Paperback Writer

After many weeks of proof copies and revisions, all my books are finally available as paperbacks from Amazon. Those of you who aren’t into ebooks and only like to curl up with a book they can physically spoon with, now’s your chance.

Here are some quick links to get you to the appropriate pages fast.

If you’re an Amazon.com buyer, you can get your copy of…

Necropolis here.

Sex Tape here.

Raw and Other Stories here.

and Filmography here.

If you’re an Amazon.ca buyer from Canunkistan, you can get your copy of…

Necropolis here.

Sex Tape here.

Raw and Other Stories here.

And Filmography here.

And if you’re an Amazon customer from anywhere else in the world, with your own local yokel-outlet, I’m sure you can look up my work all on your own because I’m all hyperlinked out.

Merry Halloween

Just in time for Christmas, I’m back on the air for the tardy Halloween episode of Cinema Smackdown on CJLO.

I’ve done the show so many times now, I stopped bothering to plug it here. But since we’re talking about a subject near and dear to my heart (horror movies), I thought I’d mention it a whole hour and a half before showtime.

Listen live and see if we manage to break the station again–like how the rerun last week became dead air for twenty minutes before it defaulted back to automated music. That may prove to be a preferable fate to the answers we have in store tonight at 7:00.

 

The Jumping Dead

It happens to even the best shows. They have a great run, a huge audience gets really engaged with the story, and then the main character retires to become a lumberjack. Or something.

A lot of my favourites have been slipping of late. Westeros discovered quantum physics this year on Game of Thrones, so characters can now teleport around the map at will. I mean, hey, why not? Properly depicting time and distance is hard work, and it’s not like George R. R. is still minding the till. Sherlock has mostly sucked since that ill-conceived bait-and-switch Christmas special a few years ago. Good luck finding a hole in the calendar to book Cumberbatch and Freeman for a gig at the same time these days. And House of Cards is suddenly packing it in after a pederasty plot twist. Who saw that one coming? I mean, other than everyone in Hollywood.

The Walking Dead has been trying to jump the shark for years now. But you can’t keep a good zombie down, not even with a well-placed headshot. Every time the show does something stupid (like faking the death of a beloved character only to kill that character again for real a few episodes later), it manages to crawl out of its grave and get fun again. How can a bunch of British actors pretending to be Mericans at the end of the world (and personal hygiene) ever fail to be fun? Despite the frequent cast culls, there’s always a pile of characters worth following.

Like Rick Grimy; his lovely daughter, Coral; Larping Samurai; Filthy Hick; King Rasta; Tony the Computer-Animated Tiger; Junkyard Lady-Spock; The Comedian; Popeye Pizza-Boy; Angel-of-Death Soccer-Mom; Annoying Priest Guy Who’s Still Alive for Some Reason; Samoan Lancelot; Bedroom-Eyes Jesus; the gay guy who’s been on the show for years who we keep forgetting is in the cast; the other gay guy who’s been on the show for years who we keep forgetting is in the cast; Sexy Tiny-Scar Face; Mullet Sheldon; and Lucille, the most engaging piece of anthropomorphic sports equipment since Wilson was robbed at the Oscars.

And ultimately, it’s a show that gives us hope that a diverse group of people can come together in trying times and work as a team to murder other diverse groups of people. I’m a sucker for an uplifting message like that.

Lately though, I’ve had to try hard to enjoy the show and ignore the fact that the last few episodes didn’t make any goddamn sense. Granted, that awkward flash-forward to Rick having a bad J. Jonah Jameson hair day isn’t supposed to make any goddamn sense…yet, but I’m talking about everything else. The problem is we’re now in a storyline called “All Out War” and I haven’t understood anybody’s tactics, plan, or strategy since before last year’s season climax. How could Sasha have possibly anticipated her move was going to pay off in any positive way? What was Negan’s shtick with the coffin supposed to be—other than weird and not at all intimidating? More recently, who is attacking where in this multi-pronged offensive? What are the objectives? How do any of these raids affect each other? If this is the plot they’re tackling, perhaps the crew should have tried to watch some war movies to see how it’s done. This is like trying to sit through The Guns of Navarone without knowing where Navarone is, why it has strategic value, or that the mission is to blow up the guns there.

