ve come to know with varying degrees of intensity over the course of my life, and set in late ’50s/early ’60s Montreal, a period of local history I’ve long found intriguing. But otherwise, of all the books she could’ve recommended, why this one?

“’Cuz your Uncle Kenneth wrote it. You like to pretend you’re a writer, I thought you might be interested in reading him.”

“Really, Uncle Kenneth, huh? That’s kinda cool, Mom. It looks trashy, have you read it?”

“Nah, Kenneth was a hack. I’m sure it’s garbage.”

Compelled by my mother’s ringing endorsement of her (presumably) late brother’s work, I brought The Damned and the Destroyed home with the intention of at least skimming through its pages to see if ol’ Uncle Kenneth had any talent, and of course, in less than twenty-four hours had already lost it among the mounds of books, boxes, and shit forever littering my apartment. I’d like to tell you that I eventually recovered the thriller and was delighted to discover that, far from being a hack, the prose therein rivaled Keats or Joyce, and that I could categorically state Kenneth Orvis was some kind of unsung literary genius, but I can’t. I still haven’t found it. It’s not impossible that one of my cats, Lil Dickens most likely, got to it and tore the already shredded paperback apart, destruction being one of his favourite cuddly-cute pastimes. If so, its remnants probably went into the recycle bin, never to be seen again.

But my interest was piqued. While they were hardly a familiar subject around the dinner table, growing up I’d been dimly aware that my mother had two much older brothers, both fuckups to varying degrees, and that one had been a published author at one point. I started doing a little research on the man and was impressed to discover that Uncle Kenneth had actually seen several books published in his day. One had recently been reissued, and it seemed there were actually more than a few people who felt his output was really quite wonderful.

In the Guardian, no less a personality than bestselling thriller writer Lee Child, for fuck’s sake, was touting my sorry uncle as one of the greats. The Damned and the Destroyed was probably his favourite book and something he could only aspire to in his own writing. Who knew?

Maybe there were some unclaimed ancestral royalties I could go chasing after all. Kenneth never had kids, at least legitimate ones, and I knew his surviving sisters, my mother and Aunt Flora, had better things to do in their golden years than chase publishers for a few pennies.

Up until this point, all I really knew about Kenneth was that most of his life had been spent in prison and that he was prone to substance abuse. Hack writer, lover of illicit substances? I know, take away the prison bit and it sure sounded like we had a lot in common.

What did strike me while researching the great man was that nobody really knew his story. What’s more, I discovered there was a small contingent out there who actively yearned to decipher the mystery that is Kenneth Orvis, people who’d valiantly tried to get a better handle on the guy. But outside of detecting that he used a nom de plume and was in fact arch-criminal Kenneth Lemieux, son of influential businessman Malcolm Lemieux, they didn’t appear to have gotten very far with their investigations. Some of the info I came across even seemed a little suspect, which didn’t come as much of a surprise to my mother.

“Kenneth was always full of shit,” she politely told me. “Of course his writer bios would just be more fiction.”

It’s true. So far as even his loved ones are concerned, Kenneth Orvis Lemieux indeed lied as he breathed, with self-aggrandizement being his stock in trade, especially if it meant selling a few more books or upping his game with whomever he was trying to hustle. More than one of his bios had him playing pro hockey as a young man. Now Uncle Kenneth might have been a lot of things, but a professional athlete wasn’t one of them. His younger brother, Malcolm, mind you, had played hockey in the junior leagues and might have gone pro if, er, life hadn’t gotten in the way.

Cutting to the chase here, the more I read up on Kenneth—not that there are volumes devoted to the guy—the more I started feeling honour-bound to at least try and set the record straight. My mother is in her late eighties now, healthy as a horse but… well, we all know how quickly that can change once someone’s closing in on their nineties, God forbid. And Auntie Flora has a good decade on her at least. Everyone else is dead, so barring a few cousins with conflicting views on the family’s history and Kenneth’s place in it, trying to get the skinny on the fucker hasn’t been easy.

However, given his enormous contribution to the cultural fabric of the entire Western world, I’ve felt obliged to at least try and corner my mother and Aunt Flora to pick their brains on what the fuck actually happened to Kenneth. Having become vaguely interested in the man myself, I knew I’d be pissed if I procrastinated too long and let the moment slip away. I now understood that the planet needed the definitive biography of Kenneth Orvis Lemieux, and that the good lord baby Jesus had delivered me unto this world so I could tell it.

So now that all my grueling research is behind me and I’m actually writing this thing, have I succeeded in my duty to the divine? Nah, not even close, but I think I’ve been able to sketch together a somewhat clearer picture of Kenneth’s stint on this earth—even if, admittedly, a lot of it remains speculation.

