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Sunday, April 9. 2017


I'm in a long, slow process of moving. It's slow because I have been working a lot. A big emergency rush job at work that constituted a lot of overtime for a month. It's why I haven't updated this site much lately, too.

I've been going through stuff in the attic. There are tons of things up there. A lot of junk that was toted up there for no good reason. Misguided packrat mentality. But then there was also a lot of books, magazines, correspondences, etc.

I didn't mean to leave that stuff up there for so long. It's the kind of thing where you intend to do something about it, but there never seems to be enough time, or enough room for the stuff downstairs. Months go by. Years. A decade. More. Close to two decades for a lot of it. Nearly twenty years of intense heat, cold, dust, neglect.

It's heartbreaking. A lot of the stuff doesn't matter to me, but some of it does. Some of it meant the very world to me in times past. Books that I paid for and loved with all my heart. Magazines that were my lifeline to the genre in those pre-internet days. Videotapes. Letters, pictures, gifts from children.

Much of it is unsalvageable. Browned, brittle pages, irreparable dust damage, etc. So much isn't worth donating or anything.

I've gotten really emotional going through it all. In some ways it's a good thing. You have to move on here and there in your life. Excessive possessions slow us down, become burdens rather than bringing us joy.

I see the science fiction items from my youth. I worshiped that genre when I was in my teens and very early twenties. It hurts to have to trash that stuff, but that isn't what bothers me the most. Well, other than the personal, family, items.

For me the most vital years of the horror genre were from 1985-1990. I was a reader and viewer of it well before then, and I have been ever since those days. But it was that period that I was the most passionate about horror.

It was the birth of modern horror fiction, in my opinion. The era when chills and thrill met hard rock and roll midnight movies. A new breed of writer who grew up on Night of the Living Dead and The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The so-called Splatterpunk guys dragged the genre out of rural areas, away from leather arm patches, and the upper middle class, and plunked it down in the hard streets. Punk and heavy metal sensibilities conjoined with gore movie outrageousness.

It was an amazing time to be a reader. So exciting and so many new things to discover. The Golden Age of Horror Fiction.

Great things came before and after, to be sure. And it's a good time right now. The whole Kindle/e-book thing is leveling out now, and new writers are bringing outrageously inventive scares to the table.

But back then? It felt new and anarchic.

By the mid-eighties nearly everyone could afford a VCR and horror fans were rejoicing in the discoveries of past gems on tape. I have old tapes, and magazines that celebrated the phenomenon.

So much of it is gone, gone.

Sure, it's better today, right? We have pristine editions of horror movies, good and bad, on Blu Ray. We can watch trailers and behind the scenes footage till we're blue in the face. Interviews and retrospectives and reviews abound on the internet.

And, yeah, my life is better than it ever has been. I have a respectable job, I can afford books (even if I can't buy the expensive collector's items that are available), and I have a happier home life than I ever dreamed I would have.

Still, I sometimes long for the days when my love of horror was more innocent and unspoilt. I'm a lot more cynical about it now. Too much product coming out, and I find the quality of too much of it to be lacking.

Digital photography and editing in modern movies looks phony and unappealing to me.

Having everything at my fingertips takes a lot of the fun out of it for me.

But then I think of newish writers like Daniel Kraus, Caroline Kepnes, Jonathan Janz, Riley Sager, Grady Hendrix, and I smile. I'm going back to reread beloved books of my past with more mature eyes, and I find many of them to be even better than I remembered. I think of the upcoming Scares That Care Convention, and I anticipate hanging out with horror fiction fans. I rejoice that, despite losing so many important figures in the genre, so many are still with us, and still producing wonderful work.

Moving on. It's important to our growth as human beings. We hold on to some of the past, and we let a lot of it go. It hurts, but it also feels good.

I also anticipate the future of the genre. It seems like I have spent a lifetime delving into horror, but I'm not that old yet. I think I have two or three more decades to go at this stuff. I don't plan to stop. I won't like all the new trends, and I won't like all the new writers, but I bet that I'll love a lot of it. A love of the fantastic, the horrific, the imaginative, keeps us young at heart, and that's what we get back from the financial and emotional investment longtime fans like myself have put into it.
Sunday, March 19. 2017


Being a reader can be painful. We've all been there. You look so forward to a book, and then it arrives and...



The Silmarillion: The Lord of the Rings was my favorite book when I was young, and I waited and waited for the new book by J.R.R. Tolkien. The day finally came, and I rode my ten speed to a little bookstore and plunked down the money for a hardcover. Feverishly excited, I couldn't even wait to get home. I pedaled to a nearby patch of woods, and started to read. Oh my God, this wasn't really a novel. It was like a history book. Dismayed, I read on, and I slogged through the whole damned thing. Did I like it? No, not at all.




The Number of the Beast: I also loved the work of Robert A. Heinlein when I was a boy. His books thrilled, taught, enlightened me. Plus, many of them had a lot of sex in them. It was heady stuff for a lad of my tender years. Health problems prevented Heinlein from publishing from 1973's Time Enough For Love to 1980's The Number of the Beast. Perhaps the publisher, Fawcett, knew of the novel's gaping shortcomings, and published it as a trade paperback. I was trembling with excitement when I bought it, and then I was astonished (and not in any John W. Campbell-inspired way) at how sloppy and embarrassing it was. Old Heinlein did some interesting things after The Number of the Beast, but that was truly the beginning of the end for me.





Palm Sunday: I loved Kurt Vonnegut when I was a teenager. His work doesn't much appeal to me today, but then I was a huge fan. I once more paid for a hardback when I certainly couldn't afford to do so. It was Palm Sunday, a collection of autobiographical essays. I was appalled at how boring, pointless, and self-indulgent it was.




Son of Rosemary: Ah God, I loved the early Ira Levin books. The guy wrote suspense with exquisite precision. He was insidious, and all of them are classics: A Kiss Before Dying, Rosemary's Baby, This Perfect Day, The Stepford Wives, and especially The Boys From Brazil. I even read some of the plays. So what if Sliver wasn't up to the incredibly high standards Levin had set for himself. He was doing a sequel to Rosemary's Baby! How could it be a disappointment? Uh, easy. Son of Rosemary is so bad, so ingeniously awful, so maddening. It's like Ira Levin sold a title and then crapped out something that resembled a novel, then took the money and ran. Never to be heard from again.






