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It’s been a rough stretch. The pounding on my door. The angry phone calls. The threatening emails and texts. The shameful graffiti on underpasses and overpasses… Yes, the clamor has intensified over the past three years. Hordes of fans, friends, and family members have petitioned me to put together a new blog. At last count—and I caution this is only a guestimate—the tally had surpassed a…uh…um…sort of big number. I hereby humbly accede to these demands.

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1. The Graveyard of Lost Blogs

Truth be told, I have written a few blogs since the pandemic began. It’s just that, for reasons of propriety, foresight, shame, and cowardice, I have posted none.

Lost Blog #1: Here, I detailed the troubles experienced by my then publisher, ChiZine, beginning in November 2019, and the impact this had on my novel, HOLLYWOOD NORTH: A NOVEL IN SIX REELS, just as the momentum was building and a second printing was in the offing. Never before had I a clearer understandin of what it meant to be caught between a rock and a hard place. On the other hand, the blog allowed me to reach a personal milestone—an average of twenty-eight grating whines, seventeen weaselly groans, six sulky sniffles, and five mopey sighs per paragraph. Feeling sorry for myself has never felt more therapeutic. Indeed, as writers’ blogs go, I am confident mine broke all previous records for “whine-able” content and would surely have been recognized by Guinness World Records.

Although HOLLYWOOD NORTH was subsequently picked up by Open Road Media in the US, thanks to OR editor Betsy Mitchell and my agent Christine Cohen, the peaks of whining achieved in this forbidden blog remain a high pointamong my cherished lows.

Farewell, My Peanut Friend

Lost Blog #2: Here, I threw caution to the wind to address the sad demise of Mr. Peanut, killed off by Planters in 2020 after 104 years of dedicated service. I knew Mr. Peanut. I was friends with Mr. Peanut. This was personal.

As a child, I met Mr. Peanut several times on his frequent promotional visits to my hometown of Trenton, Ontario. He was unfailing in his kindness and generosity, often handing out 5-cent bags of salted peanuts for free (FREE!) to ragamuffin and sophisticate alike. He deserved better than to be left a mere shell of his former self by cold-hearted corporate entities.

Why didn’t I post it? First off, my wife, Pat, began to question my relationship with Mr. Peanut. By reading between the lines, she suggested my affection for Ol’ Crunchy might not have been quite as wholesome as I had led her to believe. And then a trusted friend noted a second issue that was even more disturbing—a potential career-ender: “Sorry, Mike, but do you really want to come across as a person who condones cannibalism? Mr. Peanut, a fully roasted adult, handing out free bags of peanuts…infant legumes of his own species….”

Up Shit’s Critique! True-Life Adventures of a Dumbass Writer

Lost Blog #3: While this particular blog has never appeared on my website, it was inadvertently sent out to my email subscribers. (You know who you are!) Why haven’t I published it here? No reason, aside from a mild fear of cancelation, name-calling, occasional death threats, and accusations of arrogance, elitism, and insensitivity.

The jaunty diatribe, commencing with the title above, chronicled my less-than-delightful experiences in agreeing to provide constructive feedback to would-be writers. Suffice it to say, I now consider these to be the five most terrifying words in the English language: “WILL YOU READ MY NOVEL?” 

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2. We’ll Be Right Back After These Important Messages

I’ve been blabbing about it ad nauseam since May 2022, so I’m guessing you’ve heard the news. My latest novel, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE, will be published by Kevin J. Anderson’s WordFire Press in autumn 2023.

Timing is everything, of course, so I’m hoping these stats from Morning Consult entertainment reporter, Saleah Blancaflor, hold up in the interim:

“A recent Morning Consult survey reveals that nearly two-thirds of U.S. adults (62%) said they are fans of TV shows or movies about serial killers, while a quarter of U.S. adults describe themselves as ‘avid’ fans of the genre. Nearly 80% of millennials said they’re fans of serial killer content.”

