Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 28

OUT NOW: 'Talk Jock Twits: A Quirky Novella'

'Talk Jock Twits: A Quirky Novella'
By Patrick Whitehurst"Talk Jock Twits" takes a trippy, frank look at the odd little world of AM conservative talk radio. In TJT, young writer Josh White finds himself immersed in the seedy occupation with little training, or common sense, to guide him. He's soon in too deep, however. He's become addicted to the small town fame, the local love, and finds his inner narcissist too powerful to resist. Check out an excerpt below!
"AM radio stations are foggy territories full of lies, deceit, pot, oral sex and tiny-ass paychecks. White entered the world thanks to a newspaper. It was as if it were part of some preconceived plan set forth eons ago by the decision of a tadpole to go left into the murky brown goo rather than right into the murky green goo. From that moment events gathered, went left three times, right once, a good marriage in the seventeenth century, all leading to that moment when White opened the door to the radio station and made the bell tinkle to announce his arrival."- Talk Jock Twits by Patrick Whitehurst
Talk Jock Twits is available now on Amazon.com. Click here to order.

Vacation tornado

An antique typewriter used by
acclaimed writer Henry Miller back in the day.Whirlwinds don’t leave a lot of solid memories. You fall into one; you get swept around, catch hold of a thing or two if you’re lucky, and get spit back out again feeling tired and sore. Vacations are like tornadoes of food, coffee, sights, purchases, and visits. They spin you fast. They spin you sick. But they don’t tear homes apart. And, if you’re lucky, you come out with a memory or two.

Monterey, California, feels like home to me, being born at Carmel Community Hospital - but it felt more like a tornado of beaches, sun and coffee stops on this recent outing. Lack of sleep, a packed itinerary, and suffering excitement all worked to stir the soul of the whirlwind. But I grabbed a thing or two, one or two memories that stuck out in the maelstrom. From the Blue Dog Gallery in Carmel to a health fair in the crop fields of Watsonville, not to mention the Henry Miller Memorial Library (where I got to caress one of Miller’s old typewriters), the Big Sur International Marathon, and the Monarch Sanctuary in Pacific Grove (where the Monarchs had been a month before our arrival); there were more stops than I could remember in my head.
In all, the three day visit consisted of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, where my brother and I bombed the log ride for the first time in about 25 years, a visit with a dog named Emma in a dog adoption center in Salinas, a rainy trip to the Last Chance Mercantile at the dump in Marina, a morning stroll on Cannery Row for a chocolate peanut butter finger, a shell hunt at Asilomar State Beach, an expedition through the expo for the Big Sur Marathon in downtown Monterey, two fine breakfasts at Holly’s Lighthouse Café, a five a.m. coffee with my brother and his friends, checking out a home in Seaside, dinner at Rosine’s on Alvarado in downtown Monterey, a sweep into Carmel to visit the Blue Dog Gallery for the George Rodrigue memorial exhibit, and a stop at the San Carlos Borromeo de Carmelo Mission (Carmel Mission) for a quick gulp of religious solitude. The grave of Junipero Serra at the
Carmel Mission.The whirlwind slowed at the mission in particular. Carmel’s weather offered a slight gray drizzle and the early morning hours kept the crowds elsewhere. Within the walls of the Basilica sits Father Junipero Serra, near the altar at the Church. No matter one’s beliefs, or even which version of history they choose to believe about Serra himself; the energy, the ornate serenity offered at the museum is staggering. Faith, belief, prayer; they’re all channeled through this historical site. Serra himself can be considered a conduit of this raw human energy. Those who believe in the power of intent will feel it there at the base of the church, and like me, many will feel humbled by it. The sea lions of Monterey.
While stopping for a last look, and dinner, at Old Fisherman’s Wharf the day before driving back to Sedona, we were treated to a creative, and large, sea lion that appeared to be waving at us from the water. Our table overlooked the harbor where boats pull into their slips between Wharf One and Wharf Two, and it’s here where many of the sea lions gather to dry off and soak up the sun atop a floating wood platform that, by every appearance, was put there just for them. The lion outside glided through the cold bay, on his side, with one flipper sticking straight up out of the water – almost as if he didn’t want to get it wet, or like he wanted to bid us adieu before we split for the desert. My brother said they often play with dolphins and that, perhaps, the lion mimicked their sea-faring companions. A quick Google search, however, revealed a more scientific reason, full of blood vessel information, thinner fleshy spots and articulation. The information could be distilled into one sentence, however. They do it to cool off.
At a health fair in Watsonville, hundreds upon hundreds of crop workers gathered for a lively afternoon of Mariachi music, free barbecued chicken and refried beans, Flamenco dancers, face paintings and a variety of information on health and wellness - all geared toward the Hispanic communities that work in the hearty areas in and around Salinas Valley. While sitting there, near a swarming bee colony located onsite to help pollinate the crops, I enjoyed the rousing, colorful live band and watched the children and families enjoy the sunny, breezy Sunday afternoon. No one had their cell phones out and no one smoked that I could see. Those who used their cell phones left the scene entirely and made their way to the parking lot before pulling it out. When the band played, they were watched, some danced as well, and they were not ignored. Nor were they applauded, but they were not ignored.

