Kevidently

When I was but a lad of 18, I worked at a mall bookstore and lived in a rooming house with old men winding down their clocks and junkies trying to get clean (sometimes they did; sometimes other stuff happened). I ate a lot of Ramen and drank a lot of generic Stop & Shop soda. There was a pay phone in the hallway I had to use to call my boyfriend, who was thirty years older than me and worked nights. This was before I discovered Bruce Springsteen and my landscape of entertainment was almost entirely re-reading Stephen King novels and finding Real Truth in Counting Crows’ August & Everything After.

I’d get home from the bookstore late, late, late. The buses from the mall to my house were on a schedule staggered just so that I would usually get out of work forty-five minutes before the next bus was due. We had to wear dress shoes and ties at the bookstore, which I’d always found absurd, so when I shut the door to my little room (checking to make sure that the cardboard around the door jamb were still taped in place, so that the old men’s and junkies’ cigarette smoke didn’t seep in and play hell with my asthma while I slept), my feet hurt and my neck ached and I was exhausted. Too exhausted to sleep, usually, so I’d flip on the little 12” TV set up on the dresser that came with the room … and I’d laugh my goddamned ass off. My salvation in those early days of living on my own was Mystery Science Theater 3000, the show about the guy on the spaceship with his little robot buddies – Crow and Tom Servo and Gypsy and Cambot, for whom I would eventually be nicknamed – who are forced to watch bad movies and survive only my making fun of them. I watched Attack of the Eye Creatures. I watched Crash of the Moons. I watched, dear God, Manos: The Hands of Fate. And I fell in love.

Sometimes Tracey would come over to my rooming house with her then-boyfriend Pete to watch with me. My friend Jim would sometimes come by and fall asleep watching it, because he was a chauffeur and started work at 3:00 in the morning. Eventually, Tracey moved out of Quincy and I moved out of the rooming house, and I’d go to Brookline to watch it with her and her boyfriend Jerry. Yep. It stinks!

Things mutated. I lived in a studio apartment now, at least three times the size of my room at the rooming house. I had a kitchen. In which to put my generic Stop & Shop sodapop. Dave (also from the bookstore, and who introduced me to not only Bruce Springsteen but also Daredevil, making him one of the most important touchstones in my cultural development) and Tracey would come over and watch with me. Eventually, we invented the Geek Sleepover. Dave would pick us up at the train station in Quincy (Town of Presidents, don’t you know) and drive us back to his place in Fall River (conveniently located to New York City, only three hours away!) We’d load up on KFC and Utz and soda and get in our jammies and put puddles of water outside the bathroom every time Tracey went in so she’d step in the puddle and get her feet wet, because we’re grownups. And we’d watch MST3K together. Rowsdower!

We’d listen to the songs. We’d make in-jokes about the show. We’d circulate the tapes. I bought the Amazing Colossal Episode Guide and read it to literal tatters. When I met Shawn, I discovered that he and his former roommate Kenna used to watch the show (Shawn disconcertingly called it Mystie), and it was True Love Always. Soon, Shawn was joining us for Geek Sleepover, and you ever get those moments where your life actually seems like a narrative rather than a series of random stuff that happens? Yeah. That. Eventually, I met my buddy Kenny in Texas, and he was a die-hard MST3K fan. Whenever I would visit Texas, we’d watch the show. When he moved to Boston, I’d go over and we’d watch reruns. For a brief, burning time, Kenny was one of the best friends I’d ever had, and we’d nerd out completely to old episodes. I’ll blame Rocky and get away scot free!

Geek Sleepover ended, because everything ends. But, I’m discovering, things rarely end forever. Much like I’m rediscovering Rocky Horror now with Vickie and Duncan and Marty, MST3K as a thing rose up again in my life. Dennis, the funniest man I’ve ever known, decided to start organizing MST3K afternoons. Now, I’ve never really been a gamer, but I did Dungeons & Dragons in high school and I know how the experience is. This was like that, only in my specific area of nerddom. We’d head over our friend Emmy’s house or Dennis’s house and we’d order pizza and drink soda and eat chips, and lose our minds watching MST3K. Lose. Our. Minds.

When I found out my tattoo guy, Kelly, was coming back into town for a few weeks, I booked an appointment with him immediately. I contacted him on Facebook.

“What are you thinking of getting?” he asked.

“I was thinking Tom Servo,” I wrote.

“Are you fucking serious?” Kelly’s a badass who rides motorcycles and listens to psychobilly and tattoos people for a living … and is also a giant goddamn nerd. His huge chest tattoo in progress is the cover of an X-Men comic. He was ecstatic with the idea of doing a Tom Servo on me, and came back with a drawing almost immediately. I loved it, and though I had a brief lapse where I thought I might want a Hitchhiker’s Guide tattoo more, I stuck with Servo. It was the right choice.

Kelly placed the drawing on my bicep and I approved it. I said, “This is going to hurt a lot, isn’t it?”

“Well, only near the elbow and on the side of your arm. Not the guns themselves.”

“Oh. Well that sounds just swell, then!” It wasn’t.

Shawn arrived at Chameleon just as Kelly was setting up his table. His official job was to take pictures of the process. His real job was to let me crush his fingers later, when the needles jabbed into the tender flesh near my inner elbow and I was willing to punch kittens to make it stop.

I got my most recent tattoo done by John, also at Chameleon. His technique is light and long. Kelly goes at it had, but he gets the job done a lot faster. Both valid, both great artists, but you learn how to fool yourself about the pain. My Drive-By Truckers tattoo was (1) in an easier spot on my outer arm and (2) done light and long. So I’m thinking, “Oh, Kelly said it won’t really hurt, and though I know it will hurt some, this will probably be the same deal as before.” Nope.

It’s worth it, though, and here’s why: Kelly’s a goddamn genius at this stuff. Once the outline was in, Shawn – who had been skeptical of me getting Servo – was fully on board. While Kelly has a lot of selling points, dear God is he good at shading. You almost can’t believe a piece of 2-D art on a person’s skin can have depth, but Kelly crosshatched and shadowed until it did. Even before the color went in, Servo’s head looked like a sphere, not a circle. In between bouts of ow, I raised my head to look at the work in progress and said aloud, “Whoa.” At one point, Kelly even impressed himself. “Yeah, whoa.”

Then there’s the collateral awesome. Kelly said, “Since the last time I’ve seen you, you’ve really bulked up.” That was kind of the best compliment ever. (BUCK PLANKCHEST! FLINT IRONSTAG!) Then there were the moments of tattoo euphoria, where there’s pain, sure, but somehow it feels awesome, and you ride that until that more jagged, red, blinding pain rises up again. And the not-inconsiderable fact that Kelly? Is crazy hot.

You know how in the 80s, a stand-up coming knew he or she had done well when Johnny Carson called them over to talk after their set? Well, I know when a tattoo has exceeded Kelly’s expectations when he takes a picture of it when it’s done. He’s only done it three times now: Baloo, Steampunk Dr Pepper, and now Tom Servo. And it deserved it.

I'm the wind, baby.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Finish Line

I’m On Fire: 134, 443 words. DONE.

Here we come to the end.

A couple of times, I thought I wouldn’t be able to push through. I think it happens to every writer, every once in a little while, those dark nights of the soul where you know with certainty that you’re simply not good enough to live up to your ambitions. Those moments pass … but when you’re inside them, man are they debilitating.

I read somewhere recently that the mark of a good writer is someone who sits down and gets words out without being inspired. Inspiration is grand, but it’s rare. If you’re lucky, it hits about a dozen times over the course of a book. It’s those moments you live for, where the course of your novel lays itself out as if from somewhere divine. But the other days, when you’re faced with a bunch of story behind you and a bunch of white space ahead, where you have to sketch out some necessary backstory that you don’t want to do, and you have to make it interesting – those days count, too. They might count more.

Writing is work. It’s good work. It’s rewarding work. But it is work. I find it hilarious whenever anyone says to me, “I have a great idea for a book. All you have to do is write it!” That type of thing assumes (1) I don’t have great ideas, and (2) writing is just some frivolous mischief I’ll busy myself with for a couple of lazy afternoons and then boom, novel. That’s just not how it works.

