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

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

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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...'

Saturday, August 16, 2008


Elvis Presley died 31 years ago today. Let's bow our heads and listen a little rockabilly.

Thursday, August 14, 2008


Very few people have read any fiction I've written, much less a story which happens to not be my particular favorite. In any case, a few months ago, I posted this poem. It was an ode to a teenaged Vegas elopement and the bar they visited soon after. After thinking about it, I figured it was the perfect companion piece or sequel to a short story I wrote eons ago about the same subject. If anything, the only thing I can say is that they ultimately belong together at this point. First this story, "The Two Elvises" which I'll post in three parts, and then the poem from the other day - Honeymoon at the Atomic.
"The Two Elvises" - Part Three

So here they were, a week later, standing in the tackiest house of worship they've ever known. They were about to join the ranks of individuals who go the extra mile in romanticism. The unconventional notion of packing up everything with your loved one and eloping, is a proposition people with no courage can only dream about. Besides, if the town was able to marry big shots like Paul Newman, Jane Fonda, Sammy Davis, Jr. and Michael Jordan, two snot-nosed kids from Chicago probably wouldn't have many other options.

"So what should we do, baby?" Carol asked him.

He shrugged his broad yet bony shoulders. "Doesn't matter. How 'bout the Elvis one? It'll be fun, I guess." She smiled in agreement and turned to the minister who was prepping himself for a 7:30 p.m. ceremony -- a black couple from Georgia were renewing their vows after 42 years of marriage.

"'Scuse us, father. I think we're gonna go with the Elvis wedding?"


"How much extra we talkin'?" Stu asked.

"The Elvis wedding is an extra hundred."

"Are you kiddin'?" Stu said, frowning.

The minister pulled up the sides of his trousers. "Be rest assured son, that our Elvises are the best in the biz," he defended. "Jake Peters was named best rockabilly Elvis by Presley's own fan club."

"Really?" Carol asked.

"Yesiree. Three years running. He's got that one-man review show up in that hotel... Venice."

The couple conferred. Stu told her that an extra hundred could easily be used for gas or even more important, lodging for at least a couple of nights.

"But I want to," his bride-to-be insisted. "We'll remember it for the rest of our lives."

"Carol, are you thinking about where we're gonna sleep? As it is, our money is already starting to disappear."

"Only because you had to stay up all night playing blackjack."

"Hey, I won back everything I lost. So you can't count that."

Stu saw the corner of her bottom lip begin to quiver. "I thought you loved me," she said to him.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, it has nothing to do with loving you, Carol."

"After all we've been through"

Stu shut his eyes in aggravation saying, "God damn it Carol --"

The minister snapped his Bible shut and said as kindly as possible, "Excuse me son, can you watch your language? We're in The Almighty's house after all."

The boy knew he was wrong and held up his palm to the minister, embarrassed, "See what your doing, Carol, making me curse in a place of worship. And besides, when did you suddenly start liking Elvis?"

Carol ignored Stu. "We'll take the Elvis package," she told the minister, pulling out a small bundle of tens and twenties.

"What the hell is that?" Stu asked.

"I'll pay for the Elvis thing, okay?"

Stu was still dumbfounded. "Carol, where did you get that money? Did you call them? Did they wire you money?"

She stopped counting the bills. "Remember after the buffet at breakfast you had to go the bathroom?"


"I slipped off to a slot machine and won about $190. I was gonna use it to buy you a wedding present but since you're bein' such a creep, I'll pay for the Elvis. That's my present to you. Happy fucking wedding day."

Stu knew to just keep his mouth shut. He'd smooth things over later. Besides, Carol was going to feel so euphoric after the ceremony, chances are she'd forget about it.

But things got confusing again. "Which Elvis would you like?" the minister replied.

Carol wasn't really getting the gist of what he was asking. "Anyone'll do. Whoever's available."

The minister chuckled, shaking his head saying, "You don't seem to catch my meanin'. Would ya'll prefer rockabilly Elvis or jumpsuit Elvis?"

The kids looked like they were just asked to explain the square root of pi.

"Big difference you know," the minister continued. "Big difference."

Stu never really thought about Presley as two separate entities. As far as he was concerned Elvis was... well... just Elvis. He decided to fess up and asked, "What's the difference?"

