If I want to whistle, I whistle ... A tough look at a mother-son-brother relationship from inside a juvenile prison. This film is as understated as the countryside/prison, but will hold you tight to the screen.
Heavenly Creatures ... Early Kate Winslet ... directed by Peter Jackson. Based on a true story that will curl your toes. I was literally cringing at the darkest moment of the film, saying, “No, don’t do it.” Interesting stuff/great acting all around.
Cinema Paradiso ... why I’m so crazy about my wife ... we initially came together because of La Vita e bella (another story for another day), but this one solidified us forever. You don’t cry from this eye-talian classic, you have no heart. A beautiful soundtrack accompanies a great film (and it just so happens that a film reviewed here before my trip to Shutter Island (Malene) was also directed by the same genius, Guiseppe Tornatore (a good Sicilian boy) ... nothing short of brilliant.
And here’s another look at one beautiful woman (and another great coming of age movie by Tornatore) ... Malène ... turn up the volume, it’s worth it ...
Okey, that was cruel ... but here’s something (an author) every writer should pay attention to. William Kennedy ... I first read Kennedy about a dozen years ago, starting with the first of his Albany trilogy, Legs, then Billy Phalen’s Greatest Game and finally Ironweed. I reread him a few years ago, but before I went on to other works of his, my wild and crazy Russian phase took hold and I abandoned way too many great books for a few too many years. Professore Joe Cerami, 95th Street in Canarsie, West Point class of 1971, Penn State class of 2007, Class of 2007, Ph.D. Public Policy Political Institutions Public Management, U.S. Army, Field Artillery Officer, Operations and Force Development, Strategist, The Bush School of Government & Public Service (Senior Lecturer in National Security & Director, Public Service Leadership Program) sent me the link below (click on the link, writers). Not a bad resume for a Canarsie kid, eh?
Monthly Disclaimer: For those unfamiliar with Temporary Knucksline, this is our (now) monthly disclaimer ... TK allows one commentator aside from the ugly Knuckster ... that commentator is the Doc ... or, as he’s known around here (sarcasm intended), signor compassion (his columns are titled "The Doc says"). While I’m more a bipartisan curmudgeon and pick on both major parties with passion, Doc focuses on anything left of Attilah the Hun (and has two favorite targets ... President Obama and yours truly). Today it’s my back to school days he’s focused on (oy vey). Occasionally he also picks on either our super dog (Rigoletto) and/or our super mouse (Spartacus) (some of yous haven’t met them yet). Doc shoots from just right of (crazy) Sara Palin’s porch politically and is an expert marksman. He is also a hell of a writer (has written a terrific survival novel we all hope gets picked up soon). So, welcome to Temporary Knucksline (TK). Those unfamiliar with the drivel here, try not to be offended ... and if you are, imagine you’re me. Trust me, it ain’t easy being me ...
Here now, the Doc.
Dear Chaz,
Please tell me that you’re finished with college. If I had to read another episode of the madcap adventures of you and your zany compadres, Bluto and Flounder I think I would stick needles in my eyes. What is it about people going off to college that suddenly makes everything romantic and earth shattering? You took the ferry to an island. All of a sudden, you’re a pirate. You used to take a ferry to an island every day of your not too distant working life and you didn’t feel like a pirate. You felt like a schlub.
You and your pirate cohorts jumped in the water. Hate to break this to you Captain Jack, but it’s summer time. A lot of people are jumping in the water. They consider it a vacation not a life or death challenge.
While you and the other college kids were brainstorming did you come up with any solution to the 14 trillion dollar deficit or did you just ponder how to fix the weak coffee? Put in another fucking scoop, laddies. Now go back to working on the huge freaking hole in the economy.
In your absence, Mark Halperin said The Bamster acted like “kind of a dick” at his press conference. I don’t have any comment. I just like saying it.
Personally, I missed you Big Guy. I just don’t want to read any more stories based on Ferris Bueller goes to The Rock. The Ferris Bueller story involved a handsome young kid and a classic Ferrari California. You’re a fat old guy with a mortgage and a Volvo.
Here’s a gift for you, matey. (Say this in your pirate voice) One pirate is talking to another pirate: “That’s a fine looking earring you have there, me hardy.” “Aye, I got them in Jamaica for a dollar a piece.” “Not bad for a buck an ear.”
See you on Independence Day Doc
And while we’re being patriotic (and our guys remain undefeated in 2011):
Goldman announces its heartfelt gratitude for being bailed out and will dump 230 New York jobs: "Goldman Sachs Group Inc. said it will cut 230 jobs in New York City between September and March next year, according to a N.Y. Department of Labor filing Wednesday. While the cuts represent less than 1% of Goldman's global workforce of 35,700, they come on the heels of reports that the bank is hiring thousands of employees in Singapore, Brazil and India."
Isn’t the “free market” great? (sarcasm intended)
Way to go Barry ... thanks for protecting all the American workers who voted you into office. Nothing like Hope and Change and an unemployment check to look forward to over the summer into the new year.
On the other side of the circus tent are the Republicans. These are two possible choices (because they aren't locked up in a rubber room somewhere). Okay, that was a few years old, but really? This is the best either side has? Barry and Bachmann? Oy vey ... Dodger Blue ... bankrupt? The Dodgers? No sweat, let our illustrious government take over ... we’ll have them solvent in no time ... then they can follow Goldman Sachs’ lead and find players to exploit over in Singapore, Brazil and India.
First, the last installment of our SNHU Summer Residency readings ... Ken Butler’s wonderful tale of the morning after our dance party on the island of Shutter. A TK bipartisan political rant follows Ken’s terrific story.
