Hey there, my angel-faces. It sure seems like March was a less productive month for your uncle Jimmy, but it could just be that I cranked a shitload of stuff out during February, which is the shortest month of the year even (ooh, lookit me, I can read a calendar). Regardless, I've still got all the Callaway vittles from the last four or five or nine weeks here for you, in easy-to-swallow gel-cap form. Let's watch, won't we?
First off, if you have yet to submit to me, there is still time. On the off-chance you haven't heard, my good buddy Laura Roberts, she of Black Heart Magazine and also of general awesomeisms, is gonna start themes for that aforementioned e-rag, the first of which is "Noir." It is a most certain honor and privilege that she has asked me (me!) to be the guest-editor on this maiden voyage for her lovely site. Already we've had many grand submissions from all kindsa make-out-with-able writers and artists, but that doesn't mean the rest of you can slack off. You have until the end of this month--April the 30th, 2011 anno Domini--to get your submissions in via the Submishmash account Laura has set up here. Specifically, we're looking for flash fiction of up to 800 words (give or take), poetry (3 submissions per author, please), and any and all artwork that pertains to that ever-delightfully suicide-inducing theme of noir: booze, broads, bullets, and all their attendant peaks and valleys. Again, you've got about three weeks from the time of this posting, so get cracking.
Over on the Let's Exploit Everybody! front, things have slowed a bit. I dunno if you've noticed, but I've constantly got a shitload of projects going at once, inspiring one of my man-meat mates, Brian Roe, to once quip that I write like a plate-spinner on Ed Sullivan (to which I was heard to retort, "Only slightly less culturally relevant." Oh, aren't we droll)(No). Anyways, it's occurred to me that the effectiveness of this approach can often be outweighed by the mental toll it takes. More direct to the point, I am too pooped to pop with this movie bloggity project these days. However! This means not that you (as I've mentioned) may slack off in submissions (which you may--nay, must!--send to email@example.com). Why, just this month I received a handful of plum analyses from such scions of sub-text as Matt Funk and Pete Risley (whose recent debut novel Rabid Child should be in all your TBR stacks. Along with my other favorite debut novels of late, Benjamin Whitmer's Pike and Michael Harris's The Chieu Hoi Saloon, Rabid Child will challenge you in places you'd really rather not challenge yourself. These are novels that should be required reading in schools and also will never, ever be required reading in schools. Those without balls can go read something else [a challenge to your masculinity oughtta get you to do what I want, right?]). And although my own entries for March are yet to go live (though I am halfway through my write-up of the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre, coach, I swear), over at "Let's Fight Everybody!", you can--right this very minute!--read Laura Roberts's ('member her from before?) take on Fight Club (which is not technically a revenge movie, but Laura's write-up from that point-of-view is just too good to go ignored), as well as that delightful old softy Alec Cizak's take on Bad Lieutenant at "Let's Drink Everybody!" It does an everybody good.
Book reviews! Or as I like to call 'em: "I can't believe they just gimme these things for free and all I gotta do is write about 'em." Yes, Pop Matters continues to not get wise to my scam, and so I have another book review for you to peruse and delight(?) at. It's one I actually forgot to mention last month, and it's the official biography of Roald Dahl. Although it has been a few years since I've read or re-read anything of Dahl's, it would not be inaccurate to say the guy is one of my earliest influences, and he remains the yardstick by which I measure my or anyone else's short stories. It may have to do with my age at discovering the man's work, but I maintain the guy did more for the short-story form in the 20th century than anybody, except maybe Joe Lansdale. Anyways, the book is called Storyteller and it's written by Donald Sturrock, who was fairly close enough to Dahl when he was alive to get some nice insight into the man and how he works, but not too much so that it colors his objectivity at all. The book is really, really long, and kind of a slog at times, but overall, I found it to be pretty enjoyable. But you don't have to take my word for it (or no, wait, you do).
My latest couple of entries over at Rejected by Covered went up, which I believe means there's only one left in the hopper. And so that also means I need to finish up the one I've been working on so Covered can reject it and I can send it to those RbC boys. Anyways, this first one here came about fairly organically: I drank a pot of coffee and then a twelve-pack of Natural Light, all while The Big Lebowski played in the background not once, but twice. I think that all shows here. And my other entry here is yet another of my interpretations of the work of Evan Dorkin, 'cept it's drawn instead of written. And yes, I think I'll stick to the writing.
On the fiction front, Crime Factory released their special two-fisted edition entitled Kung Fu Factory, available here in either PDF or print-to-order formats. I am tickled a deep shade of pink to be featured in this special edition, not only because it'd been a while since I'd worked a swear word into a title, but--are you serious?--I get to share space with such names as Christa fuckin' Faust and Duane fuckin' Swierczynski, who are such names that I feel the need to rechristen them with swear words in the middle (now those are names). And those are just the headliners; we also have such dear hearts as Anthony Neil Smith, my matey Cameron Ashley, the kid Liam Jose, and a fuckload of others. Hi-yah.
And finally, I opted this year to get back to that ol' rock and roll a bit more than I have over the past few months. My dear, dear friend of many years, Hadi Fever, started up a little synth-punk combo called The Stalins of Sound last year, and I recently joined their ranks as drum machine operator/keyboardist. The fact that I don't know how to play keyboards has only been a minor obstacle, and we debuted this most current line-up this past Saturday at San Diego's own Tower Bar. It went really well, if this vicious cramp in my neck is any indication. You can direct yourself over to the MySpace here--even though it hasn't been updated in forever (and probably won't be), you can hear a couple of the tracks Fever banged out by himself before he got me and Dave to back him (it's really Fever's show; I'm just glad to follow him in this regard), and then you can go over to the Faceybook page and like the shit outta us.
All right, I think that's it, my loves. Flowers and orgasms to all of you.
Don't ever trust Whitey.
See a doctor and get rid of it.