Confession time: I have never liked rewrites. Ever. I’ve always been, “I just finished a novel? Time to jump right into another one!” And that’s fun. That’s how you get to say, “Oh, yeah, I wrote 17 novels in 12 years!” But you hamstring yourself. Going through a novel once and then leaving it behind does a disservice to both you and it. I wrote I’m On Fire in 1999. It was my second novel and I was still learning. Jumping back in thirteen years later opened my eyes. Words choices I made seemed juvenile. Big twists that seemed so shocking then seemed less effective now. Most characters seemed flat and my main character grew from a cipher to unlikable. Stuff needed to change. So I changed it.

The book has a new ending. It has a new character. The villains have new shades to them, and I added some new, diabolical toys for them to play with. I pulled fewer punches: bad things happen to nice people, and they happen brutally. That was sometimes hard, and I had to be sure I was on the right side of the line between valid storytelling and gratuitous violence. I think I’m okay. I hope I am.

It’s a better book. A stronger book. And doing the rewrite has made me believe I can take on some of my other efforts and make them stronger, too … and also move on and create new things. I have a novella I’ll be working on throughout the summer, as well as a new nonfiction book for my publisher. I’ve got a lot coming up, and I can’t wait to jump right in.

To everyone who helped make this happen: thank you. Art makes us forever. Here’s to eternity.

Kev

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Thirty-Seven and Halfway Through

Hey guys. You might not have known (despite my MANY social media reminders) that I turn 37 today. I went to Disney World last year, during the muggiest, hottest Epcot day ever. And then I ate steak. So much steak. Oh my God, I want steak. Kobe beef. Can someone bring me some kobe beef? I...

Wait. Tangent. Anyhoodle.

Last night, I took the stage at Rosebud Karaoke. I got in even though I was there late because I know the guy. I grabbed the mic, smiled at the audience, and said, "I'm thirty-seven. Let's party." Cheers! Revelry! "THUNDER ROAD!"

I can even make the ladies swoon. It's the power of Springsteen.

SO! On New Year's Eve this year, I made a total list of things I wanted to accomplish this year. I'm ... very intrigued to see where I am with all those resolutions halfway through my year. Let's take a look, shall we?

1. GO TO DISNEYLAND - Guys, I'll be there in THREE WEEKS. Actually, the resolution was to do it FIRST (before Disney World), but One More Disney Day happened and it all went downhill. So it's modified, but I am STILL GOING. Oh my God, Disney California Adventure is calling me home.

2. GET LUCKY JEANS - Okay, not quite. See, here's the thing. Lucky jeans are expensive. They look great and are awesome, but man do they cost. However, I actually DID try a pair on this year while I was in Atlanta visiting Joe, so that HALFWAY counts.

3. OWN BOWLING SHIRTS - It's a little weird that two of my resolutions are sartorial. Also, do I want to look like Smash Mouth and Guy Fieri? Apparently. This hasn't happened yet, either, but it so will. I will be the heppest cat this side of the Mississip.

4. GET A SHAVING KIT - I became enamored with the art of shaving last year. Like the old school, brush and lather and all that jazz. I think part of me thinks this is the 1920s. A few weeks ago, Shawn got me some aftershave, so that's ... LIKE a kit, right?

5. NANO EVERY DAY - Basically an invective to write every single day. While I haven't STRICTLY adhered, I have written two chapbooks, a score of articles, a bunch of blogs, and I'm nearly finished with the editing of I'm On Fire (which was actually a full-on rewrite). So yes, I've been accomplishing this quite well, thank you.

6. SEE COMEDY ELSEWHERE - I've been to the Comedy Studio twice to support my standup friends, and went to ImprovAsylum once because my favorite all-lady comedy troupe Bearcats were playing there. DONE!

7. TRAVEL SOMEPLACE THAT ISN'T DISNEY - I've been to New York and New Jersey a few times (for concerts, and Coney Island, and Rocky Horror in Chelsea, and buddies galore), but the real coup this year was flying to Atlanta to hang with Joe, get a 2 hour massage, and see Drive-By Truckers in concert. (And I'm doing it again next month, WAHOO!)

8. PAY OFF YOUR CREDIT CARD - Anyone have $2,000 I can just have?

9. WRITE FOR ARCHIE COMICS - The only amendment to my list, and something I really want to try to do. Still working to make it happen!

Stuff I didn't resolve to do but did: became a producer, director, and sometimes actor of comedy at ImprovBoston: roles I sort of stumbled upon and found out I LOVED. Conceived of a terrifying novella I will be writing this year. Published two collections - a short story one and a poetry one - through a real publisher (Cemetery Dance). Got an iPad. Placed a short story in a MAJOR fiction anthology. Became part of the Rosebud Karaoke movement. Got ... kinda huge, arm and chest-wise. And stayed overnight at the Magic Kingdom.

It's been a great year so far. Let's make the back half of this piece sing!

Sunday, July 8, 2012

The Movie Never Ends

I was fifteen years old when I first saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I watched it with my uncle and his then-girlfriend on my old floor-model TV that took up an unknowable amount of space in my teen-age bedroom. Freddy had seen the film dozens of times, but me and Harriet were noobs … or, in Rocky parlance, virgins.

The film bothered me in a lot of ways I didn’t sort out until much later. This was 1991, remember, and I was struggling with my identity as a wee gay. The cross-dressing and bodybuilders and all that did nothing to convince me that gay was the way to go for me, because I knew in my heart that I wasn’t interested in those things. But midway through the film, Meat Loaf shows up on a motorcycle and a leather jacket and boy howdy did things light up there. Seeing him, and subconsciously understanding the implication that he and Dr. Frank N. Furter had had some sort of affair, fired something in my belly. Wait. Fat guys can be gay? This changes everything.

I probably can’t give Rocky sole credit for me having the courage to come out, but it deserves at least some of it. Still, the movie itself – beyond Meat Loaf’s all-to-brief appearance – rankled me. Then this kid, a friend of my downstairs neighbor, had it on video and insisted I see it again. I did … and something changed.

I’ve never been quite able to figure out what that change was. Maybe it wasn’t the particulars of the gayness, but the fact that it existed at all, in your face and loud as life. I came out at sixteen and while I was never an activist, I went to marches and was a peer leader and one time showed Rocky in my Gay Youth afterschool program. This kid Justin dressed up in fishnets, something I’d never had the balls to do.

Speaking of fishnets: my high school crush was into that part of it. His name was Mike and let me paint you a picture. He was seventeen, a year older than me, and could grow a beard. He was hairy and tall and a bit chubby and I was in love with him. I don’t mean like I admired him or I looked up to him – I mean those things, sure, but I was head over heels in love with him. He was the first man I ever loved, even though we were both boys at the time, and 1992 seems so antique now. He was into Rocky big time, and even after he found out I was in love with him, we talked about going into the Big City and seeing the show in the theater. I was wild to throw rice and toast and see Meat Loaf on the big screen. He was wild to put on fishnets and a bustier and girl it up a little bit. I encouraged this behavior, because I thought cross-dressing was akin to bisexuality, and that if he indulged his predilection for lady clothes, he might actually fall back in love with me. Of course that never happened, because first crushes never work out. We had sex, though, and even though it was a tiny bit disastrous, it’s still one of those memories I’ll always carry with me. I had the soundtrack to Rocky by that point, and during the floor show, Frank sings about, “erotic nightmares beyond any measure / and sensual daydreams to treasure forever.” Those lines helped me so much then and they still do: it’s a sex-healthy and a kink-healthy message; you let yourself be yourself and the rest just falls into place.

I never saw the show in the theater until I started seeing Shawn, now my de facto husband. I can’t actually quite remember my first time, but I know it was with my friend Tracey, who was just as scared as I was. Everyone was dressed up as the characters. I was not. I was scrawny and nervous and wearing used clothes I got from Savers, the Thrift Department Store. I knew to call out stuff, but all my information came from a series of comics that came out when I was still in high school; the callback lines were printed in the back. Bad: they had been sanitized for comic-reading kids during the last days of the Comics Code. Worse: there were three issues, and I’d somehow missed the last one. So while I was fairly confident in knowing the lines for the first two-thirds of the film, the end of it remained a mystery to me. But I’d get it eventually. That stuff comes in time. (In this movie, even time comes!)

