My Heart Has Gone East

(caption: I went to Litcrawl and all I got for my trouble was some glares and this brochure)

The Missus has left for an emergency and I'm having a hard time keep it down. Yet the show must go on. So says the IRS and if I don't make an effort to promote my Cafepress shop, I'll be relegated to "hobby status," and in trouble. So unfortunately the shop promotion took precedence over all else tonight and yours truly had to hit Litcrawl with The Kid in tow.

Uh, just one problem. Even though he is very tall for his twelve years of age, he was not getting into any bars. The Missus had to pack which meant that I had to cook most of dinner while she did that and booked her trip...while I got ready for tonight. No, I didn't shave while I stirred the chili, stop it.

So we ate dinner and said our goodbyes, in case The Kid and I didn't get back in time. Now parking in certain San Franciscan neighborhoods tends to be scarce and adding a couple of thousand festival goers to a Friday night crowd, will make that situation even worse. It took several minutes to find a parking spot up the hill and we gave a bumper sticker away to some Litcrawlers (they had the guide) on the way down.

By the time we got to the first event at Ti Couz, it was already over. No problem, we went Darwin, adapted and gave away some more stuff away in front of Gestalt Haus. We gave away some stuff in front of the Clarion Alley, where there were open mic readings. The second stage was going to be a hit and run with me going into The Elbo Room, home of a good drink and fine acid jazz (at least the last time I went to it, almost a decade ago).

The idea was for me to give out some cups, T-shirts and bumper stickers to the people that run The Grotto, so I left The Kid there at the poetry readings (don't worry, he had his cell phone and there is a police station across the street). It was crowded, so crowded that I couldn't even see into the place, it was actually that crowded. I went back for The Kid and we set up shop just out front.

Note, try to give stuff away and people think that you are handing them the plague. To say it hurts when the junkie panhandlers get more respect and love just feet away from you, is an understatement.

Don't tase me, Litcrawler! Don't tase me!

It was not like I was handing out leaflets to a dry cleaner or God forbid, I'd gone Vegas with the strip club and escort flyers. I am exaggerating a bit though, people loved the T-shirts and they loved the cups. Those that received them were ecstatic and one gentleman was nice enough to put his on top of his long-sleeved shirt. Everyone that got a cup gave back the biggest smile and that counts for a lot.

My heart wasn't in it, though The Kid enjoyed himself and the salesman in him came out. We had a good time overall, though I didn't get to give away my merch to any of the authors or authors that have day jobs with the San Francisco Chronicle.

The Missus was long gone by the time we got back and she called about thirty minutes after we walked in, to say that the plane was boarding. All I am trying to do right now is keep the home happy, and to keep The Kid and myself distracted 'til my heart gets home. So if I seem like I'm trying to keep things a little too light and fluffy? You're right.

(If you see man wearing this sweatshirt, give him a hug and a cookie...preferably, just a cookie)

What Browne Can Do For You

No, not UPS, Quin Browne.

She and Thom Gabrukiewicz have changed the world of Six Sentences, putting the 6 S readers on their ears. They fired off sentences without knowing the plot in advance and the result is "Internal Combustion."

I have to recuse myself somewhat, because I believe that Miss Browne is one of the few authors that are not named Hammett or Chandler, that can do no absolutely wrong on paper.

"Swerved"

First things first, Powder Burn Flash has changed from a Blogspot.com blog, to an actual URL. Aldo has worked harder than a room full of forensic accountants trying to decipher the California State budget and he has not only created a new site, but he has also posted all one hundred and eight stories from the old site.

Next, who was lucky enough to have his story be the first one on the new site? No...not Ken Bruen, me, damn it, me! Why I oughta...ahem, at any rate, check out "Swerved." It's a little story about a man with a different serial compulsion.

Overheard Downtown

As I was working last night, I witnessed this exchange-

Young Teenage Male: Excuse me Miss, you dropped something...

An attractive woman in her mid-twenties and I both looked down to see what he was talking about.

YTM: ...The conversation!

The attractive woman kept walking.

YTM: C'mon, I'll meet you halfway. I'm right here, I'll meet you halfway!

Finally she turned around and smiled, though she kept going.

"Cynara"

I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion. I am glad that you can forgive me and I’m glad that you came back. After all, when we were just seven years old, you said that we would be together forever. Maybe if you were patient, I never would’ve strayed…but technically, I didn’t stray…you left.

