Posts tagged your humble correspondent

The Fraternity

She was standing at the bus stop. Sounds like a Hollies song. But she had a wedding ring on, and I already had a moll. No romance here.  But she was still standing at the bus stop. Reading a book. I was curious. I glanced over to see what it was. It was a Robert B. Parker.

She saw me looking. Glanced up. I nodded. Pulled the Mike Hammer I had in my messenger bag and held it up. She smiled and nodded back.  She turned back to her book. I put mine away. Checked my watch and wondered when the goddamn bus would get there.

Nothing more was said.  Nothing more to say.  We were both members of the same fraternity.  It has no name.  Doesn’t need a name.  All it needs is a dirty world—and an avenging angel.  Or several: Spade, Hammer, McGee, Spenser, whoever.  Someone to tame the monsters in a dirty world.  

James Ellroy said the message of film noir is “You’re fucked.”  It isn’t just in the movies. It was in the books before that, and it’s still there.  That’s why we read.  And that’s why we have our heroes: they make sure the bad guys get fucked just a bit faster.  

That’s what this fraternity is about.  There may not be much justice around.  But there’s some “get fucked” vengeance stored away in books.  So we keep that alive—we’ll take what we can get.  We may not have anything else in common.  We don’t need anything else in common.  We just share little nods of recognition and respect.  Because we know who we are. 

We keep the avenging angels alive.  Every time we turn a page.

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wanderingchronicle asked: Happy seasonal holiday of your choice, and a happy new year!

Thank-you kindly.  I’ve grown up celebrating Christmas, but have celebrated other holidays and have no objection to being happy on any day—even if other people are celebrating a holiday that day.  

So Merry Christmas to you all.  I hope your Chanukkah was happy, and that Kwanzaa will be pleasant.  Even if you don’t celebrate all three (I’m sure there are some people that do, but it probably isn’t very many).  And if you celebrate something else, enjoy that, too.

I’ll try to post more often in the New Year.  I’ve posted a few times in the past weeks, and stay tuned—there will be more noir before the year is over.  I also look forward to  my tumblchums’ posts and asks—so keep up the good work. 

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It’s been a long time.  Too long.  Got busy.  Florid academic prose intruded.  Pushed out the lean, spare hardboiled stuff.  And I let it happen.  Too much worrying about how to test this or that thesis.  Too many redundant office hours and administrative tasks and goddamned e-mails.

But the semester is over.  I need a lifeline.  I could review books.  Probably will.  So read the reviews.  But that’s not a lifeline.  That’s just another task.  One I might enjoy a little more.  Still.  I need a lifeline.

So I reach for the only lifeline I know.  A pulpy little paperback.  They’re not just there for me, though.  I’m there for them.  And there have been too many of them piling up.  We need to resume our relationship before both of us become useless.  So I pick a little gem off the top of the pile.  Assignment Helene.

I’m on assignment, then.  And free of any other assignments for a while.  Sam Durell is serviceable as a hardboiled CIA agent.  The plot isn’t much.  Our hero, in his ninth adventure out of nearly fifty, needs to solve a murder and stop arms smuggling in a fictional country that bears a striking resemblance to Vietnam.  Oddly prescient in 1959.  Unremarkable otherwise.

The rest of the cast is predictable.  Various shady characters.  An alcoholic, a madame, a stuffy bureaucrat, a vainglorious blonde.  And Helene.  The alluring femme fatale.  Durell should watch his back.  But he’ll be all right.  Helene can’t resist his tough-minded magnanimity.  The villains won’t resist his toughness.

It’s the plot of hundreds of books from this period.  Some of them approach literature.  This one doesn’t.  I don’t give a damn right now.  It’s what I need.  So I follow our square-jawed hero through the yellowing pages.  I eye the lithe femme fatale on the pulpy cover. 

And that’s all I need.  I pull myself back to shore one page at a time.  Merry Christmas to me.

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I Hate Raymond Carver

I hate Raymond Carver.  Never read any of his books.  I’ve heard good things about them.  I should read them.  But I can’t.  I can’t because I hate Raymond Carver. I hate Raymond Carver because he’s a huge disappointment.  Whenever I look at any fiction listed by the author’s last name, I always start with C.  Where else would I start?  Down the list or across the stacks I go.  And then that bastard sneaks in.  The name Raymond catches my attention.  But I’m always disappointed to see it’s just Raymond Carver.

I catch my breath and keep going.  Sometimes the collection gets around to Chandler.  Sometimes it doesn’t.  I’m disappointed either way.  That’s why I hate Raymond Carver.

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NoiRevisited: It All Began Here

dispatchesfromnoir:

“His manner was warm and engaging. He projected a welcome as wide as the gap in his mouth where 6 or 7 upper front teeth were missing.”

