Eric Arvin's Blog, page 10

Great Songs That Reference Films & Actors

And now, songs with references to actors or films:

"Boots" by The Killers, wherein is referenced It's a Wonderful Life.

"Bette Davis Eyes" by Kim Carnes, wherein is referenced Mae West...just kidding. It's Bette Davis.

"Beautiful Killer" by Madonna, wherein is referenced Alain Delon.

"January Wedding" by The Avett Brothers, wherein they mention Audrey Hepburn.

"Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" by The Counting Crows, wherein is referenced Monica Potter.

"Genius" by Warren Zevon, wherein is referenced Charlie Sheen.

"Calling it Quits" by Aimee Mann, wherein is referenced Judy Garland.

"L.A." by Amy MacDonald, wherein is referenced Jake Gyllenhaal.

"Steve McQueen" by M83, wherein is referenced Bette Davis...d'oh! I mean Steve McQueen.

"The Late John Garfield Blues" by Sara Watkins, wherein is referenced John Garfield.

"Footballer's Wife" by Amy MacDonald, wherein is referenced Marilyn Monroe.

"Thin Blue Flame" by Josh Ritter, wherein is referenced Laurel & Hardy.

"You Know I'm No Good" by Amy Whinehouse, wherein is referenced Roger Moore.

Life in a Northern Town, Part 2

Monday is a long day. It's the same for most folk, I guess, but in the mines there ain't no clock on the wall to tell you your day's winding down. To offer some sort of escape, reprieve even. You kind of lose yourself to the dark a little bit more every day. The picks and axes hit the stone and it makes a forceful sort of music. Industrial, but with less heart. The music of the damned, maybe, if that ain't too heavy-handed. Shit. Heavy-handedness is all we got down here. You can't be light-handed, light-footed, or limp-wristed because everything's so damn dark.

But enough of that. I'm on break. I'm outside now, trying to enjoy the breeze on my face, though still coughing up the earth's dirty core. I brought myself a sandwich from home, but I don't feel like eating. Once I touch the bread with my dirty hands that pretty white bread will be stained with soot. The same soot that will eventually kill me.

Suddenly, there's a commotion coming from the south. Men resembling old mining stereotypes are yelling and running, calling for the foreman, spouting off nonsense about tommyknockers and vengeful ghosts. There's been a collapse. One of the mines has completely caved in. I'm standing here, thinking there's nothing I can do to be of any help, when it hits me: the south mines, ain't that where Nick works?

I'm off like a jack rabbit, pushing my way past miners, even knocking one down. "Nothing to be done," they all yell, every one of them a Gabby Hayes. "Nothing you can do for the poor bastards."

But I don't listen. I don't want to hear nothing but Nick's voice, his plaintive songs. I'm breathing hard as I reach the south mines and everything here is in a right tizzy. Rocks are being pulled away from where the mine's entrance used to be, guys are yelling down open shafts for any response, the injured are covered with dust and soot and are being tended to or carried away on stretchers. And all the while there are calls of "Where's the foreman?"

And then I see him. Nick. My heart nearly breaks, but not from grief. From sheer pent up exhilaration.  From a flood of relief. He's dirty, covered in dust so that he looks like a stage actor with too much makeup, but he's alive, sitting on a rock, breathing rough-like, and drinking water from an old canteen. Thank God he got out! My knees feel like they're gonna give and I wanna smile and cry at the same time, but I control myself. I don't break. Not even when he looks up at me and nods.

*

It's taken me a while to get back home. Da's beat-up old truck's about had it. The poor thing's like a loyal horse with bad lungs. It's all fine by me, though. I needed the steady racket of the old truck to smooth away the edges of the day. I imagine Nick's in the seat beside me sometimes, but I know that's silly. Why, I wouldn't even be able to hear him above the truck's rattle.

