David M. Brown's Blog, page 4

Interview with Ian Brennan, Grammy-award winning music producer and author of Sister Maple Syrup Eyes

We’re delighted to welcome Ian Brennan to the blog today. Ian is the author of Sister Maple Syrup Eyes, not to mention a Grammy-award winning music producer! Check out his interview responses below and then read on for more information about his work and his book.

Interview with Ian Brennan
Recent work

Tell us about your most recent completed project

Sister Maple Syrup Eyes is a book about recovery. It was inspired by own personal experience coping with the aftermath of the rape of my “first love”. The first rough draft was written in 1990 and it has been relentlessly revised and honed down since, to just over 20,000 words. In many ways, it sort of unintentionally anticipated flash novels.

What are you working on now/next?

My fourth book (a non-fiction work on inequity in media, How Music Dies (or Lives): Field-recording and the battle for democracy in the arts, is being published in February 2015. And I’m very exited by an upcoming, solo debut record from Bob Forrest “Survival Songs”, which also deals with recovery.

Which is your favourite piece of work so far? Why?

It is hard to choose from the many records I’ve produced by other artists, but i think the forthcoming collaboration between Tuvan throat singer, Sainkho Namtchlak and the rhythm section of Touareg legends, Tinariwen, it really sounds unlike anything else out there. And that is a rare accomplishment in these over-documented times.

Favourites

Favourite author?

So hard to say

Favourite book?

Whatever i am reading at any moment.

Favourite film?

Purple Rose of Cairo, The Graduate

Favourite video game?

I HATE video games

Favourite food?

Tea Leave Salad

Favourite drink?

Roasted green tea

Miscelleanous

Who inspires you?

Those who live independent lives with respect for others and no intention of harm. (That description fits the majority of canines on the planet, by the way.)

What motivates you?

Art has the ability to anonymously inspire empathy. In the presence of empathy, deliberate violence cannot arise from a person. Beauty is something that we can never really overdose on, so any one who purely strives to contribute to the collective good without desiring reward(s) or recognition, gives me hope.

How do you define creativity?

Art and creativity are linked but separate. All people are creative, but few are often artistic. To create something for its own intrinsic sake and without concern for its reception is a high level of artistry that few of us ever reach, and one that is even harder to sustain.

Anything else?

A wise, old artist once told me “every new author thinks that their own life is more interesting than it is”. An even wiser senior editor commented that “every author thinks that their book is the next Moby Dick.” Decades of rejection and indifference have dissuaded me of such notions.

About Ian Brennan

For over twenty years— since 1993— Ian Brennan has successfully trained over one-hundred thousand people across the USA (as well as Europe, Africa, Asia, and the Middle East) in violence prevention, anger-management, and conflict resolution at shelters, schools, hospitals, clinics, jails, and drug-treatment nationwide, including such prestigious organizations as the Betty Ford Center, Bellevue Hospital (NYC), UC Berkeley, the National Accademia of Science (Rome), and Stanford University.

These trainings are based on more than fifteen years experience laboring as a mental health specialist in locked, acute-psychiatric settings, the job rated as ‘the most dangerous’ in the state of California.

He is a Grammy-award winning music producer (Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, Malawi Mouse Boys), who specializes in working with underrepresented international artists. His poetry was first published at age nineteen. He is also the author of the non-fiction books Anger Antidotes, published April 2011 by W.W. Norton (NYC), Hate-less, which was issued in the fall of 2014, and a book on popular culture, How Music Dies (or Lives): Field-recording & the battle for democracy in the arts.

Twenty-five years in the making, Sister Maple Syrup Eyes, is his first novella. Though it is a work of literary fiction, it was inspired by his own life-altering experience at age 21 when his ‘first love’ was beaten horrifically and raped in her apartment by a family-friend.

Website
About Sister Maple Syrup Eyes

I never believed that my own hurt during the aftermath of the rape was all that momentous. I knew full well that the trauma I’d experienced was infinitesimal compared to hers. Yet, nonetheless, it was still devastating and changed the course of my entire life. The one thing I was determined to do was to try to produce something good from that bad, a celebration and memorial of what was, and that if it leant some small healing to even one person, it was somehow worth the while to help tip the scales however insignificantly back towards sanity.

Amazon

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The Diary of Mr Kain: Week #39

Monday

The start of a new week and considering it’s June the weather isn’t really following the summer script. Downpours today and if it wasn’t for the kindness of Beard Face putting an umbrella up for me, I’d have been drenched. He does have some uses, I’ll admit that, and over the years he has done some things that would make many cats like, even love, him. The problem is I’m just not one of them. I mean, I like fish and chips (whenever I can steal them) but it doesn’t mean I want to get overly affectionate with them. Fish and chips compared to Beard Face is probably a poor example to be fair. The former are lovely in so many ways. The beard isn’t.

Tuesday

Shock of shocks. Beard Face went out today and did a day’s work. This will take some getting over. He wasn’t fired on his first day so that’s a shock in itself. What he was doing all day remains a mystery but he came home as if he’d been pulling 600 tons of rocks all day. I sincerely doubt he was doing that given that he left for work in shoes, trousers, a shirt and tie. Maybe he’s been working as someone queuing for benefits at the job centre.

Summer makes me thing of escaping to places such as this one. Either that or bury Beard Face somewhere this distant

Wednesday

Beard Face came home from work with an idea for a new pop act. He had in mind a duo. Not just any duo but a duo of the female variety, a sort of modern day Simon and Garfunkel if you will. He had in mind chart topping hits, highly profitable world tours and a greatest hits collection within three years of the duo forming. In theory it all sounded very interesting but there were just two minor issues. The first is that the old boy had to find his magical duo and the second is the name he had come up with – Simone and Gabrielle.

Thursday

I spent the afternoon chatting with Bilbo and Frodo. I don’t often converse with the other cats but sometimes I think it’s only right to share my wisdom and understanding of the world. Frodo just wanted to sing but couldn’t decide between renditions of Paddlin’ Madelin’ Home or Paranoid. A strange quandary to be in and not one I was prepared to help him with. As for Bilbo, well, he continually told me of the wonder that is Frizzy Hair’s cardigans and how he often gets high off their scent. It was at this juncture that I decided to bring a premature end to my time with Bilbo and Frodo.

Friday

Beard Face completed his first week in a new job and didn’t get fired. Given that all he was doing was making the tea it’s no big surprise that he made it through okay. The good news is that he managed to avoid causing any stomach upsets or hallucinatory incidents, both symptoms of previous cups of tea he has made. I can vouch for these incidents given that I was involved in one when I suddenly became curious about what tea tastes like. Once I’d finished fighting the green dragon in the garden, I decided that tea wasn’t for me.

