Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
a way to help those in need
As part of christmas in the village moes hairstyling will have a donation bucket from now untill christmas for those in need this winter. clean out your cupboards, and closets. Anything helps new or slightly used we will take anything from food to socks to toothpaste and deodorant .. We will be taking the donations to the SHARE house located here in Vancouver which benefits the homeless. Bring it on people!! so please swing by and help out and also check out www.uptownvillage.com for a complete list of the other events happening during this years christmas in the village
Monday, November 22, 2010
movie suggestion
Detour (1945) is a film noir cult classic that stars Tom Neal, Ann Savage, Claudia Drake and Edmund MacDonald. The movie was adapted by Martin Goldsmith and Martin Mooney (uncredited) from Goldsmith's novel and was directed by Edgar G. Ulmer. The 68-minute film was released by the Producers Releasing Corporation (PRC), one of the so-called "poverty row" film studios in mid-twentieth century Hollywood.[1]
Although made on a small budget with bare sets and straightforward camera work, Detour has gathered much praise through the years and is held in high regard. The film has fallen into the public domain and is freely available from online sources. There are also many DVD editions. In Detour Al (Tom Neal) is a piano player who sets off hitchhiking his way to California to be with his fiancee. Along the way a convertible driven by Charles Haskell Jr. stops to pick him up. Al is driving while Haskell sleeps when a rainstorm begins and Al pulls over to put up the top. However, Haskell does not wake up and falls out onto the pavement, dead. Al dumps the body in a gully, takes Haskell's money, clothes and ID, then drives off in Haskell's expensive car. After spending the night in a motel, Al picks up another hitchhiker. As it happens, Vera (Ann Savage, playing a femme fatale) had earlier ridden with Haskell and blackmails Al by threatening to turn him in for murder unless he gives her all the money. In Hollywood they rent an apartment and while trying to sell the car, learn from a newspaper that Haskell was about to collect a large inheritance. Vera, who has an unknown illness which she hints may cut her life short, demands that Al impersonate Haskell but Al balks at this notion. When the two get drunk in the apartment and begin arguing, a snubbed Vera takes Al up on his angry dare to call the police, whereupon Al accidentally strangles her with a telephone cord. Al starts hitchhiking back east, but as the film ends is picked up by the police near Reno.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
radio pulp being posted on http://www.myspace.com/556095210
Moon over Africa was a syndicated 15-minute serial following the adventures of Professor Anton Edwards on his search for Atlantis in the depths of Africa. Along on his search, his daughter, fiance, and a preserved human head make an usual adventure which was broadcast during 1935-1938. Possibly from South Africa, it's unknown if the series was broadcast in the US. Talbot Mundy wrote the series script (and is known for other serials such as Jack Armstrong, Lost Empire, and Ghost Corps.).
radio pulp being posted on http://www.myspace.com/556095210
the shadow radio show - Street & Smith entered into a new broadcasting agreement with Blue Coal in 1937, and that summer Gibson teamed with scriptwriter Edward Hale Bierstadt to develop the new series. As such, The Shadow returned to network airwaves on September 26, 1937, over the new Mutual Broadcasting System. Thus began the "official" radio drama that many Shadow fans know and love, with 22-year-old Orson Welles starring as Lamont Cranston, a "wealthy young man about town." Once The Shadow joined Mutual as a half-hour series on Sunday evenings, the program did not leave the air until December 26, 1954.
Welles did not speak the signature line of "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?" Instead, Readick did, using a water glass next to his mouth for the echo effect. The famous catch phrase was accompanied by the strains of an excerpt from Opus 31 of the Camille Saint-Saëns classical composition, Le Rouet d'Omphale.
After Welles departed the show in 1938, Bill Johnstone was chosen to replace him and voiced the character for five seasons. Following Johnstone's departure, The Shadow was portrayed by such actors as Bret Morrison (the longest tenure, with 10 years in two separate runs), John Archer, and Steve Courtleigh.