I’ll be telling you more about the novel as we move closer to publication. Suffice it to say, my writing tends to cross genres, so in the interest of accuracy, THE SERIAL KILLER’S SON TAKES A WIFE is a Thriller-Mystery-Crime-Horror-Dark Humor-Romance novel. Okay, maybe not Romance exactly, but it does drop a mush-bomb or two. One early reader called it a breezy spin on horrible things, which pretty much nails it.

Speaking of novels…

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3. Book Review: LESTER LIES DOWN by James Ladd Thomas

I met James Ladd Thomas at the Bread Loaf Writers’Conference in Middlebury, Vermont, in the early 2000s, and we have remained in contact ever since. He has just had his second novel published by Vine Leaves Press, and I am happy to review it here. (This is the first in a series of reviews I’ll be posting from time to time, unless I say more than I should and these blogs become “lost,” too.)

The Adventures of a Mildly Autistic Hospice Caregiver

Thomas is what the publishing world refers to as a Southern Writer. He lives in the South. He writes about the South. And, knowing him personally, he holds no illusions about the South. …All of which combine to produce an entertaining and rewarding read. His first novel, ARDOR, made his roots abundantly clear, though I’ve never been sure if it was a novel disguised as a short story collection or a short story collection disguised as novel. There is no confusion, however, about his latest, LESTER LIES DOWN. This is most definitely a novel and, like ARDOR, worth your reading time.

The part I enjoy most about Thomas’s writing are the insights he brings to his characters and, by extension, the sensitivity he applies to the vagaries of life, love, parenthood, and…yeah!…carousing. From the first page, LESTER LIES DOWN immerses the reader in Lester Gordon’s world and the unpredictable life (and lives) he leads as a mildly autistic adult.

A Literary Novel with a Shot of Genre

There’s the work Lester, who takes us on his daily rounds as a hospice caregiver, visiting and chatting with his terminally ill patients and their loved ones. There’s the widowed, single-parent Lester, who struggles to raise his three children, Jase, Lizzy, and Chuck—the last of whom has a fondness for drawing nude women and providing bookie services to the neighborhood kids. There is the romantic Lester, who would like nothing more than to find love again. And then there’s the loyal Lester, who gets caught up in the questionable doings of his old friend, Ardor, and the mysterious men who have been stalking her—an unexpected subplot that flirts with genre. (Yeah, she is the very same Ardor of Thomas’s first novel and, trust me, she is a…uh…um…uh…a handful. Be careful she doesn’t leap off the page to pick your pocket.)

Revealing, heartbreaking and, at times, disturbing, you might feel you’re eavesdropping, if not outright spying, on the characters Thomas so vividly brings to life. The dialogue sparkles, laugh-out-loud funny one moment, touching the next. Indeed, the conversations often stray to the intense and intimate, straddling that indefinable border between Life and Death.

If literary fiction with a distinct Southern charm appeals, LESTER LIES DOWN could be the book you’ve been looking for. Read it. Savor it. And, chances are, you’ll be thinking about Lester and company long after you’ve closed the back cover.

Movie and TV producers take note! The script is waiting for you. It’s all there on the page, courtesy of the author, James Ladd Thomas. To find out who he thinks should be the female lead in the movie, go here.

Extra! Extra! If you’ve read Melissa Bank’s THE GIRLS’ GUIDE TO HUNTING AND FISHING, set aside a few moments to read this short essay on the late author by James Ladd Thomas: Slaying the Cruelty of Life: Melissa Bank and the Art of Humor.

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4. A thrilling tale of advertising, porno, smiles, and tears…in that order

From the late 70s onward, I earned my living as a copywriter and creative director, working for advertising agencies before striking out on my own as a freelancer. I had some terrific clients over the years, most notably The Netherlands Board of Tourism, KLM Royal Dutch Airlines, Rail Europe, and Ex-Lax. Yeah, Ex-Lax. “It can make your day overnight.” Now I’m not going to get myself into trouble by dredging up the worst clients, but I will tell you my favorite story about a prospective client. I should also point out this was long before “streaming” and “the Internet” were things.

