Update 7/20.24: Flashing back to one of my early videos, the first episode of Bedtime Noir, where I read from my first novel, Poser. Click here to see the video.
Cracker, Book 2 arrived in 2022 and Book 3, Baller, will be out August 15, 2024.
More about the complete series, including order links and Spotify playlists, can be found here.
Babylon, the new film about old Hollywood and the transition from silents to sound, is a visual and narrative feast with some scenes so over the top they’re hard to believe. My first impression was that it was really good, and I was glad I saw it, but in the days afterward I found parts of it still detonating in my brain. Babylon is full of revelations about the nature of technology and its human impact, and the power of innovation, as well as ambition and dashed expectations.
Written and directed by Damien Chazelle, the film mainly follows the trajectory of Emanuel “Manny” Torres (Diego Calva), a young man who finds himself finally in the right place at the right time to carve out a niche for himself in the burgeoning moving picture business as assistant to star Jack Conrad (Brad Pitt) and then as a motion picture executive at Kinograph Pictures. Manny’s rise parallels that of Nellie LeRoy (Margot Robbie), an unknown yet self-proclaimed “star,” whose confidence and panache carry her from the gritty stages of low-budget one-reelers to film stardom in a dizzyingly short time.
As Manny’s and Nellie’s fortunes increase, Jack’s are on the wane. His success as a silent film star does not translate to sound. Far from being stuck in the past, Jack is keen to see where advances such as talking pictures will take the new industry that up until now has been most kind to him. At a time when movies were seen by some East Coast intellectuals as bastard children of the theatre, he argues passionately and eloquently with his wife--another soon-to-be-ex and recent New York thespian--for film as the true art of the masses, a magical force in the lives of everyday hard-working Americans.
The hot lights of Hollywood shimmer brightly for some but burn others in the rarified circle of individuals making a name for themselves in the new center of the universe rising from dusty orange groves. Sidney Palmer (Jovan Adepo), a black jazz musician and soon-to-be movie star, finds the price of success too high when he realizes the compromises he’ll have to make to remain in his palatial mansion. Lady Fay Zhu (Li Jun Li), is magnetic as a stylish chanteuse and fearless woman whose (lesbian) relationship with Nellie has to end if they’re both to continue their careers in this world where anything goes behind the scenes, but where exposure in the press spells doom in a country still entangled in the Puritanical values of the past and the opening shots of culture wars that continue to this day.
While connections to the biblical Babylon are apt, so are connections to Kenneth Anger’s cult book Hollywood Babylon, a collection of black and white photographs and texts chronicling the decadent lifestyles and dramatic deaths of cinematic luminaries from the silent age to more modern times. The panic, passions and addictions chronicled in that famous tome parallel the ups and downs of the personae portrayed in Babylon.
Beautifully shot, well-cast and well-acted, this film has a frenetic pace that reflects the seat-of-your-pants race to get to set after a hard night of partying, get the replacement camera at all costs, get the shot, get the money, get the drugs, to get everything you can while in the spotlight, because fame is fickle, funds get depleted and while stars remain in the pavement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre, they often burn out in real life. The best one can hope for is to be a part of something bigger than oneself, and realizing that in Hollywood is the beginning of a kind of cold, hard wisdom, as explained to Jack by gossip columnist Elinor St. John (Jean Smart).
Granted, this film won’t be suited to all tastes, and is unsparing in its depiction of all-out early Hollywood wildness (the good, the bad, and the weird) but if you’re interested in the pioneer days of film, the silent era and early talkies (as am I), you will likely find much to enjoy in this spectacular epic. It takes the viewer to some dark places, but in the dark is where the magic of movies resides.
See it on the big screen while you can. There’s a special magic in that as well.
“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.
A Trunk Full of Zeroes (RothCo Press), is a hard-boiled feast for fans of classic noir, and for those new to the genre, a gateway novel sure to whet the appetite for more adventures of ex-cop-turned-vigilante Sonny Haynes.
Sonny is seeking revenge for his murdered wife amid accusations that he himself actually pulled the trigger. Upon returning to L.A. from a stint as a hired gun in Mexico, he’s a man on a bloody mission, with a checkered past and uncertain future. The only ray of light following his check-in at the Elmwood Arms Hotel, is finding Katie, a 16 year-old poker prodigy who's pretty much on her own after being abandoned by her mother. Sonny becomes something of a father figure to her, though that can often be difficult in view of Katie's affectionate nature and developing physique. Lines are there to cross but Sonny appoints himself guardian of those who might, establishing his willingness to abide by a moral code, in spite of a paradoxical tendency to commit acts of violence whenever and wherever he deems necessary.
