Ten Fashion Aesthetics in the Eucalyptus Lane Series

As my series of novels—Poser, Cracker, and the latest, Baller—set in the darker corners of Silicon Valley has developed over time, the fashion tastes of my characters have solidified into specific aesthetics that help to define key things about them as they seek to discover more about who they really are, to each other and in the larger world. If you’re new to the series, the tone is suburban romance spiked with crime fiction, sunny neo-noir world where image and identity play a big part in the overall story arc, including themes related to how others see us versus how we see ourselves.

These are the top ten fashion aesthetics in the series:

1.       Bad Boy Aesthetic

Ambrose, the main character, is a Texas runaway who arrives in the San Francisco Bay Area and deals drugs to make a living. He also works certain days at a B&D dungeon as an assistant to a well- established dominatrix. Having come from an abusive home, lived on the road, and spent his fair share of time on the streets, his clothes reflect a life of “catch-as-catch-can,” thrift store and found items. Initially, his typical uniform is jeans and a flannel over a t-shirt, topped by a worn leather jacket from a deceased uncle, and old biker boots (Ambrose rides a ragged motorcycle). He’s blond, early twenties, and could almost be good looking “when he gives a damn,” but up until major changes are forced upon him in the first Eucalyptus Lane novel, Poser, he doesn’t give a damn.

When he runs afoul of his main drug connection and has to shift into another identity, pretending to be someone else, his aesthetic morphs into California preppy when he poses as a Stanford grad student with the help of a friend who buys him a new wardrobe and potentially new lease on life. Having never been exposed to other possibilities, he feels shaky at first, like being “pushed onstage without a script,” but he takes to his new persona when he realizes the potential of an amazing future he now holds in his hands, abandoning his ragged “gutterpunk” existence in favor of a shiny new one, eventually graduating from California preppy for “Old money” men’s fashion, discovering a penchant for custom-made suits and Italian shoes. Even after achieving some measure of success, tenuous though it is, when he walks down the street in Palo Alto or San Francisco in a state of sartorial splendor, he still flashes on his old bad-boy aesthetic whenever he catches a reflection of himself in a store window, back when getting dressed required minimum effort and almost no money, when every day and night were spent in survival mode, and those jeans, flannel, worn out jacket and boots were his armor in a cruel and uncaring world.

As his circumstances and attitude shift, Ambrose becomes something of a fashion chameleon in the series, and he’s not the only one.

2.       Rich Mommy Aesthetic

If anyone in the Eucalyptus Lane series personifies a classic rich mommy look, it’s Jessica Jenkins Eason, oldest daughter of a Silicon Valley tech billionaire and wife of a closeted executive whose transgressions cause Jessica to step outside her considerable zone of comfort and into one of hedonistic sexual experimentation and adventure. Jessica’s kind and caring nature and movie star good looks mask a woman ready to break the mold of her former predictable existence and embrace one of risk and radical self-expression. As the mother of a toddler, Jessica walks a fine line between living up to her maternal responsibilities and seeking happiness on her own terms, which happens when Ambrose comes to live in her guest house. She doesn’t realize at first that he’s pretending to be someone he’s not, and it’s only when she discovers the truth about him that she begins to discover hidden truths about herself. When that happens, her style begins slowly evolving. She still rocks a practical designer wardrobe perfect for taking her son Beau for play dates at the park, or stopping by Stanford shopping center for a new pair of shoes to wear to the next charity gala she’s obligated to attend. While her rich mommy aesthetic remains throughout most of the series, Jessica also begins to embrace the boho fashion aesthetic when her career as an artist takes off and what constitutes ‘family’ shifts along with her wider understanding of the world outside her little corner of Palo Alto

3.       Retro Aesthetic

While Jessica embodies the rich mommy aesthetic, her younger sister Bennie, who lives in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood, consistently embraces a sweet/ naughty retro vibe throughout the entire series.

Bennie loves dresses that suggest the prim and proper silhouette of 1950’s ladies’ fashion: full skirts, covered in polka dots or some other fun pattern, cinched waists, sweetheart necklines, often with funky Mary-Jane shoes and whimsical sunglasses. Bennie plays at being prim and proper but privately, is anything but. While her old college pals from Hollins are climbing the corporate ladder, Bennie works as a receptionist at Miss Dover’s dungeon, sunny gatekeeper to for a portal where souls both lost and found engage in their wildest fantasies, finding pleasure through pain. When at home, Bennie favors silky robes embroidered with Chinese dragons, and velvet slippers beaded with intricate designs of dragons, peacocks, or flowers. Bennie also loves lacy, racy lingerie, retro and otherwise, occasionally accessorized with handcuffs.

