Benjamin Whitmer's Blog, page 26

Apologies, mentions, Satan Is Real Kirkus review, a new Charlie Stella book, happy holidays

I've been taking an internet break of late, so my apologies if I've broken anyone's heart with my absence. Trust me, though, you'll be real sick of me come early January, so enjoy it while it lasts.

In the meantime, a few things. First, huge thanks to Barry Graham for including Pike in his list of the ten best books he read this year, to Steve Weddle for putting it on his recommended shopping list, and to Elizabeth A. White for putting it in her top ten. I've can't say enough about the kindness and generosity of the crime writers and readers I've come to know over the last year and a half. I'm incredibly grateful for all of it.

Second, the Kirkus review of Satan Is Real is in. Given the reputation Kirkus has, I won't even pretend I'm not immensely relieved at how nice it is.

And third, Charlie Stella has posted the cover of his upcoming release, Rough Riders, coming next July from Stark House. I'm very much looking forward to that one and you should be too.

As I said above, the next month is going to be hectic. The release date for Satan Is Real is January 3rd, and the interest already shown by the press has far surpassed anything I imagined. I only wish Charlie could be around to enjoy it.

Anyway, until then, happy holidays (and thanks, Paul).

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The Kingdom of Survival — out on DVD and available for download

Sorry I haven't been around much for awhile, but for whatever reason, the internet and I have not been on intimate terms of late. Which, I'm starting to think is better for the both of us.

But I wanted to point out that Kingdom of Survival, which I dearly loved, and which included the last interview with Joe Bageant, is now available on DVD and for download. And if you haven't seen it, you really should fix that.

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Guns, Books, Etc.

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Maybe just me, maybe just tonight, but I think this is the entire reason for the internet.
"This is what life in the USA is like nowadays: shit happens and shit un-happens, and you find out about it years later. Only a desperate and hopelessly degenerate nation would choose to live this way, in a law-optional society, in which money means everything, and yet nobody even knows what money is (or where it goes, and what it does when it goes there.)"
Interview with Josh T. Pearson, including news of an upcoming Christmas EP. Which I'm more excited about than I should probably admit.
A high school symbolism survey, with answers from Jack Kerouac, Ayn Rand, Ralph Ellison, Ray Bradbury, John Updike, Saul Bellow, Norman Mailer
New Leonard Cohen song. And, holy shit.
Woody Guthrie's new year resolutions.
"so the moral is don't fuck William Faulkner."

The problem with all that gun/zombie marketing, a theological debate with my daughter, two new Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! reviews, The Gits

I've been writing hard the last week, so I haven't had a whole lot of time to spend on the internet. Got a project due by mid-month that I can't seem to be moderate about. Not that I've got much of a wish to.

But a couple of things on my mind. The first being the new trend among firearm and ammunition manufacturers to tap into the current zombie hype. As I posted awhile back, Hornady is now producing a line of ammo called Zombie Max.

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And Taurus, never a corporation to shy away from stupid marketing tricks, is selling a special version of one of their useless Judge pistols as a Zombie Responder.

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Anyway, it's not something I've put much thought into, except to think it was kind of stupid. But then Scott Gillette left this comment on my Zombie Max post:

Given that, in certain circles, 'zombie' is a euphemism for a homeless black person wandering the streets after a cataclysmic event, I'm not sure what to make of it, either.

It's all well and good to indulge fantasies about the walking dead, but manufacturing a real world product to address a fictional problem is weird. Given that the product in question (rifle ammunition) has been used on real people (Danziger Bridge) that fit the euphemistic definition of zombie, I'm not sure what Hornady's marketing department was thinking.

That lead me over to Urban Dictionary, where, sure enough, definition #8 read:

A synonym to the "n" word used usually by white people in a a "ghetto" area. The term is used out of fear of being stabbed, shot or raped.

1. Holy shit, this place is full of zombies.

2. That zombie has a gun, I just know it.

3. HELP! THERE ARE ZOMBIES EVERYWHERE!

So take that as you will. I know I'm a little less amused with the whole concept now.

Also, and entirely unrelated, the other night my eight-year-old daughter came up with an answer to a theological debate we've been having for about two years. It began when she asked me why I didn't believe in God. I gave the standard answer: that I couldn't believe in a God who would allow — or in Job's case, cause — innocent people to suffer. To get sick, fall victim to disaster, etc.

Well, last night she figured that out. "Everybody has to be different," she said. "That's why God does what he does."

"What do mean?" I asked.

"I mean, that's why God lets people suffer. So they can be different than one another."

"So that's what causes people to be individuals? Suffering?"

She looked at me like I was stupid. "Of course."

For which, of course, I had absolutely no response.

