Another positive on-line review of OUTLAW TERRITORY and another shout out for “We Meet at Twelve”!
Survey says…
August 26, 2009AICN has finally posted the review for the second half of Outlaw Territory and it is every bit as positive as the first. Here is what he had to say about “We Meet at Twelve”:
Reminiscent of 3:10 TO YUMA, this story of a reluctant lawman coming to terms with his inevitable showdown with a bad, bad man is well paced and has a nice twist ending. The tender moments where the lawman talks about life and death with his son and the last moments he spends with his wife make this typical tale atypical and memorable.
Short, sweet and flattering. Follow the link to read the rest of his thoughts on the book then go here and BUY IT ALREADY!
Poem #Like anyone really cares anymore – Untitled
August 22, 2009Going through a notebook from a couple months back I found this poem that I don’t really remember writing. Not immediately hating it on discovery I figured I’d post it here.
I said I’d run 1000 miles for you,
And now I’ve started
With 3 a day.
I get closer to the promise.
I lift and lower myself,
In case you need a strong tissue,
Or arm around your side
While you snore my lullaby.
Burn Me When I Go
August 17, 2009A few months ago, my mom and grandad came to visit me in Denton. I drove them around town and they gave me a tour of my then unknown family history in this town. We drove past the house my grandad lived in when he was a college student here, we went by the houses he built with his father, houses my mom remembers visiting door by door as a little girl to collect the rent money (because who is going to say no to my mom’s blue eyes?). On the square I learned where the hardware store used to be, and which building was once a JC Penny (where Grandad had his first job).
Then we went past 35 to this little sidestreet called Roselawn. We followed it for a few miles before coming to a large cemetery. My mom made the usual inquiries at the office and they told us where to find the people we were searching for. I can’t tell you exactly what relation I am to the people in that dirt, many of them had names I would never identify as being tied to my own, but I was told about each of them in turn, usually accompanied by a funny or tragic anecdote.
I have a weird relationship with cemeteries. Let’s be honest, if you think about it practically they are the biggest waste of real estate in the world. Acres of land taken up by decomposing bodies just so one, maybe two, generations will have some place to come and mourn. Once the flowers have wilted there is no more use for the place.
But there is this romantic appeal to them. This vast space where the gone and forgotten lay with nothing but a stone thrown into the soil screaming, “I was here, damn it! I lived, I loved, I was kind and I was terrible, and look at me now!”
I went back to that cemetery by myself a few days ago. I couldn’t remember where my family was so I just drove around slowly. I thought maybe I’d find good material for a story, or at the very least the tombstones could provide some better character names than the ones I’ve been coming up with lately. What I found instead was a story already told. I found Hunter Ray Brooks.
Hunter was born 7/29/01 and died 10/24/01, five days after my dad’s death. New toys were placed carefully next to the rock and there was even a cake made of paper flowers with a number “8″ candle. His parents had bought one of those three in one tombstones with Hunter in the middle and space on either side for Mom and Dad (their names and birthdays already eerily waiting for their final piece of information). The parents still came to visit their first born, they will one day be united again, but their lives have continued in the last 8 years, and a sign above Hunter’s picture informs him and everyone that he is now a “Big Brother.”
I left thinking about cemeteries, about Hunter and his parents, I left thinking about my grandad who showed me this place. His health has been failing this year, and everytime my Mom’s name pops up in my caller-id I expect it to be “the call.” He’s 81 years old, widowed by my grandmother and remarried, he once lived in Denton and built houses with his Dad, worked at a JC Penny nobody even knows used to be there. Soon, sooner than I like to think, all these years and experiences will be summarized by his name on a rock and a few feet of dirt. It seems so inadequate.
It seems like such a waste.
An Open Letter to the Producers of (500) Days of Summer
August 8, 2009First of all, let me congratulate you on what is without question one of the most honest “romantic comedies” (if the term even applies) in the last few years. You have a great script, an amazing cast and crew, and an even better soundtrack that actually serves the story nicely. Bravo.
Having said that, I really don’t know if I’m more interested to hear how you did it, or how you thought you could get away with it. The overly romantic viewpoint, the band t-shirts (both the fact that they are being warn and the bands that were chosen), the elaborate fantasy dance sequence, it is beyond obvious that the character of Tom has been based directly on me. Don’t bother denying it, nobody will believe you. I’m actually flattered that you would cast Joseph Gordon-Levitt to play me.
I don’t know how you managed to follow me for your research and getting into my head to view my fantasies is frankly rude, and even though I feel it went to a good cause, I simply cannot let this pass. Also, why did you feel the need to make it “500″ days when your research should clearly show the same arch actually happens in half that?
I did enjoy your film and hate to think my discovery of your illegal (not to mention supernatural) surveillance might prohibit others from doing the same. Simply begin sending me my royalty checks and I promise you will hear no more about it from me.
Sincerely,
P.J. “Tom” Kryfko
High Praise
July 23, 2009First review of Outlaw Territory is up over at Ain’t It Cool News. The reviewer loved the book so much he is doing a story by story critique and calls the collection, “some of the best Old West fiction you’re ever going to see collected in one volume.” This review covers the first 15 stories in the collection and supposedly the second 15 will be reviewed this week (which would include “We Meet at 12″), but with all the fun and insanity going on in San Diego (sooo jealous) I wouldn’t be surprised if we had to wait until next week to hear his thoughts on Will Simpson and I’s epic. Follow the link and see what illustrious company I’m in!
