You Punks Have It Easy

As of this writing at roughly 18:00 on October the 31st, it is 51 de-friggin'-grees outside. That's ridiculous. I recall practically every one of my trick or treat excursions as a young 'un occurring amidst mounds of snow and freezing friggin' temperatures. It's pretty crazy. I remember dashing through neighborhoods in Frenchtown and slipping on the packed snow, sending candy flying all over. That was half the fun.

I have mixed feelings about Halloween. I used to love it. Now I loathe it, for all the same reasons I loathe aspects of Christmas. It seems in a lot of ways it has been ruined by adults. Everyone wants to dress up like a sexy/slutty something-or-other and then go out and get all liquored up, as if we need more excuses for that. Adults can do that any time they want, but for kids this is pretty much the only night of the year they can go out and do this type of thing (dressing up and having fun in the neighborhood, sans the liquoring up, one would presume). I hate all the constant "what are you gonna be for Halloween?" questions. I'll be the cranky old guy with the "Just take one, you little bastards!" note in the candy bowl at the end of the sidewalk, thank you very much, sitting in the basement watching The Wire on the DVD. I hate all the cheap shit in the stores, everything. And from here on out, the holiday season kicks into full gear -- for the next two months it will be a nightmare of commercial bullshit. Ugh.

I like seeing the little kids out tearing around with their parents, and I have fond memories taking Sid out. We just don't do the door thing here because our awful little dogs go too apeshit. They take all the fun out of everything.

I do enjoy the spiritual nature of this night. The communication with the other side that comes with Pagan religions, Dia de los Muertos just around the corner, etc. As a bonefied tree hugging dirt worshiper, I tend to view this night as my night of reflection, my opportunity to look at the year just passed and focus on a new one that starts in just a few hours. I'll do that at some point tonight.

For now, here are some images from a great site called Golden Age Comic Book Stories. They upload images every week from artists, magazine covers, vintage stuff, etc. Today's post is Horror/Monster Film Posters and Images. They (or he, I think the site is one guy's baby, I don't know for sure) did it in honor of Halloween, but these images are awesome no matter what day of the year it is. Check them ALL out (there are a bunch), bookmark the entry, and then make sure and go back and look on, say, Valentine's Day.

Like someone said in comments: "Jeez, even the POSTERS were better back then!" I agree.

Nebraska Wrap Up

Things pretty much went off without a hitch in Nebraska, and I really didn't do much outside of work and (try to) sleep. This was the place I was working; they make radios and stuff. Maybe a little retail, but mostly outfitting buses, trains, things like that.

The most exciting thing is the second-to-the-last night I was there I worked a little late. I was in the bathroom and suddenly the lights went out. I managed to find my way out of there, then had to make my way out of the warehouse in pretty much total dark, until I reached the main path out of there. Luckily I didn't end up like this guy.

It was a weird place. Really big, but not a lot of action going on, lots of wasted space. I tried to infer if they were just really slow or what, but apparently not. That's unusual. Most places are bursting at the seams -- it's rare to see manufacturing facilities with too much room.

The only thing that pissed me off is a last minute project came up and I have to go to Houston next week instead of having a week at home. Which means I'll miss the Queensryche/Lita Ford show. Speaking of which, here's my interview with Lita from the Independent. I'm not that bummed about the show, necessarily, but Lita and her family had invited me to call them so we could hang out Wednesday. If that would have actually happened or not is up in the air, but now I'll never know. Oh well.

I did watch Ali/Foreman from 1974 in Zaire from my room the other night, with a small libation courtesy of a local brewery. What a great battle. I enjoyed it.

Next Time You Make a Mistake I'm Gonna Ride Off and Let You Die

I didn't get as much done last week on my big writing self-challenge, but I did accomplish a lot. I got a little sidetracked toward the end of the week when the Independent called and asked if I'd do a story/interview with Lita Ford for the upcoming show with Queensryche next week.

I was all over it. I was a big fan of Lita back in the day; she wrote some great songs and could unleash righteous shreddery on her BC Rich axe. In fact, interviewing her was probably trumped only by the interview with Ace Frehley.

Yeah, big hair 80s! That article will run in Thursday's Independent.