BOOK NEWS: 'Talk Jock Twits' coming soon

My days in radio, circa 1990s.Small town writer Josh White thinks he's on the road to notoriety and, better yet, popularity when he begins working for a local talk radio station in Trapper, Arizona. Instead he finds himself immersed in a seedy underworld of drugs, sex and backstabbing bastards. Welcome to the world of "Talk Jock Twits."
My upcoming novella started back in the 1990's when I worked for a small AM station in Williams, Arizona. After drowning in the job for a few years, doing everything from running baseball games at night to hosting a short-lived weekend talk show, I bowed out of the biz and resolved to never again work in the odd little field. But I never forgot it. A decade later I unearthed some of my notes, sort of a journal that described those days of radio craziness, and started fleshing out what would become this little novella.
So, while some of the experiences are real, the story itself is not. While the characters on based on real life people, some of whom I still know and call friends, their names and actions have been altered. A few people might still get pissed off about it, however, since I write cynically. But this is a fiction novel. Some may call me an ass for writing it. Some may think it's a terrible example of a regal occupation.

But for those suffering from the scars of talk jock bloodshed, call it therapy.

When pollen speaks, it sounds stupid

Can I maybe crash here tonight?Let me just take a moment to sit on your fine old couch and put my feet up, figuratively speaking of course. It’s been a great war so far, right? And you’ve done your part like a champ. But it’s not easy. It may look easy, but this crap leaves me tired. From all reports it’s working. We’ve got him nailed. Have you seen the reports? It’s like a wish list from Amazon – everything you could ever desire. All you can hope for. You got anything to drink? I like those Cactus Coolers. Don’t tell me what’s in them for God’s sake, but give me at least two of those bad boys. They’re so damn good. I like to slam the first one and then suck on the second like a babe to a nip.
This is a comfortable couch by the way. I like it when they get old and lumpy. Makes them more comfortable. When they’re new they feel like slabs of wood. That’s not a good way to relax. But this one? Man, I feel like a king on this puppy. Don’t mind my barbed body. It won’t leave a lasting impression.
Those reports. You’ve seen them, right? He can’t even blow his nose. His head feels like it’s full of cotton. Yeah yeah, I know, we thought we were getting ahead last year when we heard all that the first time. Then he got better. He outlasted us. Plain and simple. But check out page three. Hey, you got any food? I’ve got a thing for cheese sticks these days. The pepper jack ones are da bomb. What about salami? You got any of that?
No? Shoot. That’s all right.
See there? Page three lists the new stuff. He’s got muscle aches in new places every day this year. That didn’t happen last year. Our guys inside said he’s taking aspirin at night. It doesn’t do anything to help. He’s limping when he walks. He’s also got a raw throbbing in his right ear. His eyes are dried out and his lips are chafed. That’s thanks to you.
What’s that on TV? That the new Hobbit movie? That mountain of gold blows me away. You mind if I see if the game’s on? I haven’t seen much of The Suns this season. Hear they’re doing an incredible job, tearing it up this year, might even make the playoffs.
Keep it on the Bilbo thing? That’s all right.
Page five, right there, talks about how he can hardly think straight. His stomach aches all the time. He’s nearly done. That’s why I’m swinging by. I wanted to see if you could keep up the pressure for another day or two. I need to put a coat or two on his car, wiggle through the windows and get caught up in his nose hairs. Our guys on the inside are beating down those immunity punks. They don’t even know why they bother anymore. It’s practically a civil war up in there. You ever read that book about introverts? That’s you, man. You’re an introvert. I didn’t read the book, but I Googled it.
You got a call coming in? Cool. In private? Yeah, I’ll take off. Keep up the wind, brother. See ya on the flip. Keep on keeping on. We’ll get that Patrick bastard. Sorry, yeah, I’m leaving now.

