Saturday, May 14, 2011
The statue of David was put up by homeowners who recently moved into the neighborhood. No one has asked them to remove it -- yet -- though some families believe the statue is offensive and needs to go.
'It's there. It's right there,' neighbor Alina Hatcher said of the statue's 'assets.' 'You don't have to look for it. You don't have to stare hard. It's right there.'"
The man told police he went into his kitchen at 9 p.m. Sunday and noticed a different faucet installed at the home on Colonial Drive near Fleming and West Carpenter Roads."
Friday, May 13, 2011
Thursday, May 12, 2011
[. . . .]
Dupree began his career as a member of King Curtis’ band – the two had grown up together in Texas. He then became part of the Atlantic Records studio band. That’s his guitar playing on Aretha’s “Respect.”"
Stepdaughter Susan Chamberlin told the Los Angeles Times that Fuller died after a long illness.
Her most famous association was with Elvis Presley movies, for which she co-wrote 13 songs, including 'Rock-a-Hula Baby' for 'Blue Hawaii.'
In 1994, however, the bad-movie cult that had been circling 1950s cross-dressing director Wood culminated in Tim Burton directing an 'Ed Wood' movie bio starring Johnny Depp. Sarah Jessica Parker was cast in a role based on Fuller, who was Wood's muse and leading lady in oddities such as 'Glen or Glenda.'"
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
[. . . .]
Police have said the woman, who might be 80 years old, stole a purse at gunpoint Wednesday morning outside a Target store and drove off in a dark sedan. It was her fourth stickup in as many days."
A few years back, I reviewed J. D. Rhoades' Breaking Cover. If you missed it then, you can get it now on Kindle.
The drop in accidents surprised Houston police administrators who say a possible explanation is the unusually dry weather during recent months has made driving conditions safer. They also wonder if years of electronic monitoring have made Houstonians better, if not more cautious, drivers."
The money will go into the city's general fund — not back to Plano high school student Ashley Donaldson, who found the cash in an envelope at the Pavillion Shopping Center in North Dallas."
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
We’ve been preaching the benefits of stand-up desks for a while around here — and no one needs this good news more than social media-obsessed web geeks. A recent medical journal study showed that people who sit for most of their day are 54% more likely to die of a heart attack."
If you haven't read Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next bibliomysteries, then you're in for a real treat. Tom Nolan gives an introduction to the whimsical world of Thursday Next, literary detective in this issue. (Here's some advice for newbies, though: start with the first book in the series, The Eyre Affair.)
Have you ever wondered about the loyal wife, silently standing by her disgraced husband, usually a politician, on the evening news? The Good Wife places that enigmatic figure at the center of one of the most enjoyable dramas on TV. It's full-bodied, nuanced storytelling - and possibly features the only time in history that a steamy sex scene has had National Public Radio's evening news as a soundtrack. Find out more in Matt Zoller Seitz's thoughtful article.
Novelist Kelli Stanley is making a splash and her conversation with Oline Cogdill reveals why. It's not every woman who is equally comfortable discussing ancient Roman curse tablets, the second Sino-Japanese War, segregated 1970s Florida, and comics!
Also, Art Taylor talks with Louis Bayard about his acclaimed literary-themed thrillers, the latest of which, The School of Night, focuses on a secret, possibly heretical, society of scientists and artists in Elizabethan England.
Theatrical crime is running rampant across the country and Wm. F. Hirschman has tracked down some of the top perpetrators on Broadway and in regional theater for us. Don't miss his list of classic crime plays - they make good reading!
There's lots more in the new issue. Hope you enjoy!
Witness to Death is a e-book thriller that really thrills and a book that a lot of people are going to be talking about. Check it out.
This time the exposed fabricator was a preacher--though people who monitor this brand of public lie note that members of the clergy are often tempted into such misrepresentations. More curious still, the prevaricator in question seems to have lifted at least some details of his account from the 1992 Steven Seagal SEAL-themed blockbuster, 'Under Siege.'"
Monday, May 09, 2011
He was released four days later after sheriff's deputies realized Hernandez, who said he doesn't drink at all, wasn't intoxicated and that what was in the back of his truck was exactly what he had said — $400 worth of cheese, shrimp and tortilla and tamale dough meant as a gift to his sister."
