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.
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...'
Next on my reading list and released about two weeks ago.
Via AMAZON: Tom Waits, even with his barnyard growl and urban hipster yawp, may just be what the Daily Telegraph calls him: “the greatest entertainer on Planet Earth.” Over a span of almost four decades, he has transformed his music and persona not to suit the times but his whims. But along with Bob Dylan, he stands as one of the last elder statesmen still capable of putting out music that matters.
Journalists intent upon cracking the code are more likely to come out of a Waits interview with anecdotes about the weather, insects, or medieval medicine. He is, in essence, the teacher we wished we had, dispensing insights such as: “Vocabulary is my main instrument;” “We all like music, but what we really want is for music to like us;” “Anything you absorb you will ultimately secrete;” “Growth is scary, because you’re a seed and you’re in the dark and you don’t know which way is up, and down might take you down further into a darker place . . .;” and “There is no such thing as nonfiction. ...People who really know what happened aren’t talking. Show More
"Tom Waits on Tom Waits" is a selection of over fifty interviews from the more than five hundred available. Here Waits delivers prose as crafted, poetic, potent, and haunting as the lyrics of his best songs.
Philip Levine, the Pulitzer-Prize winner known for his brooding and personal verse about the working class, will be the country's new poet laureate.
The 83-year-old Levine will succeed fellow Pulitzer winner W.S. Merwin this fall. The laureate, who receives $35,000 and is known officially as the Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry, serves from October through May. Richard Wilbur, Joseph Brodsky and Robert Pinsky are among the previous appointees.
"I'm a fairly irreverent person and at first I thought, 'This is not you. You're an old union man,'" Levine told the Associated Press. "But I knew if I didn't do this, I would kick myself. I thought, "This is you. You can speak to a larger public than has been waiting for you in recent years.'"
Receiving pretty much every literary honor, Levine is a Detroit native who has worked in automobile plants and for decades chronicled, celebrated and worried about blue collar life. Levine's awards include the Pulitzer in 1995 for "The Simple Truth" and the National Book Award in 1991 for "What Work Is."
We'd say Bukowski would be proud of him...
For more on Levin, click HERE. Examples of his work can be found HERE.
... That I've posted in celebration of her 100th birthday.
Here's the scoop: The Big Street is a 1942 American drama film, starring Henry Fonda and Lucille Ball, based on the short story "Little Pinks" by Damon Runyon, who also produced the movie. The film was directed by Irving Reis. The screenplay was written by Leonard Spigelgass from Runyon's story.
The film focuses on busboy Augustus Pinkerton II (Henry Fonda), known as "Little Pinks," and his relationship with heartless singer Gloria Lyons (Lucille Ball), who is crippled in a fall after her boyfriend, New York City nightclub owner Case Ables, pushes her down a flight of stairs in a fit of jealousy. Left penniless by the expenses she incurs during a long convalescence, Gloria is forced to rely on the kindness of Pinks, who invites her to stay with him in his apartment.
Patsy was born under a bad sign. That was painfully obvious.
His mother, a runaway, gave birth to him near a dumpster that she would eventually abandon him in. It worked out, though. She eventually would hitch her way into a cocaine overdose and he was handed over to a nearby soup kitchen on the down low. Turned out Patsy owed his life to a bunch of bums in the alley who, in between whiskey sips, noticed the wails of a crying newborn. For the record, they all thought it was a cat in heat -- all except for Rufus. He knew what a crying baby sounded like since he had around 20 of them scattered from Chicago to Tallahassee.
Back then, there wasn't a system set up to protect kids. Sure there were adoption agencies, but in Patsy's case, salvation came in the form of Madame Martha, headmaster of the soup kitchen. A former Army WAC, Martha didn't take shit from anyone and saw to it that Patsy had three meals a day, a place to sleep, dry socks and Sunday clothes.
Around the bums he fit in quite well and by the time he was five, Patsy served them cornbread with a smile. By thirteen he was in charge of certain delicacies -- namely a concoction he invented called 'Chicken Ball Soup.' At 19, he all but ran the place when Madame Martha fell ill from a foot infection that eventually took her leg. She was gone a year and a half later and for a while, her kids and Patsy tried to keep the kitchen open but it wasn't the same.
