GOT PULP?

How To Get A Book Deal In 3,285 Days

2012-01-25T15:04:00.000-08:00

In regards to writing: I have always viewed failure as an obstacle and not a roadblock. Obstacles can be overcome—but a roadblock is a fucking roadblock. And the only way through a roadblock is with a bulldozer. Because the hardest part about being a writer is not writing the book. It’s about not giving up after you’ve written it. It’s about not giving up on being a writer. You learn from your mistakes or you don’t progress. Writing—with the goal of getting published—is about failing, because you will. You have to. Failure is the greatest teacher. It makes you stronger. You must embrace failure with an open mind because you have to learn from it.

I started writing seriously back in 2003. Before that, I’d always written little things. Small things. Poems. The beginning of a short story here or there. But I never thought about being a writer. And I can’t say I knew I wanted to be a writer since the day I was born either. Because I didn’t. I mean, who would want that?

But without realizing it, I decided to write a book late one afternoon on a Wednesday. The town newspaper had just come out and I saw an advertisement for a writers group forming in another town. I read the ad with strange curiosity.

Still, I threw the paper away. But the next day I kept thinking about that ad. There was a group of writers that wanted to “get together” and, you know, write. They wanted to form some kind of club.

On one hand that sounded really stupid. On the other hand it sounded really awesome.

That ad played through my mind over-and-over. It was strange how it called to me. So the next day I bought a newspaper and called the number and talked to a lady named Pat. She was very friendly. Said, welcome to the club. They met on Tuesday and Thursday nights.

Did I want in?

I said, you bet.

When Thursday came, I got to the library late—it was an hour drive from our farm out in the country—but I arrived with great enthusiasm and entered a room filled with middle-aged women who greeted me with awkward smiles and cautious head nods.

They said the meeting had just begun. We should all introduce ourselves.

So we took turns around the table. Made introductions. Talked about our goals and hopes and dreams. What did we want out of this group? What were our expectations of ourselves as writers?

One by one, everyone talked. But everyone’s answers were the same.

They said: we have four or five stories a piece trapped inside our heads – if only we could find some way to unlock that box. Find a way to get the story from head to paper. How do we find that key?

I said: I just want to write.

So we wrote down single words on small patches of scrap paper and dropped them in a paper sack and shook it up. Our leader pulled the first word. Said, “write for twenty minutes. Be sure’n use the word blind!”

From her purse, she removed a gargantuan stopwatch made of stainless steel that looked like it could withstand just about whatever punishment you could give.

“Let’s see what you come up with,” she said. “Go!”

The next thing I knew, the clock had stopped. But I wasn’t done.

Just one minute, I told them.

When I finished, I looked up and everyone was looking at me. But no one spoke.

It was our group leader who broke the uncomfortable silence with a nervous cough.

Who wants to go first?

No one volunteered.

I looked around the room and realized it felt awkward in every way but one. That being the fact I was, strangely, happy. I had discovered something inside of me I never knew existed. It was in that moment I knew what I was meant to do.

It was a ‘game changing moment’ if you will. At one point or another we all have them. The trick is to pay attention when the moment comes. To recognize that moment from other moments and capture it before it slips away.

I was just about to make my move when our fearless leader piped up and offered to read what she had. Close to a page by the look of it.

They followed, one-by-one. Starting at her left and ending with me.

Several had managed a whole paragraph, or a handful of words—though they’d forgotten to use blind. But most were blank pages. Or pages filled with sketches. Or doodles. And then I read mine. Nine-and-a-half pages, and I used the word blind in the very first sentence.

When I finished reading, I’d left my audience at a scene where a fat guy gets shot in the throat while eating a White Castle — the blind guy. I looked up and saw everyone was uncomfortable. The lady to my right shook her head. Looked like she might get sick.

This is pretty cool, I told her. But she took a sip of coffee and ignored me.

No one else replied.

I had an hour drive home with the windows down. There was something inside me that felt raw and exciting. I’d found what I’d been looking for all my life. Words.

The next few days crawled. Time was a glacier that moved slower than it had ever moved before. I could not wait until Tuesday, and when it came, I got to the library early. I was the first one there. While I waited, I ate a protein bar. Thumbed through an Elmore Leonard novel. Played snake on my old Nokia.

Then, finally, after several protein bars and many pages of Elmore Leonard and countless rounds of snake, I realized they weren’t coming.

Undaunted, I opened my backpack and found what I’d written the Thursday before. I read the words out loud with newfound curiosity and I didn’t want the story to end.

But when it ended, I didn’t miss a beat. I picked up where I’d left off and wrote for the next two hours. Until the janitor found me and threw me out.

But I left with thirty pages and never looked back. Two months later I had a manuscript.

Writing the manuscript wasn’t hard. Writing the manuscript while I lived 100 miles away from my job was. I built minivans for one of the big three. At the time, I installed seatbelts on the passenger side. I had the timing just right. I could walk up the assembly line and meet the van: shoot the upper bolt, shoot the lower bolt, slap a plastic clip in the floorboard, walk back to my job, and then write for thirty-five seconds.

So that’s what I did. Night after night. Ten hours a night. Six nights a week. Thirty-five seconds at a time.

I spent every minute consumed with plot and character development and dialogue. I wrote between minivans. On my lunch break. At my kitchen table during the 9 hours out of 24 that I was actually home. But two months later I had fashioned my first novel-length manuscript, and it was a remarkable achievement. I had just produced the single most amazing piece of original material the world had ever seen. I would blow the doors off the entire publishing industry with this masterpiece. No less than 100 thousand handwritten (and hand counted) words in seven different spiral notebooks. Pen to paper. That’s how I rolled. A book deal was right around the corner. I could smell the fame and wealth. I began to think of all the things I’d buy with the money.

I’d never typed on a computer before, so my wife jumped in. Typed the whole thing in her spare time. Between both jobs she was working. It took a few weeks, but then she finished, and kapow! There it was. My book on paper. Suddenly, not seeing my words scribbled in red and black and blue ink seemed real. Legit.

So after finishing what I considered to be the greatest achievement of my life, I decided to give it a quick read. Just to be sure I spelled everything right.

I was proud. Figured it was just a matter of time. It would probably take a few months, sure, but I didn’t mind waiting. I was a writer! Writer’s waited. Before long there would be money and travel and fame. A movie deal? Most likely.

And that’s when the delusions of grandeur began.

I spent that summer buying stamps and stuffing envelopes and writing query letters. I had a ritual and it went like this: Every Thursday night – twenty envelopes and twenty stamps and ten pieces of paper. I would send off my query letter to the ten different publishers I found on the back of any book I could find—regardless of the genre. I’d just write them all letters and tell them how great my book was.

But of course that didn’t work.

At some point I bought a book called The Writer’s Market. It cost thirty bucks but it was worth every penny. I’d stuff the large envelopes with the queries, address the smaller SASE, and stuff it in the big envolope. Stamp them all, and drop them in the mailbox on my way to St. Louis. I’d send out ten queries a week, every Friday, to ten different agents. Or ten different publishers. I did this for a long time and it never worked.

Until that one day when it finally did.

Everyday for years I checked the mail religiously at a quarter of two, and one day I found an envelope from a publisher in Georgia called Dare To Dream publishing. I assumed it was just another letter wishing me the best. Telling me not to feel like such an asshole. It’s just that, well, my story wasn’t right for them. But not to take it personal. And by the way, good luck on all my future writing endeavors.

That’s what I expected. I’d made peace with rejection early on. I accepted the idea that nobody’s as good a writer as they think they are. Especially not at first. I collected the rejection letters on our fridge, and after a while you couldn’t see what color it was. But that’s okay. I was a work in progress.

But to my great surprise, it was not a rejection letter. They said, “we loved the story and we’d like to offer you a contract. What do you think of that?”

We left that night for Georgia.

We had two hundred and thirty-five dollars to our name but we hit the road. Drove eight hours in rain. Slept in our Durango. We brushed our teeth the next morning with bottled water in a truck stop parking lot.

A few hours later I crashed the writing conference my new publisher was attending. I told them who I was, said I’d just gotten the letter yesterday. FTW! Where’s my contract?

And they didn’t know what to say. They asked me was I crazy?

Of course, I said. But also quite determined. I was there to talk business.

But they didn’t know what to think about that. Said they admired my dedication, but they had to draw a contract first. Promised they would send it Monday. Be patient, they told me.

I assured them I was. Then we made the drive back to Missouri, and I was satisfied. I’m going to be a writer. I started making plans. Calling newspapers. I was lining up interviews like a one-man marketing machine and I wasn’t even home yet.

Once we got back home I parked myself at the mailbox. I waited all week but the contract never came. It finally arrived three weeks later, though I called them almost daily to remind them. But I really should have paid more attention to the BIG picture. The writing on the wall. I tried, but I was just too distracted. Blinded by thoughts of quitting my job. I couldn’t wait to give my boss the finger. I wanted to write myself out of that factory job so bad; words fail me. I cannot describe it. But I was on my way. It wouldn’t be long now.

My book deal fell through eight months later. And I’d already done several interviews, not to mention an ingenious marketing campaign. I had it all planned out. I was putting up billboards and distributing bumper stickers. My Mom had t-shirts made.

Then one day I went to my publishers website but the website wasn’t there. I called the number but it was disconnected. The next day we left for Georgia. Again.

I could not save the book deal but you can never say I didn’t try. It was a long drive home. Even with my wife beside me I felt alone. Like I was bleeding inside. My soul was an open wound. I wanted to die. Dare To Dream had been bought out by a company that published only Women’s Fiction.

Oh? I’d asked them back in Georgia. What’s that mean?

It means we publish lesbian fiction.

My wife says the color drained from my face and I looked as white as the wall I was standing in front of. But still, I would not go down without a fight. I told them not so fast. A deal is a deal.

But they told me they were sorry. And honestly, I think they were.

You must reconsider, I demanded. And they thought long and hard. They wanted to help me if they could but the manuscript I’d written didn’t fit the new program. It was about a riverboat casino heist gone wrong. While the book was everything a good book should be—fast pacing, strong characters, guns and drugs and a towering body count—there were no lesbians.

I said I understood. But I lied.

It was a long drive back to Missouri.

For the sake of brevity I will condense the next five years. I quit my (excellent paying) job to write. I got a Myspace page (don’t laugh – you had one) but that wasn’t cutting it. It was 2008 and I’d never really used a computer. When I wasn’t writing, I started riding motorcycles (and crashing them). Then I bought a boat and crashed it. I spent a lot of time in Emergency rooms. But that whole time I never stopped writing or believing.

At some point I discovered Twitter and realized the key to succeeding was learning every possible thing I could about the business, and what better way to learn about writing than by meeting writers.

I’ll never forget this: I’m sitting at my kitchen table—with both arms wrapped in gauze because I’d wrecked my motorcycle in a tank top—determined, but clueless. I didn’t know what to write or where to send it. And then I stumbled upon a literary agent (who would go on to become my agent down the road) and I also found Scott Phillips, author of The Ice Harvest. I remembered him from the special features section of the movie. He was hilarious. And famous. So I followed him on Twitter, and low and behold, he followed me back. So I wrote to him, immediately, and told him he was cool. Could we meet, I asked? He agreed. And that was it for me.

That was the real beginning. I learned more in a half-hour of talking with Scott than I had in six years on my own. He told me I should get an agent, and he recommended the agent I have now. Then Scott told me I should write a short story. Submit it online. So I did, as soon as I got home. I wrote Gunpowder & Aluminum Foil and from there I shifted gears and held the pedal to the floor. Tried to push it through the floor. Because that’s what it takes to make it.

Before long I was meeting people and connecting on all the right levels. I started writing short fiction and submitting it online. Built up a network of friends and followers.

But it took another three years before I could truly feel like I was a writer.

But the point is this: I never gave up

And now I have a book deal with New Pulp Press. Plus there's a new manuscript in my agent's hands. And, somewhere—saved on some old hard drive—there is that first book I ever wrote. The one that began as nine-and-a-half pages—written on an assembly line, at our kitchen table, in the backroom of a library—surrounded by other people who felt the same spark I did. The difference is: I recognized that spark and did everything in my power not to let it die. I've spent the last eight years trying to grow the flame—now it is a raging inferno.

Bouchercon 2011

2011-09-22T14:10:00.000-07:00

The air is still and the dust has settled. It’s official. Another Bouchercon has come to a close. This was my first one—and if there’s one thing I learned, it’s this: Writers love to ̶d̶r̶i̶n̶k̶ talk about writing. And reading. And books, authors, movies, guns.

The weekend kicked off with the Bouchercon Edition of Noir At The Bar on Wednesday. The selection of readers was stellar. Glenn Gray, John Rector, Hilary Davidson, Matthew C. Funk, Jon McGoran, Laura Benedict, and Duane Swierczynski. Even moi had the chance to read. I selected Big Darlene the Sex Machine, from the upcoming anthology BEAT TO A PULP: Round Two. Everyone laughed. Some cried. But at least no one threw vibrators, vegetables, or fruit at the stage.

It was to be the first of several epic nights. All of them late and hard on the liver. Btw, I’ve heard rumors the Bouchercon crowd dropped over $40,000 dollars just at the bar. At least $5,000 of that was my tab. Which the very generous Glenn Gray insisted on paying. Talk about a cool guy. Here’s a writer whose generosity knows no boundaries. At one point he bought dinner for John Rector, Johnny Shaw, and myself. He refused to accept payment of any kind. This is a very serious guy when it comes to paying the bill. Thought I’d have to arm-wrestle him for it. But in the end, there’s no need to argue. And why would anyone argue with a man who can bench press a garbage truck?

Exactly. You wouldn’t. So I didn’t.

The rest of the weekend was a blur to be honest. Remembered only in short gray patches of nostalgia. I’m not sure how a man can fit so much activity into four days without cocaine. Yet somehow I did.

If there’s one thing I realized after my second night of hard drinking, it’s this. Bouchercon is about memories. We closed down the bar every single night.

One night we took the party back to Glenn Gray’s room. And by God, if there’s one thing I can say about Glenn Gray, it’s this. The man comes prepared. His room was filled with alcohol. Beer. Wine. Even champagne. I think. Still not sure, but whatever it was, I drank it quick while he was in the shower and returned the empty bottle to the fridge. I failed to mention this to him. I’m still not sure he knows. I suppose if he ever calls me on it, I’ll just blame the whole thing on Cameron Ashley. The editor of CRIMEFACTORY.

Do you know Cameron Ashley? If not, I suggest you friend him. Not only is he a magnificent writer, but also one of my favorite humans. Sincere and genuine. Of all my friends from Australia, ̶I̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ Cam is my favorite. I’ll always remember drinking and laughing hysterically until 4 AM like junior high school kids away at camp. WOW. If only I could remember the things we talked about. Though I can assure you with blunt honesty that none of them would be appropriate for this setting. Or any other setting for that matter.