Saturday

Have you ever woken up in the morning and asked yourself why? Why am I here? Why was I chosen? Why must I share a house with five over cats? Why is Beard Face such a moron? Why can’t Frizzy Hair recognise how awesome she is? Why did Beard Face have to mow the lawn today? Why did he have to go outside with nothing but shorts on? Why did I not take the shot when I had it? Why am I such a coward? Why does Ben Affleck still have a career? You get the idea, right?

Sunday

Beard Face. A bow. An arrow. A tree. The result? Not the bloody affair I was hoping for.

The post The Diary of Mr Kain: Week #39 appeared first on B-Lines and Felines.

The Bleaklisted Movies: Singin’ in the Rain

About The Bleaklisted Movies

Many moons ago a despotic cat named Charlie decided that he wanted to be a book critic. It would fit so nicely with his existing roles as food critic, dog critic and owner critic. Thus The Bleaklisted Books was born.

After fifty books Charlie ran out of the limited ideas and inspiration he had and turned his attention to the world of films. We apologise but this dictatorial little beast will not be contained.

Read at your risk… (And beware… SPOILERS!)

 

Singin’ in the Rain

What happens?

Gene Kelly sings in the rain…a lot.

Reason for bleaklisting?

It’s always on at Christmas. Put something else on like Troll 2 or Batman and Robin.

What should have happened?

Tony Sockfoot is a singer in a nightclub who does very well, especially with his rendition of Unchained Melody combined with Prodigy’s Smack My Bitch Up. Tony signs a contract to do a few shows overseas. The problem is that Tony’s eyesight isn’t great. The gig is supposed to be in Spain but Tony doesn’t read it properly and ends up singing on an island in the Persian Gulf. Given that his repertoire was supposed to be songs such as The Rain in Spain, Spanish Eyes and Never Been to Spain, things don’t turn out too well for old Tony. Luckily, he is able to persuade the locals to let him leave the country on the grounds that he is a total dimwit and misread what the contract says.

Working title?

Singin’ in Bahrain.

Tagline?

What a glorious mix-up!

Who should direct?

Alfred Hitchcock.

Who should star?

Gene Simmons and Madonna.

Mr B compares the stories

Singin’ in the Rain is a popular classic on Christmas Day and how can one resist Gene Kelly in this iconic role? Charlie has decided to recruit Alfred Hitchcock for a not particularly clever case of misreading a contract and heading to Bahrain rather than Spain. This isn’t a huge stretch of the imagination for the average person but for Charlie you just know he was up all night working on this one. Gene Simmons and Madonna to star? I suppose it depends which version of Madonna we have and whether Simmons is in full Kiss regalia with his face painted and his tongue hanging out. Whatever the scenario this is a disturbing alternative to a memorable Hollywood gem.

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The Diary of Mr Kain: Week #38

Monday

A new week began with the news that Beard Face was now going to take up yet another career. This time his aspirations have taken him down the path of being a mortgage lender. Not content with the sensible choice of joining an established mortgage lender, the beard decided the best way forward would be for him to set up his own. He named this new venture Not Very Affordable Loans which promised to lend you anything from £1 to £300,000,000 to buy a house with special stipulations stating that for every £1 you borrow you will pay back 1p! I’m not sure the beard has completely grasped how mortgages work.

Tuesday

Frizzy Hair has recently had her hair done so is struggling to now live up to her much-loved title. I’ll still call her “Frizzy Hair” to avoid confusion and because I can’t be bothered coming up with something new. What? I’m a busy cat and you should feel privileged by my musings no matter how brief. I realise, this being a diary, that I’m effectively talking to myself now which doesn’t look good but hopefully it will turn out okay in the end. Anyway, the frizz has gone for a shortened version of the “fingers in the plug sockets” style that she had previously and it does look rather nice, especially the blue, purple, orange and green shades that she has gone for. Beard Face says she looks like a raccoon, presumably an LSD-infused one!

This was my reaction to House M.D. ending at the weekend

Wednesday

More arguments today between Beard Face and Frizzy Hair. This time their dispute was over the sun. The beard was adamant that the sun coming out each day was a man with a torch searching for his missing poodle named Eric. Whenever it’s daylight he’s searching but at night the torch has run out of battery and it takes him a while to find a replacement. The frizz, of course, tried to offer the old boy the scientific explanation but he was having none of it so she resigned herself to looking online for a replace your husband service. Can’t say I blame her.

Thursday

I don’t know what Beard Face put in my breakfast this morning but it was good stuff. I went in the garden and there were chocolate wrappers and leaves in the grass. I completely flipped out and started attacking them, believing them to be canine resistance fighters, while Charlie cheered in the background at my efforts. It was all very surreal. The skies were green and purple too on occasion and even the wheelie bins had character. I finally came down from my trip in the middle of the afternoon. It sounds kind of embarrassing the things I did but at the time I was at one with the world, dude.

Friday

Beard Face and Frizzy Hair have been spending some quality time together. Don’t worry, I’m not talking about that bedroom jiggly about thing that humans find so endearing. They’ve actually been partaking of World of Warcraft. The beard is a warrior and the frizz a priest. You can see how they’ve delved completely into the realm of fantasy with those choices. The couple of hours they spend on the game involve the frizz telling the old boy what to do and to stop behaving like a dick all the time. In other words just like real life.

Saturday

It was a very emotional day today. As a family we’ve all been enjoying House M.D. but after eight seasons the show finally came to an end. Frizzy Hair was in tears, I was in tears, Beard Face thought we were watching The Flintsones and Buggles decided it would be an opportune moment to tell us about a wonderful encounter he had in the garden with a yellow flower named Samantha. It’s always sad when you come to the end of such a great show. It’s even worse when you have to contend with the latest phase of Buggles’ descent into kitty mania.

Sunday

Beard Face continues to wait for a start date for his new job. The delay is less down to the company and more down to the old boy making some ridiculous excuses. When they asked if he’d be available this week he informed them he wouldn’t because his pair of green clown pants were still in the wash. The previous week he insisted that the moon wasn’t in the right position in the sky. The week before that he was adamant that Zach Braff would cry if the beard started work too soon. Bizarrely, that particular excuse was not questioned! To be fair, who wants to see Zach Braff cry?

