Ron Argo has been a carpenter, a psych-ward aide, a photographer, a Florida Keys boat captain, an award-winning newspaper reporter, a combat correspondent in LBJ’s war, a plumber, electrician, all-around jack and restorer of old houses, a would-be musician and artist who can no longer play some stringed instruments with the arthritis, who went to jail a time or two but never had to post bail, a voter in all elections--except in Vietnam where the idea was ludicrous. He was never a bartender, bouncer or preacher. Nor did he ever hold political office, if you don’t count chairing a citizen’s committee appointed by a board of supervisors to fight corruption over animals' rights to, say, sterilization.
He has published one of the more important American war novels of the last century, being compared by critics to Mailer, Dos Passos, Jones and Crane.
Argo’s only been married twice, so he has no pressing momentum for pumping out book after book, as some novelists must to do to survive--alimony, you know--to hold onto the socially accepted and expected “famous” status. Famous, Argo’s not.
He is the author of the fine novels you see in this website and maybe others but so far undiscovered. Other works are in his head and perhaps going down on paper in the future, when gardening gets boring.
Argo now lives with Mary and his cattle dog Prince in a slow-going community of San Diego where, like Voltaire, he’s learned some lesson and tends his crops.