tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-204812082024-03-07T12:14:18.209-08:00The Thrilling Detective BlogKevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.comBlogger162125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-75126403656038039702018-01-10T10:29:00.000-08:002018-01-10T10:29:05.210-08:00Dear Rod...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know, I know. I really should be blogging more. As the <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/" target="_blank">Thrilling Detective Web Site</a></b> stumbles on towards its twentieth anniversary, it seems in so many ways old-fashioned and out-of-date, always playing catch-up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I digress. That's another story, another post.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My mini-rant today is about those BSP morons who think the Comments section on assorted web sites, blogs, Facebook posts, etc. is the perfect place to salt the internet with their own dubious stabs at self-worship of the most one-handed kind. As soon as one of these stable geniuses tries it on my blog, I delete it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But don't worry -- you're not missing out on much, be it vital information</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> on some self-published masterpiece (<i>200 5-star reviews!</i>) or some questionable service or product (<i>Steam clean your woo-woo at home!</i>).</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> There are exceptions, though -- like this one, which popped up today on on an old post about </span><a href="http://thrillingdetectiveblog.blogspot.com/2014/02/william-s-burroughs-private-eye.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><b>William S. Burrough's stint as a private eye</b></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. It was so stupid and utterly irrelevant that I felt I just had to share it with you, before I pressed DELETE.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Dear Rod, </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="font-size: 14px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">I might want you to realize that I hold no feelings of spite against you. Your demeanor is like that of the larger part of ASPA individuals, who might take sides without much information of the main problems involved. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="font-size: 14px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">With regards to the particular incident of Facebook, you have done no off-base. I know you like a joke. It was a minor excusable slip. The fault is on the individuals who misused the circumstance and included the inept curve with a specific end goal to cast questions about my individual. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br style="font-size: 14px;" /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Your sincere and significant expression of remorse is ordinary of a decent individual and wood not fail to receive any notice. It is esteemed and increased in value by me.</span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>-- Matrimonial detective agency in Delhi</b><span style="font-size: 14px;"> </span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />I'm still not sure who Rod is/was.</span><div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Still, if this sort of stuff puts a smile on your face, you ought to track these guys down -- their web site is full of examples of their mastery of the English language, and sure to "relieve your sufferings and anxiousnesses and acquire you the clear picture."<br /><br />After all, they look "forward to make a long-run relationship with you while you connect our fellowship."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(By the way, just by coincidence, I noticed that today is Rod Stewart's birthday -- he's 73 today. All you young punks should do yourself a favour, and check out Every Picture Tells a Story, still one of the great shape-shifting rock'n'roll albums of all time. Folk? Rock? Soul? Gospel? He nailed it. And his work with the Faces and the Jeff Beck Group and most of his solo stuff hasn't been too shabby, either.)</span></div>
Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-91068833711538677382017-11-02T14:20:00.002-07:002017-11-03T14:33:02.626-07:00Happy Birthday to Me (Having Some Cake & Bleating, Too)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHjeQcAXFSd2OtAyeJ3sJ3GcbwVeez7Q2-MZsTEgR9Fel7PDQkGdPiFda-XHWhuwB5jXy2npxM0ziknSu_X4oKYISO-Z5Ulz9JWgzui_YJptz22iofeO4CgpaKR1jhAopDv5RLw/s400/index82.jpg" title="" width="267" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was twenty years ago today that I uploaded a tentative few pages of what became <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/" target="_blank"><b>THE THRILLING DETECTIVE WEB SITE</b></a>, for a pal to see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That pal, Peter Walker, seemed to like it, so I invited a few more friends on Rara-Avis, the old hard-boiled list serv, to check it out. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Encouraged by their response, I scrambled to make it more presentable, and I officially released the site to the big bad world on April 1, 1998, trying (and inevitably failing) to keep up with the ever expanding world of private eye fiction -- past, present and future.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let me tell you, it's been one wild ride. A time-consuming monster that gobbles up every bit of time it can. And I've loved it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The site has changed my life in ways I never expected. In all sorts of ways. Personally. Professionally. Some good, some bad, some ugly. But mostly good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've discovered some great P.I. fiction and some great writers, been invited to speak at conferences, conventions and bookstores, and to contribute to blogs, web sites, books and magazines. I've made some great friends from all over the world (and a few enemies) and even met the love of my life in person, after crossing swords online with her for a few years. And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've been on radio and television, and cited in other peoples books. And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I even recently helped get a previously undiscovered Dashiell Hammett story into the proper hands. And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so it goes. There'll be some changes to the site coming up, but I have no idea what they'll be, exactly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It's mostly out of technical necessity. When I first started the site, it was a joke, a diversion, a non-boring way of practising html. Truth is, I hate coding. But I had a client waiting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I found a great little program from Adobe called PageMill. It was a simple, inexpensive WYSIWYG web and site management program that allowed even codaphobes like me to create simple, basic web pages. Most of those early practice pages, done two decades ago -- some of which still haven't been updated, even now -- don't even take advantage of CSS, and yet, they're still up. And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But of course, they're relatively few, because the site's been evolving constantly, as old entries become updated and new entries are created. Along the way, Adobe dropped PageMill, replacing it with a more sophisticated (and costlier) program called GoLive. Rather than recreating an entire web site, I just kept going, updating and creating pages with GoLive, learning to love style sheets. And the site kept growing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So I've been using GoLive for the last ten years or more. Oh, I've got the latest Adobe web site program, DreamWeaver (for which we pay the Adobe overlords dutifully every month), which replaced GoLive, and have even used it for a few clients.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But just between us?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">DreamWeaver is a nightmare; a feature-bloated, anti-intuitive, overly complicated nightmare with no discernible advantage over GoLive; a Hell App that even uber-geeks don't like, never mind us mere mortals. It offers bells and whistles when all I want is simplicity. I pretty much hate it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">GoLive seemed like a natural step up from PageMill; a progression that felt logical. Dreamweaver is from a whole other planet, junking a whole array of dependable, common sense features that its predecessor offered and imposing a huge learning curve that I still haven't mastered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But, to add insult to injury, there's no easy way to import my existing site into DreamWeaver. Which means every file must be imported separately and recreated in Dreamweaver. Stylesheets created in GoLive will have to be renamed and links will have to be re-checked. And I have a lot of links. And a lot of files (over 3000, last count). The best estimate is it would take weeks to import the site into Dreamweaver. And that's if I ignore almost everything else in my life. So, best scenario? Months and months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So just keep using GoLive, right? Except by January 2018, when Apple releases it's latest software update, GoLive will cease to function completely, and I'll have to use DreamWeaver (unless there's an alternative I can find). GoLive by now is an ancient program, already starting to sputter -- its beloved site management features becoming wonkier and wonkier, when they work at all.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I know, I know... why update, then? Because in this day and age, NOT updating would cause even more problems.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I don't know why Adobe's done this -- I've been a loyal customer for as long as I've had a computer, and love their other programs, following them through update after update. I love Photoshop and Illustrator and Acrobat and even learned to love InDesign, after working with Quark for fifteen years. Updates have been for the most part logical; with new features that made sense and opened up whole new vistas. But DreamWeaver?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ugh.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And what makes it worse is that, while there are a ton of spiffy programs, from open source to $$$$, that are allegedly great at CREATING new web sites, I haven't found one yet that's worth a spit at MANAGING a site that's already been created in another program.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So... any of you web monkeys out there have any suggestions?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Like I said, there'll be some changes to the site coming up, but I have no idea what they'll be. Stay tuned...</span>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-8223611459647068862017-10-16T03:32:00.000-07:002017-10-24T22:43:16.890-07:00Zero Avenue: Dietrich Pulls a Fast One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1770413650/thethrillindetec" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAmy-o1FIOa9agA2y6zBlXFNCKPbtOz-aEWJTeP0GeYX1hsmrUVajThQ7A7EqUGb8pNftMZKhfZjuUTp15BEozwFeeJ347qjKaarrr42O9RtfXl7fNFmjZs8Ayf2Nt3Jhr1ocWlg/s400/zero-1.jpg" title="" width="257" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">n the halycon days of pulp back in the thirties, Paul Cain, best known for a handful of hard, fast short stories that appeared in <i>Black Mask</i>, cranked out an equally jacked-up novel (his one and only) full of treachery and throbbing energy with the tell it like it is title<i> Fast One</i>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Fast</i> <i>One</i>? He wasn't kidding.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And now Vancouver crime writer <a href="http://dietrichkalteis.com/"><b>Dietrich Kalteis</b></a> has pulled a fast one of his own, that takes the fire and fury of early pulp and adds the magic ingredient we didn't even know was missing: punk rock!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1770413650/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Zero Avenue</a></i></b> </span></span>is a balls-to-the-wall last chance power drive through the turbulent 1970s punk scene of that fair c<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ity. By now, it should be no surprise that Dietrich can pull it off -- he's already spat out several turbo-charged standalones, including Ride the Lightning (a personal fave of mine), The Deadbeat Club and Triggerfish, and he's had almost fifty of his short stories published around the world.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But this<i><b> Zero Avenue</b></i> is something else again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I fucking loved it. It’s like the Ramones covering Elmore Leonard covering the Ramones; so hard, so fast and so funny I almost expected each brief blitzreig chapter to kick off with a 1-2-3-4! count out and end with a big fat drum roll and a crash of angry, buzzing power chords. (Coincidentally, one of Cain's short stories is called "One, Two, Three." Coincidence? I think not.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet it's not all bang-bang-bang-bang — like any truly great punk song, there’s melody tucked in there somewhere too, in the nuances of characterization, and the kind of sly wit that pervaded the early days of punk, before it became so po-faced (a lot of folks seem to forget how funny punk rock was, but Dietrich remembers).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Frankie Del Rey is a rocker with a heart of gold, or at least some sort of shiny metal; her guitar slung low like some hip-chick gunslinger. All she cares about is her music and her band, Waves of Nausea, and to that end she's slinging dope for -- and reluctantly "dating" a true and proper scumbag, club owner and drug dealer Marty Sayles, who's got his fingers in an awful lot of pies. He owns a couple of clubs, and several pot farms scattered around the area, including a grow patch and barn situated out in the boonies further south on Surrey, B.C's notorious Zero Avenue, which straddles a mostly unprotected and little watched stretch of the U.S./Canada border. Marty's crew uses the barn to process the drugs; and allows Frankie and her band to use it as a rehearsal spot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But it gets even more incestuous -- Johnny, who's taken a liking to Frankie, tends bar and runs Falco’s Nest, a struggling punk dive that Marty owns, while Frankie’s bass player, Arnie Binz, who sleeps in the Nest's backroom, comes up with a half-baked (literally) scheme to rip off Marty's unprotected grow patch, not taking into account Marty's psycho enforcer Zeke Chamas, or Marty's not-quite-right pot farmers Sticky and Tucker.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">They could all have so easily become jackhammer cartoons, but somehow Dietrich manages to imbue each one -- even the minor ones -- with just enough grit and wit to make them count. Not always an easy task when your cast features a bunch of punk rockers and other assorted dreamers and schemers: wannabe crimelords, bartenders, bouncers, bikers, skizzy moneymen and a couple of doofus drug dealers whose last functioning brain cells lit out for the territories years ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">And the setting! I was 3000 miles east, but everything Dietrich describes reads a lot like a postcard from the Montreal punk scene I flopped around in back in the day: the swirl of punks and metal heads and disco clowns fighting it out in dubious clubs, each seedier than the next; a ramshackle world of beer-sticky floors, pot smoke-filled johns and jury-rigged sound systems, always one police raid away from being boarded up, full of misfits and malcontents not quite sure what was happening, but aware something was happening. Dietrich gets it all right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I caught up with the man himself recently via the interwebs, and asked him how he did it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: yellow; font-size: large;"><b>Q: </b></span>Hey, Dietrich. It’s not like this is the first crime book to use the punk scene, but it’s the first I’ve read that gets it right. How involved were you in the Vancouver punk scene? Or were you?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I wasn’t in Vancouver at the time. I was living in Toronto in the late seventies, and I was aware of the punk scene there, as well as with what was going on in the U.S. and the U.K. Aside from D.O.A and The Subhumans I wasn’t familiar with much of the Vancouver sound until after I moved here in the early nineties. And I discovered more of the long-gone local punk bands once I started researching for the book.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">Q: </span></b>You’ve written five books now, all standalones. Ever thought of doing a series? Will we ever see Karl the bounty hunter turned process server from <i>Ride the Lightning</i> again?