Tuesday, 30 September 2008


Eight months, two weeks and five days since I got myself a copy of Mystic Pig and decided to bring it back. And, thanks to Richard, here we are - putting it out there, seeing if this is one pig that can fly. A pig that became a phoenix. Through death, rebirth; or some such blah ;p

"It’s late. I’m exhausted. But as I tap these words to you I am filled
with the sense of how blessed I am, though I can’t fix to the dark
beneath these words an image or even the most abstract conception
of what may be the agent of that blessing. Bart Linsey was not
gathered to the bosom of an infinitely loving and knowing progenitor.
The trillions of little lights comprising him simply burned out in a
grand cascade. What has blessed me confounds me precisely
because I don’t doubt that I am comprised likewise of trillions of tiny
lights that in due course will flicker out with a rapidity unmatched
except on those unimaginable scales at either extreme of nature.
I’ll see you soon."

Saturday, 27 September 2008


“Ouch, that would definitely suck,” Nat said. “By the way, none of you old girls is going away any time soon, are you?”

“They’ll carry me out feet first,” Kenny assured Nat.

“I’m like an old piece of soap that’s stuck to the soap dish,” Robby said.

“Well, we’re all going away someday,” Danny sighed.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, she’s soooo deep!” Robby said.

“Old Queens never die. They just fade, fade away,” Kenny crooned.

“No, honey, fade? Away? Fade away?“ Robby said. “I’m checking out on a Saturday night right here in this room. Ricky Martin’s coming in with his entourage and Nat’s going to seat him in here and I’m going to plush him out! Do you hear me? Plush him out all night and right after I lay the check I’m going into cardiac arrest and Ricky’s getting down on his hands and knees on this carpet to give me mouth-to-mouth...”

“Oh, shut up, Princess Fish Breath!” shouted Kenny.

“And I’m going to die with that adorable boy’s lips pressed to mine,” Robby finished.

“JesusJosephandMary! That’s the best you can do?” Danny whined. “You’re a fucking fifty-eight-year-old Catholic schoolgirl!”

“Thank you,” Robby whispered.

Thursday, 25 September 2008

Chicken Etouffee

You get started - I'll be round about 8.

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

One of...

...the reviews I found that pushed me into finding, reading and deciding to republish this fantastic thing that is the Pig.

"How many books are there out there that bring you to a screeching halt? That make you stop and say 'wow' out loud when you read them?

The Mystic Pig by Richard Katrovas

One of -- and I'm not kidding -- the best books I've ever read. And no one's ever heard of it."

Read the rest here
and see one of the building blocks of my infatuation.

Sunday, 21 September 2008

Ooh, A Sounder...

...which is apparently the collective noun for pigs. I always thought it was, well, bacon but you live and learn.

But anyway, they arrived! As you can see. I'm now surrounded by pigs - they're all over the place ready to be sent out to all the lucky bods that have reserved the first of the run. If you're one of them you can expect your swine around the 1st October.

Man, I love this job.

Tuesday, 16 September 2008

Charity Rarely Begins at Home

...the children on the other side of the wall are in torment, and Nat lifts the huge sledge hammer as though it weighs nothing, but when he raises it to smash the wall, it grows so heavy it falls upon his head. He touches his hair and it is wet and hot, but when he looks at his hand he sees no blood. So he lifts the sledge again, for now the children are howling his name, and some are calling him daddy, and he knows that the ones who scream his name died in a bus crash on River Road when he was nine, and that the ones who scream for daddy are the children he and Sandra never had, and this time when the hammer grows heavy over his head he directs its weight toward the wall, which gives like an eggshell, but on the other side are no children, just filthy cats covered with sores, the very ones he saw in Mexico City years ago, their eyes oozing pus, tabbies and blacks and whites, but the children’s voices are louder now, on the other side of still another wall, and Nat runs to it and punches and it gives like brittle tile, crashing around him, and there is only darkness in this room, but the children’s voices, their torment beyond measure, are louder still, and Nat steps into the darkness, and follows a prick of light that appears on a far wall, and when Nat touches it his fingers burn with cold, for he touches thick ice, he then pounds but cannot break through, and a light begins to grow in the room on the other side of the wall of ice, and Nat can see small bodies writhing and beating themselves, though the agent of their misery is invisible, and one child rises from the floor and presses her face to the ice, and she is beautiful and her pain is all-consuming, and Nat squats to her level and sees her lips move and hears her tiny muffled voice beg him to take her away, hears her imploring through tears, her face contorted, asking why he does not take her away from this.