The statistics for a marriage of childhood sweethearts lasting were against us, and you so desperately wanted me to get a job. I could’ve applied myself, but why would I bother when I knew my ship would come in? You should’ve trusted me on that one, though I wouldn’t have, either, with my track record.

Sure, my eyes wandered, but I was married, right? I was like a diabetic in a candy shop and I never cheated…while we married. But while I looked at women, flirted with women, texted women, I never looked for a job, and that was too much for you. What was that William Congreve quote that you would browbeat me with, whenever I pushed things too far?

Heav'n has no rage like love to hatred turn'd
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.

So you left me before my ship came in, as I knew it would, in the form of an inheritance from my Uncle Elijah and it was just right on time, before they could repossess my truck. Of course you were long gone by then, leaving me with an empty home, an empty wallet and an empty heart.

You left for greener pastures, Cynara, never figuring that our old house would become an oasis again. And who benefited? Why, all those women from town who were waiting in the wings, that’s who. They kept me afloat; they kept me alive; they kept me happy. But there’s only so much money to go around in this hick town, and despite whatever I could do right, not every woman could come across with some cash or food.

So that meant that for all intents and purposes, that I could’ve (or is it “should’ve?) installed a revolving door in this bedroom. Jane, Janet, Jenny, Joan, Jolene, Juanita, Jycinda, and that was just the “J’s.” Yet, you were the one that asked for and got the separation. You were the one that filed for the no-fault divorce, as long as I didn’t ask for alimony and, like I said, I was faithful to you in my own fashion. I almost waited until the divorce decree was official, so there might have been a few weeks where I wasn’t so monogamous? Well, hey.

I didn’t tell you about Uncle Elijah, but you came knocking on my door anyway. You always smelled so good…and you could always smell money. How could I say “no?”

Sitting here in this bed watching you slip into that dress...just makes me want to take it off of you again. And the way you put that lipstick on just gives me all kinds of ideas. Of course you know that I won’t be exclusive until we walk down the aisle again, right? I mean, why else would you laugh off Kara’s little message on the answering machine and Terri’s panties hanging on my headboard?

“Did you like the way I put my lipstick on, Owen?”

“You can clearly see that I do, Cynara.”

“Would you like a taste?”

“Yeah, baby.”

Wow…that tastes different, I’ve never tasted…why am I having a hard time breathing? Why is my tongue swelling? Oh, God, I’m falling off the bed. What the fuck is going on? It feels like my lungs are turning inside out and all the air went with them.

“Crawl around Owen, go ahead, you won’t find your epinephrine because it’s in my purse.”

Damn…it’s my peanut allergy, she’s known about it since we were six. I wonder if Samson and Delilah were childhood sweethearts.

“I have been faithful to you, Owen, as you say “in my own fashion.” But if you thought I would just forgive you for bringing all of these sluts into my house, while my name is still on the deed, you are sadly and fatally mistaken. My sister has told me about the parade of whores that go through here and the bank sent me a notice of foreclosure. You are not dragging my credit down with yours.”

You dumb bitch! If you’re so damn smart and your sister knows all of my business, how could you not know that we’re rolling in money...


Patti Abbott said-

What I need to do to take me away from so much stressful news is to write something short and sassy. Will you join me? It's been six months.Aldo Calgagno, Gerald So and I are ready to challenge flash fiction writers once again. I hope you're in the mood.

Since women have become a bit of a political football of late, I have a choice of two lines to use in a 750 or so word story. Both lines come from an obscure and strange Kay Francis movie from 1932 called Cynara.

"I have been faithful to you, Cynara, in my fashion."

Or "Call no woman respectable till she's dead."

Change the name to whatever suits you if you choose line 1, although it's hard to beat Cynara for mystique.We're thinking of an end date of October 20th. Aldo will post stories for those without sites on Powder Burn Flash . And Gerald So and I will post the links for those who do have blogs. Hope to hear from you.

"Dispatched"

Let's change things up here and try something new. I have this story that has literally been sitting in this blog's draft folder for over a year and a half. It's been sitting there so long in fact that I can't really remember just where I was going with this, other than the near destruction of a small Illinois town and that the protagonist was to be a police-dispatcher.

