May 30th, 2022 - Invisible Bird

Dear TNY,

This Monday brings us “Invisible Bird”, which appears to be your best attempt at smashing Jane Austen into homelessness.

And it doesn’t work.

This is some real whitebread shit.  And it’s weird because it’s the first story of real vagrancy I remember reading in your magazine, but in true TNY form, you have it told from the voice of someone erudite, which has two effects, I imagine. 

Here’s an example of said douchey voice before I get into effects:

The diabolical effects alcohol had on him were flagrant and guaranteed, and I began to suspect that Kenny’s enthusiasm for these periodic pints was at least partly motivated by a desire to get my boyfriend demeaningly twisted as often as possible.

What a farce.

The first effect is that it likely allows your pompous, overly-educated and faux “woke” readership to court homelessness in a way that feels safe, like they themselves could be homeless, and it would somehow be romantic and lovely; it would be all of this while never actually educating them on what tent-life is like or the mental illness issues that plague our homeless communities.  Oh, and the substance abuse, and being marginalized, and the same overly-educated people just wishing the best for the homeless, but hoping they put their camp somewhere a little further out of town.

And the second effect is that it whitewashes, for lack of a better term, living on the streets, further marginalizing these groups.  This story is a whimsical tale of independence and displays the hearty gumption of a couple who band together to take on the fucking world, even if that means this destitute life.  And brings up none of the things listed in the paragraph above, rather opting more for a casual glance at living without a home, as if it’s something we should all do when young.

Fuck you.

What a waste of time.  I, for one, have never been homeless, per se.  I do live in a fucking van, though.  And I “suffer” from how our society treats addresslessness often, and have been asked to move my van more than once.  But I’m a veteran and I am funded enough that healthcare, food, clothes, basic hygiene, and other items are not a problem for me.  But I do often find myself among others with greater issues and less resources, others which this story does a good job of glossing over.  And it’s not all fucking Dickens and Brontë out here.  It’s more Bukowski and Denis Johnson.

But whatever, you don’t read this shit anyway.  And your readers don’t either.  Continue riding that fucking cruise ship through third world countries, buy trinkets in the popup towns that do not resemble real life, and tell friends and family how quaint it all was.

Meanwhile, I’m back on the road with my kids.  Living what I imagine you would call “a quaint life.”  But I’ll tell you what, it’s fucking real.  And the best part of that is that you’ll never know.  Yeah, the best part is the illusion you have of life, the smells and grit all gleaned from books, curated to inspire you to take that drive to The Hamptons, and talk about the adventure you’ll go on one day when that next promotion comes through.

Eat all the bags of shit, you buttpirates.

Nick

P.S. Although I haven’t read it since 2013, I remember “Anything Helps” by Jess Walter as being very, very good and feeling more authentically homeless (in that it creates, you know, empathy…like fucking literature should) than this fucking bullshit.