A little PR

Vicious Books announces summer release for the debut novel Rorschach’s Ribs by Marcus Eder.

May 2008, St. Louis: Vicious Books, an independent press based out of St. Louis announced that the hardback release of the novel Rorschach’s Ribs has been slated for a July release.

From the publisher:

“Escher Smallwater can’t sleep in. That’s the least of his problems. Two years shy of thirty and recently laid off from his job in advertising, Escher has a lot to deal with in his life right now. Forced to make some changes since losing his job, his lifestyle is gone and suddenly the American Dream seems more like a nightmare. As Corporate Charlie bares his darker side by way of recessions and hiring freezes, Escher has found himself with more time to reassess his life, and he’s mad as hell. He will never be a rock star or date a supermodel. He doesn’t get carded at bars anymore, teenagers now think of him as creepy, and he prefers VH1 over MTV. He’s never been in love, his career path has essentially disappeared and somehow, he and his neighbors have inadvertently become the drug kingpins of St. Louis. A life once filled with Ikea catalogs and cubicles now consist of consumer guerillaism, lesbian strippers and a gold-toothed thug named “Mo-Mo”. All this and an impending high school reunion.”

Maintaining a sense of humor while exploring the darker side of contemporary culture, Rorschach’s Ribs explores what happens when the first generation destined to do worse than their parents grows old and starts questioning the American Dream. Through an eccentric, colorful cast of characters and a cynical wit, Rorschach’s Ribs delves into a world of e-commerce, target markets, and the underbelly of capitalism.

Rorschach’s Ribs is the debut from author/musician Marcus Eder, front man of the seminal gothic-americana band Strawfoot, and will be available online and through various independent booksellers nationwide July 2008 from the Vicious Books imprint.

Age Before Beauty

When I was younger, I did a lot of things. Mine was a life full of rich, unusual stories.

Not unlike anyone else.

I lived abroad, and wore every hat imaginable. I walked across hot coals, spent a Christmas in Amsterdam and paid a small, possibly homeless child to electrocute me with a car battery while on a tequila binge in Mexico.

I sought out the strangest of miracles at every turn. I lived recklessly and in excess, and developed more fantastic memories and experiences than time allows mention.

Somewhere along the line, however, my memories have softened into Hallmark moments. My experiences are all work related; they’ve become little more than marketable skills–a job history on a resume.

It’s not unlike earning merit badges when I was a cub scout, though these days my merit badges are computer knowledge and job-related work history.

It’s got to be an age thing. Most of my friends are experiencing the same G-rated conversion in life, though most of them have done so due in no small part to that whole procreation thing. We used to drink till dawn and dine with the gods. Now, we go to brunch at kid-friendly restaurants.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that don’t get me wrong.

My point isn’t about making babies. We can burn that bridge some other time.

My point is that where I once howled at the moon, I now scream at traffic. Once I walked on fire, now I walk on eggshells. The occurrences in my life have become predictable and safe–normal.

And lord knows, I’m not a normal person.

There is very little chaotic beauty out there, brought about by a random series of events that time together to create those miracles.

I can’t remember the last time one of my stories ended with, “and then a one-armed midget pulled me out of the snow drift.” There’s no “random” hiding around any corners.

Or maybe I’m just not looking hard enough.

Rorschach’s Ribs Sample 3: Prom with an Open Bar

“Confucius say: Just because a man looks like a donkey, doesn’t mean he’s an ass.”
“Really.”
“I kid you not. Here’s my card,” I say handing out my third card of the night.
“Does it pay well?”
“More than you’d think.”

I’m talking to Ricky David. Back in school, he was one of those kids who could be so cruel. He did his best to make me feel like a steaming pile of shit most of my high school existence. His goal was to make me the butt of as many jokes as possible before graduation. It’s like I always say: Never trust a man with two first names.

Ricky David is not aging gracefully. He’s got a double chin and a really bad comb over. He sells RV’s, and bought his parents’ house when they upgraded to a condo. He never left.

There is some karmic justice after all.