I started going regularly in 2000, when Shawn still lived in Davis Square and I lived in Quincy and Tracey lived in Brookline. Shawn came once or twice, but it was a real Tracey and me thing. We’d meet up at Shawn’s and put our gear on (our gear at that point consisted of Tracey wearing angel wings and fishnets and right shirts, and me wearing devil horns and my Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts shirt, and putting my hair up like Xander from Buffy; I never said I was cool or subversive), then head out to the show in Harvard Square. After the show, we’d come back to Shawn’s – I’d get in his bed, Tracey would get the guest room – and in the morning, I’d walk Tracey to the train so she could get to work at 10. (One night, she’d forgotten her normal clothes, so when I walked her to the train, it looked like the tattered remnants of a particularly slutty one-night-stand. As she got in the train, I smiled and said, “Well it’s not mine, but I’ll pay for the scrape.” Her mouth dropped open. The doors slid shut. It was a good morning.)

We kept telling ourselves we’d do it every other week, to save money. Eventually, we realized we were going every weekend. So we just embraced it. The people there got to know us. Other regulars started to hang in our section. Because I’m a nerd, I spent way too much of my free time coming up with callback lines. The greatest thing that could happen to a Rocky regular is when one of the callback lines you make up continues when you’re gone. I brought in this silly “Skeletor! Skeletor!” line when Rocky’s in the tank; after being gone for a while, I came back and found out they were still doing it. It’s maybe dumb, but it made me so giddy. I contributed to this. It’s not high art, probably, but it’s art, and when I add to something like this, something big and traditional with a history as old as me, I can’t help but take a little pride in it.

The cast knew us by name. All the straight guys played it up for me because they knew I was into them. All the ladies and the gay guys did it for Tracey, because she was into them. It was a nice little give and take. Tracey and I became so well known that one Halloween, we went as each other, and everyone got it. Not to get too grandiose about going to see a movie over and over, but at one point I was struck by an epiphany: I was living my 20s in exactly the right way. I was writing novels, Buffy was on TV, I was in love with a man who loved me back and I had plans with my best friend every Saturday night. Those feelings come rarely in a life. I think I’ve had them four of five times over the course of my existence. I’m doing just what I’m supposed to, and I’m having a blast doing it.

I saw Rocky in Texas with a group of bear friends. My buddy Joe introduced me to an outtake song I’d never heard of. And when it came out on DVD, I bought it and watched all the special features. Rocky wasn’t the whole of my life, but it was major.

Things, of course, fall apart. Tracey drifted away from the movie before I did. I liked going alone, but I didn’t like it enough to keep going alone. So I drifted away, too. Wrote books. Found theater. You find ways to keep yourself afloat in the wake of good stuff ending. Some people accuse me of chasing the dragon, of trying to continually replicate the original best experiences by doing the same thing over and over. But that’s not true. There is no try. I revel in repeat experiences because there’s safety in recurrent joy, yeah, but because there’s also nuance and change and history and tradition and friends. It’s that way with improv and karaoke and Disney and Springsteen concerts and King novels and everything I do, every thing I love. You form a structure for your life and you live inside it, because it’s comforting and warm, but it’s never exactly the same. It’s always just different enough to keep me coming back.

I was heartbroken when I found out the Harvard Square theater was closing. It's moving to Boston Common in August (yay!), but Rocky had been In Harvard for twenty-eight years – most of my existence. I’d come back recently with my buddy Marty, which reignited my love of the show (since, I’d been to the show in Chelsea in NYC twice with Marty and/or my buddy Duncan, who has a poster of the show up in his house). Last week, the penultimate week, I came back with my friend Vickie and everyone knew my name. Vickie had only been to the show once and she had a great time; she indulged me in my callbacks and did the Time Warp and threw rice with the rest of us. I had a legitimate panic that she wouldn’t want to come this week for the final Harvard Square show, but she showed up in her fetching black dress with her hair pulled back. I came in my I HEART CHUBBY BEARDED DUDES T-shirt and my yellow bunny ears and my pink Chucks, for that is apparently how I roll.

At the start of the night, they usually do a Virgin Ceremony, where they find a bunch of folks in the audience who have never been to the show and have them do something degrading, and then pop their cherry onstage (it’s a red balloon, like in Lucky Charms). Last night, they changed things up and asked people who had been over 350 times to come up onstage. Folks, I have wanted to be on that stage for years, and now there I was, up in those lights looking back at that giant, rowdy audience of hundreds. I used to have this insane fantasy that the guy playing Brad got sick and his understudy wasn’t available, and they had to scour the audience for someone who knew the role well enough. I did.

Only then did they ask for actual virgins, and then we, as lifers, got to pick our own. I of course went for a chubby, bearded guy in the front. Because hot damn was he foxy. Our mission, we learned, was to switch clothes on stage. Now, I’d seen this guy in line and thought idly about getting into his pants, but this was a dream come true. His shirt was huge on me, and he managed somehow to squeeze into my I HEART CHUBBY BEARDED DUDES shirt. Erotic nightmares. Sensual daydreams. Night. MADE. We lost … but did we? Did we indeed?

The whole show was a little bittersweet, but I wasn’t at all rusty this week (even though I forgot some stuff). I got the bun dance line down. A guy near me and I were trading lines off. A lesbian couple in front of me found most of my lines hilarious. After the show, they turned the house lights on, and all 300 of us freaks and weirdos and outcasts in the theater stood up. And they blasted “Don’t Stop Believin’” over the loudspeakers. All 300 of us sang along and cheered in unison. If I ever needed another moment for an epiphany, there it is.

Things change. The center doesn’t hold. Friends drift away and people are never the same way that they were when you knew them best. But it’s like Bob Seger says: rock and roll never forgets. Rocky changed me, saved me, made me feel like being myself was okay. Whenever I want it again, it’ll be right there, waiting for me. The movie never ends. It goes on and on and on.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

At the Rock Show

I'm up against the railing. I've heard about the railing. This is where the elitist fans go to prove that they're the best. I'm not here to prove anything, except my unbridled desire to see this band live. I've been into the Drive-By Truckers for seven months. I listen to them daily. I have a tattoo celebrating the band. I flew to Atlanta to see them perform the final show on their tour. (Among other things; I'm also here to see my buddy Joe, and to go to Six Flags Over Georgia to see if the Great American Scream Machine is as fantastic as it has been in my dreams.) It's rare when I fall in love with a band this fast and this hard. I'm pumped. I'm ready. And when they take the stage, I'm blown away.

A quick flashback: like I said, I've only been into them for seven months. But you know how it goes. I had one of their songs - "Birthday Boy," a newer one - on a mix for a year. Listened to it constantly. Never had any interest in going deeper. Then one day I bought their greatest hits album and something inside me broke open. I hate being a writer and saying "I can't describe it," because I can describe it; it's just one of those times when words diminish an experience we all understand innately. It's like the music has been there all the time, somewhere in your heart and brain and soul, waiting to be excavated and brought to the surface. There's no "getting into it" because you're already there. In "Tangled Up In Blue," Bob Dylan says, "and every one of them words rang true, and glowed like burning coal / pouring off of every page like it was written on my soul." I think that's the perfect way to describe new music you've been waiting for all your life.

I added piece by piece, putting the Drive-By Truckers together the way you do now for a band who's been around for awhile and you're gulping but trying to sip. I downloaded tracks from every album, the ones the rock critics thought were their best. Listened to those, figured out which ones I liked and which ones I didn't. There weren't many I didn't. From there, full albums - again, the one the rock critics said were the essentials. Now, look. Rock critics don't know everything and I know that. But they know something. The better ones are able, at least, to give generalities; if you're someone who likes rock music, you begin to pick up on these generalities. You begin to recognize comparisons, analogies. If you enjoy x, you'll probably like z. My initial reactions are almost always mine alone; I need critics to get me into that crucial next step - the what next, past the line dilettantes cross into the world of fandom.