Though Bennie’s fashion aesthetic remains constant, she’s the main one who facilitates change in others, transforming Ambrose’s aesthetic from Bad Boy to California preppy, and reluctant to admit that it’s the bad boy look she fell for first, before crafting the persona for him that would captivate her own sister, a move she later comes to regret. But, as Bennie likes to say: “Everything happens for a reason.”  

4.       Older Rich Guy Aesthetic

The middle-aged and older men in the Eucalyptus Lane series have their own individual takes on this aesthetic, but one thing they all have in common is that none of them look like they’re trying too hard.

Mr. Bob, aka Bob Bauer, retired tech exec, always looks like he’s headed to or from a board meeting, with a stop-off for drinks and cigars, or maybe a round of nine holes at the club. His typical look consists of slacks, a sporty polo, and expensive but comfortable loafers, so that all he has to do is throw on a blazer when propriety demands, or a tuxedo when his wife Mary-Ann demands that he accompany her to a formal event to raise money for charity.  Laconic, with a dry sense of humor, Mr. Bob sometimes smokes cigars at places where smoking isn’t allowed, just to see if he can get away with it. When he’s really ready to relax at home by the pool, or on vacation in Majorca, he wears a Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts (yes, cargo), and topsiders while enjoying a brandy or beer and a fine cigar while he streams the Giants game on his phone.

Retired tech billionaire Parker Jenkins, Jessica and Bennie’s dad, like to travel the world, tool around the San Francisco Bay on his sailboat or the Mediterranean on his yacht. He tends to embrace a softer side of this aesthetic, with more cotton and linen, and cashmere sweaters. Like Mr. Bob, he has to don a tux occasionally, and even then, looks totally at ease. As Randy observes when he meets Mr. Jenkins for the first time: “Everything about him screams rich—in the most tasteful, understated way.”

In his first appearance, Maxim Rusovich, longtime client at Miss Dover’s dungeon and younger brother of her mortal enemy, is wearing silk boxers and not much else, but generally he’s seen in impeccably tailored suits for the short and chubby. His older brother Alexei, the more intimidating of the two, also dresses up daily for overseeing operations at his tea room in Russian Hill or any nefarious activity at his operations in the central valley or the parking garage at a property he just acquired.  Maxim and Alexei both get their suits from Savile Row, or Spoon’s in Chinatown. Both also have ties to Russian businessman Sergei Dobrev, who uses highly questionable methods to protect his longtime interests (not official mafia, but still gangsta). Sergei, early seventies, rocks the Older Rich Guy/ Tycoon aesthetic, often sporting white pants, black blazer and thick-framed sunglasses on his palazzo in Monte Carlo, a look that always makes Miss Dover think of Aristotle “Ari” Onassis (the Greek shipping tycoon who swept a widowed Jackie Kennedy off her feet), or in a designer track suit, limited-edition sneakers, and always—those sunglasses.

None of these men would consider themselves influencers, yet they influence younger guys like Ambrose and Randy who didn’t grow up with the finer things, but recognize quality when they see it, from shoes to cologne, to the neatly pressed handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket of a custom made suit. Taste can’t be taught, but like an appreciation for a fine cigar, or a nose for fine wine, can be acquired by those willing to learn.

5.       Dominatrix Aesthetic

 Owner and head dominatrix at Dover, Inc., Miss Dover, a trans black woman in her early forties, embodies this badass feminine aesthetic with black leather & latex, take-no-prisoners attitude, and streetwise ability to recognize a line of bullshit when she hears one—99% of the time. One of the first people Ambrose met when he arrived in the city, Miss Dover gave him a job, and over the arc of the series, much more, though their mentor/ protege relationship gets tested to the limits. Miss Dover has dreams of becoming a famous fashion designer, and while her own fashion aesthetic eventually tilts toward minimalism in pastels and grays, the lines and contours remain as sharp as her claw-like diamond-encrusted nails.

Momo, assistant dominatrix at Miss Dover’s, likes to wear selections from her latex cat suit collection, along with cat ears & riding crop or flogger. When she’s not at work, she creates cute mother/daughter outfits based on Japanese anime, while Mignon, ambitious newcomer, is a “kitten with a whip,” with a soft French accent and hard heart.

