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My copy of BAD INTENTIONS arrived today.
Very cool to see “Carmelita” in there.
A short teaser below. Buy the book if you're so inclined to read more. Plus 14 other killer stories by 14 amazing writers.
Paperback: https://t.co/iLsEDsLwA0 #noir #crimefiction #zevon
Today's finally the day. "Bad Intentions" release day. I got a story "Carmelita" here, and there's 14 other terrific stories to read. You definitely get your money's worth. And all for a good cause! Amazon link: https://t.co/0n99ppRqiR #zevon #crimefiction #noir
Great stories by excellent writers. We're proud to feature them at the Garage!
#BadIntentons #Zevon #crimefiction
Happy to be live at @MythicPicnic with a new micro, amongst my great group of fellow writers. Bad Intentions Anthology coming soon from @litgarage01. #noir #crimefiction #zevon
Prelude to Bad Intentions v1
Mythic Micros by @jessebinger Zakariah Johnson @WhiskeyLeavins @ScottMacLe59594 @andrewcareaga @BruceWMost @JoelNedecky @GeonnCannon @keithroysdon @zimwrites @Tuskmor & Dylan Demasi
Curated by @NathanBorn2010 / Nathan Pettigrew
#MythicPicnicTweetStory
===
===
Sam’s Lost
by Jesse Binger / @jessebinger
.
Sam’s lost.
And no, not the type of lost that means chasing-after-the-dog, took the wrong turn and ended up a few blocks away. Old Mrs. Hannigan feeding him milk and cookies and old Marx Brother movies.
Lost.
Like in his head.
Like the kind that the counselors have even given up on. You get letters telling you he’s not the right fit for their practice. Fit. Like someone’s pair of jeans that’s now two sizes too small.
Lost.
Sheena, his ex is honking the horn, crying out in the street. Speaking mostly nonsense but the words you recognize carve your soul up like blades. You hear the beach. And that smack. And two hundred bucks that he better have unless he don’t like living.
That car that showed up the other night. Old Buick but with the fancy rims. Boys—no men—that rapped hard on your door. You wanted to call the cops but what if that made things worse.
Then you find him. But not really. You see—it’s him. Same wavy blond hair. Bit longer, you never liked the way his bangs covered his blue eyes, like why’d anyone hide their best parts. Like he don’t even want to be seen.
Margaret’s over every afternoon. Tea and those crumpets. Flaky, soft with a little bit of vanilla icing. You devour them then feel guilty after.
A mother’s intuition. You’ve known for months. Years?
He’s lost and maybe he’s not coming back.
And when the phone rings. Officer whatever-the-fuck’s-his-name again. You can read him before he even says the words. But it doesn’t matter. When he does, it destroys you all over again.
Gone.
.
Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion and elsewhere.
===
===
Make It Sweet
by Zakariah Johnson
.
“A buyuk boy, shakira, lootfain.”
“You got it, my man!” said the barista.
Dale’s Turkish was largely gibberish, but after two weeks of patronage, Mehmet knew he meant “a double with sugar.”
His first day in Istanbul, as he’d stumbled jet-lagged and bleary-eyed around the Golden Horn Metro Bridge, a conman had tricked Dale out of $100 through a simple street hustle. Mehmet, who worked the nearby coffee shop Dale visited right after, had commiserated with him, offered a free cuppa joe, and even promised to keep an eye out for the guy Dale described. Dale returned a couple times a week to check, picking up a little more of the language each day.
“Dale! Is that the guy?” Mehmet chin pointed with a click of his tongue toward a seedy-looking dude hanging outside.
“Yes!” Dale drained the gritty shot in his hand and charged the door.
“Remember what I taught you!” Mehmet shouted after him.
Cornering the thief, Dale loomed over him red-faced and maniacal, unleashing a streak of Turkish obscenities with unmistakable meaning, despite his grammar. The conman cast a terrified glance at Mehmet, then slipped away and ran down the street with the foul-mouthed tourist berating him in hot pursuit.
Dale returned for a refill, and the two friends shared a laugh.
“You did it, Dale!”
“Man, that felt great! Set me up, lootfain.” It was the most revenge a tourist could expect.
Mehmet smirked as he prepped Dale’s next “double.” Watching his punk-ass cousin scurrying like a rat down the sidewalk was the most fun he’d had all summer, but his happy client didn’t need to know that.
.
Zakariah Johnson plucks banjos and pens horror, mysteries, and crime fiction on the banks of the Piscataqua. His work was most recently included in the Derringer-Award-winning anthology On Fire and Under Water: A Crime Fiction Climate Change Anthology.
