Quotes from Ron Goulart

You ever hear of an old-time actor named James Coburn?

his house was large and strived to be impressive. It had a lot of glass and redwood in its makeup and was obviously designed by someone who idolized Frank Lloyd Wright without quite grasping his basic principles.

Oof," replied Easy, trying to loosen the clutch she had on his penis. "Say," noticed Judy, "you've got an erection." "People keep telling me that." "Obviously you're not a rat then. You find me attractive." "It's a simple reflex, ma'am. Anybody who rubbed my leg could produce a similar result." "You're ducking the issue." She stroked the head of his penis twice more and let go.

Easy pulled Poncho to him, slammed him against the wall again. A Maxfield Parrish print of dawn fell off its hook. "You brought her here Saturday.

Removing the socks and wringing them out over the Los Angeles Times, Hagopian said, "People play wacky games in these parts. I've been wondering if there isn't some new kind of wackiness virus, something that the screwed-up air around LA causes to form. The wackiness strain, first it takes over greater Los Angeles and then it slowly creeps across the country. I myself am immune to it, but that's no help if everyone else comes down with it. The government

Captain Marryat's

Your living or dying is just a piss in the ocean.

Partial cover image courtesy of: cheyenne75.deviantart.com stiks-1969.deviantart.com

The other young sheriff's department man, his tag said he was Moore, rubbed at the little California bear in the center of his six-pointed, blue and gold star.

Glanzman is enigmatic. Half of me is a nice lovable paternal type, the other a hardnose and cunning tummler. Against my better judgment I'll listen to my lovable side." "Let's both listen.

I'm not Nat. I'm Nat's Garbage Service. That is, I'm the only surviving member." "A music group?" "The music group," said the old man. "We got the Grammy in 1972. You wouldn't remember our big ones I guess. Flowers Growing In The Cracks and Fragmented Syntaptic Authenticated Hallucinogenic Anthrax?

of the horses tethered to the hitching rack was real, the other a fairly believable robot sim. "You can tell when they crap," said a bearded old-timer who was leaning next to the saloon's louvered swinging doors. "Which is real, you mean?" "Yup." He winked at Zack, returned his attention to rolling a cigarette. "See, you can fake a horse pretty easy. But faking horseshit is a real challenge. Somewheres in there is maybe a moral.

never had one when I was a kid." She pointed with her free hand. "Over that way. No, over there actually. Over there across the Bay is Oakland. You know where 7th and Central is?" "No." "Good for you then. That is where I grew up, in that vicinity. Now I'm practically a superstar.

I specialize in famous stout ladies, past and present. I'm best known for my Sophie Tucker. You look almost old enough to remember the late great Sophie, God rest her soul.

Well, this is the town for it. The suicide capital of the world," said the dark writer. "Some of them come here and go nutty, while others come out here with the sole ambition of giving me tsurris. The rest want to jump off a bridge." "San Francisco's the town for that.

Easy strode to the back door. "Call the Kearny Detective Agency up in SF and ask them to go talk to the Levin girl. Also get them to check on Jill's Porsche, see if the cops have picked it up anyplace in San Francisco." He opened the door.

Very well, since you're a swing enthusiast. I noticed the flicker of recognition in your eyes when I mentioned the Lunceford band. Who was Trummy Young?" "Played trombone with his feet," said Haley. "Now about the free warning.

Forcing himself to stop gawking up at it, he went trotting to the fallen intruder. "Wonder if the guy's dead." No—he was breathing. As Pete was bending to touch the unconscious man, he heard a rustling to his left. Someone was approaching him. A tall man in coveralls and a wide-brim hat. In his gloved hand he held a prop ray gun. Straightening up, Pete said, "You're Dangler, aren't you?

You can probably also call it poetic justice, even though it doesn't rhyme.

Jake Pace was in the kitchen baking cookies and his wife was in their large living room playing Mozart on the banjo.

I suppose that was an old-fashioned stereotyped female thing to do. Tidying up before letting you in.

I was figuring on dropping in on William Blake this afternoon