At any rate, take a gander at the thing and give me an idea somewhere just this side of absurd, as to where you think this thing should go. Hell, if you feel like it, grab the reins yourself and turn this thing into a piece of flash fiction-

"Dispatched"

Some say it takes a village to raise a child and in the case of Lodzes, it took the whole village getting burned down and built back up again. The family surname, Lodz is pronounced 'Lüj and it almost sounds like the downhill sled.

Yet as soon as the first Lodzes arrived in Bluff Creek, Illinois back in 1875, they were called Loads and they lived up to the name, only it was the village that left carrying the burden. They didn't take kindly to compliments and they didn't handle their liquor well. As witnessed in 1876 when during a celebration of America's centennial, just two small cups of potato vodka caused Danuta Lodz to mistake a compliment pertaining to her lips for something else altogether. She flung a kerosene lamp at her would-be paramour and the rest was infamy.

In the space of the next thirteen years, the town was built up and burned down again...twice. Neither times were the fault of the Lodzes. The first fire was actually the fault of a carpenter from Wisconsin that fell asleep while smoking and the second was most likely sparked by grain dust. Yet, with the Great Fire of Chicago so fresh in every one's minds, they became the new "O'Learys."

The town was virtually inhospitable to them and the then patriarch, Aleksy, wanted to move the family out, right then, and there. Knowing that they were pariahs, Aleksy knew that no one would offer the family a fair share for the property in town that they owned, nor would they get a decent deal for the family farm. Aleksy and the family had no choice but to tough it out.

Eventually the Lodzes convinced the Janiaks, a small merchant family from Aurora, to set up a general store. This was in response to the Bluff Creek retailers, whom began to charge an exorbitant rate for the most basic stuffs, in an effort to drive the Lodzes away.

Here it was, a new century around the corner and the town was reverting to feudal states. The Poles who didn't want to be associated the Lodz-Janiak faction, bonded with the Germans and Russians as if the three countries were somehow always best of friends. The Lodz-Janiak faction had taken up a small, but equal part of the town and the irony was not lost on the town's lone Black family who had just fled Louisiana over discrimination and Jim Crow laws, for Bluff Creek.

The Janiaks are where I come in. Shunned by Bluff Creek and all the surrounding towns for doing business with the Lodzes, we bonded with and eventually married into that family. A decade later during the waning days of "the war to end all wars" that decimated two-thirds of the town's male population, all was forgiven...by most. My great-great grandfather Filip Janiak married Danuta Lodz's granddaughter, Karol and this new union moved to the outskirts of town.

Karol's mother felt ashamed for what happened and she raised Karol to believe that the Lodz family name was a curse. Filip felt the same, so their offspring and their following generations were polite strangers to the Lodz-Janiak clan. They worshipped together, celebrated a Christmas or Thanksgiving here or there, but with all the warmth and conviction of a neighbor that you visit on occasion...

My Name Is Cormac Brown And I Approve Of This Message

I do not suffer fools gladly.

-Oscar Wilde

Why should we suffer fools, angrily, bitterly or any emotional capacity? Seriously.

Yet every day, there they are and I have only the vaguest notion as to how they got there. Some seek direction; others seek guidance and most seem to be seeking a surrogate parent. I have a twelve year-old son that I helped give birth to and to the noxious moron that would attach his or herself to me like a flea or a leach? I am not your parent and you certainly are not my child.

I know this sounds cynical when I say I've grown weary of dealing with morons who not only cannot act their age, but want to include me in, or want me to witness their foolery. Go act stupid in the corner and do it quietly, please, or it's no dessert for you. No, that face won't work with me. Go to the corner, now.

To those that created the ubiquitous product (with the worst TV ad ever) that we are to apply to our forehead? Why didn't you create "Fool Off, apply directly to the fool?" Maybe it could be a stun gun or a more compact Louisville Slugger, but I believe that a headache cure would be unnecessary if we could get rid of fools, first.

To Mr. T? No, don't "pity the fool," smite the fool. Wake the fool out of his foolish stupor and slap some common sense into him. The rest of us are just as bad, because too many fools are escaping Darwinism and this is only because we enable them to. We need to put a stop to that as well.

My name is Cormac Brown...I will no longer suffer fools in any capacity and I approve of this message.

