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My Interview with S.T. Joshi
S.T. Joshi
Last week the folks at Innsmouth Free Press posted an interview I did with S. T. Joshi, the foremost authority on author H. P. Lovecraft and an expert on “weird fiction” and horror in general.
The interview was part of a larger amount of research I conducted for a lengthy article I’m still tinkering with on Wisconsin publisher Arkham House. Meanwhile, I’m glad that this interview was published in its entirety. I love the site’s name!
“Tea Krulos, Innsmouth Free Press. What does your administration plan to do on the growing Cthulhu issue?”
You can read the interview here: http://www.innsmouthfreepress.com/blog/?p=21360
My first book, Heroes in the Night, is available for pre-order. More info here: https://teakrulos.wordpress.com/2013/04/10/heroes-in-the-night-cover-revealed/
World War II Love Letter
The Arcadia Opera House
The Arcadia Opera House is a beautiful building and the Opera stage and ticket booths are still in order, but it’s rooms are now packed with ten decades of various artifacts. The building, not surprisingly, is considered haunted and a favorite investigation spot for local ghost hunters. A group named the Peace River Ghost Tracker has recorded what they claim are spooky sounding ghost whispers.
I found a neatly wrapped bundle of letters. It was labelled- “Cliff and Fran- WW II Love Letters- $40.” I asked the store owner about the bundle.
“Oh, they’re great,” he said. “They’re all from 1945, one half of the correspondence, just the letters from Cliff, just gushing his heart out to Fran.” He added that there were 34 letters spanning 1945 in the stack. I thought it was interesting and we left.
I couldn’t stop thinking of the letters and that night I had a dream I was reading them and was amazed by the contents. I went back and bought them. Since then, every few days I transcribe one of the letters while I drink my morning coffee. I found out more about the letters: they were written by Cliff, stationed somewhere off the West Coast, to Fran, back home in Portland, Maine.
A gear had turned in my head that a book collecting these letters might be possible. Although something along those lines could happen, there are two challenges:
1. There are already LOTS of books collecting WWII correspondence and love letters in particular out there. I found at least two dozen on Amazon. I’m not sure if that is a good sign or a bad one.
2. Good old Cliff isn’t the most eloquent writer, and a very repetitive one, as he himself admits in a letter. The “Passed by Naval Censor” stamp on each envelope insures that Cliff goes into no detail about his location or mission and so the letters mostly consist of him telling Fran how much he loves her and can’t wait to marry her a dozen different ways.
Still, I think there might be something here– perhaps these would be part of a bigger collection of writing from WWII or the basis of a fiction story line… it’s hard to tell why you’re drawn to something and what the forest might look like from the trees. Until I figure it out, I’ll keep transcribing with the morning coffee.
Anyway, the following is a letter I transcribed today. I left the spelling/ punctuation as is in the letter. The only explanation I’ll add to is a joke about a laundry business– in a previous letter, Cliff is complaining about having to do his own laundry, which Fran is obviously giving him some grief over.
Sunday, 3 June, 1945
Dearest Fran,
Well Darling, I guess this will be the last letter you’ll receive for quite some time. I’ll be thinking and loving you just the same Sweet and writing every nite. I received one from you today Darling. I loved every word in it honey.
It’s been a dull Sunday Darling. I’ve missed you terribly. I never thought it would be this bad. I love you Darling very much and hope you’ll marry me when I come back. I live for that day honey and the day we’re together again.
What do you mean don’t I ever work. Darling you would be surprised. After we’re married you won’t have to work Sweet. I’ll take care of that end. You just be at home waiting for me. I agree hon that the only solution to your stopping work is to get married and I hereby suggest myself as the lucky fellow. I’ll be glad when you will be able to give me the final answer. You know how much I love you. I know you want that day to come as quick as I do.
You are right Darling when you say I love to hear you say that you love me. It really makes me feel nice. It’s nice knowing you think it will be wonderful being married to me Darling. Honest Hon, I love you so very much it’s torture being away from you.
What do you mean you wonder what the reason is for saving my money now. As if you wouldn’t guess sweet.