'I was going to get her balloons and candy and take her to dinner,' Allen told the Post. He said he explained this to Kimbrough, who was holding their son in one arm and a large cooking pot in the other. As he explained his plans, Kimbrough hit him in the head with the pot, . . ."
Riders traveling through downtown stations reportedly expressed alarm after a man asked them for help carrying a duffel bag and a large box."
[. . . .]
Explosive experts with Tennessee Bomb and Arson, Tennessee Highway Patrol and Federal Bureau of Investigation were called to the scene to examine the package."
The altercation between the man and the animal occurred at a home on CR 3182 a few miles south of Cleveland in Liberty County."
His spokeswoman said Mr Walker died on Saturday at his Los Angeles home after a six-month battle with liver cancer.
The band was formed when three unrelated US musicians - Scott Engel, John Maus and Gary Leeds - adopted the Walker Brothers name in 1964.
Their biggest hits included the songs Make It Easy On Yourself and The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine (Any More)."
The machine features a touch-screen that allows users to buy a drink as well as gift one to someone. By entering the recipient's name, mobile number and a personalized text message, the machine generates a code and instructions on how to redeem the beverage at another social vending machine.
There's also the option of personalizing the gift with a short video recording at the machine itself."
Wynter died Thursday of congestive heart failure at Ojai Valley Community Hospital's Continuing Care Center, said her son, Mark Bautzer.
She portrayed Becky Driscoll, the love interest of Kevin McCarthy's Dr. Miles Bennell in 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers,' director Don Siegel's tale of a small town whose residents were being replaced by emotionless duplicates grown in pods."
Sunday, May 08, 2011
this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each between 1000 and 1250 words) I am releasing by way of the following experiment: I am trying to serialize the piece across blogs, by reader request. If you read and enjoy the section below and have a blog the readers of which you think would enjoy a selection, as well, please get in touch with me to be an upcoming host. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.
It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. There is some suspense, in that if a new host does not appear after each posting, the train comes to a halt (back tracking to previous hosts is not an option in this game). So, if you enjoy what you read and would like to host an upcoming selection, please get in touch with me via email@example.com. I welcome not only invitations, but any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.
this letter to Norman Court
I stepped from the car, duffle feeling a grip heavier for Klia’d withdrawn the money all in tens, maybe just my imagination. Leaned to the open window, I handed the letter, the original, toward her, but she kept in profile, not reaching, maybe thinking I’d tease it away from her hand up for it, didn’t want to go through anything else belittling. I placed it on the passenger seat I’d vacated, turned right up the block, not looking back till the crosswalk—her car was there lulling, window open still, face in profile.
Three blocks up I could tell I seemed edgy, legs all clunk with each step, so I purposefully let my pace get sluggish, more-than-casual, strolled with still some vague anxiety on me. I don’t know what I thought she’d do—if she called the police, what’d she say? Even if I was found with this money, I couldn’t be because I didn’t have to open my bag, anything.
I shook all thoughts like that off. Klia wouldn’t do a thing at all, didn’t for one single minute believe she’d seen the last of me, that I didn’t have the letter in duplicate, the replica just as much damning to her as the genuine she’d just bought off me. I did still have a duplicate, she was right, nothing I was gonna hold over her, but she wouldn’t believe that no matter if I’d told her.
I ducked into a fast food restaurant, ordered a burger, a shake, sat as much in the corner of the place as I could manage, waiting out the last of the feeling, for time to dull me out. I took the letter from my bag when I’d done eating, the photocopied pages still in the original envelope—I smiled at myself about that, what’d been the point?
Looking at Klia’s address, it struck me it wasn’t Herman’s, not where they lived now, was someplace Pennsylvania. I pictured an apartment, they’d moved down to Mill Creek, someplace hardly any different except a house, Herman’s job. It didn’t matter. Norman lived in Virginia, according to the envelope, I kind of thought that was close, but then put the letter away, nothing left to do with it but get it to Herman, put it in his hand he got back in at the office, next day.
Something in that thought lingered with me up a few more blocks, into a bar where I took a seat in a booth, ordered a bottle of decent wine for myself, sipped at it looking at the empty space across from me, the shallow brown of the high booth back.
Nothing left to do.
Didn’t seem Klia’d seen it that way.