One day, the phone rings. The caller has been referred to me by an existing client, and he wants to know if I’ll meet him at his office to discuss a project. He is the president of a company that ranks among the largest distributors of pornographic videos in North America.

As a freelancer, I am open to anything. (The nature of the business demands it.) While I might have turned down a few requests along the way (like writing speeches for a certain political party), I was too curious to dismiss this one. Hey, I’m no prude, and frankly, it sounded like fun. Opportunity is opportunity. Once a mercenary, always a mercenary. Anyhow, I’m sure you get the picture.

So down I go to the prospective client’s office and warehouse. He greets me warmly and proceeds to give me a tour of the premises. The place is massive and impressive. Videos line the walls from floor to ceiling. Thousands and thousands and thousands of ’em. With categories, proclivities, and fetishes for all types, tastes, and occasions. Man, the place is bustling, with shipments coming and going. And some of the posters hanging about—golly-gee and gulp! Yeah, the business is a going concern. Exciting. Booming. Titillating. And I am more than intrigued about the role I might play. The products offer a refreshing change of pace from the pharmaceutical, fundraising, and financial services accounts that dominate my days.

After twenty minutes or so, Mr. President leads me back to his office. He gives my portfolio a cursory examination, before easing into his plush leather swivel. “So,” he says, “what do you think?”

“Interesting,” I reply.

“Yes, isn’t it?”

I am a tad distracted, transfixed by the colorful, educational poster plastered to the wall behind him. Only now do I face the sad reality of how sheltered my life has been. Holy cow! So that’s where that goes! Who’d a thought!

“But you need to understand, I do not distribute just any videos.” He adjusts his glasses, tents his fingers. “Our offerings are restricted to only the finest productions. And therein lies the problem. People believe all pornographic content is the same. I want to distinguish our products, do something to make them stand out from the competition. This is where you come in.”

“Interesting,” I say. Yes, my vocabulary has been reduced to a single word.

“It’s more than interesting,” he says.

I nod. I smile.

“Excuse me?” His eyes narrow. His nostrils flare. “Are you smiling?” It’s not a question, it’s an accusation.

“I’m listening, that’s all,” I say. “It’s interesting.”

I have crossed a line I didn’t know was there. He is plainly unhappy with me. Still, he continues. “I want you to create a sticker—and some brainy slogan—to go on every package, so the buyer knows a video from us is the highest quality on the market. Like a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, but for sex videos.”

I smile again. I know it’s a mistake. I cannot help myself. Worse, it’s a huge smile, all teeth and gums. I cover my mouth, fake a cough, sputter some excuse about asthma. Admittedly, I’m finding the whole idea crazy, but I’m also thinking how cool working on such a project might be. Unfortunately, Mr. President has a different interpretation: “You’re laughing at me.”

“No. No, I’m not. Honest. It’s just so interest—”

“I will have you know, Mr. Libling, I take my business seriously. Very seriously.” He removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose, pauses.

I summon my serious face. I do not want to blow this. I really do want to create a Good Housekeeping-type seal of approval for porn. Hell, do I ever! The creative wheels are already turning.

He wags a finger. “I’ll have you know—” His voice cracks. His eyes fill with tears. The guy is freakin’ tearing up! “I will have you know not a single video enters or leaves this building without my having watched it first.”

I shudder. I bite my thumb. I blink more blinks than I have ever blinked.

“Furthermore, I’ll have you know—and you can ask my wife about the hours I spend in our home theater—I watch many of the videos two or three times, just to be certain each meets our company’s highest standards.”

I gag. I tremble. I brace for my head to explode. I can’t even manage an interesting.

“You think this is funny?” He catapults himself to his feet, plucks a hanky from a pocket, and blows his nose. “My business is not a joke, sir.” He wipes one eye, glares at me, and wipes the other. He looks to me and then the door. “Thank you for coming.”

I am going to cry. I am going to burst.

“Shut the door behind you,” he says, and as I turn to exit, I hear the whir of the video player that sits beside his desk, followed by the click of a VHS cartridge as he pops it into play.

I am going to pee my pants.

