Would you get your favorite literary quote or book character tattooed on your body? Of course you would...or at least please, go with the long deceased. Hopefully nothing shameful will come up about them and you won't regret that tattoo.
At any rate, check out Contrariwise to see those that would and by the way, Papercuts got me hip to this.
I would consider getting the Continental Op inked on my left bicep, but everyone would ask me "what's up with the Tony Soprano tat and why is he wearing old timey clothes?"
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Literary Blogpourri
Is it me, or as Robert Crais gets older...
...he looks more and more like Robert Forester?
Except for the eyes, of course.
Proud mama Patti Abbott posted the upcoming UK cover for her daughter's novel "Die A Little"
I'm terrible at Six Differences and most of the time if I am real lucky, I'll get five.
My first impression was that the British cover turned the original painting into an exterior shot. Uh, wrong. My next mistaken impression was the Brit cover was much further away than it actually was.
Patti pointed out that they changed the font and coloring of those letters. The UK font really belongs on an action comic cover. The original font gives the cover dignity and a proper vintage feel.
The one thing that I did note correctly was that lightened the cover more than a couple of shades. Dammit, it's neo-noir, how can they take the scuro out of the chiaroscuro? Che cazzate.
Christian Slater has a show coming up on NBC in the fall and he says...
"Let's see, I'm essentially playing two very distinct characters - Henry Spivey and Edward Albright. Henry is an everyman. He's got two kids, goes to work, regular. Edward Albright works for this top secret government organization. He's an operative, and Edward knows about Henry. Henry doesn't know about Edward, but the implant that's been put in his brain begins to malfunction, and the two personalities begin to merge, which is what happens in the first episode."
Note that the Dr. Jekyl half of Slater's character has the last name "Spivey." So I would say, "Uh, NBC? Change the Edward Albright character to Drexl Spivey and you have yourself a loyal viewer, right here. Not really, but it would mean that I would watch more episode than I originally would have.
...he looks more and more like Robert Forester?
Except for the eyes, of course.What, Max Cherry, no Pinocchio clock?
Proud mama Patti Abbott posted the upcoming UK cover for her daughter's novel "Die A Little"
I'm terrible at Six Differences and most of the time if I am real lucky, I'll get five.My first impression was that the British cover turned the original painting into an exterior shot. Uh, wrong. My next mistaken impression was the Brit cover was much further away than it actually was.
Patti pointed out that they changed the font and coloring of those letters. The UK font really belongs on an action comic cover. The original font gives the cover dignity and a proper vintage feel.
The one thing that I did note correctly was that lightened the cover more than a couple of shades. Dammit, it's neo-noir, how can they take the scuro out of the chiaroscuro? Che cazzate.
Christian Slater has a show coming up on NBC in the fall and he says...
"Let's see, I'm essentially playing two very distinct characters - Henry Spivey and Edward Albright. Henry is an everyman. He's got two kids, goes to work, regular. Edward Albright works for this top secret government organization. He's an operative, and Edward knows about Henry. Henry doesn't know about Edward, but the implant that's been put in his brain begins to malfunction, and the two personalities begin to merge, which is what happens in the first episode."
Note that the Dr. Jekyl half of Slater's character has the last name "Spivey." So I would say, "Uh, NBC? Change the Edward Albright character to Drexl Spivey and you have yourself a loyal viewer, right here. Not really, but it would mean that I would watch more episode than I originally would have.
"True Romance" is my favorite Tarantino script and certainly outside of Jackie Brown, his most Leonard-like script of all. Also note that this is the sole Drexl image I could find on the web, I'm going to have to learn how to vidcap one day.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Winner, Winner, Chicken and Feta Dinner
So the wonderful Tanya Espanya had a story contest in which the winners would receive a book. Why?
"I need to unload the book(s) I'm ready to admit I'm never going to read to make room for new ones (that I probably won't read either)," said Toronto's cultural and travel maven.
She also said, "what if I don't like the book you sent me? Suck it up, loser."
Fair enough, her contest, her rules and she does rule, just ask the cowering Rowbear in the corner.
What were the requirements?
"You have to leave a comment telling me something interesting. Here are some suggestions but you are not limited to these:
-how you met and chose your spouse/partner
-how you picked your kid's/pet's name
-how you got the job you're in
You know, that sort of thing."
Um, by the way, everybody that entered, won.
I wanted to post the meeting of The Missus, but with the twentith anniversary of that day coming up, I had to save that. So I went with favorite honeymoon story instead...
A TV ad ripped this off, but The Missus, all the people on the boat and meself all saw it first, back in '91.
The Missus and I were honeymooning at Swept Away in Negril, Jamaica. Whilst on the beach, you could book a catamaran that would take you to different spots around the island.
The one thing about this particular boat was that they served this concoction called the "dirty banana," which I believe is coconut rum and bananas.
The trick was that the sugar would sneak up on you if you weren't too careful and you were lit before you knew it. The Missus and I were some of the few people that figured out that getting drunk on a catamaran might not be the best idea in the world.
Pretty soon everyone except the five of us who didn't heavily imbibe and the crew of the boat, were the only ones who weren't sitting on the edge or on the verge of falling off. Amazingly nobody was remotely scared, because they were too drunk and they rode each wave as if it were a rollercoaster.
We finally arrived at Rick's Cafe, a nice little restaurant where you can still cliff dive to your heart's content. You would swim off the boat, climb the stairs and then you would realize that you were all too mortal, as you stared down the cliff, some thirty feet above the water.
The Missus wasn't eager, though I was...until I got up there. Once you make the leap, it's over fairly quickly. Though the worst part of it is not the dive, but afterwards...when you look up and realize that you are some fifteen feet under the water and that you can't panic. You have to just slowly drift upward.
As drunk as everyone was, everyone realized that the best way to dive was feet first. Everyone did that until this one guy, who according to the scar on his chest was a member of the "zipper club." He had had open-heart surgery or whatever surgery that was necessary for them to make that huge incision into the middle of his chest.
Mister Zipper decided that unlike the twenty people that went before him, that he was going to dive head first. That he did and he looked quite graceful for the first ten feet down...then his feet started coming forward ahead of the rest of his body.
Now mind you, there were three catamarans worth of tourists, some people at the restaurant and some people staying at a nearby hotel all watching this. It is an amazing thing to hear over fifty people collectively gasp and then collectively go "ohhh!"
