Perilous Press Blog

August 30, 2018


Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — doktrhonky @ 7:01 pm

I’m Not An Actor, But I Play One On TV

by Charlie Parsons


My name is Charlie Parsons, and I’m kind of excited to be releasing a true memoir that happened to me one day last month, SLEAZELAND. You may not know my name, but chances are good you’d recognize my face, because most of my work consists of uncredited appearances as a background actor.

I fully recognize that many of you who don’t understand how internal combustion works or where babies come from, but fancy yourselves savvy Hollywood-watchers might think you know what a background actor is, and scoff at the notion of reading a tell-all by such a nobody. I only hope someday someone gives you a million dollars to make your own movie and find out how ignorant and doomed you really are.

The ideal background actor is semi-animate set dressing, and the sole prerequisite is that he or she look like exactly what they are supposed to be. The struggle for “authenticity” is really the struggle to make an immediately recognizable visual statement with human bodies, one that sets the scene without distracting from the principals. Though they remain human scenery at the bottom of the industry ladder, any background actor can singlehandedly fuck up an entire movie (looking at you, smiling asshole in Dunkirk), but any casting director knows that the worst decision they can possibly make in decorating a set with background, is to employ actual actors.

You see, actors will use any excuse to act.

When we queue up at 3 in the morning to register at Central Casting, we tell each other stories to stay awake, stay focused. We rattle off all the names of legends who once stood in this line. Brad Pitt! Mindy Cohn! Gary Leisure! Us! And we tell ourselves this first tiny step will launch us into the same lofty heights. We’re going to shine so brightly, they’ll have to pick us out of the background and put us where we belong, in the foreground, with words coming out of our beautiful mouths.

And so, of course, we fucking ruin everything.

Because when they book you, it isn’t based on an audition tape, it’s based on a momentary glance at your mugshot; if you look like the epitome of what they need to dress the set, you’re in. If they have to ponder for a split-second what your deal is or how you fit the scene, you’re going home early.

And if and when the 2ndAD comes around to give you your directions, he doesn’t discuss your motivation or method. He names each of you like the Seven Dwarves––you’re Sleepy, you’re Grumpy, you’re Donner, you’re Blitzen, and none of you is fucking Rudolph.

Given this one-word marching order, any trained actor will immediately set about crafting a persona to go with it, a story, a narrative that they begin acting out for all they’re worth, so they look not like an ordinary human being going about their day, but an automaton struck by lightning and imbued with LIFE! and the directive to single-mindedly embody that one-word direction to its uttermost. If you’ve ever seen a movie where this one background actor is trying so much HARDER than everyone around them, hamming it up like the principal in a parallel movie being filmed on the same set at the same time, so you wonder about that idiot long after you’ve forgotten what happened in the film itself, you’ve witness bad background ACTING.

There is a vast and reliable community of background talent who never aspired to act. Most of them are readily digestible character types who pursue the career in between plush stints doing jury duty or holding places in line at the DMV for rich people. They perfectly fit their roles precisely because they are regular people, and not actors. Absorbing their directions with the same zeal seasonal retail help accepts criticism from surly customers, they muddle through with most of their brains focused on the screenplay they’ll write someday, and wondering how many entrees they can successfully smuggle away from the catering table without ruining their wardrobe. Thus, their performances effortlessly capture the fractured, half-assed nature of human consciousness while the actors around them turn cartwheels trying to become some Platonic ideal of whatever off-handed instructions they were given.

True background actors are the only authentic part of modern motion pictures, and yet they are always shunted aside to make room for the grandstanding assholes whose clumsy attempts to shine burn a hole in the illusion they’ve sold their souls for. It is a sacred calling, and one not fit for the serious working actor. I’ve been cut out of 173 background roles because I couldn’t stay in the background, so trust that I speak from hard experience.