Townsley's style is cinematic and supple, with descriptions of 1950's Los Angeles so vivid as to conjure the sound of palm fronds flapping against each other in the evening breeze. His flair for period-precise detail brings into sharp focus the stylistic flourishes of mid-century modern cool, such as putting on a hat, or lighting a cigarette. With Sonny Haynes, Townsley has created a real and very memorable noir “hero” (Sonny would hate that description, but if the brass knuckles fit…).
Daring and dangerously outspoken, Sonny has a certain ragged charm, which he deploys with great skill, even in the face of death. He left the south for the west coast to live the American dream, and did for a while, only to see it disintegrate into a nightmare, with all the deception, corruption and violence surrounding him. His dark outlook and thirst for vengeance is tempered only by Katie's youthful optimism and his own deep-seated desire to do the right thing, whatever form that takes.
When Sonny shows up, bloodied and bruised, hat dented, eye blackened, you can usually bet the opposing force looks worse—and that they had it coming.
Highly recommend.
When I first heard there was a new Elvis movie arriving this summer, I thought, “Yeah, I’ll have to see that sometime,” but when I heard that Baz Luhrmann directed it, I thought, “Oh, hell, yes; I must see that, and on the big screen!” I’m a longtime fan of Elvis, grew up listening to his music, and saw the man himself in concert when I was around 9 years old. I went with my mother, grandmother, great aunt, and cousin, and I saw the line of people, women, mostly, bringing those giant stuffed animals up to the stage in tribute, witnessed Elvis wiping the sweat from his brow, with a new handkerchief, or scarf, of a different color each time, and tossing each one off the stage to some lucky member of the clamoring crowd who no doubt treated it as an heirloom, if not a relic to be passed down to the next generation with the reverence accorded such a persona, such a presence, such a star, as Elvis was and still is.
If referring to a concert souvenir as a relic seems a bit over-the-top, imbuing Elvis with a certain religiosity not normally appropriate for an entertainer, even the caliber of Elvis, consider the argument that sociologist and editor of the Encyclopedia of Southern Culture, Charles Regan Wilson posits in his book Judgement and Grace in Dixie, that there are three pillars of civil religion in the south: entities not religious in and of themselves, but treated with a reverence usually associated with religion, and those are (1.) beauty pageants, not necessarily of the glitzy, Miss Universe-Trumpian variety, but of wholesome young Southern womanhood, and all the attributes, real or mythologized, that go along with that, (2.) Alabama football coach Bear Bryant (and by extension college football itself, especially that of the SEC variety), and (3.) Elvis Aaron Presley. Do you have to be from the south to hold these things in high regard, or at least to understand why this part of the country does? No, but it helps. Elvis, however, has long transcended his Southern origins and, like Coca-Cola, that other ubiquitous block-buster export invented in the lower right-hand corner of the United States, gone on to conquer the world.
Australian director Baz Luhrmann burst onto the cinematic scene with Strictly Ballroom in 1992 and has since become known for such kaleidoscopic eye candy as Moulin Rouge and The Great Gatsby, among others. The moods and visuals of his films produce the sensation of a roller coaster ride, with the camera’s dips, swings, close-ups, panoramic spectacle, and fancy-footwork editing, operatic in emotional intensity yet street-level intimate at the same time: a melding of cinematic art and pop culture in a way that has become Luhrmann’s signature style. In Elvis, he captures the familiar and the iconic as well as the small, backstage moments that we never actually saw but knew were there, from classic Elvis (played by Austin Butler) shaking it in a pink suit, to Army Elvis getting to know Priscilla (Olivia deJonge), to lonely Elvis, lamenting his age and the thought that he might not be remembered for anything important.
Looming above all this is the formidable, mercurial persona of Colonel Tom Parker, played by Tom Hanks in a rare, somewhat villainous role. I say “somewhat,” because as the Colonel (he isn’t really a colonel, nor an American), Hanks as Parker projects a grandfatherly malevolence, which sounds like an oxymoron, and yet he does it. He has the vision of what Elvis can become, but undercuts his protegee at crucial moments, lighting the rocket that will skyrocket E. to fame but dousing the spark when his own self-interests get in the way. When Elvis has the opportunity revitalize his flailing career by going worldwide with his act and newfound sense of purpose and identity, Parker goes behind his back and gets him shackled to a contract with the International Hotel, for an interminable Las Vegas residency that thwarts Elvis’s ambitions and erases Parker’s considerable gambling debts at the same time. In his bid for self-preservation, Parker destroys Elvis’s trust in him, their long-time relationship and Elvis’s independence in one fell swoop. The frame for the entire film is Parker’s telling of the story from his point-of-view, in a voice that sounds like grandpa telling the kids gathered ‘round a tale of joy and woe, of a great “snowman” melted by the incandescent glow of his own greed.
