Noir by Birthright Where am I? Not inspecting my bunker. In a rooming house, $27.50 a week, behind some gas station. Guy named Jeff Bailey runs it. What a boring life he has. What’s Not boring? Two things: the times we’re living in, and David St. John’s poem. What a poem. What a ride. Wayne …
The Homme Fatale Joe—no, not that Joe, another Joe—the shoes, no, shoe, the drink—the From-Far-Away drink, from a tree—The Frolic Room (noir or not noir? It’s noir now), the Mamet—yes, that Mamet, the movie, House of Games, the Homme Fatale, the Deception, the Crime, the gun, the bullet, the next bullet, the No Show, the …
Almost Blue, Almost Through They Write by Night, Episode 13, the closing piece of the season—it’s unusual, even more unusual than the other twelve. I came up with something new. You’ll see. Some damn good music in this one, but it doesn’t start till a ways in. Before that, some mysteries—re: Joe—revealed (partially)! Then I …
Dread The best of times, the worst of times, the age of wisdom, the age of foolishness, the epoch of belief, the epoch of incredulity, the season of Light, the season of Darkness, the spring of hope, the winter of despair. . . That Dickens, damn! He really had a bead on Our Times. And, …
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