copyright © 2012 Wyatt Doyle
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
Friday, May 18, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Friday, May 4, 2012
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
"Anatomy of a Comic Strip" by Josh Alan Friedman
We're trying something different with this post. The Issuu Reader below takes a moment to get accustomed to, but it's really very simple — and worth the extra effort.
Bloggers, columnists, critics and fans: Want to share "Anatomy of a Comic Strip" with your readers? Please do! Click here for link information and embed codes.
(Don't like the Issuu Reader? Click here to read "Anatomy of a Comic Strip" in (mostly) standard blog format at Black Cracker Online.)
Bloggers, columnists, critics and fans: Want to share "Anatomy of a Comic Strip" with your readers? Please do! Click here for link information and embed codes.
(Don't like the Issuu Reader? Click here to read "Anatomy of a Comic Strip" in (mostly) standard blog format at Black Cracker Online.)
Friday, April 20, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Happy Birthday, Tiny Tim!
Tiny Tim: I did a song for Koo Stark in Australia last August [singing Eddie Cantor-style]:
If I had a girl like Koo Stark, brother
I would never pine
I’d love her so much every day
Prince Andrew would be sorry he let her get away
For every kiss she’d give me, I’d give her 20 back
For her I’d even diet and give up all my snacks
If I had a girl like Koo Stark, brother
I’d simply go cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo—all the time
OUI: What was her reaction to that?
Tiny Tim: She left town.
"Getting Hard with Tiny Tim" by Josh Alan Friedman.
Click here to read it at Black Cracker Online.
If I had a girl like Koo Stark, brother
I would never pine
I’d love her so much every day
Prince Andrew would be sorry he let her get away
For every kiss she’d give me, I’d give her 20 back
For her I’d even diet and give up all my snacks
If I had a girl like Koo Stark, brother
I’d simply go cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo—all the time
OUI: What was her reaction to that?
Tiny Tim: She left town.
"Getting Hard with Tiny Tim" by Josh Alan Friedman.
Click here to read it at Black Cracker Online.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Friday, March 30, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Chris D.'s Latest: FILM NOIR - THE DIRECTORS
New from Chris D.!
Film Noir - The Directors, from Limelight. Edited by Alain Silver and James Ursini.
Chris D. contributes chapter-length studies on Joseph Losey and Otto Preminger.
Order your copy here.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
"Walking While Black" by Terri Huggins Decker
The first time my son Charlie was profiled, he was nine years old. A city kid, it would be a year before he was allowed to navigate the streets unaccompanied, and even then just to go to the deli next door to our building to pick up a forgotten ingredient for dinner, a snack—maybe a pack of Skittles—his father or I hanging out the window and watching him every step of the way.
This particular afternoon, well over a decade ago, we were on the way home from school, me and Charlie and Henry and Dinah, making the subway trip from Midtown to Washington Heights, in a city where the neighborhood school can be at the end of a commute in a subway car shared by investment bankers hauling Underwood briefcases and nine-year-olds toting NY Yankee backpacks.
The kids had snacks. Chips, maybe, or Starbursts, or Skittles. Whatever it was, Charlie finished and I sent him down the subway platform to throw away his trash. Maybe 50 feet away? I never was good at distances. I probably gave him his brother and sister’s trash to toss, too … since Charlie is the oldest, the bulk of the chores have always fallen to him. Dinah was still young enough that I would never have let go of her hand on a subway platform, Henry had learned to hover comfortably below the radar, so the responsibility fell to Charlie, and I don’t remember for sure, but I am sure he looked quite grown up when I sent him down the platform.
He had just tossed the trash when the train started coming. And Charlie started jogging back towards me, a slow trot. And I saw two cops standing by the newspaper stand spot him. And what they saw was not a fancy private school third grader trotting back to his mother before the train pulled into the station. What they saw was a black youth running. Their faces reflected suspicion, and perhaps something darker. And I … raised by Charlie’s grandmother to never ever make a scene ... I yelled at full lung capacity “CHARLES! STOP RUNNING!!” The cops’ attention diverted to me, their faces relaxed, the spell was broken as I hustled the other kids to Charlie and we boarded, just another family taking the A-Train.
Within minutes, Charlie was enthralled in his Gameboy, oblivious. I was still shaking. And that night, Charlie’s father and I had to sit him (and seven-year-old Henry) down for The Talk. No, you may not run wild like your little white friends. Yes, if a police officer stops you, you keep your hands in sight and and your eyes on the badge. Memorize that number and keep your mouth shut and we’ll deal with your “rights” later, when you are home safe. Charlie and Henry listened the same way they listened to rules about separating the laundry before dumping it into the machine, accepting without question, breaking my heart into a billion pieces.
It is a deep, sodden sadness that curled up in my chest and has never left me, stirred by every Sean Bell, by every Ramarley Graham, by every Trayvon Martin. I try to summon feelings of anger, but they’re always overcome by this sadness. I try to muster an argument when people point out that George Zimmermann ... the man who confronted and gunned down a boy carrying Skittles and is walking free on a claim of self-defense ... that George Zimmerman is Hispanic, so he “can’t be racist.” I try to counter that one of the cops who profiled my kid was blacker than Wesley Snipes, but there is this sadness. I try to give a fuck when I read articles by well-meaning people aware of their white privilege, who point out that that they and their sons can wear all the hoodies they want and not get profiled as being anything but casual, that they understand. I’m too sad to care about their sons; this isn’t about them. I read about gun control, about stand and deliver … no, that’s Adam Ant … about “stand your ground,” and I think guns don’t kill people, walking while black kills people. Or maybe it’s Skittles. I just want it to stop.