Rise and Shine
Oh, yes, the party last night. Of course I remember it. It was the first thing I thought of when I woke up this morning. Well, not the very first thing. The very first thing was the realization that I was in bed fully dressed. I usually retire each evening in shorts, my silk-pajama days long gone, along with the pajamas. But this morning I was between the sheets in sneakers, jeans and a Polo shirt. I immediately took note of the fact that I don’t own a Polo shirt.
I painfully opened my eyes, curious as to why, prior to bed, I would have used apple cider vinegar instead of Visine. Or a tile-caulking substance to brush my teeth. I needed a drink of water so desperately, I actually said the word “drink” aloud, like a helpless child or a lost prospector. It came out with the “d” replaced by an “h” – “hrink -- hrink.” I kept a plastic pitcher of water, always filled, close to my bed. It was not there. I never reached the point of pondering where it was as I suddenly realized that this was not my room. It was not the arrangement of furniture, as the cells at this end of the compound were pretty identical, but I would never have owned a “Hello Kitty” beach-towel. Nor the other personal items set neatly around the unit. I was now occupied with hoping that the dried blood-stains on the pillow were not mine, either. This was not as alarming as it sounds. Clearly no one had lopped off an arm. The rust-colored dribble two inches from my vinegar eyes was more along the lines of a cut lip, but my lips, at least, seemed intact.
I lay there motionless, pretending I was dead. I was doing a passable job, when suddenly, the air outside my space burst forth with the sound of harmonized voices, unnervingly close. They were singing a song set to the tune of ”The Camptown Ladies,” but some clever soul had penned new lyrics about rising and shining and upping and at’emming,, doo-dah, doo-dah. I needs must rise, I thought. I rose unsteadily to my feet, with an ax-split canteloupe for a head, and stumbled into the blessedly private bathroom, bless you, Lord, bless you. My cowardice compelled me to splash my face with cold water before facing the mirror.
The reflection was not too bad. My rosy sun-tan covered the green flesh-tone, and my raw, pink eyes would relax behind dark glasses. I particularly admired the small and tasteful gold loop in my right ear-lobe. I should mention at this point that I do not wear an earring.
There are some situations too extreme for panic, like an approaching freight-train. I stared at my blood-caked, swollen ear with the calm clarity of a mescaline high. The happy chorus moved on happily, and I thought it best that I vacate this room before the three bears came home. I made the bed with the sure and steady moves of Katherine Hepburn in her final years. I opened the door and peered cautiously down the porch in both directions, confirming there was no one normal around, and walked briskly to my actual room, like a shoplifter making for an exit.
On the way, I formulated a theory about the earring. One of my residency buddies was a big, bald, bearded, burly bastard named Beal who looked like a bouncer in a biker bar. (I am partial to alliteration.) He wore Harley caps and Gypsy Joker tee shirts, but in fact he sold wicker. It seemed likely he had bestowed the piercing upon me, which conjured up disquieting feelings of my consensual but now regretful violation. I also remembered he had fallen backwards off the porch. I could not recall if he had gotten back up again.
One was not allowed to swim in the chill Atlantic so early without a life-guard on duty, but surely one could wade in up to one’s knees and go soak one’s head if one were in crapulous straits, as this one was.
I stumbled to the pebble-carpeted beach like Hart Crane heading for his last dip, removed my sneakers, rolled up my pant-legs and waded in. When I had reached a workable depth, I submerged my head, holding my breath as long as I could. While I was under, I decided not to find the owner of the polo shirt, as this might lead to unpleasantness. I whipped my head up from the icy salt water like some model in Jamaica, and turned to walk back. An old man in a straw hat and baggy shorts gave me a quick glance and said, “You must be one o’ them writah fellas.”
Kenneth Butler Star Island, NH August, 2010
A TK Bipartisan Beef ... Okay, the ugly one says, “So where’s my end?” After the $700 billion dollar bailout of Wall Street, I’m wondering where my share of the profits from my investment are being kept. For one thing, I’m unemployed these days and can use a little spike in income. For another thing, I’m feeling a little bit more ripped off than I did originally; seeing how they not only recovered on my dime, they had record earnings. Last night Chris Matthews was spinning his usual party talking points while forgetting a few key facts. The maven of Hardball suddenly wants both parties to come together and punish Wall Street with heavier taxes. He wants them to pay their “fair share” ... he wants Democrats to point out to America how it is Republicans who are speaking on behalf of Wall Street.
Interesting, I thought, how a Democrat controlled Congress and Senate couldn’t work for the people who elected them and their Democratic President. They failed on national health insurance, they haven’t generated much employment while the biggest contributors to their campaign (Goldman Sachs) keeps reaching new highs in profits. They did manage to involve us in a third war (with a fourth on the backburner), but unemployment rates hover around 9%.
Interesting, I thought, how the only parties promising to protect the American worker is either socialist or communist. And since we can pretty much count on any government system going corrupt so long as we remain a capitalist economy, a very strong case for anarchism exists.
And for all the crying against the “evils” of socialism, corporate America sure seems to be benefitting from government handouts (the bailout that saved the rich being but one of the many perks corporate America gets to protect itself with).
Ralph Nader might get something done, but he’d have to be given a chance and both major parties aren’t about to let the rest of the country hear what anyone else has to say.
What we all know won’t help the American worker is either of the two major parties (Democratic or Republican). Those two couldn’t be more corrupt (literally, I think it’s impossible).
The Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann sideshows are just that--sideshows. A pair of lunatics, one scarier/crazier than the other; both ignorant as most rocks. The “Hope We Can Believe In” slogan has turned into a punching bag joke line. Hell, we’re still waiting for Obama to find “some comfortable shoes” so he can walk the picket lines in defense of collective bargaining (another campaign promise he went bust on).
