Tommy Red

Tommy Red
The Progressive Killer

Our motto ...

Leave the (political) party. Take the cannoli.

"It always seems impossible until it's done." Nelson Mandela

Right now 6 Stella crime novels are available on Kindle for just $.99 ... Eddie's World has been reprinted and is also available from Stark House Press (Gat Books).

Friday, April 27, 2012

An Amazing Guy … Magic City Review ... Zimmerman’s $200K … Obama’s Big Stick … Hockey/Rangers/Knicks … 6 weeks to Shutter Island …

Amici:

Next week my son, Dustin, will be donating bone marrow. He signed up for the National Marrow Donor Program a while back and a match was found; he’ll be helping to save someone’s life. How friggin’ cool is that?

Here are some FAQ’s about the process:

Is Dustin amazing or what?

You’re goddamn right he is.



Magic City ... they could rename this one the 1959 T&A festival ... or the 1959 T&A&PH (ph = pubic hair) ... that’s about all this STARZ original series offers. The women are very beautiful and most often very naked ... the men are complete caricatures of what they’re supposed to be and in the end, a lot of great scenery (Art Deco) and a wonderful potential of American-Cuban history is bypassed for a dopey plot hidden by tits (lots of tits) and ass (lots of ass) ... and as I mentioned earlier, some pubic hair.

Here’s what the Huffington Post had to say about it (and TK agrees):

 

So who put up the $200K for Mr. Zimmerman? Inquiring minds want to know. He didn’t win it from a scratch off and there wasn’t a money wheel (as far as we know). Something tells me it’s a bunch of people in favor of the shoot first and ask questions later law a.k.a. Stand Your Ground and Kill some motherfuckers. Regardless, Mr. Z forgot to mention there was a nifty $200K tucked away during his bail hearing. I’m not sure what the legal implications of this happens to be, but one has to wonder why the court didn’t know about the money, whether Zimmerman was withholding the information or not.

I mean, it seems akin to the Stand Your Ground law, no? He attacked me so I shot him. I don’t have any money so please set my bail low.

Is this an assumption of innocence or an assumption that people potentially charged with murder won’t lie?




Obama’s Big Stick … Uncle Joe. Come on, yous gotta love it.



Go Rangers … I can’t remember watching hockey this much, except for during the Olympics. I am now, though ... and with much anticipation. I haven’t been a huge fan of the sport, but after watching the handshakes at the end of the first round of the playoffs, apparently hockey etiquette, I am now a fan. Say what? Well, let’s not get crazy. It isn’t the NFL and I won’t waste my time watching regular season games—what bother? Like the NBA, pretty much half the league makes it to the playoffs anyway—but the playoffs are another story. The best of seven series are a great tournament format for people like me who want to watch something else besides the grass grow (and/or MLB) while waiting for the NFL to get re-started.

And who isn’t dying in anticipation of this NFL season? My beloved New York State Buffalo Bills open up in Moonachie against the Fatso Rex Ryan’s Y-E-T-S, Yets, Yets, Yets. We’ll be sporting a ferocious defensive line and the Yets will be in absolute and total turmoil (somebody say Tebow-Sanchez---and notice who got top billing here at TK).



As for the Knicks … well, maybe they weren’t the dumbest organization in all of sport (as TK suggested—that editorial genius has been fired, by the way) … but let’s face it, watching the NBA playoffs doesn’t require a start to finish, 2.5 hour investment. Just turn the game on with about five minutes left and enjoy the show. Can the Knicks knock off the Heat? I doubt it. I seriously doubt it. But wining a couple of games would be an accomplishment to build on next year (under coach Mike Woodson, a Tone Loc voice double). Not one game, amici. Two. At least two. And no matter how many games it takes the Heat to beat the Knicks, Steve (Novocain) Novak rocks.







In six weeks or so, the ugly one will depart for the campus of SNHU for the start of his third semester in the MFA program. Make no mistake, it’s a wonderful program I only wish was longer (and cheaper). I have nothing but sincere praise for the enjoyment I get from doing the work. And I don’t mind (so much) campus life ... but five days after I’m almost used to sleeping like a 19 year old again, we depart for the Isle of Shutter off the New Hampshire Coast (several miles off the NH coast).

