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guylty · 5 years

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Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update

Flat Richie has left Germany and is now on his way to the next stop… He’ll have to go a bit of a distance. And to while away the time until we hear from him again, Nordlicht – Flat Richie’s most recent host – has written a detailed account of the visit. In order for all readers here to understand, I have translated the German original into English. However, Nordlicht’s original account is so funny and nicely written, I am going to include it at the bottom of the post for those among you who are able to read German. Also – all photos courtesy of Nordlicht. Here we go…

On Thursday I finally had Flat Richie in my arms. He had been well taken care of by my predecessors – he is a lot bigger and heavier than I expected. Plus, he had something priceless in his bag: a real Richard Armitage! Almost fresh from the press. Remembering the notion that HE had touched the same pages, I could almost imagine I was still able to perceive the slightest whiff of his scent 🤤😍 … Forget coffee paper (a reference to a discussion on this blog), Richard Armitage paper is the one and only that counts. I can now empathise with Francis in the Blake scene … but don’t worry, I did not eat the page 😉. However, it was an uplifting feeling to hold the yet virginal page (not worn and drooled over) in my hands. Thanks again to Armidreamer for this great idea.

The moment of unwrapping the parcel made me really feel like a kid at Christmas, so much excitement, suspense, surprise. So yes, Thursday night was a very special night. Many thanks to all who are participating in the project and making something wonderful possible. And a very special thank you to Guylty, for organising, but also for the wonderful logbook. It totally fascinated me. You put so much love in it and really conjured up a little treasure which alone makes participating in the project worthwhile. And even though I was glad not to be too far back in the itinerary, I regret not being able to see the log once it is filled with even more contributions.

I offered the three travellers the opportunity to enjoy early spring time and refuel in the sun – and took a few photos of them. Flat Richie politely refused, as you know he prefers selfies. So only Thorin and Guy accompanied me on a ramble through my city – which has not hosted a real king for a long time. Some years ago the Pope visited, but what is that compared to the King under the Mountain? Unfortunately I could offer neither gold nor jewels to him whom I would follow anytime, anywhere. Strangely enough though, my suggestion of a flower crown as a substitute was not received with much enthusiasm. However, the two had no problem with being accompanied by a silver fox. Here are the results of my amateurish photo session. We had a lot of fun doing it.

After the walk, Thorin and Guy were more than eager to offer me their help testing a new mattress. But I decided to leave them at home. A furniture store did not seem like the best place for a mattress test. 😏 But at home, the three were witness to my very first attempt at Aloo Masala. The lack of meat was generally lamented (peasants!). Finally and coincidentally at the weekend I had the opportunity to see Alice through the Looking Glass for the first time, and waiting for Richard’s appearance was sweetened by the nice company.

Far too soon, it was time to say goodbye, which was very hard for me. But the lads really are made only for a few nights at most rather than a lifetime. In any case, they were getting restless and wanted to embark on new adventures. Secured with a fresh layer of tape, their journey will hopefully continue on to the next happy hostess. And *I* know who that is! 😝.

Right – and this is the German original:

Nordlicht also enclosed pictures of the three items she chose from the Flat Richie box. Have a look at these gorgeous items:

She writes:

A Thorin figurine. An adequate substitute for Shrine Thorin, whom I had to send off just now. And who could resist the hottest dwarf of all time ?! Not me anyway. Especially since everything started with The Hobbit …

A Zox bracelet. Until recently I did not even know that there was such a thing or what that is. Guylty (and her enthusiasm for it) are to blame that this has changed! And this one fits well, because … well … Tolkien (false dwarf though, but let’s not be petty ;-)). The design reminds me of a mountain landscape. And ultimately, life is always about going forward, no matter what happens.

A necklace. The colour entranced me at first glance. I did not have to think twice. The pendant of this (I suspect) handmade necklace is beautiful.

Thank you for the fabulous report, Nordlicht! And just to set the record clear – too much credit for me. The beautiful gifts you chose were all provided by our fellow fans. I am not entirely sure (so please correct me in the comments if I am wrong) but I suspect the Thorin figurine came from Michele. The Zox bracelet was included in the package by me – but really has been provided by LoLo – who is the one who got me into them in the first place. (I am currently wearing a Tolkien themed Zox strap myself, given to me by LoLo.) Lastly, the gorgeous necklace was handmade – but not by me but by Helen who is a jewelry artist herself. I am the proud owner of several gorgeous pieces made by Helen, too. Check her work HERE.

