The Ol' Blog Shop

Bait Shop Update!

2009-11-01T18:44:00.000-08:00

This poor blog has been even more neglected than usual since I've been posting at Screengrab In Exile, but at least there's a brand new update at the Bait Shop mothership, so...enjoy!

Requiem For WBCN

2009-07-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

The Boston Phoenix -- which owns the generally underwhelming “alternative” radio station WFNX, one of whose DJs tellingly got his panties in a bunch the year Tom Waits scored a Best Alternative Grammy, because said deejay didn’t consider frickin’ Bone Machine as “alternative” as, say, Green Day -- gleefully reported this week that CBS Radio was pulling the plug on FNX’s competitor WBCN so they could replace it with the kind of Mix station that pumps out product from popular “music” brands like American Idol and the Pussycat Dolls.

According to the Phoenix obituary, CBS is whacking the 41-year Boston institution because of, duh, corporate greed and the death of radio...but also, according to a smug quote from WFNX program director Max Tolkoff, because the Rock of Boston “flipped to alternative and started to chase after ‘FNX in the early ‘90s.”

Which is only true if you accept the WFNX definition of “alternative” as shitty neo-grunge Nu Metal and a maddeningly repetitive playlist virtually unchanged since the day Kurt Cobain ate his shotgun. (Honestly, guys...even Courtney Love doesn’t want or need to hear “Smells Like Teen Spirit” every hour on the hour.)

Inventive, offbeat music that’s actually an alternative to the same old mopey, tuneless noodling that’s defined the mainstream “alternative” format for nearly two decades can, of course, be found every day on college radio stations like Emerson’s WERS...and way back in my beloved 1980s, it could also be heard on WBCN, side by side with the likes of Led Zeppelin, back when people enjoyed music in more than one marketing demographic -- which, as the success of the iPod reminded pretty much everyone but terrestrial radio and the music industry -- is pretty much ALL the time.

Before switching to a rock format in the 1960s, WBCN (a.k.a., the Boston Concert Network) was a classical music station of the sort my folks might have enjoyed in the early years of my own life, when symphonies, show tunes and Mitch Miller holiday albums accounted for 90 percent of my listening environment. Then, in 1981, my friend Steve Lewis gave me a cassette of the “Nocturnal Emissions” Christmas show he’d taped off 104.1 FM (complete with awesome time capsule spots for the likes of New Wave clothing boutique Hubba Hubba) and effectively rocked my world, opening my eyes to a brave new universe of music -- from Elvis Costello, Siouxsie Sioux and David Bowie (along with his bestest duet buddy, Bing Crosby) to the Kinks, the Waitresses, the Damned, the Residents and the weirdo who penned the immortal lyric, “I found the brains of Santa Claus underneath my bed...”

“Nocturnal Emissions” was the oddball fiefdom of WBCN’s program director Oedipus, who (long before WFNX began broadcasting in 1983) had already helped to popularize the music of truly alternative acts like the Ramones and the Clash while famously breaking local bands like The Cars and Aimee Mann’s one-hit wonder ‘Til Tuesday. Indeed, that local flavor and focus was always my favorite aspect of the Rock of Boston, from its support of up-and-coming New England bands (exemplified by the annual Rock & Roll Rumble showcase competition) to Charles Laquidara’s Big Mattress drive-time show, which attracted both pointy-headed prog-head college students, North Shore professionals and working class South Shore Sullys -- and, though I’ve never heard him directly acknowledge it, clearly inspired a young B.U. student named Howard Stern, who adopted much of Laquidara’s morning party comedy format (including, at one point, Big Mattress alum Billy West).

Unsurprisingly, my parents hated WBCN and the muted but transformative adolescent rebellion it unleashed in me. I’ve always suspected, for example, that my mother deliberately trashed (or burned) a treasured 104.1 t-shirt I used to wear in the early days of my burgeoning New Wave consciousness. Which is sad, because while that particular piece of clothing surely wouldn’t fit me anymore, and though the station eventually became a soulless shell of its former self (not unlike the lobotomized Randle Patrick McMurphy at the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest), I could at least run it up a flagpole today and fly it half-mast in tribute to the once (and future?) Rock of Boston.

T.V. Party Tonight!

2009-05-30T23:49:00.000-07:00

So, the other day, my lovely Polish bride is reading “Splendor In The Grit,” an article in the June 2009 issue of Vanity Fair by James Wolcott about New York City in “the crumbling anarchy” of the 1970s “when artists’ lofts were inhabited by actual artists, every subway car held potential drama, and legends -- Lennon, Warhol, Garbo -- walked the streets.”

At one point in the article, Wolcott talks about “the advent of cable-access programming,” which, long before the Internet, allowed commoners (as well as plenty of uncommon fringe dwellers, like pornographer Al Goldstein and NYC stripper emeritus Robyn Bird) unprecedented access to mass communication and local notoriety. And one of the most successful and influential programs to emerge from the new DIY-TV scene was “Glenn O’Brien’s TV Party (with a guest list that included Blondie, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and the Clash),” which ran from 1978 until 1982 in Manhattan and, eventually, L.A.

After reading that O’Brien’s show had been preserved and released on DVD, my better half Netflixed several episodes, as well as TV Party: The Documentary by filmmaker Danny Vinik, which traces the evolution (and eventual dissolution) of the coolest televised cocktail party of all time.