Montana Festival of the Book

I attended two events at last weekend's Festival of the Book, and both were fantastic. The first one was Thursday afternoon at The Wilma; "The Last Good Kiss: An Appreciation of James Crumley." The authors involved were Dennis Lehane (Mystic River, Shutter Island, The Given Day, etc.), George Pelecanos (The Night Gardener, The Way Home, writer/producer of HBO's The Wire, etc.), Laura Lippman (Life Sentences, Tess Monaghan series) and James Grady (Six Days of the Condor). They are all top, TOP shelf writers, and it was a fun and inspirational panel. Lehand and Lippman did most of the talking, and their banter was witty and entertaining. Crumley clearly meant a lot to all of these writers, and I enjoyed myself. Since the panel I have read Crumley's The Last Good Kiss, which Lehane called "the greatest American crime novel ever written." I enjoyed the hell out of it. I'd post more of the quotes I wrote down, but don't have my notes with me. I'll just say that for where I am with my writing, this panel was perfect timing.

The panel was moderated by Michael Koepf, longtime friend of Crumley. All in all, it was a couple of the best hours I've spent.

Julia got home from San Francisco late Friday night, then Saturday we went down to the Festival to see "The Wire: An Interview" with Pelecanos again and David Simon. Simon also happens to be married to the aforementioned Laura Lippman. Anyway, it was an interesting discussion on our latest favorite program, HBO's The Wire. It was cool to hear how their processes for writing the show worked, the filming, all of it. Very interesting and informative. Another great event.

On the Road in Nebraska

I'm catching up on this thing from a hotel room in Omaha, Nebraska. It's bigger than I imagined it would be. This is actually my first time to set foot in this state, though I've literally been in site of it a number of times. Here's the glorious view outside my window.

That was taken when I arrived on Tuesday afternoon. Shortly after arriving I went hunting for something on which to feast. I found it on just the other side of the mighty Missouri river in Council Bluffs, Iowa.

It hasn't been too exciting so far. Here's the view outside the room I spent my day working in. These yayhoos make radios or something.

After work I managed to find a little culture, though.

You know I made the most of it.

The Week in Progress

Julia made it to San Francisco for the big bellydance thing, and was only late getting in by about 4 hours. Which, of course, had me up gnashing my teeth with images of her pulling her suitcase for the 6 blocks from the BART to her hostel, in the wee hours, surrounded by dark figures lurking in the shadows, drooling over how her curves look in the lurid light of Crackville, NoCal. I should have had more faith, though -- I believe the X-Men are still based there these days.

As for me, I've been working on the writing project I set for myself. I'm way behind, but making progress nonetheless. Velcro pops in regularly to check on how things are going.

When she isn't hassling me, she's leading the Bark Charge for the other dogs. The neighbors are apparently getting some new windows installed, and every day when the workmen arrive and have the audacity to actually use their voices, it only takes several hours for the dogs to finally decide that maybe that's okay. It's already started today, in fact. With it being garbage truck day, Velcro will be in a tizzy until evening. I enlisted the aid of the new Captain America in an effort to maintain order around here, but he seems more intent on just striking a heroic pose.

The real pain in the ass, as always, is Puny. Since the weather has cooled to the point where I can't just keep my window open to shoo her through, she likes to plant herself on my desk, right up in my grill between me and the keyboard.

I figured if she was going to be here, I may as well put her to good use. Maybe holding my pen for me will keep her hands busy enough that she doesn't feel compelled to attack me every time I try and work around her.

After a while she decided to take charge of my phone.

It's a wonder I ever get anything done at all.

More Shit My Dad Says

I mentioned before the awesomeness that is Shit My Dad Says on Twitter. I figured I'd share the latest batch of updates, for those of you who don't follow that stuff. These posts kill me.

_________________________________________

Shit My Dad Says

Name: Justin
Bio: I'm 28. I live with my 73-year-old dad. He is awesome. I just write down shit that he says.

"You sure do like to tailgate people... Right, because it's real important you show up to the nothing you have to do on time."

"Just pay the parking ticket. Don't be so outraged. You're not a freedom fighter in the civil rights movement. You double parked."

"I like the dog. If he can't eat it, or fuck it, he pisses on it. I can get behind that."

"Remember how you used to make fun of me for being bald?...No, I'm not gonna make a joke. I'll let your mirror do that."

"That woman was sexy...Out of your league? Son. Let women figure out why they won't screw you, don't do it for them."

"Son, people will always try and fuck you. Don't waste your life planning for a fucking, just be alert when your pants are down."

"I wanted to see Detroit win. I've been there. It's like God took a shit on a parking lot. They deserve some good news."

"We didn't have a prom. Dancing wasn't allowed...What's Footloose?...That's the plot of the movie? That sounds like a pile of shit."

"Does anyone your age know how to comb their fucking hair? It looks like two squirrels crawled on their head and started fucking."

"You're being fucking dramatic. You own a TV and an air mattress. That's not exactly what I'd call "a lot to lose."

"You're like a tornado of bullshit right now. We'll talk again after your bullshit dies out over someone else's house."

