PREORDERING AVAILABLE FOR ADRENALINE JUNKIE

Hi folks,

Just learned that my memoir, ADRENALINE JUNKIE, is available for preordering (paperback edition) on Amazon.

CLICK HERE

Some early blurbs:

Having survived an American Gothic horror story of a childhood, unrepentant former thief, dope dealer, hedonist, Navy hellraiser, and porn actor Les Edgerton—now a writer and teacher—tells a tale of many tales: If  Scheherazade were an old pirate who got  away with the gold, this would be his opus.

Earl Javorsky, Author, Down to No Good and others.

"Where to start with Les Edgerton's memoir, ADRENALINE JUNKIE ...? I once said, if there's a book in everyone, then there's a library in Les - now I may need to revise that estimation, upwards. No one can accuse Les of being a 'crime tourist'. He's lived the life, done the bird, and now he's written the book. ADRENALINE JUNKIE should be on any prospective (or established) crime writer's list. An entertaining, darkly-rendered tale of one man's adventures in the very belly of the beast."

-Tony Black, author of HER COLD EYES

"In a way, Edgerton already wrote ADRENALIN JUNKIE in his crime novels. With the veneer of fiction removed, his always entertaining, often enlightening, sometimes infuriating and unapologetic stories hit even harder. Without any doubt, Edgerton is one of the great storytellers of fiction - and now non-fiction."

Benjamin Sobieck, author of the Writer's Digest Guide to Firearms and Knives and the Maynard Soloman crime humor series

Les Edgerton's Adrenaline Junkie is the compelling, beautifully written story of an extraordinary man who has lived on both sides of the tracks, seen through the bullshit and the hypocrisies, and come out saner and stronger for it. From the opening jail house scene to the end, this is a ride of heartache and passion, of tempest and brilliance, like a cross between Genet and Steinbeck, like a chorus celebrating the underdog, the downtrodden, the criminal, and the inspired, a chorus that only keeps getting louder and rising in melody, as Edgerton achieves a sort of sainthood among sinners, an apotheosis of rebellion and force, much like Harcamone at Fontrevault, or a hero in a Johnny Cash song, a huge, Promethean work of major significance and scale.

Richard Godwin.
Author of Apostle Rising, Mr. Glamour, One Lost Summer, Noir City,
Meaningful Conversations, and Confessions Of A Hit Man.

'How often is a memoir genuinely astounding? A reformed outlaw takes us through his harsh rural childhood, working harder before he was twelve than most of us ever will.  

There follows armed robbery, pimping, drug dealing, rape in prison, narrowly avoiding a hellcat's castration attempt, suicide foiled by the rope breaking, a walk on part for Charles Manson and his creepy serial killer mate - who got short shrift from our host. And so much more... So many startling sentences:' She was going to be his last fuck before the operation and I was going to be his first after he became a woman.' 'It was then Charles Manson started to contact me...' There's a satisfying twist late on after he becomes a family man so this fascinating book has just the right ending.' 

'Essential reading. Makes Bukowski seem like Donny Osmond.'

Mark Ramsden, Author, The Dark Magus and the Sacred Whore, The Dungeon Master's Apprentice,  Dread - The Art of Serial Killing, Radical Desire: Kink and Magical Sex, War School 

Les is a real, honest-to-God writer in a world full of wannabes. So it goes without saying, his memoir Adrenaline Junkie is better than most novels you’ll read in your life - largely because his real life is more interesting than most novels. Buy it. Read it. If you don’t like it that’s your fault, you stick in the mud.

Damien Seaman, Author, The Killing of Emma Gross

Adrenaline Junkie is like no memoir I have read. Filled with stories of knifings, armed robberies, brutal prison fights, and Charles Manson (yes, that Charles Manson!), Edgerton proves that life can be stranger (and certainly more violent) than fiction. But Edgerton isn’t just a guy with a tough story to tell. He’s a poet who startles you with sentences both stark and darkly beautiful. An astonishing accomplishment.