What’d I said? Whatever, it’d been something to the tune of she didn’t pay I’d find another use for the letter and straight off her thoughts’d gone to Lawrence and not her husband. Why’d that be? Well, seemed I was after money to her, of course, and why’d Herman be a viable source for that from I have a letter his wife’d been going around in back of him?
She’d thought of Lawrence as someplace else I’d go for money’s what she’d thought.
I downed my bottle to halfway, looked at the envelope front, tapping this letter and that, little bugs, little crumbs.
It was she didn’t want Lawrence to know she’d been telling the long and short of their thing to anyone, maybe, either just she thought he’d go sour on her because of it or because it’d put Lawrence in some kind of spot.
She knew he’d’ve paid, that he’d have to for some reason or another.
She’d not been with him maybe in the two years since this letter’d gone missing, maybe further back than that—it was way past her caring Lawrence knew how he’d affected her, she’d want him to know that, probably, more than anything. If there was a chance it’d lead even to meeting face-to-face with him for an I’m sorry or a How could you do this, she’d want Lawrence to have the letter.
There was something else to it if she was trying to keep me away from him.
Away from him where?
I looked at the addresses—Klia from Pennsylvania, Norman somewhere Virginia.
Where’s Lawrence in all of that?
Bottle emptied, I made my way to the bar, asked could they leave a bourbon at my booth, break five dollars for coins and did they have a public phone. I was soft, head a heavy breeze, felt the coins grinding in my fingers, the phone just a wall mount in over by the toilets.
I dialed information, stammered through I was looking for a personal telephone number—really I wondered did they give those out, but they did, provided it was listed.
-I think it’s in Pennsylvania, in Sandbar Pennsylvania, that’s what I have, I said squinting at the envelope front.
-Lawrence Stephanie Glass.
-Lawrence or Stephanie Glass?
-Just Lawrence Stephanie, middle name’s Stephanie. Lawrence S. Glass.
There was a moment or two, I rubbed an itch on the side of my thigh sort of, leaned around the phone, head tip tap tip tap tip tap to the wall beneath a reproduction advertisement for Calvert Whisky. I was staring at the slogan—the Whiskey with the Happy Blend—when the operator said there was no listing in Sandbar, but she had four listing for Lawrence Glass in Pennsylvania and one L.S. Glass Plumbing in Horton.
–Is one of the Lawrence’s maybe in Horton?
-I have a Lawrence Glass in Horton, hold for that number.
I heard a click as an automated voice started giving me digits, padded around myself for a pen, but worse thing was I’d call back I’d heard things wrong.
Hung up, dialed, woman answered almost immediately, hardly the purr of a single ring’d gone off before a kind of short breathed clip of Hello?
–I was looking to talk to Lawrence Glass, given this number for contact.
-I’m with Nyborg Realty, calling back off a message he’d left?
-I think maybe you were given the wrong information.
-It’s Lawrence Stephanie Glass, is it? Horton, Pennsylvania.
I could almost see her blink, shoulders up down, saw her whole expression in the elongation to her first word Ye-e-es, that’s him. There was some muffled sound, her saying something to someone, not Lawrence though, then half a beat later it was He’s out just now—another bit of her talking in another direction, not covering the phone this time, a bark of Pick that up, now—then she exasperated huff out her teeth said I’m sorry.
-No no, not a bit of it, I’m sorry. I can just try him later, you let him know Nyborg Realty rang back—or nevermind, I hear you’re busy, just I’ll try back.
Not even stopping long enough to enjoy my little victory, I was slipping coins back in the slot, got the number for some motel in Horton, placed a call, asked did they know were there buses, a train station anything, how I’d get to them from whichever station.
-You’re coming in on train? Commuter train?
-I am, I said, smiling dumbly like the guy was there to make a face at.
-We don’t have shuttles, but I’m sure a cab’d do it.
-Train stops in Horton?
-No, commuter trains in to Darcy, but cab’d be the best to get here, no buses really.
I chatted back and forth a bit before just hanging up midsentence, bored with the pointless make believe, certainly not going to reserve a room.
I was surprised to find the bourbon at my table, glanced around to see maybe who’d left it, my mind catching up with itself it’d been me as I sat, lifted it, let some of it press up against my lip, swallowing nothing, inhaling deeply, tongue out for the little taste left over the scruff under my nose when I set the glass back to the table.
Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays. Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate. His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novella and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.