6.       Normal Core Aesthetic

In a series with so many fashionistas, normalcore stands out for its pure, unassuming simplicity. Veteran and ex-cop Randy Burke isn’t going for an aesthetic so much as trying to keep some decent clothes on his back and a roof over his head, but his signature black polo shirt with jeans and brown loafers are his everyday capsule wardrobe, at least until he can make it to the laundromat. He tends to feel “frumpy” when he dresses up, especially now that he’s gained a few pounds, and so avoids it, but that becomes harder as time goes on, when he’s called upon to attend certain formal and semi-formal events, whether as guest or front-of-house hired help. He’d rather be at home on the sofa with a cold beer, wearing his favorite Giants t-shirt, and Costco plaid boxers. He played catcher when he was on the baseball team in high school but knows that after all the shit he’s pulled, he’s the last guy in the world who would ever catch a break—until fate throws him a curveball.

Ambrose’s older brother Butch is another normal core adherent, though like Randy, not much is normal about him. He’s spent a large chunk of his adult life in prison, where clothing options are severely limited, but when he has the option, he wears jeans and a t-shirt, and/or a plain button-down if he’s really dressing up. Alternately amused by and resentful of Ambrose’s growing clothing obsession, Butch sometimes has to remind himself that in another life, his own “job” stooging for a drug kingpin called for burning lots of money on a wardrobe with a certain jet-set flair, light years away from anything he’d even consider wearing post-incarceration. He hopes Ambrose isn’t headed on a similar trajectory, getting himself into situations that could end badly. As he reminds Ambrose one day during a brotherly argument that gets

heated: “You can’t wear those cute little outfits in prison, you know.”

7.     Ladies Who Lunch Aesthetic

Jessica doesn’t have a regular job, but keeps busy looking after her son Beau with the help of a very dependable baby-sitter. Before she begins pouring all her energy into her blossoming art career, she also spends a lot of time serving on charity committees and boards for various philanthropic organizations, occasionally dipping into the ladies who lunch aesthetic. Her longtime acquaintance, Mary-Ann Bauer (wife of Mr. Bob) however, is a lady who lunches extraordinaire, who’s chaired more committees than she can count and served as president, vice president or secretary for everything from the garden club to the Woman’s Club. Among other ladies of leisure who do charity work when they can, Mary-Ann is a hard-charging go-getter that some might even call pushy. She embraces the ladies who lunch aesthetic by dressing impeccably for luncheons and other occasions where hostess-y effortlessness and ease is paramount, kicking it up a notch with power high heels, classic designer sheath dresses (she has one in every color) and wearing her hair up in a way that means business, even though she never goes to work at an office.

8.       Geek Chic Aesthetic

When Rajit Sharma moves into Bennie’s apartment building in North Beach and tries to strike up a friendship, Bennie is cool to him at first, having just been through relationship drama, but she warms up quickly, even helping him out of a jam in Poser (Book 1). Even before Rajit wins her over with his politeness, charm, quirkiness and vulnerability, she’s impressed by his neat, preppy-leaning slim-fitting suits that he punches up with unique touches like a contrasting paisley bowtie, or classic wingtip shoes in unexpected two-tone colors.

Before long, Bennie notices that Rajit has backslid, lapsed or advanced (depending on how you look at it) into more of an underground tech (ninja) aesthetic, in jeans, hoodie and sneakers—all black.

Rajit’s friend and former “partner in crime,” Terrence Olivier, rocks the Geek Chic aesthetic with quirky outfits similar to Rajit’s, along with hip, wire-frame glasses, and a rock-steady gaze that gives him the air of a force to be reckoned with. In his down time, Terrence likes to wear ironic t-shirts, faded jeans and Vans, keeping a closer eye on the latest techie fashion trends while Rajit, like Ambrose, tilts decidedly toward a more trad-menswear look.

9.       Yoga Girl Aesthetic

Brianna, Randy’s neighbor in Poser is always seen in yoga pants, tanks, and the big, loose sweater she throws on to walk across the parking lot to the yoga studio in the strip-mall next to their apartment building. Brianna loves everything yoga, including the classes, the equipment, and the “well-endowed yoga instructor, Steve.” She’s also given to smoking, hard-drinking, and spur-of-the-moment sex with whoever’s available. While she embraces the yoga-girl aesthetic, in reality she’s a party girl in a yoga girl outfit—fun-loving, hard-living, and not too discrete, though she is observant about the comings and goings around the apartments. If asked about it, though, she might need a drink to jog her memory, like when Randy asks her about the “fake” pizza delivery man who knocked on his door prior to his computer getting hacked.

