The Rat That Ate Marvel

Oh man, does this mean we can get our picture taken with Frank Castle and Snow White in Orlando? Loose affiliations and "family" protests have forced the corporate juggernaut to tone down media and wallow in censorship before. Is this the death knell for the Marvel MAX series in all its incarnations? Say it ain't so....

UPDATE: More on this story over at Publishers Weekly's comic blog.

.45 Days

Forty five days.

Birthplace of Vonnegut.

Birthplace of Dillinger.

Indy.

Burning Man is Blue

This news needs to be passed around to the giddy balloon hawkers at your festival of choice. Don't rag on my charcoal and Porterhouse, you tabbouleh snarfing, finger-pointing hypocrites.

Looks Like My Kind of Movie

"With more than five million of these zombies now under its control..."

CONFICKER. Somebody says zombie eggs in your computer and the paranoia just red lines. Try to sleep easy, friends, and back up your novel in progress before it all comes crashing down on you like a bad loan. Maybe FaceBook and Twitter really are part of secret plot to herd all the sheep for slaughter. In any event, I'm sure the programmers used a "u" instead of an "i" to name this insideous beast and they would tell us, really they would, but I'm sure they've been liquidated by now. Probably buried in some GoogleEarth scrubbed compound across the Chesapeake Bay. Wait. Is that a knock at my door?

"There is also a different possibility that concerns the researchers: That the program was not designed by a criminal gang, but instead by an intelligence agency or the military of some country to monitor or disable an enemy’s computers...recent attacks that temporarily crippled Twitter and Facebook were believed to have had political overtones. "

Dreamer's Anthem

The power of music. It can give you a lift when you need it the most.

Last night I went through volumes of old stuff. I mean, really OLD stuff I keep in an overstuffed valise under the bed. Pieces from twenty years ago or more and I can't even hear my voice in what I read. Some creepy, some good, some awful...scripts, poems, monologues, stories....attempts at something cool.

Been wondering about why I do this writing stuff at all. And no, it's not the "give up" why, but the real soul why. What makes me do this? For so long? What's wrong with me? I have painful suspicions, but then again, who doesn't?

Been listening to this song for days. It's my new official anthem when I get the blues. It's about music but I think about writing when I hear it, so substitute books and writing for tunes and guitars and you'll get the drift. Going to see this freakin' genius at 8X10 in Baltimore soon. Listen and be inspired. Keep on dreaming even if it breaks your heart...Goddamn right.

Charlie Byrne

I've been working on this character for a year now--Charlie Byrne...a south Jersey, half-baked security consultant and ne'er -do-well, scraping out a life on the Jersey shore. Repos, divorce work, some Dumpster diving... the occassional lost soul. Charlie has been around. Sometimes he's up in Point Pleasant Beach chasing down a gold-digging divorcee...sometimes he's in Atlantic City scanning tapes for a buddy at one of the casinos to settle a loan. Most of the time, however, Charlie is behind the curve and way out of his depth. Hell, one time the poor guy got left in a dark place in the middle of the Pine Barrens with the Jersey Devil on his ass and a coven of screaming meth-addicted nail salon technians looking to burn him alive. Charlie has problems. He also has a three-legged cat named Chomsky. He's been at David Cranmer's BEAT TO A PULP, the blistering cold POWDER BURN FLASH, and (most recently) Charlie crashed the tea party at ELLERY QUEEN and threw up all over the rug. Needless to say, I'm still fleshing out his sorry excuse for a life.

Today, however, Charlie is deep inside NFC East enemy territory--Philadelphia. See, Charlie (like me) is a huge NY Giants fan. Personally, I like Philadelphia (sport teams notwithstanding), but Charlie? Shit, the dude has issues. He's bitching about the grind for a minute or two today over at Geoff Eighinger's EASTERN STANDARD CRIME.

Just a breather flash-fiction and I am the king of typos so forgive me. But where to next? I can only hope and wonder...maybe even pray for Charlie's future.