Anyway, and now Flat Richie is travelling again. Somebody, somewhere on this planet, may look forward to receiving a parcel in 10 to 12 days… Who will it be? We’ll keep an eye out for Flat Richie’s next landfall.

#FlatRichie Has Left Germany Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update +++ Update…

#Flat Richie #Thorin Oakenshield

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hellosaltysaladcollectionstuff · 6 years

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YOU PROBABLY HAVEN’T HEARD of Duncan Hannah, a New York–based painter and illustrator, though there’s a somewhat famous, mid-’70s photo of him lounging in a rattan chair next to a bathing-suit-clad Debbie Harry. The image comes from an obscure 1976 art film called Unmade Beds, an amateurish, charming New York time capsule directed by Amos Poe (neither Hannah nor Harry could act).

Hannah will now be known as a diarist. As he notes in his new book Twentieth-Century Boy: Notebooks of the Seventies: “This is not a memoir. These are journals, begun in 1970 at the age of seventeen, written as it happened, filled with youthful indiscretions.”

Arriving in New York City from Minnesota, thin and wispy young Duncan is already well read and culturally hip — and not lockstep hip either, but rather a precocious contrarian. In art, he likes comic books, illustrators, and, most of all, David Hockney. To his credit, he tells his knee-jerk-avant art teachers at Bard College that he likes the Pre-Raphaelites. (“They shook their heads…” Well, of course they did. Of course they did.) He paints portraits of his offbeat literary heroes (e.g., Wyndham Lewis, Colin Wilson), which itself is kind of odd, and exhibits them in a group show, “in spite of not fitting in with the show’s agenda.”

Most of this book recounts our young rake meeting almost everyone important in his two worlds of art and music: Hockney, Warhol, Henry Geldzahler, Larry Rivers, David Bowie, Brian Eno, Bryan Ferry. A precocious dialectician, he can spar with the best — and worst — of them:

Danny shouts, “Louis, Louis, come join us!” looking at the entrance to the back room. I crane my neck to see who he is talking to. Gulp. Standing there in an alcoholic stupor, looking into my eyes, is the avatar of decadence and perversion, the legendary Lou Reed!

Creepy Reed lopes over to their table and whispers a truly stomach-turning proposition to our young diarist, which I won’t describe here. Appalled, Hannah becomes an ex-fan: “My hero worship is immediately over. Ick. […] He downs the rest of his tequila and leaves me alone in the booth to ponder my missed scatological opportunity.” It’s telling that Hannah, who lets the reader know that he has excised much from these journals, decided to leave this story in. Later on, he spots Reed at Max’s Kansas City, looking “like a skinny chimpanzee.”

Our narrator’s musings reach a peak of quotability whenever he’s witnessing the sorry truth about his heroes:

Fran Lebowitz sits with us and complains about her latest trick. [New York] Dolls drummer Jerry Nolan comes in with a gaudy chick in leopard skin, zippers, and frosted hair. Real skanky. Fran slips off …

Hannah also displays a shrewd ear for good music versus trash:

Bryan Ferry never disappoints […] Hawkwind […] weren’t to my taste. Queen […] I don’t like. […] Television is sounding better and better. Lenny Kaye called them “the golden apple at the top of the tree.”

[D]rove to Edgar Winter’s house on Sands Point, Long Island. This is Fitzgerald country, the fictional East Egg […] Gatsby! Yet inside this mansion was a rock band, dressed in their glitter sneakers and spandex, playing pinball machines and watching crap TV. Oblivious […] Pearls before swine, I thought to myself. We listened to a rough mix of their new album, which sounded lame […] Just loud, boring product for dullard youths. Rock ‘n roll can be incredibly stupid.

At what must have been the greatest New York rock-star party that ever happened, at the Academy of Music in June 1974, he sidles up to both Bryan Ferry, who’s distant and distracted, and David Bowie, who’s friendly, engaging, and witty:

He graced me with a glance, and I asked him if he was collecting material for a new song at this very minute. He sneered his canines at me and said, “Yah, why, do you wanna be in my song?”