I wrote a whole lot more about the structure of the band, but mostly what you need to know is that Mike Cooley is the band's co-lead - he sang "Birthday Boy" and many of my favorite DBT songs, and is who the band's mascot, the Cooley Bird, is named for - and I'm not into him physically. Patterson Hood, on the other hand, is the band's ostensible frontman, sings a lot of the band's biggest songs, is responsible for the line of lyric tattooed on my arm - "it's great to be alive" - and is ball-smashingly sexy. When he sings, he does this thing with his tongue that is unbelievably erotic, like he's about to lisp but then the sibilance is just fine. I want to point out that I knew very little of this going in. I had an idea of what Patterson looked like - bigger dude, longish hair, thinnish beard - but nothing about how intense he would seem in person, or how that tongue thing would make me feel.

This is not to diminish the band; I think this type of thing enhances who they are and what they do. There's something inherently erotic about concerts, the communion between singer and listener. At its base, it's taking out and putting in. If you're committed, if you listen, if you give yourself up to the experience, it can change you. It can reset your receptors. It alters your world view, and in that way it might actually be better than sex. It's all the best parts with none of the drawbacks. It's unadulterated lust and need and release.

Earlier that day, Joe had taken me to music shop in downtown Atlanta called Criminal Records. It was Record Store Day and I wanted to pick up the new Springsteen 45. (Yes. The new Springsteen 45. It's called "Rocky Ground" and it's from the new album and I still have a turntable. There's a picture sleeve and everything!) Maybe more importantly is that Patterson was playing an acoustic set at the back of the store, and I wanted the preshow experience. What I got was something surreal: megafans crowding the tiny stage at the back of the store, talking to each other, conferring about what concerts (no, strike that; they called them rock shows. "You been goin' to too many rock shows, girl. You're gonna go broke!") they'd seen this year and which they'd missed. Record store patrons who couldn't have cared less about the band. And the band themselves (which was essentially a diminished version of Drive-By Truckers, with Patterson and the drummer and the piano player and the bassist) setting up their own amps.

That image struck me. Later that night, the full band would play a huge rock venue called The Tabernacle to thousands of screaming fans. They've had records on the charts. They're hugely respected by critics. And they're setting up their own amps.

The acoustic show was pretty good, too. Patterson mainly played some solo stuff I either didn't know or only knew a little (there's a song called "Uncle Disney" I was prepared to not like and ended up loving), and by request, a song called "18 Wheels of Love." On their first live album, Alabama Ass Whuppin', Patterson introduced a long story to open the song, about his mother and the trucker she fell in love with.

"Y'all want the story or the song?" The crowd shouted back, "Both!" So we got both, and I knew most of the words, and he did that thing with his tongue and I wanted to melt. The ladies in front of me did, too.

When he finished, I kind of panicked, wanting to approach him about an autograph but not wanting to be, you know, that guy, even though he was there to give his signature away to a dozen that guys (and that girls, sans diamonds, daisies, and snowflakes). Instead, I turned around and saw by buddy Joe standing in the middle of the store, that inscrutable smile on his face.

"Did you ... did you like it?" I was absolutely certain Joe had hated it. I think of him as Depeche Mode, Abney Park, funky electronica type stuff. And Supertramp.

"I really did," he told me, specifically mentioning "Uncle Disney" as one he particularly enjoyed. Joe, apparently, contains multitudes. It was then when we first started discussing the possibility of him joining me at the concert ... though I was pretty sure the thing was going to be sold out already. I grabbed my ticket over a month before, because I'm not a fan of doubt.

Joe and I spent an afternoon in Downtown Atlanta. There was a UFC thing happening at one of the bigger venues in town, which meant that while killing time waiting for my show to start, we had plenty of eye candy. UFC fans tend to look like UFC fighters: big and muscular and tattooed. I ate Wendy's and feasted on the scenery.

As the sun began its dip, Joe and I approached the ticket window at the Tabernacle. I was so worried; this was something I hadn't really considered before. If Joe couldn't get a ticket, I'd go into the rock show and he'd ... just sort of tool around Atlanta for a few hours?

The gods were shining on us, though, and it's moments like this when I have to realize I'm not dealing with Springsteen numbers. Joe snagged his ticket easily, and when the doors opened, he got right in.

More preconceptions shattered: the show was General Admission, and as I'd been bred to expect from my time following Springsteen around the Midwest, when you get in, you run to the stage, and you stay there, and you don't leave. I hurried into the concert hall ... and it was empty. Completely empty. "What?"

"There are seats up in the balcony," Joe said. "I know you want to be close to the stage, but I do believe I'm going to sit."

I nodded, astounded. Even at Blue October, the spot up near the stage had been jam-packed. Here was a huge old theater, decorated walls stretching up high, higher, highest, a wide-open concert floor ... and literally no one was here. When you see an advantage, take it: I dashed into the lower area where the merch was and procured myself a band shirt for a fraction of what my Springsteen shirt was. I guess that's the advantage of loving bands with different statures; sometimes you get cheap T-shirts, and sometimes you get to stand right up front at the rock show.

* * *

I'm at the railing.

I'm not the only one anymore. I've made concert-buddies with a short young lady who has seen the band dozens of times, and with two fellows, brothers-in-law, who haven't seen the band at all yet. They appreciate my tattoo (based on the Wes Freed art from almost all their album covers), but no one's feeding my vanity like that one time at the Barenaked Ladies show when that woman recognized me from online by my band ink. It's cool. Mostly.

The opening band, Megafaun, takes the stage. Some of them had been at Criminal Records with Patterson earlier that day and I confirm again that a few of them are pretty damn foxy. I like some of their music, too, but they go the jam band route a few times too many for my taste.

The stage clears. We wait. It goes dark. We cheer. Drive-By Truckers take the stage. We scream.

Flashback: like I said, I've only been into them for seven months. But you know how it goes. I had one of their songs - "Birthday Boy," a newer one - on a mix for a year. Listened to it constantly. Never had any interest in going deeper. Then one day I bought their greatest hits album and something inside me broke open. I hate being a writer and saying "I can't describe it," because I can describe it; it's just one of those times when words diminish an experience we all understand innately. It's like the music has been there all the time, somewhere in your heart and brain and soul, waiting to be excavated and brought to the surface. There's no "getting into it" because you're already there. In "Tangled Up In Blue," Bob Dylan says, "and every one of them words rang true, and glowed like burning coal / pouring off of every page like it was written on my soul." I think that's the perfect way to describe new music you've been waiting for all your life.

"Did you ... did you like it?" I was absolutely certain Joe had hated it. I think of him as Depeche Mode, Abney Park, funky electronica type stuff. And Supertramp.

"There are seats up in the balcony," Joe said. "I know you want to be close to the stage, but I do believe I'm going to sit."

* * *

I'm at the railing.

The stage clears. We wait. It goes dark. We cheer. Drive-By Truckers take the stage. We scream.

It's too much, all at once. I have my inhaler in case my asthma tries to ruin my night, and I use it almost at once. The band starts off with "The Buford Stick," immediately fulfilling my hope that they'd do at least some songs I don't know well. You want a mix, usually: songs you know by heart and songs you don't know at all and songs you've heard once or twice and want to hear in a new context, so you can take the memory home and put it back on the record and see if it's as good as it was at the rock show. It so rarely is, but you can hope. You can always hope.

The floor had filled up and now we are crushed against the railing. I am okay with that. Early in the set, Patterson looks down and meets my eyes and he gives me a thumbs-up. I give it back. Maybe he recognized me from the show earlier. Maybe he saw my DBT tattoo. Maybe, like a lot of people, he saw my thumbs-up tattoo and shot me one back in response. It doesn't matter, because that's my moment. I can take that with me. I can keep it.