IV Bullsh*t

Man, am I cranky today. Just finished a story about a feeble-minded grandfather on the eastern shore of Maryland that ends grimly. Skipjacks, oystermen in the 1930s, a confused young boy, a mixed blood African/Native American , and an ancient Colt pistol won in a corn-liquored poker game on a train from Chicago that accidentally slays and is used for bludgeoning patricide. *SIGH* Just about to start Pynchon's IV (left) and I'm soooo looking forward to it. Big fan. Gee, ain't that a clever double entendre? Inherent Vice = IV? A reference to our drugs addled America perhaps? Our brain-dead, ego-centric culture being fed through a tube? Or is it I, "V" referencing his first mindfuck of a novel? No, it can't the female anatomy reference...birth, sex, dea--- hold on. Sleeve the reading glasses for a second. Look at that cover. This Pynchon novel is set at the end of the sixties. Tri-fin set ups on surfboards didn't happen until '73 -'75 (even then, on shortboards only if I'm not mistaken, maybe in a Dick Brewer LSD drenched shaping shed--get Matt Warshaw on the phone...). Logs went straight out of fashion and those supertankers on the re-outfitted Ghostbusters meat wagon? Hmm, look like learner pop-outs or soft tops from today to me. Goddamnit. Again, will someone please fire the art fucking department and continuity directors. Oh, man, if I were King....hit it, boys.

Milestone - 60

The Demon. Happy Birthday, Chaim Witz, a.k.a Gene Simmons.

Come on...how many times did YOU listen to the DESTROYER album as a kid? Still worth a listen, but thank God the Clash arrived shortly thereafter to save my fledgling musical soul.

Here's a story from the yet to be extinguished brain cells. This agency I worked for a billion years ago? We once had a minor league baseball team as a client and they asked some of the creative team to come up the most insane promotional night they could think of...turned out the winner was KISS TRIBUTE NIGHT. Friggin' smoked! Baseball players in Kiss make-up, Kiss tribute band, fireworks, Kiss face-painting for the kids, you get the picture. We even rented one of Gene Simmons' outfits for the ads and had the art director, Dan Stoner (seriously...that's his name) do the model shot as The Demon, tongue and all. A total motorhead Dan had this insane mane of black hair. Last I heard Dan founded or was art directing or something for this cool little magazine...

Christ. Dan Stoner. Haven't thought of him in years. Good times, good times.

UPDATE: Oh yeah. And happy birthday wishes to Jeff Tweedy and Elvis Costello too.

They're Baaack -

This is such good news I nearly fell out of my chair. No one has ever, EVER made me laugh harder. Bonus? The eight part mini-series the guys are doing? A murder-mystery! Now. If only they could work in the chicken lady....

Eat Your Heart Out, Kilgore

"What the hell do you know about surfing? You're from goddamned New Jersey." Colonel Kilgore, Apocalypse Now

That Robert Duvall line always bothered me, all that left coast smack dissing the right coast...Kilgore and his skatey Yater spoon. Hurricane Bill has opened Disneyland and the E ticket attractions abound from Delaware to New England. Dig it. That's 1st Street Ocean City, NJ blowing up.

Wrap Ups, Raft Ups

Yesterday I finished a massive writing project and took a huge, scary step...the writing equivalent of pulling the pin on a stun grenade, jumping off a bridge, and asking the pretty girl to slow dance all rolled into one. I'm trying to be realistic. Like anything in life, it's not the act or circumstances that do the real damage when things don't turn out well, but one's expectations.

It's also the last free weekend before school starts. I need distraction to keep my mind off all things written and all the ideas on the stove.

The picture above has a motley assortment of sailboats in what is commonly referred to as a "raft up" in these parts. After the good rum starts flowing, I call it a floating obstacle course. The assorted boat bums in my immediate sphere are rallying. Sounds good to me, as does my mental soundtrack for this excursion included below.

Now, if I can only stop thinking about that huge, scary leap of faith. Hit it, Mickey....