There’s no sugar coating this joint, amici. It is a terrible place. I don’t need no special inspiration (a cup of coffee (real coffee) and a cigarette will do fine, thank you). I don’t need no stinkin’ deserted isle without enough electric to run a friggin’ air conditioner and/or heater ... I don’t need to pass wind an entire floor of rooms can hear ... and I WANT TO SHOWER EVERY FRIGGIN’ DAY ... I don’t need to climb up and down unlit trails sabotaged with slippery rocks and potholes ... or listen to a foghorn every thirty friggin’ seconds. WTF is that thing going off for anyway? Are they expecting friggin’ company? Trust me, it’s not coming.


I could start in on the coffee but I won’t. I know I sometimes whine like a little girl, but honestly, when you can see the bottom of your friggin’ cup of coffee, it AINT’ FRIGGIN’ COFFEE! So, it’ll be six days on a campus with a bathroom that is somewhat private (there are four suits in each bathroom share) but at least the doors aren’t made of cardboard so there’s a chance you won’t have to listen to one another’s bodily functions. Five days on campus and five nights in hell.

So what’s a person to wear to such a sentence?

What’s that Joker quote again? “Wait’ll they get a’load of me.”




—Knucks

Shutter Isle ... here we come ... music by which to prepare ... remember this number, amici ...
24601 ...



I couldn’t embed the original cast with Colm Wilkinson ... so that fugazy’ll have to do.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Book Reviews: A Land More Kind Than Home & The Crime Interviews: Volume Two ... some neat opera video/Cream ...

Amici:

A Land More Kind Than Home, Wiley Cash. The death of a mute boy during a church service is the focal point of this intriguing read. The manipulation of religion, the unfairness of life juxtaposed against an all powerful God, the influence of parental relationships through the years and the role of justice in a world unfriendly to logic. Those are some of the themes prevalent in this novel that at times is as noir as The Night of the Hunter (one of the scariest novels AND movies I’d ever read/watched), as hardboiled as any Southern Gothic (think Flannery O’Connor), and as poignant as Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury.

The novel is told by three characters, an elderly religious woman (Adelaide), a young confused boy (Jess) and a Sheriff (Clem) with his own painful past. Each perspective is distinct. The two adults present powerful backstory against the confused innocence of the young boy. There are other characters essential to this tragic tale, but it is the preacher, Carson Chambliss, who takes center stage; the man each fears in their own way. It is Chambliss who reminded me of the preacher in The Night of the Hunter. Each scene with Chambliss, whether inside his church or out in his barn, is tension filled with relief nowhere in sight until the scene ends and the page is turned.



The elderly woman, Adelaide Lyle, was a follower of the church and Chambliss until she witnessed something told at the start of the book (no spoilers here). From that point on, she watched the children of the churchgoers at her home rather than let them attend services. The boy, Jess Hall, witnesses something along with his brother he doesn’t quite understand, except it is the event that will forever change his life. The sheriff, Clem Barefield, is the voice of reason left to sort out the evil mess that was practiced in a house of God.

Snake handling, fire and brimstone and Hallelujahs abound when the Pastor of the church uses the Bible to his own purpose.



And these signs shall follow them that believe: In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues. They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. (Mark 16:17-18)

A Land More Kind Than Home is a wonderful read, amici. It will grasp you very early on and it will not let you go. Each of the three characters telling this tale will pull you along page by page. You will not want to stop reading until you reach a tumultuous ending that will rock you. I defy anyone with a heart to hold back the tears of Adelaide’s summation. The power of absolution and redemption it brings is heartrending. A Land More Kind Than Home is a wonderful book.

