OOGIE BOOGIE CENTRAL - Featuring Steve's Vent

Addio, psico asini d'addio! Tune in next week for the Grand Finale. Thought I forgot, didn't you? But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

Honestly, I expected it to be more. They're hiding somewhere. I missed a nook, or a cranny, or perhaps, they're lurking in the huge closet I can't get to yet because of the towering stacks of comics (and don't even get me started on the comics; I can't wait to see the bill for at least a dozen new long boxes). There are two benefits to today's marathon boxing session. One: I got to see exactly what I own, and there were some pleasant surprises, mostly along the line of "Oh, I didn't remember having that!" or "How the hell did I get three of those?" I'm officially declaring a temporary moratorium on book-buying; I'll never live long enough to read everything currently in my library. The other benefit? Now my office looks like a cross between a maze and a fort, and I didn't have to use any sofa cushions to build it. But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

We taught our daughter something important today. We taught her that there are crazy people in the world. We taught her that the insane don't just live on network TV. We taught her that sometimes you have to stand up for yourself in the face of idiocy and paranoia, even if your actions effect no change. Sometimes, you just have to stand up. We also demonstrated that violence is -in most cases- the reaction of a scared, dumb animal when confronted with a superior adversary. When the higher functions don't -or can't- function, the reptilian brain assumes control and lashes out. It's a defense mechanism for those without the mental capacity to address conflict as mature adults. The trick is knowing when to respond in kind and when to walk away. After all, it's cruel to abuse the mentally defective. It's pointless to debate with the intellectually challenged. It's counterproductive to attempt to undo years of false persecution and pathetic rationalization by way...

Two of my most favorite ladies in the world have made a startling discovery, but it’s only startling to them. To me and the rest of the people in our little circle of friends and acquaintances, this is old news. That doesn’t make their discoveries any less noteworthy. In honor of Marcy and Meghan , I’d like to dust off the following Vent, taken from But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . . Here’s my take on what you’re experiencing. I hope it properly conveys what I’m thinking, and how much I respect you both. I’ll Add It to My Collection. . . The other morning a woman approached me in the bookstore and asked about diet books. As we walked over to the section, she informed me that a friend had recommended one to her, but she couldn’t remember the exact title. Based on the limited information she gave me, I handed her a book by the author she mentioned. It’s one I’ve been selling a lot of lately, so I was reasonably sure it was the correct selection, although I did suggest she double che...

There was a package waiting in my mailbox today. When I opened it, I discovered this my contributor's copy for the book at the right. Thou Shalt Not... is the initial offering from Dark Cloud Press , a small press specializing in horror without an abundence of sexual content or profane language. In addition to 36 phenomenal stories, it includes my short piece Our Souls Abide on This Ocean's Tide . Now you see what I mean about the end of the world. . . Seriously, this is a gorgeous book, the project was a dream and Lee Howard from Dark Cloud was a true professional who restored my wounded faith in Small Horror Publishers. No small feat on any front. I'm sure this will be available from other sources eventually, but if you can't wait (and you can't, can you?) you can order a copy directly from Dark Cloud . 100,000 words for $17. That's a hell of a deal at twice the price. Hell? Oops, I did it again. But Then Again, You'll Have This. . .

Bestselling Author Brian Keene , in addition to his Stoker Award-winning fiction, has a regular column that appears at the appropriately named Hail Saten . Mr. Keene has taken the last few weeks off for some deadline maintainence, and invited several authors to fill the pundit gap. Anyone care to guess where this is going? The link's been on the right side of this page since its inception, but if you haven't clicked it yet, I'll ask you to do so now. You never know what you'll find . But Then Again, You'll Have This...

And then: αποχαιρετιστήριος αποχαιρετιστήριος παχύς γάιδαρος. Coming soon: Chicken and Beer! But Then Again, You'll Have This. . .

And now, for the next installment: прощальный прощальный ишак грома. Stay tuned for more. But Then Again, You'll Have This...

. . . a serial in several parts. Part One: さようならさようなら脂肪質のろば。 Stay tuned. But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

Soon after But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . . was published, I received a phone call from the Buyer in our corporate office who had placed it in our stores. Deanna had read Central , liked it, and seemed quite energetic in her support for the Vent collection. But, there was some hesitation in her praise for But Then Again . “I liked it. I really liked it,” she said. “But . . .” Here it comes, I thought. The denouncement I’d been waiting for, ever since I wrote the first Vent set in the bookstore. Like Jack Webb used to say every week: “The following story is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent,” but my motivations were always a bit different. I believe in protecting the innocent, but the innocent are rarely the subject of a Vent. Innocence and Vent-worthy are mutually exclusive states of being. Perhaps one could argue that by exposing and ridiculing the guilty, I’m protecting the innocent, and if anybody puts that on a t-shirt, I’ll wear it proudly, b...