Taking his cues from Playboy After Dark and the Rat Pack days of the Carson-era Tonight Show, O’Brien (a handsome, martini-dry New Wave bon vivant) invited his artsy Village friends to come to the studio, hang out, smoke pot, and play with the equipment -- and since they were young, creative and weird, the results were funny, chaotic, and pretty much unlike anything else on TV, before or since.

For one thing, O’Brien’s friends included the likes of Fred Schneider, Fab 5 Freddy, Robert Fripp and an adorable pre-fame Debbie Harry (who, in one segment, bounces on a pogo stick to demonstrate the nuances of punk rock dancing). Meanwhile, familiar faces like David Byrne and Klaus Nomi pop up in the house band, while Basquiat is in the control booth, typing absurdist poetry on the Chryon.

David Letterman, back in the “anything goes” phase of his career, was a kindred spirit and professed fan of the show, and as the notoriety of TV Party and its regulars increased, it began attracting ever more famous scenester guests, from Bowie to Mapplethorpe, until the rising wave crested and, like all good things, the party came to an end: O’Brien got married, Harry’s bandmate Chris Stein caught a nasty case of pemphigus vulgaris (contributing to the breakup of Blondie), the yuppification of Manhattan drove the bohemians out and eventually everybody just moved on.

But Vinik’s documentary brings it all back, and those with fond memories of the early ‘80s may feel like they’re watching old home movies of their younger selves in a far funkier time, only with more famous faces and a freakier soundtrack. Rent it today...you’ll dig it the most!

A Very Somerville Memorial Day

2009-05-24T13:38:00.000-07:00

The parade had already been going awhile by the time Amy and me got back from hiking in the Blue Hills. Broadway and both Teele and Davis Squares were closed for the event, so we had to sneak in the back way...the wrong way down a few one-way streets...to get to our neighborhood, then we parked and joined the scattered crowd of townies along the route.

Now, I know a lot of governments like to celebrate national holidays by rolling all their niftiest tanks and missiles through the capitol, but that kinda thing just makes me nervous.

On the other hand, what makes me feel downright patriotic in the least ironic way possible is an event like the Somerville Memorial Day Parade, from the tiny old man playing trumpet in the American Legion marching band and the Sons of Italy color guard hanging out with friends on the sidewalk during pauses in the procession to the young Asian girl marching along stone-faced in minuteman regalia and the black kids and Albanians and Greeks and Lebanese hanging out on the sidewalks in lawn chairs, buying SpongeBob balloons from vendors and firing bubble guns into the soapy musket smoky air.

Ah, but ain’t that America for you and me? Ain’t that America something to see baby? Ain’t that America, home of the free?

Yes, I just spent the afternoon in a John Mellencamp video.

Ooh yeah.

But, really, for me it was all about the Shriners, or whoever those guys in the Aleppo fezzes were, and there were scores of them, possibly hundreds, taking up easily half the parade with their flags and weird Arab trumpet noodling and fake goatees and turbans and their candy-tossing...and forget about tiny little cars: the Somerville Shriners had tiny little 18-wheelers, not to mention tiny golf carts, tiny buggies, pop-wheelie clown cars, horses, horse cars, Segways and a trailer broadcasting a Shriner quartet as they sang “Yankee Doodle went to Baghdad riding in a Humvee” into dangling CB radio handsets.

Given the median age of most of the Shriners seemed to be about 78, I began to worry that someday there would be no one to drive the tiny little cars along future parade routes...but then I started noticing some tattooed hepcats under the occasional fez, so maybe there’s hope.

And ever since this past November, I’m all about Hope.

God Bless The Troops!

Sock Pox & Welcome, Screengrabbers!!!!

2009-05-23T14:00:00.001-07:00

Hey, there! So, Nerve.com is discontinuing the Screengrab blog I've contributed to for the past year or so, and at some point before they pull the plug, Scott Von D. and/or myself will be posting a list of links to the blogs of all the various Screengrab refugees...

...which means a few more people than usual may conceivably be checking out this poor, neglected blog in the near future, so I suppose I oughta get on the stick and start updating with a little more regularity.

In the meantime, as I recently noted on the aforementioned Screengrab, I participated in the 2009 Boston edition of the 48 Hour Film Project a few weeks back, and the resultant short movie ("Sock Pox") is posted below. Enjoy!

Festivus: Days 6-8

2009-03-21T13:48:00.000-07:00

More SXSW! Pictured below: Experimental Aircraft at the Carousel Lounge, recently departed but fondly remembered Carousel hostess Stella, Jenny & Emily & Abe at the Carousel, a dog with a big ol' head, Exene Cervenka in action, Banana Man, Andre Williams, more Wavy, Kinky Friedman, ridin' the Jackalope, poker night with a sex-crazed turtle, Scott hunting some big horn sheep, me & Exene...

Festivus: Days 3-5

2009-03-18T06:43:00.001-07:00

The SXSW party train rolls on here in beautiful Austin, TX, with stops for St. Patrick's Day, Wavy Gravy, a little psychedelic fuzz rock and a sneak preview of Richard Linklater's new film, Me and Orson Welles , reviewed by Mr. Von Doviak over on the Screengrab, along with My Suicide, Best Worst Movie and New World Order (which has already drawn nasty comments from an ever-growing mob of angry internet libertarian/anarchist conspiracy enthusiasts)!