And then—itsy bitsy spoiler alert that you won’t even care about because nobody else does—there was last episode’s big reveal. MORALES IS BACK, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

Who?

Exactly.

At this point, having killed off damn near everybody who was around for Season One, the producers dug deep to bring a beloved original cast member back into the fold. Unfortunately, there were no beloved original cast members left who hadn’t already become zombie chow, so they rang up some actor nobody remembers at all and offered him a gig.

You know, Morales! He had a family. And they were with the group, but they wanted to leave and go someplace else. So Rick and the gang gave them some food and bade them a fond farewell. And then nothing dramatic happened. I think. I don’t know. I watched the first season twice back in the day and I still had to Google who this dude was, that’s how much of an impression he didn’t make.

That this untriumphant return was presented to us as a big moment we should care about reminded me how little I care about anybody anymore. I’ve become so disengaged with everyone’s fate, I might as well be watching Fear the Walking Dead.

Really. As bad as that.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ll still watch my trashy, formerly great TV shows, no matter how many years they linger past their prime. I’m not going to give up on them like I did ER around the time they blew up the ER for the THIRD TIME. They may be jumping the shark, but at least they haven’t dropped the helicopter. Yet.

Moved to Tears

The first person on earth has now read Longshot Comics Book Three: The Inauspicious Adventures of Filson Gethers. It was the gentleman translating it for the Italian edition from Prospettiva Globale. “Moved to tears” was the verdict. “A few times,” no less.

And yes, it was intentional. There are plenty of jokes throughout, but it also gets into the feels by the end. Dots and toilet humour can, when played correctly, conspire to make you cry.

Work continues to march along. It’s still too early to give you a solid release date for Book Three or the reprints of One and Two. The covers, at least, are just about done, but there remains a lot of heavy lifting to be done for the interiors of the first two volumes.

I am reliably informed that December is a terrible time to publish anything new, so I expect early 2018 is going to be it. Appropriate really. Next year marks the 25th anniversary of The Long and Unlearned Life of Roland Gethers. If that makes you feel old, think how it makes me feel. That’s right, old and tired.

In the meantime, Raw and Other Stories is being offered for free to the wider public for the first time ever this weekend. It’s part of October’s Mystery and Thriller sale, which is full of fun free ebooks for you to grab while the grabbin’s good. Follow the links, click, tap, swipe, or do whatever it is you crazy kids get up to with your devices, and get reading.

Dead Trees

A two-month break is a long non-blogging stretch at Eyestrain Productions, but rest assured it’s been all work and no fun. After the not-so-subtle hinty post in July, I can now officially confirm that Longshot Comics Book Three: The Inauspicious Adventures of Filson Gethers exists. In some form. Just not a purchasable form…yet.

The Italian edition is off for translation, and work on reprints of Book One and Two continues.

The proof is in the dog-eared proof copy. Finnegan expresses as much curiosity about Book Three of Longshot Comics as any other long-time reader.

And then becomes its first critic by shoving pages off the table.

Meanwhile, paperback editions of Necropolis and Raw await my final seal of approval before being made available through Amazon.

And my contributor copy of Part VII of the MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories has arrived. My story “The Adventure of the Mind’s Eye” bookends this edition with Jack Reacher author, Lee Child’s foreword. Retail copies are available at the end of October, but you can pre-order now.

No Time in the Present

So many updates, and no time to write it all down.

I could tell you about my work on the new animated TV show ToonMarty and link you to some of my episodes that have shown up on YouTube.

I could tell you about my trip to Paris and all the morbid history I got to hang out with.

I could tell you about my last three appearances on Cinema Smackdown and my pending chat about the Fantasia film fest tonight at 7:00 on CJLO.

I could even tell you how the sequel to Necropolis is coming along.

But mostly my time is occupied by a new/old project that requires me to produce nearly 300 pages of reformatted art—hopefully before the end of the year.

I’ll give you a clue what that involves.

Observant readers may extrapolate additional information from one of the file names appearing in that screenshot.

Yes, it’s for real this time. There’s a contract and an advance payment I’ve already spent.

What the hell have I let myself in for?

