Thought more than a few of you might be interested in this fiction contest that the Philadelphia City Paper is running.
You can read all about it in my editor's letter, but frankly, who'd want to wade through that crap?
The quick and dirty: We're looking for pulp-style, page-turnin', suspense-soaked stories set in one of three genres: mystery, sci-fi/horror, or romance. They have to be set in Philly, but anyone can enter. (Unless, of course, you work for the paper.) The deadline is January 28, 2005.
The prizes are sweet. (Trust me.)
Sweeter still are the judges--most notably Ken Bruen, who's graciously agreed to take time away from blurbing all of the PointBlankers to read the mystery entries. How cool is that?
No matter how the contest turns out, it's going to be worth picking up the March 3, 2005 issue of the paper just to read Ken's judging comments.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
The First Review of Secret Dead Men, and It's...
... er. Oh.
From Publisher's Weekly:
Crime fiction doesn't get much weirder than Duane Swierczynski's debut mystery, Secret Dead Men. Deceased detective Del Farmer, who has somehow learned to collect souls (and house them inside himself in a "Brain Hotel" complete with lobby, swimming pool and pub), engages in a postmortem quest to expose the group of gangsters he dubs "the Association." Unfortunately, the muddled execution doesn't measure up to the highly unusual concept. (Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.)
But hey! At least they spelled the last name right. That almost never happens.
From Publisher's Weekly:
Crime fiction doesn't get much weirder than Duane Swierczynski's debut mystery, Secret Dead Men. Deceased detective Del Farmer, who has somehow learned to collect souls (and house them inside himself in a "Brain Hotel" complete with lobby, swimming pool and pub), engages in a postmortem quest to expose the group of gangsters he dubs "the Association." Unfortunately, the muddled execution doesn't measure up to the highly unusual concept. (Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.)
But hey! At least they spelled the last name right. That almost never happens.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Ray Banks: The Secret Dead Blog Interview
Everyone else is doing it, so why don’t we?
Our first guest in this new (possibly short-lived) author interview series: the redoubtable Ray Banks, author of The Big Blind, which is fresh from the incubator at PointBlank Press.
If you’re a noir fan, you owe it yourself to read this novel. If you owe Ray money, he’ll be around to collect on Thursday.
Without further pointless introduction, here’s the Man Himself on PVCu frames, haikus, Grolsch beer, and fat goths.
Swierczynski: So, Ray, your first novel is out, which must be exciting as hell. But we’ll get to that in a minute. I have a more pressing question. The Bride and I just bought new windows--7/8" double-pane insulated glass Thermal Kings, with dual cam-action locks, heavy duty weatherstripping, and a Smooth Operator™ Premium Balance & Stabilizing System. What’s the deal? Did I buy shit windows?
Banks: Nah, you didn’t buy shit windows, Duane me old mucker. Not if you live in a phantom vacuum town where the laws of nature and weather don't apply. Because the first hint of rain, sleet, snow, wind or sunshine, you'll be picking that super-duper double-pane insulated glass out of your carpet. Then, with the Thermal Kings, I don’t know if they told you about the “slight explosion problem?” Well let me tell you, it isn’t “slight.” It’s all down to the frequency that Japanese cars give off, the Toyota Echo in particular. One of them goes past your house and your windows explode. And I know you’ve got kids. I mean, no disrespect, Leblanc, but how do you sleep at nights knowing your family home is a deathtrap?
Thermal Kings, man. They opened an office over in the U.K., this bloke I know, he gets all his windows done by them. Next thing he knows, his missus gets crushed by a fridge. Now, they say it’s nothing to do with them. I say, bad luck’s like the mark of Cain on the bastards. And it sounds like they saw you coming. But you weren’t to know, were you?