Patsy's only choice now was to hold a rifle but for whatever reason, the army didn't want him. Chalk it up to flat feet, bad eyesight or the possibility of being just plain ol' batshit.
There was only one thing to do. The only question was what brand?
* * *
He woke up drunk, disoriented and piss-stained and for the life of him, he swore he heard the wails of a dying cat. But it was no cat...
Patsy walked up to the dumpster, looked at the newborn, saw himself and wept. He watched the baby a bit more, its wails growing louder and more pathetic. He thought of his own life and how nothing much had come of it and Patsy knew what he had to do. He left the baby where he was, stumbled on home to his flophouse and called the Police.
That sad baby, Patsy thought, will get it's own family. He'd make goddamn sure of it.
This one is right up The Basement's alley. No one chronicles America better than filmmaker Ken Burns. If you've never seen any of his work I urge you to rent (or Netflix srteam) his groundbreaking documentaries "The Civil War," "Baseball" and my personal favorite, "Jazz."
His next film "Prohibition" is a three-part, five-and-a-half-hour documentary that I'm stoked for -- and documents the story of the rise, rule, and fall of the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution
Via PBS: "The culmination of nearly a century of activism, Prohibition was intended to improve, even to ennoble, the lives of all Americans, to protect individuals, families, and society at large from the devastating effects of alcohol abuse. But the enshrining of a faith-driven moral code in the Constitution paradoxically caused millions of Americans to rethink their definition of morality.
Thugs became celebrities, responsible authority was rendered impotent. Social mores in place for a century were obliterated. Especially among the young, and most especially among young women, liquor consumption rocketed, propelling the rest of the culture with it: skirts shortened. Music heated up. America’s Sweetheart morphed into The Vamp. Prohibition turned law-abiding citizens into criminals, made a mockery of the justice system, caused illicit drinking to seem glamorous and fun, encouraged neighborhood gangs to become national crime syndicates, permitted government officials to bend and sometimes even break the law, and fostered cynicism and hypocrisy that corroded the social contract all across the country.
With Prohibition in place, but ineffectively enforced, one observer noted, America had hardly freed itself from the scourge of alcohol abuse – instead, the “drys” had their law, while the “wets” had their liquor. The story of Prohibition’s rise and fall is a compelling saga that goes far beyond the oft-told tales of gangsters, rum runners, flappers, and speakeasies, to reveal a complicated and divided nation in the throes of momentous transformation.
The film raises vital questions that are as relevant today as they were 100 years ago – about means and ends, individual rights and responsibilities, the proper role of government.
It premieres October 2nd, 3rd & 4th, 2011 at 8 PM on PBS.
I remember my baby boy. I remember feeding him and I remember his sweet little laugh every time I tickled under his chin. I miss reading him the funnies and showing him the colorful pictures afterwards.
I remember we used to listen to the radio as the wife washed dishes. My lap was a horsey and he would dutifully ride as "The Lone Ranger" trickled out of the Crosley.
"Hi-Ho, Silver!!" he'd laugh, and I would always pretend to be Tonto.
I remember East Coast weekends at Coney Island and the Jersey shore. My baby boy would build the biggest sand castle he could muster only to push me into it. He'd giggle as it crumbled and I would wipe sand from my trunks.
I remember getting him ice cream on hot summer nights. The two of us would share a large cone while the misses devoured a lemon ice. He'd skip a few paces in front, as the three of us walked home.
As I sit up in my wheelchair, I find an odd comfort that my baby boy is now the one who's feeding me. The wife has been long gone and these days there's not much left that's working inside of me. I can't say much but I can certainly hear my boy remind me of our life.
But then it gets fuzzy all over again.
"I'll be back tomorrow, pop..." is the last thing I hear every night.
She woke up that day on a mission. And meaner than usual.
She was looking to snake her way across the country and meet up with Hawthorne, a fellow swindler who had the fix on some new scam in California. Wind energy. That's what they were calling it. She didn't get it but truthfully didn't care. The outfit needed a shape in a drape and she fit the bill just fine.