Monday, 15 September 2008

French Quarter Nelly Fags

In the deepest sense, Newcastle’s belonged more to Robby, Kenny and Danny than to Nat. He’d been a boy scrubbing pots in the scullery, concentrating earnestly on his first remunerated tasks, when they, grown men, first spotted him: his had been the only white face in the scullery or the kitchen besides that of old Chef Holditchovitch himself, the brilliant, dyspeptic, mean-spirited little czar of the Newcastle kitchen for thirty-seven years. Nat had been skinny and pretty and obviously had tried to be so butch when any of the gay waiters were around.

Robby, Kenny, Danny and the others issued from remarkably similar backgrounds: they’d grown up in small Southern towns; experienced the horrors of shaping homosexual identities through adolescence in such a context, which included breaking through thick and thorny hedges of Christian guilt and surviving the physical threats from boys who preyed on peers with sensitive natures, anyone unwilling or unable to participate in the communal brutalities of adolescent male bonding. They’d all, or nearly all, formed strong attachments to the black women who’d been their surrogate mothers and indeed those women had been their earliest and strongest gender models, such that Danny’s camp, the same in kind as that of the others though more elegant in its timing and grander in its scale, always had about it the edginess of a black femininity expressing itself through a Southern white man’s body and, by extension, history, and early on Nat had found the layered ironies of such a persona fascinating, though he’d not in the beginning been entirely certain what he was observing in Danny and the others. On the floor they’d seemed – when he’d finally been allowed out of the scullery to bus a couple nights a week – prim and proper, by turns stiff and pissy and blithely graceful. They haunted their stations gloriously. Once they’d engaged a group, done what talking was required (and they never said a word more than was necessary, unlike those chummy Yats at so many French Quarter tourist traps who played customers like they were rubes), they silently, inauspiciously tended to the needs and desires of patrons, anticipating everything. No-one ever lit her own cigarette at the Old Queens’ tables; no one had to ask where the restrooms were located; no one had to ask to see the dessert cart; rarely did anyone even have to ask for the check.

It was in the kitchen the Old Queens became their mammies, and in their own ways were just as tough as those women. Once, in the late seventies, a new broiler man hassled Robby, who in response blew the large, dumpy fellow a kiss. The cook had then made the mistake of curling around the serving counter and getting in Robby’s eyes, threatening to bust up his pussy face, to which Robby had responded by swiftly and efficiently kicking the guy’s ass right in front of the service counter, pounding him bloody and semi-conscious before Kenny – pausing first to admire his colleague’s work – dragged Robby off the poor fellow. Kent Newcastle blew in through the swinging door and fired the new guy on the spot, which is to say as he lay dripping blood, shocked and utterly humbled on the red cement floor of the kitchen. The lesson to Nat had been that one does not, even figuratively, fuck with nelly fags, given the crucible of violence the world is for them; some become quite proficient at giving as well as they take.

Note: The (stolen/borrowed) picture is of real FQ restaurant Stella. Apparently a fantastic place to eat.

Saturday, 13 September 2008

Long Shadows

This time the poem was about how love obliterates the self, a kind of suicide then resurrection. Perhaps because it was dark outside and only one dim bulb burned, in a lamp covered by a dark red shade with gold frills by the couch, the mood was different than usual, and Willie found himself listening with more interest, and stared at the long shadows all over the walls as Bart spoke in that funny voice, the poem voice.

There were sad people swimming in each other’s skins awhile, floating in each other’s secrets and obsessions. Willie knew he wasn’t really getting it, but he didn’t care, the sadness he got, and the loneliness. Bart was one sad and lonely dude, and Bart didn’t forget for a single second that he was dying, that any day, any hour, any minute, from the looks of him, he could fall right over and stop. In a way, Willie was looking forward to Bart checking out so he wouldn’t have to listen to this crap anymore.

And now the poem was talking about a garden where all a person’s lies about love were rotting fruit and where a person’s truth about love was good ripe fruit, and how in that garden filled with the smell of rot there was only one piece of fruit that wasn’t rotten, a lemon.