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I love a good series, and I have thought about it. I did borrow a minor character, Dara Addie, from my first novel <i>Ride the Lightning</i>, and made her a main character in <i>The Deadbeat Club</i>. That’s as close to a series as I’ve come. Usually by the time I get halfway through one novel, I’ve got a couple of ideas brewing for the next one. And so far there just hasn’t been anything that would play out as a series.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">Q: </span></b>What inspired <i>Zero Avenue</i>? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I liked punk’s rawness, anger and edge, and the way it threw a middle finger at the establishment. And Vancouver was this backwater place back then, a sharp contrast to what it is now. All of that just seemed to make the right setting for a crime story. And the late seventies were also a time before Google Earth, Google Maps and satellite imagery, back when pot fields were a lot easier to hide. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I knew some guys who tried to rip off a field back in the day and had rock salt shot at them. I always loved that story and wanted to include elements of it, although the way it plays out in Zero Avenue sure has a different outcome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Marty, the club owner, is a particularly odious weasel. Was he based on anyone in particular? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>No, he’s all fiction. Marty Sayles just unfolded into the kind of protagonist he needed to be to allow the conflict to grow. Along with madman Zeke Chamas and Tucker and Sticky, Marty and his crew were more than enough for Frankie and Johnny Falco to take on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>You also name-check various real-life characters and bands, like Joey Shithead of D.O.A. and Teenage Head. Were you concerned about weaving them into your story? Did you ask permission or just roll with it? How many did you catch?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I tossed in a few real-life characters to lend some realism to the story, just enough so I wouldn’t need to worry about getting permission. And how could I make the story sound authentic without at least mentioning a local legend like Joey? He was like the godfather of punk in these parts. And there are a few others that I wanted to pay tribute to with a mention. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Your characters seem to be folks from the fringe, or straights who fucked up. Or fuck-ups trying to go straight. They’re dealers or ex-cons or failed bounty hunters or brain-fried bozos — never captains of industry or movie stars or big shots, which really harkens back to classic noir and pulp. But they’re never really cartoons — do the characters shape the story, or does the story create the characters?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>It’s true, my characters are often marginal, folks from the fringe. At times I like them to be unwitting, just pulled into a situation they’re ill-equipped to handle. That can make them seem both believable and vulnerable, and perhaps less predictable. And these characters often bring some sense of levity in their thoughts, words and actions which creates a nice balance in a tense situation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the characters definitely shape the story. When I start writing a novel, I start with a scene which might be inspired by something I’ve heard, read in the paper, or seen on TV — ideas that get me thinking well, what if this happened … I drop in the kind of character I’d like to see handle the situation, and as the character takes shape, I let them roll with it and see what comes next. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Your style reminds me of a boiled-down, rawer Elmore Leonard, particularly in the way the dialogue and action moves. Which writers influenced you?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>Definitely Elmore. He was the master of character and dialog. And there was the early stuff by George V Higgins, another master of dialog. And I love anything by Don Winslow, James Crumley, Charles Willeford. And there’s Robert B. Parker, particularly his Jesse Stone series. And James Lee Burke, James Ellroy, Ed McBain, Robert Crais, Carl Hiaasen, and Canadian great Marc Strange. There are also many greats outside the genre: Hunter S. Thompson, Charles Bukowski, Jack Keroac, J.D. Salinger, John Steinbeck. Suffice to say, I’m inspired by what I consider great writing, those voices that resonate with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Hell, so many of the characters are so spot on, I’m beginning to wonder if any of your characters were based on real people. Personally, I think I dated Frankie, but it might have been her cousin from Montreal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>Sorry, Kevin, but Frankie is pure fiction. My characters are all made up and aren’t based on anybody I know. But I do like to observe people, the way they speak, their quirks and tics, and I often attribute some of these characteristics to my characters. Sort of mix'n'match.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>What do you listen to these days?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I listen to a wide range of music, from classic, to jazz, to folk, to blues, to rock — once in a while taking a stroll (or pogo) down memory lane and playing some old-school punk. If I had to narrow it down, I’d say Bob Dylan, Tom Waits, Neil Young, Johnny Cash and Leonard Cohen are my favorite songwriters. And I love to listen to anybody that can play like Hendrix, Miles Davis and Robert Johnson; or belt it out like Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin or Freddie Mercury.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Do you play music when you write? What were you listening to while writing ZERO AVENUE?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I always listen to music when I write. When I started writing full time I found distraction in the usual sounds of a household: kids, cats, dogs, ringing phones, dinging doorbells, trucks and sirens going by. So I played music through my headphones. At first I thought I would go mad, or at least I wouldn’t be able to write, but I got into the rhythm of whatever music I was listening to. It was a constant sound, and it had a way of blocking out the white noise. So, I kept doing it, picking music that went with the vibe of what I was writing. And for the nine months it took to write Zero Avenue, that’s what I listened to, punk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>If you had to compile a playlist for <i>Zero Avenue</i>, what ten songs would be on it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Sadly there are no tunes from Middle Finger or from Frankie’s band Waves of Nausea. Just Frankie’s lyrics at the front of the book: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Oh baby, got to find a new space</i><i>’cause everything’s shitty</i><i>and I’m feelin’ out of place</i><i>in this no fun city.</i></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If we’re talking strictly Vancouver songs from back in the day, I’d include “World War Three” and “Disco Sucks” by D.O.A, “Barbra” by The Modernettes, “Out of Luck” and “What do you want me to do?” by The Pointed Sticks, “Past is Past” by The Dishrags, “Hawaii” by The Young Canadians (formerly the K-Tels), and I can’t forget Vancouver classics like “Firing Squad” and “Fuck You” by the Subhumans. And let’s add one by Vancouver’s first punk band, the Furies, and their song “No Fun City.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If we stretch the playlistI’d add songs from Toronto bands: The Viletones, The Diodes, The Ugly and The Cardboard Brains. And why not throw in some by the major punk bands from around the globe who were around in the late seventies: The Clash, Ramones, Sex Pistols, Dead Kennedys, The Stooges, Black Flag, The Buzzcocks and so on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>Is punk dead? Who killed it? Who killed Bambi?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b>I’m not sure about Bambi, but when punk came along, there was a certain shock that came with it. Although its fanbase grew in various cities around the globe, punk was never well received in the mainstream. Major labels were reluctant to sign punk bands, radio stations wouldn’t play their music, and clubs wouldn’t book the acts. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When I first heard it, though, I immediately liked its edgy sound -- a welcome change to disco, but if truth be told, I thought it was a fad that would burn out fast. It turned out the only thing that died was that initial shock from when it started over forty years ago. Punk-laced bands like Rise Against, Bad Religion, Blink-182, Rancid and Green Day are still going strong. And it’s interesting to note that Johnny Rotten, Iggy Pop, Joey Shithead, Jello Biafra, Patti Smith and Mick Jones are still standing and still involved in making music. So, although punk’s changed over the years, it’s still kicking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;">Q: </b>What’s next?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b style="color: yellow;"><span style="font-size: large;">A: </span></b><i>Poughkeepsie Shuffle</i> is next and due out from ECW Press in June, 2018. The story takes place in Toronto in the mid-eighties and centers on Jeff Nichols, a guy just released from the infamous Don Jail. When he lands himself a job at a used-car lot, he finds himself mixed up in a smuggling ring bringing guns in from Upstate New York. Jeff’s a guy who’s willing to break a few rules on the road to riches, living by the motto “Why let the mistakes of the past get in the way of a good score in the future.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I also have a story called Bottom Dollar included in the upcoming <i><b>Vancouver Noir</b></i>, part of Akashic Books’ Noir Series, edited by Sam Wiebe.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">• • • • •</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You can visit Dietrich at <a href="http://dietrichkalteis.com/">dietrichkalteis.com</a> or at <a href="https://ecwpress.com/collections/vendors?q=Kalteis,%2520Dietrich">ECW Press</a>. He blogs regularly at <a href="http://dietrichkalteis.blogspot.ca/">Off the Cuff</a> and at <a href="http://7criminalminds.blogspot.ca/">7 Criminal Minds</a>, and he’s also on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/dietrich.kalteis/">Facebook</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/dietrichkalteis">Twitter</a>.</span><br />
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Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-37772355004048153442016-05-30T09:56:00.001-07:002016-05-30T11:03:18.807-07:00Tracing Skip Tracer (1977)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlcaJeGXF5aqwhJVdNGjuJ0c-wv5QatE6xlQkgxccp_lajYW5iKpTOLoujQKofXwhV1C-VEZFZSL1Xuuww0GFKY3ZWL7M-iSdzcz-M91h9yWxyil6gTDLKc5MADGxx2w6Atn1Bg/s1600/skiptracer_ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRlcaJeGXF5aqwhJVdNGjuJ0c-wv5QatE6xlQkgxccp_lajYW5iKpTOLoujQKofXwhV1C-VEZFZSL1Xuuww0GFKY3ZWL7M-iSdzcz-M91h9yWxyil6gTDLKc5MADGxx2w6Atn1Bg/s400/skiptracer_ad.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
Hey! Did I just dream this? Or did I really see this obscure bit of Canadian nastiness?<br />
<br />
It was a bleak, decidedly non-glamourous, low-budget character study released in 1977 that did zip and was (mostly) immediately forgotten, featuring a cast of unknowns and starring David Peterson (who?) as John Collins, a low-key, taciturn debt collector "hero" prowling the streets of a gloriously seedy Vancouver, hunting down deadbeats.<br />
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Make no mistake -- Collins is no goody two-shoes. In fact, he's a cold, heartless son of a bitch.<br />
<br />
Or maybe just an asshole, as a commenter on IMDB put it.<br />
<br />
But however you put it, it's that trait that has made him the top skip tracer for GSC, a Vancouver loan company.<br />
<br />
In the course of this fragmented and episodic little gem, Collins must deal with an ambitious young associate, viscious death threats, physical violence, and a suicidal debtor, not to mention severe job burnout. All this while vying for GSC's coveted "Man of the Year" award for an unprecedented fourth year in a row. And discovering that maybe, just maybe, he is human after all.<br />
<br />
Yeah, it sounds like a downer.<br />
<br />
And it is.<br />
<br />
But oh, what a downer.<br />
<br />
This is <i>noir</i> in its essence. No fedoras, no fancy lighting tricks, no smoke machines, no jaw-dropping camera work -- just a bleak, no-frills x-ray of a man's soul as he circles the drain.<br />
<br />
Despite it's obscurity (it did very little box office during its short theatrical release in Canada, and it aired maybe twice on British television back in the early eighties), it continues to rate highly among those lucky few who have seen it. Peterson's performance as Collins has been praised as being "wonderfully sustained," and the film itself has been compared to everything from <b>Across 110th Street</b> and <b>Superfly</b> to <b>On the Waterfront </b>and, of course,<b> Repo Man</b>, while Collins' obsession with tracking down and collecting from one elusive skip has been likened -- I shit thee not -- to Ahab's quest in <i><b>Moby Dick</b></i>. Me? For some reason it reminded me of <b>Drive</b>, that Ryan Gosling flick from a few years ago, based on the James Sallis' book.<br />
<br />
But whatever, <b>Skip Tracer</b>'s got a pretty good rep for a cheap little flick that hardly anyone saw.<br />
<br />
It's too bad it's not available on DVD. I saw it years and years ago on VHS, rented from some hole-in-the-wall Montreal video store back in the mid-eighties that seemed to have a lot of videos of dubious provenance. Yet it's haunted me ever since.<br />
<br />
Was it as cheap-looking as I remember it? Was it as unapologetically morose and bleak? As creepy and unsettling? I'm almost afraid to find out, but I'd really love to know.<br />
<br />
Alas, as far as anyone can tell, the film was never released on DVD or Blu-Ray. And of course, it never occurred to me, when I was updating this entry on <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/collins_j.html" target="_blank"><b>Thrilling Detective</b></a>, that it might be on YouTube.<br />
<br />
Turns out <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_oOXRwv-eFE&ab_channel=ClassicCanuckCinema2" target="_blank"><b>it is</b></a>. Now to see how much I've misremembered...Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-25698890218484699832016-05-23T09:24:00.001-07:002016-05-23T09:24:46.647-07:00Don't Call It a Bargain!You see 'em everywhere online.<br />
<br />
These big, dirt cheap e-compilations of novels and short stories by some of the better known (but not A-list) authors of the genre. Twenty-Five Hard-Boiled Classics, Volume Eight! The Amazing Sherlock Holmes and Watson Megapack! Gritty Crime from the Pulps, Collection 15! Five More Great Awesome and Amazing Crime Novels by Whomever!<br />
<br />
Stories or complete novels by some really great and/or popular P.I. writers. William Campbell Gault, Thomas B. Dewey, Robert Leslie Bellem, Stewart Sterling, Spencer Dean, John Carroll Daly, George Harmon Coxe, Norbert Davis, Raoul Whitfield and the like.<br />
<br />
Some of the writers in these books are personal favourites; some are of historical interest; some are just fun to read. But what they do all have in common is that the authors (or more importantly their copyrights) are all dead.<br />
<br />
Which means some publisher can grab a bunch of stories and squirt out an ebook without ever having to pay any of the writers a cent.
Amazon and the other online enablers are littered with these things, generally selling them for as little as 99 cents.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I know the price is right, but I’m not a fan.<br />
<br />
There are some publishers who do reprints right: they offer class, not crass. They edit, they commission artwork, they introduce new and relevant material into the mix. They treat the material with respect. They curate. They care. They actually edit. Outfits like <b>Hard Case Crime</b>, <b>Stark House</b>, <b>Crippen & Landru</b> -- they do it right. (And let's have a moment of silence for the late, great <b>Rue Morgue</b>, who rescued so many classics from obscurity. Tom and Enid? Thank you. Particularly for the Norbert Davis stuff).<br />
<br />
Mind you, all of these publishers charged more than 99 cents a book. But their books were worth it. Well worth it.<br />
<br />
These cheesy public domain hit-and-run e-compilations, though? At 99 cents, they can ship an awful lot of units, without ever having to pay anyone a damn cent. At 99 cents, you might even call it a steal.<br />
<br />
But I think they devalue, if not outright disrespect, the act of writing and creativity, and lower the reader’s expectations of what writing is truly worth.