These four books top my list. And I read them all. Every wretched page of them. I do not possess the patience to do that nowaways. Then, I mostly finished what I started. These days if I hate something half as much as I did these books, they are gone out of my life. Note that all of these were published decades ago.

Friday, February 24. 2017


I was thinking about ol' Spider Robinson this morning. Too much rest from food poisoning these past few days, and I was wide awake at two AM. I was looking at a Mystery sale at Downpour Audio and I saw that Spider's Very Bad Deaths was for sale, so I bought it. I read Very Bad Deaths when it came out, and I liked it a hell of a lot. It's sort of a serial killer story, with a SF twist.

I always liked Spider. Though I have never met the man, I have enjoyed his fiction and his essays. He has been a strong presence in the science fiction field for decades.

Spider and his wife Jeannie hit the big time with their 1979 collaboration, Stardance. It won both the Hugo and the Nebula, as well as landing the annual Locus poll that year. Honestly, it wasn't a favorite of mine, but the story of interplanetary communication through use of dance struck a chord with many, many readers.

Spider Robinson had been publishing for quite a while before the success of Stardance. One of my favorites came out a few years earlier, an SF thriller called Telempath. Robinson also wrote numerous short stories, many of which centered around an interplanetary tavern called Callahan's. Spider won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1974.

Yeah, you could say that Spider Robinson was a born writer. Conceived and bred for the science fiction genre. He was also a fiercely devoted Heinlein fan, which always earned him huge admiration from me.

As with 'most any writer, I have my favorite Spider Robinson books, and ones that didn't work as well for me. Telempath, which I mentioned earlier, is a big favorite. As is Mindkiller. Night of Power is a damned good one, and then there are the short stories.

Did I neglect to mention that Spider Robinson was granted the formidable task of completing an unfinished Robert A. Heinlein novel? Yes, he did. Regretfully, I started Veritable Star, but never finished reading it. Perhaps my expectations were too high, or maybe I was too caught up in my endless horror reading back in 2006.

Spider Robinson. The name always carried enormous weight for me as a reader. Yet I've kind of grown away from the work. It makes me sad. I've dedicated too much of my reading life to horror. Oh, I love the horror genre, and I expect that I always will, but there's a big world of books out there. Too damned big to spend the majority of one's time in a single generic pool.

Spider was a hippie, and I guess I was kind of one too back in the day. Life has brought profound changes upon everyone over the past forty or fifty years. I understand that Spider Robinson has had his share of tragedy in recent years. He always struck me as a genuinely good guy, and few would deny that he is one hell of a writer.

So, yeah, I plan to visit with Spider Robinson. Starting with his chilling Very Bad Deaths on audiobook, and I just ordered his nonfiction essay collection, The Crazy Years (catch the Heinlein reference?) from B&N.com. Then, though I no longer sling the booze, perhaps a return to Callahan's Crosstime Saloon, where time travelers strictly pay cash.

I don't know how serious people take my recommendations, but I urge everyone to give Spider Robinson a chance. If horror is your main gig, try Very Bad Deaths. If action-adventure with a futuristic twist sounds good, Telempath is a great bet. If lyrical, poetic, visionary science fiction is what you need to cleanse your palette in these crazy years, you might be profoundly rewarded by reading Stardance.
Sunday, February 5. 2017


Ask an average reader what his or her favorite Science Fiction novel is. You might get Dune as an answer. Fahrenheit 451. Stranger in a Strange Land. You might even hear things like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe or Splinter in the Mind's Eye. A more discerning SF reader may bring up Alfred Bester, Theodore Sturgeon, Edgar Pangborn.

It would be tough to pinpoint me with the question, just as it would be hard for me to list one horror novel as my very favorite. The Ceremonies? Son of the Endless Night? Incubus?The Shining?

The Science Fiction books that immediately come to mind for me are Alfred Bester's The Stars My Destination. Norman Spinrad's Bug Jack Barron. Philip Wylie's The Disappearance. Edgar Pangborn's A Mirror For Observers. Heinlein's Farmer in the Sky.

And there's one other that looms highly at the forefront of my heart as a very, very favorite book of Science Fiction. Of course it's Frederik Pohl's Gateway.

Born in 1919, the man seems to have been brought to this Earth to create superlative Science Fiction. Pohl never got the universal acclaim of Bradbury, Heinlein, Clarke, Asimov, but his work is among the finest that the genre has ever seen.

Frederik Pohl had a penchant for writing searing satirical fiction, coupled with rational ideas and solid characterizations. He was not only a writer, but one of the most important editors in the history of the genre. People rightly point to John W. Campbell as the most influential editor in SF history, but Pohl is directly behind Campbell, but he brought more humanity and wit to the field.

Pohl wrote outrageously good stories and novels in the 50's and 60's, some of the best of which was in collaboration with C.M. Kornbluth. He was an important figure in the field, but things broke wide open in 1976 with his novel, Man Plus. Man Plus dealt with a man being biologically altered to live on the planet Mars. It was Hugo nominee and a Nebula winner. And this was back at a time when such things actually meant something.

The very next year, in 1977, Frederik Pohl unleashed Gateway into the world. He announced that it was the best thing he had ever written. People seemed to agree. Gateway won best novel of the year in the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, and John W. Campbell Awards.

Gateway presented frank sex and modern satire in ways that were new to the SF genre. Of course aficionados like myself had seen mature, barrier-busting work from writers like Philip José Farmer, Robert A. Heinlein, Norman Spinrad, and others. But Pohl employed the elements of wit, drug use, and space adventure in a new way, with writing techniques that were unseen prior to its publication.

Gateway was and is Pohl's masterpiece, and one that he will forever be associated with. The novel was a huge success and it spawned several sequels and related works. It certainly remains one of my top favorite books in or out of the Science Fiction genre.

