People Still Believe Hemingway Wrote A Story He Didn't

Despite the efforts of myself and others, people still want to claim that Ernest Hemingway wrote a six-word short story that he probably didn't (credit should likely go to playwright John De Groot who has Hemingway say the "story" in a play, thus the confusion).  Quotation expert Ralph Keyes alerted me to the latest bit of nonsense, which unfortunately comes from The New York Times.  The Times does give a tad bit of a fig leaf of cover in relation to reality by writing that Hemingway is "said to have managed to tell" instead of writing "wrote" or "composed" in reference to the story, but the article is undoubtedly sure to spread this nonsense further.  At this point, this story, which isn't really a story and which Hemingway probably never wrote, is probably his most famous literary work.  Well, the Modernists did love irony, so maybe Papa would have gotten a kick out of it anyway, but it would be nice if people, especially when writing for The New York Times, did some research to avoid making false claims.

New Crazy Carl Robinson Book!

For years, I've been waiting to read the third novel, My Parents' Medicine, by Crazy Carl Robinson.  Well, it's still not out, so don't get too excited, but, at least, some of it has now emerged in the form of a nicely-produced chapbook/zine.  Rogue Holler Blues is destined to be an underground classic, similar to CCR's first two books, Fat On The Vine and Bloodreal.  Only CCR's first novel has been published intact.  His second, Dead In The Head, was also excerpted and remixed into Bloodreal.  CCR is a writer similar to Thomas Wolfe in that he does benefit from a good editing job, but this trend of publishing mini-versions of the novels has probably gone too far.  At 48 pages or so, this is a skimpy read, especially given the price.  It would be nice if CCR's next novel came out more or less intact.  I guess to make that happen I may have to publish the thing myself. However, despite the brevity, RHB is a great read!  Even though I know CCR fairly well and thus have some bias, I am always amazed at the greatness of his writing and his ability to transmute the rawness of life into great literature in his own distinctive style of lowercase letters and ellipses.  He's seriously approaching Nobel class at this point, though what he tends to write about might make Alice Munro and the Swedish Academy faint.  Nevertheless, I enjoy it, sometimes too much (there were times reading this that I laughed so hard that I farted).  But it's not just a chucklefest.  He deals with some heavy and uncomfortable topics such as alcoholism, crime, drug abuse, economics, existential loneliness, racism, self-hatred, and sexism.  Underneath the party stories of small town drug dealers and college town rock and rollers is a deeply serious look at life in 21st Century America.  RHB begins with the narrator picking up where he left off at the end of Dead In The Head, trying to balance his duties to elderly parents with having a career and a lovelife.  If you've ever read a novel and wondered why none of the characters have to ever stop to use the bathroom, then you'll enjoy CCR's work.  For some readers, learning about the narrator's brown washcloth will fall into the realm of too much information, but others will enjoy a narrator who seems to relish sharing intimacy with his readers, even when it's not very pretty.  Some of the cast of characters from CCR's previous books, including a version of myself, return.  This novel finds them entering middleage (the narrator attends two weddings and wonders when his own will be) and settling down while still trying to hang onto their younger ambitions and amoral behavior.  Some such as The Big Handsome and Dale-The-Tail don't seem to want to leave the past, causing much mirth (The Big Handsome) and sadness (Dale-The-Tail) for the reader.  The narrator himself settles down into a regular job by the end, which is where the story presumably ends (some of the story is told out of sequence and there are references to events presumably described in the parts not published).  CCR has said that he has stopped writing, but I don't believe that for a minute and look forward to the next novel (which, one hopes, will be published more intact than this one was).  His novels seem to be turning into a hillbilly version of Proust's oeuvre.  He's also better than Proust, though readers with sticks up their posteriors will tend to disagree.  Any fan of Charles Bukowski or John Kennedy Toole will recognize that the river of true American literature flows right through CCR's Rapidan reflections.

"Boiling Yellowjackets"

The Red Fez has published my poem "Boiling Yellowjackets" in issue 73.  I wrote the poem in 2013.  Sadly, it is still timely in 2014.

Monster Of Party Beach Is Out!

The comedy horror movie that I was in, Monster Of Party Beach, has been released.  It's available on DVD for $5 here.  I had fun hanging out with director Mark Justice and fellow actor Tim Hale at The Ghoulardi Fest the day after Halloween.  I think Mark has some screenings of the film coming up as well.

