Patrick Whitehurst's Blog, page 33

Trickle down shoes

Foot garb is directly related to mental stability.What a person has on their feet is, without question, very important.
While at work a person has to wear foot-garb matching whatever workload their employers trickle down for them to stress over. There's garb for thrilling careers where you stand all day, garb for thrilling meetings where you get fat all day and garb for thrilling bits of both, which is the kind of job where your legs hurt because you're still getting fat and having to hold it up once in a while. 
Black shoes, slip-on style, are my choice shoes for employment, but they don't work well when you have to walk down a trail to see a dead body - before writing a story about it on deadline back in the air conditioned office while gaining back the few pounds that evaporated on the hot corpse trail.
While at home, there are slippers to soothe the soul of the foot and make them forget all the constriction and pompousness of the office garb. There are socks, like a soft layer of feather-light warmth, and bare feet – all of which, smell notwithstanding, sing.
Foot garb equates directly to a person's trigger-happy mental state.
Soon I will be wearing green plaid slippers, drooling with interior wool, for much of the day. My black slip-on shoes with the hard plastic heels will be spit-cleaned and hidden from view, inserted carefully into a black area beneath my bed, where the light of day will not see them for some time. Those damn shoes deserve their prison. And my green plaid slippers deserve my feet.
Wool can tickle and soothe, heat and pamper any old foot. Nasty, yellowed nails, pretty enough to nibble, the interior of a slipper doesn't give a shit about appearances. It worries more about making everything alright. Where zippered vinyl is the Aries, wool is the Aquarius of zodiac foot apparel. With slippers on, everything be damned.
But the light of day continues to seek voids of blackness. As the sun moves across the contrailed sky, that light creeps silently toward those black slip-on office shoes. 
There's no way to avoid the trickle of money forever, they whisper.

Marathon Blues

“I know it's only rock 'n' roll, but I like it.”- Mick JaggerCrusty rock 'n' roll hurts at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning.  Dragons enter the Marathon gates.The organizers for the Jan. 20, 2013, P.F. Chang's Rock 'n' Roll Marathon seemed to dig it, however, and Tempe was made to endure their Top 40 lust. Runners gathered in full gear, flaunting both wealth and their well-manicured stick bodies, as the pale Tempe sun yawned and blinked to life. Rings formed in my styro coffee cup with each thrumming beat. Antique Jagger-angst shook the gunk from the corners of my red-rimmed eyes. While stale, the familiar tunes were loud enough to fake some relevance.On Jan. 19, droves of lean white meat gathered at the Phoenix Convention Center for their bib numbers, swag bags and event shirts they won't ever wear. It might have been Olympic Village for all the firm bodies, exposed midriffs, toned arms, sexy legs and, often, the high of sexual addiction. But maybe that was last year. This year, the 2013 marathon had babies. Lots of them - not to mention a few male and female muffin tops hidden under worthless $35 gut packs.Strollers pushed through the mass of petrified athletic flesh, mom's in short shorts and Nike running shoes lugged them on papooses, pressing their children's tiny toes into the backs of runners crammed into pudding ahead of them. If a walking path opened at the marathon for byststanders, the strollers filled them like diapered blood clots getting in the way of a perfectly operable vein, and forcing all movement to come to a hot stop.Lines fifty women deep tapped their toes at every bathroom in every restaurant along Mill Avenue the morning of the race. Port 'a' Potties came with stink and empty toilet paper dispensers. Ashamed smokers hid in every dark place they could locate, away from the critical glare of a thousand health czars. Expo excitement eluded many.Jets passed through my cigarette smoke. High overhead, above the vulgar crack-of-dawn musical din, pilots hit the sky-brakes as they swooped into Phoenix International Airport. Five geese flew over my head, a hulked-out 747 above them, followed by a distinct white dollop from the anus of one of the birds - the one who saw the plane.And in one of those dark shadows came a young woman in black. A block low of Mill Avenue, she wore a black denim coat, dark pants and faded black backpack. Her brown hair looked as though half of it still hunkered horizontally on a bed somewhere, while the other half could have been a tangle of black straw. Wheezing. Coughing. Her legs were unfamiliar machines. She used a wall to support herself. And there she attempted to vomit. A block north, the countdown began for the marathon.But this was an athlete of a different kind. A warrior of the night, spit out into the cold light of day, who couldn't give two shits who saw her heave and moan in public, who didn't hear the countdown or the Rolling Stones, only the suffering of her own destiny.Here was someone betrayed by her own sense of adventure as thirteen thousand waxy-faced adventurers laughed about things only they could afford. For the young woman in black, any relevance rock 'n' roll might have offered now formed a wet pool at her feet.And she trudged on, finding new shadows, as the marathon began.

