Habmum Papus!

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A few minutes after six p.m. (Rome time), the white smoke rose like the answer to 1.1 billion prayers into the Vatican sky. The pious looked on, eyes trained on the balcony as the bells echoed and re-echoed in St. Martin`s Basilica. Perhaps 20 minutes later, Cardinal Medina stepped onto the balcony and announced in his quiet, powerful voice, "Habmum papus!"

We were then introduced to Joseph Ratzinger. The new pope. Pope Benedict XVII.

I was filled with a happiness only God could know for the Catholic people. After their tragedy, the death of their beloved, the world`s beloved, Pope John Paul II, they`ve finally been given once again that image in the white and scarlet vestments. The voice of leadership, the blessings, the validation, they so longingly covet.

I feel a sacrilege.

When in watching the news later that night, after watching Pope Benedict XVII address his people, watching Cardinal Medina perform the traditional informing, if you will, I went out to smoke a cigarette after the news came on, thinking I`d heard all I really needed to hear about the new pope, thinking myself happy with the College of Cardinals` decision. I was reaching for the knob when I heard mentioned Joseph Ratzinger`s "theological brilliance," as the reporter described it. His writings. The subject of his first "crusade," if you will. It was against homosexuality.

I feel a sacrilege.

Pope Benedict XVII, then only known as Joseph Ratzinger, described homosexuality as an "intrinsic moral evil."

I cannot begin to tell you how crestfallen I was. I was, in my heart of hearts, praying for another Karol Josef Wotyjla. I did not get him.

Pope John Paul II was, I felt, a man of love. Pure and unadulterated. Forgiving and charismatic. A man with a soul so pure as to make the pious weep in his presence. I`m sure Pope Benedict XVII will be wrapped inside hearts and adored as much as John Paul II, but I can`t help but feel alienated...hated, afflicted, for now I know what he`d think of me, should I ever be one of the millions in the crowd, waiting anxiously for the opportunity to kiss his ring. With three words announced by a reporter tonight, in the very infancy of his papacy, his words, three small words, managed to alienate an entire race. He called us evil.

I adored Pope John Paul II and I`m nowhere close to Catholocism. It was the personality, the love that seemed to radiate from him lightlike. The acceptance. The shepherd mentality.

Pope John Paul II would never have shot a lame sheep.

For His Excellency: Please. When the trumpet sounds and we rise from the weary grave, God will not overlook us. He will not forget us. I refuse to believe that the sin of a man who would slit the throat of a child or cut the fetus from the stomach of his wife is equal to mine. No words from any book in your library could make me believe this. It is nonsense. If the love--love--between two men or two women is labeled "sin" and that "sin" is said to be tantamount to the sin of a man who rapes his daughter, a woman who shakes her infant son into a coma, then I will not look you in the face, for you have disappointed me. Please, do not label us evil. Do not compare us in any way to a man who would amputate the limb of a child in the heat of war; to a woman who would lock her child in the closet as punishment. Please, do not hate us as I fear you must. Your contempt is a heavy burden on our backs. Please, do not be disappointed in us; instead, be disappointed in the limits of your faith.

For, to label an entire population, an entire race, an intrinsic moral evil is an intrinsic moral evil.



love, t.

Delete this and put your title here--MAKE ME!

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Hello, all you wunnerful pipple. This is a `contest` entry that I wrote on a whim for CritiqueCircle.com, like a few others I recently posted. (Oh, and I forgot to mention, I think, that I finally sold a poem! The Arkansas Literary Forum bought my poem "The Trouble of Saints", so yay yay for me.)
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The object of these "contests" is to exercise your writing mojo. I`ve won two, I`m proud to say. This is the newest one and I`ve just entered it. What do you think?

SUBJECT: Prinicple Lie
PREMISE: You`re in the principal`s office. Why`re you there? What did you do? How do you get out of trouble? And so on and so forth.

My Entry
At the time, Mr. Uchida looked like doom itself. He sat in his high-backed leather chair as though a metal rod replaced his spine and his face was cast in bronze. Eyes whited out by the glare on the lenses of his small, halfmoon, goldrimmed glasses. Hands on top of his desk blotter, fingers interlaced.

The brass buttons of his coat winked at me as he took a deep breath. "Mr...." he looked down at a single sheet of paper on the otherwise immaculate desk. (Not so much as a phone.) "Clyde Lewin. Care to explain what you were doing with Mr. Svetcov?"

"You know what we were doing." I scooted back in the torturous chair and tugged at the legs of my uniform pants.

"Tell me, Mr. Lewin, in your own words." The Chinaman headmaster cocked his head to the left and considered me like a specimen in a jar. "Please," he added. Not as a request, but a nicety.

"We were kissing," I said. I cocked my head to the right. Added, "Sir." Not as an acknowledgement of respect, but a nicety.

"Public displays of affection are strictly against the Academy`s Pledge of Allegiance."

Pledge of Allegiance, my ass, I thought. "We weren`t displaying the affection publicly, sir. It wasn`t made public until one of your prefects popped the lock on the door to Adrian`s room."

Uchida`s jaw bulged like a walnut when he clenched his teeth, but he didn`t comment. Instead, "You signed this pledge, Mr. Lewin, swearing to adhere to all the rules set forth by the Academy. As did your father when he enrolled you and you were accepted into the enclave." He pulled a thin file from the depths of a drawer of his solid oak desk. "Your father. The televagelist, Abraham Lewin. Correct?"

"What does your paper say, sir?"

His spectacles flashed ice light at me as his head turned sharply. "I`d advise you to not use that tone with me, Mr. Lewin."

I looked down at my lap. I argued with myself. Watch yourself, you fuckin` idiot! If he expells you, you won`t be able to see Adrian anymore. Your dad will find out and he`ll send you to some kind of conversion camp. "Not in this lifetime. No fuckin` way," I whispered out loud, desperately.