Now I know you’re worried, so here's what I’ll do. I’ll get a couple of lads to come in and strip your Thermal Kings, maybe do a part-ex (I’ll see what I can swing), and I’ll get you kitted out with the Warmsafe Gold range, the fully integrated PVCu frames and Pilkington glass combo. Now the PVCu frames, they're colourfast and hard as a Salford hooker. The glass is all internally-beaded, which makes it just as tough, and you've got that Pilkington guarantee too. On top of that, if you’re feeling flamboyant, we can get the glass leaded, coloured, obscured or even gold fretted (I’d talk to The Bride about that -- the women like to pick all that shite out). And they’ve all got the kitemark on ‘em. Not necessarily the real kitemark, but we marked it with a kite, so that works, yeah?
Now if you just want to sign on the dotted line, we'll get that guaranteed for the next decade (a decade’s a couple months, right?). I know it looks like a lot of money, but when you’re paying for it over the next ten years, it won't seem so much. And the interest rate’s really low at the moment so you picked the best time to buy. My hat goes off to you for that.
But enough about windows... I’ll send you some stuff on our triple-lock security doors (a big hit with drug dealers) and the new conservatory range. And I hate to be the one to tell you, but your fascias and soffitts are a disgrace. Really.
Sounds pricey. This is going to have to come out of my book-buying budget. (Watch out... here it comes... ham-handed segue...) So why should I shell out my hard-earned simoleans for a hardback copy of The Big Blind? I mean, I’m still trying to complete my Anne Rice collection. And she’s just released Lestat 22: Electric Boogaloo. And there's Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in the Sixth Level of Hell... C'mon, talk me into it, you silver-tongued, double-glazing sales-speaking devil you.
Hey, it’s not that expensive. How much money would you pay for a new family when your windows explode? Think on. And you should dip into your pocket, slap the readies on the counter because if you don’t, I’ll take your fuckin’ shins.
Seriously, though. I will.
I don’t know why anyone should buy it. I let the Marketing dwarves at PointBlank handle the mind control. And, to be frank, if it wasn’t for those compromising photos of Al Guthrie, I don’t think it would have been published. But The Big Blind has its good points.
1 – it’s short.
2 - there's plenty of swearing in it.
3 - Ken Bruen blurbed it (according to Publisher’s Weekly, that’s a massive selling point).
4 - the hardback makes a wonderful coaster for a litre bottle of Grolsch.
5 - the cover’s fantastic.
But I think the most important reason you should buy it is because I really need the cash. We’ve got four cats. Between the carnage they cause and the food they eat, I’ve barely enough to keep me in Marlboros and hard liquor. Just picture me and the Natural Brunette as those hollow-eyed refugees you’ve read about and dig deep.
And I’m eagerly awaiting that Anne Rice book too. I’ve loved her work since Interview with a Fat, Deluded Goth. Did you know she doesn’t even need an editor? She’s a genius.
So tell me about the *real* Ray Banks. Dig deep down into your soul. What fuels the pulsating core of your sensate heart? (In one word only, please.)
RAGE.
Okay, okay. You can use more than one word.
PLENTY RAGE. Ahem. Not like the miffed monkeys in 28 Days Later, either. But anger’s a big part of me, I think. I got angry reading crap, so I started writing it. But at least my crap’s shorter. I started writing in prison. There was this lad in the next cell, Big Doug. He liked to collect people’s toes. But he wrote the most heartbreaking haikus you ever read.
But yeah, rage. Rage at myself, rage at the shite that passes for fiction in some circles, rage at a lot of things. I’m an angry young man. One day I hope to be an angry old man with a stick.
There was one thing that puzzled me about Big Blind... well, never mind. You really have me worried about these damn windows. You sure you and your lads will do right by me? I’m not one for foreign labor.
What? Out with it, LeBlanc. Don’t pussy around with me, son. You were puzzled by The Big Blind? What’s to be puzzled about? Straightforward enough, innit? It’s like a certain small press said to me: “Two losers find a body, wher’s the mystery in that?” There ain’t no mystery. There ain’t no puzzle. And you’ve got balls being puzzled with my book, Mr Brain Hotel. Where’d you get that idea? Stoned off your tits, no doubt. I knew there was something sly about you. Oh yeah, you SAY you drink, but I know your type, the kind of guy who gets off his gourd on cheap acid and wanders about with a fake druid beard, a sickle and a sausage roll, yelling at everyone to get away, it’s a pagan bomb.
