Not Quite Midnight...

at the old printing plant in woods by the Cal Sag Channel. But I'm still somewhat fascinated by the randomness of Google Images. I did become specific this time, typing in the words "space elvis," if only because I want to one day start a sentence that reads: "Back when I was working with the Space Elvis band...". Steve posted from sunny NZ that the Google Imaging is as addictive as Mindsweeper or YouTube. Well, regarding the first, as with any game that requires hand-eye coordination, I just go holy batshit on it and I ended up clearing the screen in three seconds, something I'm certain is not possible to top, except perhaps by Bobby the Mitch...I'd actually be writing fiction if it wasn't for the machinery and the cold air and the smell of ink and three types of drunken bachelor ass...Wayne

Teal Tell All (Then Back To The Old Haunts)

Within seconds of my blog post, Von sent a comment; I felt like Charlie typing in the entry code for Good Vibrations in The Looking Glass and Penny pops up almost immediately. Of course, anybody who doesn't watch LOST will not get this observation, but you could always email Sid or Larry. Sid mentioned a pun on a Wayne shade of teal, which reminds me of a similar line after my late friend and editor of Year's Best Horror wrote "Burst Just Ghostly." I told him the next line must be "turn a Wagner shade of Ka-arrl." (Bastardized Procol Harum's "Whiter Shade of Pale," for you young'uns out there, a song that will be played at my funeral). Charles queried on just HOW teal could be a doorway to madness, well, it CAN be. But I have Johnny Cash and Robert Mitchum as my gatekeepers.

Back to the Draculs (no typo) and Am'tyville thangs. Old Haunts, Night Two. I hardly get to downtown Chicago anymore, certainly not during the day. I miss seeing my fellow meltdowns, like old Ellroy trudging back to the Thompson Building, mumbling to himself. And probably in a better state of mind than me. Maybe he's talking with a ghostly Karl Edward Wagner or tapping out Baa Ba Baa BA BA bum ba5 over and over in my, um, his head.

Frank Bullitt

Bob and Lana have commented on my Steve McQueen action figure. I think Sid had awhile ago, and I probably answered him. Actually, its Lt. Frank Bullitt, one of the characters McQueen is best known for, and I purchased him at a place called Suncoast Video in Ford City Mall, where everything always seems to be marked down. They have the best selection of action figures, most of which I buy for my nieces, Disney tie-ins or Jack Skellington and Sally from NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS. I had Marv from SIN CITY once until the dog thought he was a chew toy, and I still have Hartigan, the Bruce Willis character, only he is missing a hand, something you really don't want to be checking dog crap for. I bought Frank not just for his cool outfit, the blue turtleneck under the leather jacket, but because his gun is always point at me, forcing me to write. That's the plan, at least. So, Bob and Lana, anybody else curious, go online and look up McFarlane Toys, he is putting out the cooleest stuff for people that are Bob's, Sid's, and my own age (though you young'uns like etain and steve malley might need to be hitting wikipedia about now). If only I can see a line of Robert Mitchum figures, Rev. Harry Powell from NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, Max Cady from CAPE FEAR, Jim Garry in BLOOD ON THE MOON (possibly the only crime noir western ever made), I could go on and on. "Would you like me to tell you the little story about the right hand/left hand?" Oh, and a Richard Kimble figure would be great, as well. (Oh, and I'm sporting a Jesse Ventura hairstyle the next few days, for those curious).

Murder Is My Beat, The Miami Motel Is Just Plain Creepy

Wish I had gotten around to typing this up on Friday, as the walk home and my thoughts are under the surface now, but I had to write a story with a three-hour deadline that evening, send it on to Maurice Broaddus, then go to the post office early the next morning to mail a huge box full of stuff to Johannesburg and buy some DC superhero stamps, then promptly leave for an Ice Cream Social at the 57th Street Bookstore near the University of Chicago, to hear Larry Santoro and Marty Mundt read from the works of H. P. Lovecraft. You can find each of the people mentioned above in the blog links to the left. Well, not Lovecraft's, but you can always Google the crazy old sock if you might be inclined to do such a thing. (By the way, I missed the readings because I got off the bus on West 57th, not East 57th, amost immediately realizing my mistake when faced with an intersection bordered by four vacant lots.) Here's what I would have typed Friday night, as I walked in spring-like rain for the two miles from the place that gave me my tax refund to my home. I love walking in rain, preferably when it is not freezing rain, because I had Lasik corrective surgery done back in the year of double-ought, and whereas I can never know the convenience of driving a car, I can revel in looking into a sky the color of torn plums and watching droplets of water hit my open eyes. To get home, I walked though the suburbs of Oak Lawn, Hometown, then a slight wedge of Chicago, before turning towards my home in Burbank. I passed in always creepy Miami Motel, which has somehow found the need to trademark their claims of offering "Four Hour Naps," uh-huh, right. My highlight of any walk in the vicinity of Cicero Avenue and the train crossing at 88th Place is to see the amount of cars parked in the lot; once I actually counted five. The joint was jumping. While I typed that story, one-fingered as usual, later that night, I listened to the CD pictured above, which has songs from films such as KEY LARGO, LAURA, DARK PASSAGE, and MURDER, MY SWEET. The kind of music I will hear in my head as I walk the dark streets in the rain, having my long thoughts about both the days ahead and of the days already behind me.