In honour of the passing of one of my personal favourite film directors, George Romero, newsletter subscribers will be receiving a brand-new exclusive short story—my one and only foray into flesh-eating zombie fiction. Sign up now to get it with the next newsletter, along with other unique content and exclusives.

Advanced Warning

I have a couple of book promotions coming up next week that I wanted to mention here. If you haven’t grabbed a copy of Filmography on the cheap yet, there will be two windows of opportunity to get it for free. And even if you already have it/read it/left a review/bought the t-shirt, there will be plenty of other mysteries and thrillers and crime stories from other authors for you to download for zero dollars and zero cents.

Download All the eBooks will be running their giveaway from June 9 – 11.

And Renee Pawlish will be running one from June 17 – 18. The page hasn’t been updated yet, but head over there when the time comes to see all the goodies.

 

 

Assisted Career Suicide

So Kathy Griffin posted a picture of herself holding up a bloody severed Trump head and I had one thought, and one thought only when I first saw it.

Meh.

I wasn’t shocked, I wasn’t appalled. I work in gallows humour. You have to go a hundred times darker than that before I even notice things are getting a tad morbid. The real sin of the photo, to my mind, was that it wasn’t funny. All it seemed to say was, “I hate Trump. I wish him dead.” Well, no shit. You’ve long since made that clear. Posing for a picture that looks like a publicity still from a low-rent 1970s giallo horror film doesn’t add anything to that narrative. I might have hoped for something biting, satirical, viciously sardonic. Instead, Kathy Griffin throws out something half-assed, spur-of-the-moment, ill-conceived, and witless. That’s kind of her shtick, I know. I (used to) watch her do CNN’s trainwreck New Year’s show with Anderson Cooper every year, and wonder when she would cross a line that would get her fired. Pretending to blow Cooper on live television didn’t do it. Screaming vulgarities at Ryan Seacrest didn’t work. Swearing at hecklers over the air failed. It seemed to be an unshakable gig. She could do no wrong—or at least could do nothing wrong enough to get her ousted.

I turned the virtual page and moved on, with a vague parting notion, “Some people are really going to hate this.”

And then everything blew up. Twenty-four hours later, the CNN gig was gone, standup appearances were cancelled, endorsements were dropped. Plus the Secret Service, which is obliged to take any perceived threat to the president deadly serious, was looking into it. The family Trump, prone to announcing any fleeting notion or passing of wind, took to social media to express their displeasure. All to be expected, really. I mean, after all, what did she think was going to happen?

A video apology followed. Griffin made one of her infrequent appearances without a ton of makeup, probably judiciously trying to appear more vulnerable and sincere by doing it au naturel, without the usual war paint. It wasn’t an apology to Trump himself, but it was an apology to people who were offended. And it seemed pretty sincere. It seemed to work.

And then, like manna from heaven, Kathy Griffin was given the greatest gift a foot-in-mouth celebrity could ever hope for. Covfefe happened, and the whole world collectively decided they’d rather make jokes about that than futilely try to find the funny in Griffin’s gory photo shoot.

Give it the weekend, and it would have all blown over nicely. Sure, a lot of paying work would have dried up, but Kathy Griffin would have been in the clear. On the heels of the vitally important political covfefe event, something else would have inevitably happened in the world, and by this time next week no one would remember or care about bloody head props. Griffin could then safely slink back to the ranks of the D-list.

But, alas, no.

She made two colossal mistakes. First: Kathy Griffin employed the services of Lisa Bloom, daughter of Gloria Allred and every bit the media-circus bottomfeeder her mother is. Second: she called a press conference to dredge it all up again. And not just any press conference. The single worst clusterfuck of a press conference I’ve ever witnessed. There were tears, there was laughter (forced and performed by mouthpiece Bloom), there was indignation, there were more insults for Trump and his family, and there were cries of victimhood.

You can try to sit through it if, like me, you’re a sucker for punishment.

At this point, the real villain here is no long Kathy Griffin, or Donald Trump, or the vulture media, or the skittish sponsors, or CNN, the worst media outlet in America today. It’s Lisa Bloom. Any lawyer worth a shit would have advised her client to lay low, take the hit, let the apology sink in, let the public move on, and let Trump get distracted by something new. I mean, hell, he’s the goddamn President of the United States. He may be petty and vindictive, but he’s got other stuff on his plate.