Check out the author’s website:

Buy it here, amici:

 

The Crime Interviews: Volume Two, Len Wanner (forward by Ian Rankin) And while we’re on the subject of books, how about Len Wanner coming through with his second book of interviews. Len has quickly become a name to associate with the best of interviewers anywhere. I remember his interviewing me and how close I had to keep Mr. Webster (madonna mia). Check out his latest. THE CRIME INTERVIEWS: VOLUME TWO, once again Wanner's encyclopaedic knowledge of Scottish crime fiction is put to expert use in his enthralling and revealing conversations with another inspired line-up of stars of tartan noir. His latest interview subjects include William McIlvanney, Tony Black, Doug Johnstone, Helen FitzGerald, Quintin Jardine, Gordon Ferris, Craig Russell, Douglas Lindsay, Ray Banks and Denise Mina. Len does more for crime fiction than just about anybody. Check out his now famous (and greatly appreciated) Facebook page for The Crime of It All

The Old Man and the Sea … Len sent me this link because he knew I’d enjoy it. I hope yous do too …

—Knucks

In my ever fumbling attempts to keep the opera selections somewhat relevant to the posts, here’s Placido Domingo in the title role of Pagliacci about to whack both his wife, Nedda, played by Teresa Stratas and her lover. Those crazy eye-talians ... don’t mess with their women ...
 

Or there’s a blues version, if you prefer ... from the Cream reunion in 2005, Outside Woman Blues ... originally recorded by Blind Joe Reynolds in 1929.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

The 5-2 Blog Tour: Clarinda Harriss … Sweet-Talk Me On Valentine's Day

Amici:

Temporary Knucksline is honored once again to be a host (one of 30+) in the 5-2 Crime Poem Blog Tour. It’s national poetry month (who said April is the cruelest month?) and we’ve done this before and will do it again. Aside from being a terrific writer himself, Gerald So is the master of ceremonies for all the terrific writers at the 5-2 and probably the best promoter of writers everywhere/anywhere. So good on Gerald and all those he sponsors … year after year after year.

My process (did I actually type that?) was to read all the poems on the 5-2 Contributor page and narrow down my favorite dozen to three. Then I waited to see which of three stuck in my mind; which one remained there. Here are the three I waited on until one was left:

“Some Like It Hot” By Charles Rammelkamp I was literally engaged with a co-worker about the trials and tribulations of the Monroe-Miller marriage and its aftermath and this poem hung around my noggin’ for a long time. The opening line was an eye-catcher for former altar boys like myself (can you believe it?). No matter how far we may have strayed, there’s no straying from MM.

“$25” by Keith Rawson My wife is now an RN; a late career change because of outsourcing and a love of teaching (what she hopes to do some day in the field). Her anti-capitalist husband found Keith’s poem way more genuine than it ever should be. The wife loved this one too and admitted it is an absolute fear of hers to have to search for a vein the way the nurse in the poem did. I say we should all fear tripping over each other to get in line for blood coin someday.

“Sweet-Talk Me On Valentine's Day” by Clarinda Harriss. In letting the three finalists sit awhile, I wondered if perhaps my ultimate choice (this one) provoked flashbacks of a particular email to my wife when I was first pursuing her; when we were nothing more than co-workers at a law firm in the middle of the night (me, still a half-assed word processor and knockaround guy, and she a good catholic girl). The email, much like what Ms. Harriss explained beneath the poem on the 5-2 website, was a shot I was taking; either the good catholic girl would run screaming (maybe to HR) or return the volley. As it happened, she (my not yet wife) was not yet desensitized enough by my particular brand of romance to respond and thus opted to not respond at all (probably from shock), except I saw her blush from across the room and the blush turned to a smile and that was good enough to go public, or as they say at sit-downs, handle it face to face.



In one of the pictures on her home page, Clarinda Harriss is reading in front of a sax and a beautiful colored drum kit (sans tom and ride cymbal). To my limited poetry-mindedness, it’s reminiscent of a beat generation reading; the fusion of jazz with words. I’ve been to readings where poetry was funny, exotic, sharp and edgy and I’ve listened/viewed quite a few on Youtube. Lately, thanks to Gerald, Jennifer Gresham (my writing mentor’s daughter-in-law, a published poet, Ph.D in Chemistry and former major in the U.S. Air Force), and some fellow students in the SNHU MFA program (Stephanie Milligan and Tyler Fish, published poets both), I occasionally read poetry for the best of reasons … because I want to.