Geektastic thoughts on bad comic books

And then there's NFL SuperPro.It was embarrassing back when zits were common. But only a little. Zits were worse, and there was no way to hide the little bastards. They always returned for encore performances. Comic books could be hidden, in mere seconds if need be. That way chicks would only see the Black Sabbath posters. There would be no question to the coolness.
It's not like comic books are that lame. They're only a little lame and monumentally amazing. And I was reading them, Marvel titles mostly, for a very long time, longer than the zit parade stuck around – and that juvenile time might have been better spent chasing budding young girls, but that's debatable and not the point. Maybe the time would have been better spent reading Lovecraft and Tolstoy, as some of my friends did, or Anne McAffrey and Kurt Vonnegut, as other friends did. Instead of reading classic Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, pouring over John Byrne and Steve Ditko, Ann Nocenti, Chris Claremont and Todd McFarlane, I should have been sucking in the crap found on the horny, learned trails blazed by America's Road Scholars.
And, lame or not, they're crack to zitty adolescents and cynical middle-aged fathers, they're soap operas set in a modern fantasy, where good faces off against insurmountable evil, or where they tackle laundry, everyday problems, but compounded by a double identity. I sat, zits and all, with Marvel comics for hours and hours, absorbing everything from the The Uncanny X-Men and The West Coast Avengers to Power Man and Iron Fist and Howard the Duck. But my geekiness really came out with the poor saps who never lasted long on the scene. The short lived Marvel titles were often my favorite. And I still own a few among my slimmed down, modest collection. Liking them, even among comic fans, was like naming your acne. I didn't do the latter, but I more than liked the former. I loved them. Mind you, I'm a guy who sees the good in Star Wars Episode One: The Phantom Menace and smirked happily when they nuked the fridge in Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Speedball's original look, before he joined
The New Warriors team.
A favorite for about a year, Speedball: The Masked Marvel remains one of my favorites to this day. It lasted ten issues, less than a year, but I couldn't get enough of his bouncy vigor, the colorful kinetic orbs, and his search for that similarly affected cat. To me. It was a Ditko classic, and he didn't even work on Speedball until he himself was already thought of as an icon in the world of pulp.
The mystery of The Human Fly came in never
identifying who was under the mask. Marvel's The Human Fly , known by many incarnations, had a steel skeleton that made him pretty tough. While I know better now, I read the real-life stunt man's short-lived fictional adventures prior to picking up anything X-men-related, so I felt as if Wolverine's adamantium skeleton were riffing off the Fly. In reality the opposite is true of course, but that didn't stop my sweaty hands from snatching up everything there was to read on the hero with the tag line “The wildest super hero ever, because he's real!”
Then there are the others, such as Sleepwalker and Darkhawk, both of which I collected, not to mention B-players who had longer runs but never the respect given to Captain America, Doctor Strange, The Hulk, Wolverine, Daredevil and the others. Those B-players include the Master of Kung Fu, Man-Thing, Dazzler and other titles I couldn't get enough of. Sleepwalker is another title that stuck with me. A human who had to fall asleep in order to release the hero living inside him. High concept stuff, brilliantly played at times, which explored the measure of being a hero.
Thoughts about the overlooked and unsupported Marvel titles from day's past were kindled recently because my ten-year-old son, Ben, has a passion for football. Being that I swam in old comics and cried over zit gardens on my face, football wasn't something I knew much about. I knew it was boring. Sleepwalker about meant his human host wasn't. But then I remembered Superpro – NFL Superpro to be exact. And I knew Ben would love the dude, whether or not the hero is largely considered to be one of Marvel's dumbest creations. Superpro told the story of a former NFL athlete who suffered a debilitating injury. Becoming a sports reporter, he was involved in an attack that left him super powered, and in possession of a prototype football uniform he subsequently used to fight athletic-related crime. The series lasted twelve issues, two longer than the original Speedball. And now, at 42, I've rediscovered the crazy hero as a way to bond with my bombastic offspring and his love of pigskin.