The next day we bowled.
Most of us were awesome; some of us were not. And by some of us, I mean me. But I don’t blame myself; I blame that silly rule about free shots of tequila for every strike you roll. Plus I blame Owen Laukkanen for making me drink them. Damn you, Owen. It’s all your fault.

After the bowling alley, I met a few people who claimed to be (cough) fans. We ended up at a small corner bar for a series of drinks. Then another bar. After that, I found myself in a strange hotel room. After what seemed like hours, I stumbled out and made my way back to the Ren for more drinking.

I realize I’m forgetting a bunch of shit but I’m trying hard to touch on the highlights. Like this one: Daniel Woodrell. That’s right. I drank bourbon with the man and he is awesome.

And yeees, I am truly very lucky. I believe a connection was made. Or perhaps it’s wishful thinking. Still. When I finally figured out how to introduce myself, the first words he said to me were these: McBride? I’ve heard of you. You’re Jed’s friend.

So there’s that. The ultimate highlight of ̶m̶y̶ ̶l̶i̶f̶e̶ Bouchercon. The rest of our conversation I will keep for myself. Just know that he and his lovely wife are, as my pal Frank Bill so eloquently puts it, “salt of the earth.” So true.

That’s pretty much it. P.J. Farris, Keith Rawson, Greg Bardsley, Kent Gowran, Dan O' Shea, Jimmy Callaway, and everybody else I drank and exchanged lies with--see you next year. Bouchercon 2012. Drinks are on Glenn Gray.

The amazing Jon Jordan! Along with Anthony Award winner Hilary Davidson.

<=== The lovely Christa Faust.

That crazy bastard Scott Phillips ===>
Yes, he knows Krav Maga!

SOUTHERN GODS book release

2011-08-22T13:48:00.000-07:00

Cold rain fell from the darkness and pounded the windshield as we left the driveway. The sky was black and starless. Lightning flashed in quick bolts and thunder made a deep slow growl that rumbled through the hills and shook the barn.

The clock on the dash read 6:02.

I made my way south, toward Little Rock. I brought with me a blonde navigator—her hair thrown up in a failing bun—a Pomeranian, a long haired Chihuahua, and a small caliber pistol I bought at a pawn shop with cash money and few questions asked.

As the rain let up, the sky came to life and a dull yellow blur to my left became sun. It brought with it a powerful blast of Ozark heat and it welcomed the day with promise.

I drove our Volvo at a high rate of speed and we made good time.

By midmorning we stopped for breakfast. Either Shoney’s or Golden Corral—I already forgot. But it doesn’t matter; it was horrible. If I could remember, I’d warn you never to go there.

What I do remember, was that it was in a little town called St. Robert’s, and it was directly across the interstate from a Gentleman’s club called Big Louie’s.

Now, I might suggest going there. But, um, anyway …

A short while later we were back on the road and breaking speed laws with reckless abandon. We rolled into Branson around 12:00. If you ever have the opportunity to drive in Branson, Missouri at noon on a Friday, don’t.

But I had to. I had a surprise for my wife. A trip through The Titanic Museum.

It’s not that I wanted to go, I didn’t. But she’s a woman, and women are all about romance, so I just naturally assumed she would enjoy it. I was wrong.

Wife: This looks kind of stupid. Wait, it’s $22.00 a ticket? WHAT? Let’s just go to that medieval castle instead.

Now, that’s my kind of girl.

So I tore through the parking lot like a boss and slid my station wagon into the thoroughfare, through a section of wet pavement soaked by lawn sprinklers, and spun the front tires freely as the machine fought to gain traction.

An hour later we were back on 65. We crossed into Harrison; our destination was Lead Hill. Site of a medieval castle being built way out in the Ozarks. Way out. In fact, it was well over fifty miles out of our way, but that’s fine. I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kinda guy. So we drove. Through the two lane back roads of Arkansas. Up monstrous hills and down into the cavernous valleys.

We arrived at the castle much later, only to find it was closed. A quick googling of Ozark Medieval Fortress revealed this was the only day they really ever closed.

Undaunted, we headed back to 65 and blazed a hot trail down toward Little Rock. To the book release of my pal John Hornor Jacobs debut novel SOUTHERN GODS.

We didn’t make it far when that terrible breakfast I’d had earlier at the place I can’t recall came back to taunt me. I’ve gotta find a bathroom I told my wife, and about that time we saw a sign that advertised a tourist attraction. It was a natural bridge formed from rock that was a thousand years old. The settlers used it.

Surely that place’ll have a restroom.

My wife: I dunno.

We traveled down the side of a colossal mountain that was steep with solid chunks of Ozark granite for walls and deep channels carved into the side by the hand of God.

There were signs everywhere that told you to put your car in low gear.

When we got to the bottom we found a small parking lot with a beat up sports car parked up close to an ancient ramshackle dwelling that looked as old as the hills themselves.

We paid five bucks to see the natural bridge and it was about as interesting as a thousand year old natural bridge could be. But my main focus was the restroom.

Where’s your facilities? I demanded, and she pointed with her head.

I stepped out back to find an antique shit house that looked like it would fall over and die in even the slightest gush of hard wind. I looked at my wife. I’m not going in there.

I opened the door and told her there was no way I was getting in this two holer. A man has to question the structural integrity of an ancient outhouse beside a thousand year old bridge. I’ll just wait.

We were only 3 hours from Little Rock.

At 4:00 we rolled into a town that sits just above Little Rock and let the dogs make logs next to an Outback Steakhouse. Then we ate.

Then we spent the next hour and twenty minutes in traffic, with the air conditioning on high, but we found Little Rock, only to travel in circles for the next ten minutes, but finally we arrived at the Butler Center. I put the car in park and turned off the key.

The clock on the dash read 6:02.

After exactly 12 hours behind the wheel we’d finally reached our destination. Sure we made horrible time since it was only a 6-hour trip, but still, we had a grand adventure—and adventure is the name of the game when you travel with a wife, two small dogs, and a handgun that may or may not be legal.

Yes, along the way I even broke my iPod. Turns out when you drop one on Ozark granite they break into ten thousand pieces.

SOUTHERN GODS book release

When we stepped into that precious air conditioning I was in awe of the beauty of the gallery that was hosting John’s event. It was vast, and decorated with beautiful artwork of every shape and size.

Then we were in the signing room—and there was the man himself—rubbing elbows with his fans, looking happy. But as badly as I wanted to say hi, I wasted no time finding the OPEN BAR. That’s right, drinking is important, and nobody knows this more than John Hornor Jacobs, so I was delighted to find a bartender and a table adorned with top shelf booze.

For the record, the event was glorious. I’ve been to a few signings in my day but nothing as fancy or extravagant as this. All in attendance were dressed handsomely and smartly. With the exception of me, who wore shorts and flip-flops.

And it must be said; the guest of honor was a magnificent host. He wowed the crowd with a bold a capella rendition of The Cats In The Cradle and then performed a martial arts demonstration that left the audience wide eyed and slack jawed.

Okay, that last part is a lie. But the only reason he didn’t do these things is because he didn’t have time. He was busy signing books and shit. Making people laugh. Making people proud.

Especially his dad, whom I spoke with at great length. He's a real southern gentleman with a presence that commanded respect, and he gave me a look that felt like he was sizing me up. But he was beaming with pride; he had a wide happy smile that said that’s my boy!

He told me John had a great agent. I gave him a clever look back and said trust me, I know.

45 minutes later and we were out the door. While I hadn't been there long enough to get into any real trouble, I was there long enough to receive a parking ticket I will never pay.

==============================>

Two hours after that and Little Rock was a memory of heat and beauty and the pride I felt in seeing a fellow writer succeed.

I’d stood back in awe and watched the line grow and grow until it ran the full length of the wall and wrapped back around toward the door. There were several hundred people and I’d bet my broken iPod JHJ sold at least 100 books.

By 9:00 we were back in Little Rock. I’d taken a wrong turn, and of course both our iPhones were dead—which meant no navigation. Before we left the house that morning my wife suggested we bring our old atlas. Just in case.

We don’t need that, I assured her. We can use our phones.

I forgot the phone charger stopped working.

It was midnight and we found ourselves on a two-lane blacktop road called 92. We were still in Arkansas. In a town called Choctow. But it wasn’t a town. It was just a yellow sign someone jammed into the dirt on the side of the road.

But we ran north. Eventually we found 65, and we drove into the hot black night through the hills of Arkansas and we crossed back into Missouri.

There were no other cars on the road. All I could see was a blanket of darkness as moonlight illuminated my copy of SOUTHERN GODS through the window.

I thought about that phantom radio station John wrote about.

I thought about Bull Ingram and Ramblin’ John Hastur. I’d seen the forests of thick green trees and Ozark Mountains and the jagged bolts of Arkansas rock that inspired John Hornor Jacobs.

When I looked down, the dashboard lights flickered and it felt like the motor could stall. Static came through the speakers like white noise, and suddenly a cold chill ran through me I cannot explain.

I reached down and turned off the radio—just to be safe—and listened to the highway whine.

Buy your copy of SOUTHERN GODS right HERE.

the NOIR AT THE BAR anthology

2011-08-08T12:09:00.000-07:00

At long last--after months and months of torturous waiting ... I'm very proud to announce the long awaited NOIR AT THE BAR anthology has officially been released. Just look at this amazing cover designed by Matt Kindt.

Seriously. Just look at it. This cover is sick. It's dope. It's just about the coolest thing I've ever seen, and it's the perfect jacket to prepare you for what you're going to find inside.

Now I've had a lot of cool things happen for me lately in the publishing world (like this!) and I've even been lucky enough to have an A-list celebrity pimping me to 5 million people ... but one of the things I'm most proud of is the fact that my story GUNPOWDER & ALUMINUM FOIL opens up this kick ass anthology and it's followed by 18 more stories of death, destruction, and madness. And here's the best part, the proceeds of this work of art all go to help save an Independent book store in St. Louis called Subterranean Books.

Btw, SUBTERRANEAN BOOKS is THE ONLY PLACE IN THE WHOLE WORLD WHERE THIS BOOK WILL EVER BE SOLD. Yep! And wait, here is actually really the best part .. not only does this book demonstrate the raw creativity of 20 insane batshit crazy motherfuckers, and not only do the profits go to help the bookstore, but this book is only (pause) $12.00! No, really. It's only 12 frog skins. That's a bargain for a collectors item such as this. I predict this first edition will sell out quick so you better buy your copy while you can. Or, better yet, buy two copies. One for yourself and another copy as a unique gift, or maybe give it away on your blog. You can order the book by clicking on this link for SUBTERRANEAN BOOKS. Plus .. a good lot of the contributing writers will be at Bouchercon next month and everybody will be happy to sign it.

Now, just in case you've been living in a damp musty crawlspace under your neighbor's back porch and you're unfamiliar with NOIR AT THE BAR -- or N@B as it's affectionately known -- allow me to fill you in. N@B is an evening filled with drunks. I mean writers. Drinking and reading from their original material in a bar. Except now it's at a coffee house. But NOIR AT THE COFFEE HOUSE just doesn't have the same ring to it now does it?

Trust me, it's a pretty cool set up. No matter where the idea for such a sleazy endeavor originated, these two degenerates, Scott Phillips and Jedidiah Ayres, have taken this idea to the next level. It's a great way to spend an evening with a bunch of writers and you get a rare chance to see through that tiny window to their brain. Or in Aaron Michael Morales's case, see him heckle other writers while they read. Or, in the case of Jesus Angel Garcia, stomp around the room shouting into a bullhorn after traveling 9,000 miles on a cross country trek peddling books, CD's, a documentary film, and a basket full of condoms. N@B: THE BOOK ==> BUY HERE.

NOIR AT THE BAR: The genius book trailer. N@B Trailer

Frank Sinatra In A Blender - June 1, 2011.

2011-05-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

For the last few months I’ve been busy. I’ve had a lot happening. I got an agent in New York and I got a deal on an eBook with Concord ePress. My book comes out next Wednesday, June 1, and I’m excited. It’s been a lot of hard work but in the end I believe I have a strong, very unique book.

It’s called Frank Sinatra in a Blender. It’s about a private detective in St. Louis who drinks. A lot. He has other bad habits too, and he really doesn’t care what you think about them. He’s his own man, and that’s just the way he likes it. He has a drinking problem, a drug problem, and a partner named Frank Sinatra.

Did I mention he carries a shotgun and a chainsaw?

Did I mention the book has a gracious and very generous introduction from Ken Bruen?

Did I mention the book is dedicated to Charlie Sheen?

Stay tuned. Next week you can order a copy for about 8 bucks and see what all the talk is about.

KUNG FU FACTORY

2011-03-24T13:01:00.002-07:00

A year ago I wrote a story called RED DONKEY for a Crime Factory Special Edition called KUNG FU FACTORY and my copy finally arrived in the mail today. Let me tell you, it's pretty damn cool. It's been a long time coming but I promise it's been worth the wait. The book is nice and thick; big enough to deflect a roundhouse if you found yourself in the wrong situation. It's got a tight hard spine -- if you need to crack someone in the throat with it. Which you might. And the stories are all 100% ass-kickers that'll get your adrenaline pumping and make you wanna choke, bitch slap, or pile drive the first inconsiderate turd wrangler who smart eye's you. BUY THIS BOOK. It won't make you taller or a better softball player, but it'll get your heart pounding and give you something to think about the next time you get backed into a corner. Think of it as a lesson in self-defense. One day KUNG FU FACTORY could save your life. Trust me, you need this book. It packs more power than a thousand pounds of dynamite.

Both versions available. Printed word and download. Order your copy today: Print or Kindle

Christa Faust, Anthony Neil Smith, Duane Swierczynski, Joshua Reynolds, Chad Eagleton, Michael S. Chong, Frank Bill, Matthew J. McBride, Cameron Ashley, Chris La Tray, Garnett Elliot, Jimmy Callaway, Bryon Quertermous, Nerd Of Noir, Liam Jose, Addam Duke

The Death of a Bookstore

2011-02-14T19:15:00.000-08:00

I've said it before, I’ll say it again – The death of a bookstore is a very sad thing indeed.

There’s nothing like a small, Independent hole in the wall that exists because of love, not money. Love of books. Love of characters. Love of fellow readers. So it was with sad eyes that I read an email from the incomparable Jedidiah Ayres, delivering the unfortunate news that one of our favorite little bookstores in St. Louis might close down this year.

Well, Jed’s not the type of guy to just stand around and let that sorta thing happen without a fight. So he and his partner in crime, Scott Phillips, devised a brilliant plan to try and throw Subterranean books a bone.

The Point of this Blog Post

For the last few years, Subterranean has been the official bookstore for Noir At The Bar, an event I’ve blogged about, where writers from all over the literary world stop by the Delmar Lounge in the Central West End for alcohol. I mean, for the chance to hang out with other writers and read the written word to a room full of hungry ears. I myself was fortunate enough to read there last year.