It may look like a boon to non-discerning readers, but in the long run it hurts both writers and readers.<br />
<br />
Or at least the ones who can tell the difference between shit and Shinola. Believe it or not, there are still some of us out here. Even in the era of La Donald.<br />
<br />
But beyond the dubious ethics, if not legality, of these books, these quickie cyber-turds are poorly curated (if at all), often lack any thematic or editorial cohesion, generally sport lousy generic covers, and are often riddled with typographical and formatting errors. So we're not exactly talking quality control here. I also doubt any effort is made to share the profits with or obtain the cooperation of the estates of any of the now deceased authors.
And often they mix in stories by their own “authors” to make it look like they’re in the same league; another rather dubious tactic.<br />
<br />
Erle Stanley Gardner. Joe Phlegminski, Jr.. William Campbell Gault. Which of these things is not like the others?<br />
<br />
Anyway...<br />
<br />
What prompted this? A reader of my site recently contacted me, asking me to explain a story by Thomas B. Dewey that he'd just read in one of these collections. He complained that it just didn't make any sense.<br />
<br />
Now, Dewey's one of those P.I. writers I really like, and his plots are generally well-constructed, with all the loose ends neatly tied up; solid, dependable fare that's always a bit more clever and insightful than you expect. I know this because I’ve read a lot of his stuff over the last few years, in preparation for that book I’m working on.<br />
<br />
But I hadn't read that specific story in decades.
So I told him it’s possible it didn’t make sense because the publisher had inadvertently left out part of the story. I’ve seen this happen before with these sort of collections. The publisher grabs (or scans) a bunch of old stories and slaps ‘em together for a quick buck, without any real editing.<br />
<br />
In fact, this particular publisher apparently expects typos and errors, because when I checked out the free sample, I noticed that they apologize for typos right on their copyright pages.
Think about that. What sort of legit publisher apologizes in advance for errors? "Don't worry about them," they say, in essence, "We'll probably fix 'em with the next upload."<br />
<br />
But these bottom feeders can’t just lay it off on poorly scanned source material (assuming they actually scanned the original material -- I suspect many of these clowns simply rip off their fellow e-scavengers. Besides, looking at the copyright page, it was clear they’re fully capable of introducing plenty of their own errors. So if they don't even bother to edit their own material, should we really expect them to be any more conscientious with other people's work? Especially if those authors have already shuffled off this mortal coil?<br />
<br />
And if they can't be bothered to treat their authors right, what do you think they'll care about treating you right?<br />
<br />
So it’s not exactly a stretch to believe the "publisher" may have lost a few paragraphs along the way. Ooops.<br />
<br />
So, yeah, the price may be right, but as both a reader and a writer, I just think these guys are all wrong.Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-29774050911941930292014-11-18T14:25:00.003-08:002014-11-18T14:28:30.339-08:00Bouchercon 2014: Never Can Say Goodbye, No No No...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEDOH1SQOMzYsFK7ORDx4h2w6YJn7X7e1drzh0b_N1rmn8ihhav0boBXoIaoZ0MU0V9oMYQIzvIexchDjLoSkkueIb-WDxqqO3hMS5lDGdYHQlDs8xyus6myZDpoRx0YVcs6-Lg/s1600/bcon03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEEDOH1SQOMzYsFK7ORDx4h2w6YJn7X7e1drzh0b_N1rmn8ihhav0boBXoIaoZ0MU0V9oMYQIzvIexchDjLoSkkueIb-WDxqqO3hMS5lDGdYHQlDs8xyus6myZDpoRx0YVcs6-Lg/s1600/bcon03.jpg" height="400" width="385" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out time at the Are You Okay? Corral. From left: Roger, Mike, me, Ali and Diane. Just when we thought we'd get out, Ali pulls us back in.</td></tr>
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Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-62581592378872297322014-11-18T14:21:00.000-08:002014-11-18T14:27:41.044-08:00Bouchercon 2014: it’s said that they got off with quite a haul...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the haul, a combination of book bag loot and multiple visits to the Dealer's Room. Can you guess which are mine and which are Diane's? I'll spot you one: I am giddy with the ARC of Laura Lippman's new one.</td></tr>
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<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-30628539734937620242014-11-18T13:54:00.001-08:002014-12-16T00:35:28.969-08:00Bouchercon 2014: There Are Faces I'll Remember<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Top row: Mike, Ali. Second Row: Rob, me, Jeff, Jodi, Scott, Roger, Tanis. Third Row: Diane, Jodi, Linda, Heather, Connie</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
... and there were no survivors.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or at least that's how it feels from this desk. There are so many faces and names, so many memories, thoughts, events both large and small still being sorted and sifted that it feels like Diane and I were away for months, not a few days.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was a big deal for us. We hadn't been to a Bouchercon together since Wisconsin (I'd done a few quickie hit and runs to Bouchercon in San Francisco and Left Coast Crime in LA; she'd been to a few Malice Domestics), and we both felt it was high time to reconnect with the mystery community; to sniff the air and test the waters. Mr. and Mrs. Detective stepping back into the ring.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, we also had ulterior motives. I was anxious to see if <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/" target="_blank"><b>Thrilling Detective</b></a> still mattered to anyone but me; Diane wanted to relight the pilot light under her pen name of <a href="http://www.dianakillian.com/" target="_blank"><b>Diana Killian</b></a> (aka "<b><a href="http://www.girl-detective.com/" target="_blank">The Girl Detective</a>;</b>" aka "<b>D.L. Browne</b>") with which she'd written eight or so mysteries. We've been awful busy over the last few years on life and other projects (some classified; some about to be announced) but we wanted to get back to where we once belonged.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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But mostly we wanted some time together that involved more than the two of us passing by the coffee machine, sleep drunk, on the way to our computers. To reconnect with old friends and to make new ones. And each other.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
We succeeded.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Bouchercon 2014</b> was a riot. A head-spinning kaleidoscope of fictional murder and mayhem; of quick chats and long discussions, warm hugs and cold beverages; an orgy of books and words and the rush of knowing, for a few days anyway, that we were surrounded by people who were as passionate and obsessive (or flat out mentally unstable) about crime fiction as we are. As <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ali.karim.56679" target="_blank"><b>Ali Karim</b></a> put it, after a particularly passionate discourse on the bleak, nihilistic philosophical underpinnings of HBO's <b>True Detective</b>, "If you talked about all this fuckin' biff anywhere else, we'd all be arrested."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like I said, it's all still being processed, but here are a few thoughts and memories. Scrambled, with a dash of pepper.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The panels and official whoop-ti-doos were fine, but by far the best time was the time spent in conversations, over drinks, at meals or just standing in the hall ways getting in the way of everyone else. Let's face it -- that's really what Bouchercon does best. And why it's so important to have a decent bar open from about midday and easily accessible to all attendees. One that offers not just booze but good coffee and other non-alcoholic beverages for the four attendees who don't drink, light meals and snacks, and plenty of seating. Woe to any Bouchercon organizing committee who thinks they can skip this step. Remember the notorious shoe store-turned- bar in Vegas, which, when it was open (which, rumour has it, it was occasionally), had all the charm and conviviality of, well, a shoe store?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But man, reconnecting with friends, getting -- in some cases -- the first chance to really talk with people I've "known" on the internet for years? That was the main deal, right there.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
There are tons of folks it was a delight to hook up with -- once again or for the first time. I know I'm gonna screw this up and leave out someone really important to me, but man, what a show. What great people!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But then, like almost everything that matters, it's always, when you get right down to it, about people. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
That crazy Canadian Content Wednesday night with <a href="http://houseofcrimeandmystery.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Jacques Filippi</b></a> (Cowansville!) and <b><a href="http://johnmcfetridge.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">John McFetridge</a></b> (my eternal homie, connecting at not just the Canadian and Montreal level, but right down to the sub-nuclear, Greenfield Park level), meeting <a href="http://detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Peter Rozovsky</b></a> (Montreal!) of <i>Detectives Beyond Borders</i>, Thrilling Detective contributor <a href="http://scottadlerberg.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Scott Adlerberg</b></a>, <b>Tanis Mallow</b> (Ontario!) and <a href="http://www.carabrookins.com/" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">Cara Brookins</a> (winner of The Best-Dressed Grease Monkey Award five years in a row).<b> </b>Even<b> Sara Henry</b> (honourary Canadian outta Vermont) dropped by. And wouldn't you know it? We all ended up talking at one point about hockey.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Americans worried about some covert Canuck takeover need not worry, though... <a href="http://www.sarahweinman.com/" target="_blank"><b>President Weinman</b></a> will explain it all.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Or how about Thursday night, meeting my panelists<b> <a href="http://www.rexburns.com/" target="_blank">Rex Burns</a></b>, <b><a href="http://www.thomasbsawyer.com/" target="_blank">Thomas Sawyer</a> </b>and<b> <a href="http://www.cathistoler.com/" target="_blank">Cathi Stoler</a></b> (who, it turns out, is the right Cathi) to prep for our early the next morning panel, as well as <a href="http://www.kathybennett.com/" target="_blank"><b>Kathy Bennett</b></a>, the temporarily wrong Kathy, former LAPD cop turned writer, who turned out to be just right (Honest, Kathy, I was on my way back!). And then being bumped at the bar by my old pal<b> Terrill Lee Lankford</b>, asking me to scoot down a little so some guy called <b>Michael Connelly</b> could sign some books. Meeting the <b>Legendary Lisa</b>, the events manager from the Barnes and Noble at The Grove. In Palmdale we consider ourselves lucky to get self-published local wingnut slogging poetry or a self-help manual; Lisa had not only had Connelly sign so often there they were friends, but she had Jimmy Page there signing HIS book the other night. THE Jimmy Page!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In Palmdale, we're apt to land the replacement drummer for a Motley Crue cover band selling a cookbook for sushi.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Friday night was the <b>Shamus Awards Dinner</b> put on by the <a href="http://www.privateeyewriters.com/" target="_blank"><b>Private Eye Writers of America</b></a>, where Diane and I ended up at what they should have called the press table. Sitting with <a href="http://therapsheet.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Jeff Pierce</b></a> of<i> January Magazine</i> and <i>The Rap Sheet</i>, <b>Ali Karin</b> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/michael.stotter.5" target="_blank"><b>Mike Stotter</b></a> of<i> Shots</i>, and <a href="http://detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Peter Kozovsky</b></a> of <i>Detectives Beyond Borders</i>. Just an awesome night. Back at the bar, Diane and I met old <i>Wicked Company</i> buddies <a href="http://www.richardhelms.net/" target="_blank"><b>Rick (and Elaine) Helms</b></a> and <a href="http://www.jackbludis.com/" target="_blank"><b>Jack Bludis</b></a>, and then later, a rematch with Ali, Mike and Jeff, where we were joined by January Mag founder (and freshly-minted poker hustler) <a href="http://www.lindalrichards.com/" target="_blank"><b>Linda Richard</b>s</a>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And oh the hit-and-runs! Knowing nods and bursts of chatter. <b>Jan Long</b> (aka "Steve Hamilton"); running into (and then losing again) <b>Em Bronstein</b>; comparing hair styling tips with <a href="http://www.reedcoleman.com/" target="_blank"><b>Reed Farrell Coleman</b></a>; and questioning the peculiar American dislike for rodent-mentioning titles with <a href="http://www.ianhamiltonbooks.com/" target="_blank"><b>Ian Hamilton</b></a>. Chatting about the Great Lost White Whales of crime fic with <a href="http://statelyhuangmanor.com/" target="_blank"><b>Jim Huang</b></a> and <b>Austin Lugar</b>. Hooking up and talking software (I kid you not) with crime author<b> <a href="http://robbrunet.com/" target="_blank">Rob Brunet</a></b> (Toronto via Ottawa and Montreal). <a href="http://www.leechild.com/" target="_blank"><b>Maggie Griffin</b></a>, publicist to the stars, and some guy she was with called <a href="http://www.leechild.com/" target="_blank"><b>Child</b></a>. <a href="http://www.gdphillips.com/" target="_blank"><b>Gary Phillips</b></a>, whose voice can still manage to shake a building shake like it's 1977 and it's half an hour to closing at the disco... and somebody just turned the bass way way up. <a href="http://maxallancollins.com/" target="_blank"><b>Max Allan Collins</b></a>, writer, director, musician, collector, fountain of knowledge, uber-fan and my crime convention go-to since 1992, when I first embarrassed myself in front of an author, gushing about how much I loved their stuff. And speaking of stuff, then there were the Mysterious Boys, <b>Richard Brewer</b> and <b>Bobby McCue.</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Not that I've become cool and jaded, mind you. There were still plenty of other times I know I embarrassed myself this time out, gushing without even actually explaining what I the hell was talking about. <b>David Morrell</b> and <b>Jason Pinter</b> are probably still scratching their heads. And possibly considering hiring some personal security for their next convention.