Ben Bonkoske

Poet Without a Pen

Ben Bonkoske

  • The Water Method Man – Book Review

    To prepare myself for this novel, I drank strictly water throughout the entirety of reading it. I came up one day short. There was a famous study done at Standford University where children were given a marshmallow and if they waited 15 minutes they were promised a second one. The ones who were able to wait were apparently much more successful in life. (And so, it appears that even as a grown man my frontal lobe is underdeveloped.) That is what this book is about. Fred “Bogus” Trumper is an immature man unable to wait for the next best thing and the hijinx that he encounters throughout this novel is exquisitely embarrassing and cringe-worthy. Bogus reminds me of my favorite character of all time, Ignatius C. Reilly. Alike his first novel, the story is hectic, but now a good-fun-hectic that is easily followed and resembles some meaning. There is little waste on the 275 pages. The novel is an unchronological tale going between Vienna, New York, and Iowa. I would understand a premature-reader becoming confused by the order of events but Irving is able to tie them all together in a way that is very satisfying. At the end of every chapter, I was excited to get back to the growing tension in the other storylines of the book. I related, and even understand the complex love the characters have for each other in this very messy thing we call life. Sentences are sometimes frivolous and complicated that can disengage the reader, but at least I know the author had fun writing it. A self-aware writer stretching his capacity with language is much better than a dull story – which this plot could have ever easily been. It is a book best explained by just reading it but a simple explanation is “the pathos of a redeemable tragic hero getting everybody pregnant, who has money problems and is trying to earn his Ph.D.” The title, The Water Method Man refers to a urinary tract infection that curses Bogus but it really is not the main focal point of the novel. I would be interested to know if John Irving started with the UTI or added it in as a fitting backdrop on the farcical love triangles. It is not just a frivolous tale with no point. Throughout the blatant humor in this satirical novel, there are lessons that I am walking away with – a new fresh lense on life and mature topics I may have not understood, or at least would have become embarrassed about prior to reading it. There are scenes and lines that are indeed rememberable for an otherwise forgettable book. I was borderline embarrassed reading his first novel and confused that he blossomed into the prolific writer he has become but this second novel was entirely redeeming. I could not write this novel where I am at in my writing process. I might! if I am lucky, but it would include luck. John Irving is able to make the extraordinary believable and the believable extraordinary. It was refreshing great nihilism with a happy ending.
    80/100
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  • kooky

    Am I vanilla? White-bread. Bird shit. A boring old mundane redundancy that leaves you bitter like the salt of the earth? You know expensive sea-salt is a majority plastic. And chocolate is filled with ground-up bugs. That is what you are allergic if you break out from “coco”. OR am I Chocalate? Too tasty for my own good and will die too young in a decadent overindulgence that will leave me bursting at the seams, licking crumbs from my underserved mustache I’m so proud of. I value men on the length of their hair, but not on their ability to grow a beard. Any man with a beard is hiding something, I’m sure of it. I’m so glad that deep down, the root cause of my hiatus depression from the old pen, paper, and HTML resulted in its revival. It is the circle of life, Ms. Africa. I spent all day reading in bed to avoid my obligations because I was misinformed on who reached out to me. I thought it was a lead to a job opportunity but it was just my dreams calling. All day I think about just becoming a better sculpture of language, but I care so little about the business of it. I am afraid. I don’t think that a professor at Northwestern would ever rise to my occasion. Drug Dealing, cocaine, copyright infringement, defamation, it is all very juvenile. But I know that! I don’t think that one book entitles anybody to be a published author. Not anymore at least. I’m looking forward to number 10. If I’m alive by then. If I died trying my life would be a living sacrifice. I’d be best in Iowa, where the dumb-dumbs belong. I would rather write the truth and print one copy rather than sell 10,000 any day. It is meant to move someone through its honesty, not be butchered by the corporations to hide defamation. Fuck Mark Zuckerburg.
    But to my sick heart that pulsed all day reading.
    I read a quote that reminded me of a very, very recent love affair that is still prickling at my sides. “It isn’t so much the time that we have been away (which half of it has been terrible), I’m afraid that you hated the time that we spent together, with me breathing down your neck and berating you.”
    I hope you never see this. I hope you have long forgotten about me so at least I deserve those lonely tears. I know forgiveness is the best revenge but please, hate me. It will make it much easier on me because – what you do best – will teach me. I knew long before I stopped growing (in my head) that God made me short so I would never be a bully. It is a lesson that has given back to me generously. Sure, there are times at parties when all I can think about how undesirable and ugly I am, but all of that is worth looking at people humanitarily. I don’t necessarily think all the Ivy Leaguers think they are better than me, but it would just be nice if people saw the beauty in me regardless of how many bullshit classes I sat through to look like I was something I so obviously am not, a savant.
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  • Kind bar