Okay Darling—if I can’t find a job in Portland we’ll keep out of N.H. and VT. I hope I can find one in Portland Sweet for you. I’d love to live there Darling. But then anywhere would be heaven with you Darling.
That was pretty clever about the laundry business after the war. I must congratulate you Darling and remind me about it the next time we’re together. I’ll get even with a certain somebody. You’re lucky I’m not there right now. I’d tickle you until you cried. Honest, Darling, I do love you with all my heart and you are wonderful Darling.
You really have the time of our last kiss don’t you. Do you keep a diary Hon? Not me. I’d love to kiss you good-bye tonite like I did then.
I’ll be closing for tonite Darling but I’ll be writing every nite just the same. Take care of yourself Hon and keep loving me. I miss you Sweet very much. I love you Darling with all my heart- always.
All my love- all my life
Yours forever Hon,
“Cliff”
P.S. Say hello to everyone for me. Everyone’s fine at home. Don’t forget the good-nite kisses Darling. I’ll be looking at the moon everynite and thinking of you Sweet wishing we were together.
P.P.S. from Tea– my first book, Heroes in the Night, is now available for pre-order. You can also add it on Goodreads. More info in post previous to this one.
Heroes in the Night Cover Revealed!
PLUS: Pre-Order Information!
I’m proud to announce that the cover of my upcoming book, Heroes in the Night: Inside the Real Life Superhero Movement can now be revealed. It’s a secret I’ve guarded as vigorously as a superhero’s secret identity until now.
The photos, l-r, top-bottom: Seattle superhero Phoenix Jones (with myself in the background making an Alfred Hitchcock/ Stan Lee style cameo appearance) Milwaukee RLSH The Watchman, early RLSH prototype Terrifica, who patrolled bars in Manhattan, and Zetaman, of Portland, Oregon.
More book info:
Publication date: October 1, 2013, Chicago Review Press.
272 pages. 22 black and white photos, 25 color photos, 10 black and white illustrations.
Paperback: $16.95 (CAN $18.95)
E-pub/Adobe pdf/ Kindle: $13.99
Want to pre-order a copy?
Amazon link HERE
Barnes & Noble link HERE
Powell’s link HERE
Independent Publishing Group link HERE (book description is up, but not pre-order option)
Information for Indiebound coming soon!
I’ve also set up my Goodreads author page, so please stop by. I’d be honored if you’d hit the “become a fan” button and add Heroes in the Night to your “to read” list. My Goodreads page is HERE
The Whovian
From Forces of Geek:
Doctor Who-mania is currently in full swing with fans eagerly anticipating 2014, the Year of the Who, which is the 50th Anniversary of the British science fiction television show. Think about that for a moment— a show that, except for a (mostly) dormant hiatus in the 90s and early 2000s has been running for 50 years.
My introduction to The Doctor happened in that colorful pop culture explosion known as the 1980s. My parents couldn’t afford cable or even an elaborate television set. We got about five or six grainy channels if the antenna was leaning the right way.
My dad, a science fiction fan, recommended we try watching a show on PBS called Doctor Who, which had recently developed a popular following in the States. Tom Baker was the current face of the Doctor, a highly eccentric but intelligent individual, from an alien race named the Time Lords. He travelled through space and time in a blue police call box called the TARDIS. He had a mop of curly hair and a ridiculously long multicolored scarf and was accompanied by a robot dog as well as human companions. He was fond of offering strangers a British candy similar to gummi bears called “jelly babies.”
I immediately loved the show and when the season ended I was thrilled to find out that PBS would fill in the time slot with reruns of episodes from previous Doctor Who seasons, going all the way back to the 60s. My new favorite Doctor was number three, a dapper and distinctly British Jon Pertwee. I had little use for telling time at that age, but I made sure I was parked in front of the TV when an episode of Doctor Who was on. I watched in amazement as Tom Baker regenerated and turned into Peter Davidson. I remember seeing a couple Colin Baker episodes, but that is right around the time that either I or PBS fell out of touch with the Doctor. I caught up on some of these episodes years later when I found videotapes someone had recorded the episodes on at a thrift store.
