Edward Lorn's Blog, page 88

Ruminating On: Howard

Like Citizen Kane before it, Howard the Duck‘s cinematic perfection remains untarnished by time. And no, I’m not trolling you. I firmly believe that William Hyuck’s 1986 masterpiece, which is based on one of the longest-running comics of our time, is completely flawless. Granted, I’ve never read a single issue of Steve Gerber’s comic, and that could, quite possibly, be the reason I love the movie adaptation as much as I do. I’m devoid of angst concerning the treatment of the original subject matter because I have no experience with it, and I choose not to sully my adoration for the film by delving into the printed material. I love the film for everything it is, but mostly for what it has come to stand for in my life. Before we go any further, this post is dedicated to fellow author and new friend of mine, Gregor Xane. Gregor emailed me yesterday and asked where he might find the reasoning behind the affection with which I shower Howard’s one and only movie. I’ve discussed this before, so much so that I continue to receive film memorabilia from friends and fans, but I wanted to kill two birds with one stone by acquiescing to Gregor’s demands (he was actually quite undemanding and pleasant, but I’m a melodramatic fucker) while creating a public record detailing why I care so much for one of George Lucas’s only box office flops.

First Argument: I do not think that Howard the Duck falls into the category of So Bad It’s Good. It is not my Troll 2. I enjoy watching Howard’s journey not because I fancy laughing at its faults, but because I thoroughly savor the ride. The film is well-written, with a stellar cast of stars (Lea Thompson, Tim Robbins, Jeffrey Jones, Holly Robinson), and showcased ground-breaking special effects. The movie touched upon such hard topics as social acceptance, racism, and the plight of the unemployed. It even managed to make bestiality acceptable for a split second, which is a feat no other film can claim. As many times as I’ve seen this movie with first-time viewers, not one has said, “But… she’s kissing a duck.” While I do not condone sexual intercourse between man and animal, I respect the character development. By the time Beverly kisses Howard, we’re so invested in their characters that we completely ignore the fact that what’s happening on screen should be considered disgusting. Well played, indeed.

Second Argument: Though I adore Howard the Duck, I’m not oblivious to the fact that more people hate this movie than like it. This proved two things to me: Just because someone hates something, it a) does not mean everyone will, and b) those who despise things you are a fan of should be allowed their opinion as you should be allowed yours. This comes into play concerning my unyielding stance on reviews. Sure, there are many people who cannot stand my writing, and that’s okay. Not only because a great many people do enjoy my work, but also because everyone is entitled to their opinion. It doesn’t matter if they didn’t understand the story or didn’t finish the book or have no want to ever even open the first page. They have every right to leave me a one-star review wherever with no reasoning whatsoever, or tear it apart in snarky- or angst-filled critiques. It’s okay. O-K, you hear me? I was raised in a house where one parent worked all the time and the other mostly ignored my presence, and when my father did manage to yank himself away from his television shows for two shakes of his bulbous nose it was only to tell me I’d never amount to shit if I were eaten by a wild animal, digested, and squeezed out among the weeds. I learned at a rather early age that I could only rely on myself to provide myself with happiness. I learned how to be alone, and most of that time was spent playing inside the vast expanse of my imagination or watching Howard the Duck on VHS. But let me be clear. I was not a lonely child. I do not tell you these things to garner sympathy. All these things merged to create an individual who realized very young that no one is entitled to happiness. Instead, you must create your own happiness while finding your way in life. Much like Howard.

Third and Final Argument: Howard the Duck is a fond memory of a time to which I wish I could return. After seeing the film in theaters (thanks to my wonderful older sisters and their boyfriends at that time) my life changed. Not because of the movie, mind you, but because all children must grow up. Unfortunately, that time came far too soon for me. Things started to become clear to me. The world wasn’t the safe place I’d once imagined it to be. You see, a few houses down on the street where I grew up, it came to light that the father of two of my best friends was a child molester. While he didn’t get at me, his existence turned my world upside down. Suddenly everyone was talking about their run-ins with this man, even my sisters. Rumor had it that they had willingly given in to his demands to save me from his advances. To this day, my sisters haven’t told me whether or not these rumors were true, and I refuse to broach the subject. What I do know is this: Monsters were suddenly all too real. Mostly, they’re men or women with disgusting appetites who cared not for anything but satiating their needs. I long for the days when monsters were nothing more than crab-legged inter-dimensional overlords with snapping mouths and seeking claws, because mankind is fucking scary, and Howard the Duck isn’t here to save us.