So I hope this little tidbit of insider dirt will enrich your moviegoing experience (by which I mean, I hope you’ll stay home and read SLEAZELAND). Because that glory-hogging clown who chewed up the scenery in the film you watch tonight might be the star you slavishly drool over, tomorrow…

October 8, 2017

Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast Sermon for H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival 2017

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , — doktrhonky @ 10:24 pm

Well, we find ourselves gathered over yet another Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast… thanks, Nibiru… It seems as if every degrading, impossible news cycle we’re asked to swallow, brings another broken promise of total annihilation and transcendence. Those of us who quivered with pre-millennium fear that the world would end seventeen years ago are now outnumbered by those equally terrified that it won’t. Never mind that the idea that one could predict the end of all creation according to a gimcrack calendar is like expecting your car to spontaneously combust the moment the odometer reaches 100,000, when you know the odometer was serially tampered with by a procession of celibate, cross-dressing used-car salesmen.
Obviously, not every prediction of the end of days can be correct. But if they’re all wrong, then who keeps crank-calling the temple outreach line collect by way of the Voyager probe every time the Hale-Bopp comet approaches perihelion?
But the impulse that has us looking for Ghroth in all the wrong places cannot be simply ignored or subverted into fighting over dogmatic niceties, for it’s a fundamental impulse to hunger for change, even a disastrous one, when the status quo becomes too meaningless and absurd to bear.
We have always prudently refrained from declaring a specific date for our own rugose rapture, and so we have prevailed and sown our milt widely among those seeking answers in the darker shoals of this bamboozled culture, where others have ended up at the business end of a Leah Rimini-job.
But one thing we cannot abide, is internal confusion about what we stand for, for that way lies disaster. A house divided against itself cannot stand, and the make-up sex is unspeakably regrettable.
When Marshall Applewhite turned Heaven’s Gate from a nomadic trash-digging cult into a utopian Star Trek cargo cult, he captured the imagination of the brightest and most creative in our society, all of whom despaired of finding a place in the outside world, but they succumbed to the gravity of his own internal self-loathing, and exited themselves from this world in an eerily muted, tragically misunderstood rebuke of a modern age gone mad with division and corruption and greed. Had they separated the message from the fatal flaws of its messenger, they might still be alive today, designing really bomb-ass websites for Nike.
Likewise, our own cloistered community has been riven by divisions over the separation of the transcendental message, from its inarguably flawed and earthbound messenger. It’s too easy to mistake an artist for a prophet, and even prophets have feet of clay. Mohammed kept slaves, cheated like a sonofabitch at Parcheesi and told toothache sufferers to bite on a tombstone for relief of pain symptoms, and Jesus once exorcised a nest of demons into a bunch of pigs and ran them off a cliff, which, kosher or not, is a shitty way to treat perfectly good bacon. And he said he was coming back bearing a sword in the lifetimes of the people who came to his poorly catered weddings, so one has to take what one can from even the most exalted of prophets. And the one thing they all preached was the Golden Rule, that That Art Thou… Be excellent to each other, nimrods.
Richard Wagner was a loathsome anti-Semite, but his music offers a universal message that scares the shit out of people you’re about to bomb to the stone age. Likewise, HP Lovecraft was an artist, not a prophet. Like many of us, he suffered excessively at the hands of an indifferent world, and like some of us, he framed his fears and frustrations into a fantastic pantheon of metaphor and myth. But unlike any of us, he saw his fears of the Other reflected back at him in the faces of his fellow human beings.
It is not a love for those tragic flaws in his character and perspective that drive so many of our brethren to apologize for or even turn a blind eye towards the xenophobia that inspired our own gravely misunderstood faith, but an excess of love for the messenger. They cannot accept that their prophet had feet of clay, and so are trapped apologizing for terrible ideas they don’t themselves necessarily believe… or they do actually believe them, and can well and truly get backstroke through a vat of shantak ass.
Our own predicament is no less paradoxical, but far less liable to result in pretzel-related rhetorical injuries. We look to all that Lovecraft feared and reviled, that miscegenated, mutated polymorphous perversity that is the Other, and we say, Yes, please. We embrace the Other not because it is awful, but because it is wondrous in its terrible beauty. We embrace and dissolve ourselves in the exotic and alien because the world is far stranger than any self-educated white New England Yankee’s wildest fever-dreams, and we are a part of it. We embrace Otherness in all its forms, even in its most inimical and enigmatic face, when it looks at us in the mirror. The apocalypse we look forward to is not an end of old things, but an end to lies and the rise of beautifully weird new things, which shall not command but intrinsically earn, our devotion and worship.
Lovecraft himself said it best and proved himself a prophet after all, even when he was just trying to freak himself out. I close with the testimonial of the narrator of The Shadow Over Innsmouth, who came to acceptance when he faced the crowning horror that the awful taint of the alien abominations from which he’d narrowly escaped could never be purged, for it ran in his own blood.
“The tense extremes of horror are lessening, and I feel queerly drawn toward the unknown sea-deeps, instead of fearing them. I hear and do strange things in sleep, and awake with a kind of exaltation, instead of terror… Stupendous and unheard-of splendors await me below, and I shall seek them soon. Ia R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! I shall no shoot myself, I cannot be made to shoot myself!
“We shall swim out to that brooding reef in the sea and dive down through black abysses to cyclopean and many-columned Y’ha-nthlei, and in that lair of the Deep Ones, we shall dwell in wonder and glory forever.”
Remember… This isn’t a Cthulhu Haters’ Breakfast. This is a goddamn Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast! Be excellent to the Other, everybody.