Got my eye on you. And as for the lads, don't worry about them, they're toasted gold. Yeah, Kelvin’s got a lazy eye and Barry had a stroke last year, but they know what they're doing if they’re left alone. And what you talking about, foreign? These lads are born and bred Geordies. Salt of the earth. Honest to God, I never took you for a racist.
Course, you might want to hide your silverware.
But don’t worry about the windows. We'll get ‘em in there and fine and dandy by Christmas or my name’s not Amanda Hugginkiss.
Our first guest in this new (possibly short-lived) author interview series: the redoubtable Ray Banks, author of The Big Blind, which is fresh from the incubator at PointBlank Press.
If you’re a noir fan, you owe it yourself to read this novel. If you owe Ray money, he’ll be around to collect on Thursday.
Without further pointless introduction, here’s the Man Himself on PVCu frames, haikus, Grolsch beer, and fat goths.
Swierczynski: So, Ray, your first novel is out, which must be exciting as hell. But we’ll get to that in a minute. I have a more pressing question. The Bride and I just bought new windows--7/8" double-pane insulated glass Thermal Kings, with dual cam-action locks, heavy duty weatherstripping, and a Smooth Operator™ Premium Balance & Stabilizing System. What’s the deal? Did I buy shit windows?
Banks: Nah, you didn’t buy shit windows, Duane me old mucker. Not if you live in a phantom vacuum town where the laws of nature and weather don't apply. Because the first hint of rain, sleet, snow, wind or sunshine, you'll be picking that super-duper double-pane insulated glass out of your carpet. Then, with the Thermal Kings, I don’t know if they told you about the “slight explosion problem?” Well let me tell you, it isn’t “slight.” It’s all down to the frequency that Japanese cars give off, the Toyota Echo in particular. One of them goes past your house and your windows explode. And I know you’ve got kids. I mean, no disrespect, Leblanc, but how do you sleep at nights knowing your family home is a deathtrap?
Thermal Kings, man. They opened an office over in the U.K., this bloke I know, he gets all his windows done by them. Next thing he knows, his missus gets crushed by a fridge. Now, they say it’s nothing to do with them. I say, bad luck’s like the mark of Cain on the bastards. And it sounds like they saw you coming. But you weren’t to know, were you?
Now I know you’re worried, so here's what I’ll do. I’ll get a couple of lads to come in and strip your Thermal Kings, maybe do a part-ex (I’ll see what I can swing), and I’ll get you kitted out with the Warmsafe Gold range, the fully integrated PVCu frames and Pilkington glass combo. Now the PVCu frames, they're colourfast and hard as a Salford hooker. The glass is all internally-beaded, which makes it just as tough, and you've got that Pilkington guarantee too. On top of that, if you’re feeling flamboyant, we can get the glass leaded, coloured, obscured or even gold fretted (I’d talk to The Bride about that -- the women like to pick all that shite out). And they’ve all got the kitemark on ‘em. Not necessarily the real kitemark, but we marked it with a kite, so that works, yeah?
Now if you just want to sign on the dotted line, we'll get that guaranteed for the next decade (a decade’s a couple months, right?). I know it looks like a lot of money, but when you’re paying for it over the next ten years, it won't seem so much. And the interest rate’s really low at the moment so you picked the best time to buy. My hat goes off to you for that.
But enough about windows... I’ll send you some stuff on our triple-lock security doors (a big hit with drug dealers) and the new conservatory range. And I hate to be the one to tell you, but your fascias and soffitts are a disgrace. Really.
Sounds pricey. This is going to have to come out of my book-buying budget. (Watch out... here it comes... ham-handed segue...) So why should I shell out my hard-earned simoleans for a hardback copy of The Big Blind? I mean, I’m still trying to complete my Anne Rice collection. And she’s just released Lestat 22: Electric Boogaloo. And there's Mitch Albom’s The Five People You Meet in the Sixth Level of Hell... C'mon, talk me into it, you silver-tongued, double-glazing sales-speaking devil you.