Follow him at ZakariahJohnson . com.
===
===
A Pie to Die For
by Whiskey Leavins / @WhiskeyLeavins
.
Noodles held the gun in her right hand. With her left, she reached up. Calmly scooping the glob of white stuff from her left eye and flinging it against the wall of her trailer. She’d taken face shots in her time. Hundreds. She was classically trained, after all. But she’d paid her dues, earned the “No Cream Pies” clause in her contract. She was an elite Auguste, not some low-rent Hobo. Skid Row Bill knew this. He’d been warned. Repeatedly.
She hadn’t donned her wig yet, so it was all in her hair. If she didn’t wash it out immediately, she’d stink like month-old milk within minutes—she’d learned that at Santa Lacrimosa Clown College. Her make-up was ruined. She’d have to start over. Completely. Showtime loomed.
She set the gun down on the counter next to the sink full of dishes and examined her outfit. It was marred by dozens of white splotches of various sizes. Ruined.
“Well, shit,” Noodles said to herself. “I fucking told him.” She peeled off the outfit. Turning on the shower, she looked again.
Skid Row Bill lay contorted like a balloon animal. Mostly inside the trailer, one oversized Hobo foot sticking out the open door. His battered pork pie hat lay nearby. In defiance of all she knew about spinal cords and necks, he faced her. Despite being in full clown, his face, sporting a brown, frowning Hobo muzzle still emoted something more than surprise. Confusion. Maybe regret?
Before committing to the hot shower, she bent down, picked up the aluminum tin, and frisbee’d it towards him. It hit square, the cream pie remnants adhering it to his face. His mug was hidden behind the pie tin as effectively as if she’d walked over and placed it there.
Then she said, not without tenderness, “Our time came and went, Bill. I loved you once. But that was a long time ago. Now, you’ve thrown your last cream pie. At anyone.” She stepped into the shower, then poked her head back out again and said, “You motherfucker.”
.
Whiskey Leavins, a humorist with a crime-writing problem, has lived a nomadic life in multiple cities and states both north and south of the Rio Grande. Now he loves life in Santa Cruz, California and has no plans to leave. He is the author of the humorous crime Santa Lacrimosa series featuring murderous clown factions, turkey-worshiping cults, brawling street performers, and was referred to by one Goodreads reviewer as “A one-man genre.”
===
===
Easy as ABC
by Scott MacLeod / @ScottMacLe59594
.
He don’t know his letters, thought Ricky when he looked down at the refrigerator.
“CAT”
Spelled in colorful plastic magnets.
Except the A was an upside-down V.
Little Ricky sat next to his handiwork, grinning. Angie was supposed to be teaching him this shit while Ricky made it rain, but she was busy taking care of her mom. Ricky was no Neanderthal; he knew this parenting gig was a joint venture. Still, it chapped him he would need to take time out of his busy day for home schooling. He squatted and patiently quizzed the little bastard on letter after letter.
The kid showed little promise.
For the next couple weeks, every morning Ricky would sit and work through the toy letters with the tot.
It got to where Ricky hardly noticed the kid on the floor beside him, wrestling with the magnetic alphabet on his own after their lesson, while Ricky commanded the universe from his kitchen.
In Ricky’s line of work there was occasional need for pruning. Such case had arisen, and he was communicating details by phone over his morning Joe.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “It’s an odd name so I’ll spell it: B.L.A.D.Z. George Bladz. No, I don’t know how you say it. The only thing you need to say to him is bye-bye. Now spell it back to me. That’s right, B.L.A.D.Z. Now find him and then lose him.”
Two days later Rick’s doorbell rang during breakfast. Little Ricky was napping. Of course, the detective could come in for a cup, Ricky had nothing to hide. Have a seat. No, he knew nothing about a stiff named George Blazes or however you say it.
The cop was stoic taking in the cramped kitchen, until his eyes alit on the fridge. He then jumped up, cuffed Ricky and walked him out of the room. As he left the kitchen, Ricky noticed over his shoulder the magnets on the lower panel of the old Whirlpool.
B L A D Z.
Ricky had to smile. Maybe the kid was going places.
.
Scott MacLeod is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominated father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in various publications, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash fiction newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1 . substack . com. As well as on Instagram @scottmacleod478, on X @ScottMacLe59594 and at http://www . facebook . com / scott . Macleod . 334
===
===
DRIVING GRANDMA TO BINGO
by Andrew Careaga / @andrewcareaga
.
