Bleaky: Hogdoggin' Day 16 - The Last Day

And so it ends, at the house, lone and high on the hill....

Value of Fiction: The Amen Edition

"The best fiction, regardless of genre, is an exploration of what it means to be human. Most of the time, that entails a great deal of loss and suffering peppered with small moments of hope or contentment...We’re all restless. Once we get what we thought we wanted, it’s never long before we want something else. The desire for the thing is greater than the thing itself. That’s what keeps us reading and writing."- Patrick Shawn Bagley

1st Offenders Saturday: Hogdoggin' Day 15??

Definition of offend? 1. To cause displeasure, anger, resentment, or wounded feelings in. 2. To be displeasing or disagreeable to. 3. a. To transgress; violate: offend all laws of humanity. b. to sin. In short, my kind of people. The female powerhouses in this contingent? Great fun indeed. I'd go get Italian food with them anytime.

"MAINTENANCE" @ Beat to a Pulp

Way back last December I was totally fried from working on my second attempt at a novel. I'm still struggling with the first draft, wondering how these real writers get it done without losing their minds. Maybe losing your mind is part of the deal. Features a somewhat reluctant Jersey shore troubleshooter getting his ass handed to him in a relentless spitwash of ugly. So, for a break I decided to pound out a short story as kind of a breather for said character. Well, St. David and Holy Mother Elaine over at BEAT TO A PULP were kind enough to greenlight the tale for their cue, making it my second story at BTAP and yet another one of the character's debuts on the web. To be honest, I did post a brief story with the protagonist over at Powder Burn Flash a few months back, but I think this much longer piece allows my guy to stretch his legs a bit. Anyway, soon to be busting his print cherry (and mine) over at Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, the sad sack Charlie Byrne in "MAINTENANCE".

Roots

Yeah, inspiration comes from all sorts of interesting places. I was thinking, if this tape actually existed, maybe I'd get some and wrap it around the next clown's head who learns I'm from New Jersey and asks me what exit I'm from. (For the record 7A Turnpike, 98 Parkway....a little Exit 25 these days.)

No, I Don't Hate It When I'm Right

I don't hate it when I'm right; it just makes me feel a bit more cocky. A few weeks back I pimped this surf-noir asskicker on my blog and, goddamn it, I love being ahead of the curve and having my instincts verified. Shannon just rips. From the NY Times:

"Jack Liffey, the private investigator in John Shannon’s mysteries, works the roughest territory in the genre — the subculture of the Southern California teenager. “I’m not really a detective,” the big-hearted P.I. explains in PALOS VERDES BLUE (Pegasus, $25). “My practice is limited to looking for missing children.” That doesn’t begin to describe the harrowing rescue job he undertakes when he begins searching for a schoolgirl with a passionate commitment to protecting butterflies and other endangered species, including the illegal Mexican workers camping out on the cliffs above Lunada Bay. Unaware that his own impetuous teenage daughter is endangering herself by trying to help him, Liffey patiently excavates the area’s social strata, uncovering layers of antagonism among the privileged rich and their anonymous day laborers, rival surfer gangs and a racist militia group prowling the hills — hostility that bounces right back at parents from their alienated children."

HOGDOGGIN' Day 13

Hogdoggin' Rally - Day 13. And Sophie Littlefield takes the reins. I was lucky enough to be introduced to Sophie at Bouchercon last Fall. She's razor sharp and a true champion of the craft. I've also had the good fortune to read an advance copy of her upcoming crime fiction debut A BAD DAY FOR SORRY. And I'm here to testify, people--buy this novel. That sound you're hearing? That's the sound of the genre's rib cage cracking wide open as Littlefield rips its heart out.

GO TO HELL

Bwahh? Remaking ANGEL HEART? Really? Is this freaking necessary? Apparently so. In a sludge-brained quest for material Hollywood is dropping the deuce on Alan Parker's cinematic horror/noir masterpiece. Hey, man...I'm not against writer William Hjortsberg making some scratch, but come on. DeNiro? Rourke? Oh, what's that? The producer did "Ghostrider"? Yeah. Like THAT was awesome. Heard a rumor that Cruise and LaBeouf were attached and I nearly had a stroke. Calm down, people. Thankfully that rumor was just hearsay. But cripes...you never know.

