HAPPY

BIRTHDAY

ME!

Yeah.  Like This.

Every so often, I stumble across a song in my collection that reminds me of my ex-best friend, who we'll call Dwight.  And every so often I'll dream about him, and it'll remind me of how great things were, rather than how badly it all ended.

I tend to avoid songs that remind me of ex's, whether they're friends or lovers or boyfriends.  I didn't listen to a single Billy Joel song for almost four years after Aaron and I broke up.  I gave up October Project after Martin shattered my heart by getting engaged to someone else while we were still dating (worst. breakup. ever).  I keep my Matthew Sweet and my Elvis Costello CDs even though I don't listen to them ever, but I turn off Elton John's "Levon" when it comes on the radio because it makes me cry thinking of a man who used to tear up whenever he heard it.   I still barely listen to the Smashing Pumpkins because I had to get over two guys who were both fans.

But I still listen to Cracker's "Sick of Goodbyes" and John Mellancamp's "Key West Intermezzo" and all the songs that remind me of Dwight.  I play Oingo Boingo's "War Again" and once again I'm on the NJ Transit and we're leaning against each other, half-asleep and sharing earbuds, alone in the car and alone in the world.  Or the Goo Goo Dolls "Blackout," driving through a hailstorm while our friend Mike stood outside in line for Green Day.  That would have been six years ago today--the day before my birthday.  We were buying party supplies for my infamous Sin City party.

I wonder if he ever listens to the mix CDs I made him or if he ever dreams of me.  I like seeing him in dreams, when everything is great and all is forgiven and nothing has changed.  I could apologize for what I did, but all it would do would be to forgive the past.  We have no future and I think we both know that, which is why neither of us has tried to reach out to the other.  We're different people and nothing we could do would be enough to reconstruct what we had. 

But when I'm listening to those songs, or I see his face in dreams, I get this wonderful bittersweet feeling.  Because for a few minutes while I'm sleeping, we're friends again.  For a few minutes, there's nothing between us but old jokes and an instinctual connection.  He's always exactly how I remember him, with his curls and his grin and that laugh.  And I wake up with one of our songs in my head.  Bon Jovi's "I Am" or Sonata Artica's "Shamandalie," which when I heard I knew was how things would end. 



And they did.  And it was my fault and Dwight if you're reading this, I'm sorry.

* *

I'm turning 28 tomorrow.  Time keeps ticking down, and the older I get, the more I want to distant myself from the past.  When I was younger, my whole existance was bent on trying to recapture what I felt like I'd lost.  I pined like it was a hobby, and while there's a part of me that misses the passion of those days, the better part of me is glad for what lies ahead. . . because what's gone is gone, and will never be again.  I'm learning to be okay for that.

The fire, Baby . . . there's no place in the world for our kind of fire.

Yep, that's my dad

Normally I get a little nervous reading my friends books.  Heck, I didn't read my own father's book until I was well into my teens.  I'm always afraid that the book is going to suck, and then I will either have to lie to them or tell them that it's awful and then they won't be my friend anymore.

This was not the case with Vincent O'Neil's Death Troupe.

Before I get on to how great this book is, I want to say a few words about Vinny.  He's an awesome guy.  Matthew and I met Vinny at the first Crimebake we attended and he was so sweet and funny and generous that we've been pals ever since.  He's just as great and as earnest a guy as you'd ever want to meet, and he's a great writer, to boot.  Finding all these characteristics in one person is pretty rare, since writers can often be pretty big jerks.

Death Troupe is a mystery novel for writers.  It's about writing.  It's about the struggles of writing and what being a writer does to people.  It can unite or divide.  It can make partnerships or it can end in murder, sometimes both.  And Death Troupe explores all of this with a dark charm I've come to recognize from reading Vinny's Exile series . . . but I'd have to say without hesitation (or bribery) that this is Vinny's masterpiece, and with each chapter I read, I get inspired to go back to my own work . . . which, given some of the crazy circumstances of late, is a feat of it's own.  Now if only the book weren't so damn hard to put down . . .



You Know You Want It

 My friend Eeon, who is one half of Canned Laser and is perhaps the funniest person alive, recently turned me onto the comic Preacher, seeing as how one of my failed novels (but several stories) were about a vigilante preacher who I'm just going to come out say is about a million times sexier (in my head) than the Rev. Jesse Custer


Unless Jesse was played by Walton Goggins.

Preacher isn't exactly my cup of tea--it's a little on the Frank Miller side, lots of random swearing and violence for the sake of swearing and violence (although I will defend The Hard Goodbye as one of the finest pieces of short crime fiction written in recent history--other than "The PI's Wife," of course)  But with rumors recently flying about a possible film adaptation, I would like to nominate our own Boyd Crowder for the coveted role.  He's got the voice, he looks good in a suit and even better with a Bible in his hands, and he's got that sexy hair (okay, so it's a little sparse, but Jesse's rockin' that early 80's Jeff Goldblum in The Fly pseudo-mullet an no one wants to see that.