One year ago I began Dispatches from Noir. On 3 January 2011 I summoned my inner Chandler, and this was my first post.  It isn’t much, but hopefully I’ve done better since.   It’s gratifying to know I’ve been writing (such as it is) for a year, and I’m glad some of you are still reading my scribblings, book reviews, etc.  So here’s to another year!

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Anonymous asked: When you follow someone who wasn't originally following you, what is generally the reason you follow a stranger?

Cue John McEnroe (he was before your time, kids).  Is this Crazy Anon Day?  I really hope that this isn’t the same person as the last crazy anon.  I really have not gotten such off-the-wall questions since “What do you look like?”  or “bobmamama bum bum bum bum lla sjsjssmsjejde,wk ?”  Inquiries about my harem have been simply mystifying.  Of course, let’s not forget the all-time classic, “How oldddz r u?” 

I would say I follow tumblchums for the same reason that everyone else does, but now I worry everyone may be overthinking it.  So the general reason I follow someone, who follows me or not, is probably because I think they most posted something interesting and I think they might do so again.  And I figure if they don’t, I can unfollow later.  What other reasons are there?

Let me just take this moment to say that I really do love questions. I’ve had this blog for almost a year and have gotten some really great questions during that period.  Wonder of wonders, I’ve even had some very intelligent anonymous questions, prompting a tumblchum to remark: “You seem to have the most well read, intelligent anons.”  I’m even a teensy bit vain and gratified by anonymous admiration.

But really.  I’m not altogether sure why people ask intelligent questions anonymously, though I’m happy enough to answer.  But who is ashamed to be asking about Chandler?  I will answer (most) every question.  I’ve given fair warning, however: I reserve the right to make fun of anonymous questions.  So consider yourself warned, unless you’re a masochist or something.

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Anonymous asked: What do you look for in a girl or a guy? Dating wise.

Dear God, are you for real? My first thought was that this must be spam. But what’s the point of spamming without including an invocation to check out tumblrnet.bot or some such website?

So if this is a real person, let me respond with two pieces of advice:

  1. “-wise” is not an all purpose suffix you can slap on at the end of any word or sentence and have yourself an adverb or adjective.
  2. If you *ahem* pay attention, you would have the answer to your question.  (Cliff’s Notes synopsis: I’m not looking for anything.)

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It isn’t like I need books. I have plenty, and quite a few I’ve yet to read. But somehow they’re hard to resist. Is it a cliché to compare them to crack? Give me something more addictive, then, you would-be Chandlers.  I would say that it’s more addictive than good bourbon on a warm night, but that would bring up memories I’m happier to let fade.  So I’m going with crack—less guilt for me. And I’m surrounded by crack dens.  I just found out there’s another used bookstore in the area with pulp and hardboiled (they spell it “hard-boiled”) sections.  I’ve managed to resist going there, which is no mean feat.  Just give it time. My resolve is inversely related to my disposable income.   Besides, I haven’t finished the bender from the last den of iniquity I visited.  The local League of Women Voters had a book sale.  Had their latest, I should say.  They’ve been doing it for decades to raise money.  They’ve been having an annual book sale almost as long as there have been women voters.  And I was happy to give them my money. I thought it would probably be worth my while to visit the book sale during one of the three days it was running.  Until two weeks before the sale.  The library was collecting donations and I’d see what people were dropping off when I went there.  I was walking into the library.  There was a trunk, and donated books stacked up in it.  On top of the pile was Megan Abbott’s The Song is You.  I was like Walter Neff seeing Phyllis for the first time.  I had to have that book.  All that noir voluptuousness on the cover was irresistible.   And I didn’t have any of Abbott’s novels.  Unlike other (older) books, they’re readily available.  But it isn’t the same.  Finding a gem at a book sale, used book or thrift store is exciting.  Using Amazon is cheating.  Knowing The Song is You was to be sold might be cheating, too.  A man ought to pick his standards wisely. So I began counting down the days to the book sale.  The first day came.  The sale would be starting at 9 a.m.  I didn’t get there till 10:15.  A large white tent sat in the center of town, and I made a beeline for it.  The mystery section was the largest and busiest part of the sale. Scrutinizing all the books rapidly led me to the conclusion that all mysteries were not created equal.  I wasn’t interested in a cat who did anything.  Espionage novels were lumped in with mysteries.  This was great for Alan Furst and John le Carré, but I didn’t want to deal with Tom Clancy or Brad Thor.  I didn’t even want to stop and consider whether Dan Brown wrote mysteries or not. So I focused on Highsmith, Mosley and Lehane.  I found a dozen or so good books. Most of them just fifty cents.  How could I say no?  But there was no Megan Abbott to be found.  I brought the books home.  Went back later that afternoon.  Some new books out, still innumerable copies of The Da Vinci Code.   Then I found Megan Abbott.  It was in a box under the table, with a myriad of other excess books.  It wasn’t The Song is You.  It was her debut novel, Die a Little.  The cover wasn’t as neat.  But that’s all right.  I’m partial to debut novels, anyhow.   I texted  the book moll to exult.  She replied back with “How many and how much did you spend?”  But she’s a good sport.  She went with me to the sale over the weekend.  Pointed out some Elmore Leonard and James Ellroy books to me.  She may lack joie de vivre, but she knows what I like. And she knows me too well.  Finding Die a Little didn’t stop me from going back twice more, once on Saturday and once on Sunday.  Didn’t stop me from accumulating all the books you see there.  I didn’t need them all.  Didn’t need any of them, probably.  But I didn’t know if I’d run across them again.  I once saw a Mike Shayne pulp novel in a used book store for a couple books and didn’t buy it.  I didn’t realize how few Shayne books were in print.  I still haven’t forgiven myself. But I had a clean conscience when the book sale ended.  I also had fifty-odd books.  You can see them up there, and I’ll be posting about them in the upcoming days.  Keep an eye on the literature porn tag.