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I also got to see some of my old <b>DAPA-Em</b> buddies! <a href="http://titanbooks.com/McGinnis" target="_blank"><b>Art Scott</b></a>, whom I spotted before we'd even checked in, and has an awesome new book on cover artist Robert McGinnis. The two Teds, <b>Ted Fitzgerald</b> and <b>Ted Hertel</b>. <a href="http://www.themysteryplace.com/" target="_blank"><b>Steve Steinbock</b></a>. Also spotted<b> Marvelous Marv Lachman</b>, but couldn't nail him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then there were the panels. The most rollicking one by far was the<b> LA Noir at the Bar</b> group reading, a high-energy tag team of mostly great writing; marred only by a few too many juvenile -- but well-written -- attempts at shock-and-awe. Granted, with only 60 seconds to read, context was mostly tossed aside, but is the overuse of the word "Fuck" and the lovingly detailed descriptions of dripping viscera really the essence of noir? As the Divine<b> <a href="http://www.christafaust.com/" target="_blank">Ms. Christa Faust</a></b> put it as she wrapped up her own excellent (and far from genteel) little snippet, "Is that the best you can do?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The difference, gentlemen, is writing.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<b>The Forgotten Pulp Writers of the Pulp & Paperback Era</b> was another great panel, moderated by <a href="http://detectivesbeyondborders.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><b>Peter</b></a>, featuring <b>Gary</b>, <b>Max</b>, <b>Charles Kelly,</b> <b>Sarah "I do all my own stunts") Weinman</b> and <b>Sara Henry</b>, scratching just the surface of overlooked, obscure or forgotten writers. Anyone in the audience whose want list didn't grow by a few sizes after that one shouldn't have been there at all.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But by far the greatest, most amazing time happened after the conference was over. Diane and I stuck around, used the hotel pool, had a nice quiet lunch, figured we'd drive home Monday. Ran into Ali that afternoon sneaking out for a smoke. He invited us to dinner with "four or five" other people. At Gladstome's, the scene of the crime for the Shamus Awards a few nights earlier. But by the time we got there, the four of five had grown a little. We ended up back in the private room where the Shamuses themselves had taken place -- there was no room for us anywhere else.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was a wonderful evening, a fantastic meal, a booze-prompted (but not booze-fueled) panel round table about books, literacy, rock'n'roll, technology, writing, Robert Parker, publishing and passions, moderated by an equally booze-prompted Ali. Perhaps all Bouchercon panels should be held in bars. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It truly was a magical evening, starring <b>Ali</b> (aka "The Hardest Working Man in the Crime Biz") and co-starring <b>Diana Killian</b>, <b><a href="http://www.theoriginalheathergraham.com/" target="_blank">Heather Graham</a></b>, <b>Linda S. Richards</b>, <b>Jeff and Jodi Pierce</b>, <b>Mike Stotter</b>, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/rjellory" target="_blank"><b>R.J. Ellory</b></a>, <b>Tanis Mallow</b>, <b>Peter Rozovsky</b>, <b>Rob Brunet</b>, <b>Connie</b> and fellow bookseller <a href="https://www.facebook.com/scott.montgomery.58" target="_blank"><b>Scott Montgomery</b></a>. Look at the grins plastered across those mugs at that picture up there.<br />
<br />
Man, those people.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
In my life, I'll love them all.</div>
Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-55786987117319497242014-11-08T14:55:00.001-08:002014-11-08T14:55:57.855-08:00Location, Location, Location: Bouchercon 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh0JtHxKi68-PrO3Xgv3yIU0jzV7FyJOjivC6ZFIXZe4xiL3Nz2i6jc1ClGgmjoQHLSt7QlheVs56j5m77RBDcOtcf7ok0QdupAF-RYq2KQYWfqclCZSKDtx00vktXLJ_M_esKQ/s1600/cover71.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh0JtHxKi68-PrO3Xgv3yIU0jzV7FyJOjivC6ZFIXZe4xiL3Nz2i6jc1ClGgmjoQHLSt7QlheVs56j5m77RBDcOtcf7ok0QdupAF-RYq2KQYWfqclCZSKDtx00vktXLJ_M_esKQ/s1600/cover71.jpg" height="640" width="412" /></a></div>
<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-10120952901382718292014-11-08T10:49:00.002-08:002014-11-08T10:52:52.089-08:00Noir at the Bar: Bouchercon 2014<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-5930249507698027772014-02-27T09:31:00.001-08:002014-02-27T09:43:12.484-08:00William S, Burroughs, Private Eye<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhjX64clHf2BFjFezkvYmoJI7j9nQJrWzy862U4oIktU-2FasTYALRVrauseWPsQBt7DNFZyqJVum0-UPpfjZ_e3VhgrrlFUFHSUocEH6WOuyyrO51VJIfdwIV5ArP_MfdS3wiA/s1600/burroughs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdhjX64clHf2BFjFezkvYmoJI7j9nQJrWzy862U4oIktU-2FasTYALRVrauseWPsQBt7DNFZyqJVum0-UPpfjZ_e3VhgrrlFUFHSUocEH6WOuyyrO51VJIfdwIV5ArP_MfdS3wiA/s1600/burroughs.jpg" height="320" width="164" /></a></div>
<div>
Sure.</div>
<div>
The Dapper Daddy of the Beats.</div>
<div>
Spat out wisecrackery prose like Raymond Chandler's Phillip Marlowe on a speed jag, all clipped and terse and hard as nails, but going further -- way way further -- in his imagery than Mr. "Tarantula on a Slice of Angel Food Cake" ever dreamed of, using words Gentleman Phil would never utter.</div>
<div>
Especially in front of a lady.</div>
<div>
But the influence was there.</div>
<div>
From the age of eight or so, when little Willie began writing his earliest fiction safe in the confines of stately Burroughs Manor, his little stories were all in the adventure and crime vein. And throughout his life he remained a fan of hard-boiled detective fiction, keeping book by Hammett, Chandler <i>et al</i> in his library, sharing them with his Beat buddies like Kerouac and Ginsberg. He even worked detectives into his fiction. One of his most enduring characters, <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/more_eyes/clem_snide.html" target="_blank"><b>Clem Snide</b></a>, who appeared in several of his books and stories including <b><i>Naked Lunch</i></b> (1959), <b><i>The Soft Machine</i></b> (1961) and perhaps most notably <b><i>Cities of the Red Night</i></b> (1981), <i>was</i> a private eye.</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"The name is Clem Snide -- I'm a Private Ass Hole -- I will take on any job any identity any body -- I will do anything difficult dangerous or downright dirty for a price..."</i></div>
</div>
<div>
But -- hold your horses -- Burroughs went beyond writing about gumshoes. He actually <i>became</i> one.</div>
<div>
I kid you not.</div>
<div>
<div>
Burroughs was born into a wealthy St. Louis family, and was given a generous allowance for most of his life. But he also worked a wide variety of jobs before he eventually turned to writing.</div>
<div>
He was rejected for service during World War II, but before, during and after the war, he was a bartender, a reporter, an advertising copywriter, an exterminator and briefly -- get this -- a private detective.</div>
<div>
In 1944 he applied for a job Merit Protection Services of Chicago (offices were at 612 North Michigan). He was hired to do security work for stores, verifying the honesty of employees, and was dispatched to work the Iowa and Ohio area with the rest of his team (two women and a male supervisor.) </div>
<div>
Their would try to catch suspicious cashiers stealing from the till, using the women on his team to pose as customers, and then swooping in verify the drawer tallied up. It wasn't exactly mean streets stuff -- he didn't carry a gun. He didn't become any more tarnished than he already was, nor was it's likely he was ever afraid.</div>
<div>
The problem was that he soon grew bored with the work, He quit after three months.</div>
<div>
But twenty years later he savaged his former co-workers in<i> Nova Express</i> (1964), where he dismissed his boss as a badge-carrying Fascist and his two female workers as "cunts."</div>
<div>
A class act all the way, this father of the Beats.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>SUGGESTED READING</b></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0312278462/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Cities of the Night</a> (1981; by William S. Burroughs)</div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00CO7FMO6/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Call Me Burroughs: A Life</a> (2014; by Miles Barry)</div>
Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-28552359765369045742013-03-17T12:36:00.001-07:002013-03-17T12:38:44.002-07:00Kreegah! Kevin Bundolo! (or "John Carter: The Post-Mortem")<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXQCrtArsac5BRzjgAUAgrGi7OX_qNZaNM9bypW2IB1KFGslMUvFIREwQheoFaBi7RRhKBYuvio4E7s5W-AWELtHB7lTwi-TlLTTY34cyKPkzaAAsu6ojm5Rnb4z9-jBzhm_plw/s1600/gods_of_hollywood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPXQCrtArsac5BRzjgAUAgrGi7OX_qNZaNM9bypW2IB1KFGslMUvFIREwQheoFaBi7RRhKBYuvio4E7s5W-AWELtHB7lTwi-TlLTTY34cyKPkzaAAsu6ojm5Rnb4z9-jBzhm_plw/s1600/gods_of_hollywood.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">True confessions. I grew up on Edgar Rice Burroughs. <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1435134478/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Tarzan of the Apes</a></i></b>, just then re-released in paperback, was the gateway drug. But soon I was enthralled by all of Burroughs' universe, both the steady stream of reprints that started appearing everywhere (Ace and Ballantine must have kept the presses running 24/7 for a few years -- there seemed to be new Burroughs reprints every month), and DC Comics' masterful adaptations that started filling the spinner racks at local newstands, particularly Joe Kubert's raw, visceral version of the Ape Man. Weird words and place names soon began to pepper my vocabulary (Barsoom, kreegah, Pellucidar, tarmangani, Opar, etc.), as a steady stream of Burroughs pulp began to fill my pre-adolescent brain,competing for space with a swelling interest in girls. For a few years, my dreams were as much about Carson of Venus, the Mucker, John Carter of Mars, Tarzan, Korak and all the other manly men of adventure and derring-do as it was about Susan in History, Diane in English, or Pam in art. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, in the end, the girls won, but then they always do. And to tell the truth, a steady diet of Burroughs for a few years eventually wears thin, and that adolescent rush of fantasy quietly slipped into its cave.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But it emerged periodically, that heady mix of awe and discovery, of heroes and perfectly realized new worlds to discover, mostly unleashed by film: the first <b>Star Wars</b>, <b>Bladerunner</b>, the first <b>Alien</b>, the occasional Stephen King novel, <b><i>Lord of the Rings</i></b>, Justin Cronin's <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0345528174/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Passage</a></i></b>. The whole sparkly vampire thing didn't do it, and I thought Avatar was lunkheaded and self-conscious, high-minded silliness and self-indulgent ego wrapped up in the Emperor's new 3D clothes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last year's <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B005LAIH2W/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">JOHN CARTER</a></b> from Disney brought me right back. It was a hoot. It might not have always been faithful to the text, but the magic was. It wasn't as awe-inspiring as <b>A New Hope</b>, perhaps, and I could have done without the cutie-pie dog beast (although from a marketing standpoint it makes sense -- after all, R2D2 was cute too), but there was enough rousing action, imaginative artistry and oh-my-god-is-that-cool! moments to keep both my the Girl Detective and I mesmerized -- with ot without 3D. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The "critics" hated it. Well, not real critics, for the most part, who were mixed about it, but those bandwagon jumpers who think they're critics simply because they have a blog or Twitter account and an over-developed sense of snark. The same high-minded critics who drool regularly all over such sub-par but superbly hyped flicks as <b>Sin City</b> and <b>The Avengers</b>. No, <b>John Carter</b> wasn't perfect, but the vitriol unleashed against it -- even before it was released -- via Twitter and the blogosphere and in second rate "review" sites all over the web was spectacular. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was like a concerted effort to destroy the film. Bad press piled upon bad press. Almost every "review" I read rushed to mention how much it cost , how much it was losing and how poorly it did on its opening weekend. It was like a sports analyst describing a hockey game by reading only the final score.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean, really. "Taylor Kitsch is no Mark Hammil"? Is that the best you can do, kid?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In his new book, <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0615682316/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">John Carter and The Gods of Hollywoods</a></i></b>, film makmer Michael Sellers contends that yes, there was indeed a conspiracy to destroy this film, and most of the damage was done long before most of the Blogosphere Sheep got their bleats in. Not so subtly subtitled "The True Story of What Went Wrong With Disney's John Carter and Why Edgar Rice Burroughs Original Superhero Isn't Dead Yet," it's a sobering tale told by an insider of corporate stupidity, inept marketing, studio politics and petty rivals and jealousies, and an angry indictment of all that's wrong, not just about Disney, but Hollywood (and corporate America) itself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For those of you who defied the Snark Week Attacks and the Gods of Hollywood and saw the film anyway, and enjoyed it (or even if you didn't), this is still a fascinating and intriguing look at the inner workings (or non-workings) of Hollywood's Dream Factory. And for Burroughs' fans, it's worth it just to bear witness to the long, sad march to the screen of a much-beloved book written over a century ago. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It will leave you wondering not why Hollywood makes so many God-awful movies but how they ever manage to make any good ones. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>A version of this post appeared originally on <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/books_of_interest.html" target="_blank"><b>Books of Interest and Other Stuff...</b></a></i></span>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-6470742596490503122013-03-12T12:53:00.004-07:002013-03-12T12:53:57.716-07:00I'm Just Drawn This Way<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00AO686MY/thethrillindetec" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdovrK83dmaz8RkzrQPHTnEOTVoN-kjNzFjCi5hsD6v3DqAJXSk2pOixw03Q-hlizBoADMCBnkpPjKU4cbjuddz73JI6YhVwc5nJ6ulKkJMFoa5eJnoz-Apu4lOnEHD2DkqrpFYA/s320/roger_rabbit.jpg" width="218" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today marks the release of the <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B00AO686MY/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Who Framed Roger Rabbit 25th Anniversary Special Edition</a></b> in a spiffy Blu-Ray Combo Pack, loaded with the usual orgy of back-up features most of us will never watch. But the re-release of the movie?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That really excites me, for some reason.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And it's not just because it's an excuse to see Jessica Rabbit strut her stuff again. Hell, like most people, I don't even have a Blu-Ray player.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Although the notion of seeing Jessica in even higher resolution is certainly tempting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But hey, <b>Who Framed Roger Rabbit</b> has a lot more going for it than just ome babe in a red sequinned dress. It was thoroughly entertaining film in oh so many ways. I loved it when it came out, and I still love it. And so do a lot of other people.