"What was that, Mr. Lewin?"

"I said, `I`m sorry, sir,`" I lied.

"Your father. He`s a very religious man, is he not?"

"I guess."

"Unacceptable answer, Mr. Lewin."

"Yes, sir."

"I would think I`d be certain in my hypothesis that he would be very disapproving of your...homosexual practices, would he not?"

"I`d imagine, sir. He doesn`t take well to rebellion or love."

Uchida looked at me over the goldrimmed halfmoons. "Mr. Lewin. You made a spectacle of yourself today in a particularly scandalous manner. This sort of behavior is just unacceptable here at Stone—"

I suddenly stood. "Let me interrupt you here, Mr. Uchida, if I may. I didn`t make a spectacle of myself. Nor did Adrian make a spectacle of himself. Your slimy little prefect, Noble Ingram, made a spectacle of us both with the aide of several of your other cumbubble prefects." I leaned over his desk until we were nose to nose. "You, sir, can take this academy and shove it up your tight, unfucked ass. As far as I`m concerned you can call my father as many times as it takes to make your cold little heart healthy. I`m taking Adrian and we`re getting the fuck outta here. Sayonara, Uchida."

"I`m afraid I`ll have to ask Noble and the others to detain you. You are well aware of the rules, Mr. Lewin. The Pledge clearly states a student, under no circumstances, is to leave the grounds without written permission from the headmaster. That is me."

I turned from where I was at the door. Hate so powerful it made me nauseous boiled in my gut and made my eyes boil in lavalike tears. I slowly lifted up the tail of my uniform shirt to reveal the small, pearl-handled pistol tucked into the waistband of my jeans. "Try it, Uchida. Just fuckin` try to `detain` me and see how fast I can make your blood climb the walls." My voice caught like a razorblade in my throat. "It`s people like you who make this world the fucking festering, herpetic, crab-ridden crotch it is today. You, sir, are the horrendous multitude we will hopefully one day quash." I wiped the magma tears off my face and grinned. "Have a nice day."

Rant # 4,764,976

Posted

What quote is it of Marilyn Manson`s that I have out there on my profile? Oh, right, "I WASN`T BORN WITH ENOUGH MIDDLE FINGERS!!!!!"


God, these people fucking piss me off! I am talking about the likes of Lars What`s-his-monkey`s-hind-end-face from Metallica, Sara Evans, the country star, and everyone else who`s taking a "stand" against the "illegal" music downloading.

Oh, wouldn`t you like to hear my thoughts? What`s that you say? "Certainly"? Okeydoke.

~Begin Rant~

What the fuck do these egotist, pantywaist sonsofwhores think they`re doing? Seriously? Do they think they`re going to "make the world a better place" by fucking up their fanbase and causing an uproar in general? Do they think that by whining into a cluster of microphones to a bunch of overworked, yet eternally eager, reporters, that they are going to spread sunshine and merriment? That`s not sunshine, people; it`s piss, alright?

I think Lars said something to the affect of, "If you download free music [off Napster], you`re no better than a thief."

To which I replied to my television set, "No, my child, it is you who are the thief if you`ve been receiving money for that diarrhea you call music, you cumbubble."

(I swear these people are the walking equivalent of douche bags.)

Alright, it`s time I be adult about this. Yes, there are very real advantages to buying the music "legitimately" off the shelf. Say, for instance, sometimes the music you download "illegally" off the Net can be crappy in quality, it can be not even the song you wanted even if you typed in the title and singer expressly because the people who are uploading this stuff couldn`t find their own ass in the dark with a flashlight and four hands. But, I digress. BUT, and there`s always a butt (the gay community thanks God for this, don`t we, dears?), there`s always advantages to downloading the music "illegally" from the Internet. For instance: you want to try it out: say you want to try out Metallica`s new crap before you buy the whole turd; alright, download a single, listen to it. Diarrhea for the ears; don`t buy it, buy it. Burning CDs can sometimes be too much trouble for some people. And who wants to take the friggin` time to label them and copy down all the lyrics when you can run down to OnCue and buy Alanis`s newest dose of brilliance? And there are just some songs that you cannot find on CD that you can find on the Net. Like, who knew the Blues Travellers ever did a duet with The Dave Matthews Band?

You know what the truth is? The truth is this:

Had we, as the fans not

a) Bought the fucking tickets to the concerts,
b) Bought the fucking CDs
c) Bought the fucking "memorbilia" offered to their "adored" fans after the concert--you know what I`m talking about; the T-shirts and visors in the tiki hut-like stand right there next to the snackbar selling nachos for $15 a pop?

then you wouldn`t be where you are today.

Now, were you not so egomaniacal and pantywastish, you`d realize that you`re already bought and paid for. Put out or get out. We`ve already given all we`re going to give; it`s time you gave back just a bit. Get wet or we`re going in dry, sweetheart.

~End of rant~

love, t.

Writing Exercises

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*These are a few writing exercises that I`ve entered into Critique Circle.com`s "contest" that they have every month or some such. I won with the first one. The subject will appear above and to the left of the body of the exercise.*


SUBJECT: What`s In A Scream?

"You hear a scream as you`re entering the gym. Where`s it coming from? What happens?"
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My Entry:

I stopped abruptly at the door, fingers on the brass handle. I hefted my gym bag onto my shoulder and cocked my head to the right.

And it came again. The scream, a woman`s, throaty and piercing. But it wasn`t coming from inside. Well, not really. There`s a swimming pool off to the side of the building, gated, only accessible by way of your membership card.

"Someone help me! Please, someone help!" as the scream blossomed into words.

I pulled the Glock from my shoulder holster and jogged towards the silver gate. The sun glared hotly off the chrome and cast diamonds across the surface of the water in the Olympic-sized pool.

