Wednesday, 31 August 2011
Not Quite: Finland Falls to Croatia 84-79 on Exciting First Day of EuroBasket
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Dominican Republic Rolls Past Cuba 90-60
Monday, 29 August 2011
Git(some)'Mo
You want more? Yeah, you do. That's why D*CKED is now here. The cranky, rattling, colic-y brain-child of Greg Bardsley and Kieran Shea (okay, my name's on there too) has finally busted outta the cellar, stolen a car, picked up a half-dozen runaway hitchhikers, and was last seen shooting rocket-propelled grenades at bunnies out the window while tearing ass for a horizon near you. It's out in the world now and you'll just have to deal with it. Not bad for a fictional character with no pulse, no?
You've heard the pitch right? We asked a handful of creative types to let their twisted inner fabulists off the leash and do a little free association with the name Dick Cheney. Got a bunch of wild ideas including several that reoccurred in variations (Dick in pop-culture, Dick as vampire or other mythological creature, Dick's correspondence, Dick's sexy secrets etc.) Who came to play? Patricia Abbott, Cameron Ashley, Eric Beetner, Tony Black, Ken Bruen, Jimmy Callaway, Rachel Canon, Hilary Davidson, Jason Duke, Bill Fitzhugh, Matthew C. Funk, Harry Hunsicker, Nancy Lee Philcox, Scott Phillips, Keith Rawson, Mark Richardson, Al Riske, Marcus Sakey and Steve Weddle. Plus, our wordless contributor, artist Owen Smith delivers the goods via the front cover which is worth the measly $9.99 to hold the object in your hands... Yeah, come to think of it, I'm going to order an extra copy just to rip the cover off and frame that shit.
Really, really proud of the fantastic collection of pulp covers that I'm piling in behind these days. Awaiting the Crime Factory anthology with... (breaths into hand)... baited breath.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
Jacked Up
From my interview with George Pelecanos at Ransom Notes.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
This Gun For Hire: Roger Donaldson
Thursday, 18 August 2011
WEARING YOUR MITT TO A BIG LEAGUE GAME IF YOU’RE OVER 13
When you begin to grow hair around and sometimes on your schmekel you have a certain responsibility not to act like a boob. Many parents don’t teach that important rule. Tweenagers should be told to wear a glove in the bedroom and not at the ballpark. It’s responsible parenting 101. There is no greater feeling than holding a full beer in one hand and a home run in the other. Your bareback catch will make kids see you as a superhero and grownups admire your commitment to keeping every drop of the liquid gold in your cup. The $8 price tag on that Coors Light will give you that much more incentive. Even the ballplayers will take a timeout from roid-rage to toss you a respectful head nod. Heck, it could even land you on Sportscenter, especially if you catch the ball right in front of a kid’s face. But don’t try for that move. There’s too much downside in a failed attempt.
Wednesday, 17 August 2011
MY PHILIP MORRIS STOCK
Cigarette smoke may cause lung cancer, heart disease and fetal injury but it does wonders for my bank account. That is, until recently. Look no further than their corporate website to see an immediate problem. It clearly states that the best thing to do is quit. I’m no marketing whiz, but reverse psychology seems like a bad way to go during these volatile economic times. People might take it seriously. Is that a risk we’re willing to take as conscientious shareholders? See, when people quit smoking they don’t have to buy any more cigs and when they don’t buy any more cigs that means I don’t buy any more gold watches. And papa needs his gold watches. Plus, what up, Australia? Their socialist government has plans to strip company logos from cigarette packages and replace them with grisly images of cancerous mouths, sickly children and bulging, blinded eyes. That ain’t gonna move cartons. I think we need to get back to cool and lovable cartoons that make “adults” feel good about rippin’ a butt from time to time. Say what you will about Joe Camel, but he looked good with a choke in one hand and a pool cue in the other. If Mr. Helmut Wakeham hasn’t died from enjoying life yet, I say get him back:
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
JOINT COUPLE EMAIL ADDRESSES
Why not just get joint underpants while you're at it? I'm not saying you need to keep secrets, but sometimes you need to keep secrets, you know what I'm saying? Email systems should be required to issue warnings when they sense these addresses: We have detected a joint couple address, are you sure you want to send? If you hit yes it should send you another one that says: Are you absolutely sure? Why are you even friends with these people? Then it should wait a day and send you another one that simply says: Seriously, dude? Why even have an email address at that point? It’s tough to catch up on correspondence when you’re constantly locked in a loving gaze with your significant other. You’re not going to be checking out Uncle Steve’s beautiful pictures of Alaska when you have all the Eskimo kisses you can handle right in front of you. It’s a free country, so do what you want, but I’m just saying it’s the first step on a long path leading to the applying of preparation-H onto one another’s underbums.