Brent Kirby's 10 x 3 Songwriter Showcase

Years ago, one of my bands played with one of Thomas Comerford's bands.  Since then, I try to catch him when he passes through nearby.  This fall, he played a songwriter showcase hosted by Brent Kirby at Brothers Lounge, which I attended.  I thought having a showcase of ten different singer-songwriters was a pretty cool idea, so I asked to play it, which I'll be doing on November 12, 2014.  I'm scheduled for 9 p.m., but those schedules tend to shift.  The whole show starts at 8 p.m.  I'll be playing three songs that I have never played in front of an audience before, so it should be fun.  It is free to attend.

"Cheats For Common Moral Dilemmas"

Life can be complex with many decisions.  To help people out, I created a handy guide to common moral dilemmas and The Red Fez published it. 

New Pop Lit!

King Wenclas of the Underground Literary Alliance has a new project going called New Pop Lit.  He and his fellow editor, Andrea Nolen, have been publishing some cool stuff.  Right now, there's a story about a cat in an animal shelter up, and I really enjoyed reading it.  It seems as if they're putting together a nice literary community.  They were nice enough to publish "Brian Moves Back" by me, as well as do an interview.

New Wred Fright Novel!

Yes, I have finished a new novel.  Don't get too excited though, as you may not be able to read it until 2017 or so.  For once, I didn't serialize a novel beforehand, and start releasing it before it was complete (I liked to work without a net).  It was kind of fun to do it in a more conventional way, so I may seek out a conventional publisher.  We'll see.  I do enjoy the whole controlfreakness of self-publishing.  Even marketing is fun, but it is time away from writing, which I like better, so I don't know what I'll decide just yet.  In any case, it's called Frequently Asked Questions About Being Dead, and it is plenty weird.  Here's a taste:

McAllister "Mac" Rose was looking at her corpse when a giant stack of pancakes holding a clipboard asked her, "Excuse me, but would you mind taking a customer satisfaction survey?"

Mac turned from the automobile wreckage and gazed upon the six-foot-tall stack of pancakes, a continuous fountain of maple syrup cascading from the top pancake onto the ones below it, ending in a pool on the white plate underlaying the entire stack, the kind of plate that's been through the dishwasher at the diner so many times that it started to wonder if that was all there was, an endless cycle of stickiness, soapiness, wetness, dryness, and stackness.  A huge glob of butter, shaped and glistening like the sun, sat on top of the stack with the clipboard, a pen dangling from it by a string, firmly lodged in the middle of it.  In Mac's head, she heard Beach Boys melodies that she had never heard before.

She felt like screaming, but, instead, she said, "What?"

Eyeballs popped out of the syrup, "Oh, you're really freaked out.  What do I look like to you?  Jesus?  Sometimes, I get bored and set my appearance to random.  Let's see.  OK, I'm pancakes.  I bet I'm delicious, but I'll change into something else.  Maybe that'll help.  You want a burning bush?  Grim Reaper?  Elvis Presley?  How about a unicorn?  Most women like unicorns."

The stack of pancakes changed into a unicorn.  The clipboard was now speared in the middle by the horn.  "Is this better?" the unicorn said, looking around at itself, the pen of the clipboard flying about every time its head moved.

"No," Mac said, her green eyes starting to tear up, "No, it's not."

"Why not?  I'm a unicorn.  You don't like the color?  I can be pink."

"No, it's not the color."

The unicorn turned pink anyway, except for the horn which turned a type of fluorescent green usually only seen in the neon signs of pawn shops and payday loan businesses.  "What do you think?" it said, but Mac had already turned away to look some more at her corpse.

The unicorn trotted up next to her and also looked at the corpse.  The front of the car that Mac's corpse was in looked like it was a map that someone who didn't know how to fold up maps properly had folded.  In the midst of the badly folded-up folds was Mac's corpse, with a cell phone still clutched in her right hand.  "Ouch," the unicorn said, "Were you texting?  I don't know why people do that.  Most people drive badly enough as is."

Mac ignored the unicorn, who, undaunted, went on to say, "At least the tree looks all right."

Mac looked at the tree that her automobile had crashed into and had to agree.  The tree did look all right.  It was a big oak tree and probably would survive the accident with just a few scars on its bark.

Mac, alas, did not look all right.  Nor did she feel all right.  Nor would she ever be all right again, she suspected.  "At least I didn't hit the deer," she mumbled, as she slumped against the remains of her car and slid down to the ground, her hands covering her face.