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The Bleaklisted Movies: Planet of the Apes

About The Bleaklisted Movies

Many moons ago a despotic cat named Charlie decided that he wanted to be a book critic. It would fit so nicely with his existing roles as food critic, dog critic and owner critic. Thus The Bleaklisted Books was born.

After fifty books Charlie ran out of the limited ideas and inspiration he had and turned his attention to the world of films. We apologise but this dictatorial little beast will not be contained.

Read at your risk… (And beware… SPOILERS!)

Planet of the Apes

What happens?

Some astronauts reach a new planet and find it’s ruled by apes. There’s a bit of drama, some cheesy acting and then Charlton Heston loses it on a beach when he steps on a sharp rock.

Reason for bleaklisting?

I really felt bad for the broad that snuffed it before the movie had even got going.

What should have happened?

Three astronauts – Vader, Lando and Dagobah – reach a distant planet and find that humans have been enslaved by giant grapes. These grapes have eyes, mouths, noses, arms and – get this – legs. We’re talking proper crazy shit here but there they are. Dagobah is killed when he trips over a melon, Lando is taken out of action by a banana used as a boomerang, while Vader is taken captive. He befriends two grapes – Vera and Cornetto – who start to wonder about the connection between grapes and humans. Dr Sally tries to put a spanner in the works but Vader is able to uncover evidence that grapes are descended from humans, kind of. Apparently, their origin goes back to a man named Fletcher who got drunk, fancied some outdoor amorous activity and mistook a grapevine for his wife. Easy mistake to make. In an epic encounter Vader discovers that the planet he’s on used to be the Death Star and that Fletcher was once a Storm Trooper. Unable to cope with these revelations he sinks to his knees and bellows, “You maniac! You mistook Sheryl for a grapevine! Damn you all to Hoth.”

Working title?

Planet of the Grapes.

Tagline?

Somewhere in the Universe, there must be something juicier than man.

Who should direct?

Stanley Kubrick.

Who should star?

Steve Mcqueen, Green Grape, Red Grape, Black Grape, Unusually Coloured Grape and Glow in the Dark Grape.

Mr B compares the stories

I can only think that Charlie came up with the idea for this piece of crap watching Star Wars while tucking into a fruit salad. Swapping apes for grapes is one hell of a reach, while the unnecessary references to Star Wars diminish this nonsense even further. Kubrick would have brought talent to this movie but it wouldn’t have been a blemish on his CV, it would have been a stick of dynamite. I’d go so far as to say that even The Phantom Menace is better than this…just.

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Goodreads Challenge and SavvyReaders #50BookPledge: Books 41-60

I’ve done the Goodreads reading challenge several times now – see my 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014 challenges here – but this year I’m combining the Goodreads challenge and the SavvyReaders 50 Book Pledge.

Here are my books 41-60 of the challenges so far. Each book links through to Goodreads in case you’d like to know more.

41-60 Challenge Books [see the SlideDeck] Are you doing any challenges? Which have been your favourite reads of 2015 so far?

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Book Excerpt: Rarity from the Hollow – Robert Eggleton

Inside her first clubhouse, Lacy Dawn glanced over fifth grade spelling words for tomorrow’s quiz at school. She already knew all the words in the textbook and most others in any human language.

Nothing’s more important than an education.

The clubhouse was a cardboard box in the front yard that her grandmother’s new refrigerator had occupied until an hour before.

Her father brought it home for her to play in.

The nicest thing he’s ever done.

Faith lay beside her with a hand over the words and split fingers to cheat as they were called off. She lived in the next house up the hollow. Every other Wednesday for the last two months, the supervised child psychologist came to their school, pulled her out of class, and evaluated suspected learning disabilities. Lacy Dawn underlined a word with a fingernail.

All she needs is a little motivation.

Before they had crawled in, Lacy Dawn tapped the upper corner of the box with a flashlight and proclaimed, “The place of all things possible — especially you passing the fifth grade so we’ll be together in the sixth.”

Please concentrate, Faith. Try this one.

“Armadillo.”

“A, R, M, … A … D, I, L, D, O,” Faith demonstrated her intellect.

“That’s weak. This is a bonus word so you’ll get extra points. Come on.”

Lacy Dawn nodded and looked for a new word.

I’ll trick her by going out of order – a word she can’t turn into another punch line.

“Don’t talk about it and the image will go away. Let’s get back to studying,” Lacy Dawn said.

My mommy don’t like sex. It’s just her job and she told me so.

Faith turned her open spelling book over, which saved its page, and rolled onto her side. Lacy Dawn did the same and snuggled her back against the paper wall. Face to face — a foot of smoothness between — they took a break. The outside was outside.

At their parents’ insistence, each wore play clothing — unisex hand-me-downs that didn’t fit as well as school clothing. They’d been careful not to get muddy before crawling into the box. They’d not played in the creek and both were cleaner than the usual evening. The clubhouse floor remained an open invitation to anybody who had the opportunity to consider relief from daily stressors.

“How’d you get so smart, Lacy Dawn? Your parents are dumb asses just like mine.”

“You ain’t no dumb ass and you’re going to pass the fifth grade.”

“Big deal — I’m still fat and ugly,” Faith said.

“I’m doing the best I can. I figure by the time I turn eleven I can fix that too. For now, just concentrate on passing and don’t become special education. I need you. You’re my best friend.”

“Ain’t no other girls our age close in the hollow. That’s the only reason you like me. Watch out. There’s a pincher bug crawling in.”

Lacy Dawn sat almost upright because there was not quite enough headroom in the refrigerator box. She scooted the bug out the opening. Faith watched the bug attempt re-entry, picked it up, and threw it a yard away into the grass. It didn’t get hurt. Lacy Dawn smiled her approval. The new clubhouse was a sacred place where nothing was supposed to hurt.

“Daddy said I can use the tarp whenever he finishes the overhaul on the car in the driveway. That way, our clubhouse will last a long time,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Chewy, chewy tootsie roll. Everything in this hollow rots, especially the people. You know that.”

“We ain’t rotten,” Lacy Dawn gestured with open palms. “There are a lot of good things here — like all the beautiful flowers. Just focus on your spelling and I’ll fix everything else. This time I want a 100% and a good letter to your mommy.”

“She won’t read it,” Faith said.

“Yes she will. She loves you and it’ll make her feel good. Besides, she has to or the teacher will call Welfare. Your daddy would be investigated — unless you do decide to become special education. That’s how parents get out of it. The kid lets them off the hook by deciding to become a SPED. Then there ain’t nothing Welfare can do about it because the kid is the problem and not the parents.”

“I ain’t got no problems,” Faith said.

“Then pass this spelling test.”