I have not read Gateway in almost forty years. I'm reaching an age where I want to re-experience favorite books. To see them again as the same person, but also not the same person. I've been doing so a lot in the past few years, but for some reason I had given Gateway a lot of thought. At least until last night, when I dreamed of Bob Broadhead and his Quixotic quests courtesy of the Heechee race.

You should consider reading, or rereading Gateway as well. Some I know in the Horror field don't seem to care much for Science Fiction, but I feel that they are doing themselves a serious disservice. Especially in the case of Gateway. It has about as much to do with Lucas and Roddenberry stuff as Peter Straub does with Goosebumps.

Now to start saving my Nickles so I can afford a copy of the Easton Press edition of Gateway.



Sunday, January 22. 2017


Who would have suspected? I damned sure didn't, and I seriously doubt that Joe R. Lansdale did, either. No one can predict this sort of thing.

In 1990 Joe Lansdale published a terrific crime novel as a paperback original. It was called Savage Season, and it featured two odd, funny, tough-guy characters. I was there, right at the beginning, having been a rabid Lansdale fan ever since I read The Drive-In two years prior to the publication of Savage Season. The cover of the Bantam paperback of Savage Season is one of the most memorable I've ever seen, and that was just the icing on the proverbial cake.

Readers responded strongly to Hap and Leonard, but it took a while for Joe to continue with the characters. Mucho Mojo came out in 1994, and he was off and running.

For a while--quite a while--the Hap and Leonard phenomena was a cult thing, but gradually more and more readers latched on to the series. I personally handed the books into many hands, some willing and some not so willing, but I don't believe that I have ever known anyone to dislike them.

Now, here we are, twenty-seven years after Savage Season burst onto the literary landscape, and Hap and Leonard are everywhere. Let's see, we recently had a new collection of Hap and Leonard short stories, called, appropriately, Hap and Leonard (Hap and Leonard Ride Again in ebook form), there has been a wonderfully faithful Sundance Channel TV series based on them, a novella called Hoodoo Harry was just published by The Mysterious Bookshop. And coming up?

Season Two of the Hap and Leonard show begins on March 15. A major novel, Rusty Puppy, streets on February 23rd. The very good folks at Subterranean Press unleash another novella called Coco Butternut (Don't you just love his titles?) which is coming right up on January 30th.

Is that all? Could there possibly be any more? Oh yes.

On February 20th, yet another collection is coming from Tachyon Publications. And this one is very special indeed.

We've come to expect outrageous humor, situations, and violence in Hap and Leonard stories, and there is some of that stuff in Hap and Leonard: Blood and Lemonade. But this collection is a more somber bunch of stories. Some feature crime and bloodshed. Some are funny. Some are wistful. Some are sad and thoughtful. Joe, slippery bastard that he is, even slips a ghost story into the mix.

Blood and Lemonade shows another side of Hap and Leonard. While, yes, there are introspective moments in each of the books up to now, these stories are often quiet. They give the reader pause; time for contemplation.

Joe calls Blood and Lemonade a mosaic novel. I always called this sort of thing a story cycle. Both terms amount to the same thing. There are connecting sequences with Hap and Leonard woolgathering about past events. Each story is a slice of life from when they were young, before the events of Savage Season. Some are not even Hap and Leonard stories, but simply Hap stories. That isn't surprising as Hap's perspective has always been the driving force of the series.

Tachyon also published the previously mentioned Hap and Leonard short story collection. Unlike that one, which contains a lot of reprints, Blood and Lemonade features mostly new works, and works that will be new to most readers. Both are essential to any fan, but as I noted before, Hap and Leonard: Blood and Lemonade, is something truly special. You are going to love it. Regardless of whether, like me, you are a (savage) seasoned Hap and Leonard veteran, or are new to the characters. Trust me.
Monday, January 9. 2017


I've heard so many people curse 2016. I do get it, but, come on. Everyone who reads this survived the year. "In the midst of life we are in death". Yeah, we lost a lot of important people last year. Some lost family and friends. We also lost celebrities, many of whom meant a lot to our lives and personal development. I don't want to minimize that, but I also want to emphasize that we all have much to be thankful for.

One thing I am not thankful for is how America has become to divided. How manipulative the media has become, and the distorted facts and outright lies we see on a daily basis. I hate how so many on social media are self-righteous, and how they endlessly try to shame and belittle those who see things differently than they do. It's ugly and a huge part of the problem as I see it. It's been going on for a while, but has reached disgusting proportions in 2016. Is it any wonder the presidential election was such a farce?

I used social media a lot last year, but I almost always did so to promote reading, music, movies. The Arts are what saves our souls.
Anyway, I had a good year, so I guess it's easy for me to be upbeat. After a number of very difficult years for my personal life, I have found happiness and contentment. I'm still working on the person I need to be, but that's an ongoing struggle, is it not?

It wasn't a great year for movies for me. A lot of overblown action and superhero stuff that does not interest me. Digital photography and editing have taken away a lot of my enjoyment. But then again I haven't seen a whole lot of movies. Fewer, probably, than any year of my adult life. The reason is pretty simple: I have been busy doing other things. And enjoying the hell out of it.

I saw some older movies brought back to the screen. That's one advantage of digital projection. In 2016 I went and watched older movies like Ferris Beuller's Day Off, The Man Who Fell From Earth, Ghostbusters, E.T. The Extraterrestrial, The Shining, Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie, Halloween, and Purple Rain.

My favorite new movie of 2016 was Woody Allen's magnificent Cafe Society. I like every movie Woody does, but it's been quite some time since I called one my fave of the year. Cafe Society is about the myth and majesty of early Hollywood, and it's one of the few cases where I think that digitally-enhanced filmmaking is an asset. A lot of people didn't like the movie, but I am convinced that a lot of people judge the man rather than the movie. People seem disappointed that Woody isn't making the same type of movies that he did in the seventies, and I am pretty sure that some minds would be changed about Cafe Society had some individuals thought that it was made by an unknown foreign director rather than the notorious Woody Allen.