Hey, it’s not that expensive. How much money would you pay for a new family when your windows explode? Think on. And you should dip into your pocket, slap the readies on the counter because if you don’t, I’ll take your fuckin’ shins.
Seriously, though. I will.
I don’t know why anyone should buy it. I let the Marketing dwarves at PointBlank handle the mind control. And, to be frank, if it wasn’t for those compromising photos of Al Guthrie, I don’t think it would have been published. But The Big Blind has its good points.
1 – it’s short.
2 - there's plenty of swearing in it.
3 - Ken Bruen blurbed it (according to Publisher’s Weekly, that’s a massive selling point).
4 - the hardback makes a wonderful coaster for a litre bottle of Grolsch.
5 - the cover’s fantastic.
But I think the most important reason you should buy it is because I really need the cash. We’ve got four cats. Between the carnage they cause and the food they eat, I’ve barely enough to keep me in Marlboros and hard liquor. Just picture me and the Natural Brunette as those hollow-eyed refugees you’ve read about and dig deep.
And I’m eagerly awaiting that Anne Rice book too. I’ve loved her work since Interview with a Fat, Deluded Goth. Did you know she doesn’t even need an editor? She’s a genius.
So tell me about the *real* Ray Banks. Dig deep down into your soul. What fuels the pulsating core of your sensate heart? (In one word only, please.)
RAGE.
Okay, okay. You can use more than one word.
PLENTY RAGE. Ahem. Not like the miffed monkeys in 28 Days Later, either. But anger’s a big part of me, I think. I got angry reading crap, so I started writing it. But at least my crap’s shorter. I started writing in prison. There was this lad in the next cell, Big Doug. He liked to collect people’s toes. But he wrote the most heartbreaking haikus you ever read.
But yeah, rage. Rage at myself, rage at the shite that passes for fiction in some circles, rage at a lot of things. I’m an angry young man. One day I hope to be an angry old man with a stick.
There was one thing that puzzled me about Big Blind... well, never mind. You really have me worried about these damn windows. You sure you and your lads will do right by me? I’m not one for foreign labor.
What? Out with it, LeBlanc. Don’t pussy around with me, son. You were puzzled by The Big Blind? What’s to be puzzled about? Straightforward enough, innit? It’s like a certain small press said to me: “Two losers find a body, wher’s the mystery in that?” There ain’t no mystery. There ain’t no puzzle. And you’ve got balls being puzzled with my book, Mr Brain Hotel. Where’d you get that idea? Stoned off your tits, no doubt. I knew there was something sly about you. Oh yeah, you SAY you drink, but I know your type, the kind of guy who gets off his gourd on cheap acid and wanders about with a fake druid beard, a sickle and a sausage roll, yelling at everyone to get away, it’s a pagan bomb.
Got my eye on you. And as for the lads, don't worry about them, they're toasted gold. Yeah, Kelvin’s got a lazy eye and Barry had a stroke last year, but they know what they're doing if they’re left alone. And what you talking about, foreign? These lads are born and bred Geordies. Salt of the earth. Honest to God, I never took you for a racist.
Course, you might want to hide your silverware.
But don’t worry about the windows. We'll get ‘em in there and fine and dandy by Christmas or my name’s not Amanda Hugginkiss.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
A Queer Eye for Beer?
In the Shocking, But True, Dept.:
Thom Filicia, one of dudes from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, was on the Jane Pauley Show today bigging up my Big Book of Beer as one of five "fab gifts for the man in your life."
I couldn't agree more. And I'd send copies to the men in my life... but Al "Sunshine" Guthrie doesn't drink. Ken is a Jameson man. And reliable sources tell me that crazy Banks guy drinks motor oil and squirrel blood, or something.
Besides, these men may get the wrong idea.
Maybe I should be thinking more about the hard-drinkin' women in my life...
(In case my wife is reading this: Not that there are any.)
Thom Filicia, one of dudes from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, was on the Jane Pauley Show today bigging up my Big Book of Beer as one of five "fab gifts for the man in your life."
