Interviews

An Interview with Robert Burkenhare

Interviewed by Vincent Francone

Robert Burkenhare likes to write, as he says, “things that are hard to classify.” In an effort to get to the bottom of a guy who lives the contradiction of wanting to share himself with the world while staying away from as much of it as possible, and knowing that the two of us can go off topic easily, I revised the famous “Proust Questionnaire” a bit in order to give the conversation structure. That still didn’t keep us grounded. The resulting conversation, held over Zoom, pretty digressive, has been edited into a flowing piece of reading that we sincerely hope you’ll enjoy.

V. Francone: Okay, let’s start.

R. Burkenhare: Let’s.

VF: This will be the first of, I hope, many interviews we do?

RB: If you say so.

VF: I wanted you to be the first of our interviewees. Because I know you, and I thought you’d make for a fun interview. 

RB: That’s nice.

VF: Alright, let’s get to it. What’s your imperfect happiness?

RB: Cigarettes.

VF: Favorite fear?

RB: Damn. Hard to pick just one. Maybe death. Kind of the obvious answer, but it’s the big one for a reason. 

VF: Your worst quality that you’ll never change?

RB: I dislike large gatherings. I avoid them, and people, by and large. I’ve been told this is bad. I’m bad. Like antisocial. But I find this a good thing. It works for me. I get more done now that I’ve given up socializing. I was isolating pre-Covid; the lockdown was easy. Turns out the worst thing about me is pretty handy.

VF: You working on anything big?

RB: The stuff I sent you [Bob has an essay in the works] and a few other things like that. I used to write a story every few months. More’s coming to me lately. I get more done. Nothing may ever happen with it, but it’s nice to feel productive. 

VF: What living person do you most despise who you can’t ignore?

RB: I’m good at ignoring things, but ignoring politicians is a decadent privilege, and I’d hate to be that guy, you know? I’d probably answer Trump if this was last year, but I don’t want to give the jerk more power. He’s like Beetlejuice, you know. Say his name enough times and you’re stuck with him. If only we could get rid of him as easy. I guess I’ll answer by mentioning another jerkoff, Mark Zuckerberg. Not a politician, but a guy who’s done enough to ruin what was already a fucked up political process. Not to mention all the other shit he’s done. I know he’s an easy target. So is Trump, I guess. But Zuckerberg is a lousy little shit. I can’t ignore him. Too powerful. Too much he can do that will make the world worse, which is bad enough but he and all the other pricks in Silicon Valley think they’re doing good for the world. Zuckerberg’s not on TV all the time, so he’s easier to ignore, but the damage he’s doing will be impossible to fix. Or real hard, at least. Anyway, I think Zuckerberg’s the worst kind of asshole. Smart but myopic. Thinks he’s a messiah. He’s a locust. 

VF: You read that book last year about him, right? We talked about it, remember? 

RB: [I read] most of it. I read a lot of other stuff about him. Or guys like him. Always guys.

VF: Not always. There’s Elizabeth Holmes.

RB: Don’t know her.

VF: It’s a whole thing. I won’t go into it now, but there’s a lot in her story that’ll piss you off for the same reasons.  

RB: Oh, Gawd…

VF: Yeah, she’s horrible. Anyway. More of the questionnaire. Name a work of art you’re mildly embarrassed to love?

RB: None embarrass me. I have no patience for crap. If I like it, it’s not crap.

VF: Okay, an odd recommendation?

RB: Odd?

VF: Something I wouldn’t expect. Or something you were surprised to enjoy.

RB: Not long ago, I started watching a lot of old Bollywood movies. I live near a video store that rents them. There are no video stores left, as far as I can tell, so I took this as a sign that maybe I should check out the movies this guy was renting. I can’t say I liked all of them, but one stands out, and it’s kind of left of center, so I’ll name it. Amar Akbar Anthony. I think I responded to it because I was somewhat out of my head when I was watching it. But yeah, weeks later I was signing a song from the movie. You looking for fun night, you could do worse.

