Happy Halloween

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Charlie Byrne

Yeah, I must be out of mind, pursuing P.I. fiction. All that dead genre nonsense, the giants who have walked before, and yaddah, yaddah, yaddah.

But I can't help myself. I've kicked open a box and I can't close the lid, at least not yet. The genre has kind of grown on me, probably for worse, maybe for better.

Anyhoo, Charlie Byrne is back in Atlantic City today, grinding away at the job. Take a look.

Zzzzz: Scary Airline Fiction

Airline pilots struggle to stay focused? I'm sorry...don't we all? Boo-hoo...I can't stay focused. It's not like you're running the copy machine hub at Staples or screwing up the Jack-In-The Box French fry order. Jesus! I mean... (and I do believe the Lord will forgive me here) JESUS! Son of El Hombre friggin' Key-riiist!!! You are cruising at 30K feet! Is it so hard to cradle lives? That little girl and her sick mother in row 12 E? Dave White white knuckling it in 29 A? Dude, ever hear of Red Bull, espresso, (ahem) low-level CRANK?

Ah. Plane crash crime fiction. It's a common mechanism. An original take might be James Hall's opening to BLACKWATER SOUND. Hell, freaking Jim Hall had me at "hello" with UNDER COVER OF DAYLIGHT. He could write a slur on a used swatch of toilet tissue and I'd say sign here.

For me, I recall plenty of turbulence on the flights here and there. One in particular. A shake-n-quake puddle hop from the USVI to the BVI. One pilot--kind of crispy (if you know what I mean) deep trenched in the island lifestyle.

"Don't you have a co-pilot?"

"Nah, we go down, yo, it all be beauty."

Great.

I looked at my wife, my two friends, our gear...and said--been real, people.

Of course, there was the that time when we flew into Caracas...

Flashers in the Aisles

Saw over on Saint Patricia's blog that there's a new "flash" fiction challenge afoot. A short piece slathered in crime set in or around Wal*Mart. Hmm, cool by me. Some may find this strange but I've never been in a Wal*Mart. Nope, never have. But before you start flinging the snotty stones, let me confess I have shopped at Sam's Club which is really the same thing, except on steroids. So much guilt by association. Like that sweatshirt you're wearing made for pennies in Lesotho. We are all part of this sinking ship so check the criticism and take in the ride with some humble pie. Reminds me of a line in the Gregg Hurwitz Punisher short in PUNISHER MAX #75 (a really sweet bonus-value issue I snatched up yesterday...with writers like Piccirilli, Swieczynski, Huston, etc.) Anyway, Wal*Mart. Flash. Join in the fun. 800 words, that's nothing, Jack.

How Original: WWMD

Gee. Baltimore cop drunk? How original.

Hardboiling The Hold Steady

A couple of months ago Jedidiah Ayres, the "Gentle Ben" behind the film and noir fiction blog HARD-BOILED WONDERLAND, asked me to contribute a few words on fiction and the musical narrative...a little something about a song that struck me with some wicked darkness. My contribution is up today. Jed's a stand-up dude. Follow his insights and fiction.

Quotes to Write By: Tony Hillerman

"You write for two people, yourself and your audience, who are usually better educated and at least as smart. " - Tony Hillerman

Flu, Hug Me!

I feel bad for anyone suffering from the flu. I had the bug last year and rode it out like a bad bowl of Erendira menudo. Just a wee reality check for the crazed Purell set. And speaking of Purell... Imagine a touchable world? That's your million dollar slogan from J. Walter Thompson? Was the copy writer from one of the Seven Sister schools or something? Eew.

Bullet or disease, people, you can't buy your way out of "your time". Tell 'em, Hank.

Now, I Can't Sleep

This is what happens when Peabody and his pet boy Sherman start packing the hydro in the Pringles can. And these physicists are smart. Truth is, I find this kind of uncertainty strangely comforting. Maybe it feeds some small flicker of monistic faith in me. But in a wider swath, I relish how it absolutely cripples those propped up with dogmatic arrogance and jowly hubris. Oh sure, they might respond to these things with something like, "Well there's your proof of God or Allah or whatever..." not really realizing, by saying that, they've undermined their stick-in-the-mud positions even more so.