“I thought if I messed up long enough, eventually somebody would help me out. I just need a place to live where people don’t argue all the time. That ain’t much.”

“Maybe you are a SPED. There’s always an argument in a family. Pass the test you retard,” Lacy Dawn opened her spelling book.

Faith flipped her book over too, rolled onto her stomach and looked at the spelling words. Lacy Dawn handed her the flashlight because it was getting dark and grinned when Faith’s lips started moving as she memorized. Faith noticed and clamped her lips shut between thumb and index finger.

This is boring. I learned all these words last year.

“Don’t use up the batteries or Daddy will know I took it,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Alright — I’ll pass the quiz, but just ’cause you told me to. This is a gamble and you’d better come through if it backfires. Ain’t nothing wrong with being a SPED. The work is easier and the teacher lets you do puzzles.”

“You’re my best friend,” Lacy Dawn closed the book.

They rolled back on their sides to enjoy the smoothness. The cricket chorus echoed throughout the hollow and the frogs peeped. An ant attempted entry but changed its direction before either rescued it. Unnoticed, Lacy Dawn’s father threw the tarp over the box and slid in the trouble light. It was still on and hot. The bulb burned Lacy Dawn’s calf.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — the second nicest thing he’s ever done.

“Test?” Lacy Dawn announced with the better light, and called off, “Poverty.”

“I love you,” Faith responded.

“Me too, but spell the word.”

“P is for poor. O is for oranges from the Salvation Army Christmas basket. V is for varicose veins that Mommy has from getting pregnant every year. E is for everybody messes up sometimes — sorry. R is for I’m always right about everything except when you tell me I’m wrong — like now. T is for it’s too late for me to pass no matter what we do and Y is for you know it too.”

“Faith, it’s almost dark! Go home before your mommy worries,” Lacy Dawn’s mother yelled from the front porch and stepped back into the house to finish supper. The engine of the VW in the driveway cranked but wouldn’t start. It turned slower as its battery died, too.

Faith slid out of the box with her spelling book in-hand. She farted from the effort. A clean breeze away, she squished a mosquito that had landed on her elbow and watched Lacy Dawn hold her breath as she scooted out of the clubhouse, pinching her nose with fingers of one hand, holding the trouble light with the other, and pushing her spelling book forward with her knees. The moon was almost full. There would be plenty of light to watch Faith walk up the gravel road. Outside the clubhouse, they stood face to face and ready to hug. It lasted a lightning bug statement until adult intrusion.

“Give it back. This thing won’t start,” Lacy Dawn’s father grabbed the trouble light out of her hand and walked away.

“All we ever have is beans for supper. Sorry about the fart.”

“Don’t complain. Complaining is like sitting in a rocking chair. You can get lots of motion but you ain’t going anywhere,” Lacy Dawn said.

“Why didn’t you tell me that last year?” Faith asked. “I’ve wasted a lot of time.”

“I just now figured it out. Sorry.”

“Some savior you are. I put my whole life in your hands. I’ll pass tomorrow’s spelling quiz and everything. But you, my best friend who’s supposed to fix the world just now tell me that complaining won’t work and will probably get me switched.”

“You’re complaining again.”

“Oh yeah,” Faith said.

“Before you go home, I need to tell you something.”

To avoid Lacy Dawn’s father working in the driveway, Faith slid down the bank to the dirt road. Her butt became too muddy to reenter the clubhouse regardless of need. Lacy Dawn stayed in the yard, pulled the tarp taut over the cardboard, and waited for Faith to respond.

“I don’t need no more encouragement. I’ll pass the spelling quiz tomorrow just for you, but I may miss armadillo for fun. Our teacher deserves it,” Faith said.

“That joke’s too childish. She won’t laugh. Besides, dildos are serious business since she ain’t got no husband no more. Make 100%. That’s what I want.”

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Faith took a step up the road.

“Wait. I want to tell you something. I’ve got another best friend. That’s how I got so smart. He teaches me stuff.”

“A boy? You’ve got a boyfriend?”

“Not exactly.”

Lacy Dawn put a finger over her lips to silence Faith. Her father was hooking up a battery charger. She slid down the bank, too.

He probably couldn’t hear us, but why take the chance.

A minute later, hand in hand, they walked the road toward Faith’s house.

“Did you let him see your panties?” Faith asked.

“No. I ain’t got no good pair. Besides, he don’t like me that way. He’s like a friend who’s a teacher — not a boyfriend. I just wanted you to know that I get extra help learning stuff.”

“Where’s he live?”

Lacy Dawn pointed to the sky with her free hand.

“Jesus is everybody’s friend,” Faith said.

“It ain’t Jesus, you moron,” Lacy Dawn turned around to walk home. “His name’s DotCom and….”

Her mother watched from the middle of the road until both children were safe.Show moreShow less
About Rarity from the HollowLacy Dawn is a true daughter of Appalachia, and then some. She lives in a hollow with her worn-out mom, her Iraq War disabled dad, and her mutt Brownie, a dog who’s very skilled at laying fiber optic cable. Lacy Dawn’s android boyfriend, DotCom, has come to the hollow with a mission. His equipment includes infomercial videos of Earth’s earliest proto-humans from millennia ago. DotCom has been sent by the Manager of the Mall on planet Shptiludrp: he must recruit Lacy Dawn to save the Universe in exchange for the designation of Earth as a planet which is eligible for continued existence within a universal economic structure that exploits underdeveloped planets for their mineral content. Lacy Dawn’s magic enables her to save the universe, Earth, and, most importantly, her own family.

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Robert EggletonIn 1950, Robert Eggleton was born into an impoverished family in West Virginia. His alcoholic and occasionally abusive father suffered from PTSD — captured by the Nazis during WWII. His mother did the best she could, but Robert began working as a child to feed his family. He started paying into Social Security at age 12, dreamed of a brighter future, but has continued work for the last 52 years.

In the 8th grade, Robert won the school’s short story contest. The award made his dreams concrete — a writer. As it often does, Life got in the way — the Vietnam war motivated him to go to college to avoid the draft. As covered by the press, he organized students to end mandatory ROTC. Except for a poem published in the state’s competition for publication in an student anthology and another poem published in a local alternative newspaper, his creative juices were spent writing handouts for antiwar activities and on class assignments. He graduated in 1973 with a degree in social work with no student loan debt.