VF: Do you do that, lock in on a genre or a writer and explore?

RB: Sometimes. I do that with writers, but then I get sick of them. It’s easier with movies. You’re only investing a few hours. With the Indian video store, it was sort of fun to look at these things I know nothing about. If I rent a Scorsese movie or something, I’m comparing it to his other movies, or all the other [uses air quotes] good movies out there. But I had none of that with the Indian stuff. It’s like when I started listening to country music a few years ago. I knew nothing about it, and it seemed so different to the stuff I’ve been listening to forever. Not that different, I guess. Guitars and vocals, but you know, it’s a different vibe and I like that. Not all of it, but some of it. I’m not measuring it against the Beatles. It’s just this foreign thing. To me, at least. Sounds a little stupid.

VF: I think I get that. You can forget about what’s supposed to be cool.

RB: Sort of, yeah. There’s no way for me to know whether or not Merle Haggard is okay to listen to. He’s not like Bob Dylan where he’s always going to be Bob Dylan. And that comes with a lot of baggage from me listening to him for years and reading about him and thinking about him and trying to figure out why I love one record more than another or if he’s lost it or whatever. Merle is just Merle. I can listen to his music and just hear it without thinking about it, I guess. 

VF: There’s a whole thing we could get into about the way we stop being innocent in our consumption of art. 

RB: That might be a bit lofty. 

VF: Okay, more questions. If you could change anything about other people, what would you change?

RB: Man… I always called myself a misanthrope, but I’m at an advanced age and see what a crock of shit that is. 

VF: What?

RB: Misanthropy. It’s a pose. I don’t always like people, but there are lovely people among us. They almost restore my faith in humanity. But I guess what used to always bug me was how obvious people are. You can see their stupid self-interest clear as day. And they all think they’re funny.

VF: Dude, I’ve talked to people about this. I blame the Chandler character from Friends. Everyone just imitates his obvious, easy jokes and they think they’re hilarious. 

RB: Never watched that show. But I think I know what you mean.

VF: I worked for a lawyer once who I called “Master of the obvious joke.” He was pretty offended, but I stand by it.

RB: Well, humor is tough.

VF: This is a good segue. Your piece on suicide has some dark humor. And the thing you wrote for my anthology is all jokes. Dark ones, but jokes. My kind of humor.

RB: Well, that’s nice. Jokes are hard. Too many are hacky. Or easy, I guess. And like you said, people make a million dumb jokes a day and think they’re funny. I don’t know if I am, but I try. 

VF: We used to talk about Bill Hicks a lot. Remember when he came to Chicago and everyone was yelling “Freebird!”

RB: Yeah, he said something like “Keep saying it, maybe it’ll be funny.”

VF: Right! 

RB: Even Hicks seems kind of dumb to me these days.

VF: Not all his stuff ages well.

RB: It’s not like I’m canceling the guy. Just don’t get the same charge from him or Carlin or any of those guys anymore. I think I’m too old to be as angry as I used to be. And those are people that angry young men like.

VF: Yeah, I used to read a lot of Bukowski in my 20s. I fear returning to his work now. 

RB: I think he was a bigger influence on me than I want to admit. Less his style, which was sometimes too amateurish. I liked the ease of his work, though.

VF: And the dedication. If there’s anything I learned from him it was that. And how to be an asshole. Back to the… okay, here’s one from the Proust Questionnaire I’ll use without goofing with it: Who is your hero in fiction?

RB: Damn. Hard one. Too many to name.

VF: Really?

RB: Some might not be heroes in the traditional sense. I like a lot of stuff with more, I guess, ambiguous heroes. I might do better naming my favorite protagonist.

VF: Okay.

RB: Do you have a favorite literary hero?

VF: Maybe. I don’t know. I want to say Leopold Bloom because that sounds good.

RB: Still haven’t finished that book [Ulysses]. Alright, maybe Dante in The Divine Comedy. Is he a hero? We follow him through Hell and Purgatory into Paradise. Heroic enough? I don’t know. Next question.

VF: How would you like to die?