This much I know: Kenneth Orvis Lemieux was born in the spring of 1912, a couple days before RMS Titanic took its famous nosedive into the North Atlantic.

The rest I’m not so sure about.

But I’ve got it on good authority that he was the son of my grandfather, Joseph Malcolm Lemieux Sr, and one Mary Florence Elizabeth Daly, aka Grandma. He had one younger brother, the aforementioned Malcolm, born in 1915, and two much younger sisters, Flora (aka Auntie Flora) and my mother (aka Mom), who came along even later in their parents’ troubled relationship, shortly before their uber-successful industrialist father left my grandmother for his mistress in the late 1940s, leaving her only their surprisingly modest house in lower Westmount by way of alimony.

Once the strikingly beautiful charwoman’s daughter from Goose Village—the most rundown of early-twentieth-century Irish-Catholic Montreal slums—who hit the marriage jackpot when she bagged my grandfather, my grandmother, Flora Sr, an Irish Catholic who successfully passed herself off as a Scottish Protestant for the socio-economic benefits the latter identity afforded, would soon learn that the house her husband ever-so-generously awarded her also came with a huge delinquent tax bill.

Malcolm Sr might have been worth a lot of money, but he was also exceptionally, almost maniacally, frugal. He kept dem big bucks of his close by throughout his life. Some might even describe him as “cheap,” although I never knew him well enough to make that kind of assertion. My grandmother, on the other hand, might beg to differ, given how poorly she fared in their separation settlement.

Nevertheless, for a few years thereafter, my grandmother, along with my mother and her older sister, Flora (Junior), survived on the twenty-dollar child-support payments my grandfather was legally obliged to fork over every week while taking in boarders to help with the tax bill on the house. Sure, it may sound grand, but more than a few times the family would find themselves short of enough cash to pay for frivolities like, er… food. My grandmother would die only a few years later, a delicate old bag in her late forties humbled, heartbroken, and broke.

Throughout this period, in the post-war 1940s, Uncle Kenneth, then employed as a cub reporter for some long-forgotten trade paper in Toronto, would sometimes return to Montreal and his mother’s home, always with some new, impossibly attractive woman on his arm, stay for a few days, and throw my grandmother a few dollars by way of support. Nobody was quite sure how Kenneth was able to be as generous as he sometimes was, nor how the dapper thirty-something could afford to wear the finest tailored suits and drive late-model cars, but they had their suspicions.

Outside of his short-lived trade-paper gig, hardly a lucrative endeavor, Kenneth was thoroughly averse to the horrors of working a proper job and hadn’t been seeing any handouts from his father for at least a decade. Malcolm Sr wasn’t one to spoil his kids, even at the best of times.

Kenneth and Malcolm Sr had become estranged years earlier anyway, once it became clear Kenneth was never going to be following in the old man’s footsteps. It hurt him, of course, but he handled his estrangement from dear old dad a little better than his younger brother, Malcolm Jr, a simpler, sensitive man who’d also become persona non grata in his father’s eyes after finding a love letter the old dawg had written to his mistress and promptly spilling the beans to his mother—hastening his parent’s separation.

When it all went down, Malcolm Jr had been following his father’s career path managing the family marble mine up in L’Annonciation and enjoying the rewards that came with being his father’s favoured son. But once Malcolm Sr learned he was the traitorous piece of shit who’d informed his mom about his father’s infidelity, the kid was immediately fired and sent back home to Montreal. Emotionally devastated by the ordeal, Malcolm Jr promptly turned to the bottle with a devotion that would eventually kill him. His father never spoke to him again.

Kenneth, on the other hand, had been blessed with his mother’s physical beauty, a notably sharp mind, and an almost otherworldly charisma. He was by all accounts the most charming fella one could ever hope to meet. As my mother says, “Kenneth could charm the birds out of the trees.” A good thing too, ’cuz given his profound aversion to employment, he relied on that storied magnetism to get by in the world and support his decidedly expensive tastes.

Those expensive tastes undoubtedly came by way of his upbringing. Malcolm Lemieux Sr had always been a champ when it came to earning money. A working-class schmuck from the Quebec City suburb of Lévis, just across the river from la Capitale, Malcolm had somehow managed to score himself a university education in the early days of the twentieth century and learn anglais well enough to trick most people into believing this French-Canadian was in fact Protestant (Anglican, no less!), thereby upping his social status and the resulting business opportunities.