Friday, 12 September 2008

The Next Course...

...is actually brunch - Big Easy Eggs Benedict - but who's checking? I've made this one myself - oh yeah, we've unleashed one heck of a culinary talent over here in CB1; watch out Egon Ronay...


Thursday, 11 September 2008

Crescent City Queen

They were roughly half black and half white, though definitely comprising a group for which race was the least significant feature. They seemed, all of them, bent on offending by their dress most reasonable standards of taste. Most wore gaudy workout suits in which, by the look of them, none had even thought to take a brisk five-minute walk. Chunks of fake gold and diamonds and pearls dangled from or were clipped to their ears, and gold chains, some fake some not, encircled their fleshy necks and wrists. All of them – at least fifty Nat reckoned as the crowd swept him and his party, including the personal assistant a few yards behind, to the boat – were chewing gum it seemed, and they were paired or in clumps of four to seven unto themselves, manless and seemingly content to remain so for the evening and beyond. From long straps they shouldered enormous purses the main purpose of which no doubt was to haul huge profits home to Chalmette, Jefferson, or the Bywater. They smoked, and fisted go-cups with various cocktails in them. Whatever they were preparing to do on the boat had about it an odd, romantic tinge, as though they were all singularly out on a date with the same cad who promised, and largely delivered, equal pleasure and exquisite heartbreak to each.

On the boat Nat, Roberto Mancini, Cookie Bates, and the personal assistant who followed them, wandered from deck to deck quietly observing the rituals of gambling. The Chubby Little Women had established altars before their chosen slots; from their enormous purses they’d pulled plastic Mardi Gras cups – Comus, Proteus, Bacchus, Zulu, Bards of Bohemia, Isis, and so many others, some tiny, that rolled in each season from all over the region – filled with dull silvery coins, fake leather or frankly plastic cases in which they kept their cigarettes (most seemed to smoke long, chocolate-colored Mores); some even retrieved snacks from the depths of those purses, and their go-cups never emptied. One actually fixed her make-up in a tiny compact mirror before slipping the first little silver wheel into the machine.

And the common emotion Nat sensed throughout the fields of silver slots, from floor to floor on the great ugly floating casino, was one which did not have a precise name like Joy or Despair or Indifference, but seemed an admixture of all three. A small anticipatory joy accompanied the dropping of the coin and the pulling of the handle, and was followed hard by yet another failure and therefore small despair which melted quickly into the vast lake of indifference upon whose mild swells the hopes of all true gamblers ride, minute to minute to minute. Some people, who seemed to have been at their stations the longest, actually appeared impatient to get the next disc into the slot before the flickering images of the current spin had even revealed success or failure. Pinching the coins, their hands hovered near the slits into which they dropped, one after the other, slivers of their lives: grocery money, a new transmission, school clothes.

Wednesday, 10 September 2008

A Streetcar Named Despair...

Willie asked what’s the difference, and just as they were making it to the streetcar tracks Bart dropped onto his back and Willie thought oh, shit, there he goes.

From the streetcar, past Lowerline, then Cherokee toward Broadway, Nat glimpsed his best friend, Bart Linsey, who was on his back in the grass of the neutral ground by the tracks. They’d been best friends through elementary, junior high and high school, stayed in close touch through college when Bart went off to UVA but came home every holiday, and about a third of the way into Nat’s first marriage. After that, he’d get in touch every couple of years, and reuniting was always a highlight. He’d not heard from Bart in six years, since Nat, Lou and Marti (and Edie, though no one knew it yet) had had him over for Thanksgiving six years ago. Nat sometimes forgot that hehad a best male friend, but the shock of seeing Bart passed out, filthy – even from a moving vehicle he could see the filth – and emaciated awoke a powerful feeling of fealty.

Even as he ran he realized he’d left his workout bag on the streetcar. He patted his ass to feel his wallet, which he sometimes threw in the bag before leaving the house, and was relieved it was there. As he stood above Bart, with whom he’d had so little contact over the past decade, he caught an ugly whiff of physical degradation, alcohol and piss. His hair and skin were filthy. The stench of his long-lost best friend reached into Nat and coiled around what little of the redfish he’d been able to get down in his agitation at lunch. Bart had likely not bathed in weeks, and there were sores on his lips and forehead. He wore a nice Italian suit, Gucci shoes, and a Rolex.