Dailed In: 1972

Music seems essential to modern crime fiction settings. Not all but a good lot of the modern crime novels I read reference music in some way. Opening quote, background noise, off-handed remark, etc....hell, Ken Bruen is like a freakin' wedding DJ sometimes. Makes me wonder. Would Chandler have Marlowe feet up and playing air guitar along with the radio? Did he? Probably not. But since all the other cool kids are doin' it, below I've inserted some music as sort of a tie-in for a story on BEAT TO A PULP that will be up in a few days. Set on the Jersey shore, the tune below is described in the story's opening scene.
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Man, I so remember hearing this tune on AM radio as my Uncle Doc, fresh from Vietnam, wove up to the Bronx to see my grandparents in his mustard-colored Mustang, me in the black bucket seat all Bobby Brady-like, gap-toothed and dumbfounded by the city's massive canyons and raw decay, a strange afternoon away from my pummeling brothers. Boiled meat and doe-eyed saints on the walls....
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Anyway...the story this weekend. Meanwhile just sit back and enjoy the one hit wonders from novelist Dave White's precious New Brunswick, NJ...the 'burg of my own birth and a veritable shithole that, quite frankly, my parents couldn't leave for the shore fast enough.

PLOTS WITH GUNS: My "Raygun" Hat Trick

Be advised. Anthony Neil Smith not only challenges the status quo as a crime novelist, he is also one of the toughest gatekeepers on the planet. Last Fall when "Doc Noir" broadcasted the concept of a special PLOTS WITH "RAY" GUNS issue, I was simultaneously stoked and intimidated by the challenge. I'd never attempted a piece set in the future, and Smith's call for transgressive noir set in the year 2509 was too much of a dare to pass up. So, I got cracking. I sweated over a story about asteroid miners for several weeks and, feeling confident, sent it off. Smith's response? "Too sci-fi." Hmm. Not one to quit readily, a few months later I tried again--this time a cold-hearted yarn referencing euthanasia, poisoned citrus, and a pulse-nuked San Antonio (for good reason). Again, Doc Noir gave me the proverbial high hat. "Not 500 years in the future, more like 50." D'fuuuuuuuuck? So, then I thought, wait a second...maybe I've been going about this futuristic business all wrong--maybe what I really need to do is go all gonzo, drop my pants, and wag my junk in the wind. Hence-- my ragged, little contribution to the special May issue and my third story in PWGs : "Koko Takes a Holiday" Phew! Thanks for putting up with me, my typos, and for pushing back, Professor. See you in Indy.

My Hero

Ten days. June 4th, baby, Season 3, and my second guilty pleasure is back (first being pork rinds). Please allow me do the math for all you BURN NOTICE novices. Bruce Campbell = Sam Axe = ex-SEAL = gold-digging Lothario = the coolest, gun slinging beer buddy in TV history. That is, without a chainsaw for a hand....

Saturday: BTAP Buffet and Crazy Joe

It's Saturday and that means there will be a new slab of meaty short fiction served up over at Beat to a Pulp...word is it's David Cranmer himself at the carving station this time around. Mmm...watch those heat lamps, people. Those heat lamps burn. Oh, do they burn....
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Dawn. I still haven't picked up the Tom Waits biography I was craving last Wed., and I'm heading out in a couple of hours to go sailing. Good south wind forecast, with ten to fifteen knots, gusting to twenty-five later so that ought to thin the knuckleheads. It's an overnight get out of 'Naptown deal. Bringing a roast chicken and few brews along with this non-fiction diamond - THE MAD ONES by Tom Folsom. I freakin' love this book. Violent, true, beatnik crime smeared with tomato paste. Crazy Joe, Kid Blast, Larry Gallo...not a heavy read at all, but clippy and smooth--a study of the sometimes lionized wiseguys who put the real red in Red Hook, Brooklyn. Lest you movie buffs forget--"It was a glorious time. Wiseguys were everywhere. It was before Appalachia, and before Crazy Joe decided to take on a boss and start a war. It was when I met the world."

New Hope for the Well-Read: Goffard

Journalism is not dead. Edgar best first novel finalist a year or so back, Christopher Goffard (SNITCH JACKET) wrote an amazing piece in the LA Times recently. The Week Magazine picked it up. I had the pleasure of meeting him in NYC and what a funny guy and such a brilliant journalist. If there were any gutsy justice in the world either SNITCH JACKET or Craig MacDonald' HEAD GAMES should've won. Read the piece here.

