FFBs: Memoirs of a Caddy

Do you have a mundane task that frees your mind to come up with ideas or work out writing problems? Nowadays I find mowing the lawn is the best option for me with raking leaves a close second. Not so long ago when I was working full time as a chef, prepping mise en place was clutch for the creative process. But, by and large, the best place I ever wound down thoughts is long past from my scope of options. Simply the best job I ever had...being a caddy. Looping. I swear to God, no Caddyshack b.s. here...we actually called a round a loop. If I had a time machine right now I swear to you I would go back, skip college, and attend professional caddy school.

Manasquan River Golf Club was my Bushwood...the place where I learned what loyalty is b/w pals. Where I learned how to hold my drink, gamble at the track, and choose my fights carefully. Where I learned petty larceny and a little weed won't kill you and which members of the club were cheating on each other. Back then it was ten bucks a bag (plus tip) for a four hour loop--now it's, like, fifty bucks a bag--if you can find some kid to carry your bag. Good luck on that front because kids today don't want to take four hour walks and lazy hackers piss and moan for a cart. Met guys like Jack Livingston (caddy master-gold standard), Tucker, Housen, Brooksy, Billy Soo, Johnny Rowboat, and we all cursed that smelly-scheming bastard, Snaggletooth.

Hence, Friday's forgotten book MEMOIRS OF A CADDY by David Noonan. To quote Amazon..."Noonan's first novel is a coming-of-age story with an unexpected, tragic commentary on the harsh realities of life. Brothers Jim and Matt Mooney have been brought up in a strict Catholic home in a New Jersey suburb." Don't know if David Noonan wrote anything else, but Christ on high...it was like reading my life story.

Happy Birthday Ahh-nold

It's the Governor of California's birthday. If you need proof that, as a country, we are on an out-of-control/conductor-less train heading for a dynamited bridge, consider Arnold and his pen knife there for moment. Then again, it could also prove that anything is possible. Shh. I have it on good authority that Maria is actually running the great Golden State. Feel better? No? Oh.

The Day's Post A Bummer: Get Happy

Man, today's post was such a sick bummer. In the spirit of better things and better summer days to you and yours-- the Zee Avi video, an impromptu version of "I Fought the Law" to close out a truly f'ed up day for me. Zee? It's the Ram's Head in Baltimore, not Ram Head. Not that anyone cares as you're so damn cute it kills me. The world's happiest instrument. Ukuleles rule.

Everything Goes Gray: Wed.Edition

Lead Story over on Publishers Weekly. Hey, man. I know the importance of the First Amendment so spare me the hostile commentary defining the ropes and rules of the First Amendment 's prickly, boxing ring. I'm thinking it might be easier to huddle up and make new common sense laws just for zombie mothers and sickos into "crush" videos. Something along the lines of jettisoning those of less than stellar decency into, say, volcanoes? Excuse me while I go throw up.

Living Under the Sign

Yesterday was rough on the writing front. I'm pushing the cold, slick gristle of the "novel" draft around the plate and hate it. Oh, do I hate it. I'm closing in on the second pass of the story's conclusion and it feels like I'm rushing things, like I've just sobered up whilst having beery sex and realized I'm in the sack with a Bush twin who's off her meds, my condom's snapped, and Poppy is pounding at the door. Sort of. I just want this done, man. Done. Why? Why did I think I could walk with giants? Sometimes you hang your head and feel like such a fraud. Meanwhile, a new project with real gams nips at my heels, a challenge that is so daunting so loaded with danger I go back and forth between both tasks gulping for air. Christ, what have I done? Just feels like drowning some days and I know all about that because it really did almost happen to me thrice--once in the waters off NJ and twice in Hawaii (two different islands) because I didn't think things through. Yeah, no one said this writing thing was easy. Takes slop buckets of courage. I raised my head from the laptop in the library (they crank the a.c. in the summer and it's a good place to grind) and trolled the shelves for a break. All these people. They did it, so why can't I? Goddamn it made me angry. And anger is good, I think. A few hours later after I put the kids to bed with stories about the magic meadow and a gnome named Gerry--HA!-- the universe chimed in. Almost asleep I hit the remote and one of the greatest underdog films of all time is on: Z U L U . Yeah I may be reading into things, but it's my life and I will do whatever the hell I want. And I want better from myself.