What to do when everything is boring

Mailer: the cure for listlessness.There's nothing new under the sun, at least not this week.
We all have things that keep us entertained. For some of us, it's reading about celebrity train wrecks, or celebrities whose trains haven't wrecked yet, but hopefully will. Right, Jennifer Lawrence?
Others orbit the world of baseball, football and basketball, picking up fragmented bits and pieces of strapping athletic data to fill their bored mental voids. Hipsters flick their fluffed hair at boredom by using insanely expensive Apple tech, earth mamas pat each other on the back for their stereotypical cleverness while eating gluten-free cupcakes, and everyone meets at Trader Joe's, even if it's just to size-up the “kewl kat” competition. But that's boring.
Facebook, cloyed with memes, quotes from religious icons we have all read in other, more interesting locations - and memes with quotes from religious icons, has become as stimulating as a snotty nose in winter. Banging around for items of originality amidst a sea of similarity can lead to the death of our plastic patience. So where can one go for a breath of piqued interest, a kiss of caressing hope or something that might make for good conversation around the kitchen table – something some people still enjoy? Not there.
Literary news these days has sunk in a privileged bog of letters and fine art programs. This week at any rate; the news of the literary world revolves around those who teach MFA programs in creative writing, those who worship MFA programs, those who teach workshops, or those who attend conferences on writing. Those who write, typically the ones with lint in their stained pockets, seek news they can use. For such a lonely sport, there's a lot of useless chatter.
Beauvoir: curing Parisian ennui.Geeks turn their eye lasers to sci-fi and fantasy news, giggling over the latest kernel of Star Wars Episode VII news, bitching over the new Star Trek revelation, and spurt orgasmic glee over everything Walking Dead. But there's nothing else. Nothing else to suckle, nibble or widen the eyes over. Like zombies, which are in now, and for good reason; everyone flocks to dead things just as their parents flocked to them. There's nothing expressive in a corpse, but we all kick it, hoping for a convulsion or two.
Bitching up a storm on your blog, reading Norman Mailer and Simone de Beauvoir, authors whose voices vibrate long after they've died, exposing yourself to films that were made long ago under an umbrella of novelty and passion; these can treat the sloppy symptoms of ennui, if not bash them away for a week or more.
Study something new, such as the mechanics of an epiphany, before they vanish forever. Educate yourself on gun control laws, listen to everyone vomit opinions, before puking up your own. Question something you should have questioned when you were ten. Write something romantic and flowery, but make it different than everyone else's Dickinson-cum-Frost shenanigans. Say something someone else really wants to hear. Say something no one wants to hear, but should. Shake chains. Break molds. Dance to different beats.
Impress the hell out of someone.