Bardsley, Abbott, Memorial Day

The Anthony Neil Smith's Hogdoggin' rally keeps chugging along and today it's Greg Bardsley's turn.
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Bardsley. Guacamole maestro, cad of crime. I'm positive he's pulled on his lead-tipped clown shoes and is looking to stomp somebody to death.
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Oh. And look at that-- Patti Abbott is joining the rally. The flavor deepens. Yes, that would be estrogen kicking your butt.
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Other things. It's Memorial Day Weekend...so thank a veteran. I do, just like I thank anyone who works for a union every, single Labor Day. Not the same thing by a long stretch, just sayin'. Anyway, do it. These men and women have laid it on the line and are still laying it on the line in our insane world, and they deserve a word of thanks.
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I don't know about where you live but 'round here this weekend is the biggest traffic clusterfuck you can imagine. Like yank your eyes out awful. People heading over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to the beach, Naval Academy graduation with, oh wait, the President is coming? Fuck. See you Tuesday.
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Meanwhile across the Bay, Dick steams in his duck blind, drinking blood supplements confident in his narcissistic assessment that his multi-million dollar property has been scrubbed clean from Google Earth. Hood-eyed, mumbling the lyrics to Billy Ray Cyrus' "Could've Been Me" way out of tune...he takes occasional breaks, stomping around the brackish shallow weeds with a machete. Ticks wedge their insidious ways into the meat of his spindly white calves while his wife, Lynne, waves desperately at him from the porch. She begs him to come inside, but he ignores her. The sun sets and Dick glares at the darkening water. Not far away, just off the edge of Dick's eighty-foot dock, a nine-foot bull shark cruises like sentry... a million nerve endings in its snout processing input. Dick can't see the shark but he knows it's out there, just as sure as he can feel the weakening beats of his own heart. Fucker is just biding its time, Dick grumbles. Biding its time.

It's his birthday....

Today is his birthday. Seriously. Do I have to explain this?

We've always been out of our minds....

Thinking of taking a Memorial Day pit stop from all the mystery, crime, and hardboiled fiction I've been ingesting as of late. Saw this review in The New York Times and this unauthorized biography might be the ticket. Liking Tom Waits has always been a measuring stick for me when meeting new people, and if you don't dig the man, well....
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Speaking of being out of our minds, will someone please tell The Rap Sheet that Anthony Neil Smith's virtual motorcycle rally is to pump up the volume about HOGDOGGIN' not "HOTDOGGIN'"...especially since the Saturday Boy is soon to be on deck and I hear Ray Banks hates Frankie and Annette so much it gives him hives. Frank Bill hates that shit too. 'Cept if Frank had a time machine he wouldn't kick Annette out of bed. Least that's what I heard...

Yo, Tony B!

B'con '09 chucked up the nominees for the Anthony Awards today. Here are my predictions, if I had to choose. Naturally, I'll be writing in some others in protest.

• Best Novel -The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson [Knopf]
• Best First Novel - (repeat) The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson [Knopf]
• Best Paperback Original Money Shot by Christa Faust [Hard Case Crime] (BABY!)
  
• Best Short Story "A Sleep Not Unlike Death" by Sean Chercover from Hardcore Hardboiled [Kensington] (big fedora hat tip to Todd Robinson...Todd you RULE!)
• Best Critical Nonfiction Work...Gruuuuuuuhhh?
• Best Children's/Young Adult Novel...again (with feeling)...Gruuuuuuhh?
• Best Cover Art Death Was the Other Woman designed by David Rotstein and written by Linda L. Richards [Minotaur]
• Special Service Award - Jon and Ruth Jordan and Ali Karim (TIE...and I mean, I've never even met Ali, but I love his interviews and anybody who can host a B'con panel at 9:30 in the morning while drinking gin and tonics is OK in my book.)
  

Taste the Fear, Feel the Burn

Book lovers trembled when the Kindle e-book surfaced. Comic book fanboys are going to go totally berzerk over this. Man, talk about biting the hand that feeds....

And speaking of being a fan, I know a lot of folks give me crap about watching this TV show, but if you can spew endlessly about Lost I think I'm allowed to promote hot Irish chicks with guns, muscle cars, Bruce Campbell, and super-spies.