According to the film, Elvis went into this relationship with his eyes wide open, aware of Parker’s ability to snow others, but also aware that he needed (or thought he needed) a vision like Parker’s to break out of the carnival and rinky-dink nightclub circuit to become an international star. Parker was already a manager for country acts like Hank Snow (David Wenham), who rapidly sinks to the bottom of the bill once Elvis joins the act. Snow voices the sentiments of religious conservatives when after one particularly raucous concert where Elvis shakes the crowd into a frenzy and a pair of women’s undies fly onto the stage, he informs Parker that he’ll spend the rest of the evening in prayer, to which Parker, already looking far ahead to the next real big thing, responds “Yeah, you do that, Hank.”
One person who is suspicious of Parker from the get-go is Elvis’s mother, Gladys, beautifully played by Helen Thompson. Her love for her son is palpable, soulful eyes welling with tears when Elvis leaves and goes off to meet his destiny alongside this man who even with his gift of sincere-sounding gab, seems to her something of a pretender. Yes, she’s grateful for Elvis’s subsequent early success and like everyone in E.’s circle, enjoys the trappings of it that include Graceland. This is not the late, sainted Gladys of lore, but a woman who worries, drinks, frets, criticizes and most of all, adores her son to the ends of the earth. Her death is a turning point for Elvis and, left with only his weak-willed father Vernon (Richard Roxburgh) to look out for him, he feels her loss profoundly for the rest of his life.
While I enjoyed this movie tremendously, the deep-dive into Elvis-inspired euphoria experienced at the beginning was, like any great high, hard to sustain for long, and the second half feels more conventionally biopic than Elvis-fever-dream. That said, the necessary biopic elements are handled well, and the Parker-centric narration serves as a compelling connecting thread throughout. I’ve noticed some comment that childhood Elvis’s visit to a black church tent revival and a black nightclub happened too close together in the film, and that such events likely never took place at all in real life. These comments weren’t disputing the influence of religion, black culture, and rhythm & blues music on the boy who would be Elvis (boyhood Elvis played by Chaydon Jay), just that it probably didn’t happen quite like it’s depicted in the film, some say. Whether it did or didn’t, this film is certainly no documentary, and the visual representation of those events and influences work very well in establishing the cultural, racial and musical milieu that made Elvis the artist and performer that he was. It’s easy to see why Elvis flees to Beale Street’s Club Handy when the stress at Graceland gets too hard to handle. The performers at Club Handy inspire him and the music is salve for his soul. When Elvis expresses concern about the direction Col. Parker wants his burgeoning career to take, it’s here that his friend B.B. King (Kelvin Harrison, Jr.) makes an observation that echoes throughout the rest of the film, that Parker must have some other reason than Elvis suspects, some reason all Parker’s own. Indeed.
While Austin Butler does an excellent job in this film, when the real Elvis shows up in footage near the end of the picture, we’re reminded of his greatness as a performer. Even in his final years, when weight gain, drugs, and all his other problems were the stuff of legend and tabloid fodder, the light comes through in his eyes, his smile, his voice, and it’s easy to see why he’s remembered, and why he is the one and only Elvis. Much of this story has been told before, but Baz Luhrmann succeeds in bringing the story of one of the 20th century’s greatest musical artists and cultural icons to a brand-new generation, while giving longtime Elvis fans exactly what they want to see. As the real-life subject for a Luhrmann film, Elvis is the perfect choice.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
Once you lock the door
It’s your space to do whatever
But you don’t want to
Move around too much
If it gets cold and
You keep it cool
Because the alternative is unpleasant
in a small room
Shared by countless other ghosts
Who’ve passed through this space
Slept in this bed
Showered in this tub
Looked in this mirror
And the bed covers are supplemented
By tomorrow's clothing
and felt blankets from the car
Providing a refuge
An island or a raft
From which to seek
The horizon
-NMc
You discover more about yourself through staying at a series of cheap motels for several weeks than you ever would spending a month at a luxury resort. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it puts one in touch with one’s basic needs rather than catering to every want.
There are some characters on TV and in movies that I’m thrilled to see whenever they appear. Not the stars, mind you, though I've nothing against star power, per se. As Peter Bogdonavich once said (and I’m paraphrasing) it’s the reverberations emanating from stars that draw us into their orbit.
However I'm thinking now of the characters and actors that you don’t see, or barely see. One such character for me is actor Lee Miller (not Jonny Lee Miller from Trainspotting, the other one), who appeared for many years on the original Perry Mason TV show.