Which brings me to Scott and Jed’s generous, bighearted idea. To publish an anthology of stories from Noir At The Bar by the writer’s who’ve read there. Let me say it’s a great honor to know something I read there will end up in a book that’s being sold to support such a worthy cause as saving a bookstore.

Like all writer types, I love books. I love bookstores, too, and I can’t stand the thought of seeing yet another one disappear into the void. Once the Indy stores are gone, they’re gone. I used to tell my sons when they were little, “The most important card you can have in your wallet is a library card.” Because I wanted them to fall in love with books. The same way I did. The same way YOU did. Preserving the written word is important. I want my kids to take their kids to Subterranean. But with all the technological advancements is that possible?

In the digital age of convenience we’re living in, it’s safe to say any small bookstores still alive and breathing are doing so because inside their heart of hearts, they bleed for the printed word. Sure, everybody loves his or her Kindle, but it smells like plastic!

There’s nothing like being greeted by the aroma of rows and rows of old leather bound hardbacks printed on thin ancient sheets of paper. And a place like Subterranean knows who you are and they know what you like.

If they tell you, “I’ve got something I know you’ll like,” it’s because they’ve taken the time to get to know you, and, well, they know what you like. The difference between Barnes & Noble and an independent bookstore is simple. The chains are in business to make money and the Indy’s are in business to make friends. At the risk of sounding like a two-dollar politician brawling for a vote, if nothing else, do it for the children. Support your independent bookstores before they all die.

The Waiting Game

2011-01-16T15:36:00.000-08:00

And the wait begins. Friday afternoon I sent my manuscript to an agent in New York City. THE BIG APPLE. The Mecca of the publishing world. And with that wait comes a whole new set of emotions to deal with. Pride, for one, because try as they might, not everyone has what it takes to push through a novel length manuscript. There is satisfaction and a real sense of accomplishment because you saw it through all the way to THE END. You didn’t quit when the writing got hard. Fear; is another one, because even though you poured your heart and soul into this piece, what if it’s not good enough?

Then you have the questions. The doubt. You try to walk that razor thin line inside your head without falling off. It’s a dangerous balancing act between realistic expectations and dreams of grandeur. Was it good enough? Should I have written that one particular scene in the book; the scene that’s sure to offend everyone, except maybe three people I know personally. Did I just produce the best, most genius piece of material of my life or should I destroy my computer?

I’m living a writer’s life, I do believe. Self-doubt. Loathing. Hunger. Combined with the unexplainable drive to create worlds and invent characters readers can relate to. Believable characters that real people can stand behind and care about. Or even loathe. Loathing is good.

Like every writer before me, rejection is my nemesis. They are the gatekeepers used to thin the ever-increasing herd, and I accept them as a necessary part of the process. I make every attempt to learn from them. Then I laugh at them, and print them out just to burn them. But rejection is an implement and I keep the ashes in the top drawer of my toolbox. They are powerful, compulsory tools I use to push me forward into the unknown, and they bounce off my Kevlar armor like raindrops on a windshield and roll down my steel breastplate, disappearing into the void with the other hundred that came before it.

So when I say the waiting game begins, what I really should’ve said was the waiting game continues…because to me that is truly a writer’s life. WAITING. Learning patience to hone your craft, and developing a bulletproof casing to protect your fragile ego from the painful, earth shattering bullets of negative response and denunciation.

So while I wait for the reply from New York, I’ll keep in mind that waiting and rejection are both part of the world I’m making a conscious choice to enter and if I can’t take either one, I am surely in the wrong line of work.

2010-12-14T15:28:00.000-08:00

[Goodbye 2010] My Year As A Writer

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year as a “writer,” and I use the term very loosely, it’s this. There are a lot of us writers out there. Seems like everywhere I turn I run into one. It almost seems like a cliché. Lots of writers, bloggers, and novelist's.

Are there really that many writers out there? And what criteria must one meet to consider oneself worthy of such a title? I ask myself, am I one of those guys who fall into that category somewhere between being an actual writer and being a wannabe? In truth, I don’t really think of myself as a real writer, because to me, a writer is one who supports him or herself because someone pays them money to make stuff up. What I do know is that I’m trying like hell. I’m traveling that road and it’s not without roadblocks and landmines.

Another thing I learned about writing this year is that I’m a pretty shitty blogger. And it’s not because I don’t enjoy it, because I do. It’s because… okay, it’s because I don’t enjoy it. To be honest, writing a blog is hard work, and I’ve got mad love for anyone who can do this with even the slightest hint of regularity. Chuck Wendig I'm talking to you. Your blog http://terribleminds.com/ramble/ is superior and it sets the bar to which all others should be judged. I've tried to blog faithfully, but I cannot. As you can see for yourselves my posts have been few and far between.

At first I’ll admit I had grand ambitions. I traveled to Lebowski Fest in Kentucky, I traveled to the Steve McQueen Festival in his home town of Slater, Mo with my son, Nick. I went to interview my buddy, author Marshall Terrill. He’s written 12 biographies from everyone including Sonny West [Elvis Presley’s bodyguard] to “Pistol” Pete Maravich. I met him a few years ago and he tried to hook me up with his agent. Needless to say it didn’t work out.

And who could forget my blog post about Black Hogan? I mean, C' mon. Everybody loves Black Hogan ===>

So I’ve made a few attempts and gained a few followers and just know that I’m grateful for the attention GOT PULP? receives considering the limited amount of posts which I offer.

And now to the point of this post. Not only was my blog starved for content, but I started thinking what a good year it’s been for me because of you. Because you follow my tweets or because you’re reading this now.

It was last December that I really started taking my writing serious. I started a blog. I set a few small goals, but never lost sight of the big picture. You don't get to the top of the ladder by starting in the middle. You start at the bottom rung like everybody else and you fight your way to the top.

I started making friends who were nice enough to point me in the right direction. I decided I’d try and write a short story or two. See if I could get them published. Since then I’ve had 12 published and another 8 ACCEPTED and ready to come out between now and next summer. I also Rewrote part of my first novel from waaay back in 2003, I began 10K on a western, 15K on a gangster story about life in the 1930’s, and now my current project. The one that’s been consuming me since November 12th. The current word count stands at 47,426 words as of yesterday, when I was interrupted mid-sentence by the State Patrol [more on that later]. I’ve been writing my ass off, but it’s come at a cost.

Two years ago I made roughly $140 THOUSAND dollar$ and this year I’ve made less than 2 grand. I also walked away from a job of 13 years and I was almost halfway to retirement. I could’ve been out at 48 years old with 2,500 a month and full benefits. Instead I sprinted from that facility at a pace that would have made any track and field coach proud. Now I face a future which is bleak and uncertain. But at least I know I'm alive.

Why in the fuck did I do this?

It was either the ballsiest thing anyone I know has ever done, or the stupidest thing anyone I know has ever done. And believe me, as I write this post in the freezing cold I’d be lying if I didn’t say at least part of me feels compelled to think the latter. Although most would agree a wiser course of action could be recommended, the absolute truth is you cannot put a price on a dream. I made $32.00 an hour in a time when everyone else was out of work, but I was a slave. Held captive only by the imaginary bounderies I allowed myself to believe existed. Either one day this writing thing will pay off or I’ll end up flipping burgers. But at the end of the day, I'll always know I tried.

All in all this past year has been a mixture of both good and bad. As a [cough] writer, I was happy to see so many good things happen for me. I think everyone trying to survive in the writing game ends up with one story that people seemed to remember them by, even months after it was published. For me that story is Have Chainsaw, Will Travel http://bit.ly/hHtBAV Published in Plots With Guns this summer. It seems to have gotten me hundreds of followers/friends on Twitter/Facebook and I see numerous references being made referring to me as that Chainsaw Guy.

How awesome is that? I’ve thanked Anthony Neil Smith a thousand times both in public and private and I’ll do it once more just to show him I’m not fucking around when it comes to my Thank You’s.

I’ve also been asked to do a few interviews. Here are two.

http://bit.ly/gBlcCM and http://bit.ly/g27UA7

Both of the interviewer[s] thanked me for being honest. They said it made for a good interview because I didn't hold anything back. Why would I? If you're not honest with yourself you're just boring. Fuck boring. Nobody remembers boring.

One of the shitty things that happened was getting the living fuck beat out of me by like 6 dudes and breaking my face.http://bit.ly/eZ30oJ But I still managed to go to work everyday at my day job cutting down trees [with a chainsaw] until those pricks laid me off back in August. Of course, there was no unemployment money since I drew it out the last two years going to college, which I quit to take the chainsaw job which I no longer have.

So, here I sit. Alone in a big empty farmhouse. Freezing my nuts off in a pair of sweat pant, seriously thick writing socks, a stocking cap, an insulated hoodie, and the most badass pair of house shoes you’ve ever seen. And I’m throwing the words down like nobody’s business until my hard drive takes a massive dog shit at word count 45,217. I rush to my computer guy, beg him to literally stay after work because I have a novel trapped on my hard drive and nothing else in the whole world matters except the retrieval of that story. Oh yeah, I don’t have much money to pay you.

But he does, THANK YOU JOE! at JUST DIGITAL in Owensville, Mo. You truly are a computer Ninja and you really saved my bacon.

And it must be said, behind every struggling writer is a supportive partner. Whether it’s a husband, a wife, or a blow up doll. Without my wife, none of this would be possible. She believes in me so much she doesn’t want me to work. She wants me to write, knowing she’ll have to work overtime plus her days off if she has the chance. How do you say thank you for that kind of support? Partners of writers need their own paid holiday. If I ever become president I’ll see what I can do about that.

So that brings me to yesterday, typing my new novel with gusto! Writing with purpose, when suddenly I got that signal that only someone who’s had bad luck with the police can receive. Like a sixth sense, my internal fuzz buster went berserk. I turned around and there was a State Trooper walking in front of the kitchen window, headed towards my front door. And just as I was tending to a magnificent croc pot of homemade deer chili.

So I did what anyone with strong survival instincts would do. I immediately ran out the back door, through the yard, and around the house. I met him on the front porch, asked if there was anything I could help him with.

Rule #1 NEVER OPEN YOUR DOOR FOR THE POLICE. I’m telling you from experience. The first thing they’ll do is stick their foot inside the door so you can’t close it. TRUST ME. You open a door for a cop, he’s coming inside.

I asked him what he wanted? Told him my motorcycles hadn’t left the garage in months.

He suggested we go inside and talk [uh huh], but I told him I wasn’t comfortable having strangers in the house. Perhaps we should talk in the car.

“Okay,” he said.

So I told him I'd Be right back and I returned to the police cruiser with a tupperware container full of hot chili. I wanted him to know this wasn't my first time in a cop car and I can assure you with great confidence he didn’t know what to think about that. Before he left I had him run me down to the mailbox.

NOW, I can’t tell you what he wanted. All I can say is this crazy bastard was on a fishing trip. A fact finding mission to gather information and intelligence about something I may or may NOT have been involved in back in the late 90’s… so it’d be in my best interest not to say anymore. Obviously I’ve probably said too much already, but know that we went on to have one of the most interesting conversations I've ever been involved in.

And the whole time he’s telling me how good that chili smells.

I promise him it’s the best I’ve ever had, but I never offered him any. And in the end, in true asshole fashion, I left my plastic bowl in the car and pushed it back under the passenger seat with the heel of my badass house shoe.

Now before you think I’m some kind of complete asshole, let’s remember he was being tricky. Questioning me about things well after the statute of limitations has expired. His goal was to get me to confess to something I obviously didn't do. And he was accomplishing one thing and one thing only by talking to me, and that is wasting my fucking time. I’m a writer [remember] My time is precious. And I am now writing for survival.

Through a combination of well-worded emails and my natural bullshitting skills, I’ve managed to gain the attention of a very cool agent in New York. NO, he’s not repping me, but he said a few very nice things about me. And what he said was so heartfelt, genuine, and honest, it almost brought me to tears.

Yes, yes, I know. I’m the same guy that just said FTP! in the above paragraph, but the few kind words he said to me created a driving force that propelled me forward enough to write 48K+ words in three and a half weeks. Sure they might be shit, but I feel strongly it’s the best thing I’ve ever written. But of course, I probably always think that. Still, even if he hates my book, I love it. And his positive influence helped make it possible. His confidence in my ability inspired me to create a world full of make believe people. Then kill them all.

It's been a good year for me. Another big highlight was being asked to speak to a high school creative writing class, only to be rejected by the school board at the last minute once they googled me. Sad face. And I was really looking forward to that. Someone needs to teach our youth how to properly dispose of a body and I can tell you with a straight face that I've researched such things to greater lengths than any one man should.

If there's a writer out there reading this and it feels like you have a book in you somewhere, then FIND IT. What in the hell are you waiting for? I know life is full of twists and turns, but if you want it bad enough it all boils down to sacrifices and which ones you're willing to make. Just look how I’m doing it. In the cold, with no money, limited heat and food. Not to mention now I’m looking out the windows every five minutes for more cops to show up.

But I'm doing it in style.

So, if I can do it, YOU can do it. I'll have fresh writing coming out in the new NEEDLE Magazine, as well as the Crimefactory Special addition Kung-Fu Factory. Plus a short story in Crimespree Magazine next year. Please, buy them all! I’m proud of the accomplishments I’ve made in 2010, but more proud yet of the relationship’s I’ve made with other writers, publishers, editors, and agents.

Thanks for reading this. Happy Holidays mofo's,

MJM

Interview with Erik Lundy

2010-11-10T13:10:00.000-08:00

I recently hung out with writer, stand-up comedian, comic book artist, and assistant editor of PLOTS WITH GUNS, Erik Lundy. Between drinking whiskey and making fun of people, we talked about his stories, his jokes, and his affection for Mark Twain.

The Adventures of The Lundy - Origin issue

GOT PULP? - For those reading this who don't know much about you, give the audience a brief history of Erik Lundy. Where you were born? Where did you go to school?

The Lundy [AKA Erik Lundy] - I was born a poor white child in Salem, MO, living on a dirt road 6 miles outside of town. I drank paint thinner when I was two, so that probably explains some of my creative choices. I was a shy kid, drawing comics, writing stories, just about anything I could scratch into a notebook to avoid talking. I moved to Springdale, AR a little later, went to the U of A in Fayetteville a couple years, then graduated from the University of Missouri in Kansas City with an art degree and a buncha uber-useful classes in lit and film theory.

Drawing comics kind of got me interested in directing, and I decided to forego grad school at Florida State to move to LA. I kicked around there for ten years, writing jokes for comedians, working in animation, making websites, optioned a couple TV shows. And, doing a lot of standup, of all things. As the former shyest kid in the room, I’ve always been proud of being able to do The Hollywood Improv.