And, for the most part, neither of us have zits. Those looking at our choice of reading material, however, would assume otherwise. Let them.

REVIEW: R.E. Lieske's storybooks for adults

Eve's Tarot by R.E. LieskeLiterature, like art, continues to transform and evolve. Those who say either medium is dead have only themselves to blame. You’re not looking in the right place.
It may take time. It may not occur but once a year when the planets align over your Effexor-muddled brain, but there are amazing things to be found and inspiration under every unturned stone. And that isn’t just the Bupropion talking.
Take storybooks for adults, small works of literature the size of a long novel chapter and mixed with captivating fine art, like the astounding work of artist and writer R.E. Lieske. If you’ve not heard of the idea, give it a shot.
Lieske is breaking new ground in the budding genre. She transforms each page into a living, breathing work of art by the use of haunting artwork and vividly charming prose. Those words are themselves like fine art. They paint a vivid picture in the reader’s mind that will stay long after you’re done reading.
An Idiot's Tale: The Lost
Writings of Rapunzel
by R.E. LieskeAnd the idea of short, spirited literature serving the same purpose for adults as storybooks do for children is a brilliant one. Seeing Rapunzel cast in the light of fine art and viewed through the lens of nuanced storytelling injects a depth that veers from the original German tale penned by the Grimm Brothers.
In “An Idiot’s Tale: The Lost Writings of Rapunzel” Lieske tells Rapunzel’s story from an entirely new angle. Here, Rapunzel is a half-human, half angel, with “an exceedingly active scalp.” Readers will see the story of her dark plight; explore the foggy hysteria found in ignorant fear, and come away enchanted nonetheless. Not by the story itself, but in how it’s presented, how exposed Rapunzel is to us, and the charming Renaissance-style art found within the short storybook’s pages.
“Eve’s Tarot,” meanwhile, explores the fantastical story of Adam and Eve from a new, motherly vantage. Short bursts of storytelling, elegantly written, surround the story of Eve and her matronly relationships. At times modern, at times historical, and always smooth. Lieske’s definitive art, dark and eerily whimsical, perfectly accentuates her sexy storybook tale.
Like author Gregory Maguire’s novels "Wicked," "Mirror, Mirror," and "Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister," the idea of taking stories nearly all Americans find familiar and twisting them into something meatier, more pronounced, is an intriguing path for an author. Lieske puts her own spin on the familiar, crafting not only originally vivid adult tales, but punctuating them with alluring nuggets full of visual stimulation. There are few artists and writers who successfully combine crafts. Lieske navigates both with ease.
Click here to check out her website.

Anonymous and ignorant

"Use Grammarly's grammar check because no one like to be ignorant and anonymous."
It might feel cool, but it blows.In the arid southwest, talking about conspiracies is an every day deal. Floridians do the same thing, but with the weather. In the dustbowl of Arizona, people are way, way, way, way into thinking the government, the neighbors, the police, and the aliens are up to no good. Like smoking cigarettes and doing bath salts, toking the conspiracy pipe is super-addictive. If you don't believe they're out to put you in internment camps, then you're ignorant, just like all the other fools. You have to wise up, brother. If you do believe it, then you're peeking through your curtains, terrified, armed and afraid. Either way, those who peddle their conspiracy theories, who make cash from it, have you by the throat.

And conspiracies are not something people keep to themselves. But they can hash out their fears anonymously. Everything from chemtrails to alien abductions (after all, why haven't they found the Malaysian plane? What aren't they telling us?) are thrown out anonymously on the lovely World Wide Web, just not with any style, not with panache, and not with much integrity. I thought I would add in the latter as most don't leave their real names when commenting.