Mister Zipper landed flat on his back and sunk down, just like Daffy Duck or Wil E. Coyote in an old Warner Brothers cartoon. He did manage to get back on the boat under his own power, but his whole backside was beet red for the entire boat ride back to the hotel's beach and his face was red with embarassment for nearly as long.
There it is. So what did I win for this meandering mess that shows that I can't tell a non-fiction story to save my life...er...fine story?
"I need to unload the book(s) I'm ready to admit I'm never going to read to make room for new ones (that I probably won't read either)," said Toronto's cultural and travel maven.
She also said, "what if I don't like the book you sent me? Suck it up, loser."
Fair enough, her contest, her rules and she does rule, just ask the cowering Rowbear in the corner.
What were the requirements?
"You have to leave a comment telling me something interesting. Here are some suggestions but you are not limited to these:
-how you met and chose your spouse/partner
-how you picked your kid's/pet's name
-how you got the job you're in
You know, that sort of thing."
Um, by the way, everybody that entered, won.
I wanted to post the meeting of The Missus, but with the twentith anniversary of that day coming up, I had to save that. So I went with favorite honeymoon story instead...
A TV ad ripped this off, but The Missus, all the people on the boat and meself all saw it first, back in '91.
The Missus and I were honeymooning at Swept Away in Negril, Jamaica. Whilst on the beach, you could book a catamaran that would take you to different spots around the island.
The one thing about this particular boat was that they served this concoction called the "dirty banana," which I believe is coconut rum and bananas.
The trick was that the sugar would sneak up on you if you weren't too careful and you were lit before you knew it. The Missus and I were some of the few people that figured out that getting drunk on a catamaran might not be the best idea in the world.
Pretty soon everyone except the five of us who didn't heavily imbibe and the crew of the boat, were the only ones who weren't sitting on the edge or on the verge of falling off. Amazingly nobody was remotely scared, because they were too drunk and they rode each wave as if it were a rollercoaster.
We finally arrived at Rick's Cafe, a nice little restaurant where you can still cliff dive to your heart's content. You would swim off the boat, climb the stairs and then you would realize that you were all too mortal, as you stared down the cliff, some thirty feet above the water.
The Missus wasn't eager, though I was...until I got up there. Once you make the leap, it's over fairly quickly. Though the worst part of it is not the dive, but afterwards...when you look up and realize that you are some fifteen feet under the water and that you can't panic. You have to just slowly drift upward.
As drunk as everyone was, everyone realized that the best way to dive was feet first. Everyone did that until this one guy, who according to the scar on his chest was a member of the "zipper club." He had had open-heart surgery or whatever surgery that was necessary for them to make that huge incision into the middle of his chest.
Mister Zipper decided that unlike the twenty people that went before him, that he was going to dive head first. That he did and he looked quite graceful for the first ten feet down...then his feet started coming forward ahead of the rest of his body.
Now mind you, there were three catamarans worth of tourists, some people at the restaurant and some people staying at a nearby hotel all watching this. It is an amazing thing to hear over fifty people collectively gasp and then collectively go "ohhh!"
Mister Zipper landed flat on his back and sunk down, just like Daffy Duck or Wil E. Coyote in an old Warner Brothers cartoon. He did manage to get back on the boat under his own power, but his whole backside was beet red for the entire boat ride back to the hotel's beach and his face was red with embarassment for nearly as long.
There it is. So what did I win for this meandering mess that shows that I can't tell a non-fiction story to save my life...er...fine story?
Just what I needed, another incentive to become successful as a writer so that my family can discover all the corners of Europe. Ahh, I can smell the moussaka already. Yassou!
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Not East Of The Hudson, It's Not...
"So how did you like your trip to New York City?"
"I liked it. Some highs, some lows. They sure love to throw elbows there. There was this crazy woman who got on the bus and she jabbed me in the back, right between the shoulder blades, even though she had plenty of room to pass. Then when we went to Time Square, it was like one great big mosh pit. I decided that we should turn around before we even got to the middle of that mess. We visited where Anne used to live, right over by Washington Square Park and we went to that deli that was in "When Harry Met Sally." What was the name of that, honey?"
"Katz's."
"Yeah, Kat's, it was over on Houston Street."
"Howston."
"No, I saw the street sign it said 'Hue-ston."
"It's pronounced "How-ston."
"But it was spelled H-o-u-s-"
"-I know, but everybody says Howston."
"Hold on, hold on. The NFL team, you know, the Oilers, play in what city?"
"Houston."
"And the NBA Rockets?"
"Houston."
"And Nolan Ryan pitched for the 'what' Astros?"
"Houston."
"So what's the name of the street?"
"Howston."
"I liked it. Some highs, some lows. They sure love to throw elbows there. There was this crazy woman who got on the bus and she jabbed me in the back, right between the shoulder blades, even though she had plenty of room to pass. Then when we went to Time Square, it was like one great big mosh pit. I decided that we should turn around before we even got to the middle of that mess. We visited where Anne used to live, right over by Washington Square Park and we went to that deli that was in "When Harry Met Sally." What was the name of that, honey?"
"Katz's."
"Yeah, Kat's, it was over on Houston Street."
"Howston."
"No, I saw the street sign it said 'Hue-ston."
"It's pronounced "How-ston."
"But it was spelled H-o-u-s-"
"-I know, but everybody says Howston."
"Hold on, hold on. The NFL team, you know, the Oilers, play in what city?"
"Houston."
"And the NBA Rockets?"
"Houston."
"And Nolan Ryan pitched for the 'what' Astros?"
"Houston."
"So what's the name of the street?"
"Howston."
Friday, July 25, 2008
Fear It
In Pamplona, they may run away from the bulls just once a year...
...but all year long, they fear the 'fro.
...but all year long, they fear the 'fro.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
That's The Ticket
The thought that spring is for lovers is over-hyped, for love is a year round event. Do you see that couple over there? Yeah, those two, drinking each other in with their eyes. Holding hands as if this was their first relation, ever.
The sight of that couple make Tony's heart grow warm, then that forsaken feeling kicks in and it kicks him in that empty space where his heart used to be. After two happy years and just two bad hours, Josie took Tony's heart last week...along with their DVD player and the TV. She has yet to return a single one of his calls, but she kept the TV and pawned his heart.
Still, don't feel bad or worry for Tony. When he finally gets around to thinning out the scores of take-out menus that threaten overrun his kitchen drawer, he will find out that Josie left the pawn ticket for his heart, just below the only taqueria menu.
