The latest issue of Drops of Crimson is up, and I’ve got a story in it. Please give it a gander.
A story of mine was just accepted into the next issue of Drops of Crimson. It should be up there on Halloween.
I feel like I should probably have more to say about this, but my brain is currently operating at quarter-speed…which is actually a whole lot better than it usually does the morning after Brick Day.
Alice and Kev, one of my favorite blogs, wrapped up this weekend. If you haven’t checked it out already, you should. Start at the beginning and work your way through.
I’m not sure there’s actually a term for what it is; web comic, maybe? web serial? video game walkthrough? Anyway, it’s neat, simultaneously funny and touching and sad. Moreso than any of the Grand Theft Autos or Fable or anything that Bethesda’s put out, it demonstrates the actual narrative potential of video games. I recommend.
There’s an explanation for this picture.
You’re not getting it.
The New York Times recently noticed that Williamsburg hipsters have begun to pack on a few extra pounds as of late, and then set out to decipher the social comment that this ever-subversive, ever-culturally minded subclass is trying to make.
It’s entirely possible that the journalists have hit the nail on the head–there’s a whole lot of continent between me and Brooklyn, so I can’t know what’s going through these people’s heads–but I’d like to offer another explanation:
Williamsburg hipsters are developing bellies because Williamsburg hipsters are turning 30.
Let me know what you think.
Weather permitting, I usually spend my lunch break on the steps of a fountain near my office, double-fisting a sandwich and a book. Last week, I ran into the parents of a girl I dated in high school. They work nearby. It’s happened before. I stood up, we made friendly conversation, and then they went on their way. All fine, except for the moment that I noticed her glancing downward at the paperback I’d just set aside. Here’s what she saw:
“So, yeah, that’s pretty much what I’ve been up to these days. Mostly just working and reading medical fetish porn. How’s your daughter doing?”
To be fair, there is indeed a naked lady in this book, and some surgery, and a fair amount of S&M-iness, but it’s not half as tacky as the cover would have you believe. Tessier is one of the smartest, most literary (for lack of a better word) writers in the genre. He’s not uninterested in the whole sex/violence connection, but to judge this book by its cover, you’d think he handled it with all the intelligence and depth of a late night Cinemax thriller—The Call Girl Murders, or something.*
It’s not the first time this has been an issue for me. There are plenty of mass-market paperbacks by great authors that I’ve practically turned inside-out while reading on public transportation in an effort to screen the cover art from my fellow passengers. Here are a few gems of design (although these lose more points for silliness than sleaze):
![takenbookbig[1]](http://bradiation.files.wordpress.com/2009/07/takenbookbig1.jpg?w=186&h=300 "takenbookbig[1]")
The common element here, other than that they are all of the genre, is that they are all published by Dorchester Books’ horror imprint, Leisure.
Just so we’re clear, I consider Leisure Horror to sit firmly on the side of Good. Horror fiction has been out of vogue since the 80s, relegated primarily to the realm of indie presses, but they’ve kept their sizeable corner in the mainstream. They’re champions of midlist masters. As far as I know, the debt of gratitude for bringing Richard Laymon’s books home to the States is owed solely to them, and that’s fucking huge. When I say this, I do so with the highest regard for their editorial and publishing record: Leisure Horror makes some ugly emmereffing books.
I don’t blame them, either. Covers are a marketing decision, and I don’t doubt for a second that their marketing department knows what it’s doing. These books look the way they do because it’s what sells. I can only assume that the typical reader of Finishing Touches didn’t seek it out after Cemetery Dance ran an interview with the author in the last issue. The typical reader, looking for something light and fun, spotted it on a spinning rack at an airport gift shop and thought, “Naked lady? Scalpel? Photoshopsplosion? Sold!” Which, now that I think about it, means that my beef is with him.
What the hell’s the matter with you, typical reader? Don’t you realize how stupid that book looks? Don’t you realize that there’s going to be someone, probably a stranger, sitting next to you on that plane? Don’t you worry about what they’re going to think?
Clearly, I do.
–
*Is this a dated reference? Does Cinemax even exist anymore? Do they still show movies like this? It’s been forever since my tv channels went that high.
One stretch of my afternoon commute—specifically, the stretch between the train ride and the walk—is on a shuttle, which is a lot like a bus, except that it’s shorter, there’s less graffiti, and the drivers get to listen to the radio. As of yet (and this is actually true of every East Bay shuttle I’ve ever ridden), I haven’t had a driver whose station of choice is not 102.9 KBLX: The Quiet Storm. You wouldn’t know it from their tagline, “Soft and Warm,” but they’re basically a soul station. Tangentially, they have the world’s worst morning show, and that’s saying something.
At the stop yesterday, while we waited for stragglers from the train to make their way onboard, the DJ played a Michael Jackson song. Again. Because no one’s tired of that yet.
A woman sitting in the back row said, “Turn it up!”
The driver, engaged in a through-the-window conversation with a friend, either didn’t hear or chose to ignore her.
“It’s Michael Jackson! Turn it up!”
He swiveled his head around and gave her a look. “What?”
“Michael Jackson?” she said . “From the Jackson Five? Motown?”
He snorted, but he did turn the volume knob. Immediately, she started clapping along to the rhythm. After a verse, she noticed that no one was joining in. I think she’d hoped this would be a unifying moment for all of us.
“I guess there aren’t any Michael Jackson fans on this bus,” she said. Then she started clapping again.
Later, she announced that due to the quality of the sidewalks in Oakland, she could fall and break her neck any day. Also, that there are too many fat people in America.
Last weekend, while the rest of the Bay Area was burning up in the upper 90s and low 100s, Oakland was as pleasant as ever. To celebrate our climatic superiority, some friends and I gathered at the Mountainview Cemetery for a picnic. We set up on the Potter’s Field, because there aren’t any tombstones and because it’s fun to explain what a Potter’s Field is to people who don’t know.
We’d been there for just shy of an hour when our meal was interrupted by a loud cracking noise. Everyone looked up to see a substantial branch falling from the upper reaches of a nearby eucalyptus tree. I had only a couple seconds to process what was happening and exclaim, “Hey, that’s my car!” before this happened:
(thanks to Christian for the photos)
I reject all claims that this was a case of our downstairs neighbors getting back at us for the noise we were making. If anything, I think they appreciated the company. Or didn’t notice us at all, on account of being dead. This wasn’t about the dead versus the living; it was about California versus eucalyptus trees.
Yesterday, I had to say goodbye to a great friend.
Jackson spent his last morning blind and deaf, but happy to be surrounded by people who loved him. On his way into the vet’s, he took a shit on the waiting room floor, which only seemed fair.
He joined my family as a puppy when I was seventeen years old. As sad as I am right now, I know my life is better for having had him in it.
I miss you, buddy. A lot.
In the hopes of coming off as a healthy, developed person with a variety of interests (I’ve got fucking layers, man), I try to avoid writing back-to-back horror-related posts. But when I came home the other night from seeing Drag Me To Hell, still buzzing on a monster-movie high, I found a link a friend had passed along to me in my inbox, and I just had to respond.
For your reference, here it is: Examiner.com’s seven reasons why the horror genre is dying.
I set out to write a reasonable point-by-point rebuttal, but had to give up. I kept getting too mad. It’s not just that I disagree with the article’s thesis; I disagree with its entire value system. Every point I tried to make started out with quotes and analysis, and then devolved into, “Who the fuck watches movies this way?!”
So I scrapped it. Instead, I’m just going to offer my own list.
7 Reasons the Horror Genre Is Doing Just Fine, Thank You Very Much
Thanks for the concern, but I think we’ll survive.
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