I also loved Richard Linklater's Everybody Wants Some, but again many didn't care for it. Or they even outright hated it. I don't care for all of Linklater's movies, but I love the ones like Everybody Wants Some, Dazed and Confused, and Boyhood that ring true to real life.

That's really about it. I rather enjoyed Pete's Dragon and The BFG, probably more so because I saw them at a drive-in. The Lonely Island's Popstar: Never Stop Never Stopping was reasonably enjoyable, if no great satire. I was lucky enough to see the Frank Zappa documentary, Eat That Question, at a theater.

I read more last year, which is one reason I saw fewer movies. I did a considerable amount of re-reading, and I absolutely loved going back to Straub's Shadowland, Ed Gorman's Black River Falls, Dan Simmons' Phases of Gravity, Thomas F. Monteleone's Night Things, and Harlan Ellison's Gentleman Junkie. There were others, but those top the list.

I read quite a few excellent new novels in 2016. The best of them were Jonathan Janz's Children of the Dark, Joe R. Lansdale's Honky Tonk Samurai, Glen Krish's Nothing Lasting, and Stephen King's End of Watch.

Joe Hill had a new one out. The Fireman is a controversial book. I've heard a lot of negative feedback about it. The Fireman is a complicated novel that is difficult to pigeonhole. I struggled a little through the first few hundred pages, but it really kicked in around the halfway point. I ended up loving the hell out of The Fireman, and it came this close to being my favorite of the year. But...

My very, very favorite of the year won't even come out until May 2017. I was fortunate to receive an advance galley of Bill Pronzini's The Violated. I've been a rabid Pronzini fan for just about as long as I can remember, but Bill really outdoes himself with The Violated. I think it is--easily--the best thing he has written to date. Do yourself a favor and don't pass it up this May.

The world rumbles on. We face good and bad things every day, and I strive to focus on the good. I have no lofty resolutions this year, but I do hope to be happier and more appreciative in 2017 and beyond. To learn that anger solves nothing and only weakens me. To read more and to celebrate my love of books and writing. You won't catch me binge watching or gaming this year. In addition to work, time with loves ones, enjoying the outdoors, I want to read as much as I can. I read more slowly these days then I used to. I like to savor every sentence rather than blaze through a book.

Thanks to everyone for being my friend, for being a part of the horror community, and for making it through another year. 2016 was a year of challenges and heartbreak, so let's make the best of 2017.
Saturday, December 24. 2016


I'm still fairly new to the area I am now living. We were driving last night, and I took note of a real, live, genuine video store. I commended on how cool that is, and how they are so few and far between these days.

Today we decided to take a visit there. Sure enough, it was the final day of its existence. In the dark last night we could not see the store closing signs.

We entered the store, and they were practically giving movies away. as low as eighty cents each. I looked through the whole place, and I ended buying a few Blu Rays--even though I currently do not own a player. I plan to do something about that very soon.

Anyway I chose Foxcatcher, Nebraska, and Superman: The Movie. I'm not much of a superhero guy, but I got the latter title for old time's sake.

As I was approaching the register, something occurred to me: Would this be the very last time I go through a line in a video store?

Sobering. My God, I spent so much time in video stores over the years. Especially in the 1980's. I lived right next door to an Erol's Video, and I spent hours in the place. Reading back covers, waiting to see what tapes would be returned by people coming and going, talking to the staff and other customers.

Video Stores were a huge business back in the mid-80's. One thing hasn't changed a bit from then to now...people love new things. Everyone was renting tapes, having movie parties, watching and talking about movies.

I always buddied up with the store managers. They give me screeners, held new releases for me on Tuesday when new ones went up for rental. It was great.

As the 90's came along and progressed, home video lost some of its sizzle. That newness had worn out, and gaming was becoming more advanced and was taking a chunk out of the industry. Then DVD came along, and that really put a ding in the video store business. The whole point of a DVD was to own the movie. For repeat viewings and to have ample time to explore the supplementary materials.

Blockbuster took over the rental market by the 90's, and many of the smaller stores withered under the competition. I hated that, but I did use Blockbuster now and then. Like Amazon today, it's difficult to completely abstain from doing business there.

Steaming was the final blow. Why bother to even own movies anymore? Just cue up whatever you want from Amazon, itunes, Netflix, or wherever, and watch anytime. As for the once-cherished supplementary materials, who cares anymore?

Some of us care. The true movie geeks of the world. The ones with huge movie collections, with stuff even we have never watched. The ones who, way back when, felt the obsessive need to duplicate just about every movie we ever rented. The ones who watch treasured movies the way some visit old friends.

I've always been a nostalgic person, yet I am coming to the realization that nostalgia can be deadly. It, if gone unrestrained, can poison the present. I'm learning. But, still, I miss video stores.

I've said it in these pages before, and I'll doubtless say it again. The internet has brought us many riches, but it has taken things away in return. Amazon, Facebook, Netflix, You Tube, etc, have reduced the significance of our local communities. I hate that.

And so I bid a sad farewell to the video store. This may not be the last hurrah for me as a video store customer, but it quite possibly is.




Wednesday, December 7. 2016


Every now and again, you have to take some time to process a novel once you’ve read it, and that’s especially true if you’re going to attempt to review it. As it happens, I read two books instead of one: Jack Finny’s The Body Snatchers and Robert A. Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters. So, I guess there was double the process time needed before sitting down to write this review. But I was inspired by posts on the Horror Drive-In forum, posts that talked a little bit about these two books, so, my goal here is to do a little homage to some great stories—and maybe I will entice those reading this review to go back and enjoy a couple oldies, but goodies.

The Body Snatchers, published in 1955 (but first serialized in 1954), involves seed pods that land on Earth to do what seed pods do best—multiply. But the thing of it is, these seed pods aren’t looking to grow into anything other than copies of the people that live in the town they’ve set to invade. It is up to the main characters, who come to realize this threat, to see that the body snatchers are thwarted.

The Puppet Masters, published in 1951 (also serialized in a magazine), has visitors from outer space too, but these are a little different than those in The Body Snatchers. These are highly intelligent aliens, beings that intend to use human bodies for hosts—they look sort of like the nastiest version of slugs you can think of—maybe a cross between a slug and a leech and a snake, who knows—and those slugs, called ‘The Masters’ by the hero of this novel, want one thing only: world domination. It is up to a few special agents that are a part of an off-the-books agency to stop the invasion.