Note- Does anyone know why does Josie prays like a Roman, with her eyes on fire? Not to mention, just what the hell did Fagen and Becker mean by that, anyway?
The sight of that couple make Tony's heart grow warm, then that forsaken feeling kicks in and it kicks him in that empty space where his heart used to be. After two happy years and just two bad hours, Josie took Tony's heart last week...along with their DVD player and the TV. She has yet to return a single one of his calls, but she kept the TV and pawned his heart.
Still, don't feel bad or worry for Tony. When he finally gets around to thinning out the scores of take-out menus that threaten overrun his kitchen drawer, he will find out that Josie left the pawn ticket for his heart, just below the only taqueria menu.
Note- Does anyone know why does Josie prays like a Roman, with her eyes on fire? Not to mention, just what the hell did Fagen and Becker mean by that, anyway?
Friday, July 18, 2008
Issue #4 Is Here!
Issue Number Four of Astonishing Adventures Magazine is finally here!
Click here at the Issu site, if you would like to view it online.
And click here if you want to buy the hardcopy version on Amazon.
John has also put together a AAM screensaver.
I Won't Be Posting This Weekend
Barring a site living up to their two week turnaround time for posting a story and them putting it up, I will be too busy to post this weekend. Amongst the things that are taking up my time...
A friend has a project that he might need input on, though the project seems to be pretty damn near perfect to me. Still, I promised to look it over and maybe by next year, you will believe that this friend is one of the better writers of our time.
A friend has a project that he might need input on, though the project seems to be pretty damn near perfect to me. Still, I promised to look it over and maybe by next year, you will believe that this friend is one of the better writers of our time.
So, please, take a gander at my Shelfari and the links on the right and I'll see you on Monday, maybe.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Stop The Presses!
Hold everything, there's been a change and this, repeat, this, will be the final cover for AAM Issue #4-
Of course this cover tells an entirely different story and while I'm partial to the other version, this one adds so much more.
Of course this cover tells an entirely different story and while I'm partial to the other version, this one adds so much more.
There May Be Text On My Phone, But I'm Not Texting
More often than usual at work, I find myself with my cell phone open and right thumb getting a strenuous workout. My coworkers and any strangers who happen by, believe that I am texting to-
A) A friend.
B) The Missus.
C) A mistress.
Before you think that as a writer, I am projecting these thoughts on to them, note that I've heard remarks and wisecracks mentioning just these possibilities. To be honest though, the actual answer is none of the above. I am typing in (thumbing in?) plot points, lines, poems, gags, and whatever else comes to me at that particular moment.
Now mind you, I only log in a few notes here and there. I've never done more than a page or two of actual content, tops. The screen size and 3,000 character limit per "note" tends to hamper any greater aspirations of writing a cell phone novel (keitai shosetsu), like they do in Japan.
Check out the International Herald Tribune's article on the proliferation of these novels and their perceived effect on Japanese culture.
We don't have keitai shosetsu over here and while it has done over $82 million a year in Japan, I'm sure that American publishers have looked into it and rejected it as a viable form for here.
What we do have is Crime Wav.
Seth Harwood came up with the idea of podcasting crime fiction. He teamed up with Aldo Calcagno and Jason Andrews to bring fine crime fiction to your iPod, MP3 player or computer. Next time, instead of having your brain boil over in traffic, on the subway or in what seems like a never ending line...you could be listening to neo-noir.
They even managed to kick off the very first installment with "Must Bite" by Vicki Hendricks, author of the 2008 Edgar Award Nominee "Cruel Poetry."
A) A friend.
B) The Missus.
C) A mistress.
Before you think that as a writer, I am projecting these thoughts on to them, note that I've heard remarks and wisecracks mentioning just these possibilities. To be honest though, the actual answer is none of the above. I am typing in (thumbing in?) plot points, lines, poems, gags, and whatever else comes to me at that particular moment.
Now mind you, I only log in a few notes here and there. I've never done more than a page or two of actual content, tops. The screen size and 3,000 character limit per "note" tends to hamper any greater aspirations of writing a cell phone novel (keitai shosetsu), like they do in Japan.
Check out the International Herald Tribune's article on the proliferation of these novels and their perceived effect on Japanese culture.
We don't have keitai shosetsu over here and while it has done over $82 million a year in Japan, I'm sure that American publishers have looked into it and rejected it as a viable form for here.
What we do have is Crime Wav.
Seth Harwood came up with the idea of podcasting crime fiction. He teamed up with Aldo Calcagno and Jason Andrews to bring fine crime fiction to your iPod, MP3 player or computer. Next time, instead of having your brain boil over in traffic, on the subway or in what seems like a never ending line...you could be listening to neo-noir.
They even managed to kick off the very first installment with "Must Bite" by Vicki Hendricks, author of the 2008 Edgar Award Nominee "Cruel Poetry."
Friday, July 11, 2008
The New Cover of Astonishing Adventures Magazine!
Yes, the pulp magazine is back and it's better than ever!
Ladies and Gentlemen, I have been granted the privilege to bring you the cover of the Fourth Issue of Astonishing Adventures Magazine, just before the issue officially goes to print. Don't you think that John Carlucci did a wonderful job? Not to mention that the rain really gives her depth and a third dimension. I know that she's only an illustration and please don't tell my wife, but I think that I'm in love.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
For Those Of You Coming From Powder Burn Flash
For those of you popping over here from Powder Burn Flash for the very first time, these are the stories that I have submitted there:
"Eggplant Parmigiana"
"The Post-Nuptial"
"Hot Ice And Cold Blood"
"Aria"
"If Twelve Were Nine"
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno asked writers to post stories in the spirit of Valentine's Day and I responded with "Warmer."
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno had yet another flash fiction challenge and this was was to address the increase in gas prices. Thus, "Flashpoint."
I hope that you enjoy these stories and please, check out the other ones on this blog.
Sincerely,
Cormac Brown
"Eggplant Parmigiana"
"The Post-Nuptial"
"Hot Ice And Cold Blood"
"Aria"
"If Twelve Were Nine"
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno asked writers to post stories in the spirit of Valentine's Day and I responded with "Warmer."
Patti Abbott and Aldo Calcagno had yet another flash fiction challenge and this was was to address the increase in gas prices. Thus, "Flashpoint."
I hope that you enjoy these stories and please, check out the other ones on this blog.