I get out of the truck and start walking up to our small house. I'm always shocked by how quiet things are in the rest of the world. Outside the mines, I mean. It's nice, but also a bit unnerving. Like something's about to happen. Something real bad just sitting in wait. I ain't six feet from the door when I hear my da coughing and carrying on like he's calling up the dead. It's the worst I've heard him in a long while. Shit, I think. God's spared Nick, but He's gonna take Da.

I race inside, nearly tearing the door from its hinges, and what do ya know but there be my da laughing - laughing - with Auntie Bev. She's all spruced up in her high stacked peroxided hair, heavily applied eyeliner and lipstick, and gawdy accessories, and he's as read as a a pickled beat. She's entertaining him with dirty jokes.

"What the hell is up with you, sweetie?" she asks me. I can't tell if her eyes are wide with surprise or if that's just the makeup.

"I thought you were dying, Da," I say, trying my hardest not to sound too frustrated. Oh, my poor heart.

"I am," he answers, wiping away tears and spitting out phlegm. "Your auntie here be slaying me! She's a filthy woman."

"Naw," says my aunt. "I'm just colorful." Then to me, "You go clean up, hon. I made a stew. You're pale as a ghost. My stew will put some color in your cheeks."

I tell her I'll be back in a few and head to my room, leaving them to their merriment. I shut my door, standing, back against it, for a moment. And this is when my knees finally give and the tears come and I crumple, silently sobbing, to the floor.

Great Songs That Reference Songs & Singers

"The Road" by Emmylou Harris, wherein she references former friend and bandmate, the late Gram Parsons.

"17 Again" by Eurythmics, wherein they reference themselves and their classic "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)".

"Eulogy" by Frank Turner, wherein he mentions Freddie Mercury.

"Car Wheels on a Gravel Road" by Lucinda Williams, wherein she mentions Loretta Lynn.

"The Ghost of Stephen Foster" by Squirrel Nut Zippers, wherein the mention songwriter Stephen Foster.

"You Could Make a Killing" by Aimee Mann, wherein she (supposedly) references on of the Oasis brothers.

"These Photographs" by Joshua Radin, wherein he mentions Nina Simone.

"Never Found My Emmylou" by The Doc Marshalls, wherein they mention Emmylou Harris.

"Burgundy Shoes" by Patty Griffin, wherein she mentions The Beatles' song "Michelle."

"Life in a Northern Town" by The Dream Academy, wherein is referenced Nick Drake.

"Nick Drake Tape" by Clem Snide, wherein he mentions...um, Nick Drake.

"Matilda" by alt-j, wherein is mentioned folk singer Johnny Flynn.

"On with the Song" by Mary Chapin Carpenter, wherein she references The Dixie Chicks.

"I Dream a Highway" by Gillian Welch, a gorgeous 14 minute song wherein she mentions both Emmylou Harris and Gram Parsons.

"Under You" by Better Than Ezra, wherein they mention Leonard Cohen.

New Interview About "Illusion"

I am interviewed anew about my first novel The Rest Is Illusion HERE. Because of the renewed interest in the story I'm pondering routes to future publication, rather that be through a publishing house or self-published.

Crack The Darkest Sky Wide Open: The Cover Revealed

The cover for Crack The Darkest Sky Wide Open , the anthology which also includes stories by Tj Klune, S.a. McAuley, Abigail Roux, SJD Peterson, and introducing Jason Huffman-Black. Set for release May 17th, 2013... of the Common Era. Cover artist Kealan Patrick Burke.



"Of humanity there are darker tales. Stories that take some squinting to see through. Unconventional stories. Tales that threaten to break the heart by cruel twists of fate, the dogs of war, or demons that are all too real; whether they be of unrequited love or a karmic slap in the face. Happy endings take a time in coming, and some never arrive. But through all the darkness there is light, a glimmer of hope and wonder...if one has the will to see it."

Life in a Northern Town, Part 1

I'm running this story here first just to see what type of response it gets. It's a serialized story of four short chapters. If it goes well - I'm writing it week to week - I'll expand on it:

He sings, his voice as thin as tissue paper.  Not saying that it's a delicate thing. He can tear your heart right out, by god. His song is a sad, plaintive thing. All of them are. He's begging us, begging me, to listen, to try and understand the pain. It's just him and his guitar. Every weekend he's up there on that tiny stage in this dark pub on the edge of a mining town.