"Help me! He`s gonna—Oh, God, no...no!" The scream once again dissolved into unintelligible, splintering sound.

Patio furniture, cheap but fancied up with floral-patterned pillows and umbrellas, chaise loungers, a man, and a woman is what I saw as I came around that way, Glock drawn.

The woman wore only the bottom half of a two piece bikini, the man held the top half in his two meaty hands, twisting it around the woman`s neck.

"Hey!" I yelled ineffectually. "Hey! Let her go. FBI!"

The man and the woman both turned towards my voice: the man glared, the woman looked at me pleadingly, clawing at her throat. I knew her. She was one of the girls who always took down your membership ID number at the front desk.

"Jamie!" she gurlged my name. Her naked, silicone-enhanced breasts had been forgotten; modesty was dead.

I cocked the hammer on the Glock just to the let the guy know I meant business. "Let her go!" I yelled. I fumbled in my pocket for my membership card, pulled it out, and ran it through the slit in the small electronic box affixed to the gate`s door. I nudged it open with my foot and put the card back in my pocket.

I cupped the butt of the gun with my other hand as I slowly made my way towards the killing man and the dying woman. "Let her go!" I screamed. I put a few pounds of pressure on the trigger. My legs were wide as I slowly sidled up to him. "I`ll give you to the count of three, then I`m gonna take your head off, you hear me?"

"Jamie," the girl begged. Vanessa. That was her name.

"One."

"She`s only gettin` what`s comin` to `er," the man said. He had a thick British accent.

Vanessa fell to her knees as the man wrapped the bikini top tighter around her throat. Her face was red and her eyes were bulging from their sockets like boiled eggs. I only now noticed the bruise on her jaw and the split lip.

"Two."

I was in front of him now. The swimming pool was behind him. "What`s your name, partner?" I asked.

"Giles Burnay," he growled. He looked down at the top of Vanessa`s head and spat on her clean, blond hair. "Will you bloody die, already?"

Giles Burnay was, by the looks of him, a gym rat. The lycra bodysuit he wore molded to his sculpted physique.

"Three. Giles." A few more pounds of pressure on the trigger. "Let her go, buddy."

"Jamie!" Vanessa screamed.

"Giles!" My elbows ached from holding my arms so tight.

"Die, you bloody harlot," Giles grunted.

"Giles!"

"Jamie!"

My heart slowed and the muzzleflash blinded me and the flimsy material of the bikini top broke as the bullet entered Giles` left eye. The crowd that`d gathered outside the gates gasped collectively as Giles fell backward into the pool. The blood turned pink in the cold chlorine blue.

I grabbed a towel off the nearest chaise lounger and drapped it around Vanessa`s shoulders. "Are you okay?" I asked.

She nodded jerkily. "I think—I think so. Is he dead?"

I looked over her shoulder at Giles` body, floating face-up. Dead, blank eyes staring sightlessly into the blinding August sun.

"About as dead as he`ll ever be," I answered as I replaced my Glock in the shoulder holster and unclipped my cell phone from my belt. "How about I call an ambulance for you, huh?"


Subject: The Letter

"After several years, you finally decide to write your estranged parent. What do you say? How do you handle it?"
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My Entry:

Dear Dad—

It was only after a fight with Henry, a bottle of Dom, and a pack of Marlboros that I can write this to you now. (And know this: the fact that you can start a fight between my boyfriend and me even after twelve years of absence on your end coupled with the fact that you`ve never even met him, makes me despise you all the more.)

Mama`s dead. Thought you`d probably want to know that right off. The throat cancer that she contracted (three years after you left) never released its stranglehold. She died in her La-Z-Boy in front of one of her soap operas. We had her funeral just two days ago. That`s what Dom`s for. Henry`s for the holding during the crying jags (spoons mostly). And the Marlboro Man is for the irony, I think. She looked like an effigy in her rosewood casket. She reminded me of a locust`s shell because she certainly wasn`t my mama; I never dreamed any one thing could be so jarringly still. We had her in a crimson velvet gown with seed pearls sewn into the bodice. I thought it made her look like a plaster of Paris statue, like an effigy; too pale. But Henry said it was what she wanted and I listened to him because they`d become very close in the past few months before she died. I fell after the funeral, outside, in the church`s gravel parking lot. My legs wouldn`t hold me up anymore and I went down before I could get to Henry`s truck and Henry couldn`t get to me before the gravel bit my knees and made them bleed through my white slacks. (I really didn`t want to wear black to Mama`s funeral; solemnity be damned. [If you think I`m being maudline, fuck you, Daddy.]) But he picked me up out of the rocks and took me home, made me go to bed for the rest of the day and brought me Earl Grey and wheat toast with cinnamon butter `round the clock the rest of that day. He`s a great guy.

I`m gay. There`s something for you straight out of left field. Put this letter down for a minute if you need to and let that sink in for a bit. Discuss it with Jack or Jim, if need be and time permits. The little boy that you once stood behind, with your heavy arms on either side of my head (I can still smell your Aqua Velva aftershave and hear your butterscotch laugh), the little boy whose tiny hands you once covered with your large, callused, grease-stained own around that plastic T-ball bat (bright orange, if memory serves and it hasn`t mostly this season), that little boy who you taught how to swing ("Rotate your upperbody, Auggieboy. Swivel your hips and keep your feet the width of your shoulders."), to hit that hard plastic ball. That little boy likes other boys` private parts. If you loved me at all I hope you choke on your own heart. I thought you might`ve known already and that was why you left. But Mama told me you didn`t have a clue. Don`t take it too hard, Daddy. Wasn`t my desire to play the lead in my school`s all-male cast of The Sound of Music any indication? My unflappable ability for color coordination? My seeming inability to allow myself to get dirty and dishevelved at play as a child? My boundless love for Judy Garland?