I got to do some amazing stuff in LA, grow as a person and an artist, and meet some of my best friends. But, after the writer’s strike, The Biz changed. And, honestly, LA is also a place where you can work REALLY hard at getting nothing done. About the same time, I started getting back into comics, as well as writing and publishing short stories. (Including my first accepted story, over at Plots With Guns http://j.mp/9gEiFt) Basically, just making stuff that I could for the most part finish myself. It’s DEFINITELY not all good. But, it’s a great feeling to make something that lives and breathes in the world rather than it just sitting on a hard drive waiting on the permission of agents and execs.

So, back in March, I wiped everything outta my life that wouldn’t fit in the Acura and peeled off back to KC to live on the cheap, be close to family, and make stuff. All of which can be found over at www.eriklundy.com. (PLUG!)

GOT PULP? - Rather than finish grad school at Florida State, you went to Hollywood instead. I'm sure you've had memorable experiences, but do you have any regrets? How would things have been different if you'd went to Florida State?

The Lundy - Other than the jalapenos on my sandwich today, I don't really have any regrets with anything in life. It's a waste of energy that won't affect anything anyway. If I'd went to grad school, there's the chance that I'd be directing or screenwriting now, and there's also the chance that I'd have gotten some north Florida broad pregnant and be fixing gas station security cameras. (Or, more likely, nude modeling.) Plus, I probably wouldn't have ever done standup then, and don't think I'd have the confidence to do some of the things I do now.

GOT PULP? - As a shy kid from a very small town, what was it like to do your first stand up gig out in California? How nervous were you?

The Lundy - My first gig was at a small place in North Hollywood. I brought one friend with me, I think to make sure I couldn't bail. I was terrified. I don't know how I got through it. I used to drive all the way to gigs, I'm talking 45 mins each way sometimes, get nervous and go home. Nausea, sweats, pre-game diarrhea.

A while back, I found one of my early tapes, and I remember I thought I'd destroyed that night. But, looking at the tape, I couldn't believe how 1. quiet I was, and 2. how I just stared at my shoes.

GOT PULP? - As a comedian, your job is to make other people laugh. What makes you laugh? What's your idea of funny?

The Lundy - As I've gotten older I've started separating clever and funny. I think the difference is the honesty involved. When I see a clever for the sake of clever joke it brings me out of the moment and makes me think, "No you didn't do that." The equivalent in writing might be shoving a plot onto a character versus allowing a character's actions to form the plot. Two of the most honest and funny guys on the planet are Bill Burr and Louis CK. There's not a word in their set that they don't believe.

As for stories, unwarranted hubris. I also love small time stuff. Like, I love the guy who thinks two hundred bucks will change his life, but the option in his head is cashing in pet life insurance rather than working a weekend at the pizza shop.

I'm pretty scatological, too. And I can watch monkeys doing people stuff all day.

GOT PULP? - What age did you begin drawing and what kind of things would you draw?

The Lundy - I hate stories where a dickbag pinpoints an exact moment of a revelation. “I was laying on the beach when the second tower went down. That’s when I decided the world needs my comedy!” But, I’m gonna be that dickbag to an extent. When I was probably 10’ish, I was laying on my gramp’s floor copying a Colossus pinup from Classic X-Men by a great KC guy named Steve Lightle. (I’ve never made this connection, but I own the original art for this pinup.) My gramps was digging what I was doing, and he was my hero when I was little. The guy could drive a tractor, cut down trees, and fart longer than a successful rodeo ride. So, positive reinforcement from him had to make something click in my brain.

GOT PULP? - You also draw comics. Tell us something about that.

The Lundy - To go back to regrets, the closest I have is that I gave up drawing comics for ten years. My brain works in words and pictures. Then again, I was doing different stuff and may have burned out and sold real estate. Plus, I’ve learned a billion things that I hope help my comics.

About the time I was most frustrated in LA, I went to San Diego to meet folks and pitch. However, and this is something I’ve come to respect about comics, you have to do the work MAKING comics to be considered. So, I took a great class at Meltdown Comics in LA a year ago and have been putting the work in ever since, making web comics and trying to grow. And, publishing crime fiction stuff in our little world, which has a lot of crossover with comics. Two of my heroes are Duane Swierczynski and Victor Gischler.

Any artist with one eye will confirm this – I’m not that good of an artist. This isn’t an insecurity. It’s a fact. I can draw well enough, and Photoshop backgrounds, to get my stories out in the world. But, I’d gladly write for a slew of more amazingly talented artists to add to. However, I feel if I only write, the fact that I’ve learned what I’m asking of an artist has been a positive and humbling experiment. No, “Hey, do a fourteen panel fight page with eleven characters in each.”

My comics are pretty goofy. Little crime stories like smalltimerscomic.com, strips at myworldcomic.com, and a retarded redneck bounty hunter/superhero series at theknucklesammich.com. My goal is to get my own characters in print, as well as tinker with my favorite existing characters. It’d be a dream to put words in the mouths of Wolverine or the Hulk.

Another thing I’d like to mention is the sheer supportiveness and positivity of comics. Folks aren’t as worried about someone taking their gigs as they just want to see great comics.

GOT PULP? - Let's change gears. What was your first car? What ever became of it?

The Lundy - 1985 Chevy Celebrity. White. I once pegged it out at 85 outrunning a tornado's funnel cloud between Joplin and Arkansas.

It met its Demise head-on with a Chevy half ton truck, when I trusted some hosebag in a Civic waving me out for a left turn from the Fayetteville Hastings parking lot.

GOT PULP? - What's the craziest thing you've ever done?

The Lundy - I'm pretty stable. My stories skew more stupid than crazy. Like the second time I maced myself. (The first time was an accident.)

GOT PULP? - [Having experienced this myself, I can verify being maced is quite unpleasant] Let's talk about your writing. What kind of stories do you write? Where can this audience find a taste of your work?

The Lundy - I'm WAY more Raizing Arizona, than No Country For Old Men. Every time I try writing something completely "serious," I see a joke and can't help being a wiseass. A friend was once told that his characters, "shoot for the lowest star," which I think is a beautiful quote. I also like writing rural stories, since I have a point of reference geographically and for characters. I love redneck dialogue. Like the Irish, they can turn a phrase. I'll probably write something based in LA some day, but I'm sure it'll be some goofball redneck doing dirt in the city.

I've got a few stories online at Plotswithguns.com, the latest issue of Crime Factory, and Southern Fried Fiction. And, a semi-retarded road novella on Smashwords (Also on the Nook and iBook store), which was a script I dorked with for years, and I just wanted to get it out in the world and never touch it again. (Links on eriklundy.com)

GOT PULP? - Telling jokes, drawing comics, writing stories, how do you find time for anything else? Describe a typical day in the life of The Lundy.

The Lundy - Umm, I'm a bit of a workaholic and an insomniac. I have my day gig, then head to the gym, then home to write or draw. An hour of TV to decompress before bed. I haven't been doing as much standup since the move, which frees up time. Currently, I'm single (laaaadies?), and a relationship changes thing, obviously. And, part of the reason for moving back to KC was to be with my family more. So, I make sure to make time for that. I force myself to block out my goals at the beginning of each month, focusing on one thing at a time.

GOT PULP? - If you could bring back one pereson from the dead who has influenced you and have breakfast with them at Denny's, who would it be?

The Lundy - Without a doubt, Mark Twain. One of the funniest, meanest sonsabitches to ever live. Plus I'd love to get a pic of him with gravy in that mustache.

Contact Erik Lundy

Twitter - http://twitter.com/eriklundy

Facebook - facebook.com/erik.lundy

Review of Noir at the Bar Six

2010-10-23T17:15:00.000-07:00

NOIR AT THE BAR [six] ==> CRIMEFACTORY EDITION

For those of you that don't know, writers Jedidiah Ayres and Scott Phillips have been putting on this little thing for a while now called, NOIR AT THE BAR, in downtown St. Louis - Home of Bouchercon 2011 - and I was fortunate to be there last Thursday, October 21st, for what I know was the coolest NOB to date.

Jedidiah was the MC and he did a damn fine job, adding bits of spontaneous humor with every introduction. If you don't know Jed, he's a funny guy. And tall. The kind of guy that can grow one hell of a good beard. Something that pisses off those of us who can only produce rough, shitty beards. But the fact that he is a kick ass writer allows me to overlook this. Even though his beard is much better than mine.

<== Jonathan Woods

Jonathan Woods, from Texas, opened things up as he read from his book, Bad Ju Ju. Two short cliffhangers that left you wanting more. He was a pretty cool cat. I had a chance to hang out with him, feel him out. His writing is a little different, his second story was crazy. But that's cool. I like crazy. Everybody likes crazy.

Cameron Ashley, one of the co-editor's of Crimefactory, made a stop on his world tour at our little corner of the globe - he's from Australia - Cam is a dynamite guy! First class. He's amazing, and I could write this whole post about his awesomeness. Loved the guy. Easy to open up to. Genuine. Plus, he talks funny. I wish I would've had more time to pick his Aussie brain.

Chris La Tray ==>

Then there's Chris La Tray, from Montana. Another one of my Internet pals, and a fellow writer like me. [Except, unlike me, he actually has a book coming out].

But seriously, THAT'S AWESOME for him, and I can't wait to get a copy and support him. I really liked Chris. Just like Cam, I felt I'd known him all my life. It didn't feel like the first time we'd all hung out.

La Tray read his piece for the upcoming Crimefactory SPECIAL EDITION called Kung Fu Factory, which I, myself, am proud to be a part of. It's a boxing piece and it kicks one thousands kinds of ass. It's a great story where you can really get inside the character, and the ending is spectacular.

Up next, Scott Phillips read an excerpt from his upcoming novel RUT. Scott is... fucking crazy! *shrugs shoulders * I guess those are the words I'm looking for. Of course, if you're reading this, I assume you already know. Well, Scott read from RUT, a book that looks and sounds crazy as hell. I'm told that it's absolutely hysterical. Which only makes sense given the fact that it was written by THIS GUY ==> http://youtu.be/Z3HZsmOKPi4

<== Dan O' Shea

And of course, last but not least, there's my good buddy Daniel O' Shea, who read a piece from the Discount Noir collection. The one that's currently available from Untreed Reads. http://bit.ly/aUKcxY I was especially happy to get to see both Dan and Chris read because it was their first public reading. I'm glad I was there to see them pop their cherries, so to speak. It wasn't that long ago that I read my own story for the first time at NOB 4, so I knew exactly how they felt. For the record, they killed it.

All in all, it was an amazing night. All of us in attendance, have been, or will be, published in Crimefactory. It was an honor to spend such an evening with these crazy bastards. Spending time with other like minded individuals who know how to party. The kind of tough guys that would have your back if shit got out of hand and you had to clear the room.

Me and Cam ==>

KNOW THIS

NOIR AT THE BAR has a reputation as a hot spot for original crime readings and many great writers have done business there. Malachi Stone, Frank Bill, and Anthony Neil Smith come to mind. Who knows, maybe one day you'll stand behind the microphone. So polish them readin' skills, grab your favorite shotgun, and keep your eyes open for the next edition of NOIR AT THE BAR.

Jonathan Woods, Me, Jedidiah Ayres, Chris La Tray, Dan O' Shea, Cameron Ashley, & Scott Phillips

FML. THE EFFECTS OF SOCIAL NETWORK ON A SMALL TOWN.

2010-10-18T18:59:00.000-07:00

Fml. That means Fuck My Life, as everyone says these days. It's the kind of thing you say after something shitty happens. Like you got a ticket. Or your car broke down. You're standing on the shoulder with your hood up and some guy drives right by. He pretended to play with his radio, but you know the asshole saw you. Maybe you got laid off from your job unexpectedly. All of these situations would qualify to meet the standards of such a term. But there's more.

Wtf? Lol, ttyl, lylas, swak, btw, idk, smh. These days we are living in a world of abbreviations and shorthand code. We text, we Facebook, we tumble, we tweet, we flicker, we skype, and we do it all from our cell phones. Sometimes from the comfort of our own bed. DON'T LIE. You know you have. If you write for a living, you know you do.

Life is about connections. One way or another. It's always been about who ya know. But now that phrase has taken on a whole new meaning. I live outside the same small country town where I grew up, but nothing today is the way it used to be. Times change. I get that. But when I was sixteen, on Friday and Saturday nights the town was packed with cars. Lots of traffic and honking, people yelling. Every weekend. It didn't matter what was going on. If you wanted to find out who was having a party, you had to go to town. Usually there was some kind of drama unfolding somewhere. Maybe a fight. A lot of drinking. But there was always something. Now there's nothing. A Friday night in Owensville looks like a fucking ghost town.

That was all Pre-technology. Before the Internet came along and breathed life into our future. In the form of the social networking systems that would soon become our masters. And they open a series of individual doorways into the personal lives of strangers. As a society, we are fascinated by the lives of others. Have we not become inadvertent voyeurs who feast on the interactive existence of people we don't really “know?” Is the future the coolest thing that ever happened? Or the ultimate Ponzi scheme?

I swear, I could give a shit less about Facebook. It has quickly become the old Myspace. But still, I go there. It pisses me off too, because I don't want to. But I do. It seems I truly have a shit load of friends too, but I don't really know any of them. I don't remember becoming friends with half of them, but I'm glad I am. If they talk to me, I talk back. Still, it's like I just woke up one day and suddenly there's a few thousand more people in my life than I ever thought there would be. Strange how that works. But cool in every way, just strange if you think about it. If you really try and wrap your head around it.

Window after window into someone else's world. You can share in their status updates and live life through their eyes when you view their pictures. Suddenly, you know everything about someone you don't even know. Someone you may not recognize on the street. Or maybe you would. I've seen people I talk to on the Internet in my daily activities, and not a word was spoken between us. Think about it, you have to.

And there's Twitter. So much better than Facebook. Less drama, too. You follow who you want to, but that doesn't mean they follow you. A lot of people give Twitter a shot, but it's challenging to figure the shit out on your own. And with nobody following you, you have to ask yourself why your doing this. Is there anybody out there? Is anybody listening? The social networks are about building relationships, but they've changed the way we view our own “friends.” It may have even changed the way the world now views the word. Friend. Now days, it can mean anything. But when I was growing up, a friend was a guy you could count on. The kind of guy you told your secrets to. You could call him up at any hour of the night and he'd help you bury a dead body. No questions asked.

Now days, a friend is a guy named Ron, who you don't really know, but he's friends with Chad and Teresa, so now he wants to be friends with you. You hit ACCEPT. You are now friends with Ron. Maybe you and Ron will talk, maybe you won't, but the first thing you'll do is go through Ron's pictures. In a day or two, you've forgotten all about Ron, because he was six or seven friends ago. Now you're also friends with JHJ, Iron Rod O' Shea, Scott, Jedidiah, Joelle, Hilary, Chuck, and @AmishZombieDude.