She looked in the mirror and applied her makeup. She was sexy, sure, but certainly could have been prettier. Didn't matter though. Those cookies of hers worked just fine.
She was instructed by Hawthorne via Western Union to arrive as a ghost. So out came her purse, burning everything with her name on it in a tiny waste pail. No traces. In fact, Hawthorne once said that if you doused your fingers with hot candle wax nightly, eventually the pigment in your fingertips would be useless.
She lit a kick stick and slipped into a lime green pair of twin trees and strutted out of her apartment. She knew she wouldn't be back. In fact, she thought twice about burning down the whole kit and caboodle.
She flicked off her her light switch, kicked the cat out of the way and left.
* * *
Four days later, she was pinched just a hair within the city limits in Minneapolis. It seems the rubber checks she used to pay for her flophouse wasn't exactly jiving with the owner. When the fuzz knocked on her door, she almost halfway expected them. They, however, didn't expect the nudity.
"What took you so long?" she asked them, putting on her dress.
At the station, her fingerprints were a splotchy mess. That 'ol hot wax trick came through.
"We need your name," The booking officer said. She just snarled.
He lowered the clipboard. "What's your name, Missy?"
She spat in his face and that snarl turned into a smile. The cop tossed her back in the holding cell. "We'll just have to give you a name..."
"I got a name," she said. "It's Donna... Donna Lethal. Like it?"
As she waited to see the judge, she still thought about that mission she was on. La-La Land was still very much in her cards and wind energy was going to be her business. A prison escape was just a minor setback.
Being a fugitive was fun, Donna thought. It kept her on her toes.
California awaits.
Music: "Twilight" by Daniel A. Stafford. It can be downloaded HERE.
Why did I walk out? Well, for starters I told her the last place I wanted to be was at a barbecue on my Sunday afternoon. Now, before you go and call me un-American, realize that I hate the heat. Actually, what I really wanted to do was park my ass on the couch and watch Jeter do what Jeter does best while sipping suds direct from Colorado's best brewery. Is there anything more patriotic than that? I tell you this, sir, no one -- and I mean no one -- knows the pursuit of leisure better than I. That's American.
And by the way, did I ever tell you what I hate more than the heat? Fuckin' hot dogs. Before you go and say, "Everyone loves hot dogs..." bear in mind why I deplore them. They remind me of my dad. Don't get me wrong, he was a good-enough guy who worked hard and loved his son but when my parents got divorced, weekends were tough.
It was around 1954 and men certainly didn't have the options or the carnal opportunities that seem so plentiful today. My Saturdays with Pop were really Saturdays with Spiro and his hot dog cart. My mother -- a chronic worrier -- easily dressed me for 20 degrees colder than it ever was. Are you so shocked now why I hate the heat? I was never sure of who Pop was schtupping every week, but I knew it took about three hours and cost him a finske for my babysitter Spiro the Giddy Greek. To this day, I remember that laugh and that god awful music that he managed to find on his transistor. And me? Is it any wonder why I became a pissed off little bastard who begrudgingly ate his wieners on the curb with a trusty Coke by my side?
That's why I hate the heat.
That's why I hate barbecues.
That's why I hate hot dogs.
And by the way, did I ever tell you that my name was Frank. Yup. The irony...
Music: Me Kalese Mi Arhondisa. It can be downloaded HERE.
Looking back, I can say with complete authority that Mom was usually a fun sponge who could suck the joy out of a Saturday morning cartoon with just one look.
I put up with it for years. And so did Pop. After a while, it was the norm. So much so that when we saw a smile, we got worried. Nevertheless, she was always dependable and Pop and I relied on her to keep the house above water.
It had been a while since they entertained and it must have been Pop's birthday because I remember hearing over and over about some sort of present he hadn't received. Something he seemed to have wanted a while.
Devouring my Saturday morning bowl of Cap'n Crunch while staring hopelessly into an episode of "Super Friends," I remember hearing about this so-called present and how Mom had it. I was stoked. I mean, shit, what little kid doesn't wanna help unwrap a gift, right?
