Tuesday, May 30, 2006

Faith Fay


There's this TV show called LOST and BenBella books hired me to write a glossary for their July release GETTING LOST. I plowed through it all winter, coming up with 640 entries; medical terms, theories, characters, actors, the definition of being a clinical psychologist, which I now know to be the most evil profession of all after meth dealer at the local junior high. One of the background castaways on the Island is portrayed by Faith Fay, who was pleased to hear of her entry under 'F', and who aside from acting does some pretty decent photography and a few other artistic endeavors. www.faithfay.com. Its all about networking, right? Your chattel, Wayne

Client...Good!


OK, so what is wierder? There's an attorney in Riverside Plaza named Robert Frankenstein, but look at the chick above him. I'd hate to think that she was in theater and that was her stage name.

Monday, May 29, 2006

Dante's Inferno?


Nope. Just a b&w photo of Earth as taken from the surface of Mars. I had attempted to follow up my previous post of small town America being swallowed up, and it seems I have now created the image of the Earth itself being swallowed up a bigger force. Maybe it's the Ikea subdivision of the WalMart Federation of Planets...Wayne

Places You Only See Once


Several days ago, I went to a family funeral out in what we used to call the sticks or the boondocks. The closest big town would be Elgin. But it was the town itself that was in the boondocks, because there is development all over the place, filling in every gap between the Northwest Tollway and I-80, Illinois' great serial killer drive-thru. The night of the wake, I walked through town, seeing what the place looked like before the developers came along in the 1980s. Checked out the library, the feed stores, and the old hardware place. There were heavy thunderstorms on the 90 minute ride back east, but out there in the dark, lit up in intervals by lightning, were huge chunks of lifeless subdivisions, blobs of the same color every few miles, all the way back to Chicago.

Friday, May 26, 2006

Take The Last Train To Clarksville


Actually, the story was "Last Ship To Orion," and the cover creeped the heck out of me as a kid. I was staying the night in a trailer out in Streator and it was the only thing I had to read, having picked it up at Safrzyks (sa-FAR-checks) up on Hall Street. Now I am officially done with dogs and women wrestlers. Seeya next time, Wayne

Sunday, May 21, 2006

You Thought I Was Through With The Doggies...


I thought I was, too. But someone needs to tell Stacy Kiebler that there's a giant mutt coming right at her. The sad thing here is, the really sad thing....if that was a clown behind her I would crap my pants. Great first impressions and all...

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Hound Dog and Old Shep

Chris from over dere up by Madison not the other Chris the girl one who I know through Cheetarah's blog, Chris he said if I post another pooch pic it'd be like the trifecta at Balmoral. So here we are, almost back at the start. The dog is Von's beloved Chanci, and it's not really important why I am wearing an Elvis jumpsuit or those damnable Larry King glasses. Von was living in Roselle then, the World Fantasy Convention for 1993 was nearby, and those in the room were Kathleen Jurgens and Marthayn Peligramis, editors of THIN ICE, and Peter Enfantino and John Scolari, editors of THE SCREAM FACTORY. I had brought the jumpsuit with me to the convention because a not-to-be-named writer wanted to borrow it and play dress up for his knockout wife. I got the thumbs up, rather the TCB (Takin' Care of Business), sign from Do...oops. So I believe the night with Ly...oops, was a success. I wore the jumpsuit--the one I inherited after the Elvis impersonater I worked with got busted--because I knew it would be good for a laugh, would baffle the hell out of Chanci, and I really wasn't certain that I would get it back with all kinds of man juice on it. There's your third dog post, Chris up dere in Madison, not the cute Chris down south, so maybe you should buy a Powerball ticket tomorrow.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

And You'd Think Burbank Was Safe...