Before losing his entire fortune when the stock market crashed in ’29, Malcolm Sr had worked his way up the corporate ladder to become the biggest of bigshots at Studebaker Canada, the general manager of what was then one of the leading car manufacturers in the world. After the market crash he would regroup, make another fortune manufacturing munitions for the war effort, and with those funds purchase the aforesaid, highly profitable marble mine up in L’Annonciation. It became the gift that kept on giving.

At one point he even became the Grand Poobah of the local Masons, later holding the title of El Presidente of the Montreal Shriners as well. By all measures a happenin’ dude, when Malcolm Lemieux died the Shriners held a big parade along Ste. Catherine Street to celebrate his life. They might have paraded right past Malcolm Jr, who had been known, just a few years prior, to sleep in doorways along that particular thoroughfare.

Kenneth (and Flora and Malcolm Jr) had grown up in the leafy hills of Westmount beside the pampered sons of other captains of industry. He rode his father’s horses on Mount-Royal, lazed at the family’s rural estate in the Laurentians, adorned himself in the priciest, hippest clothes, banged rich girls, and wrote. Oh yes, though he was thoroughly disinterested in most other subjects at high school, the boy loved to write. He aped his literary heroes, and was pretty good at it too. He told people he had every intention of rising to the toppermost of the poppermost of the literary world once he was through with this education nonsense he was forced to endure.

Kenneth enjoyed the kind of a privileged childhood common to rich kids everywhere, but then the depression hit just as he was entering mid-adolescence. Suddenly there was no money. Gone were the horses and all that entitled, lazy fun, replaced instead by financial anxiety and the kind of family strife that so often accompanies these predicaments. Exacerbating the situation was Kenneth’s goal to become a celebrated man of letters, which hadn’t been much of a hit with Malcolm Sr. While his father apparently had a great appreciation for art, loved animals, music, and a few other pansy-esque things of that nature, writing, to his mind, wasn’t a serious profession; certainly not one befitting his eldest son. Hemingway aside, writing was the domain of sensitive homosexuals as far as Malcolm Sr was concerned.

Already strained, their relationship wasn’t much helped when, in late high school, Kenneth cashed a series of cheques forged with his father’s signature, no doubt so he could buy himself some spiffy new duds and go back to dazzling the local girls with his wealth and sophistication. His father had likely cut off the kid’s allowance, and given that Kenneth was never going to be anyone’s paperboy, I suppose he did what he felt he had to do. It’s hard to be a teenage bon vivant without a little coin, after all.

“Kenneth was fastidious,” Flora told me recently, “almost to the point of being obsessive-compulsive. He very much cared about his appearance and how others viewed him. He was very good-looking and… oh, the girls just loved him. He had his problems, but I remember him as a wonderful, kind, generous older brother. I know he loved me and your mother very much.”

Flora was the only family member to keep in regular touch with Kenneth in his adulthood. His mother a corpse and his father thoroughly ashamed and divested of him, Kenneth, by the time he permanently returned from Toronto, an utterly distasteful backwater burgh to his mind, found himself largely alone in the world; outside, that is, of the wealthy women he occasionally hooked up with and the increasingly lower lowlifes that became his social circle.

Around this time, according to his last printed work, an obscure alleged autobiography titled Over and Under the Table: Anatomy of an Alcoholic, released in 1984 by a tiny Montreal publisher called Optimum Press, Kenneth apparently fell into drink with an intensity similar to that of his younger brother. Judging from his increasingly desperate lifestyle and intimacy with smack, as evidenced by his painfully astute descriptions of junkiedom in The Damned and the Destroyed, it’s likely he was suffering a dope habit to boot.

Unemployed, with zero desire to subject himself to the indignities of a full-time job, forever unpublished and intensely unhappy, Kenneth went back to his teenage hustle and started passing bad cheques around. As far as crooks go, he was a petty successful one. He scammed banks out of thousands of dollars back when a couple grand could buy a person a goddamned house. A shitty house in the middle of nowhere maybe, but you get the idea.

According to newspaper reports from the period, Kenneth Lemieux was what they called a “Saturday noon operator,” meaning he’d arrive at the bank just before they were closing for the weekend to cash his bogus cheques. Charming, articulate, impeccably dressed, and cultured like the privileged son he was, few tellers suspected that a man of his obvious wealth and stature could be some desperate character passing fraudulent cheques. As my mother says, “Kenneth always carried himself like a big shot. He figured he deserved all the finer things in life. But he was lazy, he just didn’t want to work for them. Passing bad cheques was easy money, so that’s how he supported himself.”

