Orion

The one good thing about the cold winter weather returning is that our nights are so clear and devoid of clouds and--at this time of the morning, 1:42 AM--planes landing/descending at Midway that, as I sit while my border collie Buddy The Mitch sniffs for rabbit trails, I watch the stars above. Orion is due south of my house. Wayne

Arcana, Past & Present

I'm not lying about Half Deer Highway. Harry Fassl (just above this) and I passed a half of a deer standing upright at the edge of the interstate. I am adding photos of other friends & writers & artists that discovered Arcana long before I did ( the circumstances, I believe, involved a dwarf clown telling me the answers were at The Axeman's Carnival). Artist Rodger Gerberding and writer and editor of THIN ICE, Kathleen Jurgens, of Council Bluffs, Iowa. Now married, Kathleen toils at raising kids and playing archaeologist in the sandbars of western Nebraska during the summer, with Rodger doing theater, I believe taking up the role Bob Crane of HOGAN 'S HEROES fame performed before being bludgeoned to death. Seriously, though, he will be in Kansas, I think taking up where the BTK Strangler left off. Then...there's Sean Doolittle. He seemed to think Harry & I were famous when he met us in 1992. The guy who now has three novels in print, DIRT, BURN, and RAIN DOGS. Left us in the dust, I'll tell you. But this post is still about John Brower's passing. Several people have posted comments about my last two entries, and I think that we should all get together, if only as a gesture to John's spirit in the halls, along with the GoHs that have gone before...Karl Edward Wagner, Robert Bloch, Fritz Lieber. From his obituary in the 14 Jan 07 Minneapolis Star-Tribune : John lived in Shoreview, MN , and once worked at KFAI Fresh Air Radio in Minneapolis, where he produced and hosted "Poeme Electronique," and was co-founder of IPAAM (Indonesian Performing Arts Association of Minnesota). He built a strong and loyal group of friends, many of whom enjoyed his company over the years. That last line about sums it up (me talking here). In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Feline Rescue, 593 Fairview Avenue No., St. Paul, Minnesota 55104-1708. Mike Fountain is in Kalamazoo. Stewart Sternberg is the Michigan Man of Mystery so he might be traversing limbo or Dimension Eighteen even as I type this. Larry Santoro would love to show up at this thing, as he'd be passing right through Bluffton. I think its time for a short weekend in early autumn with about the coolest group of people one could expect to meet. Arcana is like a secret to most, but John's passing has pushed many memories to my thalamus (or is that Thalmas, the town where the Axeman's Carnival exists?). Let's make a pact, fellow bloggers. Like the Fantastic Four did. I call, I'm the Thing. Wayne

Memo From Minn-Con

Philip J. Rahman was kind enough to pass on this photo from Arcana 2003; it was only us idjits from Illinois that called it Minn-Con. Probably to remind us to drive to Minneapolis, even though it was really in St. Paul. John Brower is standing at the left, listening intently to the late Peder Wagtskjald. Roger Lasley, who initially contacted me about John's death, is in the plaid shirt. Philip asked that the photo be credited to David Christianson. For those interested in this convention, it is very casual and low-key, with much discussion on the likes of Donald Wandrei, August Derleth, Hugh B. Cave, and of course, 'ol H. P. Scott Wyatt and Dwayne Olsen will likely have stories to tell at the next get-together. I am thankful for Philip's kind email and attached photo, though, in looking at my last photos, I realize how long it has been since I was in St. Paul, after driving up Half Deer Highway with Harry Fassl while wrapped in my Shroud of Elvis blanket in the pre-dawn hours. The Pepsi can in my photo with Dennis Etchison has the old logo and color, and in the photo with Robert Bloch, my Henry: Portrait of A Serial Killer shirt is still just barely faded. The shirt is my oldest piece of clothing, the words hardly readable now. Well, next to that Elvis jumpsuit, which goes back to when I worked with the Elvis band. All this babbling is honestly my self-contained memories of nice weekend getaways with decent folk. Not a single BIG convention was anything like the brief hours spent in a tiny hotel underneath an interstate with a bunch of guys who talked of wondrous things from nearly a century ago. Wayne