Ron who? You can't even remember Ron's last name. And Ron doesn't remember you either. He's added to his own collection of friends in the last week. So when your car broke down on the side of the road, and you stood there on the shoulder with your hood up, Ron is the asshole that just drove by and didn't stop. Even though your “friends.” And this is where you say Fml.

WALL STREET: Money Never Sleeps

2010-10-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

Here is my review of WALL STREET: Money Never Sleeps.

WALL STREET: Money Never Sleeps SUCKS. Here's why. It's a fucking soap opera. The ONLY reason I saw it was because I love superbikes and I saw Shia LeBeouf and Josh Brolin riding Ducati's in the trailer.

TO BE HONEST, I have no idea why this movie was made. There are hundreds, even THOUSANDS of movies which deserve a sequel before this turd fest. I don't know what I was expecting, but I feel like, at a minimum, Oliver Stone should buy me lunch for causing me to lose 2+ hours of my life that I can never get back. Not only was the movie horrible, but it was loooong as hell. I couldn't wait for it to end.

AND I LIKE OLIVER STONE.

2010-09-22T03:29:00.000-07:00

THE NIAGARA FALLS CHALLENGE

Some people live life on the edge and some people live life on the couch.

These people lived life on the edge. Of a waterfall.

Annie Edson Taylor always had the heart of a true explorer. One day in 1901 she proved it.

She was a 63 year old unemployed schoolteacher when she took the plunge.

Recently widowed and with no job, I guess she just said fuck it. Might as well go over the falls. So she did.

And she managed to do this while avoiding the greatest potential obstacle that stood in her way.

That would be death.

After filling the inside of an old wine barrel with cushions, Annie Edson Taylor took a deep plunge into the pool at the bottom of Horseshoe Falls. Where 2,700 tons of water pass over every second.

She bobbed for twenty minutes until she was pulled to shore by assistants, emerging dazed but unhurt. Annie was the first person in known history to ever attempt such a feat of courage.

Or foolishness?

As she exited her barrel she said, “No one ought ever do that again.”

But no one really listened.

It didn't take long until word got out about riding the Falls. Ms. Taylor had inadvertently paved the way for a long line of daredevils, and certainly drunks, to follow in her footsteps. Or at least try to.

The next to attempt such madness was a circus stuntman by the name of Bobby Leach.

The year was 1911 and this time Bobby Leach decided to upgrade from an oak barrel to a steel one. A great idea, because he made it without dying.

He also achieved a celebrity status and even toured the world with that famous steel barrel, only to die fifteen years later in a cruel twist of fate when he slipped on an orange peel and broke his leg.

The doctors gave him strong whiskey then cut his leg off with a handsaw.

His barrel riding days were already over, and just when he thought things couldn't get worse, gangrene set in and that was the end of Bobby Leach.

He survived the murderous attempts of the Niagara only to die by the gentle hand of an orange peel.

The next magnificent bastard to embrace his inner self was a guy by the name of Charles Stephens.

Charles was a 58 year old barber looking to put the clippers down and he thought a quick trip over the Falls could change all that. He was right.

Mr. Stephens had managed to develop quite a reputation as a high-dive and parachute artist, so naturally, a barrel ride over Niagara seemed like the obvious choice.

He attached a 100 lb. anvil to the bottom of his barrel in a thoughtful attempt for ballast. Chuck then climbed down inside the damp musty barrel and strapped his feet to the anvil.

Had Mr. Stephens the luxury of hindsight, in retrospect I'm sure he'd agree this was a bad idea.

Aside from such safety precautions as old pillows, Charles installed a set of custom straps which were bolted to the inside of the barrel.

Despite his best efforts, the force of the plunge ripped the bottom out of the barrel and took the anvil, and Mr. Charles Stephens, to the bottom.

The only part of the barrel recovered was a stave with Chuck's right arm threaded through the strap. It was ripped from the torso, but you could still read his tattoo. It said, “Forget me not, Annie.”

I'm sure she never forgot what an asshole he was for leaving her with eleven kids. Eleven.

Mans obsession to push the limits of extreme situations has never been more apparent than this guy.

Karel Soucek was the first Canadian to survive the plunge in his customized barrel complete with liquid foam insulation, eye holes, and a snorkel system.

Soucek miraculously did not die.

Even after his barrel was trapped in dangerous waters for 45 minutes. He received only minor injuries.

In a true test of his mortality, Soucek recreated the event at the Houston Astrodome in 1984 in front of 45,000 spectators.

His custom barrel was slowly hoisted all the way up to the very top of the Astrodome and the silence in the air was like nothing you can imagine. At least I imagine that's what the silence was like.

They released his barrel so it could free fall for 185 feet before it landed in a water tank. The water tank was 10 ft around and 10 ft deep. That doesn't seem big enough does it?

The barrel missed the water tank.

Landing instead on the edge, killing Karel Soucek, as well as his chance at giving a repeat performance.

Of all the daredevil Ninja's who have attempted this plunge, I will say none have done it with more passion than this guy.

Robert Overacker.

This 39 year old adrenaline junky wasn't bullshitting when he said he was gonna take it to the next level. He did the Niagara plunge on a jet ski with a parachute.

And not just any parachute, but a rocket propelled parachute. One that was supposed to deploy at the brink of the falls. Which it did not.

His body was later discovered wearing his self inflating life vest, crash helmet, and wet suit.

There was no word of the jet ski.

NIAGARA FALLS IS A GOOD PLACE TO DIE

After researching a few cases one can plainly see that going over the falls is nothing short of a gamble. It's a lot like Russian roulette. Only the gun is a waterfall with 6 million cubic feet of water dropping over the crest line every minute in high flow.

But it's also worth noting that Niagara Falls has spent years ranked number two as a great spot to end it all. A final destination second only to the Golden Gate Bridge in San Fransisco.

It's been estimated that at least twenty people commit suicide a year at the falls. Maybe more, because sometimes the bodies don't turn up. Most buy a one way ticket and don't get a second chance.

And then you have this asshole. A 48 year old man from Buffalo New York.

After borrowing thousands of dollars from his father to pay off gambling debt, he instead went gambling and lost it all. And that's on top of the half million dollar$ he already owed Casino Niagara in Canada.

So the unnamed man did what any down on his luck degenerate gambler would do. He decided to take the plunge. In a jogging suit, no less.

Except half way out he changed his mind.

Suicide is a pretty big commitment and not one to be taken lightly. The problem with this phenomena of self-termination is the manner in which these things are carried out.

Like the guy in this video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=386a4-Ch7Nw&feature=youtube_gdata_player

He endangered many peoples lives that day because he didn't have the strength to end his own.

While it's great that he lived to gamble another day, other people could have died in his place. People who were trying to save him that certainly didn't wanna die. People with a strong will to live and a family that depended on them.

What I'm trying to say here is simple.

People who kill themselves by jumping off bridges and waterfalls are all a bunch of assholes.

The same goes for people who jump off buildings.

Other people always feel bad for the guy who jumps out of his apartment window, but what about that poor bastard he landed on?

The guy pushing his daughter in a stroller up the sidewalk. One minute he's a father and a husband, the next minute he's dead. So is she.

What if the guy actually survived? Largely due in part to the ones who broke his fall.

What then? And why?

Because some inconsiderate jumper had a bad day? Or his girlfriend left him. Or he had a gambling problem.

Regardless, Niagara Falls is a place of endless beauty. But it's also a playground for gamblers.

2010-08-19T21:15:00.000-07:00

SPEED KILLS [or so they say]

Since the day I was born I've loved anything fast. As a child, I remember complaining to my Dad that my big wheel just wasn't fast enough. I asked him if we could put a motor on it. He said no.

Undeterred, I set out to accomplish this task by any means necessary. I knew there had to be a way to go faster, and thus began what would turn out to be a lifelong quest for speed. Not to mention danger.

It all started with a milk crate I discovered in a trash pile, long since abandoned by its former owner. It was a dull red that was heavily faded by the sun and there were other signs of a hard life that immediately caught my attention. One of the sides was caved in and there was a chunk of plastic missing from the front as well. But to me it was perfect.

This was a magic crate, that much I knew for sure. It was so much more than a former containment device used to carry milk. It was now a vessel being re manufactured to carry the bright eyed ambitious dreams of an eight year old boy. A boy whose imagination knew no boundaries.

I asked my father for a hacksaw and he immediately regarded my request with suspicion. He wanted to know why, so I told him. “Dad, I want to build a go cart!” I said it without hesitation and he could see the determination in my eyes as I explained to him that my big wheel just wasn't cutting it anymore. The tires were hard plastic and offered me no traction on the hot Missouri asphalt.

I informed him of my plan with all the confidence and brilliance that an eight year old mind could produce, and he agreed to my terms with all the wisdom and patience that the father of an eight year old, danger prone boy can tolerate.

So in that summer of my eighth year, I set my plan in motion. Using a large piece of plywood about as wide as a picnic table, we made the base of my machine. Next, we cut away the broken side of the milk crate so it was left with only three sides, just wide enough for me to sit in and use as a cockpit.

Dad then nailed a two by four across the front by bolting the center of the board to the center of the plywood, therefore allowing the two by four to swivel from left to right. This was to be my method of steering.

After making a rear axle from another two by four, we attached an old set of lawnmower tires to each two by four, then tied a long rope across the front board. Once I sat in the crate with my legs extended, I could push forward on the left end of the board with my left foot, which resulted in my go cart turning right. Pushing with my right foot caused the cart to turn left. I would use the rope as a steering wheel to guide my vessel into the hot summer afternoons of my youth.

Upon completion of this project, I pulled it up the steepest hill that I could find and rolled back down with what can only be described as unparalleled enthusiasm. As I reached what I perceived to be the moment where I generated the absolute most speed, one of the lawnmower wheels chose to detach itself, resulting in a magnificent collision of both boy and machine on the hard, unforgiving pavement of Williams street. I suffered a head wound that required seven stitches. Perhaps I should have worn a helmet.

While most would have viewed this experience as a failure of epic proportions, for me it was just a preview of what was to come. As I got older and bolder, my creative energies flowed fourth and I constantly searched for ways to test both my need for speed and my bodies tolerance for physical punishment and abuse.

I got my first speeding ticket the same week I took my drivers test. Speeding tickets would continue to plague me for years to come, and I must confess to having quite a collection. Somewhere between thirteen and twenty two the last time I counted.

I've also owned some fast cars in my day, my fastest being a Pontiac Formula that would leave black marks in third gear and throw the ass end side ways when it shifted. Although there is nothing like the sound of raw horsepower and the smell of burning rubber, and it is quite satisfying to do one hundred and forty in a car, there is nothing I've ever done that compares to riding one hundred and seventy+ on a motorcycle.

Sitting at the intersection, just waiting for the light to turn, watching the needle on the tachometer begin to climb as the motor revs higher and higher, then suddenly the light turns green and you dump the clutch fast, and the machine launches quickly, the rear tire smoking as it fights for traction and in an instant the front wheel stands up and you find yourself staring up into the sky. It is a feeling I know so well, racing into the wind like a man possessed and smoking every car that stands between me and my destination. It's a worthwhile pursuit to be sure, but one that is not without its consequences. And they can be severe.

For me, I have a passionate love affair with anything fast. Whether it's a go cart, motorcycle, or a Jet Boat, there's an undeniable feeling of power and achievement as you attempt to dominate a machine at high speeds. It is the utmost example of man against himself, as he struggles to control what is beyond his control.

MAN vs. [the Political] MACHINE

2010-07-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

Nothing pisses me off worse than being shafted by THE MAN. And in this case, that man is a women, and one with a powerful position in a little shitter town of about eight hundred people, deep in the heart of mid Missouri. The town is called Vienna, and trust me, it's not the kinda place you'd wanna hang out. At least not without full tactical assault gear to defend yourself incase of a sneak attack.

Allow me to explain.

For those of you who don't know, Memorial Weekend I got jumped by a group of dirty, low life, scumbag cocksuckers, with hate in their hearts and bad tattoo's across their chest's. These assholes were so completely gutless that they attacked me when I wasn't looking. Twice. And they knocked me TFO. Twice. I know what you're thinking and you're right. No, that wasn't very nice of them, and yes, they do deserve to die.

So after it was all said and done, I got to add “How I broke my face” to my collection of true and original stories that I've accumulated over the years. Five bones actually, but hey, who's counting, because I know who did it! Yep, I even found the bastards on Facebook. Awesome huh? Finding the group that assaulted me should make it much easier for the Police and the Prosecuting Attorney to do their job. Except it didn't help at all. I've since went on to discover the wheels of justice in Vienna, Mo are made of cheap disposable cardboard and they only turn when you push as hard as you can. Even then, they never really get going.

After recieving just one phone call from the Sheriff, I didn't hear back from him until this story came out. Seventeen days later. Read HERE http://gasconadecountyrepublican.com/content/view/3353/27/

That was the initial story that FINALLY forced the Sheriff to take action in this case. Up to that point I'd left anywhere from six to eight messages and he never called back until the day the story came out in the paper, an hour after the paper came out. A week or two passed and still nothing. I made phone calls, left messages, and I did all of my own detective work. Still, I recieved no help from the people from Vienna who's very job it was to hep me.

And then I got a letter one day from the Prosecuting Attorney of Maries County telling me that she dropped my case. Then there was another article in the paper, and in this article she made some foolish comments. Read them HERE http://gasconadecountyrepublican.com/content/view/3406/27

It was only after reading the Prosecuting Attorney's statements that I realized the absolute stupidity of this women. To make the statement(s) that she made only served to reinforce a sad truth that I had to learn the hard way. THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IN VIENNA MISSOURI IS FOR SALE and I took the opportunity to respond in a [very] public forum. The following was my way of politely telling Terry Daley Schwartz to go fuck herself.

My letter to the Gasconade County Republican

I'm writing this letter to set the record straight on a few things that I've read in the paper and to respond to a few of the statements made by Prosecuting Attorney, Terry Daley Schwartz. Honestly, there were so many vacuous comments made last week that I'm not exactly sure where to start. Oh, wait a minute, yes I am. I'll start with one of her first comments, a direct quote, where she said, ”It is not believeable to me that someone hits somebody for no reason.” - Are you kidding me? What world is she living in? Where does she think the term sucker punch came from? It's a cowards way of fighting a guy he knows he's not really man enough to fight without an advantage, and that advantage comes in the form of a sucker punch, or “unannounced attack,” and in this case, by “multiple attackers.” It just seems incredibly ignorant and short sighted that a Prosecuting Attorney, of all people, would lack the ability to believe that, in this day and age, such an unwarranted event could ever occur.

Watch the evening NEWS, on any channel, and you'll bare witness to countless drive by shootings, and most are random, and they never give a reason for these attacks. Why? Because nobody knows! When was the last time you heard about an assailant hanging a pistol from the window of his car and yelling, “This is why I'm shooting you...” as he's driving away shooting? That's because in real life it doesn't work that way, and Terry Daley Schwartz should know this. I find it ludicrous that she's basing her decision not to prosecute on the notion that a sucker punch is something that she just can't quite seem to get behind. Has she ever watched TV? Does she own a TV? You can go to YouTube and type in sucker punch and you'll be amazed at what you find. What a completely preposterous statement to make. I cannot believe she gets paid to put bad people in jail.