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back before almost every film was a SFX-driven cartoon, from high-faluting stuff like <b>The Life of Pi</b> to kiddle pulp like <b>The Avengers</b> and <b>Transformers XXIII</b>, <b>Who Framed Roger Rabbit</b> was something truly unique. It blended animation and live action in a spectacular, almost unheard of fashion, with effects that were actually special. And the film charmed almost everyone: kids, parents, grandparents, classic cartoon buffs, fanboys and even private eye fans.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you don't like this film, you're just a poopy pants.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Released in 1988, it starred Bob Hoskins as Eddie, your typical rough-around-the-edges Hollywood dick, and featured the voice of Charles Fleischer as Roger Rabbit. Also along for the ride was Christopher Lloyd, Kathleen Turner (as the afore-mentioned Jessica) and an animated cast of thousands, in a story about greed, corruption, lust, betrayal and dropping pianos on people's heads. It was like <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/gittes.html#anchor1813228" target="_blank">Chinatown</a></b> on acid. It was a huge critical and commercial hit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And rarely has a film so completely overshadowed its source material. While Gary Wolf's 1981 novel <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B003CIOQ3O/thethrillindetec" target="_blank"><b><i>Who Censored Roger Rabbit</i></b></a> had its moments, it was clunky, inconsistent and hard to envision, the audacious concept of a world populated by both humans and toons (who speak in word balloons) too slippery to really get a grip on.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the film smashes right through those limitations by showing, not telling. Though Wolf's vision was certainly original and audacious, it took the big buck clout of the producers (Speilberg! Disney!) and the then state-of-the-art magic of Hollywood to make it all come true.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Director Robert Zemeckis managed to streamline Wolf's vision, getting rid of those annoying word balloons (too gimmicky and distracting by half) replacing them, in an inspired bit of big name clout, with the ultimate collection of classic cartoon characters from a slew of studios (including Disney, Warner Bros., MGM, Fleischer and Universal).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They're all here: Betty Boop, Woody Woodpecker, Droopy Dog, and all the rest. Imagine! Mickey and Bugs Bunny together in the same scene! Daffy Duck and Donald Duck quacking away indecipherably, playing a piano duet that rapidly escalates into an arms race. Droopy manning an elevator! A tired, over-the-hill Betty Boop serving up drinks. For anyone who grew up watching cartoons, it's pure heaven to see all these old favourites again. The impetus for the Cartoon Network started there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And the original toons are just as good. Roger is one stuttering, sputtering, hyperactive, accident-prone bunny. His co-star in cartoons is pint-sized, diaper-wearing, foul-mouthed, cigar-chomping Baby Herman. And of course the anatomically over-correct Jessica Rabbit certainly raised a few, uh, eyebrows. She should be ridiculous, but she's possibly the sexiest woman ever to (almost) spill out of a dress. You know that cliche about legs up to here? Hers go further. Possibly as far as Cucamonga.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And boy, do they all these characters look good. As Leonard Maltin, a film critic who knows his toons, pointed out at the time, this is an "incredible blend of live-action and animation" that allows us to "believe that Roger and his cartoon colleagues actually exist."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I believed. Still do. And for a couple of hours maybe you will, too. Watch it with your kids.</span>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-55451981263846308732013-03-10T14:06:00.000-07:002013-03-10T14:13:11.122-07:00I Been Blurbed!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY19jL64f721CbgXYx7KxuxYI7ks2ugE-DfqzwXlu7CRLQOZ5h4pPhcrKcZ1pi7IMT_83TFr9br8xNBaGOq1EGVtdH6cc407IeObryxeLqGI3pZgNTqGQ59n4yq5Xy9thQF3lq9A/s1600/ricochet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY19jL64f721CbgXYx7KxuxYI7ks2ugE-DfqzwXlu7CRLQOZ5h4pPhcrKcZ1pi7IMT_83TFr9br8xNBaGOq1EGVtdH6cc407IeObryxeLqGI3pZgNTqGQ59n4yq5Xy9thQF3lq9A/s1600/ricochet.jpg" title="Backcover ad for upcoming Maisonneuve Magazine." /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">According to Simon Dardick, head honcho over at Véhicule Press, the ad above'll be running as the back cover of the upcoming issue of </span><a href="http://maisonneuve.org/" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><b><i>Maisonneuve Magazine</i></b></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, the Montreal quarterly that covers arts, politics, ideas and "anything else eclectic and curious." He pulled the quote from my intro to the reprint of </span><b style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1550652907/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">The Body on Mont-Royal</a></i></b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> by David Montrose. I'll have to get one of my kids to pick up a copy or two, since chances of Palmdale's only bookstore carrying it seem slight... (although, curiously, the premiere issue DID show up at the local B&N years ago...).</span></div>
<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-3511408360096196902013-01-31T11:02:00.001-08:002013-01-31T11:10:53.273-08:00Montréal Anglos: The Other White Meat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://urbania.ca/canaux/magazines/3575/special-anglos" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCXVXgssW9amViUUQdT-nQT-uyW8gX3_qOVotgQludzgLBDMvtqwfmMTqZZoC2Urigjv__5-AqWlsetcXPxS76bpb391r_VWhkAOOBm6nmiF1CmenscvISg9FnNVt3LY5ej7EQBA/s400/pickled_tongue.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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There's a great issue of <b><i><a href="http://urbania.ca/canaux/magazines/3575/special-anglos" target="_blank">Urbania</a></i></b> out right now, focussing on Montreal's Anglos (aka "the world's best treated minority" aka "the conquerors" aka "les autres" aka "les blokes" aka "the dirty nasty saleslady at Eaton's department store who wouldn't speak French to my grandmother.").<br />
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There are plenty of great pieces online, and the print edition is supposedly even better, although for some reason they don't carry it at the Palmdale Barnes & Noble.<br />
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The articles are all over the place, alternately humourous, sympathetic, rude and angry (Oh, those comments!). <br />
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Could someone please read it to me?Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-86890576901176226942012-12-26T23:31:00.002-08:002012-12-27T08:43:08.679-08:00The Brasher Doubloon: No Small Change<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYsVMTFdeM0-3vDfOiOopgaQX_rSoQYr0VbcrnfzswFK4KeMbbcfwkaOth0Pm6BBoDwQX63EMeH8knVMI6xvda2AdGhcF7IQTgbkIHpfzA4-VliCZfLYk9bkPoPzAedakoxAGDg/s400/montgomery-and-guild.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Marlowe offers to help Merle with her "man" problems.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLYsVMTFdeM0-3vDfOiOopgaQX_rSoQYr0VbcrnfzswFK4KeMbbcfwkaOth0Pm6BBoDwQX63EMeH8knVMI6xvda2AdGhcF7IQTgbkIHpfzA4-VliCZfLYk9bkPoPzAedakoxAGDg/s1600/montgomery-and-guild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
Long considered the redheaded stepchild of all the films to feature Raymond Chandler's <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/marlowe.html" target="_blank"><b>Philip Marlowe</b></a>,<b> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/6301986105/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">The Brasher Doubloon</a></b> (1947, 20th Century Fox) is usually dismissed as inconsequential. Usually from people who haven't seen it.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/6301986105/thethrillindetec" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI3EdIgfXl1lJXvkdPxaTqVCJ1j-D02gkAbYQC2MfFbnUH8NI94ESN0317ue_6b9VyK5r9MFYqs7j8wW6IHlpefU1FoDUpGr8zKxAo1n0uAhwmyhEKpAqDbmBXOFU3_jv5BFg4Nw/s320/BrasherDoubloon_INS.jpg" width="128" /></a>Not that you can blame most folks for jumping to that conclusion -- the movie's been notoriously hard to find, never officially released on VHS, as far as I know, and rarely shows up on television. Nor is the Chandler novel it's based on -- 1942's <i><b>The High Window</b></i> -- generally considered one of his best. <br />
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Most reviews, meanwhile, go back to when it was first released, and following as it did Howard Hawks' <b>The Big Sleep</b> and Edward Dymytryk's<b> Murder, My Sweet</b>, two certifiable classics, it was definitely found wanting. It didn't help that what few stills and publicity shots existed have seemed less than encouraging. Most feature George Montgomery (who?) as Marlowe, sporting a cheesy moustache and a shit-eating smirk -- or a look of bland consternation. In fact, if you're looking for big stars or name directors or acting fireworks, this isn't the film you're looking for. So it's safe to say there wasn't a huge demand -- except perhaps among Chandler obsessives -- for this obscure B-film to be released on DVD. <br />
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What home video versions have been released over the years have been of dubious legality and technical quality, if you could find them at all.</div>
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And yet, there it was under the tree yesterday, <b>The Brasher Doubloon</b>, all wrapped up with a nice bow on it. A complete surprise, I wasn't even aware it had finally been released as an officially sanctioned DVD -- a mere 65 years after its theatrical theatrical debut. Even better though, is that the film, while slight, is a pleasant surprise.<br />
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No, really. It's not bad at all. I'm fortunate, I guess, that Mrs. Thrilling (aka "Santa") is as big a Chandler geek as me. We sat down to watch it tonight, a Boxing Day treat.<br />
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And yes, Montgomery does have that annoying caterpillar on his upper lip, and his Marlowe is way too upbeat and perky (although he handles the action scenes well enough, and the disdain with which he tosses a downed goon's now empty gun at him is priceless). Nor will the thespian skills of Nancy Guild, as Merle Davis, the sexually repressed secretary to a bullying, Jabba the Hutt-like dowager, have anyone but the morbidly curious scrambling to find her other films.<br />
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But that Bambi-in-the-headlights look is just what the role calls for and Guild nails it. Adam over at <b><a href="http://ocdviewer.com/2011/03/22/the-brasher-doubloon-feb-6-1947/" target="_blank">OCD Viewer</a></b> describes her as "a little like a softer-featured Margot Kidder," and he may have something there. Guild has a slightly unhinged vulnerability here that, combined with a watery sensuality, makes her a whole new -- and possibly even more dangerous -- type of<i> femme fatale</i>. No wonder Marlowe generously offers to help her overcome her intimacy issues.</div>
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But hey, this is a B-film, after all, and any limitations of dramatic range among the leads (or psychological plausibility in the script) are more than covered by some truly great character bits and some shrewd casting. Among the best: Mrs. Murdock, the wealthy, overbearing, eccentric harpy of client, possibly airlifted from a Charles Dickens novel, and her foppish weasel of a son Lesley (portrayed by a very young, pre-Mork and Mindy Conrad Janis). Toss in a crew of tough-as-spit bulldog LA cops in need of distemper shots and a parade of grotesque thugs and you've got a show. My faves included the long tall drink of polluted water in the straw boater who confronts Marlowe early on and the twitchy blackmailer who can't quite bring himself to look Marlowe in the eye and instead rubs his finger back and forth on the desk. It makes for one of the best rogue's galleries of geeks and freaks this side of Huston's <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/spade_sam.html" target="_blank">The Maltese Falcon</a></b>.<br />
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And this is all in service of a clean, relatively straightforward screenplay by Dorothy Bennett (who?) that leans heavily on Chandler's penchant for wisecracks. She took some liberties, naturally, and some of it seems "borrowed" from other, better films, but it follows a more-or-less logical progression, and some strong, sure-handed direction by John Brahm (who?) brings it on home.</div>
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And, oh, those camera shots! Some of the location shots of 40s Los Angeles and environs -- from the opulently decadent Murdock mansion in Pasadena to the seedy apartment buildings of an already decaying Bunker's Hill -- are eye-popping. This is not some sterile, carefully reconstructed period piece with all the warmth of a LEGO brick -- this is the real deal. </div>
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Were this a better known film, some of those images would be almost downright iconic.<br />
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As it is, although the film is not in itself particularly noir (it's alternately too glib and too cheesy, and the too-cute-by-half ending would be more at home in a screwball romantic comedy), the oddball camera angles, stark lighting and freak show characterizations (not to mention some true ugliness that comes slithering out when the true villain is revealed) suggest what might have been. <br />
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Don't get me wrong. We're not talking any lost classic here -- it's just a good, solid B-flick -- but <b>The Brasher Doubloon</b> is far better and far more entertaining than I -- or possibly even you -- ever thought it would be. </div>
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Take a chance. You've got a movie here.</div>
Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-38340109076275295532012-12-05T10:21:00.002-08:002012-12-05T12:54:06.943-08:00A Kiss from Montreal<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/0006393535/thethrillindetec" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">\<img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8Rc7XfBKhE9lOfOmjAir2cEzDQFEAHC_Uht3Z5oNFZD5PdurG6GF7e_sI-nVZqQjn2U44uxTSF5xlPMMzqnqAb-PIou4qxbOL8Rr9GmQfGcLqajRIvR56U9e4ZV4zCCWy_c-RMQ/s1600/river_city.jpg" /></a></div>
I'm currently reading <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.ca/exec/obidos/ASIN/0006393535/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">River City</a></i></b> by John Farrow (real name Trevor Ferguson).<br />
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It's a big pretentious messy historical fiction/crime novel about Montreal, the river city of the title, that has -- so far-- included Jacques Cartier, the Maurice Richard riots, Samuel de Champlain, stories of the "Open City," Pierre Elliot Trudeau, politics, the bold theft of a priceless artifact, Hurons, crazy priests, kidnapping, hockey, the Sun Life Building, corruption, Mohawks, French-Canadian nationalists, de Maisonneauve, murder, the founding of Montreal and even Farrow's own detective from two previous novels, Cinq-Mars, appearing as a young kid. It jumps all over the place, from the beginning of time to about 1955 (so far), and its universe is still expanding, even as other stories and characters and subplots play out and then disappear. Suffice it to say it's a heady trip.<br />