...and tremble. His name's Scott, and he whipped up this little gem in less than a day. Pretty impressive, huh? By the way: I'm the third one from the left, holding Teddy's place for him. Makes one wonder what other photos might be hanging around the hard drive needing a quick edit by the Master... At least it makes me wonder. But Then Again, You'll Have This. . .

Listen . . . In a doctor’s office sitting area, while you wait for the test results that’ll explain exactly what that thing is hanging from the end of your Johnson like a cliff diver waiting for the tide to come in.  Sitting on a bench in the mall, waiting while Grandma receives yet another in a weekly series of blue rinses that will transform her carefully permed and teased hair into an aerodynamically sound and architecturally impermeable helmet. Listen . . . In the queue at the buffet, watching a gargantuan diner stretch the spatial boundaries of the wire basket strapped to the handlebars of the motorized scooter your tax dollars paid for, because God forbid Gigantor might have to make two trips to the steam tables, because despite their best efforts to violate the laws of physics, there’s only so much room on a standard-sized dinner plate.  Or in the check-out line of the local bookstore, while the overworked and underpaid employee explains for the seventeenth ti...

A Brief Commercial Announcement . . . For anyone in shouting distance of my homebase in Uniontown, PA: Mark your calendars! Saturday, June 3, 2006. Noon until 5 PM. The Borders Express in Uniontown Mall. BRIAN KEENE! Finally, a reason to come to Fayette County that doesn't involve an arrest warrant. Bring your Zombies! Bring your Terminal cases! Bring your Worms! Brian will have his with him. But Then Again, You'll Have This. . .

Yeah, I’m a parent. One of the best compliments I’ve ever received came from my Number One Road Dog Vince (Keith Pridemore, to any of you who’ve read Oogie Boogie Central ), who told me, “Man, I don’t like kids in general, but I really dig hanging out with yours.” What makes that better is that I’ve heard the same thing from a lot of people. I never had a parenting strategy beyond the standard “I’ll never do THAT to my kids” we all vow during the heights of teenage angst.  With my sons, the influence I wielded ended early thanks to the divorce and visitation.  You can only exert so much control on alternate weekends.  Still, both boys have turned out relatively well, and if I close my eyes while they’re talking, I can hear myself in their words, attitude and inflection. I’ll leave it for posterity to determine whether my influence has been positive or not. Lex is a different story.  After a lengthy gap in my day-to-day parenting experience, I was ...

Oh, the joys of the Information Superhighway. While surfing the other day, I found a reference to a little-known, never-seen, lost Simpsons Pilot.  According to the site, the animated family we all know and love had a much different genesis than the one first viewed on the Tracey Ullman show. For starters, the family was much smaller than the current version.  There were Homer, Marge and Lisa; that was all.  No Bart.  No Maggie.  No Snowball Number Two, although Santa’s Little Helper was present and accounted for.  The neighborhood was different too.  Rather than a population of quirky Springfield residents, the Simpsons were surround by an eclectic –yet totally normal- mix of families.  Fathers, mothers, singles and children.  No Flanders.  No Wiggums.  Not even a Milhouse (which makes sense since there wasn’t a Bart). In the original version, the Simpsons were the anomaly, the...

Jesus, take me now. I’ve seen everything. Several times a week, I receive solicitations from authors hoping to get their book(s) carried in my store.  While I’m a big believer in self-promotion, I’ve discovered that (as in any other endeavor) there’s a right way and a wrong way to approach it, and the differences between these two methods are small, but significant. Two years ago, at the World Horror Convention in Phoenix AZ, I spent an afternoon drinking and sermonizing about the ins and outs of the book business, concentrating on what grabs my attention as a manager and a merchandiser.  Some highlights included: If you send me a letter, make sure to follow the basic, minimum tenets of Strunk & White.  If you can’t write a simple letter, why should I believe you can write anything else? Always get a wedge of lime for your Corona. It just doesn’t taste right without it. Never call a bookstore and promote a fictitious appearance or media interview just to ge...