She then went on to say, “I'm not going to mess with people who won't tell me the whole story.”

Wha? The whole story? I prepared a five page written statement about that afternoon, which I feel is an excogitate amount of information considering I was unconscious for most of it. I also made the hour long trek back to Vienna, on three separate occasions, as well as to the ER in Rolla, to retrieve my medical records. And I've lost track of how many times I called the Police Department. By the Sheriff's own admission, some of my calls had been misplaced, which would have been acceptable if they were communicating with old metal cans held together by kite string, but they weren't. They appeared to have a fully functioning set up, as technologically advanced as a town that size could ever hope to have. But after my initial call, I didn't hear a thing back from the Sheriff for about seventeen days, and when he did call, it just so happened to be an hour after the paper came out.

Trust me, I did everything in my power to get the ball rolling, and every major piece of evidence they have was provided by me. I talked to the State Patrol, as well as the water patrol, and I acquired the suspects names myself and found the guys on Facebook. I even offered to submit to a lie detector test. So, what kind of person would possibly go through all of that with the intentions of holding something back? Tell me, what more could I have possibly done to cooperate? Or is it standard operating procedure for Maries County to make all their victims go through this amount of work just to get them to do their job? Better yet, maybe they were covering something up? Which brings me to my next question, and I can't believe it, but the Prosecuting Attorney actually followed up her first couple of fatuous statements with a final remark that was even more asinine. This next statement was the one I found to be the real icing on the cake.

In fact, after reading it multiple times, I even called The Republican, just to verify that it wasn't a typo. The Prosecuting Attorney made the statement, “I know half the people on the river that day.” WHAT? So far, out of everyone that I've talked to about the fight, she [Prosecuting Attorney] ADMITS that she knows more people that were on that gravel bar than anyone else! If she knew half the people, well, that's 50% of the rivers population for the day. That's a lot of witnesses, so with all the potential witness that the Prosecuting Attorney could utilize for information, because she knew them, she chose instead to do nothing. What kind of backwoods, good 'ol boy justice system are they running down in Vienna? Now, perhaps I could be wrong, but what other conclusions am I left to draw for myself? The level of incompetence which I've encountered is truly astonishing.

I was even able to identify one of the attackers by the tattoo that he must have forgotten was across his stomach. The tattoo which said, of all things, his last name. Not to mention he continued to scream to anyone that would listen, that he was from Vienna. So between the fact that this Genius had his name tattooed across his belly and the fact that he was proudly boasting where he was from, he made himself pretty easy for me to identify. BUT STILL..after all of this, it wasn't enough.

The thing that bothers me the most, even more than the almost $5,000 Hospital bill, is this;if I had been, say, an off duty cop, just enjoying the afternoon with his wife, this would have all been a different story. With a different ending. They would have already arrested these guys a long time ago. But to think, I almost had my Son with me, and he's a big kid, I wonder if they'd have beaten him as well. And what about our long haired Chihuahua, he usually goes along. They might have punted him out into the middle of the river. I want it to be made clear, there was never a fight, it was an attack, and these characters utilized a classic battlefield strategy that would have made any war historian proud. They waited till our numbers were low and they attacked without warning, eliminating who they perceived to be the biggest threat early on with a brutal beating. I'm just grateful that, even though she was thrown onto the ground, my wife wasn't seriously hurt.

I'd like to thank the Republican for bringing this situation to everybody's attention. People need to be made aware that these aren't the relaxed old days of yesteryear, where you can just let your guard down and enjoy yourself. Times are changing and bad things happen. YES, Terry Daley Schwartz, sometimes people DO hit other people for no apparent reason, as hard of a concept as that may be for you to grasp. And remember, those reading this, the information I'm rebutting is in response to direct quotes supplied in last weeks paper. I'm attempting to shoot holes in Prosecuting Attorney Terry Daley Schwartz' negligible theories with ammunition that she herself supplied, in the form of so many speculative and valueless quotes.

In closing, I'd like to mention that between my Facebook profile, Twitter account, and my blog postings, there will easily be at least, 5,000 people, if not more, reading this letter today. People from all over the world, and if there's anything at all that anyone is able to take away from this letter, I hope it's this. Don't get your ass beat in Vienna, because your on your own. Unless it's on video tape, you won't have enough evidence. Even videotape might not be enough evidence. But the one thing that I've learned from all of this business is to never go out onto the river unarmed. From now on, I'd highly recommend a small arsenal of self-protection at all times. Whether it be a shotgun, a chainsaw, or a hand grenade, the message from Vienna is clear. You'll be forced to rely on yourself from here on out. Thank you for your time.

Matthew McBride

What do you think? Give me your opinion. All I can say is that if there's any kind of UPside to all of this, it would be...well, actually, THERE IS NO UPSIDE. I was beaten to the point of unconsciousness. Twice. Suffered a broken face, and had to eat Campbell's Creamy Chicken Soup every day for weeks, and after all of the time I put in on the case, I actually found the guys and the system decides that I haven't done enough. So here I stand before you, the recipient of yet another beating, and this one delivered by THE MAN himself. Er, herself, and the assholes that did it are all free, walking around the streets of Vienna, not working and getting more bad tattoo's. And I'm out FIVE GRAND.

The King Of Cool

2010-05-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

SLATER

We arrived in Slater, Mo, to a small friendly town with a tiny motel. The kind of motel that at one time was probably something else. We paid for the night and found our rooms. Small town motels can be funny sometimes, and this one was funnier than most.

For starters, I was promised an office where I could write my story. In this case, my office was a closet. Complete with a small refrigerator. Which I used for a desk. The only thing funnier than the office was the bathroom. Not only was it the narrowest, shortest bathroom I'd ever seen;it was also to be shared by all three rooms.

My purpose in Slater was simple. Steve McQueen Days. An annual festival to celebrate the hometown hero, none other than Steve McQueen himself, and boy does Slater roll out the red carpet. If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that fans take their hero's pretty serious. Well, McQueen's fans are certainly no exception. I met fans from all over the country, even Canada. As well as another couple from England. The McQueen Festival drew a pretty serious crowd, and not just fans of Steve McQueen, but fans of pop culture in general. Movie stars, writers, motorcycle enthusiasts, comic book collectors, fans of cinema. It's an interesting place to spend the weekend.

Who was Steve McQueen?

That's the question that I really wanted answered, as I experienced Steve McQueen Days from more of a “behind the scenes” point of view than most of the other visitors. I'd become friends with Marshall Terrill, author of a dozen celebrity biographies, including three about McQueen.

We always find some time to hang out during these festivals and this time I armed myself with a tape recorder. What follows are bits and pieces of my recent interview with the author of Steve McQueen, Portrait of an American Rebel.

GOT PULP?- Had you always wanted to be a writer? And, if so, what possessed you to finally sit down and start the process?

Marshall Terrill- I was going through a divorce. My wife had just left me, and then I lost my job. I was at a point where I just had nothing left to loose and thought I'll just roll the dice. With no wife at home and no job to go to, there was really no reason I could think of not to do it. That's kind of what pushed me into writing the first book.

GP?- Why McQueen, of all the subjects out there to choose from?

MT- I always felt he had a certain mystique about him. He was certainly one of the most interesting celebrities out there because he was never predictable. Plus he did a lot of things us guys would dream about doing if we were in his position. And he got away with it. He was the bad boy. He was the rebel, and that's who all of us guys wanna be, right?

GP?- Even though there were already a few other books written about McQueen, why did you choose to write another?

MT- True, there were other books written about him, but I always felt like they never really got it right.

In Portrait of an American rebel, the complexity of Steve McQueen, the person, is slowly revealed, as Marshall takes us through McQueen's early life in his hometown of Slater, Mo, all to way to the inner circle of Hollywood's elite.

Marshall Terrill leaves no stone unturned in his quest to find the truth behind the man and the legend. The interviews he conducted for the book read like a virtual who's who of yesterdays Hollywood, including actors James Coburn, Richard Attenborough, Robert Vaughn, and Adam West.

GT?- How much research goes into a book like this. For this third book, what's your schedule been like?

MT- Well, I work a full time job, so I get up in the morning about six AM and write until eight or so, then I go to work. When I get home, I go for a ten mile bike ride everyday. That's important. Then from about eight until ten, and sometimes twelve, I work. On Saturday and Sunday, I'll work twelve hours a day, and it's not just writing;it's transcribing interviews, editing, research...that's why I need that ten mile bike ride. It's helps me think about what I need to write. I can concentrate..focus, formulate.

GP?- How do you feel about deadlines? Can you take me through the writing process for you?

MT- I hate deadlines. I usually don't write on deadlines very often. What I usually do is write the book, finish it, have it edited and polished, and then I shop it around for a publisher. A publisher is more apt to agree to a finished project than a concept. Or a proposal. You really have to establish yourself in order to sell a book, via proposal. In my thirteen books, I've only sold two that way.

GP?- Why did you choose non fiction writing, as opposed to fiction?

MT- Whenever I read, I wanna learn something, so I've always read non fiction. I want to learn something about who I'm writing about and I do. There's so much research that goes into it.

GP?- I don't know how much this effects the non fiction business that your involved in, but how do you see the future of publishing on your end? Specifically, do you have any thoughts or opinions on new technology like Kindle? You've hinted at retirement.

MT- Oh, I absolutely do. I have an opinion on it. I don't like that direction, and it seems like if that's what the markets going to dictate, I don't wanna write anymore. I want it to be in a book, not a Kindle machine, where people read it out of a machine (laughs) that's not how books were intended. I'm just totally old school that way.

GP?- You're going to stop writing?

MT?- I'm hanging up my spurs.

GP?- Because of these advancements?

MT- Yes, that's part of the reason. Writers are really getting effected financially by these advancements. Let's face it, we're starting to see the death of everything. Music, with iPods, and now we're beginning to see the death of video stores..there's the red box..and now books..but the thing is, the market is dictating that, so I can't criticize the way that the markets going. Therefore, if I'm gonna write a product that's gonna end up on some machine, then I'm just gonna take myself out of the equation.

When the interview ended I thanked Marshall for his time and I thought about one of his quotes from his first book about McQueen. I think it accuratly describes the answer to the question that I asked myself in the begining.

Who was Steve McQueen?

--> Steve McQueen was many individuals wrapped in one. He was honest, dishonest, loving, hating, caring, devious, simple, complex, intelligent, uneducated, modest, cocky, mature, childish. He was capable of espousing his love for his wife, and truely mean it, then suddenly have an affair. He could be extremely cheap with friends while being generous to strangers. He would talk of the dangers of drugs, yet he couldn't stop himself from taking them. Paradoxes have always fascinated me, and Steve McQueen was the ultimate paradox. [ Marshall Terrill ]

As I left Steve McQueen Days behind me, I couldn't help thinking about what it must have been like to actually be McQueen? Being a superstar in the 60's and 70's. Being friends with such legends as Bruce Lee and Frank Sinatra. Being a stunt man, and a race car driver. He remains an amazing figure in our pop culture history, not only because of his movies, or his quotes, but because of his drive to succeed. From a boy who ran away from home and took a job selling pencils, to a United States Marine, to one of the highest paid actors in the world. Steve McQueen really was the King of Cool. He was a rebel on a motorcycle. Fearless and tough, the kind of guy who always held his middle finger up to the world.

Barbara McQueen and I with a signed cover of Cosmo I bought at an auction. [She's on the cover]-circa 1974

In Slater, the Pharmacy is also a restaurant

Me and actress Adrienne McQueen of HBO's True Blood

Slater built to scale on a model train set

A limited edition comic book called THE NAM about 60's pinup and Viet Nam War Legend Chris Noel

PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING IS REAL

2010-04-20T00:01:00.000-07:00

PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING IS REAL

Professional wrestling is fake. Yes, I know I just got done saying it was real, but I was lying. Come on, you know that shits not real;besides, I just wanted to get you here. Now you're trapped, so you may as well keep on reading. I promise this'll be short and sweet. Okay, here we go...

I recently attended a Professional, and I use that word loosely, wrestling event in downtown St. Louis. It was a pay per view event for TNA, which meant it was live. Which meant there'd be millions (or at least hundreds) of people watching at home, not to mention we had front row seats. Except it wasn't really front row, but more like to the left side of the steel cage. Right behind one of the huge steel support beams, which means we couldn't see much. But still, we did our best to enjoy this event, and who is 'we' ? Well, that would be Black Hogan and myself.

Let me backtrack for a second. Black Hogan is a Hulk Hogan impersonator, and a damn good one. Hell, he looks just like him (well.....) okay, he kinda looks just like him, and we actually met through a common love of motorcycles. See Black Hogan, like myself, has a strong passion for street bikes, he even has a custom Spiderman themed Yamaha R1

It's also important to mention that when he rides the R1, he also wears a custom Spiderman costume. Why in the hell would anyone do this? It's simple. “I do it for the kids.” Thats was his answer the first time I asked him and it hasn't really changed. Except now his fan base has grown and it's not just kids that are interested. It's everybody.

BLACKAMANIA RUNNING WILD

The first time I ever went out with BH, that's what his close friends call him, I was unprepared for the public response. It was pure madness in every sense of the word. He was literally mobbed every few feet. Everyone wanted a picture, or an autograph, or both. And he's always happy to oblige his fans. Except he doesn't call them his fans. They are his Blackamaniacs, and Blackamania was running wild in St. Louis last this weekend BROTHER!

What initially began as a costume for a Halloween party (his original idea was to go as Black Chuck Norris, but they were fresh out of Chuck Norris costumes) has grown into a part time business, complete with a Facebook page, YouTube videos, a website, personal appearances, as well as starring in a music video. (He's even shared the stage with rappers, the Ying Yang Twins) It seems like these days everybody wants to meet Black Hogan, and for good reason, he's a really cool dude.

Did I mention he's a Professional dancer?

It's true, and I've seen him bust-a-move on more than one occasion. Last month we went to Las Vegas and shot a dancing video at the -5 Ice Lounge, for a documentary we've been discussing. Except he calls it a Blackumentary, and it's all about his exploits on this journey of his, and it's a journey that's attracting serious attention. Enough attention that he won first place in the Hulk Hogan Fu Fest earlier this year.

Fu Fest?

The Fu Fest was held back in February and it was considered to be the biggest gathering of mustache's at one place in the world. It was an event which celebrated the mustache in all of it's magnificent glory. It even featured members of the American Mustache Association (no, I'm not making this up) as well as a strong, heart felt speech by the President of the association himself, where he expressed his passion for the mustache and spoke of how the mustache was much more than mere facial hair, but also a symbol of confidence and power.