And he's beautiful. Not in the rock star way. His nose is maybe slightly crooked and his face can look a bit drawn in the wrong light. Sometimes he lets his hair grow long and then seems to forget about ever combing it. But his eyes are rocks of wisdom and sorrow. His fingers chisel through that pain. They're the only ones that seem to know how.

His name is Nick.

During the week he works in the mines like me. I see him, but I doubt if he's ever seen me. He doesn't seem to see anyone. In that we are similar. Both of us keeping to ourselves. I don't know what's on his mind and more than I know the day I'll die. My own mind is filled with thoughts of home. Of my da. He's dying, you see. Ain't no use in trying to deny that. He's been dying for a couple of years now, every day worse than the one before. My da is a good man. He's worked in these mines since he was 13, even before he met my poor departed ma. They got him in the end, though. The mines get a lot of us. They're selfish places and you should know it going in. I mean, they're called "mines." It's right in the name, ain't it?

Da knows how important these weekend trips to the pub are to me. Especially when Nick is singing. He insists I go. "Git," he says in between deep, phlegm-laden coughs. "Go see your singer friend."

"We ain't friends, Da," I tell him. "I don't even know him. Just like to hear him sing."

"Well, go hear him sing then. I'll be fine here with your aunt Beverly. She takes good care of me. Now, git. Have yourself a good time." If he had any money, he'd give it to me.

Auntie Bev takes good care of him, it's true. But I still worry. He's my da. I worry I won't be there when the mines take him. Eventually I'm convinced, though, and I head to the pub once my auntie arrives. And so, here I am.

What's this, then? Deep in thought, I was, and he looks straight at me. I'm in the very back of the pub, keeping to myself and leaning against the wall with a beer in hand, but I swear he looked right at me just then. Oh, my heart, my breath. Right at me! I never seen two prettier stones in all my years in the mines. I better pay up and leave. Ain't no way the night will get any better than that. Man oh man. This is something to tell me da.

The List: Books and Botox

1. My sister, Amy Morrison, aka Amy Arvin, has been hired by Empire Press to do the cover for my upcoming books The Mingled Destinies of Crocodiles & Men and its fabtastic prequel  Azrael & The Light Bringer . This is in no way nepotism. Believe me. If anything we're Joan Fontaine and Olivia De Havilland. (Does anyone get that, or am I too much of a nerd?) Here's a sample of her work and the style we're aiming for:



2. Cover artist Paul Richmond has chosen Woke Up in a Strange Place as his favorite cover he's ever done. I remember first seeing this and my jaw literally dropping. I might have even drooled. I'm gross. Clearly, one of the best covers of 2011 and if I were a better selling writer, Paul would have won something for it.



3. My men and music site Daventry Blue is now officially closed. It was a lot of fun, but I had said everything I needed to say with that blog, that being "Hubba hubba wonka wonkaa ooooo!" I appreciate the thousands and thousands of visitors. You made four years of my life fly by. I WANT THEM BACK!!

4. The French version of Simple Men is set for release on February 12th. This joins the Spanish, Italian, and, of course, English versions. Unfortunately, I'm not fluent in any of those three languages, so I have no idea what I wrote.



5. I had my first botox treatment. How do I look?


Seriously, though, it was for my foot. My face is still as Arvinian as ever.

6. Woke Up in a Strange Place was mentioned in another book! How cool is that? Jackson Cordd discusses it in his book Cleats in Clay. I'm a pretty girl, Momma! Now, I can leave this planet with my alien brethren with the knowledge that my name will live on.

7. And finally, Tj Klune, me very own boyfriend, won the Goodreads M/M Romance group award Best M/M Romance of all time for Bear, Otter & The Kid. I'm so veddy veddy proud! That book is going to be read and loved for years to come. Which is awesome. Because he's coming with me. In space. With the aliens. Where no one can hear him scream. In bed.