Sweet-Talk Me On Valentine's Day is a sexy poem intended to be so (as the author explains). The Sweet Talk was daring and intimate, perhaps baiting the hook with an invitation of a misogynistic vernacular (if that’s where one needs or desires to go), but with the seducer transforming it to advantage.

Monster… Pond Scum … Whore… Bitch …

Ironic sweet talk or a crude passion while in the moment?

Or say, "Happy Day, my Ancient"; I'm your
whole history of mothers, and mothers work

like this: put something in, get something out.
In, out. In, out. Baby, I’m a sweet machine

The above lines were where my wife and I had different reads: She saw it as the eternal dance between men and women. My take was probably a typical male assumption/fantasy; the seduction of a younger partner (what he wants, needs or desires?)

Whatever we may have misinterpreted, my wife and I reached a unanimous decision as to the passion inherent in this poem. It was aggressive, not in the least shy, and very visual. For me it was a reminder of the strong sexual female characters that adorn the wonderful noir novels of Vickie Hendricks; strong women unapologetic about their wants and needs and unafraid to pursue them.

Enough from me … let’s here from the author (who gives us a bonus poem in one of her responses) …

INTERVIEW WITH CLARINDA HARRISS

Question #1: In your confession on the 5-2 page where your poem appears, you state: “'I never write Occasional Verse.' That's what I used to say before realizing that somebody I once had a considerable crush on was going to be attending a reading where I was to be one of the featured poets. It was scheduled for Valentine's Day a year ago. I wrote this poem especially to titillate him. I am pretty sure it did not, and it had lasting consequences: Now I'm forced to utter the much weaker statement, 'I almost never write Occasional Verse.'"

Tell us more about “Occasional Verse”. Writers are usually grouped into one of two categories; the stone polishers (those who need to get it perfect from the get-go) and those who vomit it out and worry about the details (polish, etc.) later on. You’ve published several books of poetry. Your confession suggests you’re usually a stone polisher. Is that the case?

CH: I started to say Yes, you're right, I'm a stone polisher, mostly because I am often writing in traditional forms like the sonnet and villanelle and the sestina etc., though usually w/ variations; call me Devoid of Spontaneity, but I just don't think it's possible to write in the masonry of "form" w/o some polishing of the stones along the way. But then I realized that, in fact, I usually write whole poems--and often my short fiction as well--IN MY HEAD before ever setting anything down on paper or computer; so they do sort of shove themselves out willy-nilly, then get "polished."

And here's a relevant confession about my Confession: note the sentence that goes "I wrote this poem. . .to titillate him": what I didn't say there was that I wrote it in about 5 minutes, DURING A CLASS in which the start-of-class warm-up exercise was for everybody to write a few lines toward a Valentine poem which Hallmark would never, never, never print. So yeah, I'm a polisher and a vomiter both.

Question #2: I like the idea of a start-of-class warm-up … even more so that it be something Hallmark would never, never, never print. I noticed some of your collection titles were as enticing as the 5-2 poem was to read. Hot Sonnets, Dirty Blue Voice. Are the main themes across your collective works something Hallmark would never, never, never print?

CH: HOT SONNETS is an anthology of 20th-21st c. erotic sonnets edited by me and Moira Egan. We both write some hot sonnets ourselves, but we are represented in this fantastic anthology only by 3 poems apiece. Many of my current sonnets are mini-narratives. One is about the miners who died in W. Virginia. One is about the Waverly Farmers' Market. One is about building construction (and a spot a pot). I think my earlier poems were sexier (I mean it literally) and also more self-consciously feminist. They seem pretty juvenile to me now. But, though I have several not-old poems occasioned by civil rights issues, I can't stand preachy poems and, lord willin', will never write them, even on subjects that I feel preachy about.