Jon Bassoff, Author, Corrosion and others

“I’ve known Les Edgerton for going on 25 years. I immediately took to him in writing school, not because he was funny as shit and talented, but because he was the real thing. But it wasn’t until reading his memoir that I realized the extent to which he lived the things he wrote about. Adrenaline Junkie is at once heartbreaking, as it is funny, and just plain sick. I worked up a sweat reading it. It’s sort of like a witnessing a plane crash. You don’t really want to look at the carnage, but you can’t help but stare. A masterful work that will be lauded by both writers and the general reading public alike.”

Vincent Zandri, New York Times and USA Today bestselling Thriller Award winner of Moonlight Weeps and The Remains.  

Adrenaline Junkie by Les Edgerton will be required reading for crime writers one day, a bible for future authors to study rebellion and the human spirit, that smart-ass spark inside us all that doesn’t like taking orders from parents, teachers, and even the law. Author of The Rapist and The Bitch, two of the most profound noir novels published this decade, an ex-criminal and former prison inmate, Edgerton knows what makes all of us tick, and how, with not much of a shove, any one of us could end up behind bars. One of the most fascinating autobiographies you will ever read: From professional thief and pimp to award-winning author and teacher.

 --Jack Getze, Author of the Award-Winning Austin Carr Mysteries 

LAST WORD an anthology edited by Liam Sweeny

Hi folks,

Gonna share a couple of stories I had last year in my friend Liam Sweeny's anthology titled LAST WORD. Liam asked for a suggestion of a charitable cause to donate the proceeds to and I recommended Nation Inside (www.nationinside.org) a great organization that unites national efforts to pass prison reform measures. Besides yours truly, there are stories from Jack Getze, Paul D. Brazill, David Jaggers, Steve Weddle, Court Merrigan, Todd Robinson, Angel Luis Colon, Tess Makovesky, Christopher Pimental and Gareth Spark, all fantastic noir and crime writers.

Consider picking up either a paperback or ebook copy and get both a fantastic read and an opportunity to help effect change in our prison systems.

My contribution...

MOTHER’S DAY

Well, here it is—my annual Mother’s Day post. In reality, this won’t be an “annual” post unless I do one next year since this is the very first one. I plan to do one next year, though. If I remember...

And… I’m aware that it’s late, but I thought that appropriate, since I always forget it until about a week later, despite a loving wife (Mary) who considers it her mission in life to let me know about things like this. The only problem is, she always lets me know the day before. Like I’m expected to remember it that long!

To make up for not sending a card on time, I decided to send Mom more than just one of those syrupy Hallmark cards. This year, I sent her a cassette tape of the movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life” starring that irrepressible boyish Jimmy Stewart from my private collection. (This is the movie where he isn’t dressed up like a giant rabbit, in which he’s also irrepressible and boyish.)

Then, the second I got home from mailing it to her, I realized I’d made a grievous mistake. I hadn’t sent her the movie I thought I had. It dawned on me that I’d sent her an entirely different movie. To be exact, my copy of the classic film noir, College Girls Having Monkey Sex, Part XIV. If you haven’t seen it, it’s the one where the coed from Vassar has her boobs pointed in opposite directions and her co-star ends up with whiplash trying to treat them equally and stay on his mark. (“Mark” for you non-theater majors is the piece of tape the director places on the floor to show the actor where to stand.)

Oops.

The reason I realized my faux pas, was that when I got home I thought I might want to watch a few minutes of it and couldn’t locate it and then remembered I’d labeled it… you guessed it… It’s a Wonderful Life… in the unlikely event Mary went through my collection looking for a something to watch.

I ran all the way back to the post office in hopes I could talk the mail guy into letting me have my package back, but it seems they have rules against that kind of thing. You can guess how that turned out, if you’ve ever had to deal with the United Nazi States of Mail Carriers. Guy treated me like I was the Unibomber. I called him “Cliff” and “Newman” but he didn’t get it.

I was in a sweat when I found it had already been shipped, but then I remembered Mom didn’t have a cassette player. Or a VCR. Or, even a TV. She’d sold her TV when The Ed Sullivan Show went off the air a few years ago.