Synchronicity - Hogdoggin': Day 4

This past weekend I was visiting friends up in Pennsyltucky and passed by what I assume is a major hog-riding shrine--the Harley-Davidson plant. Just off Route 30 in York near the Round the Clock Diner. Coffee was weak but the calf's liver with bacon and onions? Slammin'. The "Doc Noir" thunder keeps ripping up the cyber-highways so catch up. Roll on here and here.

Gumshoe 101

Besides reading everything you can in the genre...I found this primer the other day. Meaty, academic fare. Dang, why couldn't have I taken THIS guy's class instead of a snooze-fest survey of that pasty, Oliver Cromwell suck-up John Milton? Face it, after Lucifer splits in "Paradise Lost" it just plain suuuuuuuuuucks.

THE HOGDOGGIN' VIRTUAL MOTORCYCLE RALLY: DAY TWO, #2

In the Last Episode, Lafitte was left dazed and confused after a run-in with the Central Crime Zone team, apparently off to save the world.

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Fry had watched what went down between the Wolfman and the Irish in the bar like it was a movie. He hadn’t seen the Irish in a while, thought the man might’ve been dead. But there he was, alive as the day is done.

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After, Fry found the man sitting on the ground, leaning against his scooter, legs stretched out while reading a book--a paperback with the stomach-churning title Gutted. His Weber charcoal grill was belching white smoke, and it seemed he had raided a liquor store before heading on down, all the bottles lying in the grass around them.

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“The fuck kind of ride is that?”

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The Irish peeked over the frames of his shades. “It’s not compensating for a small dick, now, that’s for sure.”

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“Where’s your Super Glide, man?

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Irish hung his head as if at a funeral. “Well, at least when the coppers caught me, I went straight to the hospital instead of jail. Alas, my ride didn’t survive.”

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“Pisser, man.”

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“Indeed.”

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Fry helped the Irish up and pulled him into a bro-hug before shootin’ more shit. Irish offered him his choice of bottles. Most were cheap tequila. “Cheap, but good. It’s what Mexicans buy.”

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“You’re shitting me.”

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“Would I do that?” Irish grinned.

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They laughed. Fry remembered the last time. Somewhere down around Kansas City, some little get-together before Steel God had split from the Outlaws. They’d drunk each other under the table and then woke up sometime around noon to get right back at it. Fry tried to interest Irish in some speed to keep the party going, but he declined.

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“A man’s got to know his limits. There’s something dignified about passing out. It’s a tradition!’

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Irish had been rambling around for years--nobody’s enemy, but nobody kept him close, either. Like they were all afraid of him, his accent, his endless expertise on all things alcoholic. He also ended up fucking a lot of other bikers’ women. That’s fine if you’re just talking skanks and such. No, Irish one upped that mess. He went after their wives and sisters. Guiltless charming little homewrecker. Until the one that wrecked him.

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Fry took a swig from his bottle of Pueblo Viejo Blanco, let it burn his whole mouth before he swallowed. Then said, “You remember Kristal, right?”

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Irish got some sort of wistful all the sudden, staring off into the clouds. “A sweet girl she was. Smart, too. Make you believe the sun was cold enough to touch, that one.”

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He unconsciously scratched his shoulder. Fry knew what that was about. It was where young Kristal, trying to score her way into the good graces of this crew of jackasses--even though she must’ve come from solid upper-class Midwestern stock--got in good with Irish and tried to collect on a hit some Bandido pack leader had put out on him for, of course, sleeping with the man’s daughter. Kristal got as far as dry humping his sorry ass while he was obliterated on whiskey, sprawled on his back, and that’s when she pulled out the .38.

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Everyone heard the sound, ran round back of the gas station to find her straddling him, big ass hole in his shoulder. She claimed it was his gun. He’d pulled it. But the man was in no condition to lift a finger, let alone a revolver. That bitch was going down, though. You had a whole bunch of pissed off men and women holding that girl in a nearby barn until the ambulance and cops had come and gone. As usual with his charmed life, Irish was able to bounce back soon enough, only the wiser for nearly bleeding to death.

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Kristal, however, was surely going to die. Or at least pull the longest motherfucking train in One Percenter history. They were going to wear out all her parts in one night, about forty good fucking years down the drain before she was even twenty.