I couldn't agree more. And I'd send copies to the men in my life... but Al "Sunshine" Guthrie doesn't drink. Ken is a Jameson man. And reliable sources tell me that crazy Banks guy drinks motor oil and squirrel blood, or something.
Besides, these men may get the wrong idea.
Maybe I should be thinking more about the hard-drinkin' women in my life...
(In case my wife is reading this: Not that there are any.)
Monday, December 20, 2004
Have Yourself a Polish Deadly Christmas...
So this is Christmas, and what have we here?
In time for the holidays, I thought I'd post a link to"Eve of Destruction," a short story of mine that won the grand prize at Fangoria magazine's "A Very Fango Christmas" contest a few years ago. It's quite possibly the only Polish-themed Christmas horror story. Which is probably a good thing.
What's really funny is how much of this story is autobiographical. Swear to Baby Jesus.
I hope you enjoy it. And if the Keeper of the Death Rule comes your way, send him to the Jablonski House.
In time for the holidays, I thought I'd post a link to"Eve of Destruction," a short story of mine that won the grand prize at Fangoria magazine's "A Very Fango Christmas" contest a few years ago. It's quite possibly the only Polish-themed Christmas horror story. Which is probably a good thing.
What's really funny is how much of this story is autobiographical. Swear to Baby Jesus.
I hope you enjoy it. And if the Keeper of the Death Rule comes your way, send him to the Jablonski House.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Beer for Breakfast
I woke up this morning to discover that the Fort-Worth Star Telegram has suggested my Big Book O' Beer as a holiday gift for people who are "true to the brew." They also called it "undrinkable yet enjoyable," which means they obviously didn't try to puree the book in a blender along with some vodka and ice. Oh, well.
May I be so crass as to suggest that this humble-yet-info-packed trade paperback might make an excellent addition to your holiday gift list?
And that if any readers of this blog care to have their copy autographed, personalized, even stained with a ring from the bottom of a can of beer I may be drinking in the near future, such a service is available?
May I be so crass as to suggest that this humble-yet-info-packed trade paperback might make an excellent addition to your holiday gift list?
And that if any readers of this blog care to have their copy autographed, personalized, even stained with a ring from the bottom of a can of beer I may be drinking in the near future, such a service is available?
Crime. Corruption. Murder. Scots.
Thanks to the comments on the backblog (see below), I realize I'm deeper into My Own Private Scotland that I previously thought.
Ray "The Big Blind" Banks? A Scot.
Primal Scream? Scots.
The tape on my desk? Scotch.
My favorite breakfast drink? Scotch.
I rest my case.
Today's used bookshop find: a copy of Dashiell Hammett's THE GLASS KEY, which is the Hammett novel that nobody remembers because it doesn't feature Spade or The Op. It's a 1961 Pocket Books edition whose swingin' cover art makes this 1931 novel seem like a lost Dean Martin flick.
The back cover:
CRIME
CORRUPTION
MURDER
Madvig leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Maybe you're too big to take it lying down, Shad, but you'll take it."
Shad pointed a long white finger at Madvig and said, "I'm opening the Dog House again tonight and I don't want to be bothered. Bother me and I'll bother you!"
Madvig reached for the telephone. "Hello, Chief. Yes, fine. Say, Rainey, I hear Shad's thinking of opening again tonight... Yes... yes, slam it down so hard it bounces."
He pushed the telephone back. "Now do you understand how you stand? You're through, Shad. You're through here for good."
Which is oddly reminiscent of the phone conversation I had with my future father-in-law when I asked for his daughter's hand in marriage.
Ray "The Big Blind" Banks? A Scot.
Primal Scream? Scots.
The tape on my desk? Scotch.
My favorite breakfast drink? Scotch.
I rest my case.
Today's used bookshop find: a copy of Dashiell Hammett's THE GLASS KEY, which is the Hammett novel that nobody remembers because it doesn't feature Spade or The Op. It's a 1961 Pocket Books edition whose swingin' cover art makes this 1931 novel seem like a lost Dean Martin flick.
