Between 2003 and 2007, a strange thing happened; a handful of shared-world, shared-character stories based on my observations and experiences playing in punk rock bands in the early '90s began to transform into something else: a book-length manuscript. This manuscript--I hesitate to say "novel," as it's just a tad shy of a novel's forty thousand word requirement (now obsolete)--evolved into Chick Bassist: A Rock and Roll Fantasy, a literary exploration of sex, race, gender, violence, point of view subjectivity, and rock and roll as a unifying common book mythology. Along the way, characters developed their own agendas, plots veered away from where I'd planned, revisions got revised, and the whole ride became far wilder than I'd ever imagined. In May of 2007, I submitted Chick Bassist as my Master's Thesis in English/Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, describing it as punk rock noir, or Rashomon in a rock-and roll band. Needless to say, it was accepted, and copies of the work were signed, bound, and shelved. Although a handful of excerpts have been published as stand-alone stories, the manuscript as a whole hasn't exactly set the publishing world alight, so Chick Bassist has spent the better part of the last year sitting on a shelf, gathering dust while I worked on other projects.

Until now. Inspired to do so by a pair of authors* I enjoy, starting this Wednesday, I will be serializing Chick Bassist on the Web, uploading a chapter a week to the LiveJournal community chickbassist (http://chickbassist.livejournal.com). I will also be posting commentary, discussing decisions I might make differently today, sharing anecdotes, pictures, and behind-the-scenes insights, and generally making a fool of myself. And, of course, you are welcome to post comments.

So come on by, check out Chick Bassist, and add it to your communities list or RSS feed. And if you enjoy what you read, tell a friend or drop a little loose change into the tip jar.



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* Who? Catherynne M. Valente and Tim Pratt, of course.

So maybe not exactly today, but Nineteen Eighty-Nine was obviously the peak-and-pinnacle of my big '80s hair. Wow. How very Jack Nance. I am hereby humbled.



Long story short, I just joined Facebook. Actually, Jennifer joined, then my sister (on the left) invited my mom to join, but my mom wasn't sure, so she asked me and I essentially said "why bother?", but then Jennifer talked me into letting her set up an account for me.

And what do I end up finding? Strange evidence of me taking my sister's friend (Was her name Crystal? I'm uncertain. I know the guy went by "Orca," and Orca was very mëtäl) to a high school dance. Improv tux, Siouxsie and the Banshees buttons, antique cokespoon ankh necklace, pirate pin. I must have thought I was stylin'. Facebook is a scary place.

The lovely-and-talented Steve Nagy (stevenagy), like many of us in the genre community, found himself profoundly affected by the announcement of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance - Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!, by Jane Austen and Seth Graham-Smith*. One thing led to another, which led in turn to Steve announcing a "Zombie Literati" poll, that is, a funny zombie title deathmatch, with the stakes being a copy of said novel (or one of a handful of alternate titles) and "insertion as a character into the novel in progress, Sacrifices, my attempt to write a Hardy Boys-esque supernatural thriller," which is nothing short of awesome.

I'm telling you this because I have a zombie title on the list that craves not brains, but votes. So please, drop on by and vote for Tristram Shandy, Shambling Corpse (technically, the full title should be The Afterlife and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Shambling Corpse, but I ran out of room).**

So vote, vote, vote!***

---

* Art Geek Note: I swear the jawbone in that book's cover has been Photoshopped (clone tool, even) in from Vincent Van Gogh's "Skull of a Skeleton with Burning Cigarette". Sans cigarette, of course.

** Not familiar with the Laurence Sterne novel that inspired this title? It's awesome, the original postmodern novel (circa 1759). Sort of a mash-up of Cervantes, Rabelais, and John Locke, Tristram Shandy far foreshadows just about anything we consider clever about current literary fiction. You dig Mervyn Peake's Gormenghast novels? You'd definitely get a kick out of Sterne.

*** Otherwise, "Brains, Trains, and Automobiles" is sure to sweep this thing.

My replacement iPod arrived on Wednesday, so I've been catching up on all the podcasts I've missed. Good thing, too, or I might have missed my StarShipSofa debut. My flash fiction story, "Tech Support," is included in StarShipSofa's Aural Delights #49, which also features work by Samantha Henderson ("Hungry," a poem), Cory Doctorow (an essay called "SF Is The Only Literature On The Internet People Care To Steal"), and the incomparable Gene Wolfe (Lawrence Santoro's audio adaptation of Wolfe's "The Tree is my Hat"). Needless to say, I'm humbled to be in such talented company. So click on through, download a podcast (or three), and enjoy!