Poor, broke and the difference

Writing is free. It costs only a little attention and some time, but that's it. And it helps buy perspective, which is also free, and probably why a lot of people don't bother with it. No one likes counting burritos.
For me, frustration comes from the struggle to survive. From scrounging change to buy coffee, since you know you won't scrounge enough to pay the thirty-seven dollar tax bill, to staring at burritos you can't eat in the fridge because you'll be hungry tomorrow too; survival is the state of mind born of being broke.
It's not poor, it's broke.
When you have nothing left in your account, just zeroes, and no way to inject numbers into it until the next pay check, that is broke. When your parents are dead and therefore have nothing to offer you, that is broke. When you count out those burritos and see you have four left, but five days until pay day, so you look to make sure there's still a cup of rice for the fifth day; that is broke. When you know how many miles your car can go with the gas light on, etc., Broke is the look of fear on a person's face when they go home, praying there won't be a note on the door from the landlord.
Poor is a step up. It means there are parents that can give you money when it's needed. It means cash comes at you from other avenues, which you do not have to pay back or work for. Don't say you have no money when you have four thousand in savings. Don't comiserate with the dope counting burritos. One is the fear of the gutter and other is the fear of inconvenience.
And there's a big difference between the two.

'Animosity' a historical tale of old west grit

'Animosity: A Novel' by Dennis Wilson.Survival, grit and bleak determination mingle in Dennis Wilson's engaging freshman western novel “Animosity.”
Caroline and Ellis Harper, recently orphaned, find themselves struggling to live in the small town of Dotyville. Rancher Bobby Bishop, meanwhile, deals with the death of one of his children and the torment it brings upon his wife and remaining offspring, including youthful Harlan Bishop - who eventually crosses paths with a young and bitter Ellis Harper. When Caroline Harper is nearly raped by Harlan's simple-minded brother, things only get worse between them.
The two eventually leave the small county for bigger and better lives; Ellis to join up with the Texas Rangers and Harlan to enlist in the United States Cavalry. But their story is far from over.
Animosity focuses on the stern, often cold reality of the wild, turbulent west where death was as common as chores. History, particularly the story of Texas, play a large role in the tale as well, though Wilson blends research and fiction seamlessly in his prose. Historical cliff notes end each short chapter, adding context to the flavorful events in the novel.
Western writers are a unique and thinning breed, but occasionally fresh voices enter the fray with a story that breathes new life into the genre like fresh oil on a saddle. Wilson adds a worthy voice to the western novel, thanks to his clipped, brisk writing and historical asides, both of which work as a literary lasso for fans of the old west.
Find his book here.

The Barker Mysteries feature unlikely heroes

(Press release and sample covers for the upcoming first and second volumes of 'The Barker Mysteries')

Spec covers for 'Monterey Noir' and 'Monterey Pulp.'Not every hero lives in a mansion or works from a smoky, hard-boiled office.

Enter Barker, a mysterious man with no memory of his past. Ferociously handsome and acutely observant, Barker makes his home under the soggy planks of Old Fisherman's Wharf along California's foggy Central Coast. His closest friends are an assortment of stray dogs, ranging from a large Rottweiler to a tiny Shih-Tzu, who live with him.

Adventure and intrigue have an uncanny knack for crossing Barker's path.

Author Patrick Whitehurst's new book, “Monterey Noir” and “Monterey Pulp,” explores heroism in both human and canine incarnations. As a homeless man, Barker never seeks pity or hand-outs from those he helps. His independence serves as a strength to his character.

“I didn't want to make Barker's homelessness into something depressing, but highlight it as a strength. Too many novels focus on telling a story from the rut of depression. The Barker Mysteries are told in the form of an action-adventure tale, similar to pulps of the 1940s,” Whitehurst said.

Barker's canine companions also serve in the role of hero throughout the novellas. Whitehurst, who's been a dog owner most of his life, created Barker's furry companions as a way to honor his longtime pet, Kerouac, who passed away in January of 2012.

“To me, the love of a pet is the most sincere form of affection there is,” he said. “And dogs have always been heroes to me.”

Both books will be available in ebook format from PageTurner Editions and will be found on Amazon.com, Barnes and Noble and wherever ebooks are sold.

Author Billierosie wrote: “The elusive Barker is a deserving member of an exclusive society; that of the great detective. He uses his intellect in a way that most people fail to do and cuts through to the heart of the mystery with precision.”

Whitehurst is the author of two non-fiction books as well: “Williams” and “Grand Canyon's Tusayan Village.” Both are available from Arcadia Publishing in their Images of America Series. He's worked for various newspapers in northern Arizona, including The Arizona Daily Sun, The Grand Canyon News and the Sedona Red Rock News. Monterey Noir is his first published fiction novella.