The luck of the Irish!

Realizing I better do something more than send her a tape she couldn’t watch, I asked Mary if we could take her out to dinner.

“When?” she said. “On Father’s Day? That’s the next holiday.”

I laughed. (That’s it. I just laughed) Then, I said, “Of course not, silly. This weekend.”

“Only if you don’t use that name in the restaurant that you always do,” she said.

I agreed and called Mom to give her the good news. “We’d like to take you out to dinner for your big day,” I said. “Where would you like to go?”

 “Would this be an early Mother’s Day for 2011 or the late one for 2010?”

I laughed. (That’s it. I just laughed. I’ve been trained by Mary.) Then I said, “Of course not, silly. The second one. 2010. The battery in my calendar died.”

Golden Corral was her first choice, but I talked her out of that. “They’re closed,” I lied. “There was a big pileup of people on walkers and the health department closed them until they widen the ramp. Thirty-six people suffered aluminum whiplash. There are herds of lawyers everywhere and you couldn't get in even if it was open.”

She sounded skeptical, but then said her second choice was Red Lobster. This, to a guy who’s lived in New Orleans half his life and has actually eaten real seafood was like the chef at Ruth’s Chris Steak House grabbing a square hamburger down at Wendy’s on his day off, but hey, it was my mom and it was her day. I looked forward to gazing at their menu with pictures of the nine-pound lobsters on the menu and them seeing the actual three-ounce one they served. To be fair, the actual meal is the same size as the picture when you put them up next to each other.

She decided to drive down from where she lived in South Bend to our home in Ft. Wayne, a true adventure for the other drivers on the highway since she’s 88 and drives older than her actual age. You’ve heard that saying? “(Blank) drives like old people fuck? Slow and jerky.” That’s Mom. If you ever see those long lines on winding country roads where there are 117 cars trailing behind the John Deere tractor, it was Mom who taught that tractor driver how to navigate our rural byways. I suggested she might want to start out the night before to get to our place on time, but she didn’t think that was all that funny.

“You’re not too old to get a spanking, Mr. Smartmouth,” she said. Well, yes, I am, Mom. I have gray hair and arthritis and can remember when phones had dials. Besides, how are you going to catch me? I can crawl faster than you can walk. I didn’t say anything like that to her, of course. After all, she’s my mom and deserves respect. Besides, as long as I knew I could outrun her that was enough. I didn’t have to rub it in.

Before she hung up, she said, “You’re not going to use that name you always do in restaurants, are you? Because if you do, I’m not coming.”

“No, Mom, I’m not. I’m grown up, now.” Jesus! What do she and Mary do? Get together and compare notes?

She gets here, only two and a half hours past her ETA, and we all climb in the car and head for the gastronomical delights only available at national chains.

We get to the Red Lobster and I’m anticipating something on my plate that looks like a medium jumbo shrimp that they’re going to try to pawn off as a Maine lobster and we all go in. This takes awhile as we’re proceeding at Mom’s pace which is about as fast as the last day of school.

“We should hurry, Mom,” I said. “They close in only six hours.”

Mary gives me a dirty look. So does Mom, who says, “You’re not too big to get a spanking.” I consider showing her my driver’s license to show her my age as she’s obviously forgotten, but I don’t. It’s Mother’s Day. Well, not really—that was last week, but we’re operating on the theme of Mother’s Day and I want to remain true to the spirit.

I hustle ahead of them and give our name to the hostess.

When I come back, Mom says, “How long?” and Mary says, “You didn’t give them that name, did you?”

“Twenty minutes,” I say to Mom, and to Mary I just give a pained look, as if to say, “How could you even think I’d do that?”

We pass the time listening to Mom complain about the present government and ask to see a menu so she can make her choice, which is always the same. The lobster/shrimp combo. I think she just wants to check to make sure they haven’t taken either off the menu. Although, if they ran out of one, they could just serve the one that was left and tell the diner it was the missing one. Who would know?