The Shadow also inspired another radio hit, The Whistler, whose protagonist likewise knows "many things, for I walk by night. I know many strange tales, many secrets hidden in the hearts of men and women who have stepped into the shadows. Yes, I know the nameless terrors of which they dare not speak."
Thursday, November 18, 2010
now also on myspace
now Im not only on blogger , facebook and twitter but also on myspace . my myspace page occasionally have audio
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
my vote for todays most underrated actors
Ethan Hawke , Josh Hartnett , Joseph Gordon-Levitt , Clive Owen and Viggo Mortensen
Monday, November 15, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
excerpt from a pulp book i really like but I didn't write
THROUGH HALF-CLOSED eyes Bond looked intently at the torch while for a few precious seconds he sat and let life creep
back into his body. His head felt as if it had been used as a football, but there was nothing broken. Drax had hit him unscientifically
and with the welter of blows of a drunken man.
Gala watched him anxiously. The eyes in the bloody face were almost shut, but the line of the jaw was taut with concentration
and she could feel the effort of will he was making.
He gave his head a shake and when he turned towards her she could see that his eyes were feverish with triumph.
He nodded towards the desk. "The lighter," he said urgently. "I had to try and make him forget it. Follow me. I'll show you." He
started to rock the light steel chair inch by inch towards the desk. "For God's sake don't tip over or we've had it. But make it fast or
the blowlamp'll get cold."
Uncomprehendingly, and feeling almost as if they were playing some ghastly children's game, Gala carefully rocked her way
across the floor in his wake.
Seconds later Bond told her to stop beside the desk while he went rocking on round to Drax's chair. Then he manoeuvred himself
into position opposite his target and with a sudden lurch heaved himself and the chair forward so that his head came down.
There was a painful crack as the Ronson desk lighter connected with his teeth, but his lips held it and the top of it was in his
mouth as he heaved the chair back with just enough force to prevent it spilling over. Then he started his patient journey back to
where Gala was sitting at the corner of the desk on which Krebs had left the blowlamp.
He rested until his breath was steady again. "Now we come to the difficult part," he said grimly. "While I try to get this torch
going, you get your chair round so that your right arm is as close in front of me as possible."
Obediently she edged herself round while Bond swayed his chair so that it leant against the edge of the desk and allowed his
mouth to reach forward and grip the handle of the blowtorch between his teeth.
Then he eased the torch towards him and after minutes of patient work he had the torch and the lighter arranged to his liking at
the edge of the desk.
After another rest he bent down, closed the valve of the torch with his teeth, and proceeded to get pressure back by slowly and
repeatedly pulling up the plunger with his lips and pressing it back with his chin. His face could feel the warmth in the pre-heater
and he could smell the remnants of gas in it. If only it hadn't cooled off too much. He straightened up.
"Last lap, Gala," he said, smiling crookedly at her. "I may have to hurt you a bit. All right?"
"Of course," said Gala.
"Then here goes," said Bond, and he bent forward and released the safety valve on the left of the canister.
Then he quickly bent forward over the Ronson, which was standing at right angles and just below the neck of the torch, and with
his two front teeth pressed down sharply on the ignition lever.
It was a horrible manoeuvre and though he whipped back his head with the speed of a snake he let out a gasp of pain as the jet of
blue fire from the torch seared across his bruised cheek and the bridge of his nose.
But the vaporized paraffin was hissing out its vital tongue of flame and he shook the water out of his streaming eyes and bent his
head almost at right angles and again got his teeth to the handle of the blowtorch.
He thought his jaw would break with the weight of the thing and the nerves of his front teeth screamed at him, but he swayed his
chair carefully upright away from the desk and then strained his bent neck forward until the tip of blue fire from the torch was biting
into the flex that bound Gala's right wrist to the arm of her chair.
He tried desperately to keep the flame steady but the breath rasped through the girl's teeth as the handle shifted between his jaws
and the flame of the torch brushed her forearm.