10.   Tough Guy Aesthetic

What causes Ambrose to seek refuge in Palo Alto is a run-in with his “night” boss: bald, muscle-bound tough guy Lang. Ambrose slings drugs for Lang early in Poser when he’s not working at Miss Dover’s. Having been warned after tripping up one too many times, Ambrose knows that Lang is gunning for him. Lang talks tough, but also relies heavily on his tough guy look, a combo of goth guy aesthetic (minus the skinny jeans and eye liner) and rocker/ punk aesthetic, with his black leather and many piercings and tattoos. Ambrose’s relationship with Lang shifts and flips during the course of the series, but it’s a key confrontation with Lang that forces Ambrose to realize that running away isn’t always the answer, a lesson that sticks with him when other lessons he thought he’d learned have fallen away.

BELOW: Silhouette portraits of peeps from the Eucalyptus Lane series.

For more about the Eucalyptus Lane series of novels, Poser, Cracker, and the latest, Baller, including order links, click here.

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Five Reasons to see the Flannery O'Connor film Wildcat

Directed by Ethan Hawke, Written by Ethan Hawke and Shelby Gaines.

1.       If you don’t know anything about Flannery O’Connor and her stories, this film serves as an excellent introduction.

If you’re new to the work of Flannery O’Connor, Wildcat will orient you to the salient features of much of her Southern gothic literary oeuvre, including her use of rural Georgia as setting, and the characters who inhabit the postwar rural south, ranging from prideful landed gentry to “poor white trash,” from crooked bible salesmen to maniacal would-be preachers. O’Connor claimed that while the south purports to be “Christ-centered,” it’s really “Christ- haunted,” and her stories are populated with characters engaged in a spiritual struggle, whether they realize it or not.  Her protagonists are forced to deal with a pivotal moment of grace, and what it means for their lives. In O’Connor’s fictional universe, deeply rooted in her devout Catholicism, God often acts through an unlikely agent of grace on characters that many readers may find less than deserving, but that’s the nature of grace: God’s underserved mercy. Wildcat illuminates this concept through explorations of key moments in O’Connor’s fiction. These moments are often fraught, anxious or frightening, but always transformative. Concerned as she was for the souls of those in an increasingly secular world, violence is O’Connor’s way of getting the reader’s undivided attention, the kick in the head she believed most readers require to make them see the need for God in their lives. In Wildcat, O’Connor herself (Maya Hawke) seems startled by her own visions of sudden violence, recognizing it as the vehicle she would use to drive home her message to jaded modern audiences in need of saving.

2.       If you already know a lot about Flannery O’Connor and her work, this film will give you new insights into both.

Many O’Connor fans are likely familiar with details of the author’s biography, such as her childhood in Savannah, move to Milledgeville as a teen, education at Georgia College and Iowa Writers Workshop, and the subsequent struggle with lupus that necessitated her return to Milledgeville. In photos of O’Connor, she appears as a studious young woman: intense, somewhat remote. Even in photos of her smiling, it’s hard to get much of a sense of this personality whose wry sense of humor and fearlessness imbue all her stories. With Wildcat, we gain a clearer perspective of Flannery O’Connor the writer, who must champion her own work with a ferocity unfamiliar to writers of more conventional fiction of that time, and the loneliness she feels among her peers who rush to correct the political incorrectness of characters who aren’t right, but are nonetheless real. We also get a more complete picture of her desire for love and understanding. In the film, O’Connor harbors an unrequited yet seemingly mutual affection for Robert “Cal” Lowell (Philip Ettinger). I don’t know how much of this is historically/ biographically accurate, but true or not, Lowell’s character in the film could serve as a composite of several thwarted relationships O’Connor had with men. It seems that she finally came to terms with the frustrations and hurt through absolute commitment to her art, especially in the wake of her lupus diagnosis and the knowledge that she was destined to die young. In fact, that’s another aspect of O’Connor’s life brought into sharp focus in Wildcat: anxiety about impending death.

