In despair?

Think today's young people are feckless and America's glory days are just a dot in the rearview mirror? Well, think again, Mr. Glass-Half-Empty. As long as we have great young Americans like John Cornwell, our place at the pinnacle of international influence is secure.

John, a recent graduate of Duke University, our high-priced local bastion of beer and b'ball, has invented the greatest boon to college dorm rats since the inflatable doll. John created a mini-fridge that can fling a brewski across the room and into your hand (or at your roommate, depending on your level of hostility and how many Miller Lites you've already imbibed).

With a range of 15 feet, a remote-controlled guidance system, and a 10-beer magazine, you're good for the entire first half of an NCAA Tournament game. Add the Stadium Pal and you never have to leave the couch.

Beer is not the only projectile Cornwell has launched across a room, just the most practical. I mean, it's great that he invented a potentially lethal potato cannon but, outside of Ireland, how does that add lustre to Western culture? The answer is, it doesn't.

No, beer's the thing, and John is flinging it. Check out his video up there and if you don't know what a Stadium Pal is, click on the link and listen to David Sedaris explain the practical joys of this ultimate sports accessory.

Then raise a glass to John Cornwell, Duke graduate, inventor, entrepreneur and Great Young American.

Hoo-rah.

Ken Bruen Appreciation Day

I don't know what happened, but when the bell rings this old fire horse comes running. Apparently someone with little taste and less sense dissed The Pope (aka Ken Bruen) and I want to go on record by saying that I wasn't anywhere near a pub all weekend.

Sandra Ruttan, being too Canadian to kick the offender in his dangly bits, has asked everyone to show Ken a little love, so here we go.

I don't know Ken. I've never met him and I'm sure he's unaware of my existence on the planet, but he's a damn fine writer. The White Trilogy is so good that I've given away several copies. Right now I think my last copy is on its way to Iraq, so I couldn't look up the page I wanted to quote. It's a scene in a bar between a cop and a snitch and Ken does more in a page and a half than I can do in ten. It's as close to poetry as prose can get, with each word, each sentence, each paragraph communicating so much about the place, the people, and the crime that it takes your breath away. And he makes it look so damn easy.

So here's to Ken Bruen. If it wasn't first thing on a Monday morning, I'd raise a pint in your honor, sir, and express my gratitude for this opportunity to add my voice to the chorus of appreciation.

Sleeping...

Until I get up the energy to post something new, I suggest you check out the Demon From Down Under's new hangout called Crimespace.

All the usual suspects.

Later.

I'd like to thank the Academy...

The news over at Contemporary Nomad is that Granta's list of Best Young American Novelists is out.

And seven of them have not published a novel.

Which takes a lot of the pressure off, doesn't it?

That means I can win the Cy Young award without pitching a single game, or the Pulitzer without reporting or

(cue the choir)

the Oscar, without producing a single frame of film.

So, what awards are you lining up for? Accomplishment not required.

Are people who write about murder...

more fun than writers who write about women finding empowerment through quilting?

That's the question of the day.

This came up in a bar, naturally, in a confab of writers - some crime, some literary, and some downright criminal. Ad Hudler, literary novelist, admitted to homicidal ambitions. Why?

Because crime writers, he said, have more fun than literary writers.

I know a few literary writers, like Soren Palmer who's been nominated for a Pushcart Prize (you go, Soren). These are kudos rarely handed out to those of us who dabble in murder but Soren, aside from the dour Scandinavian name his folks hung on him, is an enjoyable guy to hang with, as is Mr. Hudler.

So, if it's true that crime writers have more fun, why is that? Following are three theories, the first of which is my favorite but it is almost assuredly bullshit.

Theory #1: We write away our demons. Yeah, it's all like poetic and all, but as much as I like it I don't buy it.

Theory #2: Crime writers are tap dancers. Elmore Leonard isn't wrestling with any deep philosophical conundrums. He's writing about bad people in bad places. Those of us who write crime are, at bottom, trying to entertain the reader, not enlighten them. So it's no wonder that we're entertaining. As long as our standards are low and the bar is open.

Theory #3: Literary writers come, mostly, from academia and everyone knows that academia is a bog of petty politics, back-stabbing, and professional envy. Someone smarter than I am (and we're talking multitudes here, people) said that the politics in academia are so brutal because the rewards are so small. I know one professor at Duke who cannot stand Reynolds Price, mostly because Price is wildly successful by literary standards. So it stands to reason that if you get a group of literary writers in a room together, the similarity to a snake pit is not coincidental. No wonder so many of those books make me want to take a bath with my toaster.

That's what I think. Anyone else want to weigh in on why we have more fun than literary novelists? I'm open for your theories, the more outrageous the better.

Talk to me.

A Friday treatise on all that is good about James O. Born.

It's come to my attention that certain members of our community (Karen) think we've been too tough on Jim Born, author of books and nemesis of hombres malo in the Sunshine State.

That's Jim up there, putting a hammerlock on the septugenarian Dutch Leonard so that it looks like Dutch is actually endorsing Jim's book.

I heard that Jim once wrestled Laura Lippman to the ground demanding a blurb, but that could just be a rumor. I don't know. I wasn't there.

But I was in South Carolina this past weekend, thanks to Jim. He wrangled an invitation for me and I am not one to be ungrateful.

Which brings me to a larger topic.

Last Saturday a group of us adjourned to a local bar making the regular patrons wonder if a senior citizens' tour bus had broken down outside.

While in the bar, Ad Hudler joined us and decided to kill someone. Jeff Shelby suggested he start with Jim Born, but Ad meant to kill someone in fiction, not real life, and after our initial disappointment we asked why. Ad said it was because crime writers had more fun than literary novelists. That surprised me, and it got me thinking. In the next day or so, I'll air my theories as to why that might be.

But for today, I want to publicly thank Jim. He takes a lot of grief, and gives his share, and I'm happy to be his friend and colleague.

Now, can someone take these cuffs off?


Update - Seems Jim's having a good week. I received this note this morning:

Just found out that I, that's right, a Florida redneck, am the recipient of the inaugural prize for best novel (Escape Clause) in popular fiction for the Florida Book awards. Not bad, huh. Nice end to the week.

Why do I love the SC Book Festival?

Yes, I got a chance to hang with Michele Martinez, Jeff Shelby, Bob Morris, Cornelia Read and, because every good experience must be karmically balanced with something evil, Jim Born.

Yes, I met people who had actually read Beneath A Panamanian Moon and seemed to enjoy it (or were excellent liars). Yes, I saw a friend I hadn't seen in 30 years. Yes, I even sold a bunch of books.

Yes, the organizers were all brilliant (and here's a shout out to Paula Millen Watkins, Mary Harris, Paula Benson and Jim and Debby Johnson. They all did their jobs with a casual aplomb that belied the amount of work it took to make the festival roll out so seamlessly.)