Anyway, speaking of suffering, there's a new review from John Koenig of Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! in which I have a new (and very long) short story:

Some pretty heavy hitters are included in this collection:  Michael Moorcock, Sara Paretsky, Cory Doctorow, and many others.  Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail reminds me of an era gone by, writers from a different time, and attitudes not often seen today. This isn't pulp fiction; these are splendid wordsmiths.

And even cooler, the first review from Publishers Weekly is in, and calls out my favorite editor, Andrea Gibbons:

The 18 mostly original stories in this thought-provoking crime anthology offer gritty testament to the violence, cunning, and resilience of people pushed to the brink. Phillips and Gibbons showcase some major talent, notably Sara Paretsky ("Poster Child"), but less well-known authors also make solid contributions. In John A Imani's moving "Nickels and Dimes," a black observer of a confrontation between police and protestors in 1972 Los Angeles becomes a reluctant participant and de facto leader. Gibbons's "The El Rey Bar" brilliantly conveys the chaos, the hopelessness, and the despair engendered during an L.A. riot. SF ace Kim Stanley Robinson's exotic "The Lunatics" explores the issue of forced labor amid an attempted slave revolt on the moon. On the down side, Michael Moorcock's lengthy "Gold Diggers of 1977," first published in 1980, will be incomprehensible to those unfamiliar with the story of the Sex Pistols.

Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! has also been chosen for the G20 reading week, which I thought was very cool.

Lastly, to that writing project I've been working on. This has been the soundtrack. And the content. Enjoy.

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Guns, Books, Etc.

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What did Salvadore Dali's Alice in Wonderland look like?
"You know what the choices are in this country? Paper or plastic? Aisle or window? Smoking or non-smoking? Those are your real choices."
Colt 1911: One Hundred Years of Service.
"It's a proven fact that a single anal sex experience causes one to be homosexual. The hormones released by a sexual situation involving the anus being broached, are the same hormones found in large quantities in effeminate homosexual males. For example, when I was much younger I knew a young man who was for all intents and purposes, heterosexual. He was mugged, and involved in a rape situation involving a tent peg. This one event was enough to have him start on a road that eventually led to him becoming effeminate and gay."
Another excellent Keith Rawson interview. This time with Frank Bill.
The umbrella man.
‎"I'm beginning to believe that anything I do to extend my life is just going to be outweighed by the agony of living it."

In the mail, what I'm reading, first review of Satan is Real, Happy Thanksgiving from Uncle Bill

First, some bragging. It's been a very good week in my mailbox. I got my X-mas present from M.A. Littler: his film noir, The Road To Nod. I haven't seen it yet, but can't wait.

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Just as excited about the book, too. It is, as I understand it, an account of Harry Orchard and the Western Federation of Miners, particularly around Cripple Creek. Been meaning to hunt down a copy, as I kept seeing it cited in other books on the subject, and finally have.

One thing I've also been meaning to do for awhile now is say how much I enjoyed Choke Hold by Christa Faust. I finished it about a month ago (oddly enough while I was also reading DFW's Consider the Lobster, meaning I went from not knowing anything about the AVN Awards to knowing a whole lot). There's a whole lot going on, including some great commentary on the similarities between MMA and porn, which I won't ruin for you. There's also the best punchdrunk fighter since Mickey Rourke's Homeboy. If you want a taste of Ms. Faust's inestimable style and talent, she's got an excerpt of her forthcoming novel, Butch Fatale; Dyke Dick — Double D Double Cross, on her site here.

I don't think I've ever been quite as disappointed in a book as I was in Consider the Lobster, by the way. That was my first DFW, and I doubt there'll be another. For all that I've read about his brilliance, the essays were kind of banal. The best example I can think of is the interminable piece about his time with John McCain, which can be boiled down to a slight variation on the old saw, "if you don't vote, you can't bitch." Whether or not you agree with that line, it's a pretty flimsy foundation upon which to stack thousands and thousands and thousands and thousands of words. And most of the rest were just about as predictable. Likewise, maybe I'm missing something, but his much-vaunted linguistic play wore thin pretty quick. The first time "styptic" is used as an adjective unexpectedly it's striking; the second time it makes you realize that it didn't really make sense the first time either.

I also made it through exactly 75% of Malcolm Lowry's Under the Volcano according to my Kindle, but, man, I couldn't take any more. I was in love with the prose at the beginning, but felt like I was being suffocated under the flabby, alcoholic weight of the thing by the end. (Not that I'm opposed to alcohol or flab — except in prose.) I finally gave it up for Donald Ray Pollock's Knockemstiff, and that's been making me happier'n hell. As I kid, I actually lived up a holler about 30 miles on the Appalachian side of Pollock-country, and can attest that his characters are not entirely works of his imagination.