Sincerely,
Cormac Brown
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
"Poker Face" Is On Powder Burn Flash
Once again, the critics are unanimous in their disdain...er, praise of Cormac Brown's latest story that is posted on Powder Burn Flash, "Poker Face."
J.K. Rowling says "will you tell him to stop looking at my bum?!"
Michael Chabon groans "my mother says not to bring him over again and especially not during Passover. She says that Cormac doesn't need maror at all, as he is the bitterest root ever."
J.K. Rowling says "will you tell him to stop looking at my bum?!"
To wit, I reply, "I wasn't looking like that. I pulled your finger as asked and I am still waiting on the promised million pounds Sterling to come out."
Walter Mosley says "the very thought of him writing what he calls 'crime fiction,' makes me profoundly sad."
"And if you see him? Tell him to pay back all the money that he owes me, or I'm going to poke his eyes out like this."
Danielle Steele says "I base all of my villains on that rat bastard. I have given my bodyguards instructions to pummel Cormac within an inch of his life, and then they are to shoot to kill."
The ghost of Edgar Allan Poe moans "he owes me money from a previous lifetime."
Stephen King cautions "why aren't you people listening? I told you that he creeps me out...me! Hello?! I making a living out of scaring you and he skeeves me out!"
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
A Fitting End
*Beware, spoilers abound this post!*
So I finally got around to seeing "The Sopranos" finale and let me just say that I thought it was a perfect ending. I don't think that people realize that the real ending came when Phil Leotardo was knocked off at the Raceway gas station, with his crew giving him up to keep the greater peace.
If you listen to the DVD commentary on the penultimate episode by Arthur J. Nascarella when he talks about the last read through, in which all of the principal characters do a dry run of the script...
"At the end of the table read, there was about ten seconds of silence. And Jimmy Gandolfini looked at David Chase and asked him, 'why did you end it that way?' David Chase said to him, 'I didn't want to show that crime paid...and I didn't want to show that crime didn't pay."
And that's how it should be for a show that never really was conventional. The other thing that Nascarella and Steven Van Zandt touch upon in their commentary was how Chase did such a tremendous job building up tension, with Meadow struggling to parallel park her car. Van Zandt spoke of how it had him on edge and all this while he still obviously knew the scene's outcome.
The end scene at Holsten's was a beautiful cliffhanger. Will that guy with the Member's Only jacket come out of the bathroom blazing? Or will Tony be whacked by the two African American guys, in a similar manner to what occurred with Jackie Aprile Junior? You don't know and you probably never will.
My only question about the finale is, what was up with the cat that so attached to Chris Moltisanti's picture? Was the cat the reincarnation of his father? Or was the cat the reincarnation of Adriana?
So I finally got around to seeing "The Sopranos" finale and let me just say that I thought it was a perfect ending. I don't think that people realize that the real ending came when Phil Leotardo was knocked off at the Raceway gas station, with his crew giving him up to keep the greater peace.
If you listen to the DVD commentary on the penultimate episode by Arthur J. Nascarella when he talks about the last read through, in which all of the principal characters do a dry run of the script...
"At the end of the table read, there was about ten seconds of silence. And Jimmy Gandolfini looked at David Chase and asked him, 'why did you end it that way?' David Chase said to him, 'I didn't want to show that crime paid...and I didn't want to show that crime didn't pay."
And that's how it should be for a show that never really was conventional. The other thing that Nascarella and Steven Van Zandt touch upon in their commentary was how Chase did such a tremendous job building up tension, with Meadow struggling to parallel park her car. Van Zandt spoke of how it had him on edge and all this while he still obviously knew the scene's outcome.
The end scene at Holsten's was a beautiful cliffhanger. Will that guy with the Member's Only jacket come out of the bathroom blazing? Or will Tony be whacked by the two African American guys, in a similar manner to what occurred with Jackie Aprile Junior? You don't know and you probably never will.
My only question about the finale is, what was up with the cat that so attached to Chris Moltisanti's picture? Was the cat the reincarnation of his father? Or was the cat the reincarnation of Adriana?
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Would You Give A Book Store Reading, If The Store Didn't Exist Anymore?
I have read more than a few writer blogs about book signings where the authors lament the lack of fans...or even any audience at all. A couple of them have even mentioned the odd book store customer here and there, that manage to mistake the author for a member of the store staff and ask them the location of something.
Yet, what if the very store that you were scheduled to read at, simply folded up just before your big day? Would you flake it off? Or would you decide that you should show up anyway? Who knows, maybe a fan might not be aware of the store's status or maybe they are simply dedicated.
Well Cody's Books folded up on Friday, June 20th and Matt Richtel, author of "Hooked: A Thriller About Love And Addictions" had decided to show up, just in case a reader did and the rest is almost surreal.
Yet, what if the very store that you were scheduled to read at, simply folded up just before your big day? Would you flake it off? Or would you decide that you should show up anyway? Who knows, maybe a fan might not be aware of the store's status or maybe they are simply dedicated.
Well Cody's Books folded up on Friday, June 20th and Matt Richtel, author of "Hooked: A Thriller About Love And Addictions" had decided to show up, just in case a reader did and the rest is almost surreal.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Writing Quote Time
Some writing quotes, courtesy of the Creative Screenwriting Weekly newsletter...
"Whenever you write, whatever you write, never make the mistake of assuming the audience is any less intelligent than you are."
"Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he's there, he's not really there."
"Whenever you write, whatever you write, never make the mistake of assuming the audience is any less intelligent than you are."
– Rod Serling
"Writing is a solitary business. It takes over your life. In some sense, a writer has no life of his own. Even when he's there, he's not really there."
– Paul Auster
Saturday, June 14, 2008
"Flashpoint"
With gas prices rising, our plans had to change…if you could call them “plans.” We were already two months behind on our rent and the scratch that Jason and I eke out together as carpenters, isn’t cutting it. With Californian foreclosures at all time high and only so many remodel jobs to go around, our profession is as choice as opening a miniskirt shop in Saudi Arabia.
So Jason plans to pool our remaining $200 and head for Nevada, where we’ll make our rent and them some. If we weren’t so broke, I’d nix this, because Jason’s usual idea of a plan is $20 on black, $20 on green and $30 on “00.” I don’t trust roulette, as the ball always bounces badly like a toothpaste cap that bounces straight for the toilet.