Then, she lays a bomb on me. “I love that movie, you sent me,” she said. “I’m going over to your sister Ann’s house to watch it when I get back home.”

And then, our table is announced over the loudspeaker.

 “Donner, party of three.”

I get two dirty looks from the women I’m with.

“That’s us,” I say.

I love Mother’s Day!

***

BAD NEWS

I’m afraid I have some bad news. Let me take that back. I have some terrible news. Bad news is when your wife says she’s leaving you for the water softener man. This is far worse than that. This is on the level of news that she’s leaving you for the guy who lives down by the river in his refrigerator carton… and not taking the kids with her…

Okay. Ready? Sitting down? Here goes…

It’s official. Once again, I didn’t win the Pulitzer Prize for Literature. How many times must I taste the bitter truth that time is running out? Once a year, I guess, until I run out…

And, what beat me out this year? The Orphan Master's Son by Adam Johnson. You’re kidding, right? 

Here’s the description:

An exquisitely crafted novel that carries the reader on an adventuresome journey into the depths of totalitarian North Korea and into the most intimate spaces of the human heart.

It’s a book set in North Korea? Who the hell nominated this? Dennis Rodman? Who even reads books set in North Korea? Even North Koreans don’t read books set in North Korea. Well, that’s not exactly their fault—they aren’t allowed to by that sweet little cherub, Dear Leader. Speaking of cherubs, I woke up this morning with a sweet little cherub in my skivvies… Or was that a chub? 

Whatever. They both look the same.

I suspect it won because of the author’s name. He’s named after two American presidents. Jingoism at its worst.

I should have known I wouldn’t win once again after last year when they couldn’t find a single book to give the award to. There were only five million books published last year (even taking out the four million self-published autobiographies that really suck swamp water, that still leaves a million books, give or take a few hundred thousand.).

How can you not give one single book the award? Even the year the Miss America contestants were all dogs, they still gave the award to someone. Bert Parks took it himself one year. That was the year there weren’t any brunettes from Mississippi and Georgia. But, hey—they still awarded it to somebody.

I’ve had it. I’m taking serious action. I’ve just composed a strongly-worded letter to all the judges of next year’s Pulitzer committee, notifying them that I’m officially withdrawing any and all of my books from consideration. I’m sending it via Overnight Delivery, Certified Mail. That means it won’t arrive in their mail boxes until August, 2015 but I have no control over that. They’ll at least be aware of my sentiments.

And, as it happens, I’m outlining a new novel that fits all of their crappy requirements. It’s set in (some obscure country which I haven’t decided yet, but one with lots of consonants and only one vowel) and it’s about the Mayor of Cracktown. It’s about this guy who lives in a village with the Entering and Leaving signs on the same pole, and in this little shack with a bunch of farm animals of various religious persuasions living inside with him. He has no money (always a requirement of these kinds of books and which immediately makes him a genius). He has a major fight with the garda who have discovered he’s far exceeded the legal quota of farm animals allowed in a domicile, one of which he claims shouldn’t count as it’s a very pretty Merino ewe to whom he’s pledged his troth. He’s not sure what a “troth” is but it’s in a lot of Dickens’ books he read as a kid so he knows it’s important to pledge his.

In this book, I devote a lot of pages to his internalizing, which seems to be high on the list of stuff these Pulitzer folks look for. There’s one really dazzling scene where he ponders how clichés came about and fantasizes about their origins. Like that delightful phrase “blind alley” (which, I, for one can never hear too many times.). He ruminates and ponders and rumes some more and comes to the conclusion that it originally denoted a place where German shepherds congregated en masse, waiting to be hired by the seeing-challenged (PC term for blind people) and veterans with PTSD. This riveting scene takes up 26 pages, which is guaranteed to manipulate them even more than a teenaged boy’s chub during bathroom time. And, in much the same way.