The back cover:
CRIME
CORRUPTION
MURDER
Madvig leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. "Maybe you're too big to take it lying down, Shad, but you'll take it."
Shad pointed a long white finger at Madvig and said, "I'm opening the Dog House again tonight and I don't want to be bothered. Bother me and I'll bother you!"
Madvig reached for the telephone. "Hello, Chief. Yes, fine. Say, Rainey, I hear Shad's thinking of opening again tonight... Yes... yes, slam it down so hard it bounces."
He pushed the telephone back. "Now do you understand how you stand? You're through, Shad. You're through here for good."
Which is oddly reminiscent of the phone conversation I had with my future father-in-law when I asked for his daughter's hand in marriage.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Great Scot!
This is getting weird.
It's bad enough to some of my favorite writers and singers (and people) happen to be Scottish. There's Al "Sunshine" Guthrie. Donna "Kafka" Moore. Ian "I Don't Have a Snappy Nickname for Him, Because I've Never Met Him" Rankin. Kirsty MacColl. David Byrne. Sean Connery.
Then, a few months ago, I downloaded a Franz Ferdinand song, "Take Me Out," and couldn't stop humming the damned thing.
Yeah, you guessed it. They're bloody Scots.
And now? My new favorite song? By my new favorite band? "I Love You Cause I Have To," by Dogs Die In Hot Cars, who manage to evoke Talking Heads and XTC in all the right ways.
Uh-huh. Fucking Scots.
Color me Tartan.
It's bad enough to some of my favorite writers and singers (and people) happen to be Scottish. There's Al "Sunshine" Guthrie. Donna "Kafka" Moore. Ian "I Don't Have a Snappy Nickname for Him, Because I've Never Met Him" Rankin. Kirsty MacColl. David Byrne. Sean Connery.
Then, a few months ago, I downloaded a Franz Ferdinand song, "Take Me Out," and couldn't stop humming the damned thing.
Yeah, you guessed it. They're bloody Scots.
And now? My new favorite song? By my new favorite band? "I Love You Cause I Have To," by Dogs Die In Hot Cars, who manage to evoke Talking Heads and XTC in all the right ways.
Uh-huh. Fucking Scots.
Color me Tartan.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Christmas with the Cranky
I love the holidays. Honest. I'm especially looking forward to Christmas morning now that my boy Parker is old enough to receive the cool gifts from Santa... stuff like Fisher-Price's "My First Crime Scene Forensics Kit" and Parker Brothers' "Jihad: the Board Game."
Still, I couldn't resist writing this guide for Philadelphia City Paper readers who may not enjoy all of this "peace on Earth, good will to all men" malarkey.
If you want to read about what really gets my blood boiling, here's my editor's note this week.
I mean every friggin' adjective, too...
Still, I couldn't resist writing this guide for Philadelphia City Paper readers who may not enjoy all of this "peace on Earth, good will to all men" malarkey.
If you want to read about what really gets my blood boiling, here's my editor's note this week.
I mean every friggin' adjective, too...
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
I Love You 'Cause I Have To
For those of you who can’t bear to see this blog fall into disrepair and neglect… fear not. The end is near.
The end of the semester, that is. As of Thursday evening, I’ll have only one incredibly-demanding full-time job, as opposed to the two I’ve been juggling since Halloween. As Clark Griswold said: “Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?”
And with only one job, I should be able to update this blog more than once every 17 years.
In the meantime…
David Montgomery was kind enough to ask for my Top Five Favorites of 2004, and you can find my entries right here. Of course, I can’t follow simple directions; I included something like a dozen books. (My bad.)
The end of the semester, that is. As of Thursday evening, I’ll have only one incredibly-demanding full-time job, as opposed to the two I’ve been juggling since Halloween. As Clark Griswold said: “Hallelujah. Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?”
And with only one job, I should be able to update this blog more than once every 17 years.
In the meantime…
David Montgomery was kind enough to ask for my Top Five Favorites of 2004, and you can find my entries right here. Of course, I can’t follow simple directions; I included something like a dozen books. (My bad.)
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