There are plenty of reasons to be anonymous, Anonymous says. They might fear retaliation, but felt the thoughts needed to be written anyway - after all, there's no chance someone else already said it better years ago. They might actually like their online name better than their real one. For those who use “Go-Bot” as a handle that would be true, but it isn't for everyone else. Some might use it because they don't want others to think, albeit a little late, that they're stupid.

Hiding your identity serves as a suit of armor. More and more, anonymous posters hide their true names, not out of retaliatory apprehensions, but because it allows them to be dicks. They crank the vitriol to dizzying proportions and troll around like zombies on PMS.

While the tide seems to be shifting, with the problem gaining more and more attention, such as the one-woman war that novelist Anne Rice is waging against anonymous reviewers - those who seem hell bent on ruining particular authors and not the ones who pen thoughtful, honest reviews.

Anonymous reviewers and commenters, however, should learn one important rule. If they're hoping to be read, to be taken seriously (even just a little) they should learn to spell, and run a grammar check once in a while. It's hard to swallow a conspiracy when “NRAlvr” spells tomorrow with one r. How is that even possible in this age of auto correct failures? It's also hard to think my life will improve through meditation and yoga when the person telling me that can't spell celery without using an s.

I won't even mention the grammar mistakes, as I'm no better really, or the word “lol,” even though I really, totally, fully despise it. But at least my mistakes have my real name on it. Of course that's only because Go-Bot is taken.

Henry Miller as Santa Claus

My Dear Timmy,
Got your letter. Short and dimly-written as feared, which my elves accepted as a burned, imploded heart embraces faked vows of absurd celibacy.
How is the North Pole, you ask? From birth does decay draw air. A cyst of pus and blood frozen in American culture's greedy cowboy wastes. It is forever and black, an army rudely unbeaten by store-bought intellect. I read fire and sandpaper from your wagging tongue, sperm-made, sperm-baked, and never questioning the general who commanded “Forward! Do not look back!”
The altar of candy canes and eggnog, chest-thumping prayers of obscene narcissism farting from slug lips sticky with pretentious blood, where a dance on Mother Earth's pregnant belly births a flapdoodle of cosmic sewage, ugly scabs on the ass of an elf with bells on his feet. A whore stuffing her lies, like basketballs in a pointless back and forth parade, fingers flashed by the hot skulls of reindeer cadavers, more free dead, budding flowers who never spread the clap. Our mother elf shares her clap at dinner, over wine, and butters it for breakfast, feeding all from her pale, doughy carcass. Nous applaudir pendant que nous nous lamentons!
I'll see what I can do about the bike.
Warmly,Santa (Miller) Claus

Remembering nothing - forgetting grammar

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'Hear Here' by Christopher Rice College played a trick on my mind in making me think I was smarter than I really am. And making me act like it too. Six years later, the effects of the Jedi mind trick have worn off, and I feel dumber than ever. But I remember knowing more than I do now, only I can't remember what I knew.
I can remember correcting grammar and feeling irritated at the world for not knowing it too. “Their” and “they're” and “there,” “it's” and “its” and where to place the stupid commas; those riddles and more had been cracked open like a greasy white egg and fried with ketchup, sexually good, and eaten right up. Swallowed whole. “Eats, Shoots & Leaves” by Lynne Truss became a bible for me to thump and mentally hump. Pride and ego rode shotgun on either side of my pretentious smile.
Then came the cosmic storm – the foreclosure, the debts, the divorce, the move of my own dumbass choosing, things that happen to everyone at some point in the soup of time. Children who get old enough to despise the poverty you wear like an old man's shawl, who refuse to speak to you again, a brain that dwells within a glass whiskey bottle, and a soul trapped in a rusted cage of small town despair – all particles in the storm, pushing and pulling from one gravitational force or another, until the commas and apostrophes are smeared off the board. Only a subtle whiff of rotten egg remains.
The indignant slap of departing cash still stings. I can see it down the road a few miles, carrying its hobo stick and thumbing for a ride to greener pastures, but the storm has settled and appears to be passing. The trick of higher education, my education, is a dead nerve, exposed and useless. I am at the back of the line. I have always been number thirteen.
I remember nuggets of Northern Arizona University, the pain of math, the way my calves got ripped from walking so much on campus, a wonderful day discussing how the world's intellectual point guards got aroused by “Citizen Kane.” But I can't remember all the rules of grammar, all the tricks to oil painting, how to write a hot lead for a news story, and how to tell when a painted red ball is brilliant or just lazy creativity.
Where I wrote with passion and security all those years ago, knowing I knew it all, and knowing nothing, as Bill and Ted said, now I write with scars and numbness. Knowing jack is a given. But I thought I knew a thing or two about sentence structure, and that has always been enough for ego to ride a white horse and tower over the little folk.
I fear words written, cognizant of failure lurking behind every click of the keyboard. Cheap bourbon won't cure it completely. The lash of life's lessons continue to whip at the writer's back, as it should, but the passing storm will vanish.
And, whether grammatically correct or not, a lesson will be learned from it.

