New Podcast: Christian Punk

Christian Punk is available as a podcast. You can download it here, or if you prefer to stream it, go here. The file is 21 minutes long.

That's the last of 'em, for a little while at least. I've been tinkering with a larger project (I can't quite bring myself to say I'm "working" on it, since that would imply actual work on my part). I may throw a few snippets out, if only to get a sense of my authorial voice.

Which leads me to say: writer types could do worse than record themselves reading their work. Before I published these stories, I of course read them aloud to my long-suffering wife. She helped me edit them, then we published. Reading these stories into the mic one year later, I uncovered more than a few gaffs I wish had never slipped out into the public. So it goes. I'll make a few changes to the book (including Michael B's recommended "one space between sentences"), then have done with it. My apologies to completists (*cough* ... sorry, Mum).

The Incredible 'Wow!'

Michael Blowhard gives Youthful Desires a big thumbs-up!

Darrell's an elegant and mischievous writer, he's an imaginative inventor of characters and narrative lines, and he's an inspired evoker of young-male experience ... The result is a small miracle of unpushy quirkiness and sweetness. Reading "Youthful Desires" is like hanging out -- and just for the pleasure of it -- with a longtime friend.

Did Kerouac feel this good after reading his NYTBR rave? I think not. Not just praise, but also Michael's usual thought-provocation in one dandy package, here.

But wait: there's more!

Stereotypes don’t apply here. These stories sting with contemporary dilemmas, ache with love broken by culture, tickle with small comforts. His short stories are not dashed off in incoherent moments of self-indulgence, but worked out over decades with much reflection ... Darrell’s gift is both his empathy for ordinary guys in tough trade-offs and his grip on the big problems that theologians take on. In my opinion, that’s the heart of ministry AND the heart of literature: “Where do we come from? Where are we going? What must we do to be saved?” -- Mary Scriver

It’s been a long time since I’ve read any fiction, and about as long since I’ve read anything not directly related to doing my job. I wasn’t sure how it would go, but it seemed no longer had I opened the book - all of a sudden I was on page 99 -- Preacher Dan

If you folks have enjoyed reading his alter-ego's blog, you will enjoy his book. I encourage you all to buy it -- DarkoV

[H]e's a wonderful, funny, evocative writer, as we all knew, and that's true of his fiction as well ... reminded me of the late Breece D'J Pancake -- Philip Christman

My heartfelt thanks to one and all! Now, if I can just get my head through the door, I believe I'll tend to the laundry...

Big Night, Part 2

Here's a shot of me on-stage:



No wait, that's Jack. Here we go...



Hmm. Looks like an acting class or two might just loosen up my body language a touch. Either that or a gut-full of hooch and methamphetamines. Or not (see below).

Big Night

Many years ago (half a lifetime, in fact), I worked for a Mennonite bi-weekly. Since I was low guy on the totem pole, one of my duties was editing first-hand reports of church functions. Every single one of these reports concluded with the words, "A good time was had by all." Drove me bonkers, those words did.

Here's a shot of Friday's festivities. This is the Nick Adams contingent, and their lovely spouses (including mine, getting the laser-focussing treatment):


And here's another shot of my lovely wife, entertaining the troops. Also pictured is the back of Roar's head.


So far the only pictures I possess of that evening are the ones I had the presence of mind to take. I shall Flikr the others and post a link, once they come into my possession.

Oh yeah: A Good Time Was Had By All.

Cleared for Lift-Off

Today is the official launch of Youthful Desires: I launch the book at my place of employment, Cafe Rhythm & Books in Cannington, Ontario, at 8:00 tonight.



Anyone who sticks close to my side is likely to get a splash of Lagavulan (16) in their proffered cup. I'll try to post a few pictures tomorrow.

Youthful Desires and the Cost of an Autograph

I've received a few requests for autographed copies of Youthful Desires -- a flattering thrill for Yours Truly! ("Elvis remains in the building, his head too fat to get through the door!") Thank you, mes amis.

There are two ways this can be done:

Option A.: The Book, legibly autographed on page v., and mailed out to you.