Our reunion is being held at a place called “Pipe Fitter’s Hall.” During the week, it’s a meeting hall for plumber’s and pipe fitter’s union number 1201. During the weekends, it houses wedding receptions and high school reunions.

The night is like Prom all over again–with an open bar. Pipe Fitter’s Hall, coincidentally, is where we had our actual prom ten years ago. The DJ is playing all of the popular hits from the year we graduated and were released back into the wild. Old cliques have reformed. Aside from the fact that we don’t have to sneak our alcohol in this time, it’s not too different.

Shitz and I split up. He’s across the room sitting at a table full of theater geeks with his shit eating grin firmly in place. I wonder what he does for a living right now. I’m staying near the bar.

When I was in high school I was what most would describe as “non-descript”. I was pretty much average in just about everything. Aside from painting, I blended in nicely most of the time. I didn’t really start going nuts until college, so most of my former classmates know a very different Escher Smallwater.

“Escher? Is that you?”

It’s Kimmie Flanders; cheerleader, illegitimate crush.

“Kimmie Flanders,” I start. “Wow. You haven’t changed a bit.” I’m lying through my teeth. She definitely can’t fit into her old uniform anymore.
“It’s Kimberly now. Kimberly Jones. Married 7 years next fall,” she says staring at my bright blue head, and ironic neck-tie. “Wow. You look, um,” awkward silence, “How have you been?”
“Great,” I reply, reaching into my jacket pocket to fish out another business card.

So far tonight, I’ve been a rodeo clown, a chimney sweep and most recently, a fortune cookie writer. I’m almost afraid to look at my next business card.

“I’m a professional assassin.” funny Shitz. “I, um, really enjoy being my own boss,” I say with as straight a face as possible.
(blank stare)
“But enough about me. Kimmie Flanders.”
“Kimberly Jones.”
“What are you up these days?”
“I’m a stay at home mom,” she starts, as she opens up her purse. “I have two beautiful angels.”

With that the pictures come flying out–in abundance. Photo after photo, pose after pose, I look at Kimmie, I mean Kimberly’s ankle-biters. They’re cute, don’t get me wrong. But aside from what they’re wearing, they look pretty much the same in every snap shot.

And this, in a nut shell, is the majority of the evening. A parade of stay at home mommies and fatter, balder versions of former jocks and pretty boys. I would have been better off asleep on my balcony.

Most of my classmates stayed within a five mile radius of where they grew up. It’s bizarre to me. The county is so slow, and behind the rest of the world. It’s one giant strip mall. I can’t help but wonder if they stayed behind out of laziness or fear.

I take a drink of my bourbon. I’m drinking bourbon because it keeps me honest. I’m no better at drinking it than Phil. I’ve been nursing the same drink since my arrival. I need to keep a clear head tonight. The deal is coming closer to becoming a reality with every tick of the clock. My time in this world is limited; a fact I haven’t forgotten.

I think I’ve had enough time flying solo through this surreal car accident of a reunion. To my left, Ricky David is fast becoming a bad drunk, not unlike his former, younger self. I give him another 10 minutes before he picks a fight or cries.

I wander forth in search of Shitz, stopping every ten or so feet to make empty small talk with another former classmate I never hung out with in the first place. In the span of twenty feet, I’m a professional juggler, a crime-scene mop-up guy and a dentist. Surprisingly, dentist is the hardest to bull shit about.

Sneak Peak at the Cover(s)

As the title says, here’s a preview of the Cover(s) for the forthcoming Novel, Rorschach’s Ribs.

Hard Cover

 

(front)

(back)

 

 

 

 

 

Paperback

 

(front)

(back)

 

One of the best things about designing a book cover: you get to do two.

 

Word.

Lent: Winners Never Quit

Day 21.

Blackjack.

My best friend is a real asshole. He used to be a pack-a-day smoker. I can’t recall how many cigarettes he bummed from me over the years. For more than 10 years, we were brothers in arms.

Then one year he decided to give it up for lent.

Now, let me take a moment to point out that my pal is only religious during Christmas, Lent and Easter. He’s your average Occasional-Catholic.

What I’m saying is, he didn’t give up smoking because Jesus spent 40 days in the desert.

