This guy needs a hobby!
Monday, April 25, 2011
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Tommy Hancock from All Pulp just reviewed my first western, Trail of the Burned Man. I am grateful to him for taking the time to read the book and post this review. You can read the review HERE!
Monday, April 18, 2011
The Windy City Pulp and Paper Convention 2011
“We are the new pulp writers!”
- Tommy Hancock
For three magical days we sold books, talked pulps, re-acquainted ourselves with old friends, made new friends, talked pulps, bought books, and then we bought some more books, and then we talked pulps. Doc Savage, Captain Hazard, Captain Satan, Lester Dent, Robert E. Howard, L. Ron Hubbard, the Popular Publications paperbacks, Sherlock Holmes, The Shadow, H. Bedford-Jones, Astounding Science Fiction magazine, Talbot Mundy, Startling Stories magazine and Sax Rohmer were just some of the names and topics that occupied our time.
Many thanks to Doug Ellis and the Windy City Pulp and Paper Convention staff for their top-notch professionalism. And for their friendship, enthusiasm and support I want to thank Tommy Hancock and Fuller Bumpers from Pro Se Press; Tom Roberts and Gene Christie from Black Dog Books; Ron Fortier and Rob Davis from Airship 27; John Goodwin from Galaxy Press; Wayne Reinagel from Knightraven Productions; and Martin Graham, Mark Halegua, and Tim Issacson for their kindness. A special thanks to my wife Jan McNulty, my daughter Brenna McNulty and her friend Taylor Kuhlman.
The images I’ve scanned here are just a sampling of the fun we all had at The Windy City Pulp and Paper Convention at the Westin Hotel in
April 15th through the 17th. Lombard, Illinois
This guy thinks he's a cowboy!
I picked up this hot chick 27 years ago!
Tommy Hancock and Fuller Bumpers from Pro Se Press
Wayne Reinagel from Knightraven Productions
Ron Fortier and Rob Davis from Airship 27 (the guy in the middle is an interloper)
Tom Roberts from Black Dog Books
My wife and I with our friend John Goodwin from Galaxy Press
Taylor and Brenna
Some wacko with some books
With my daughter Brenna
Tom Roberts and Tom McNulty, two Errol Flynn fans!
Brenna and Taylor slumming
Best picture of the onvention! John Goodwin tickles my wife!
John Goodwin strikes again and cracks up my daughter.
These last two photos represent all of the fun we had.
To learn more --
Visit Pro Se Productions HERE
Visit Galaxy Press HERE
Visit Airship 27 HERE
Visit Knightraven Productions HERE
Visit Black Dog Books HERE
Visit the Windy City Pulp and Paper Convention HERE
SEE YOU ALL NEXT YEAR!
Friday, April 1, 2011
My life as a painter began in mauve. I stayed with mauve for a long time. Eventually, and feeling frisky one morning, I ventured into blue. I was dazzled. Here were endless possibilities I had never considered. Blue offered a breezy change of pace from mauve, and so mauve suffered. I neglected mauve without meaning to and I eventually had to offer penance. But I wanted to conduct additional experiments so I took one color at a time. I was not gentle. I forced myself upon these colors like a corsair in a
Caribbean brothel. I indulged myself. Red fascinated me. I am quite fond of red. But sometimes when I’m in a blue mood I might choose orange. I’m not trying to be difficult.
Green offered a soothing earth-mother tone but perhaps in these cynical times green is out of fashion. But green has a purpose. One must ponder green and come at it logically. Yellow is green’s evil twin. Side by side they are brawling brats, snotty and puffed up with arrogance and egotism. But if you consider them separately they offer a calming influence. Unless you use too much yellow. Then you’ll have a problem. Too much yellow and your retinas burn. Too much green and you suffocate. One must tread carefully here.
But what the hell is it? There might be something that resembles a rock. Is that a tree or a vegetable? But those dark birds look familiar. In Art Speak lingo therefore, the dark birds perpetuate a hint of Van Gogh, but gently, whispering existential odes, and fundamentally rash with a late Twentieth Century gloss of animal magnetism tainted by sorrow, but perpetually. Certainly it must be illegal. Socrates would have the bastard’s head.
The mauve understood. It was always mauve, and then blue. It was like opening a window. A breath of fresh air in broad brush strokes. Mauve and then blue and red and green and yellow. I can’t talk about gold or lavender. Van Gogh loved yellow in
. Tomorrow I shall paint a nude and perhaps a cockatoo. I might paint the cover to a pulp magazine. Clarence has just come into the room. He glances at my paintings disdainfully. “You goddamn writers are all alike!” He snarls. “You’re weird! You always have to have the last word!” He’s right, of course. In my pocket is a dog-eared copy of Lunch Poems by Frank O’Hara. “Why good Lord, Irish!” Clarence exclaims. “Can’t you see these paintings suck?!” I hastily explain that my latest work, titled The April Fool Upon a Sunny Landscape (11 x 14 acrylic on canvas) is destined to make me a fortune, not to mention critical acclaim. Certainly it must. Right? Arles