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And, as I said, it's big, pretentious and messy. It's a whopper -- it's close to 1000 pages, and it's bold and audacious. And I'm loving every minute of it. Which may be why I'm going on about a book I haven't even finished.<br />
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Oh, I'm sure there are those who will quibble (or be out right pissed off) with Farrow's interpretation of some sacred incident or beloved figure in our shared but fractious history (I know I squirmed a few times), but hey, we're Montrealers. That's what we do -- we argue and debate and discuss politics and history and hockey and art and life with heat and passion. Preferably over great food and drink.<br />
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I'm not even sure if anyone who hasn't truly loved Montreal will really "get" this book (it's not even available in the States -- my kids sent it to me for my birthday). But for anyone who's ever wandered too far from home, but still burns with memories of standing amidst the swirl of Ste. Catherine Street and breathing in the heady perfume of a city that's truly alive, walked into a taverne and held up two fingers to some waiter known simply as "Chief" or stood on the lookout on Mont Royal and gazed out with awe and affection upon the St. Lawrence and the River City and a forest of church steeples rising up from an endless sea of tenements toward heaven, this is like a French kiss from home, all unexpected passion and love and sloppiness; a warm, lingering kiss that hits you hard in all the right places.Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-9482938866306585082012-11-12T12:37:00.002-08:002012-11-12T13:01:24.831-08:00To All the Mystery Bookstores I've Loved Before... (Part Une)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKM9WLAJTSoN-S02sYmt7P5W7VllJZabKlQjPD1yDkU-DkI4A0upAvQgZnqQ2TJZ8JrPBPcf7U7_vU8kU0U_N64ecAQ_QeMZ6uyO4MBNe5W2DTrPCh_3SIXT6nLow-7vZzOgKBw/s1600/alibi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKM9WLAJTSoN-S02sYmt7P5W7VllJZabKlQjPD1yDkU-DkI4A0upAvQgZnqQ2TJZ8JrPBPcf7U7_vU8kU0U_N64ecAQ_QeMZ6uyO4MBNe5W2DTrPCh_3SIXT6nLow-7vZzOgKBw/s320/alibi.jpg" width="142" /></a><b>O</b>ne of the unintended side effects of working in a bookstore is the fact I no longer get quite the rush I used to when cruising a strange bookstore. Oh, I still get plenty high, but the high is alway a little tamped down. Too often, despite myself, I'm approaching it as a bookseller; not a book geek. I'm looking at things with a more professional eye, checking out displays and placement and how they deal with deadbeats and squatters and promotional displays and all the rest. What can I say? I'm a professional.<br />
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Fortunately, though, there's still plenty of buzz. A new bookstore, whether it deals with old or new, or even another branch of the same chain I work for, is like a step into another world. Because, like snowflakes or fingerprints, no two bookstores are alike. Intentionally or not, and even if it's against corporate policy, each and every bookstore in the world starts to take on its own persona, shaped by its customers, its staff, its community and the whir and buzz of an infinitely variable inventory that shapes and alters a store's DNA.</div>
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It's that infinite variety and the innumerable twists and turns that trump familiarity and still get me there. Upon entering any new store, or even one I haven't visited in a while, there's always a certain sense of WHOA!<br />
<br />
You make your entrance, a slight pause as you orient yourself, and then the first heady plunge into the heart of the beast. The comfortable blur of familiar titles passes almost unnoticed -- the real rush comes from the unexpected gem: the new title you didn't know about, the shiny new reprint, the awesome deal on the bargain table or the surprise misplaced find that screams out "Buy me! Buy me! Buy me now!!!" </div>
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And Lord knows, I've heeded that call over the years. I've got thousands of books scattered across this continent, in storage, on shelves, in my heart and in my soul. And yes, they're mostly mysteries, because crime and detective fiction is my book drug of choice.</div>
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My very first mystery bookstore, way back in the dawn of time, somewhere in the eighties, was <b>Prime Crime</b> in Ottawa. Already obsessed with books and crime fiction, I'd occasionally take the 2-hour bus ride from Montreal, just to visit it. I'd spend the day walking through Ottawa, checking out the used bookstores on Bank Street, checking out the Parliament Buildings and the markets, grabbing a beer and sandwich in a pub, and all that. But I'd always make a pitstop at Prime Crime. It was owned by a guy who liked the same hard-boiled P.I. stuff I did. He turned me on to Peter Corris. We chatted about Michael Collins and Ross Macdonald. There was a framed facsimile of Benny Cooperman's private investigator's license, and how cool was that?<br />
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(And yes, I realize how geeky this makes me sound.)</div>
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(Later, the store was bought out by Linda and Mary Jane [Maffini], who kept it going right until it closed just a few years ago. I not only became a semi-regular, but I even became, if not exactly a friend, at least a known acquaintance. Frequent a bookstore long enough, and you make friends -- something Amazon will never do)</div>
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Around the same time, my sister got married and moved to Toronto, which gave me a really good excuse to visit <b><a href="http://sleuthofbakerstreet.ca/" target="_blank">Sleuth of Baker Street</a></b>, still one of the world's all-time great mystery bookstores. Last I heard, Marian and Mr. Singh were still running things, which is great, because their devotion and knowledge of the genre is as vast as their friendliness. The stroll along Bayview Avenue, with its funky shops and restaurants, and a long, drawn-out browsing of Baker Street's shelves, was always one of the highlights of visiting my sister.</div>
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And then, on Saturday, August 21, 1986, I spotted a small ad in the book section of <i>The Globe and Mail</i>. A new bookstore had opened in Montreal! A mystery bookstore! An English mystery bookstore!</div>
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Somehow, I'd missed it. and it was right next door to L'Annexe, a brasserie/bar I'd spent many a night in just a few years earlier.</div>
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<b>Alibi</b> (a good bilingual name for a bookstore in Montreal --let's see the tongue troopers get their panties all twisted about<i> that</i> one!) occupied half the first floor of a beautiful old stone Victorian-era mansion right across from Concordia University in downtown, and boast two connected rooms, the front one (probably once a parlour) offering a great, slightly above street-level view of Bishop Street. It was cozy and comfy, with a lot of wood on display. They had a small but impressive inventory: a lot of imported and small press paperbacks, and hardcovers. It was cozy, and like all mystery bookstores, the staff knew their stuff. The two owners, Derek and the one not called Derek, were already experienced booksellers, victims of the closing of the Classics bookstore on Ste. Catherine (one of my favourite chain bookstores -- it was where I first discovered books by Howard Engel, Joseph Hansen and Arthur Lyons). They assured me they were in it for the duration, and that the inventory would be gradually expanding. And for a while, it did. </div>
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I attended their grand opening party, enjoyed some wine and cheese (and some more wine) and played along with a little mystery game/contest they played, concocting a motive that evidently they thought was better than the one they were going to use. Or maybe by that time we'd all had enough wine to mistake my R-rated deductions for cogent thought. Anyway, I won the door prize, which was an impressive (and somehow appropriate) Jim Thompson omnibus I still treasure.</div>
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Alas, Alibi didn't last. The competition from the chains, the high rent and the shrinking Anglo population (keep telling a community they're not wanted long enough and eventually they take the hint) all conspired against it.</div>
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Last I saw of Derek, he was a manager at the big Coles bookstore (a Canadian chain) on the corner of Stanley and Ste. Catherine. I'm not sure if he survived the merger of Coles and W.H. Smith (the Canadian branch of the giant British chain) that begat Chapters (which in turn became Chapters/Indigo when it was snatched up by Indigo, the other big Canadian chain). But I'd like to think that both Derek and not-Derek are out there still, putting books in customers' hands.<br />
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So, Alibi's gone, and Prime Crime's gone; Sleuth of Baker Street's moved to a new location (the third since I first started visiting).<br />
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I live in southern California now, and I work at the Barnes and Noble in Palmdale, and I still get a rush from visiting bookstores. Mystery bookstores, used bookstores, indie bookstores and even chain bookstores. Hell, I still get a slight rush when I go into work. Seeing a new book on a shelf is still like catching a glimpse of a beautiful woman on a sidewalk for me (if that doesn't sound too creepy). And having a customer return to the store, and having them thank you for the book you recommended the last time they were in is about as good as it gets.<br />
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But the rush I got from visiting Prime Crime and Sleuth of Baker Street and Alibi (and Nebula, Montreal's own sci-fi/fantasy/crime fiction/indie/outie/alternative press/comic book emporium which deserves its own Valentine) as a young book geek?<br />
<br />
Now, that was truly something special.</div>
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Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-71903064398375419922012-09-23T13:30:00.001-07:002012-09-23T14:48:55.110-07:00Hey, You! On the Bike! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.kevinburtonsmith.com/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQQF16K9idsWvGv3APZ-fkS9YsDhRLG_o24kyfxpfnz6gQA4BNW8qJTCgBbBeUsvhtPE9XbrEx90HPuLAbSFOqEuQ44X9cegldTTd72dc82mSUL9w4LIwQahyHWejTFSylwXBOg/s200/colourme.jpg" width="172" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Okay, maybe I've been spoiled.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Any way you try to pedal it, Montreal is <a href="http://www.canada.com/travel/bicycle+friendly+cities/2445188/story.html" target="_blank">one of the most bike-friendly cities in the world</a>, from its extensive network of cycling paths (both recreational and practical) to its Bixi bike rental program (the first in North America), its annual Tour de l'isle and all the rest. One of the reasons I never got my driver's license until I moved to California was simply that I loved bicycling so much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Especially in Montreal The parks, the trees, the little cafes and stores. The hushed, tree-lined avenues of NDG or St. Lambert. The paths through Old Montreal and its cobblestoned streets, along the St. Lawrence, over the seaway, along the Lachine Canal. I just loved it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But now that I live in the High Desert of California's Antelope Valley? <i>Meh.</i> Not so much.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Like everyone else in this sun-bleached browned out, suburban strip mall of a town, I drive a car. Oh, I still ride a bike, although the fierce winds and relentless heat have made me a big fan of early morning jaunts, before the daily commute starts, when the sun is just breaking over the horizon and the bully boy winds haven't quite woken up, when it's mostly just me, some skittish rabbits and an occasional coyote, and the whispering of the automatic sprinklers as they announce the start of another day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, bike-friendly or not, no city is immune from asshole motorists. Or asshole cyclists. And the Antelope Valley seems particularly vulnerable to both infestations. Possibly why one friend refers to it as the "A Valley."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The gripes against bike-hating and bike-ignorant motorists are many, and well documented. But cyclists seem to forget that they, too, have responsibilities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was all brought home to me yet again this morning. The Girl Detective was in urgent need of champagne, cream cheese and bungie cords (don't ask) and so I hopped into the car for a quick trip to the local supermarket. Yeah, I could have taken a bike, but balancing 20 pounds of ice and a bottle of bubbly seemed like just too much work, Besides, she wanted a bag of ice, not a bag of slush -- we're in the desert, remember.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, there I am, got the goodies in the trunk, got the windows rolled down to enjoy the breeze, got something good pumping on the radio. It's a beautiful morning in Southern California, bright and clear and not a rattlesnake or a brushfire in sight, and I'm heading back home. I pull out of the parking lot, stop at the stop sign. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Look left, look right, look left again, pull out a little more just to make sure. I'm a careful driver.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then some twinkie with the Cyclon shades and lime green spandex and the obligatory blonde hair waving in the wind comes whizzing along the sidewalk at 15 or 20 mph -- a pretty good clip, anyway, zips around in front of me and back onto the sidewalk, warning me to "Watch it, motherfucka!" or something equally charming and then, just before she slips out of sight, flips me the bird.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just in case, you know, I didn't get the message.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can only hope she soon meets up with a member of one of the other prevalent groups of assholes on the road -- drivers using cellphones. With any luck, my little twinkie will run a stop sign at some intersection the same time some iPhone iDiot does.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, as I said, it brought it all home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, you there on the bike. There's a reason so many motorists hate you, Missy. And those of us who love to ride our bikes aren't so crazy about you either.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sure, some drivers are meatheads. But that doesn't mean you have to be one too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sorry, Mr. Motorist, but you DON'T own the road. Because, unless specifically marked, cyclists DO have the right to be on the road.