FFMs: The Murder Capital of the World

Instead of forgotten books, Patti Abbott breaks fresh ground this Friday with forgotten movies. Pretty cool, huh? So, let's get to it, shall we?

Two things I should not have done prior to my trip to Venezuela in 2006. One was read the US State Department's warning about this beautiful, conflicted country:

"Violent crime in Venezuela is pervasive, both in the capital, Caracas, and in the interior. The country’s overall per capita murder rate is cited as one of the highest in the world, and Caracas was listed as the murder capital of the world in the September 2008 Foreign Policy magazine. Kidnapping is another serious concern. The Venezuelan National Counter Kidnapping Commission was created in 2006, and since then, official statistics have shown an alarming 78 percent increase in the number of reported kidnappings. Surveys show that the overwhelming majority of kidnappings are not reported to the police. Armed robberies take place throughout the city, including areas generally presumed safe and frequented by tourists. Well-armed criminal gangs operate widely, often setting up fake police checkpoints. Only a very small percentage of crimes result in trials and convictions..."

Gulp. And it gets worse from there. Much worse.

Friends living down there assured me that while some caution was encouraged, a great deal of the warning was hype because Chavez refused to play kickball with some irate Texan and his gimpy sidekick. Of course, then I rented SECUESTRO EXPRESS...and man...I looked at my plane tickets and looked at my family and said, what the hell have I done?

Latin America kidnappings. Sure, there's Denzel's MAN ON FIRE (stylized but still pretty good) and sometimes people mention the utterly horrible Russell Crowe vehicle - PROOF OF LIFE. But trust me, amigo. These flicks are sweets compared to the rancid meat of SECUESTRO EXPRESS. This movie will shake you to your soul...and just when you think it's over and you can finally catch your breath, it isn't. It's like and extended cocking of a cheap revolver right in front of your bleeding, puffed-shut eyes. Everything goes wrong. And the ending? A presage of our future?

Jacked-up Hollywood trailer can be found here.

PWG Up

If you haven't heard, the new PLOTS WITH GUNS is live. Bill, Rawson, Phillips....meaty. I had post up earlier, a Brock VS Bond thing, but this good neo noir-news trumps my goofball commentary. Neil needs a beer and a taco, this is great stuff.

Who's the redhead? Wow.

Talismania, Patron Saint of Writers

So, when your LiveStrong rubber leash of choice welds to your skin because you forgot, hey, rubber melts over open flame (true story, saw this happen in a restaurant kitchen--cook was a fan of a certain Latin American soccer team and we needed to point out to him some elementary laws of physics when his wristband began melting to his flesh) stop by your local supermarket vending machines and get your holy on. That SpongeBob key chain may be goofy kitsch, but the beseeching paddy cake hands decal on your rear window? That can truly pimp your ride. Hey, I'm not anti-religion, per se. But crass commercialism and public displays? Not exactly Thomas Merton, know what I'm saying?

A billion years ago I used to have a holy medal I wore around my neck--St. Jude, the wanderer and patron saint of hopeless cases. My mom gave it to me because, well...obvious reasons. Patron saint of writers btw? St. Francis de Sales. Wonder if there's a holy medal for St. Blandina, patron saint of those falsely accused of cannibalism.

Speaking of saints, it's a bummer but Saint Declan is going offline for awhile. Go get 'em , Dec.

Sand Trap

Resort sand theft. Now there’s a crime plot waiting for a taker. I thought about it some. This stealing sand is nothing new. Sand theft has plagued the Hurricane ravaged islands of the Caribbean for decades, resorts frantically jockeying for tourists Euros and dollars, trying to live up to a twisted fantasy of what island living is like. Talk about the absurdity of mankind. Then again, let’s talk about the absurdity of Cancún itself, a sterilized version of a country on lock down. Whoo-hoo, party at Señor Frogs--check out my sunburned, all-you-can-eat fiesta-dimmed brain. Oh, shut the hell up.

