Matthew J. Hall Reviews Brown Bottle

Matthew J. Hall wrote a flattering review of my third book, the novel Brown Bottle at his website Screaming With Brevity. The review came out in February and I'm pretty sure I shared it at that time at another site I used to keep up. But, since I haven't shared it here, I'm going to pop it right up. Follow the below link to read the review.

MATTHEW J. HALL'S REVIEW OF BROWN BOTTLE

"Seven Drums" Published in BULL

It's a two-way win for me. I've wanted something of mine to appear in BULL for a very long time, and I had a story I felt was the best fiction I'd written in probably a decade that BULL fiction editor said he's like to see. The two-way win came when Ben Drevlow accepted the story, a western called "Seven Drums," for publication in BULL's pulp issue. And it also appears on the website today. I'd honestly love if you'd go read it as soon as you can. I don't usually say it, but I am proud of this one.

And Then There's a Childhood

Social Media: An A-1 Dodgy Curse

Earlier today I published a post saying I wasn't going to share these on social media anymore.
Well, my post from a couple days ago (which I shared on Facebook, Twitter, and Google +) had about sixty or so views. The post from this morning has five.

And I'm still not sharing posts from here to social media anymore. These posts are for approximately six people, it seems. And that's turbo okay by me. All are welcome, but six will do fine.

There's Probably a Meme for That

Okay, so the Braves have won their last three games and are only five more wins with no losses to being at 500 ball. Good. Second place in a division where second is really first because the stupid Nats are like 10 games ahead of everybody.

Okay, my back is out, it's 6 a.m., and I've already been at work a half hour.

Okay, something has happened here at my work so that coworkers seem to think my office is Studio 54 and that I love having five to six people in here at all times, which forces me to put on five to six masks at once and nearly cause myself another nervous breakdown. And I also have work to do.

Okay, I'm not going to share this post or any of my other posts to social media anymore because social media is a room full of scratching posts and tomcats and all the tomcats think they have every right to scratch every post. My scratching posts are mine. You cannot touch them. Besides, as the wise and talented Laurence Fishburne said, "My social life is not media worthy." Amen, Orpheus. Amen Jack Crawford.

Okay, my coffee is done and it's now time to grab a cigarette and a cup of McCafe with some hazelnut cream. I'm not even going to talk about how good coffee is, you know? There's probably a meme for that somewhere. Google it.

The Pure Sounds of Baseball

HEY DAY: Glavine pitching for my Braves.

A baseball game on the radio is a wonderful thing. I've been listening to my Atlanta Braves exclusively on the radio this season (of course along with watching highlight clips of big plays on MLB At Bat) and the option has me like a brand new fan, though I've been watching the Braves for thirty-five years.

As I write this, the boys are playing Miami and coming off their second victorious series this season against the reprehensible Washington Nationals. And I'm listening to it all on the radio, the comfort-food smooth voices of broadcasting royalty Chip Caray and Hall of Famer Don Sutton easing me from inning to inning. In the background I can hear the stirring rumble of the fans rising and falling like a lake current hitting the bank and receding. A full second before Chip tells me Matt Adams connects on a monster hit, I hear the crack and already know. All I need Chip to do now is tell me if it's fair, tell me when it leaves SunTrust.

Any fans who haven't tried the Radio Season, as I'm calling it now, really should test the waters and see if next year would be a possibility. It's a return to some kind of pureness, which baseball will always provide you under any circumstance. As the poet Donald Hall said, "Baseball is fathers and sons. Football is brothers beating each other up in the backyard."

And a Robert Bolano Painting To Grow an Inch