If you`re wondering what precipitated this letter, I can tell you: wonder no more. It was Henry. He loves me and saw my torment. Mama wanted you to know she was dead. Again, something else I didn`t know. Henry told me it was in her will. He went to the reading in my place because I was a coward and he doesn`t hold it against me.

"In the event of my death," she`d had her lawyer, Cecilia Benevedes, write, "I want my son August Foley to notify my ex-husband Marshall Foley, either via US mail, electronic mail, telephone (landline or cellular), telegram, or in person."

I didn`t want you breathing your poison into my ear, so by no means was I going to call you. And to see you in person, I`m afraid, would`ve been tantamount to forgiving you and I wouldn`t piss on you if you were on fire, let alone forgive you.

I think you`d like Henry. They say sons marry their mothers and daughters marry their fathers. I don`t know what this means (it scares me to think about it and so I never do), but Henry is just like you. I hate you and love him with every ounce of my being. He`s a Dolphins fan and a Braves fan and a Razorbacks fan. (He goes crazy during football season, but I won`t let him paint his face.) He`s bigger than me, in body. But I was always small for my age, remember, Daddy? He`s 6`7", 275 pounds. He used to be a bodybuilder, and while he does still go to the gym at least four times a week, his workout regime is by no means as stringent as it used to be. He drives a big black four-door Dodge duley truck, a lot like the one you used to have before you left. He`s a cop, of all things, with the NYPD`s Special Victim`s Unit, sex crimes.

Potpourri (i.e., various happenstances of which you`ve been unawares since you`re abandoning): Mama`s death. My marriage to Detective Henry Silverman. The publication of my first novel. It`s called The Pillars of the Sea if you`re interested. People is calling me a "young Capote." If only. The birth of your daughter`s first child. Annasohpia gave birth to Angela Michaela Alvarez on March 3rd, 2005. She`s stunning. 8lbs, 9oz. Her ears remind me of two perfect pink little seashells. And you missed Mama`s forgiveness. That`s why she wanted me to contact you upon her demise. The above was just extranneous.


The son (you forgot), August Foley

And the nominees are...?

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Yes, sound the trumpets, clang the cymbals, bang the bongs...er, I mean gongs! It`s that time again, ladies and germs.

No, God, no, I`m not talking about the Oscars. *Makes a face* God help me, that is sooo overdone every year. Like an overcooked turkey, tough as shoe leather, dry as a petrified dog turd...Anyway. What I mean is...it`s time for the Edgars! Yes, the Edgar Allen Poe Awards, given out annually to the most outstanding mystery novels of the year. Well, their writers, anyway. :o)

And the nominees are...(can I get a drumroll, please?)

BEST NOVEL

Evan`s Gates by Rhys Bowen
By A Spider`s Thread by Laura Lippman
Remembering Sarah by Chris Mooney
Out of the Deep I Cry by Julia Spencer Fleming
California Girl by T. Jefferson Parker

BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR

Little Girl Lost by Richard Aleas
Relative Danger by Charles Benoit
The Cloud Atlas by Liam Callanan
Tonight I Said Goodbye by Michael Koryta
Bahamarama by Bob Morris
Country of Origin by Don Lee

BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL

The Librarian by Larry Beinhart
Into the Web by Thomas H. Cook
Dead Men Rise Up Never by Ron Faust
Twelve-Step Fandango by Chris Haslam
The Confession by Domenic Stansberry

BEST FACT CRIME

Ready For the People: My Most Chilling Cases as a Prosecutor by Marissa N. Batt
Conviction: Solving the Moxley Murder: A Reporter`s and a Detective`s Twenty-year Search for Justice by Leonard Levitt
Forensics for Dummies by D.P. Lyle, MD
Are You There Alone?: The Unspeakable Crime of Andrea Yates by Suzanne O`Malley
Ballad of the Whiskey Robber: A True Story of Bank Heists, Ice Hockey, Transylvanian Pelt Smuggling, Moonlighting Detectives, and Broken Hearts by Julian Roberts
Green River, Running Red: The Real Story of the Green River Killer--America`s Deadliest Serial Murderer by Ann Rule

BEST SHORT STORY

"Something About a Scar"--Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You by Laurie Lynn Drummond
"The Widow of Slane" by Terence Faherty
"The Book Signing"--Brooklyn Noir by Pete Hamill
"Adventure of the Missing Detective"--Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years by Gary Lovisi
"Imitate the Sun" by Luke Sholer

BEST PLAY

Spatter Pattern (Or, How I Got Away with It) by Neal Bell
Eliot Ness: An Untouchable Life by Max Allan Collins
An Evening of Murder and the Like by Edward Musto

BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL WORK

The New Annotated Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Short Stories by Leslie S. Klinger
Latin American Mystery Writers: An A-to-Z Guide by Darrell B. Lockhart
Booze and the Private Eye: Alcohol In the Hard-Boiled Novel by Rita Elizabeth Rippetoe
The Life of Graham Greene, Vol. 3: 1956-1991 by Norman Sherry

BEST YOUNG ADULT

Story Time by Edward Bloor
In Darkness, Death by Dorothy and Thomas Hoobler
Jude by Kate Morgenroth
The Book of Dead Days by Marcus Sedgwick
Missing Abby by Lee Weatherly

BEST JUVENILE

Chasing Vermeer by Blue Balliett
Assassin: The Lady Grace Mysteries by Patricia Finney
Abduction! by Peg Kehret
Looking for Bobowicz by Daniel Pinkwater
The Unseen by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY

Law & Order: Criminal Intent--"Want", Teleplay by Elizabeth Benjamin; Story by Rene Balcer & Elizabeth Benjamin
Law & Order: Criminal Intent--"Conscience", Teleplay by Gerry Conway; Story by Rene Balcer & Gerry Conway
Law & Order: Criminal Intent--"Consumed", Teleplay by Warren Leight; Story by Rene Balcer & Warren Leight
Law & Order: Criminal Intent--"Pas De Deux" Teleplay by Warren Leight; Story by Rene Balcer and Warren Leight
Monk--"Mr. Monk and the Girl Who Cried Wolf", Teleplay by Hy Conrad

BEST TELEVISION FEATURE OR MINI-SERIES TELEPLAY

State of Play by Paul Abbot
Prime Suspect 6: The Last Witness by Peter Berry
Death in Holy Orders by Robert Jones; based on the novel by P.D. James
Amnesia by Chris Lang
"The Darkness of Light"--Wire in the Blood by Alan Whiting

BEST MOTION PICTURE SCREENPLAY

A Very Long Engagement Screenplay by Jean-Pierre Jeunet; based on the novel by Sebastien Japrisot
The Bourne Supremacy Screenplay by Tony Gilroy; based on the novel by Robert Ludlam
Collateral Screenplay by Stuart Beattie
I`m Not Scared Screenplay by Francesca Marciano; based on the novel by Niccolo Ammaniti
Maria Full of Grace Screenplay by Joshua Marston

THE SIMON & sCHUSTER-MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD

Perfect Sax by Jerrilyn Farmer
The Drowning Tree by Carol Goodman
Scent of a Killer by Christiane Heggan
Grave Endings by Rochelle Krich
Murder In a Mill Town by P.B. Ryan


GRAND MASTER AWARD

Marcia Muller

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Now, in my opinion, in the BEST FICTION category, the winner will surely be Chris Mooney. The runners-up will be first Laura Lippman and then Miss Julia Spencer-Fleming with Out of the Deep I cry, which, I believe, is her third "religious" mystery. (Please note: the quotation marks are there to indicate that, while Ms. Spencer-Fleming`s Reverend Clare Ferguson novels` protagonist, is, well, a reverend, they aren`t religious to the point that you feel you`re being strangled with your auntie`s rosary. They`re rather like Harry Kemelman`s Rabbi David Small novels in that regard.) Laura Lippman, though...I`m not sure. She`s been around for awhile. And she`s good. As has/is T. Jefferson Parker. I don`t think poor Rhys has a shot in hell. I think she was probably just nominated as an act of charity. If ever I saw an also-ran and all that...

In the BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR category, I do believe the big winner will be, hoping the big winner will be, Michael Koryta. There`s been much hype about this young man. Like one of my favorites (who I think should have been nominated and WASN`T), Blake Crouch, or even Jack Kerley, the author of the acclaimed first novel The Hundreth Man. Koryta...he`s going to bring home the Eddy, in my opinion. Or it will be Richard Aleas, a man who writes in the oft-imitated style of Leonard and McBain. But he does it well, mind you. Hard and brutal.

BEST ORIGINAL PAPERBACK? you ask. Cook, no questions asked. Hands down. Thomas H. Cook is a veteran, he deserves it, he fucking earned it.

BEST FACT CRIME...oh, yes, Ann Rule. The Susan Lucci of the literary world. I just don`t see it. But this time she wrote about something/someone in true-life that we, as the public, actually care about. Ten years too late. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah. So she worked alongside Ted Bundy and one of her books, Dead By Sunset was turned into a made-for-TV miniseries starring Tim Daly. Tim Daly ain`t that big`ga deal.) Let me look into my crystal ball....Ooohhhmmmm.....I see this years BEST FACT CRIME Eddy going to Batt or Levitt. Or, hell, maybe even Lyle, if we`re all dummies.

Play it again--dum-de-dum-de-dum--BEST PLAY...Hmm...If I were to jump the gun, I`d immediately say Max Allan Collins, even if Eliot Ness is a just a tad overdone, like Holmes. Then I`d have to say...well, maybe not. My second choice`d be Bell, if not Collins. But I`ll bet Collins`ll get it: seniority and popularity. But, look at James Patterson. After being turned down by roughly two dozen publishers for his first book The Thomas Berryman Number it went on to win the Eddy for the Best First Novel By an American Author. But he`s yet to win another. And by the photographs on the dustjackets of his books, I`d say he`s a good 50...

BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL WORK...Lord, Lord, Lord. What do we really have to choose from? An exhausted, pseudo-timeless detective in Sherlock Holmes in full Sherlockian spirit: pipe, Watson, Mycroft, and that nefarious archnemesis, Moriarity. Or...there`s a book on Latin American mystery writers. Latin American mystery writers? Well, yes. While Mr. Lockhart notes some well-knowns, I`m sure, like Rudolpho Anaya, Umberto Eco, and Jorge Luis Borges, he also pops out names like Alvaro Abos and Sauli Lostal, who are virtually unheard of, probably out of print, and will have readers scratching scalps and raising eyebrows. Then there`s booze and private eyes. Well, those of us who`ve been reading mysteries our entire lives know that "booze" is pretty much synonymous with "private eye." Right? Of course. Ah, but the kicker is Rippetoe drops the names of the real go-getters: Chandler, Hammett, Spillane, Parker (as in Robert B.), Block (as in Lawrence), Muller, Kijewski (Karen), and Grafton. That`s a bit odd, though. Now, I know Hammer was oftentimes hammered, Parker`s Stone was never stoned, leaving the dope for the dopeheads, for he preferred scotch; Block`s Scudder (but we won`t even go into that--it`s just nasty)...I just don`t remember, though any drunkards in Kijewski`s Kat Colorado`s or Grafton`s Kinsey Millhone`s...What`s this Rippetoe been drinking, I wonder?
And last, but probably (and glaringly ironically), not least, is the biography of Graham Greene. If Ann Rule is the Susan Lucci of the literary world, then, friends, Graham Greene is the William Shatner of the literary world. Oh, he`s not a bad writer. He`s a very good one. But hardly anyone knows him...unless they watched that forensics show he hosts on A&E...or is it CourTV...see what I mean? But I`d wager this book`d be the one to win, for we are fascinated by blah.