    I feel like I am in such a rush to nowhere in particular. I have dreams but they don’t mean anything on paper. Like Tony Mest’s voicemail once said, “Guys, it’s time to grow up.” It is so riveting experiencing deep-seated inertia instead of making any major progress. I might as well be a construction worker. I’m good at not thinking. Once again, it seems like I have my work cut out for me tomorrow. I will probably oversleep to avoid any commitment to any major life choice because it all just seems so unfair. I wish I was Peter Pan. I’m being deadpan. I have caught myself hyperventilating twice in the past two days. Not enough? Not for me. I really have to thank God for this pandemic, without it I really don’t know how far along or deep in the mud I would be. Nobody takes me seriously, not even me. The people who believe in me don’t seem to matter as much as those who just can’t seem to level with me. It is really ugly to see how successful people can be. I can worry all day about so many wonderfully abhorrent things, but why does the coin land on selling my childhood memories. I am willing to sacrifice so much more than I bargained for when I first thought I would become a writer. My life. It is, my life. I suppose I did not understand what it meant to be bold and brash to want to pursue a career more than a relationship, but here I am, still in love, with my work. I suppose I will never succeed at playing video games. Just like how I sold my yu-gi-oh cards for a hundred dollars to buy weed. I don’t wish I still had them, but It is just sad. It reminds me of a beautiful story written by John McCain, that made me cry the first time I read it. The book, Character is Destiny was given to me by my god-father. The short story is about a boy who grows up and stops playing with his toys from the perspective of a lonely toy that is never played with again. It just feels like I’m good at making the wrong decisions. Or the right ones I make are pointless, ambivalent, like building a sandcastle that will surely wash away. Today, today, tomorrow, today.

  • jog

    I often see bad decisions flash before my eyes. I can fast-forward, rewind, and replay me sneaking out of bed at three o’clock in the morning for a bowl of ice cream. If it is so wrong why does it make life worthwhile? I think it is extraordinary that we exist at all, and we would have no way of knowing if we never did. I’m a noisy kid. I blubber with my mouth full in decadent indulgence, or at least, I did. Why give up so much for so little? Irritable. So young and so fragile, but when I am alone with my shower thoughts, all I can think about is how much better my life would be if I never made any mistakes. Regrets are going to be saved for another article but MISTAKES make the muppet of a man. A mistake may always look innocent but is really a woman dressed as Oliver Twist. I’ve always been good at looking happy while I die a little inside. Why do we insist on obscuring reality? It is so beautiful when left alone. I was always too different. I tried so hard to find the right balance, but I kid you not, I never was better than when I couldn’t remember my last shot. I’d feel burnt to a crisp when I finally went to bed, waiting for the next late-night crime to unwind in this crummy world until I realized, at last, I had fallen behind. I still am playing catch up, but it isn’t fun. I have some good role models, who show that even at the top, you could be extremely miserable, even if you still miss it.

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  • Joy fullness

    I am running on only water (and ice). It is impossible (but it is nice). I laugh when I look in the mirror at the dancing bloated whale. If I spin around quick enough I can see that gorgeous tale. I rejoice that I am imperfect with my overgrown hair and bare bottom and I swallow my kale. Such a notion used to make others happy, but while that was happening, I was obsessed with perfection, an atrocity. I never thought I would hate grey and mauve 78; really bad jazz, but decent classical – very good taste. That is fate (if you believe in fairies and library books), and there is no mistaking that I am not going anywhere. I really don’t know why it is so hard for any capable writer to work. I’ve read all of their books avoiding the working life; from taking a raft down the Mississippi to being a hot dog vendor with a Masters. They think they are better than everyone but are absolute hooey. So am I, even as a stable horse. I miss my beautiful mind on drugs. I’m so much happier but twice as shallow now. I wish I was taking a bath in gasoline and brushing my teeth with garlic. I’d light a match and get less sunburn than I would with one day at the beach, plus some nutrients. I have concluded that I am a vegan vampire who aspires to someday walk around in daylight. I hate talking with outsiders, but I’ve come to realize I am one. I don’t fit wherever I’ve tried to build a life. I am an overdramatic puzzle piece, all alone with a world of counterparts and befitting broken hearts. If you look into chaos long enough it will eventually look like a coincidence. There is hope at the end of the tunnel; a bright light I look forward to – the afterlife. Where did happiness go along with joy? They ran away and left me with contemplation, cynicism, and crude nihilism. I’d be a happy nihilist if only I wasn’t a damn demon. The only problem is is the more freedom I give myself the more trouble comes looking for me. I look the other way usually, but sometimes it is so enticing I hate my life. My goal is to suppress all dopamine release until I come down with depression. In my nightly journal there is a constant math equation defining my life by how long I abstain from all my pleasurable activities. As if reading will suffice as a reason to live until I die. It makes me proud to think of all the pages I’ve digested, but all the other things make life enjoyable like t.v. and masturbation. I don’t know why I think that diminishing my intake of release that I will be a happier, more productive independent.

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Ben Bonkoske is the author of two novels, Spoon in the Road, and Carolina, Colorado, California. He is also the author of two collections of short stories, Ten Zen by Ben, and Eleven Stories for 11:11. He lives in Chicago, where he likes to take walks.

B. A, M.A.T.