He did it to piss me off. He just…stopped. Bam. Non-smoker, just like that.

He quit specifically to show me how easily he could quit.

And he’s not the only one.

Another close friend decided to quit, and just like my friend the Occasional-Catholic, he just…stopped.

This particular son of a bitch is the friend that got me smoking in the first place, which is ironic on numerous levels, the least of which is the fact that his Mom believed that I was the bad influence in that friendship.

One day he just decided that he didn’t feel like smoking anymore, and he was done. Just like that.

They both just…stopped. No harm, no foul, no pain, no suffering…no babies crawling across their ceilings–no nightmares or cold sweats. No withdrawals—no crying themselves to sleep. Just pink lungs and a new lease on life.

Bastards.

On day 2, I didn’t want to get out of bed.

By day 5, I had been reduced to a nervous wreck. It felt like I was eternally at the top of a rollercoaster, just before the big drop.

It felt like life was always hiding around the corner waiting to jump out and yell, “boo.”

I could have run a country mile, and still been no further from the edge.

By day 10, I could have foreclosed on an orphanage without feeling bad. I was fast becoming a Disney-esque villain.

Day 12 saw me easily agitated by just about everything. My fuse was short. My thoughts went back to killing a care bear.

By the time I made it to day 15, I was just angry.

About everything.

The weather, my career, reality TV shows, Hillary Clinton’s pant-suits…you name it, it pissed me off.

Now it’s day 21. I feel like my spirit and soul have been crushed.

Like a child who’s just learned that Santa ain’t real.

Defeated.

I know I want a cigarette, I know I hate the rest of the world, but I simply don’t have the energy.

All I can do is sigh quietly, and remember the good times we shared.

Quitting would be so much easier if I didn’t have to drive or work.

Don’t Eat the Snow: My Winter of Disrepair

We had a blizzard yesterday.

At least, that’s what the news channels were calling it. Bottom line, it snowed…a lot. They warned us. By 9:am, the world was covered in a blanket of soft fluffy snow.

Schools were smart; they closed. The public education system is required by law to care about the general well-being of the student body.

Safety concerns, apparently, are something we grow out of as we hit adulthood. It goes hand in hand with giving up a rousing game of kick ball at recess and the afternoon nap.

And believe me, I miss those naps.

So while children were nestled safely at home, enjoying the miracles of nature, I was at work…

Instead of sending us home, before the highways became a death trap on ice, they rewarded us by ordering pizza for lunch.

So not only were we not going to avoid the blizzard, but my company thought it’d be fun to also endanger the life of some poor kid paying for community college by virtue of delivering pizzas.

I just sat there in my fabric lined den of despair watching the snow cover my car, the parking lot, the street…

I was wondering how long it was going to take to get home.

St. Louis doesn’t handle adverse weather conditions very well. It’s anarchy on the streets. Normal rules and laws don’t apply, and common sense goes out the window.

I’m okay in the snow. I drive carefully and celebrate four-wheel drive. I’m not worried about me.

It’s everyone else. They’re nuts.

People can barely make it from point A to B on a clear, dry, spring afternoon.

So, Corporate Charlie eventually decided that after 5 hours and 10 inches of snow, it was time to send us home. I took a deep breath, and grabbed my briefcase. I made a special point to hit the bathroom before leaving, knowing it would be a long, arduous journey home.

I bundled up and headed out into the blizzard to dig my car out of a snow drift.

Thanks to the “Great Highway Shutdown” I have but one route home; a long stretch of Page Avenue, onto a highway, then another highway, then I’m safely back in the confines of the city and my beloved zip code, far from the office parks of the county.

Usually.

This time, I essentially pulled out of one parking lot right into another. Traffic was at a standstill, with no hope in sight.

One hour brought me less than a quarter mile. Aside from the tail lights directly in front of me, and a crap load of snow falling, I could see nothing.

It felt like the end of the world…or at least scene from a movie about the end of the world–people were abandoning their vehicles in the middle of traffic. They just left their cars in the road and began walking.

