A.F. RÜTZY

Ginnetta Correli, the author of The Lost Episodes of Beatie Scareli, has posted an excerpt from my latest novel. You can find it here.

Yesterday I went to a nearby horse stable with my three-year-old son. It's situated in the middle of a huge park and has pleanty of open air areas for the mares and geldings to stretch their legs. There are also a lot of shiny SUVs and new Volvos, too. (In the parking lot.)

We observed them - the horses, not the SUVs - for a while. The sun was shining and the animals came closer to us. My son was so excited he yanked some grass off the ground and gave it to this magnificent black male who still possessed a pair testicles. The moment was magical. Until a fat young lady galloped past us and shouted, "You're not allowed to feed them!"

I know what we were doing was a mortal sin. On the other hand, there were no signs fobidding this terrible act. My son's confused look made me feel like a 17th century English pesent who was being ordered around by a noble aristocrat. 

For a moment I shared the ancient country-dweller's hidden dream to dismount the member of the ruling class and fill her bra with horse manure. Or key her new Volvo.

I know I should be focusing on my next novel, but there are matters of greater importance. Like my daily face wash solution. I admit skincare for men is a bit gay, but I'm a pretty liberal guy. And I don't use anti-wrinkle creams.

What caught my attention yesterday was a slogan near the base of the tube. It said, Tested in Extreme Conditions. What the hell do they mean by that? Was there an Eskimo who took some time off from his seal killing trade to perform this test?

Another line that bothers me is Oil Control. I'm there, huddled over the bathroom sink and washing my face, and all I can think about is a massive oil spill.

I've officially saved my second novel, KILLING SUBURBIA, to the darkest corner of my USB memory stick. In other words, the publishing industry and its gate keepers have cast their votes. You probably know what I'm talking about. A heap of rejection slips.

The good thing is that I know the book is pretty good. Not perhaps a Nobel Prize candidate, but still far better than the Stephanie Plum Series. My first thought was to re-write it, but in the end I decided not to. I don't want to maim it just to please a bunch of money hungry businessmen.

So I'll save it, and perhaps years from now my son will read it with a sense of pride. And if I'll be six feet under, he can get it published for me. The publishing industry hates me now, but it loves dead authors.
 

If you want to maximize Easter suffering I suggest you try a Finnish "delicacy" called mämmi. Personally I find it almost as disgusting as English black pudding. It even looks like...well...crap.

Just like the subject says. These rejections make me feel like a fat and white twentysomething kid appering on American Idol. He's wearing a lime green satin jacket and yellow lens sunglasses. Torn jeans and battered sneakers. His squeaky voice is delivering Barry White's Never, Never Gonna Give You Up. And he's thinking, "All those hours in front of the mirror are finally paying off."

Oh, and I hate the taste of envelope glue...  

Question: Can a large department store fill its children's department with S&M puzzles?  

Answer: Yes it can. But only for six months. That's how long it takes for the first complaint to hit the store's customer service.  

I'm not making this up. See the full story and some pictures of the puzzle here.

Once in a while, when life gets a bit depressing, I like to learn more about how the world will end. I'm not going to be here to see it, but I find that kind of information soothing. You struggle with your monthly mortgage payments, and put up with dumbass bosses and co-workers, but in the end the whole planet will burn like a roman candle.

So, it's one of those days again. But thanks to youtube and Prof. John Dubinski from the University of Toronto I can breathe easy. Click here and see Prof. Dubinski talking about seas boiling off to space at 3:20. He seems to be equally thrilled.

Killing Suburbia, a dark novel, takes you into the head of Jimmy Kellick, a statistically-driven insurance salesman plagued by headaches, who moves to a new and better life with his Goth daughter Marie, distanced second wife Amanda, and his Antichrist step-son Randy. You, the reader, are Jimmy, and as you get deeper into your character and start to see yourself in the light of his eyes, cracks begin to appear.

To read a sample chapter, click here.

I'm sad to say that my tongue-in-cheek "prophecy" from End Credits has become reality. Read the news here.

If you've tuned into CNN or BBC during the last 24 hours you probably know that Finland has been hit with a second school shooting in less than a year. This time eleven lives were lost.