Or just click here to download Aural Delights #49.

My picture's included in Warren Ellis's World Wide Week 2008 (top left - other images NNSFW).

Jeremy Lassen (my boss at Night Shade Books, known in some circles as jlassen) mentions me (and tells the story behind my official title) in an interview he did with Charles Tan over at Bibliophile Stalker.

And tomorrow we're headed down to San Diego... for Comic-Con International. I said I wasn't going back until I could go back as a pro, and I meant it.

A third series of Doll Parts photos is now available on Flickr. Click through for more.

Care to check out all the Posse pics from WHC 2008? Just click on that handsome devil above and watch the slideshow. Popcorn optional.

While we were visiting Jan and Randy's house a few nights ago, I discovered that Randy had the dolls out (he'd been working on a piece for "The Man Show," currently on display at The Mail Depot). As the story goes, the dolls were discovered in a box, in the desert, in pretty-much the states of decay seen here, many years ago. What follows are a number of pictures I took of the collection, spread out on the table, more-or-less unposed and undisturbed. More or less. Yeah, it's kind of like hanging out in Joel Peter Witkin's rumpus room, but some of you might enjoy them. So put on a record of kindertotenlieder, pour a glass of wine, sit back, and enjoy...



( More images behind the cut. Fair warning, some images may disturb you. )

Say, if you're one of those ultra-cool folks that friended me after World Fantasy (I'm talkin' to you, onyxhawke, rhonawestbrook, krswails, kelly_swails, stevenagy, lonfiction, and retrobabble) or if you're one of the people I lamed out on last year (*cough* queen_bbb *cough*), or if you just want me to send you something rockin' for your stockin' (and think I may have forgotten to put you on the list), now would probably be a good time to make sure I have your mailing address.

Just drop me a line over at Apeshit! Media (and don't forget to remind me who you are, just in case), and I'll be sure to put you on the mailing list.

Oh, and Happy Holidays (whichever they are)!



* due to the fact that USPS no longer offers surface mail, if you're overseas, you get something *virtual* for your stockin'. Sorry 'bout that.

Catbox Christmas
by Ross E. Lockhart

I came in through the kitchen door, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator before strolling out into the living room where I found Bax and Allyson, still in pajamas, a riot of Christmas wrap and empty boxes scattered around them. I cracked open my beer and glanced at the clock. Nine thirty. A.M. “Wrapping presents?” I asked.

“Something like that,” said Bax, emptying one ashtray, then another into a small cardboard box. He closed the lid, taping it shut, then handed the box to Allyson, who wrapped it with sparkling red and green paper, tied a bright green ribbon around it, then curled the ribbon with a scissors blade. She handed the box back to Bax.

“Beautiful,” he declared, inspecting it, then tossed the box into a pile of other nicely-wrapped boxes in the corner.
I took a swig of my beer.

Allyson grinned, but was already in the process of emptying the kitchen trash can into a large corrugated carton. It didn’t quite fit, but she forced it in, taping the bulging flaps down with packing tape. This one she covered with red and white paper spotted with tiny cartoon reindeer, accenting it with a thick, gold bow. “It’s all about the presentation,” she said, placing her hands on her hips before shoving the box into the corner with the others.

I took another swig. “I thought you guys weren’t doing Christmas this year,” I said.

“Oh, we’re not,” said Allyson, holding open a little gift box for Bax to fill with used coffee grounds. “It’s entirely too commercial, it’s phony as hell, and the music sucks.” Bax nodded in agreement, then ground out his cigarette in the middle of the coffee grounds. Allyson delicately closed the box, taped it shut, then covered it with blue and silver snowflaked paper.

“Exquisite,” announced Bax, lobbing the wrapped box onto the pile.

