OOGIE BOOGIE CENTRAL - Featuring Steve's Vent

It is time. It's been 15 years since I left the book business (I only count the final year and a half for chronological purposes; that place sucked the soul right out of me). It's been 16 years since I had a book release through a traditional publisher (Oogie Boogie Bounce, I'm looking at you). Approximately the same amount of time since I published anything at all (Legerdemain, which I consider my literary, red-headed stepchild; much loved but mostly underappreciated). Occasionally, I run into someone from that previous life who asks me if I'm still writing. My default response is to smile politely and say something along the lines of "Not as much anymore." They usually smile in return, and that's the end of that conversation. Even more rare are the times I meet someone who recognizes either my face or name and says, "Aren't you the writer?" In those times, my standard answer is, "I used to be." Their response follows the path of t...

A few days ago, while scrolling through Facebook, I happened across one of those anonymous memes, cutesy script on a purple background, extolling the virtues of what the unknown author -and by extension, the poster- claimed were the province of a "real woman." In less words than are used to describe a pasta entree at the local franchised Italian restaurant, the nameless meme-maven stated that a real woman eschews drama and avoids wasting time on people that "don't matter." Noble attributes to be sure, but hardly sufficient proof of authenticity. But the Hallmark-lite pablum, composed by someone with a trial version of Photoshop and too much time on their hands, isn't what struck me. I'm certain the mastermind of this web-based fortune cookie had the best intentions, maybe even splashed a few tears on the keyboard, but I believe each subsequent like and share diminished whatever sentiment this person originally meant to express. Which b...

5) Regardless of your e-reader of choice, the price of Legerdemain is about the same as the price of a gallon of gas, and while Legerdemain won't get you from Point A to Point B, you'll enjoy the ride with Philip Ducalion a lot more. 4) You've always wanted to read something of mine (that's right, I'm talking to you), but you have a hard time with the scary. Relax. Even though it features two characters from my previous novels, Legerdemain is an Oogie Boogie Free-Zone. 3) Fans of Leroy Jethro Gibbs will love Philip Ducalion, and at latest count, there are quite a few fans of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. 2) You always wondered about that smart-ass detective who showed up in the middle of Oogie Boogie Central, didn't you? Legerdemain has the answers you've been wanting. 2b) Two words: Keith Pridemore And finally: 1) When you don't read Legerdemain, I don't receive any royalties. When I don't receive any royalties, I can't afford to pay my rent. When...

My brother Mikey's eulogy: In the Gospel of John, Jesus tells his disciples: “In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so , I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.”           If me quoting scripture surprises you, imagine my surprise at the comfort these words have given me over the past few days.   I couldn’t remember the exact wording without looking it up, but the spirit of that passage has run through my thoughts, again and again, ever since Friday morning.           It’s something Mikey would do. “I’ll go on ahead,” I can imagine him saying.   “I’ll get things ready for you.”   It’s what I picture him doing now, in the company of family and friends who have gone before, easing the way for those of us who are sure to follow.           Mikey left us too soon, but not as soon as he could have. ...

. . . devoured in less than a seven-day span. I think we all know what that means. Well, at least I know what it means, or-more specifically-what it means for Keith Pridemore. Narrative thread? Yup, finally doing it right. But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

And you need to start filling it, you might want to try either here for Amazon or here for Barnes & Noble . If you already have one, then what the hell have you been waiting for? And by the way, Merry Christmas to all (and if you know me at all, you know that this is the first time I've said this in three decades without a sneer, or a sudden need to hurl). But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

This short story hasn't seen the light of day since 2003's The Fear Within , but I always liked it. Short and Scary Stories is hosting it, and it's pulled in a few positive reviews already. You should check it out here . But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

I probably should have thought about answering this question ten years ago. The simple answer is this: Oogie Boogie Central is the title of my first novel, and the de facto title of the series of books that follows it. However, the problem with simple answers is that-usually-the simple answer is really no answer at all. So, let’s examine the complicated response. I’ve always been fascinated with Multiple Personality Disorder, or at least the fictionalized version of it. As a literary trope, its potential seemed limitless; as an exercise in imagination, the premise was intoxicating. Unfortunately, the act of creating a novel around the concept of MPD proved more of a challenge than my enthusiasm anticipated. The remnants of my early, aborted attempts at exploring this theme reside in the ethereal afterlife where broken hard drives and obsolete 5 ¼ inch floppy disks go to die. If memory serves, these efforts at universe building began with a traumatized toddler and ended with a ...

If it weren't for Molly (our 4 year-old Lab, St. Bernard, shelter-dog mix), I probably wouldn't spend any more time outside than it takes to get from the house to the car and back again. Except for the occasional smoke. During daytime hours, we hit the back porch together, and when Molly runs off into the yard to TCB, I usually light up and ruminate about life. Now, I'm a pacer from way back, so I stroll back and forth thinking while Molly runs in circles, making qualitative judgements about why one plot of grass is more deserving of pee than another. Sometimes, such hefty decisions give me the opportunity to hotbox two cigarettes. But lately, at night, my ruminations have given way to an inexplicable obsession with that fellow at the top of this post. He's never around when the sun's up, but as dusk begins, I notice him perched in the seemingly empty space between one our porch pillars and the adjacent shrubbery. He's always in the pose you see depicte...