There are times when I’m ready to quit.  Really.  Chuck this frustrating, maddening, consuming avocation and find some shaggy hedges to prune.  Or patterns to sew.  Or cakes to decorate.  Something –anything- other than the constant keyboard pounding that only serves to keep the levees of my mind from breaking in a Katrina-like flood. Eventually, I get over it. Usually, I’m recharged by reading or watching something that inspires me, and I’m not talking about Dr. Phil or Oprah.  There are a lot of talented storytellers out there, but only a few that can break the doldrums and push me back in front of the keyboard. Tonight, I’ve added Shane Ryan to that short list. We all loved Dirty Harry; he did the things we wanted to but couldn’t.  We all loved John McClane; he was a maverick that wouldn’t kowtow to the system or the pricks that ran it.   Burke’s a thief and a con-man, but he has a mission that mitigates...

Since THEY come here every day –twice a day- I thought I’d give THEM something to make their visits worthwhile. There are many pharmaceutical solutions for paranoia and martyr complexes. These new wonder drugs can allow those with afflictions such as yours to live nearly normal lives (or what would pass for normal in your world). There can be some risk of sexual side effects, but really, that’s not much of a concern, is it? For the rest of you, keep on keeping on. But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . .

I didn’t do anything yesterday. After crawling out of bed, I alternated between sitting in the recliner and lying on the couch, surfing the web and staring at the television. I hugged my daughter. I ate dinner. I smoked. I watched the clock, and remembered. I remembered the room. I remembered the people. I remembered leaving the hospital and sitting in the car, frozen in time and space between the man I had been when I arrived and the man I’d be once I left. I considered the mistakes I made in the aftermath and wondered how things might have turned out if I was as smart as I pretend to be. And I watched the clock. Eventually 10:39 PM came. I marked the occasion in silence. The minute seemed to last forever, a lifetime compressed into sixty seconds. The irony didn’t escape my notice. I remember, even if I remember alone. My arms were the only ones to cradle him. My lips were the only ones to kiss him. Is it any wonder then that I mourn in solitude? I used to call her every ...

Happy Birthday Alexander. Daddy loves you.

This morning it occurred to me (in the bathroom, the birthplace of many important realizations) that I should clarify the origin of the post immediately below. The following is fiction. It does not reflect actual events or portray any persons living or dead. Carry on . . .

On my way to the car this morning, I found a ratty old notebook lying in the alley. There was no name on the cover, and nothing on the pages to indicate ownership. There were small indentations all over the cover, as if someone had chewed on it. The whole thing was bent –almost twisted. I could almost imagine a demented soul wringing their hands while holding it. What was more interesting was what I found inside. Scrawled across the pages (in Hillary Pink Crayola) were copious notes, scribbled in venomous fury. Most of the entries were unintelligible, but I could make some of them out. 6:00 PM – They’re laughing. Laughing! What’s so funny? Who are they laughing at now? Is it me? I bet it’s me. 6:23 PM – I heard a pot clink against a skillet. Cooking again. That’s so like them. “We’re too good for drive-thru and pizza delivery.” HAH! 7:01 PM – Dick Cheney is kind of sexy. 7:45 PM – They’re using the steps again. What’s so important up there? 8:22 PM – I’m trying to match the sound o...

It occurs to me that the new Vent format, location and incoming links (thank you Mr. Konrath ) may have brought new visitors to the site. If you’re a recent arrival, I thought you might enjoy this little blast from the past. If you’ve been around for a while, you might enjoy reading it again anyway. So, here’s a little number I like to call: Don't Call Me Darling... In my day job, I talk to a lot of people. I speak to customers at the counter, converse with folks on the phone and have long thoughtful discussions with my staff (which shouldn't be confused with my house-bound staff discussions, which occur more frequently the older I get and tend to cross the boundary of discussion and venture into pleading, but that's a different Vent). I consider myself a gregarious person-a reasonable classification when one considers the number of book buyers who loiter about my store hoping to catch one of my frequent discourses on the nature of insanity- but lately I find myself grimaci...

January, my favorite month. As far away from Ch- (nope, still not going to say the word) as you can get.  Things get back to normal, and there’s time to breathe and more importantly . . . . . . write. Just received a chunk of a collaboration I’m doing with a WELL-KNOWN AUTHOR (trust me, but I don’t want to name drop) and I’m trying to figure out what the next chunk is.   Legerdemain is at 40,000 words and climbing and there are two queries out for Oogie Boogie Bounce . The Vent I promised a while back is coming, but I need to decide the best way to present it.  One must be careful when dealing with cowards, especially psychotic cowards.  Rage is good, venting is great, but sometimes short-term gratification isn’t worth long-term repercussions. But it’s coming (hopefully around the same time the psychotic cowards are going).  Bet on it. After all, I never let proximity stop me before. But Then Again, You’ll Have This . . .