I sneered back, “Yah, what about it?” We kept up our grimaces like a couple of thugs, necks outstretched, until he broke out laughing.

Meanwhile, in the art scene, minimalism is in full swing, but Duncan is (appropriately) unmoved. His stubborn conservatism, though, seems possibly to have cost him a more high-profile art career in such a ripe time and place. Hockney himself pays a visit and critiques his work (“Your drawing is a bit heavy-handed in the American fashion”), but progress remains slow, and he resists painting “something conceptual […] [s]omething that had quotes around it.” Regardless, Hannah’s days in New York were clearly tilted more in favor of “the life” (sex, drugs, and parties).

You might assume that our young-and-waify hero proceeded to screw his way willy-nilly through the gender-bending, glammy ’70s, this being the comparatively carefree, pre-AIDS era. But though his wolf-baiting good looks and friendliness are a constant magnet to a parade of lecherous males, he remains, steadfastly, straight as a razor.

The budding sociologist in Hannah (all of 22 here) is sharp-eyed when recalling a party at “the old Factory”:

This is the place where trigger-happy Valerie Solanas shot Andy. Creepy. They used to shoot laser beams from up here across the park into Max’s. I feel the party’s force fields, currents of strength, currents of weakness. “The love that dare not speak its name” just won’t shut up these days. Gayness has lost its underground status in NYC and is busy becoming the dominant sensibility. Lots of affectation. Sad when things turn to parody.

A short detour through London in August 1972 (“We sit at the dark basement bar and eyeball a couple of likely-looking English lasses, in their ‘frock coats and bipperty-bopperty hats’”) contains yet another best-possible-time-and-place music pilgrimage I can’t help but envy:

Robert Wyatt’s new group, Matching Mole, play. I love them. Then it’s Roy Wood’s Wizzard, who look ridiculous but sound great.

At intermission, we drank vodka […] and wound up talking to a forward young girl named Mary. […] Mary said she liked effeminate boys and I nudged her over to the doorway […] and kissed her and felt up her tits.

Bingo, glam-rock-era success! (This episode aside, the book is disappointingly scant on pornographic details, despite the number of conquests it chronicles.) Our thin white duke’s 20th birthday is summarily ruined, however, when his androgynous looks and excessive drinking in a London gay bar lead to what he calls a “near-rape experience,” the one truly frightening episode in the book.

While the party girls and the art-student girls keep on “flying low” for our handsome young buck, the picaresque life is starting to wear him down:

I smell like booze all the time now, but it’s expensive booze for a change. Perpetual hangover. […] I’m living faster than I can write. Not that I actually have something to write about. There’s no time to do it.

Everything turns sour. “The next chapter of this blackout finds me alone…” Hannah realizes he’s an alcoholic. A “real” girlfriend in his life (a rarity) turns out to be nuts:

Terry was hearing voices in her head, and she stabbed me in the chest with a small penknife she keeps in her bag. The little blade bounced off a bone. Ouch! This because the voices were teasing her about my so-called “harem.” “Terry, there is no harem!” But the voices insisted.

There is much tottering down smelly New York alleyways in platform shoes during many a besotted dawn. It’s a pungent, Scorsese’d-out New York that wafts up from these pages: “It’s hard to unravel people’s origins in New York. They act cagey. Suspicious”; neurosis in the air “mistaken for energy […] the new pissiness”; “[p]eople fall apart all the time.”

As a final flourish, our now jaded dandy is disappointed when he visits grumpy Ned Rorem, who doesn’t come on to him at all but is actually a rather unfriendly old fuck. But Dunc is unfazed. To quote from an old blues song: “His disposition takes him through this world.”

Twentieth-Century Boy is a breezy, demotically precise portrait of Bowie-and-Warhol New York, splayed like a passed-out wino on every page. Hannah, who has no regrets and still looks young, now lives in New York and Connecticut.

Anthony Mostrom is a journalist living in Los Angeles. He was formerly an LA Times columnist and a book reviewer and travel writer for the LA Weekly.

The post The Thin White Dunc: A Jaded Dandy in 1970s New York appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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randallatha-blog · 6 years

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A few things before you read chapter one of my story.