Lawyers Amok, Charlemagne in Sweatpants

In a book on lawyering, flamboyant attorney ROBERT SIMELS offered this tip: "Dress to kill."

"I cannot begin to tell you the number of cases I have tried where the first questions jurors ask me following their verdict concern where I bought my ties, how much they liked my socks, etc.," Simels wrote in "Take the Witness: The Experts Speak on Cross-Examination."

Gee, I wonder how he'll feel about a day-glow DOC orange? The dapper bottom-feeder is charged with conspiracy to obstruct justice. No shredding files or misrepresented timelines, mind you. This weasel-face allegedly plotted to bribe witnesses and kill their family members.

In other news from my weekend travels (in case anyone cares)-- my own kill ratio? Number of deer bagged from the back porch deer stand in Virginia? ZERO. (too noisy, having too much fun.)

The Hold Steady on Friday night? Almost killed me.

The Godfather Speaks

Doc Noir, the Godfather (to some) on THE RAP SHEET today. Dig it.

As I Was Saying Yesterday: Comics

Mr. Awesome turned me on to this. High hopes and crossed fingers, because your thriller choice of the month? It sucks.

Slow Ride, Take It Easy

Been granted grace by the lady of the house to do macho malarkey this weekend, so I'm out of here, baby. Goin' to Sayreville, New Jersey to catch THE HOLD STEADY tomorrow night with friends, got me my new Lansdale tucked under the arm (awesome so far, of course...), then I'm doing a turn and burn down south to the Commonwealth of Virginia. Yeah, yeah...lots of driving, but my pal Vernon, back from extended tours in the 'Stans and Iraq, has put me on the "kill permit" (love that) for his folk's farm out near Charlottesville and attendance is a must for someone who went through all that for seven-odd years. Apparently there's a deer problem that needs solving which consists of deck chairs at twilight, BBQ ribs, and whatever Odocoileus virginianus is unlucky enough to show up in the fields. Taking the laptop to catch the details and kill the slack-factor. One of the guys going is actually the dude I based a character on last year in Burton & So's THRILLING DETECTIVE. See you, Moan-day, people. In case you want to track me down...that's the view from Big Brother up top, but if you show up make sure you stick to the road and leave your antler hat at home.

Feeding the Consumer Monster

And you think your job stinks.

W.W.S.P.D.

Last night I watched two movies back to back because of sleeplessness. I haven't watched anything in a while and found the experience kind of cathartic. Think I can go a while now without seeing anything else. Went classic with a re-watch and examination of Peckinpah's STRAW DOGS for raw violence, followed by the compromised, miscast, weak-paced comic adaptation--WANTED. James McAvoy and Terrance Stamp tried, really-really tried to save this film with respectable acting metal, but, alas, no cigar. Angelina Jolie is a black hole of worthless talent, I could just imagine the production people on set scuffing their shoes between takes mumbling, "Man, she sucks." Heck, it's no frail secret that Hollywood mines the graphic novel/comic market but it seems like so many misses with the barely the occasional bingo. This absolutely mystifies me to no end. Why? Because the storyboard is RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU, HOW CAN YOU GET SO LOST? Here they had WANTED (which is a smoking story as any geek knows) all laid out for them. And now they're going back to the well and trying again. An adaptation of RED by Warren Ellis. Oh. A trained killer goes for revenge on the people who trained him? And I love Ellis! But they're casting Morgan Freeman and Bruce Willis? Aw, man...haven't we been down this road before? *Sigh* What would Sam Peckinpah do?

Can't

Was going to post something long here about my grandfather and his dogged allegiance to Cronkite every night, but I can't. It makes me sad. I'm young enough to forget and old enough to remember. Truly a class act has left the building.