Have a good day, my friends.

 

 

Ruminating On: Giraffes

What do you get if you remove a camel’s hump and make it swallow a telephone pole? You guessed it! Giraffa camelopardalis is the largest known ruminant (Perhaps the reason I chose it for Ruminating On today? Mayhap, indeed.) Ruminants are a species of animal that acquires its nutrients by brewing food in a second stomach, much like cows and Sarah Palin. In fact, “rumination” is another word for “chewing cud”. To be as technical as humanly possible: [From Wikipedia, because that site's NEVER wrong] The word “ruminant” comes from the Latin ruminare, which means “to chew over again”. A fountain of knowledge, me. Well, me and Wiki, anyway.

With all this new knowledge bouncing around inside these mostly inactive mind of ours (remember, we only use ten percent of our brains), is it any wonder that I chose Giraffes as the topic of discussion today? Actually, I’m just really fucking tired. The kids had their checkups today, and I had to be up at the ass-crack of dawn (that’s just after nine a.m. here) to usher them off to see their new Poker Prodder. Autumn had her first piss-quiz and passed with a B. Then, when their sadomasochistic nurse stuck Chris with not one but two hypodermic devices of torture, my son shrieked on par with Maria Carey attempting to shatter wine glasses. Life doesn’t get much funner. (“Funner” is a word? Well piss on my head and call me a canary in a rainstorm, you learn something new everyday.) After that, we went grocery shopping. Wife cooked dinner. The troop ate. All in the Lorn Complex were sated. And old E.? Well, he feels like he just tried to lasso a giraffe with silly putty. (I’ll let that image sink in… )

I’m not complaining. I love my family and the life we all share together. But, sometimes, one can become bone tired without having done a fucking thing. I wish I could be witty and entertaining on this eighth day of April, 2014, but the Funny Train left the station with the last fuck I had to give and its arrival at the next destination has been delayed due to a log jam. Did I mention I’m constipated?

What?

 

Bay’s End, Free… Forever?

Maybe. We’ll see how this goes. Right now, my debut novel is available on Kobo and Goodreads for free download. Click either of those sites to download. I’m working on making the title free on Amazon, but that takes time. If you want to know what you can do to expedite the process, go to Amazon’s book page for Bay’s End by clicking HEREand scroll down to the product description. There’ll be a bit in blue text that says, “Tell us about a lower price.” Click on that and fill in the required information. I’m not sure Amazon price matches Goodreads, as they own that site, so use the Kobo link provided above. Thank you. 

$.99 for a limited time! Hope for the Wicked, by Edward Lorn

HOPE FOR THE WICKED is often called my most disturbing book. Though it is horrific at times, I consider it more of a modern day noir. At times darkly comic and introspective, the first book in the Larry Laughlin series seems to stay with people the longest out of all my other stories. Here’s what reviewers have said:

“HOPE FOR THE WICKED features perhaps the best and most horrifying use of a puppet since Punch met Judy.” – Stephen Kozeniewski, author of Braineater Jones

“Sitting bolt upright in bed while reading because a relaxed state was just not possible during this daring and gut-wrenching novella.” Literary Musings

“… a cast of characters that will have you talking out loud!” Reading Renee

“You’ll also experience all their emotions – love, lust, disgust, rage, fear, agony, and loss – as you follow them deeper into their wickedness.” The Chaotic Reader

“… offbeat, humorous, and darkly wacky. The conversations snap, crackle and pop.” Laurie’s Non-paranormal Thoughts and Reviews

“… kept me on the edge of my seat…” Big Al’s Books & Pals

“… Dark, malefic, twisted, and often gross. I was awake trying to avoid nightmares the entire night after I finished reading it. Once you see it, you can not unsee it, and once you read it, you will see it.” Marie Reads and Reviews

“Well-written with a tight fast plot and well-developed characters…” I’m a Voracious Reader

Interested? Well, Red Adept Publishing has placed the book on sale for the next two days. Click on the cover below to snag a copy today for only $0.99!