“Because workers deserve to know that somebody is standing in their corner.”
As for the wars ... well, we seem to be involved in more now than ever before. So much for “the wrong war in the wrong place at the wrong time ...”
Interesting, I think, how we all keep taking it. A Congressman sends pictures of his pecker over the internet, something any of us would be “fired for cause” for and thus precluded from receiving unemployment, but Anthony Weiner will have lifetime health benefits and a pension because he got to resign? Interesting, I think, the idea of a pension. Teachers in Wisconsin average $42K were demonized by lunatics on the right anxious to blame them for bankrupting America. Did those same lunatics not have to participate in the bailout of Wall Street? We already know Democrats, except for those in the Wisconsin Senate, kept their safe distance from those protesting their right to collectively bargain. Party of the people? Really? Democratic loyalists can continue to kid themselves all they want. Holding back a vote for a third party (socialist, communist, green, libertarian, take your pick) from fear of a Republican President has produced yet another disaster (with a majority in both houses upon election, he turned into Obama the ineffective right quick, unless of course, you were one of Wall Street’s privileged).
All I know is I was working 7 days a week under the moron who insisted on tax breaks while going to war in two countries and deregulating us into a near depression. The eloquent one has overseen my 7 days a week turn into 0 days a week (a.k.a., unemployment). Turns out neither President was better than the other. Neither seems to have known enough to run a lemonade stand, never mind a country. Wall Street continues to flourish while the middle class gets beaten down at every turn. Do you really think there’s a difference between parties? Do you really think that oath of office has to do with protecting the constitution? Something tells me it should read the way it is: to protect and preserve corporate America at any and all costs to the taxpaying public.
It doesn’t get much more frustrating than it is today, although I’m sure this government (both parties) will find another way to screw all of us before the year is out. Maybe letting oil jump to $5.00 a gallon ... or charging the same for a gallon of milk.
The good news was New York FINALLY passed the gay marriage act ... so good for New York. It’s a bit ironic that in a land where all men are created equal, we’re still having to depend on legislation to grant equality. Then again, this country had little problem with slavery for a few hundred years ...
Like our motto says ... leave the political party, take the cannoli.
Some wake up on a fine summer’s day and see inspiration all around them; the beautiful blue sky, the ocean’s waves breaking on the rocks, the smell of the sea, the sound of a (fuckin’) foghorn ... and then there are some (our Stephanie Milligan) who wake up, observe nature and all its raw wonder and are inspired to write poetry ...
PMS plural male stressors pulse moving slow pulpy milky sediment pancake maple syrup pale mourning siblings proud mom story porn mangles senses promise multiple sins predict malefic sunbursts pedophile meet satan please more sex protect moral status pillow muffles screams pirates must sail prevent mass suicide primitive maggot species plot makes sense
The Oklahoma Kid ... Daniel Mitchell and I met at registration our first day in the program ... we hung out from time to time and he told me some very funny stories about a more rural life than I’m used to, teaching kids and living in Alaska (where an 8 foot Moose scared the shit out of him in the middle of the night when it walked across his Alaskan porch). Daniel also found his way down to the dock just about every morning to jump in the frigid waters off Shutter Island with the Shutter Island Polar Bears. Here’s his story, The Polar Bear Shuffle:
Day 1:
The first morning on Star Island I wake to the sun slashing through my window, the room far too bright, and decide, “OK. This is crazy, but I’m doing it anyway.” On my bathing suit the hula girls laugh. My flip-flops squeaking at each stride, towel at port arms, I walk out on the porch, and everyone stares. They’ve all got that expression you reserve for whack-jobs at Wal-Mart as I cross the porch and head for the ocean. Even the air is too cold for this, and I only keep moving because they’re watching, waiting to sneer when I fail.
I crunch down the gravel beach, lose the t-shirt and towel, drop the flops, and step in. I look down as I wade through bejeweled bits of broken shells, like broken dreams. The crystal waves rise with each step and I forget the watchers. This isn’t for them any more. This is for me, my own personal baptism.
Day 2:
The alarm croons jazz, and I think, “This is stupid. It serves no purpose. You’re pounding your pride. Just go back to sleep,” and notice I’m already dressed and reaching for the door.
The hula girls are less mocking this morning, a bit uncertain, as I join the gathering crowd. Our cheerleaders, the Polarettes, wrapped in jackets and jeans toot happily on their kazoos, as we pause for a picture on the gangplank, and a chant builds below me,
“We are the Polar Bears. We swim anywheres. We’re coooool.”
I dive in second with all the grace of a dead seal and manage three minutes before the intense pain in my now tiny testicles, threatening to crack like ice cubes, overcomes me, and I flee gasping.
Day 3:
“This is stupid. This is stupid. This is stupid.” I chant as I stumble down the stairs, late, chasing the happily chatting Bears down the pier. This time I wait my turn among the crowd, veined hands clapping, voices swelling as each new splash resounds. Some enter singly and some in groups holding hands, smiles for one and all. I do my dead seal dive, my walnuts soon to be peanuts, wincing in anticipation. I make it longer this time. One minute, two, four, eight, and the pain goes away. Suddenly I’m warm. I wonder briefly if this is the first sign of hypothermia, or someone’s bladder just let go. Either way, it’s a beautiful thing.
Graying voices all around me now the pure cries of children as we frolic in the waves. Before I know it, I’m welcomed in and extend my feet to join the synchronized star of silliness, soles touching as we turn. Souls touching as we turn.
“We are the Polar Bears. We swim anywheres. We’re COOOOOOL.”