3.       This film goes beyond the label of “biopic” in its treatment of the subject and her work.

While the cinematic narrative addresses the biographical, it immediately delves directly into the art itself, with Maya Hawke and Laura Linney playing the author and her mother in addition to other characters from O’Connor’s stories. O’Connor herself says in the film, “I only feel like myself when I’m writing,” and Hawke’s performance of O’Connor as well as the fictional characters (not all of them female) is diamond-sharp and spot-on. O’Connor’s imagination is in overdrive as she wanders through a New York house party, seeing stills of the vivid activity flowing around her, as if witnessing moments in time bursting with the potential of being transformed into literature. With the long train ride from the cosmopolitan New York literary scene to the more provincial environs of central Georgia, during which signs of her lupus manifests, O’Connor shortly discovers that the opportunities she feared missing by having to stay home on the farm have in fact traveled south with her. Inspiration is all around, so she adheres to a strict schedule, rearranges her room to minimize distractions and sets to creating some of the most memorable fiction of the twentieth century, timeless and universal, out of things happening in her own backyard. In Wildcat, life and art blend seamlessly into a complex series of juxtapositions and reflections, separate vignettes skillfully woven together into one compelling narrative about the author’s spiritual and creative evolution.

4.       Maya Hawkes performance is amazing.

Hawkes’ portrayal of Flannery O’Connor is a portrait in toughness and tenderness, from facing down a reluctant publisher who suggests she go with a more conventional narrative in her novel, Wise Blood, to her deep affection for Lowell. The scenes where she and Lowell banter about matters both literary and personal are some of the few instances where her vulnerability is on full display. Another key instance of this is O’Connor’s emotional conversation with her priest (Liam Neeson), about her feelings and fears concerning the looming prospect of death. Eventually, her acceptance of Lowell’s impending marriage to a lovely New York blonde, and of her own mortality, free her to fully inhabit the world of her uncompromising fiction. Maya Hawkes embodies Flannery O’Connor the writer, the woman, and the daughter of another strong-willed woman: Regina Cline O’Connor (Laura Linney). Shades of their complicated, occasionally prickly relationship are revealed in the biographical parts of the film, while hidden aspects possibly surface in the fiction (especially in “Good Country People”). O’Connor turned a jaundiced eye toward a certain type of women a bit too sure of their place in the world, as well sheltered youth fresh from the halls of traditional academe. None are spared pain, doubt nor confusion (though in the case of Manley Pointer in “Good Country People,” that’s debatable). In a scene from “Everything That Rises Must Converge,” the liberal-leaning son of a middle-aged woman is alternately amused and horrified at his mother’s embarrassment and paternalistic racism on a city bus ride and the subsequent encounter with a black woman and her young son. Julian’s reaction ranges from schadenfreude to pity at the outcome. Things are rarely cut and dried in Flannery O’Connor’s fictional universe, and Maya Hawkes “gets” both O’Connor’s complexity and multi-faceted interpretation of events surrounding her in her time.

5.       Laura Linney’s performance is amazing.

Like Maya Hawke, Laura Linney portrays multiple characters in addition to that of Regina, including Mrs. Hopewell from “Good Country People,” and Mrs. Turpin from “Revelation.” As Regina O’Connor, Linney embodies the southern woman of that era for whom a priority is keeping up appearances, which extends even to her daughter when Regina keeps the doctor’s diagnosis from Flannery herself, for fear of making things worse. Flannery resist Regina’s admonishments to rest rather than wear herself out writing, but even in Flannery’s resistance is evidence that she also recognizes her mother’s concern. Her acceptance of Regina’s love for her, even as she pushes back against it, is familiar to mothers and daughters everywhere. The “Jesus scene” within the exploration of “Revelation,” a short story about a woman who sees herself as a very good person, near the top of the social hierarchy, is visually stunning, over the top, and exemplifies much of the controversy surrounding O’Connor’s work. It’s also why she is often seen as a “problematic author,” even with a long list of literary accolades to her name. The choice Jesus presents to Mrs. Turpin, use of the “n-word,” and Mrs. Turpin’s anxious response, is a reflection of O’Connor’s time and place. To pretend that such debates, internal and external, didn’t or don’t occur, is a denial of history and reality, and O’Connor did not shy away from unpleasant truths that, even as her publisher claims early on, make things uncomfortable for her readers. Offering comfort, cover, and escape from reality was of no interest for O’Connor, and not the purpose nor aim of her fiction.  If, as Shakespeare is quoted as saying, the purpose of art is to hold the mirror up to life, Flannery O’Connor does it with a steely, gaze. What we see looking back forces us to assess our relationship with society, ourselves, and most importantly, with God.

It's not easy to hear nor see much of what happens in the fiction of Flannery O’Connor, but it isn’t supposed to be. O’Connor had her own tough reality to face, but she did it with dignity and courage. Like Flannery O’Connor, we can’t know what we’re made of until we’re tested. That’s the only way to find out how any of us would fare staring down the barrel of the Misfit’s gun—or whether we’d be the ones holding it.

Here’s a link to the official trailer for Wildcat.