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We even have the right to be in the left hand lane if we're making a left hand turn at an intersection. According to California Vehicle Code 21200: </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Every person riding a bicycle upon a street or highway has all the rights and is subject to all the duties applicable to the driver of a vehicle except those provisions which by their very nature can have no application."</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So don't honk when you're right on our ass -- we probably heard you coming from a mile away. Oh, and when you see us waving our hands up and down? Chill -- they're hand signals, not some sort of obscene gestures. Learn what they mean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And bicyclists? You DON'T own the roads either. Or the sidewalks. Yeah, I'm taking to you, Toots.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unfortunately, much of the hostility displayed towards bikers is our own damned fault. Any of you who think the rules don't apply to you should check out 21200 again. Or whatever rules and regulations apply wherever you live. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But no matter what you may think, or where you live, or what your negligent parents may have taught you, we're NOT supposed to ride on the sidewalk or against traffic. We DO have to signal for lane changes and turns, we DO have to obey all stop signs and traffic lights.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Because, let's face it, any disagreement between you and a car is bound to end poorly for you (despite the apparent beliefs of some cyclists, possibly garnered from reading too many Marvel comics, wearing Spandex does not make you invincible.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's a good rule of thumb: If your bike doesn't have training wheels, get off the damn sidewalk. Before some ticked off pedestrian jams a stick in your spokes or someone pulls out of their driveway to see how well your helmet protects you from a lateral collision.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't care what you <i>thought </i>the rules were. The truth is, many of the bad cycling (and motoring) habits I've mentioned have been passed down from generation to generation, a conspiracy of sloth and stupidity and self-serving ignorance. It's shocking to discover how many otherwise intelligent-seeming parents mistakenly believe that somehow, the rules of the road only apply to other people, and certainly not them -- or their precious offspring.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What you're actually doing is instilling bad habits into your children that could kill them. I've actually seen well-meaning parents instructing their children to ride against traffic (!) or, more frightening, telling them that they don't have to stop at intersections because -- get this! -- bicyclists always have the right of way! If you love your children and you're not sure of the rules of the road, please, for goodness sakes, go to <a href="http://www.bikelink.com/law_safety.asp" target="_blank">Bike Link's California Bicycle Laws & Safety</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But by far the scariest thing is the kids who don't even know how to ride. It's sad to see some landlocked tubby, overweight kid (a glandular condition, my ass) who's been denied one of the true joys of childhood because his parents think it's "too dangerous." Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Chunky Concerned Parents, but that Nacho/Mountain Dew/Video Game diet you've put Melvin Junior on is more likely to eventually kill him than a little physical exercise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It may be too late for you, but maybe your kids still have a chance. Fuck the Lance Armstrong video game. Give Melvin a bike and kick him out of the living room.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But teach him the rules of the road first. And if you don't know 'em, maybe it's time you did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Grrrrrrrr....</span><br />
<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-41742980852013410552012-09-09T14:26:00.003-07:002012-09-09T14:35:45.295-07:00It doesn't feel like the first time, but still...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0097L9BEO/thethrillindetec" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="1" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZQoDlCAWsRmbFWAB9mK4uUqjT85wFGiOs8CE5FBzu5EzWFaUWtGNgehup89p5GA4hLU3fpV7AlG47RyT4IZCMnUn59wF0S-mkYlqRMA5hR3dVooo4j3jPpnnGy-AeAlXvOagDg/s320/btap_superhero.jpg" title="" width="213" /></a></div>
For the first time in over ten years, I feel like a writer.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I know. Anyone who glances at my <a href="http://www.kevinburtonsmith.com/" target="_blank"><b>"writing" web site</b></a> and sees all the reviews and columns and articles I've done over the years, or have wandered through the <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/" target="_blank"><b>Thrilling Detective Web Site</b></a>, and counted how many of those entries were done by me, may be surprised that I feel that way.<br />
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But that's all non-fiction. For some reason -- even though it's ridiculous -- for some reason, that writing doesn't feel like "real" writing to me.<br />
<br />
It just doesn't count. Not the way fiction does. At least to me.<br />
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Ten or so years ago, after a few years of futzing around with reviews and Thrilling Detective, I sucked it up and submitted a story to Kerry Schooley for an anthology called<b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/189466311X/thethrillindetec" target="_blank"> Iced</a></i></b>, a Canadian noir anthology. I was gobsmacked when "Two Fingers" was accepted. I was ecstatic when "People Skills" was snapped up by Matt Firth for <i><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1894498178/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Grunt and Groan</a></b></i>, another Canadian anthology, a short time later.<br />
<br />
Yessirree, Bob, I was on my way.<br />
<br />
But then my life hit the fan.<br />
<br />
When the dust cleared, I was living in California, 3000 miles away from my beloved Montreal and my kids. I was divorced and remarried and broke, stuck in a strange place where grown men put fruit in their beer. Unable at first to find work, I threw myself into whatever work I could get: web sites, editing, and writing for places like January Magazine and Mystery Scene. Turned out I had a knack for non-fiction, or at least could fool editors enough to get paid for it.<br />
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But the desire to write fiction burned deep. Diane, my long-suffering wife, aka The Girl Detective, aka Diana Killian, aka Louise Harris, aka etc., etc., kept pushing me. She started a monthly mystery writing group at the local Barnes & Noble as a way to get me (and her father) to write.<br />
<br />
So I wrote. Short stories. Novellas. A novel without an ending. More short stories. Some were short and nasty. Some were whimsical. Some might even have been noir, and more than a few were hard-boiled. Some were playful character studies; others boasted tricky O'Henty-style twists. I even created a couple of series characters: a Montreal barfly private eye with a thing for beer and strippers, and an ex-pat Montrealer turned unlicensed Palmdale private eye (Gee, where did I get THAT idea?) and his sometime partner, a millionaire former television cowboy star well into his eighties. The stories came pouring out. and the critiques from Diane and the rest were invaluable. As was the act of critiquing. (If you want to learn to write, critique other people -- and let them critique you).<br />
<br />
But I was a chicken shit. I never really completed anything. I never submitted anything. People pushed me, and I resisted. There was always something else I had to do first. A review for The Rap Sheet. A column on biking. An interview for Mystery Scene. The lawn. Running to the bank. The post office.<br />
<br />
Then the digital boom came. Everyone was making out like bandits, self-publishing their stories. Most of them were crap, but hell, they were making money. The tales of success were encouraging, and the lack of quality of so many of them was inspiring. Because if they could make money with this stuff, why couldn't I?<br />
<br />
I figured ten years was enough. It was time to shit or get off the pot.<br />
<br />
David Cranmer had just released another <b><i>Beat to a Pulp</i></b> anthology, and it was full of names I recognized. Even some whose work I had edited myself for Thrilling Detective. I got the anthology, and enjoyed it.<br />
<br />
"How can I get into one of these," I tweeted. David told me to submit for the next one. The theme was superheroes.<br />
<br />
"Superheroes?"<br />
<br />
Gulp.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, people who dress up to fight crime," he explained.<br />
<br />
Ah! That was different. An idea popped into my head. A story of long delayed revenge, revolving around the never-forgiven childhood theft of a stack of beloved comic books, and what happens when victim and thief meet up forty years later.<br />
<br />
I scrapped it.<br />
<br />
In trying to figure out why the stolen comic books were so beloved, I recalled my own youthful passion for comic books and superheroes. and realized I didn't want to write about a couple of middle-aged fanboys, no matter how homicidal one of them might be. No, I wanted to write about children.<br />
<br />
A new idea slowly came into focus. But as I started to write, my generic setting and placemarker kids faded away, and I realized I wanted to write about me: where I grew up, and what it felt like. About a time when kids were allowed to be kids, and parents would let them; a time when kids weren't plugged in 24/7 to one electronic nipple or another. When kids played baseball; not a Wii baseball. When nobody had to arrange play dates, because it was a given that everyday was a day to play with friends. When "friend" was a noun; not a verb, and a best friend was the best thing in the world.<br />
<br />
Part of it was homesickness, an affliction I've suffered on a daily basis for about ten years. Part of it was simply nostalgia, and no doubt part of it could be put down to a prolonged mid-life crisis. But there was something in this story that needed telling. Or that I needed to tell.<br />
<br />
<b>"The Revenge of the Red Avenger"</b> is my first published fiction in ten years. It appears in <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/B0097L9BEO/thethrillindetec" target="_blank">Beat to a Pulp: Superhero</a></i></b>, edited by David Cranmer and Scott D. Parker. It's available on Kindle for now, although you don't need a Kindle to read it. You can download the Kindle app and read it on your computer or your phone of your iPod or even, by now, your toaster oven. I hope you like it.<br />
<br />
Now that the dam has burst, there'll be more.<br />
<br />Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-26198472179337425192012-09-05T01:51:00.000-07:002012-09-05T15:45:33.769-07:00Now is the time for your tears....<br />
This is not the Quebec, or the Montreal, that I love.<br />
<br />
I just came back from a closing shift at the bookstore where I work in Palmdale, California Rolled home about midnight or so, local time. Popped open a beer. scrounged a plate of leftovers Diane had left out. (I can never go right to sleep after a closing shift.)<br />
<br />
Opened a window in my office to let in the night air, and listened to the coyotes whine for a while. Then I turned on my Mac to see how the Quebec election went.<br />
<br />
It was better than I expected, worse than I'd hoped. The PQ had won, but only a minority government, thus making Pauline Marois the province's first female premier. She vowed, in her acceptance speech, to work for the common good. She even spoke English.<br />
<br />
And then some asshole tried to kill her. Some idiot with too many weapons and too little conscience, yet another cowardly idiot with a gun, another would-be Rambo jacked up by all the divisive politics and rhetoric of racial and ethnic and cultural hatred that's become all the rage in North America: a place where a doddering, unsure actor arguing with an empty chair is now considered political discourse, and too many spineless politicians and rabble rousing "journalists"are more than willing to play the politics of ignorance and division.<br />
<br />
Taylor Noakes, a local Montrealer with his boots on the ground, has a great blog I read regularly, and he covers it far more eloquently and with far more detail than I ever could. You can read all about it <a href="http://www.taylornoakes.com/2012/09/05/i-spoke-too-soon-assassination-attempt-against-pauline-marois/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">here</a> but basically, he admits he's "devastated."<br />
<br />
That's probably the right word. Devastated.<br />
<br />
Lord knows, I'm no fan of the PQ, but this is actually probably beyond devastating. And stranded 3000 miles and too many time zones away, so far from home, I feel utterly impotent and enraged.<br />
<br />
And alone. Montreal's politics of the soul are hard enough to explain to those of us who love her; never mind to an American wife who's never been there. Besides, she's asleep.<br />
<br />
And I'm not. I feel violated and hurt. Too full of whatever it is I'm feeling (Anger? Grief? Shame?) to go to sleep for a long time.<br />
<br />
This is, suddenly, a night nobody should celebrate. And of course it goes without saying that most of Quebec -- French, English, rich, poor, federalist or nationalist -- are as horrified and repulsed by this this as I am.<br />
<br />