As for me, I've reviewed Humpday, Beeswax and The Immaculate Conception of Little Dizzle...and there's more to come!

SXSW guru and Orson Welles director Richard Linklater is pictured at right. Meanwhile, in the photo gallery below: St. Paddy's Day in Austin with the Capitol Street Highlanders, a pair o' cute pooches, Leslie by night, Mark Duplass and Joshua Leonard (stars of Humpday), the sexy keyboard/tambourine girl from The Upsidedown, the lovely songstress Miranda Lee Richards, barbecue, hot dogs and Mr. Gravy walking his pet fish...stay tuned!

FESTIVUS 2009: Days 1-2

2009-03-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

Hoo-baby! It's Festivus time once again, a.k.a. the South-By-Southwest Music, Film & Interactive Festival in grey and drizzly Austin, Texas!

This year, I've actually managed to score myself a press pass as a correspondent (along with my hosts, Scott Von Doviak and Maury the Wonder Chibeagle) for The Screengrab on Nerve.com (although I haven't actually done any official corresponding yet, mainly because there simply hasn't been any time in the SXSW whirlwind thus far).

It's Sunday morning and Scott and me are just rolling out the door for some breakfast tacos at Katz's Deli, but stay tuned for plenty of rock, roll, trolls and mumblecore after a short pause for station identification!

Mmm...breakfast tacos...

Okay, we're back...so, Friday, after a ridiculously busy fortnight of writing, teaching and very special Somerville guest stars (including Heidi, Jody, Janine and U2), I kissed Zuzu and my lovely Polish bride goodbye and cabbed out to Logan Airport, where (for maybe the first time ever), I utilized my Amazing Race skills to snag an earlier-than-ticketed flight to TX on the most excellent wings of JetBlue (while all the poor bastards flying American Airlines were screwed, as usual, judging by an increasingly grim series of terminal announcements).

I was literally up the entire night before my flight (trying to finish up a project), so most of Friday was a blur of booze and exhaustion as Scott and I drifted from the massive Austin Convention Center (for press credentials), down Sixth Street (for booze and, eventually, a delicious, restorative Sergio Leone pizza at Frank & Angies), then out to the Tiniest Bar in Texas for a performance by The Box Spring Hogs, a most excellent Tom Waits cover band whose outdoor performance was, unfortunately, cancelled due to inclement weather. The night ended with a blur of hipsters at the opening night party, where somebody stuck a fake mustache on top of my real mustache (as part of a tie-in with the upcoming SXSW premiere of I Love You, Man).

I was a bit more awake Saturday, when Scott and I hooked up with fellow Screengrabbers Hayden Childs and Leonard Pierce (on special assignment for the Onion) for a screening of Beeswax, a mumblecore "legal thriller" by Boston's own Andrew Bujalski (which I'll review for the Screengrab later today or possibly tomorrow).

After debriefing over cocktails at the swanky Driskill Hotel (a.k.a. the Dressed-To-Kill) and pub grub at the Casino El Camino, we made our way to the Alamo Drafthouse for a screening of Winnebago Man, a film about this guy:

The man (Jack Rebney) and his Winnebago were on hand for the premiere, but they stopped admitting people to the packed house JUST as Scott and me got to the front of the line, so instead we wound up seeing American Prince, a film about this guy, followed by Best Worst Movie, an irresistably charming film about the inexplicable cult success of Troll 2 and an early contender for my Best of 2009 year-end Top Ten list. (Stay tuned for my review of the film here and Scott's review on The Screengrab.)

Anyway, Scott and me are getting ready to head out for another round of screenings, so that's all for now, but stay tuned!

SXSW Celebrity Sightings To Date: Indie maven John Pierson, corpulent geek overlord Harry Knowles, uber-Slacker Richard Linklater, Dazed and Confused star Wiley Wiggins and, according to Scott, Jeffrey "Hey Now!" Tambor, both at the opening night party and later in a men's room at one of the screenings (though I missed him both times). Hey now!

*************************************
Below: the American Prince (Steven Prince), bar dogs, the Best Worst Movie gang, Sissyboy, my esteemed colleagues and Lesley, the unofficial mayor of Austin...

Bait Shop Update!

2009-01-10T12:12:00.000-08:00

Hey, cats and kittens! Be sure to check out all the latest news and links (including one to my entire Screengrab oeuvre) and, best of all, the brand new Bait Shop Multiplex at my newly updated Mothership website, baitshop.org!

Top Ten Movies Of 2008

2008-12-30T07:47:00.000-08:00

Click here for my Top Ten Movies of 2008 (and stay tuned for a long-delayed Bait Shop update)!

Happy New Year, y'all!

Whew!!!!!

2008-11-04T22:06:00.000-08:00

Change Is Good

2008-09-03T05:17:00.000-07:00

So, the current script goes something like this: Sarah Palin is a social conservative who's against birth control and sex education. Then...surprise! Her teenage daughter gets pregnant (like many teenage girls in many conservative "red" states, where teen pregnancy rates tend to be higher).

The Republican/conservative response to this dramatic example of the failure of abstinence education? They don't care, they're going to keep doing it anyway.