But all good things must come to an end, and he eventually started getting busted, regularly; a pattern that would repeat for pretty much the rest of his life. He’d pass a couple bad cheques, get tracked down, do a few months’ time, be released from jail, and then go back to his fraudulent activities again. Kenneth was a smart guy, so it’s odd he kept returning to the same old racket, one that kept leading to his arrest. Then again, when you’re jonesing, the immediacy of the moment always weighs heavier than any potential consequences down the road. To paraphrase Lou Reed, poorly, “(tomorrow) is just some other time.”

While he effectively disowned my mother around this period, the mid-1950s—this after she politely refused to cash in my father’s life insurance policy so she could hand him the proceeds for no other reason than he claimed to “be in a situation” and “needed” it—throughout his various trials and tribulations Kenneth did continue to stay in loose touch with Flora, who had moved to the Maritimes.

As the decades progressed, life increasingly became a bitch for Uncle Kenneth. Middle-aged, in and out of prison, his former good looks ravaged by age and the excesses of his, er, ”hedonistic” lifestyle—if you’re prepared to label addiction hedonistic, that is—the one positive in what had become of his existence by this point was that he’d started to write again.

“He started sending me his manuscripts to proofread and get my opinion of them,” Flora recalls. “I guess some of them eventually became his books.”

The story goes that sometime in the mid-1950s, during one of his stints in prison, Kenneth was taken under the guidance of a sympathetic chaplain, a man who apparently recognized that the lost soul which was the great Kenneth Lemieux might be able to find some sort of spiritual rebirth and redemption if he were only able to concentrate long enough on his one great passion: writing. The chaplain apparently made a strong enough impression on Kenneth that he was able to put his vices aside for a minute and start developing the Great Canadian novel, a text that would become his first published book, Hickory House. What else is there to do in prison, anyway? Might as well write to wile the (hard) time away.

I haven’t seen, let alone read, Hickory House, but I do know it was published as a paperback original by the uber-prestigious Harlequin publishing house in 1956, so it’s safe to say Macbeth it ain’t. Still, Kenneth could now pass himself off as a bona fide published author, discreetly neglecting to mention the book’s publisher when pressed on the subject. Regardless, Hickory House apparently sold well enough to be considered a low-rent hit of sorts. More importantly perhaps, the minor success of the title, which Kenneth liked to describe as “a blockbuster,” served as motivation to, according to Kenneth, compose his next magnum opus, Walk Alone—or I Walk Alone, take your pick.

I say “according to Kenneth” ’cuz it’s unclear if Walk Alone ever really existed. It’s not at all impossible Kenneth just threw out the title so he could claim, in an effort to impress potential new publishers, to have written two novels. But I defy anyone reading this to find a copy of the book. Actually, lemme up that and challenge anyone to even find a mention of it anywhere, outside of Kenneth himself in Over and Under the Table, where he uncharacteristically admits that Walk Alone didn’t quite set the world on fire or break any sales records—even though he’d described it as one of his “blockbusters” a couple decades prior.

Whether Walk Alone ever existed became largely irrelevant once his true second novel, The Damned and the Destroyed, was published in ’62. The product, according to its acknowledgments, of five years’ research, roughly the same amount of time since Hickory House had set the world aflame, The Damned and the Destroyed was a full-blown hardcover title, released throughout the English-speaking globe via legitimate, reputable publishers. Better, it even managed to sell a few copies and garner Kenneth a modest reputation in literary circles.

What exactly required five years’ worth of research remains something of a mystery, given the story revolved around heroin addiction and Montreal’s criminal underbelly; but sure, I’ll give Kenneth credit for sharing an intimacy with both things. Besides, it could easily take a fella five full years to come up with a second blockbuster—assuming the existence of Walk Alone is indeed fiction—while nursing a smack and/or alcohol habit, let alone writing between prison stays. Unless, of course, Kenneth composed the entire thing over a stint in prison, an environment which, largely free of dope and alcohol, could certainly be conducive for a recently, albeit temporarily, detoxed addict to start expressing himself creatively.

Regardless, The Damned and the Destroyed can rightfully be labeled a triumph, both artistically and commercially. That’s the one Lee Child and other Orvis aficionados believe to be Kenneth’s best work. The paperback of which I believe my cat Lil Dickens also enjoyed.

If nothing else, the title genuinely kickstarted Kenneth’s career as a writer. Shortly after the book started gaining attention, he picked up an agent, celebrated British literary luminary Herbert Van Thal no less, who advised him “to get on the espionage bandwagon—fast!,” which he did, his next blockbuster, Night Without Darkness (1965), being a spy caper concerning a scientist who gets kidnapped by commie radicals. Night Without Darkness, while maybe not quite the “blockbuster” Kenneth claimed for all his titles, was as close to a hit novel as he’d ever come, and, like its predecessor, was released in hardcover by respectable publishers around the entire English-speaking world. He was on a roll now, almost financially comfortable, and pressed to churn out another thriller that would build upon his two-strong streak of blockbuster novels.