One of the indoor farm animals will be a dog. His only function is to be in the book so I can use his picture on the cover and on the Intergnat. You and I know it’s just a frickin’ mutt, but people on the Intergnat have assigned a mystical aura to dogs and cats. You know, those critters that eat their own poop, cough up furballs and lick themselves all day long. We know that mostly they’re glorified door mats, but people get all weepy about them and giggly and attribute them with the same wisdom they do old Indian guys crying over some trash on Highway 10. THEY SELL BOOKS. And influence Pulitzer judges…

The protagonist will be a creepy loner who, in real life, people would take a wide berth around when they see him with his sign begging for work outside Target, but instantly make into a wise man simply because there’s a whole book centered around him and we see he thinks about pithy stuff like blind alleys. If he was so frickin’ wise why ain’t he a plumber’s assistant or a governor or something?

My protagonist is also an orphan. And a master. And the son of a dog. This makes it a sure winner.

Yes, I could easily win next year, which makes my protest even more meaningful. I know what it takes after studying these things for hours days weeks. It’s important to know who’s handing out the hardware. The judges are elderly folks who braid the hair in their noses (the women) and meet at Golden Corral to discuss the nominated books. The men on the committee treat the books nominated the same way they do the fine wines they own. They don’t open them. That would destroy their value and besides, who has to actually read the nominated book? They can learn all they want to from the glorious Intergnat. The men also have lush bushes in their noses, but they use them differently than the women (most of the women…). They weave them cleverly around their noggins kind of like the comb-overs aging sportscasters do. Along with a few well-placed strands from the ear hairs.

This is the real secret as to why my book never gets nominated. I labored for years thinking they actually read the books. Don’t laugh—I bet you know at least one person in your own circle who thought the same thing. So maybe you knew, but are you willing to say that all of your friends wear those helmets and rode the short bus to h.s. and took all A.P. classes? So—cut me a break here.

The trick to getting on these judges’ radar is to effectively utilize the Intergnat. Most of us writers have been sold a bill of goods about what the ‘Gnat does. Social media doesn’t sell books. It doesn’t sell squat. It doesn’t sell books—it sells social media. No one cares about your stupid book on social media. They pretend to… so you’ll buy their stupid book. Writers who can’t sell books have one problem—they write crappy books. Yakking about them all day long on social media sells three books total. That’s it. And that’s to trolls who are burning to write one-star reviews on it. When social media sells books, let me know. Otherwise, lay down by your dish with your butt-licking dog.

But, Pulitzer Prize judges do look at the Intergnat. All day long. It’s why they don’t have time to actually read the books themselves. Too busy Facebooking each other or Twittering about “that wonderful book about North Korea Dennis Rodman likes so well.” Think about this. 1. Dennis Rodman picture with Dear Leader was on the “Gnat” one million, three hundred thousand and sixty-nine times last year. 2. A book set in North Korea won the Pulitzer. Make the connection, dummy! This ain’t nuclear physics!

So, if I weren’t about to withdraw from consideration, here’s what I’d do. Get me a babe to do my networking for me. As my pretend girlfriend, Lo Hai Qu so eloquently pointed out—“Blogbitches rule, blogdicks drool.” Okay. I accept that. If I was going to remain involved in the competition, I’d be on my knees beseeching my pal, Anonymous 9 (Blogbitch Supreme) if she’d please help this lowly Blogdick (me) out.

But I won’t. You can relax, 9. I’m out of all this. I just hope you nice folks “twit” and “face” my new book all over the Intergnat. I have but one goal for next year. That all the UPS drivers who deliver my books are forced to buy trusses.

(I hope you know this was all in fun, folks. Although, if I have to say this, it takes all the force away…) I do love the Intergnat and I truly do love the folks on here. True that. And they do sell books. Books on how to use the Intergnat to sell books…)

As John Goodman once said, “See ya in the funny papers.”

Blue skies,

Les

BOUCHERCON SCHEDULE

Hi folks,

Well, Bouchercon is right around the corner and I’m climbing on a plane on Thursday to fly to Raleigh, NC. As I have the past few B-Cons, I’m sharing a room with my buddy, Jack Getze, at the Holiday Inn. My purpose there is to drive him nuts… I’m bringing my whoopee cushion and some other things to help achieve that goal…

If any of you attend, I hope you’ll come up and introduce yourselves—I’d love to meet you in person if I haven’t already. You can find me in the bar… which bar?... all of ‘em… not at once, probably, but eventually…

So far, I have three big events scheduled. Two of them, you’ll need to be in attendance to see, but the third is a radio interview that you can listen to wherever you are.