We can’t buy food, cigarettes or gas along the way, as we’ll have to grab what we can and save the rest. I hate this part because I got sick the last time we siphoned gas, so I bought a hand pump in case we had to go through this again. We hit the places where people pull over to hike, so that we have more time to work.
Just forty miles west of Tahoe, around Cisco, our gas tank is running on fumes. We exit off Interstate 80 and we drive around for awhile. Pickings are slim, even though it is a sunny July afternoon. We see a brand new Ford Explorer just off the road and just in time, as Jason’s truck is on “E.” We pull past it some 200 feet away.
Apparently there’s no one around and thick trees on this side road make seem duskier than it really is. Jason has the gas can and I have the pump, we get within ten feet when the Explorer trembles. Two shapes move around in the back seat and we duck off the side road.
The vehicle starts to shake, and then it bounces around, just like a low rider. Jason and I look at each other, and then nod. So what if the SUV is a rockin’? There’s no choice, we have to risk it. Before I walk over there, Jason pulls the tubing off the pump and it hands it to me, I guess he figures the hand crank will make too much noise. I’m just glad I’ve had nothing to eat all day, that way there’s less to vomit up.
I pry the filler door with a pocketknife, fit the tube in the tank and I inhale off the other end. The hardest part is not the taste of gas, but suppressing the gag and not tipping off the couple in the Explorer, who seem to be getting real hot and heavy. The temptation to look is surpassed by my fight not to vomit, but then a woman’s scream for “help” changes my mind.
I carefully peek, they could be role playing, after all, but it seems like they’re not. My first clue is that they seem fully clothed, my second clue is her bulging eyes and his hands wrapped around her throat, and my third clue is the murderous look in his eyes. That same malevolent glare shifts to me and he throws her against the passenger door. I take a step back and reopen the pocketknife as he goes for the other passenger door.
He comes out and while I’m taller and got about fifteen pounds on him, his anger is at full steam and he is on the verge of turning rabid. We circle each other and just as I am about to stab him, liquid falls from the sky and splashes him. It’s Jason; he’s soaked this crazed demon with gasoline and before he can pounce on Jason, Jason has a lighter out. The would-be murderer just doesn’t care and he jumps Jason and he tackles him, the lighter flies out of his hand.
They roll around on the ground and Jason throws him off. As he lands, his belt buckle hits a rock and somehow he ignites. I’d rather not talk about what happens next, other than to say I won’t ever forget the smell of burning flesh.
The woman? She’s battered, she’s bruised, but relatively fine, considering. The police give us plenty of grief, and then they eventually let us go.
Today, her family gave us a reward, for saving her life. So, in a way, the roulette wheel actually bounced right…for a change.
This is for a flash fiction challenge that Patti Abbott posted
SHIFTING GEARS
Spring’s half gone, school’s out, so are you ready for another flash fiction challenge? Mystery Dawg, Gerald So and I have come up with a new one.
Here’s the idea: incorporate the following sentence into a flash story of around 750 words.
“With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.”
OR for those who prefer first person: "With gas prices rising, our plans had to change."
OR the bit ominous, "With gas prices rising, your plans had to change." (Thanks, Peter)
Anything you can do with that sentence as a part of your story is fair game. The line doesn’t have to be the central idea of the story. Or it can be. Whatever you want.
So Jason plans to pool our remaining $200 and head for Nevada, where we’ll make our rent and them some. If we weren’t so broke, I’d nix this, because Jason’s usual idea of a plan is $20 on black, $20 on green and $30 on “00.” I don’t trust roulette, as the ball always bounces badly like a toothpaste cap that bounces straight for the toilet.
We can’t buy food, cigarettes or gas along the way, as we’ll have to grab what we can and save the rest. I hate this part because I got sick the last time we siphoned gas, so I bought a hand pump in case we had to go through this again. We hit the places where people pull over to hike, so that we have more time to work.
Just forty miles west of Tahoe, around Cisco, our gas tank is running on fumes. We exit off Interstate 80 and we drive around for awhile. Pickings are slim, even though it is a sunny July afternoon. We see a brand new Ford Explorer just off the road and just in time, as Jason’s truck is on “E.” We pull past it some 200 feet away.
Apparently there’s no one around and thick trees on this side road make seem duskier than it really is. Jason has the gas can and I have the pump, we get within ten feet when the Explorer trembles. Two shapes move around in the back seat and we duck off the side road.
The vehicle starts to shake, and then it bounces around, just like a low rider. Jason and I look at each other, and then nod. So what if the SUV is a rockin’? There’s no choice, we have to risk it. Before I walk over there, Jason pulls the tubing off the pump and it hands it to me, I guess he figures the hand crank will make too much noise. I’m just glad I’ve had nothing to eat all day, that way there’s less to vomit up.
I pry the filler door with a pocketknife, fit the tube in the tank and I inhale off the other end. The hardest part is not the taste of gas, but suppressing the gag and not tipping off the couple in the Explorer, who seem to be getting real hot and heavy. The temptation to look is surpassed by my fight not to vomit, but then a woman’s scream for “help” changes my mind.
I carefully peek, they could be role playing, after all, but it seems like they’re not. My first clue is that they seem fully clothed, my second clue is her bulging eyes and his hands wrapped around her throat, and my third clue is the murderous look in his eyes. That same malevolent glare shifts to me and he throws her against the passenger door. I take a step back and reopen the pocketknife as he goes for the other passenger door.
He comes out and while I’m taller and got about fifteen pounds on him, his anger is at full steam and he is on the verge of turning rabid. We circle each other and just as I am about to stab him, liquid falls from the sky and splashes him. It’s Jason; he’s soaked this crazed demon with gasoline and before he can pounce on Jason, Jason has a lighter out. The would-be murderer just doesn’t care and he jumps Jason and he tackles him, the lighter flies out of his hand.
They roll around on the ground and Jason throws him off. As he lands, his belt buckle hits a rock and somehow he ignites. I’d rather not talk about what happens next, other than to say I won’t ever forget the smell of burning flesh.
The woman? She’s battered, she’s bruised, but relatively fine, considering. The police give us plenty of grief, and then they eventually let us go.
Today, her family gave us a reward, for saving her life. So, in a way, the roulette wheel actually bounced right…for a change.
This is for a flash fiction challenge that Patti Abbott posted
SHIFTING GEARS
Spring’s half gone, school’s out, so are you ready for another flash fiction challenge? Mystery Dawg, Gerald So and I have come up with a new one.