For some reason, I've been reading some mainstream American revolution stuff, too. I'm not sure why, except that it's around. I polished off 1776 on my Kindle, and now I'm listening to Founding Brothers during my commute. Most of it's exactly what you'd expect, but one factotum I really enjoyed was about the Hamilton/Burr duel. Turns out that when Hamilton provided the pistols — as the challenged, he got to choose the weapons — they were equipped with a secret set trigger that could drop the trigger pull weight from its norm of about 20 pounds to right around 1 pound. As anybody who has ever shot a handgun knows — and you can recall all my agonizing about the matter when configuring my carry gun — a 20 pound trigger pull would make it damn near impossible to shoot accurately. Of course, it didn't do Hamilton a whole hell of a lot of good, but it was nice to know he was prepared to cheat.

My wife also brought me home a copy of Speaking Ill of the Dead: Jerks in Colorado History. There really are great advantages to being married to a librarian. It ain't perfect — it's way too kind to Chivington, for one thing, and it inexplicably doesn't include William Byers — but it's a whole lot of fun. At least, if your idea of fun is short essays on murder and mayhem.

Thinking about reading, this James Sallis interview struck a chord with me. Especially what he calls "the forty-page syndrome," which sums up something that's always nagged at me about most genre books.

What I call the forty-page syndrome, where you're reading along, really getting into a novel, then the plot kicks in hard and all the coolest stuff – the textures, the messiness, the digressions – starts falling away. One doesn't have to champion the plotless and wandering in order to decry the privileging of "story" (patterns imposed from without) over substance (eliciting patterns from within the narrative and characters themselves).

Also, the first review of Satan is Real: The Ballad of the Louvin Brothers just came in from Publishers Weekly:

Kris Kristofferston, who was employed as a janitor when he met Charlie Louvin, writes in his foreword, "The legendary Louvin Brothers' hauntingly beautiful Appalachian blood-brothers harmony is truly one of the treasures of American music." Now Charlie Louvin, who died January 26, 2011, at age 83, has written an engaging and entertaining look back at his gospel and country music career with his brother, Ira. The two grew up picking cotton and coon hunting in Alabama, and music became their escape route from rural chores to radio fame. They were in their teens when they began singing on Chattanooga radio, a showcase that led to paying gigs. They moved on to making music in Memphis, and by 1955, when they finally got to the Grand Ole Opry, their record sales soared. Ira's heavy drinking and temper tantrums prompted Charlie to go solo; tragedy struck when Ira was killed in a 1965 auto accident. Packed with plenty of pictures, backstage gossip, and colorful anecdotes about the Louvins' encounters with the great and near great, this memoir has a raw honesty, genuine grit, common sense and smokin' down-home flavor that Louvin fans will relish. The fire-and-brimstone cover art and the book's title are both taken from the duo's 1959 gospel album, Satan Is Real.

I can't say how nice is to have that done with. Here's hoping the rest of them are half that kind.

Anyway, Thanksgiving, yep. And I'll post what I always post this time of year, the official Whitmer Thanksgiving prayer, via Uncle Bill.

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And speaking of lawmen, this has to be my favorite internet meme of all time.

That's it. I'll probably spend the long weekend reading and writing, with as little internet as possible, so I'll see you next week.

 

Guns, Books, Etc.

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"My favorite melodramatic theme: the harried anarchist, a wounded wolf, struggling toward the green hills, or the black-white alpine mountains, or the purple-golden desert range and liberty.  Will he make it?  Or will the FBI shoot him down on the very threshold of wilderness and freedom?"
Caught on Camera: 10 Shockingly Violent Police Assaults on Occupy Protesters.
"But here are the numbers: In 2010, there were 403.6 violent crimes per 100,000 persons in the United States. (The good news: This is an overall decrease of 13.4 percent from the level in 2001.) Thus, the average American has a 1 in 250 chance of being robbed, assaulted, raped, or murdered each year. Actually, the chance is probably greater than this, because we know that certain crimes, such as assault and rape, are underreported."
Jesse James dime novel collection.
"Most artists are brought to their vocation when their own nascent gifts are awakened by the work of a master. That is to say, most artists are converted to art by art itself. Finding one's voice isn't just an emptying and purifying oneself of the words of others but an adopting and embracing of filiations, communities, and discourses. Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void but out of chaos. Any artist knows these truths, no matter how deeply he or she submerges that knowing."
Dear gunnie internet.
"Do you really believe that our lives are an effort to wring order from chaos – or that art is?  As artists, we're compulsive pattern makers, nothing more. And we're the same in our lives, forever adopting, discarding, and revising patterns – beliefs, ceremonies, communities – that make things seem more cohesive, less messy. Knowing these are lies, we choose to believe them. Or perhaps it's just that I read Camus at too early an age."