The Drive Home ... Charlie & Mae, soaked to the core, loaded up the Volvo and headed south on I-95 for New Jersey. It was a fairly quick trip and thoroughly enjoyable except for one misdirection (a sign for McDonald’s that left us driving around New Hampshire/Massachusetts for an extra half hour) ... fortunately for moi, I had Mae along for the ride ... all of us in the program (the 12-step anger management program, that is) know Mae as a very calming influence ... and that came in handy when we stopped to ask some guy in a truck where the McDonald’s was ... half an hour later, it went something like this.
“The fuck is this place?” I said.
“The fuck do I know?” Mae said. “I don’t live this shit state.”
“I was gonna say excuse my French, but I’m glad you let loose, Mae. You seemed bottled up about something since we left Portsmouth.”
“Fuck you, Charlie.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
No, no, no ... of course it didn’t go like that. The F-words (a few MF words and the like) were all mine ... and just about when I thought I might play bumper cars with a few foreigners (New Hampshire/Massachusetts drivers), Mae actually did calm me down.
Okay, so she spiked my coffee with Valium, but I did find her prayers soothing. I even remember one of them.
“Oh, please, Lord ... help me calm this crazy white man before he runs us into the back of a tractor trailer.”
Mae is a sweetheart ... and I got to meet her wonderful husband, Chan, when we made it to Casa Stella safe and sound ... and no sooner did she plead with me not to show Chan (a drummer himself) my drum room, I ran him upstairs to visit those bad boys. Mae has been telling Chan drums won’t fit in their house and I showed him how they fit for a 315 pounder (and I have about 150 pounds on Chan so you know his kit will fit even easier).
Drummer’s stick together ...
One-liners about the Pelicans (the kids who worked on Shutter Island):
I have two in my pocket. Don’t tell anyone.
When you push her make sure she doesn’t break an ankle. Make sure she breaks her neck.
I’m just going to put on my strap-on.
It sounds like a choir of drag queens.
This two finger thing is amazing!
The Jersey Connection ... Back to Me and Mae (or Mae and Me) ... sometimes when I’m driving I like to play ”make believe”. Admit it, you all do it. You know how when you slap the top of the hood like Kojak used to do it and make police siren sounds as you drive a little faster? For some reason, after getting lost looking for McDonald’s, I thought “we need to make up some time” ... and because French Fries had been on my mind, I thought, French Connection ... except there were two Jerseyites in the car so it couldn’t be French ... although Mae did seem a bit confused when I called her Popeye a few times ...
We’re winding down the Summer Residency posts and I haven’t been able to find Ken Butler. If anyone has his email address, etc., please have him contact me.
Two Guys on all they missed while on Shutter Island ...
“You hear, that jackass died?” one guy said.
“Which jackass?” the other guys said.
“I don’t know, one of the jackasses. You know, those morons try to kill themselves and film it.”
“Huh?”
“Forgetaboutit. You hear about Weiner?”
“Oscar Mayer?”
“Huh?”
“Weiner.”
“The fuck you talkin’ about?”
“You started it.”
“How about Bulger?”
“Whitey?”
“Yeah, they finally bagged him. Only took them sixteen years.”
“Because they couldn’t catch a cold without a rat, the FBI.”
As some of yous might have surmised, the weather on Shutter Island last week turned from truly gorgeous to truly horrific (i.e., the setting from the Movie Se7en came to mind more than once). As Wiki put it: In an unidentified city of near-constant rain and urban decay ... substitute “rustic” for urban decay and you’re on Shutter Island. And for any writer feeling frustrated by a lack of success (whether finding an agent/editor/publisher or anything financial), here’s something to keep your head(s) above water with: Shortly after completing his education, he (Andrew Kevin Walker--the screenwriter of Seven) moved to New York City and began a career in retail at Tower Records. During that time, he worked on several projects, but Walker was unable to find much success until 1991, when he completed the script for Seven. Something tells me Andrew spent the summer of 1990 on Shutter Island ...
But I digress ... there was also a lot of fun on the island of shutter and although some of the jokes may be inside (to those in the program), Darrel Leo’s account (his reading the last night of the residency) was both brilliant and hilarious.
Reflections on Star Island, or Who’s snuggling the rat?
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip……
The rickety boat crawled out to sea. Some chipper college coed narrated the trip by pointing out assorted dead shit that we passed.
“On our right is the first naval, penal, leper, chemical warfare testing institution. “
A first semester student puked over the side.
Near the horizon, there were a few lumps of rock; the isles of shoals. Our destination, our home, our classroom…..our penal colony……I mean writer’s colony.
The hotel was okay. I mean okay in a there’s no hot water, your room tilts like a carnival funhouse, and there’s some bitch on the 2nd floor threatening your life if you wake up her bratty ass kid kind of way.
Katie assured us of the history and calm of the island. But… she’s from New York.
She finds Detroit peaceful.
So Not Tim forgot mixer.
I settled in and let myself steep in the island’s environment. I roamed the rocky shores, watched the waves crash in a violent froth and…….what is up with that fucking foghorn?!
We ventured out, rowing to a neighboring island. Captain Merle lead the way. Some went seeking experience, knowledge, excitement. Some went in search of a Dunkin Donuts. Still we ventured into that heart of smutty darkness and none left unchanged. No, really, we all had to change because of the seagull shit.
In our time of need we called out for our intrepid adventurer. “Craig,” we called, but…. he was not there. We later learned he was getting a mani pedi after his Cosmo shoot.
We welcomed new faculty members. After the first student faculty mixer, they were caught trying to hotwire a boat. Unfortunately for them, it was a row boat. As they trudged up the hill in defeat, Ann chopped the heads off all the petunias. Diane was heard yelling, “Residency on an island, bitches!”
Still, we read, and we wrote, and we listened, and we talked. We talked about books and words and craft and how fucking cool are Hungarian midgets?