For an excellent documentary about Flannery O’Connor, watch Uncommon Grace, a film by Bridgit Kurt, filled with fascinating facts, and commentary by O’Connor scholars and experts. Here’s a link to the web site.

You can read my interview with Bridget following her first festival win for Best Documentary here at Deep South Magazine.

If you’re interested in more about Flannery O’Connor, click here read to read my short piece in Deep South about the “Flannery and Fashion” exhibit at Andalusia Farm, and my interview with Elizabeth Wylie, former executive director of Andalusia Farm here.

Bedtime Noir #14: Baller Preview

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 #13: Percocet Summer

It's still summertime here in the US, but going by fast, so I'm sharing a sample of Paige Johnson's summer-themed transgressive poetry to try and help capture some of these last lanquid days of the season in a bottle (or pill bottle, as it were). Click below for a fix from Percocet Summer, available from Outcast Press, and wherever books are sold..

You can find & follow Paige on Twtter @OutcastPress1

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 the video, and read an earlier full review here .

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.

To learn more about Manny and his latest work, click here.

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.

To learn more about Brian’s independent publishing company, Starlite Pulp, and podcasts where he interviews other writers and artists connected with pulp fiction in all its many forms, click here. If you’re a short story fan, check out their Starlite Pulp Reviews, collections of pulp fiction (including noir, westerns, sci-fi, and horror) where you’ll find work by established and emerging authors.

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!

Slim Pickens & My Mid-Century Modern Apocalyptic Wet Dream

“It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.” --R.E.M.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve had the sense of being caught between two generations, like the gears of a clock. The youngest in an older crowd, I grew up in a small Georgia town that was suspended in a kind of time warp, and as I got older, my appreciation for the antique, retro and vintage increased. I remember summers spent at my great-aunt’s house in Macon, drawing, reading YA novels and flipping through volumes of This Fabulous Century, the Time-Life set of books that provided a photographic chronicle of each decade of the Twentieth Century. While I liked the 1920’s with its pictures of flappers, dead gangsters and deco magazine covers, the volumes I returned to most frequently were the 1940’s through 1960’s. Why? 

Of course there were major historical events unfolding, and those iconic Life Magazine photos of key moments, but maybe it was the look of everyday life as well.  Something about the interior décor of those years as it evolved from solid earthbound into space-age futuristic. The cars, streamlined and elegant, even with the flambouyant fins of the 1950’s. Black & white TV shows, movies and advertising showed a world as yet uncluttered by plastic bottles, styrofoam and the other detritus of disposable everything. Everyday objects like telephones, ashtrays, coffee pots, cups & saucers, took up more space, had weight & depth. People dressed up to travel, go to town, and clean the house. I was fascinated by the youth culture & style of the years that gave birth to the Beats, Charlie Parker, rock & roll, Elvis, and Janis Joplin. Guys in t-shirts and jeans, smoking cigarettes, riding in cars, girls in Bobby socks, the diners, the popular cartoons (Bill Mauldin’s Army, They’ll Do It Every Time), and the comedians: Jack Benny, Shelley Be9rman, Lenny Bruce. Mid-twentieth century was also the time of an unprecedented and profound worldwide shift. 

In the 1950’s, shows like The Twilight Zone revealed the fears and anxieties of the first generation living in the shadow of the atomic bomb through brilliant short narratives, and even through set design. Among the sleek, modern lines of furniture, appliances and cars, are visual cues that reflect an awareness of humanity’s ability to toy with its collective mortality. In the “Third From the Sun” episode, where a middle class family grapples with the imminent threat of annihilation (and yes, there’s a twist), odd, misshapen objects d’art are seen in the background and foreground: figurines of animals and people, part representative, part abstract: art intended to unsettle. 

Today, the hot nuclear threat that had waned into Cold War rhetoric waxes again, and like mid-twentieth century’s increasing fascination with plastic and “better living through chemistry,” more widespread technology and faster production (with fewer workers) isn’t advancing the cause of humanity. A world at tipping point on several fronts such as higher temperatures (ie "scorchers"), melting icecaps and mass extinctions, doesn’t require a nuclear war to destroy it; we’re doing a fine job of that on our own, thank you very much. It’s the logical outcome of a “disposable” society where, in the eyes of the powers that be, goods, people and animals are, as ex- newsman-turned-“mad prophet” of the airwaves, Howard Beale, claims in Network (1976), “alike as bottles of beer, and as replaceable as piston rods.”