And in BEST YOUNG ADULT? We have Edward Bloor, one of the millions trying to catch a ride on the Harry Potter bandwagon. Scratch him. (But, if he wins, I shall eat with gusto the dustbunnies that live beneath my bed!) Then there`s...oooh, the Hooblers` In Darkness, Death. Some of there other titles include The Demon in the Teahouse and The Ghost in the Takaido Inn. Sound trite? That`s because they are!! But...(there`s always a but...[thank God]), they`re also widely popular. If you haven`t heard of the Hooblers, then it`s because Ms. Rowling, once barely able to buy a cup a coffee while penning her first blockbusting (and ballbreaking) novel but can now buy the friggin` coffee house, is dominating the market. The Hooblers are rather like an Eliot Pattison for the kiddies...and Pattison`s first novel won an Eddy...do I hear some eery music? But my crystal ball tells me...Kate Morgenroth or Lee Weatherly. And Morgenroth is bumpin` Weatherly outta the ball.

Blue Balliett, I do think, will be snatching up the Eddy in the BEST JUVENILE category. Chasing Vermeer received a bunch hype in the little`un`s world.

BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY...what did you say the law of probabilities was again? Four Law & Order: CI`s up against one li`l ol` Monk. However "Mr. Monk and the Girl Who Cried Wolf" was personally one of my favorite episodes. And CI is one of my favorite shows. So, it doesn` really matter to me. But I say "Pas De Deux" is gonna get the Eddy.

Annnd?...BEST SHORT STORY Definitely Laurie Lynn Drummond for "Something About a Scar." Or Scholer for "Imitate the Sun." Lovisi, I`m afraid, might not make it. Remember when I said Sherlock was overtired?

BEST TELEVISION FEATURE OR MINI-SERIES TELEPLAY...Lynda La Plante`s Prime Suspect`s had a good, long, solid run on BBC. But anything James`s name`s on turns to gold. That woman has the Midas touch. Then again, so does Val McDermid, who is the wizard (or wizardress?) behind Wire in the Blood`s curtain. My crystal ball`s just a bit foggy, but is weighing on the side of McDermid`s brainchild, Wire in the Blood, for McDermid recently won the coveted Golden Dagger. And what`s a silly ol` Eddy next to the Dagger?

BEST MOTION PICTURE SCREENPLAY...Oh, goody. (That was sarcasm.) Unfortunately, my crystal ball tells me it`ll either be Collateral or The Bourne Supremacy. Why? Let`s say it together. "Tom Cruise and Matt Damon." Ugh. My sentiments exactly. I really hope they judge the merit of the writing rather than the "acting," if you can call it that. Spare me. (...Was that insensitive?)

THE SIMON & SCHUSTER-MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD...What`s this? you ask. Well, an award given out to an author (and his/her book) that might not get any recognition at all.
...Right.
Anyway. Jerrilyn Farmer is up there in the ball`s playing field. Her Maddy Bean mysteries are rather fun...Although I think her strongest competition will be in the form of Christiane Heggan and Rochelle Krich. Why? Because they`re the better known and the better writers, that`s why. :o)


I`ll shall announce the winners just as soon as they do! :o)


t-s

Hum-drum and all that jizz--er, jazz...

Posted

I just recently (yesterday) submitted one of my poems, "Boys Kissing Boys," to one of LBF Publication`s magazines called "Writer`s Post Journal" or some such. LBF stands for "Let`s Be Frank" Publishing. Rather pithy, I thought. So, wish me luck. Keep your eyes crossed and all that.

You know that disconnected, almost cloudy feeling you get when you`re high? I mean when Mary Jane unfurls her wings from beneath her summer dress and flies you up past that 100-year-old oak in the backyard? That`s the kind of high I`m talkin` about. That`s where I am right now. Somewhere kinda between that old oak and those black Savannah stormclouds rollin` in. Of course, I can`t tell my sister (because I smoked it with her husband and she kind of frowns on his behaving in this manor) and I must act as sober as humanly possible, which we all know is completely IMpossible. Becuase the more sober a drunkard/junkie tries to act the drunker/higher he seems, you know what I mean? Of course you do! Don`t go givin` me that slippery-shifty-eyed-just-pissed-my-pants-and-Mama-doesn`t-know-it-yet look. Of course you know what I mean! A couple of my friends on here (looks pointedly at those of you whom I`m speaking of, and you know who you are!) can relate, am I right? You just want to laugh at everything. (Mary Jane has one hell of a fuckin` sense of humor, dosen`t she?) You say things, as Mama used to put it, "off the toppa your head." (Translation: You don`t make a lick of sense and you wouldn`t have fuckin` said it in the first place had you been fucking SOBER, you junkie SOB!) Haha.

But, I think I`ll try to write some now. On the novel, that is. I tend to right better when I`m high or right after I`ve taken an Ambien and it`s doin` its little number on me. So, in the words of Hannibal Lecter...

"Ta."




ts.

Fun and Undeniable Proof That I Have No Life.....

Posted

Another Survey Thingy....hip hip hooray! Hip Hip--oh, shut up...

Posted

1. First Name?: Steven *grumbles*

2. Were you named after anyone?: No, thank God. I couldn`t stand the embarrassment...neither could they.

3. You wish on stars?: What`s the point, dear?

4. When did you last cry?: Probably the time I accidentally let the washing machine lid fall on my nuts. See, I was riding the Kenmore while dressed in chaps and a cowboy hat--well, never mind.