“And another thing,” continued Allyson, dropping a pair of worn-through boots into a box and wrapping it with festive candy cane-covered paper. “This whole ‘put the Christ back in Christmas’ thing. Drives me nuts. You don’t see me out there insisting that people put the ‘nail ya’ back in Saturnalia, do you?” Bax stuck his right index finger through his joined left index and thumb, grimacing and twisting it as he did so.

“I guess not,” I said, taking another pull from my beer. “But why…” I began, indicating the pile of nicely-wrapped packages in the corner.

Allyson laughed. “We had to go to the mall last night,” she said. “’cause knucklehead here needed new pants.” She jerked a thumb at Bax, who had disappeared into the next room only to reemerge dragging the steaming, reeking catbox behind him.

“Couldn’t have worn them out in October or November, nope, had to do it on December twentieth, when every evil mother in the world is at the mall.” She held open a cardboard box as he hefted the overflowing plastic tray up and emptied it into the opening. A cloud of dust and stink wafted into the air as the two of them fastened the flaps with tape and covered it with snow-scene and Santa paper.

“Well, while we were in Sears,” continued Allyson, tying on a green velvet bow. “Some nitwit got into Bax’s truck, swiped his tools, the carton of smokes from under the seat, my jacket.” She pointed to herself with a jabbing thumb. Bax nodded. “So we figured we’d get ‘em back.”

“Wanna give us a hand with this?” asked Bax, picking up an armload of boxes and heading out the door.
I finished off my beer, then handed the empty bottle to Allyson, who wrapped it with silver foil and red ribbon. I grabbed a few boxes and followed Bax outside.

There, we loaded the boxes: trash, ash, boots, broken glass, coffee grounds, empty cans, bottles, banana skins, fast food wrappers, Halloween’s moldy jack-o’-lanterns, cigarette butts, and kitty litter, into the bed of Bax’s pickup. It took three trips to load everything.

I had another beer with Bax, then one with Allyson as each, in turn, got dressed and ready to face the outside world.

“So, what’s the plan?” I asked, following them back out to the truck.

“We’re headed to the mall,” said Bax, as he and Allyson climbed into the cab of the truck. “We’re going shopping.”

Allyson glanced at her watch. “I figure two, three hours should give the nitwits plenty of time to empty out the truck. It’s win-win. We get a clean house, and they get very special Christmas presents.”

“And come Christmas morning,” began Bax, miming opening a package and a disgusted reaction through the cigarette clutched in his teeth.

They laughed, then Bax started the truck, Burl Ives’ rendition of “A Holly Jolly Christmas” already playing on the radio. He backed out of the driveway and headed off into the distance, toward the dreaded shopping mall, festive music growing smaller and smaller as they drove away.

I picked up the tune, singing along as I went back into the house for another beer. “Have a holly jolly Christmas, and in case you didn’t hear,” I sang. “Oh by golly have a holly jolly Christmas this year.”




Hope you enjoyed it. And here's the question: Jennifer thinks that Bax's hand gesture in ¶8 is gratuitous, particularly considering that this story will probably end up in a family-oriented chapbook. I, on the other hand, think the gesture makes more concrete the point of Allyson's comment. What do you think?

...can't win 'em all.

Congrats to the winner and runners-up.

Now to figure out where next to send "Love's a Bitch." Gee, I wonder who's buying post-apocalyptic lesbian werewolf stories this week. Any suggestions?

This year's show will include my short story "The Killer Fruitcake that Ate Petaluma," which is a little bit of Orson Welles, a little bit of Arch Oboler, a little bit of Christmas cheer, and a whole lot of home. Catch it if you can!

Maybe good news...

So one of my stories, "Love's a Bitch," is currently in the top 10 in the The Déjà Vu Horror Story Contest at Dark Recesses. The following was posted on their Website earlier this evening:

Updates for Those Anxiously Awaiting

Saturday, November 17, 2007
We've been working feverishly to try and get the contest winner selected, but in order to be fair and give each possible a full viewing, it's taking a little longer than anticipated.

With that in mind, and because I know that many of you will want to be able to take these wonderful pieces and find homes for them, I'm going to post up a list of our 10 finalists which we will pick our winner and runner-ups from.

To all the very, very many who subbed, but didn't make this short list, we wish you the very best in finding suitable homes for them all. It wasn't easy to narrow down such a large field to just ten, and it is even harder to pick our one winner and top three.