Feel free to share, if you’re so inclined.

Ruminating On: Film

One of the most common questions I get is “What’s your favorite movie?” I’ve answered it over and over again, so much so that friends and fans continue to send me media and keepsakes branded or inspired by what I consider the greatest film ever made. I’m not going to mention it here, but I am going to drop a few cinematic endeavors that influenced books I’ve written. Below, you will find the name of one of my novels followed by one or two films responsible for its writing. Some might be obvious, other might surprise you.

Bay’s End – Stand By Me, The Girl Next Door 

Dastardly Bastard – Jacob’s Ladder

What the Dark Brings – The Twilight Zone (1985), Tales from the Darkside: The Movie

Hope for the Wicked – A Serbian Film, Borderland, Fargo, No Country for Old Men

Life after Dane – Identity, Shocker 

Cruelty – Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (if you can figure out why, I’ll send you everyone of my books for free, for life)

Crawl – The Passion of the Christ, Mr. Boogedy, The Sixth Sense (if you can figure out why The Sixth Sense is included in Crawl’s list of inspirations I’ll send you a $10 Amazon Gift Card)

 

 

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Ruminating On: Dicks

Dicks can be small

Dicks can be big

Dicks can also be sticky

Dicks can be fat

Dicks can be thin

Dicks can sometimes be tricky

Dicks can be bald

Some even hairy

Dicks might be covered in sores

Dicks can slide in

Dicks can pop out

Some dicks prefer the backdoor

Dicks can be cut

Dicks can have hoods

Most Dicks will come when they’re urged

If Dick’s sterile

Dick can’t make kids

A few Dicks find this absurd

If there’s a Dick

You love in life

Might want to send him a card

Just like gingers

Dicks can have souls

Being named Richard is hard

FREE!!! BAY’S END, by Edward Lorn

For the two people out there that do not have a copy of my debut novel, BAY’S END, it is currently free for the next couple of days. Click on the cover to get your copy from Amazon.com today!

If you’re so inclined, share away. Thanks!

What does it take to ruin a perfectly good summer? Four cherry bombs.

When twelve-year-old Trey and his best friend Eddy play a prank on Officer Mack, the resulting chain of events rocks the small town of Bay’s End.
 
Today, Trey Franklin is a man haunted by his past. Tormented by that one tragic, fateful summer, Trey searches for catharsis the only way he knows how – by writing.
 
A tale of love and loss, bittersweet memories, and the depths of human evil.
 
Welcome to Bay’s End.
 
*Warning: Contains graphic language and adult situations.

Ruminating On: Corn

Little known fact about me: Corn is my favorite late night snack. Be it Del Monte, Green Giant, or the various generic brands perched upon your local grocery stores canned produce aisle’s shelving, I’ll stick that metal cylinder under the unyielding blade of my super-finicky can opener, which, interestingly enough, doubles as a knife sharpener, and watch the hypnotic revolutions until that little aluminum disc plops into the water below and I find myself wishing I’d wiped off the top of the can before beginning my journey to Husker’s Utopia. I splash the contents into a bowl, drop in a tablespoon of butter (the real stuff, not that cholestoral-challenged, Fabio-endorsed, marginally-palatable shit), and microwave on high for one-and-a-half minutes. Removing my steamy goodness, I revel in the wispy aromas of Nebraskan fillies and crop circles. Make no mistake, I’ll make like a hyperactive typewriter on a full cob, but I prefer niblets over what was once considered an adequate means of wiping one’s ass. (Seriously, if it wasn’t for the Sears Roebuck catalog and corn cobs, our forefathers would’ve had to do work, possibly with a sock or bare hand. Thank you, Big Black. If you got that reference, I love you like a sibling.)