John Brower and Minn-Con

I received an email tonight. John Brower has died, found in his apartment. Rodger Gerberding soon told me that John possibly had stomach problems of some sort and had been dead since late December. He was supposed to have made a trip to Manhattan and he never arrived. I have photos of myself with my mentor, Dennis Etchison, and Robert Bloch, a few months before his own passing to the big nowhere. Where are photos of John Brower, and Dwayne Olson, Scott Wyatt, so many of the Minnesota writers who keep Minn-Con the cult success it is. I recall when John related to myself and Harry Fassl that he had finally met his birth parents, and how incredible it was to him. I last saw John at WFC Austin in early November 06; we made the same small talk we always did. My truest recent memory of John was when we stood out in front of the hotel in Madison, Wisconsin, at WFC 05. Shivering, drinking coffee, and sharing laughs to jokes and happenstance that I can no longer recall. Two months ago I last saw my dear friend John Brower and now he is further along on the mysterious journey that Bloch and Wagner and Kelly Goldberg and Charlie Grant are on, perhaps sharing dinner with Rod Serling. John was 51. Rest In Peace. Wayne

Mah Boy Mah Boy!

Stewart, Charles, and those who didn't comment on the blog: thanks. I am doing much better today, the body adapts in slow ways. The spirit of Elvis guides me on this, what would be his 72nd birthday. I am envied by some for having a story--"Elviscera"--in THE KING IS DEAD, but it tells a sad tale that still hold true. Next on my list of people to outlive, both David Janssen of THE FUGITIVE fame, and Rod Serling, both dead at 49. I'm closing in, baby. As I've said in the past, when I see the Grim Reaper with his scythe, I'll be telling you all "Gotta go. There's my ride." Hunka hunka burning love, Wayne

Chinks In The Armor

Well, the above normal weather is gone, and I'm back to my normal winter self. I was up north by Larry Santoro and his lovely wife Tycelia watching Tyrone Power films and other frivolities, and on the way home I was caught in a freezing downpour between my reaching street-level from the subway and then walking to the elevated tracks for the Orange Line. The worst of it was the 50 minute wait for my last bus home. I stood reading THE NIGHT GARDENER by George Pelecanos, fully aware that my hands were turning into claws in the near empty waiting terminal. I wear knee braces now, just so I can keep my balance better and not look like I am walking on beach balls most of the time. I am going to die alone--riding single-harness, as Johnny Cash might say--and if I had a choice, when my typing abilities are gone, I'd much rather end up playing ice cream vendor tunes on an accordion than moan on the street alone like the guy in Omaha back in 1995. Accordion Man is always in the Loop, playing on various streets each day, mostly in shorts even in the cold and rain. Most times, once I turn off my CDs of Cash or Yusef/Cat Stevens, I can hear Moaning Man. The echoes are very close. Wayne

