Tales to Astonish!

Actually, I don’t know how annual it really is, since I wasn’t even blogging at this time last year. Anyway, I’ve got a good one this time — maybe even better than the last (and only) contest! Why is it so good this time around, you ask? It’s so good because I stole the idea in its entirety from an old horror blog I used to visit prior to it being interred in the Dead Blog Cemetery. Thanks, Dark But Shining!

Their contest went a little something like this: readers were presented with the opening few paragraphs of a decidedly non-horrific novel, and the brave writers in the crowd were challenged to use them as a starting point for the best damn horror story they could come up with. The three winning entries were published on the three days leading to Halloween, and the writers all went on to become famous novelists and a millionaires. Except the first-place winner, of course, who was cursed to spend the rest of his days writing about Coney Island and punk shows. Them’s the breaks!

The editors over in that fog-enshrouded part of the blogosphere offered up the opening to Kate Douglas Wiggin’s Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, but I felt like going with something a little closer to my own cold little heart: the first three paragraphs of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep. I love horror, and I love pulp, and together I bet they make a beautiful sound — but that part’s up to you!

Here’s how it works: you’ve all got from now until October 25th to get your entries emailed to me at retropolitan at nineteenthirtynine dot net. Ideally, I’m looking for around 500-1000 words (not including Chandler’s UNEDITED excerpts at the start of your tale), but go wild if you feel you must, and try to keep it in the hard-boiled pulp style. Just don’t forget that you’re turning this into a horror story, gang, so make it as ghoulish and creepy as you can! Since I have fewer regular readers than DBS (probably even after they shut it down), I’ll only be picking one big winner from the entries, unless I have an unexpected surplus of submissions. Winner gets a MYSTERY PRIZE, and in case you’re worried, I will clearly label the nude photos of me so that you don’t accidentally open them in front of your children. Everybody got that? Good! Go be creative and have some fun, and let me know in the comments if you’re going to participate!

The first three paragraphs of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep are after the break.
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You all totally missed the best Subpar Brakers show that I’ve seen since they broke up years ago in a totally different city. Well, ALMOST all of you missed the show, since I did get to meet Dorkafork, the very first person to ever come to anything I’ve ever invited anyone to, including all of my birthdays and at least one arraignment. And to let you know that I’m good for my word, I did in fact give a stranger a complimentary hug. And you know what that means?

YOU WERE ONLY LIKE TWO PEOPLE AWAY FROM THE SLOPPY KISS.

You know, one day, a very small percentage of you will be sorry to have passed that opportunity up. I only offer that on very rare occasions, unless we’re both drunk and you’re attractive. And a girl.

So what would it really take to get you all to come out some night? Apparently my offers of hugs, smiles, and dry cleaning have failed, so I’m at a loss for the next outing. Cookies? A promise to not talk about Batman? A trail of breadcrumbs? Seriously, the odds of me killing again are so slim you probably don’t even have to worry about it. Probably.

Tonight‘s the night, my friends!

Come out to the Pussycat Lounge (96 Greenwich St., two blocks south of Ground Zero) at eight o’clock sharp for the decibel/Subpar Brakers show!

Dance! Drink! Buy THE RETROPOLITAN drinks! Buy him enough drinks and surely he will also dance! Most importantly, it’ll only take a fiver to get in to BUY THE RETROPOLITAN DRINKS and listen to the bands!

The first person that comes to see me gets a complimentary hug.

Second person gets a smile.

Third gets a big sloppy kiss, and fourth has to take my coat to the dry cleaners.

My point is, if you bring a group, you probably want to coordinate to best suit everyone’s particular needs and desires.

WHERE: The Pussycat Lounge (upstairs)
96 Greenwich St (2 blocks South of Ground Zero)
WHEN: Tuesday, September 18th, 8:00 PM
DOLLAS: Just $5
WHO: decibel – blues/alternative/rock – MySpace
Subpar Brakers – punk – MySpace

Who’s comin’ with me? What could be more appealing than MEETING THE RETROPOLITAN IN PERSON and then hearing some bands or whatever happens that’s not involved in MEETING THE RETROPOLITAN IN PERSON? You know you want to.

Well, maybe you don’t know, but I know you want to.

EDIT: Actually, the one thing I can think of that’s more appealing than MEETING THE RETROPOLITAN IN PERSON is MEETING THE RETROPOLITAN IN PERSON AND BUYING HIM DRINKS. It would be understandable if you want to try both.

This weekend was apparently one of the last that the Coney Island amusement park (as we know it) will be open, and I was lucky enough to grab a chance to hit the boardwalk before it becomes whatever kind of sterile park that it will next year.

I’m not gonna lie. I won’t say that it’s a truly fun place, or that it’s filled with the sweetly-scented nostalgia of childhood innocence, because it’s not. Coney Island is great, because it’s small, dirty, there’s really not all that much to do, and it’s got that wonderful sense of inevitable sleaziness that permeates the best Tom Waits songs. Disneyland may be the place where anything magical can happen, but Coney Island is the place where anything sordid can happen, which adds the all-important element of danger to your evening. And I like that, don’t you?

There aren’t many places in the world these days — much less in New York — where you’re able to sidle up to a bar and listen to the sounds of boardwalk-dwellers belting karaoke hits from “Xanadu,” at the same time as being begged to impress your girl by launching paintballs at the “Shoot the Freak” attraction. (At least, this is the only place in New York where they take safety measures before imploring people to shoot the freak.) I had a chance to check out the Wonder Wheel, which has been injury-free for seventy-eight years now, and even the horrifying Spook-A-Rama, which has been entertainment-free for roughly the same length of time.

As usual, the best part of the Coney Island experience is the Sideshow by the Seashore. That’s really the first thing I think about when anyone brings the park up in conversation, because a) it’s nearly the first real attraction you see on the way to the boardwalk, and b) the sign over the door is usually the last thing I see while sober. That’s pretty much how it works: Clark Kent walks into a phone booth and leaves as Superman, and I walk into the Coney Island Sideshow building and leave as 1968-era Richard Harris.

The inside is small, dingy, dirty, and has the kind of etched-in character that you only achieve by being small, dingy, and dirty for a really, really long time. It doesn’t so much look ‘run-down’ as ‘appropriately well-worn’; it’s like a lot of places you’d find on the Lower East Side, minus the grim perfume of hobo urine. The stage area is also nothing you wouldn’t find at any other small carnival, and the constantly-rotating shows are aimed pretty squarely at the short-attention-span 1968-Richard Harris crowd. To its credit, the announcer is named “Donnie Vomit,” which implies that this was a job he was truly born to do, so you can’t help but feel that you’re getting his all. In fact, since it was a Friday night in September, my friend and I were the only ones watching the show, and they still came up on stage and worked their carnie jokes with us. It takes dedication to have a man named Donnie Vomit pull wavy-edged swords out of your throat for the private enjoyment of two drunks.

Even better, we were invited back for an evening of burlesque, which ended up being even more fun than the sideshow. I remember there being boobs and wine, and I don’t know if I can possibly offer a more fitting explanation or recommendation. If you need more than that, I truly don’t know why you still visit this blog.