Sunday Morning Ramble...without corrections

Reading House Of Leaves by {Mark Z. Danieleski     }, and it has inspired me. This is what I shall do with my hospital exoeriences from a few years back when I was in there for pnuemonia. It would make a great horror epic. Believe me, it was a horrifying experience. All kinds of doors I maybe shouldn't open again. But what the hell. It's not like aanything supernatural will actually happen if I DO write my experiences down. OR WILL IT?  I like doing ALL CAPS intermittently. There's a blogger and designer named David Mason Chlopecki who wwrites these hilarious and often very touching rants weaved through his other posts of very fetishy guys, and he has transformed the use of ALL CAPS into an art form. I recommend his site, House of Vader. Hmmm. Two "houses" in a row. One of leaves, the other of vader. I assure you that was wholly unintentional. OR WAS IT holy unintentional?? Like some divine thing just seeped into my brain, or some subconscious thing is bubbling up. What will I think of next? If it deals with homes we'll know I'm right. Alas, no. A new song by The Chevin just came on and my mind was diverted? distracted? My attention was taken off the houses as I admired the instrumentation and production values of the song. The song is called "Drive". I guess one could live in his car, like a house. Many have. By the by, I occasionally do these rants in my attempt to fissh for ideas for my writing. I'm not going crazy. i'm ALREADY THERE!! We all go a little crazy sometimes. That was PSYCHO, Right? Norman Bates? I hear there's a TV series baased on that story coming soon. TV has gone very dark the last few years. There are so many shows about serial killers with said killers as the leads. AMERICAN HORROR STORY was a let down this season, huh? Hey, Ryan Murphy. You don't hve to use EVERY idea your writers throw you...at least not in one season. But what do i know? He's succesful. Must be doing something right. Or maybe the viewers bloodlust is just so damn higgh. We're all Romans in the Colisseum, yrlling for more blood, more gore, and we want it now. Shock us. But that's impossible. Some of us have been through enough in real life to be desensitized by the fake gore on screen. Wow. That felt too deep. I've given too much away. I might shave my beard. This weather is drying me out. It's gross. I'm gross. Grossy Josey. Ha. Drew Barrymore. Remember that movie? Which one was that? Never Been Kissed, I think. Ever see her in Grey Gardens? Amazing work. Who knew the little girl from ET had that in her. Every empire has a rise and a fall. We are here to keep records. I wonder if the man who invented time kicked himself when he started to age.I think I'm actually starting to be okay with my body. Wierd, huh? But then, I guess that comes with age. Is it wisdom or apathy? I might do this rambling thing more often. I'm thinking. Thinking hard. Is thinking hard? Damn. I've given too much away...again.

My Top 10 Most Visited Posts of 2012

Click on titles to see the posts.

10. In which I posted photos of me and some of my book covers: The Author & His Work

9. In which I discuss my failures in gym class as an adolescent: Gym Class Hero

8. In which I channel Shakespeare...if he were a lousy poet: Sunday Morning Blog Poem

7. In which I unveil the cover for Zombie Boys, among other things: The List: A Few Little Things

6. In which I describe how I got sick and everything after: Me - The Story of a Fall

5. In which I tell of my future plans: The List: Big Things Ahead

4. In which I interview myself about GRL: Conversation with Myself About GRL

3. In which I show and tell what I did at GRL: The List: What I Did at GRL

2. In which I offer and excerpt of my pervy story from Seventh Window, 'Roids, Rumps, & Revenge":
 EXCERPT: 'Roids, Rumps, & Ravenge'

1. In which I posted a two part video of me and Tj Klune interviewing each other. In two days this got more hits than any of my other posts did all year: Eric Arvin/Tj Klune Epic Interview