I learned so much……how to query an agent, “So, wanna see my manuscript?”
Turtles………...are delicious in soup! Jason will take all the mashed potatoes. I can find literary gems in my waking thoughts like “Who’s fucking singing?”, or “Huh. That seagull just took a shit.”
I learned that My novel is always half done and writing from a fish perspective is hard.
There are 200 thousand manuscripts in search of a home. Mine is just one more lonely sperm swimming upstream. We need a workshop on touching ourselves. Kim is devious with corn.
Rituals and traditions endured. New ones began. Friendships made and strengthened. To paraphrase “veni vedi,…… I didn’t study latin”…..we came, we wrote, we whined about it.
Next summer, I’ll be first on the boat back to Shutter island.
If you’re getting shot at, you’re going to say the F-word a lot.
Sexual frustration is okay.
I always love a man in a headband.
Are you famous?
I’m using the term shit loosely, of course.
My slit became a slat and now I look like a slut.
Coffee anyone? To say the coffee on shutter island was weak is being more than generous (like giving $77 million to a woman who once spilled McDonald’s coffee on herself). Shutter Island brew was pretty much brown water that permitted one to see the bottom of the cup if it was half full. I drink 3 mugs of the heavenly coffee soon as I wake up. One more beyond four in the afternoon and I’m up through the night, so I have to limit it to another dose before three to play it safe. I drank upwards of a dozen “cups” of the swill served on Shutter Island a day and managed to nap in the afternoon and sleep through the night (once that fucking foghorn became elevator music, around 11:00 p.m. or so). Ann Wertz Garvin (one very funny lady) and one of the program’s brilliant staff, was clever enough to smuggle concentrated beans (coffee) aboard the S.S. Minnow and was saved from the Percocet state Shutter Island coffee left us in through lunch and into dinner ... which, truth be told, the four day nor’easter offset by replacing caffeine as a stimulant by day 4 of our incarceration. Ann is a native New Yorker and obviously wise to ways of surviving “rustic”. I’m not sure who managed to capture the picture above of our ferry back to Portsmouth (a truly beautiful city), but a few of our pirates did upchuck their breakfasts on the return trip. As a guy without sea legs (and one who’s spewed on past voyages, both fishing and cruising alike), I focused my attention on a kindle version of a book by the SNHU desert father (Craig Childs), The Animal dialogues ... somehow reading how Craig was almost eaten by a Grizzly Bear made me feel better about our Perfect Storm return trip to Portsmouth. Craig is another of the program’s staff and a truly amazing guy (he danced, he typed on his laptop ... he mentored, he typed on his laptop ... he rowed, he typed on his laptop ... he ate while typing on his laptop ... he even defied the Percocet coffee brew while typing on his laptop ... Here’s the voices of the two guys I kept hearing on that foghorn ...
“Madonna mia,” one guy said. “That fuckin’ noise. What is it?”
“Foghorn,” the other guy said.
“Foghorn? The fuck for?”
“So the ships at sea don’t crash.”
“What ships? There’s six rowboats and a couple of sailboats out there. And that dopey ferry we took here looks like it belongs on Gilligan’s island. And it’s perfectly clear out. Can’t they use a foghorn when it’s foggy out. I mean, not for nothin’, foghorn does have the word fog in it.”
“Maybe, but I seen some other boats out there too. The traffic could get a little tricky.”
“Other Boats? Traffic? Where? The little lobster things? Those guys working them things are tough SOB’s. Tough as nails they are. They don’t give a shit about crashing. I think that foghorn bullshit is for New Yorkers like us, pro’bly some sound track the back of the prison put on by Red Sox Nation motherfuckers.”
“You know what? You’re pro’bly right. Cocksuckers.” Der fliegende Holländer (the most famous “ghost ship” of all--until the Thomas Leighton to Shutter Island, that is) ... but one hell of an opera (although my wife, the Principessa Ann Marie, said she’d kill herself before she had to sit through another Wagner opera) ...
Domani, the Oklahoma Kid (Daniel Mitchell) on his experiences with the Shutter Island Polar Bears (they swim anywhere’s ... they’re coooooool) ...
We’re back! And while I’m asking the Doc to “cease fire” until the summer residency blogs are over (not sure how many yet), I was hearing the voices of two (knockaround) guys throughout our summer residency (conversations you’ll find from time to time below). There were also student and faculty readings and a collection of one liners (things people heard over the course of the residency that were then given to Katherine Towler (author of the Island trilogy reviewed here), which she read at the last night’s festivities.
Part 1 (“Argh!”)
While Anthony Weiner resigned, one of the Jackasses (Ryan Dunn) died and the FBI finally got around to capturing Whitey Bulger ... 16 years after he made fools of them (yeah, right, sending them after Osama Bin Laden would’ve been a great idea), Knucks joined the Southern New Hampshire University (SNHU) MFA troops on campus and at Shutter Island. It’s a group loaded with talent, students and staff alike, and our time together will be treasured for a long time to come (lockups breed camaraderie, don't'cha know).
The “argh!” above has to do with the Shutter Island portion of the residency when some brave staff and students ventured on a journey across the rough seas for Smuttynose Island (where a bloody axe murder actually took place back in 1873). The pirates of the SNHU program took their treacherous adventure on a beautiful sunny day (the last such day before the summer squalls and nor’easters whipped up the last four days of our residency).
It wasn’t just ghosts or goblins or various aggressive naval ships our SNHU pirates had to battle, there were the attacking pigeons (which, Robert 151 Curran later informed me were actually seagulls), too. Lots and lots of them (click on the link below).
That was the first time I heard the two guys voices ...