Monday, 15 August 2011
BS
Let's see, I also mentioned a little teaser about the next N@B event which will be 8pm Wednesday, September 14 at Meshuggah Cafe with some pre-Bouchercon stuffs goin' on. Said something about Keith Rawson's new short story eCollection from Snubnose Press The Chaos We Know, mentioned John Hornor Jacobs' eCollection, Fierce As the Grave, Richard Thomas and Kyle Minor in the Warmed & Bound anthology and Frank Bill in the September issue of Playboy.
Also, at Ransom Notes, I'm talking up James Sallis's double whammy of The Killer is Dying and the movie Drive, and I've just picked up One Single Shot by Matthew F. Jones (with a foreword by none other than Daniel Woodrell) and I think it's gonna leave a mark.
Talk about leaving a mark, put Ben Wheatley's Down Terrace on thine Netflix que quick-like. I did after seeing it recommended by Ray Banks and Allan Guthrie. I'll take their next suggestions too. My gawsh it were a muck-up of a crime flick. Just a cluster-fuck of emotions, at once hilarious and horrifying in a mix I've never quite experienced before. Wheatley's got another one coming - Kill List, and I'll be first in line for that one, bet yur ass.
Friday, 12 August 2011
LEAVING DINNER PARTIES
Extricating yourself from a dinner party can be an arduous, multi-step process. Experience, planning, verbal sprightliness and a devious spirit are all arrows you’ll need for your quiver. Read the following carefully, stay vigilant and you’ll be watching TV in your underwear before you know it.
Let’s begin at the beginning. Step 1 involves stealthy nonverbal communication with your significant other. The goal here is to communicate a desire to leave without tipping off your hosts and fellow attendees. Widen your eyes, raise your eyebrows and quickly nod in the general direction of the front door.
You’re now ready to move on to step 2. Begin dropping hints about how much crap you have to do the next day. Have real examples at the ready–you’ll surely be asked. That seed may be planted, but it still needs water to grow. Enter step 3: a sincere yawn followed by a quick apology. If this isn’t artfully executed it will be correctly construed as rude and immediately put you in Dutch with the little lady.
Then you have to eat dessert, step 4. Keep in mind you’re still 45 minutes from starting the car. Here is where I want to see you playfully deflecting board game advances. One effective technique is to inform everyone that "it might be a little much on this particular evening, but next time they're all going down!" You’re doing great.
Which brings us to step 5, where we up the heat. Get aggressive with a firm but friendly "well honey, I think we better call it a night." This must be impeccably timed. Don't make the rookie mistake of thinking you’re out of the woods yet because you’re headed for the buzz saw known as step 6: the inside goodbyes.
Try to do your inside goodbyes as close to the door as possible. There will be more chitchat about how great the food was and vague plans about when you can all get together again. Traditionally, this can be a prickly phase, especially if kids are involved. They can derail everything you’ve worked for up to this point. Suddenly little Timmy could find the inspiration for an impromptu performance. This can be prevented by slipping a small amount of crushed Ambien in his food earlier in the evening. Please note: this highly advanced maneuver must only be performed by men with at least ten years of marriage under their belts.
Welcome to step 7, the front porch goodbye. This usually goes quickly, but stay away from wormhole topics such as work, sports or politics. If the women are close, step 8 means a walk-you-to-your-car goodbye. This can last anywhere from 5 to 16 minutes. After that it’s smooth sailing. Get home, take your pants off and celebrate a lovely evening and another successful evacuation.
Thursday, 11 August 2011
Innes & Out
Can you briefly relay the story of the end of your croupier career and the beginning of the writing one? Did the one follow the other immediately?
THE BACK CORNER BUS SEAT
I would venture to guess that the chasm between what I imagine goes on back there and what actually takes place is a small one indeed. Here's a list of what I’m pretty sure happens in this seat:
Gang related activity
Hobo Masturbation
Excrement handling and/or flinging
Teenage HJ’s
Criminal activity resulting in blood
Farting
Something involving menstruation
Satanic and/or religious graffiti
Reading of The Wall Street Journal
Heroin injection
Booger picking, rolling and flicking
Booger picking and smearing
The whispering of sexual advances and/or death threats.