After a few minutes of slurping milk, I snuck my way up the stairs. They didn't have a lock on any of the doors because I had a habit of barricading myself during hide and seek sessions and hiding for hours. After creeping into their room, I didn't see any box or gift wrapping.
# # #
That night, I watched Pop blow out the candles of his cake and for once, he looked relaxed. Happier. Even Mom didn't look quite as miserable as she normally did.
Me? I was fucking bored. The neighbors brought over their daughter Karin who kept egging me on to play with her Malibu Barbie. After saying no a few times, I don't know what compelled me to rip off the doll's sundress and run into the dining room. Even worse and somewhat perverse was the fact that I was also clutching onto a Mickey Mouse figurine.
And there I was. to the horror of my parents: A three year-old going to town on Barbie's milk bubbles.
"Ralphie!" Mom shouted in a whisper. "Stop that!"
I heard her but I kept slobbering on the bulbous plastic. In fact, I think I might have even moaned a bit. Our guests were cracking up, so I kept on. The little showman that I was...
My Pop ran over and kneeled in front of me. He laughed, more out of embarrassment and said in front of the group almost reassuringly, "Little boys don't do those things. You're hurting the doll..."
And this is where it gets good because I stopped licking Barbie's boobs and answered, "But it didn't seem to be hurting Mommy this morning."
Half of our guests stifled their laughs -- the other half made it painfully obvious that they were glad to have made our soiree.
After that night, Mom went back to being miserable, Pop disgruntled, and in the process, I think I subliminally became an "ass man."
Music: The Pink Panther theme by Henry Mancini. It can be downloaded HERE.
Pablo worked as a bellhop over at The Biltmore. In fact, Sully Klein, the hotel's manager, said that if he kept up the good work, there's be an entry-level concierge position for him come time for the holiday rush.
"I hear good things about you, kid..." Sully would say every now and then pinching his cheek. "You're getting a rep." Pablo would just smile, nod, thanks his boss and continue on.
Pablo was Brazilian, and, as such, knew a thing or two about the opposite sex. The other bellhops would often joke that Pablo probably came out of the womb flirting with the nurse.
Still, Pablo did his thing. Day in. Day out. A good worker. A solid earner. He did everyone proud.
# # #
It was a little after midnight and the wedding in the Sterling Room was almost over. The event was packed with about 300 drunks and after making eye contact with one in particular, he motioned for the hallway. Ultimately, the pair made their way to his lovepad - Room 724.
Truth be told, this one tonight was a little bit old for the bellhop's taste but he'd been sipping some Canadian Club throughout the wedding so he was just buzzed enough to do the deed.
After setting the mood with some records that he kept on hand, they kissed. She smelled like a mixture of Chanel, maraschino cherries and gin. In a weird way, that did the trick. She noticed and the groping got underway. He asked her to disrobe.
Watching her, Pablo lit a Pall Mall, dropped his chinos and hopped onto the spongy mattress.
Exhaling, Pablo smiled, looked at the older woman and said, "The price is twenty bucks..."
The squeaks cam fast and furious and fifteen minutes later, she was back at the wedding at her table and he was at his station in the lobby.
Another happy customer compliments of the Bossa Nova Bellhop. MUSIC: Antonio Carlos Jobim - Desafinado. It can be downloaded HERE. Photo: Courtesy of The Hound Blog.
Dean Martin (June 7, 1917 – December 25, 1995), born Dino Paul Crocetti, was an American singer, film actor, television star and comedian. Martin's hit singles included "Memories Are Made of This", "That's Amore", "Everybody Loves Somebody", "Mambo Italiano", "Sway", "Volare" and smash hit "Ain't That a Kick in the Head?". Nicknamed the "King of Cool", he was one of the members of the "Rat Pack" and a major star in four areas of show business: concert stage/night clubs, recordings, motion pictures, and television. (Wikipedia)
Sandy looked through the drawers and found the cigar box. They were filled with photos of her Uncle Rocco and after flipping through half of them, she found her favorite. It was the one of him all decked out leather. She smiled.
"It takes a certain kind of man to wear leather," he told her when she first saw this amazing picture. "People can tell if you're not meant for it so don't ever let the jacket wear you."