He was always with Lt. Tragg, or Lts. Anderson or Drumm, a plainclothes cop who almost always wore a hat and was forever in the background, or off to the side. He had few lines and it’s difficult to get a good look at him because he's usually standing in the doorway, seen in profile or a noir-ish figure in the margins of a scene. On the rare occasions when he does have a line of dialog, his voice rings clearly and deliberately, and the one time I ever remember seeing him on the stand as a witness, he was most engaging.
Why I find him so fascinating, I don’t know. Unless it’s simply that writer's tendency to wonder about people, to imagine what their lives must be like in their off-time. Does Sergeant Brice go to bars after hours? Have a wife and kids? Watch baseball on TV? Have some off-the-wall fetish that would shock his colleagues in the department? Judging from the spark in his eye, he could easily have a secret life. Maybe he dates a glamorous chanteuse from a swanky nightclub downtown. Still, even when he’s told to go clear the hallway or retrieve what could be a piece of evidence, like a glove or a broken piece of glass or a handkerchief, he sets off with purpose and conviction. He’s a guy some might call a typical flatfoot, and it would bounce off without leaving a trace, because his unswerving sense of duty trumps such petty name calling.
According to imdb.com, Miller was Raymond Burr's stand-in for many years. His presence on the show goes beyond his performance onscreen. Even if he was in the margins, he stood in the star's space behind the scenes, so perhaps the reverberations from Burr's steady and compelling portrayal of the world's greatest (fictional) lawyer accompanied Miller to his marks in the edges.
Driving by in the harsh light of day a place you wouldn’t consider an oasis
no pool no pond
Not even preferable to the asphalt ribbon of highway 441 flowing past new threadbare chains of old capitol up to the briarpatch and beyond
Egyptian compounds, white columns glass towers Greek temples
What white heat renders opaque inhospitable inscrutable
Sunset reveals azure with cobalt doors below a cerulean sky tinged in pale pink
High windows transcend confines of reality and this might be the same light shining later in Moriarty
or Tucumcari
No pool no pond
Just glass puddle mirror reflecting infinity
and transient beauty of a long day’s ascent into silken night
NMc
Random holes in walls
cracked tile
a tricky remote control so leave it on the channel where favorite show will be on an hour from now
otherwise lost in home shopping hell of endless infomercials
missing boards on dresser and table and
pillow that somehow got soaked
on the sofa
AND YET
tonight this is home
A/C works
remain shipwrecked in king-size bed for days
microfridge and microwave and endless supply of ice
for packing emotions in cooler
for later time when we at last unpack everything
including memories both good and bad if not to fling in the fire to place in storage again
until the next time angels usher us onto the lost highway under a copper moon
To escape in a divine cloak
of invisibilty
NMc
I say that because Outcast Press recently announced the publication of my new novel POSER as a part of their 2022 line-up!
I’m excited beyond belief, of course because I’ve found someone who, along with me, believes in the story enough to help me bring it out into the world--into the light of day!
Not only that, but they’re glad that this will be a series of novels (as am I), and the next two installments of the series, the Eucalyptus Lane Novels, will follow.
Since I had some trouble placing POSER in a neat little genre box, I was concerned that this could make the road to publication quite difficult. Outcast Press specializes in transgressive fiction and dirty realism, and when I read some of their posts on Twitter about exactly what transgressive fiction is, I had an ah-ha moment.
According to several sources, transgressive fiction features “characters who feel confined by the norms of society, so they break out in unusual” and often “illicit” ways. I have several characters who do that to some extent, so pretty soon POSER had found a home!
I'll be working some more on POSER this fall as Outcast's editor and I get it ready for a March publication date. In the meantime, you can check out an excerpt on an earlier post from last March, and I look forward to a cover art reveal sometime in the near future.
Cheers!
I've recently been inspired to write a series of word sketches called The Motel Chronicles. Nothing fancy and no frills (or “no thrills” as my late Uncle Biddy used to say), just like the Motel 6's where I stayed all across the country on a trip out west when I was ten.
These will be short pieces capturing a snapshot moment, accompanied by a motel snapshot photo. I learned about word sketching from Jack Kerouac and other writers since who have followed in his well-worn, road-weary, ever-hopeful footsteps with diamonds-hard shards of experience embedded in the soles of their shoes.*
*If you’re wondering if there could be a song reference from the ‘80's in there somewhere; there could be. Name the artist and album in the comments and your wildest dreams will come true.
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.
Today’s post marks the return to my comic series “Fretville,” set in the contemporary rural south.