Yes, there are many reasons why I love the SC Book Festival. Then yesterday I received a Thank You tin of chocolate chip cookies.

What a class act.

And Mary? I know Jim Born told you scurrilous lies, but if I ever suggested that South Carolina was full of rednecks, I apologize. I didn't see one redneck the entire weekend.

Except Jim Born.

Just what I needed. More books.

If you're ever invited to the South Carolina Book Festival, do not hesitate. Say yes. Go. You will not be sorry.

They treated us like rock stars (minus the groupies, cocaine and A&R weasels).* This kind of star treatment might be a bit too rich for novelists, like feeding chocolate to a starving man, but for a few days out of our lives I think we can survive.

I'll write more on this when I have time and can stretch out a bit, but for now, let me tell you what I brought home:

Joseph Bathanti's Coventry; a few Bob Morris novels including what has to be the best damn title ever, Bermuda Schwartz; the new Field of Fire by Jim Born; A Field of Darkness by Cornelia Read; Finishing School by Michele Martinez; and by special request, a couple of Carl T. Smith's including his latest Louisiana Burn.

There's so much to report and I just don't have the time right now. But in the next few days I'll write about the tireless organizers of the festival, why crime writers have more fun than literary novelists and my theories as to why that's true, the swag of festivals, why Michele Martinez is the perfect panel partner, the readers who buy our books and actually read them, and the special man-love that certain writers share when they're on the road.

Stay tuned.

*I'd appreciate it if the organizers would work on the groupies and blow shortage in time for the next festival, if it's not too much trouble. Thank you.

Why I love the Bible.

I think it was Richard Brautigan who wrote about the pretty girl who got drunk at parties, enticed men into driving her across town to her apartment, and then left them sitting alone at the curb once they got there.

Strangely, the Bible has nothing to say about that sort of unpleasant behavior.

But it does have something to say about anyone who has ever bought a lady a drink with more on his mind than merely quenching her thirst.

One of the prophets - a whiny, insistent dude named Habbakkuk - said this about any man who seduces a woman by getting her so blotto that she pukes on his car:

"Woe to him who gives his neighbor drink, pouring your inflaming wine until they
are drunk, so that he may gaze at their naked bodies!"

Which is why God gave us naked women on the Internet instead.

Tomorrow: Why Jim Born is not my boyfriend.

Good news for the Bush twins.

The Bushies have always thought of themselves as America's reigning royal family, which is why they got so upset when that cracker from Arkansas handed Poppy his ass in '92.

But the Bush twins, while treated as royal spawn, can't really carry the title, what with this being America and all. So, how do we fix that?

We do what rich American families have done for generations. We snag a foreign blue blood.

But, how do you meet a prince like the dreamy Prince Harry of the UK? You can't just flash your cooter at him, Jenna. He's a prince for God's sake. Women flash their cooters in his direction a hundred times before tea.

So what's a social-climbing young girl gotta do to get the Prince's attention? Here's a hint. Prince Harry is about to be sent off to Iraq. That's right. In the UK the well-connected (and who's better connected than Prince Harry?) fight their own wars. Unlike our rich, who like war as long as someone else does the heavy lifting.

So, how can Bar or Jenna get in the Prince's good graces?

By doing something bold and unexpected. Something like going here.

That's right, they can enlist for service in Iraq, taking the place of a reservist about to go for his third or fourth tour. That should impress young Harry.

So watch for it. Soon we'll see the Bush twins showing support for their father's foreign policy by signing up.

Oh, and you might also watch for those pigs that are about to fly out of my ass.

More art.

This is by John Puglisi. I can't afford his paintings, but I did buy this print and one other. I'm quickly running out of wall space in our tiny cottage. But if anyone would like to buy me a present, here are some artists I'll be happy to find a spot for:

Robert LaDuke

Morgan Carver

Bruce Cody

Glenn Ness

Daniel Peacock

and

R Kenton Nelson

Art. Buy art. When your grandchildren schlep those old canvases to the Antique Road Show, wondering why Grampaw had this weird fixation with diners, they'll thank you.

Bad news for John Rickards.

"...you won’t find men’s genitalia in quality literature," said librarian Dana Nilsson.

This rather abrupt and sweeping castration of "quality literature" was instigated by this year's winner of the Newbery Medal, the big kahuna of kid lit accolades. The book is "The Higher Power of Lucky," and from what I can tell, it has little to do with God or 12-step programs.

But it does have the word "scrotum" in it and as Big Bill would say, "Aye, there's the rub."

Because even a passing mention of all that is south of the beltline has the more sensitive among us clutching our faux pearls and calling out for a book banning, if not burning.

Not that the author, Susan Patron, set out to rub anyone the wrong way. In fact, she never, ever mentions men's genitalia. She does, however, have her heroine overhear someone say they saw a rattlesnake bite a dog on the scrotum. Ouch. And in a Santorum-like leap, Dana Nilsson read dog scrotum and thought about men and their jiggly parts, proving just how dangerous these words in these books can be.

Which coincidentally ties into the recent story about a theater in Florida catching heat for putting up The Vagina Monologues on their marquee, because a mother didn't want to tell her daughter what a vagina was, or even that the little girl had one, for fear she might actually look down and see it and wonder what it was for.

God forbid we use theater or books as springboards to education, not if that education focuses young attention on those tingly areas that wise parents refer to as "the devil's place." Because, children don't need to know about their bodies, not ever. Take it from me, those dangly bits just lead to jail time and trouble, so it's best to not talk of them at all.

The author lives in California, naturally, where I assume people talk about scrotums willy-nilly, children be damned. Ms. Patron said she was stunned because the story of the rattlesnake chomping on the canine nutsack was true. And, as the left coast author said, "...one of the themes of the book is that Lucky is preparing herself to be a grown-up. Learning about language and body parts, then, is very important to her."

Then she goes on to reveal just how truly twisted she is by saying that “The word [scrotum] is just so delicious.”

I'll bet that in your hippie-dippie, Free Love world it is delicious, Ms. Patron. But in God-fearing Bush country, we don't think about the taste of scrotums unless we're invited to a teabagging party and then I suggest you rub a bit of almond extract down there in consideration of your partner.

So, people, before you start using grown-up words to describe your naughty parts in those filthy books you write, I suggest you consider your audience and instead use child-friendly words like "peaches," "man kiwi," and "junque" instead.

Fox Yucks Redux

This is more Fox comedy from the new Half Hour News Hour. But be warned, do not watch this if you have a weak stomach.

This promo is introduced by the giant-headed Sean Hannity and features the trice-married, Viagra-popping, drug-addicted, former comic Rush Limbaugh as the president.

Rush makes some real knee-slappers here. He talks about Howard Dean getting much-needed meds, something Rush knows something about. I expected some El Rushbo-style advice on threatening your Latina maid so she cops your Oxycontin for you, but I was disappointed.