Robert worked in the field of substance abuse treatment as he attended graduate school at WVU. Creative writing had been put on hold. After earning an MSW in 1977, he focused on children’s advocacy. He helped establish a shelter for runaways, a community-based residential program for high risk youth, and a state-wide network of emergency children’s shelters. His heartfelt need to write was dissipated somewhat by the publication of nationally distributed social service models, grants, and in 1983 he was invited to present his research on foster care drift to a national audience.

Robert’s dream of becoming a creative writer continued to take a back seat to nonfiction when he accepted a job as a juvenile investigator for the West Virginia Supreme Court. He worked in this role from 1984 until mid 1997. During this period he was the primary author of dozens or investigative reports on children’s institutions, and statistical reports on child abuse and delinquency published by the Court, and now archived by the state’s Division of Culture and History.

After running a small nonprofit agency that served folks with development disabilities, Robert went back home to direct services. He accepted a position as a Therapist in an intensive outpatient children’s mental health program. Most of the kids, like Robert, had been traumatized, some having experienced extreme sexual abuse. One day at work in 2006 it all clicked together and the Lacy Dawn Adventures project was born — an empowered female protagonist beating up the evil forces that victimize and exploit others to get anything and everything that they want.

But, Robert soon found out that it takes much more than good creative writing to become an author. It wasn’t like in the 8th grade when his hand-printed story had won the school’s contest. He was naive about the protocols within the marketplace. Technology was in a period of rapid advancement with Publisher presenting a mixture of electronic and traditional submission guidelines and publication formats. Robert was lost. A day after he registered for his first ever science fiction forum experience, he was banned for life due to what the moderator said was self-promotion.

The day after that happened, Robert assessed his creative writing situation during a group therapy session at work. He looked into the kids’ faces as they disclosed the horrors that they had experienced. It fueled his determination to make the Lacy Dawn Adventures project work, and he dedicated half of any author proceeds to a child abuse prevention program. He had boxed himself in.

Subsequently, three short Lacy Dawn Adventures were published. All three magazines went defunct. Print magazines were dying faster than seals in an oil spill. Robert found a publisher for his first novel, a small traditional press located in Leeds. Since the publisher was willing to bear all upfront costs, Robert signed the contract and Rarity from the Hollow was released in 2012 as a paperback and eBook by Dog Horn Publishing.

Robert then learned that release of his novel was the beginning of a long journey called marketing. His novel received glowing reviews, most notably by long-time book critic Barry Hunter and by the Missouri Review, award winning authors Darrell Bain, and Piers Anthony, and other authors and editors. A few months ago, Robert’s writing was compared to Vonnegut by the editor of the Electric Review, A Universe on the Edge. At this time, a new review is being written by the editor of Talisman and should be out shortly.

Today, Robert is holding off on the sequel to Rarity from the Hollow until he achieves greater name recognition. He is contemplating early retirement despite still being poor so that he can have more time to make his dream come true — a creative writer. And that’s why he’s on this site right now, at midnight, writing this biography for you to read.

Website

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The Diary of Mr Kain: Week #37

Monday

New week and Beard Face was on form recovering from the birthday celebrations. A combination of too much alcohol and one too many cakes left him paying a very heavy price. The unsurprising visits to the toilet came first but in the afternoon he seemed to be high. He kept mistaking a lamp for a glass of wine while the washing machine was confused for a giant robot exclaiming, “Exterminate!” in a very loud voice. Add to this Beard Face’s insistence that Frizzy Hair was a a posh English gent named Rupert and you can see just how bizarre this Monday has been.

Tuesday

It’s hard to believe that Steven Spielberg’s Jaws is 40 years old this year. Incredible. The classic film about a rogue great white shark terrified audiences back then and still makes waves today (see what I did there!) I’ve often found myself wishing that a great white could come to the UK, swim inland a bit and wait at an appropriate spot such as a canal or lake in Yorkshire. I’d do the rest by escorting Beard Face to the designated body of water and given him a very subtle push in the back. I’d have to lie to the great white of course in promising a delicious meal but once my new friend had committed himself to the meal there’d be no going back. It’s nice to dream, isn’t it?

I’d love it if one of these beautiful creatures ate Beard Face!

Wednesday

Beard Face has decided on yet another career change. After just a week of being part of a wheelbarrow juggling act, he’s decided to turn his attention to the world of oil. The people involved in oil are very wealthy, the beard told me, and the benefit of this new venture is that he could do it from home. Apparently oil flows naturally from our back garden. I went for a look myself and found that what the beard had believed to be a natural source of oil was a bottle of Dr Pepper that someone had managed to spill.

Thursday

Beard Face received the last of his birthday gifts from friends and family today. It was mostly alcohol which I hope he consumes in one evening and feels dreadful for it. The old boy was disappointed that no one had bought him the Batman costume that he wanted as well as a boomerang that is fuelled by tomato juice. Try finding one of those on ebay.

Friday

Very hot today so the garden wasn’t the most comfortable of places. Buggles informed me that he had seen warnings of impending thunderstorms in a dream. A man was admonishing people to be careful while a map of the UK was behind him with symbols of clouds emitting lots of rain. As you guessed, it turned out Buggles was mistaking his dreams with a weather forecast he saw earlier today on the BBC. What a pathetic thing he is.

Saturday

The rain duly arrived during the night. I was so annoyed that I woke Beard Face at 4.00 a.m. to demand some food. He was none too happy having stayed up late to watch Arnold Schwarzenegger having a glowing bogie pulled out of his nose. It was all very weird. The forecast for the weekend isn’t looking so clever either so I might be forced to remain indoors with the beard for two full days which, when you think about it, is more horrifying than walking on hot coals.

Sunday

Finally got outside today but the weather wasn’t great. What the hell is going on? It’s supposed to be June. It’s supposed to be summer in the UK. What crazy times we leave in. Beard Face has been embracing the moment by doing the gardening in the middle of thunderstorms and and shouting such bizarre things as, “Moby, Lord of the Whales Dick, is crying over the state of this garden and I must appease him and dry his eyes.” If there was ever the need for a new definition of madness then surely this scene should be it.”

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Book Excerpt: Feng Shui and Charlotte Nightingale – Pam Ferderbar

Chapter One

Charlotte Nightingale was plain like oatmeal is plain. Not crunchy and wearing Birkenstocks like granola, nor as delicate as a good piece of whitefish.

Joseph Lozzi, who at his insistence went as “Frank,” might have (with a bit of class and two nickels to rub together) passed for a young Sinatra. However, on most days, his thrift shop suits smelled of mothballs and the pockets were empty.