Seriously, though, he'd be perfect.  I can't imagine an actor who'd be better for the part.  But you just know that if they ever get around to making the movie (they won't) they'll cast some ponce like Shia Le Pouf or James Franco.  And Jessica Alba as Tulip.  Chance Crawford or some other weird shirtless dude faking a bad Irish accent as Cassidy.  Gross Gross Gross. 

So the point is, Hollywood, if you're not going to do something right, don't bother doing it at all.

Records . . . seriously

As an early birthday present (I'll be 28 a week from today and we're celebrating by watching The Room) Matthew sent me a cool suitcase record player so that I could listen to my ever-growing vinyl collection when I'm working in my office (the main turntable, which I took before my stepfather could come back to the house for his stuff, is downstairs in an enormous record cabinet that Ian bought me for Christmas).  The difficult part of both is keeping adorable kitten Bosco from trying to practice his DJ scratch techniques with my Boz Skaggs records.

Vinyl really does have a deeper, richer sound, and there's a wonderful feeling of finding something good mixed into a crate of Boston and Eagles records--my best finds so far has been Warren Zevon's Sentimental Hygine (which sounds massively overproduced on vinyl, a sound lost to tape and CD) Danny Elfman's So Lo in a $3 Bin at Last Vestige in Albany.  Matthew and I routinely send each other packages of dollar vinyl with small cards and post-it notes explaining why we picked each album.  Ian has been buying me Tom Waits and Smiths records every Christmas since we started dating almost seven years ago.

Vinyl has a wonderful intimacy to it, and simultaniously there's a group mentality about it.  When you put on a record, everyone hears it.  The speakers fill the house and strange things begin to happen.  Sometimes people start dancing.  Other times they get very quiet, as though they've never heard a song you know they've heard a million times.  People who are normally not dreamy get drifting looks on their faces and start pawing through your collection, making requests for what to play next.  They take out each record, pour over the liner notes and the album covers.  Discussions begin.  Stories are shared.  Albums are flipped and B-sides are played.  A CD can fade into the background, an iPOD can be shuffled around and ignored, but vinyl demands to be heard.  It demands more of the listener, which is probably why it's been mostly abandoned.  It's not just noise to block out the sounds of life--it is a life of it's own, a reminder of how beautiful and pure music can sound.

If you ever get a chance and you own a record player, find a copy of Warren Zevon's eponymous first album and play "Frank and Jesse James."  The opening pinao chords are perhaps the most beautiful sound you will ever hear, and no other version--mp3, tape, CD or 8-track, does it justice.

What's a James Franco?



Pictured: James Franco

Will someone please explain to me what the deal is with James Franco?  It seems like he's everywhere, and yet, I cannot for the life of me picture him or recall ever seeing him in a movie.  Maybe because he's only in Oscar-baiting tripe like 127 Hours (Oh Danny Boyle, where have you gone?) or pro-rape stoner crap like Your Highness (and just when I'd forgiven your complete inability to act, Natalie Portman) and I'm not in college anymore, so I don't have to pretend to like those films. 

According to IMDB, it's his birthday today, but I came from the site ten seconds ago and I can't remember what he looks like. 

He's the REM of actors--generic in every respect, and yet, for some reason, highly lauded by people who should frankly know better.  Sure, REM had some catchy tunes, but the lyrics were just a series of phrases strung together.  Here are some lyrics from "Radio Free Europe"

Keep me out of country in the word

Deal the porch is leading us absurd.
Push that, push that, push that to the hull
That this isn't nothing at all

Yeah!  Whatever that means!

Apparently, Franco released a collection of short stories, because he's such a genius.  Even perpetual Franco pole-smokers The AV Club didn't give it an exactly favorable review.  They even try to back it up by reiterating his talent, less he stop blessing them with his Heavenly presence, but the resentment is clearly there.

And then there's this, but I'm not going to write another word about it because I refuse to give Franco the pleasure of making me (or my beloved readers) vomit.

Seriously, Franco, who do you think you are?

A few announcements

Not only did PANK finally pick up a story of mine, but they also did an interview--check out my Gonzo answers here

I'm on the cover of Independent Ink!  Because I'm awesome!  There's an interview with me in there too.  For some reason, people care what I say.

I've been in NYC all week, so we'll return to our reguarly scheduled programming on Monday.  I have done absolutely no writing and watched way too much Two and a Half Men, which I don't even like but is easy to fall asleep to.