Johnny Dollars Goes All Huffington On Me

My friend John Donald Carlucci has a new political blog-

http://www.democracyhypocrisy.com/

Please give it a gander.

Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue

Everybody remembers actors for their best roles, yet I remember Paul Newman not only for his great roles, but for the way that he always transcended his material. There were a lot of movies he did where he was the sole redeeming factor in a sea of dreck and he just rose above it all. You know what I'm talking about if you've ever watched TV back in the 70's, or HBO, Showtime, and Cinemax.

You would sit there and right about twenty-five minutes into this video torture by lazy network or local programmers you would say to yourself, "you know? I think I'm only watching this because of Paul." Do you doubt me? AMC will surely run "The Towering Inferno" often these next couple of week and you will see a raging tower of suck, yet I always watch the thing for five minutes (and only for five minutes) because of Newman and Steve McQueen.

"The Drowning Pool?" A big bowl of meh, but Paul virtually walked on water. Almost everything recently this side of "The Verdict" with the exception of "Road To Perdition" was mediocre at best (I liked "Hudsucker," few do), yet you know he was a consummate professional and a master thespian.

In this day and age, we still have plenty of character actors that are great thespians, but rare now is the lead man that doesn't let his looks or ego hinder his role. Even rarer still is the actor who is dedicated to each and every role that portrays, no matter the caliber of the film or stage.

The Screenwriter Always Rings Twice

You can't trust writers. Anything you say or do is fair game to us. We dress you up in a different gown and use your words and your hair and your eyes and steal your soul.

from "Robbie's Wife" by Russell Hill.

"Robbie's Wife" was a good read, a bit of James M. Cain goes to England if you will, and I mean that in the best possible sense. And while that quote is a little too on the nose and that character literally writes down each and everything that he experiences, it made sense within the plot.

Of course I can't imagine an actual screenwriter (the protagonist's profession) this side of Joe Ezterhas at his most self-indulgent, writing every other thing down in an almost verbatim fashion. So trust me when I say that unlike the police, I will not hold everything you say against you...

...unless it's juicy enough. Then, I'm at least going to change your gender and ethnic origin.

This Is A McGuffin, Right?

The Missus and I saw "Burn After Reading" yesterday, we are talking good Coen Brother hi-jinks. Brad Pitt surprised the both of us just to how funny he was and while this film was not up there with "The Big Lebowski" or "O Brother, Where Are Thou," it was still very enjoyable.

Just right now, we were watching "Witness For The Prosecution" before it was preempted by The Kid's show and I was wondering about something. First, please don't tell me the ending (though I bet I have that figured out already) or discus the film, that's not what I'm concerned about.

What I want to know is this: Tyrone Power's character allegedly built a better egg-beater that he demonstrated to the Widow French. The Widow French asked more or less if the beater used centrifugal force and he said "no, it uses specific gravity." Now, I Wiki-ed it and while I don't claim to know the first thing about science, an egg-beater that uses specific gravity is just a McGuffin, right?

Is That So Wrong Goes To The Movies

For the 46th Annual New York Film Festival, Is That So Wrong has screen some of the upcoming films that will be shown at the Lincoln Center. The first being Wendy and Lucy with Michelle Williams. Pop on over and take a gander.

Where Have You Gone Cormac Brown?...

...a nation turns its bored eyes on you (woo, woo, wooo).



Unrefined video crack, Sid Meier-style.

Goodbye family.
Goodbye social life.
Not goodbye to bathing and toothbrushing, but virtually everything else.

That's the good video crack, Jack!

John Puts Our Lives In Perspective

John puts most of our lives in perspective with this post.

P.S. after you click it, you have to scroll down the page to see it.

Always The Bride's Last Fling...

...never the groom.

On Wiki-tangents And "Monkey Island"

The beauty of the Internet is that all this information is available to anywhere you have a connection, any time of the day that you need it. The bad part of it is the dilettante aspect where you retrieve just the information you need and only the information that you need, as well as wiki-tangents (Wikipedia + tangents = wiki-tangents).

You know where you study one subject and you click a link to another, and by the end of it, you need to click your Internet history to find out just exactly what it was that you were originally searching for? Yeah, that writing black hole. As an example, I have a good story all written up and the only problem with it is that it doesn't have a middle. It literally has a few sentence fragments and nothing more. So I have to fill those sentences in, while staying clear of the borders of Anachronism Land.