Here’s the idea: incorporate the following sentence into a flash story of around 750 words.
“With gas prices rising, their plans had to change.”
OR for those who prefer first person: "With gas prices rising, our plans had to change."
OR the bit ominous, "With gas prices rising, your plans had to change." (Thanks, Peter)
Anything you can do with that sentence as a part of your story is fair game. The line doesn’t have to be the central idea of the story. Or it can be. Whatever you want.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Assimilation
It seems so absolutely obvious now, but all of us were completely oblivious to them at the time and I was certainly not the exception. Actually, as a reporter, I didn’t need a crystal ball to show me the direction we were heading and any of us from the fourth estate should’ve been able to figure this out, but we couldn’t see what was just below the surface.
But that was exactly how it happened. With everyone looking perpetually forward toward the next trend, no one really noticed the signs of what was wrong in the present; the absences of wrinkles, the perpetually surprised look, the lips inflated to unnatural dimensions, and implants that defied logic and God himself.
They had covertly taken over our doctors, with emphasis on our surgeons and by the time actresses noses and nostrils were reduced to mere nubs of flesh, they openly walked amongst us. If you took a casual glance, you couldn’t tell them apart from us except their cheek and brow implants were a little more pronounced.
The odd thing was that everything on them that hinted of plastic surgery...wasn’t. The permanent eyeliner, pecs and calves of the males. The females with their lipoed tummies and thighs; the breast implants and faces that were so distorted, that they looked like they were somehow melted by the sun. All these features were natural to them and in that sense; we were the freaks of nature.
The whole time we were looking to the skies for signs of life, they were right under our very own nose jobs.
But that was exactly how it happened. With everyone looking perpetually forward toward the next trend, no one really noticed the signs of what was wrong in the present; the absences of wrinkles, the perpetually surprised look, the lips inflated to unnatural dimensions, and implants that defied logic and God himself.
They had covertly taken over our doctors, with emphasis on our surgeons and by the time actresses noses and nostrils were reduced to mere nubs of flesh, they openly walked amongst us. If you took a casual glance, you couldn’t tell them apart from us except their cheek and brow implants were a little more pronounced.
The odd thing was that everything on them that hinted of plastic surgery...wasn’t. The permanent eyeliner, pecs and calves of the males. The females with their lipoed tummies and thighs; the breast implants and faces that were so distorted, that they looked like they were somehow melted by the sun. All these features were natural to them and in that sense; we were the freaks of nature.
The whole time we were looking to the skies for signs of life, they were right under our very own nose jobs.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Happy Belated Birthday, Dashiell!
In my work-related stupor, I forgot to celebrate Dashiell Hammet's birthday (May 27th). So here's to you, Sam, you made crime fiction what it is today.
Alterna-Title-Sequel-Tive
Last week I saw a TV ad for a movie remake of a TV series that I kind of enjoyed as a child. It might turn out to be a good pic after all as the actors are good at what they do, but I kind of got the feeling that all this movie had in common with the original TV series, was the title and a couple of the characters names. It seemed to be the worst possible permutation of "missed it by that much."
I thought being a former aspiring screenwriter, why don't I adapt the same reverence and accuracy for the source material that Hollywood does, while even out "Hollywooding" Hollywood and going to the pointless sequel right off the bat.
I'll give you the original book title, and then I'll follow it up with the shameless pseudo-Hollywood rip-off, okay?
The Original: "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"
My Sequel: "Been There, Wish I Hadn't Done That."
The Original: "Jaws."
My Sequel: "Gums."
The Original: "Kiss The Girls."
My Sequel: "Trick The Girls Into Signing A Pre-Nup."
The Original: "Crime And Punishment"
My Sequel: "Parole, Minimum Wage And Ennui."
The Original: "Europe On $25 A Day."
My Sequel: "Your Backyard On A Bag Of Stale Airline Peanuts & Two Cans Of Flat Soda, A Day."
The Original: "The Moosewood Cookbook"
My Sequel: "Fifty Percent Of These Recipes Taste Just Like Wood, Cookbook."
The Original: "How To Influence Friends And Influence People."
My Sequel: "How To Spin Friends And Influenza People."
The Original: "The Old Man And The Sea."
My Sequel: "The Old Man, Spring Break, Viagra And The Heart Attack."
I thought being a former aspiring screenwriter, why don't I adapt the same reverence and accuracy for the source material that Hollywood does, while even out "Hollywooding" Hollywood and going to the pointless sequel right off the bat.
I'll give you the original book title, and then I'll follow it up with the shameless pseudo-Hollywood rip-off, okay?
The Original: "Oh, The Places You'll Go!"
My Sequel: "Been There, Wish I Hadn't Done That."
The Original: "Jaws."
My Sequel: "Gums."
The Original: "Kiss The Girls."
My Sequel: "Trick The Girls Into Signing A Pre-Nup."
The Original: "Crime And Punishment"
My Sequel: "Parole, Minimum Wage And Ennui."
The Original: "Europe On $25 A Day."
My Sequel: "Your Backyard On A Bag Of Stale Airline Peanuts & Two Cans Of Flat Soda, A Day."
The Original: "The Moosewood Cookbook"
My Sequel: "Fifty Percent Of These Recipes Taste Just Like Wood, Cookbook."
The Original: "How To Influence Friends And Influence People."
My Sequel: "How To Spin Friends And Influenza People."
The Original: "The Old Man And The Sea."
My Sequel: "The Old Man, Spring Break, Viagra And The Heart Attack."
Friday, May 16, 2008
A Perfect Writing Quote From Ray Bradbury
"What is the subconscious to every other man, in its creative aspect becomes, for writers, The Muse."
– Ray Bradbury
From Creative Screenwriting Weekly Newsletter
Thursday, May 15, 2008
"Vanity Kills"
I had to get out of the house and out of the city, that much was certain.
Unfortunately the epiphany that I was looking for came about nine minutes too late. I had become one of those people in the newspapers that I hold in contempt, because their reflexes override their common sense. Like when someone is crossing the street on a stormy day and wind snatches their umbrella from their hands. They turn around and scramble for their umbrella, not realizing that the light has changed and the bus is going to run the umbrella and them, over.
Or when a house is burning down and someone goes back into the house to retrieve the family photo album, only to have the ceiling collapse and snuff out their lives. My undoing was my vanity, which managed to betray me twice. My fingers were still burning as I sat down in my Subaru station wagon, the bleach and cleansers amongst other things had done quite a number on my hands.