August 14, 2017

How The Sausage Is Made

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — doktrhonky @ 9:35 pm

Guerilla Marketing

It was Thursday afternoon in the cavernous dealer room at San Diego Comic Con, and Mike Dubisch and I were excited. We felt like we’d finally got the answer to a problem we’d been struggling with for years, and the guy who could make all our dreams come true was somewhere in the building.

We’d been working together for several years, Mike illustrating one or another of my projects, but this year, we’d finally completed breakdowns for MYSTERY MEAT, a gnarly underground horror comic that not only recalled the stony glory of Skull, Death Rattle and Slow Death Eco-Funnies, but brought back the danger and social consciousness sorely lacking from modern horror comics. And even though the editor we were hunting had shot us both down in the past, we were reasonably sure that THIS TIME, we had his number.

Several months before, after years of schmoozing and stalking, I had managed to sell a script to Dark Horse’s revival of Creepy, and another editor there bought “nuMeat,” a short piece that teased the larger Mystery Meat scenario, and he seemed to like it a lot. We’d talked about the possibility of Dark Horse picking up MYSTERY MEAT when it was approaching completion, and he seemed enthusiastic to see it.

So we went over there.

During a brief lull between signings at the Dark Horse pavilion, Mike and I approached the editor in question and told him what we had to show him. We didn’t expect him to turn backflips or plant a kiss on us, but we were both a bit nonplussed when he winced and told us to hold that thought, he’d be happy to check out our stuff, but he had to go to the restroom real quick.

Then he walked about ten feet away and braced another passing creative and started talking to him as if we’d never existed. The guy he was talking to looked awkwardly over his shoulder at us and stifled a giggle. The editor kept up the phony conversation until we both realized just how little we really were, in the grand scheme of big-time comix, took our dumb little sketches, and went back to our hideout in the small press slum to scheme up our petty revenge.

Small Press Area, San Diego Comic Con 2013

This year was my twenty-first consecutive SDCC (23rd in total), and this year, Mike and I had returned with a platter of sweet revenge: MYSTERY MEAT, self-published and printed thanks to a Kickstarter campaign, available digitally through Comixology. The editor who snubbed us so rudely a few years ago was MIA due to a scandal caused by drunkenly assaulting coworkers and contractors the same weekend he was a dick to us, and so had been promoted to a senior position that prudently kept him from attending conventions, so we wouldn’t be able to send him to the restroom with a copy of our swanky mag, but we still felt we had something to prove.

Our Swanky Mag.

The further I move away from San Diego, the more going into that gargantuan sweat lodge feels like coming home. I’m old enough that I remember how drastically everything began to change when Hollywood moved in about twelve years back, invested enough in it that I worry about its future more than I should as it begins and sicken and change.