Our standing in the world is trashed, our treasury is drained and there are more terrorists than ever because of the Iraq war. They don't care, they're going to keep doing it anyway.

Every single study shows the War on Drugs is a costly failure that actually makes the problem worse. They don't care, they're going to keep doing it anyway.

Torture is abhorrent, fuels anti-American hatred and doesn't work as an interrogation method. They don't care, they're going to keep doing it anyway.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

Whether it's conservative homophobes who pretend to be straight instead of just admitting they're gay (and it's okay!), "intelligent design" scientists who refuse to accept the overwhelming evidence of evolution/global warming or Dittoheads who keep voting against their own interests time and time again while the neo-conservatives steal American wealth and make the Chinese and Saudis rich...

IT REALLY IS INSANE

TO KEEP VOTING FOR

NEO-CON REPUBLICANS,

SO PLEASE STOP DOING IT!

Thank you.

Happy Birthday, Madonna!

2008-08-20T09:41:00.001-07:00

Yes, amazingly enough, we've been living in the Material Girl's material world for a half century already...and so, to celebrate, I recently ranked Ms. Ciccone's cinematic performances (with the help of my lovely Polish bride) over at our sister website, The Screengrab.

Enjoy!

George Carlin, R.I.P.

2008-06-23T06:59:00.001-07:00

Alas, poor George. Nobody could depress me with a stand-up routine about the sorry state of the world like he could!

Read more: George Carlin: 1937-2008

Shmemmy...WINNER!

2008-06-14T19:09:00.000-07:00

So, for those of you playing along at home, the answer to the question, "What won the 2008 Daytime Creative Arts Shmemmy for Outstanding Game/Audience/Participation Show" is...

CASH CAB!!!

In your face, Trebek!

(Actually, Trebek was very nice about his loss and congratulated the Cash Cabbies as the new kids on the block. Made of class, that Trebek.)

And, although I was skeptical about whether or not I should actually consider myself a Shmemmy nominee (and now, ahem, winner) as opposed to just a guy who spent a few weeks writing for a Shmemmy nominated/winning show, it turns out my name was indeed listed in the program so I guess it's actually and technically true.

Plus, I got to go down on stage with all the other producers and writers (and Cash Cab host Ben Bailey), and then, at the after-party, the wife and I both got to play with the Shmemmy to our hearts' content...in fact, after we posed for pictures with it, we didn't quite know what to do with it, and had a hard time getting someone to take it off our hands)!

Shmemmy trivia fact: if you win one, they give you a nice little Shmemmy box to carry it home on the subway in! (And there were many Shmemmy boxes outside the "Jazz at Lincoln Center" building at Columbus Circle Friday night, believe you me!) Sadly, while I think I can now describe myself as a Shmemmy winner, I did not in fact get a statue of my own. Maybe next year!

But what you're really asking yourself is: were there celebrities? Well, does Trebek count? Or Bindi Irwin? Or Christopher "Doc Brown" Lloyd? Or David Canary from All My Children?

Or...OSCAR THE GROUCH & BOB FROM SESAME STREET?

Then, yes.

Oh, yes.

There were celebrities.

Pretty Blue

2008-06-07T10:04:00.000-07:00

Hey, culture lovers...check out the latest Ol' Bait Shop production, a video of the song "Pretty Blue" by F.O.B.S. "Moonflower!"

(And also please to enjoy my latest blogs over at The Screengrab on Black Presidents in Cinema, the Top Ten Greatest Movie Bars and Barroom Scenes, My Troma Summer and Original vs. Remake: Ocean's Eleven!)

Sydney Pollack, R.I.P.

2008-05-27T05:44:00.000-07:00

Like Divine and Robert Altman, this is one of those celebrity deaths that make as sad as if I actually knew the person.

Sydney Pollack, both as an actor and as a director, was such a constant, avuncular presence during the course of my movie-going life that I really will miss him. He represented a level of class and professionalism in pop culture that's in desperately short supply.

"You were a tomato!!!!!!"

TEST DRIVE

2008-05-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

EPISODE TWENTY: CAITLIN

(Previously on Test Drive)

“Forget it...”

Frank focused his attention on the burner, hoping to simply ignore Red until they were back on the ground, but as he reached for the valve to lower the balloon’s flame and begin their descent, Red covered his large hand with her own tiny one and said, “Look...I did eighteen months at the Farm and another year at Shutter Creek, up in Oregon. I know what it’s like, Frank...the shitty job, the halfway house, the asshole parole officer...”

It was the tone of her voice as much as the cool, soft touch of flesh on flesh that caused Frank to hesitate. Turning, he saw again the weariness he’d glimpsed only fleetingly before, as if the aging grifter were finally breaking character, dropping the charade of girlish manipulation and carefree abandon in favor of a truer, though still undoubtedly calculated version of her actual persona. “...that can’t be all you want outta life,” she continued quietly, “just growin’ old and playin’ it safe the rest of your days...”

“Stop it, okay?” Frank snapped, annoyed, uncertain why she was still playing him, what more she could possibly want. “I’m not listenin’ to any more o’ your horseshit.”

But Red continued as if he hadn’t spoken, and Frank couldn’t help but see himself clear in her words, the tiny, cramped shell of his life. “Settlin’ down, settlin’ for table scraps when you could be howlin’ at the moon...”