"Well," the minister explained. "Rockabilly Elvis was the young Elvis. The one y'all probably seen from the clips of the Ed Sullivan Show. He was vibrant, charismatic and good lookin' too," he said glancing at Carol and pointed to a photo from one of the wedding catalogs. "You see, the is what rockabilly Elvis looked like."

Carol's eyes lit up. "Elvis was a babe, huh?" she said to Stu.

"Yeah, I guess. Too bad he became fat and bloated."

The minister gave Stu a look as if he'd committed blasphemy. It was sacreligous to refer to the King -- in the town that he helped put on the map -- as fat and bloated. "I beg your pardon, young man," the minister corrected, "the king had a little bitty problem in his twilight years." The minister took a long pause before he tried to diplomatically explain. "In the seventies, the King put on a little weight so to speak and he couldn't fit into them tight leather numbers he liked to wear."

"Those cool suits didn't fit him either, huh father?" Stu asked.

The minister agreed and sadly shook his head. "Let's just say they weren't very conducive to his..." the minister said trying to find a harmless word. "...Girth."

The minister flipped through a couple more pages in his catalog and pointed to a photo of Elvis from his last concert. In all the splendor that was The King, there he was in full Technicolor -- the gaudy white jumpsuit, the bloated puffy cheeks and the huge gut -- an inflated icon that once made millions scream.

The minister shook his head in a weird kind of despair, "It's a damn shame," he said as if just hearing about his death on that dreadfully hot August afternoon. "Yep, it's a damn shame what them drugs'll do to you." He tried to lighten up and turned to the kids, "So which will it be?"

The married couple walked out of the chapel. Carol held onto Stu's hand like a vice grip to the point where he had to fake checking his watch to have her let go. Stu noticed his wife was beaming. Happy at the world. Happy that she was finally someone's wife. Stu's wife. Not quite knowing how to feel yet, Stu smiled back and stayed quiet. In his young life, if he figured out anything, it was that when you don't know what to say, you don't say anything.

Noticing a hot dog stand on the corner, Stu asked Carol if she was hungry."

"I was hoping that our first meal as husband and wife would be a little more special," she said.

"Hon, If I don't get something in my stomach, I'm gonna faint. Besides, I had so many butterflies in there, I think it might be good to eat a little something."

"Oh, all right," she said kissing him.

There was a small line ahead of them at the stand. A family of three, seeing the city, sightseeing; a casino worker, probably a dealer; and a woman with a small duffel bag. She was absolutely stunning. Stu put on his sunglasses to get a better peek without getting snagged by the misses. He took her in at least from the back -- dark brown hair, caramel complexion, and a rear end that favored a small basketball. If there was a 'Best Ass in Vegas' competition, Stu thought she'd win, hands down.

"Do you know what you want?" Carol asked him.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "A hot dog."

"I know that, Stu. I mean what are you getting on it?"

It was useless. Stu took off his sunglasses and turned to Carol. "Uh, I don't know, Carol. Why?"

Carol shrugged her shoulders, "No reason. 'Scuse me for asking. Forget it."

Stu knew it was wrong to snap at her, especially since they tied the knot just 15 minutes ago. He kissed her on her cheek and playfully bit her earlobe. It was his way of apologizing. She knew it and put her arm around him. Her way of saying, "It's okay, but don't let it happen again."

The happy couple stood there waiting, arm-in-arm, as everyone ordered their dogs. Stu watched the pretty woman in front of him order two franks with relish and quickly remembered how much he despised relish. He watched her stroll over to a nearby bench and eat the foot longs. Man, it was a pretty erotic sight. A vision that he tried hard not to frustrate him. After all, he was a newlywed and there was definite sex in his immediate future. If he played his cards right, he and Carol would be in the sack by dusk.

"What do you want on your hot dog?" Carol asked, sounding peeved.


"'Cause the guy's waiting for your order?"

Stu turned to the vendor. "Do you have chili?"

"No chili" the man answered in an unrecognizable accent. "Just bean."

"That's fine."

Stu paid the peddler and he and Carol walked over to a bench parallel to the one the girl was on. The sunglasses came on again. "Man, this sun is bright, huh?" he said to Carol. "Where's your sunglasses?"