1. I’m reading in Eryk Pruitt’s “Noir at the Bar” event on Thursday night at 7 pm ET at Common 414 (that’s a bar next to the Sheraton)... https://www.facebook.com/events/451937294990532/

2. Tom Pitts is going to do a live radio interview on Authors on the Air with myself and Jack Getze. Pam Stack, who runs this show, tells me they usually get about 250,000 (that’s a quarter of a million! Damn!) listeners for each episode and she feels this will be their biggest of the year. Check it out live at 8:30 pm ET/ 5:30 pm PT Friday evening at http://www.blogtalkradio.com/authorsontheair/2015/10/10/skid-row-meets-bouchercon-tom-pitts-is-live-with-les-edgerton-jack-getze You can call in and bug us if you like, but remember… payback is a… I hope you’ll listen in! Trust me—it’s gonna get wild. I’m pretty sure that Jack, Tom and me are going to set radio back about a thousand years…

3. I’m on a great panel, moderated by Eric Beetner, along with fellow panelists Chris Pavone, Trey Barker, and Tom Young, titled “Rough, Tough Tales for Tough Readers.” Hmm… I think I’ll need to be packing… Check out the entire panel schedule here: http://bouchercon2015.org/schedule/

And, nothing to do with Bouchercon, but I have a guest post on Jenny Hansen’s blog Writers in the Storm, which goes live at 7 am ET on Wednesday. Check it out here: http://writersinthestormblog.com/?p=21523  

It’s gonna be a busy week!

Blue skies,

Les

BOUCHERCON AND INDIANA HISTORICAL SOCIETY AND OTHER STUFF

Hi folks,

Well, Bouchercon is just around the corner and I’ll be heading to Raleigh… dang! I can never remember if that's in South Carolina or North Carolina… anyway, it’s one or the other. I’ll be rooming again with my buddy Jack Getze who keeps me laughing the whole time.

 Jack with another of his always clever headbands and one of his fantastic novels!

Lots of stuff happening there! I’ll be reading some of my stuff at the Noir at the Bar event, organized by a great writer—Eryk Pruitt, author of HASHTAG and some other terrific stuff—and it kicks off at 7 pm Thursday, Oct. 8 a… you guessed it!... a bar! Looks like a special one—a bunch of old friends and a couple of soon-to-be-new-ones. If you’re in the right Raleigh, stop in for a great time!

The next day, I’m on a panel they’re calling “Rough, tough tales for tough readers” and it’s emceed by Eric Beetner and the panelists are myself, Chris Pavone, Tom Young and Trey Barker. This one’s gonna be really cool!

Sometime in the afternoon after my panel, Jack Getze and I are going to be interviewed by Tom Pitts for the world-wide show Authors on the Air. Rumor is that the lovely hostess of this series, Pam Stack, is coming up from Florida to see if Jack and I live up to our billing as “The World’s Most Handsome Writer and His Faithful Sidekick, Jack"… This is a big, big deal for us. Tom recently did an on-air chat with Benjamin Whitmer that got a quarter of a million hits! What we Texans call “high cotton.”

 Tom Pitts... being cool and bringing attitude...

After I get back, I’ll head on down to Naptown in December to do a booksigning with a bunch of Indiana writers, including an old friend, Michael Martone and a bunch of others. If you’re in town, stop on by!

My German publisher, Frank Nowatzke just let me know that The Rapist is going to be released very soon. I can't wait to hold it in my hot little hand!

Got some big news that should be coming any day now. One’s a supersecret project I’ve been asked to take part in and I’m sworn to secrecy but will let you know the minute I’m allowed to. It’s one of the coolest things I’ve ever been privileged to take part in and I’m dying to let everyone know what’s going on, but… soon!

Blue skies,

Les