But then it was over. Melted by the fierce heat, the copper strands parted one by one and suddenly Gala's right arm was free and
she was reaching to take the torch out of Bond's mouth.
Bond's head fell back on to his shoulders and he twisted his neck luxuriously to get the blood moving in the aching muscles.
Almost before he knew it, Gala was bending over his arms and legs and he too was free.
As he sat still for a moment, his eyes closed, waiting for the life to come back into his body, he suddenly, delightedly felt Gala's
soft lips on his mouth.
He opened his eyes. She was standing in front of him, her eyes shining. "That's for what you did," she said seriously.
"You're a wonderful girl," he said simply.
But then, knowing what he was going to have to do, knowing that while she might conceivably survive, he had only another few
minutes to live, he closed his eyes so that she should not see the hopelessness in them.
Gala saw the expression on his face and she turned away. She thought it was only exhaustion and the culminative effect of what
his body had suffered, and she suddenly remembered the peroxide in the washroom next to her office.
She went through the communicating door. How extraordinary it was to see her familiar things again. It must be someone else
who had sat at that desk and typed letters and powdered her nose. She shrugged her shoulders and went into the little washroom.
God what a sight and God how tired she felt! But first she took a wet towel and some peroxide and went back and spent ten minutes
attending to the battlefield which was Bond's face.
He sat silent, a hand resting on her waist, and watched her gratefully. Then when she had gone back into her room and he heard
her shut the door of the washroom behind her he got up, turned off the still hissing blowtorch, and walked into Drax's shower,
stripped and stood for five minutes under the icy water. 'Preparing the corpse!' he reflected ruefully as he surveyed his battered face
in the mirror.
He put on his clothes and went back to Drax's desk which he searched methodically. It yielded only one prize, tha 'office bottle', a
half-full bottle of Haig and Haig. He fetched two glasses and some water and called to Gala.
He heard the door of the washroom open. "What is it?"
"Whisky."
"You drink. I'll be ready in a minute."
Bond looked at the bottle and poured himself three-quarters of a toothglass and drank it straight down in two gulps. Then he
gingerly lit a blessed cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk and felt the liquor burn down through his stomach into his legs.
He picked up the bottle again and looked at it. Plenty for Gala and a whole full glass for himself before he walked out through the
door. Better than nothing. It wouldn't be too bad with that inside him so long as he walked quickly out and shut the doors behind
him. No looking back.
Gala came in, a transformed Gala, looking as beautiful as the night he had first seen her, except for the lines of exhaustion under
the eyes that the powder could not quite conceal and the angry welts at her wrists and ankles.
Bond gave her a drink and took another one himself and their eyes smiled at each other over the rims of their glasses.
Then Bond stood up.
"Listen, Gala," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "We've got to face it and get it over so I'll make it short and then we'll have
another drink." He heard her catch her breath, but he went on. "In ten minutes or so I'm going to shut you into Drax's bathroom and
put you under the shower and turn it full on."
"James," she cried. She stepped close to him. "Don't go on. I know you're going to say something dreadful. Please stop, James."
"Come on, Gala," said Bond roughly. "What the hell does it matter. It's a bloody miracle we've got the chance." He moved away
from her. He walked to the doors leading out into the shaft.
"And then," he said, and he held up the precious lighter in his right hand, "I shall walk out of here and shut the doors and go and
light a last cigarette under the tail of the Moonraker."
"God," she whispered. "What are you saying? You're mad." She looked at him through eyes wide with horror.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Bond impatiently. "What the hell is there else to do? The explosion will be so terrific that one won't
feel anything. And it's bound to work with all that fuel vapour hanging around. It's me or a million people in London. The warhead
won't go off. Atom bombs don't explode like that. It'll be melted probably. There's just a chance you may get away. Most of the
explosion will take the line of least resistance through the roof—and down the exhaust pit, if I can work the machinery that opens
up the floor." He smiled. "Cheer up," he said, walking over to her and taking one of her hands. "The boy stood on the burning deck.