She was playing him and they both knew he knew it...but, then again, he realized, so were Mitch and Lucia and the parole officers...the whole goddamn shell game, the biggest hustle of all, the one about keeping his nose clean and playing along and sucking it up in hopes of some happily ever after where he’d eventually be a successful, respectable citizen instead of a marginal ex-con, scraping along for the next thirty years until he finally became the government’s problem again, fading away in some cut-rate, piss-stained nursing home, alone.

“C’mon, Frank, admit it,” Red smiled, tracing her fingers along the taut forearm and bicep under the sleeve of the starchy white salesman’s dress shirt. “Out there on the I-10, you an’ me, racing Charlie...when’s the last time you felt your blood just singin’ like that...like you just got laid so good it made you cross-eyed?”

Frank couldn’t answer, couldn’t remember, couldn’t really argue that either hustle was any better or worse, except one stretched on longer before the other shoe finally dropped, and the other might at least be fun while it lasted.

“So how ‘bout it, goose, whaddaya say?” Red said, pressing closer. “You watch my back, I scratch yours?”

“Lady, I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” Frank replied, just being honest.

“I’d say that’s plenty,” Red smirked, glancing over the side of the basket to the surrounding desert, still a pretty good throw beneath them. “Besides, if you think about it, I've never once lied to you, Frank.”

The statement was so blatantly ridiculous that Frank could only laugh, prompting Red to clarify, “Okay, so I wasn’t really planning to buy that Mustang, and I gave you a fake name and tricked you at the gas station...which you totally deserved, by the way...but aside from all that, I’ve been completely honest!”

“You’re lying right now!”

“Nuh-uh!” Red insisted, stubborn.

“You lie so much you can’t even remember what you lied about!”

“Name one thing!”

“You said Charlie was your husband...”

“Ex-husband!” Red explained, digging in her purse for a crumpled snapshot which, to Frank’s genuine surprise, actually did appear to depict Hombre and Red arm-in-arm, side-by-side in a quickie Las Vegas wedding chapel. “It’s not my fault he was already married! I mean, if anybody ruined Charlie’s life, it was Charlie!”

“Well...” Frank stammered, a little less sure of himself as he continued to gape at the unexpected snapshot, “what about the other guy, that Mercedes dealer from Oregon?”

“I’m not saying I’m a model citizen,” Red shrugged.

“You’re a menace!”

“Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah...hey, if you don’t want the money...”

“Yeah, right,” Frank scoffed, “listen, I may be stupid, but I ain’t dumb enough to think I’m actually ever gonna see one goddamn red...”

The word cent transformed into another gasp of astonishment as Red produced a tight roll of hundreds from her purse, pressing the money into his palm. “I’ll pay you the rest when I get to my brother’s place...he’s been watchin’ my daughter for me...”

“Oh my God...you actually spawned?”

As soon as the words left Frank’s mouth, he saw in Red’s narrowed eyes that she wasn’t lying about the daughter.

“That’s Caitlin,” she said, reaching into her purse for a photo booth snapshot of a somber young girl with fiery hair and a glittering gaze unmistakably her mother’s. “And nothin’ in the world is gonna keep me away from her.”

The Shmemmies!

2008-05-17T19:23:00.000-07:00

So, here's a new one.

The good news is...I'VE BEEN NOMINATED FOR AN EMMY!

Yes! Really!

Well, okay, to be completely honest, the Discovery Channel game show Cash Cab was nominated for an Emmy (or a Shmemmy, as Kathy Griffin calls the not-ready-for-primetime version of the awards)...but since I was a writer on the nominated season, I actually received an invitation today!

Now for the bad news. THE TICKETS ARE FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!!

That's right...I apparently have to PAY for my Emmy ticket. Talk about D-List!

On the plus side, it does come with "cocktails & light supper."

More on this as it develops. Or doesn't.

BAIT SHOP UPDATE!

2008-04-25T21:44:00.001-07:00

Check out De Zomer Kamp (Team Bait Shop/Burt Wood's 2008 entry in the 48 Hour Film Project) and all the latest news at the Bait Shop mothership!

Test Drive - Episode Nineteen: Big Spring

2008-04-24T10:02:00.000-07:00

Previously on Test Drive

Red giggled, seemingly unfazed by the storm of violence they’d only just survived, as if all the recent danger was nothing more than a half-remembered dream. But Frank, bruised and powder-burned, trembling with adrenalin and fear and rage and who knew what else, could only mumble, “Great,” as he stared down at the silver handgun far below, glittering in the desert sun.

Then, gazing up towards the riot of police lights far behind them now on the receding horizon, Frank suddenly noticed the dark red Jaguar XK, still bouncing towards them across the arid dirt in hopeless, wild pursuit.

*****

Hombre stared back at Frank through the cracked windshield of the British roadster, while slouched in the passenger seat beside him, a particularly violent jolt caused Eric’s eyes to flutter open as he roused back to muzzy consciousness, dabbing his sliced, bloody forehead in confusion. “Wha...what’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, pal. We’re on our way to the hospital...everything’s gonna be fine,” Hombre said with a less than reassuring grimace, gamely offering his best salesman’s handshake. “Charlie Blackfloe, Las Vegas Dodge.”