25 and Still Playing Dress-Up
July 13, 2009Some fun photos:
First, here I am as the Dread Pirate Roberts at a recent masquerade party:
This is me in costume for my cameo appearance in the 48 Hour Project, “This Time Around”:
Not really a costume, but me holding scary demon face:
Me masquerading with a somewhat exhausted expression:
And oddest of all here is me pretending to be some sort of writer or something:
For those of you curious to see “This Time Around” it is available in the VIDEOS section of my Facebook profile. If we’re not friends on Facebook then please stop cyberstalking and add me via the link on my Contact page.
The Virtues of Sleep Deprivation
July 2, 2009First of all, if you haven’t picked up your copy of OUTLAW TERRITORY what are you waiting for?! It’s colossal, it’s stupendous, it’s old-timey, it’s GOT ME IN IT!!!! Go now! Buy! Read the rest of this when you get back (I get double the hits that way)!
This past weekend was another extremely exciting adventure in my matinee missing life, I was a member of team Celluloid Heroes in the Dallas 48 Hour Film Project. Each team is given a genre, a character, a prop, and a line of dialogue, then they have 48 hours to write, cast, film, and edit a short film incorporating all of those elements. As part of the writing team I helped forge the epic struggle of Oggie Henderson and his comedic romp through purgatory, then I even got to stick around and carry lightstands back and forth during production. There were many ups and downs during production (almost all of which were captured for posterity by an on-set documentary crew…yay?), but the film came out beautifully and if you don’t believe me then you need to come to the 9:30pm screening tonight at Dallas Movie Grilll.
Big congratulations to my fellow sleep deprived teammates (did I mention around hour 30 with no sleep I went to a job interview?) as well as to the cast and miscellaneous other people who showed up to help out on set.
Now what’s this I hear about a 21 Day Film Project………
(Remix)
June 7, 2009I’ve been asked to post some more writing on the site so here is a short, short story that I’m not convinced completely sucks…yet. Copyright, all rights reserved, yada yada yada…
(Remix)
Like Sands-Sands-luh-luh-like sands
The bass kicks in with a steady beat so low it sends waves and ripples through the wooden dance floor. You don’t dance, you don’t stand. Easy choice to make. It’s not long before a snare comes in on tenor bouncing a simple melody, building the anticipation. An explosion was coming. We could all feel it.
Like Sands-sands-like sands Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!
It’s a woman’s scream. Bloodcurdling and deafening as it’s pumped from a wall of speakers and rains down on the dancers. No sooner is the terror past then the real hooks arrive on cue. A chorus of chirps, beeps, trumpets, flutes, didgeridoos and synthesized versions of instruments that may never have a physical equivalent. I was clinging tightly to the cheap plastic cup holding my swishing beer. It was a different swaying gold that had caught my attention. A blonde in tight jeans was bobbing and shaking to the melodious din. I was dancing. She was dancing. We were not dancing together.
But Doctor-d-doctor Amnesia! Duh-d-doctor-but-but doctor Amnesia!
The sampled dialogue was repeated again and again as the cacophony of sound beneath it waned and settled in on a simpler, softer pattern. Joining the new status quo were new voices in the harmony; all breathless, all female, all moaning a thousand poorly faked orgasms and sighs of satisfaction. She and I turned out of sync and my beer fell on our moving legs.
It wasn’t me! It was my evil twin!
The explosion was coming soon. The music dropped to a whisper. The same bass and tenor from the start kept feet moving and melody alive. It built softly, almost invisibly. The crowd smiled with a lover’s anticipation. Soon.
Like Sands
“Sorry!” Even now she had to scream to be heard. She moved in closer. I turned to greet her body with mine. Our beer stained legs began to rub together. I was dancing. She was dancing. We moved together.
Like Sands through the Hourglass-ow-ow-hourglass
As the music grew new, and old elements found their way into the crescendo. Melodies few of us could identify but all of us recognized, were woven together as the volume increased and heads began to bob up and down with more force, patiently waiting for the coming moment of release. A feeling of nostalgia swept the floor as everyone involuntarily found themselves flashing back a few years to sick days from school curled-up on our mothers’ couches. “What’s your name?!” she asked.
Luh-luh-luh-luh-like Sands
“Paul! You?!”
Sands through the-through the-through-Sands through the
“Jess!”
Sands through the hour-sands through the hour
It was coming. The volume was at its peak. The crowd could not be asked to simply bounce in place any longer. All of us could feel the explosion coming, could feel the beat inside of us. We knew the exact moment it would arrive. Soon, soon.
Suh-Sand-Like sands through the hourglass
“Who are you hear with?!” she shouted.
“Some friends. You?!”
“My friend Kay comes here a lot!” She pointed across the dance floor to a girl with short brunette hair grinding the air with her back towards us.
Like sands through the
This was it. The big moment. A scream rang from the crowd. Several kids jumped, shook, and threw their arms in the air to the climactic downbeat; the downbeat that never came. The DJ had withheld our climax with a few seconds of additional silence, reasserting himself as the puppet master and reminding us that we are the minstrels here. He starts the core melody again before the people could start moaning their disappointment, and like a dog with a dirty nose the crowd fell back into place before they could even process the betrayal they had suffered.
“Wait, you’re friends with Kay?!”
The music fades back once again to the bass and snare. Falling faster than it was built.
“Wait, you’re that Paul?!”
Fading, fading until it reached nothingness. Nothing, but the voice.
Like sands through the hourglass…so are the days of our lives
I liked the next song better.