The dull thud of an empty bottle hitting the carpet seemed to trigger Charlotte’s clock radio. Stuck between stations, it blasted a cacophony of L.A.’s top Latino talk radio and an infomercial concerning toenail fungus. Charlotte opened her eyes in the hope that something might have changed, but her life, her man, and her room were just as they were left the night before. The bedside table remained dusted with cigarette ashes Joey never seemed to quite deposit in the ashtray. Cigarette butts floated in an ice bucket that Joey insisted accompany his bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a chipped crystal tumbler he kept with him at all times.

The thin veneer of Charlotte’s dresser remained curled and peeling where the years and inferior glue had left their mark. Shreds of nylon hose hung like cobwebs over drawers that overflowed with odd socks, bra straps, and scraps of paper. The surface of her dresser was a jumble of books, handbags with broken straps, mate-less earrings, magazines, matchbooks, sewing projects that she never quite got to, an empty tape dispenser, and a dusty bouquet she caught at a cousin’s wedding.

The bandleader had asked all the single women to line up for the big toss and although she loathed such corny displays, Charlotte capitulated after her ribs were nearly cracked by Mom’s aggressive elbow. Charlotte leapt up, straight out of her seat, upsetting her chair with a loud crash. The bouquet hit her square in the face, producing a black eye and an allergic reaction to calla lilies that caused her lips to swell like a grouper.

A protrusion in the bed beside Charlotte stirred. “Be a good dame for chrissakes and turn off that noise,” spoke the lump that was Joey. Charlotte reached over and banged the clock radio into submission, then sat up, startled, as she was every morning, by her own reflection in the dresser mirror facing the bed.

She pulled Joey’s wrinkled white dress shirt closely around her and got up. Navigating the floor, which was strewn with odd shoes, heaps of clothing, books, and the empty liquor bottle, Charlotte stubbed her big toe on the leg of a chair. She hopped on one foot and attempted to tug loose a bra from the tangled mess in the drawer.

“Frank needs some sugar,” Joey said, puckering up. He lit a cigarette and smiled rakishly. “Is that my shirt?” He squinted at Charlotte. “Hey, I have to wear that today!”

She looked back for a moment, and then gave the bra another tug, whereupon the strap broke loose and the undergarment was jettisoned deep into the drawer. She extricated a jog bra, its elastic long since its prime, and a pair of stretched-out knee socks, and turned to him.

“Do you have an interview today, Joey?” Charlotte was as hopeful as possible, given the response of which she was resignedly certain.

“How many times I gotta tell ya, Baby?” He flicked cigarette ashes onto the nightstand some distance from the ashtray. “Now get over here and give Frank a smooch.”

“Frank,” she said flatly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “You promised you were going to look for a job today.”

He dropped his cigarette butt into the murky ice bucket. “I think it’s gonna rain,” he growled playfully, tugging her shirt.

Rolling her eyes, she pulled the garment tightly around her, lifted the hat off his toe, and plopped it on his head. “You said you were going to look for a job.”

Charlotte got up, missed the treacherous chair leg, and disappeared into the closet while Joey adjusted his hat and lit another cigarette.

“You know I work at night, Baby,” he said, and then blew a smoke ring.

From within the bowels of the closet, she countered unenthusiastically, “You don’t actually work at all, Frank.”

He swung his legs out of bed. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

She emerged from the closet with a terrific assortment of mismatched skirts, pants, sweaters, and shirts that she scattered across the bed. “What should I wear?”

He picked up a plaid skirt with the hem falling down. “What goes with what?”

She took the skirt from him and dug into the pile, where she pulled loose a floral blouse and a cardigan without a single color in common with the other two garments. “There. This goes together,” she said, questioning her own judgment.

He looked at the bizarre ensemble, raised his eyebrow, and smiled. “You look good in anything, Baby.”

Not entirely convinced, but running out of time, she dashed out of the room. “Staple the hem for me, would you? I’m late.”

He sat down on the bed, puffed his cigarette and glanced around the room. “Stapler,” he mused, exhaling.

Charlotte closed the bathroom door behind her and pulled a string that turned on a flickering light over a stained porcelain sink. She frowned at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. She felt that her eyes were set a little too closely, her nose curved slightly to one side, and her mouth lacked character. It wasn’t the look of a fashion model, or even a woman in an erectile dysfunction commercial. Those women leaned more toward the glamorous. Charlotte’s looks were perfectly suited to a librarian––her dream job. Looking down the barrel of another day at her current crappy job, she moaned quietly as she pulled off the shirt and opened the bathroom door. Joey was sitting on the bed, smoking. She hung the shirt on the outside doorknob.

“Stapler, Frank. Stapler.”

She closed the bathroom door and reached into the tub to turn on the hot water. Waiting for it to heat, Charlotte slid the medicine cabinet mirror over and took out her toothbrush and the Mentadent, which felt heart-sinkingly light in her hands. Expectantly holding her toothbrush under the nozzle of the plastic dispenser, she pushed on the head to no avail.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte braced the contraption against her thigh and pushed on it until the oval-shaped bottom was embedded in her flesh, then slapped the toothpaste gadget on the chipped edge of the sink and heaved on it with the heel of her hand. The Mentadent dispenser was unyielding, but the sink was not. It jerked a few inches from the wall, revealing the black abyss between apartments. She grabbed a dingy towel and stuffed it into the hole before sucking the last molecules of minty dreck out of the Mentadent nozzle. She stepped into the tub, flung the mildewed shower curtain closed and pulled the lever for the shower.

Snatching the Herbal Essence from a rusted wire shower caddy, only to discover it was empty, Charlotte nonetheless was determined to wash her hair. She unscrewed the cap and held it under the showerhead adding enough water to dilute the coagulated gunk stuck to the bottle’s innards. The milky suds that eventually plopped onto her scalp did little more than coat her hair in a thin film—and provide an enormous annoyance—when the shower cut off mid-stream. She stepped out of the tub, put on a shabby chenille bathrobe, opened the bathroom door, and groped for the outside knob. The knob was bare. Joey’s shirt was gone.

A narrow hallway ran the length of Charlotte’s apartment, leading to a cramped living room, traversed overhead by heavy beams that the previous tenants—Druids, Charlotte supposed—had painted black. A small closet, built without permits by said Druids, jutted into the room at a bizarre angle. The combination of architectural abomination and the mismatched furniture shoved against the walls, gave the space the appearance of a waiting room at a free clinic in Uzbekistan. What the apartment lacked in visual appeal, however, was overcompensated for by a sheer volume of books—amassed along the walls, wedged between chairs, towering from every surface and arranged in strict accordance with the Dewey Decimal System.