Look. I can’t begrudge people their vacations. But they should grow some wind chimes below the belt and check out the real Mexico sometime. Here’s a hint. It’s not Cabo San Lucas. It’s not Acapulco. Or even Tijuana. It’s that horror and mire of top-down corruption that drives desperation. It’s the flat-eyed obliterated Indians of Chiapas being slaughtered for oil, facing the weapons we provided the Mexican government with sticks. It’s a teacher raped and shot in the head by government bankrolled vigilantes in Oaxaca for teaching indigenous language. It’s a boy of fifteen willing to risk the perils of an Arizona dessert only to be beaten to death by misguided thugs snapping the American flag like a wet towel in the locker room. Do I even have to talk about the drug cartels and the chronic bullshit of our failed drug war? What a world.

The Deadly Ginger-haired Crime Writer

About a year ago, San Francisco crime writer Tim Maleeny introduced me to Sophie Littlefield at the Bouchercon bar. A tall, ginger-haired wonder...Sophie's a writer with style to burn and a champion of anyone trying to crack the publishing code. We quickly became fast friends.

I was fortunate enough to read an advance copy of Sophie's debut last week A BAD DAY FOR SORRY ahead of the pack and decided to interview her for Tony Black's Pulp Pusher. Her book has been getting a lot of traction in the press lately so take notice, people. The interview can be found HERE.

A.C. Doyle's X-Games

This month's issue of Mental Floss Magazine caught my eye at the magazine rack. Flipped open to a piece on Sherlock's scribe. An excerpt:

"Conan Doyle harbored such a compulsive need for adventure that it almost killed him on several occasions. He loved hot-air ballooning and racing fast cars (though, luckily, never at the same time), and as a young man, he made a habit of embarking on absurdly dangerous voyages. In 1880, while traveling on an Arctic whaling ship, he fell overboard into the icy waters so often that the captain nicknamed him “The Northern Diver.” Conan Doyle was also an ardent patriot who wrote impassioned defenses of Britain’s involvement in unpopular wars. In fact, after World War I broke out in 1914, Conan Doyle tried to enlist in the British Army. Of course, at age 55, he was considered too old to serve."

Check it out. Pretty wild stuff. Oh, and one more thing. THIS figures...stay classy Philadelphia.

Spoonfeeding Lit

Mmm, I guess this is OK. But for a guy with a deep background in dramatic theater, I'm really suspicious. Then again it could be a welcome break from all this vampire-wizard silliness. I imagine the short essay answers in junior high will be peppered with dreamy descriptions of hunks du jour and teen queens if these take off.

Twelfth Night and R&J could work. But the Scottish play? Hamlet? The Tempest? Gruuuuh?

Guts: Josh Dysart

All too frequently, people arch eyebrows when I tell them, yeah, comics are part of my fiction reading regimen. Next time someone scoffs, feel free to reference this article I found at the New York Times about Joshua Dysart and his Unknown Soldier comic. The realism and intensity of the material will knock them back on their heels. Good stuff. And brave. Now for my non sequitur moment...ahem. Hugo? Little man, I know the greedy powers that be tried to 86 you from the equation back in '02, and I know you've done some good things for S.A. identity and the masses (along with some pretty bad things as well) But this whole pretend Marxism thing you think you have going on? It's really jumped the shark.

It's A Good Thing

It's a fine marriage is what I think. And for those fly-by-night hucksters and shakedown publishing artists, watch your six. The thing about crime and mystery writers? We know a lot about hiding the body, man. We think about it all day long.

One More Reason Why You Should Never Work in Advertising

Can you imagine the creative team on this account? Good Lord. Orbs? Where did you come up with that one, guys? The precancerous cysts brailing the walls of the customers' esophagi? Sure, love to do the press check on the billboards but, hey, my tongue just "dissolved" out of my skull like a strip of spoiled bacon. (Hat tip to the genius Warren Ellis.)

Counting down the days...

Sure, yeah...I watch pre-season football. Sometimes. But for my money, the real quest for the enchilada begins in September.