“Eric Gunderson, Van Horn Imports.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Hombre withdrew his grimy paw from Eric’s dazed grip and turned his attention back to the rainbow balloon, easing up on the gas as his fevered brain downshifted to a new plan of action. His airborne quarry was picking up speed on a hot gust of wind and he figured he’d bust an axle if he kept barrel-assing across the high desert terrain, so instead he turned north, towards the distant grey ribbon of interstate leading east to New Orleans.

After all, he thought darkly, it wasn’t like he didn’t know where she was going.

*****

A mile away and a half mile up, Frank had taken several deep breaths and was attempting once again to impose logic on the chaos of the past two hours of his life. “All right, I’m gonna try this damn thing again,” he cautioned, gingerly examining the balloon’s burner unit, “so you might wanna...”

“Are you crazy?” Red giggled, amused and alarmed, gesturing towards the uninhabited wasteland around and below them. “We’re in the middle of nowhere! What, you’re gonna walk outta here?”

“I don’t care if I have to walk a thousand miles,” Frank snarled in response, “as long as it’s away from you!”

“Meanie.”

Red thrust out her lower lip and scowled the exaggerated, bratty pout of the teenage girl she clearly hadn’t been in decades, folding her arms and huffing in faux indignation. Irritated, Frank opened his mouth to reply...then remembered she was insane and promptly thought better of it.

“What?”

“Nothing, just....” Frank closed his eyes and took another breath, forcing himself to focus on salvaging whatever he could from the fiasco of their time together. “...tell me where you ditched the Mustang so I can go pick it up, okay?”

“You mean you’re really going back?” Red laughed with a start of unfeigned disbelief at the salesman’s bull-headed tenacity.

“Yes, crazy person! And don’t try to follow me!”

“Gee,” Red said, pouting again, “and here I thought we were kinda hitting it off.”

“Lady, you stuck a FUCKING GUN IN MY EAR!” Frank exploded, knowing it was pointless to continue the conversation, but somehow unable to stop himself.

“Ah, that was just for show!” Red shrugged, dismissive. “You and me, we got bigger fish to fry. I’m sure Charlie told you all about the big score, the moonshine millions...”

Then, pushing closer, Red defaulted to seduction, breasts against his arm, hot breath in his ear: “There’s plenty to go around...and you seem like the kinda guy who knows what to do in a...tight spot...”

But Frank wasn’t having it. “Listen, Stella...or Marion...or whoever you are,” he said, tired of the game, pushing the voluptuous redhead angrily away. “I know your kind o’ trouble, and I just don’t want no part of it, okay?”

“Oh really?” Red purred, arching a mischievous eyebrow.

“I wasted too many years runnin’ around like an idiot, boostin’ cars and shootin’ guns with trailer trash like you...”

“Hey!”

“...then I lost another five in Big Spring, hopin’ to Christ my ass didn’t look cute in prison pants...”

Red’s lips curled back in a helpless grin, eyes darting instinctively to the gangly ex-con’s skinny little butt. “Guess you were outta luck there, huh?”

She giggled and Frank rolled his eyes: it was hopeless.

But Red wasn’t through with him yet.

Test Drive - Episode Eighteen: Physics

2008-04-10T14:46:00.000-07:00

Previously on Test Drive

Hombre fired another bullet in frustration, hardly expecting to hit the hot air balloon drifting quickly away to the south...

...but, two hundred yards up, the bullet nevertheless managed to catch its target, slicing up through the wicker between Red’s scarlet fuck-me pumps, just missing the tips of her toes and the mouth of the balloon’s multicolored nylon envelope before reaching the top of its trajectory and arcing back earthward.

Hearing the near miss zing of the shot, Red whirled around to return fire...Frank lunged forward, grabbing the silver Beretta, trying to wrestle it from her grip...

...while, far below, Hombre heard the crack and whistle of another bullet and ducked for cover ‘round the corner of the grounded Spitfire, rushing for the crumpled Jaguar.

“STOP!” Ray-Ray hollered from somewhere behind him, squeezing off another shot. “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!”

A trim, thin-haired man was slumped unconscious in the passenger seat of the Jaguar and the keys were, thankfully, dangling in the ignition when Hombre slid behind the wheel and cranked the uncooperative ignition, snarling, “Come on...come on, you limey piece o’ shit...”

Then, with a shudder and a groan like a Welshman having sex, the Jaguar stirred to life, shrieking and scraping as it disentangled itself from the fuselage of the Spitfire. Pulling clear, Hombre jammed the gearbox into drive, ducking low when Ray-Ray blew out the back and side windows before while he stomped the accelerator, thundering across the airfield in pursuit of Red’s balloon.

Ray-Ray emptied the clip of his back-up pistol, hobbling after the car until the pain in his wounded leg forced him to retreat back, defeated, to the front seat of his cruiser. Grabbing the handset of the Crown Vic’s mounted VHF radio, the young patrolman watched the Jaguar and the hot air balloon as they disappeared into the desert, vaguely aware of the growing din of police sirens shrieking towards him along the distant I-10 frontage road. “291 to Dispatch!”

“Go, 291,” the radio gargled.

“Dispatch,” Ray-Ray began, weary and light-headed from the accumulated toll of his injuries, “you ain’t gonna believe this shit...” He paused as a momentary glint of light drew his gaze to the distant balloon...

...where Frank had just that second managed to curl his fingers around the trigger guard of the shiny Beretta, prying it slowly from Red’s grip...