I do not consider myself mechanically inclined, but I tinker. I'm not a handyman, but I can research and apply like nobody's business. In short, I know just enough to get myself in trouble. I was blessed with a father who can do -and has done- nearly anything. I know every son says that about their father, but usually, such pronouncements stop about the time a child reaches legal drinking age. I passed that exit a long time ago. My first car was a 1967 Chevy Impala SS (props to those who realize Milo Tucker and I have more in common than I'll usually admit) that cost a whopping $100. The low price tag brought with it a bevy of mechanical opportunities, but thanks to my Jack of all Trades paterfamilias , most of those repairs usually only set us back the price of parts. I learned a lot watching Dad lean over the fender and rummage around in the engine compartment. It was during these sessions that my father revealed The Words of Power (women reading this may be scratch...

If you're craving Vents you haven't read, you can always head over to Horror World and click on the Column link. There's a new one from me: Eulogy in Absentia . . . . Check out the Archives while you're at it. I think there's 3 years of Vents lurking in the cyber-stacks. You may get a laugh or two you weren't expecting, and that's always a good thing. But Then Again, You'll Have This . . .

It's been a while, hasn't it? There's so much to tell, but those tales will have to wait. So much to explain, but explanations aren't on the menu this evening. Endings and beginnings. Trials and tribulations. Tragedy and triumph . . . well, maybe not so much on the triumph front. But maybe that's getting ready to change. In the coming days, we'll talk about Kindles and Nooks. Borders and Barnes & Noble. But Then Again, You'll Have This . . . , and Business Up Front, Party in the Back . Oogie Boogie Central and Oogie Boogie Bounce. Oh yes, we'll talk about all of this and more. For now, we'll confine ourselves to two, brief topics. First, when our family switched from cable to satellite, we received 3 months of free Showtime, and the biggest benefit of this has been our discovery of Dexter. Through the wonder of Video-on-Demand, we've devoured the Fifth Season in just a few days and have already started shopping for the earlier ...

Venter’s Note: Do I really have to say it? If you’re reading Final Chapter without reading the preceding three parts, then you should scroll down. Or perhaps you’ve arrived here accidentally, after Googling “sound of neurons firing” or John Spencer. Either way, enjoy. Thrombosis Hostage Crisis, Day 3. I haven’t mentioned my hospital roommate, a man about my age with severe abdominal discomfort. He arrived a few hours after I did, after a much longer, much more uncomfortable stay in the ER. Diverticulitis , I heard a nurse mention, a condition I’m slightly familiar with because of my mother-in-law (she suffers from it; she doesn’t cause it). I knew there was little chance I’d keep the two-bed room to myself, and while a bunkie with gastrointestinal issues wasn’t ideal, it beat the other selections I could have received. However, his arrival did make me regret the nurses’ decision to drop me in the bed next to the bathroom. Fortunately, his liquid diet made that concern moot. ...

Venter’s Note: If you haven’t read Thrombosis Summer Part One or Thrombosis Summer, Part Deux, I’d recommend scrolling down a bit or clicking here to get caught up. My third visitor in the ER treatment room arrived pushing a sonogram machine, a piece of equipment I recognized from my wives’ pregnancies. At first, I was confused, but once the technician lathered enough KY on my affected leg to supply a porno flick, I understood her intention. After twenty minutes of “mmm-hmmm’s” and scrunchy faces, I understood exactly nothing more. The young woman repeatedly attacking my injured leg with the hard, plastic probe obviously knew what she was looking for, and -once she found it- what it was, but she wasn’t sharing. When I could unclench my jaw enough to speak, I asked if she had found anything interesting. “Mmm-hmm.” Scrunchy face. Eventually, the woman rolled her medieval torture device away and the attending physician rolled in. “Well, Mr. Lukac,” he said. “We believe you ha...

Venter’s Note: If you haven’t read Thrombosis Summer Part One , I’d recommend scrolling down a bit or clicking here to get caught up. The night after my doctor’s appointment, I went to bed more relaxed than I had been in a while. There was something comforting about all my tests coming back positive. For the first time in years, I went to sleep without the niggling fear that I might not wake up the next day. Good night. Sleep Tight. And pleasant dreams to me. The next morning, I woke up with a cramp in my right leg. Nothing too severe; I walked it off by the time I made it to the bathroom, where my fully functioning (according to medical science) kidneys performed as advertised. I limped back to the bedroom for another hour of shuteye, feeling my calf muscle loosen with every step. A typical Friday morning. Once I made it to the store, I reported my doctor’s findings to my co-workers, relishing their stunned looks as I recited my passing score...