Second song in, Cooley steps up and launches into "Where the Devil Don't Stay," one of my new favorites. It's about Prohibition, of all things, but he makes it feel current and menacing and dark. And Southern; intensely Southern. That's one of the major attractions of this band. They're inviting me into a world I don't belong to and am struggling to understand. They don't like being called Southern rock, and maybe that's because it's a dismissive label - a judgment rather than a classification. They're rock and roll, and a lot of their music is about the South: the stories, the history, the right-here-and-now.

And that's when they bring out "The Southern Thing." Those first three notes: BAM-BAM-BAAAM, and the black wall covering behind the band flies away, revealing a giant Wes Freed mural. There's the Cooley Bird, towering over us. And there's Patterson, pissed off and spitting lyrics about the duality of the Southern thing. When he sings, "you think I'm dumb / maybe not too bright," that's when I lose it. Completely, unequivocally lose it. When I hear that line up North, it brings tears to my eyes. When I hear it here, I get the righteous fury in it. I feel it. I'm a Boston Yankee singing along about the Southern thing, and it doesn't seem strange or off-kilter to me.

They trade off, Cooley and Patterson, for the rest of the night. "The Living Bubba," "Women Without Whiskey," "Three Dimes Down," more. I'm lost in it. I'm caught in it. After the short encore, they bring Megafaun back on stage and trade off verses to The Band's "The Weight," honoring Levon Helm, who had died days before. I knew they'd been doing tributes, and while I hoped for my favorite Band song, "When I Paint My Masterpiece," this was perfect. Everything was perfect.

What you need to know that I was fully in it from the go, transported the second Patterson first opened his mouth and they started playing. But then came "Let There Be Rock," and something important inside me broke. I screamed along loud enough to hurt, and inside all I could think was this is it. I need to follow them. I need to only come to Drive-By Truckers shows from now on. This is my new existence. I never want this feeling to end.

But it does, of course. It comes down. But not before doing the massive one-two finale of Cooley's "Shut Up and Get On the Plane," and Patterson's "Angels and Fuselage." That last is controlled hysteria. The song is dark. It’s a plane crash and the mood should be somber, the mood should be devastating.

and I’m scared shitless of what’s coming next

And I’m scared shitless

These angels I see in the trees

Waitin for me

It’s haunting, but not just. It’s catharsis. Release. Patterson drags his guitar strings against the mic stand and thrusts against it; music as sex, music as lust. It descends into glorious noise, as one by one the band leaves the stage, Patterson's guitar by the amp and spitting out feedback. Then even that's gone, and the house lights are up, and all I'm left with is the ringing in my ears.

I want nothing more than for it not to be over. I want another hour of this, or two, or seven. But the house lights are up and I realize that I'm exhausted, completely wrung out by what I've seen and what's happened to me. With me. For me.

There are moments that change your perceptions, that shift everything inside you while you're inside them and then leave you a different person when they're done. They're hard to find, difficult to duplicate, and impossible to sustain. From here on, a part of me will always be at that rock show. Turned on. Elevated. Transcendent. You can leave the rock show, but the rock show never leaves you.

Saturday, April 14, 2012

It's Great To Be Alive

Recently, my friend Paul said, "Okay, what's the deal with Drive-By Truckers? I haven't heard of them. I haven't heard you say anything about them. Therefore, they're not a thing."

"I talk about them on Twitter all the time!" I protested.

"I mean something real, OMG."

All right, then; here it is. I don't really know how it happened. A few years ago, I somehow acquired the song "Birthday Boy" from someone. Maybe it was a mix CD. It wasn't form iTunes, because my attributions said that it came from an album called Western Skies, which as far as I know and can tell is not a Drive-By Truckers record.

"Birthday Boy" is about a stripper who both hates her life and is resigned to it. That's such an oversimplification, because the song is so much richer than that. There's a line that always elevated it for me: "It doesn't take smarts to tune out what hurts more than helps." I liked the implied opposite of that, too: even if you are smart, you can't always figure out how not to dwell on the stuff that wrecks you.

Now, I liked this song for a year, without having any interest in getting into the rest of DBT's stuff. And it happened as it usually happens. I had burned out on listening to Blue October's Any Man In America record on an endless loop, and I'd plumbed as deep into Seger as I could, and Springsteen's new album wouldn't be out for at least six months. I liked other bands - Gaslight Anthem, The Killers, other stuff - and I was into singles, but I was really poised for a discovery.

I was at work one day (because, honestly, when am I not at work?) and listening to music and "Birthday Boy" came up. It was one of those confluences that sometimes strike with music - all the conditions were right for me to suddenly want to go deeper in. I went to iTunes and downloaded their greatest hits record, the somewhat awkwardly titled Old Buildings, Whores, and Politicians, which comes from the movie Chinatown - essentially, all three become respectable if they last long enough.

I fell in love with a lot of what I heard. The greatest hits records has three principal singers: Pattersoon Hood, who has a very intense Southern style; Mike Cooley, who has a drawl; and Jason Isbell, who had the most radio-friendly voice but who was no longer with the band. One of their early lo-fi songs, "The Living Bubba," was about a singer who had AIDS and played over a hundred songs in a year, chasing off his death by doing shows. Another one, called "Zip City," was like this slow burn of a song that I started off just liking and then became one of my favorites ever. And then, of course, there's "World of Hurt," a mostly spoken-word mediation on life and death and love that ends with the line, "It's great to be alive."

The Truckers, circa 2010.

Things escalated, because I don't know how to do it differently. I went to AllMusic.com and discovered that the band was actually well-respected, especially after their breakthrough double album, Southern Rock Opera. (I'm unused to this, because except for Springsteen, most of my favorite music doesn't get a lot of respect, especially bands with regional points of view and somewhat jokey names. Yes, I'm talking about Barenaked Ladies. Forget "One Week" and listen to "War On Drugs" and then tell me they're a silly joke band!) The site gave me some recommendations, and went to every album on iTunes and downloaded representative tracks. There had even been a woman in the band for awhile, Shonna Tucker, who had been Isbell's ex-wife. And she had an awesome voice and had some really interesting songs and sort of changed the group dynamic a little while she was there.

I listened every day. Got more into them. Dug deeper and deeper, uncovering rare tracks. Actually learned some stuff about the Southern take on things (one of their more famous songs, "The Southern Thing," is all about how they're not all racist back-woods rednecks, which sounds obvious but weirdly isn't). Bought the T-shirt. Joined the message group. Bought tickets to see them ... in Atlanta, Georgia.

It was time to get inked.

Now, here's another new thing. I have seventeen tattoos. The first two were done out of state - Ohio and New Hampshire - and the third, the DD symbol, was done at my now-regular shop, but by a guy who no longer works there. I visited Kelly the Wonder Tattooer in 2005 for my Springsteen ink, and never looked back. For seven years, he's been doing my stuff ... but then he up and moved back to Texas because he apparently loves oppressive heat and urban sprawl. Where do I go for my work now? Kelly had recommended a fellow Chameleon artist, John Meredith, who specialized in nerdy stuff and New School ... which is right up my alley, but I'm dumb and I foraged anyhow. Tattooing in Boston falls into two basic categories: really terrific but really expensive work, and really shitty and only semi-expensive work. Except for Chameleon, which had always given me super impressive ink for a really accessible price. Why was I straying?

A few weeks ago, my guy Shawn went online to take a look at the Chameleon portfolios. He's looking to get Jupiter to compliment is Saturn. Oh, for reference, he doesn't appreciate jokes that he should get them on "Uranus."

Anyhoodle, he stumbled on John's portfolio and fell in love. So did I. I mean, the robots alone. All right, then. Let's make this a thing.

Meet John.

Now, one bit of Drive-By Truckers lore is the Cooley Bird, named for Mike Cooley in the band. Artist Wes Freed has done most of the band's album covers in watercolor, and they're unique and distinctive and fantastic, and one of the recurring elements is the Cooley Bird - what started off as a "black flamingo." It's turned into the symbol of the band, and as anyone familiar with the rest of my ink knows, I'm a sucker for iconography.