Driving grandma to bingo, I get pulled over for driving too slow.
“Fifteen in a thirty,” the cop says while inspecting my license and registration. Grandma leans over from the passenger side and shouts, “I told him to speed the freak up, officer!” The cop grins at her and lets me off with a warning. Grandma says, “Way to go, kiddo. Now we’re gonna be late!”
Grandma’s always in a hurry for her Thursday night bingo games. They don’t start until six, but by five-thirty she’s standing at the front door, Coach purse dangling from one arm, telling me to “shake a leg.” Says she needs to get to the bar before “that lush” Margie shows up.
The games end at eight o’clock, but grandma’s never in a hurry to leave. I’ll wait in the parking lot until she and Margie stumble out around 8:30. On the ride home, she’ll fall asleep, her head tilted back, mouth agape, and snore like an old mutt.
Lately she’s told me not to even bother picking her up. Says she’ll catch a ride with Margie. Some nights she doesn’t come home until midnight or later. She’ll try to sneak in like a truant teenager. But I’m always awake when she comes home, even if I pretend to be asleep.
Last week, as I was about to leave for work, I heard the front door click. Then laughter. Then grandma, Margie, and Mr. Edminson, who lives down the street, stumbled into the foyer, arm in arm and arm. They smelled like sour booze, stale cigars, body odor, and skunky weed.
“Oh, hi, kiddo,” grandma said. “Bingo ran a little long tonight.” She tried to stifle a snicker, but it escaped and spread like contagion to Margie and Mr. Edminson, and soon the three of them fell to the floor in hysterics.
.
Andrew Careaga is online at andrewcareaga . com and at @andrewcareaga on X/Twitter.
===
===
A Little Housecleaning
by Bruce W. Most / @BruceWMost
.
“No, we’re not going to move!” Ida snapped at her children sitting on the other side of the dining room table. “We’re not downsizing.”
“You two can’t take care of yourselves, mom, let alone this big house,” April retorted, trying not to stare into the blank, uncomprehending eyes of her father.
“You’re not the parents here,” Ida said.
“It’s no longer safe to live here, mother,” said William. “One of you is going to tumble down a flight of stairs. Especially the basement. Those steps are narrow and rickety, and the lighting is terrible.”
Yes, falling down the basement stairs would not be good, mused Ida. It might raise awkward questions.
“This is the home you two grew up in,” she said. “How can you even suggest we sell it to strangers?”
Forty-eight years she and George had lived in the house. They’d poured money and time and soul into restoring the two-story Victorian, to say nothing of the accumulated memories. And secrets.
“Mom, we love this home,” April said. “But we love you two more. You need to move to a smaller, safer place.”
Ida set her eyes hard at her children. “I’m not spending the last years of my life in a retirement home playing bridge, or learning to knit, or gossiping with a bunch of old biddies.”
“The house is not only dangerous, it’s cluttered and filthy,” William said, scanning the dining room. “A fire hazard. When was the last time you dusted the place?”
Downsizing! No way in hell. But maybe she could appease them for the time being.
“Okay we’ll hire a housecleaner,” she said. “And people to help us clean out junk we no longer need. After that, we’ll discuss moving.”
“That sounds good, mom,” April said excitedly.
Ida smiled at her children. She didn’t know any housecleaners. But she knew people who knew people. They could put her in touch with someone who could dispose of the body in the crawlspace.
.
Bruce W. Most writes crime short stories and whodunit novels. His most recent novel is No Time for Murder.
===
===
Dust on the Soul
by Joel Nedecky / @JoelNedecky
.
Jimmy loved getting lit. Mostly dope and Kirt Vile records spun fast and smooth like the polished hood of his 84 Ford F150.
When his buddy, Motormouth Pete Sanders, asked him to drive to Crafty’s Diner so he could rob it, Jimmy said sure. He’d done it before and made a couple hundred bucks each time. Maybe he’d get those new tires, after all.
But there’d been dust on Jimmy’s soul lately, a feeling of impending doom he couldn’t explain. It was like the old way of doing things had stopped working. He had to smoke twice as much to get high, and he never seemed to reach the chill vibes he clung to as part of his identity. It felt like he was pretending, longing for a past that had drifted along down the road on a hot wind. He hoped this job could bring back some of the life he’d lost.
On the drive, Jimmy and Pete bullshitted about baseball and the local fair in town the next weekend that they’d been going to since they were in short pants. But it felt empty, the words like ball bearings in his mouth.