"Left them in the car."

"What did you do that for?" Stu asked, chomping into the dog.

"It was cloudy before, remember?"

"Oh yeah," he answered.

Carol looked as if something was bothering her, but Stu didn't notice. It wasn't until he heard her sniffing that he knew something was wrong.

"Honey, are you okay?"

Carol didn't answer.

"What's wrong?" he asked again, sitting closer to her and altogether forgetting about the sexy stranger across from them.

"Did we make a mistake today?" she asked him, blowing her nose with one of Stu's napkins.

"Why are you saying that?" Stu wanted to comfort her and let her know that everything was going to be okay. He rubbed the back of her neck and he felt her loosen up a bit. "I love you, Carol." he said. "I plan to be married only once in my life, so you're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

"Look at us," she said to him. "Where we gonna wind up? Where are we gonna go?"

He scarfed down what was left of his hot dog and sprinted to a newspaper vending machine. As he trotted back to Carol, Stu held the paper up like a paperboy and said, "What's next? We find jobs -- that's what's next."

"Really?" Carol didn't know how to respond. The thought of settling in Vegas was never really propositioned. At least not seriously.

Stu went on. "We get jobs, get a cheap place and..."

"And what?" Carol asked, somewhat excited at his burst of enthusiasm.

"And... I try to look up my dad. Last I heard he was out here making a living."

"He's still here?"

Stu shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? We'll see."

"What's he do?"

"I heard he was a pit boss in one of the casinos but got fired."

"What's he do now?" Carol asked.

"My mom said he's a professional card sharp or something."

"He gambles for a living?"

"Who knows if he's even still in town. He could be pumping gas in Alaska for all I know. Who knows if he'd even want to see me." Stu switched gears. "The important thing is that we plant some seeds to grow roots of our own. Me and you. Know what I'm saying?

Carol didn't say anything. She was weighing what Stu was saying.

"Please don't ever doubt what we did here ever again, okay?" Stu said watching Carol getting the napkin out of her pocket and blowing her nose. This time, tears of happiness were flowing down her chin and she whispered, "I love you. You're so right, baby."

"Don't worry about a thing," Stu said, hugging his wife and noticing the sexy stranger get up from the bench and walk across the street into the Sugar and Spice Lounge. A banner attached to the building advertised an all-day go-go rama with over fifty girls. Stu thought she must have been one of the fifty.

He wanted to see her on that stage, wrapped around a pole. He couldn't help it. One thought ran through his mind repeatedly.

"How can I get her phone number?"


Tuesday, August 12, 2008


OK... As I said the other day, I feel like I'm going out on a limb here. Very few people have read any fiction I've written, much less a story which happens to not be my particular favorite. In any case, a few days ago, I posted this poem. It was an ode to a teenaged Vegas elopement and the bar they visited soon after. After thinking about it, I figured it was the perfect companion piece or sequel to a short story I wrote eons ago about the same subject. If anything, the only thing I can say is that they ultimately belong together at this point. First this story, "The Two Elvises" which I'll post in three parts, and then the poem from the other day - Honeymoon at the Atomic.


"The Two Elvises" - Part Two

They met a year ago when Carol's dad met Stu's mom at The Drink Cart, a small bar inside of the main terminal in Chicago's O' Hare Airport. Stu's mom, Bette Holmes, was an over-the-hill flight attendant whose days were numbered. It's not that she was incompetent or belligerent to passengers, but simply, she wasn't the youngest flower in the bouquet anymore. Years of flying cross-country have begun to take their toll. And after training an endless number of pretty young girls to work with her on the plane, she knew, from watching them bounce up and down the aisle with their bubbly smiles, peddling earplugs and magazines, that she was through. When it got slow, she'd sneak into the bathroom and gaze in the mirror, inspecting the wrinkles that resembled the topography she often flew over.

It didn't stop there. Her golden brown hair that once flowed in wavy strands now resembled frizzled hay. The eyes, once bright and optimistic, now peered with darkened suspicion. And the hourglass figure that used to make male passengers melt behind their Newsweeks, evoked the shape of a bowling pin. It was obvious -- what little looks she did have were quickly whisking away, like the dry leaves in a late autumn breeze.