*SIGH*

I'm a big fan of the works of Michio Kaku who shoots hoops in this complicated gym, and I've had my noodle fried by a pretty good local sailor who works in the applied physics lab at Hopkins. We don't know anything, really, so maybe we should just chill out, be decent humanists, take a long walk in the woods or fly a kite on the beach.

This has nothing to do with writing stories, but it brings me to this groove this evening, rain a-tick-tick-ticking at the window, elm trees shedding their worth. Take it away, Jack.

Special K

Last year, I was more than fortunate enough to corner comic czar-brainiac Duane Swierczynski after a book signing. This year, while searching for BBQ ribs in Indy, I just waltzed into a comic book store six blocks from the hotel during the santioned lunch break and there he was...Mr. Level 26, sniffing through the graphic-nerd porn. I piped up, "Hey! Holy crap! Duane!" We exchanged vibes on what we were into, comic book wise (me --Chew, Air, Ignition City...and Mr. S. all that fey superhero stuff--I jest, sir! I jest!) Anyway...everybody tells tales about who gave them the best writing advice. Me and mine? Hands down it has to be is Duane Swierczynski. Something to the effect of, "Write 500 or a 1000 words a day. Any idiot can write a thousand words a day. In three months, if you have a story, you'll have a novel. Or not." Duane? Thanks.

Gassed Up, Ready to Roll

You know what? Yesterday was a bummer, but there's no time to waste on the measly-weaselly. Yeah, yeah. I did a lap in the self-indulgence pool and forgot my truth goggles. Time to hit the gas. For those who came a runnin' with their cold water and hot coffee, thanks. Now then. Let's go fuck some shit up.

When Do You Write Better?

Today's late afternoon theme: disappointment.

My brother Tim used say (when we lived together briefly) that I cooked better when I was bitter or depressed. For a while (5 years) when I ran my catering business for sailors in Annapolis, I had the reputation and nickname "The Angry Chef" for reasons more centered on people's appetites for mediocrity than anything else. My loyal customers actually looked forward to my rages on wine, food, and the long gutless slide of chowderheads who'd rather have a questionable burger than my classic Thai Billabong Soup. Now I'm trying to write (quite a few rejections today--a hat trick with one bigger than the rest so I'm walking around in the nowhereland of self doubt). Sometimes I find that when I am angry, when I target my rage at someone or something I want to annhilate, I tend to write better. Or maybe I shouldn't even give a damn. How does one pull oneself up after so many blows to the head? I know, charge ahead. But goddamnit, it sucks.

A View From the Ghetto: B'Con

More B'con recaps. Take a long, slow look at the picture there. Dark, sticky carpet with the geometric pattern to hide the dirt. Suicide railings about three inches below code. During last week's conference I called the Embassy Suites "the ghetto" but then again Swierczynski and Chercover and Olson stayed there so maybe I'm too quick to judge. Come on, Kieran, it was not that bad. OK, the breakfast buffet was passable, but I'm a former chef and wary of anything "touched" by knuckle-dragging third shifters who can't cut the prime time on the line. And yeah, they gave me a cheese plate when my room wasn't ready (lots and lots of cheddar for some reason) but could someone please explain the habit-trail entrance maze, dreary, cigarette-peppered gantlet to the street, and the OTB parlor in the basement? I mean, WTF?! Oh. That's right. It's Bouchercon. Two more classy posts from the original wonder twins. Although they missed each other, they were both superb roommates.

Kvetchin'

Trying to get back into the swing of things and I'm having a tough time. Not for lack of ideas as I have two I truly want to start chipping away at--one involving Charlie Byrne again and the other, well, that's top secret for now. Chores, backlogged assignments, minor irritations. Gosh, you come out of Bouchercon ready to kick all sorts of soft fanny and life just wee's all over the marshmallow fire. Today though should be a better day even though weak fevers are making their way through the house (note to self, remind the bride that this is what happens when you go camping in the rain with small children). Anyway, I just totally dig the image left. Looks kind of like my older brother, Jack, when he was a boy... except for the long Matisyahu peyos, port and stardboard. I do believe the family photo albums are littered with that passing-cold-marbles-through-your-urethra grimace.