I watched one car to my right, stuck, and desperately trying to move forward, to no avail. As my truck crept forward a few feet, I thought about helping the stranded car, but that would just block more traffic, and let’s not sugar coat it, I wouldn’t be much help.

Eventually I made it to the top of a hill. I could at least see the cause of the snow-blind grid lock: At the bottom of the hill was another hill, just waiting to stop all the fuel efficient rear wheel drive cars in front of me.

I watched as every third car got stuck for about 10-15 minutes, wheels spinning, the smell of burning rubber filling the air.

Eventually, almost miraculously, they all eventually made it over the hill.

The stranded cars were occasionally broken up with delivery trucks and semis jack knifing, getting stuck at the bottom of the hill, blocking all lanes of traffic. I watched them spend close to a half hour putting chains on the tires, their curse words turning to fog as they hit the air.

I read three chapters of a book before my car moved an inch.

At one point, I opened my windows, and let it snow inside my truck, letting the harsh winter air cool my lungs. I stuck out my tongue and let a snowflake fall on it. I hadn’t done that since I was a kid. For some reason it made me feel better.
When I got home, nearly 3 hours later, I saw a news report about the large amounts of bacteria found in fresh, falling snow.

It was at that point that I really, officially hated winter.

Postcards From the Indestructable Boy

3 Strange Days: the Adventures of an 18 Year Old Virgin, Vol. 4

My travel companions were two very different people; Coupland was rough around the edges–dangerous. He was the guy girls dated when they wanted to rebel against their parents. He had an eternal five o’clock shadow and dressed like a drifter. This was all on the surface, though. Deep down Coupland was quite the sensitive, tortured artist.

Venegoni, by contrast, was a pretty-boy. He dressed well and was well-groomed. He spoke French, and memorized poetry. He oozed charm. By today’s standards, he was quite the metrosexual, long before such a label existed. But Venegoni was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. His underlying motivation for everything was sex.

There was little doubt which Dave would win the temporary affections of Faith. She wasn’t rebelling against anything. She had future trophy wife written all over her.

That left Coupland to duck and cover all night.

It wasn’t long before our beer and cigarette reserve began to dwindle. I had underestimated everyone’s ability to ignore their tolerances–myself included. I was drinking like a pro, and I hadn’t degraded to my usual incoherently drunk self that ultimately passes out on the bathroom floor.

Once again, Dave² set off to the other side of the tracks to buy some beer. Sally exited as well, heading home to grab a shot glass and deck of cards for some drinking games, leaving me alone with Faith and the Cookie Monster.

“You and Sally look so cute together,” Faith started as I lit my last cigarette. “She really loves you.”

Loves me?

I didn’t respond. How could she love me? We hadn’t seen one another in over a year. Our phone conversations were awkward and sporadic. I didn’t even know what love meant back then.

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I began to feel guilty, but I wasn’t sure why.

“I like your friend Dave,” the Cookie Monster snorted, pulling me out of my contemplations.
“Which one?” I asked, already knowing who she meant by process of elimination. Faith had made it quite apparent who she would be entertaining through long stares and “accidental” touches, directed shamelessly at Venegoni.

“The tall one.”

Poor Coupland. I wouldn’t wish such a fate on my worst enemy.

But…

Someone had to keep Cookie Monster occupied, or none of us would have any chance of exploring the wonders and mysteries of the female anatomy.

He was going to have to take one for the team, solidarity be damned. I was on a mission; a quest.

“I’ll talk to him, I’m sure he’d like to hook up.” And with that, I had just sealed poor Coupland’s fate.

There was a greater good at stake here.

Tourettes: Winners Never Quit

Fuck.
Shit.

It was one of those mornings where I woke up confused and disoriented…devoid of coordination, motor skills and rational thought.

I missed a step on the way down to the kitchen. I then proceeded to spill my coffee all over the counter.

I also over-sugared, and I’m sweet enough as it is.

Crap on a hockey stick.

The shower decided to play evil mind games with me, giving me two options: scalding hot or freezing cold. Lord knows I could usually use a cold shower, but that’s more a figurative thing.

I opted for flesh burning hot.