I've wanted to copy him since I was five."
Gala pulled her hand away. "I don't care what you say," she said angrily. "We've got to think of something else. You don't trust
me to have any ideas. You just tell me what you think we've got to do." She walked over to the wall map and pressed down the
switch. "Of course if we have to use the lighter we have to." She gazed at the map of the false flight plan, barely seeing it. "But the
idea of you walking in there alone and standing in the middle of all those ghastly fumes from the fuel and calmly flicking that thing
and then being blown to dust… And anyway, if we have to do it, we'll do it together. I'd rather that than be burnt to death in here.
And anyway," she paused, "I'd like to go with you. We're in this together."
Bond's eyes were tender as he walked towards her and put an arm round her waist and hugged her to him. "Gala, you're a
darling," he said simply. "And if there's any other way we'll take it. But," he looked at his watch, "it's past midnight and we've to
decide quickly. At any moment it may occur to Drax to send guards down to see that we're all right, and God knows what time he'll
be coming down to set the gyros."
Gala twisted her body round like a cat. She gazed at him with her mouth open, her face taut with excitement. "The gyros," she
whispered, "to set the gyros." She leant weakly back again the wall, her eyes searching Bond's face. "Don't you see?" her voice was
on the edge of hysteria. "After he's gone, we could alter the gyros back, back to the old flight plan, then the rocket will simply fall
into the North Sea where it's supposed to go."
She stepped away from the wall and seized his shirt in both hands and looked imploringly at him. "Can't we?" she said. "Can't
we?"
"Do you know the other settings?" asked Bond sharply.
"Of course I do," she said urgently. "I've been living with them for a year. We won't have a weather report but
back into his body. His head felt as if it had been used as a football, but there was nothing broken. Drax had hit him unscientifically
and with the welter of blows of a drunken man.
Gala watched him anxiously. The eyes in the bloody face were almost shut, but the line of the jaw was taut with concentration
and she could feel the effort of will he was making.
He gave his head a shake and when he turned towards her she could see that his eyes were feverish with triumph.
He nodded towards the desk. "The lighter," he said urgently. "I had to try and make him forget it. Follow me. I'll show you." He
started to rock the light steel chair inch by inch towards the desk. "For God's sake don't tip over or we've had it. But make it fast or
the blowlamp'll get cold."
Uncomprehendingly, and feeling almost as if they were playing some ghastly children's game, Gala carefully rocked her way
across the floor in his wake.
Seconds later Bond told her to stop beside the desk while he went rocking on round to Drax's chair. Then he manoeuvred himself
into position opposite his target and with a sudden lurch heaved himself and the chair forward so that his head came down.
There was a painful crack as the Ronson desk lighter connected with his teeth, but his lips held it and the top of it was in his
mouth as he heaved the chair back with just enough force to prevent it spilling over. Then he started his patient journey back to
where Gala was sitting at the corner of the desk on which Krebs had left the blowlamp.
He rested until his breath was steady again. "Now we come to the difficult part," he said grimly. "While I try to get this torch
going, you get your chair round so that your right arm is as close in front of me as possible."
Obediently she edged herself round while Bond swayed his chair so that it leant against the edge of the desk and allowed his
mouth to reach forward and grip the handle of the blowtorch between his teeth.
Then he eased the torch towards him and after minutes of patient work he had the torch and the lighter arranged to his liking at
the edge of the desk.
After another rest he bent down, closed the valve of the torch with his teeth, and proceeded to get pressure back by slowly and
repeatedly pulling up the plunger with his lips and pressing it back with his chin. His face could feel the warmth in the pre-heater
and he could smell the remnants of gas in it. If only it hadn't cooled off too much. He straightened up.
"Last lap, Gala," he said, smiling crookedly at her. "I may have to hurt you a bit. All right?"
"Of course," said Gala.
"Then here goes," said Bond, and he bent forward and released the safety valve on the left of the canister.