As a kid (and maybe even today) I related strongly to the Doctor. Although he was always accompanied by “companions” he was essentially a loner, an outcast. His destiny was a mix of his own determination and the random nature of the universe. He had a peculiar fashion sense, was eccentric, humorous, and occasionally rude or condescending. He was rebellious, a solo force to be reckoned with. This was what made the show more appealing to me than Star Trek— Starfleet reflected the system too much for me, yes sir this and yes sir that and matching uniforms. (Which is kind of ironic because one of my favorite sci- fi shows now is the reboot of Battlestar Galactica.)
When I felt like an outsider amid my schoolmates, like an unappreciated geek, I pretended I was The Doctor and that the setting in front of me was an inconvenient shithole where I had accidentally landed the TARDIS. I thought a lot about outsmarting cruel space aliens and travelling through space and time with attractive British women.
When Doctor Who was revived in 2005, I was hopeful but skeptical. To paraphrase Allen Ginsberg, I had seen the best pop culture artifacts of my generation destroyed by rehashed madness. I was greatly relieved to see that they had updated the show but had captured and even enhanced the tone of the original. Doctor number 11, Matt Smith, has given an enjoyable performance. I, like the many other Whovians out there, look forward to what time and space have in store for the wayward Time Lord for the rest of season seven and the big celebrations next year.
Tea Krulos will be reviewing new episodes of Doctor Who at Forces of Geek starting next week.
Chaos at the Back Booth House
Not an actual photo from the party.
Note: Riverwest writer Bob Buss is working on a fantastic project called Riverwest Underground Music Scene, 1999-2004. I have to say I completely relate to the time frame he has chosen. I moved to Riverwest in ’98 and right around 2004 is when I kind of dropped out of what was going on in the music scene (for awhile, anyway). I found some old flyers I drew from that era as well as an underground paper, the Milwaukee Orbit that I contributed comics and articles to for Bob to take a look at, and typed out an account of a memorable show from circa 2000, which is below.
This must have been back in 2000, though it possibly could have been 1999 or 2001. I was working in the kitchen of the Hi Hat Lounge. One of the other kitchen workers was a young punk rocker, I forget her name. We’ll call her “Sheena.” She told me she had moved into “the Back Booth House” which was on the 2700 block of Booth Street. Both the front and back house on that lot had a long line of punk rockers and skinheads living and hanging out there. I hung out there frequently because my friends Andy and Adam lived in the front house. Other people I remember living there: Tang, Becky, Jake, Danimal, Watty (aka Wally) and Jason “The Straightedge.” The place was always totally trashed, it was more like a squat than a rental.
Anyway, I’m working in the kitchen of Hi Hat when my young co-worker Sheena walks in and is all smiles and says they are having a party at the Back House.
“Check out the flyer,” she says, unfolding it from her pocket. The flyer had some crude art and listed off about 8-10 local punk, metal, and ska bands. Then the right hand corner caught my eye. “FREE BEER! 5 KEGS!” It said. I looked at her.
“What did you do with this flyer?”
“Oh, we handed some out, we hung some up around the neighborhood.”
“Wow.” I said. “Wow, you just…you are going to have some big problems.”
She said some nonsense about her boyfriend and her roommate doing security and asked me if I was going to go.
“I sure am.” I said.
* * *
“This ought to be good,” I thought, walking into the Back House. When I walked down the stairs to the party, the first thing I saw was a huge mob of people jammed in a circle around the only keg with a tapper in it, stretching out their arms with empty plastic cups, demanding beer from someone who was spraying foam at them as fast as they could. I had brought my own bottle of grape Mad Dog 20/20, wrapped in a brown paper bag, and watched the crowd trying to climb over each other’s backs to get the beer. It reeked heavily of Coors and armpits.
It was a long, terrible night. A fight broke out in the basement, apparently over a dispute about one of the bands being racist (I wish I remembered the band’s name but I don’t) and a different fight in the early morning resulted in one person almost being beat to death. It was absolutely horrifying. Two of the kegs were stolen and the Back House was, for the umpteenth time in its existence, completely trashed. It suffered broken windows, walls, stairs, and a basement filled with blood, puke, and sticky, humid beer.
I went to a lot of well-mannered, considerate, hygienic basement shows. This wasn’t one of them.