5. Do you like your handwriting?: Sweet mercy, child, no! It is, how you say, le shit.

6. What is your favourite lunchmeat?: Well, it used to be Ham & Cheese Loaf, when I used to like food.

7. What`s your birth date?: November 19, 1983

8. What is your most embarrassing CD?: *Cringes* Jessica Simpson`s "Sweet Kisses". But I don`t listen to it anymore! I know, I know, ownership is still damning, though.

9. If you were another person, would YOU be friends with
you?: Well, yes. I`m already friends with me. Yes, we`re buds. Buds? What the hell kinda word is that? What are we now, a coupla beers? Shut up! No, you shut up. Bitch, don`t make me bust out my Mack 9. Bitch, please.

10. Are you a daredevil?: You mean am I adventurous? Oh, honey. Adventure for me stops at wearing white after Labor Day. And I`m not a blind Ben Affleck, dressed like a superhero, either. Besides, lycra is just tacky. *Tsk*

11. Have you ever told a secret you swore not to tell?: Oh, have I ever! See, this friend of mine...Um...*Colors red*

12. Do looks matter?: To me? Well, naturally I`m not going to date Chewbacca, but he doesn`t have to be Rob Morrow`s double, either.

13. How do you release anger?: Screaming, kicking, biting, spitting, scratching, shrieking. Or, if I can`t have sex, then I`ll probably punch a wall or something.

14. Where is your second home?: In my sister`s and brother-in-law`s car. I go everywhere with them.

15. Do you trust others easily?: Probably too easily. I am naive as they come, dahlink.

16. What was your favourite toy as a child?: Probably my Day-Glo dildo. Kidding, kidding, I`m kidding! You people have absolutely no sense of humor! It wasn`t Day-Glo; more like a neon green. *Huffs* Alright, if you wanna get nasty about it. *Makes a face* It was probably my GlowWorm. *Snickers* That still sounds provocative, doesn`t it?

17. What class in high school do you think was totally
useless?: Oh, gym class, easily. I mean, can you tell me where I`ll need experience in a big, burly, sweaty, muscular man telling me to bend over and touch my toes...?

18. Do you have a journal?: *Opens hands wide indicatively* You sure as hell ain`t in Disneyland, sweet baby.

19. Do you use sarcasm a lot?: *Crosses arms and raises a brow* You don`t know me very well, do you?

20. What are your nicknames?: For some reason that I never could fathom, my mumsy always calls me "Brother," like we were at a church social.

21. Do you partake in beastiality?: You mean, do I go out to the barn and bugger God`s furry little creatures? Only if he has two legs, the fur`s confined to his chest, and he`s the farmhand.

22. Would you bungee jump?: Jump my fat queer ass off a 500-foot bridge with only a springy little cord to catch my fall? *Laughs daintily* That`s rich, dear. Now ask me another one.

23. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?: *Archly* Penny loafers don`t have laces.

24. Do you enjoy exercizing?: Does a heterosexual prisoner enjoy being 300-pound Bubba`s wife in prison after said hetero prisoner is sent to jail only after being caught pilfering a tin of cat food to feed his pussycat? Well, I guess that depends on your perspective.

25. Do you think that you are strong?: Like He-Man, you mean? Well, he was the subject of every little gay boy`s wetdream in the 80`s, that much I know. But I`m not as strong as him. I haven`t even gotten my membership to Gold`s Gym yet. Or emotionally? Yes, stronger than some, I`d think.

26. Favourite Ice cream flavour?: Death By Chocolate. Not that I can eat it anymore.

27. Shoe Size?: You have a foot fetish too? First it was boffing Dolly the Sheep, now it`s sucking toes. 9 1/2 to 10.

28. Red/Pink?: *Raises eyebrow* Being the kind soul that I am, I`ll give you two choices, and the first one don`t count. Keep in mind, I`m queer as folk.

29. What is your least favourite thing about yourself?: My co-dependence.

30. Who do you miss most?: Jerry Orbach, for one. He was one of my favorite actors. Rest in peace, sir.

31. What colour pants and shoes are you wearing?: Gray pants, brown shoes. And yes, the shoes match my handbag.

32. What are you listening to right now?: "Down By the Water" P.J. Harvey

33. Last thing you ate?: Um...I can`t remember! This isn`t fair, ganging up on me like this. I`m gonna go tell my mommy just as soon as I gnaw through these restraints and figger out how to climb up out of this well!

34. If you were a Crayon, what colour would you be?: Periwinkle, probably. I hate blue, but it sounded the gayest. Leemee `lone.

35. What is the weather like right now?: Colder`n Barbara Bush`s heart.

36. Last person you talked to on the phone?: My Auntie Kay, probably.

37. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex?: Opposite sex? Bitch, please. The SAME sex. The bulge in his crotch. I`m kidding! I first thing I notice is whether or not he has shoulders broad enough to build a boat on, THEN I notice the bulge. ;o)

38. Favourite Drink?: Raspberry or lemon Dasani

39. Favourite Sport?: The one with the most men in which they get the sweatiest.

40. Hair Colour?: White-blonde.

41. Eye Colour?: Blue.

42. Do you wear contacts?: No.

43. Favourite Food?: It`s hard to decide. I`ll lend you my copy of Hannibal Lecter`s Guide to Fine Cuisine so you can get an idea.

44. Movie You Watched?: I`m agoraphobic (I see dead
people), I`m not an avid moviegoer. I`m not housebound, mind you, but I avoid crowds whenever possible.

45. Scary Movies Or Happy Endings?: Scary movies. (I see dead people).

46. Summer or Winter?: Winter. (I see dead people).

47. Hugs or Kisses?: Hugs for mumsy and my sisters and my friends and girlfriends. And kisses for everybody else. *Wags eyebrows* Nothing like slipping a potential boyfriend some tongue.