Yesterday, I showed up for my first consult with a non-Kelly tattooer in seven years. John looked my stuff over and proclaimed it "cool," which is something I'm always striving for and falling short of. I told him I wanted to add it to my rock and roll arm, which features Springsteen and Seger tattoos, not to mention my Steampunk Dr Pepper waistcoat-watch, which is undeniably awesome. "Everything's rock and roll except my Star Trek tattoo," I told John.

"Hey, Trek is rock and roll." I knew at once I was in the right hands.

Actually, in more ways than one. Except for my Blue October flames, this tattoo was the easiest one I've ever gotten. John explained that he and Kelly had different styles - Kelly goes deeper and faster (boom), John has a lighter touch but goes much slower. That and maybe the placement - just above my elbow, on the outside of my arm - made this one of the most easygoing, pain-free ink sessions ever. (Which is good to know. If I'm going to work on completing an actual half-sleeve and going into the more sensitive skin on my inner arm, maybe a lighter touch is what I want. We'll see.)

In the end, John did a lighter, less "black flamingo" look than I'd initially wanted ... and totally kicked it bigtime. "We can absolutely darken it in if you want, but I used three different shades of blue in there to bring out some extra dimension."

"Holy shit!" Seriously, holy shit is right. While the other arm is fun, and will continue to be (comics and cartoons are the right - coming up, a full-body Daredevil, Disney's Robin Hood, and maybe the Rescuers), this arm is pretty certifiably badass. My Dr Pepper watch kind of rules in all ways, and that Seger eagle is one of those traditional things that, like, bikers have. All of it's working in conjunction now, in the kind of harmony the best tattoo sleeves achieve. And all of it's underlined by the best philosophy I can think of: it's great to be alive.

It's great to be alive.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Kicking It For One Last Day

Eight days ago, I launched my Kickstarter project, intended to fund the tools and time needed to finish my novel I'm On Fire. As most of you know, we blasted past my goal of $950 in less than ten hours, thanks to the support and generosity of my friends and readers, and the faith they have in both my writing and my tenacity.

The book is going well. To bring you guys up to speed: I first wrote I'm On Fire in 1999. It's one of four of my novels which share the title of a Springsteen song (Spare Parts, Open All Night, and I'll Work For Your Love are the others, with honorable mention going to Roses In the Rain, which is a line from "Thunder Road." Fun fact: most of my books are named for song titles. Carry That Weight comes from The Beatles; Find the River is REM; Tangerine is Led Zeppelin; American Storm is Bob Seger, and Maybe You're Right is Barenaked Ladies.) The heroes are more complicated, the villains are more believable and sympathetic. When I first wrote the book, bad guys were bad guys and good guys were good guys and there was a very clear demarcation between white hats and black hats. My writing has evolved since then, and I think that applying the techniques and tools I've learned over the last decade are helping this book. I hope so.

I also don't like all those lingering questions, stuff that feels like it only exists because the book needed it to. Why doesn't Jessie have friends of her own? Or Scott? What's Scott's home life like? Kate should kind of have a boyfriend, shouldn't she? Is Heather really dumb or does she just seem it? And was making Laurie and Jessie's Dad a non-character in the latter half of the novel a wise move?

Lots of questions. I'm finding those answers every day. I'm also putting in some homages to my other stuff, too - I've invented some singers, writers, and characters that cameo in multiple books. If someone's going to get obsessed with horror writer Lauren Kincaid in high school in Welcome to Bloomsbury, it's neat to see how far she's taken that obsession in Maybe You're Right. Plus, there's emotional homages. Remember when Gordon beat the shit out of ... well, someone in Roller Disco Saturday Night? I thought that scene would work really well in I'm On Fire, too. The weakest character of the book giving into rage and physical violence: a Kevin Quigley trademark.

There's been a lot of other creative stuff going on, too. I'm co-producing an all-new, all-rad sketch night at ImprovBoston. I'm also working on a new show (and acting in it, what?) with some of the best sketch people we've got. And I'm trying my hand at directing a show. The second brainstorm session is tonight and then shit gets real. In writing: I just got offered a plum new assignment from my publisher and we're negotiating the specifics now. It's a new nonfiction chapbook that will require lots of intense research, and we all know how much I hate research. I've still got one more Disney trip report to put out, and I've knocked out two reviews for FEARnet.com: Battleground and Throttle #2. (Click "Like" if you like; every one helps.)

And still I'm On Fire is consuming my soul. The book is on track to be finished by July, and I'll be so glad that I'll have a definitive, complicated, exciting new version of this story I've been living with for a third of my life.

We've got roughly 24 hours left before my Kickstarter project closes. While my goal has been met and surpassed, some have asked if they can still back the project. The simple answer is yes. The longer answer is that when a writer isn't a blockbuster, out-of-the-gate success, he or she needs all the help they can get. While the ostensible goal of my Kickstarter experiment has been to help me parcel out time and get new hardware and software to make I'm On Fire a reality ... well, there are always more stories, always more writing, and always more need to keep that part of my world afloat. So if you want to help back me and my creative pursuits, you've got another 24 hours to make it happen. See the link below! And thanks again, everyone. It's been a hell of a ride.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

d24: The Night After

Whonk-whonk-whonk.

This is my phone alarm. It’s like a clarion. It’s about 2:00 PM in the afternoon and I stir, groggily shaking my fist at the sunlight filtering through the curtains. I look over at the other bed. Joe hasn’t heard my alarm. I’m pretty sure at this point, Joe wouldn’t have heard the Hindenberg right outside the window. We’d gotten back to the hotel room just before 7:00 and simply collapsed. My body still thinks we’re doing that. My brain has other ideas.

I glance at my phone. Tom and Doug are readying for the pool, because apparently sleep is not necessary for Britons or relocated Rhode Islanders. I could skip the pool if I really wanted to; dinner isn’t until 5:30 at the Studios, and I could potentially nap for like another hour or so. Ah, but that would just mean I wouldn’t sleep tonight, and then I wouldn’t be my fresh and bubbly self for Epcot park opening tomorrow. I’m nothing without my freshness and bubbliness.

This picture becomes super relevant later, I swear.

“Hi,” I murmur outside my door, clad in bright orange swim trunks and Mickey Crocs. I could have purchased a shirt that says Oh BTW I’m A Tourist, but it would probably be unnecessary at this point.

“Hi,” Doug murmurs, looking exactly as hard-worn as I feel.

“Hi!” Tom shouts. “Who’s ready to swim!?” Touché, Tom. You beat me at my own game.

There is splashing. Ditto diving and dunking and wandering about in the water. Sometimes I go swimming at my resort when I’m at Disney, but usually it’s late at night and I’m exhausted from a day of park touring and I’m trying to get my feet to feel like feet and not burrito dough that’s been through the presser one too many times and is now dumb and feeling and pain is the only thing it knows. I’m not used to relaxing on vacation. I’m used to going. Constantly. Nonstop. This is sort of like a time-out from everything. I don’t really swim – I took lessons once, but it was more that the swim instructor was super hot and I didn’t learn much except “you don’t have gills and you can’t breathe underwater, we’ve been over this” – but I do love just floating around and hanging with my buddies and having an honest-to-Skittles break.

After maybe an hour, though, waterlogginess strikes and we’re padding our sodden selves back up to our rooms. Tom and Doug are staying at Pop all day, and I plan to meet them later at Petals for some late-night imbibing. Betsy isn’t around; I’m pretty sure this is the night she and the other ladies are dressing up and heading out to Citrico’s. Joe’s in the shower, still absolutely clueless as to where we’re heading to dinner. I am so good at keeping secrets.

* * *

“What time is Mama Melrose?”

I spin on Joe as we walk through the gates of Hollywood Studios. “How do you know where we’re going?”

Joe flips up three fingers. “A place we’ve never been, so not 50’s Prime Time” – one finger – “one table service credit, so not Brown Derby” – another finger – “and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to do the Disney Jr. meet & greet, so no Hollywood & Vine.”

I watch him a moment. “Mama Melrose’s is at 5:30.”

“I love Italian!”