She smiled some more and felt her bottom lip quiver. She bit it, stifled herself and remembered the story behind the photo.
* * *
"The Wild One" was just released and everyone under 25 wanted to be Brando. Problem was, Rocco didn't have the scratch to buy a motorbike like the Triumph Thunderbird 6T in the film, so the family car would have to do.
Uncle Rocco and the rest of the neighborhood's throttle jockey hooligans worked on the engine round the clock and pretty soon, that heap was tighter than a bank vault with a busted timelock.
Still, no matter how ponies rumbled under that hood, there was that outlaw biker just itching to get out.
So Rocco compensated, bought a leather jacket from Andy's Thrift Shop and played the role of Johnny Strabler. With his 'duck's ass' (D.A.) pompadour greasier than the 'spoon' off Interstate 344, Uncle Rocco swore he was tough enough to swap punches with a power shovel -- all 138 pounds of him. He even went so far as to rip up his draft notice.
That afternoon, after Rocco lit his first Pall Mall, Spike McCrory took a snapshot of him before catching "The Wild One" yet again at the drive-in. By the time it was through, they had enough puffy chest incentive to rebel against as many 'whaddya gots' as they could possibly find.
Uncle Rocco and Spike sauntered into the nearby malt shop and plopped their rumps at the counter. It was a packed Saturday night and Rocco saw a slinky piece of homework that caught his eye. He smiled and had a waitress send over a milkshake. Funny. That night, there was all sorts of extra credit going on, and that slinky piece of homework was on everyone's mind - namely Mikey Mapplethorpe - who hip checked Uncle Rocco out of his stool.
The place went quiet. Spike helped Rocco to his feet and as the rest of the malt shop watched, Rocco knew what they didn't. The switchblade in his back pocket was primed and ready.
* * *
Uncle Rocco got out of jaila few years later and by then, the country's newest rebel was a lost cause after he perished in a Porsche 550 Spyder on Route 466 in California.
Sandy was glad that the 'slinky piece of homework' -- her Aunt Sally -- pretty much reformed Uncle Rocco and by the time he was released, he was on the straight and narrow and the two were married a few months later.
The tears were coming back now and she put the picture back in the cigar box with the others and headed to the funeral home. Driving there she just knew her favorite picture would be the big hit of her collage. Music: "Wild Wild Young Men," by Ruth Brown. It can be downloaded HERE.
Art: A tip of the hat to Paul Bishop at 'Bish's Beat' for the inspirational pic. Check out his blog. Its filled with all sorts of pulpy and retro delights.
... You're STILL the standard. After spending much of her childhood in foster homes, Marilyn Monroe began her career as a model, which led to a film contract in 1946.
Early movie roles were minor, but her performances in "The Asphalt Jungle" and "All About Eve" (both 1950) were well received.
By 1953, Monroe had progressed to leading roles. Her "dumb blonde" persona was used to comedic effect in such films as "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" (1953), "How to Marry a Millionaire" (1953) and "The Seven Year Itch" (1955).
Limited by typecasting, Monroe studied at the Actors Studio to broaden her range, and her dramatic performance in "Bus Stop" (1956) was hailed by critics, and she received a Golden Globe nomination. Her production company, Marilyn Monroe Productions, released "The Prince and the Showgirl" (1957), for which she received a BAFTA Award nomination and won a David di Donatello award. She received a Golden Globe Award for her performance in "Some Like It Hot" (1959). (Wikipedia)
Please press play for some mood music 'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the bar... ... Snappy the elf annoyed th...
BUKOWSKI'S BASEMENT
Welcome to Bukowski's Basement and the blog of Anthony Venutolo. It's primarily a showcase for nuggets that can range from anywhere from Skid Row to the Savoy in the form of poems, flash fiction, noir or pop culture musings.
Feel free to pour some cheap hooch and settle in because this is a place to celebrate all things wondrous in the whiskey-soaked literary landscape of Chuck Buk, Jack Kerouac, Tom Waits and Raymond Carver.
To view my complete profile, click HERE and feel free to follow me from any of the links above.
.png)
Next on my reading list and released about two weeks ago.