__________

“Wow! This is a work of art,” she declares, and promptly forks over her hard-earned cash, as I readjust my T-shirt, my jeans, and my laid-back author face.

As for the Libling family diner, where my sisters and I spent countless hours, poring over homework, helping out, and  killing time, it vanished in the late 1970s, when the space at 122 Dundas Street West was renovated out of existence to make room for the multiplex that is today’s Centre.

2b. The Best Show in Town and Only a Dime

Meanwhile, the hapless stranger would slide right over the edge, blinking and twitching befuddlement as he belatedly surveyed the interior of the wacko joint he’d stumbled into. 

2d. The Diner from Hell

And what a wondrous sight to behold the Theatre Bar was!

An air conditioner the size of an elephant casket. Mismatched shelves and display cases. Coolers and freezers. Bins of penny candies and racks of salty snacks. Cubbyholes stacked with packs of cigarettes and cigars. And observing the sucker’s every move, the grinning band of Theatre Bar regulars.

A sputter-fest is what it was. “Jesus H. Christ! What is this place? What are you running here? You call yourself a bar, but you don’t got any beer. You call yourself a restaurant, but you don’t got any French fries. Now I look over there and you’re selling ashtrays and transistor radios and Sen-sen and bicarbonate, and god-knows-what-else. Holy cow! Is that a Japanese fan? And look at that—you got more soda pop and ice cream here than the damn A&P. And Kik Cola! Jesus. You’ve really got Kik Cola? What next? What next?”

“Well,” my mother would suggest, “the lunchtime special is quite nice. It’s tuna fish on toast.”

“Huh?”

“It’s like chicken à la king, but without the chicken.”

I suppose I could end this here, but then the obvious question would remain…

2e. So Why Didn’t the Theatre Bar Serve French Fries?

When my parents first took over the restaurant, French fries were part of the menu. The item was, however, an ongoing source of friction. More than once I was awakened in the middle of the night by my parents’ savage debate on the subject. I will never forget my mother’s plaintive cry: “How many times do I have to tell you? I am sick of smelling like a potato.”

My father, on the other hand, didn’t mind. Smelling like a potato was good for business. Before too long, my mother issued an ultimatum. Either she would continue to smell like a potato or she would continue to bake pies for the restaurant. “But not both.”

The pies won out. If you were lucky enough to have ever sampled my mom’s apple or lemon meringue pies, you would know why. Her crust, oh man, that crust! At once crispy and chewy and flaky and buttery and … Trust me, a wedge of any of her pies would more than compensate for the elusive alcohol and fries.

3. Live and In Person at the Scene of the Crime

Should you be in or around Trenton, Ontario area on Wednesday, November 6, 2019, I’ll be risking life and limb with an appearance at Trenton Town Hall 1861, Home of the Trent Port Historical Society. Why the trepidation? I appeared at the Quinte West Public Library back in June and the warm reception remains a highlight of my so-called book tour. But the event was held before the novel was available and locals had yet to digest the contents. With this in mind, I have requested from security that all vegetables, fruits, tar, and feathers be confiscated at the door.

Anyhow, the location is 55 King Street and the show gets underway at 6:30 p.m. I’ll be reading from HOLLYWOOD NORTH, equivocating in a Q&A, signing books, and schmoozing. On a side note, the Trenton Town Hall 1861 Facebook page is responsible for several of the photos featured in this blog. Should you be active on Facebook, their page is worth checking out. 

On a side note, for readers in the area, the novel is in stock at Lighthouse Books in Brighton, Chapters in Belleville and both Indigo and Novel Idea in Kingston.

4. The Baffling “Autumn Leaves/Marshmallow” Conundrum

As we were walking the dog the other evening, the autumn leaves accumulating underfoot, I mentioned to my wife, Pat, that when I was a kid in Trenton, we’d rake the leaves to curbside and then set them on fire. Sometimes, we’d grab a stick and roast marshmallows, too. “Didn’t that cause a lot of fires?” she asked.

I had to think for a moment. “Yeah. Probably. But the marshmallows were so good.”

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