But that’s not what happened. Because Lisa Bloom is a terrible terrible hack lawyer who wanted to get her face front and centre and ride this celebrity shitstorm into the next stratosphere of her gruesome parasitical poisonous career. Rather than do her job properly, she let her client summon the media for an announcement and a Q&A. She may have even suggested it. And in the process, she let Kathy Griffin keep digging that grave for her career.

Give Griffin a lean year, and I thought she might have been able to bounce back from this unscathed. The story would have flared up briefly on New Year’s Eve as those few who still watch CNN asked, “Where’s Kathy?” There would be a reminder of what went down last spring, and then they’d cut away to a drunken Don Lemon talking about getting a Trump tattoo on his dick—again. Same old, same old. Before you knew it, she’d crop up in some supporting role on a sitcom, or a bit part in a movie. You’d hear she was doing standup in casinos and dive bars once more, and by the time Trump was running for re-election, she’d be back doing her ginger Joan Rivers act, and would even be getting away with a new round of jabs at The Donald’s expense.

But after this? It’s going to be a long hard road back. Michael Richards hard. And for what? She shot off her own foot and it did no damage to Trump. It gave him a boost.

Some people have come out trying to defend that decapitation photo as art. Provocative art, but art. And maybe is it. But it’s bad art. The difference between good art and bad art is that good art stays on message and accomplishes a goal. Bad art gets tossed off, lets the chips fall where they may, and has no clear message or intent. Like a grenade tossed into a room with the pin out. That’ll sure provoke a reaction, but mostly it will make a mess.

Try not to be standing in the blast radius when it goes off.

NB: If you’re a B, C, or D-list celebrity who has just committed career suicide, DO NOT call Gloria Allred or Lisa Bloom to help salvage something from the ruins of your life. Call someone who knows a thing or two about scandal damage control. Call me. I might even know what I’m talking about, and I work cheap.

There Goes the Neighbourhood. Again.

Resurfacing like an unwelcome bout of herpes, Karla Homolka is back. I haven’t mentioned her on this blog in a very long time—not since she was about to get out of prison. She was thinking of moving to my neighbourhood, and reporters were coming to me of all people to see if I had exclusive news about this celebrity relocation. In the end, she apparently landed in Guelph, Ontario instead. But twelve years later someone has noticed…she’s baaaaaaack.

For those of you not up on your infamous Canadian serial killers, Karla and her husband Paul were the Barbie and Ken of sexual predators, kidnappers, and murderers. They were a charming, handsome, blood-spattered couple who did some horrible horrible shit they’ll never be forgiven for. Paul is still in prison and will likely never get out. Karla, however, was given a lighter sentence in exchange for testimony because an innocent little housewife couldn’t possibly be as responsible for these crimes as her monster husband. Except she was, as later post plea-bargain-deal evidence suggests. Oopsie.

Karla still doesn’t actually live in my neighbourhood. Apparently her new abode (to go with her new husband and kids) is in Châteauguay—which may be punishment enough for past sins. Nevertheless, she still comes to NDG to volunteer at her kids’ Christian school just one block over from my own home.

Gotta love those hard-line Christian institutions. They’re very big on forgiving child abuse. In the past, the were mostly into overlooking child rape. Now, they’re giving a pass to child rape AND murder. Very progressive.

This volunteer work has been going on since March, but now that the media has finally caught wind of it, the circus is back in town. Karla sightings are likely to become as frequent and verifiable as Sasquatch sightings. Try not to get caught being a blonde white woman if you’re shopping at the local Provigo. You might get some out-of-season produce launched at your head. Or canned goods, which tend to hurt more.

I remember the good old days in this neighbourhood when the only serial killers living among us were mafia enforcers and mob hatchet men. They mostly kept to themselves, and you wouldn’t hear a thing about them unless there was an arrest or a middle-of-the-night assassination via a hail of automatic gunfire. Salt of the earth.

I can’t imagine they’re very pleased to have Karla in town either, snooping around their kids. Torturing a snitch to death, dismembering the body, and dumping it in the river is one thing. But what she did was sick.

We deserve a better class of psychopath.