At its height, Comic Con became not just a genre popular culture event, but a city of conventions. If you didn’t care about the new CBS fall lineup or celebrity perp walk panels in Hall H (and if you could wrest a badge from the legions who most fanatically did) or ultrarare Con-exclusive Funko toys, you could still meet comics legends and see panels and shop for comics without camping out in a lawnchair or waiting in any kind of serious line. When I helped run the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival in San Pedro, we easily filled a 500-seat room for a panel on HPL every year at the decidedly crappy Saturday night timeslot. I don’t think we ever had that many people attend the festival itself on a Saturday.

We are now a few years past peak Comic Con, and the film, videogame and toy interests continue to crowd out actual comics vendors and creators, even as they try in inevitable corporate fashion to squeeze more promotion out of the event with less expense and effort. Watching them tighten their grip on the geek audience year by year has been like watching a boa constrictor digest its dinner.

I’ve seen industry parties go from lavish, everybody’s-invited extravaganzas with bulging swag bags and hosted bars to tight-fisted elite circle-jerks where lines of the unwashed circle round the block, while those inside seem to be having less fun than the parents in the Red Dawn re-education camp. The convention itself feels sleepier, Sunday-tired on Wednesday night, but still crowded with folks sleepwalking through a mall and buying plastic dreams with more plastic.

While the big pavilions stayed big, the only novelty on the floor this year was all that’s been lost––venerable vendors like Mile High Comics who’ve been priced out of Comic Con after 44 years, or independents like Bud Plant, once an aisle unto itself, now relegated to a scurfy single booth in the back of the hall. My friends who’ve always paid for next year’s booth with the petty cash from the current year were unable to meet the rent due to stale sales.

The fans were still buying, still cosplaying, still enduring preposterous lines, but not for comics. As the economy continues to leave working people behind and the political crises leave even the most secure of us seething with frustration and anxiety, fans were buying almost in a panic, and they were reaching for security blankets.

This is your only space program...

Recognizable brands dominate the merchandise more every year, the Disney-driven saturation of Marvel and Star Wars merch all but overwhelming Warner’s DC stuff. As one of the only open-source brands, Cthulhu still attracts buyers, but they want shirts, shot glasses, bumper stickers and resin busts, not troublesome, tedious books. People weren’t looking for new stories to read, or even familiar ones. They wanted icons, fetish objects to let them step inside their heroes and take on their strength, their sense of purpose. Conditioned by years of media bombardment, fans feel empowered to express their inner child, to wear Superman or Captain America T-shirts in public as serious expressions of personal philosophy, to take the collectible toys out of the packaging and play with them.

This is your military...

Without a trace of irony, fans embrace geekdom, the metaphor of a besotted drunk who eats anything given to him in a sideshow of bottomless degradation. They have become heroes of proactive consumerism, drunk on their seeming power to shape by social media focus-grouping summer tentpole movies to better pander to the adultification of their childhood fantasies. Superhero movies are our education policy, sci-fi fantasy is our only viable space program.

This is your government

We didn’t need to sit in a booth all weekend to know that nobody’s cherished childhood fantasies this year included horrible shit coming out of their food.

But we did it anyway.

In Supergods, Grant Morrison lays out an elaborate scheme that diagrams the pendulum swing of the zeitgeist, which he employs to pitch projects that best head off collective American appetites at the pass. If MYSTERY MEAT ever had a chance of breaking out according to this scenario, we were coming out at the exact worst end of the cycle for a confrontational, anti-authority horror comic. I gave an advance copy of MYSTERY MEAT to Grant last year. He probably didn’t read it, either.


But we’d long since given up on trying to “break in” to comics, and were resigned to eking out a market for the kind of books we wish somebody else had made. For as long as I’ve been coming to SDCC, I’ve tried networking and ass-kissing and parading around in a bloody sandwich board to try to find a place in the comic industry, to no avail. It’s much harder for writers to get over than artists, for whom an elaborate program of portfolio reviews are scheduled. You can’t just pitch ideas to editors wary of getting sued, and nobody’s actively looking for the next Alan Moore in the rope-line at Comic Con. Comics have learned a lot of the worst lessons from Hollywood, which has relied on them as a market-testing, brand-breaking farm team for nearly twenty years. Namely, to get noticed at all, you have to have already broken out on your own, so their buying your title benefits them in the short term more than it will benefit you, who’ve already done the unimaginably difficult job of making yourself a viable brand.