Matt Lauer? Go fuck yourself.

Characters That Pull

Today. Coffee, half a pot, arms the brain. Quick troll through cyber-space before I bury myself in the chair and attack the long story. Found this beautiful photo essay about Cape Hatteras surfers on the NY Times site. Pricked the memory banks. I recall I started a story last year based on an acquaintance of mine. We met on a few Hatteras runs over fifteen years ago through a mutual friend. Quite the wild man, he's now settled with a family and a tobacco / soy bean farm. In his youth he spent an entire year squatting on "Hat", moving from empty house to half-built homestead to sleeping in his truck. Surfed every day regardless of conditions and swells. "That year," he said, "I made like eighteen hundred dollars, man, and nearly froze and starved to death. But it was the happiest I've ever been in my life." Got to get back to that story someday. What happens when a squatter is trapped in a house and the owners unexpectedly return to do some very bad things during a storm. Fighting the urge...must...stick...to...the...long...story.

Focus Group: Declan B.

Everybody's got an opinion, right? I've conducted my fair share of focus groups back in the day, and while it's nice to hear everybody's two cents...it can be infuriating. Trust your instincts and let the fine lad, Declan Burke, know what Kindle cover is best for his upcoming release CRIME ALWAYS PAYS ( apparently a sizable chunk is set on a Greek island). Vote here.

In other Irish writing news, it saddens me to learn that life-long teacher and odds-beating scribe Frank McCourt passed on Sunday.

Not So Fast

New Ellery Queen arrived today, and I learned a valuable lesson. My tiny gnat bite of success with a story placement in the August issue (left) has been brushed aside. Oh well. But this jumbo issue features one of my favorites--former Hardluck Stories landlord from the cyber-ghetto, David Zeltserman. Hardluck Stories packed up their circus tent before I could audition my clown act. Inspiring stuff. Anyway, I'm taking the EQ with me for some aquatic camping (i.e. sailing). Mojito, crime fiction, sprawled relaxation on the bow. Hope the thunderstorms hold off. Oh yeah, and lest I catch any flack, I'm taking the laptop too. So there.

AIC, FIA, RWA

Earlier this week I had the opportunity to knock back a Johnnie Walker and hang with a trio of writers in DC for the annual Romance Writers of America conference.

Yes. You read that correctly. Romance Writers of America.

I know sweet jack-all about romance fiction and learned there's a lot more to it than waxed chests and prurient passions. Made me question why so many aspire to craft crime fiction at all seeing as the financial juggernaut of the romance market is enough to make anyone pie-eyed. And these romance writers were serious, people. Game faces that can wilt your best competitive move on your best day. The funniest moment for me was when Karin Tabke, after I shared some positive buzz I've been getting (possible agent interest), asked me to stand up and turn around. Someone in the group made a remark that Karin wanted to check out my butt. I confess I felt a little weird and probably blushed (one curse of the Irish is we have cracker asses... the barren Kansas of posteriors.) Anyway, she gave me a playful kick and told me to quit fucking around, finish my novel, and send it in. Translation? FIA = Foot In Ass. AIC = Ass In Chair.

Anyway, I got the message. Thanks, Karin.

Back to work.

Cat Character

Recently we got rid of one of our felines. We only had two. No great loss as he was a psychotic, misunderstood bastard who was always on the wrong side of the law--mine. His name was Tack...a swerving reservoir of two expressions: snotty boredom and abject fear. His brother, one mellow mofo, remains to rule the roost. His name is Jibe, and anyway I'm thinking of adding a pet cat to a story that I'm working on. Nothing new there, you know, cats in stories but for me it's a first. In the story I'm giving him three legs and calling him Chomsky.

In honor of literary cats...a video. Just try standing still.

