Jon Sindell's Blog, page 3
November 8, 2012
Trips `n Trials—Chapter One
Here's Chapter One of Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad, the story of single middle–aged hipster dad Hammerhead Hirsch. In free ebook form, natch.
Hipsters of the world unite!
Hipsters of the world unite!
September 24, 2012
Got it covered!
The brilliant Chris Corwin has completed the cover for Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad. Here's the final result of our evolutionary process, and thanks for your input and support! …
September 12, 2012
Trips Is Coming—First Look!
Friends, here's a morsel—the first few grafs—of the work of years, Trips `n' Trials of a Down,
Beat Dad. Taste! Taste!
“What’s in a name?” my friend Head would say. “Lots, kemosabe.” It was true in his case: Head. Hammerhead. Hammerhead Hirsch, The Boardwalk Balladeer. Hammerhead Hirsch, The Young Lord of the Ring, from his Golden Gloves days–though Pugilist Poet is the one that stuck. Or Hammerhead Hirsch, Lord of Sunset Av, Venice, as his friends from the bookstore would say late at night when they’d come by Headquarters for a brew and a chew.
“But way back in Brooklyn, it was Hillel the Hebe.” Head’s voice—like honey sprinkled with grit—was one of the keys to his allure. Ditto his patter, a felicitous marriage of So Cal cool and East Coast brio as seductive as notes from the Pied Piper’s flute. Satisfied at a glance that I was enthralled, he continued. “Yeah, that’s what the Italian kids hollered when they chased my sweet ass through Lafayette Park. `Run, Hebe, run,’ and that’s what I did—I ran for my life, ming—and I’ll tell ya, I got pretty fast from a few months of that! So fast that two years later I was playing second and batting leadoff on a mostly Eye-talian team in the Ice Cream League, with some of the same clowns chased me through the park. Yeah the Ice Cream League, it sent more players to the big leagues per capita than anyplace else you can name, I betcha. And not just bit players, youngblood, but stars, too, like Joe Torre and—”—Head lifted his eyes to the heavenly choir—“—Sandy,” for Koufax, his patron saint, and the reason he’d fled New York for L.A. a few days after high school. “But I digress. Yeah, Hillel the Hebe. When my dad heard that, he did what any red–blooded Yiddishe papa would do. He put down the dish towel, stuffed a pair of socks into a couple of oven mitts, hung a gunny sack full of dirt from the one scrawny tree in the courtyard out back, and taught me how to box. You shoulda seen him, man, Mordechai Hirsch, the boxing tailor, whomping the bag with those stuffed oven mitts, shouting `Never again!’ Whomp! ‘Never again!,’ the fringes of his prayer shawl fluttering in the wind as he stuck and moved, stuck and moved, reaching up now and then to steady his beanie lest it fall to the ground. You may not believe this, kiddo, in an age of Jewish white collars, but your peeps had a number of boxing greats once—a slew of crowns in the lighter divisions, and some middle and heavyweight champeens, too. Didja know that?” I shook my head “no,” as was my wont, for I rarely knew anything Head told me about ten years ago, and felt in his presence like I hadn’t been born, although I was fourteen and book–smart when I first started taking refuge at HQ. “It’s a fact,” Head continued. “Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, Max Baer, Benny Leonard—” In the interest of proving that I, too, was a sentient being with the power of speech, I blurted: “Did your dad have any nicknames, Head?” Head grinned crinkly–eyed like I like you, you dope. “He had one nickname: Pa. To everyone else, he was just Mordechai. That was all the nickname for a man like him.” Whatever that meant. Head’s eyes glowed with merriment at my confusion, and I turned from a gleam too intense to withstand. But Head sure loved his nicknames, loved bestowing them on all the satellites that orbited him: the workers at the bookstore like O’Sad Fred, the sad–sack old–timer who’d been there longer even than Head, and the store’s regular patrons like Too Tall Ted and Hemingway’s Dead and Rebel With A Cause, and the boardwalk crazies like Juicy Jack, Dapper Dan, and The Rag Tag Cowboy, folks who considered the bestowal of a nickname from Hammerhead Hirsch akin to being knighted, who prized these tags and [Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad—coming soon. Thanks for reading!]
Beat Dad. Taste! Taste!