There is no God...

but Godzilla.

I have no illusions about my ambitions or my methods. I’ve never wanted to write superhero comics for Marvel or DC, and I’ve always known the kind of stuff I’d excel at writing would only appeal to a wafer-thin slice of the comic reading audience, which only comprises a shrinking plurality even of the folks who attend Comic Con. Peers of mine who’ve moved from obscurity to writing flagship Marvel titles did so by striking up relationships that have eluded me over a lifetime of chasing comics work. It took a couple years of bird-dogging Dark Horse at events to cultivate an editor who liked my work, and they almost immediately let her go. Same thing happened at IDW, where Jeff Conner tirelessly put together a raft of great prose anthologies based on their cheesy properties, which were dumped on the market with so little fanfare that year in and year out, the reps at their booth weren’t even aware they existed.

Truth is, every year, Comic Con leaves me feeling like the poor fucker in Kafka’s “Before The Law” piece from The Trial. I lost my capacity to enjoy playing RPGs after the decade-long hosing I received at the hands of Chaosium over the San Francisco Guidebook, so I’ve always tried to balance my disappointment with my progress in the comic industry against the fear of losing the pleasure of reading them. Though I failed to add any new “contacts,” my greatest pleasures of the weekend were the times I got to spend with my real friends in the community––Mike Dubisch, who’s helped me give life to ideas no sane comic company would ever touch; Ron Kirby, Comic Con volunteer since before you or I were even born, who has always made sure I was welcome; Brian and Gwen Callahan of Sigh Co Graphics and H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival in Portland, who’ve always carried my wares and let me hide from the inevitable backlash to my guerilla marketing stunts in their booth; and a bunch more people, dear friends I only see at Comic Con every year, who make the dream a reality.

Moving the smell at Comic Con with Anthony Trevino

If I’ve learned anything worth knowing from twenty-one years at Comic Con, it’s just that: know who your friends are. Lift them up and never forget all the times you’ve leaned on them. Strangers won’t pick you up unless you’re spilling money out your pockets.

It was Sunday evening of another Comic Con several years ago. I’d just spent the last of my disposable Con cash on a t-shirt for my daughter and was hanging out on the lanai of the Hilton, watching the sunset and enjoying a beer before driving back to Los Angeles, when a writer of some note in both prose and comics, invited me to join him and some close friends and colleagues for a limo run to the Mission Valley In N Out.

I’d eaten there often; in fact, I like as not would’ve stopped there by myself on my way out of town, but this was exactly the kind of secret handshake socializing thing I’d despaired of ever getting in on.

I was barely acquainted with this author, having been introduced to him at a World Horror con in 2005 when we were both coming up, but we’d never interacted since. I’d been on a science fiction panel with some notable luminaries that weekend in spite of having no major publications to speak of, so his invitation couldn’t help but strike me as some kind of threshold moment. The cool kids had invited me to ride in their fancy car to get lunch! It was like hanging out with the seniors freshman year of high school, all over again.

The limo was so long, it couldn’t get up the ramp to the Hilton carport, so we had to come down to it. The author introduced me to his wife, whose idea the limo ride apparently was, but not to any of his friends, who conversed animatedly with each other all the way to the In N Out.

The limo couldn’t fit into the drive-thru either, so we got out and filed inside to order. I got my food and ate in the car next to them, but managed to insert not a single word into the conversation. I felt like a ghost, alive but too boring to be perceived by my fellow passengers. I had more than enough time to wonder why I’d been invited at all, since they had plenty of friends.