Nor did I feel clean despite soaking in the shower until the water heater cried “uncle.” I could still feel the dirt from the backyard caked all over me. I grabbed the rearview mirror and looked back at my tired eyes. I looked every bit as old and worn out as Miranda accused me of being; “thirty going on sixty-five,” despite the fact that I’m four years younger than she was. She knew from the very first date that we had, that I hated aging and she made it a point throughout our relationship to push that button like some robot that tests a part’s durability so many thousands of times.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the mirror back to its original position. I had to get away from this house…I had to get away from this city.
It wasn’t really someone or something chasing me away, it was all me and the fact that I couldn’t complete one simple, solitary thought. I had become a creature of pure instinct with barely any reasoning left over to control my own actions. I did somehow manage to book a flight to Cabo San Lucas and I also managed to pack a bag. Beyond that, I was just a hot tired mess. I got all of six blocks away from our cozy little house, before I remembered that I had forgotten both my facial scrub and moisturizers. I didn’t want to stop at one of the malls along the way or pay through the nose at the airport for my favorite brand, so I went back home.
As I pulled up, there was Miranda right there at the front gate of our little hideaway and she started in again with how ungracefully I was aging. She was telling me how she was going to leave me for somebody younger whose tits weren’t permanently going south for the winter.
“Nobody’s going to want you, Sheila, except for some museum that might use you as a stand-in at a mummy exhibit.”
I kicked the gate open and walked past her. Once I was in Mexico, my thoughts and mind would be my own again. Two minutes later and I had the very products that kept the wrinkles away under my arms in two small carry-on bags…unfortunately that was about three minutes too many.
My brother, who loves to drop in unannounced, pulled up right next to my station wagon and honked. He seemed to have a brand new floozy with him and she wasn’t the typical silicone-enhanced cheerleader-type that he usually had dangling from his arm when he’s in town. She had a definite and deliberate air about her.
She was also more butch than Miranda and I put together, which made me dislike her instantly because that was the very type that Miranda seemed to like to cheat on me with, the most. My brother and his new girlfriend got out, and he didn’t close his door all the way, which I had not noticed at the time. Introductions were made, though I still can’t recall her name as I was preoccupied with how was I going to get them to leave and make my flight.
It was at that point that I wondered if her “definite and deliberate air” had the scent of a law enforcement background, because she reeked of being a cop. Suddenly my brother’s car door flew open and a German Sheppard leapt out and ran past me into the yard.
His girlfriend ran after the dog and my brother said, “Wow, Fritzi must have the scent of a dead squirrel or something. She’s training to be a rescue dog and he just goes nuts when there’s anything dead around.”
My brother went after them and I went into a slow backpedal, until they went around the back of the house, where I then got in my Subaru and sped off.
The rest I’ll just have to imagine, as I am now just pulling up on the freeway. No doubt, the dog is still digging through the three and a half feet of dirt that took me some six hours to dig up and he when he finally reaches Miranda, she’ll still have that hateful smirk on her face. She'll have that same vindictive grin that somehow survived that tumble down the stairs that we both took; her neck breaking and me having to drag her into the backyard.
“You know you are going to age twice as fast in prison” Miranda cackles at me in the rearview mirror from the backseat. She has that same venomous sneer on her now purple lips.
I just sigh, as I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ve lost my sanity as far back as last night, when I was digging her grave. I chuckle and say with what little defiance I can muster “even in death, you still can’t keep that big fat trap of yours shut, can you Miranda?”
Unfortunately the epiphany that I was looking for came about nine minutes too late. I had become one of those people in the newspapers that I hold in contempt, because their reflexes override their common sense. Like when someone is crossing the street on a stormy day and wind snatches their umbrella from their hands. They turn around and scramble for their umbrella, not realizing that the light has changed and the bus is going to run the umbrella and them, over.
Or when a house is burning down and someone goes back into the house to retrieve the family photo album, only to have the ceiling collapse and snuff out their lives. My undoing was my vanity, which managed to betray me twice. My fingers were still burning as I sat down in my Subaru station wagon, the bleach and cleansers amongst other things had done quite a number on my hands.
Nor did I feel clean despite soaking in the shower until the water heater cried “uncle.” I could still feel the dirt from the backyard caked all over me. I grabbed the rearview mirror and looked back at my tired eyes. I looked every bit as old and worn out as Miranda accused me of being; “thirty going on sixty-five,” despite the fact that I’m four years younger than she was. She knew from the very first date that we had, that I hated aging and she made it a point throughout our relationship to push that button like some robot that tests a part’s durability so many thousands of times.
I took a deep breath and adjusted the mirror back to its original position. I had to get away from this house…I had to get away from this city.
It wasn’t really someone or something chasing me away, it was all me and the fact that I couldn’t complete one simple, solitary thought. I had become a creature of pure instinct with barely any reasoning left over to control my own actions. I did somehow manage to book a flight to Cabo San Lucas and I also managed to pack a bag. Beyond that, I was just a hot tired mess. I got all of six blocks away from our cozy little house, before I remembered that I had forgotten both my facial scrub and moisturizers. I didn’t want to stop at one of the malls along the way or pay through the nose at the airport for my favorite brand, so I went back home.
As I pulled up, there was Miranda right there at the front gate of our little hideaway and she started in again with how ungracefully I was aging. She was telling me how she was going to leave me for somebody younger whose tits weren’t permanently going south for the winter.
“Nobody’s going to want you, Sheila, except for some museum that might use you as a stand-in at a mummy exhibit.”
I kicked the gate open and walked past her. Once I was in Mexico, my thoughts and mind would be my own again. Two minutes later and I had the very products that kept the wrinkles away under my arms in two small carry-on bags…unfortunately that was about three minutes too many.
My brother, who loves to drop in unannounced, pulled up right next to my station wagon and honked. He seemed to have a brand new floozy with him and she wasn’t the typical silicone-enhanced cheerleader-type that he usually had dangling from his arm when he’s in town. She had a definite and deliberate air about her.
She was also more butch than Miranda and I put together, which made me dislike her instantly because that was the very type that Miranda seemed to like to cheat on me with, the most. My brother and his new girlfriend got out, and he didn’t close his door all the way, which I had not noticed at the time. Introductions were made, though I still can’t recall her name as I was preoccupied with how was I going to get them to leave and make my flight.