It isn’t like I need books. I have plenty, and quite a few I’ve yet to read. But somehow they’re hard to resist. Is it a cliché to compare them to crack? Give me something more addictive, then, you would-be Chandlers.  I would say that it’s more addictive than good bourbon on a warm night, but that would bring up memories I’m happier to let fade.  So I’m going with crack—less guilt for me.

And I’m surrounded by crack dens.  I just found out there’s another used bookstore in the area with pulp and hardboiled (they spell it “hard-boiled”) sections.  I’ve managed to resist going there, which is no mean feat.  Just give it time. My resolve is inversely related to my disposable income.  

Besides, I haven’t finished the bender from the last den of iniquity I visited.  The local League of Women Voters had a book sale.  Had their latest, I should say.  They’ve been doing it for decades to raise money.  They’ve been having an annual book sale almost as long as there have been women voters.  And I was happy to give them my money.

I thought it would probably be worth my while to visit the book sale during one of the three days it was running.  Until two weeks before the sale.  The library was collecting donations and I’d see what people were dropping off when I went there.  I was walking into the library.  There was a trunk, and donated books stacked up in it.  On top of the pile was Megan Abbott’s The Song is You.  I was like Walter Neff seeing Phyllis for the first time.  I had to have that book.  All that noir voluptuousness on the cover was irresistible.  

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Miami Shrugs

Miami. It’s practically a byword recently.  It’s the place everyone loves to hate.  Or mock.  If all else fails, they feign wide-eyed shock.  

Yeah, it’s the place where a drug-addled nut might just chew your face off.  Everyone else can bask in the horror.  Miamians just shrug.  It happens.  So it happens here.

It’s a place where appetites are definitive.  A news anchor calls the Philadelphia 76ers the 69ers.  Everyone tee-hees.  They must think about sex a lot down there.  No shit.  

Everyone wants to root against Miami.  They’re plasticky and artificial.  Just like the city.  As rest of the country is drowns in sincerity.

I wish I had a nickel for every reality show about police in the Miami area.  COPS, The First 48, Unleashed: K-9 Broward County, SWAT: Miami-Dade, Police Women of Broward County, Miami Drug Cartel.  Hell, even Animal Cops: Miami.  

When the allure of CSI: Miami and Nip/Tuck wears off, people are still fascinated.  Can’t look away.  When I moved away from Miami, the righteous New Englanders just wanted know one thing: “Why’d you come here?”  They’d all go there if they had the chance.

Everyone wants superficial beauty and sex and bizarre gratification.  They pretend they don’t.  Pretend Miami has what they want.  Then hate it.  Except most Miamians don’t live lives of endless indulgence.  They have endless weariness instead.  

So keep watching your shows.  Watch the bizarre shit that goes down in a poor, violent city.  Shake your head.  Pat yourself on the back.  Drool a little.  Jack off when no one’s watching.  We just shrug.  

Because the bizarre will happen.  And it’ll happen in Miami.  And everyone else will be transfixed.  But in Miami, it won’t be the zombie apocalypse.  It won’t be entertainment.  It’ll just be the news.

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ninthmnemosyne-deactivated20130 asked: Do you think you will ever publish a novel?

Honestly, I don’t know.  I started this blog solely to just record my observations about the people I saw around me.  Nearly a year later, I have quite a few followers who evidently think I’m good at it (or thought I was and are too lazy to unfollow, or followed me in the hope I would follow back).  

My writing is there to peruse.  Most of it consists of little character sketches.  A novel is probably a long ways off, considering my grad school workload.  But I must confess, I am toying with the idea of trying to produce a short story over the summer.  

I have the basic plot outline in my head, but there’s a lot to flesh out.  I am used to historical, academic writing—not creative writing.  So this is rather new.  But watch this space!  I will continue to post vignettes here.  If there is any news regarding a short story, it will certainly be posted here, also.

In the mean time, let me know which of my previous writings you’ve liked.  I always like to get feedback from tumblchums.  And keep the questions coming!

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