My buddy JD gave me one helluva ride in his 2009 Shelby. Awesome vehicle. Yeah, I want one.
And my friend Leah J. Utas is the force behind Photo-Finish Friday.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Photo-Finish Friday -- Shelby GT500
My buddy JD gave me one helluva ride in his 2009 Shelby. Awesome vehicle. Yeah, I want one.
And my friend Leah J. Utas is the force behind Photo-Finish Friday.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Pulp Modern III
Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles are back in PULP MODERN III. "Legends," co-written with Chuck Tyrell, features our antiheroes in 1920s New Orleans where Miles and his wife, Violet, run a jazz club. Two reporters show up to interview Miles about Cash Laramie. But the reporters aren't who they seem. They've been hired by the wife of the preacher who was killed by Cash and they're digging for information on the whereabouts of the outlaw marshal.You don't want to miss old western Colts vs. machine guns in this action-packed tale available at CreateSpace.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Round Two eBook
BEAT to a PULP: ROUND TWO is now available on Amazon for $5.99.
FOREWORD by Sophie Littlefield
THE SPACE KILLERS by Bill Pronzini
FAR FROM HOME by Vin Packer
KING by Dave Zeltserman
MISSED FLIGHT by Steve Weddle
PURRZ, BABY by Vicki Hendricks
THE LITTLE BOY INSIDE by Glenn Gray
AN OPEN DOOR by Chris F. Holm
THE SHADOW LINE by Charles Ardai
RANSOM AND RED FINGERS by Garnett Elliott
PILLOW TALK by Jodi MacArthur
SKYLER HOBBS AND THE COTTINGLEY FAIRIES by Evan Lewis
THE KING OF MARDI GRAS by Anthony Neil Smith
THE LAKE BOTTOM BONES by Wayne D. Dundee
NIGHT TERRORS by Jake Hinson
LOST VALLEY OF THE SKOOCOOM by Matthew P. Mayo
SHADOW OF THE CROSS by Larry D. Sweazy
A WORLD YOU DON'T KNOW by James Reasoner
STATE ROAD 53 by Alec Cizak
THE HAND THAT FEEDS HIM by Patricia Abbott
A SPECIAL KIND OF HELL by Hilary Davidson
A GOOD KILL IS WORTH REPEATING by C. Courtney Joyner
DRIFTER FROM WENATCHEE by John D. Nesbitt
GIVING DAD THE FINGER by Keith Rawson
GHOST OF A CHANCE by Howard Hopkins
THE QUICK ... AND THE DEAD by Bill Crider
RIFT by Nik Korpon
BIG DARLENE THE SEX MACHINE by Matthew J. McBride
MAYBE SOMEDAY by Sean Chercover
THE OLD WAYS by Ed Gorman
PULP ART: AN APPRECIATION by Cullen Gallagher
FOREWORD by Sophie Littlefield
THE SPACE KILLERS by Bill Pronzini
FAR FROM HOME by Vin Packer
KING by Dave Zeltserman
MISSED FLIGHT by Steve Weddle
PURRZ, BABY by Vicki Hendricks
THE LITTLE BOY INSIDE by Glenn Gray
AN OPEN DOOR by Chris F. Holm
THE SHADOW LINE by Charles Ardai
RANSOM AND RED FINGERS by Garnett Elliott
PILLOW TALK by Jodi MacArthur
SKYLER HOBBS AND THE COTTINGLEY FAIRIES by Evan Lewis
THE KING OF MARDI GRAS by Anthony Neil Smith
THE LAKE BOTTOM BONES by Wayne D. Dundee
NIGHT TERRORS by Jake Hinson
LOST VALLEY OF THE SKOOCOOM by Matthew P. Mayo
SHADOW OF THE CROSS by Larry D. Sweazy
A WORLD YOU DON'T KNOW by James Reasoner
STATE ROAD 53 by Alec Cizak
THE HAND THAT FEEDS HIM by Patricia Abbott
A SPECIAL KIND OF HELL by Hilary Davidson
A GOOD KILL IS WORTH REPEATING by C. Courtney Joyner
DRIFTER FROM WENATCHEE by John D. Nesbitt
GIVING DAD THE FINGER by Keith Rawson
GHOST OF A CHANCE by Howard Hopkins
THE QUICK ... AND THE DEAD by Bill Crider
RIFT by Nik Korpon
BIG DARLENE THE SEX MACHINE by Matthew J. McBride
MAYBE SOMEDAY by Sean Chercover
THE OLD WAYS by Ed Gorman
PULP ART: AN APPRECIATION by Cullen Gallagher
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Altered Plans
Saturday’s plan was simple: mail out copies of ROUND TWO to contributors, finish proofing a collection of my crime stories, and publish the next BTAP story on the webzine.