The books are similar as they both deal with hostile beings from outer space, intent on doing what the do best: kill off and/or take over humanity. Both deal with ‘the other’; that is to say, both deal with showing what is weird in contrast to what we all are, which is (supposedly) normal. They both say, “If you don’t watch out, you’ll be watching your own body eating your T.V. dinners and sitting next to your wife who isn’t really your wife anymore.” But, social and intellectual warnings aside, they books hold your attention as they are both action packed, especially Heinlein’s novel—if it were printed today, I daresay that it would be tagged with that insidious Thriller Novel label.

I think an important last point is that both deal with the specific instance of invasion (not a dystopian environment), and shows how humanity might react. Jack Finny’s writing from the perspective of the small town doctor, while Heinlein is showing us how a government that spends $100 on a toilet seat and $300 on a traffic cone might go about dealing with a superior nemesis. In either instance, I think the best and the worst of humanity is accurately portrayed. That’s a big deal for novels that were written some seventy years ago now. That they’re still relevant says much more than I ever could.

All of this is great, but how is it horror? Though I do understand why these books are classified as Science Fiction, I do also think there is an argument to be made in regards to their being functioning works of Horror Fiction as well. The narratives strike a deep sense of fear in the reader, fear of ‘the other’, but it is more than that, too. Both novels create a fear of being made into the ‘the other’ and the process that entails. In The Body Snatchers that seems to mean certain death. In The Puppet Masters that seems to mean something worse than death; possession. It is through these two fears—the fear caused by death, and the fear caused by possession—that both authors twist our feeling of suspense and dread. This is classic horror in its best emanations.

I enjoyed both of these novels. I recommend you read them, if you haven’t. For me, The Body Snatchers was the book I enjoyed more out of the two, but that is because I fear death much more than I fear being possessed (even if it is by a slug). Which of the two fates do you fear most?


Review by David M. Wilson



Saturday, November 26. 2016


At this point in the writing career of Bill Pronzini, having written over ninety novels and hundreds of short stories, one might expect the man to mellow a bit. He's been at the game for nearly fifty years, after all. And, at a glance, one could possibly make that assumption. Pronzini has been writing a series of light historical mysteries with his wife, the acclaimed author Marcia Muller. He steadily puts out a new Nameless Detective novel every year. Bill Pronzini has been a one-man publishing industry for about as long as I have been reading. If anyone deserves to kick back a little, it's him. To maybe go a little easy with the hard subject matter.

But then we have The Violated, a stand-alone solo novel that is coming on March 7th, 2017. I've been a longtime completest Bill Pronzini reader and fan for decades, and I never miss one of his books. For my money, The Violated is the hardest hitting, most intense novel he has written to date. My previous favorite was The Crimes of Jordan Wise, from 2006.

The Violated begins with an arresting opening line:

The dead man lay faceup on the grassy riverbank, legs together and ankles crossed, arms spread-eagled above his head with palms upturned and fingers curled, in a grotesque parody of the crucifixion.

From there the reader is thrust into a dark and horrible story of a suspected serial rapist who has been brutally murdered. Which brings forth numerous questions: Was he really the man who violated the victims? Was it a random crime? Who committed the murder? Will the atrocities continue?

Pronzini has often used multiple first person viewpoints in his books, but he has never done so as flawlessly and convincingly as he does in The Violated. Each chapter is told from the point of view of a person who is either directly or indirectly involved in the investigation.

The Violated is one of Pronzini's most brutal works of fiction, but as always his empathy and humanity shines in every page.

Bill Pronzini has never quite reached the mainstream success he deserves. Maybe it's because he rarely has cookie-cutter heroes and villains in his stories. Readers are as apt to have sympathy for the antagonists as they are the so-called good guys. It's impossible for reasonable people to feel sorry for a rapist, but perhaps one can be a sort of victim, too. That it might be possible to hate as well as try to understand what drove someone to such foul deeds.

As the saying goes, if there is any justice in the world, The Violated will find the biggest possible audience. As far as I am concerned, it is as good as anything out there on the shelves. It, and Bill Pronzini, deserve all the success in the world. I hope you will consider reading The Violated when it is published.
Wednesday, November 23. 2016


I've heard individuals speak of Thanksgiving with disdain, claiming that people should not need a special day to express and feel thanks. Maybe so, but we all have our bad sides. We're all human, and ego, frailty, spitefulness, anger, and self pity come along with the condition. I like the idea of a holiday in which to relax, reflect, and re-evaluate our lives. One to give thanks for what we do have.

It's a volatile time in American society. Many feel rage and helplessness. I understand those things, but then my life has always been uncertain. None of us can expect things to go our way all the time, nor can we hope to go through life without adversary. Most of us have food, shelter, companionship.

I could feel sorry for myself, and I sometimes do, but I do have a lot to be thankful for at the end of 2016. I have a decent job, and I finally found the right someone to share my life with.

I'll soon be celebrating eleven years of Horror Drive-In. I recently made the usual noises about shutting down the forums, and I do grow weary of it at times. However, Horror Drive-In has become one of the most venerable message board forums in the horror fiction field. Message boards were once as commonplace as typos in a typical self-published book, but they are very few and far between at this point. The big social media networks have claimed the lives of most of them. As well as loss of innocence and enthusiasm in online discussion. Times change, as do people.

I've mostly enjoyed my years in the forum business, at Horror Drive-In, Shocklines, and Gorezone. I've shared laughs, tears, love, and joy in our mutual obsession with all things horror. Horror Drive-In was born when I lost my brother to cancer. His death inspired me to make a move to start my own website. Since then I have shared my life in the pages of the site. The triumphs and the tragedies. The destruction of my marriage, my struggles with emotion and mental health, the loss of my longtime job. I also shared my successes with the friends who came to the boards, and who have continued to be a part of them. Others have come forth and spoken with often painful honesty about their lives.