Monday: Paging Jimmy McNulty

Arguably it all went down in Flatbush. But gee whiz, the NY Daily News never misses a chance to flog the sensationalism. Not as bad as the NY Post and a better sports page, but what an irrelevant cheap shot this is, no pun intended. Yes, those are shell casing markers outside a mural of Big Bird. Dude, time to move. Just sayin'.

Paging Mister Stephenson

No one seems to address what may happen when the kids gang up on Aunt Jean for all those ugly sweaters given over the years...or when Mom runs off with the swaggering, black knight and leaves Dad weeping on the castle steps....

Tooting the Muted Horn: PYNCHON

OK. Hold on. Arms crossed now and a squint. Thomas Pynchon has written a private eye novel? Get out of here! No friggin' way! Is this some kind of weird joke? Apparently not, and shucks I am excited as hell for it because I love the sonofabitch (inner literature geek showing)...the thing is, will the famous recluse show his mug at the PWA banquet? What if the book is so amazing (no doubt) that it gets nominated for an Edgar? Oh, man. How unbelievably cool would that be? Talk about setting the bar. Comes out next month.

Joey

YES! See? It is a vital food group, doctor, just like salsa. Fist bump to The Rap Sheet for this blessed news.

Safety Meeting

Hey now, Sophie Littlefield sparks some leftover 4th of July charcoal and grills the gentle Ben of crime fiction SEAN DOOLITTLE over at Pulp Pusher. Boogie here to read the interview.

Man, have you read SAFER? I do the community watch thing in my neighborhood and it's chilling. One of the best yarns of the year, by far.

Slashing

One of the things that seem to be the hardest for writers to master is the ability to slash away the excess. I've grown comfortable with this. I used to save large chunks of writing that I whittled away, thinking I'd use them in some future section or story. Then I wised up and kissed the trimmings goodbye. Takes faith sometimes, but I remind myself to JUST TELL THE DAMN STORY. Question: How much have you sent to the round file? And that guy on the left, that's me doing the safety dance.

Gettin' Back At It: 3 Quotes for a Post-Holiday Monday

"All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand." -George Orwell

"Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position." - Stephen King

"Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards." - Robert A. Heinlein

NEVER GIVE UP

Four hours seventeen minutes, 50 plus aces, world records shattered. By far the best tennis match. EVER.

Congratulations, Roger.

Damn. Andy was awesome. Lessons for all there...even us bullshit writers. Tenacity is everything.

Narcissistic Personality Disorder

Sometimes, really, maybe a successful long-range North Korean Taepodong-2 missile strike on the 4th of July would be soooo worth it. If, say, you hit the right spot.

Friday's Forgotten Books: Panama by Thomas McGuane

Liar, miscreant, drug-snorting Chester Pomeroy--washed-up rock singer spiraling into the hot pavement of lost dreams and love--a jester of modern existentialism pinballing around in Key West before it was smoothed over by pretty and buff--a shelled-out puppet of the howl that still haunts America if we'd only put down the remote and the cheese-doodles for one goddamn second. Classic McGuane, classic insane. The pace of wit and dialogue should be studied by aspiring comic writers. At a reading a few years ago McGuane confessed it was his favorite book, funny that seeing how PANAMA is the one book of his most people hate. I laughed from the back of the room (alone) because I honestly think he said that just to piss a couple of simpering fans off. Who knows? The man just goes fly-fishing these days and has stopped writing novels. Thrifty afternoon read, skidding to a smoking stop at way under 200 pages...so go ahead, build your own wishing well to raise money and take the butt of your grandfather's Colt and crucify yourself on your ex-girlfriend's door. A crazy trip indeed.

SIXER

Cool cat and bird fanatic Bill Cameron, Tim Maleeny, Sean Chercover, Keith Rawson, Brett Battles, me, and host of others are plugging their summer six pack reading lists on BOOKSPOT CENTRAL. Are you on the fence as to what to bring to the beach? Go here.

For all those...

Schlubs like me who've thrived, taken lumps, and flamed out in the seriously messed-up trenches of blue chip ad agencies...it's a month away...relive the horror with all its cruelty....