I don’t remember if the police came. If they did, it was after I left. I lived about two blocks away, so after the Mad Dog, after the empty kegs of Coors had been smashed against the wall and thrown out the window, I headed home. I saw Sheena again at work and I can only describe her as being in a state of shock.
Reading List for a Side Project I’m Working On
Read/ Re-Read List
1984, George Orwell
Dune, Frank Herbert
A Clockwork Orange, Anthony Burgess
Flow my Tears, The Policeman Said, Philip K. Dick
V for Vendetta, Alan Moore, David Lloyd
The Road, Cormac McCarthy
Tank Girl, Alan Martin, Jamie Hewlett
Movies (directors)
Brazil (Terry Gilliam)
The Warriors (Walter Hill)
Singin’ in the Rain (Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen)
TV Shows
Desert Punk
Cowboy Bebop
Hogan’s Heroes
That’s One For The Books
That picture is of me on the train to Chicago today to hand in my first completed book, Heroes in the Night. I got off the train and paraded around downtown and then gave it to my publisher. I could have just mailed it, but that was not good enough for me. I wanted to roll into Union Station and walk through downtown and shake my editor’s hand. These things matter.
Inside that file bin is a lot of work. There is a manuscript (14 Chapters, close to 300 pages) as well as all of the photos and art on a disc and hard copy, signed permission forms and material for the publicity department.
My first interview for the book was with The Watchman, March 1, 2009. My last was a follow up phone call with Phoenix Jones, November 11, 2012. In between I did hundreds of hours of interviews, research, and field work. I also read a lot of comic books.
My travels for the book took me out on the streets of Milwaukee, Minneapolis/ St. Paul, Rochester, MN, New Bedford, MA, New York, Washington DC, Vancouver, Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and San Diego. I revised the book many times.
What’s next? Well, first I am going to take a day off. The book isn’t actually done, now it is in the hands of the fine folks of Chicago Review Press. They’ll slowly be going through with a line editor, the graphic design dept., and a copy editor. I’ll be working with them on any revisions they’d like to see.
Then, when it’ s closer to publication date, I’ll be talking with them about publicity, media appearances, a book trailer, running excerpts, and events. That will be the fun part– I’ll actually have the book in my hand.
Meanwhile, I’m going to spend the next month or so working on catching up with smaller things- I have a few articles I’m working on that I need to wrap up. After I’ve caught up, I will be writing a solid beginning base for my next book.
But that, my friends, is a different story.
There is one more thing…
SALSA!
I grew dem peppers myself!
A couple months ago, I did a blog post about my plan to grow some carrots. Very good. It went well. I was thinking of what to cook with them but when I tasted them I decided just to eat them raw. I got a couple dozen, ate most of them, gave a few to friends. I got a few left growing in Plot 42.
I also grew about a dozen pepper plants and decided to make a fiery salsa today.
Ingredients I grew myself:
3 Jalapeno peppers, 1 1/2green bell peppers, 3 Hungarian wax peppers, 3 Joe’s long Cayenne peppers, 1/2 cup parsley.
From the farmer’s market/ grocery store:
1 cup cilantro, 6 tomatoes, 1 onion, 2 lime (squeezed),1 garlic clove, a pinch of salt, a dash of chili powder.
It turned out well. Hot, but not overwhelming. I’d say it would be more of a “medium” classification than a “hot.” Needs a bit more cilantro than I used. It made 3 1/2 jars:
Tea Krulos’ Salsa Diablo
Fiesta time!
HORSEMEN
A more flattering portrayal of the Horsemen by Viktor Vasnetsov
“And I looked, and behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was Death, and Hades followed with him. And power was given to them ovr a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword, with hunger, with death, and by the beasts of the earth.”—Revelation 6:8
I used to know a gand of four that called themselves, a-hem, dramatic voice, THE 4 HORSEMEN OF THE APOCAYLPSE.
They were a travelling group of alcoholic, pill popping, train hopping hobos. Thieves, brawlers, and criminals who rode the rails and got arrested in cities coast to coast. I won’t say I ran with the crowd, but I lived with a couple of them for awhile and our paths crossed for years. The wild years, I call them.