While some world leaders wreak bloody havoc, and others wring their hands in a state of dithering incompetence, “preppers,” have written off earth's future altogether, building rockets to launch themselves into space. The Brave New World only belongs to those who can afford it, whether it’s a space ship to Mars, or plane to a posh resort that still has clean air & water, and maybe a drive-through zoo called “Last Chance to See!” housing the last of members of over a thousand animal species. 

And what about the rest of us? Instead of popping milltowns, we doom scroll on social media, slipping into a solipsistic stupor, numb out on the ‘Net (the lack of which will drive many of us mad when the grid goes dark), and binge-watch TV. Not you, you say? Excellent! Then what are you doing? If you're somehow trying to make the world better, ignoring the wags who mutter about rearranging deck furniture on the Titanic, more power to you. We must arrange these deck chairs (words, notes or brush strokes, etc.) just so, if for no other reason than that somewhere in the universe there's a snapshot for the ages, and somehow, someone or something will know we were doing our best when the doomsday clock hit midnight, or high noon, whichever the case may be. That energy out there in the collective unconsciousness is seeking expression through your work. You have a duty to fulfill. 

Creating art is an act of faith in the face of disaster. Again, as seen in The Twilight Zone episode, "The Midnight Sun," Norma (Lois Nettleton) continually paints the sun over the city as an earth thrown off its normal orbit hurtles toward the ever-expanding orb, slowly increasing the temperature to the point of driving the only neighbor she has left (and the radio announcer who broadcasts grim daily reports) to a nervous breakdown and eventual heat stroke and Norna herself to the edge of sanity. The only thing holding her back from the brink is her art.

In a recent re-watching of Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 film, Dr. Strangelove: Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, it occurred to me that today a more apt subtitle might be “How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Watch It Burn.” While the world’s richest escape the pull of earth's gravity, the rest of us sit astride a falling bomb with Major T.J. Kong, played by Slim Pickens, whose no-holds barred cowboy swagger,  all-American can-do attitude and yes, earnestness, are weirdly refreshing after the semen-obsessed macho posturing and whacko military theories being bandied about in the War Room. (Click here to see the Pickens’ bomb-ride clip—with a young James Earl Jones as the pilot!)

In my bomb-riding fantasy, Kong smells of sweat and delirious enthusiasm as I grip tighter around his chest, holding on for dear life as he fearlessly whoops and hollers (like the former rodeo star Pickens himself was), waving his hat in a state of sheer exhilaration as ground zero rushes to meet us. True, riding a bomb while holding on for dear life is a paradox, but so is the fact that in a post-post-modern world where possibilities are endless, we drag our feet when it comes to our own self-preservation and the very survival of earth itself. Can’t something be done to save us? Yes, but focus and a sense of urgency are required, and again (here in America), hand wringing & dithering incompetence too often come into play, along with denial and endless debate over facts already in evidence.  

In Dr. Strangelove, mass murder on a global scale is discussed by the numbers in the exquisitely designed War Room, and so today are various forms of negligent homicide, whether in the board room, private dining room, or anywhere else the world’s richest and most powerful gather to decide the fate of the future. For all our mid-century space-age futuristic ambitions, we're instead experiencing the reactionary vibe of Baron von Metternich, which for most of us is not a good thing. Fear and greed are the two most destructive forces in the world, but even as they run rampant, it helps to remember that from a Marx-ist perspective (Brothers, that is), there’s subversive power in comedy, and in laughter, a certain kind of hope. 

Before I slip into the silvery shadows of my beloved black & white TV shows (Perry Mason, et al), and the dark corners of noir films where fate crouches, waiting to grab the next unsuspecting sucker by the ankle, I would ask you to consider Kierkegaard’s advice: "The only intelligent tactical response to life's horror is to laugh defiantly at it." 

For those with their hands on the levers of power, the world by the purse strings, and egos bigger than Jupiter, the only fate worse than death is to be mocked. Laughter, like the sublime yawp of the rodeo star, like Molly Bloom's final  "yes," is a ray of sun slicing through hopeless gloom.

The court jesters were unafraid to speak truth to power, to tell the King what he didn't want to hear and laugh while doing it. Truth-telling is a risky business that can get one fired, divorced,  executed, assassinated, etc., but one we need desperately if this century we're in now has any shot at being "fabulous." Will it get its own set of Time-Life books? 

Possibly. If we can hold it together long enough. 