“What’s up with all the pigeons?” one guy said. “Fuckin’ big, no?” the other guy said. “Yeah and I heard a couple kids in the writing program say they got attacked by them. Had to wave sticks over their heads to beat them off.” “Attacking pigeons? You’re shittin’ me.” “I shit you not.” “I thought they were peaceful birds, pigeons. I see’m on the Staten Island ferry sometimes, onna boats or in the terminals, but all they do is eat and shit.” “Yeah, well, these pigeons, the island over there, they take your eyes out, eat them, then later shit them back out on your head for laughs.”
Some One Liners ...
This is a little piece I wrote about turtles.
We were snuggling a rat. Oh, that’s what they call it now?
I guess we’re having a hootenanny instead of a reading.
I love donkeys. They remind me of my days in show business.
Every time I do it with a student it’s different.
I am actually more of a moron.
This might sound strange because I’m holding a knife and an apple, but you have very pretty eyes.
Shane Remer’s reading:
This story takes place after a husband returns home from work shortly after his wife has. Each of their inner thoughts (italics) are followed by their verbal expressions, starting with the wife. It’s titled… I’m Sorry
Ah, there’s the asshole. “Hey there, how was work?” Slightly miserable, but manageable. “Fine, how was yours?” I flirted with the cute delivery guy so that I could feel appreciated as a woman, something you wouldn’t understand. “Oh, same as usual.” Shit, she just forced a smile. I did something. “Should I make dinner tonight?” Does he have to ask? Why doesn’t he just take some initiative. “No, I’m still full from breakfast.” Why did she mention breakfast? “All right. I’m going to go change then.” Did he not notice that I said something about breakfast? “Okay, dear.” Shit, she forced another smile AND said “dear.” I did something. “How was your day?” Oh… now he’s trying. ‘Bout time. We’re only seven years into this marriage. “You already asked me that.” Something’s definitely wrong. “Is something wrong?” Yeah, you didn’t leave me any milk for breakfast this morning you inconsiderate ass! “No.” She’s still forcing that smile. Isn’t that counterproductive to avoiding those crow’s eyes she’s always worried about? “Something’s wrong.” Well whoopity-frickin-do, you figured it out. Do you want a Nobel Peace prize while you’re at it Captain Dipshit? “Nothing’s wrong.” Okay. Retrace. Is it her birthday? No. Is it our wedding anniversary? No. Shit, it’s probably one of those odd anniversaries, like the first time we kissed, or the first time I did something wrong. “Are you sure?” Are you sure? You’re an asshole. You didn’t leave me any milk, and, now that I’m looking at you I think you should get a gym membership and Rogaine. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’m going to make dinner, how about steak?” Steak? Why would she cook me steak if I did something wrong? “That sounds great.” It sure does, just like a bowl of cereal sounded great until I opened the fridge and realized that my husband is a douche bag. Even Hitler saved a cyanide pill for his wife. “Okay.” She’s smiling again. Why is she walking to the fridge while smiling at me? God dammit this is bad. “I’m gonna go change.” Three… two… one… “Oh no, we’re out of milk.” We’re out of milk? “We’re out of milk?” Ding ding ding! And now for part two of why I’m going to cut your balls off while you sleep tonight… “Yeah, I didn’t have any breakfast today.” Wait. She didn’t have breakfast today? But I went out and got milk. “I thought put some in there this morning.” Oh god, and now he’s going to come up with pre-school lies? I hope you die in your sleep tonight so I can get to that “until death do we part” clause. “You did?” Is she really crying over spilled milk? “Yeah. I spilled the rest earlier today and then ran to the store to get some more that way you’d have some for breakfast. I came back inside and… oh—” His eyes are dropping to the floor. He’s being sincere. “What?” I’m such a moron. “I think I put it in the cupboard. I’m such a moron.” Yep, there it is, in the cupboard. Oh no! I’m seven years into a marriage and guilt tripping my husband over spilled milk. Oh my god, I… AM… BECOMING... MY… MOTHER “You are a moron.” I’m a moron and she loves me. “I love you.” I… AM… BECOMING… MY… MOTHER… The same woman who had six marriages and not one made it past two years! And my husband’s still with me. The moron loves me. “I love you, too.”
And then there were special musical guest stars (Eric Thomas and Helen Wolfson) who really gave all of us a thrill with their musical talents as well as the wonderfully warm smiles they exchanged with each other while playing their instruments; more than a few of us commented on how happy they seemed playing together (truly romantic). I had a short chat with Mr. Thomas the morning we were paroled off the island and made sure to buy one of their CD’s (My Slice of Forever) ... he and his wife were thrilled by the standing ovation they received from all of us grateful SNHU MFA’ers and even more so when we requested an encore (which they did after performing a Robert Johnson blues tune that had all of us clapping along).
This one is for yous Irish out there ...
More very funny readings (including at least one poem) and some more one liners coming ... and if yous thought you had bad weather last week ... here are some of us making our way to the boat home ...
But first, those voices on Shutter Island meals ...
“The fuck is polenta?” one guy said. “I don’t know,” the other guy said, “but it looks like somebody already ate it.” “Try the green shit. Tastes like broccoli rabe, but without the garlic.” “No garlic?” “I don’t think they know what that is up here.” “’Tastes like’ means it ain’t. What is it?” “Kelp, I think the kid said.” “The fuck is kelp?” “Or kale maybe.” “The fuck is kale?” “What am I, the green grocer? Eat the fuckin’ thing.”
And this is for all broccoli rabe eatin’ eye-talians out there ...