Charlotte marched to a tall stack of classics under the room’s singular window. Carefully setting aside the top three books, she reached for the fourth and flipped it open. “To my darling Jemma,” the inscription read. “Happy Wednesday. With all my love, Brian.” Jaw clenched, Charlotte’s hand quickly scoured the pages. In desperation, she shook the book upside down—empty. She resented Jemma and Brian and their damned happy days of the week, but mostly it irked her that people would mar a perfectly good book with such banal sentiment. They should invent a library prison for people like that, she posited. Then she thought about what had been taken from the book and her stomach seized with anxiety.

“Joey, you asshole,” she muttered to herself, plopping onto the sofa, one leg of which had been replaced by three Plumbing for Dummies editions, thick as phone books.

“Hey, you’re a smart broad. You don’t need to use that kind of language, Baby.” Joey sauntered out of the kitchen, swirling Jack Daniel’s over the melting ice in his crystal tumbler. He tossed back half the drink and grinned cockeyed at Charlotte.

She stood to face him and her knees went weak. He was a louse all right, but he was a sexy louse. “The rent money’s gone. I thought you left.” The words poofed into thin air and lost their gravity even as they came out of her mouth.

“What happened to your hair?” He stared at the hard crust forming atop her head and took a sip of his cocktail before setting it on a volume of Keats. “I wouldn’t just take your dough and blow. You really know how to hit a guy where it hurts.” He tripped over a wilted potted plant in the foyer and opened the front door. “I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

He was gone.

“It’s the rent money. I gotta have it,” she pleaded to no one, wiping a ring of condensation from the cover of the poetry book with the sleeve of her bathrobe. Shoulders slumping, scratching an itchy scalp, Charlotte shuffled into the kitchen with Joey’s glass.

The avocado green stove, harvest gold fridge, and flecked yellow linoleum floor had, in the decades since they were first installed, taken on a grimy patina. Charlotte walked through the dreary room and out the sliding aluminum doors to the balcony, which overlooked Spanky’s, a hugely popular fetish and sex toyshop across the street. Ever since S&M had gone mainstream the shop did booming business at all hours of the day and night.

She pulled a quilted blue moving blanket off a group of five-gallon water jugs, and in spite of a seemingly apparent lack of muscles, she effortlessly picked up one of the heavy bottles and hoisted it onto the seat of an old canvas director’s chair with the words “Hair & Make-Up” stitched across its back. In one synchronized movement she dropped to her knees, ripped the red rubber seal off the bottle, ducked beneath the torrent of cold water and rinsed her hair.

It would have appeared that she had managed rather gracefully to pull off this peculiar bathing ritual had it not been for her neglect in bringing a towel to the party. When nothing was left in the bottle Charlotte blindly groped for the towel, knowing she had forgotten it. As icy water soaked her bathrobe and pooled around her kneeling figure, she squeezed as much liquid as possible from her dripping hair.

* * *

Life at the Emperor’s Kitchen restaurant in L.A.’s Chinatown began the same way every morning. Old Man Kwan hosed down the sidewalk in front of the establishment and cursed the people who had deposited chewing gum and cigarette butts on his property. Years of practice taught him exactly how to position the hose at his hip, crooked thumb pressed over the mouth just so, giving him maximum water pressure and trajectory.

“Yeeeeha!” he screeched as he made a direct hit on a boy with a purple Mohawk whizzing by on a $500 Tony Hawk skateboard. “Yeeeehoooey!” he squawked while dousing another boy, drenching the kid’s Laker jersey.

A battered white Toyota pulled up at the curb, and the old man made a grand gesture of looking at his bare wrist as though it displayed a watch. “You are late,” he said flatly as his son stepped out from behind the wheel.

Known simply as Kwan, the young man looked nothing like his father. Standing erect, dressed casually in faded jeans and white T-shirt, and sporting a long silky black ponytail, Kwan was tall, lean and muscular. With high, well-defined cheekbones, deep brown eyes and a full, expressive mouth, Kwan was simply beautiful.

He had slept well the night before, but as he did every single workday, he felt exhausted the instant he got to the restaurant. Sighing, he picked up a cigarette butt his dad had missed.

“I get here the same time every day,” Kwan said, placing the cigarette in a Folgers coffee can on the sidewalk.

“Watch your tone,” the old man admonished, narrowing his eyes. He toyed with the idea of turning the hose on his son, then thought better of it as a gang of schoolchildren came his way, lugging Sponge Bob backpacks and Spiderman lunch boxes. His thumb twitched over the nozzle of the hose.

“Dad! Don’t you dare!”

The old man’s shoulders slumped with disappointment as he trudged to the spigot, turned off the water, and coiled the hose. “They could walk on the other side of the street,” he griped.

A pimped red Honda with an Indy-sized spoiler screeched to a stop a fraction of an inch behind Kwan’s Toyota, vibrating with the BOOM BOOM BOOM of West Coast gangsta rap. The old man lunged for the spigot. Kwan blocked him.

“I’ll finish up here. Go on inside, Dad.”

“No-good-nik,” the old man hissed, glaring at the Honda.

“Is that Russian? Kwan asked.

“I picked it up playing chess at the park with Vladimir Efimov,” Kwan’s father explained, then added, “…when I’m not busy working to support my family and bring a better way of life for my children than I had in Yangtze Province where we didn’t have shoes or…”

Kwan cut him off. “Yes, yes, I know. It was uphill to the people’s re-education center. It was uphill back home to the commune. It was all uphill.”

Kwan Senior grumbled and shuffled his way into the restaurant. The Honda’s driver watched the old man disappear before getting out of the car.

“Dog,” the young man exclaimed with a South Central inflection although he was Chinese, and originally from the O.C.

“Shit, Dragon Breath is off the chain.” Harold Yee, Kwan’s best friend since first grade, was a squat young man wearing baggy jeans slung well below his butt and a Sean John polo shirt big enough to house the entire Ming Dynasty. He ran his hands over his shaved head. “Let’s hit the beach.”

Kwan glanced at the door to the restaurant. “Yeah, right.”

Traffic on the street had backed up due to a rusty Jetta stalled at the light. A piece of plaid fabric fluttered from the bottom of the driver’s door. The car lurched forward and stalled a second time, forcing a trailing Mercedes to jam to a screeching halt. Horns blared and fists shook. Charlotte Nightingale could only slump behind her Jetta’s wheel.

“Yo,” Harold said, looking at Charlotte. “Check it out.”

“She’s a customer.” Kwan took a step off the curb in Charlotte’s direction. “Maybe I can help…”

Harold grabbed him by the sleeve. “No!”

