Guillermo Galvan's Blog

I collaborated on an art project with StaZr – The World of Z. I hope you enjoy. This piece was inspired by H.R Giger’s Xenomorph. If you’re interested in seeing more artwork, follow me on Instagram @cool_stuffman.

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Some of these drawing are new and others were dusted off. I’m always trying to evolve my technique and subjects while staying grounded in my unique style.  I do take commissions. For inquiries email me at blubberisland@gmail.com.

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I love music, but I can’t play guitar worth a damn. Either way, being alone and playing a few chords is a nice way to zen out.

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This should be recognizable to all to all the comedy nerds out there, or else, Pizza will send out for you!

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Catholicism, you messed with my childhood (not that way). To all the Catholic kids, get out!

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He’s a legend in wrestling and the art world. Don’t mess with the giant or he’ll eat you like a chicken nugget.

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If you grew up in the 90’s, you’re probably thinking of “that” movie.

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This one is inspired by my favorite artist, Moebius.

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Russian soldier in WWII with thousand-yard stare.

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GEEEEEEET YEEEEEER HOOOOOOOOOT DOGS!!!

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My coastal roots.

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Somebody’s having a bad day.

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This one goes way back to my Sharpie days after school.

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No joke, each tire took several hours to draw. This drawing will grace the pages of Rat Rod magazine (thanks guys).

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Exactly one horse power.

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They finally get his humor. Har! Har!

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And in the distance, a lawn mower engine coughed to life.

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My book cover designed by yours truly.

Originally posted on Flavorwire:

In 1965, the legendary Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson scored his first big break. As an assignment for The Nation, Hunter lived with the most notorious motorcycle gang in the United States. Random House publishedHells Angels: The Strange and Terrible Saga of the Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs in 1966. Hunter’s year with the club ended in a “stomping” — the Angels beat him up, allegedly when his editor wouldn’t share the profits from the story.

Check out some casual shots of the outlaws setting off for a ride, dusted in brutal bravado and motorcycle exhaust, taken by Hunter himself. Observe Hunter’s self-portrait with his Hell’s Angels black-eye. Then, take a short trip to Big Sur in picturesque California, where the literary rebel worked as a security guard and penned The Rum Diary after returning from Puerto Rico and his long jaunt as a traveling journalist working for US…

View original 190 more words

Originally posted on Graham Wynd:

INTRODUCTION: HEATH LOWRANCE

REFLECTIONS ON A DECADE IN THE WILD EAST – COLIN GRAHAM

EATING THE DREAM – K A LAITY

MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO DELHI – CHRIS RHATIGAN

BOXING DAY IN MUROS – STEVEN PORTER

WE ARE ALL SPECIAL CASES – PATTI ABBOTT

NEVER A VESSELL LARGE ENOUGH – RYAN SALES

THE SOLOMON SEA – GARETH SPARK

AGENT RAMIEL GETS THE CALL – PAMILA PAYNE

THE WEATHER PROPHET – PAUL D. BRAZILL

THE RAIN KING – JASON MICHEL

DULLCREEK – CARRIE CLEVENGER

IN AMERICA – DAVID MALCOLM

THE PLACE OF THE DEAD – NICK SWEENEY

DISAPEARING ACT – SONIA KILVINGTON

WHAT FRIENDS ARE FOR – ROB BRUNET

PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY – JAMES A. NEWMAN

DEAD MAN WALKING – TESS MAKOVESKY

SHUT OUT THE LIGHT – CHRIS LEEK

FLYING IN AMSTERDAM – MCDROLL

THE TRIBE – RENATO BRATKOVIC

WETWORK – WALTER CONLEY

DIGGER DAVIES – MARRIETTA MILES
TAKING OUT THE TRASH…

View original 87 more words

Space travel is incredible. Today, a spaceship left Earth for the purpose of throwing a urine-filled balloon into space. It’s obviously a complete waste of money and science, but that’s what happened.

I watched the shuttle launch at home. The astronauts were shaking hands with the president. The commander of Eagle Two gave a speech on how this is the greatest country in the world and the mission will be a historic achievement. A lady gave the astronaut a bouquet of roses at the end of his press deal. The audience applauded and people were even crying.