“This taut, compulsively readable tale of mob life in and around New York City, Stella’s first novel since 2012’s Rough Riders, has the smack of authenticity on every page … Stella serves up a tasty goombah stew with a splash of Guinness, and no one can make this recipe simmer better than he does.” —Publishers Weekly
As usual Stella’s ear for dialogue is amazingly authentic and accurate, which not only lends credibility to each of his characters but also adds to the headlong pace of the narrative. These themes and the way they influence almost every character elevates the novel from a simple story of murder and revenge. At the same time they demonstrate Stella’s familiarity with present-day criminals and cops, and his mastery at presenting tales that illustrate their world and inner emotions. For those who have yet to discover the joy of Stella’s work, TOMMY RED is a good a place start as any. —Alan Cranis (Bookgasm) “Holy crap. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Why the hell isn't Stella on every mystery lover's must-read list. . . . This taut, tightly presented story of misplaced loyalties and retribution is nicely tied up in a fast-paced tale that, once you get used to the rhythm of the dialogue, just begs you to turn the next page.” —MenReadingBooks
“Stella was often compared to George V. Higgins and Elmore Leonard at the beginning of his career, but now the world of East Coast gangster fiction is all his.” —Mysterious Bookshop
“Tommy Red by Charlie Stella. Mob hit man gets into a snafu. This novel is only 165 pages long. Since this is a Stella novel you can bet it's 165 pages of greatness.”—Lake Mills Library
“Tommy Red builds to an explosive climax that should satisfy readers looking for action, while at the same time offering complex characterisation and thematic complexity that is beyond the reach of most crime novels.” —Crime Fiction Lover
“Stella reminds the reader of some recent episodes that the police would probably like for us to forget, most prominently the Eric Garner incident. Even the mob guys think it makes the cops look bad. There's a lot going on in Tommy Red, and big props to Stella for wrapping it all up in about 150 trade paperback pages. Good stuff and highly recommended.” —Bill Crider
“There are few writers (except possibly Elmore Leonard and George V. Higgins), who can write mob dialogue as well as Charlie Stella … Charlie makes navigating my way though the plot fun. And funny. How can you not laugh at this line. It was a little after one o'clock in the morning when he was thinking he'd like to bite the ass of that Mother of Dragons broad about to take a bath. (Game of Thrones).”—Patti Abbott
“No one writes better dialog, nor allows it to carry the story more than Stella, nor pulls it off better. Tommy Red could deteriorate into a series of scenes of guys bullshitting, but every sentence is an insight into a character’s mind, and one never knows when a prime plot point will emerge from a discussion about the merits of hockey versus football … Tommy Red a riveting tale told in an engaging manner. You know, just as you’d expect from Charlie Stella.” —Dana King (One Bite at a Time)
Stella’s capers are populated with criminals who are more clever than smart and lawmen who get stymied by clever but eventually prevail with smarts. A delight.— Booklist (Wes Lukowsky)
Along the way the reader is treated to some of the finest characterization it’s humanly possible to capture on paper… Stella’s always dark, often violent, occasionally humorous Rough Riders more than stands on its own, and is more than worth your time. — Book Reviews By Elizabeth A. White Sort of like Goodfellas meets Fargo. Check out Eddie’s World and start right in on Rough Riders. You’ll love the ride … Then read everything else he’s done.—East Coast Don (Men Reading Books) Mr Stella makes his story supremely compelling and has certainly made me a believer. I very much look forward to reading his next book – in the meantime, chase this one down, it works like a beaut. —Tipping My Fedora
Let me say right here that I loved this book. Though complex, the plotlines are deftly managed and everything dovetails towards its satisfying conclusion. Stella has a great ear for dialogue, with the New Yorkers clearly speaking a different vernacular to the Dakotans. —Crime Fiction Lover
Stella writes about criminals and cops, killers and cons, as if he knows the territory. This is one of those books that you rip through, eager to see who'll be the last man standing, as you never know who'll get the next bullet. Big, grim, boisterous, funny, and frightening all at once. Check it out.— Bill Crider
Stella’s characters’ voices sound authentic: no macho posturing — just their brutal, hard world. This is one of the leaner crime novels currently out there. For those wanting a serious character piece where the payoffs deliver, reach for ROUGH RIDERS. —Bookasm, Bruce Grossman
Rough Riders has a plethora of characters, many of whom you won't want to like but just might. What seems like true dialogue spews from mouths, FBI and locals alike. I found it very hard to put this book down, even to eat a meal. Author Charlie Stella has a way with words that makes him a master at his craft. Don't miss this one. —Bookloons Reviews (Reviewed by Mary Ann Smyth)
This is a fast and furious thriller that brings back the antagonists in Eddie’s World in a good, the bad and the ugly storyline. Rotating between the northern Great Plains and the New York area, fans will enjoy this action-packed noir although the Feds are too scandalously uncaring about collateral damage or simply deadly avarice. –Genre Go Round Reviews (Harriett Klausner)
Johnn Porno Reviews ...