As if that weren't enough in a country where mindless violence is not an everyday phenomenon, there is a high profile court case going on. A registered nurse is being prosecuted for an attempted murder of an eight-month-old infant. She had deliberately injected the baby with a high dose of insulin.

Why do we do these things to each other?

Michael Kimball, the talented author of Dear Everybody, has posted my life story at Michael Kimball Writes Your Life Story (on a postcard).

Check it out. His version is so much better than mine.

My son Alexander is almost three years old. He likes the usual stuff - big emergency vehicles, speeding motorcycles and ice cream. As a writing father I'm probably not the coolest guy he knows. To compensate that I take him to this park where they have kiddy trikes - the laid back bicycle cars you ride with your ass about two inches off the ground. I feel like an idiot riding them, but it's the only way I can get some respect from him.

So we did it again today. I was humming Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild, trying to keep up with Alexander. He looked at me with his brown eyes, admiringly. Suddenly out of nowhere came this five-year-old kid. He was eating his own snot. "Aren't you a bit old to ride these things?" he said to me, stealing my trike.

I guess I am.

According to The Times and China Daily the little girl who was supposed to sing live at the opening ceremony of the XXIX Olympiad (Yang Peiyi) was replaced by a slimmer and cuter girl named Lin Miaoke. Yang Peiyi got sidelined because of her chubby features and bad teeth. Her beautiful voice was still used during Lin Miaoke's playback appearance.

The slogan for the 2008 Olympics is One World, One Dream. It calls upon the whole world to join in the Olympic spirit and build a better future for humanity. Some humanity, eh? 

Jeff Vande Zande has posted a few kind words about my book. Check out his website.

I'm making my way through Ira Levin's novel This Perfect Day. The book I have is a former library copy with plenty of scars to prove it has been around since the early seventies. At some point the hardback has been the property of Rosemary Skinner and certain incognito. The first page reveals all that.  

Written in 1970 this book is two years older than me. I think that is pretty impressive. Still it looks the same and feels the same as books of today. Thirty-eight years and the same "user interface" is still working like a Swiss wristwatch.

There you have it. The power of the written word.

Last weekend The Dark Knight reached my corner of the world. I was invited to see it, so I did. As a former movie critic I felt somewhat cheated.

All you DC Comics fans: don't start trailing my IP address and sending death threats just yet. Heath Ledger did a great job, definitely Oscar-worthy performance. And the explosions and other visual gimmicks looked breathtaking. 

My main gripe is about the poor script that wasn't taking the story anywhere. Also the corny one-liners and kitchen philosophy aggrivated the hell out of me. Wasn't this suppose to be dark and menacing?

A friend of mine said that a person is officially entering middle age when he starts enjoying jazz. At the age of thirty-six I have three jazz albums and a Steely Dan boxset to prove him right.

But I'm not fighting it. As a matter of fact, I'm embracing it. Four years from now I can admit my defeat against Mr. Time and stop shaving. Grow a bushy beard like Jim Morrison and wear dark sunglasses. Nobody will give a damn.

Other things that suggest I'm getting there:

1) Hating CGI. I know the shark in Jaws looks like crap, but it still is so much better than those sorry ass creatures in I Am Legend.

2) Disliking MTV. It used to be about music. Elvis Costello, Blondie, Kate Bush, The Who, Rod Stewart using the f-word in She Won't Dance With Me video. Now all you get is wannabe gangsters groping their testicles.

Marc Schuster has posted a very nice review of End Credits. You can find it at Small Press Reviews.

Also, the Cynic Online Magazine has chosen to publish an End Credits excerpt. It's titled The Wind Water Incident and you can read it here.

 

Here is my top three of songs that helped me to write my first novel.

1) Bruce Springsteen: Growin’ Up

I combed my hair till it was just right and commanded the night brigade

I still think Greetings From Asbury Park, N.J. is Bruce’s finest album. Thanks to the weird lyrics I’d file it under ’working man’s psychedelia’. 

2) Warren Zevon: Splendid Isolation

I’m putting tinfoil up on the windows
Lying down in the dark to dream

Everybody, stay the f*ck out. I’m trying to write here. This is a writer’s anthem.

3) Randy Newman: It’s Money That Matters

Of all of the people that I used to know
Most never adjusted to the great big world

A tale of capitalism with fat guys, red jumpsuits, blonde wives and big pools. This song makes you remotely happy that you are not rich.