We have some time to kill, so there’s time for a jaunt on both the Rock N Rollercoaster and the Tower of Terror (TAU A TEH!). To expedite things, we decide on the single rider line at Rock N Rollercoaster. Now, here’s the thing. Single rider is awesome. Even if you’re with friends, it’s awesome. Usually you get through the line faster, and you get to wait with your buddies and only the ride, when you’re screaming and carrying on and not even necessarily paying attention to your friends, especially during that zero to one billion miles an hour launch at the start. But sometimes you want your buddy next to you anyway, and it’s sort of a shame that Joe and I didn’t get to ride RNR again, because if I had the choice, I’d stand in the longer line just so I could ride with him.

Mama Melrose’s is tucked away near the back of Hollywood Studios, on the Streets of America, back beyond Muppetvision 3D and Pizza Planet. It’s easy to miss because it’s so well hidden; I actually have a hard time finding it. This is maybe a shame and maybe a blessing. It’s located near It’s A Wonderful Shop, named for the perennial favorite It’s a Wonderful Life; there’s a year-round snowman out front and inside it’s the quaintest Christmas store in the world. Quaint really is the word for this area, and once again Hollywood Studios is begging me to look closer, and discover the smaller details, the neat stuff I always buzz by on the way to the thrill rides and One Man’s Dream.

This too becomes super relevant later, PROMISE!

I give my name at the check-in desk and the Cast Member smiles. “Quigley! I have an uncle named Quigley! He was a private investigator! Are you related to him?”

I blink. I’m used to this in New England, where everyone’s sort of Irish. “Um, no. I’ve written novels about a private investigator, but I don’t think there’s one in my family.”

“Aw, well that’s too bad. Anyway, it’ll be just a few minutes.” Joe and I glance around the lobby, which is super old-school New York Italian restaurant … right down to the walls festooned with pictures of celebrities. And not just any celebrities. Celebrities from 1989, when the Studios opened.

“Joe.”

“Yes?”

“Lyle Alzado!”

“Who’s Lyle Alzado?”

LYLE ALZADO!

“He was a sports person in the 80s and then he did movies. I think. I had such a thing for him in the early 90s.”

“Of course you did.”

“Oh my God, Sally Struthers with ginormous hair!”

A new cast member sidles up. “Quigley, party of two?” I nod and she laughs. “My dog’s name is Quigley!”

And all I can think is, We named the dog Indiana. I ask, “Is he a private investigator?”

* * *

The dining area is all rich, dark wood, small tables, and movie posters from Italy. Seriously, right above our table is a gigantic poster for the Italian release of Alien (which, I just realized, ties into the Great Movie Ride, wow). Classic crooner music plays quietly – Sinatra and Dean Martin – and I’m hoping to hear some Springsteen (this never happens). The general consensus in the Disneysphere is that Mama Melrose’s is pretty great Italian-American food – not as bland as Tony’s in the Magic Kingdom, but nowhere near the awesome of Via Napoli in Epcot. The consensus is right. I order the chicken parm on spaghetti, because – as we’ve established – I’m a freakin tourist. Joe, a little more adventurous, goes for the pork osso bucco, which I try and fall in love with. For some lunatic reason, I don’t go for the strip steak, perhaps because I don’t want Le Cellier to think I’m two-timing it. We’re over-full before dessert. That’s the thing about the dining plan: you tend to eat far, far more than normal. (The other thing is that at the end of the trip, you have like five counter service options and eight snacks still left open and you’re really never going to use them. Maybe next time we do the counter service plan.)

We waddle out and because I have the best ideas, I suggest going immediately on Star Tours. Joe agrees at once, because our brain is fogged by starch and meat and “It Was a Very Good Year.” Once again, I’m going to point out that Star Tours has done the most dramatic turnaround of any ride in any Disney park. It’s gone from being one of my least favorite attractions to one of my Must Dos. Even if I’m stuffed to the gills with a heavy Italian meal and I walk off the ride with my tummy lurching and my brain discombobulated. But we got Hoth, so I call this afternoon a win.

Except I had WAYYYY too much parm.

It’s dusk when we emerge, and after a couple final drops on the Tower of Terror, we amble out to the trams. For a moment, I reflect that we hadn’t seen One Man’s Dream this time. Ditto the Great Movie Ride. Ditto Toy Story Midway Mania. Sometimes when you’re so focused on the little things, you forget the big things. It’s okay, though, because sometimes it’s the little things that count.

And the AT-ATs.

* * *

There’s a jaunt to Downtown Disney for shopping but mostly for Ghiradelli ice cream sundaes. And pin trading, because I’m that guy – “that guy” meaning the fellow who will go to his grave without ever finding the Executioner Pete pin and will haz a sad for ever and all times. We take a brief jaunt into dStreet to check out Vinylmations (because I’m also That Guy) and while I’m ogling the new Park series, Joe beckons me over.

“Oh, Keeeevin?”

“Yes?” And then I see what he has in his hands and I go mental. If you’re not familiar with Vinylmation collecting and trading, basically they’re these little vinyl maquettes in the shape of Mickey Mouse but decorated in a bunch of different ways. The Mickey shape lends itself to zillions of possibilities; my hubby, in fact, bought a blank one last year and transformed it into Swamp Thing for my Christmas present. Most of the Vinylmations are boxed up so you can’t tell what design they are (sort of like baseball cards); you know what series they are, so you buy with the hope of getting one of that series. And if you don’t like what you get, you can trade with people at Disney shops, or other collectors.

More recently, some series have clear fronts on the boxes, so if you know what you’re getting. These are normally special editions, one-off type things you can’t normally get. Joe is holding a white box and has a devilish grin on his face.

“What’s that you’re holding?”

“Something you’re going to want.”

He flips it over and oh my God seriously what the heck it’s the Rescuers, Bernard and Bianca, the freaking Rescuers and they’re in a set and did you guys know that The Rescuers is my favorite Disney movie and now, randomly, there’s a SET and I MUST HAVE THEM RIGHT NOW.

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG

What people like about me the most is my sedate nature.

* * *

We meet up with Doug and Tom at Petals, the bar by the Hippy Dippy pool, and I knock back my first alcoholic beverage in about eight months. I’m not sure if it’s making me loopy or if I’m still feeling the aftereffects of staying overnight in the Magic Kingdom. Maybe both. There’s a creepy guy at the bar and he keeps trying to pick up ladies and provide American Idol commentary and the whole scene is a little sketch, so we finish our drinks and head back upstairs for restiness. We deserve it.

Tomorrow is our last day here.

Friday, March 23, 2012

How I'm On Fire Happened

I'm On Fire project update:
page 263
70,000 words

I first wrote I'm On Fire in 1999. It was my second novel, after a very weepy affair called Spare Parts I wrote in the aftermath of a tumultuous breakup. For awhile, I was convinced Spare Parts was a fluke ... and honestly, it was more a a long novella than a real novel (then again, so was Segal's Love Story, and that made millions). The whole experience with Spare Parts was a lesson in writing and publishing. I got myself an agent who got a publisher interested. Ultimately, the publisher passed ... and then my agent dropped me. That was maybe not my favorite day ever.

In retrospect, it makes some sense. Though Spare Parts kind of captured a new trend in publishing - the so-called "dick lit" popularized by Nick Hornby and his ilk - it really reads like a first novel. And my main character, Casey, seriously cries every fourth page. (It was a really hard breakup.)

I remember sitting at my computer one day and thinking, I want to write a short story about a small town school teacher. That was all, but that was enough. And it's funny, that memory, because at once the story wasn't about the teacher at all, but about his student: Laurie Reardon, my very first attempt to write a lengthy story from a girl's point of view. (This would happen a few more times, especially in my high school novels, Welcome to Bloomsbury and Roller Disco Saturday Night). I also knew immediately that this would be a horror novel - which Spare Parts most assuredly was not - and that I wanted to incorporate a cinematic twist. It's not my only novel that has one of these twists, but it was my first, and some might argue it's my best.

I've tried to get I'm On Fire published a few times, to little avail. It was good enough to make it into the Top 100 in the Amazon First Novel contest (and millions entered), but not good enough to make it to publication.