Words To Write By: Jim Harrison

"Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy...or they become legend." - Jim Harrison

This is the kick-in-the-ass anyone who writes really needs. Lots of twitter and buzz out there from folks reeling from Indiana excesses and crimey book talk. Egad! The Lord of Mirth keeps posting pictures.

Digesting Version: B'Con '09

How fitting. NY Giants get crushed by the Saints and I'm back from Bouchercon. So much happened in so little time. Going stream of consciousness here. Exhausting. Learned scads. Best panel? Dark Books for Dark Times. Best time? Every moment. The Shamuses...the Scott Phillips-led excursions to the underground weinerschnitzel wonderland--the Rathskeller. Hanging with a whole new crop of writers like Hockensmith, Neville, Tafoya. Getting together some of the Crimedogs Version 2.0 (Frank you rule!) with Neil, Victor, and Sean. Coffee with Reed. Trey cracking me up. Having the editor at Ellery Queen telling me that my short story prompted the angriest letter she's seen in her twenty years of editing the magazine. Bob Randisi. Giving Patti a hug, finally. The First Offenders who made the scene (yes, Alison and Karen, the strippers cried). Good times and hats off to the classy roommates Bardsley and Ayers (mmm...smell the morning corn-chippy room stench. ) Now. Onward. Phew.

Signing Off, For Now

With the NY Giants @ 4-0, time for a break. Like a high note, or a good stage act. Going dormant for a couple of weeks. Maybe longer, at least until after Indy. Believe I used to have a lunch box for this show. Maybe I just imagined it, like so many things. There's your cold cup of ennui.

Self-Loathing to the Tenth Power

Kind of takes self loathing to a new level, does it not? Talk about irony.

It's moments and stories like this that breathe flexibility back into the brittleness of life. God says, HA! and all that.

Anyhoo. Have a swell Sunday.

Just In Time: THUGLIT 33

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like you didn't know it already. Todd and Lady D. chucked up the new Thuglit 33. Take that spooky Masonic number and stuff it in your Rolling Rock bottle full of spent cigarettes. This issue features the likes of Mike MacLean (wowza) and late night Italian food B'con co-conspirator, Trey Barker. Get some.

Friday Forgotten Books - M31: A Family Romance

Can't do it. Words won't work. Going for the military-style checklist.

1. UFOs (Check)
   
2. Cult celebrities who believe they are aliens (Check)
3. Lynchian violence, murder, and incest (Double check)
4. Creepy, brutal prose, hypnotic and daring (Triple check)

I've been banging my head against the wall trying to remember the name of this novel when finally the sawdust drifted free.

M31: A Family Romance by Stephen Wright.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet Ozzie and Harriet on bad peyote: Dash and Dot—cult icons of the E.T. - I WANT TO BELIEVE circuit, living out their obsessions and a shared psychosis in an empty church in the middle of nowhere America. Yes, maybe they are aliens from a planet called M31. Yes, maybe they have a spaceship (sort of). Yes, maybe this is a scathing satire of unnerving crash and broken bone.

When Gwen and Beale, UFO groupies, stumble into Dash and Dot's lair nothing is what it appears. It's worse. To wit, Publishers Weekly: "...the descriptions etch the particulars of this madness in exceptionally striking detail: the references to a world readers can recognize, seen through the perspective of the fringe-dwelling family, render our world of media and mass culture as alien as the unseen M31."

Just freaked me all kinds of hairy out. And that's my Friday forgotten book.

Quaint Town: Annapolis

People get all giddy when they see the Navy Mids strutting around town here (Annapolis), all crisp right angles and those uniforms that Jack Nicholson sneered at in A FEW GOOD MEN.

But just goes to show you, admissions standards ain't what they used to be. From a few days ago....

Vooks, vooks, vooks....

Mosley steps up. Words of caution? Slippery slope? Discuss amongst yourselves.