The first wiki-tangent yielded actual useful information, though I wasted a good amount of time because a video of the shell that was Bonnie and Clyde's death car, wouldn't load for shit with my dial-up. Ehi, I had to surrender. The second thing that amazed me was when I was researching orange groves in the San Fernando Valley and I found out about a place back in the day called "Monkey Island." Try to put something up that abysmal today and the PETA people will hound you to the ends of the Earth...where they will torture by feeding you a tofu effigy of yourself and singing really crappy folk songs off-key.

If you click the link, please scroll up and down. You'll find other quotes about the San Fernando Valley by Michael Connelly, Raymond Chandler, Robert Redford, and many others. Now, if only I can figure just what exactly is my fascination with Mulholland Drive, despite never having drove or set foot on it, then I can get some sleep.

Quoth The Lovecraft

"At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night."

– H.P. Lovecraft, from the Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter

The Road of The Shaken

An old Cormacism, but a goodie-

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And got stuck behind an old lady in a Cadillac...all the way from Portola to Monterey, g*dd*mn it!

"Heads You Lose"

"A conscience is a luxury no private dick can afford."

Mike Shayne from "Heads You Lose," page 46.

Before "Hammer" became the detective name most synonymous with "Mike" and way before Horatio Caine perpendicularly sidled up to people, to pelt them with bad puns and clichés, there was another Mike that had the red-headed crime fighting market cornered, Mike Shayne.

This book was given to me by the Baroness and "Heads You Lose" is a reprint of the 1943 story "Blood On The Black Market." This was the eighth Mike Shayne story to be printed, according to the Brett Halliday forward. So in a sense, the 1950's cover can throw a reader's expectations off, though not me, I read it with open mind in terms of wanting to soak up the era.

The history buff/dilettante in me feasted on all the details of WWII black outs, gas rationing, the old speed limits (which would've drove me out of my skull, 35 mph on Florida's highways???) and black marketeers.

Mike Shayne likes a sip of cognac...or four and he tugs his earlobe in this book, almost as many times as Carol Burnette typically did in one season. You can see Dashiell Hammett's influence on Halliday. Shayne puts the booze away like Nick and Nora did, though unlike them, he didn't have quite as many quips, bon mots, and he was lacking a dog. He made moves on one character's wife while that character was still in the room, just like Ned Beaumont. And Shayne tried to pit good and evil against each other...though he didn't manage with quite the same finesse as Ned did.

Other observations-

In "Heads You Lose," the Miami Dade Police Department sure has absolutely no reservations about drinking while on the job.

Everbody in this book seems to have a two cigarette pack-a-day habit.

Bad editing strikes again! Cointreau is not wine, mon Dieu!

Spoiler! You have to highlight it with your mouse to read it(cool, a "The Usual Suspects" ending!)
My second favorite bit of dialogue is...

"You're a fool," she said drearily. "We could have had so much, but you're afraid to believe in anything. You're cursed with the need to look beneath the surface for a hidden motive. I feel sorry for you."

Shayne's laugh was sardonic. "Hidden motives are my meat," he confessed.

"Poker Face"

"Poker Face" originally appeared in Powder Burn Flash

Well, there are curveballs and there are curveballs. And this? This is like the other seven guys on the playing field have decided that they want to pitch too…

…All at once.

…While the catcher is tying the batter’s shoelaces together.

“This was supposed to be easy pickings,” Pratt curses. He knew from the other kids that went to the same privileged high school as he did, that almost half of this neighborhood was spending Christmas vacation in Tahoe and the other half was in Hawaii . Pratt guessed that nobody explained that to the man of this house, Dougray Hiatt, that he should be some 2,300 miles away in Kauai.

Why just a minute ago, Pratt was just mulling throwing a party in what he believed to be an empty house and now he is cursing himself for not checking first or even bothering to have a mask on. He knows that his partner John won’t care either way, which is bound to make this tenuous situation even worse.

“You’re supposed to be in Hawaii ” Pratt says out loud. “Because we wouldn’t be here or at least we would be wearing masks” he finishes in his head. His partner John comes into the room holding a laptop inside a gray Tumi bag and is just as startled as Pratt was seconds ago to find someone home.