"Jesus Christ, Just give the dog his fucking food. Why's he gotta do a trick first? YOU don't have to do shit before YOU eat."

"It's not the gardener's job to pick up the dog shit. If you don't want to pick up the dog shit, then learn a skill like gardening."

"Do these announcers ever shut the fuck up? Don't ever say stuff just because you think you should. That's the definition of an asshole."

"A scar ain't 13 god damned stitches. I'll introduce you to men with REAL scars, then we'll all laugh at your fucking 13 stitches together."

"I'm sitting in one of those TGI Friday's places, and everyone looks like they want to shove a shotgun in their mouth."

"You're gonna run into jerk offs. But remember, it's not the size of the asshole you worry about, it's how much shit comes out of it."

"I wouldn't worry about money...No, it has a lot to do with happiness, I just meant YOU shouldn't worry, cause you'd just piss it away."

"No, you can not borrow my t-shirt...How about instead of standing there looking shocked, you do your fucking laundry?"

"I think the baby shit....Well, I'm smelling shit right now, so if it ain't the baby, one of you has a big fucking problem."

We're So Noir

The other night after I'd gotten home from this latest trip to Oklahoma, Julia and I sat up watching the film version of After Dark, My Sweet. I had actually just read the book while I was on my trip, so the story was pretty fresh in my mind. I thought it was actually a pretty solid interpretation, despite a few changes to the plot that left me scratching my head. The weakest link was Rachel Ward as the female lead, Fay. She didn't do a particularly good job of portraying Fay's personality swings based on how sober she was at any given moment. Jason Patric as Collie, and Bruce Dern as Uncle Bud, though, were awesome.

There was a scene (several, actually) where the three main characters were together in the ugly ranch house that Fay lives in, on the edge of Palm Springs. They're burning through cigarettes and making a bottle of whiskey rapidly disappear. Julia and I, who often plot our own illicit scores, were in the process of wildly passing back and forth a plastic liter bottle of . . . Diet Pepsi. When I pointed this out, she said, "We're so noir." It was pretty goddamn funny. I suppose you probably had to be here.

From the "You've Got to be Freakin' Kidding Me Department"

Our very friendly neighbor across the street, Becky, owns the Becky's Superior Cuts barbershop on South Avenue. I've been going there for beard trims and (much more infrequent) hair trims since we found out it was her business. Anyway, Julia went there for a little trim the other day (go ahead, Butthead: trim, huh huh huh . . . trim), and happened to be there when the mailman delivered a bunch of magazines. Most of them are types that Becky doesn't really care to have in her shop (in particular, women's lifestyle and fashion magazines, that are somehow automatically sent to her) and Julia managed to work out a deal to have Becky give them to her instead of just tossing them. Those types of mags are a guilty pleasure of Julia's, but the only one she actually buys is one called Lucky. This jackpot was akin to me falling into a steady supply of free Batman or Captain America comics!

So I'm eyeballing Scarlett Johansson on the cover of Vogue, and Julia asks me how much I think the t-shirt she's wearing costs. I shrug, I don't know, $200. No, $5000. What?! Five THOUsand dollars? "What, is it made from the plucked pubic hairs of virgins?!" I ask. No, she says. I just can't believe that kind of thing. I mean, I could see if it were made of silk pulled from the asses of spiders, but it's just a goddamn t-shirt . . . and an ass-ugly one too, if you ask me.

Have I mentioned Scarlett is playing Black Widow in the next Iron Man movie? I'd be remiss if I didn't. That's pretty awesome. I've always liked that character.

Bachelor Week

As I type, I imagine -- hope -- Julia has her ass planted on the BART taking her to the hostel she is staying in in San Francisco this week. She is there for the big bellydance thing she's been working on all year. She's been working very hard to get ready, so it's quite the culmination of a lot of work. I had originally planned to go with her, but we decided that, for the money, with the level of distraction she'd have with the class we'd be better off waiting. We'll make it back some other time. Hopefully we'll go to Tucson some time this winter for a little vacation.

As for me, I have the week off as well. I have some big writing plans I hope to accomplish. At the moment, though, I'm watching the final big shootout of The Wild Bunch, surrounded by empty whiskey bottles and passed out hookers.

I'm just kidding. About the whiskey.

Prowling the Birthplace of Jim Thompson

Tuesday morning I arrived bright and early at the customer site I was visiting in Oklahoma City. It was cloudy, rainy and cool the entire time I was there . . . but, given it was about 50 degrees warmer than it had been in Missoula when I left, I was quite comfortable.