So far as anyone can recall, it appears his relative success as an author encouraged Kenneth to put his primary career as a criminal aside for a time. In the second half of the 1960s he married his second—possibly third—wife, a widow named Florence Ethel Duke Van Der Voort, and rumour has it that for a time there he even found the Lord, God help him. Of course, old habits die hard, and whether he was walking with Jesus or not, it seems Kenneth never strayed too far from his lifelong friend the bottle, if not his other vices. After all, it took him another five years to puke up his next book, Cry Hallelujah! (1970), well after any commercial acceptance he’d enjoyed as the first-rate thriller writer of Night Without Darkness had been forgotten.

Cry Hallelujah! failed miserably. A fairly conventional tale concerning the rise and fall of a female evangelist preacher named, get ready for it, Hallelujah, Kenneth’s New York publishers recognized the book for the dud it was and promptly passed. He couldn’t even find a home for it in his native Canada, which is probably saying something, what exactly I’m not quite sure.

In fact, Cry Hallelujah! wouldn’t have been printed at all if it weren’t for noted British publisher Dennis Dobson, who, sympathetic to Kenneth’s cause, became the only publisher anywhere in the world willing to take a chance on it. Dobson was hardly rewarded for his conviction. The book sold poorly, didn’t see a second printing, or make it into paperback. Even Kenneth, writing in his autobiography years later, conceded that it “bombed.”

While he’d go on to author three more thrillers: Into a Dark Mirror (1971), The Disinherited (1974), The Doomsday List (1974), plus his autobiography, none would see a second printing. Indeed, his last three thrillers were only released in the UK, where they were mostly ignored. By the 1970s, Kenneth’s New York publishers had lost interest in his literary gifts entirely. The rejection of the arguably lacklustre Cry Hallelujah! effort had essentially sealed his fate, and his subsequent return to writing thrillers wasn’t going to change anyone’s mind about the man’s commercial potential. As a writer, Kenneth Orvis was done.

Flora says she often lost touch with Kenneth in the 1970s. She’d go lengthy periods without hearing anything from him and he’d long stopped sending her his manuscripts for proofing. Concerned, she’d find herself phoning up the Elizabeth Fry and John Howard societies to see if he’d been sent back to prison—which is invariably where she’d find him, always for the same old crime, his stock in trade, passing bad cheques.

To his dubious credit though, by the dawn of the 1980s, when he was closing in on his seventh decade of life, forever struggling with addiction and the stigma lifelong criminality can bring a feller in the straight world, Kenneth was still on the hustle. I suppose he needed to be. What else was he going to do?

I still have no idea of what killed him or exactly how or when he died. Nobody does. Perhaps he knew the end was nigh when he sat down to write Over and Under the Table, determined to set the record straight in that special Kenneth way of his. Based on what I know of the book, I’d hazard a fairly educated guess that, like its author throughout his life, the book is full of shit. Or maybe not. There certainly aren’t many copies of it floating around to find out. Regardless, Kenneth completely dropped out of the picture in the 1980s. Flora’s calls to the Elizabeth Fry Society were no longer providing any clues. For all intents and purposes, Kenneth disappeared that decade, at least from Flora and the family.

I do know, however, that as late as 1983 he was offering three-day creative-writing seminars at the Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto, cashing in on his notoriety as the internationally renowned author of eight bestselling books, blockbusters actually, in an effort to bilk a few aspiring Hemingways out of their hard-earned money. Although, truth be told, the farther I get through The Damned and the Destroyed, the more I’m apt to believe that Kenneth, semi-sober at least, was fully capable of passing along a few pearls of wisdom on how best to spin a yarn to these saps. Honestly, it’s a suspenseful book. Well-written. I might even finish it some day.

Also by Chris Barry:
A Day in the Life without the Plumber
How To Mend a Broken Wang
Digital Pimp
Remembering Alex Soria
Cultivating Cannabis: The Way It Was
To Boots with Love
From Spring Fatness to Fitness
Coming Out: Is It Any Easier?
Head Trip Story: My Inner Idiot
Ballet Boxer: Milford Kemp
Like Young
Loving Hard Times
Feed Your Head
Talking 12-Tone with Patti Smith
Beauty Pageants: The Golden Years
Swingers' Clubs as Safe Zones
Bust a Move
Trapeze - Swinging Ad Extremis
Hells in Paradise
The Cannabis Cup
Colonic Hydrotheraphy












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