The 4th Horseman was a rotating position that a few people filled. In that regard they were like a rock band that couldn’t retain a solid drummer in their line up. I don’t remember or know the different people that held the position of 4th Horseman.
The 3rd Horseman, Jess, found his way out. At some point he realized he could either change his ways or continue on a path of thievery, hard alcohol, morphine and other drugs, violence, and jail. One of the other Horsemen, Loose Bruce, almost cut his head off with a hunting knife one drunken night. He decided to go straightedge, become a Buddhist, and use his artistic talent (which was amazing) to become a talented tattoo artist. That is what I heard, at least. He decided to try to not talk to people from his past, for obvious reasons. Good on him.
This story is about the 2nd and 1st Horsemen, Rusty and Loose Bruce.
Rusty is dead. By suicide or by passing out in a very unfortunate location he was hit by a train and that was that. I had a different blog at that point and wrote an unflattering eulogy of him. “Well, it’s true,” I justified. It was wrong of me to do and I regret it. I don’t think it is a good practice to speak ill of the dead, even if it’s true, even if they are a total fuck up. We will all be there someday.
“Life is uncertain, but death is for sure.”—Traditional Saying
I’m not sure where Horseman number 1, Loose Bruce, is these days. Maybe he cleaned up his act. Maybe he’s in jail in any one of the 50 states. Maybe he’s walking shirtless, blood dripping down his face with a torch through a hobo jungle somewhere.
I have a LOT of crazy stories I could tell you about these guys. Stories of chaos and bloodshed and jail and empty bottles of Old Thompson. Big trouble from Utica to Milwaukee, Portland, Tennessee to Alaska.
But of all of those stories, for some reason I feel like telling this one. I didn’t see it firsthand, but heard the story straight from the Horsemen’s mouths.
Rusty and Loose Bruce had been drinking for days, probably weeks. They had a problem– they were out of booze, out of smokes. They had no money, of course. No one was bumming them anything, no booze, no smokes, not dime one. They were hanging out in people’s yards, wherever they wandered. They wanted to keep the party rolling, so in a sloppy, drunken lightning flash of Horseman thinking, they decided to do a beer dash robbery. They had done them before, everywhere they went, sea to shining sea.
So they headed to the Open Pantry. The plan: Rusty would take a carton of cigarettes, Bruce would grab two suitcases of beer and then they would run out the door. A “suitcase” is what we called an 18-pack of cans.
Staggering and covered with a layer of alcohol sweat and dirt, they entered the Open Pantry, trying to look casual. Bruce grabbed two suitcases out of the cooler. Rusty approached the counter.
“Uh, yeah,” he said. “I’d like to purchase a carton of Marlboros.” The cashier rang him up, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Well, I need to see ‘em before I buy ‘em.” Rusty said. “I got to make sure dem are the right ones, see.”
The woman held up the carton cautiously.
“GIVE ME DEM FUCKIN SMOKES, BITCH!” Rusty shouted, snatching the carton from the woman’s hand and bolting out the door. Bruce was chugging after him with the brews.
This is the part of the story where I like to imagine it in ultra slow motion, like in a movie. Guns N Roses’ version of “Knockin on Heaven’s Door” is playing. Bruce was running and turned to look over his shoulder, but he should have been watching where he was going. His foot hit the concrete bar at the end of a parking space and he tripped, falling forward. The suitcases went flying from his hands and he fell onto the ground.
In the air, the flimsy glue holding the cases together burst and a shower of silver cans rained down on the parking lot. Bruce shouted, “RRROOOOAAR!” He flailed and grabbed at the cans of beer. Rusty skidded to a halt and stumbled back. But it was too late.
The woman in the Open Pantry had pushed the panic button and the cops were just down the street and Rusty and Bruce were surronded by flashing red and blue lights.
And then they went to jail, again.
An Endorsement of Sorts
Mayor Tom Barrett, left, faces Governor Scott Walker in a recall election today.
For many years I worked as a cashier at a joint named the Brady Street Pharmacy. Finding a place like this is rare now– it was an independently owned greasy spoon, convenience store, and pharmacy. It had what we call in the writing biz a lot of “character.” I also called the place the “Joke Factory” and “Wingnut Central Station.” It closed down and the reason for that– to be blunt– was because my boss, Jim, was moonbat crazy. (Need hard evidence? Here you go: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5otQKJ9Lxuw)
After a long, stubborn battle, the Pharmacy’s doors shut permanently and it is now the Glorioso Bros. grocery and deli.
It is difficult to document all the mistakes my former boss made that led to his business shutting down, but taking the role of an archaeologist, I’d say it was his decision to transform his grocery and greeting card section into a small theater (that sat about 40 people).
Although this was nice for some local thespians and artists, it cost him a lot of money with no realistic plan to see a return on his investment. As money flew out of his business, Jim decided to blame not himself, but that perpetual villain we all loathe: the politician. He began to write a series of angry e-mails.
“Here, proof this for me,” he told me one day, handing me a draft of an e-mail addressed to Senator Herb Kohl. It was a long, rambling screed that made no sense. I corrected his spelling errors and handed it back, completely puzzled as to the point.
Soon after, he wrote another rant to Mayor Tom Barrett and gave it to me to read, a defiant look on his face. Again, it didn’t make any sense. The wording was very angry. A paragraph in I realized it was unreadable, so I made pretend that I was reading the rest of it, moving my eyes back and forth, and handed it back to him.
“Very interesting approach, Jim.” I told him, handing the letter back.
“Oh boy! This is really going to shake up city hall!” He told me, and began strutting around the dingy grey carpet of the Pharmacy like he was Paul Revere.
“Mmm-hmm.” I replied.
***
The next day I dragged myself into work. I was tired. Jim was waiting up front by the cash register, his arms folded in front of him.
“Do you remember that e-mail I sent off to city hall?!” He said, giddy with himself.
“Yes.” I replied.
“No response from them, the cowards!” He told me, then went on a spiel about him, the little man, throwing a stone at the Goliath of city hall, who was too scared to look him in the eye by answering his e-mail.
***
I came into work the next day. When Jim saw me come in, he almost ran up to the counter to talk to me.
“Guess what! No reply to my e-mail! I guess I was too much for them to handle…with a hey nonny nonny and a ha cha cha!” Jim randomly broke into song and dance sometimes, and he started doing an awkward version of the Charleston down the aisle. Like I said, moonbat.
***
The day after that, I walked into work and Jim was talking to some little old ladies who were regulars. They could hardly see or hear but he was telling them about how he was like Jimmy Stewart’s character in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, it was a tough fight, but his unanswered e-mail proved that city hall was shaking in fear of him.
“Otherwise, they’d answer my e-mail,” he told them proudly.
“What?” Said one of the little old ladies.
I got to work with the pricing gun, labelling mouthwash and generic cookies and such.
Later in the afternoon I was still pricing stuff when Mayor Tom Barrett walked through the doors. I smiled.
“Hi!” He said.
“Mayor Barrett.” I said, and shook his hand.
“I’m looking for Jim,” he said. “I understand he has some things he’d like to talk to me about, I got an e-mail from him.”
“He’s at his desk back there,” I said, pointing to the pharmacy counter. “So…have fun with that, Mayor Barrett.”
Jim’s afternoon ritual was to lean back in his chair and sleep and if anyone needed him, they’d have to fake cough or clear their throat, which is what the Mayor did. Jim stood up, opened his eyes, and I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was a great moment, he looked absolutely shocked. I thought he might faint.
Jim was a lot less combative face to face. He talked in a polite tone and the Mayor listened, nodding his head, and listened and listened and tried to follow along with what he was saying. After he listened, and Jim was finally done with his monologue, he bought some popcorn and left.
Jim came up near the register. I was hoping I could kind of get him to admit defeat by casually asking:
“So how about that, the Mayor responded to your e-mail in person?”
“Yeah.” Jim said. For once he was out of things to say.
Now, this story isn’t really a political one. It’s not a good reason to vote for someone, and I’m not qualified enough to tell you who to vote for. I was personally more impressed with the Mayor after that, which is part of the reason I’ll be voting him for governor in the recall election today.
The other reason, I guess, is that I think Scott Walker sucks.
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