Note from Swierczy: I walked into my office this morning to find a bunch of empty whiskey bottles, a unspooled Shooter Jennings cassette, and this blog post. Which could only mean one thing: Anthony Neil Smith's Psychobilly Blog Road Trip has hit Philadelphia. Somebody hide the Liberty Bell. Quick.Last Stop:
Doolittle's DigsBelieve it or not, the Crimedogs got in 114 holes of golf at various courses between Omaha and Philly. Right until we were chased off the links by a foursome of bankers with pistols in the bags. So we arrive at Duane's door all juiced up on the Joe. Thank God he has toast, cereal, and some ice cold milk. Then he whispers to us: "You want me to, uh, add anything to that coffee?"
Now Duane Swierczynski, he's like a machine these days, churning out some high quality pulp like
The Blonde, one of my favorite books of last year, while also creating "interactive" books about Sherlock Holmes and Batman, while also writing kick-ass comics. The dude just took over one of the coolest titles ever,
Iron Fist. Not to mention the eagerly awaited
Severance Package, which looks like a fun way to kill a day or two. Top of my buying list indeed. Shit, this guy's career looks more like Hunter S. Thompson's vacations than anyone I know. You've gotta love waking up for work doing all that.
He climbs in the cab, toting along plenty of comics for the road and a bottle full of "mystery booze" (I swear it's homemade, but..), and so the golf clubs have to go for now. We leave them littered over his lawn in the early morning dew.
Now, I consider this guy one of the club forever, another PWG vet who skyrocketed to fame despite writing stuff that should make you nauseous, and if things work out, I wouldn't mind riding in his wake a bit. I mean, we both write about severed heads, we both started off at
Pointblank Press, for pete's sake, and we both laugh at the darkest possible shit. So, all you true believers, wanna take a chance on
Yellow Medicine (buy it on May 12th, "Psychobilly Monday")? There are no mutants and superheroes in sight, but it is pretty gruesome otherwise.
Onward, crossing the entire country once more to pick up up-and-coming noir weirdo
Greg Bardsley (author of the PWG #1 story
"Upper Deck", an instant classic) on the Left Coast.
Driving Time: Duane threw my watch out the window and busted my dash clock. But I'm going to guess about three days. Tune for the leg: Now that I've wrested back control of the Cd player, time for more psychobilly! "My Curse" by
The Chop Tops.
After two weeks of being shuffled around to similar bland cells, bland interrogation rooms, and bland Federal types asking dull-as-dishwater questions about my "contacts in the criminal underworld," Agent Rome finally walked into the room. I'd wondered when that would happen. I was worried about Drew, hoping she had made it back to safety. I wondered how the murder of Graham, my ex-brother-in-law and boss, would be received at home—both in Yellow Medicine County and with his family down South. I wondered how many people would blame me. Maybe Rome had the answers.