Oh, Canada. Oh, Quebec. Oh, Montreal...Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-37688968721217698532012-04-01T17:47:00.004-07:002012-04-02T11:16:23.431-07:00Stick a Fork in It...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH58ScGXVJdnw16sqfhx1DwI2KqYGEfr9SOEJIpZ1bDdGTZBy_bpdK7A7EkLgdLxVFRw05ajCPIbxRiaEdLJRmlhOR10rLRMTMHVt7eeO02zBAQBw2G7_iqQa2CVOG20J_fkH7Gw/s1600/cover62_mini.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH58ScGXVJdnw16sqfhx1DwI2KqYGEfr9SOEJIpZ1bDdGTZBy_bpdK7A7EkLgdLxVFRw05ajCPIbxRiaEdLJRmlhOR10rLRMTMHVt7eeO02zBAQBw2G7_iqQa2CVOG20J_fkH7Gw/s400/cover62_mini.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726599062666516066" /></a>I'm done.<br /><br />The 14th Anniversary Issue of <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/">The Thrilling Detective Web Site</a></b> is up.<div><br /></div><div>I'd like to thank everyone who contributed to this issue, especially Jill Edmondson and Ed Lynsky for their great articles on Toronto P.I. <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/non_fiction/e015.html" style="font-weight: bold; ">Jane Yeats</a> and crime writer <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/lacy.html">Ed Lacy</a></b>, respectively, as well as the seventy or so of you who participated in our P.I. Poll, and provided such a great list of titles for our <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/results31.html">Fourteen Best Private Eye Novels of All Time</a></b>.</div><div><br />Time for a beer...</div>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-15663467418953650802012-04-01T07:36:00.003-07:002012-04-01T08:37:29.815-07:00I'm the Poetry Man/I make everything alright...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><a href="http://poemsoncrime.blogspot.com/2012/02/30-days-of-5-2-blog-tour.html" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYyRD48LCI40ZNfO2klHH9RkuSXnSOtCwILd12dn4gcGqJOygbFhKHaFM66FAHn_mvi1EVFG56CbgJ6QXTrEcf3Y-8nfXBheX5XOeEGgDC7u4DD2OaPhjDuOHMNczn9b6MIS6hA/s400/30Days52.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726456396474264034" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;font-family:arial;">Happy April Fool's Day once more. And once more, I'm postponing <a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/14_years.html">my boffo birthday celebration</a> for just a bit, so I can kick some poetry around, and do my bit for a pal and for <b>National Poetry Month</b>.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Yes, once again, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "> the <b>Right Honourable Gerald So</b>, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">the Grand Poobah of Perilous Poetry, the Wizard of Wayward Words, the King of Crime and Rhyme, the Poetrymeister of Cell Block #9, has challenged me to wax rhapsodic over some vile and violent verse.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >And once again, I said yes.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I mean, what else could I do? Do you know how much blood the average horse's head holds, or how hard it is to get those stains out of the sheets?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >All I had to do, he said, was go to <b><a href="http://poemsoncrime.blogspot.com/2012/02/30-days-of-5-2-blog-tour.html">The 5-2: Crime Poetry Weekly</a></b>, pick a favourite poem, and say some stuff.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Simple, right?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >But which one? I went through them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Oh.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Maybe it's me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Maybe I'm too thick-headed and meat-and-potatoes in my literary sensibilities to truly appreciate poetry, really. Or maybe I'm just lacking a big enough poetry gene. Or maybe I'm simply too burned out of late on bad fiction and connect-the-dots noir, and too vulnerable these days to the real grit of life to be swept away by imagined hyper-drama, in prose OR verse. Not that most of the poems are bad -- they're definitely not, and many of them linger, with a nice twist or a sharp jab that leaves its mark. These cats can write. But somehow, few of them were speaking to<i> me</i>.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I felt many of them -- despite all the best intentions in the world -- to be too arch and cynical, whimsical forays into lives only imagined, not felt. Too glib and callous, reeking of cut-and-paste crimes and motives, as though life was merely something distilled from watery television scripts and re-imagined in free verse.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >And then, I found one that really did speak to me. Speak to me? Hell, no, it yelled in my face, slammed the table for emphasis and stomped around the room. Susan Kelly's "Last Straw" has no instant fiends or convenient psychopaths; no hipper-than-thou noir affectations or swinging dick self-consciousness. Instead, in unvarnished words, a quiet conversational tone and only the slightest dusting of detail, she offers the plain, painful reality of real lives living in less-and-less quiet desperation; of ground-down hopes in freefall, a black swirl of conditions finally converging at the the point where rage and violence in all their banal, ugly beauty meet.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The shrug of a resolution is hard and fast and all the more powerful for being tossed off: a period far more powerful than an exclamation mark could ever be.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The author says, in a brief explanatory note, that's it's all made up. But it doesn't feel that way.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >I don't know who Susan Kelley, but she's given murder, as Chandler famously said of Hammett, back to the people who commit it for a reason.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ></span></div><blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >LAST STRAW</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >By Susan Kelly</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>She called the police to come get her husband</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>and went out on the porch to wait in the rocker,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>kicking it into a fast pace like she wasn't wore out</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>getting up before dawn’s dream to milk the cow,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>gather eggs, fix breakfast every day before he left</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>her on this hard-scrabble farm with no luck but bad</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>she’d hated on sight but he’d sweet-talked her around</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>every time she’d begged him to sell, so he must have seen</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>a different farm in his rearview when he drove off</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>to a town job while she struggled from can't see</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>to can’t see, too far from neighbors or town</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>for friends or to save the babies that came too early</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>before they stopped coming at all, and even</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>the tractor died so she used a hoe and shovel to finish</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>in that hard sun and now her face was spotted draught,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>she who was once a pretty girl, skin like buttermilk</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>and expectations different than a long row with no harvest.</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>But, Baby, he'd said, I'm almost ahead</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>enough to quit, it’ll be different with two of us here,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>so he added some weekends and late nights</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>and she was so drug-out doing his chores too,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>she didn’t complain he smelled of beer and perfume,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>so he must have felt safe to tell her that morning</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>he was leaving while she stood at the sink,</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>her hand on a skillet, and he judged right because</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>she only felt a flooding of relief when he said</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>he was moving to town with another woman. But when</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>he said instead of support she could keep the farm—</i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i>anybody would have bashed in his head with the skillet.</i></span></div></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><i></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >"Last Straw" appeared on<a href="http://poemsoncrime.blogspot.com/search/label/Susan%20Kelley"> March 19</a> on <b>The 5-2</b>.</span><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;"></span></p><p></p></div>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-25233468887928766642012-03-30T00:04:00.006-07:002012-03-30T12:58:28.025-07:00What Are The Best Private Eye Novels of All Time?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6enU1Pc7jD5q7meA9CP93L-AEO4kic2PWFgNvDpMdEGxKFj72RlwIe_Sg6lcPVfQA8ngbQ1thdyiRR4PO9lHyWETCFUWyX5d_qhgp_AEAZbL65n2-uCXiIs3tP2G5H_lm4dy7UQ/s1600/13_year_slug.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6enU1Pc7jD5q7meA9CP93L-AEO4kic2PWFgNvDpMdEGxKFj72RlwIe_Sg6lcPVfQA8ngbQ1thdyiRR4PO9lHyWETCFUWyX5d_qhgp_AEAZbL65n2-uCXiIs3tP2G5H_lm4dy7UQ/s400/13_year_slug.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5725588295734857954" /></a>Yep, it's that time again. On April 1st (HEY! That's this Sunday!) <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/">The Thrilling Detective Web Site</a></b> will be squeezing out another year of existence. As usual, I'll be trotting out<b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/14_years.html"> a lot of self-serving hoopla</a></b>, including a couple of new essays, a few trivia lists and, yes, a <b><a href="http://www.thrillingdetective.com/trivia/poll.html">P.I. Poll</a></b>.<div><br /></div><div>And the topic for this year is "<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff0000;">The 14 Best Private Eye Novels of All Time,</span></b>" eh?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not going to tell you what to suggest, but here are a few titles that have already been submitted via the usual sources: the site, our mailing list, Twitter and the like.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yeah, some of these are to be expected (does anyone expect Chandler or Hammett to be shut out?), some of them may nudge fond memories (Oh, yeah! <i>Texas Wind</i>!) and some of them suggest some of you may have started celebrating early...</div><div><br /></div><div>The way it works, just suggest some titles. If someone else has already suggested it, well, that's just another vote for that title. It ain't rock science,<i> bubba</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>And then sometime in the wee wee hours of<b> April 1st</b>, I'll tally the final results and post them on the site with the rest of the birthday stuff.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, here are some of the titles nominated so far, in no particular order...<br /><ul><li>The Dawn Patrol by Don Winston</li><li>Red Harvest Dashiell Hammett</li><li>Halo in Blood by John Evans</li><li>An Unsuitable Job for a Woman by P.D. James</li><li>A Firing Offense by George Pelecanos</li><li>Hard Trade by Arthur Lyons</li><li>The Way Some People Die by Ross Macdonald</li><li>The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler</li><li>The Staked Goat by Jeremiah Healey</li><li>Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley</li><li>The Promised Land by Robert B. Parker</li><li>The Taste of Ashes by Howard Browne</li><li>Wild Wives by Charles Willeford</li><li>The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer</li><li>Eight Million Ways to Die by Lawrence Block</li><li>Dead Skip by Joe Gores</li><li>L.A. Requiem by Robert Crais</li><li>The Judas Goat by Robert B. Parker</li><li>Roman Blood by Steven Saylor</li><li>The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett</li><li>"G" is for Gumshoe by Sue Grafton</li><li>Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler</li><li>Texas Wind by James Reasoner</li><li>Down in the Valley by David M Pierce</li><li>Shackles by Bill Pronzini</li><li>Act of Fear by Michael Collin</li><li>Castles of Burning by Arthur Lyons</li><li>Fatal Obsession by Stephen Greenleaf</li><li>Killing Orders by Sara Paretsky</li><li>Blues for the Prince by Bart Spicer</li><li>When the Sacred Ginmill Closes by Lawrence Block</li><li>The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley</li><li>I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane</li><li>Mortal Stakes by Robert B. Parker</li><li>The Green Ripper by John D. MacDonald</li><li>The James Deans by Reed Farrel Coleman</li><li>The Convertible Hearse by William Campbell Gault</li><li>The Doorbell Rang by Rex Stout</li><li>The Valley of Fear by Arthur Conan Doyle</li><li>The Big Knockover by Dashiell Hammett</li><li>The Blue Hammer by Ross Macdonald</li><li>Indemnity Only by Sara Paretsky</li><li>Gone Baby Gone by Dennis Lehane</li><li>The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler</li><li>The Drowning Pool by Ross Macdonald</li><li>Early Autumn by Robert B. Parker</li><li>Leave a Message for Willie by Marcia Muller</li><li>Yesterday's News by Jeremiah Healy</li><li>Stone Quarry by S.J. Rozan</li><li>Trigger City by Sean Chercover</li><li>The Monkey's Raincoat by Robert Crais</li><li>The Godwulf Manuscript by Robert B. Parker</li><li>City of the Sun by David Levien</li><li>Mucho Mojo by Joe R Lansdale</li><li>The Wrong Kind of Blood by Declan Hughes</li><li>Every Dead Thing by John Connolly</li><li>Big Red Tequila by Rick Riordan</li><li>"S" is for Silence by Sue Grafton</li><li>Skin Deep by Timothy Hallinan</li><li>Way Past Dead by Steven Womack</li><li>Blood Ties by Lori Armstrong</li><li>Promise Me by Harlan Coben</li><li>The Dark Blue Goodbye by John D. MacDonald</li><li>The Killing Floor by Arthur Lyons</li><li>The Mother Hunt by Rex Stout</li><li>Find A Victim Ross Macdonald</li><li>The Million Dollar Wound by Max Allan Collins</li><li>Blue Belle by Andrew Vachss</li><li>Tonight I Said Goodbye by Michael Koryta</li><li>Empty Ever After by Reed Farrel Coleman</li><li>Murder on the Wild Side by Jeff Jacks</li><li>Winter of the Wolf Moon by Steve Hamilton</li><li>In Defense of Sextus Roscius of Ameria by Marcus Cicero</li><li>The Thin Man by Dashiell Hammett</li></ul></div><div>That oughtta wet your whistle... what do YOU think are the best private eye novels of all time?</div>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20481208.post-34027511415382610992011-10-01T16:56:00.000-07:002011-10-01T17:30:55.531-07:00Raymond Chandler on Self-Publishing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="a href="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=ByKVhquVi*M&subid=&offerid=229293.1&type=10&tmpid=8432&RD_PARM1=http%253A%252F%252Fwww.barnesandnoble.com%252Fw%252Fraymond-chandler-speaking-raymond-chandler%252F1001878424%253Fean%253D9780520208353%2526itm%253D1%2526usri%253Draymond%25252bchandler%25252bspeaking"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 280px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNF5jnwQ_NTFsIU-gymUqHiWB7eqcnmK-AkzeXkP76Z0jAe3_ZKJcHUJmmUYbB-VQ3tEujE_-MtMxVXeWRUhxiQuj8DK1yzmjKxljUrluePnvZSjzlrrtaLhiAAmDCNtpHNRSdXw/s320/16908534.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658685407492211346" /></a>May 22, 1950<br />To: Hardwick Mosely<br /><br />I have a note... that Houghton-Mifflin would like formal consent from me for... reprint editions of <b>The Little Sister</b> and <b>The Simple Art of Murder</b>. Please take this as my consent. Please send me my end of the take as soon as possible as the cat needs a new basket.<br /><br />I had of course originally planned to republish these books myself. A close friend... has a small hand press and a fair supply of deckle-edged vellum, and also a font or so of 24-point Goudy Lombardi capitals. We thought we could turn out something really quite nice, say in a limited edition of nine copies, handsomely autographed by the author during a rare moment of sobriety, and retailing at about $65 a copy. We were quite confident of the result, but I shall not specify what result...<div><br /><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;">-- from <a href="http://click.linksynergy.com/fs-bin/click?id=ByKVhquVi*M&subid=&offerid=229293.1&type=10&tmpid=8432&RD_PARM1=http%253A%252F%252Fwww.barnesandnoble.com%252Fw%252Fraymond-chandler-speaking-raymond-chandler%252F1001878424%253Fean%253D9780520208353%2526itm%253D1%2526usri%253Draymond%25252bchandler%25252bspeaking" style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 102, 204); ">Raymond Chandler Speaking</a> (1962), a fascinating collection of correspondence from possibly the crankiest crime writer who ever lived. He would have burned through the mumbled mouthed primordial forest of discussion groups, blogs and Twitter like Napalm.</span></i><div class="postContents" style="margin-left: 23px; "></div></div>Kevin Burton Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08366595974389658683noreply@blogger.com8