Book Review: Anxious Nothings, Vol. 1

Anxious Nothings, Volume 1 (Anxiety Press) is a collection of short fiction, non-fiction, poems about sex, and, as the title suggests, the attendant anxiety often surrounding it in all its forms. The introduction by editor and publisher Cody Sexton, places the collection into context with an explanation of what inspired this volume, involving a teen’s discovery of Hustler Magazine, among other things. It’s dedicated to Larry Flynt and porn impresario Al Goldstein, and while the works collected here are wide ranging in tone and topic, the intro makes for a center the way a metal framework within a clay sculpture holds it all together.

Before I read this book, I’d stumbled onto The People Vs. Larry Flynt on cable, the scene where Larry (played by Woody Harrelson) returns to the offices of Flynt Publications for the first time following his shooting. He wheels into his office, much to the chagrin of the suits looking to tone things down, and instructs the receptionist to announce on the loudspeaker, “The pervert is in the building.” This book seems to suggest the pervert is indeed in the building, and to paraphrase Walt Kelly’s comic possum, Pogo, “We have met the pervert, and he is us.”

If sexuality is an integral part of being human, and if it really does take all kinds to make the world go around, every one of us could be considered perverts to some degree, seen through the lenses (or technological keyholes) of the censorious forces present in society, especially in the U.S., which has a much more puritanical culture than the land of “freedom and liberty” is usually willing to admit.  

Depending on one’s personality and mindset, these works may prompt laughter, (Grayson Lagrange’s “Feeding the Ducks” and Jason Gerrish’s “Slaw”), a sense of horror or dread (Paula Deckard’s “Girl’s End”), disgust (Sebastian Vice’s “Ass Eating”), and even pity tempered with cool satisfaction that the bad guys/chicks in the story got what was coming to them (Paige Johnson’s “Ruffled Feathers” and Kristin Garth’s “Jungle Rules”). Snacking on this collection of literate pornographic bon-bons is a liberating experience in many ways, acknowledging the pervert within one’s own psyche, and meeting it with a high five of recognition thus subverting any authority threatened by the anarchic freedom of thinking for oneself, reading what one pleases, and engaging in life, liberty and the pursuit of pleasure between two—or more—consenting adults.

The transgressive behavior found in Anxious Nothings is unfiltered and unadulterated save what judgements the reader brings to it, which gives each piece in the collection certain qualities of a Rorschach test administered in a quiet corner at a wild party. No therapist here, though, only the intermittent palate-clearing snippets of sage words by the likes of the Marquis de Sade, Karl Marx, Mark Twain, and Gertrude Stein, with text graphics for these made to look like cut-out ransom notes, heightening the illicit nature of the content and grounding it within the wisdom that there is nothing that threatens you from between these covers, only modern stories, poems and essays about age-old cornerstones of human nature. The characters herein may be anxious, but you, dear reader, need not be. You are in good hands. You are human. Fear not.

However.

Right before I wrapped up this review, I was flipping through channels and again stumbled upon The People Vs. Larry Flynt. This time, it was near the ending, where Larry wants to take his case against Jerry Falwell to the U.S. Supreme Court. Larry’s lawyer, Alan Isaacson (played by Edward Norton), resists, afraid that Larry will make a mockery out of an appearance in front of such of an august institution, but Isaacson finally acquiesces, and prevails. In light of recent rulings, I have to wonder what the future now holds for free speech in America, and for other freedoms most have long taken for granted. 

President Franklin D. Roosevelt famously said that we have “nothing to fear, but fear itself,” yet now more than ever we seem to be a nation in the grip of fear and loathing. Writing hobbled by fear, tempered by prevailing opinion about what is “acceptable” makes for a lukewarm experience through which nothing is learned, gained, no fun is had, and time is wasted. This one is worth the time, whether as a left-handed bon-bon of ballsy entertainment or thought-provoking starting point for a conversation with yourself about why something makes you feel the way it does. This is a strange, bold book for even stranger times, a post-modern Whitman’s Sampler of fearless writing. It is a literary anthology that contains unapologetic, unvarnished, explicit sexual content. You may love it, or you may be offended, but if books like this get banned, you’ll never know.

Be bold. Be fearless and support others who are.

Freedom depends on it.

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: 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!

It's an Ending--and a Beginning

Finished POSER New Year’s Eve and now doing a final edit—well, not final—but enough to keep going forward, getting it into the best shape it can be (#journey, # process!). I spent most of 2020 on this project and little else, but now I’ll be back at the blog more frequently—at least once a week— and I have a new “Fretville” ready to post soon! Happy belated New Year and all best to you on YOUR writing/ reading/ whatever-project-makes-you-most-happy goals!