So without further jabbering, here are our ten finalists. We will have the winner and top-three selected by Monday come hell-fire or black water.

"The Wolf in Me" By C. A. Gardner
"Love's a Bitch" By Ross E. Lockhart
"The Night Nurse of Cobblestone" By Vince A. Liaguno
"Gullible Georgina Agravaine" By Michael Greenhut
"Lifeboat" By Joel Arnold
"The 'Nica" By James M. Scott
"Savior Moon" By Kim Despins
"Breed Love" By Chandler Kaiden
"Hunt" By Andrew F. Rey
"Too Late Now" By Patrick Regan

Thank you once more to everyone who threw their wolf in the ring. Keep your eyes open for our next contest prompt.

~Bailey Hunter


This news is beyond cool, and while I have no illusions of winning, it's great to see that the story, which I consider among my best, is actually in the running.

If you're interested in hearing "Love's a Bitch," it was recently recorded by Page on Stage, for broadcast (and Webcast!) on Public radio station KRCB, Wednesday, November 28, at 7:00 PM. According to one eyewitness, "'Love's a Bitch' was a highlight, and actress Mary Gannon Graham pulled out all the stops and actually made some people CRY!"

Check it out, if you can, and please keep your fingers crossed!

Tonight at eight, in the Glaser Center Cabaret (547 Mendocino Ave, Santa Rosa), Page on Stage will be recording* their "Gods and Monsters" showcase, including my werewolf story, "Love's a Bitch." Tickets are five bucks. Check it out if you can!



* For broadcast on KRCB, on the fourth Wednesday of the month at seven o'clock.

I guess that makes it official. Sure, I would have been happy with "Production Monkey," but VP of Production & Shit? Priceless. jlassen, you rock! That job title's going to look damn good on my CV*.

And tomorrow night, while the rest of you are trick-or-treating, I'll be heading back east, flying all the way to Saratoga Springs, New York, for World Fantasy 2007, where I'll be helping promote the 'Shade. It's going to be a blast. Stay tuned for voice posts, pictures, and maybe a special guest or two...







* Because I figure anybody offended by such things probably wouldn't be someone I'd want to work for anyway.

Make sure to tune in to KRCB tonight (July 25, 2007) at 7:00 PM (PST) so you can hear the broadcast (or Webcast) of Page on Stage's Ghost Readers in July, featuring a collection of the North Bay's most talented actors reading tales by Edgar Allen Poe, Ray Bradbury, P'u Sung-ling, and Ross E. Lockhart.



Give it a listen...

So, are you looking for something fun and exciting to do this weekend? If so, I’ve got two possibilities for you.

First off, on Saturday, July 21 at 7:30 PM, Page on Stage is presenting their annual “Ghost Readers in July” showcase featuring classic and original ghost stories read in front of an authentic campfire (in the outdoor courtyard of Santa Rosa’s Glaser Center) by some of the North Bay’s most “spirited” actors. This year’s program includes the talents of Reed Martin, Eliot Fintushel, John Moran, Chris Ginesi, and others, reading stories by the likes of Edgar Allan Poe, Ray Bradbury, P’u Sung-ling, and, well, me. As always, David Templeton hosts, and tickets are $10 at the door (or $8 in advance – check out Page on Stage for details).

If, on the other hand, you’re in the mood to stay local, swing by Heebe Jeebe’s Boomerang Gallery (46 Kentucky St) on Saturday night (7:00 PM to 9:00 PM) for the opening of the National Carneygraphic group show of local artists. This celebration of carnival art promises to be one of the most colorful spectacles to hit Petaluma since the carnival last left town (what was that, a couple of weeks ago?). While you’re there, check out new art by Randall Ingalls, Jan Frost, Michael Garlington, and, well, me again. Oh, and make sure to schmooze out directions to the afterparty at Substrate Gallery, too.

Big News of the Day: Page on Stage will be including my short story "Tech Support" in their upcoming (May 2nd) SF showcase, The Machines Bite Back. Also on the program are Ray Bradbury's The Veldt and Avram Davidson's The Golem, so I'm in great company.



Tickets are $5 across the board and can be obtained from The Glaser Center, 547 Mendocino Avenue, Santa Rosa: telephone 707-568-5381 or from .