I was also disappointed in the joke about Cindy Sheehan's cross-country shooting spree because, I admit, I didn't get it. Did I miss something?

If he'd said Dick Cheney's shooting spree, that would be funny because of that whole Cheney-shooting-a-friend-in-the-face-thing. But Cindy Sheehan? Maybe if he'd made a joke about her losing her car keys because, you know, she lost a son in Iraq, maybe there's something funny Fox could find in there.

What was that Oscar Wilde line? "To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness."

See how easy it is to turn that tragic frown upside down, Rush?

No, don't thank me. I'm only trying to help.

Later, Ann Coulter makes a cameo and delivers her famous laugh-out-loud line about killing all Arab leaders and converting their people to Christianity. Nothing beats the classics, Ann. Thanks for reminding us just how hilarious you can be.

Fox comedy. And here I thought O'Reilly had that sewed up.

Fox brings on the funny.

For those who may be blissfully unaware, Fox News is debuting a show that is to comedy what Fox News is to news. It's called The Half Hour News Hour because, see, it's funny. Just like it was when another network had the Half Hour Comedy Hour back in the Pleistocene.

This Daily Show ripoff is going to be hi-larious, judging by the sample we get up there. Because they make jokes about Obama's drug use with a timely reference to Marion Barry, they joke about Obama's middle name, and they do a side-splitting routine about his initials because BO is funny.

If you're twelve.

And you've suffered a head wound.

Add a raucous laugh track and you've got Comedy Gold my friend.

Now, I like funny right-wingers. Both of them. Larry Miller used to be funny until he discovered Israel. And I enjoy P.J. O'Rourke. In fact, I enjoy O'Rourke more now than when he helped turn the scathingly satiric National Lampoon into a sophomoric collection of naughty, frat-boy rib-ticklers. (Think of an entire magazine made up of Playboy party jokes.) But that was a long time ago and I've forgiven him. He was young.

And so is this show. Maybe they'll find their legs (and new writers) and actually make a genuinely funny news show that skewers the ample targets of Democratic fecklessness and Hillary's ass. It could happen.

Uh-huh. And Ann Coulter could turn into a real human being.

But don't count on it.

Whodunit?

The story of the purloined bird has made the rounds of the crime blogs, the latest (and with a cool pic) is from our pal Dusty Rhoades.

I'm not here to add to the chorus. I'm here to sing a bit of counterpoint and ask, who signed the damn thing? In all the stories I've read, I've seen the detail that the bird was autographed by a cast member, but I don't know who. It couldn't be one of the stars. If it had been Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Mary Astor or even Ward Bond, surely that detail would have made it into the news.

So here we go. The first person who can tell me who signed the stolen bird gets his or her choice of a signed copy of Jim Born's new book, Field of Fire, Jeff Shelby's best-selling Wicked Break, or Cornelia Read's Edgar-nominated Field of Darkness. (OK, you can ask for Beneath A Panamanian Moon, but given the choices I don't know why you would.)

I'll see all three authors in South Carolina later this month (more on that later) and get the winner's choice signed between drinks.

So, do your Google thing and be the first to identify the cast member of The Maltese Falcon who signed the stolen bird. I honestly don't know, so you're on your honor here.

But I would love for it to be Gutman's gunsel, the under-appreciated Elisha Cook, Jr.

Update: Yay! It was Elisha Cook, the gunsel. And if you think a gunsel has something to do with guns, you probably think catamite has something to do with cats. So, Jerry, let me know whose book you want signed and I'll bring it back from South Carolina, freshly autographed. And thanks for playing.

Getting dumped - an inquiry.

Yesterday I was driving home, listening to NPR, and I hear a story about getting your heart stomped on, and what better time of the year is there to explore heartbreak than this Hallmark-manufactured holiday dedicated to totally unrealistic expectations?

The story on NPR was astonishingly pedestrian given the topic. Is it just me or has NPR's quality declined? I mean, does Juan Williams even know what a follow-up question is?

But I digress.

The story did raise the question of whether men and women deal differently with getting the ole heave-ho.

It never occurred to me that men and women handle heartbreak differently. I thought we all curled up on the carpet like a bug in a frying pan. I thought we all made drunk calls at 3 a.m. with our IQ, dignity and pants down around our ankles and the slim glimmer of hope in our alcoholic haze. I thought everyone sat outside our former lover's house, a pistol in our laps, a vodka bottle and a bag of fast food burgers on the passenger seat.

No? Really? Just me?

I obviously need a bit of edification. Do men and women really cope with getting the shaft in different ways? I need to know.

Talk to me.

*Illustration by Chase Melendez

More Music News - The Piedmont Shieks

What a great weekend. Jenny and I watched a few movies, slept in, went to a party where I played the blues, got drunk and had my finger chomped on by a very large parrot named Goldie.

I also got news from my agent that we're moving to another agency (more on that later) and then Sunday we saw Valentino and the Piedmont Shieks. That's them up there, with Daniel Valentino on harp, Chris Berry on guitar, Tracy Wieback on bass and Ed Myzynski on drums. (I have to come clean here. I am a committed Ed Head. Not only is he an amazingly tasteful drummer, he's also a regular reader of the Planet. Say hi, Ed.)

I could tell you how good these guys are, but you can hear them yourself. Go to YouTube, search for the Piedmont Shieks and you'll find a dozen or so cuts. They're also here: Myspace.com/thesheiks. Check 'em out.

Daniel's tone knocks me out. He's got that big fat tongue slap, backed by seriously smooth vibrato (very hard to get right, by the way), and his whole approach is like opening up a big ass can of 1952.

Again, if you have a chance to see these guys, do it. You won't be disappointed.

Play the blues, boys.

Magnetic ribbons won't help these guys.

But books will.

Another family member is in Iraq. This time it's my niece's husband, a doc stationed with a Forward Surgical Team (FST).

As anyone who has ever been in the service knows, boredom is an unavoidable part of military life. Books help, especially the kind of books we read. Nothing takes your mind of the brutalities and war like a good multiple homicide.

So I'm sending out a call to all the people who read this blog. I want you to send books. More important, if you blog and I know most of you do, I'm asking you to post Brett's address at your place and ask your readers to send books. Paperbacks are probably best, but hardbacks are fine, too.

For those who don't know, there are some restrictions. You can't send porn (I'm looking at you, Stephen) and there's some restriction against religious evangelism that I don't think will be a problem here.

I don't ask much of this crowd. I give and give, always for your amusement and edification. Oh, sure, I urge you to buy a book every now and then, and occassionally I invite you to say something that would derail any potential political career you're considering, but other than those small sacrifices you're pretty much free to come and go as you please.

But not today. Today I'm asking you to step up. You can send your books to me and I'll forward them, or you can send them direct. And please, if you want to do something more than slap one of those three-dollar magnets on your car, pass this address along to fans, friends and family.

I know you guys won't let me down.

Here is Brett's address:

Cpt. Brett Sachse, MD
240 Med Det 28 CSH
APO AE 09348

Here is my address:

David Terrenoire
5 Chipley Ct.
Durham, NC 27703

I'll let you know how it's going in future posts.

Discussing Uganda

I love euphemisms for the horizontal hula. There's everything from the baseball fan's charging the mound to the former altar boy's dunking the bishop. So I was particularly pleased to read that in the UK, Discussing Uganda has become the euphemism du jour for extramarital bouts of hide the banger.

The story is, a young woman had an illicit tryst at a party and when asked what she and the gentleman were doing upstairs, she responded, "Discussing Uganda." I like that.

"What did you do this weekend?"

"Oh, not much. The wife and I stayed home and discussed Uganda until we couldn't walk."

I was surprised to discover, after a bit of research, that certain groups have specific euphemisms for checking the old oil. For instance, accountants can file an extension, Canadians can stuff the beaver, and Star Wars fans can shake hands with the wookie. Politicians can enter Congress and lawyers can raise an objection, but what about writers? According to my quick search of the web, writers are as useless as a eunuch at a teabagging.

So I've come up with a few euphemisms of my own. Here, for the first time ever, is a list of writers' eupemisms for making the beast with two backs:

1. Inserting an exclamation
2. Foreshadowing the climax
3. Employing the active voice
4. Sharpening the pencil
5. Penning a romance
6. Simultaneous submissions
7. Pulling a Reacher
8. Polishing the query
9. Pillaging the slush pile
10. Interviewing the wombat

What are your euphemisms for love spelunking? Come on, give it up. You know you want to.

This and $3.85 will get me a cup of coffee.

I'm not complaining. I've given away stories for free. In fact, right this moment you can read Things Could Be Worse over at Demolition and know that I got paid exactly what it will cost you to read it.

And that's OK.

And I certainly don't have a beef with Michael Bracken, editor of this Fedora anthology, the man who just sent me my second royalty check for my story, Freddie Swings In. So far, I've raked in ninety cents for a story that came this close to selling to Playboy for a grand.

And that's OK.

Because Freddie Swings In is the story that was nominated for a Derringer along with stories by Ray Banks, Dave White and Duane Swierczynski. And those names introduced me to this blogging community, and that's worth more than ninety cents.

OK, maybe not enough to cover that Starbucks java frappuccino, but still, it's something.

And there are other names in this anthology you might recognize. Writers like Graham Powell, Tom Sweeney and Lee Goldberg. What ever happened to those guys?

So, you might wonder, if we don't do this for the money, why do we do it? Why put ourselves through years of rejection for a job that comes with little money, no health benefits, no job security, and no pension plan? Why do this?

And if you have to ask, perhaps this isn't your line of work.

So I'm listening to the Wild Tchoupitoulas

on the best damn radio station on the planet and the man comes on the radio telling me more and more about who's playing around New Orleans, and I hear that Mighty Lester is in the Crescent City playing a benefit gig for the New Orleans Musicians Clinic.

Mighty Lester is a horn-driven band graced with a killer guitar slinger and a big front man who sings his ass off. These are my home boys, guys I've known for years and played with when they've been generous enough to invite me up.

You can buy their new CD, We Are Mighty Lester, right here and for a free listen visit their web site here.

These guys have worked hard to get where they are and if you have a chance to see Mighty Lester, do it, you won't be disappointed. Oh, and when they take a break, buy 'em a drink and tell 'em I sent you.

Look out Hollywood, here I come.

When I set out to write that feature, the one with the gratuitous breast shots and inexpensive exploding mayhem, I bought a cheap but useful bit of screenwriting software that made the formatting tolerable. Apparently, that put me on a list.

Because David Freeman is offering me a spot in his screenwriting class. Up there is one of the inside panels from his brochure. Hmmm, doesn't look like proofreading is covered.

But that doesn't dissuade this screenwriter. God knows I need professional help, so I checked out the course offering. Mr. Freeman promises to show me 10 techniques for creating complex characters, 25 types of character quirks or eccentricites, 37 techniques for giving my characters depth and techniques "to create interesting villains."

And here I've just been listening to the voices in my head. Had I known there were techniques, I would have signed up long ago.

But wait, you also get "14 techniques to capture the rhythm and sound of conversation in written dialogue." And that's just on Saturday. We have a whole other day of techniques to go.

Sunday we get 100, count 'em, 100 techniques for creating compelling plots and scenes, including 70 types of plot twists.

Why hell, I take this class, my next script will practically write itself. Sweet.

But I wasn't born in the turnip truck yesterday. I checked out Mr. Freeman on line and he's written a few movies. Four of them. And while I haven't seen them, I'm sure they're swell, what with all those techniques. But what really sold me was this line:

"This is the workshop taken by many novelists, as well as by the screenwriters, directors, producers, stars, and key creative and marketing executives from the companies which make or made:" and then a whole list of movies and TV shows follow, everything from Everybody Loves Raymond to Meet the Fockers. Yes, key creative and marketing executives have taken this course.

Elsewhere in the brochure, they tell me that if I sign up and pay my $400, I can get "Final Draft," the industry's gold-standard screenwriting software for the bargain price of $129 (and really, that is a bargain). Sadly, the offer is good only up to the end of November, 2005. So, lacking a time machine, I'm fucked.

But all things considered, it's good to know that someone out there is helping writers like myself develop characters with eccentricites (25 of them!) because all my people are hopelessly normal.

Unfortunately, I'll have to skip this seminar because right now I'm busy working on my drinking techniques. But if you're interested, I'll be happy to send you this brochure along with a copy of my cheapy screenwriting software, absolutely free.*

*Offer expires August 31, 2004.

Let's talk caveman.

Or woman. This cavewoman, of course, is Raquel Welch from One Million BC, the film that proves beyond any doubt that depilatories existed at the same time as dinosaurs.

But I'm not here to talk about hot cavewomen, although I can think of worse things to mull over on this last cold day of January. No, I'm here to talk about the Geico caveman, the insurance primate who is not half as attractive as Ms. Welch.

Have I completely sold out? Yes, I have, and if Geico wants to send me a check, I will happily spend their money on vodka and art. But as we wait for my unlikely remuneration, let me direct you to this web site.

Here you will discover just how today's caveman lives. You will see what he reads, listen to his iPod, even get a glimpse of how today's metrosexual caveman does the fashion thing. And why, if I'm not getting paid, am I doing this?

Because the caveman's crib is actually my nephew's house. He's a young film maker who has worked with Geico on a number of projects and when they needed a place to shoot this, my nephew offered up his place. So take a look. And as you wander from room to room, think of how my nephew and his wife took an unassuming ranch in northern Virginia, gutted the inside and rebuilt this interior with their own four hands. Pretty cool. And the web site is entertaining, too.

Not as entertaining as Miss Welch in her animal-skin bikini, but then what is?

Proof that Hungarian beer can destroy your critical faculties.

This is Olen Steinhauer, the Edgar-nominated author of Liberation Movements and other highly-regarded novels that you should rush out and buy right now. Go ahead. We'll wait.

OK, now that you're back, let's look at something Olen's done that most people, including my mother, would find incredible. He's read my book and liked it enough to tell others about it, which is not unlike standing on a subway platform yelling at strangers about the joys of lime jello.

Thanks, Olen, you delusional fool. Thanks.

Planetary Update: It should be clear to all of my readers (both of you) that I'm blogging again. I've remodeled and I'll try to stick to my resolve to post only when I see a worthwhile story like if the president eats a bug.

For instance, I've got this bit of shameless self promotion: Jim Born, Jeff Shelby, Cornelia Read (another Edgar-nominee) and I are going to be at the South Carolina Book Festival, February 23 - 25. I understand it's a free event, so if you're in that neck o' the woods, stop by. We'll be the crime writers swimming in the sea of literary nabobs.

As for The Planet, we're going to go slow for a while and see if I can keep from obsessing about this.

Uh-huh. Now who's deluded?

Tomorrow: Caveman News!

"I thought I was going to get my life together,"

Ronald Doston told the judge. Well now he's got plenty of time to work on that.

After being arrested for the zillionth time for the same crime, the judge sentenced Dotson to 30 years in prison. What was Dotson's crime? He smashed a window of a cleaning supply place on the corner of 8 Mile and Woodward in order to make sweet sweet dummy love to a mannequin.

"I think he lacks social skills," his lawyer said. Ya think? (And if lacking social skills is a crime, why isn't Jeff Shelby behind bars?)

Dotson's been here before. In 1993 he snatched three female mannequins. Seven years later he was arrested again after becoming entranced by a mannequin with bobbed hair in a pink dress.

And who could blame him? Really.

Even though Dotson is an habitual offender, 30 years is a pretty harsh sentence considering the mannequin was asking for it by wearing a French maid's outfit.

"He needs to be kept off the streets," the prosecuting attorney said.

Now, maybe I'm a bit simple-minded, but couldn't this be accomplished by giving the guy his own mannequin and a tub of KY? Because I'm willing to take up a collection.

The judge, master of the obvious, said, "It's clear there is an illness here that needs to be dealt with."

But who's thinking of the victim? Nobody. She continues to be exploited by the store, parading her in the window in that degrading maid's outfit like she was nothing more than an inanimate chunk of flesh-painted plaster. "It attracts a lot of attention," said the store manager/pimp.

Yeah, she sure got Dotson's attention.

If Dotson is intent on making love to something that has no emotions and doesn't move during sex, I have an old girlfriend I could introduce him to.

On second thought, maybe prison is less cruel.

Less satire ...

... and more fart jokes.*

The White House Correspondents' Association, the group that hired Stephen Colbert to provide the yuks at last year's kissy-face confab, have decided that Colbert played a little rough with our Cowpoke in Chief and hurt the little fella's feelings.

Not wanting to bruise the thin-skinned Decider again this year, the WHCA has hired 60's comedy sensation Rich Little and asked him not to make fun of you-know-who or mention the war in you-know-where. Little has promised to confine all jokes to airline food and those wacky hippies. "Not a word about the war," Little said. "I won't even mention Vietnam."

That's right. Young men and women are getting shot at and blown up every day, but the guy who sent them to Iraq is too fragile to face a few jokes from a TV comedian.

Don't get me wrong, I loved Rich Little when I was little. His Nixon is dead-on, but then again, Nixon is dead. So is Reagan and a whole host of other people Little impersonates, which makes me wonder: What happens when all the people you impersonate have joined the choir invisible?

Ladies and gentlemen, Warren G Harding!

You book a gig with the Liberal Media's White House Correspondents.

Just be sure to lay off the Boy King. Colbert made him cry.

*According to US News, Bush is uncomfortable around women because he loves "to cut a few for laughs, especially when greeting new young aides..." That's Klassy with a K.

If Texas didn't exist, we'd have to make it up.

A friend forwarded this story to me and it was too good not to post it.

John Kelso of the Austin Statesman asks if this man is the most politically incorrect person in Texas. I don't know, but the competition has got to be fierce.

Let's say that for now, this guy is in the finals.

Charles Johnson III, oil wealth oozing from his ears, is taking Jesus' commandments to heart and helping clothe the naked, although Jesus didn't say anything about Hooters T-shirts so Johnson extemporized.

Yes, Mr. Johnson flew to New Guinea, where other people have been eaten for less, and handed out Hooters T-shirts to the women.

I love this guy.

That's Johnson up there in the bowling shirt and fez, a look I might adopt for my next gig. In the story Johnson also gives vent to his inner Maragret Mead by enlightening us as to the local customs. Speaking of one woman carrying a pig (not Johnson) he said, "She was nursing that pig when we saw her. A lot of women in New Guinea nurse their pigs to fatten 'em up."

And speaking of pigs, Johnson rides around with a stuffed hog in the sidecar of his motorcycle.
"I stuff him in my sidecar and take him barhopping," he said. "We put dollar bills in his hooves for the girls in the strip clubs."

Johnson has also sponsored topless dove hunts next to a maximum security prison. This means he hires topless dancers to act as bird dogs, fetching the downed birds for the hunters. "When they bring back a dove," he said, "they get a dollar." Nice.

But, according to Kelso, "Perhaps the apex of Johnson's politically incorrect career occurred when he brought a 378-pound Dallas transvestite named Rhapsody as his date to his 20th high school reunion in Amarillo.

"She was a great date. Drank a whole fifth of vodka," Johnson said.

Mom, is that you?

Kelso tells a few other stories about our man Johnson, but you have to go read him. Go ahead. It's funny stuff.

Or maybe it's just another day, another dude, down in Texas. You gotta love 'em.

(And no, I'm not out of retirement. I just couldn't let this one pass by without comment.)

Merry Christmas

Thank you, Graham

The bar isn't officially open, but I wanted to join my colleagues in raising a glass to the proprietor of Crime Spot, Graham Powell.

Graham is the traffic master and genius behind that big roundhouse of blogs, the guy who lets everyone know when a place is updated so there's never a moment in the day you can't find some reason to not write.

Graham once called me an evil genius for bringing down his site but he was being kind. I'm no genius, and the evil is almost always unintentional.

So Graham, this drink's for you.

And if you just email me your address, I'll put this collection of Blue Murder in the mail. It's my way of saying thanks.

It's that time of year.

So here we are, a full year from the time I first started writing the Planet. Unfortunately, this joke is as ruefully true today as it was a century ago.

This has been a great year. I hope you all have had as much fun as I have. But, as Carolina Moon said, nothing lasts forever. I'd felt the quality of my posts slip, so it was time to pack it in. As Stephen suggested, I may just go on hiatus. I don't know. I'll leave the Planet up so that I can come back (I don't know how not to leave it up), maybe after I get this novel well under way.

It's always been a source of wonderment that so many great writers came here regularly to get a laugh. Thank you.

This year, with your encouragement, I finished that ghost novel, I wrote my first screenplay and got back to my WIP, one I think will be good if I could only find the time to write it, which is another reason I'm going dark. A steady job makes the mortgage lenders happy, but it is truly the writer's curse.

After all the political posts I've put up, I find it fitting that Donald Rumsfeld and I are leaving on the same day, although I think I had a better year than he did. I made mistakes, but no one got hurt. OK, except for that hooker in Phoenix, but that was Stephen and Dusty's idea, not mine.

Feel free to drop me an email. You know where I am. And I'll be making silly comments at all my usual haunts.

You might check back here after the New Year, say in February, and I might have something new up. Or maybe not. Hell, if something shiny catches my eye this afternoon, I might have something new up. The point is, I'm not planning to. And that takes an enormous weight off.

Weightless. Yeah, that's me. Weightless.

Bogi and Olen.

Because of my love for dogs and my profound affection for Olen Steinhauer, I direct you to Olen's post about Bogi, the pooch in this picture.

I cannot add anything to Olen's memory, just as I can't take away any of his pain, as much as I wish it. But we can express our condolences.

Dogs are one of the few things that make me think there is a God, and that he does favor us. But like all of God's blessings, this one carries a steep price tag.

My sympathy goes out to Olen and his girlfriend and I wish them a brief mourning and my hope that they've taken a lot of pictures like the one above.

Let's not go there. It is a silly place.

Silly. Like this one about a new religion.

The Hamster With The Rabbit's Foot.

A post about vanity plates.

Photoshop fun.

A HanniHunk.

and A modest proposal.

What the hell is this?

In the past year I've posted a lot of silly stuff, but nothing generated as many comments, both on and off the record, as this.

As I look back, it was the silly stuff that gave me the most pleasure. Tomorrow, as we count down to the final day, two of my favorites.

OK, I had to show you this.

I just got this offer from Liddy Dole (R-Asshat), our junior senator who has three dynamite books for you to give to that person on your list you really can't stand.

And they're autographed!

This LIMITED SUPPLY, says Liddy in breathless all-caps, is available for only $99. That's right $99 for Hearts Touched by Fire: My 500 Most Inspirational Quotations by Liddy her own self, her husband's memoir from like 1986, and Here's Where I Stand: A Memoir, by our good and close friend Jesse Helms.

That's right, Liddy's pushing her lame-ass book by climbing onto poor old doddering bigot Jesse Helms' back. That's like me offering my book for sale in a package with Lee Child's, if Lee Child was too senile to know. Which he isn't.

But that's our opportunistic Liddy, always ready to take advantage of others. And Jesus, quotations. Is there a lazier way to get your name on a book cover other than by giving Jeff Shelby a positive blurb?

Liddy goes into her breathless caps again with the ultimate huckster's close: THIS IS THE LAST WEEK! and warns us grimly that "...there is a very limited supply available."

Yeah, like about 300 thousand they have in a warehouse near Salisbury.

So hurry, Planeteers. You know these things are just going to fly off the shelves.

Novel Update: I figured out my problem. This novel was fighting me like a wounded bear because I'm trying to put two novels into one. So, I'm putting together a new plot for this first book and saving this present plot for a second in a series. If there is a series. Yes, it puts me back several steps, but it's good because I have the second book plotted out. So, while I'm not dancing, I'm not suicidal, either. And it makes a lot of sense. More later.

I couldn't have done it without you, George.

My screensaver at work is a random selection of pictures I've used on this blog. So, it's surprising when I see how many pictures of Bush I have on my hard drive. Say what you will, the guy's good material.

Here are a few entries about our Dear Leader that I'm proud to have written:

Unintentional Accuracy in the Media

Queer Eye For The Cynical Guy

And Here I Thought He Was Gay

Where does she get these ideas?

and my personal favorite:

Get those gays out of uniform and back into cowboy boots where they belong.

Hmm, there seems to be a pattern about these Bushie posts. I wonder why that is.

Planetary News

We all make sacrifices so that we can write. Most of us choose to live in penury, beating our brains against the keyboard, sitting alone at the book signing tables, begging our agents for a hardcover deal, or a multi-book deal, or a paperback deal, all while waiting for that movie deal which might allow us to buy a new used car.

Some of uf give up all hope of full time employment. Some of us live in houses that would make our mothers blanche at the dust and disorder. Some of us work long hours, with little social life or family interaction.

All so we can put out books in a world of fewer and fewer readers.

After thinking about this for a long time, and with a great deal of hesitation because I enjoy this, I'm ending the Planet. This Friday will mark a year's worth of blogging, with more than a post every day, and I feel like it's time. I'm hoping it will free me up to work on the novel. We'll see. When I told Jenny about this, she said "Forever?" and I admitted that forever is a long time and who knows, I might find it impossible to stay away. We'll see.

But I know I won't be posting every day like I have.

So to take us up to the anniversary mark because I am that OCD, I'm going to link to some of my favorite posts from the past year. I went through them and was surprised by how few weren't about me whining about some passing shit in my life and I'm surprised so many of you have stuck with it. So we'll take a stroll through the past 360 days and see what we step in. Here are two of my favorites.

Religious Riot Over Cartoons

and

Why Are These Children Trying To Kill You?

Enjoy.

Ten Reasons to Kill Yourself This Christmas.

I don't know who decides these things, but here are their Top Ten Worst Holiday Specials:

1. Santa Claus Conquers the Martians - I've only seen this one on MST3K, which made it a great movie in my book. Damn, the acting was the cheesiest. Oh, and it had Pia Zadora.

2. 'The Star Wars Holiday Special' - Never saw it but with a cast that included Bea Arthur and Harvey Korman, I'm going to search it out for gift giving.

3. Babes in Toyland - Another one God gave me the grace to miss. Maybe because I saw that it starred Drew Barrymore and Keanu Reeves and I thought, "Hey, I can miss both of them by missing one show! Bonus!" According to the review, Keanu drives around in a pink, flowery go-cart and sings about Ohio. That right there is enough to make you gouge your eyeballs out.

4. Christmas Comes to Pac-Land - Jesus, where was I when these were made? By 1982 I was over my hookers and heroin phase, so that's not it. Oh, that's right, I have taste. See, this Christmas turkey stars Pac-Man, fucking Pac-Man, to celebrate the birth of our savior. No wonder this land is cursed.

5. Jack Frost - Now this is getting ridiculous. I know I'm a heathen, but how did I miss Michael Keaton starring as a blues singer who neglects his son, is killed on Christmas Eve, and is reincarnated as a snowman? Really, where was I?

6. Silent Night, Deadly Night - Finally, one I've seen. Yeah, pretty bad slasher flick even for someone who hates Santa, the fat fuck. And what's a holiday special without tits?

7. Surviving Christmas - Ben Affleck. That's right. Ben Affleck.

8. Eight Crazy Nights - Adam Sandler. Check please.

9. Jingle All the Way - Arnold Schwarzenegger. Just when you think it can't get any worse, it does. I saw about 30 seconds of this the other night. Jesus, what a holiday suckfest.

10. Kathie Lee Gifford's Christmas specials - Now, I can't say I've ever witnessed one of Kathie Lee's Christmas specials but then I've never had my testicles hooked up to a car battery either, and yet I know it would hurt real bad. Here's a great quote from critic Tom Shales: "What's the difference between the 24-hour flu and a Kathie Lee Gifford Christmas special? Twenty-three hours."

That's the list the pundits have put together. My own would include Rudolph, that one with Burl Ives as a singing snowman who pulls a banjo out of his ass whenever he hears a song coming on. But that's just me.

What about you? Any holiday cheese that stirs nightmares of sugarplums in your head?

The 101st Fighting Keyboarders Shake Their Tiny Fists In Rage!

Wow, this was a mistake. I followed a link to a conservative blog to see what the cheeto-stained keyboard commandos had to say about the ISG report. I expected some rending of garments and gnashing of teeth, but even I was surprised by the rancid bile spewed across the Internet.

Here's a sample:

"Anyone who believes that “fighting terrorism” requires blaming America first, last and always can just STFU. "

"ARE YOU AN IMBECILE OR WHAT? THERE IS NO DIFFERENCE, NONE, BETWEEN THE VIEWS OF DEMOCRATS AND AL QAEDA..."

When asked to produce a quote from any American who said they blamed America, this was the response from a guy whose closest association with anyone in uniform is when he stocks up on Thin Mints and Do-si-Dos:

"You obfuscating prig,they say it every day with their constant attacks on our presence in Iraq. Open your phucking eyes.When you blame the CIC, you are blaming America."

So, apparently, because I think Bush is an incompetent who took us into a major, tragic disaster, I am a blame-America-Firster. Who knew? And when do I get my membership card? Can I get a discount at Starbucks with that? Here's another uber-patriot in full tantrum:

"Democrats like to claim that US efforts in the War on Terror are what causes more terrorism; in fact, what we will probably soon find out is displays of utter weakness such as the publishing of this report will embolden our enemies more than any alleged ‘torture’ of prisoners ever could. "

Yeah, torture doesn't create more terrorists, except maybe that kid who was forced to watch his father being beaten. Yeah, maybe that kid. Or the father who watched his daughter raped. Maybe him. Yeah, I'll bet Dad's going to pick up a gun.

Then, when a mother defends the opposition to the war, the pimply-faced bullies, smelling estrogen in the water, pounce:

"My God, you mean to say someone has actually put their penis into this miserable woman?"

This from a guy who has only read about the sex act, but never actually, you know, done it himself. The angry virgin was followed by this lovely post from a guy named toliver, which is a pretty gay name, not that there's anything wrong with that (no matter what the other kids say):

"As someone mentioned earlier,the only people you’re willing to confront are your fellow Americans.The only reason you idiots have the balls for that is because you know the law protects you,otherwise I would take great pleasure in crushing your f*****g skull!!"

That's when I bailed. There's nothing more manly than a guy named toliver threatening to crush a woman's skull from the safety of his mother's basement.

So if you have some spare time, I'm sure you can find more. But I'd suggest you Google Britney's cooter instead. It's a lot less disgusting.

It's December 7th.

Watch your back.

With apologies to Josh.

I don't mean to trespass into the Comics Curmudgeon's territory (and if you're not a regular reader, you're missing out on some great stuff), but I have to say something about today's Family Circus.

How can Daddy Keane tell if the hydrocephalic kid's joke is funny or not? No one in this comic has said anything funny in like, forever. Day after day, the family explores new frontiers in suckdom, plumbing the depths of tortured cuteness, Christian pandering, and recycled jokes that weren't funny the first time they evolved from invertebrate humor sometime in the Pleistocene.

I'm convinced it's all an extended, cruel jape at the expense of Keane's malformed offspring. Dyslexia, ADHD, and retardation are just three of the signs of intellectual dysfunction. Look at Dad, destroying Billy's confidence with a lame spelling gag geared to sap Billy's will to live just as this strip has worked, day by day, to sap mine. I can see Billy growing into a lifetime of sexual degradation and crime, spiraling downward into a pit of self-loathing until he finally appears in LA Noir as just another huge-headed mugshot for Stephen to mock further.

And is it just me, or do the powder blue socks on Daddy Keane's curiously feminine ankles look fey?

Sorry, I just had to push this in front of you. Feel free to take cheap shots at this poorly drawn, badly written, cloyingly sweet POS. In fact, I encourage it.

Norman Mailer decides to be different.

In an editorial today in the NY Times, they report that Norman Mailer's new novel will come with a bibliography. The Times asks if this is a good thing and I say anything that will make more work for novelists should be shunned like Britney Spears' offer to babysit.

The Times goes on to ask whether this bibliography thing is an attempt to cite sources or if it's pomposity. I say, if you have to ask, you don't know Norman Mailer.

But it did get me thinking about everything I've read while working on this new book.

1. Start with newspapers, magazines and tour guides from 1941.

2. Add the books Washington at War, Roosevelt's Secret War, Wild Bill and Intrepid, Intelligence During Wartime, Washington Is Like That, The G-String Murders, The Caine Mutiny, What Makes Sammy Run?, Katherine Graham's Washington, How Marines Fight, and a dozen other books that are stacked in my office, their pages marked with yellow sticky notes.

3. Now list all the movies from 1941 I've watched to look at clothes, cars, architecture, train travel, etc and we're talking about a bibliography that goes on for pages.

I like research, but I'm not writing a friggin' term paper here. This is a book, goddammit, and while I want to get things right, I'm not mining these resources for stuff to steal. But I would like to acknowldge the help of all these authors and the librarians at Duke's Perkins Library, the Library of Congress and DC's MLK Library.

Which is why they have an acknowledgements page.

So, what do you think? List all your influences, including Miss Martin, your third grade teacher? Or just write the story?

Which is where the Times finally comes down. They say, "As far as we’re concerned, novelists are obliged to disclose nothing besides the art of the stories they have to tell."

Yeah, I think that's about right.

Just in time for Christmas.

I know, I know, Ray's book has been out a while and I'm probably the last person on the planet to read it, but just in case you haven't picked up Saturday's Child by Ray Banks, then it's the perfect time to order it so you can cuddle up with PI Cal Innes for Christmas.

This is a UK site, so you have to pay in that big tissue paper-like money they measure in pounds or you can do like I did and go to the UK and smuggle it back inside a body cavity to keep from getting put on a potential terrorist list by Homeland Security.

He's already rising in the ranks of UK writers and when US readers discover him he'll be king of the world here, too.

When I read a book this good, it encourages me to keep writing in the hopes that someday I may handle language as deftly as does Mr. Banks, but I'm also discouraged because I know that's just a dream.

I consider Ray a colleague, and I am honored that he finds the time to stop by now and then with a comment. Thanks Ray, for the book and your company.

For the rest of you, you know what to do.

Shut the fuck up, Donnie.

Over at First Offenders, they're having a discussion about the use of the word fuck and I'm so offended I could fucking plotz.

So to keep you from even thinking of the word fuck, I've posted this fucking video, thanks to Ted, who apparently doesn't have anything better to do than to send me fucking videos like this.

However it is from our favorite movie, The Big Lebowski. I hope you fucking enjoy it. Fuckers.

Blurbs that caught Bush off guard:

Here's a game to play on a sleepy Wednesday afternoon. Write possible blurbs for this book from some of our favorite authors, the kind of blurbs that might evoke that look on the preznit.

For instance:

"The Iraq Study Group puts the boot to the arse of America's limp-dicked foreign policy." - Ray Banks

"Chastened by the liquor, Bush finally grasps the full tragic import of his horrible legacy." - Ken Bruen

"A brutal takedown to the president's usual Texas redneck rodeo." - JD Rhoades

"The body of Bush's old Iraq strategy lays flat on Mullholland, victim of Bush's insistence on driving up the wrong side of the street." - Stephen Blackmoore

There you go.

Slugs from Space!

Yesterday we talked about Reds, the big picture historical romance from 1981. Today let's talk Slither. Unlike Reds, Slither is a rather small budget ($20 mil) horror flick, this one from writer/director James Gunn. He's the screenwriter for Dawn of the Dead, the remake (that's right, it's a remake, and it's even better than George Romero's original), and another one of my zombie faves.

Let me confess, I'm a sucker for zombie movies, from Invasion of the Body Snatchers (not a zombie movie per se, but it has all the elements) to the original Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later and Peter Jackson's blood-soaked, non-Oscar winner, Dead Alive made in 1992. No hobbits were harmed in the making of Dead Alive and that's one of its few drawbacks.

Back to Slither. This is a very funny movie, and if you rent it, and I highly suggest you do, listen to the commentary. Gunn talks about the writing, the structure and the process and all those other things that you can use to convince your wife or husband that you're actually working.

Gunn says that Slither was an homage to the horror movies of the 80's like John Carpenter's The Thing. OK, maybe this is a generational objection, but I saw more of the 50's in this flick than the 80's. There's a scene in Slither that is straight out of The Blob which is both a 50's and an 80's movie, I guess, but then so is The Thing, although Carpenter's Thing was a lot scarier Thing than James Arness' Thing. (Arness later strapped on a gun and walked into frame as Marshall Matt Dillon and never had to do a movie like The Thing again.)

Where was I? Oh right. Eighties horror flicks, either original or remakes, were pretty damn good, and I'm glad people like Gunn are taking another crack at the genre.

Don't get me wrong. Slither isn't Shaun of the Dead or 28 Days Later, but it is definitely worth your time. It's gross, but I guarantee the scene with Brenda about to give birth in the barn will stick with you. Maybe not in a good way.

Tomorrow, a book I finished a while back and haven't had time to recognize it with the plaudits it deserves.

Taco de Muerte

No, this has nothing to do with Britney Spear's public underwear transgressions.

This is about what may be the most unfortunate headline of the week. According to the AP:

E. Coli Threat May Have Passed in N.J.

Yikes.

At least three dozen people were stricken with the bacteria after eating at Taco Bell, as if that's not punishment enough. So, if you've always suspected their food was ordure, apparently you were right.

Tim Jerzyk, a VP flack spending his one shot at life toiling for Taco Bell's parent conglomeration, Yum Brands (imagine that on your resume), told investors that the bad news burrito had come up, but it has now passed.

According to the AP, the E. coli traced to Taco Bell can cause abdominal cramps and bloody diarrhea and the jokes just write themselves, don't they? And for those not yet nauseated, let us remind you that E. coli is found in fecal matter. So this really does come from south of the border, doesn't it.

I have always had a personal dislike for Taco Bell. Not for their food, which you couldn't pay me to eat, but for their advertising. E coli isn't the only thing that stinks over at Yum Brands.

Every few weeks, Taco Bell rolls out another lame-ass ad campaign that desperately tries to coin a popular phrase like "Crunch-oo-eezy" or has a complete jackass proclaim "I'm full!" Yeah, you're full all right. And I'm fed up.

About the only campaign they ever produced that was worth a damn was the talking chihuahua and I'm convinced that campaign was only given the green light because the brand manager was out with a head wound.

And apparently, I'm not the only one who thinks Taco Bell ads suck.

So be careful what you put in your mouth, children. Insist on E coli-free food. You'll thank me.

If you direct your attention to the left.

Reds, the big screen 1981 opus, was written produced and directed by Warren Beatty, who also starred and probably catered the film. When I say they don't make 'em like this anymore, I'm not just whistling the Internationale. This is a three hour plus romance that takes in the New York left, the anti-war movement of 1916, WWI, and the Bolshevik revolution in Russia.

Writers, the film's got writers. George Plimpton and Jerzy Kozinsky act like actors and Jack Nicholson acts like Eugene O'Neill.

The film's also got lefties from back in the day. Wrinkled and gray, they still have that spark the government considered dangerous merely because they believed things that made capitalism's sphincter clench. Among the old Socialists interviewed are Henry Miller, Will Durant, Hamilton Fish, Arthur Mayer, and Oleg Karensky.

I hadn't seen this movie since it first came out and I'd forgotten so much it was like I'd never seen it before. This is big Hollywood. As big as the subject. Hell, as big as Warren's ego and that's big. In fact this movie is probably bigger than Hollywood will ever do again. I recently saw the new Bond film and that thing looked like a fucking car commercial compared to this. Because this, my friends, is movie-making. Even on TV the Russian winter made me shiver.

You could do a lot worse things than spend 3 hours and 20 minutes with Reds. Check it out.

Tomorrow, a movie about slugs.

Quote of the day:

Stephen Hadley had this to say about our Commander in Chief yesterday on one of the Sunday morning bobble-head shows:

"The president understands that we need to have a way forward in Iraq that is more successful."

Wow. That's like me saying that "I understand that I need to have a way forward in sobriety that is more successful."

or Bill Clinton saying "I understand that we need to have a way forward in marital fidelity that is more successful."

or George Bush 41 saying "I understand that we need to have a way forward in retroactive birth control that is more successful."

And yes, I understand that we still need a way forward in blogger picture acquisition that is more successful.

I'm blind.

There I was, all set to post something new for Monday and blogger has eliminated the picture option which is enormously irritating. So until blogger rights this problem, I'm going to go work.