Reality: Staples had in stock only half of the padded mailers I needed, so fifteen out of thirty books were sent out, leaving more to do this week. Then, the Internet was working sporadically which meant the other items on the list were getting done in bits and pieces.
And to top it off, while taking an afternoon break watching GHOST PROTOCOL with the family, I discovered a bump on the top of my head that was kinda crusty. Dandruff? Not a stranger to that but when something popped and puss ran down my forehead, I jumped up and had Little d take a look. At first, it seemed like a pimple but when examined under the light, it looked more like a rash a good half dollar in size.
Off to the doctor—an old, country sawbones at that—who said it was too soon to tell. Could be a rash, could be an infection. It was in a spot difficult to diagnose so early, and because it had popped open, he suggested I should wait twenty-four hours to see what happens. “This is the same treatment I would give to my brother if he was sitting across the table from me and asked my opinion.” That didn’t make me feel any better, but I smiled kindly.
I left the office thinking about the time I slammed my head into the corner of a cabinet door in the camper a couple of weeks before. Was it that? An infection? Or it does resemble shingles—I had the chickenpox as a kid, so it could be that. Though shingles usually happens to men and women over fifty.
And now here I am. My Sunday is shot for the most part as I sit here and wait to go back to the doctor. Ava wants to go to the pool and Little d will take her. I’m going to read the Vin of Venus novella that Garnett Elliott sent to me. With fingers crossed for a simple infection and not shingles.
How’s your day/weekend going?
Reality: Staples had in stock only half of the padded mailers I needed, so fifteen out of thirty books were sent out, leaving more to do this week. Then, the Internet was working sporadically which meant the other items on the list were getting done in bits and pieces.
And to top it off, while taking an afternoon break watching GHOST PROTOCOL with the family, I discovered a bump on the top of my head that was kinda crusty. Dandruff? Not a stranger to that but when something popped and puss ran down my forehead, I jumped up and had Little d take a look. At first, it seemed like a pimple but when examined under the light, it looked more like a rash a good half dollar in size.
Off to the doctor—an old, country sawbones at that—who said it was too soon to tell. Could be a rash, could be an infection. It was in a spot difficult to diagnose so early, and because it had popped open, he suggested I should wait twenty-four hours to see what happens. “This is the same treatment I would give to my brother if he was sitting across the table from me and asked my opinion.” That didn’t make me feel any better, but I smiled kindly.
I left the office thinking about the time I slammed my head into the corner of a cabinet door in the camper a couple of weeks before. Was it that? An infection? Or it does resemble shingles—I had the chickenpox as a kid, so it could be that. Though shingles usually happens to men and women over fifty.
And now here I am. My Sunday is shot for the most part as I sit here and wait to go back to the doctor. Ava wants to go to the pool and Little d will take her. I’m going to read the Vin of Venus novella that Garnett Elliott sent to me. With fingers crossed for a simple infection and not shingles.
How’s your day/weekend going?
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Writing and Publishing Updates
First up: Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles will return in a story titled “Legends.” This one, co-written with Chuck Tyrell, has our heroes in 1920s New Orleans as a sequel to “The Wicked.” "Legends" will be in the upcoming issue of Pulp Modern edited by Alec Cizak. Mr. Cizak is planning to have the third issue out in a few weeks.
I received a most welcomed email from Wayne D. Dundee who wrote to say he’s started his second Cash Laramie novel. He recently made an inspirational visit to the Vedauwoo Rocks area of Wyoming where a stellar plot for the new novel will take place. It sounds like a serious rival for Manhunter’s Mountain. By the way, Mountain is still riding high on the Western chart and showing considerable determination on the hardboiled chart. Thanks, Wayne!
