somehow, even if they were only very distant cousins, providing a thematic unity beyond their having the same byline. And, I hoped, preferring a view comprised not only of parts, but coalescing into a greater whole.
The opting for urban corrosion was done in an almost offhand manner, publisher John Pelan having no preference, and so that was that. Although I’m still hoping for a chance to gather those more overtly spiritual stories, along with a few others that exist only in seed form, waiting to be written, under a title something like Cathedral or The Bones of Angels. Or maybe I won’t like either of those when the time comes.
It’s not complete, this roster of decay. It’s missing various other pieces new and old that wouldn’t have been at all out of place. But with only so much room you choose the representative best that you can, hoping that they work and play well with each other. Nor will you find any solutions to the problems, either, except maybe that cities should brush after every meal.
For those curious enough to look behind the scenes, here are a few of the reasons why, whence, and wherefore:
Godflesh. This came about because I like casual visitors to be nervous whenever they use my bathroom. My selections for loo reading tend toward the bizarre, books from Re/Search being particular favorites, such as The Modem Primitives (with that infamous photo of the bifurcated penis), the Industrial Culture Handbook, Angry Women, and Bob Flanagan: Supermasochist (with that infamous photo of the nailed scrotum). Feral House is equally welcome, and their second edition of Apocalypse Culture contains quite a fascinating article on various historical spiritual applications of gluttony and anorexia, plus select Gnostic groups’ penchant for amputating whatever they could spare. It also made reference to porn actress Long Jean Silver, whose missing foot provided inspiration for one of this story’s tenderest moments. I’ve since had occasion to view one of her taped performances, an experience I can’t particularly recommend, but if you insist, it’s … memorable.
Childhood At The Lost And Found. I wrote this to appear in the final issue of the late and much-lamented The Horror Show, which over the years published eight of my early stories and gave me not only an invaluable training ground, but served as an introduction to several good friends. I still miss it; have found that nothing else since has been able to inspire the delight of first turning a new issue’s pages. While I’ve updated a few cultural references to contemporize the backdrop, this is otherwise one of those stories that seems even more appropriate now than when it first appeared, with the family values bandwagon having since ricocheted toward the reactionary end of the spectrum. Not that advocates don’t have some valid points, but too often they’re either so much calculated hot-button political posturing, or so drenched in Judeo- Christian pathos as to be pushing another agenda entirely.
Androgyny. Some writers can get full-blown stories out of their dreams. I am not one of them. Joe Lansdale can reliably invoke them with his wife’s popcorn when he needs an idea. Someday I must write, begging for a sackful. I find my own dreams to be generally uncontaminated by anything approaching usable narrative structure, but have still sometimes managed to turn imagery and impressions into story seeds, which is what happened here. I had this dream in which I had nipples all over me, then spent a few days wandering around intrigued by this, until it hit me: All these nipples have to be here for a reason — they must be here to nurse something. And if you can’t fathom what this story is doing in a collection whose theme is decay, then you’ve probably never been to New Orleans, which proves that even decay can be beautiful.
In A Roadhouse Far, Past The Edge Of Town. More vignette than story, this; a chance to indulge in a sick joke or two. Good friend Sean Doolittle called this my “Mickey and Mallory story,” and I admit to enthusiastically digging that spate of mid-nineties outlaw road movies like Natural Born Killers and Love And A .45 and in particular the director’s cut of True Romance, even if Christian Slater does get seven shots out of his revolver when he blows away Gary Oldman. That urge to rampage arises occasionally. Especially when publishers don’t pay on time. I maintain that it’s an entirely healthy attitude.
Naked Lunchmeat. 2011 update: The original entry for this story was a snarky rant limning an unfortunate situation surrounding the book it was initially written for, and could’ve been subtitled “How To Totally Mishandle A Sure Winner Of An Anthology And Make Sure It Never Gets Published Because The Publisher Had To Shoot It Through The Head Like One Of The Zombies It’s About.” If you really want to read it, track down a copy of the original hardcover edition, because I’m not reprinting it here. Sorry. Really. But no. Old, expired rancor is nothing I want to resuscitate. I try not to do grudges anymore. I try not to even give the appearance of doing grudges.
Here’s what counts. My first anthology sale was to John Skipp and Craig Spector, for their landmark Book of the Dead. Sharing my first table of contents with a bunch of people I idolized? Cartwheels for miles. John and Craig co-edited a second volume, then went their separate ways. Then things got … messy.
“Naked Lunchmeat” eventually made it into John’s Mondo Zombie, effectively the third and final installment in the series. It’s an affectionate and highly compressed pastiche of William Burroughs’ most infamous work. The idea came about by my wondering why, after the first two volumes, Doug Winter should have all the fun of writing parodies. Over the years it’s given copyeditors fits because they apparently weren’t familiar with Burroughs’ original, and the splintery, fractured permutations of its prose, which I’ve even toned down a lot. But was that ever good enough for them? Did that spare me the need of undoing their alleged corrections? Do I get that time back? Nooooooooooo!
And is this another rant starting? (Deep breath.) No grudges, no grudges…
Cancer Causes Rats. This comes from an anthology called Cold Blood, conceived and very well-executed as a cross-genre affair, blending mystery, horror, suspense, and generally concerned with murder, my contribution being a chicken-and-egg look at the media and serial killers. I don’t believe that the media creates them, but wouldn’t say it discourages them, either. The main thing I’m proud of is that this story predates by years both Natural Born Killers and morphing as Hollywood’s most overused special effect. In an odd bit of genuine synchronicity, a couple of weeks ago, as I write this, I was phoned by a guy in Madison, Wisconsin, who owns/runs an indie label called Bovine Records, and fronts a band called Thug. Thug, a heavy, sludge-core type band, recorded a song based on and titled after the story, and last week I got a copy in the mail and found it to be a grinding, pummeling piece of work that ends in a noise loop featuring the word “mutate.” I love the whole idea, since the basis of the story was something being triggered to metamorphose into a new form.
Mostly Cloudy, Chance Of Kurt. A few weeks after Kurt Cobain shot himself, I woke up one morning and this story was just there. I went straight to the Macintosh and started writing, and finished it over the subsequent three mornings, almost the way some people begin their day with a head-clearing cup of coffee. And when it was finished, it felt as if something had been put to rest. The suicide of the weatherman is also true, happening around the same time, but in St. Louis rather than Chicago. And in gradeschool gym class, I really did catch a softball between my knees. Briefly.
Heartsick. Clark Perry, my close friend and Siamese twin joined at the id, also has a passion for those ineffable Re/Search books. I was visiting him in Tampa when he showed me a bit he’d recently encountered in Those Who Are Not Like Us, a volume devoted to old-time circus freaks and other human oddities. It concerned a fellow whose body had ossified, and thus he couldn’t move, and had to be