“What’s in a name?” my friend Head would say. “Lots, kemosabe.” It was true in his case: Head. Hammerhead. Hammerhead Hirsch, The Boardwalk Balladeer. Hammerhead Hirsch, The Young Lord of the Ring, from his Golden Gloves days–though Pugilist Poet is the one that stuck. Or Hammerhead Hirsch, Lord of Sunset Av, Venice, as his friends from the bookstore would say late at night when they’d come by Headquarters for a brew and a chew.
“But way back in Brooklyn, it was Hillel the Hebe.” Head’s voice—like honey sprinkled with grit—was one of the keys to his allure. Ditto his patter, a felicitous marriage of So Cal cool and East Coast brio as seductive as notes from the Pied Piper’s flute. Satisfied at a glance that I was enthralled, he continued. “Yeah, that’s what the Italian kids hollered when they chased my sweet ass through Lafayette Park. `Run, Hebe, run,’ and that’s what I did—I ran for my life, ming—and I’ll tell ya, I got pretty fast from a few months of that! So fast that two years later I was playing second and batting leadoff on a mostly Eye-talian team in the Ice Cream League, with some of the same clowns chased me through the park. Yeah the Ice Cream League, it sent more players to the big leagues per capita than anyplace else you can name, I betcha. And not just bit players, youngblood, but stars, too, like Joe Torre and—”—Head lifted his eyes to the heavenly choir—“—Sandy,” for Koufax, his patron saint, and the reason he’d fled New York for L.A. a few days after high school. “But I digress. Yeah, Hillel the Hebe. When my dad heard that, he did what any red–blooded Yiddishe papa would do. He put down the dish towel, stuffed a pair of socks into a couple of oven mitts, hung a gunny sack full of dirt from the one scrawny tree in the courtyard out back, and taught me how to box. You shoulda seen him, man, Mordechai Hirsch, the boxing tailor, whomping the bag with those stuffed oven mitts, shouting `Never again!’ Whomp! ‘Never again!,’ the fringes of his prayer shawl fluttering in the wind as he stuck and moved, stuck and moved, reaching up now and then to steady his beanie lest it fall to the ground. You may not believe this, kiddo, in an age of Jewish white collars, but your peeps had a number of boxing greats once—a slew of crowns in the lighter divisions, and some middle and heavyweight champeens, too. Didja know that?” I shook my head “no,” as was my wont, for I rarely knew anything Head told me about ten years ago, and felt in his presence like I hadn’t been born, although I was fourteen and book–smart when I first started taking refuge at HQ. “It’s a fact,” Head continued. “Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom, Max Baer, Benny Leonard—” In the interest of proving that I, too, was a sentient being with the power of speech, I blurted: “Did your dad have any nicknames, Head?” Head grinned crinkly–eyed like I like you, you dope. “He had one nickname: Pa. To everyone else, he was just Mordechai. That was all the nickname for a man like him.” Whatever that meant. Head’s eyes glowed with merriment at my confusion, and I turned from a gleam too intense to withstand. But Head sure loved his nicknames, loved bestowing them on all the satellites that orbited him: the workers at the bookstore like O’Sad Fred, the sad–sack old–timer who’d been there longer even than Head, and the store’s regular patrons like Too Tall Ted and Hemingway’s Dead and Rebel With A Cause, and the boardwalk crazies like Juicy Jack, Dapper Dan, and The Rag Tag Cowboy, folks who considered the bestowal of a nickname from Hammerhead Hirsch akin to being knighted, who prized these tags and [Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad—coming soon. Thanks for reading!]
September 1, 2012
Trips Is Coming
Sneak peek at a work of genius (Chris Corwin by name)—a prototype cover for my magnum opus, the novel I've spent an enormous hunk of my adult life writing, Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad. Due out soon …
August 21, 2012
"Woodsmen" E–book Edition: Father and Teen Son in the Woods
In this woodland tale by the author of The Mighty Roman and Trips `n’ Trials of a Down, Beat Dad, first published in the magazine riverbabble , an estranged father and his fifteen–year–old son take to the woods. Key reference is made to Wordsworth’s Ode: Intimations Of Immortality From Recollections Of Early Childhood. Get the free ebook here—and if you like it, please do "Like" it, rate it, review it, and share it (that's why it's free). ~ J:o)n
August 8, 2012
"Del"—A Gardener's Tale
The lit–mag Pulse has just published "Del," the tale of a simple young city–parks gardener with a heart as tender as new shoots in spring. Hope you'll like it.