“Mr. Stella is a natural. As soon as I finished Johnny Porno I gave the book to my son so we could both be wiser-guys. Now I’m going to find all his other novels. He’s a true master.”—Dow Mossman, The Stones of Summer
“... Elmore Leonard fans are going to love Stella’s entirely original contribution to the slice-of-criminal-life genre, down-and-dirty division ... This is the seventh novel from Stella (Mafiya, 2008), who has made the underside of the New York underworld his home.”—Elliott Swanson (Booklist)
“Set in New York City in 1973, Stella’s vibrant seventh crime novel catches the cadence and daily grind of organized crime grunts … Stella tosses an eclectic cast of characters into the mix … admirers of Elmore Leonard and George V. Higgins will be happy.”—Publishers Weekly
“Johnny Porno is in many ways a master’s class on how to write a novel ... The dialog flows so smooth you’d swear you were over hearing someone’s conversation... He drops you in the middle and lets the reveals of the narrative come naturally through the dialog... Bottom line is that Johnny Porno is one of the best books I’ve read so far this year.”>—Brian Lindenmuth (Spinetingler Magazine)
“Stella has fun with DEEP THROAT throughout the book, including the idea to sell fake autographed panties ... the book is so well-crafted and well-paced that it’s going to make more than a few best-of lists when the time comes. Stella never goes for the cheap outs, letting these characters develop over the course of his story ... Not only is it a throwback to the 1970s generation, but one that blows away most set in the present day.”—Bruce Grossman (Bookgasm)
“Based on my experience with Johnny Porno — I haven't read his other books but plan to remedy that soon (Charlie Opera is $2.00 on Smashwords) — I must say that Charlie Stella is one of the best writers the crime genre currently has to offer. He's a natural wordsmith, putting down the way people really talk in a way that still reads smoothly — not an easy task. The fact that Stark House Press, who previously focused on reprinting "lost" pulp novels, chose Stella as their first original author — after author Ed Gorman recommended him upon reading the manuscript — says a lot about his peers' respect for him.”— Craig Clarke (Somebody Dies)
“Psycho cops, bent cops, straight cops, Feds, wiseguys, good women, bad women,really bad women, guys on the make, gamblers, dumbasses, good guys, bad guys. This book's got 'em all (and more), and all so well-drawn that they seem like real people. There are also three or four plots going in, and they all converge in the final pages. I don't know how Stella managed to keep all the balls in the air, but he doesn't drop a one. Stark House's first original is a winner.”—Bill Crider, author of the Sheriff Dan Rhodess series and several other novels
“Stella is of the George V. Higgins school and tells the story through compelling dialogue ... Like Higgins, Stella isn’t afraid to let action occur offstage, to be described by the principals after the fact. In Stella’s hands, this adds to the suspense, as he understands every overt climax lessens tension at its conclusion, while covert climaxes continue to ratchet it up.”>—Dana King, (New Mystery Reader)
“Charlie Stella has a gift for nailing the colorful characters in this seedy little corner of New York. The dialog couldn’t be more authentic, and from page one I was transported to a hot, gritty landscape full of guys who say ‘yous’ and women who are used to being used ... I relished how the focus was on the guys at the bottom of the totem pole, and I got to see what happens to the drivers, runners, and climbers who associate with organized crime. It ain’t pretty.”> —Rebecca Baumann, (Dirty Sexy Books)
A plot whose pacing is as fast as a pack of greyhounds and at the same time, miraculously, as crazily and craftily constructed as a Marx Brothers movie or a Rube Goldberg machine. A hungry menagerie of good guys and bad guys at feeding time. A writing style that’s top-shelf. Some side-orders of Suspense. Romance. Black Humor. All seasoned liberally with Sex, Violence, Drugs, and Rock and Roll. What else will readers find in JOHNNY PORNO? A novel that shouldn’t be this much fun or pleasurable. That’s Charlie Stella’s real crime.—Lynn Kostoff, Author of Late Rain (Tyrus Books 2010), A Choice Of Nightmares (New Pulp Press 2010), The Long Fall (Carroll and Graf 2003)
“This is a hell of a novel. Epic, yet human scale... It s wonderfully fresh and alive.”—Craig McDonald, author of Head Games, Toros and Torsos and Print The Legend
Johnny Porno is a terrific Nixon Era crime caper reminiscent of Elmore Leonard. The story line is fast-paced, filled with action and violence, and stars a seemingly hapless chump struggling to survive in a cesspool. With the fun look at pop culture in circa 1973 enhancing the plot, readers, especially boomers, will enjoy Johnny Porno’s New York joy ride.—Harriet Klausner (The Mystery Gazette)
“... this has all the trappings of classic Stella – decent guys, wise guys of various standing in the mob, good/dirty cops, but most importantly, dialogue that makes you want to stand up and beg for more. Through Stella, you can practically smell the garlic on the breath of the wiseguys trying to intimidate, strain to hear cops jerking each other around through hot dog stuffed faces, wince at the lunacy of an ex-wife going off the deep end, and nod approvingly when someone does a decent thing for Johnny. Why Stella’s books aren’t flying off the main table at the front door of Barnes/Noble and Borders is, in itself, a crime.”—East Coast Don (Men Reading Books)
“Charlie Stella's JOHNNY PORNO: absolutely excellent. Guy does dialogue like no one else.”— Russel D. McLean, Author of The Good Son and The Lost Sister(From an Interview with CRIME SCENE NI (Northern Ireland))
“Johnny Porno is exactly that – a hard man chasing the tail that won’t pay for the tears. By first reminding us of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and then translating its rhetorical question into the vernacular of our romantically challenged times, Stella’s way with words does the near impossible; it finds a way from pornography to romance in the paradox of power and impotence peculiar to all of us: ‘Fuck’s in a name?’”— Len Wanner, University of Edinburgh.
Charlie delivered papers, unloaded watermelons, cooked at McDonalds, cleaned dishes at a catering hall, worked in a cardboard factory, rolled posters, worked in his father’s head shop, was a bouncer, worked security, buffed hallways, cleaned apartments, humped sheetrock, was a ten year union window cleaner atop Manhattan’s skyscrapers, was a word processing operator-supervisor-manager and director, coached football, has had novels published here, Russia, Italy, Poland, Mexico and the UK, and did that knockaround stuff for 18 years before meeting his wife, the woman who straightened him out (in a good way). He earned his MFA degree from Southern New Hampshire University at age 57. He continues to write crime novels and has expanded his horizons to include ghostwriting non-fiction—Dogfella: How an Abandoned Dog Named Bruno Turned This Mobster's Life Around--A Memoir will be published in May of 2015.