Whitehurst currently lives in the red rocks of Sedona.

Fearing Santa

'Fearing Santa'
She'd told me tales about the jolly old elf. She said he was a very secretive person. That he wouldn't deliver Christmas gifts if my brother and I were awake. The stocking would be empty next to a cold, dark fireplace if we so much as peeked out of our room. No ornately wrapped presents would be there come Christmas morning, not unless we rooted ourselves to our beds. I was terrified of Santa Claus thanks to my mother.
I remember those long, long nights well. Christmas Eve held so much excitement for what would come the next day. There'd be cookies the night before, baths, clean pajamas, setting out snacks for Saint Nick and a magical feeling in the air. The Christmas tree would shine brightly, the house reeked of crisp pine and baking, but the terrors would begin shortly after dark. He was out there somewhere, flying his sleigh through the clouds, sneaking into homes in cities and villages whose name I could not pronounce. What if he decided to swing by our house earlier than normal this year? I'd still be awake, my brother would still be awake, and he'd keep going. My mother would be ashamed.
I would think of all the treasures he'd brought in previous years before bed: Star Wars figures, Black Hole figures, He-Man and G.I. Joe, Hot Wheels, novelty toys, Smurfs. One year he delivered Shogun Warriors outside the fireplace. Another year we found Kiss dolls and Muppets. I couldn't miss out on whatever his plans were for our house. I would die without his midnight arrival. A Spider Man doll he brought me years before held a special place on my bed. I know he took note of that.
I'd lay in bed, attempting sleep at eight at night, shackled by invisible chains, straight as a board. I swear I heard him one year. There were footsteps in the house, big and heavy. Another year, I swear I saw the glow of Rudolph's nose through the ceiling, that it actually penetrated the roof and seeped into the house. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing Santa could peer over my bed at any second. I would see dark eyes and a snowy beard and it would be over.
I never slept the night before Christmas. But I rarely noticed my exhaustion and haggard eyes on Christmas morning. Because Santa always came. Even now, I rarely sleep... and neither do my kids.

Shopping local (a true-ish tale of angst and raw brake pads)

The brakes on my Buick Park Avenue squeal as I steer into the used book store's parking lot. It's a Sunday afternoon, so there aren't a lot of other cars out there. I smile embarrassingly as people turn to stare in disbelief at my loud-ass ride. I stub out my smoke, kill the engine and hop out. 
When I get to the front door it's locked. A sign reads “Closed Sundays.” Checking their hours, with all their wonderful used books beckoning to me from the other side of the glass door, I see they're open until noon on Saturday and until five on weekdays. I resolve to return on my lunch hour the next day.
My brakes squeal when I get there. More people stare. I stub out my smoke. The door to the store is locked again. Next to the “Closed Sundays” sign is another: “Back at 1:30.” I resolve to try again Tuesday.
Squeals, stares, smoke stubbed out and the door is blessedly open. I can smell the antique book pages, such a wonderful aroma, when I enter. A lady in a white wool sweater two sizes too large and glasses thicker than Coke bottles sits behind a counter near the back of the place. She's reading a book.
“I'm looking for 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows' in hardcover,” I tell her.
She replies. “I have that in fantasy. It's twelve dollars.”
“Twelve bucks? Is there a local discount?”
She finds the book for me. It's missing a dust jacket. Not good for anal collectors like myself. Without missing a beat, she says, “No local discount. Sorry.”
“I can get this online for one penny, plus $3.99 in shipping and handling. That's eight dollars cheaper,” I add as pleasantly as I can on the off chance she sucks at math.
My brakes squeal as I leave the used book store for the third time. At least they had the book, I think to myself. In fact, they still have it.
NOTE: Post written for the sake of argument. Those seeking a good local experience for books, just to avoid confusion, please visit The Well Read Coyote in West Sedona!