The first horror novel I read was Stephen King's Salems Lot, it scared a ten year old me and the three movies based on the book, one adaptation in 1979 and a sequel in name only in 1987 and a remake/adaptation in 2004 were scarey as well. Darkness is in a way my love letter to that book, this is a first draft. Enjoy.

Authors note:

During the writing of this I lost my wife who was in poor health,I found myself a single father with no direction, I was lost but then I met a woman who helped me pick up the peices of my life and I helped her in turn with hers, katy has been an angel to me . I am an extremely lucky man,how many people find true love twice? So it is to the two women who have in their own special way shaped my life, to clara who helped make me the man I am today and for her love,she will always be missed and to katy who has saved me from the dark,loves me as hard as she can and puts up with me........katy you are my angel and I am forever thankful that the God lord brought us together, he saw two broken people and knew that we could mend each others hearts. I love you baby.

Darkness

The house was older than dirt almost, built back in the coal camp days of West Virginia, it once belonged to the mine superintendent but that had been close to one hundred years ago and needless to say the house needed repair but the current owner either did not care or was not able to do the upkeep and in reality it was both thus the house looked abandoned and in reality almost was.

If one were to enter the home they would at first glance think that the owner was a hoarder ,newspapers yellowed with age and bundled together with twine covered most surfaces as did old movie magazines with the smiling faces of actors long dead, yes the owner was a hoarder but only a hoarder of her past.

Gloria Hallow sat on her bed, scattered on it was pictures some old, some new, her aged hands moved over them as if she was unsure about which one to choose, passed over were pictures of a younger her posing with Cary Grant and Henry Fonda, she picked up a picture of a young man, the Picture was newer, the man was mildly handsome, wearing jeans and a Ratt t shirt holding a hard cover book and looking proud, Gloria smiled, the picture was her son John who was one of the few things in her life that she did not regret, what she did regret was poor career choices that took her from a list movies to b list movies and then to stage work and cameos on love boat in the 80s, her last role had been in an episode of ER Almost twenty years ago but now at age eighty she could look back on those days and smile, they had been fun,well mostly fun except for that time in Romania back in the 60s when she played Lucy in a poor attempt to film a honest adaptation of Dracula..... The film was considered the second worst movie ever made after plan nine from outer space.

'That's where the trouble started.' She thinks and at the thought her eyes go to the old weathered box on her lap.

"Yes" she mutters "that was where it begun"

She knew what was in the box and its content terrified her and she knew that she couldn't protect it anymore, she was too old, the terrors it caused her had taken its toll on her,her career and her family, the box protected it but any box could be opened and this box should never be opened, it was a Pandora's box. There was those who wanted it,needed it and they had found her despite her best efforts and she couldn't fight them off not at her age.

The first signs of her being found began a few weeks ago with phone calls, the caller said nothing then there was the scratches on the sides of the house, she could hear the scratching now,they began always after dark.

They couldn't just take the box,she had to willingly give it to them,there was rules and she feared that she would give it to them just to end it all,that was why she had the 38 special and that was why she slowly took it and placed the barrel into her mouth, she did not pray,she did not cry, soon the box would be some one else's problem, at that she did pray for her son,he would need it.

She pulled the trigger and all was gone,her past brushes with stardom, her fears and the weight of what that box contained which was not her weight to bare anymore. the box fell to the floor along with her body,a silent witness to her death although she would have called it an escape.

Chapter One

John Hallow was uncomfortable, no not that he was bored . He always was in situations like this. What was the situation? One of the worst in John's mind. He was on a PBS show called adeptly Book Reader. Next to him in a plush leather seat in front of a faux reading room facade was Mary Shields the foremost expert on all genre of books...on PBS she was anyway, she was beyond geriatric, had hosted the show for over thirty years and with her vain attempts to look younger she. Looked like a. Mummy dressed in a power suite covered in jewelry, she was nice enough but she rarely had horror genre authors on because she simply loathed the genre unless the horror novel was written by Stephen King and despite early in his career being compared to Stephen King John was not King, John was a indie author who's first three novels were hits and thus he was now signed with a publisher.

His newest novel Dead West,a novel vampire novel set in the old west was both being torn apart and praised by Mary. john glanced at Danni his agent who stood off camera, she smiled meekly as if to say "sorry,this was the best I could get to promote the book."