Worth The Wait

Of course, the art is in the opposite order. Why? Because even in the new year, my tenth on AOL, the computer remains my nemesis. At one time my letterhead read I WILL FLATLINE BEFORE I GO ONLINE. I think I ended up doing both. Onward. Larry Santoro, link to the right, has an upcoming 500+ page book being published by Annihilation Press, JUST NORTH OF NOWHERE, filled with stories set in the fictional town of Bluffton. The artwork, by the esteemed Alan M. Clark, is above, and Alan's site can also be linked from the left. When asking permission to post the artwork, Alan informed me that he also has two new books coming out this year. But I shall write about our friendship, his books, and how we both were source material for Kathe Koja's book BAD BRAIN another day. Perhaps you could email him and ask him about the pouton butter beans. Then there is the book FRAGMENTS, by Jeffrey W. Johnston. Jeff tried with a whole slew of us wet behind the ears pups to get a novel out back in the day, and I secretly felt despair that no one saw his talent. After this book, which I know just a bit about, we will see THE SPLINTERED PLAYGROUND, of which I read parts of in the days of dot matrix printers and only a rumor of Al Gore's Internet passing in the wind. I am uplifted to see Jeff's name on a book. There is a photo of Jeff, andrew, and myself at Necon in 1989 and then...what can ANYBODY say about H. Andrew Lynch that hasn't already been said in the tabloids? Seriously, Andrew is another old chum who never got the notice he should have, yes, back in the day. The guy blew Chicago to move to San Francisco and we still exchange actual HANDWRITTEN letters on superhero letterhead. I ran into him at the World Fantasy Convention in November, and he was about the only guy not turning grey yet. Or bald. Regardless, his novel about Vernon Hood and the Goshenite, the "becoming" of young Laine in a world of heroes going back to Gill Man several generations back, is a wondrous thing to read. There is no true way to categorize this book other than to recommend it. XLibris is the publisher. What is also cool is the fact that these guys can be Googled now. I wish that there was a Google link to the Facebook photos of Andrew in New Orleans back at WFC94...just kidding, Andrew. Look for the first two books soon. Join in my happiness. Wayne

Favorite Photos & My Accomplishments from 2006

The majority of these photos were taken prior to June, when I just about abandoned travelling north because of my mid-life career change, working at In-Print Graphics in Alsip. The first two photos I took near the Lake Street El when I was heading out to Melrose Park for my LINK card, to get food stamps. I had been out of work for over 15 months, after 23 years in the Loop and before that Evanston at a desk job, where my nom de plume was either Henry Desmond or Tony Mitchum. (For those who remember, that first fake name was the one Peter Scolari's character had on the show BOSOM BUDDIES.) A difference a year will make, I'm learning things I never expected, at first because I HAD to, now because I WANT to. 47 and making ten dollars an hour through a temp agency, but I'm enjoying it and I'm not standing in line for hours to get a plastic purple card that rarely activated my $158 monthly stipend on time. But I do miss my long treks downtown; my new commute is twenty minutes covering 40 blocks straight south. And I've worn a suit and tie only once since June. As well as a new "day" job, the only job I really felt I had--that as a WRITER--was kick-started into gear again with the publication of my first collection in a decade, FIENDS BY TORCHLIGHT, published by Annihilation Press. I was also part of a 4-author collection, DOWNWARD SPIRAL, by Midnight Library. While unemployed, I tried writing in ways I had never expected (at least ways that would see print), and one result was a 55 page A-Z glossary in GETTING LOST, a book of essays on the TV show, published by BenBella Books out of Dallas. I visited their offices in November with Sid Williams, whose journal link is to the left under Willy Sid, who picked me up at DFW and then we drove to Austin and the World Fantasy Convention, my first con outside of the Chicago area in six years. Everyone seems to have gray hair now, except for people like me, and I look like a more anemic version of Lex Luthor. I got to see Joe Lansdale again, a guy who was always an inspiration for my writing even when the crazies were living in my head for seasons at a time, a guy who read PAIN GRIN in its rawest form and gave me my first cover blurb. 2006 was the 20th year of my having been published in hardcover and paperback, and WFC Austin was exactly two decades gone from my first convention, playing the part of complete unknown, in Providence, RI. I renewed friendships with Roger Dale Trexler, Charles Gramlich, made new ones with Mike Fountain and Stewart Sternberg. Well, I have to shield my border collie's ears from the fireworks in a few minutes, so I'll save you the cliches. I'll look at tomorrow as just another day on the road I chose long before I actually sold anything of note. I'm gone, Wayne