Questions #3 & 4: What do you look for in poetry? (i.e., what turns you on, literally and figuratively?) I did some Googling for this interview and found this for a Poetry-Writing workshop of yours: Session One: Make a Joyful Noise. There’s an explanation beneath it ending with “or ugly-sounding words; rhythms that tell the tale; echoes (rhyme, repetition).” Sweet-Talk Me On Valentine's Day certainly presents rhythms that tell a tale (Madonna mia, it does). I doubt the protocol is ever conscious (especially when writing something in 5 minutes), but was it an afterthought? Does some of your polishing, so to speak, ever entail adherence to the technical aspects of poetry?

CH: About "Making a [Joyful} Noise" workshop: w/ me, rhythm may start instinctually but is never something that just happens. To me it is the single most important thing to differentiate poetry from prose (though great prose also is very rhythm -driven). Rhythm runs neck and neck w/ arresting imagery as what I look for most intently in judging poetry--my own and others'. I guess conciseness is something I look for too. Poetry can't afford to waste words. I'm not talking about length here. PARADISE LOST is pretty concise.

Question #5: Your thoughts on crime poetry. Do you see it in the classroom from students? Is it encouraged or something best left to creativity (i.e., rather than ask for it)?

CH: Truthfully, I never thought of “crime poetry” as a genre until a month ago, when I submitted to the zine. As for students, though, and others I work with, who include prison inmates and former inmates, the subject area of crime, whether petty (pot possession, underage drinking, etc.) or as serious as felony murder, is voluntarily chosen so often I can’t imagine a need to “assign” it, so to speak. Since Baltimore, alas, has become famous via THE WIRE and HOMICIDE for its high crime rate, writers in this area seem particularly prone to writing about crime. Several of my own poems include crime in other aspects of the city they explore. My publishing company, BrickHouse Books, Inc., brought out a choreopoem modeled on Ntzoke Shange’s famous FOR COLORED GIRLS. . . . written from a male point of view by the members of the Maryland House of Correction for Men’s Writers’ Club. The whole book is a long, multi-part crime poem.

Question #6: Okay, what’s that like (working with incarcerated talent)? A dear friend of mine (and a great writer), spent 10+ years on the other side of the bars and used his time to gain both a BA and MFA from the Boston University prison program. Rick Marinick is his name and he wrote a masterful crime novel called, Boyos. Honest to God, a classic in the crime genre deserving of George V. Higgins-like praise. He now counsels those about to be released. You stated you’ve been doing this for decades. Obviously, you enjoy the work you do. What’s it like?

CH: It’s an amazing experience. If you’re ever feeling kind of undervalued as a teacher, you need to teach in a prison. (I always “went inside” as a volunteer, not as a hired teacher. I tend to do a lot of things that do not earn me any money!) Inmates want every ounce of your knowledge, your energy. And most do not want to be told,” OK, that’s good enough, that’s OK (for a prisoner).” They want to be told how to do it RIGHT! I am still in contact with some of the former residents of MHC—they are now solid citizens and community activists; for them as for many, writing was a way of learning and of “doing their own time.” BTW, a fairly recent BhB book is a collection of essays written by Walter Lomax, a MD man who served 39 years for a crime it was finally shown he could not have committed. He wrote the essays when he was editor of THE CONQUEROR, the residents’ monthly magazine. Note: you say Residents, not Inmates.

Question #7: Are there classical poems dealing with crime you can think of offhand? Is it something the world has ignored or mis-categorized?

CH: If you count attacks on women, murder of black people, Jews, other "minorities," prison atrocities both in the US and in gulags etc., much great poetry IS crime poetry. (I have worked w/ prison writers for decades, btw.) I’m not sure about “classical” in the Greco-Roman or Renaissance sense, except of course for ‘TO LUCASTA, FROM PRISON”; however, I think Margaret Atwood’s dramatic monolog spoken by a prison torturer is a classic in the iconic sense. I think I’d like to make a small poem simply by excising those paragraphs near the end of Camus’ “l’Etranger” in which the murderer about to be executed likens the guillotine to a piece of kitchen equipment.