Option B.: a bookplate (5 X 10 cm.), custom designed by Jessica D'Eall and personally signed by Yours Truly. It looks something like this:



Thanks to the current rate of exchange, Option A. costs you $25 -- American dollars, if you reside in the US of A, and Canadian dollars if you reside in Canada (international orders, please e-mail me for specifics).

But Option B. is the real bar-GOON: if you've already purchased a copy through Lulu, I will happily mail you the autographed bookplate free-of-charge. (Option A. customers get the bookplate thrown in. If you don't want that blank, let me know.)

Send me an e-mail, and we can exchange snail-mail particulars.

Youthful Desires UNLEASHED!

That's right: buy now and avoid the rush! (The next thing I'll be unleashing is a host of promotional e-mails, so brace yourself.) I should add that I rated the book "suitable for teens" so that my storefront and the sample pages are accessible to everyone. But I think it's only fair to say the book contains some rather salty material that parents (I hope) would filter or (better yet) discuss with their teens. Exercise your own discretion, or drop me an e-mail of inquiry.

Excerpts:

Footnote To A Bread Recipe

Kissing Einstein

Tar And Feathers

Mike Mentzer, R.I.P.

Youthful Desires

The Spirit of '76

Christian Punk

"Nullus est liber tam malus ut non aliqua parte prosit" -- Pliny The Younger

Christian Punk

“Drew," said Wil, "where are we dropping you off?”

“Uh, Carol's parents. San Jacinto. You need a bed, or are you heading for home?”

Wil sighed. “Home.” Home to Lisa. Home to Rodney, their dough-faced sprat with the toxic diapers. Dear God—sometimes he couldn't believe the boy was his. Wil could stare and stare into those beady eyes, trying to find some sign of...

Oh, who was he trying to kid? It was physically impossible to stare into Rodney's eyes: right from the moment the whelp left the womb Rodney had the attention span of a chimp on speed. Wil couldn't stare into those eyes if he'd gone A Clockwork Orange on the brat and strapped him to a chair. Rodney's sole purpose in life was to bookend Wil's misery with careful consideration of what to destroy next. Rodney wrapped his chubby mitts and gums around food, records, books, stray lyric sheets and guitar picks—anything physical that had emotional ties to Wil's soul, including, especially, Lisa. Lisa, once a curvy, nervy, undeniable piece of the Lord's handiwork, now a depressed, misshapen lump who ate ice cream straight from the bucket. Who got lost in thought three minutes into intercourse. Who smelled like she'd just lost a talcum fight with herself...

“Home to the wife and kid,” said Drew. He clucked his tongue. “You lucky dog. Sure wish I was spending the night with my Carol.”

I'll bet you do, thought Wil. He shoved his hip against the amp until the dull ache increased to a sharp pain. He stopped, threw his head back against the kit, and gave up. His hip and head throbbed, feeling worse than ever.

And the truth was, Wil wished he was spending the night with Drew's Carol, too.

Youthful Desires

My reflection was gone from the window. The darkness outside had disappeared. A light steadily glowed, almost outshining the light in Norgrove's room. I stepped over to the sill and looked out at an enormous, ornate building with towering arched windows. They were scrolled with elaborate iron work, as if they were stained glass, missing the color. Through the leafy design, I saw what looked like large shadows, flying away from the windows and out of view, clearing a pristine hardwood floor that had been polished to a sheen. I couldn't tell if this was an empty cathedral, or an ornate gymnasium. The shadows glided past the glass, then disappeared again. I leaned closer to the window for a better look.

I could vaguely make out the building's exterior. It loomed up like a medieval cathedral, dark with gothic forboding. “Wild,” I breathed. “What is it?”

“A monastery, I think," said Norgrove. "I honestly don't know.”

I laughed. “There's a monastery in the middle of the university campus?”

“Apparently. Connected to St. Mike's, I'm told. No doubt there's some sort of academic angle to it. Hold on, here comes trouble.”

The shadows returned, swirling slowly in formation, then stood still and waited. Nuns — they looked like nuns. Their black robes were crisp and neat, swaying with gentle gravitas. I craned toward the window, squinting hard, trying to pick up some telling detail, like the expressions on their faces, which, from my addled perspective, were as blank as thumbs.