I’m writing this partly because I think it might help the sadness to write it out, but also because friends keep asking how I’m doing with the Trayvon Martin thing, and I want to say I’m sad but it’s not about me. I keep thinking about how Trayvon’s mother feels hearing him called “every mother’s son.” Trayvon was her son, her kid who went down the road for a snack and ended up in the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong color, calling to her for help. Walking while black.
© 2012 Terri Huggins Decker
This particular afternoon, well over a decade ago, we were on the way home from school, me and Charlie and Henry and Dinah, making the subway trip from Midtown to Washington Heights, in a city where the neighborhood school can be at the end of a commute in a subway car shared by investment bankers hauling Underwood briefcases and nine-year-olds toting NY Yankee backpacks.
The kids had snacks. Chips, maybe, or Starbursts, or Skittles. Whatever it was, Charlie finished and I sent him down the subway platform to throw away his trash. Maybe 50 feet away? I never was good at distances. I probably gave him his brother and sister’s trash to toss, too … since Charlie is the oldest, the bulk of the chores have always fallen to him. Dinah was still young enough that I would never have let go of her hand on a subway platform, Henry had learned to hover comfortably below the radar, so the responsibility fell to Charlie, and I don’t remember for sure, but I am sure he looked quite grown up when I sent him down the platform.
He had just tossed the trash when the train started coming. And Charlie started jogging back towards me, a slow trot. And I saw two cops standing by the newspaper stand spot him. And what they saw was not a fancy private school third grader trotting back to his mother before the train pulled into the station. What they saw was a black youth running. Their faces reflected suspicion, and perhaps something darker. And I … raised by Charlie’s grandmother to never ever make a scene ... I yelled at full lung capacity “CHARLES! STOP RUNNING!!” The cops’ attention diverted to me, their faces relaxed, the spell was broken as I hustled the other kids to Charlie and we boarded, just another family taking the A-Train.
Within minutes, Charlie was enthralled in his Gameboy, oblivious. I was still shaking. And that night, Charlie’s father and I had to sit him (and seven-year-old Henry) down for The Talk. No, you may not run wild like your little white friends. Yes, if a police officer stops you, you keep your hands in sight and and your eyes on the badge. Memorize that number and keep your mouth shut and we’ll deal with your “rights” later, when you are home safe. Charlie and Henry listened the same way they listened to rules about separating the laundry before dumping it into the machine, accepting without question, breaking my heart into a billion pieces.
It is a deep, sodden sadness that curled up in my chest and has never left me, stirred by every Sean Bell, by every Ramarley Graham, by every Trayvon Martin. I try to summon feelings of anger, but they’re always overcome by this sadness. I try to muster an argument when people point out that George Zimmermann ... the man who confronted and gunned down a boy carrying Skittles and is walking free on a claim of self-defense ... that George Zimmerman is Hispanic, so he “can’t be racist.” I try to counter that one of the cops who profiled my kid was blacker than Wesley Snipes, but there is this sadness. I try to give a fuck when I read articles by well-meaning people aware of their white privilege, who point out that that they and their sons can wear all the hoodies they want and not get profiled as being anything but casual, that they understand. I’m too sad to care about their sons; this isn’t about them. I read about gun control, about stand and deliver … no, that’s Adam Ant … about “stand your ground,” and I think guns don’t kill people, walking while black kills people. Or maybe it’s Skittles. I just want it to stop.
I’m writing this partly because I think it might help the sadness to write it out, but also because friends keep asking how I’m doing with the Trayvon Martin thing, and I want to say I’m sad but it’s not about me. I keep thinking about how Trayvon’s mother feels hearing him called “every mother’s son.” Trayvon was her son, her kid who went down the road for a snack and ended up in the wrong place, the wrong time, the wrong color, calling to her for help. Walking while black.
© 2012 Terri Huggins Decker
Saturday, March 24, 2012
WEASELS RIPPED MY FLESH! Next From New Texture
"We were lucky—until the weasels..."
New Texture and MensPulpMags.com manfully present
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! A shirt-ripping, gut-punching anthology of two-fisted writing, ripped from the pages of long-lost men’s adventure magazines of the 1950s, '60s and '70s. Outrageous, 100% true tales of sex, crime, combat, jungle goddesses, beatnik girls, LSD experiments, animal attacks ... and nymphos. Always nymphos.
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Showcasing rare, bare-knuckle stories by some of the toughest writers ever to punch a typewriter: Lawrence Block, Mario Puzo, Bruce Jay Friedman, Robert F. Dorr, Harlan Ellison, Robert Silverberg, Walter Kaylin, Walter Wager, Jane Dolinger, Ken Krippene and more.
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Edited by Robert Deis, with Josh Alan Friedman and Wyatt Doyle.
Coming this summer from New Texture. Man up.
For updates, watch this space—and subscribe to the MensPulpMags feed on their site, here.
The Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Facebook page is here.
New Texture and MensPulpMags.com manfully present
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! A shirt-ripping, gut-punching anthology of two-fisted writing, ripped from the pages of long-lost men’s adventure magazines of the 1950s, '60s and '70s. Outrageous, 100% true tales of sex, crime, combat, jungle goddesses, beatnik girls, LSD experiments, animal attacks ... and nymphos. Always nymphos.
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Showcasing rare, bare-knuckle stories by some of the toughest writers ever to punch a typewriter: Lawrence Block, Mario Puzo, Bruce Jay Friedman, Robert F. Dorr, Harlan Ellison, Robert Silverberg, Walter Kaylin, Walter Wager, Jane Dolinger, Ken Krippene and more.
Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Edited by Robert Deis, with Josh Alan Friedman and Wyatt Doyle.
Coming this summer from New Texture. Man up.
For updates, watch this space—and subscribe to the MensPulpMags feed on their site, here.
The Weasels Ripped My Flesh! Facebook page is here.
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