Take a bath in history

Image courtesy of Pistols & Petticoats.
Gadgets are pretty damn fun.
Kindle Fires, smartphones, iPads, Windows 8, whatever your tech of choice is, there's no denying their presence and accompanying addiction issues. But they weren't always around.
There's definitely something to be said for that bygone era when men rode horseback through the desert and carriages ambled over cobbled roads in the big cities. Letters were the only form of email, the type typically written by hand, and proper spelling was something not coached by a program but learned in classes and continuing personal education. Many great western writers, like Louie L'Amour and the brilliant Gary McCarthy, bring that history to blazing life when penning their fantastic tales. For me, there's no better way to get a feel for the history of the Old except to read their impressive tales. And it wasn't always pretty for sure. But it was simpler. There's no denying that. Entertainment, for instance, came one fad at a time.
Cover for 'Williams.'Recently I got a chance to hang out with John and Laurie Maeder, owners of Pistols and Petticoats Old-time Photo Parlor, and was dressed in faux garb of the old west for my very own old-time photo. I felt a little like an outlaw, having an “iron” strapped to my leg, a wide brim over my brow, not to mention a bottle of whiskey in hand, and quickly got an inkling of how important those items were to history. And also, unlike today, how those things, what one wore on their back, were often their sole possessions. A book, for instance, was a prized object and not easily replaced with another. Clothes were mended, not tossed, and having a roof over your head, especially one that didn't leak, was considered a luxury by many.
That love is wrote drove me to write my two non-fiction books, “Williams” and “Grand Canyon's Tusayan Village.” Not just because I yearned for a simpler time myself, which I do on occasion (though I'd never give up my Fire), but because I respect those who created the world we live in today for their hard work, consistent lifestyle and “true” grit. And there's no better way to learn it than to immerse yourself in the life of old, bathing in the differences between those who struggled for their very survival and the struggles many of us encounter in today's world.
Pistols and Petticoats Old-Time Photo Parlor, owned and operated by the wonderful Maeders, is located at 311 North State Route 89A. For more information on the parlor, as well as pricing, call (928) 282-0029 or visit them on Facebook at Pistols and Petticoats – the world's greatest old-time portrait parlor.

Excerpt: Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries

To whet the appetite for the upcoming release of “Monterey Noir: The Barker Mysteries,” forthcoming from PageTurner Editions, here is a small scene snatched from the chapter entitled “The Wet 100s” - in which Barker and his friend Naples face an ex-con on the bike trail along Monterey's central coast. Gar's not the nice kind of ex-con either.

Barker regained his footing and kicked the barrel of Gar's pistol, knocking the weapon into a nearby tide pool. Gar roared and punched Barker square in his breastbone. Pain pulsed and burned in his chest, though to Gar’s amazement, the smaller man failed to show any effects from the stalwart blow. Barker’s grassy green eyes flared wide, he gritted his teeth, then tackled the giant man once again. Both fell forward into the water and quickly disappeared under the black, shimmering surface.

As Naples came to along the Bike Trail, he peered into the rain for any sign of the big man or Barker. He heard a splash near the other side of the path, where the ground dropped off into the bay.  The water at the shoreline had to be a good ten or fifteen feet deep. Naples climbed painfully to his feet. A streak of blood colored the bottom of his chin where Gar hit him. He wiped at it while staggering forward to the path. As he neared the boulder, Naples found more rectangular shapes lying on the ground. They were stacks of 100-dollar bills.

“It’s the whole stash! Gar must have hidden it here when we showed up!” Naples got on his knees and began to shovel up the bills.

“Put it back.”

Naples turned around, his face as white as a sheet, and saw Barker standing behind him. His friend dripped from head to toe and was dragging in one hand what appeared to be the lifeless body of the man, Gar. “He couldn't hold his breath as long as I can,” Barker stated. “Not all the muscles in the world can help a man retain air in his lungs. Now put the money back.”

“Is..Is he dead?” Naples asked.

.....

Stay tuned for more Barker news in the coming months!