Piece of monkey shit.

I left the house late, forgot my cell phone and spent an hour scraping ice off my windshield.

Every dumb bastard on the face of the earth was in front of me on my commute, driving 10-30 miles below the speed limit, because two days ago it rained or something. I really knew I was in trouble when I noticed the handicap tag hanging on the rearview mirror of the car swerving between two lanes, directly in front me. She, of course was a part of the “Greatest Generation” and therefore, older than dirt. She was also on her cellphone and applying lipstick simultaneous to “driving”. I’m fairly certain that she was also doing her taxes.

Directly in front me.

Jesus Harold Christ.
Goddammit all to Hell.

Someone took my parking spot at work, so I had to park around back and hike through the rigorous January cold to get to my fabric lined den of despair. A large pile of work was sitting on my chair, just waiting for my arrival.

Why the chair? I have a perfectly good desk, perfect for putting things on. Putting it on my chair will not make me notice any quicker.

The steaming pile of work not sitting on my desk, of course, was a hot project. That meant working at the speed of light to meet the unfeasible deadline set forth by another.

Son of a bitch.
Biscuit-eating fart bubble.

It’s a translation project, so I’m staring at 5 different foreign languages, of which I know none, blindly cutting and pasting with an imaginary gun at my head.

謝謝不抽煙
Suck my White Ass.
Merci du tabagisme.

I worked through lunch as the guilty party responsible for the hot project and unrealistic deadlines dined with the management team at a fancy restaurant for an extended period of time on the company dime.

J’essuie mon âne avec le jour.
Ass-lickers.
danke für das Rauchen nicht.

Ellie from Product Development can’t use her inside voice, and Dan from Design’s cell phone is on it’s last dying breath, resulting in an annoying *Bee-Boop* every five minutes. The combination is like a paper cut on my ear drum.

können Ihre Füße verwandeln in auspumpen.
Crap-flinging chowder-kicker.

*Bee-Boop*

And through it all, the only thing I can think about is how much I’d enjoy a cigarette right about now.

Growing up, my dad always said, “Winners never quit, and quitters never win.”

優勝者從未被放棄
los ganadores nunca paran
gagnants non jamais stoppés
Sieger nie beendigt
vincitori non rinunciati mai

I don’t want to be a quitter. I love smoking. I love to smoke. If I died of emphysema tomorrow, I’d still love smoking.

But.

I don’t want to die of emphysema tomorrow. Or the next day, for that matter.

*Bee-Boop*

Cockleberry crunch.
Ass-flaming poople berry.
公雞吮吸者
Merde sur un baton.

In my lifetime, I’ve smoked somewhere around 175,200 cigarettes. That can’t be good.

So I’m a quitter. Good-bye, Flavor Country.

Because I’m old enough to know better.

Gracias por no fumar.
Fart-licker.

Today I hate the world and everything on it, especially cute and heart warming things. I want to strangle a wood sprite, and eat a unicorn.

The Care Bears had better watch their backs.

Fucking fucker.
母親笨蛋

*Bee-Boop*

I can only imagine how day two’s gonna be.

*Bee-Boop*

3 Strange Days: the Adventures of an 18 Year Old Virgin, Vol. 3

I had all but forgotten I was even in Iowa until I found a pretty little brown-eyed girl giving me an awkward, but warm hug. I woke up Dave² so they could meet the friends Sally had brought along. They were the female counterpart to the wing men I had invited for gas money and moral support.

One of Sally’s friends, Faith, was young and beautiful–fit in all the places a teenage boy wants a girl to be fit. She was a fine blend of innocent school girl and man-eater. The other friend was none of these things. Cathy was a drunk’s worst nightmare, (or golden ticket) depending on how much (or how little) you might remember in the morning.

I could tell a competition for Faith’s affections would be taking place before too long.

“Well, then,” Coupland started, eye’s fixed on Faith, “Now that you lovely ladies have joined us, I think we could use some beer. Where’s the closest place to grab a few sixers?”

The Hy-Vee was the closest grocery store in town–it was also the only grocery store in town, and luckily, it was just across the street on the other side of some rusty train tracks. Dave² grabbed some cash and left me to entertain our guests.

