NEW FICTION: Bourbon & Blondes has arrived!

From the bus stations of Rt. 66 to the smoky, neon-tinged jazz dives of the big cities, these wanton tales of longing introduce us to vixens on the fringe and those shifty men that drove them there.

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Watch: The 'Bourbon & Blondes' Book Trailer

Get your shot glass ready because you're about to enter a retro world of showgirls, drifters, barmaids and thieves.

The eternal question for scribes?

In this new social media landscape, the question becomes: Is blogging dead? It just may be...

Watch: The 'Front Page Palooka' Book Trailer

Read the pulp novella that one reviewer called 'A potboiler in the style of old school writers like Mickey Spillane, Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler...'

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

CAUGHT IN THE MIDDLE (flash fiction)

Sharon looked out the window hoping to see that godforsaken Trans Am, but all that drove by were the humdrum sedans usually reserved for rental fleets.

It was after 10 and Billy should've brought Garry back by now but her ex-husband had a history of tardiness, so this wasn't all that unusual.

When she was done with the dishes she heard the gravel in her driveway mushed by the growls of Billy's 455 engine, and it wasn't long before a little body popped out and ran into the house.

As the boy flicked the light on, Sharon was horrified by what she saw.

"What in Jesus happened to you?" she asked her son, hoping it was some sort of all-too-realistic prank he and his pop were playing.

"Dad did it. Ain't it rad?" he said looking into a mirror.

Outside, Billy lowered the Def Leppard and leaned on the Pontiac, waiting for the woman he thought at one time was the end-all and be-all of barmaids.

"What the fuck, Billy?" hands outstretched, was all she could muster.

He smiled. "I told you, the next time you hand him off to me in a prissy tie and creampuff shirt, I'd make a man outta him."

"That dumb mohawk makes him a man?" she screamed.

"It's a start," Billy answered, flicking his cigarette into a pile of half-melted snow. "We're buying a gun next week."

Friday, May 22, 2009


I spent many a late night in diners and this is my ode to those great 24 hour joints where anyone can walk through the door...

Back when I was seeing the waitress,
I met a ghost at the diner counter.
I dunno, it was three a.m. or so
-- that nevertime where tired
cranky and mellow
become one weird sensation.
Anyway, as I jotted some
meaningless notes into a
notepad full of lost ideas, I felt a
presence next to me. He had the
entire counter to himself, but he
chose to plop himself on the
stool five inches away.
It seemed that he needed the
company, so I placed my pen on
the nearest napkin and said hello.

It looked as if he’d been crying and
his shirt was torn with a bloodstain
streaming from his nose to his mouth.
Scratches all over his face, he was
just a plain mess. I looked around to
see if anyone came in with him but
oddly, I was the only one in the joint.
In fact, the staff was nowhere,
must’ve been scattered in the kitchen.

We talked for about an hour, over coffee
and a half-pack of Winstons. He spoke
of his wife – both sad and angry - gesturing
their argument from earlier that evening.
Every now and again, he’d repeat, “They
wonder why we do the things we do.”
He said that men had it rougher than
we’re ever given credit for. Then he asked about
my own situation and I pointed to
the waitress in a shoulder-shrug sort of way.
He smiled, but quickly, again found his
rant, “We can’t cry or
fuss or carry on like them. We have
to listen to their bullshit complaints.”
I shrugged my shoulders as I looked
for my Zippo asking, “Whaddya gonna do?”

“Cheat,” he answered. It was a simple,
heartfelt answer that I found funny.
The two of us sat there enjoying its honesty.
I made sure the waitress wasn’t listening
or else I'd get holy Hell on the ride home.
But then my new friend got somber once again
and kept repeating “And they wonder why...”
I never saw him ever again.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009


This is a tale that coulda prolly happened. Somewhere in the late '60s, it's a tale where the beatnik met the hippie...

With his tight leather pants and a swagger to embarrass Mae West on a bad night, the Lizard King entered the Waldorf elevator and saw Jack, one of his literary idols.

"Hey man, you're Jack Kerouac..." the shaman-like guy asked, mellow and low.

Thift shop chic and effortlessly handsome, Jack was in the Big Apple to deliver his latest manuscript and answered,"That's my name..."

"I read everything you ever wrote -- the name is Jim," his fan said. "I'm in town with my band called The Doors."

As he watched the greasy hippie walk off to his room, Kerouac thought, "I work my whole fuckin' life, hitchhike across the country and they call this fucking guy a poet..."


He went everyday to the museum to see those dark beaming eyes, that long lustrous hair and her half unsure smile.

On or off his meds, this manic routine had by now had become a fixture of his life.

Oh sure, there was always some artsy liberal couple on a first date talking about such nonsense as Warhol and color blocking to ruin his time with her.

But they were superficial.

Someday somehow he knew he'd meet his exotic beauty and take her here -- but not to utter Warhol.

Until then, though, he'd be content and diligent just staring at her staring at him.

Monday, May 4, 2009


I live deep within the heart of 'Soprano-Land' (the show was even shot on my block a few years back). In any case, being EYEtalian and all, I've never particulary gravitated towards the show beyond the casual level. I guess it's because I can't wear a suit without looking like I have lye and a shovel in my trunk. Don't get my wrong, I watched it, sure, but didn't really live and breathe it the way many fans have. I bring this up because today at the bakery, this is what I overheard and, to be honest, didn't think twice.

As I wait for my sandwiches, an unassuming (yet still very goombahed) voice behind me says on a cell, "Yeah, he made bail..."

Not even trying to be quiet he continued, "It was 250 -- two hundred and fifty thousand."

As I smirked in front, the convo got better when I heard him say, "No, no, no, he didn't get a racketeering charge, just the gambling."

After a pause he went on, "Well, our operation is in Costa Rica, his was is in the Dominican Republic so we're good."

"Yeah, I'm gonna be at the luncheonette in the morning so come on by and see me," he said, before clacking his cell shut.

After hearing these kinds of guys my whole life in places like this, the subtext of his last sentence didn't bother any of us on line since we were merely hearing just another Jersey guy at work.