See a couple of good stories about the return of the streetcar to NOLA here and here. This picture courtesy of YatPundit at www.canalstreetcar.com

Monday, 8 September 2008

Proofs In

The proofs for the text and, almost more importantly the cover, came in early last week for final checking before the run gets the go-ahead. I have to say the cover looks fantastic - I think it's going to come out very well - and, as it will be uncoated or 'rough,' the texture will feel as it looks - as it were... parchment like, almost. Anyway, we signed off on both and so the modern magic that creates one of the oldest forms of entertainment and inspiration is underway; the results with us in a couple of weeks.

The picture above is of Lake Pontchartrain - the setting for one of the most poignant and crushingly-enlightening scenes as those of you who had advance copies know. I just thought it matched the atmosphere perfectly. Fires of passion dowsed in the deep waters of loss... beautiful.

I'm posting another of the recipes later this week - probably the Big Easy Eggs Benedict that Willie makes for his mum.

The pic's from this site, uploaded by Jeff, and has no copyright notice so I'm borrowing it without permission - get in touch if it's yours and you'd like it taken down.

Saturday, 6 September 2008

So That's It...

...the complete chapter.
In a couple of weeks the finished book should be delivered ready for distribution before the launch on the 30th. As usual I'm dead excited but more so this time because, as you know, I don't publish fiction - but this bizarre confluence of events has conspired to get me sticking my neck out; mind you, I'm pretty sure there's little risk involved. As just about every person who read the ill-fated US hardback edition has said it's one of the best books they've ever read, and as, more importantly, I believe it's one of the best books out there - I'm simply dead proud of having resurrected it. nuff said.

It's available for pre-order now and by ordering one of the first copies you get a handy 10% discount.


Friday, 5 September 2008

Turning the Page

If I could just work out how to make a .pdf of the whole chapter that would be so much simpler but there's only a couple of pages left which I'll post tomorrow. As mentioned before, the book is at the printer but, excitingly, it's available for pre-order now and by ordering one of the first copies you get a handy 10% discount. It's all a bit of a thrill I have to say...!

Thursday, 4 September 2008

A Bit More...

Available for pre-order now and by ordering one of the first copies you get a handy 10% discount.

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

Next Slice

26 days to go...

I've made it available for pre-order now and by ordering one of the first copies hot off the presses you garner yourself a handy 10% discount.

Tuesday, 2 September 2008

A Taster to Tempt

For the next week I'm posting the first chapter of the novel. It can't begin to portray the levels and explorations of the book as a whole but it does of course introduce you to one of the primary characters and, more importantly, to the remarkable clarity of Katrovas's poetic prose. Even so, one chapter, especially the first, will never do justice to the complexities and interwoven storylines of a tale such as this but I hope it provides a glimmer of the luminescence awaiting within. Fittingly for a story set amidst the colours, flavours and spicy fragrances of the French Quarter around Mardi Gras, it starts in the kitchen...

Btw, here's Richard's basic bio:

The author of eleven books, Richard Katrovas taught for twenty years
at the University of New Orleans, having earlier spent several years
as a waiter in four of the city’s premier restaurants. He has been a
professor of English at Western Michigan University since 2003, and
the founding director of the Prague Summer Program since the early
90s. Katrovas’s poems, stories and essays have appeared in many of the
leading literary journals and anthologies in America, and he has been
the recipient of numerous grants and awards. Katrovas is the father of
three glorious Czech-American daughters, Ema, Anna, and Ella.

More tomorrow of course.

Monday, 1 September 2008

I've Never...

...been there but bringing about the re-emergence of Mystic Pig into the light has made me desperately want to visit NOLA. Through Nat I've come to feel a little of the pulse of the French Quarter; with Willie I've caught beads from parades and punched fat, white-trash bigots in the privates; with Bart I've hung out at Lake Pontchartrain. I've wandered along Carrollton, slinked down St Charles, chilled on Napoleon; I've seen UNO play Auburn at the Lakeside Arena and been slapped down by the Head of Morgan Heights with Marti. So I'm finding myself checking the news constantly and just hoping that the Crescent City gets through Gustav. My thoughts are in Louisiana today.