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Until Steel God walked in. Guy had appointed himself judge, jury, and Jesus Christ. This was before people knew him the way they did since. Back then, he was a badass, sure, but just one of many badasses on bikes. Still green on the throne, even though he’d been riding with the Outlaws since ‘81.

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Like any man in the room was going to stop him. He settled on a bale of hay, hands on his knees, and waited for someone to tell him why the girl had to die.

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“You don’t shoot Irish,” some dumbass said. “He’s neutral.”

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God laughed that laugh of his, the one that made what you just told him sound like a drooling whistle. He stood. He went over to the girl, wrapped a paw around her shoulders and said, “A job is a job. Not like any one of you hasn’t thought about it yourself, except the man’s generous with his booze. She was just trying to collect on a fair deal. She’s one of mine now.”

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That’s the night Fry knew something had changed. It’s had been more like an itch until that moment, the past few weeks of riding alongside, hearing him talk about how things weren’t no good. How the things they’d always taken for granted--drugs, booze, fighting with Hell’s Angels, treating women like shit and Harleys like Idols--were nothing compared to riding because of the people who rode with you. It was one thing to feel the road beneath your wheels, but another to look over at your brother or sister who felt it the same as you.

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All Fry knew was that he liked smoking meth, smoking his tires, and smoking sluts. As long as the big man didn’t fuck with his lifestyle, Fry had no trouble sticking around. Besides, the giant son of a bitch could throw down when he needed to. Nice to have him on your side.

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Fry cleared his throat and Irish returned from wherever he’d gone in his head.

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Irish said, “You were saying?”

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“Kristal.”

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“I take it you didn’t end her life, then.”

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Fry shook his head. “We took her in. Not my choice, but I’m just saying. She lost her man a while back, rides with Lafitte now.”

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“The cop? I heard about him.”

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“Yeah, him. I don’t get that guy, but he’s been nothing but solid. But ain’t that the way they train undercovers? You wouldn’t expect a boy scout.”

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Irish shook his head. “I’ve done many a bad thing to a man, including not an hour ago. And I’ve done many a lovely thing to those men’s women. But ever since that young lass did what she did to me…” Took him a minute to get it out. “I don’t get the respect I used to. Not what I deserve, even.”

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Fry nodded. “Damn straight.” Clinked bottles with Irish, took a stiff pull, then back to staring at the ground in front of them. Until Fry chirped in with, “You could do it yourself, you know. No one would fault you that.”

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Irish pursed his lips. Watched Fry. “What are you trying to do?”

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“I’m just saying. If the opportunity presented itself--”

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“Enough. Shush, man. I don’t kill women. I fuck em, but I don’t kill em.”

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“If it makes you feel any better, just don’t think of her as a woman.” Fry reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a beat to shit snubnose. “Take this, and keep your eyes open. That’s all I’m saying.”

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He held it out to Irish, but Irish kept his hands wrapped around his bottle in his lap. Didn’t say a word.

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Fry finally left the gun on the grass beside the man. Stood, slapped the dust off his jeans.

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Irish looked up at him. “What’s she ever done to you? If she tried to kill me and I won’t kill her, then what’s she done to you?”

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Wasn’t a fair question. Not a chance at a fair answer, either. All Fry could do was shrug, say, “Just seeing her reminds me that I’m not the man I pretend I am.”

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He left his old friend there in the fading light. He wasn’t even ten steps away when Irish started singing again, louder and louder with each word. Maybe he would kill the bitch, maybe not. But whatever it was, it sounded like he’d gotten his mojo back.

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First time Kieran Shea wrote me, it was to tell me about Pueblo Viejo. I still haven’t been able to find the stuff, but he put it like this--it’s half the price of the fancy stuff and tastes just as good, maybe better.

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And if that’s the way he sells you booze, then just imagine how he sells you stories.

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When I read “Thoroughly Yours” for the first issue of the re-launched Plots with Guns, I knew we had a winning story. But when I read “Proxy 529”, I knew we had a burgeoning master on our hands, able to convey a tense scene with the skill of Hitchcock and DePalma. I still can’t get this moment out of my head:

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Just after midnight there’s a knock at our motel room’s door.

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Dad rockets to his feet.

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There’s never been a knock at our door.

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And then it gets worse:

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Dad calls out, “Lady, you got the wrong room!”

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Pause.