Augusta Boulevard, Summer 1992

Scott Kroll--over at the Citizen Nick link to the left--reminded me that he was with me when I took the photo of the caged angel in my Christmas post. We had been walking along Augusta Boulevard, Aw-GOOS-ta, as the old polaks still say. The bottom photo was taken on Western Avenue, but we had been further east (and yes, the tall building in the background is the John Hancock building, 3 miles away). Ukranian Village and Leona's pizza parlor, to be exact. Still trying to be regentrified as the East Village, those bastard real estate agents. A few blocks away is the Wood Street cop house, a block over from that is Wolcott Street and the three-flat my mother was born in. Actually, the Wood Street District is about a half a block south of Augusta, and at that intersection is Club Foot, long ago known as the Lizard Lounge and before that something Puerto Rican and way back in Nelson Algren's day, it was something unpronouncable but would bring in big points in a Scrabble game. Scott mentions this in his comment on the caged angel, which was on Honore Street and I'll leave it to the readers of Algren's THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN ARM to know the varied ways of pronouncing that particular street. The interior of the bar is much the same as when I'd made Augusta Boulevard an old haunt back in the early 90s. But the two bathrooms are plastered entirely with Elvis posters and memorabilia, fittingly so for an Elvis fan as I, but over the head of most of the new clientele. I was going to post a photo from the bathroom of the Elvis wall, not the one of me with my business covered up but my knobby knees all pale and shiny, but it would detract from the gentleness of the 1992 photo. On second thought, the jarring difference one will see if I do post it will reflect the changing neighborhood. So I'll add that second photo, with one of me at the Ashland bus shelter as a buffer. One hopes. Wayne

Christmas In Chicago

For a hell of a lot of people here, I think they must believe that the angels are meant to be with them tonight of all nights, but some bastard has gone around the city caging the winged ones up tight, the way Larry Talbot wanted to be incarcerated during those full moons back in the 1940s. Wishing everyone well, Wayne

First Images

I had left work early yesterday, around 4:30 PM, and the bus was 45 minutes late, mostly due to the traffic leading to the Tri-State Tollway in one direction and the Crestwood Shopping Mall in the opposite. The rain came down harder, in the oncoming lights from cars and pickups I could see the layered look rain has when the wind only picks up periodically. Getting soaked yet again made me realize the amount of rain we have had this year, as 2005, the Year of My Unemployment, was a drought. It gave me a decent opening line for the third section of my novel-in-progress, CITY WITH NO SECOND CHANCES. I have divided the book into three seasons, with the sections titled Shank Of The Night; Shots Downed, Officer Fired; and Proactive Contrition. I came up with some decent "narrative" thoughts of my character, Frank St. Cyr reflecting on how there had never been so much rain during the course of the years' events. I don't even plan on using the rain as a plot device, simply have the third segment open with that observation. After I had that thought tucked into my head, I shaped a blog entry around it. When I first was consciously putting words to paper with the intent of having them published, I started by writing down feelings, or better yet, conditions. One of the very first things I tried to write about, conveying my thoughts the way a caveman might attempt scratching a rock drawing, was being hungry. I was always broke and starving in college. I lived off of chicken broth from the coffee machine at Stevenson Hall and even took up smoking Marlboro Lights (70 cents a pack) because it cut down my appetite (for those who don't know me personally, I have actually smoked about 20 packs in as many years, many times tossing half a pack away in a fit of self-loathing.) One day, I was walking past the Chicago River one day, heading towards the used bookstores and thrift shops on No. Clark Street (lots now filled by Hard Rock Cafe and other theme restaurants). I was VERY hungry and actually told this to a guy begging for money. I knew he was a drunk living in a flophouse, but that might have been one of the few times I was actually pissed at someone not being truthful about their plight. My stomach was past rumbling, I was close to fatigue. I hadn't flipped him off, in fact I hadn't ignored him like everyone else had been doing. But I saw him on my trip back from the bookstores, hours later, and he seemed to remember me. For all I know he could have been jabbering away the whole time, but in an eerie JACOB'S LADDER kind of way, he looked at me and said, in exactly these words, "I will see you again one day." A dull look in his eyes. And in some way, I have been seeing him--on certain days, in certain forms--ever since. Wayne