Corn can be enjoyed in many different ways. There’s cornbread and fried corn fritters. Roasted on the cob. Mixed and stewed with tomatoes, lima beans, and okra (Sufferin’ succotash!), and the list goes on. You can make corn syrup with it, but it’s only good in moderation, or so they say… cue dramatic dun, dun, DUN! Like humans, corn comes in a variety of pleasing hues: black corn, white corn, yellow, orange, and red corn – corn’s not racist. It loves you no matter your ethnicity. You can even decorate your hillbilly cabin with dried out husks and cobs of multicolored kernels the color of your poorly-managed dental work. And don’t forget, the piece de la renaissance (NAILED IT!), mo’ frakkin POPCORN, son! Butter those fluffly tuffs of tasteless cardboard until they resemble sallow nose evacuations, or sprinkle on a little cheddar seasoning (The more neon orange the better; we wouldn’t want your hands looking anything less than jaundiced. Because nothing say good eatin’ like kidney failure!). Some lacking in mental clarity create a sugary bastardization of our beloved movie theater snack called kettle corn. This abomination is not quite caramel corn, and leagues away from digestible. If you remember nothing else throughout your stay on this revolving rock remember this: Friends do not let friends eat kettle corn. It’s a gateway drug. Next thing you know, you and your buddies will be freebasing candy corn behind the Spirit Halloween Outlet. Nobody likes a corny junkie.

Now we descend into darker territory. Pull up your boot straps and tuck the kids into bed. We about to get adult in this biotch!

No matter how much you chew, whether or not you blend or cream or dice your corn with samurai-like proficiency, these little bastards will, with the utmost certainty, reform in your lower intestines like the self-healing nanobots they are. If you are of a healthy constitution, you’ll drop a yellow-spotted caterpillar into your porcelain oasis. And Tom Cruise forbid you have a case of explosive anal discharge (Thank you, Olestra!). For if you do, you’ll soon know how a tommy gun feels whilst spraying a muddy lake with bullets. We won’t even broach the subject of “cornholing.”

So, to all you starch-loving, corn-husking, stalk-fetish aficionados, enjoy your corn. I know I do.

My name is Edward Lorn and I approve this message.

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Ruminating On: Biloxi

Shortly after my twenty-first birthday, my mother collected her retirement a decade early from Kaiser Medical. She decided to have a little fun. Mom invited me to go with her to Biloxi, Mississippi, where we would live it up for a few days. We drove down, and ended up staying at the Grand Biloxi Hotel and Casino. It wasn’t my first time in a gambling establishment. When I was younger, my sister was married in Laughlin, Nevada, and the family and I stayed at the Colorado Belle. I have fond and scary memories of that time: getting lost in the arcade for hours, shoving tokens inside racing and adventure games, then getting lost again inside their massive buffet, which was nowhere near as fun as the arcade. The trip to Biloxi did mark my first time being able to drink and gamble, so I was excited at the possibilities of drunken gaming abandon. This is what happened.

Mom and I spent the first day together: eating at expensive hotel restaurants, playing slots side by side, and enjoying one another’s company. Day Two began around five o’clock in the afternoon because I’m notorious for sleeping in and Mom felt no need to wake me as she had some crocheting she wanted to get caught up on. Once on the casino floor, we instantly split up. I headed for the card tables (I’m a Texas Hold’em sorta guy), and I bought into the first open five-dollar seat. I sat down with five-hundred samolians, and cashed out six hours later three-grand ahead for my troubles. I’m pretty good. Always have been where cards are concerned. Not bragging, just telling it like it is. During my time at the table, I drank my weight in eight ounce Budweisers. They were these cute little bottles, like souvenir-size, really, and I snickered every time the heavy-chested waitress brought me another one. Being inexperienced in the rules of Casino Floor Etiquette, I didn’t know two important details: I didn’t have to pay for my drinks, and tipping was not only encouraged, but expected. I stumbled ever so elegantly to the bar so that I might pay my tab. The bartender guffawed at me. He didn’t titter, or chuckle, but full on laughed in my face. “You don’t owe me a penny, bro,” he said, in between explosive bursts of joviality. “Just make sure you tip your server.” As you may have already figured out, I did not “tip my server.” I spent the next hour shuffling around the casino floor asking people if they knew the big-breasted waitress. Mostly I got, “Ain’t they all got big tits?” from the men, and simple stares from women who surely thought me some misogynistic tool. Needless to say, I never found her. To this day, I still feel bad about that.