Enter Hulk Hogan, who walked onto the stage (slowly and in great pain) to thunderous applause as the crowd came to life and all of those in attendance (with mustache's) raised their fist in the air, as well as their beer, and showed the living American legend some love.

As the judging got under way I could see the competition was fierce, but after one look at Black Hogan, I could see the chiseled look of determination across his face and I knew that neither he, nor his fake mustache, would be denied. Black Hogan is a real American, and he would not be going home empty handed. Did I mention for BH, home was Minnesota, and he'd traveled to St. Louis via a 14 hour bus ride?

So after winning the Fu Fest, he received two front row tickets to the big TNA pay per view event, and he took me, his friend, his bro, his half-ass manager, and this takes us back to the beginning of the story.

Professional wrestling is about as real as an honest politician. In other words, nothing about it is real, but maybe that's the point. It's all about entertainment, and after watching with our floor seats so close to the action, this fact was reinforced by the constant pulled punches and missed kicks, although you'd never know it because those crazy fans were screaming at the top of their lungs. That's one thing I can say about Professional wrestling, while it's quite obviously fake, the fans are defiantly real, and most of them parted with a fair chunk of change just to be in attendance.

In the end, it was another memorable experience with a guy who travels a path to an odd kind of success and perhaps one day he will eventually ascend to the top of the ladder, and maybe when he gets up there he'll do a leg drop onto someones head. For me, that was the best part of the night, the violence. Comical as it was, it's still always cool to see grown men hit each other. Especially when weapons are involved. Even if that weapon is a chair. Or a table. Or even a laptop. Yes, someone actually hit Ric Flair with a laptop computer. Then an acoustic guitar. Now I've never been a big fan of the Nature Boy, I'll admit that, but here's a guy who's been wrestling since like 1947, but I'll tell you, the man is a warrior. Not only is he still alive, but the poor bastard just stood there covered in blood while all of these young guys beat the living hell out of him. He just stands there and bleeds, chest slapping himself and yelling, “WHEEEEWW.." Yes, after all these years, the Nature Boy can still take a pretty good ass beating.

So perhaps our destinies are intertwined and it is violence that is the common thread which unites us. He distributes violence in the ring and I distribute violence by a keyboard. It should be noted that BH is a fan of crime fiction as well, and I snapped a candid photo of him reading through my copy of NEEDLE magazine that I'd just pulled from the mailbox before I picked him up.

But even among such famous personalities as Hulk Hogan and the Nature Boy, Black Hogan still stood out. Way out. At times he even had his own cheering section and we were constantly on t.v., plus, every time I turned around somebody was taking a picture(s).

So have a good day, and if you get a chance to chest slap someone then I suggest you take it. A co-worker gets all up in your grill, just put them in a head lock. Or choke them. Choking is always an excellent choice, but if all else fails, hit that bastard in the cubicle with your laptop and yell "WHEEEEW" and think of poor old Ric Flair stumbling around in the ring covered in blood.

Then ask yourself one question. What would Black Hogan do? You can probably guess the answer to that. He'd tell 'em to say their prayers and eat their vitamins and then he'd leave the ring a winner. Just like he did last Saturday night

HUNTER S. THOMPSON

2010-03-23T16:20:00.000-07:00

Hunter S. Thompson (1937-2005)

Hunter S. Thompson was a great observer of life. He was a genius and a maniac, and I discovered his writings at a very early age. He was a journalist and an author. He loved words, he loved guns, and he loved drugs. He was, by many peoples standards, the king of self-indulgence. - But it didn't start out that way.

He was born in Louisville, Kentucky, the son of an insurance agent. He attended public school as a child and entered the air force after a run in with the law, only to receive a dishonorable discharge in 1958 for what was widely considered outrageous behavior. It seemed his superiors felt his disregard for military dress, as well as authority, were too much of a negative influence on the other men.

Hunter was resourceful and he began to do what had always come easy for him, so he took a job as a sports reporter on the base, then moved onto a small newspaper in New York.

After being fired from that job, as well as a job with TIME magazine, he moved south to Puerto Rico, where he wrote briefly for a bowling magazine. He spent his free time on the beach, drinking rum and smoking weed.

Thompson returned to the states in 1960 and traveled to California, where he settled in Big Sur. He wrote his first novel there, but it was never published. Over the next few years he bounced around the globe, writing for the Dow Jones-owned, The National Observer, but he quit when they refused to let him write about the Free Speech Movement in Berkley, California.

By 1965, Hunter found himself in San Francisco, at the height of the hippie movement, indulging in the excess of the Haight Ashbury counterculture. It was the beginning of change, and society was awakening to a world of pacifism, free love, and LSD.

The dawn of a new era was fast approaching and Hunter was at the center of it all. He was working as a free-lance writer when his big break came. It was in the form of a story about the Hells Angels motorcycle gang, written for a magazine called The Nation, that drew him critical acclaim, as well as serious attention from publishers.

It was at this point that Hunter introduced the world to what he described as "Gonzo" journalism.

GONZO JOURNALISM

Created almost entirely by accident and desperation, Gonzo journalism became Hunters trademark as a last minute impulsive decision to involve himself in the action of the story to such a degree that he would become a main figure in his own reporting. He subscribed to William Faulkner's theory that the best kind of fiction is better than any kind of journalism.

No example of this is greater than his literary masterpiece entitled, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, an article that was first published in Rolling Stone magazine in 1972. It was a groundbreaking piece of work that offered a rambling account of a drug filled weekend in Vegas between Thompson himself and his attorney, as they set out to cover a motorcycle race and a law enforcement convention in the desert.

"We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs begin to take hold," that was the opening sentence of the book that first caught my attention, and set in motion the initial urgings that would send me down the torturous path that only a struggling writer could know.

I found myself intoxicated by his words and the power of his honesty. He offered a non apologetic alternative to the standard writings of his time. He was a bold rebel, standing on the threshhold of a great adventure, with a spirit that soared high above the clouds.

Hunter inspired me to be myself and to be honest in my writing. He scorched his mark deep into the memory of a million people. He is missed.

Hunter S. Thompson's Suicide Note

Football Season is Over

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun-for anybody. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax-This won't hurt."

After he wrote this note he slid a .45 into his mouth and pulled the trigger

2010-03-15T03:39:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Dan O' Shea 'challenged' me, if you will, to come up with either ONE lie and FIVE truths, or FIVE lies and ONE truth about myself. Several people had commented about the statement where I mentioned I was once strong-arm robbed in Mexico.

Follow me?

Okay, anyway, since it seems like I have truly done a lot of crazy shit in my life, I thought I'd go the TRUTH route, and one of my 'truths' was about the time me and my buddy Doug traveled south of the border to purchase illegal drugs and sneak them back across the border. I mean, we went down to Mexico to see his girlfriend.

First of all, when I say Mexico, I'm not talking about Cancun or Acapulco. I'm referring to Matamoros, a little shitter town just below Brownsville Texas. A place where everything is for sale and anything goes.

What follows is a little road trip we took that ended up just outside of Laredo, and along the way things damn near took a serious turn for the worse. Had it not been for some carefully executed precautions (not to mention a lovely interpreter) we could have very easily found ourselves executed. -And by Mexican soldiers no less. Did I mention the Bastards had MACHINE GUNS?

The following is a true story.

Midnight In Laredo

I awoke to to the sound of rain falling hard on the windshield of the truck. The sky was dark and cloudless, and I watched the wipers do their work in high speed, as they slid quickly across the windshield, pushing off the rain. It was a Thursday evening and I struggled to wipe the sleep from my eyes. How long had I been out? I looked over at my buddy Doug who looked like he had just woke up himself.

"Want me to drive," I asked. He just glared at me from the corner of his eye and gave me the finger.

"What?" I offered, sitting up in the seat and trying to get comfortable. My neck was killing me. Before he could answer I asked him another question. One that I considered far more important. "Dude, how long have I been sleeping in this fucked up position?" Doug just shrugged his shoulders.

I'd taken a couple of Valium to help me relax and apparently they did their job a little too well. It didn't take long for him to start bitching.

"I been driving for five fucking hours!" That's what he said to me. Even though I was in pain I laughed.

"So you just let me sleep like this, with my neck bent at a 45 degree angle? Bro, I'm gonna have to see a Chiropractor now."

"Good luck finding one down here" he said with a grin. He was right. We were hours below the Mexican border and the sky was dark as hell, blacker than a woodchucks asshole, and only faint traces of distant light could be seen far off to the west.

At least I think it was west. I was still disoriented and the world seemed slow.

From the background I could hear his girlfriend Sara, who is Mexican. I can't pronounce her name, much less spell it, so I've always called her Sara, and she has always answered to it. She asked if I was hungry? I'm always hungry, so we started looking for a place to eat. The problem was, there was no place to eat.

To make things worse, the rain was falling harder and we found ourselves running dangerously low on fuel. I decided to drive because it looked like my friend could use a break. Plus, I was tired of hearing him complain, so we pulled over on the shoulder to switch positions.

Besides, after hours of endless driving we all needed to pee. I stepped out first onto the shoulder, except the shoulder wasn't really a shoulder at all. It was spongy red clay, and I quickly found myself buried to the ankles. My sandals completely submerged.

I thought of warning my friend, then thought better of it as I remembered how he let me sleep in that terribly unnatural position. I also knew he was bare footed and smirked at the thought of the red clay squishing up between his toes.

As I stood there relieving myself, I thought of what a crazy adventure this whole trip had become. The two of us traveling across the country to see his girlfriend in Matamoros, a border town just below Brownsville, Texas. Upon our arrival, we had wasted no time locating the nearest Pharacia, where prescription drugs could easily be obtained. In Mexico they are legal. In Mexico everything is legal.

And that's where the Valium came into play.

It seemed the rain was falling harder than before, and even in the darkness you could tell we weren't in Kansas anymore. It just felt different. It smelled different. Everything about that moment was foreign. I was a stranger in a strange land, far away from civilization and everyone we encountered knew it.

Although I didn't know it, things were about to get a whole lot stranger.

Back in the truck once more, and I found myself behind the wheel, still trying to shake loose the cobwebs of unconsciousness. Sara is whispering sweet nothings to Doug in her native tongue and Doug is ranting about the red clay between his toes. The wipers are on overdrive and there's nothing on the radio but Christmas songs. This seems especially odd considering it's the first week of April. To make matters worse they are in Spanish.

"Damnit," I remember thinking to myself, as I glance at a lonely tic-tac laying on the floorboard. I can't remember the last time I'd consumed a meal, but I knew it was long overdue. As I contemplate this difficult decision, whether or not this breath mint is worth digesting, I see flashing lights approaching from behind.

Up ahead, there is a roadblock of some kind. I resist my initial urge to panic as I reach for our illegal stash of contraband (in this case a bag of weed) and start choking it down, along with the rest of the Valium. I then grab a plastic bottle of water, of which we have a strong supply.

"Shit dude, we're getting pulled over!" Doug bolted up in a flash, the mud between his toes quickly forgotten.

"Were you speeding!" he screams. It was more of a statement than a question.

"There is a roadblock asshole," I reply.

"Don't stop," he is yelling at me now, getting excited. "Just go around it."

It's at this point that I notice what appears to be a Sherman tank blocking our path.

As I draw closer we realize the severity of the situation.

Along with the tank, there are several beat up looking jeeps and a couple of solders moving toward the truck. They do not look happy to see us.

I tell Doug I'm no longer hungry, Doug tells me he shit his pants, and I can hear Feliz Navidad jamming on the radio.

As we roll to a stop I can see there are actually two Sherman tanks instead of one, and I can feel a pill stuck somewhere in the back of my throat. Sara's in the back and she's scared, rambling off a series of what I assume to be profanities. I could only make out "This not good." And indeed it wasn't.

As I put the truck in park, a soldier opens the door before I can even roll down the window. The drops are falling harder now, escalating from hard rain to a torrential downpour. It stings my face and my heart begins to race. I hear Doug telling me to be cool, and I remember thinking, I am cool. I'm not the one who just shit his pants. He, the Mexican solder, is joined by another soldier, and they both carry machine guns.

The taller of the two had a stubbly beard and and he wore a beret of some sort, but it was partially concealed by his raincoat. The other one was shorter and considerably rounder. He was missing a few teeth. He also carried a long black machete. It looked sharp as hell, and I was suddenly overcome with curiosity as to its intended use.

To my right, Doug was out of the truck and he was being searched. I wondered if he was standing in more red clay. The taller one got close to me and began to speak in broken English. His breath smelled like a dead animal, and briefly I entertained the idea of offering him that tic-tac from the floorboard.

The rain was blowing sideways now, as a third soldier got out of a pickup truck that had pulled up behind us. I could see no visible weapon but I took little comfort in this observation. It was now three against two, not counting Sara, and every tough guy movie I'd ever seen was racing through my head at a lightning pace.

Machine gun or not, I knew I could take the fat guy, but I had zero confidence in Doug.

The soldier pointed his gun at my chest again, calling me a gringo, a word I finally understood. I could tell he didn't like me, because to him I symbolized everything that he was not. An American, just passing through his country on vacation. I'm enjoying myself at a leisurely pace, driving a brand new truck, wearing expensive clothes, and joined by the company of a beautiful women.

As we stood there in the freezing rain I could hear Sara negotiating with one of the officials while the other one searched our truck. At some point it occurred to me they were looking for money, which we had cleverly hidden before we left, removing the entire backseat and burying the bulk of our cash in a hard to find location.

In retrospect, it proved to be a smart move on our part. One that I had anticipated in case we ran into trouble. I departed with about sixty American dollars, while Doug lost more than one-hundred.

It appeared we'd just been strong-armed.

As we drove away the gas light came on, but there were signs of life on the horizon. Town was just ahead, and I was starting to get hungry, but the Valium I'd disposed of were beginning to take effect, and the rain was slowing down, and the world was slowing down.

Doug had muddy feet and an empty wallet, but we managed to survive a near car jacking, while being robbed, and almost shot, and almost stabbed.

As I drifted away into nothing, he complained about everything, but I considered the whole experience the creation of a perfect memory, and the cost of doing business at midnight in Laredo.

THE DAN O' SHEA FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE

2010-03-02T02:01:00.000-08:00

Below is my entry to the Flash Fiction Challenge that was thrown down by Dan O' Shea over at the site that brought you here.

The rules? 1,000 words and the setting is a church. This is my piece THE BUTCHER SHOP.

Short and Powerful, like a PUNCH to the throat.

FIVE truths and ONE lie

2010-02-19T03:22:00.000-08:00

Okay, so Mr. Dan O' Shea has invited me into a truth or dare type situation, or maybe it's truth or consequences? Either way, here's what I'm dealing with.

Reveal up to six outrageous truths about yourself and one outrageous lie

OR

up to six outrages lies about yourself and one outrageous truth. I've decided to go the truth route, so here we go. Five truths and one lie.

1) I was the victim of a strong armed robbery in Mexico

Once, on a trip to Mexico, my friend and I were traveling late at night (somewhere between Metamoris and Laredo) when we came upon a roadblock. We were quickly removed from the vehicle and held captive by Mexican soliders WITH MACHINE GUNS pointed at us the whole time. After searching the truck for drugs (which were well hidden) guns (a stun gun that was hidden with the drugs) and mostly money, which was in our wallets, they finally let us go but robbed us of $166.00 (I only lost about eight bucks because I stashed my money with the drugs and the stun gun)

2)I outran the Cops in the snow only to run out of gas and get caught

I was 19 years old and working at Chrysler building mini vans and I had a 1995 Eagle Talon Turbo that was All Wheel Drive. Well, it was early Saturday morning in January and there was snow on the ground as I headed to the gym. I was busy messing with the cigerette lighter plug in to my Motorolla bag phone (you remember, it was built inside of a small suitcase and it weighed twelve pounds) when I looked up I saw a Cop pulling radar and he lit me up. Without really thinking I just jammed it down into second and punched that son of a bitch. The turbo kicked in and I laid rubber into third gear and that was pretty much it. Knowing my Talon was AWD gave me a pretty sweet advantage on the ice but when the low fuel light came on I pretty much knew that I was fucked so I just pulled over and waited for the Cop. When he finally arrived, he jumped out of the car on an adrenaline high without putting it in park all the way and almost ran over his own foot. After pulling his gun on me, cuffing me, and putting me in the car, I ended up talking him out of the the bulk of the ticket, plus, he actually followed me to the gas station and offered to loan me a few bucks. The one and only time I got Cop love.

3) In the last year and a half I've broken 5 bones

Sometimes I break shit. Like bones. Between dirt bike wrecks, street bike wrecks, and yes, even jet boat wrecks, I have broken five bones in the last year.

4) I almost bungee jumped in Tennessee

One time on vacation, as we passed through Gatlinberg, TN, we drove by a run down little amusement park type situation that had a bungee jumping set up. My wife wanted to stop, no problem. After paying the money, waiting in line, and climbing at least six hundred stairs, we finally made it to the top. As the bungee technician struggled to get the harness around my chest and shoulders, I inquired about all those big X's down below on the air bag. A closer inspection revealed they had, in fact, been made with duck tape in an attempt to stop a leak. Several leaks. He explained to me how the bag was old and "he didn't really trust it. Plus," he continued "your probably gonna hit the bag anyway big boy, we may as well quit dickin with this harness and just let you jump." As it turned out, the thought of me jumping sixty feet onto an airbag nobody really trusted wasn't all that appealing and I demanded my money back.

5) I've got wood!

When I was twelve years old I had a science project for school, a big one worth tons of extra credit. The idea was to build a house using toothpics. After several late nights of building I'd finally finished the project, one that I went onto get a decent grade on actually. Well, a few days later, maybe a week, I got up in the middle of the night and stepped on a toothpick that was laying in the bedroom floor, stuck in the shag carpet that covered the beat up old hardwood. At the angle it was protruding, it slid right up into my heel as I stepped down with all my weight. After multiple doctors visits through out the years, that toothpick is still there today. Lodged in my heel forever.

6) I wrote a book once

I wrote my first novel, The Zoo Crew, on the assembly line at Chrysler. I wrote the whole thing by hand in a series of notebooks (all 100,000 words) in between min vans. It took me two months.

There ya have it, FIVE truths and ONE lie. The 1st one to guess the lie gets a case of very cheap beer as a prize. Let's see what Jimmy Callaway can do with this. http://letskilleverybody.blogspot.com/

LEBOWSKI FEST

2010-02-17T14:46:00.000-08:00

EVERYTHING LEBOWSKI

Anyone familiar with pop culture is familiar with The Big Lebowski, a 1998 film written and directed by the Coen brothers. We all know and love the Coen brothers. For those who don't know, these guys are responsible for one of the greatest cinematic achievements in the history of film. That's right, I'm talking about Miller's Crossing. One of my favorite gangster films. Not to mention, No Country for Old Men, and of course there's Fargo. Plus, they made The Man Who Wasn't There, as well as Raising Arizona. But wait, didn't they also make O' Brother, Where Art Thou? [We're in a tight spot] and Burn After Reading?

These guys are super talented and it's hard to say which film is there best, but one thing is apparent, none of their movies have 'Achieved' the level of fan appreciation and support as The Big Lebowski. There is even a Religion called Dudeism, which was founded in 2005, and their primary objective is to 'promote a philosophy and lifestyle represented by the character the Dude' (I guess Dudeism members do nothing but not work and smoke pot)

The Big Lebowski is a movie thats been compared to Raymond Chandler's novel, The Big Sleep. It opened to little commercial success over a decade ago (March 6th, 1998) so as we near it's twelve year Anniversary, I though it would make for an interesting blog post from someone who is an 'Achiever' himself. Someone well versed in the ways of the Dude, or his dudeness, or el duderino, if your not into the whole brevity thing.

I'm a Lebowski, you're a Lebowski

Every now and then a movie comes along that some people love and other people hate, and The Big Lebowski is certainly no exception. As a matter of fact, I believe in this case it all boils down to “Who gets it” and “Who doesn't,” and I'm proud to say that I fall into the first category. I get it, and I've gotten it since the very first time I viewed this film back in 1998.

I just assume everyone who's reading this already knows of the Dude's struggle to seek compensation for the rug that “really tied the room together.” The rug that was pissed on by the Chinaman. Wait, the Chinaman is not the issue..okay, I'm sorry, Asian-American is the correct nomenclature,..well, you see where this is going..

So, after many years of being a fan of the film, I discover there's actually a festival of other 'like minded' individuals, such as myself, who appreciate the movie so much that they decided to have a party in it's honor. A festival. -And suddenly Lebowski Fest is born! Or, achieved.

What started out as a couple of guys drinking White Russians in a Louisville bowling alley has grown into a money making, cash producing juggernaut that unites thousands of fans, ACHIEVER'S, throughout the United States every few months in places like New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago. There is even a documentary called The Achiever's. I knew I had to go.

I can get you a toe

After waiting months for the day to arrive, the night before we leave I'm riding motorcycles with a friend, and a dog, a very stupid dog, runs out in front of me while I'm going 70mph. It was almost midnight and I hit him with the front tire. I don't go down, but it isn't pretty, but before I can go any farther, I must back up for a second.

Only a month earlier I had the misfortune of being in yet another pretty serious motorcycle crash (this one was actually my fault) and I wasn't even supposed to leave the house, much less go to Lebowski Fest, and I sure as hell didn't need to be on a motorcycle. I had three broken ribs, a fractured scapula, and both of my arms were completely wrapped in bandages because I left most of my skin back on hwy A, on the curve where I went down going 100mph. In a tank top.

So, back to the night in question, and motorcycle wreck number two. Like I said, I didn't crash, but everything hurt like hell and the front of the bike was wasted. The dog, you ask? I'm afraid he was wasted too. My buddy said he didn't get up.
I made it back to the house and my wife scalded me for being so stupid. I'd heard it all before, but she couldn't say much because she rides a motorcycle too, and she understands my love of riding. I could barely walk and I needed to go to the Emergency Room, but it wasn't happening. Nothing could stop me from 'Achieving,' so with my favorite crutches in hand (crutches from a previous encounter with bad luck) we made our descent to Louisville, Ky, home to Lebowski Fest.

That's like, your opinion man

Louisville in July sucks on crutches, that needs to be said up front, and by the time we made the trek from Mo, I was really starting to feel the pain. My right ankle was swollen and black, and I walked around like a gimp. Both of my arms were completely wrapped in gauze that was coated with vasoline, and I looked like a real freak. Lucky for me I wasn't the only freak in town, because as soon as we got there, we truly realized how dedicated some of these fans were.

Everywhere we looked we saw Walter Sobchak, Donnie, or the Dude, we even saw a few Maude's. Pretty much the whole cast was there and everyone was in full costume. The atmosphere was pretty laid back, which was to be expected, and everyone we met was a friend. Thousands of strangers coming together to drink Caucasians and throw rocks in an unstructured utopia which included members of The Church of the Latter-Day Dude (I'm serious).

Nobody fucks with the Jesus

When I mentioned the dedication of the fans I wasn't exaggerating. The only thing I can compare it to is the Trekkie phenomenon, or perhaps The Rocky Horror Picture Show, because the other fans, 'Achiever's,' showed nothing less than complete and total devotion to the characters they portrayed. Standing in line for beer, Walter Sobchak bypassed the end of the line and walked strait to the front where he wasted no time butting in. When I heard someone question him, he said, and I quote, “I didn't watch my buddies die face down in the mud just to come back here and wait in line for a fucking beer,” and the crowd went crazy.

Welcome to Lebowski Fest, a place where the ultimate fans come for a chance to interact with other fans while they support the greatest bowling movie of all time. (Kingpin is a close second, just saying)

The next day we began our morning with beer and tacos, never a good idea, but still, this is Lebowski Fest I told myself, and we headed to downtown Louisville on our quest to 'Achieve.' Along the way we saw Jesus walking down the street, then we saw a couple of Dude's, then a Walter Sobchak, and not the Walter from the night before, but this was a different Walter. A skinny Walter. “Hey Walter,” I yelled out the window, and he yelled back, “I don't roll on shabbos.” We laughed at this, but he didn't.

When we finally make it to the taco store we find there is a serious crowd and I see an argument has broken out between two Walter's. I thought we might actually see a fight, a really strange and interesting fight, but it turns out they were just putting on a show. Damn, I always enjoy a good rumble too.

As we leave, I find myself standing behind a 400+ lb. black Jesus, and it's both cool and interesting to see such a diverse crowd having so much fun with themselves. Knowing most of these people work regular jobs just like you and me, but for this one weekend in particular, they are not just your average Joe. These people are like superhero's and everyone is shaking their hand and taking there picture. For this one weekend only, they transform themselves into their favorite character, and some of these characters 'stay in' character all weekend. The guy in front of me was no exception. When he stopped rather abruptly, I accidentally jammed him in the back of the leg with one of my crutches. I'm quick to offer my apologies and tell him, “I'm not very good with these things,” but he just shrugs me off and says, “Nobody fucks with the Jesus,” and walked out the front door into the warm Kentucky morning.

Mind if I do a Jay?

Saturday night was the big finale and the crowd at the bowling alley was in fine form. We were surrounded by various characters from the movie and a few people had truly 'Achieved' pure genius with the creativity of their costumes. The Dude walked by in a robe and flip-flops and he had a joint dangling from his lips. I should of asked him if he wanted to do a jay.

Awards were handed out for the best costume and the furthest distance traveled, and the winner of the second award came all the way from Belgium. He said the whole trip had cost him over $3,000 dollars so he deserved the award, but the award I wanted was 'the best hard luck story,' (I went to the ER on the way home with a chipped bone in my ankle and torn ligaments/tendons? in my wrist) but I didn't get it. I thought the bandages and the crutches might play in my favor, but no such luck. The winner was a guy from California who said he blew up the engine is his car or something trying to get there, but I think he was lying, he probably lived in Louisville. My only complaint about the whole weekend, if I had one, was being overlooked for the hard luck prize, I mean, come one, I was on crutches. Of course, considering the elaborate get-ups and what not, maybe they thought I was just another one of the crazies, after all, some people will do anything for a free t-shirt.

Duff, the Ace of Cakes and A Registered Sex Offender (with a record)

Lebowski themed cake for the Food Network Channel

Melissa and the Sherriff of Malibu

He is 'The Walrus'

Brian Posehn from the Devil's Rejects

Walter Sobchak

My thoughts on Vonnegut

2010-02-12T20:31:00.000-08:00

The Mind Police

The story “Harrison Bergeron” was written in in the early 1960's, about a future that was supposed to be perfect. Or at least equal. The story is set in the year 2081 with the central theme being control, specifically, control the government has over our lives. It describes a futuristic view of a world where everyone is the same, not by creation, but by law.

In this world, even a citizens' thoughts are subject to control. The first example of this is seen in the third paragraph where the reader discovers the main character, George, who's smarter than he should be, is required by law to wear a radio in his ear, tuned to a government transmitter.

In our world today we can see various forms of government control all around us, if only we would wake up and open our eyes. While the rest of the world is distracted by the government stimulus package, bills are being signed and laws are being passed that restrict our control. Gun control, specifically, according to the National Riflemen Association, is about to be taken to the next level and most Americans don't even know it.

If the government has its way, laws will be passed by the end of the year that require a gun to be destroyed after its owner dies, therefore eliminating the opportunity for a father to pass along his deer rifle to his son if he chooses too. This is a fine example of the powers that govern us rewriting our Constitutional amendment to bear arms. They might take away our guns, but they cannot take away our thoughts, at least not yet.

In the story, the specific function of this radio transmission is to monitor the people's thoughts
before they get too deep. Every twenty seconds or so, a sharp noise is broadcast to every radio receiver causing the subscriber to experience severe disorientation. It disrupts the user's thought process to the extent that any possibility of completing a series of complex thoughts or actions would be unlikely, maybe even impossible.

The ability to communicate with members of your own family is minimal at best. Between the above average citizens who cannot complete a thought and the perfectly average ones who can only think in short bursts, it is easy to imagine a world void of all color and individuality, and maybe thats the point.

While much of Vonnegut's vision of the future seems far fetched and exaggerated, it is safe to say that “Harrison Bergeron,” like much of Vonnegut's work, was very much ahead of its time. After reading it, one must ask themselves why a society would choose to violate the very principles the constitution was founded upon. If the ability to think freely has been taken away, would constitutional amendments even matter?

This futuristic story is relevant today because you can see the writing on the wall if only you look close enough. If your not allowed to think, you would never have the ability to form a mental notion in your head to say what you wanted. Or buy a gun. Or go to church. You must assume the Handicapper General does not suffer these restrictions, so ultimately, the government becomes a dictatorship that controls us, and we become the slaves to our own thoughts.

For those who think the future he prepares us for is impossible, you must remember the time in reference is still over seventy years away from today. Harrison Bergeron was shot down by the Handicapper General to take away society's hope and he is dead because the future is a world without hero's, at least Vonnegut's future.

But there is little doubt that technology will provide the Government with the proper ammunition to destroy itself from within, and their ability to spy on each and every one of us is already more sophisticated than we realize. If they wanted to read the license plate of your car while it's parked in your driveway they could do it by satellite. They can eavesdrop on your conversations and they can read your emails. Big brother is out there and he is curious. Perhaps Vonnegut was onto something after all.

Greetings...

2010-02-12T18:06:00.000-08:00

Welcome to my Blog. I'm just a regular guy trying to survive and these are my thoughts and a few of my stories. Enter at your own risk and try not to laugh at my Blogging skills (or lack-there-of...)