Jimmy cut down the alley that ran behind the building, watched Pete jump out with a stocking pulled over his face, carrying a shotgun he used to shoot turkeys in the fields that circled his clapboard house overlooking Berringer Creek. Jimmy squinted as his friend turned the corner.
Darkness fell over the cab and he sat there, frozen, struck by a sudden urge to flee and start anew. He checked the rear-view mirror, reversed into traffic, and sped away feeling an unusual new high he didn’t know what to make of.
Jimmy packed a suitcase in less than five minutes, pointed the truck north, and drove toward the horizon as the sun set on a beautiful day.
.
Joel Nedecky writes crime fiction about people with few options for whom life is a struggle. His debut novel, THE BROKEN DETECTIVE, was shortlisted for Best First Novel by Crime Writers of Canada.
===
===
Innocent Bystander
by Geonn Cannon / @GeonnCannon
.
Leaf stared at the screen of her phone, irritation rising as the ringtone played out. She recognized the name of a cheap hotel in the part of town no one ever went to. Zella was literally the only person who would ever call her from a place like that, and there was only one reason she’d be calling. It was the only reason her sister ever called her. “I’m in trouble. I need money. I just got in over my head, it was a sure thing that just went sideway.”
The same story every time.
Leaf didn’t have the cash to loan her this time, so bailing her out would be an easy no. But if she needed support, if she needed to be taken somewhere... rehab, hopefully. Or just to get away from a bad situation. What if the cops were looking for her? What if really awful people were moments away from tracking her down? Even if it was just a bad breakup with her latest shitty girlfriend, everyone deserved a safety net. But it probably wasn’t something so mundane. Zella dealt with a lot of bad folks, the type who would kill someone who crossed them.
Leaf sighed and answered the phone.
“What is it this time, Zella?”
Her sister didn’t even hesitate. “I need a ride.”
.
Geonn Cannon is the author of over sixty novels, including the Riley Parra series which was adapted into an Emmy-nominated webseries. His novel Can You Hear Me was adapted into Static Space, an award-winning short film. He’s also written two tie-in novels for the television series Stargate SG-1.
===
===
Cease and Desist
by Keith Roysdon / @keithroysdon
.
Hal Hornblow Jr. was feeling good that Universal had sent only one lawyer to bluster and threaten about Hal’s pilot script for “The Files of Brock White.”
Then Hal saw that the studio had already won a judge’s temporary restraining order dated yesterday, November 12, 1977.
“Universal execs read a copy of your pilot screenplay,” the lawyer said. “The TRO was a slam-dunk. Your pilot is a blatant imitation of our property ‘The Rockford Files.’”
“I don’t know why Universal would think ‘The Files of Brock White’ in any way infringes on ‘Rockford,’” Hal said.
“Sure, Mr. Hornblow,” the lawyer said, and Hal nearly choked on the sarcastic smarm. “Number one: Both shows have ‘files’ in their title.”
Hal scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. What’s important is not the title, but what you do with it.”
The Universal attorney smiled grimly. “What you did with this script, Mr. Hornblow, is write a pilot that swims in copyright infringement.”
“Preposterous.”
The lawyer referred to his notes. “Both shows are about a private investigator.”
“Do you know how many PI series are on TV?”
“In both shows, the PI lives in a trailer at the beach,” the lawyer added. “Both series depict the PI frustrated with his father. In both, the PI is an ex-con. In both, the PI is a wry sort who has a thorny relationship with the cops. In both, the lead drives a Pontiac Firebird.
“Your script even specifies that the credits begin with an answering machine message.”
Hal huffed. “I resent your implications. Firebird. Ha! Trailer on the beach. Ridiculous!”
The attorney smiled and clicked his briefcase closed. “The judge will extend this TRO if we ask.”
“I welcome the opportunity to go to court over this,” Hal said. “The judge will throw out Universal’s complaint.”
The attorney left. Hal called his showrunner.
“What would it cost us to break our lease on the shooting location at the trailer?”
.
Keith Roysdon is the author of SEVEN ANGELS.
===
===
A SIT-DOWN KIND OF A GUY
by Mike Zimmerman / @zimwrites
.
Four men in a crash pad that smells like bologna. Four cots. Four chairs around a table. Tomorrow is the job. Tonight is cards and sobriety and cleaning of hardware and busting of balls. Nudy ain’t got no poker face, says Cunn.
Better to have the cards, Nudy says.
Maffioli doesn’t say much. Maffioli’s the farter.