I mentioned my dogs in the previous post; I had a collie my oldest niece named Barbie, so that was that. And here is the photo I end up posting. I moved from Chicago in the summer of 1999, when Barbie was four, because I got tired of living across the street from a kid who ran a crack house while his mother worked in City Hall and several instances involving semi-automatic weapons on neighbors front porches made me worried more about my nieces than my somewhat-immortal self. I think a little of my "Unbreakableness" rubbed off on my dog. I'm now five blocks east of the big, bad city, in bucolic Burbank. I turned 40 on 9/9/99 and three days later, my dog started barking when two local thugs tried to steal something from the widow Debo's garage. (After she died, her son sold the place, and it became that Czech rabbit farm for awhile). One of the guys--they both were caught at another garage break-in--stabbed Barbie twice to try and shut her up, so I can imagine what might've happened to frail Ruth Debo. The vet put tampons into the puncture wounds and later put 211 stitches into my dog. He took the tampons out and inserted a kind of rope inside of Barbie, and I would pull on either side of the rope several times a day to keep the blood from clotting. Through that winter, Barbie wore my Superman t-shirt so her wounds would stay covered. She survived, but died of cancer three years ago yesterday. The photo I posted is one that reminds me of the vileness in so many humans. I would force feed Barbie crushed codiene tablets and lay on the living room floor with her as she whined, not truly understanding what had happened to her. I felt cheated that, after surviving the stabbing, that cancer would take her so soon after. I have had dogs that lived over the course of three decades. But I will always remember sleeping with my collie in the Superman shirt for weeks on end...Wayne

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Today's Not Just About Moms & Kids



I know more couples, married or just plain shacking up, who have no kids. They have dogs and cats, the occasional goldfish. I myself have a border collie with one blue eye and one brown eye who seems to think he is related to the rabbits that were left behind when my Czech neighbors were evicted. Never mind why they had rabbits in a big cage in their yard. As usual, I've gotten off-topic. So... My good friend, my oldest writing friend going back to pre-dot matrix printers, even, Yvonne Navarro sent me an email a week ago with the subject simply being LILY. I understood what I was about to open. Lily had died. Von had bought Lily several years ago from a place on the West Coast, and she was deaf. Typical of Von, to do something good like that. Soon after, she and her husband Wes bought Goblin, the one Von is taking to the mat in the first shot. When I first saw photos of Lily, I thought back fifteen years to when Von still lived in Chicago, and she had this dog named Chanci, she'd get her to stand on his back paws, she'd point an imaginary gun, BANG! and she fell backwards, playing dead in the coolest way a dog could ever play dead. (I thought of the old broad getting revenge one day by screwing the alarm clock up or flushing the toilet with her paw when his mistress was in the shower, her little dog thought balloon reading "Feeling lucky...Von?" I wish I had the chance to see Von & Lily as I had Von & Chanci over the years. I printed out a photo of Lily and hung it on my fridge for my nieces to see, allowing me to then tell funny Von stories, but my hermaphrodite border collie Buddy the Mitch got jealous and/or hungry because I'm pretty certain I had left butter fingerprints on the edge of the printout. He grabbed at the photo and by now you must know I have a camera ready at almost all times; except for that one time I saw Elvis in that UFO with Marilyn MON-roe. So, I mourn for Von. I sincerely hope that Lily is indeed with Chancy, and might run into all my other dogs (not all named by me; don't judge) like Barbie, Mindy, Squirt, Sandy, and Pebbles. My "Ratpack" folder still has photos of all the dogs and cats that Von and Deke and Larry & Tycelia and Willy Sid & Christine have had over the years. I don't mind cats, but the thing I like most about dogs is that they are always happy to see someone awake in the middle of the night when they are. I'll bet Lily was like that. Because Von never stops typing even though she types at 200 WPM but probably needs to get a glass a water sometimes. As I do, now. And I'm lifting my glass to the best woman I've ever known, Vanna Varo in my stories, by the way. Yvonne and Lily. Always in my mind, Wayne

Thursday, May 11, 2006

That Kinda Day



I try not to be political on this blog, just make general observations and make people think about my strange life in this very strange city I live in with all kinds of bird flu warnings and phone call and library card, and yes, even my Borders Reward card monitoring. So take what you will from the attached posters. It's that kinda day. Wayne

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

How I Taught Ashley To Read


This was about 1994. The book has B&W stills from the movie and word balloon dialogue. Ashley's favorite part was when the two drunks crashed their cars into each other and were eaten by the monster. The only other book this company made (I think it was the FAMOUS MONSTERS OF FILMLAND guys) was THE MOLE PEOPLE. John Agar in the starring role. Oddly enough, I did not get yelled at for letting her "read" the book. Uncle Wayne

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

Crippled And Insane, I Am The American Dream



I finally was able to get my very very very very (you get the idea) slow computer to load the photo of Evan Shustak and his sidekick, Blind Justice, who really isn't there. H.E.Fassl of Oak Park took the photo near the burned out tire factory on Cermak Road which can be seen near the end of the film BACKDRAFT. Harry also is responsible for that b&w double exposure a few posts back. The American Dream solved a few oddball mysteries, including "Smile For The Wild," where he fought his arch-enemy The All-Nighter, in SEQUITER#1, published by *ahem* Rachel Drummond, and "Derby Geeks And The Thunder Chiefs" in PALACE CORBIE#19, which takes place during the infamous Loop Flood of April 1992. He is still out there patrolling, and only Reve Towne knows his true identity. You guys just think you do. Wayne

Blame It On The Moon


I wouldn't be typing this right now if there was not a spell-check feature; going through a rough patch with my spasming, so I'm down to one finger typing very slowly as I bite quite intensely one a toothpick. I write about a character called The American Dream, pictured here, who has journal entries in his narratives bereft of spell-check, as I started writing about Evan Shustak with his heating-pad cape and wrist splint fighting gloves back in the 80s on my Smith-Corona Galaxy Twelve manual typewriter. That's kind of off the point, but the character is mildly insane from his chronic pain, and it kind of leads me back to the beginning of my entry. While I had my collie Buddy the Mitch in the backyard, I noticed a full moon, and maybe that was a reason for several replies to my Waverly Fields entry. My cousin Lori corrected me, it is indeed Waverly HILLS in real life, I had changed it for my story and kind of misplaced the reality of it in my head, and Mike Fountain, who did an enthralling slideshow viewing of the history of tarot cards at the Red Lion last month, sent several really cool comments, which I suggest any of you to go back and read. I have good days and I have bad days and then I have REALLY bad PORTIONS of days where my pain is so bad and my small motor function is so intensely excrutiating, that I fell like I need to be strapped down in a bed like Lon Chaney Jr. as doomed Larry Talbot. I wait for the intensity of this pain to subside, avoiding narcotics or alcohol, as if it was a phase of the moon. More than once, I've compared werewolves to alcoholics, you feel pity for them, but in most cases, they are not anything to be scared of. The meltdowns on the city streets, I mean, not the wife beaters in the townhouses and tract houses throughout the land. Anyone who raises a hand to someone inferior needs a silver bullet in his balls. I leave you with a great quote I passed on to Mike, from the actor Lionel Atwill, in 1944: "See---one side of my face is gentle and kind, incapable of anything but love of my fellow man. The other side, the other profile, is cruel and predatory and evil, incapable of anything but the lusts and dark passions. It all depends on which side faces the moon at the ebb of the tide." I'm out here somewhere...Wayne

Monday, May 08, 2006

This Was My AOL Profile Page


Stately Wayne Manor

How I Screwed Myself To The Bottom
5 time Finalist HWA Bram Stoker award, Finalist for Rhysling Award and OxFarm Poetry Award...11 Appearances YEAR'S BEST HORROR...47 Honorable Mentions YEAR'S BEST FANTASY and HORROR...Doing Business As: Tony Mitchum, Skip Tracer, Jonny Algiers, P.I....Previous jobs: Dishwasher at Mafia front, Bat-Pal at Crestwood Cemetery, PR man for incarcerated Elvis pre-bloat impersonator, crash test dummy since Saturday,March 18th, 1989, 11:11 A.M.

Frankenstein's Monsters
Rapid Transit,1985;Take The A Train,1986;Bleeding Between The Lines,1987;THE SUBURBS OF FEAR,1988; Narcopolis,1999;DRINKING BUDDIES,1990;Faded Dreams of Division Street,1991;THE HOLY TERROR, 1992;FOR YOU,THE LIVING,1992;PAIN GRIN,1993; Bullets Can't Stop It!,1994,LOVER DOLL,1994;Bumpy Face,1995;Mirror,Mirror,1995;WITH WOUNDS STILL WET,1996,Fiends By Torchlight,1996;Chicago Clair de Lune,1998;MY DESCENT,2000;TALES OF THE SCARLET SPONGE,2001;Roustabout,2002;In The Shank of The Night,2003,INSANITIZED STREETS,2004; GIRL WITH THE CONCRETE HANDS,2004; MARNIE'S, NEAR MORNING, CITY OF NO SECOND CHANCES

Anthologies, Magazines & Comics
Agony In Black,Beatniks From Space,Blood & Donuts Borderlands 2,Cemetery Dance,Chicago By Night, Constable New Crimes I & II,Crafty Cat Crimes, Cyber-Psychos,Dante's Disciples,Dark Destiny, Darkside:Tales For The New Millenium, Deathrealm, Dracula:Prince of Darkness,Dream Wolves,Flesh Creepers,Freaks, Geeks & Sideshow Floozies, Gorezone,Grue,Horrors!,Impetus,It Came From The Drive-In!,Le Petit Mort,Little Deaths, Masques, Mojo Risin',More Phobias, Murder For Father,New Blood,Nightmares on Elm Street,Penthouse,Quick Chills I & II,Richard Speck,Scream Factory,Seeds of Fear,Sex Crimes,Splatterpunks I & II,Svoboda's A Great Read, Vampire Detectives,Writing Horror,2 A.M., 100 Vicious Little Vampire Stories, The Anatomy of Desire, Sex Crimes II, Hell In The Heartland

Waverly Hills & Werewolves



This place used to be a sanitarium on a bluff above Louisville, Kentucky. My father's family live in Shelbyville, thirty miles east. They kept tuberculosis patients there and incinerated them after they died, their ashes dumped in the Ohio River. It's a long story on how I came to have these photos, but each is haunting in its own way. I use Waverly Fields as a setting in one of my longer stories, "Go Hungry," about a guy who inherits the werewolf gene from his dad and Huntingdon's Chorea from his mom. Is a supernatural or a human inherited disease worse? I implement the facts of the TB epidemic of 1934 as being "stopped" because of my character Napier's grandfather's werewolf clan killing off potential TB carriers. If I could actually type faster and not use one finger, I might have followed up the initial story as a novel, with Napier's family wanting to kill him because the Huntingdon's disease was making him change into a wolf when he had petit mal seizures and the Chicago media was picking up on werewolf sightings around Grant Park. I've always thought werewolf stories were cooler than vampire stories. Vampires are made out to be glamorous, and I compare werewolves to alcoholics. Imagine Ray Milland in THE LOST WEEKEND if he was trying to keep from killing a victim by locking himself in that Manhattan apartment and then throwing away the key. Aaaaooouuuuu....Wayne

Sunday, May 07, 2006

First Time Visitors...


Hi. After all the multiple mass emails attempting to draw attention that I then had to correct, the last one involving a comma instead of a period, if you want to write me in person instead of comment on the blog, my current address can be seen in the attached blueprint. There isn't an empty bed yet, so just address it c/o the laundry room. Calm yet insane, Wayne

Maybe NASCAR Will Be Next?


This will likely be a boring post, but it will finish off what I had babbled about a few days back. I lucked out by not having to spend the 42 degree night huddled in the Hanover Park Metra station because my friend Dan let me stay at his place and he dropped me off before 6 AM before zigzagging back to HIS stop at the Villa Park station. For six hours I worked in a lift truck, counting inventory on light fixtures that eventually would be sold to a place in Conyers GA. Here I am operating a truck (thankfully not a forklift), even though I don't have and never will have a driver's license of any kind. I figured that if I can drive on a go-cart track during one of Beth Massie's Pseudocons, then I can go three stories into the air and not topple over. I only got scared when I had to back up, because I kept losing my balance. The only bad thing about the job was that there was no place to stash anything, so for the first time in recorded history, I was not lugging a black satchel around with my notebook and comics and paperbacks and eyedrops and Rice Krispie Treats. So I wore a suit jacket over my black t-shirt so I'd have pockets for my FIJI water bottle and my copy of H. Jefferson Parker's CALIFORNIA GIRL to read on the way back home. As described earlier, my trek back to the Metra station was similarly long, yet in the opposite direction. I looked like Frankenstein dressed like a hobo as I somehow walked past the Schaumburg Flyers minor league park (how I missed THAT on Thursday is beyond me) on the way to the train. I have no real photos to post for this convoluted and dull end to my story, but I'll find one of my favorite demolition pics instead. Figure its how the inside of my body was over the last few days, all the rubble and stuff being bone fragments and dead brain synapses. Wayne

The Computer Remains My Nemesis


If there ever is a tombstone with my name on it, the above shall be the epitath. Sometimes I long for my ancient letterhead that read I WILL FLATLINE BEFORE I GO ONLINE. I had sent a mass email out yesterday on a (to me) ingenious way for everyone not on Blogger.com to be able to comment. Well, soon after, TessLass and Snake (some code names shall be used purely for nostalgic reasons) emailed back with information on how to change my settings and correct my links, respectively. I had worried about spam, but Larry (not a code name) said that, like he, I could still get spam from other Blogger.comers. OK, anyone who wants to comment on my blog (I'm pasting this as an email soon enough, see) can find me at http://statelywaynemanor.blogspot.com . For those not in the know, you'll have to verify a series of psychedelic letters that usually seem to spell out a medication like Benadryl or Ambien. You can remain anonymous, sign in under your first name, or as some escaped criminal currently being discussed on FoxNews (pretty much a daily thing with them). OK. Task completed. Now I'll wait for my first spam, something along the lines of a claymation BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN involving Gumby & Pokey. It's already been done with cartoon bunnies... Next post will be a follow-up on my job in yuppieland. Seeya soon, Wayne

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

A Gig's A Gig, Part Deux


The first part was a mass email, the gist was, I got a job, the quote was used by Jackie Gleason whenever he got small-time work, and Richard Nixon showed him dead aliens at Homestead AFB in 1973. Well, I had the first day of the job today. I took the train to Hanover Park and found that in the years since Vyonne had her myriad VonCon weekends, a huge honking "private" subdivision called Hawthorne Homes had gone up. The directions I had were for people driving, pretty soon "pedestrian" will not even be in the dictionary. I could see the O'Hare-Elgin Expressway and knew I needed to get close to it. I started talking out loud like Tony Soprano, the muddahfuggin fat security guy in his golf cart wouldn't let me through the muddahfuggin subdivision with all its muddahfuggin two-dimensional scenery, retention ponds up the ying yang, geese who looked pretty damn lonely, an enclosed running track, and muddahfuggin Fat Freddy in his security shorts. So I had to walk in the opposite direction, up Springinsguth (named for one of Lovecraft's bowel movements, I'm certain), then down Frontage Road to Irving Park Road, then down Rodenburg and found myself--finally--on Central. In the 100 block, and I needed to be at 1200. Like, in the next ten minutes. And for those of you reading this, friends and family alike, who might think hey why the heck is Wayne so down on us muddahfuggin yuppies, well, at least YOU would pass me by and stop after thinking Now what is that bald headed nutbag doing walking 47 miles away from home? Then you'd give me a ride. Not so the parade of SUVs on Central. Finally, it was synchronicity that clicked in. I got a ride from a Waste Management guy whose ONLY reason for being on Central was to take some Benadryl to another Waste Management worker who was stung by a bee. I made it to work 3 minutes early, even though I had given myself 50 minutes to make it there. I felt a lot like Richard Kimble walking on my own, but there weren't any muddahfuggin yuppies in 1966. The ride home on Metra was sedate. I read a DAREDEVIL comic. Wayne

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

With Open Eyes


Just a short note tonight. I have a half-mile walk from the bus stop and it started raining about twelve blocks before the end of the line aka Cicero Avenue & 87th Street. But I love rain now. I had Lasik surgery on my eyes three summers ago, so I threw away those old Larry King glasses but kept the wire frame ones for nostalgia, plus if I ever want to feel like I've taken a hallucinogenic, I can put them on over my corrected vision. Because of my cerebral palsy, my vision had been 30/4000. No typo there, friends. That said, I can look up and watch the rain hit my open eyes, I can follow the rain upward to a vanishing point. To me, being able to do this (after having worn glasses since I was five), it must be what having sex is like (I'm still working on that one) or holding a baby or helping someone cross the street or help an older person read small print. I end up with a smile, not a crazy Joker smile (or even a Lex Luthor smile), just a pleasant relaxed smile and I realize that the rain is hitting my lips and teeth as well as my eyes. The things that can be taken for granted, I tell you. Drying off, I bid you good night. Wayne