RB: [Big pause] Without fanfare.

VF: Ha! Maybe we should talk about the piece you’re working on for us [an essay on famous suicides]. That kind of works with this last question.

RB: Yeah, alright. I’ve always been fascinated with the idea of suicide and also fairly sure I would never commit the act myself, even though I used to think a lot about it. I make no mockery of suicide, and I’m not trying to glorify it or anything. I know someone who killed themselves. It was hard, but not as hard on me as it was on his family. It’s got to be the saddest thing, losing someone you love to suicide. Thinking about all you might’ve done to stop them. I get that. I’m not looking to provoke or shock. I like to dwell on topics a bit and write stuff that sort of comments without judgement. Maybe I failed, now that I think about it. But I don’t want anyone to read the thing and think that I’m doing anything but sorting out my own thoughts and feelings, which is all I do when I write. And maybe add some levity. 

VF: I would classify your humor as dark. I’m teaching a class on dark humor soon. I’ve been thinking about what that even means. Can you offer your thoughts?

RB: On dark humor?

VF: Yeah.

RB: What are you teaching?

VF: Beckett. Kurt Vonnegut for sure. Kafka as well. This recent book by Halle Butler called The New Me. It’s not a comedy exactly, but I think it fits. And Black No More by George Schuyler. And some movies as well. Brazil and Barton Fink. Some other stuff like that.

RB: Cool. My ideas are probably close to yours, but I’m not sure any of the stuff you mentioned is very funny. Maybe Beckett. Godot is hilarious. But I don’t know if people see it that way.

VF: Well, I’m not defining comedy in that class as a sit-com or a slapstick thing. More like the sort of comedy that lets you laugh a little at a horrible thing. 

RB: Sure. I guess what I’m trying to do is like that, but I’m not sure it’s as funny as those guys.

VF: I like the way you use all these examples of famous suicides to discuss your feelings. Anyway, it made me think about assigning an essay where the students have to write their comedic philosophy. Do you think you could do that?

RB: No. I have none.

VF: Well, I mean, like, what do you aim for when you write?

RB: Depends on the thing.

VF: Your bio says you write things that are hard to classify. This might be a bad idea, but can you explain that a little?

RB: If I could, it wouldn’t be hard to classify [laughs].

VF: Right. Okay. Maybe more from our questionnaire if you don’t mind?

RB: Shoot.

VF: What is your least important talent?

RB: Cooking. I’m good at it, but I only cook for myself. And anyone can cook if they try hard enough, so it’s no big deal. Anyone who says they can’t cook is lazy.

VF: Where would you never like to be?

RB: A hospital. That’s an easy one.

VF: You mean staying in one or just visiting?

RB: Well, the first, but even visiting is no good. They’re not happy places.

VF: Okay, this one comes from I Heart Huckabees: How are you not yourself?

RB: [Laughs]. There’s no way to answer that… I mean, there’s an answer but c’mon. How do you chop it down? 

VF: Okay.

RB: Let me say this, and this is not going to answer the question, but you’re not really looking for sincerity, right? I’ve probably been too sincere for this game. But I’ll say something now if you like. I know I come off as a crank. I’m getting older. We get cranky when we get older. More reactionary. When we’re kids, we get to be angry and it’s adorable. And 20-year old anger is usually worth listening to, even if it’s strident. They have lot to be pissed about, that’s for sure. But when you get old, it’s not a virtue to be a cranky old fuck. Even though there’s a great Yeats poem about it. [Note: pretty sure Bob’s referring to this: https://poetrytreasures.wordpress.com/2014/11/05/why-should-not-old-men-be-mad/]. But yeah, I’m not interested in being an angry old fuck. If I come off that way, sorry. Really, the angriest assholes out there are people my age or slightly younger who’re ranting about losing their country. Those assholes are insufferable. I guess if I really don’t want to be anything it’s one of them. I don’t think there’s any danger of that happening, but you know how it is: we only see what we want to see. For all I know, I’m an asshole.

VF: That’s a great title for your memoir.