Shooting up with the rich

Pictured is 'Running From Crazy' Director Barbara Kopple,
Mariel Hemingway and Bobby Williams at the 2014
Sedona Film Festival.As a kid in Seaside, Calif., my brother and I would get excited when it was homemade macaroni and cheese night. We were stoked to finally get cable and we didn't get a VCR until after most of our friends already had one. We saw hookers on street corners, watched used condoms float down the gutter, and got accustomed to the wail of police sirens. We'd seen people who had been shot, heard the pop of pistols at night - yet I was still more afraid of the living dead than I was crime.

And on television we saw stars and celebs, heard about their problems, and marveled at their triumphs, pushing our own meager mountains aside to allow them into our hearts. And that life of torment, caviar and limos, divorces and adoration, expensive narcotics and bad choices, was like a dream for a kid who grew up knowing that to make eye-contact with someone on the street invited trouble. Look down. Always watch your feet. Don't say anything. 'The Wolf Gift'
By Anne Rice.
Theirs was a beautiful torment. Like soft rain on a hot day. It could prove bothersome, but never terrifying on a daily basis. We flocked to the warm rain they offered. We listened to their plight, cradled an incredibly uninformed, yet fierce opinion, and bought into the silky tales sold by the media like a child in Santa's lap.

We want (what has come to be known as) the one-percent to climb under the sheets and coo us to sleep.

The Sedona Film Festival offered a peek into the lives of privilege and entitlement seldom seen on the street. Anglo pompousness permeated the two film events we made it to see. The sense of wealth and influence smelled-up the air, as did the sense of curiosity - those hoping to meet and be seen by the somewhat-famous celebrities who appeared at this year's festival.

Mariel Hemingway, who screened her life-story/documentary “Running From Crazy,” offered a glimpse into the Hemingway family's tendency for bad decisions and suicide and I was left wondering, had she finished her education, would things have turned out differently for her? If money were an object (for that family, it's no object), would she have been a little less inclined to do what she pleased? Were she poor, not a young rocket shot to fame thanks to her grandfather, the one family member who understood poverty, would she be able to afford her treatments, her property, her ability to explore the truth she found in her own soul? Not likely.

It's not her fault she was born wealthy, but like most families of privilege, what one does with that wealth is crucial. Hemingway's path to enlightenment, after watching the film, felt incomplete and under-appreciated. The audience adored her. They applauded and stood when she strolled on stage. And I wondered if I missed some important point. Or was I the only one in the audience who couldn't afford to skip along her path of holistic bliss?

I finished reading "The Wolf Gift" by Anne Rice the same night. Having a thing for werewolves and Rice's storytelling, I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into it. Reuben, the main man of the tale, quickly became a character I could not identify with in the least. He can have whatever he wants, doesn't have to work, owns a sweet ride and has first world-issues that would make even the most uninspired trust-fund baby jealous. Later we meet Stuart, a younger werewolf, who also happens to have a bit of money and a family life only six-figure salary-earners could relate to. I wrapped up the book wondering if only one-percenters can afford adventure these days, if we only feel sorry for those who could never know how good they had it. I wondered if only one-percenters read these days, if only one-percenters mattered.

The poor, I figure, just aren't interesting.