Then he quickly bent forward over the Ronson, which was standing at right angles and just below the neck of the torch, and with
his two front teeth pressed down sharply on the ignition lever.
It was a horrible manoeuvre and though he whipped back his head with the speed of a snake he let out a gasp of pain as the jet of
blue fire from the torch seared across his bruised cheek and the bridge of his nose.
But the vaporized paraffin was hissing out its vital tongue of flame and he shook the water out of his streaming eyes and bent his
head almost at right angles and again got his teeth to the handle of the blowtorch.
He thought his jaw would break with the weight of the thing and the nerves of his front teeth screamed at him, but he swayed his
chair carefully upright away from the desk and then strained his bent neck forward until the tip of blue fire from the torch was biting
into the flex that bound Gala's right wrist to the arm of her chair.
He tried desperately to keep the flame steady but the breath rasped through the girl's teeth as the handle shifted between his jaws
and the flame of the torch brushed her forearm.
But then it was over. Melted by the fierce heat, the copper strands parted one by one and suddenly Gala's right arm was free and
she was reaching to take the torch out of Bond's mouth.
Bond's head fell back on to his shoulders and he twisted his neck luxuriously to get the blood moving in the aching muscles.
Almost before he knew it, Gala was bending over his arms and legs and he too was free.
As he sat still for a moment, his eyes closed, waiting for the life to come back into his body, he suddenly, delightedly felt Gala's
soft lips on his mouth.
He opened his eyes. She was standing in front of him, her eyes shining. "That's for what you did," she said seriously.
"You're a wonderful girl," he said simply.
But then, knowing what he was going to have to do, knowing that while she might conceivably survive, he had only another few
minutes to live, he closed his eyes so that she should not see the hopelessness in them.
Gala saw the expression on his face and she turned away. She thought it was only exhaustion and the culminative effect of what
his body had suffered, and she suddenly remembered the peroxide in the washroom next to her office.
She went through the communicating door. How extraordinary it was to see her familiar things again. It must be someone else
who had sat at that desk and typed letters and powdered her nose. She shrugged her shoulders and went into the little washroom.
God what a sight and God how tired she felt! But first she took a wet towel and some peroxide and went back and spent ten minutes
attending to the battlefield which was Bond's face.
He sat silent, a hand resting on her waist, and watched her gratefully. Then when she had gone back into her room and he heard
her shut the door of the washroom behind her he got up, turned off the still hissing blowtorch, and walked into Drax's shower,
stripped and stood for five minutes under the icy water. 'Preparing the corpse!' he reflected ruefully as he surveyed his battered face
in the mirror.
He put on his clothes and went back to Drax's desk which he searched methodically. It yielded only one prize, tha 'office bottle', a
half-full bottle of Haig and Haig. He fetched two glasses and some water and called to Gala.
He heard the door of the washroom open. "What is it?"
"Whisky."
"You drink. I'll be ready in a minute."
Bond looked at the bottle and poured himself three-quarters of a toothglass and drank it straight down in two gulps. Then he
gingerly lit a blessed cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk and felt the liquor burn down through his stomach into his legs.
He picked up the bottle again and looked at it. Plenty for Gala and a whole full glass for himself before he walked out through the
door. Better than nothing. It wouldn't be too bad with that inside him so long as he walked quickly out and shut the doors behind
him. No looking back.
Gala came in, a transformed Gala, looking as beautiful as the night he had first seen her, except for the lines of exhaustion under
the eyes that the powder could not quite conceal and the angry welts at her wrists and ankles.
Bond gave her a drink and took another one himself and their eyes smiled at each other over the rims of their glasses.
Then Bond stood up.
"Listen, Gala," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "We've got to face it and get it over so I'll make it short and then we'll have
another drink." He heard her catch her breath, but he went on. "In ten minutes or so I'm going to shut you into Drax's bathroom and
put you under the shower and turn it full on."
"James," she cried. She stepped close to him. "Don't go on. I know you're going to say something dreadful. Please stop, James."