EXCERPT: Honeysuckle Sycamore, Ch. 12 - The Finale

XII

It was not hard for Honeysuckle Sycamore to find Peat Moss. The valley itself exposed the monster’s agitated rassling in the shallow water of the river as the sound of it echoed and bounced off the hills. The vengeful spirits had once again descended upon Peat Moss after having scattered in fear of Grit’s howl. They pecked and hammered mercilessly at him. Now there was no crossing back over to sanity for the giant, and this made his ferocity an even more dangerous thing.             He rolled about in the river, struggling with an unseen adversary. He did not at first see Honeysuckle standing on the river bank with a determined rage in his eyes. The glaze of spirits had hampered his sight. Without waiting for the monster to pounce first, the Passion leaped into the stirred waters, bounding onto Peat Moss in a lightning flash. He had not moved as fast since the night Dogwood had been killed. This moment held the same intensity, but now he was not retreating.             The action caught the monster off-guard, for he had never been confronted so. Honeysuckle knocked Peat Moss beneath the still churning current. It took all of the smaller sprite’s strength to do so. Yet, Peat Moss rose almost immediately with a deranged roar, the water pouring from him as if he were a mountain rising from the sea. Honeysuckle could now see the spirits which soared over and around Peat Moss like a towering cyclone. Peat Moss charged at him, throwing Honeysuckle across the river like a feather being tossed about by the wind. He landed on the banks, dazed, but would not give up until Peat Moss was gone from the valley for good. He rose just in time to see the monster’s red fire eyes glaring at him in lust and hate. But Honeysuckle was past fear. Something else took hold of him; that of the memory and hope of everything he had ever loved. Dogwood, Jess, Grit, the Valley, the River.             Near him, he found a shard of rock; an arrowhead used by the valley folk for hunting, left behind years ago. He challenged the monster again, and the monster accepted.            The immensity of Peat Moss would have decimated Honeysuckle on impact, and the smaller sprite knew this. So, just as they were about to collide, Honeysuckle leaped into the air, grabbing one of the long lichen tendrils of Peat Moss’ mane, and swung himself over and up until he was squat on the monster’s backside. He slashed at Peat Moss, cutting him deep, drawing thick, black streams of blood. Peat Moss howled in discomfort and anger, struggling to reach for Honeysuckle. But Honeysuckle dodged and gashed at the massive hands.             The sprite reached around for Peat Moss’ throat, trying to find its vulnerability. He grabbed the monster’s mane, pulling out strands of lichen. Peat Moss’ head tilted back in a hateful growl, leaving his throat an easy target. Honeysuckle drew the arrowhead across it, and though blood was drawn, the skin was too thick, too rough. And it was too late.             Peat Moss’ large hand found the sprite’s leg at last and pulled Honeysuckle over his head and into the river. There he held him, Honeysuckle struggling for air beneath the giant’s hands. An enormous sense of gratification and arousal overcame Peat Moss. He no longer noticed the banshees and spirits that still tried to thwart him. He drove into Honeysuckle with his thick penis even as he continued to drown him, holding the sprite’s head below water but his bottom up and open.            Honeysuckle flailed beneath the monster’s hold, but it was of no use. His strength could never hope to match that of Peat Moss. He could no longer bare it, the pressure, the torturous need for air, the relentless pounding, and so let go. Let the euphoria come in. The lovely, terrifying euphoria. And as he did so he saw Dogwood in the water beside him. Lying on the river bed shaking his head, as if saying not to give up. But how could he win?            Then something happened. The monster released Honeysuckle, and Dogwood faded like a wisp with a twinkle in his eye. Honeysuckle rose with a gasp, choking up water and struggling to stand aright. He was prepared to be knocked about again by the monster, to be played with. Perhaps, tortured for hours before being eventually killed. But Peat Moss was no longer interested in Honeysuckle. He stood silent and still in the water, staring to the shore as if mesmerized. Even the spirits had quieted around him.                           Honeysuckle had drifted a ways down stream. He spotted Grit on the shore. She walked unsteadily toward the river’s edge, falling and thrashing as she came deeper into the current.            “Grit, no!” Honeysuckle cried. “Go home, Grit!”            