I'm not thrilled about everything in my life. My health insurance has gone up again, and the premiums are what I consider to be an obscene amount of money each month. I've had a recent financial setback which will curtail my Christmas shopping drastically. My job is secure, but it can be enormously trying.

On the other hand I am happier than I have been in years. In many ways I am happier than I have ever been in my life.

I've neglected Horror Drive-In for the past few months. Past few years, really, but I plan to become much more active. I've been in the slow process of moving, and I haven't had a lot of access to my computer. I've used a laptop, but I've needed my own desk and PC.

So, yes, Horror Drive-In will be here for a long time to come.

I wish everyone, all over the world, happiness and prosperity. Books, movies, music, and joy. What the hell is so funny about peace, love, and understanding, anyway?
Thursday, October 27. 2016


You say that you love horror fiction? Well, here's your chance to prove it.

One thing most of us can agree on is this: There aren't enough quality markets for short horror fiction out there.

I always loved reading fiction in a magazine. Something feels so right about it. There used to be a lot more of them around. I was at Barnes and Noble recently and there were a few of the old reliable workhorses like Ellery Queen, Mystery Scene, and Analog. Not much in the way of horror out there.

There are some cool ones still around being independently distributed, and I shouldn't have to list them. But there simply are not enough of them. Not for readers, and certainly not for writers.

There are anthologies coming out all the time, which is cool. But monthly, or bi-monthly magazines? Precious few.

Sure, writers can get their short fiction out through Amazon, and get lost in the ocean of others doing the same. It's kind of hard to get the attention of readers that way.

There's a new magazine on the horizon. It's called Deadlights, and there is a Kickstarter campaign going on now to launch it. Happily it has already reached its goal, but any startup venture can use more capital.


Deadlights is the brainchild of one David M. Wilson, and I've been talking to him a bit. The guy is young, passionate, serious, and well-versed in the genre. Not just the current crop of writers who came come forth since the Millennium, but deep in the history of the field. I respect that. I respect that a hell of a lot.

Now, some of you bristle at the notion of crowdfunding, and there's nothing I can say about that. I have my own thresholds, and I understand.

However, the rules of marketing and distribution are rapidly changing. Wilson is going for an Old School zine, which is wonderful, and he is using new technology to make it happen.

I've heard people make the claim that no one should try to sell something when they don't have the capital to get it off the ground. I don't subscribe to that train of thought. In this day and age, times are tough for a lot of people, and anyone who wants to make an effort to get a fiction magazine up and running is A-OK by me.

Many of the most revered magazines in the history of the field had very modest beginnings. Cemetery Dance, The Horror Show, Whispers, they all were projects of love by people who had passion and conviction.

Will Deadlights be a long-running success? That depends upon the perseverance and dedication of David M. Wilson--and upon the lovers of horror fiction out there like you and me.

And, yes, I contributed, and I am asking you to consider doing the same. Any crowdfunding scheme is a risk, but we're talking about twelve bucks here. Isn't it worth that much to help get in on the ground floor of a new market for horror fiction?







Monday, September 26. 2016


I remember exactly the moment I first heard of the great Herschell Gordon Lewis. It was way back in 1983. I was browsing through a Roses department store, and I saw some oversized boxes of movies on tape. I can't tell you what format it was, and in fact this was the first I had even heard of movies on tape. I saw a bunch of them and they were around sixty dollars each. A pretty penny in those days. Prominent among the boxes were eye-gouging titles like Blood Feast, Two Thousand Maniacs, and Color Me Blood Red. Movies I now know as the infamous "Blood Trilogy".

I wanted to see these movies so badly, but there was no way. I didn't even know anyone who had a player to watch them on. I filed the names away in my mind.

Jump a few years later, and I started reading about Herschell Gordon Lewis in Fangoria. Again, I was desperate to see them, but it would be a while before I had a VCR, and while I knew a few people who did, I don't think I would have had much luck trying to convince them to rent The Wizard of Gore.

The day finally came when I was able to buy my own player. It was a cut-rate job made by Goldstar. I put that son of a bitch to good use, though, before the thing blew up. The first night of rentals were George Romero's The Crazies, Fred Dekker's Night of the Creeps, and Two Thousand Maniacs.

The Romero was a bit of a disappointment, but I loved the other two. I was off and on a roll, and I rented God knows how many movies over the next couple of decades. In the first few years the majority of the ones I got from the video store were horror movies.

It wasn't so easy in those days. No Amazon. No specialty companies doing deluxe prints of genre movies. It was hit or miss when looking for Herschell Gordon Lewis movies, and I usually missed. But I gradually managed to see a lot of them.

I was also rabidly watching everything I could find by Roger Corman. A few fools considered Rog to be a nothing but a schlockmeister, despite so many smart and important films to his credit, but most people could see how influential Corman was. I was discovering the work of Dario Argento, and while many find his movies to be incomprehensible, few could deny the technical precision and artistic merits of his movies.

But if you liked the movies of Herschell Gordon Lewis, there was obviously something wrong with you. The term, amateurish, doesn't even begin to describe these pictures. The actors rarely demonstrated even a shred of talent or credibility. Yet many of us, tried and true gorehounds, cherish them.

How amazing must it have been to have seen one of Hersch's movies when they were first released in the 1960's! Lurid titles were commonplace, but the Lewis movies delivered the groceries. In spades.

Part of the allure of the films of Herschell Gordon Lewis was the man himself. I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but I felt that I knew him a little, at least, from watching the profile of him on that great old Incredibly Strange Film Show program. Herschell Gordon Lewis was obviously intelligent, admirably self-deprecating, and equally sheepish and gleeful about his place in movie history.

That gleeful presence he possessed found its way into the movies. I always pictured that laughing face as I watched them. I pictured old HGL shaking his head at the thought of an audience for the crap he made, and laughing all the way to the bank.

I can't say that I liked all of the movies. A Taste of Blood bored me to tears. Suburban Roulette is hideously atrocious even by Lewis standards. I never saw the children's movies, and by all counts I should consider myself lucky for that.