"Come on, Gala," said Bond roughly. "What the hell does it matter. It's a bloody miracle we've got the chance." He moved away
from her. He walked to the doors leading out into the shaft.
"And then," he said, and he held up the precious lighter in his right hand, "I shall walk out of here and shut the doors and go and
light a last cigarette under the tail of the Moonraker."
"God," she whispered. "What are you saying? You're mad." She looked at him through eyes wide with horror.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Bond impatiently. "What the hell is there else to do? The explosion will be so terrific that one won't
feel anything. And it's bound to work with all that fuel vapour hanging around. It's me or a million people in London. The warhead
won't go off. Atom bombs don't explode like that. It'll be melted probably. There's just a chance you may get away. Most of the
explosion will take the line of least resistance through the roof—and down the exhaust pit, if I can work the machinery that opens
up the floor." He smiled. "Cheer up," he said, walking over to her and taking one of her hands. "The boy stood on the burning deck.
I've wanted to copy him since I was five."
Gala pulled her hand away. "I don't care what you say," she said angrily. "We've got to think of something else. You don't trust
me to have any ideas. You just tell me what you think we've got to do." She walked over to the wall map and pressed down the
switch. "Of course if we have to use the lighter we have to." She gazed at the map of the false flight plan, barely seeing it. "But the
idea of you walking in there alone and standing in the middle of all those ghastly fumes from the fuel and calmly flicking that thing
and then being blown to dust… And anyway, if we have to do it, we'll do it together. I'd rather that than be burnt to death in here.
And anyway," she paused, "I'd like to go with you. We're in this together."
Bond's eyes were tender as he walked towards her and put an arm round her waist and hugged her to him. "Gala, you're a
darling," he said simply. "And if there's any other way we'll take it. But," he looked at his watch, "it's past midnight and we've to
decide quickly. At any moment it may occur to Drax to send guards down to see that we're all right, and God knows what time he'll
be coming down to set the gyros."
Gala twisted her body round like a cat. She gazed at him with her mouth open, her face taut with excitement. "The gyros," she
whispered, "to set the gyros." She leant weakly back again the wall, her eyes searching Bond's face. "Don't you see?" her voice was
on the edge of hysteria. "After he's gone, we could alter the gyros back, back to the old flight plan, then the rocket will simply fall
into the North Sea where it's supposed to go."
She stepped away from the wall and seized his shirt in both hands and looked imploringly at him. "Can't we?" she said. "Can't
we?"
"Do you know the other settings?" asked Bond sharply.
"Of course I do," she said urgently. "I've been living with them for a year. We won't have a weather report but
Saturday, November 13, 2010
great movie suggestion- the big sleep
The Big Sleep (1939) is a hardboiled crime novel by Raymond Chandler, the first in his acclaimed series about detective Philip Marlowe. The work has been adapted twice into film, once in 1946 and again in 1978.
The story is noted for its complexity, with many characters double-crossing each other and many secrets being exposed throughout the narrative. The title is a euphemism for death; it refers to a rumination in the book about "sleeping the big sleep", and is not descriptive of the plot.