When we got back to the hotel, I found out. The writer’s wife cornered me on my way to the restroom and hit me up to chip in for the limo ride. I didn’t hear her talk with any of their industry friends about paying for the ride. The writer had told me his wife was independently wealthy and wanted to do it for her friends who’d never had In N Out before. I had to explain to her that I was flat broke and didn’t know we were supposed to chip in, or I’d have gone to In N Out by myself in my car, which was parked at Qualcomm Stadium, about a mile away from Mission Valley. I apologized to her, but I could tell I’d offended her deeply, that if she got any impression of me at all, it was as a freeloader who’d taken advantage of her little outing for a free ride. I took the trolley back, past the fateful In N Out, and though my belly was filled, I had to go to my parents’ house in Lakeside before leaving town and made them cook tacos before I felt solid again.

I don’t want this endless bummer post with a bummer, so here’s the most amazing guy I’ve had the pleasure to get to know and work with through Comic Con.

Don't be a sinner... be like SKINNER!

April 27, 2017

Mystery Meat Lives!

Filed under: Uncategorized — doktrhonky @ 4:25 am

Available wherever quality paperbacks and edible underwear are sold.

So we haven’t updated our store yet, but RIGHT NOW, you can get Mystery Meat in print HERE, and for Kindle HERE.

April 16, 2016

The Neighbor Of The bEast

Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — doktrhonky @ 4:17 pm
We forgot to poke holes in his box... again.

We forgot to poke holes in his box... again.

So many weirdos have added fuel to the burgeoning XPULVER controversy, that we felt compelled to restore a little sanity. So here, reproduced in full, is our brief interview with Joseph S. Pulver, Sr., conducted only days ago, to assess his mental and emotional state prior to crating him up for transport to these United States for an appearance at the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival & Cthulhucon–San Pedro, April 29-May 1. This interview will also appear in The Daily Lurker program handed out at the fest…

Few dark stars in the weird horror genre shine brighter or burn stranger fuel than Joseph S. Pulver, Sr.. From his novel debut, Nightmare’s Disciple, he has doggedly pursued a passionate human urgency into the clinically detached modern horror scene, and restored a rhythmic dynamism and a reverence for the conjuring power inherent in WORDS(!!!!) to a field largely overwhelmed by the influence of cinema. Making the most of the brief-but-tranquil interval between feeding and smoking out the Beast, we posed a few questions to try to get into the head of the man who went to Carcosa way before it was cool.

Your unique stream-of-consciousness prose style seems to draw as much upon musical and poetic influences as literature.

Music is my heroin, and I read more poetry than fiction, true, so yeah, I’m bent that way. I like film, a lot, but it’s not me. Film looks, I feel. I feel music, I feel the poet’s pain, or their wonderment, or rage, or the weight of their crown.  So, no, no films in my head (excepting my “Carl Lee and Cassilda” trilogy). Places/events, X’s on maps, I see one and just start walking toward it. Can’t plan the walk, as there may be detours around a corner you can’t yet see, or you may bump into someone leaving their abode and suddenly you’ve turned right and are in a divebar having watered-down drinks w/ a woman (with an ass that could start a revolution) who tells you she has an OUTthere pad in Dimension Z… and she has a cure for yer ills. The teXt goes where it wants to go. Screams or cries, as it wants. It’s all JAZZ, improvise as you go. It’s all about FELT! !!


You’ve also said that your passion is crime fiction, and particularly David Goodis, but you seem to write exclusively weird horror. How has crime fiction schooled what you do, and/or how you do it?

Ah, crime. Dreams and downs. LOTTO tix and losers that can’t spell S.O.S. Wine, women, and FUCK YOU for thinking you could get ahead, or get out alive. Crime fiction told me what’s true. Showed me my city, and its sisters. The city is grey, it’s hard, it HUGE… and yer nothing, less than zero—COSMICISM anyone? The city is a character, not a place. It provides the oxygen. It tells you what’s on the menu and if you get to eat today. It decides where the stop lights are and if there are any detours on the route you were planning on taking.

Goodis, Himes, Spillane, Ellroy, Vachss, dozens of others, they put it plain, they’re jazzy, expressionistic, the pain comes slashing off the page. Reading crime since I was 12, it got in deep and when I began to write, it’s what came to the page naturally.

Loved Bloch and Poe and Crime as a teen. They were all dark, and the Crime/Weird fit, to me, seemed as normal as a broken window in an abandoned factory.