I have to say someone screwed the pooch when it came to scheduling me out here. Long story short, I was back out of there again by noon, and had rescheduled my flight home for Wednesday morning instead of Thursday. Of the options I'd identified for entertainment purposes, I decided to visit Anadarko, the birthplace of the legendary Jim Thompson. Thompson, as we know, was a writer of awesomely dark, psychotic, noir crime fiction who died in 1977. So I slipped into something more comfortable, grabbed a flask of whiskey and a pistol, and away I went.

I'm kidding about the flask. And the pistol. The only weapon I carried, in fact . . . was myself.

It was only a little more than an hour of driving and I was pulling into town.

This was a spur of the moment thing. I don't know much about Jim Thompson, and less about the town he was born. I knew he was born in 1906, which was the year before Oklahoma even became a state. It's hard to imagine what it must have been like then -- that isn't all that far removed from what we commonly think of as the Old West.

These days, given Indians comprise a near population majority, there are many businesses with an "Indian theme" as it relates to their naming conventions. For example, one of the first places I passed (after the Kiowa Housing Authority) was a strip mall called "Warrior Valley Plaza."

I don't think there is a strip mall in existence that isn't butt ugly. This one was as ugly as any I've ever seen.

In fact, the only businesses that seemed to be operating out of the place were the regional office of the BIA and the local adult learning center.

As I drove around, there wasn't much traffic, and not too many people out on the street.

I was getting rather depressed. The town just seemed to be falling down. Many of the homes, obviously being lived in, were run down. Other buildings looked half demolished, and many signs were mostly destroyed.

What it most reminded me of, in fact, was Indianola, Florida, a small town on the Atlantic Coast I'd worked in three or four times over the course of implementing a project a few years ago. I'd been there a couple times, then went back a few months after it had been hit back-to-back by hurricanes, and it looked like hell (though it was damn ugly to begin with). Researching a little when I got back to the hotel, I learned that Andarko had indeed been pummelled by a tornado just a few months ago. That explained a lot of the destruction.


It doesn't explain the overall vibe of the place, though. Many buildings were empty, or moved, like this decrepit Sonic Drive-in (Sonic started out in Shawnee, OK, in 1953 -- coincidentally at the same time Jim Thompson's career really took off with the publishing of books like After Dark, My Sweet and Savage Night, which followed in the wake of 1952's The Evil Inside Me; all books I HIGHLY recommend, by the way)

Places like this move to new locations and leave their old sites to rot. It's ugly and depressing. Not only that, but Sonic food is particularly awful.

I ventured downtown, hoping to find some cozy little diner that would serve me coffee and pie, just like a character out of a Thompson novel. I didn't intend to beat or kill anyone immediately afterward, or go on a drunken bender, bag some dame, or even go on the lam, but I still thought it would be a nice touch. Unfortunately the downtown was pretty well dried up, just like the rest of the community.

I could have gone to a movie, if I'd wanted . . . though the name of the theater made me wonder about the owner. Nice thing was is I could have bonded my way out of jail afterward, apparently, if the necessity had come up.

There was no friendly little diner in sight, and I drove all around the multi-block core. I suspect there were chain restaurants out along one of the other highways that cut through town, wherever the fucking Wal Mart was, but I didn't want any of that kind of shit. I wanted the heart of town, the old town, and I'd hoped to encounter some quiet little burgh like you see in ads about "real America" that run during political campaigns. Anadarko, obviously, didn't fit the bill. And no one I spoke with -- only a couple folks I encountered, mind you -- had ever heard of Jim Thompson. I did find a Mexican restaurant to take lunch in, at least.

The food wasn't that great. The Modelo was, however. The woman working there was interesting; her voice was like Roseanne Barr with a Mexican accent. She asked if I was a photographer, and what I thought of their town. "It not bad, pretty nice, huh?" she said. She has lived there 15 years, hailing originally from East L.A. I said it's probably a little different living there, and she laughed loud, "Oh jyes, very very different!"

Rolling out of town, I drove around a little more. I passed the Apache Housing Authority as well, and rolled through a little neighborhood of weatherbeaten brick HUD houses. It was more depressing. The street sign seemed ironic to me, considering the Apache were forced into Oklahoma in the first place, then had "their lands" further taken away and divided up as excess.


I don't know what I expected from my visit; it's not like Jim Thompson is all that famous anyway, and the town of Anadarko in 2009 is light years different from the 1906 version (which existed shortly after the lands in the area were opened to settlement by whites). I skipped a couple Indian museums there because I knew they'd just piss me off. So the visit didn't give me much insight into the life that might have inspired Thompson to write the stories he did, but certainly showed me how a life in a town like this might shape a modern noir writer. This is a side of America a lot of people don't see, unless they live in the middle of it. I'm glad I visited.