Dig. The Demon Dog gets down with a new book of scenes from America’s capital of kink: Los Angeles. Fourteen pieces, some fiction, some nonfiction, all true enough to be admissible as state’s evidence, and half of it in print for the first time. And every one of them bearing the James Ellroy brand of mayhem, machismo, and hollow-nose prose.
Here are Mexican featherweights and unsolved-murder vics, crooked cops and a very clean D.A. Here is a profile of Hollywood’s latest celebrity perp-walker, Robert Blake, and three new novellas featuring a demented detective with an obsession with a Hollywood actress. And, oh yes, just maybe the last appearance of Hush-Hush sleaze-monger Danny Getchell. Here’s Ellroy himself, shining a 500-watt Mag light into all the dark places of his life and imagination. Destination: Morgue! puts the reader’s attention in a hammerlock and refuses to let go.
Praise for James Ellroy:
From the Trade Paperback edition.
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|Title of eBook: Destination: Morgue!|
|Release Date: 12-18-2007|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Knopf Publishing Group|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Destination: Morgue!|
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Balls to the Wall
Blood sport declawed and reregulated. Cockfights for aesthetes and wimps.
Boxing is microcosm. Boxing baits pundits. Boxing rips writers and rags them to riff.
Boxing taps testosterone. Boxing bangs to the balls. Boxing mauls and makes you mine meaning.
Mexican boxing is:
Boxing distilled. Boxing stoicized. Boxing hyperbolized.
Mexican boxing is machismo magnified. Mexican boxing is bristling bravado. Mexican boxing means you die for love and live to impress and subjugate your buddies.
Vegas boxing is:
Lowlife pomp. Westminster West. Best-of-weight class as best-of-breed.
Vegas boxing is Rome revived. Gladiators divert high rollers. Imperial goons exploit muscled maxi-men and mainline their money.
I got the word:
Erik Morales meets Marco Antonio Barrera.
Junior featherweights. Title tiff. Vegas.
I had to go.
I love boxing. We go back.
My folks divorced in '55. My dad got me weekends. We holed up. We watched the fights.
We had a bubble-screen TV. We snarfed Cheez Whiz. My dad rooted on race and "heart."
He liked white fighters best. He liked Mexicans next. He liked Negroes last.
Heart eclipsed race. Heart mitigated race. Heart gave Mexicans White Man status.
"Mexican" meant all Latins. Mexican meant some Italians. Mexican meant the Cuban Negro Kid Gavilan.
My dad fucked up race and geography. He was a Wasp. He hit L.A. and learned Spanish. He dug inclusiveness. He knew the White Man ruled. He knew the Brown Man craved in.
He wanted him in. If he kicked ass to his specifications.
Race. Heart. My early education.