I have penned 3 straight noir tales, no weird in them, not a whiff. One day, I’d like to do a noir novel, no weird!

You’ve written a few dozen stories using Robert Chambers’ King In Yellow cycle, and edited two anthologies of Carcosa fiction. What is it with you and the King in Yellow, anyway?

12 years old, 13, Bloch and Poe set me up for MADNESS. They scared the hell out of me, w/ “Tell Tale Heart”, “ACoA”, and Norman and Jack the Ripper. I was a book kid, a library kid, I lived in books, they were my car, my wings, my teachers—books were the true power in the universe. At 16, along came Chambers with his madness. WHAM, a book w/the power to drive you mad. Add the mystery of the King in Yellow play, the allure of long ago and far away, and what’s behind the mask, damn, I was hooked! 45 years later, I still am.

See? Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy. America, open your hearts and your medicine chests!

He's tanned, rested and ready.

February 1, 2016

The Long Hard Road Up To Hell

Super-Size this...

We got bored, so we’re coming back.

Perilous Press was always going to be a refuge for projects by myself and others that nobody else could or would put out. We started Perilous to release my first two books because I was too paranoid to submit to a publisher after getting burned badly in my first pro sale. We’ve kept it alive to put out edgy, weird works by a few people we’ve liked who came to us because they had fire in their hands nobody else could handle. It was never my intent to make it a vanity press, and I’ve worked with a host of other, albeit nearly as small, outfits in the intervening years.

Perilous lapsed into dormancy; we didn’t even have a slush pile. But it was always the intent to reactivate it if and when the publishing world left us no choice. That time has come again.

In about two weeks, we’ll be launching a Kickstarter campaign to promote a graphic novel project I’ve been working on for several years with my excellent artist friend and frequent collaborator, Mike Dubisch. MYSTERY MEAT is coming, and you’d bester bring two pairs of gloves. It’s sticky.


December 5, 2015


Filed under: Uncategorized — doktrhonky @ 10:28 pm

(photography by Todd Chicoine)

Witnessed and disavowed at Cthulhu Prayer Breakfasts and damned with faintly droll praise in the New Yorker, banned wherever basic standards of intellectual property are respected… here, at last, for a limited time, is the studio recording of BABY GOT BASS.

Baby Got Bass

Dignity. Always dignity.

August 27, 2015

So This Happened…

June 27, 2015

San Diego Comic Con

Along with the inestimable Leslie Klinger, Mike Dubisch, a crack panel of scientific experts and my film-festering partner Aaron Vanek, I will be holding down a panel on The Science Of ‘At The Mountains Of Madness’ in the midst a crazy Friday afternoon at San Diego Comic Con. If you’re looking for a quiet, dark place to hide from crowds and celebrities, this is it. If time allows, we might even sneak in a quickie preview of my new graphic novel with Mike, Mystery Meat…

September 14, 2014

The Festival That Swallowed San Pedro

Skinner with his Shoggoth

Perilous Press has suspended operations for the time being, though we’re always fulfilling orders. My focus has been entirely eclipsed by the Lovecraft Film Festival coming back to LA in two weeks.

This has been my first year as a co-director of the festival, though I’ve organized the literary program and hosted the Cthulhu Prayer Breakfast. This year, we’re striving to bring off an insanely ambitious program, from commissioning a stupendous mural by the infamous Skinner to screening Creature From The Black Lagoon in 3-D on one of the biggest screens left in LA, and bringing the Lovecraft Historical Society to perform The Shadow Over Innsmouth radioplay live onstage. Mythos authors John Shirley, Gary Myers, Nancy Holder, Ross Lockhart, Leslie Klinger and others will read and discuss Lovecraft’s lasting impact and controversial legacy. And I’m hosting an all-night secret screening of forbidden mythos movies in a basement that was once an 80′s fetish nightclub. We’re striving to bring 700 people to the fabulous Art Deco landmark Warner Grand Theater for this uniquely freaky event. Because that’s how many of you need to buy tickets, if we’re going to come back and do it even weirder in May, 2015.

Older Posts »

Powered by WordPress