So in drowning her sorrows after a long flight from LAX, Bette met Roger Nichols, a copier salesman, just back in town from his company's annual convention.

When the subject of family came up, Bette said, "I have a son. Stuart. Just turned twenty."

"Really?" Roger said, sounding surprised. "My daughter's gonna be twenty on March 7."

Bette smiled, as if they were sharing the same secret. "They'll drain you, huh? Drive you batty. What's her name?"

Roger saw the face of his baby girl. "Carol," he answered, pulling out a small snapshot from his wallet. "Isn't she a doll?"

"Oh yes," Bette said. "Stu would love her..."

So Stu and Carol were introduced about a month and a half later at a Labor Day barbecue held on the grounds at Roger's company. At first Stu thought Carol was a little primadonna, with her shoulder shrugging and one word answers. But he soon realized, after knowing her a bit, that's how she acted when she was nervous. As for Carol? She thought Stu was a typical jock, sophomoric and stupid at the same time. But after she got to know him, she realized it was his free-spirited nature, easy-going and relaxed that made him appear so juvenile.

"You live in town?" was the first thing Stu asked her. After Carol answered yes, he was stuck and really didn't have much else to say. Neither did she. The initial small talk of young love can be excruciatingly scary and the lack of chit-chat between these two kids were perfect examples. When Roger jogged over and asked them what they wanted from the grill, a small part of Stu and Carol were relieved. They thought they were saved, but Roger, not wanting to intrude, took their food requests and went back to the barbecue. They were back at square one.

"So..." Stu said stumbling for something to say, "is that your red Miata?"

She nodded. "I got it used about a month ago. You like it?"

"Who wouldn't? Is it a stick?"

She crinkled her nose. "Yeah, but I can't really drive it that good," she said. "I stall alot. It took me a half hour to get here today because I had to find a way with no hills."

Stu knew this was his area. "Carol, you've come to the right guy. I've been driving five-speeds ever since I got my license."

"Do you have any pointers?" she asked.

A young man's cockiness overcame Stu. "The way I can teach you, you'll be driving NASCAR by Friday."

So there was the common ground. He helped her drive like Mario Andretti and she let him take her out a couple of times after the lessons. Usually it was to Friendly's for ice cream. Once they tried to buy beer, but got carded by some kid working the register that was younger than them. Stu called the kid a prick and they left the store.

They eventually became friends and it wasn't soon after, that their hormones got the best of them. It was only natural, therefore, that things became sexual.

When their folks announced wedding plans, it was Thanksgiving night and Stu and Carol didn't quite know how to deal with the fact they would soon be related. Both of them just stared into their plates filled with beets and turkey to the point where their parents wondered if they were ill.

"What should we do?" Carol asked later over the echoes of a football game.

"Stu flicked on MTV and put the volume louder so their parents wouldn't overhear and said, "Do you think we should stop seeing each other?"

"Stop seeing each other? Stu we're gonna like see each other every day. This is serious."

"Didn't you think that our parents getting married was a possibility? I say we do nothing. They fell in love. Why can't we?"

Carol thought about it. Stu was right. "Should we tell them?"

"No," he said. "They'll find out soon enough I guess."

So Bette and Roger wed about three months later in a quaint bed and breakfast ceremony and technically, you could say, Stu and Carol became step-brother and sister.

The family moved into a quaint tudor in the Chicago suburb of Englewood Heights. To the naked eye, Stu and Carol looked like any other step-brother and sister - the hogging of the bathroom, the fight for the remote control and even the quarrel as to who would take the garbage out wasn't uncommon. But behind closed doors, the two were falling deeper in love.

If Bette and Roger went upstairs to bed, then Stu and Carol would descend to the basement where a finished off den gave them all the privacy they needed. And for the evenings when Bette had overnight flights and Roger had sales meetings five states away, the kids played house, doing everything young couples do.

And it was those little things that almost got them caught -- like the time when Roger noticed the fireplace had been used when no one was supposed to be home. When he saw all the mood music scattered about, he just had to ask Stu, "Didn't you go skiing this weekend?"

Stu thought quick. "Bobby's water pump busted and my car wouldn't have made it that far, so we had to cancel."
"Did you have a date?" Roger asked examining the back of a Barry White CD.