Nudy’s first kill is a topic of conversation. Nudy finally killed a guy, yeah.
What was his expression, Cunn asks. I love the expressions.
He was pissed, Nudy says.
Two in the chest, Nudy says to the next question. One in the head. Nudy does not lie but does not say what really happened.
Cunn tells Nudy a quick story of his first, two in the face behind a club, left him there. A funny face. Like part of it popped.
Nudy’s mind spins screaming a gun is too much in my hand. I can’t control it. It feels wrong.
You’re a fuckin faggot, Nudy-Book, Fooksman says and throws down his cards and gets up and goes in the bathroom to take a shit. They hear it.
Nudy-Book, Maffioli says. Good one.
Don’t sweat it, he hates everyone, Cunn says.
The boss likes Nudy, that’s the problem. They hear Nudy’s jokes and no man thinks another man’s funny unless he gives in.
The bathroom door opens and Fooksman fills the room and says wrap this shit up. Set the alarm.
They hit their cots. Sleep takes them. Except Nudy.
Maffioli farts. Fooksman snores. Cunn gurgles. Nudy dreams yet does not sleep and yes, two in the chest, one in the head, eight other bullets all over the room and screaming and twelve minutes to get it done.
There are bonafides. Nudy has his now. Tomorrow’s job will just reinforce that. The boys will see.
Later Nudy rises to take a leak. He chooses to sit. Piss hits the side of the bowl between his legs rather than the water. A silent courtesy.
Someone’s cot creaks and Fooksman pulls the bathroom door open and Nudy looks up at him and they both hear tinkles in the water.
.
Mike Zimmerman is an award-winning writer and editor with work in Men’s Health, The Wall Street Journal, Philadelphia, and WebMD. His short fiction has appeared in Dark Yonder, Dark Waters Vol 3, Rock and a Hard Place, and more. His crime novels A Mosquito Over Sunset and Where the Sun Don’t Shine are available in print and ebook, and a new novel, Wildman, will be published in 2026. Follow him on Bluesky @zimwrites and find him at www . zimwrites . com
===
===
Elevator Ride
by D.J. Tuskmor / @Tuskmor
.
Doctor Tan’s daughter had his eyes.
That was the part I kept looking at. It wasn’t the wife in the sundress, or the obvious pregnancy bump, the resort pool behind them or the little paper umbrella sticking out of whatever drink he had been holding when the picture was taken. The girl. Maybe five. She looked just like the man standing beside me in the elevator, smiling like showing a stranger his family was a normal thing to do.
It was normal, I guess. For him, and people not like me.
My suit pinched at the shoulders every time I moved my arms. I had shaved for the job, and the skin along my jaw kept reminding me of it. The jacket, the shoes, the clean face, none of it felt like mine, but it made me look like a man who belonged in the hotel, and looking like you belong is most of the work.
Tan put the phone away.
“One daughter,” he said, still beaming, “and two more on the way.”
“Well shit,” I said.
He laughed, thinking I meant congratulations.
I let him have that.
The elevator climbed. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
I had a knife tucked under the jacket at my belt line. Guns make noise, and hotels are full of people who hear noise and decide to become a problem. A blade avoids all that. The downside is that you have to be close enough to watch the moment someone figures out what’s happening.
I did not want that for Doctor Tan.
The elevator kept climbing, doing its job better than I was doing mine.
“Twenty,” it said.
“Enjoy the rest of the conference,” Tan said, and stepped forward across the threshold.
I caught the door with my hand before it could close.
For half a second, I considered letting him walk.
Then I stepped out after him.
.
D.J. Tuskmor writes horror, crime, and dark speculative fiction, often where those genres overlap. His fiction has appeared with Cursed Morsels Press, Shotgun Honey, and 7th-Circle Pyrite. Find him on socials @Tuskmor.
===
===
The Care We Provide
by Dylan Demasi
.
The slum savior wasn't quite ready to be a martyr.
His missing ring finger confirmed it. A desperate shot from a security guard had taken it almost a week ago, leaving him bleeding, hunted, and hiding in a fifth-floor studio apartment.
A moan came from the mattress behind him.
Sharon.
The fever was getting worse. The bullet they'd dug out of her side had left more than a wound. Ira gave her a sip of water and brushed the damp hair from her face.
Lynn burst through the apartment door.
"They're back," she said, breathless. "Coffee shop across the street. Same as every morning."
Ira looked at Sharon. If she stayed, she died. Over an act of protest she hadn't even believed in.