And look-ee here...my boys' opener is against who? Washington? This is going to sound like so much smack, but Dan Snyder can throw all the money he wants at his pet project. Have at it, you twerp, because karma is a bear, Danny. Your putzy micro-management has proved--oh shall we say--suckful for the last DECADE.

I've a character in this novel I'm working on who (like someone else in the room--ahem) is a massive NY Giants fan, stuck in world where everyone bleeds (grrrrrr) midnight green. A nightmare for certain. Not Fred Exley crazy nightmare, but just about.

August is such a dead time for sports on TV. Sure, there's golf, baseball (meh), and the US Open revs up in a few weeks, but football? Can't freakin' wait.

Bruce

One would think being from New Jersey the title of this post on my dopey Saturday afternoon writing break would be about the Boss. A gross assumption. I harbor distinct opinions about New Jersey music matters. Regretfully when you say you hail from the Garden State most people assume you listen to nothing but Springsteen. Phhhtttt, in a word, no. It's a shame really...musical juggernauts like The Misfits, The Smithereens, Howard Tate, and (dare I say it) Fountains of Wayne all get brushed aside for an artist that (God forgive me) should have perished in a plane crash, mmm, right after the Nebraska album. For me it's a love hate thing with the Jersey icon. I kind of listen every once in a while to Greetings From Asbury Park, D.O.T.E.O.T., and the Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle. But it's rare. It's kind of like marmalade for me. Maybe once or twice a year on a rainy day and I'm totally fine with that. Whereas The Smithereens? Cue those guys up at the gym. One more thing. Give credit where credit is due. If Springsteen never hooked up with arrangement maestro Steve Van Zandt, I'm sorry, he would have disappeared into obscurity. Those early horns, those lead guitar hooks? Van Zandt, all the way.

Anyway, I'm talking about the other Bruce today. The "Chin" that walks the earth. Ash. BRUCE CAMPBELL. Go and test your fanboy worship for the big lug here. I scored 80%.

The Man Never Rests

The man. Todd.

He never rests.

Sure, maybe when he's broken down his shift at the XR Bar on Houston, or when he's finally--FINALLY--gotten you to shut the fuck up and take your beating like a man he takes a pause. But that's only to straighten his tie before he kicks you again.

New Thuglit. Here.

Mr. Happy Pants: FFBs

I'll admit it. There was a time maybe about fifteen years ago when I was sulking around, reveling in a wet sweater philosophy kick. Strange days for sure. Philosophy is the strongest meat there is, people, and to dabble in it is akin to the unlucky tourist taking the wrong turn down the wrong alley in the dark side of town. Philosophers. Brooding intellectuals who's life mission throughout history has been solely to torque the human mind. I was one such unlucky tourist. Down a dark alley one night I tripped and fell over the body of E.M. Cioran. His smile was a knife. Quickly I read everything by him. Mr. Happy Pants had such gleeful titles --The Trouble With Being Born, A Short History of Decay, Drawn and Quartered...show up at the party with one of those babies tucked into your jacket pocket and I'm telling you, the ladies will just peel off the walls and throw themselves at your feet.

Not.

Anyway, if you have a strong stomach... a good primer for E.M. Cioran and a terrific bathroom read is his masterpiece ON THE HEIGHTS OF DESPAIR, my Friday Forgotten Book. Short blasts of lyrical intensity, you are swept away into chaos and challenges of meaning that will rock you to your soul. Call it flash-philosophy. Essays with titles like "The Beauty of Flames", "Total Dissatisfaction", and "The Vanity of Compassion"...whew. Tasty, tasty, tasty. You've been warned.