...when the feral redhead suddenly drove the top of her skull against the underside of the ex-con’s jaw, forcing his teeth into his tongue.

Frank howled in shock and pain, spitting blood, but tightened his grip on the gun, eyes so fierce

Red found herself fearfully stammering, “Hey...you wouldn’t hit a girl, right?”

His answer came fast in a return head-butt that loosened Red’s grip, knocking her sideways and turning her forehead scarlet. “Okay,” Frank scowled, breathing hard, clutching the weapon, victorious, “okay, now...”

“Frank, listen...”

“Shut up!” Frank snapped, adrenalin turbo-charging his anger. “Now how do we land this fucking thing?”

“How the heck should I know?”

The answer was extremely displeasing to Frank, who in turn could only counter, “I thought you were the balloon expert!”

“Why would you think that?” Red smiled, infuriating.

“Never mind,” Frank snapped, moving to examine the valves on the burner, gun trained on Red.

“This here...this controls the altitude, right?”

Before Red could answer, Frank grabbed the larger of the two valves and cranked it counter-clockwise, reducing the flame to a flicker then, when that seemed to produce no immediate result, he grabbed a lever connected to the vent valve at the top of the nylon envelope, giving it a hard tug that caused the balloon to drop forty feet in the four seconds it took Red to leap forward to crank the burner to full, halting their descent with a bone-rattling lurch. Frank, stomach in throat, instinctively grabbed for the edge of the basket...

...instantly regretting it as the Beretta tumbled from his grip over the side, shrinking to a silver speck as it fell before hitting the distant ground with a discharge that blew a buzzard from its perch on a Saguaro cactus a dozen yards away.

Red took a deep breath, then caught Frank’s wild eye, giggling, “Guess you skipped physics, huh?”

The Screengrab

2008-04-03T09:56:00.001-07:00

Hello! Shia LaBeouf and I would like to invite you to check out my new blog-away-from-blog, The Screengrab, where I'll periodically be posting on cinematic subjects along with other snarky folks like our ol' pal, Baron Von Doviak.

Enjoy!

TEST DRIVE - EPISODE 17: BURNER

2008-04-02T18:53:00.000-07:00

Previously on Test Drive

Frank had seen plenty of Mexican stand-offs in movies, of course...but the reality of two people aiming actual guns at him was more than his nervous system could handle just then, especially considering that one of the two people was a Texas cop who’d somehow managed to pop up directly behind him despite having been cuffed in the back of the Crown Vic literally moments before.

“No, no, no...wait!” Frank stammered, desperate to explain himself to the angry young Latino, momentarily forgetting the stolen 9mm he was now inadvertently pointing at the man.

“DROP IT, MOTHERFUCKER!”

Frank dropped the gun...

...while, down on the ground, Hombre watched the weapon hungrily, saw it bounce towards him, the handle inches from his fingers...

“Okay, okay,” Frank said, flashing empty palms at the cop. “Please...”

“ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

But, before Frank could even think about complying, Red was swiftly and suddenly behind him, pressing the barrel of her own gun into the hollow of his ear, shielding herself with his body as she snarled a challenge at Ray-Ray: “BACK OFF, COWBOY!”

“...oh God...” Frank groaned, simultaneously terrified and exasperated.

“DROP THE WEAPON!” Ray-Ray cried, aiming over Frank’s shoulder at Red, yet perfectly willing to drill a bullet through either or both of them. “There’s nowhere to go!”

And he was right. They were in the middle of a treeless fairground, at least a mile from Wild Horse and two miles from the interstate. The majority of the air show tourists had run for cover when the first shots were fired, so there was no question of escaping into the crowd. The nearest getaway car was currently crumpled up against the aluminum skin of a vintage British fighter jet and probably wouldn’t start even if Red somehow managed to reach it without getting shot...not to mention the fact that sirens were shrieking all around them now like banshees on the wind. Any minute...any second...the whole place would be a police convention, and that would pretty much be that.

Ray-Ray took a step forward and Red took a step back, keeping Frank pressed to her chest like a bullet-proof vest.

Red took another step backwards, knowing she was only maybe a move or two from checkmate, and yet...

...somewhere behind her, something was hissing, even louder than her own roaring blood. Pivoting slowly, careful to keep the cop in front of her, she angled around towards the sound until she spottede the source: a flaming liquid propane burner, suspended over the basket of an abandoned hot air balloon, not twenty yards from where she was standing.

Red smiled. Ray-Ray saw her eyes dart, realized what she was thinking and surprised himself with a startled laugh, mumbling, “You gotta be kiddin’ me...”

...just as Hombre went for the gun on the ground, hand lashing out like a rattlesnake strike...

Ray-Ray swung around, too late...

...Frank heard a pop and a scream...

...then Red was pushing him towards the balloon, shouting, “MOVE!”

While, behind them, Ray-Ray felt a hot spike of pain in his thigh and squeezed off a reflexive return shot, toppling sideways into the sod. Hombre ignored the near miss whistle of the lawman’s bullet, propelling himself up and forward in a drunken stumble towards Red, firing wildly as his quarry disappeared into the balloon’s basket with Frank and punched the blast valve on the burner, sending a plume of blue fire into the nylon rainbow gas bag billowing over their heads like a giant bloated jellyfish.