There Dougray is, sitting in the combination computer and exercise room that was formerly the bedroom of his eldest daughter, Deborah, who was currently in college, but was now in Kauai with his youngest daughter, Dana. He was sitting the same spot some eleven hours ago, but something work-related came up and he had to cut short his vacation. He had four files out on his desk and until Pratt’s intrusion, he was typing away on his desktop computer.

Pratt is trying to figure out just what the fuck is this guy doing at home and why didn’t he heard them come in. The burglar alarm’s chime made an awful racket throughout the two times it took Pratt to disarm it, because he was so nervous, that he momentarily forgot the code. He knew the code well enough; he spent many a night spying on Deborah to have seen it. Then Pratt hears the washing machine and realizes that Dougray probably was putting a load in and didn’t hear them enter.

And when Deborah moved out for college, Pratt’s eyes moved onto Dana as she worked out in this very room, five days a week. He couldn’t help but overhear about the Kauai trip, because Dana’s friends called her about it every three minutes, cutting short her dance routine and his fun. Now Pratt’s fun is cut short again, with a complication that seems completely nonplussed at the fact that he and John are standing in his house at three in the morning.

The silence between them and Dougray’s cool exterior get to John. He thrusts his chest out and pulls his shirt up, exposing the cheap Glock knockoff that was in his waistband of his baggy jeans.

Dougray responds by merely sitting at his desk with a face that any poker champion wishes they could own. He doesn’t seem scared or particularly perturbed; he isn’t happy or grim-faced. As a matter of fact, he is just sitting there with his lips slightly clenched.

Pratt looks over in askance to John as to what should be their next move, and John answers back with a scowl. Pratt winces as John reaches under his shirt with a snarl and pulls the nine millimeter out. Pratt almost pulls his gun out too, but he doesn’t like the math behind this. He wants to run away, but he stands his ground and resigns himself to the fact that nothing good will come of this. Yet Dougray just sits there, blinking every so often.

Pratt wonders if this is just a case of Dougray being as scared as he is and that Dougray is simply too damn scared to move. Finally, Dougray’s nose twitches and a nervous John almost pulls his trigger. His nose twitches again and Dougray takes a few, long, large gasps.

Huh-huh-ah-ah-ah-chooo!

Dougray sneezes hard and his dentures flew across the room, where they land inches away from John’s feet. John and Pratt both look down at the displaced false teeth and that’s when John flies backward into the wall with a crimson hole in his chest. Wide-eyed, Pratt looks at the last bit of life escaping John and turns around to see a still-seated Dougray. He had the same poker face, but it looks pathetic without any front teeth.

A small wisp of smoke escapes the barrel of the silver-plated hand cannon that Dougray has pointed at Pratt and the last thing that Pratt sees is that cannon roaring again.

Dougray shakes his head and thinks, there are sticky wickets and then there are sticky wickets. And this?

This is like the other nine fielders have decided that they want to be bowlers too...

…All at the same time.

…While the wicket-keeper bites your ankles.

Here he is a hit man of nearly thirty years of experience and he has let two amateur burglars get the drop on him as if he still was wet behind the ears. He has to be in Tahoe within the hour to take out somebody that is in the witness protection, before the mark moves to another safe house, and now? He has two bodies in his own house to contend with.

Well, he’ll have to tarp them and leave them in the garage; the paying job always takes precedence.

A Sideways Encounter

I've finally got around to posting my celebrity encounter over at the travel blog.

On another note, Aldo has past the century mark for posted stories! Pop on over to Powder Burn Flash and take a peak!

Why Royalty Rocks

So as we are bringing the groceries up from the car, I see a package on top of the apartment building mailbox. I bring it up and as I open the package...


The Missus: What are you doing?


Me: What do you mean, "what am I doing?"


The Missus: That better be for us.


Me: That's me (I point to the addressee), I am "Mr. Brown." You know, "Mr. Brown can 'moo,' can you?"

The Missus: Oh, I thought it was for (the building's resident schmuck).


Me: No, see the address?


So Ladies and Gentlemen, what is in this wonderful package?

A vintage copy of "Heads You Lose, A Mike Shayne Mystery" by Brett Halliday and this note-

Count Cormac:

For all my experience in the world of pulp fiction, this could be a piece of crap. But I was intrigued by the image of Mike Shayne & the glowing (yet terse) review of the NY Times

Baroness Von Blogenschtern

Ladies and Gentlemen, it is an original Dell paperback, in wonderful condition and the jpeg above does not do the cover justice, but this was the largest one I could find.