BEAT to a PULP: Round Two is still in the eBook works. We’re hoping it will be available later this week.
Also coming up soon is an eBook collection of mine called The Education of a Pulp Writer: 10 Crime Short Stories.
Never slow down and you never grow old, right?
That’s it for me. What are you up to?
Monday, May 28, 2012
Poop On You
When we were at an RV campground recently, we got there ahead of the weekend crowd and watched as the sites filled up one by one. I was outside having a beer and reading a friend’s manuscript. My charmer was watching our baby coconut search out rocks and acorns beside the tow behind that we borrowed from my in-laws.
The parade filing in was a strange mix of senior couples in their brand-new, decked-out RV buses and packs of young families in broke-down campers that hadn’t been fixed since The Bradys toured the Grand Canyon. The retired living the high life of tranquility and the salt of the earth trying to forget about their underpaid, soul-sucking jobs that they’d have to return to in a few days. My baby coconut took time out from her treasure hunt to wave to each camper as they passed by our site, and nearly all were kind enough to smile as they waved back.
But there always has to be one, right? And this particular one was a tall, thin, pasty white, twenty-something a-hole walking his German shepherd. The duo walked behind our camper and didn’t reappear for several moments. I’m no fool. It doesn’t take that long to walk past a thirty foot tow behind camper. I know what man and his best friend had been up to, especially when they scurried past us without making eye contact. I jumped up and ran around to confirm. Yup. There it was. A huge, stinking pile of dog shit on the grass where my baby plays.
I ran back. “Hey, you mind picking up after your animal?” I called out after him.
“It’s not your park.” A-Hole said.
“Park rules say dog owners need to pick up—”
Then it happened. The finger over the shoulder routine. He never looked back. He couldn’t have cared less.
“Nice,” I grumbled. I’ve learned not to make a scene in front of my daughter, and I just let it go. For the moment.
Over the next few days, the piles grew into a little Mount Everest. The dog had chosen our spot as his depository and his master seemed to revel in my quiet seething. Well, I’d had enough of being shit upon. While buying ice cream in the campground store, I overheard him telling the site manager that he was leaving the next day, and so I began plotting my revenge.
I woke up just before dawn and put on my darkest clothes. I grabbed gloves and a bag, then went outside and carefully collected a bag full of poop. I still had my anxiety of meeting up with a black bear, but I swallowed that fear and traipsed over to his shit-free lot and liberally scattered the contents of the bag at the base of his camper steps and around the small yard so there was no way he could get to his truck without stepping in something as he packed up. I considered adding it to his steps but I wouldn’t want to risk him hurting himself—I suppose the bastard didn’t deserve that.
After my task was complete, I went back to our little home and made myself a pot of coffee.
As the sun rose and the campers began to stir, I moved outside, plopped down in a lawn chair, and sipped the hot java. Sure enough, soon after, I heard a “WTF!” shrieked across the campground. From my vantage in the chair, I couldn’t see his lot, but later, as he was leaving and passed by, I was serenaded with an expletive and another middle finger, and I surmised he stepped in a footful of it.
My daughter and I waved goodbye with cheery smiles.
The parade filing in was a strange mix of senior couples in their brand-new, decked-out RV buses and packs of young families in broke-down campers that hadn’t been fixed since The Bradys toured the Grand Canyon. The retired living the high life of tranquility and the salt of the earth trying to forget about their underpaid, soul-sucking jobs that they’d have to return to in a few days. My baby coconut took time out from her treasure hunt to wave to each camper as they passed by our site, and nearly all were kind enough to smile as they waved back.
But there always has to be one, right? And this particular one was a tall, thin, pasty white, twenty-something a-hole walking his German shepherd. The duo walked behind our camper and didn’t reappear for several moments. I’m no fool. It doesn’t take that long to walk past a thirty foot tow behind camper. I know what man and his best friend had been up to, especially when they scurried past us without making eye contact. I jumped up and ran around to confirm. Yup. There it was. A huge, stinking pile of dog shit on the grass where my baby plays.
I ran back. “Hey, you mind picking up after your animal?” I called out after him.
“It’s not your park.” A-Hole said.