Peeing
Something having to do with HIV
The lingering odor of death
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
JARRING ITUNES LIBRARY TRANSITIONS
It’s a true joy to shut off shuffle and plow through an entire record, just as the artist intended. It’s music’s version of reading a book. In fact, you can get so immersed you lose track of the last song. That’s when Bel Biv Devoe’s “Poison” comes out of nowhere and hits you like a ton of bricks. Here are the most jarring transitions in my iTunes library:
Beirut to Bel Biv Devoe
Ben Folds Five to Beyonce
Billie Holiday to Billy Idol
The Black Angels to The Black Eyed Peas
Bob Marley to Bobby Brown
Bon Iver to Bone Thugs & Harmony
Chuck Mangione to Chumbawamba
Danger Mouse & Daniele Luppi to Darryl Hall & John Oates
Dead Confederate to Dean Martin
Devotchka to Dexy's Midnight Runners
Elvis Presley to Eminem
Fang Island to Fat Joe
Frightened Rabbit to Fu-Schnickens
George Clinton to George Winston
The Hold Steady to House of Pain
Led Zeppelin to Leona Lewis
Mumford and Sons to Murray Head
The National to Naughty By Nature to Neil Diamond
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
CHURCH BONERS
Church isn't for camping, so when I pitch a tent I feel real bad. It's for serious reflection, soulful awakenings and wrapping yourself in the lord’s golden light. Not for acting like a pimply-faced middle school kid. It is simply unacceptable behavior for a highly respected member of the community like me. Not to mention, it lands you in one hell of a pickle. If you don’t stand at certain points it’s disrespectful to the baby Jesus. Then again, if you do stand and someone sees you partying at 3 o’clock, it’s almost worse. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place. In my defense, some women’s idea of what constitutes their “Sunday best” has gotten pretty darn risqué. I know, I know, no excuse. But you wouldn’t see that kind of skankery in a singles bar 20 years ago much less god’s house. Plus, if you go as many times as I have you pretty much have the thing memorized. The mind begins to wander. It’s just really really embarrassing. For everybody. Especially when I’m giving my sermon.
Monday, 8 August 2011
NEW YEAR'S EVE
Unless you’re Lil’ Wayne, New Year's Eve is a perpetual letdown. Too expensive, too crowded, too hard to get a cab, too anticlimactic, too much douchery. Here are some things I’d rather do with my time besides going out on New Year's Eve:
Making a red vine into a straw at a movie
Playing 18 holes of golf (Golden Tee)
Re-ordering my pantry while drinking beers
Scratching my athlete's foot
Going to Chili's
TPing houses
Watching TV at the gym while riding the stationary bike really slow
Deleting files on my computer
Coming up with new hopes and dreams
Facebook stalking
Dominating old people in Bingo
Trying to finish a medium level song on Guitar Hero
Correctly naming all the songs in my iTunes called "track 1"
Finishing a Grisham while taking a Grisham
Momentous Occasion
Saturday night in St. Louis saw one of my favorite N@B events yet. The readers were fantastic as always, but it held a couple of special distinctions to me - one, it was the first St. Louis event for Scott Phillips' Og-tastic new book, The Adjustment. Yeah, since we've been doing this series, he's had Rut and Rum, Sodomy and False Eyelashes released, but this one holds an extra-special place in my heart. And two, it was the public introduction to our labor of love - Noir at the Bar, the book! It was great to have so many close friends and contributors on hand for the event. I got mine signed by Matt Kindt, David Cirillo, Matthew McBride, Scott Phillips and Laura Benedict (who stopped by before the event, but unfortunately couldn't stay - she rocks).
And though the contributions to the book are a monument to the event's past, the excitement shared for it points only to the future. If you count folks that've participated more than once, (myself, Scott, Anthony Neil Smith, Frank Bill), add the two that got away (for time-crunch reasons - Theresa Schwegel and Tim Lane) plus those who've participated since - Aaron Michael Morales, Fred Venturini, John Hornor Jacobs, Jane Bradley and Jesus Angel Garcia - shit, we'd be half-way to another collection already. Hmmmm. Let's see if we can't recoup our money and raise some funds and awareness for Subterranean Books with this first one, for now.
Scott kicked off the evening with a look into the head space of my favorite sociopath Wayne Ogden and David Cirillo read a novel excerpt featuring bad English accents, nudity, public disturbance and a scene that reminded me of nothing so much as the restaurant scene from John Cameron Mitchell's Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Jane Bradley made everybody really uncomfortable with a reading from her fantastic book You Believers (really - go read the shit out this one. I'm picking up one of her short story collections next - either Power Lines or the one Kyle Minor supposedly told her should just be called Sex - Are We Lucky Yet?). Jesus Angel Garcia put the lights out with his megaphone preacher routine from badbadbad and I gotta say, my admiration for that guy and his hustling is just growing constantly. 9,000 miles into his self-funded book tour and he looked fresh and full of energy. WTF? I look like hammered shit three days into a work-week. That guy deserves any and all success that finds him.
I'd like to point your attention to a couple spots of interest on the N@B front - Laura Benedict is giving away three copies of the book on her blog Notes From the Handbasket with a cool little contest, (nothin hard) and David Abrams featured the anthology with a little note from me on his excellent literature blog The Quivering Pen. Thanks ere'buddy. Scott also mad this ridiculously fun trailer for the book. I like watching it on a repeating loop and have been humming that song non-stop for a week now.
Over at Ransom Notes it's Don Winslow's The Gentleman's Hour stirring thoughtsnshit. Plus, I make passing mention of Urban Waite, who it turns out has his story Nobody Heard a Thing the Night the Chicken Died posted at Design Observer. Checkerout.