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More sharp raps on the door.

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“Dale? Come on, Dale. I know you’re in there. I’m sorry, OK? Please, honey. Come on…open up. I’m real sorry.”

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Dad’s head counters left, then right, then left again. He centers his aim on the door.

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“WRONG ROOM, LADY!”

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Louder bangs and a frenzy of kicking pounds.

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“Dale! Open this fucking door right now!”

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Another pause.

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“Oh shit. Oh. Ohmygod! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Wrong room! Shit! Sorry!”

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Then the muffled sounds of light heels clicking the concrete and fading away.

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I tell you, I can see it as if on film. Hear the eerie music, all that.

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Check around to the other sites where he’s been published, and you’ll agree that Kieran Shea won’t be long in our cyber ghetto. And just wait until you see what he’s cooked up for the Ray Guns issue.

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A lot of his success with writing has to do with voice. For me, a character’s voice, rendered sharply, can carry me through nearly any story. I want to be drawn along by something urgent I hear in the telling. Shea’s writing makes me want to keep going. It’s not trying to distract me from the story or take the scenic route. After all, the scenic route is better in context.

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And I hope I passed the bar on that with Hogdoggin’, because it’s not just one or two voices I’m striving for in that one, but several. Al these characters needed to be heard. I couldn’t give them short shrift. But I think they all fit within the big picture.

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See what you think about it on June 1^st, HOGDOGGIN’ MONDAY, when I hope you’ll join all of the others who said they would put in their order or chase down the book at one of the stores I will have hit by then (which would be Once Upon a Crime, Pudd’nhead, Subterranean Books, Davis-Kidd, and Square Books). The Steel Army would be very grateful (and they’d stop staring at you funny across the bar).

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Just when you thought it was safe to dance and get shitfaced and enjoy the street party erupting as the sun went down, here comes Patrick Shawn Bagley leading his gang of Unholy Bastards.

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Tonight on the Main Stage: Uncle Tupelo, “Whiskey Bottle”

HOGDOGGIN' RALLY BEGINS

HOGDOGGIN', the sequel to Anthony Neil Smith's novel YELLOW MEDICINE , is only days away from release and today started the virtual-blog motorcycle rally to spread the word and pimp the love. Lots of writers, Plots with Guns alums, noir fans, etc. are taking part--including me. What the fuck is virtual-blog motorcycle rally? Choke on the mayhem, read, and find out here at Dr. Smith's portal in the blogistan. My contribution to the mix starts tomorrow. And yeah, that's a bunch of fuckin' Mods on jacked-out scooters in the photo, what of it? Stay tuned.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Beautiful Losers

I first became familiar with Leonard Cohen by reading his poetry back in college. Later, I grooved on his smoky voice while hanging out in the homes of various English professors while they were on sabbaticals (official house sitter for the department was just one of my many truly pathetic jobs over the years). Like most people with any semblance of a soul, I remember being awestruck by his knight-errant language, of his trying to find beauty in personal disillusionment and the devastating fractures of history. Didn't realize for a quite some time that he wrote longer books before turning to poetry, haunting song and much later, painting.
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When I finally picked up Beautiful Losers at a street sale it knocked me loose from the numbing bureaucratic slipstream of working in D.C. I couldn't describe it for people, how it sucked me away into a inexplicable trance for days. You either got the "Blue Duke" and his dreamy, free-form style or you didn't.
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Hey, it may not be a crime or mystery novel but since when has reliving the anguish of heartache not been a crime?
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Hallelujah, indeed.

"Obviously you're not a golfer."

I just read an email announcing this. God, I am such an insane fan of this movie. Homage to Chandler's The Big Sleep? Who the hell cares? It's brilliant. Must have seen The Big Lebowski, I don't know, nineteen times? Not as much as Jaws (37 times), but I freakin' own the DVD. Speed of Sound Tour, that just kills me. Tickets go on sale for the DC events this Friday. Check for your local city Lebowskifest here and, dude? Make sure you stock up on Kahlua, vodka, and plenty of dairy creamer. Half a lid of deep wooded kush might be a good idea too.
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Oh yeah. And this NY Times story kind of creeped me out this morning. Didn't the Waffen SS do this? Something called...oh nevermind.