John loved Danni and she had been his agent for years but they were going to have to have talk about book promotion.

"While I am impressed by the research you put into the book," Mary said "your style does tend to show your amateur back ground."

John inwardly growled he wanted to tell her that this was his fourth book ,he was far from a amateur and she could take that holier than thou attitude and shove it up her brown hole, but what he did say with a clearly forced smile was.

"I don't think that the style is amateurish." He replied " Every writer grows as he or she writes, dean knootz is not the same writer today that he was when Watchers was published,so I would have to disagree with you on that statement."

Off camera danni beamed a smile at John. He had taken the right approach with the high and mighty Mary shields.

"I also understand that your second novel Ghoul is being made into a movie." Mary said changing the subject, it did not escape john that she had said Ghoul like someone would say sewage. "You must be excited."

"Yes." John said " its exciting to see something that I created being turned into a film."

"Yes I bet it is." Mary said in a tone teachers use for their special students "although most books poorly transition to film."

"I wrote the screenplay." john defended " and one of the top genre directors is attached to it."

"Well.." Mary stated " the film should be a blockbuster movie that will forever change lives."

John had enough and was about to say a few things that would end up getting him banned from PBS and probably all TV when he saw Danni on her cell phone and it did not look good, worry and shock covered her face like a mask suddenly John was very uncomfortable, thankfully Mary wrapped up the program.

"Thank you for joining me for Book Talk," Mary said beaming a fake TV smile "I assume that you can find Mr Hallow's other books in book stores online and physical."

The camera man motioned that they were off the air and Mary turned to him.

"I can not believe the slop your publisher sends me." She said with contempt "honestly your books are little more than bloody porn."

John looked at Danni who was motioning for john to come her way he then looked at Mary.

"There are many things I could say to you," john almost growled "but I won't because what you call slop is how i make a living but I will leave you with this...that sloop...my books have made me money and while you tear apart horror novels they are flying off the shelves so I guess thousands of my fans trump your views on the genre."

John stood up and left before a very shocked looking Mary could say another word and made his way to Danni who was looking worried, maybe the movie deal had fell through, john could have cared less about the movie but it had been Danni's baby, she had fought hard for it.

Danni Wynn was a cute ,short bundle of energy that made her the perfect agent,she didn't just go to bat for her clients,she went to war and once many moons ago they had been lovers but not for the last few years, Danni had moved on with a marriage and two kids,she always wore a smile but her frown looked as out of place as a man at a lesbian convention.

"What's wrong?" John asked expecting to hear that the movie deal was off.

Danni said nothing for several moments as she looked at John like she was not certan of what to say .

"Your mother." Danni softly said "she's dead"

It felt like a blow to his soul,john felt his legs go weak, he had not spoken to her in months,not because of a fight but life happened,writing a screenplay while finishing his new book had taken all of his time.......the woman that had dragged him from movie set to movie set when he was a child till settling down in a middle of nowhere West Virginia town was gone.

"How...?" John croaked as he felt tears beginning

"I don't know." She replied. "I spoke to your aunt."

"Aunt Margret" john said

"Yeah,she wants you to call her," Danni said "listen,I can cancel the book signings so you can go home."

"Yeah." John said his mind else where

"I'll book the flight." Danni stated

"No." John sharply said " I don't fly...I'll drive it."

Then john realized the tone he took, it made him sound like a asshole which john could be but not now.

"I'm sorry Danni" he said

"Its alright,I forgot you hate to fly.," danni said "but its going to be a long drive you know."

"Its fine." John said " I can use it to clear my mind."

Danni hugged him which took John by surprise, she was not know for any display of affection,she wasnt a vulcan but Danni was not known for hugs.

"I'm sorry john." She said softly "I really am."

Danni handed john her cell phone.

"Your aunt's number is on the phone call her." Danni said

At that john left.

The phone rang and rang, john considered hanging up

"Hello?" Came an answer

"Aunt Margo?"'john asked

" johnny?" Came the reply " oh johnny it is you!"

John was fighting back the army of tears that he knew was coming but his voice ....his voice contained all the hurt.

"What happened to mom?"

There was a silence on the other end to the extent that John thought maybe the call had been dropped.

"She......" Margo began, her voice suddenly breaking "killed herself honey....."

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