48. What Is Your Favourite Dessert?: Anything chocolate.

49. Living Arrangements?: Me, mumsy, Tiff (my sister), and my 23 month old niece, and the dead people.

50. What Books Are You Reading?: "Candleland" by Martyn Waites. I`m afraid it`s a little sucky, however. I might start "Desert Places" by Blake Crouch very soon.

51. What`s On Your Mouse Pad?: A nude picture of George Bush being spanked by Dick Cheney. Seriously? It`s just blue and slick with a little jelly pillow thing for my wrist to rest on.

52. What Did You Watch Last night?: "Medium" I love Patricia Arquette! She`s the best actor in that whole fambly!

53. Favourite Smells?: A damp, steamy laundry room smelling of bleach. Hell, it beats armpits and sauerkraut, don`t it?

54. Rolling Stones or Beatles?: Neither. They both suck the rigid cock of Satan.

55. Do you believe in God?: If there`s a devil, and there`s gotta be one of those--because who else could`ve created George Bush?--then there`s gotta be a God.

56. What`s the furthest you`ve been from home?: Tempe, and Phoenix, Arizona.

57. Any Tattoos?: No, but I`ve always wanted one.




temple swann.

Down A Dark Road Brightly

Posted

Truly, the first thing you want to feel for the monster is compassion. The second is intense, painful hate. His name was Carl Panzram. He was evil personified, the epitome of hate, the apotheosis of wickedness, the antithesis of good.

"I was so full of hate that there was no room in me for such feelings as love, pity or honor or decency," he said. "My only regret is that I wasn`t born dead or not at all."

He was a killer and rapist of men and children, a thief, and a liar. Born June 28, 1891, Carl Panzram was the son of German-immigrant farmers in northern Minnesota. He had five brothers and one sister. The family toiled endlessly in the fields of the family farm without much to show for their backbreaking work. Panzram`s brothers found recreation in beating him without much provocation. When Panzram was 7, his dad walked off the farm one day and never returned. This put more strain on the family, making the hard times harder.

Panzram spent his life being incarcerated in "training schools," euphemisms for juvenile prisons, really. In these he was raped, beaten, and tortured. Until, of course, he learned how to become the aggressor. He was a big boy, 180 pounds at age 14, he could defend himself against most who tried to do him harm. At the same age (14), he left his mother`s farm and wandered aimlessly around the midwest, staying closely to the railways. It was during this time Panzram was gang-raped by four men camping in a lumber car. This was probably the act that severed Panzram`s last tenuous thread tethering him to humanity and all its niceties.

Panzram tried a stint in the military, was court-martialed and dishonorably discharged for breaking into the quartermaster`s room and stealing clothes and other items. He once killed six men in one day in Africa, fed their bodies to hungry crocodiles. Deviousness was as close to him as the shirt on his back. He raped a 12-year-old boy named Henry McMahon on July 18, 1922. Bludgeoned him with a rock, and left his body in a deserted part of town after stuffing several pages of a magazine down his throat.

"You will find that I have consistently followed one idea through all my life," he said, "I preyed on the weak, the harmless, and the unsuspecting."

Panzram was executed at Alcatraz Penitentiary on Friday, September 5, 1930 at 5:55 A.M.

Before the guard could get the black hood over his head, Panzram spit in the executioner`s face and screamed, "Hurry up, you bastard! I could kill ten men while you`re foolin` around!" The trapdoor beneath his feet was released at 6:03 A.M.; Dr. Justin K. Fuller pronounced him dead at 6:18 A.M., after Panzram`s large body stopped swinging.

"31614" is the only epitaph burned into Panzram`s tombstone, cold in the shadows of Leavenworth`s walls. His body went unclaimed after the autopsy performed by the prison doctor. "31614" is his final identity in grave #24, row #6.


I plan on writing a short story, essay, or some such peace of writing, based very loosely on Panzram`s life called "Down a Dark Road Brightly," for it is my practice to exorcise these monsters from my head by writing about them. Only after I write about them will they then leave me alone. The same happened with Nico Claux, a serial murderer and cannibal in Paris, who is out of prison and living happily, actually. The piece I wrote (loosely) about him was called "Devouring the Mother." Same with David Berkowitz, called "Knocking On Coffins." Panzram, however, is different, I think. When in reading about him on CrimeLibrary.com, I felt a distinct and heavy demon on my chest. He was horrible, and yet I feel, had the the "training schools" been less oppressive, had his brothers been less violent, had those four men in Montana not done what they did to him, I think, perhaps, he would not have been what he was. But, however, since he was, if, somehow, he knew what I was planning on writing, I think he`d look up from his place in hell, and smile.



temple swann.

Apologies all around

Posted

I`m so sorry I haven`t been around much lately. I`ve been pounding away at the novel and haven`t had time for much else. I`ve been watching some news show called "Up the to Minute," or "UTTM," as they call themselves, and they`ve been talking about Shrub`s personal game of Risk. They actually mentioned specific soldiers (T.J. Foley) from the Arkansas National Guard, and you all know I`m from Arkansas. They showed them destroying the enemy`s vehicles (stabbing...batteries? and puncturing tires) and confiscating weapons. I think that`s what they were doing. To tell you the truth, I don`t understand it. Any of it. It makes me hurt to see them there, to know that they have to be there, that they have to resort to such primitive methods of survival. I love them for it, as I think we all do, and I wish them all a safe return trip home, but I know I`m hoping in vain, for we know they can`t all return home safely. The definition of war is blood. I don`t think Webster describes it quite like that, but that`s really what it comes down to, blood. Torn flesh, bullets, divided nations, blood, bullets, blood. Psychological ramifications. I hope we can bring them home soon.


temple swann.