Question #8: Name a few of your favorite poets (female and male) contemporary and/or otherwise …

CH: Chaucer, Shakespeare and Donne, of course. Once upon a time I determined be either a medievalist or a Renaissance/17th-C scholar. Oh, my answers are too obvious: Whitman, Dickinson, Yeats, Eliot, Pound (despite the latter two’s horrible politics and chauvinist piggery); Plath and Sexton; Hecht; Wilbur; Heaney, Larkin; fast forward to Henri Cole, Kate Ryan, Patricia Smith (not to be confused with Patti Smith, whom I also love); Harryet Mullen; Marilyh Hacker, Moira Egan, and indeed all the sonneteers represented in HOT SONNETS, just out from Entasis Press, edited by Moira and me (shameless plus). And so many more. OMG, Wanda Szymborska!


Question #9: Bukowski: Genius, crude or meh?

CH: All 3. The “meh” aspect stems largely from his tending to be Johnny One-Note and also to write WAY too much. And I guess I can’t quite forgive his attitude(s) toward women—just as I can’t forgive T. S. E.

Question #10: In my comments about your piece, I write: It’s a sexy poem intended to be so (as the author explains). The Sweet Talk was daring and intimate, perhaps baiting the hook with an invitation of a misogynistic vernacular (if that’s where one needs or desires to go), but with the seducer transforming it to advantage.

I have to know, how far off the mark might I be?

CH: Not a bit! Kudos!

Question #11: A follow-up to the above. The last lines (below) evoked dual responses from Ann Marie (my wife) and myself. She saw it as the eternal dance between men and women. My take was probably a typical male assumption/fantasy; the seduction of a younger partner (what he wants, needs or desires?)

Or say, "Happy Day, my Ancient"; I'm your
whole history of mothers, and mothers work

like this: put something in, get something out.
In, out. In, out. Baby, I’m a sweet machine

Again, how far off the mark might we both be?

CH: You’re both right. No, really, you are. (I speak as one whose 2nd husband was her junior by 25 years.) (That was a dumb idea, btw. Ask to see my funny little poem on a related subject). Never mind—here it is in all its 5-5-7-5 syllable glory:

A Cougar Regards Her Boy-Toy

Bless his sweet ass, but
Did he have a stroke?
He can’t remember a thing
From when I was young.

Final Question: After reading and listening to the poem, then reading your confession, one has to wonder: Okay, so was the guy deaf, dumb, blind, all three or what?

CH: No, just in deep denial. (crone-like chuckle)

Thanks to Clarinda for sharing her work and thoughts with us and for putting up with my dopey questions. She’s a sweetheart, doll, wonder woman and extremely talented writer. Now, all yous TK readers, go look up the 5-2 crime poem page, read and share your thoughts with the authors. And all yous poets, submit to the 5-2 ... go for it!

—Knucks

Some fun with the poetry of my youth ... and so on.

Herman ...



Speaking of Bukowski, my favorite Barfly scene ...



Mike Myers doing Jerry Lewis?



Something more serious ... it was years (30 or so) before I remembered the lines starting frisch weht der vindt was from a poem I’d had to read in college ... how I remembered it was hearing and reading the libretto from Wagner’s Tristan Und Isolde. After that, how do you not read the poem a few more dozen times?

Friday, April 6, 2012

Reviews (books/movie) ... The Road to Roo (Kevin Harrison) ... An Arthritic Daily Double ...

Amici:

The half-Irish/half eye-talian Principessa Ann Marie says if I like a movie, book, play or opera, it’s likely she’ll want to kill herself watching/reading the same thing. When I told her one of my reading assignments this month for the MFA program was Dubliners, she said, “Oh, Christ, you’ll probably love it.”

Bada-boom, bada-bing, she nailed it. I love it. So much so, I’m thinking of forging ahead to Ulysses.

No, not the Cream song, Tales of Brave Ulysses, the book by J.J. The stories that make up this bleak picture of Joyce’s Dublin are open-ended wonders and make me all the more anxious to visit the Emerald Isle some day. If you’re into dark, it’s a cheap enough adventure on Amazon (less than 4 fazools). Which was my favorite? The Dead ... go figure.