It was at that point that I wondered if her “definite and deliberate air” had the scent of a law enforcement background, because she reeked of being a cop. Suddenly my brother’s car door flew open and a German Sheppard leapt out and ran past me into the yard.
His girlfriend ran after the dog and my brother said, “Wow, Fritzi must have the scent of a dead squirrel or something. She’s training to be a rescue dog and he just goes nuts when there’s anything dead around.”
My brother went after them and I went into a slow backpedal, until they went around the back of the house, where I then got in my Subaru and sped off.
The rest I’ll just have to imagine, as I am now just pulling up on the freeway. No doubt, the dog is still digging through the three and a half feet of dirt that took me some six hours to dig up and he when he finally reaches Miranda, she’ll still have that hateful smirk on her face. She'll have that same vindictive grin that somehow survived that tumble down the stairs that we both took; her neck breaking and me having to drag her into the backyard.
“You know you are going to age twice as fast in prison” Miranda cackles at me in the rearview mirror from the backseat. She has that same venomous sneer on her now purple lips.
I just sigh, as I’ve made peace with the fact that I’ve lost my sanity as far back as last night, when I was digging her grave. I chuckle and say with what little defiance I can muster “even in death, you still can’t keep that big fat trap of yours shut, can you Miranda?”
Monday, May 12, 2008
Even Bookgasm Is Mentioning "Astonishing Adventures Magazine"
Even Bookgasm is mentioning Astonishing Adventure Magazine. So what's your excuse? Check it out today!
Actually, this is just another excuse to put the cover up and I don't care what John says (even though he drew her), that's Darla Crane!
Actually, this is just another excuse to put the cover up and I don't care what John says (even though he drew her), that's Darla Crane!
Sunday, May 11, 2008
A Frank Misunderstanding
They broke up quietly, almost without a word. He thought they had something special and so did she, up until a point. He shared his apartment with two roommates and to say that the walls of the apartment were paper-thin was being generous.
So he would make the best of the situation by playing some music via his iPod, which he would dock into his clock radio. One night, his iPod was out of commission, so he borrowed his older brother's iPod Shuffle. Because he had to run a fair amount of distance to his brother's and back to get the Shuffle, his legs were on the verge of cramping up.
They merged and linked. An old Francis Albert tune from the 40's came on just as his right leg went tight and as he tried to work through the cramp, something magical and almost ethereal, happened for her. In the afterglow, she thought he turned the corner in terms of the bedroom and he thought that the crooner was her ultimate aphrodisiac. From then on, he associated the singer as all the foreplay that she would need and she wondered how just how a lover could go downhill so fast.
They broke up in less than a week; neither the wiser nor able to talk out what was right about the relationship or what went wrong.
Still, they ran in the same circles and had close friends in common. They would see each other and the flame that was their relationship never went out. They dated other people, but found the others to be even less desirable. As she lay depressed in bed one night, she decided to call him up and even though she woke him up, he was happy to hear her voice.
They talked until the sun came up and since they both had to go to work, they both decided to call in sick and sleep together...literally. When they woke up late that afternoon, she decided that they should talk it out.
With great reluctance because of her conservative upbringing, she had discussed what he had done right and asked him why he just did that the one occasion. Then she asked him-
"Why did you develop on obsession with Sinatra?"
"I really don't like him, I thought that you did."
"No, I can't stand him on most days and besides, his last name means 'without a duck."
They shared a chuckle, and then they shared a kiss. She made a suggestion about what she wanted and he listened. Then he made a suggestion and she reciprocated.
They moved in together and their connection is stronger than ever. They have an apartment with even thinner walls, but no roommates and nary a crooner album or single to be found.
So he would make the best of the situation by playing some music via his iPod, which he would dock into his clock radio. One night, his iPod was out of commission, so he borrowed his older brother's iPod Shuffle. Because he had to run a fair amount of distance to his brother's and back to get the Shuffle, his legs were on the verge of cramping up.
They merged and linked. An old Francis Albert tune from the 40's came on just as his right leg went tight and as he tried to work through the cramp, something magical and almost ethereal, happened for her. In the afterglow, she thought he turned the corner in terms of the bedroom and he thought that the crooner was her ultimate aphrodisiac. From then on, he associated the singer as all the foreplay that she would need and she wondered how just how a lover could go downhill so fast.
They broke up in less than a week; neither the wiser nor able to talk out what was right about the relationship or what went wrong.
Still, they ran in the same circles and had close friends in common. They would see each other and the flame that was their relationship never went out. They dated other people, but found the others to be even less desirable. As she lay depressed in bed one night, she decided to call him up and even though she woke him up, he was happy to hear her voice.
They talked until the sun came up and since they both had to go to work, they both decided to call in sick and sleep together...literally. When they woke up late that afternoon, she decided that they should talk it out.
With great reluctance because of her conservative upbringing, she had discussed what he had done right and asked him why he just did that the one occasion. Then she asked him-
"Why did you develop on obsession with Sinatra?"
"I really don't like him, I thought that you did."
"No, I can't stand him on most days and besides, his last name means 'without a duck."
They shared a chuckle, and then they shared a kiss. She made a suggestion about what she wanted and he listened. Then he made a suggestion and she reciprocated.
They moved in together and their connection is stronger than ever. They have an apartment with even thinner walls, but no roommates and nary a crooner album or single to be found.
Monday, May 5, 2008
On The Printed Page, San Francisco Is Crime Central
Recently the San Francisco Chronicle has been asking Bay Area writers "what's the best book that you've read that features San Francisco in it?" There has been a conspicuous absence by the interview authors of crime fiction, in specific? A certain novel about a bird that would eventually go on to make Humphrey Bogart a true leading star and put John Huston on the map.
Well, Eddie Muller was nice enough to take care of that omission and more, by picking out a list of some of the best "Crime Novels Set In The Bay Area." Click the purple and take a gander. Then he takes it step further by saying on the printed page "San Francisco Is Crime Central" and he backs that up with interviews of Bay Area authors.
Of course Mr. Muller cannot in good conscious add his own two great contributions to that list...
"The Distance"
Well, Eddie Muller was nice enough to take care of that omission and more, by picking out a list of some of the best "Crime Novels Set In The Bay Area." Click the purple and take a gander. Then he takes it step further by saying on the printed page "San Francisco Is Crime Central" and he backs that up with interviews of Bay Area authors.
Of course Mr. Muller cannot in good conscious add his own two great contributions to that list...
"The Distance"
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