"Not really. Some girl I knew from high school came over and she got a little cold, so I lit the fireplace."

"Was Carol here? Didn't she cramp your style."

"Luckily she went out with her friend Jackie and slept over there."

"I hope you scored at least."

Stu smiled. "I sure did Roger. I sure as hell did"

"That's what I like to hear kiddo," his stepdad said as he walked out of the den. "Do it while you're young 'cause gettin' old is a bitch."

Their luck, though, had to run out sometime. One Saturday morning -- when Bette always did housework -- she found something very odd and alarming. While emptying Carol's trash basket next to the bed an electric blue Stallion brand condom wrapper fell to the ground. It was Ribbed. She'd been home for the past three days and hadn't seen any boys come over to see her step-daughter. It didn't set right especially since her husband used the same brand. She thought about it a little more and came to the conclusion that something funny was indeed going on. She saved the wrapper and decided to show it to Roger when he came home from work.

"I found this in the trash today, Roger," Bette said throwing the condom wrapper in front of him as he sat down at the kitchen table.

"The kid works fast," Roger said to himself, but still letting Bette hear.

"What?" Bette asked, not understanding.

"Hon, don't worry. The other day Stu asked me if I had any extra rubbers. The kid's been seein' some girl lately and I've been asking him how it's been going. I guess he's starting to trust me a little."

Bette didn't know how to tell him so she just blurted it out. "I found it in Carol's bedroom."

"You found it where?"

"I was cleaning her room when I found it in the trash."

Roger's face turned beet red. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking..."

Bette sat down and fanned herself with a coupon circular. "Rog, no one has been in this house for a couple of days and unless you've been sleeping with her, I think our kids may be --"

"I'll kill him, Bette."

"Let me talk to him," she said. "Just calm down. Maybe there's a good explanation for this." She knew, however, there couldn't have been. There was a protocol, a decorum, that was broken. Nothing could fix it now.

About three hours, later Stu came home from work and Carol was up in her room on the phone. When their parents called them down to the kitchen, Stu knew they were caught. "What do we tell them?" Carol asked, petrified.

"Let me handle it. I'll do all the talking. Don't say a word."

But Carol did and Stu reacted to their parents like any twenty year-old would -- with angst and anger perpetuated by just the right amount of fear that makes people do the craziest of things.

"We love each other," he said. "You guys fell in love, why can't we?"

"Because, you little shit, it's dysfunctional," Roger snapped. "Did you ever see Marsha Brady sleep with Greg?"

Stu walked towards the door saying, "I don't have to take this."

Roger trotted after him and spun his stepson around and said, pointing into his face, "We are not done talking. Get back into that kitchen."


"Then get out!"

"Roger!" Bette screamed. "This is my child! Now, let's just all sit and talk about this."

"Daddy!" Carol piped in every couple of seconds during the confusion. She finally said when all was quiet, "If he goes, so do I."

Roger grabbed hold of his daughter's arm. "You're not going anywhere."

It was at that point where Stu drew his line in the sand, pushing Roger as hard as he could, clutched Carol's wrist and dragged her out of the house with him. "I love you, mom" was the last thing he said before slamming the door. All he heard as they ran down the walkway was his mom crying from inside.



OK... Making this one was fun. So there are plenty of Kerouac videos out there. This is a short video I created that tries to capture the aura, essence and bravado of the tough guy scribe. Have a scotch for me, Jack, wherever you are...

Sunday, August 10, 2008


Zampano Films, an outfit in sunny California, has filmed "The State of Poem," their ode to the form of poetry. Thank God. We need films like this for the form to survive. Shot by director
Alveraz Ricardez, it's a comprehensive view of contemporary poetry across the United States. Look for it in the Spring.

The State of Poem (extended trailer)

Saturday, August 2, 2008


...You probably won't find more haunting images of the Deep South than in this short video. Dunno where or how this one popped out of my brain. Took me a very brisk two days to finish. If anyone ever wants to know how, why or where the blues emerged, look no further. Hopefully this can explain... And you also have to love Blind Willie Johnson's haunting moans.

WARNING: Some scary images of brutality may not be suitable for younger kids.