The Bad Girl ... author Mario Vargas Llosa does obsession like I’ve never read it before. Spanning several decades, Ricardo Somocurcio’s obsession with the bad girl brings on more heartache and emotional torture than any dozen men should endure. This is an across the globe (as well as time) obsession that includes South America, Paris, Cuba, Japan, back to Paris, Spain and back to Paris once again. Critics claim it is a retooling of Madame Bovary. So now I don’t have to read Madame Bovary? I’ll read it anyway, but this one was worth the two reads I gave it for class. Excellent.


This was a wonderfully (dark) surprise last week when I’d had my fill of the political nonsense forced down our throats daily on television. NetFlix has become my retreat and sometimes I’ll just follow an actor/actress/director, etc ... this time I followed Kate Dickie, a Scottish actress. It’s very suspenseful (because you won’t know why she’s doing what she does until near the end), but it’s well worth the trip. And, yeah, wife, it’s dark too ...

Oy vey ...



Kevin Harrison … I’ve posted about this singer before, but now it’s his Momma & Poppa doing the hawking, so here they are, Mrs. & Mr. Harrison, on their baby boyo ...


From Momma Harrison: Turns out my son, KEVIN HARRISON, is not going to be trying out for American Idol any time too soon, but ... he would love the opportunity to play at Bonnaroo (you know - the rock and roll festival down there in Tennessee), so we could surely use your help in .... “The Road to Roo”



If you’re on Facebook, please consider taking a moment to check out the following site below and cast your vote .. that you believe Kevin Harrison should be in the top ten ranking for an opportunity to play at Bonnaroo!

It’s not too painful a process (I’m not normally a Facebook fan - right Nadine?) and there is some really great music to listen to at the same time. Right under Kevin’s picture, click on the center blue play button. This is who and what you’re voting for Friends!

It’ll be so much fun you’ll want to Vote Every Day .. and you can through April 16th!

As always, thanks for your support,

Linda Harrison

one more thing please...spread the word... SPREAD IT!


From Poppa Harrison (this was my favorite): Hey all ... if you can take the time vote for this guy, then click share. Then tell all your friends to do the same. You can vote every day and for every vote there is a beer on me. (If you can find me) He appreciates the support and I appreciate him getting rich and famous so I can get off the damn UPS truck. Thanks all and pass it on. Happy Easter!


So last week I found out I have cervical arthritis and some arthritis about an inch above my right Achilles heel. So now it hurts to type in certain positions (how fucking convenient is that?) ... and I walk with a limp most of the day. Of course I blame my mother (her genetic makeup) and she blames my football, baseball, weightlifting days ... and, of course, my father.


For those of yous who missed last Monday with Momma Stella, here it is again:

MS: Don’t forget the sfogliatelle Easter Sunday.
Me: (animated) Oh, with the sfogliatelle already! How many times you gonna tell me?
MS: Make sure, you pain in the ass.
Me: Remind me again so I can blow my brains out.
MS: Just don’t forget. And get the other pastries, too. Like when we went to Aunt Fran’s for Thanksgiving.
Me: Forgetaboutit. That place was in Staten Island. I’d have to spend the night before on line.
MS: Well, don’t forget the sfogliatelle.
Me: Ma, you want sfogliatelle for Easter?
MS: (animated) What the hell did I just say?
Me: I forget. What?
MS: (very animated) Oh, Jesus Christ, this kid. Don’t forget the fucking sfogliatelle!
Me: What kind of sfogliatelle?
MS: Go home! Now! Go.

This Sunday I’ll be bringing her the Sfogliatelle, even though she gave me arthritis. How good a son am I?

Forgetaboutit ...

—Knucks

The band audition was put off because the bass player was sick ... so it’s rescheduled for the week after Easter ... time to get in the mood? Sure, why not ... because what drummer doesn’t like playing with his mallets?

I couldn’t embed from Youtube, but here’s the soundtrack.