I was in the marketplace of ideas on the other side of Remington Avenue last Thursday next haggling over the price of strawberries & the Protestant concept of "free will" when word came down from unreliable sources that Homer Baraka "Dogface" Clifton has at last shuffled off his mortal coil. By all accounts, he was rather old, but he was also tenacious, & many folks expected him to outlive us all, usually to his face, if only to shut him up when he was complaining about the rheumatism. His death went unnoticed in the press because he was not in the least bit famous, but scholars of The War On Sailing knew him by sight, & unfortunately by smell.
Born somewhere on or near an apple cart just a few miles outside of Pennsylvania, Clifton was used as a glorified road sign & dinner bell for his hard-working parents, who sold cynicism door-to-door in the otherwise positive glow of post-war America. Accused often of heresy & redaction during his formative years, Clifton left formal schooling after accidentally making out with Neal Cassady, who had been introducing himself around town as Marie The Bellhop, & who was reportedly charmed by Clifton's inability to whisper. Clifton was to compulsively enroll in various schools, programs, seminaries, drug tests & surveys the entire rest of his life, but unsurprisingly never was able to attend or finish any of them. He was fond of saying, "I just like to sign on the dotted line."
Drafted to serve in Vietnam despite being unable to read an eye chart or even hear the instructions, Clifton hopped a boat & fled to Cambodia, incorrectly believing he was going to Cornwall. A lengthy imprisonment gave him a great deal of time to work on his hobby of inventing difficult Tom Swifties (one of his most famous was, "'They just took my left ventricle & right aorta,' he said, half-heartedly") & to examine the details of a government in decline. After he accidentally bested Saloth Sar (later known as "Pol Pot") in a game of Theravada Buddhism Horseshoes when the future dictator was touring rural prisons, he was expelled from the country. A chance encounter with a record by British mod/psychedelic band the Creation coincided with his first attempt at snorting crystallized cough syrup, & Clifton realized for the first time the central factors in what we now call "The War On Sailing."
It was at this time that he received his famous nickname, which people had called him since adolescence, actually, because he kind of looked like a dog. That condition got worse as he got older, much to the chagrin of dogs, all of whom were always more attractive than Clifton.
Hiding out for a long time (the entire 1970s) in a deaf couple's basement in Canberra, Australia, Clifton wrote several memorable observational treatises which have served as references for the entire Oceanic critique. In particular, it is widely thought that Clifton's polemics against SEATO, which he called "an anagram that smells like butt," brought the organization down despite its ineffectiveness in the United States' invasion of Vietnam. Clifton also privately published at this time angry letters he wrote to SEATO headquarters in Bangkok, although he did managed to ask for coupons at the end of every one.
"He was a showman," a colleague at the time wrote in personal correspondence upon hearing about Clifton's death. "Since nothing ever made any sense to him, he forewent the whole idea of reasoned argument. He was bellicose but conciliatory, blustery but demure, formal in manner but informal in personal hygiene. He was a little hard to be around, if you can believe that."
He accepted a seat in the California Underground Quilters Parliament at the beginning of the 1980s, but resigned once he explained that he had just stowed away on a liner for months just to get a new chair. Falling in love with the beach in Southern California, his affections were subsequently spurned. (Explained the beach, "I'm more attracted to surfers.") He moved, broken-hearted & drunken, to Utah, where he worked as a wife-tagger for a fanatical Mormon splinter group which claimed their holy writings demanded that all men have at least four hundred wives each. To help the husbands identify them, Dogface made attracted tee shirts for every wife, some with catchy sayings that later, in a manner that is still unclear, became popular slogans for fast food chains such as Wendy's & Taco Bell.
He wrote little (well, that wasn't on a tee shirt) in those days. His letters to the Christian Science Monitor, while generally on target about Broadway shows & the skin cancer chances of famous Republicans, were generally devoid of the insight which made his 1970s writing so powerful. In particular, Clifton refused to discuss populist movements, the decline of Disney animation, or anything having to do with the television show "Who's The Boss" - three of the great pillars of War On Sailing scholarship of the 1980s. His old compatriots, more or less disgusted by what they saw as his decline, but also probably too busy watching "Night Court," quickly abandoned him, & he seemed to be entering what many would consider obscurity.
But in the mid-90's, a traffic accident with a cast member of "Friends" propelled him back into the spotlight, & he became a staff writer for "E! News Daily," a "newscast" on a vapid pay cable channel which reported primarily on the cast of "Friends." Clifton inserted clues to those in the know about the actual state of the world, which he discovered to his delight was being re-written on the fly by powerful Hollywood moguls who actually did have four hundred wives each (& for whom he also made tee shirts which, as is now well-understood, became the names & plot-lines for every horror film released since 1997). It was heady stuff, & those of us who remember those days look back fondly on a brief moment when an actual "news" telecast contained real information.
Sleeping with the enemy took its toll, so Clifton began sleeping at ramshackle Hollywood parties, including a famous weekend at Tom Cruise's place, which he would never speak about, but which always produced one small tear at the corner of his left eye. He began writing pieces for the Internet, most of which he'd delete a few days later, so trying to catch a Clifton commentary became a frustrating game for his admirers. The fire had died a little during the Bush monarchy, but his continuing obsession with a group of far-right-wing Boy Scouts in Birmingham, Alabama, shed more light on Dick Cheney than the Vice President could tolerate, & a group of thugs armed only with Ralph Reed masks assaulted Clifton last year when he emerged from Nick Nolte's goldfish pond to steal some cheese crackers for breakfast.
Clifton made a slow but creaky recovery, & hopes were high that he'd be back sleeping on Bill Maher's lawn in no time. But it was not to be. An infection characterized by doctors as "reluctant" caused Clifton to return to the hospital, where he managed to infect not only his doctors, but also two nurses, a bedpan cleaner, the three other patients in his room, & former Laker Norm Nixon. He died not very peacefully, screaming at the top of his lungs, in his hospital bed, earlier this year.
Former friends are considering a collection of his many articles, letters, screeds & (in his later years) twitters.