Lit–Night at Rolling–Out Rolled Out Nicely
The first ever lit-night at Rolling–Out was a sweet, sweet thing. The featured reader, Tony Press, favored us with lovely, soulful verse and prose. The next lit-night is tentatively set for September 15. I can't wait!
Featured reader Tony Press doing his gorgeous thing.
Jon's debut reading from upcoming novel Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad
The story of hipster single dad Hammerhead Hirsch, father of Rex from The Mighty Roman .
Here Mark Schnapp steps up to the mic. Young son Eric was there ... and proud!
Featured reader Tony Press doing his gorgeous thing.
Jon's debut reading from upcoming novel Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad
The story of hipster single dad Hammerhead Hirsch, father of Rex from The Mighty Roman .
Here Mark Schnapp steps up to the mic. Young son Eric was there ... and proud!
August 4, 2012
Lit-Night Rollout at Rolling–Out
The first ever lit-night at Rolling–Out was a sweet, sweet thing. The featured reader, Tony Press, favored us with lovely, soulful verse and prose. Open-mic readers included Mark Schnapp, Ken Finberg, and me. Next lit-night tentatively set for September 15. I can't wait!
Featured reader Tony Press doing his gorgeous thing.
Mark Schnapp steps up to the mic. Young son Eric was there!
Debut reading from upcoming novel ...
Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad
The story of hipster single dad Hammerhead Hirsch.
Channeling Head.
Featured reader Tony Press doing his gorgeous thing.
Mark Schnapp steps up to the mic. Young son Eric was there!
Debut reading from upcoming novel ...
Trips `n' Trials of a Down, Beat Dad
The story of hipster single dad Hammerhead Hirsch.
Channeling Head.
July 30, 2012
Lit Night at Rolling–Out This Saturday, August 4
Please join us on Saturday, August 4 at 7 p.m. for Rolling Out’s first-ever lit night.
To be hosted on a monthly basis by Jon Sindell, each Lit Night at Rolling–Out will feature one or more selected authors followed by an open mic for all who might wish to share their short fiction, poetry, or non-fiction narratives.
The inaugural Lit Night will feature the work of Tony Press. Since 2005, short stories by Tony—and also poetry and non-fiction—have appeared in over forty journals and anthologies. In other lives, Tony is, or has been, a teacher (high school and adult school) and a lawyer, a father and a spouse. He strives to pay attention and to act with compassion.
Links to some of Tony’s work may be found below.
Parking in the area is challenging, so do arrive in the neighborhood early.
And do come hungry—Bruno Tse’s homemade goodies are earning Rolling Out kudos aplenty.
Rolling Out: 1722 Taraval Street between 27th and 28th Streets.
See you then!
Links to poetry and fiction by Tony Acarasiddhi Press …
http://34thparallel.blogspot.com/2009/01/reckoning.html
http://www.sfwp.com/archives/1210
http://qarrtsiluni.com/2010/09/28/standing-room-only
http://tclj.toasted-cheese.com/2011/11-3/press.htm
http://www.mendacitypress.com/5.2009Press.html
http://www.halfwaydownthestairs.net/index.php?action=view&id=348
http://www.microliterature.org/across-the-years-by-tony-press
http://versewisconsin.wendyvardaman.com/Issue109/poems/press.html
July 21, 2012
Hello All.I have just posted this video of a critical sce...
Hello All.
I have just posted this video of a critical scene from The Mighty Roman. It's a key scene in Chapter 7 *** SPOILER ALERT *** so be aware that it will eliminate a little of the suspense if you watch it before you get there in your reading. In this scene, the vegetarian team-captain Rex discovers to his dismay that the teams' deep sea cruise is a fishing trip. Be advised, this scene is intense, and does contain profane dialogue necessary to an authentic depiction of the characters. Thanks for visiting.
I have just posted this video of a critical scene from The Mighty Roman. It's a key scene in Chapter 7 *** SPOILER ALERT *** so be aware that it will eliminate a little of the suspense if you watch it before you get there in your reading. In this scene, the vegetarian team-captain Rex discovers to his dismay that the teams' deep sea cruise is a fishing trip. Be advised, this scene is intense, and does contain profane dialogue necessary to an authentic depiction of the characters. Thanks for visiting.