But she did not listen. She didn’t even move her head as if she had heard him. Her attention was on Peat Moss alone. She waded to him and he waited for her. Honeysuckle tried to get to them, but hadn’t the strength now to cross the distance. The current was too strong.            Soon Grit stood face to face with Peat Moss. He grunted in strange recognition of her, raising his hand for her face.             “Grit!” Honeysuckle screamed, struggling through the water toward them.            As Peat Moss touched Grit’s face, her expression changed from one of aching sorrow to harrowing contempt. A moan, plaintive at first, then cresting to a high-pitched rage, filled the air. Honeysuckle covered his ears and stared in awe. The spirits fled, scattering like leaves. Peat Moss also tried to hide from her deafening cry, but she caught his arm and he could not wrest it. Grit’s slit of a mouth suddenly curled and grew until it was a large hollow hole in her face. And then, to both the horror of Peat Moss and Honeysuckle, it stretched further until its size was surreal, mismatched with her form. Her face disappeared until only a gaping chasm of mouth could be seen, inside of which was nothing but blackness.            Peat Moss struggled against her, but his strength was nothing now. He raged and hit at her, but it did no harm. Then, with one sudden movement, like a wave overtaking a village, Grit came down upon the mighty monster, swallowing him whole. The waters stirred in the spot where he had stood.            “Grit?” Honeysuckle whispered.            She stood silent for a moment, her arms out from her sides as if she were a scarecrow hung. Suddenly, she began to heave and convulse. With a sickening gag she vomited forth the remains of Peat Moss into the river. Black liquid mess. Down the hiding spirits descended around her, picking at what remained of the monster. Feasting on him as he had done on them. They crowded around Grit, shrouding her to the point that Honeysuckle could no longer see her. He knew she was there, though, for he could still here the sickening continuous regurgitation.            And then it all stopped.            The spirits scattered once more, content with their vengeance. Grit stood alone and wore out in the water. But as Honeysuckle came for her, something else happened. Everything about the Passion Grit began to soften and color. Parts of her seemed to melt away revealing a newer, fresher being. To Honeysuckle’s astonishment, before him in the river now stood Grit, though devoid of sorrow. She had eyes, real eyes, and a beautiful, bright smile.            “Father,” she said loud and sure to Honeysuckle Sycamore. Her first word began the change in the valley. Better things to come.
            Honeysuckle Sycamore and Grit nursed Jess Bethel back to health. Jess was dazzled and delighted by Grit’s new self, and she delighted in doting on him the way he had on her. Jess giggled too at the tiny arguments Grit and Honeysuckle would get caught up in, like a father and child at times, other times like two adversarial playmates (“The sunflower is the prettiest flower!” “No! It’s the honeysuckle!”). When Jess was able, the three of them took walks through the lonely forest, admiring it in a way they hadn’t been able to before. With new eyes and free of fear.            Soon after, the mood in the valley changed once more. The days became the stuff of yesteryear; sweetness and happiness and warm days. Forest creatures returned or came out of hiding and played openly on the banks of the river. Bumble-birds twitter-bussed through the air and deer paraded through the shallow streams. Word soon reached the ears of the outside world that the valley had returned to its true form. The monster Peat Moss had been destroyed. And so, little by little, the valley folk began to return. They reclaimed their places by the River, renewed their love and appreciation for the valley. When they discovered how Peat Moss had been defeated, they brought gifts and food to the Passions in the chapel, and even rebuilt the chapel itself, strengthening the walls and fixing the roof.            Though nearly extinct, new Passions were being born every day once the valley folk returned. Born from nothing but love and frivolity. Once again, Passions were being chased from pumpkin patches by broom-wielding matriarchs. Once again, a poor scarecrow went naked through the summer and into autumn. Honeysuckle had never been happier. He knew Grit would be leaving soon, that she would want to go out and adventure as any sprite would. But he chose not to think on that. He chose instead to think on what was right in front of him in the valley by the river. Jess Bethel, Grit, and, when the moon was just right and he peered just so into the river’s current, his Dogwood.