I liked most of them, though. Not despite their whopping shortcomings, but because of them. My favorite? The best of them all is almost certainly Two-Thousand Maniacs, but I might have to go with She-Devils on Wheels for sheer depravity.

We mourn when people whose work we love die. Whether it's Bowie or Prince, Harold Ramis or Robin Williams, Arnold Palmer or Muhammad Ali, their lives brightened ours, and sometimes it is even more poignant--and heartbreaking--than when people in our real lives pass. Real life is often dull and colorless.

Herschell Gordon Lewis took his viewers to places most wouldn't want to go, but his fans always liked the ride.

RIP Herschell. You were the first, and while no one could call you the best, you made your mark. Horror would not be the same without you.
Wednesday, August 24. 2016


I blame it all on a guy named Mike Walker.

I was a nice, normal horror fan. This was just into the 1990's. Well before DVD made nearly every movie imaginable available to fans. I was discovering Argento, Deodato, Fulci, Franco, and others through the bootleg circuit. Ahem. Make that through duplication services. I was happy doing this, until the day that the aforementioned Walker showed up and handed me a magazine. It was something I had never seen before. Film Threat?

Not that I wasn't ready for such a breakthrough. I had been watching early John Waters movies, and I was discovering a lot of foreign and independent things at the video stores. But this...this Film Threat...this was something altogether different.

The issue I was given was the very last one that was published prior to the magazine being acquired by Larry Flynt Publlications. And hoo boy, was it an eye-opener.

Who were these people I was reading about? Nick Zedd? Richard Kern? G.G. Allin? What kind of bizarre tapes were being sold in the magazine? It was punk rock for the movies.

The timing was right. That was part of it. Punk was seeing a major resurgence, and alternative music had been assimilated by the mainstream yet. Things were still edgy in the early 90's. And underground filmmakers were often shooting their opuses in the Super 8 format. Which, to me, was and always will be more effective and visceral than digitally shot movies.

Independent film was chic in the mid 90's, and part of the credit for that goes to Film Threat. The biggest catalyst for the success of indie movies was Pulp Fiction, and FT was the first national magazine to showcase Quentin Tarantino in its pages.

Yes, I was hooked. Shortly after I discovered that Film Threat had sort of gone legit with a glossy magazine that was present in many bookstores. Film Threat Magazine was, as I previously indicated, part of the Larry Flynt family of wholesome periodicals.

Yet those of us who craved pure subversion were not forgotten. A sister magazine was launched that was devoted to underground cinema. Thus we had two magazines to enjoy: Film Threat was more accessible, and it largely skewered Hollywood product, while Film Threat Video Guide covered the underground. I loved them both.

It was the perfect pair of magazines for the new fan. Ones who were raised on Black Flag and Eraserhead, and who dropped their pants and mooned film school stuffiness. Film Threat was irreverent, acidic, informative, and funny as hell.

I loved that FT championed people like Todd Haynes and Bruce La Bruce, but it was unafraid to praise movies by Woody Allen and John Sayles. Film Threat, and its readers, demanded honesty and integrity from filmmakers, and we didn't care where they came from.

I learned so much about different types of movies: Underground, transgressive, queer, punk, foreign, experimental. The sky was the limit.

Being a Film Threat reader and subscriber felt like being in a club. Being in my mid-thirties I was older, I think, than most of the readers. I still felt like I was part of a tribe. I had letters in the Hate Mail sections, won contests. It was so much fun.

Sure, more than a few feathers were ruffled along the way. FT pulled no punches. Like the time Film Threat called horror journalist, Chas. Balun to task for bootlegging practices. It was an ugly situation, and a lot of horror fans leaped to Balun's side. Me, I had to agree with Film Threat, mostly because they had the distinction of being right about what was going on. FT always championed the rights of filmmakers.

Then there were the movies that were being distributed by FT. I bought them all: The Hardcore Collections, Steal This Video, Hated: G.G. Allin and the Murder Junkies, My Sweet Satan, and all the rest. These movie shocked, provoked, and assaulted viewers.

The hardcopy magazine unfortunately folded by the late 90's, but a website was born. Film Threat.com continued the tradition of the magazines. Until it, too, closed its doors in 2015.

It takes money to keep a website going. Believe me, even my little effort here costs me every year. Film Threat founder Chris Gore launched a Kickstarter drive to revive the site, but it failed to reach its goal. Now he has started another one, with an eye toward greater visibility and ambition.

What began as a snotty, messy, upstart fanzine gradually morphed into one of the most influential and important film journals in history. Countless fledgling directors, actors, screenwriters, crewmembers were inspired by Film Threat. Discerning viewers were pointed toward worthy movies. Undiscerning viewers became discerning viewers. And Hollywood were kept on their collective toes by the no-bullshit stance of Film Threat staff and readers.

We need Film Threat. The movies have become more homogenized and formulaic than ever. No one else is as capable of speaking out for serious movie fans than Chris Gore and Film Threat.

A new Kickstarter is open, and some pretty cool incentives are up for grabs. Yes, I am in. I couldn't give a lot, but I did my part. I'm asking you to consider doing so as well.
Tuesday, August 16. 2016


I always hear that life is so short, but it seems to me that my own life has been a very long one. I'm smack in the middle of my fifth decade on this pile of mud, and I feel like I have led several lives. Memories are sometimes lost, and sometimes stored away for later reflection.

I was at work today, and someone brought up a visit to Charleston, West Virginia. I felt a stab of emotional memory at the very name of the town, for I have a vivid memory of a morning there that has haunted me for years. I had not given it a thought in a long time.

The year was 1985. I was penniless and on a Greyhound trip from Seattle, Washington to Newport News, Virginia. A very long and hungry ride. I had been on various buses for four days, and I had consumed nothing but water for three of them.

I was less than delighted when I learned that I would have an unscheduled and very unwelcome layover of around ten hours. Disgusted, but resigned, I dealt with it.

So, it was just before dawn. The sun wasn't quite up, but there was visibility. I was walking around the streets near the bus station, looking forward to reuniting with old friends, and caging a meal from them until I got back on my feet. I had gone from famished to a kind of numbness.

