Posts Tagged ‘books’

Joe Giambrone, publisher of Political Film Blog

Hell of a Deal was the first book I decided to publish, back in 2009. It is a satire of the “War on Terror” and Hollywood’s incessant propaganda to push empire, domination, torture, and war crimes. Hollywood, quite frankly, sickened me to my core and I had to respond in some way.

This book is more Gulliver than John Wick, more Faust than Charlie’s Angels. At the start, I wanted so badly to crucify the main guy, Executive Producer Al Smith. He was to represent the worst of Hollywood profiteering at the cost of all our souls. After hitting the movie lottery in the late 60s, his career evolved over the decades to promote more extreme degradation and nationalism, especially as we entered the Age of Terror. And that’s where Seaford stepped in.

The story needed a guy to push the envelope, to abandon the self-imposed limitations, which Hollywood had placed on itself, and to see how far these trends could go. So, as the title implied, it was literally about a deal–a movie deal. Only, nothing was what it seemed. The deal was not about money, and profit was the last thing Seaford cared about. It was all about the messaging, the propaganda, the final cut, the access into your brains.

By the time Seaford arrived on the movie scene, Al Smith was already old and on his last legs. He was dying. His time was over, almost. There was one thing that could possibly turn things around for him, and that was medical science. This was what Seaford brought to the table: “Youth.”

These pieces all fit together like a well-oiled machine. Just thinking on it, I knew I had something special here. Firstly, I had something to say. Secondly, I had a Faustian bargain plot like no one had ever seen before. In this Faustian story, things are meant to look one way, fairly normal even in the current normality. But things were far from normal.

As I said, I wanted Al Smith to suffer, but strangely that only brought the story so far. The story itself cried out for some kind of redemption. Could I flip everything and become sympathetic to Smith? What would he need to do?

In the end, perhaps some might think him redeemed. Others not. It’s potentially ambiguous, and with a big Hollywood ending.

WRECKING BALLS

Let’s see your book reviews, if you think it’s so easy.

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The Alternative Bible

 

Hurry, ends Dec. 10.

FREE BOOK GIVEAWAY

One Liverpool family’s struggle to survive the Second World War, as the city was flattened by German bombers, and the men were far away at sea fighting to save England.

900-WRECKINGBALLS-

by

Joe Giambrone

Copyright 2016
Joe Giambrone
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Words scraped from Charleston’s dried-out throat, “Am I paralyzed?” He panicked, ignoring the perturbed cop, an older black detective towering over his hospital bed.

“Get the doctor back in here! What are you doing?”

“Stop changin’ the subject, Mr. Cranston. You’re in a lotta trouble.”

The blurry guy was probably more intimidating than he seemed. Charleston’s good eye spun in its socket. His body floated on a warm tropical sea.

“I need tests,” he said, his voice barely audible. Unable to raise his head, he sank to sleep again.

Uniformed policemen shuffled through the small curtained-off nook.

“So you were drinking?” The detective’s deep voice berated.

“Yeah. Of course. You have my blood already. The hell else do you want? Bloodsucker.”

The predicament might be humorous if only he could dig his way through the joke. Glancing right, he saw that his wrist had been handcuffed to the gurney’s railing, big silver bracelets reflecting ugly green hospital light. His body ambiguous from the morphine, the opiate splashed into his bloodstream.

“Tell me about the crash then.”

That blob of a detective held some potential. The man fronted like he already knew all the answers. Charleston resisted, swallowed, and attempted to reestablish feeling with his tongue.

“I have no recollection senator. Why don’t you ask Giordano? I’m the victim here. I need care.”

He could hear the E.R.’s cacophony outside the sterile white curtains. Doctors barked orders, and patients rolled by.

“Is that so?” The detective scratched a note. “The victim?”

“You’re fuckin’ A right. Fat fuck was trying to kill me. It’s on the video.”

“Uh huh…”

Charleston tugged at his handcuff. “Wait. I’m supposed to get a phone call.”

The man grinned with pity. “Yeah? Who do you want to call?”

As he scanned the bland curtains in confusion, he realized he was friendless. “I guess a lawyer. Public defender?”

The cop flipped through his pad. “The eyewitnesses said you rammed your vehicle into Giordano’s.”

Charleston’s jaw, inhibited by a tight neck brace, forced his mouth open. “No that’s not right. I defended myself. Self-defense.”

The man cocked his head. “So you remember the crash now?”

Charleston’s un-bandaged eye peered up, pinned wide open.

“Is he uh? Is he all right? Gary? Is he okay?”

The detective shook his head angrily. “I’m askin’ the questions. Get it?”

“Well he’s not dead, is he?”

“Did you crash your car intentionally?”

Charleston breathed to stall for time.

“He fucks with me. That’s how all of this shit started. Okay? He’s a real fuckin’ asshole.”

The detective’s eyebrow tensed, and he stared down coldly.

“All of what shit started?”

Chapter Two

The incident began in an innocuous conversation. Charleston was on the cusp of his thirtieth birthday. He and Giordano still sat on a couch playing video games most days, surrounded by food containers and Gary’s wayward butts. Their cheap Reseda apartment, on ground level, sat in the center of the Los Angeles sprawl, five minutes from everywhere. Charleston pressed pause. “La, la, la—Labia. That’s such a great word. Underutilized.”

“Tastes great too.” Gary Giordano had surpassed the 300 pound mark, and he munched on gourmet jelly beans.

Charleston popped a stick of watermelon gum as he pondered. “Labia. Lady parts. Gotta get the L in there. Labyrinth. Labial labyrinth?”

“Lake?”

“No…” Charleston reached for his ever-present notebook. “Ladle?” He raised his bushy brow. “Ladle the labia?”

Gary said, in cockney accent, “Lappin’ up them labia lips, laddie.”

“Wait. It’s coming. It’s coming.”

“That’s what she said.”

Charleston swept out his palms. “Labia. Arcadia. Uh. Anastasia?”

“Gonorrhea?” Gary hunted for his cigarette pack.

“The obvious.”

“Yeah. Call me Captain Obvious. Just fuckin’ pay me.” Gary obtained a cigarette, but he was unable to locate his lighter.

“No, dude. There’s more to this labial phenomenon than meets the eye.”

“Or the tongue? Oooh. Gonorrhea tongue. Yum.” Gary flicked his tongue about.

“Class act, Gar. All the way. Lydia! Lydia would work! Lydia’s labia. Something.”

Gary caught sight of the darkness through their living room window. “Hey what the hell time is it?”

Charleston checked his phone.

“Shit!”

(more…)

wrecking balls joke thieves small

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My novel of buddy stand-up comedians, who go to war with each other after a stolen joke idea, has finally hit the streets. Get it now, or forever regret your insolence and mediocrity. Now leave my sight.

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Scholastic Books is now selling access to your children’s minds.

Scholastic and Big Coal Team Up to Bamboozle 4th Graders

 

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Good tutorial–

http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=TgdOEOpCMdk