“NO!” Frank cried abruptly...

...and then the balloon shot seven stories straight up, before jerking to a lurching, stomach-dropping stop at the end of its tether line.

Clutching desperately for the edge of the wicker basket to regain his balance, Frank whirled and saw Red raising her little silver pistol. “Don’t...” was all he managed before she pulled the trigger...

...severing the tether with a single silver bullet, setting the balloon adrift in the wind...

...while, far below, Hombre fired helplessly into the sky, shrieking at the top of his lungs...

“WHAT’D I TELL YOU, FRANK? FUCKING BALLOONS!”

TEST DRIVE: EPISODE 16

2008-03-25T20:55:00.000-07:00

So as some of you may know, I've been writing a little pulp fiction serial called Test Drive over on Shuffleboil for the past few months...but that website recently shifted gears, content-wise, meaning Test Drive (and some other former Shuffleboil refugees) will soon be taking up residence here at The Ol' Blog Shop.

If you haven't been following Test Drive, CLICK HERE to catch up on the story thus far...

...otherwise, hang onto your hats, because this week's episode starts right now...

EPISODE SIXTEEN: RAY-RAY

Through the windshield of the cruiser, Frank saw the biplane descending, saw the Jaguar avoid it by inches, careening in a panicky swerve into the fuselage of a vintage British Spitfire, saw the vehicle’s passengers lurch forward in a burst of airbags...

...while Hombre only saw that Red had stopped moving. He drew a bead and fired, again and again, blowing out her tires, closer every second to the final, orgasmic shot that would finish her forever...

...until Frank grabbed the barrel, trying yet again to wrestle the weapon away. Hombre stomped the brakes and they both lurched forward. A bullet discharged like a thunderclap, deafening in the claustrophobic Crown Vic interior, scorching Frank’s temple with a bright hot lightning bolt of pain. He cried and recoiled, reaching for the heat as Hombre scrambled from the car...

...then, opening eyes he’d clamped shut instinctively, Frank glanced in the passenger side mirror and spotted a nasty black powder burn above his right eye and realized he was still alive.

Launching over the seat, Frank yanked a baton from the state trooper’s belt, muttering, “I’m really sorry about this.”

*****

It was Ray-Ray Alvarez’s third day on the job. The first day had been kinda cool, the second kinda boring and since that morning, of course, everything had pretty much gone to shit. If there had been something in his training about the possibility of a seemingly dead crash victim suddenly lurching to life to attack his rescuer for no reason, he was pretty sure he’d missed it, but even so it was still pretty goddamn embarrassing to be in his current predicament, kidnapped and cuffed with his own goddamn cuffs in the back of his very own goddamn patrol car, and he certainly had no intention of letting some other peace officer find him trussed up like a goddamn hog in such a humiliating, fucked-up scenario -- he knew for a goddamn fact he would never hear the fucking end of it -- and so the second the perps were out of the vehicle, he quit playing dead and swung into action as fast as he could in his compromised, immobilized condition. Thankfully, he’d taken the off-the-record advice of his DEA buddy, Marko, and purchased a back-up piece, currently strapped to his ankle, which, at the time, had seemed like a superfluous macho accessory but now seemed like the smartest purchase of his life.

And, fortunately, the maniac from the Diablo wreckage hadn’t cuffed his wrists behind his back, so it was relatively easy to reach the gun. The tricky part was positioning the barrel so it blew apart the chain connecting the cuffs, and Ray-Ray put several bullets into the floorboard of the Crown Vic before he finally managed to free himself.

And then he was out the door, pumped with the adrenaline of success and righteous fury, dashing across the air show field towards the spot where the Jaguar had rammed the Spitfire. The greasy perp in the sharkskin suit was there now, yanking a voluptuous redhead from the wreckage onto the ground by her long, curly hair, screaming, “Come here, bitch! I wanna talk to you!”

The redhead fought like a rabid coyote, thrashing and snapping her jaws until the perp smacked her across the jaw with Ray-Ray’s 9mm, pinning the woman with his knees on her arms while he forced the barrel of the weapon into her mouth. The rage on the redhead’s face was practically demonic as the greasy perp cocked the hammer of the pistol and snarled, “Remember me, you fucking harpy? Huh? Who am I? Say it...“the love of your fucking life!” Remember? SAY IT!”

Ray-Ray dropped into a firing stance and raised his backup piece, but then before he could draw a bead on his target or shout a warning, the lanky perp who’d stolen his security baton suddenly lunged at the sharkskin hombre from his blind side, cracking the club against the maniac’s skull with enough force to drop him to his knees.

Hombre bellowed like a stuck pig, losing his grip on the 9mm as Frank lunged for the piece and Red shot to her feet, yanking her own silver gun from her garter.

“HOLD IT!” Frank demanded, swinging the 9mm back and forth to cover both Hombre and Red. “Now everybody just calm the fuck down!”

“Frank!” Hombre wailed up from the dirt, “We got her, man! What are you doing?”

“Turning her over to the cops...and you too...”

“Goose, please...” Red began.

“Shut up!” Frank said, noticing the barrel of her little silver pistol now pointed at his chest. “Where’s my car?”

And then the Texas state trooper they’d all been too busy to notice cocked his own gun and screamed, “EVERYBODY DROP YOUR WEAPONS! NOW!”