Recently, the publisher who's been putting out my nonfiction for a couple years told me they were interested in my fiction, to be published as ebooks. I wouldn't get any advance (like I had with the nonfic), but I would split half the profits of the sale of the book with the publisher. I got very, very excited, in a way I wouldn't have back in 1999, when the concept of ebooks was inextricably linked to the idea of vanity publications. They were willing to take a look at all my work, not just the horror stuff, but it's a horror publisher and though I've written 17 novels, only three of them are horror (and only two of them are good; Wade's Game will likely never sit comfortably with me). It had been a few years, but I went back to I'm On Fire to see what I'd done.

Surprisingly, what I'd done ... wasn't bad. It was pretty good, in fact. Needed a polish, maybe, but ... okay, maybe a little more than a polish. Because, see, the core of the story was good, and I liked Laurie a lot. But she becomes damn unlikable fast, and the people around her remain ciphers. And her wicked stepmother, oh boy. If ever there was a villain without layers.

What I needed to do was bring the stuff I'd learned from writing all my other books back to this one. I do nuance better now. I do shades of gray far better. And I write teenage girls better, strangely enough. (I got better with my sixth book - a character named Tamatha Jenkins in a book called The Color of Blood and Rust - and I've never looked back).

So I'm On Fire is undergoing a massive overhaul. I'm basically re-writing it from the bottom up, and at this point I'm about halfway through. I like Laurie a lot more now ... but more importantly, I get her friends and her family. I even can empathize with her goddamned stepmother, a little. Everything is in line with how I write now, not how I wrote two decades past. Oh, and I changed all the CD players to iPods.

I'm projecting I'm On Fire to be done in July. I have two open projects - novels called Tangerine and American Storm - and both need care and attention. I want them to be finished. From there, I want to do at least one of my other novels over as I did this one - Roller Disco Saturday Night should really live up to its title - and then a new book, a fictional biography of a Bob Seger-like singer. I've literally got 15 other books beyond those that need some help, maybe a little, maybe a lot. It's a writing life, and I'm fully in it.

A few days ago, I launched a Kickstarter to help me on my way to finishing I'm On Fire. I made my goal of $950 in a single day, for which I am profoundly grateful. There seems to be a desire to keep donating, and I couldn't be more thrilled about that. I'm On Fire is a single project, and my fiction doesn't end with Laurie Reardon and her hometown terrors.

The Kickstarter is up for another week. If you'd care to donate, you can do it below. If not, I hope that when my book comes out, you'll read it and enjoy it.

Thank you to all my friends, colleagues, and supporters. Kevin Quigley is a support system for fiction; the work matters most.

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Humbled and Awed

Oh. My. God.

Yesterday, I posted an entry talking to you all about my Kickstarter project. The measure of it is that I'm working on a novel called I'm On Fire, and though I have a publisher for it, I'm getting no advance. Instead, I'm getting the old Doubleday deal: splitting the profits down the middle with my publisher. This is the same deal I have in place for the book of poetry (Surf's Up) and the short story collection (This Terrestrial Hell) that should be coming soon. It's not a bad deal for a first-time fiction writer, even on ebook (my nonfiction for the publisher has a built-in audience, as all my books have been about Stephen King), but it means that real life crops up while I'm trying to write. Four jobs have a way of quartering your time and attention, especially when most of those jobs pay more immediately than the magical world of publishing.

Essentially, my Kickstarter project was put in place to fund the time and tools I needed to finish my novel by July. I put up a goal of $950 and a period of 10 days. To be honest, I was pretty sure I wasn't going to meet my goal. I hoped, of course, but hope and a dollar won't get me a vanilla chai at Starbucks, you know? A few friends of mine chimed in: 10 days was way too short a time, and offering ebook incentives probably wouldn't bring backers to the yard. I conceded that my friends were probably right, but let's see what happens.

An hour after I posted the project to Twitter and Facebook, I was at a quarter of my goal. Big time cheerleaders - Scarlett, Scott, Amanda, Jack, and a bunch of my other friends - rallied to the cause and hyped the project like it was their reason for living. The Disney community, the improv community, the Stephen King community, and the other creative folks in my life came together. By noon, I was halfway to my goal. When I stepped off the train in front of my gym, I had made it. I had made my whole goal in a single day.

Humbled and awed. Those were the most intense feelings, as I stood there outside the Boston Sports Club in Central Square with tears in my eyes. I kept trying to quantify this: this meant more than me. This was a testament to the power of creativity, and what it means to people, and how it binds them. It was a show of faith, and a statement of the generosity of the human spirit. Stuff like that.

My friend Marty gave me a virtual kick in the pants about that, indicating that while it might be those things too, the reality is simpler: nearly everyone who donated has read my work and likes what I write. They want more of it to happen.

More humbled. More awed. And more determined to make I'm On Fire the best damn book it can be.

I've reached my goal of $950 and I've now gone significantly past that. Some people have asked if they can still donate. The answer is yes. Continuing to fund the project continues to fund me, and my efforts as a columnist, poet, short story writer, and novelist. Especially novelist. I am launching a massive re-write schedule for myself; after I'm On Fire, I'm jumping into my two partially finished books, Tangerine and American Storm and making those complete. From there, full reworking of my other teen novels Welcome to Bloomsbury and Roller Disco Saturday Night before going back to my adult books and getting those publication-ready.

I write a lot because writing is my life. I said to a friend last night, "Art makes us forever," and I really believe that. Judging by the response I've been getting on this, I'd say you guys believe that, too.

Once again, thank you all for the opportunities you've given me here. I love you. I love everything!

To find out more about the project, or to pledge, click here:

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Kickstart My Art

Hey everyone! Until a few days ago, I'd never heard of Kickstarter. Then a few of my friends started talking about it and convinced me to give it a go. It's a site designed to help creative people keep being creative. You design a project, then seek "backers" for that project - folks who donate to keep the spark going. Right now, I'm working on a complete overhaul of a book I wrote called I'm On Fire. I wrote the book in 1999 and it needs serious fixes. I'm about halfway through the editing process, but it takes a lot of time and resources.

Full disclosure: I have a publisher for I'm On Fire - the same publisher that's doing my poetry collection Surf's Up and my short story collection This Terrestrial Hell - but though I've gotten advances for my nonfiction work, I'm not getting them for this fiction stuff. The collections and this novel will be published on ebook, at least at first, and the cool thing is, I will be splitting the profits with the publisher. It's a more lucrative back-end deal if enough people buy my books, but even that's an iffy proposition right now. I've had a semi-popular blog in the past and now the internet knows me for my Disney writing, but mostly it's all Stephen King, all the time. It's not that I have a problem being known for my King or Disney writing - hell, in this business, it's good to be known at all - but since the beginning I've considered myself a fiction writer, first and foremost. I've been a novelist for thirteen years, and now finally there's a light at the end of the tunnel. It feels awesome.

Even more full disclosure: I work four jobs. Some of them pay more immediately than others. (One of them doesn't pay at all; you do it for the art, Kev, you do it for the art). Sometimes it comes down to a choice between blocking out three or four hours to write or taking a bar shift because I might make tips. Don't get me wrong. I love working the bar and the box office; I love producing; I even love my temp job, which takes up most of my waking hours. But all these things break the momentum of writing, which isn't my job so much as my calling. I live to write.

I put I'm On Fire up as a Kickstarter project to essentially give me the time and tools to finish making this book the best book it can be. Part of it is breathing room, so that I can decline a shift in order to get another chapter out. Part of it is equipment: I need new hardware and software for my writing. This project will grant me these two factors that will allow me to turn in I'm On Fire this summer, before my next big (Stephen King) project launches.

If you'd like to back me, you can do that right on the Kickstarter site. There are incentives for backers: if you pledge $30, you get an ebook copy of my novel for free. If you pledge $60, you get ALL my fiction ebooks - the novel, plus This Terrestrial Hell and my two poetry collections, Foggy at Night In the City and Surf's Up. If you pledge $100, you get all my published writing - all the fiction and all the chapter-books on King - as ebooks. I currently have made 8% of my goal of $950 for this project, and there are still 10 days left to pledge.

Below is the link. Thanks to everyone for considering this and thinking of me. You guys rock.