In 2005, Time magazine included the novel in its 100 Best Novels published after 1923 Summoned by the dying General Sternwood, Philip Marlowe is asked to deal with several problems that are troubling his family. Marlowe finds that each problem centers about the disappearance of Sternwood's favoured employee who has left with a mobster's wife. Each of the problems becomes a cover for something else as Marlowe probes.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
term of the week
dummerer - somebody who pretends to be (deaf and?) dumb in order to
appear a more deserving beggar
appear a more deserving beggar
Sunday, November 7, 2010
sorry for the layout on these posts the copy and past function seens to not work very well between my typing program and blogger
sorry for the layout on these posts the copy and past function seens to not work very well between my typing program and blogger
excerpt from my book The screw that refused to tighten by Jason L. Brown , part 2 , part 3 coming next month
There was a sudden crash and with a jolt I woke , almost falling from my chair . It was nearly an hour after nightfall and it was still over 90 , and quiet , eerily quiet. The only sounds were the rattle of the small fan on my desk and the buzz of a moth trying to escape out of the window. Feeling something damp on my leg I looked down ."I must've knocked over my whiskey ." I said out loud , mostly just to break the silence . I had sent my secretary home almost three hours ago. A decision I now regretted , I could have used the company. Looking out the window I had never seen the city so empty . "Apparently the rest of the city has had the good sense to find somewhere with air conditioning , well I might as well join them ." I said , Again out loud. Standing up I retrieved my gun off the desk and holstered it . then instinctively I reached for my coat,catching myself I grabbed my hat instead. I was closing the door behind me and digging my keys from my pocket when I heard a noise to my left. " Oh its just you Mr. Grambo, Getting a late start to the day I see." Mr. Grambo was the accountant that worked across the hall from me. I had known him for years , He was a nice enough guy if not a little dull. "I was hoping to wait out the heat ." he said . "But I have to much to get done to wait any longer. Are you off for the day?"he asked. "Yes I think so . Sweating in my office doesn't seem to be bringing me any work , so I thought I'd find some place cool to have a bite and a drink before I called it a day ." I replied . Formalities completed I left him to his work and headed out to find a cab. Seeing that the street was still deserted I decided that the only thing worse than walking in this heat was waiting for a hack that may never come . So I started off in the direction of my favorite speakeasy . Knowing that there was a fine line between getting to my destination as quick as possible and over exerting myself,I kept a slow but steady pace. Stopping only twice , once to give an old drummerer some change and once to gawk at a teenage boy taking advantage of the dark and empty streets to get fresh with his girl. "I remember those days ."I thought enviously. "Only things that mattered were fun and dames." Before I knew it I was stepping through the door of the seedy little hole known as Mac Kenny's. All the usual punks and yaps where there and a thick blue haze permeated every corner of the dimly lit establishment . Overhead two massive rattan fans did their part to make sure the smoke was properly circulated. I seated myself at the far end of the bar under a white square patch of wall outlining where the owner's picture used to hang. Last week there was a drunken brawl in which the picture was broken exposing what was probably the only patch of wall not permanently stained by cigar smoke. "Good day to ya Jonzey ." said the man behind the bar. "Seen ya in here an awful lot lately, misses kick ya out again?" Now Mr. Mac Kenny and I had that kind of friendship that was held together by insults and trying to outdo each other. He wasn't the best looking bird . He almost always was seen wearing a grease stained under shirt that didn't fully cover his more than adequate belly . He had curly red hair that was cut short on the sides but to long on top and in an effort to keep that hair under control he slicked it back with what looked to be old bacon fat. His sparsely grown side burns where only made to look more pitiful by his enormous mustache. So as you can imagine getting the upper hand on him wasn't difficult. "Now Byron you know I don't have no moll , none will have me due to the smell of stale smoke I have from hanging out here." I retorted. "Business bad then?" he asked. "Virtually nonexistent , all this heats keeping the criminals off the street and in this hash house of yours ." With a bellow of a laugh he said ." I've always wondered what keeps a mutt like you come'n back to a place like this and you a shamus ta boot." "Well you Mick's might smell like cabbage and onions but everyone knows you have the best beer." "Eh that be true enough ye-sir that be true ." He snickered then asked " So what'll be tonight then ? Beer and a steak ?" " How's the corned beef hash tonight ?" I asked . " the best in weeks." came the answer. " Ok I'll take that and the beer of course."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Friday, November 5, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
thank you for the suggestions for my book
thanks to some good suggestions from some friends some corrections have been made to the part of my book I've previously posted . so again thank you and please , please pipe in with more if you have them and another excerpt will be coming soon.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
term of the week
BADGER GAME .- blackmail practised on a man who is lured by a woman into a compromising situation and then threatened by her male accomplice
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