Quote

My last quote from 2666. This spoken by a French writer who brings Benno von Archimboldi, the German novelist at the heart of the novel, to "a house for the vanished writers of Europe, a place of refuge" where Archimboldi hopes to live and write in peace. Which, of course, turns out to be an insane asylum.

Everything collapses in pain. All eloquence springs from pain.

This is one of those books I'll probably never get out of my head. There's nothing I could really recommend more, ever, and I'm already planning my re-read.

Charlie Stella on Penn State, Ward Churchill vindicated by the AAUP, nice words about Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail, irony at Occupy Detroit

I've been mostly offline for the past four or five days, so I'm gonna take a page from Charlie Stella and take all of what I've been meaning to comment on, stick it in a paper sack, and light it on fire at your virtual doorstep.

Beginning with Charlie Stella. Who has the best summary of the Penn State scandal that I've seen.

Unfortunately, this appears to have been, and I have no doubt it was, yet another corporate cover-up; men in charge of a very wealthy institution protecting a brand above the welfare of innocent kids (those we know about and those we probably never will know about).

Pedophiles are pedophiles. Yeah, they're culpable for their actions, but they're gonna be pedophiles. Those who allow them to do what they do, they're something far worse. Anybody who knew children were getting raped and didn't stop it, they deserve a hell of a lot worse than firing. Here's hoping somehow, some way, they get it.

Speaking of cover-ups at corporate universities and molestation of a different kind, the American Association of University Professors' Colorado Conference released a report last week that found that CU's firing of Ward Churchill was not only not justified, but that Professor Churchill committed no academic misconduct. This from Westword.

"We found that he did not commit academic misconduct," [lead report author] Eron says. "I wasn't surprised by finding that the university caved in under public pressure, because there was something phony about seeking alternative means for firing him. But I was very surprised by the report by the Standing Committee for Research Misconduct. Before the report came out, there was considerable faculty support for Churchill, but afterward, it was widely perceived that he was a fraud, even though our conclusion is that what they called academic misconduct was actually a normative practice used by numerous experts in the field — and even by some people on the committee itself.

"That tells me they felt under enormous pressure to act as they did," he continues. "Clearly, they were trying very hard to reach the conclusions they reached. My guess in going over the transcript is that at every step, they either presumed that Churchill was lying or guilty."

You can, and should, read the whole report here. I probably can't tell you how excited I am to see this go to the Colorado Supreme Court. Without the machinations of Larry Naves, I'm thinking this'll be a pretty easy win for the First Amendment.

In other good news, Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail! got a really nice review from Stefan Raets at TOR.COM, and he had particularly nice things to say Andrea Gibbons, Rick Dakan, and I.

1.) "Berlin: Two Days in June" by Rick Dakan is a gorgeous little story about a young sales rep walking around present day Berlin, trying to sell a social marketing app to shopkeepers but getting caught up in the history of the city. The way this story hits the intersection of technology and human emotion is just wonderful.

2.) "Cincinnati Lou" by Benjamin Whitmer was, for me, the big discovery in this anthology. The story's protagonist, Derrick Kreiger, is a fascinating scumbag you will want to read more about — and luckily, it looks like Whitmer's debut novel Pike features the same main character. Based on "Cincinnati Lou" I'm definitely going to keep an eye out for more works by this author.

3.) "The El Rey Bar" by Andrea Gibbons (who co-edited the anthology with Gary Phillips) is a sad, beautiful snapshot of a group of people in a Los Angeles dive bar in the wake of unspecified terrorist attacks and riots. It's one of several stories in this book looking at the human cost of revolutions, and one of the best ones.

Which brings us to revolutions. Sort of. I got the following picture in my email from somebody at Occupy Detroit. Here's hoping it makes you laugh as much as it did me.

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That pretty much sums it up, doesn't it?

Guns, Books, Etc.

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In the Whitmer household, any of us, age 5 to 39, might break out singing this at any moment.
‎"She [Jacqueline Kennedy] tells Schlesinger, when the subject of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and civil rights is raised, that she regards Dr. King as a moral monster who goes as far as to arrange orgies in Washington hotels. She can have been in a position to say this only if, as a special treat, she had been cut in on the salacious surveillance tapes by which J. Edgar Hoover kept the enemies of the Kennedy clan (and Kennedy himself) under his thumb. This was the rawest and raunchiest underside of access to crude power."
The late great Ed Abbey.
"I had a friend who was a heavy drinker. If somebody asked him if he'd been drunk the night before, he would always answer offhandedly, 'Oh, I imagine.' I've always liked that answer. It acknowledges life as a dream."
The condo at the end of the world.
And you can buy your own.
I been thinking about a new shotgun, by the way, and seriously considering the bullpup Keltec KSG.