It was awkward after they left. I found myself sitting in a strange room with strange women. The three of them sat on one of the beds, whispering and giggling to each other. It felt like everyone was in on some joke but me. Occasionally, Sally would look at me and smile, as I sat alone on the other bed, doing my best impersonation of a charming man. (This consisted primarily of chain smoking, guarded silence and a goofy grin)

I came to town for Sally, but I couldn’t stop staring at her friend Cathy.

She was a whole new level of ugly for me; small town ugly is in a class all its own. For a brief moment, I wondered if I had met my first real life product of inbreeding, but she was wearing flip-flops and I could see her feet weren’t webbed.

She seemed worn out by life at the ripe old age of seventeen. She was thick; solid like a football player. Her legs were covered with bruises and varicose veins. She wore clothes two sizes too small, and showed a lot of cleavage. She seemed like the type of girl that was content with being an “end-of-the-night hook-up” with whomever would have her. Even back then, when I was young, clueless and blinded by hormones, I could tell Cathy had some esteem issues. You could just kind of tell she’d be a mother by her eighteenth birthday, and would ultimately become that sad moo-moo clad woman you see carting around 5 kids and a lot of emotional baggage at the piggly-wiggly.

Conversation was dragging. I was really excited to see Sally, my long lost girlfriend, that most folks from my high school thought was made up (I swear I have a girlfriend guys, you wouldn’t know her, I met her at Niagara Falls) For some reason, however, I had nothing to say. I could recap my final year in school, but I wasn’t very active so most stories would consist of Who’s the Boss reruns and and Mad Dog 20/20 binges. Maybe it was because I was outnumbered. Maybe it was because it felt like Faith and Cathy had me under a microscope, judging every aspect. The uneasy silence hung in the room as thick as the smoke from the various brands of cigarettes being puffed; a feeble replacement for verbal exchange. All I could think about was how badly I wanted Dave² to return. Maybe beer would loosen us up.

The girls and I were in a nearly comatose state by the time Dave² triumphantly returned, with a case of beer under one arm and a bag of ice under the other.

“Forty-eight beers. Wow. This should last us through the weekend and half way home,” I thought to myself. I passed out the cans of ‘High Life” (the champagne of beers) to the ladies and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally things looked to be falling into place.

“Hey Jones, we need to have a talk with you,” Venegoni said in a serious tone. Was I in trouble? Did they know something about Sally? Was she my long lost cousin? Did they see her on America’s Most Wanted? Did Sally have an adam’s apple I hadn’t noticed? I began thinking that things might be too good to be true as I hesitantly joined Dave² in what came to be known as the “office”; our bathroom.

I closed the door as Venegoni began emptying the bags of ice into the bathtub. As he started putting the surplus of cheap beer into the ice he turned to look at Coupland, who gave him a solemn nod.

“Coupland and I were talking, Jones,” Venegoni started. “We’ve been left with a challenging ratio…and a lot of alcohol.”
“What the hell are you talking about Dave?”
“You see Jones, my boy,” Coupland broke in, “Cathy is a cookie monster; a real beast. Only one of us will hook up with Faith, and we both know Sally is off-limits,” he continued, “One of us is bound to put on the beer goggles eventually, and think it’s a good idea…and we all know it’s not,”
“I’m still not following you,” I said. “What’s not a good idea?”
“We need to have a little solidarity here, brother,” Venegoni interrupted. “We need to watch each other’s backs. No matter who ends up with who, and no matter how drunk we get, we have to make sure none of us become the ‘Beast Master’ this weekend.”
“We need you to be the voice of reason. If you see one of us getting frisky with the Cookie Monster, pull us aside and talk some sense into us,” Coupland added.
“Alright, guys. I swear. I’ve got your backs. May the best man win, and may none of us lose,” I said toasting my beer.

We exited the office as Sally plugged in her radio. The beer cans started opening, as did we, but something still felt like it was missing. Then Sally leaned over and kissed me. I put my arm around her and began to relax, as Dave² began competing for Faith’s affections.