“Park rules say dog owners need to pick up—”
Then it happened. The finger over the shoulder routine. He never looked back. He couldn’t have cared less.
“Nice,” I grumbled. I’ve learned not to make a scene in front of my daughter, and I just let it go. For the moment.
Over the next few days, the piles grew into a little Mount Everest. The dog had chosen our spot as his depository and his master seemed to revel in my quiet seething. Well, I’d had enough of being shit upon. While buying ice cream in the campground store, I overheard him telling the site manager that he was leaving the next day, and so I began plotting my revenge.
I woke up just before dawn and put on my darkest clothes. I grabbed gloves and a bag, then went outside and carefully collected a bag full of poop. I still had my anxiety of meeting up with a black bear, but I swallowed that fear and traipsed over to his shit-free lot and liberally scattered the contents of the bag at the base of his camper steps and around the small yard so there was no way he could get to his truck without stepping in something as he packed up. I considered adding it to his steps but I wouldn’t want to risk him hurting himself—I suppose the bastard didn’t deserve that.
After my task was complete, I went back to our little home and made myself a pot of coffee.
As the sun rose and the campers began to stir, I moved outside, plopped down in a lawn chair, and sipped the hot java. Sure enough, soon after, I heard a “WTF!” shrieked across the campground. From my vantage in the chair, I couldn’t see his lot, but later, as he was leaving and passed by, I was serenaded with an expletive and another middle finger, and I surmised he stepped in a footful of it.
My daughter and I waved goodbye with cheery smiles.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Bear!
We borrowed my in-law’s camper for a weekend getaway and were having such a great time, we asked to keep the camper for the week even though I didn’t have time off from work which meant hauling my ass every morning from bliss to the daily grind.
About 9:30 at night on Wednesday, as I was reading in bed, my charmer came to me and mentioned that water had backed up in the tub.
“You could empty the tank before you leave for work in the morning,” she said.
“Nah, I won’t want to do it in the morning. I’ll take care of it now,” I told her. I get up before the sun rises and have just enough time to get myself out the door and off to work. Plus I remembered seeing in the paper that there had been coyote and bear sightings in the area and I didn’t want to take a chance of lumbering outside half asleep, reaching under the camper, and then feeling a chomp on my arm or leg.
So I put on my shoes, grabbed the flashlight, and opened the door. I took two steps down the camper stairs when I heard a growl that sounded like a demon right out of Hades. I flashed the light around and straight into the eyes of a black bear. I don’t even remember going back up the stairs and back into the camper. Perhaps, all my molecules reversed at once. All said and done, I was inside the camper in a shot, door slammed shut, and my heart pounding cartoon-style out of my chest.
“What was that?!” my charmer asked.
“That be a bear!”
I emptied the tank in the dark of the next morning, happily, without being mauled. Barely (pun intended) an hour later, Denise took this shot of the bear at the garbage bin through the camper window. She wasn’t able to get a clearer picture before it decided to search out some better pickings.
Has anybody else had a bear, or other wild animal, encounter?
About 9:30 at night on Wednesday, as I was reading in bed, my charmer came to me and mentioned that water had backed up in the tub.
“You could empty the tank before you leave for work in the morning,” she said.
“Nah, I won’t want to do it in the morning. I’ll take care of it now,” I told her. I get up before the sun rises and have just enough time to get myself out the door and off to work. Plus I remembered seeing in the paper that there had been coyote and bear sightings in the area and I didn’t want to take a chance of lumbering outside half asleep, reaching under the camper, and then feeling a chomp on my arm or leg.
So I put on my shoes, grabbed the flashlight, and opened the door. I took two steps down the camper stairs when I heard a growl that sounded like a demon right out of Hades. I flashed the light around and straight into the eyes of a black bear. I don’t even remember going back up the stairs and back into the camper. Perhaps, all my molecules reversed at once. All said and done, I was inside the camper in a shot, door slammed shut, and my heart pounding cartoon-style out of my chest.
“What was that?!” my charmer asked.
“That be a bear!”
I emptied the tank in the dark of the next morning, happily, without being mauled. Barely (pun intended) an hour later, Denise took this shot of the bear at the garbage bin through the camper window. She wasn’t able to get a clearer picture before it decided to search out some better pickings.
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