Ahead of me I heard a car screeching to a stop, and I saw the passenger door open. Then a woman was thrown from the car just as it tore off at a highly illegal speed. I ran to the woman, and she was convulsing and literally foaming at the mouth. I was in shock, and froze for a moment or two. The woman looked up at me with anguished, tortured eyes. I blurted out something about going for help, and I ran off in the direction of the station.

I burst through the door, and raced to the window, scaring a sleepy clerk. I screamed at her to call for help. "CALL AN AMBULANCE! CALL THE POLICE! A WOMAN MAY BE DYING OUTSIDE!" To her credit, she wasted no time. I ran back out the door, and back to the woman lying at the curb.

I stood there, looking at her. I was choked up, and I was saying things like, "Help is on the way. You're going to be all right. Hang in there. Help will be here soon..."

The poor woman looked kind of like Sissy Spacek as Carrie after the dreadful prom, but instead of blood, she was covered in vomit and foamy saliva. The convulsions had stopped, and she seemed to be frozen stiff, with tortured eyes locked upon my own.

I stood there like a helpless idiot, mumbling words of encouragement. I have no idea of whether she was hearing them, or comprehending them, or if she was too far gone for that. But her eyes...her eyes remained locked on mine. I held the gaze, urging her with words and my will to hang on.

Soon, an ambulance came to the buss station, and greatly relieved, I waved them over to where we were. The two guys were efficient, and they had her on a stretcher in no time and loaded the woman into the ambulance. Her eyes and mine remained locked the entire time.

A squad car came, and an officer asked me some questions. Did I know the woman? No. Did I know the car? No. Did I catch the license number? No. Could I identify it? No, no, no. It all happened so quickly, and I was much more concerned about the woman than the car.

I showed the policeman my ID and my bus ticket, which satisfied him. He thanked me, and got into his car and left. End of story.

Sort of. As I stated earlier, the incident haunted me, just as I am pretty sure it would have haunted you. I had to wait all day for the bus, and the delirium caused by hunger intensified the effects of the encounter.

I wondered how she had gotten to that point. And, more importantly, I wondered what would happen next. Would her family be notified, and be tearfully relieved at finding their baby? This was a young woman. Had she run away from an abusive home situation, and have nowhere to go? Would she end up in the gutter again? There were, of course, no answers to these questions.

I thought that if I lived in the same town, I would try to locate which hospital she ended up in. I don't think it would have been too difficult. I thought that I might have tried to visit her.

But my bus finally showed up that afternoon, and I made it back to Newport News. Where I went about my life. I remember feasting on homemade tacos that night at a buddy's place, and that is was possibly the best meal I have ever had. I was seriously hungry.

As the years passed, I thought about the poor, lost woman, and I wondered--hoped--that the ugly situation was bad enough for her to change her life. I am uncomfortable in the role of Samaritan, and I think most anyone would have done as much as I did. Still, that ten or fifteen minutes where I stared into this nameless woman's eyes, pleading with her with my words and my own eyes, may well have saved her life. The streets were deserted that morning, and she could have choked to death, or simply lost the will to continue to breathe and to circulate blood through her body.

I wonder if she made out all right, and if she ever thinks of the nameless guy who watched over her, teary-eyed, willing her to keep fighting. I'm sure I'll never know.

One thing is certain: There is no Hell hot enough for the scum who almost certainly gave her too many drugs, and who dumped her like a piece of garbage.
Tuesday, August 9. 2016


I generally distrust message fiction. I've seen it done well, and I've seen writers--favorites of mine at times--wear their convictions on their sleeves so blatantly that the stories are completely derailed.

That doesn't mean that I dislike all pieces of fiction that deliver messages. When it works, a writer and his or her story can change my way of thinking, or at least bring me to re-evaluate my own life and actions.

Case in point: James Newman's Odd Man Out.

Some might consider Odd Man Out to be gay-themed, but I don't. Not really. Yes, the story deals with a gay teen at a summer camp and the horrifying events that occur there. The theme of Odd Man Out is larger than that.

I think it is a subject we can all relate to. Most readers are odd men out, and we've all been ridiculed for having our noses in books.

This short novel deals with a hot topic in today's society: Bullying. We hear about it in the news almost as much as we see the contemptible actions of the 2016 presidential candidates. The public is usually enticed to believe that an evil party, or parties, bullies an innocent individual. Black and white, no questions asked.

James Newman takes us deeper into the insidious nature of bullying in Odd Man Out. This is a searing cautionary tale, and a reader can easily imagine being caught up in the role of the victim. The really disturbing part of Odd Man Out, however, shows how possible it is for even decent individuals to be among the oppressors in the situation.

I'm not innocent. No, I've never committed violence upon anyone, but in my younger years I laughed along with others a few times when a poor kid was being verbally humiliated. Part of me hated myself for it, but another part joined right in. It didn't happen often, and I never made a practice of it, but my hands are not entirely clean.

Perhaps it was simple fear. Maybe I didn't want the same treatment to happen to me, and so I joined in the ridicule. Or maybe a nasty part of me, a part that we all have the potential for, reared its repugnant head.

I like to think I have gotten better, and I know that I have. I also know that I, and most of the rest of us, have to continually work to improve ourselves. We not only cannot engage in the ridicule of others, we cannot stand still and allow others to do it.

Thank God I never got close to anything similar to what happens in Odd Man Out. It's terrifying, but the violence never approaches exploitation. James is showing us the bitter truth of what tragically happens on a regular basis. Odd Man Out brings to mind other things like Nate Southard's Just Like Hell, and Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door, and while these are all worthy and important pieces of literature, James Newman takes his readers deeper into what fuels the motivations of the antagonists. And he dares to show them a measure of compassion, while never for a second does he condone or be less than appalled and sickened at it all.

I've admired the writing of James Newman even before his debut novel, Midnight Rain, was published. I've enjoyed it all, but Odd Man Out is far and away the best thing he has published to date.

Odd Man Out has been published in limited hardcover and paperback editions by Thunderstorm Books. The softbound copy I bought is a lovely little item, and I recommend it without reservation. This is a book that should be read, and then passed on to others.