Kwan pulled his arm away. “What?”

Wiping an invisible smudge from the passenger door of the Honda with the tail of his shirt, Harold shook his head.

“Shar chi,” he said solemnly. “She’s got the poison arrows on her ass, man.”

Kwan rolled his eyes. “Not that again.”

Harold was a skimmer. He could flip through a book on nuclear fission, or Feng Shui, and pick up enough catch phrases to sound knowledgeable as long as the person with whom he was speaking had no actual knowledge of the subject. In the event the person knew a little something about the topic, Harold looked like a boob, which was a constant source of irritation to Kwan. Nonetheless, they had been friends since childhood and Harold just wouldn’t go away. Kwan had always worked in the family’s restaurant and Harold prevailed upon Kwan to get him a job there as well—a constant source of aggravation to Old Man Kwan, who viewed Harold as a parasite rather than an employee.

Charlotte bent forward and banged her head on the Jetta’s steering wheel.

“Straight up. She probably has to crawl into that hoopty through the window. She’s a hot mess,” Harold said. “Look, her dress is hanging out the door. Come on, open your eyes. You’re the Feng Shui master, and she’s a disaster!” Harold beamed. “Who says Chinese don’t flow?”

“I am a student, not a master,” Kwan said, and for good measure windmill-kicked Harold who then fell to the ground with a thud. That was the other reason they remained friends; both were ardent martial arts enthusiasts, although like everything else Harold had only a perfunctory command of the various martial arts disciplines and absolutely no skill. He picked himself up and attempted to throw a right hook that Kwan ducked, nearly causing Harold a dislocated shoulder.

The Jetta whined pathetically when Charlotte tried to restart it. Just as the engine caught and the car jerked forward, an elderly woman pulling a cart laden with grocery bags entered the opposite crosswalk. To avoid running the woman over Charlotte hit the brakes and once again the Jetta died—this time in the intersection. The old woman shook her fist at Charlotte as total gridlock ensued.

Harold pushed Kwan toward the restaurant. “Come on, let’s get goin’ before your old man passes a stone.” He chuckled. “And I am flowin’!”

Hoping to perform a disappearing act, Charlotte sank ever deeper into her seat.Show moreShow less
About Feng Shui and Charlotte NightingaleCharlotte Nightingale has the worst luck in the world. Every day is a bad hair day. Her boyfriend’s a snake, her job blows and her own family seems to hate her.

For over 4,000 years the Chinese have practiced the ancient art of Feng Shui, a complex body of knowledge that reveals how to balance the energies of any given space to assure health, love and good fortune for people inhabiting it. The Chinese never met Charlotte Nightingale.

A handsome Chinese food deliveryman/Feng Shui master takes pity on Charlotte and breaks out every tool in his Feng Shui arsenal to bring her some modicum of happiness. It rocks her world all right. Charlotte’s life goes from bad to worse.

When everything comes crashing down and run-of-the-mill catastrophes pale in comparison to recent events, Charlotte unwittingly embarks on a great adventure during which she finds romance, a new wardrobe, bags of money and most importantly, herself.

Feng Shui and Charlotte Nightingale is the laugh-out-loud feel good book of the summer.

Amazon Henschel Haus Publishing
Pam Ferderbar Pam Ferderbar was born and raised in Wisconsin, the only child of loving but quirky parents. She moved to Los Angeles, married the first man to see her fall off the turnip truck, wrote a short story that would later become Feng Shui and Charlotte Nightingale, began collecting stray dogs, divorced the man, fell in with a wild group of beachy goddesses, wrote a novel and then moved back to Wisconsin where the goddesses wear long underwear and cheese hats and so do the men.
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The Bleaklisted Movies: Apocalypse Now!

About The Bleaklisted Movies

Many moons ago a despotic cat named Charlie decided that he wanted to be a book critic. It would fit so nicely with his existing roles as food critic, dog critic and owner critic. Thus The Bleaklisted Books was born.

After fifty books Charlie ran out of the limited ideas and inspiration he had and turned his attention to the world of films. We apologise but this dictatorial little beast will not be contained.

Read at your risk… (And beware… SPOILERS!)

Apocalypse Now!

What happens?

Martin Sheen is sent up a river in Vietnam to assassinate Marlon Brando who has gone a bit mad. This might be out of grief for his son, Sonny, or could be to do with those shenanigans in Last Mango in Paris.

Reason for bleaklisting?

Not enough explosions and bloodshed for me and the scene in Redux with that French family, what was all that about? How did they go from Vietnam to France and then back to Vietnam? Where was the time machine? I also don’t like “!” in the title. Why is it there? What’s its purpose? What’s its bank account number? What’s the colour of its underwear?

What should have happened?

Captain Phil Hard is contacted by headquarters for a special mission. They want him to head deep into enemy territory, take a boat up a river (they don’t say which one because they’re mean), and then find Colonel Curtis, a shabby cow who has gone a bit doolally and started using her milk to make fancy ice creams in a series of phallic shapes. Such actions are inexcusable so Phil Hard is told to target Colonel Curtis and milk her. One guy, that looks like Harrison Ford, then says, “Milk with extreme prejudice, but if you can just milk her that would be fine as well. No worries.” Phil Hard heads up the river and has the Beach Boys with him for company who surf and get around, while lamenting the good vibrations of the rocky waters and occasionally saying god only knows how we’ll survive this one. Phil Hard finds Colonel Curtis, they chat about the weather, dairy farms and the peculiar taste of almond milk, before Phil Hard milks Curtis in an epic scene with Beethoven’s Knife playing in the background. Phil Hard then leaves with the chilling words of Colonel Curtis ringing in his ears, “The milkshake! The milkshake!”

Working title?

Apocalypse Cow

Tagline?

War is cowbell.

Who should direct?

David Lean.

Who should star?

Clive Owen, Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen (to wear the outfit for Colonel Curtis), and Sigourney Weaver (for the voice.)

Mr B compares the stories

It’s moments like this where I consider finding religion. Charlie’s alternative to Apocalypse Now! is both surprising and extraordinary. Coppola’s part adaptation of Joseph Conrad’s The Heart of Darkness into a Vietnam War movie is one of the best of its kind. Why Charlie feels the need to swap the violence for the covert operation of finding and milking a manic cow is a question probably best left unanswered. Charlie’s review also contains numerous errors such as that mango in Paris that Marlon Brando is supposed to have been associated with. I have yet to see that particular version and don’t think I will be unless I’ve had therapy first.

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