The women began to move. They slowly lifted their arms out to their sides, then held them aloft at shoulder height, forming a platoon of crosses draped in shadow. I could feel my heart and breath accelerating, driving hard. Suddenly, the platoon exploded into action. The women spun like dervishes, scurrying and whirling across the floor, grasping hands, twisting, pulling, catapulting, thumping their heels — their entire bodies — against the floor in a thunderous drumbeat.

Mike Mentzer, R.I.P.

Anderson snapped off the music. “You're the best you been, brother, no question there,” he said.

“But?” seethed Theo.

Anderson gave a cavalier shrug. “I doubt I even need to say it. I'm talking about your delts. They're there, they're shredded, it's just you need a little more symmetry, is all.”

Was he right? Theo was ready to clock the little fucker, that's just how right he was. Theo suffered from the Mentzer Midriff — a trunk so large he couldn't suck his gut in far enough. Getting his pecs and delts big enough to offset the abdominals was a never-ending struggle. He gritted his teeth. “So what's the prognosis, doctor?”

Anderson shook his head. “That was the prognosis, Einstein. The prescription is this: incremental doses of synthol in your final two weeks leading up to the event. We do it right, the only thing people will notice is your winning form. The big question, however, is this: are you willing to do a little more work for me?”

Tar And Feathers

His friend Roger was taking care of a professor's house, a bi-level suburban fortress with a back yard pool and a cantankerous outdoor fridge packed with beer. He and Troy helped Roger clean the pool, treat the water and skim off the floating elm seeds before diving in and cooling off. Come nightfall, they'd retire to the lawn chairs, and savor their mutual loneliness while listening to the buzz of dying cicadas compete with the rumble of neighboring air-conditioners.

One afternoon, he pedaled his bicycle into the back yard and found Roger standing naked in the middle of the pool, his tall gaunt figure taut with concentration, long wiry arms stretched out in simulated flight. Roger said nothing in greeting, so he asked Roger what he was doing. Roger was silent a while, then he murmured, “I'm trying not to slip into the abyss.”

Youthful Desires Publishing Update

Once I figured out pagination, the rest of my formatting proceeded without a hitch. Lulu has my file, and I've placed my order. I now await my proofing hard-copy of Youthful Desires. If the message boards at Lulu are any indication, I'll receive it within two weeks' time.

I'll repeat for the record that this is not my Chinese Democracy (a 763-page little something I once wrote is a more likely candidate for that category). As the signs say when you slow down and finally come to a complete stop for road repair: Thank you for your patience!

Kissing Einstein

The paint on the wall had a smooth nubbly feel to it — very much the eggshell finish advertised on the paint can. Sometimes at night, in a fit of baffled sleeplessness, I’d find myself sitting up in bed, feeling the weight of my hair fall past my shoulders, the folds of my nightie being gently pulled to the mattress as I blindly reached out to the wall and passed my palm over the surface, fighting panic as I registered the silence and stillness of the house. The air seemed to be thicker, dense with hush, a loamy blanket woven from the entwined effluence of my parents’ sleep-controlled breathing. In the all-encompassing darkness, my room, the four walls, the house itself was now quite alien—cool, detached, an impassive monster that cared nothing for the playing, the talking, the quarreling, the little tasks and the daily rituals its occupants expended their lives on. These were the images that cluttered my dreams in exaggerated form, balloons inflated into bizarre shape by exotic gases.

The Spirit of '76

The flashes snapped in earnest now, deluging him. This was it, he realized. Front-page news. He had aspired his whole life to maintain a Gary Cooper sort of levelheadedness, but no-one would ever confuse Tom Raith with Coop after this. Now he was Crazed Father of Killer Teen...

Footnote To A Bread Recipe

It was a lousy year for farmers and a great year for lawyers. We took to sleeping on the living room floor, just to catch whatever breeze the night could muster. And she was quick to tell me: sweat from sitting around didn’t taste near as good as sweat from honest work.

Book Cover, Rough Sketch

Here's a rough sketch of the cover for my forthcoming book -- artistry courtesy of the talented and lovely Jessica D'Eall: