Baller, Book 3 in the Eucalyptus Lane series, arrives later this spring from Outcast Press. This is the first snippet I’m sharing from that, and I’ll be back soon sharing work from my fellow writers! Click here to see the video.
Bedtime Noir #12: Murder and Mayhem in Tucson
Tonight I’m sharing a snippet from Patrick Whitehurst’s nonfiction book about murderous goings-on out in Tucson, Arizona, the subject and setting of Murder and Mayhem in Tucson (History Press). As both reader and writer, Patrick is no stranger to noir, horror and mystery, and his encyclopedic knowledge of all things Perry Mason and Columbo (two of my fave shows) is nothing short of amazing.
You can find out more about Patrick’s work, including his Barker Mysteries and “Sam the Thug” stories and much more at his web site, https://patrickwhitehurst.com/fiction/ .
Bedtime Noir #11: Sneak Peek at Starlite Pulp Review #2
Excited to see my short story, “Scattershot,” in the new Starlite Pulp Review #2! I’m sharing a snippet right here, and you can go to the Starlite Pulp web site or wherever you like to go to buy books and get your copy for a collection of pulp fiction (noir, crime, sci-fi, horror!) by established and emerging authors.
Bedtime Noir #10: L.A. Stories
This week I’ll share a tidbit from L.A. Stories, a trio of grindhouse novellas from Alec Cizak, Scotch Rutherford and Andrew Miller. If you’re a fan of gritty noir and dirty realism in literature and the “grindhouse” aesthetic in film, you should check it out this summer! It’s like a late night at grungy drive-in, or an illicit later-night visit to that downtown theatre you weren’t supposed to go to (but did). I wrote a more in-depth review of this book last year, so you can check that out here.
Click here for this week’s video.
More posts coming up this summer with new and recent works of noir, pulp and transgressive fiction, and more on my fave minor (though major inspo for me!) characters of noir film, TV and lit. Stay tuned!
Bedtime Noir #8
Noir and transgressive fiction often intersect; I know it does in my writing! Tonight I'm sharing a snippet from the first Outcast Press anthology, In Filth It Shall Be Found. The snippet is from “Sugar Baby,” by CT Marie. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #7: O'Connor Country Edition
This week in a change of pace, I’m in downtown Milledgeville sharing a couple of my favorite stops for evening walks: Cline House, former home of Flannery O’Connor, and Memory Hill Cemetery.
While there’s much in Milledgeville that’s new, evidenced by the influx of Georgia College and Georgia Military College students from all over the country and the world, the past is ever present in the architecture, historical artifacts and the history of the place itself. It was here at the old State House (renovated and still in use at GMC as a classroom building and administrative offices; I’ve taught several English classes there) that after a night of contentious debate, Georgia voted to secede from the Union. Everywhere at Memory Hill Cemetery are graves of the Confederate dead, along with veterans of the American Revolution and their family members. There are also the graves of patients of Central State Hospital (once known as the Georgia Lunatic Asylum built in 1845), and of former slaves.
Often when I talk to people from other parts of Georgia, they speak of Milledgeville as if it’s an off-the-beaten path part of the state that they’ve never been to, and don’t know much about. There’s a lot that’s new here, as old houses are renovated and repurposed into college offices, and sorority and fraternity houses. Still, something odd about walking past white-columned mansions at sunset, glowing within from strings of bright blue, red or yellow LED lights hanging from the ceiling, with hammocks on the porch, and the occassional painted party cooler or card table on the roof.
As Milledgeville continues being constantly updated to accommodate more new students each year (it is a college town now, after all), places like Cline House and Memory Hill retain the Southern Gothic aesthetic that conjures up the mood of Southern noir, and the spectacular sunsets that inspired O’Connor herself continue to dazzle, accompanied by the sound of evening chimes from the steeple of the Catholic church where she attended morning Mass.
Whether a wrinkle on the map, or in time, O’Connor country still occupies a place in central Georgia and the imagination, populated by Misfits, discontented Ph.D’s, “freaks,” and everyone in between. O’Connor famously declared that the south claimed to be “Christ-centered” but was actually “Christ-haunted.” Just another characteristic of Southern noir that deepens its mystery, and to this day, influences life in the deep south, socially and politically.
Click here to see the video on Cline House, and here to see a bit of Memory Hill.
Bedtime Noir #6: Reading from My New Novel, Cracker!
Tonight, I’m sharing a passage from the latest book in my Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. Cracker picks up where the first book, Poser, leaves off. Much more about Cracker soon, some exciting news about upcoming publications and events (!) & more posts about film, writing, reading and life. But for now—here are a couple of scenes between Jessica and Ambrose (and Beau!) from Cracker. Click here to watch!
Bedtime Noir #5: Mediterranean Noir
This week I’m reading a short passage from Garlic, Mint, & Sweet Basil, a book of essays by Jean-Claude Izzo. He writes beautifully about Marseilles, the orgins of the noir novel, and with his Marseilles trilogy (Total Chaos, Chourmo, and Solea), is credited as the founder of modern Mediterranean noir. The bite-size little essays in the book are amazing, with lovely description. Whether you consider them short essays or flash non-fiction, each chapter only made me want to visit Marseilles that much more! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir #4: Dead Dogs by Manny Torres
Reading from Manny Torres's debut novel. Manny has some other novels as well, including Father Was A Rat King, and Perras Malas. He’s also an accomplished visual artist. I interviewed Manny for Deep South Magazine last year, so if you’d like to know more about Chuck and Phobos from Dead Dogs, and Manny’s other work, click here for the interview.
Click here to watch my short reading from Dead Dogs.
Bedtime Noir #3: Meet Sonny Haynes
Tonight I’m reading from Brian Townsley's book of short stories, Outlaw Ballads, featuring detective Sonny Haynes. If you like southern California settings, tough guys-and women-and classic noir, you’re in for a treat! Click here for video.
Bedtime Noir 2: Valentine's Edition
Tonight, a short selection from Cracker, the next book in my neo-noir Eucalyptus Lane series from Outcast Press. And, meet Mitzi!
Book Review- L.A. Stories: Three Grindhouse Novellas
L.A. Stories (Uncle B. Publications) is a collection of three interconnected novellas written by Alec Cizak, Scott Rutherford and Andrew Miller, respectively, with an introduction by Rex Weiner that firmly sets the tone for the mayhem to follow. This book is everything it purports to be, with the cover design of a VHS porn tape, populated by prostitutes in various sleazy stances whose looks are less “come-hither” than “come on down.” Indeed, L.A. Stories pulls readers down into the gutter, through back streets and cheap motels where dirty deals are orchestrated and executed. Equally dirty are the secret and no-so-secret lives of the corrupt who pose as “moral betters” of society, both the purveyors of entertainment and salvation, whose proclivities, from the gastronomical to the sexual, make the streetwalkers plying their trade look positively wholesome.
Set in late ‘70’s/ early 80’s Hollywood, at the dawn of the Reagan era, with twin threats to free speech as the right’s “silent majority” finds its strident voice and the left’s “political correctness police” seek to rein in the excesses (or is it the freedoms?) of the waning “Me Decade,” Alec Cizak’s “The Temple of the Rat” drops us in a part of L.A. that’s far more grit than glitter, but nevertheless, the Hollywood aura beckons the bright and ambitious, damaged and distorted alike, including a mentally ill homeless combat veteran and zealous evangelical Christians imposing their twisted world views on others. It holds in its orbit washed-up Hollywood execs trying to claw their way back into the good graces of the powers-that-be, and shines a light on shadowy vermin-infested structures where the up-and-coming elite indulge in bizarre rites symbolic of the imminent devolution of American democracy. If some aspects border on the polemic, one need only look around to see this at turns as both a realistic and an allegorical tale of What’s to Come.
Scotch Rutherford’s “The Roach King of Paradise” is a return to straight-up crime-fiction territory, with a colorful cast of criminals, misfits and hippy-esque do-gooders drifting in and out of the Paradise Motel, a hell-hole of an address and for the unfortunate girls being trafficked there, a dungeon. Gangsters in their glittering rides float in and out of the parking lot, crooked ex-cops show up to get their fixes, and the management seeks to maximize profits with minimum interference, enlisting the help of the “Roach King,” a shadowy figure part exterminator, part hit-man, to maintain order. Rutherford manages the various activities at the Paradise with cinematic ease, drifting in and out of its rooms amid scenes of varying degrees of depravity, from which one rare instance of compassion stands out in this harsh world as especially memorable.
Andrew Miller’s “Lady Tomahawk” caps off the narrative grindhouse with a buffed-out heroine who lives up to her name and turns on its ear the notion of the innocent girl who comes to Hollywood with stars in her eyes. Film and fashion references streaming throughout this section herald the coming decade of, up until then, unparalleled greed. The behind-the-scenes view glimpsed here of rampant hypocrisy might seem over-the-top in tamer times, but these are not tame times. Like in Gore Vidal’s novel, Hollywood, about how American power and influence migrated west with the rise of cinema to make La-la Land a twin capitol, here that concept is sexed-up, debauched and left ship-wrecked in bloody sheets while the perps shower and go to church.
A far cry from most cultural time capsules of this transformational era such as the free-wheeling college kids turned earnest yuppies of The Big Chill and even the human fall-out of the transition from old-school porno to videotape in Boogie Nights (yes, I’m aware these are movie references, but hey, this is Hollywood), this decadent romp through L.A.’s underworld, at turns violent and profane, humorous and profound, put me in mind of a late-night underground movie that I know might give me bad dreams but I can’t stop watching until I see how it ends.
And the end isn’t reassuring in the least.
Book Review: The Recalcitrant Stuff of Life, by Sean McCallum
If books are supposed to transport one to another place and time, The Recalcitrant Stuff of Life by Sean McCallum (Outcast Press) is a vehicle for a journey to a mystical place where few have been. The physical destination is Iquitos, Peru, and the emotional destination is to the heart of what makes one human. Roosevelt’s (Rosie’s) journey there is originally to escape the pain of a (very) bad relationship, and his best friends, freewheeling Deuce and strait-laced Izzy, are on a mission is to find and return Rosie to Canada. Of course, best laid plans do often go awry, but in this case, detours and derailments lead to better things for all involved, albeit each of these three has to walk through his own kind of fire to attain them.
The structure of this book is complex but like the fractal geometric patterns that so captivate Vanessa, another seeker arriving in Iquitos whose story weaves in with that of the three main characters, it has a clarity and symmetry that makes for a satisfying conclusion. Flashbacks of what brought Rosie to Iquitos are like pieces in a mosaic that, by the final page, create a clear snapshot of Rosie’s emotional journey that started well before the beginning of the book. As the story progresses, the teeming chaos of Iquitos and of these characters’ lives doesn’t really sort itself out so much as provide the travelers with tools to navigate this world a little better the next day than the day before.
In Iquitos, resistance to the flow of life is futile, and if there’s one thing Rosie has learned and the others will eventually, the best one can do is go with it and stop trying to make sense of everything.
It’s only through Rosie’s resignation to making all the pieces fit: his past, present and what the future holds, that he finds the way back to himself. The disparate shards of his recent past start to fall away when he meets Vanessa, and the slights, questions and betrayals that hang between Izzy and the Deuce come to a head even as they briefly celebrate a mission accomplished by finding Rosie before turning back for the more than 5000-mile return trip home.
The portal ringed by fire, guarded by dragons of memory through which each must pass (FYI, this isn’t a fantasy; just figurative language here, nonetheless apt) is the experience that awaits them all deep in the Amazon jungle when they take part in an ayahuasca ceremony. To say that one “trips” on this drug, or very intense plant-based substance, doesn’t do it justice. Its effects on the mind and body are as spectacular as they are terrifying, and it is not an experience to be taken lightly. Having already transported us to an unfamiliar place, McCallum does us one better by transporting us though the violent pyrotechnics produced by the individual experiences of Rosie, Deuce, Izzy and Vanessa in the throes of ayahuasca so that, like them, we emerge whole but not unsinged. This book contains indelible images, but one phrase that still echoes in my mind is that of being “pulled under,” as when members of the group are most firmly in the clutches, or embrace, of ayahuasca tea, and which that is can change moment to moment.
McCallum’s insider knowledge of this remote location imbues the fictional narrative with documentary realism, making it a different kind of novel, one that deserves a special place on the shelf with others containing mystical wisdom, along with the geography of the continent to our south, and that of the heart.
Review: Two Novels by Duvay Knox--The Soul Collector and The Pussy Detective
Writer Duvay Knox demonstrates how great storytelling can both honor and explode literary tradition in his debut novel The Soul Collector (Creative Onion Press) and in his latest, The Pussy Detective (Clash Books). Both incorporate fully and to the bone, the language of street vernacular and the power of the image, with laser-sharp poetic precision. Magical realism is woven seamlessly into everyday life in modern “Amerikkka” through Knox’s trademark style, minimalist and authentic, which makes make both of these innovative works of fiction fast-paced, satisfying reads.
In The Soul Collector: As Told by that Nigga Death, Death (formerly known as Sippian when he was a living human), moves through hell, establishing himself as a player in those infernal corporate offices that echo with the atmosphere of an abandoned downtown office building. His mentor, Mr. Otis, manifests as a middle-aged streetwise guy with a sharp wit and the uncanny ability to produce a Kool cigarette or a frosty mug of beer out of thin air. Even with Death’s keen awareness and ability to read others, including how they might react when given their two-week final notice, he’s philosophical and questioning. When Mr. Otis tells him, “…We gone upgrade you some mo to sumpen you mite not be ready for. So we gotta make sho you ready for it,” Death replies, “Im ready for anything. Cuz that last case put sumpen on mah mind and made me see visions of this game I aint know about.”
Far from an unfeeling entity, cold as the blade he figuratively wields, Death possesses sufficient memory of his own earthly existence to feel pity, an attribute that he seeks not to lose, but manage. His capacity for hope, and concern for the greater good, occasionally give this ace reaper pause, like a hit-man burdened with a conscience.
The title character of The Pussy Detective, Reverend Daddy Hoodoo, emerges from the classic detective mold then smashes it to bits, redefining the phrase “private dick” on a natural, supernatural and cosmic level. The Pussy Detective blends the cinematic antecedents of 1970’s detective shows and the best of blaxploitation together with folkloric tradition and respect for the limits of magic into a surreal twenty-first century mystery. Reverend Daddy Hoodoo’s specialty is helping women find their lost pussies, or more accurately, the lost essence of their pussy, which, in the case of his newest client Abyssinia, seems to include a loss of self and direction as well.
Along with his partner (in more ways than one), Madame X, the Reverend assesses the deepest needs of his clients, guiding them through intricate rituals not for his own fulfillment, but to help them reclaim the part of themselves that was lost, often through contact with those who would take them for granted or exploit them. Rev. Daddy seeks to restore, with much preparation and soul-searching involved. He’s an old-school detective for the New Age, as comfortable cruising over to “go see Sonja’s fine, troublesome ass about …customized GANJA,” as he is navigating the frontiers of consciousness. He’s astutely observant, equipped with a well-developed bullshit detector: ear to the ground, back against the wall, and does not suffer fools.
Knox’s innovative use of language has an addictive effect, and both The Soul Collector and The Pussy Detective have gripping plots, and sharply drawn characters. These works are hip in the OG sense of the word, and to engage with the first-person narration in each book is to be taken on an extraordinary journey with a protagonist in possession of his own superpower. So, get “Suited and Booted,” as Reverend Daddy Hoodoo would say, and prepare for a hell of a ride!
Review: In Filth It Shall Be Found
It’s been a while since I’ve written a review and this is the first of many I'm about to share. I’ve been undergoing my own personal transformation for the past couple of years and this is the perfect book with which to resume my literary musings. In Filth It Shall Be Found, the first volume of transgressive fiction from Outcast Press (ed. Paige Johnson) is a carnivalesque tour of the of the human spirit's darker side, and in keeping with its Jungian title, invites readers along on a Bahktinian journey through the netherworld of consciousness where the “It” of the title is discovered.
Russian philosopher and theorist Mikhail Bahktin identified and described 4 hallmarks of the carnivalesque world view that can be found in literature, and these pinged around in my mind immediately after I’d finished the book . While this isn’t meant to be an academic analysis or anything other than my own experience reading Filth, the fact that the ping was loud and persistent shows there is order in chaos, sanity in madness, and that this collection exemplifies the transformative power of transgressive fiction.
Using Bahktin's hallmarks of the carnivalesque as guideposts on this tour, the first, “familiar and free interaction between people where barriers are broken,” is the crux of Don Logan’s “Isaac and Me,” where the worlds of a homeless man and a mysterious “kid” collide then separate leaving one of them indelibly marked by betrayal. CT Marie's “Sugarbaby” is a train wreck that begins on a subway and ends in an unexpected place (for this reader anyway). In both of these stories, the urban setting heightens the “random” precision of chance encounters, Hitchcockian intersections where fate lurks behind the scenes, then steps out and knees you in the groin when you least expect it.
The next hallmark is “eccentric behavior,” where society’s norms are broken and/or blithely ignored without consequences. Simon Broder's“Dollhouse" flows in this vein, exposing the lie that grown-ups are wiser than kids, featuring an immature narrator with a most distinctive voice. Another example of eccentric behavior stretched to extremes is Emily Woe's “The Secret Smile,” where the narrator's utter blindness to the consequences of his own actions is nothing short of remarkable.
The hallmark of “carnivalistic” mesalliances” where those normally separated unite, is personified in Paige Johnson's “The Blue Hour.” Set in a strip club where lines are both crossed and laid out on a table, the roles of performer and spectator are blurred as forbidden familiarity portends a special kind of friendship, doom, or both. Another case of forbidden familiarity is examined in G.C. McKay ‘s “Je Ne Sais Quoi,” in a father's tortured observations of his daughter's odd behavior.
The final hallmark of the carnivalesque world view, “profanation,” is on full-frontal display with “The Fire Inside,” by Sebastian Vice, where anarchic take-down of all that is “holy” debases and grinds guardians of corrupt power into the ground. Profanation of the human body, specifically the female body, occurs in Amanda Cecelia Lang's “Daisy in the Dirt,” its dark magical realism sparkling with a crystal-clear awareness gained in the presence of death.
The book’s cover art features a woman removing a mask, an appropriate image to represent this volume. Perhaps I have a particular affinity for the notion of the carnivalesque and what it represents, having lived in New Orleans for nearly twenty years. There, Carnival season is a time when normal rules don’t apply: everyday routes are altered, appetites indulged, and appearances don’t represent reality. Bourbon Street swells into a bacchanalian mass of humanity in all its wonder and debauchery. The success of each Mardi Gras is measured by the amount of trash collected on Ash Wednesday, but for weeks and even months afterward, one finds glitter in the gutters, and beads hanging from the trees. Such is the effect of feasting on the stories herein and coming to the last page: the show is over, parade passed, but the details linger and haunt.
Each of the twenty stories in this anthology makes its unique contribution to the transgressive gestalt of In Filth It Shall Be Found. I look forward to seeing more from all these writers in the future, and more anthologies from Outcast Press.
Laissez le bon temps rouler!
Excerpt from POSER now up at Deep South Magazine!
An excerpt from my novel (first in a series, ) POSER, submitted for Deep South’s call for pieces on the theme of “Separation” is now up! Click here to find it.