"Alas, my only Dixie cups left are all fittied with wire and still, hopefully, that wire is connected to those one and a half friends I think I may have - their Dixie cups. Like, prehistoric telephones...like Godzilla in drag and refusing to pay his…"
So had to be the lighting..Naw..something else…And the last thing I’m trying to do, now that I’m back here after a time or two away, is to hunt and cheezy-charm women…woman…Decided though,…"
"Only sayin'...fa christ sakes Plaid...I goota gumshoe twice the pinche Internet just to find out if you're hale and hearty. Go fucking figure - you freaking "Old School" jelly-roll madman...Sure but it's a fine day in…"
From an early age, I was influenced by street heavies, take-off guys, Bop musicians, dope fiends and the many mad artists and hustlers that roamed the Whicker Park and near north neighborhoods from North Avenue to Belmont. I grew up listening and learning. Cool School. Those perilous and drug-crazed years set a pace I was soon unable to disengage from until I found myself one lonely morning, in front of a computer, writing prose from remembrances which quickly metastasized into short stories - frighteningly authentic and very different from the main stream fiction written by mostly crime tourists. These nascent attempts at burying my current depressions with fresh dirt of creation, slowly brought me back to life with a passionate hope I could reach out to a market interested in what real criminals feel - what real crimes - mostly drug deals and smuggling feel like to actual players rather than characters imagined by writers who have never been a part or close to the life.
I made it to the top of the mountain littered with dope deals and scars. Falling was faster and painful. Prisons in the USA, The Netherlands and finally, The Middle East completed my education. Now, i write about these years in an explosively authentic punk rock noir.
Come join me....