I am dizzy with elation, thank you very much, Baroness! You are a pulp babe and then some!

And Across The Blogiverse...

Across the Blogiverse...


The Gifted Typist turns two...her blog, that is. If I have to work overtime on Friday nights, her Chronicle Herald columns are my consolation prize. If no work? Then they are the icing on the cake.

John Don joins Quin Browne as a dot com persona, that is his name is his web address. You might know him as one of the editors of Astonishing Adventures Magazine, but I know him as "Johnny Dollars."

Todd Gordon a.k.a. The Moviequill, is back with a "you know that you are screenwriter" series.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part4
and Part 5.

Give 'em a click to see if you have caught the screenwriter bug.

I Don't The Blame Author

I am pages away from finishing "Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea" and I am thoroughly enjoying it. To me this one is better overall than "My Horizontal Life" in terms of laughs per page and sheer craziness and she truly a Sedaris on steroids.

What I couldn't believe were the mistakes. Chelsea mentions her father back in 1984, having a 1967 Yugo. This would be hard to do, considering Yugos didn’t go into production until 1981 and didn't come to America until 1985. He could've had a grey market Yugo, but it wouldn't have been a '67 model. Chelsea's dad could've had a Fiat, which the Yugo was based on, but it would have been a bigger, though just as embarrassing Fiat.

She also mentions Googling someone in 1996 and uh, Google wasn't official until 1997.

Put the rocks down before you think I am being hard on Chelsea, I don't fault her at all. She is allowed artistic license and the human memory is only so reliable. Not to mention the real intention of this post besides touting an excellent book is to slam the publisher.

You see, the publisher keeps people on staff to check facts and before the thing goes to press, they have proofreaders and an editor or two, that should bother to check up on things. It's what they get paid for, to edit. Before you think I am being too hard on the editors? Go to page 208, the second paragraph and check out the third line and fourth lines...

"I ran out the door and jumped into my dark blue Volvo. I drove to the end of the alleyway, then slammed on the breaks when I saw three young teenage girls wearing backpacks, crossing."

The "breaks?" Are we talking about an old school Kurtis Blow song? Or are we talking about stopping a car?

Note that you will find plenty of misspellings, typos and things that cause Messrs. Strunk and White to spin in their graves on this blog, but you will never find me misteaking (sic) "breaks."

Who Is A Kick Ass Blogger?

Look at that, ain't that pretty? It's a Kick Ass Blogger and guess who got one? That's right, Dale! Wha? No, what do you mean Dale? Yes, Dale got one too, but I'm talking about me! You go talk about Dale on his blog! What do you mean, you want to talk about Dale?

Aarrgh!

At any rate, I got a Kick Ass Blogger Award from Katie Schwartz, because she says that I'm "special." No, not like that! No, I don't want to talk about Dale! Look, so she gave me this award because I kick ass...no "kick...no, it's spelled "k-i-s-s," I said, "kick!" She also said-

This list could easily exceed 50. If you look at my blogroll, you'll see that all of the bloggers I've posted are blogs I love and read often-- they all kick mothah fuckin' ass. I'm only allowed to choose so many, oy to the vey...

So who do I chose? Good gravy, where do I start? I'd like to give one back to Katie, but she would say "don't be a putz."

Quin Browne is still the writer I aspire to be. She does things so effortlessly, with such patience and poise that I wonder if she is actually a bank of IBM Super Computers.

Becky, because let's face it, without her and Talk Soup, I'd have absolutely no idea what the hell was going on the pop culture world. Becky has steeled herself with her Pop Eye, so that she can watch the TV shows that would turn the rest of us to salt. She has been known to rock the Photoshop too.

Some Guys' Blog. Chris is the master of random thought and he somehow fits those random thoughts on to a blog. It takes an architect for that sometimes.

Princess Ladybug is a refreshing breath of fresh air in the cynical blog world and her happiness is contagious.

Speaking of refreshing, Neutron changes it up every day and he turns me on to new blogs as well.

Last but not least is the Baroness Von Bloggenschtern. For her Thoughtful Tuesdays, for her humor and because like Princess Ladybug, she is blogging royalty.