Reading List

Can you force feed a teenager a love of books? I think so. When I was in high school, every summer we were assigned a reading list of, I believe, ten or more books. Mostly classics, some occasional edgier fare (Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, The Worldly Philosophers to name a few). We would be tested the first day back with brutal essay formats. My brother Jack is a public school English teacher and assigns books to his students. Poor guy has to fight for any variance in the stale "classic" offerings. That would frustrate the hell out of me. He's received serious legal threats over several books from weenie parents a shed lizard skin shy of being jingoistic, racist maniacs. The summer reading requirements weren't the spark of my love of reading, but there was plenty of fuel there. My love took off when I was bedridden for a few months with mono. Fortunately my passion detonated big time when I pursued my English Literature degree--not because of the curriculum, but because several professors took me aside and gave me reading lists outside the syllabus parameters, along with films, plays, and vast washes of overlooked and marginalized poetry. Some of those books and films? Oh yeah. Crime and pulp. Which professors? Sorry. I'll never tell.

Ramp Up the Mini Bar

It's back and not a moment too soon. Sunday--August 16th. The suave and the sweet. The lying and the damned. MAD MEN.

A friend reminded me that I met actor John Slattery (pictured left as Roger Sterling) years ago. This was back in the day and either at Kelly's Irish Times or some Catholic University keg-fest up in northeast..."Slats" went to school with my older brother and was one of the many Irish-American ruffians my brother slunk around with...guys like "Bid" and "Sully" and (good God!) "Cap". All somewhat respectable now, but back then one step away from being kicked out of school on their collective butts or in DC jail. I seem to recall black, wavy hair in a Saved by the Bell "Screech" style haircut and a bunch of hubbub over him getting cast in a Levi's commercial at the time. Far cry from smooth Roger Sterling, cad above cads. And while I may catch static from the ladies reading this, I think Slats' character on the show is admirable for his zesty approach to sinful living. Don Draper? Bah. I can't wait for what witty put down Roger will sling next.

Plot Your Pre-Post-Apocalypse Novel Here

Struggling to come up with the nightmare scenario for your apocalyptic or post-apocalyptic thriller? Slate Magazine has an app for that. Try the "Choose Your Own Apocalypse" drag and drop matrix. Yeah, sure, it's a time waster. But so are blogs.

No news there's been a rash of this "doom" thinking of late. Times of stress, horror and nightmare scenarios flood our creative outlets, books, and films. Kind of like the zombie stuff yesterday and the vampired-to-death orgy everywhere. Thing is, what will be the post-post-apocalyptic wave? If recent history is a guide it's a toss up between great genre-breaking, progressive creativity (the 60s) or disco (mid-70s)? Hmm. Then again, after disco came punk....

Zombies Cheered Me Up

This just cheered me up. Immensely. Shamblers, the undead, coolness. Man, it made me grab my iPod and cue up Van Halen. Will it hold up in the canon of great zombie films? We'll see. My personal favorite was Cemetery Man, what's yours?

Chesapeake: Summer Part 2

Been trying to get my head around this, don't know if it's relevant to the whole writing process, but I was pretty glib on Saturday, happily musing about banging around the bay, and I'm sorry about that. See, when things percolate along nicely that's when the darker hands of fate sneak up on you and knock you down. The Grateful Dead sang about that ('Cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door...) Long story short (as I need to keep certain details private) my day on the bay nearly turned tragic. Like deadly tragic. Had to rescue a friend who was close to drowning. No joke.

We write about crime around here and we talk about fear, but until you look into a close friend's eyes, a man who has been a Marine and strong as a bull all his life and his eyes are full of real terror? Hell, everything you try to write about and describe pales away.

Guess what? Time really does slow down and focus does sharpen and your existence flattens into critical seconds, thinking yeah, the current might take us down here, he--me--we might die. Right in front of my family and his wife.

I'm still amazed I didn't panic. But all is well.

The real thing, man. Phew.

Chesapeake: Summer

Even with less than 5 knot winds, the Chesapeake can still kick your butt with images like this. Dawn. Thomas Point Light. Slow doldrums are good for cooler scouring, reading, notes, and half gainers. Today, the first day of August, Lúnasa. Driftday, Saturday. Anchor or raft up, combine a good jig of white rum, half the juice of a lime, and some Goya coconut water. Shake with intensity and serve over crushed ice. Simple.