He nodded at his most passionate follower. An answer to a question she wasn’t quite bold enough to ask.
Minutes later, the door opened again.
Two paramedics entered carrying black medical bags.
One wore a buzz cut and an easy grin. The other had thick black glasses and the expression of a man grading papers.
Lynn pointed them toward Sharon. They knelt on opposite sides of her.
From inside the closet, Ira watched through the slats.
The one with glasses pulled a Polaroid from his pocket. He compared the photo to Sharon's face. A nod passed between them, followed by a slow scan of the room.
Lynn frowned and stepped closer. "What's wrong?"
Their bags snapped open.
The buzz-cut drew a pistol.
Lynn screamed.
The shot cut it off.
A second shot echoed through the apartment.
The closet door flew open.
Ira Allen. Wanted six days. Frozen in shock.
The two paramedics stood shoulder to shoulder. Two badges now hung from their necks.
The world disappeared behind them, Ira's revolution right alongside it.
The grinning one raised a taxpayer-supplied .45.
"You know, Ira," he said, "for someone who doesn't trust the system..."
The barrel settled between Ira's eyes.
"...you sure didn't mind asking for its help."
.
Dylan Demasi is a Los Angeles–based writer of crime and horror fiction.
===
end
===
Love seeing these reactions roll in.
The 15 writers brought everything to this anthology — sharp stories, bad decisions, worse consequences. Can’t wait for readers to get their hands on this one.
7.07.2026
#badintentions #zevon #ARC
Reading my proof of BAD INTENTIONS this morning and man, y'all are gonna have fun with this anthology.
These are my 15 favorite (auto-)biographies. Buy some of them so I can claw some money back from Amazon. Link in comments. #Biographies #Books #Cash #Buffett #Carlin #Kaufman #BruceCampbell #LizardKing #GMan #Elvis #Gilliam #JackChick #LennyBruce #KevinSmith #HST #Belushi #Zevon
@Emma48998116 @springsteen @OfficialWZevon @Natalie67578650 @resident219 @AJDMaru @Mosqueter4 @ToonTravels @tommymcc321 @TucciKaren @carmenglsmate @Zafrainvestiga @AidaBSanchez @GracianaXXI @PaulApp0505 @BDoltri @StanislasPetit @ABessai @FatOldAnarchist Hi Emma. Good morning. Have a happy #worldradioday2026. Enjoy your #Zevon & #SpringsteenFriday
Send lawyers, guns, and money!!! It won't be long now until @santaanitapark!
"I'm hiding in Honduras...I'm a desperate man!" #Zevon
Morning line for the Mathis Mile Stakes, race 5 on opening day @santaanitapark (@MarcRuhl photo of Namaron)
1. Hiding in Honduras 6-1
2. Tempus Volat 9-2
3. Namaron 3-2
4. Geometry 12-1
5. Friendly Confines 7-2
6. Lyle the Crocodile 12-1
7. Maaz 5-1
Warren Zevon, whose songwriting and performances I admired, died 22 years ago yesterday. Such anniversaries are a good excuse to repost these photos I took at an early 1980s solo concert in Burlington, Vt. #warrenzevon #zevon
I'm putting tin foil up on the windows.
I'm laying down in the dark to dream.
I don't want to see their faces.
I don't want to hear them scream.
Congrats, Warren. #Zevon #StaytheWildAge
His poignant finale, an excellent album loaded with stellar backing musicians.
Album A Day with #Zevon
Warren Zevon - The Wind (2003) #RockSolidAlbumADay2024 #12thAlbums
352/366
Crash landing into middle age with accustomed subtlety, Warren Zevon’s 1987 comeback album ‘Sentimental Hygiene’ is thirty seven harrowing and hilarious minutes of rehab comedy, labor politics, bad omens and boxing news. Sly as a cat on its eighth-and-a-half life. Reconsider him.
Bob #Dylan sings Warren #Zevon 🤗
@Lipsiaan @edmeekel1 @bertus161057 @altena_hans
@LeoBlokhuis @huffphilip
@JohnnyBorgan
Bob Dylan, Mutineer, Kansas City 28 10 2002 https://t.co/cORTlKU0i8
Gather round grandkids- /
If you listen carefully- /
Can hear the werewolves. /
#haiku #HarvestMoon
@ThisShowStinks
@nepetro #FullMoon
#zevon
@CaptainOctober They can still see his headless body stalking through the night, In the muzzle flash of Aldo’s Thompson Gun. #Zevon
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