In the Stacks, In the Dark, Uncaged

It's Wednesday. And that means time to nerd up. The final installment of Swierczynski 's "Six Hours to Kill" Punisher arch (left) is out (staggering body count as usual), along with a host of others. I limit myself to an Andy Jackson's worth when I cruise my local shop, any more than that and I feel I'd spiral out of control, tinfoil the windows, and never leave the basement. Then a drive-by to feed the Hollywood monster and see Star Trek. I don't know. John Cho as Sulu? Can I keep a straight face? I just can't help seeing him riding that cheetah through the backwoods of Jersey, all crazy baked. Other things. Lots of great love for the new Jen Jordan anthology UNCAGE ME from Bleak House Books. Declan Burke is on it, so is PW. Can't wait to get mine. The list is like a dream team of gutsy modern crime: Phillips, Bagley, Guthrie, Faust (baby!), Gischler, Konrath, Rhoades, Burke, Azzarello, Torres, Bardsley, Blackmore, Maleeny, Crouch....phew! (UPDATE 3:14 PM) Star Trek? Entertaining. I'm sorry but in my mind I still saw Cho sucking on a fattie the size of a WiffleBall bat.

Arrrrrrgh.

A long time ago I was somewhat responsible for a fire that destroyed some land. No one was hurt, I never got caught, and it was a valuable and terrifying life lesson for a boy of twelve. If you want to know further details, well, you'll have to buy me a burrito, and none of that Taco Bell garbage. Anyway, my point. There came a critical moment in the fire where stamping only made maters worse, that puffs of flame spread and spread every time I slammed my foot down to smother the fire. I think there's a metaphor somewhere in that for the ugliness of modern piracy. Pirates. We need to get the SEALs on this, like, stat. If you really want to get a bead on the costs and culprits of modern literary piracy, check Havocscope.

For You

Screw Mondays, I'm chucking out good vibes today. For all those in struggle in the writing game who visit here, those awaiting editorial lashings, rejections, those in the throes of constipated writers block, and whatever tooth rattling doubt: Mick, Tony, Dom, and Leo are for you.
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Oh. One more thing. Kyle Minor's interview over on Bookspot Central is up. Read it. Kyle is the "bookless" juggernaut us hacks are trying to keep up with.

The Shotgun Cool

My neighbor across the street is the coolest; he takes me shooting. My favorite gun of his is a lightweight Benelli 12 Gauge that I used for inspiration for my story The Back-Up Man over on A Twist of Noir a few months past.
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So, I'm up early and I cruise over to the updated Benelli USA site. Too much flash for my taste, but I'm digging the videos and so wanted to insert one here, especially the one of all the animals getting blown apart, but I couldn't figure out how. Then I went to You Tube and found this friggin' gem. Who knew duck hunters were such fans of Duane Swierczynski novels? Santa? You listening? Can I have one? Please?
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Research

The devil is in the details. There are places I troll for crime story ideas. District attorney sites and their press releases, odd-ball hokey small town newspapers, eavesdropping. But one of the coolest portals I've found is Havocscope Black Market Indexes. If you want bear witness to the end of civilization, this site will make you want to curl up into a ball like a water bug and weep.

Tolkien Toking:

Okay, not to offend the legions of JRR Tolkien zealots, but even though I read his books a long time ago, I have to say the whole Middle Earth saga just never really did it for me. I mean, the movies were awesome and I love New Zealand (yeah it REALLY does look like that) but the books all in all just seemed a little bit windy. That said, I was just popping in on the Warren Ellis site and he had this link up. Okay fundamentalist assheads of all ilks, whip out your sacred text votre choix and 'splain THIS. Turns out maybe there was tobacco in Mr. Tolkien's pipe after all.

Miss THE WIRE?

Miss the abject bleakness of HBO's The Wire? Get your "Charm City" crime fix here. Bonus? The Baltimore Sun has a do it yourself pin chart just like on all those great TV cop dramas. Go ahead. See how many homicides, hammer in the face robberies, home invasions, etc. were close to your Bouchercon hotel last fall. Which reminds me, I'm registered for B'Con in Indy, are you? The list grows and grows.

This Is Radio Seth

Seth Harwood, web-noir slinger extraordinaire, defines grassroots guerrilla marketing. His crime novel Jack Wakes Up finally detonated like a pipe bomb yesterday in bookstores everywhere. Scare people in your lunch room, your subway car, and read it.