I cashed out at the tellers’ booths, pocketed thirty-three-hundred smackers and changed my remaining two hundred for slot tokens. I sidled up to the poker machines, flopped down, and started playing Five Card to my heart’s content. Before I knew it, I needed to empty my token bucket. I stuffed the over-flowing plastic container in the crook of my elbow and cashed out once again. Up another grand. Nice. Part of what makes me a good poker player is knowing (like Kenny Rodgers before me) when to hold em and when to fold em. Having forty-three hundred to my name seemed a nice stopping point, so I left the casino floor. I deposited four big ones in my hotel room, had my mother paged, waited for her to come to the phone, and told her I’d be drinking myself into oblivion at the bar on the second floor. She slurred a wonderfully stuttered, “Oh-ohhhh-oh-ohshay,” and I hung up. (My mother’s not a drinker, but when the mood overcomes her, she can kill one or two margaritas.)

Down on the second floor, I took a seat at one of their many empty stools. (The reason for all the empty seats wouldn’t be known to me until I paid my tab.) There was one person in attendance, though: A simmering hot Vietnamese woman in a white halter with a sleeveless, mid-drift jean jacket, jean shorts, and black leggings. She had long, wavy black hair that covered her back in a fan. Emerald eyes and a birthmark above the right corner of her full lips. She wasn’t a hooker, so get that out of your head right now. She was nice, though, and I introduced myself while the bar keep fixed me the first of many Crown and cokes. I don’t remember this beautiful young woman’s name, but I do recall asking if she was single, to which she responded, rather too quickly, “I’m a lesbian.” “Cool,” I exclaimed, and continued right on shooting the shit. She taught me several phrases in Vietnamese that I promptly forgot, and we drank the night away. I will never forget that unnamed lady. In a future book of mine I would use her likeness and accent as the building blocks for a character named Sunne, who shared a tragic love story with Donald Adams of Dastardly Bastard. Now, back to why the bar was so empty. My lady friend called it a night, and I refused to sit at the bar by myself, so I asked the bartender for my bill. How one drinks five-hundred-fifty-dollars worth of Crown and coke remains to be seen. Needless to say, he didn’t get a tip. Have you figured out the problem yet? That’s right, I was Two-hundred-and-fifty dollars short. The guy told me I could post it to my room, but the room wasn’t in my name, so, once again, I had the hotel operator page my mother. After twenty minutes, I gave the nice operator a message and disconnected. The bar keep and I talked for some time, about what, I can’t remember, but he finally looked down at his watch and told me he had to close up. I asked what time it was, and he informed me it was three in the morning. About this time, my mother stumbled off the elevator and came staggering toward the bar. She had this Cheshire grin plastered upon her face. Her eyes swam in her head as she said, “I gosh your monies.”

I paid my tab and walked her back to the lift. “How much did you have to drink?” I said in my most sober and perfectly articulated way. A drunk man’s memory is infallible, I tell you. Mom lovingly gazed up at me as only a mother can do and held up a hand full of what seemed to be coffee stirrers. In reality, they were the little red straws she’d stored away after each and every margarita she’d consumed, like some alcoholic squirrel packing away tequila and lime mixer for the winter. As sweetly as possible, she said, “I had dish many.” There had to have been fifty stirrers in that woman’s hand. I’m surprised she was still vertical, much less able to form words into sentences.

Though I’ve only told you about my shenanigans while at the Grand Biloxi Hotel and Casino, my mother and I spent another two days there. We made some great memories, but maybe I’ll talk about that some other time.

There is no point to this story. Whilst ruminating on what I was going to talk about today for the letter B, I came across this goofy memory and decided to share it with you fine folks. A year after our trip to Biloxi, I met and fell in love with my wife, Chelle. Three years after that, my daughter, Autumn, came along. I became an adult and, as life seems to demand, me and Mom drifted apart. We’d come to live together again in 2011, and she enjoyed watching her granddaughter (and in 2012, her grandson) grow up. But after Biloxi, me and her never really spent that same kind of time together. I remember it with a smile, like when we used to have tickle fights when I was a kid. I love my mother with all my heart. She’s always been there for me, no matter what stupid mess I stepped into, and I will never forget that. To this day, she remains the one I call on when I have no one else to talk to, which is rare because my wife is an amazing listener. But, Mom, if you’re reading this: Thank you for Biloxi. I love you.

By the way, the morning after my night of drunken gaming abandon, I woke up in the bathtub.

E.