Crying for what—throwing a balloon of piss into space?

Most of the country tends to support the mission. You’re supposed to be patriotic and get all choked up. So everyone buys flags and hangs them on their houses as the launch date nears. The other day, I saw a guy dressed up in an astronaut suit at a used car lot. Everyone crowded around him waiting to take a picture. They probably sold a lot of jalopies that day.

A minority of vocal opponents claim these missions are driving us dangerously close to economic collapse and are the primary reason we’re invading Spain. The public and mainstream media ignores them as wing-nuts. Universities do protest, but nobody really cares besides the students. It’s their college so let them do whatever the hell they want. Kids need to rebel. Next week they’ll be crying over a new crusade.

The reality is public support is too strong for the missions to stop. It was on the news that an anti-launch protestor was shot in front of his house. That caused a big uproar for a minute and then quickly became old news. A million other things could be done with the taxpayer’s money than throwing a piss balloon into outer space. What does it even have to do with anything? The whole thing just gives me a headache.

I’ll admit it: I was interested in the launch. It was difficult not to be. Just walking through the grocery store, electricity was in the air. Customers treated each other as if they were on the winning team. As I walked away with my bags, the cashier shouted, “Hey buddy!” I turned around and he gave me thumbs up. I tried to smile, but it probably came off a little weird looking. On the drive home, motorists flashed me peace signs as they passed by. Goofy stuff like that happens every time there’s a launch.

The funny thing was that nobody mentioned the piss-balloon-throwing part. I mean, c’mon, it’s the main reason we ever gone. But that aspect remained entirely unaddressed. A group of big time American bozos debated launch statistics. They brought up astronauts by their first names as if they were personal friends. And the way they described the shuttle, you’d swear they built the damn thing. All the while, a swollen balloon of piss lingered over their heads. Nobody comments on the balloon. And this wasn’t the first time we’ve taken a crack. The previous launch, Eagle One, was a total failure. A malfunction occurred and we lost a whole team of astronauts. Now they’re considered national heroes. Folks get touchy on that subject.

The launch day was finally underway. I got off the couch and walked into the kitchen as the TV yammered on. I reached into the cupboard, got a bottle of whisky, and poured myself a drink—one to wish the astronauts good luck. The camera followed the astronauts to the shuttle, followed by close ups of American flags and hopeful faces. The astronauts waved at the crowd before they shut the hatch. A grainy voice from tower control came over the air.

“Eagle Two, this is Tower One. All systems are go for launch, Eagle Two.”

I listened anxiously with the rest of the country as the head astronaut responded back, “Tower One, we copy that. Eagle Two is all systems go. We are ready for launch.”

“We copy that, Eagle Two. Is that an affirmative for countdown?”

“Affirmative for countdown.”

“Countdown is to commence. God’s speed, Eagle Two.”

“Roger that.”

His voice was emotionless as he started from ten. We were all digging our fingers into cushions. I held my breath when the Eagle Two commander reached five. Then the rest came:

“4…

“3…

“2…

“1…

“Ignition.”

The thrusters flared up in a massive cloud of fire. The shuttle lagged then slowly lifted off the ground. The TV switched to a skyward shot of Eagle Two burning towards heaven. It rose until it looked like a shining star in the middle of the day. It was a beautiful sight. The launch was a success. I poured another drink.

Despite their absurd objective, I hope they make it. Throwing a piss balloon into outer space has to serve a purpose. If it’s for nothing, then the feat in itself must mean something. Just think about it—when they finally get up there, one of our guys is going to stare into the mysterious dark universe, cock back his arm, and throw a balloon filled with piss right into God’s face.

Space travel is incredible. Today, a spaceship left Earth for the purpose of throwing a urine-filled balloon into space. It’s obviously a complete waste of money and science, but that’s what happened.

I watched the shuttle launch at home. The astronauts were shaking hands with the president. The commander of Eagle Two gave a speech on how this is the greatest country in the world and the mission will be a historic achievement. A lady gave the astronaut a bouquet of roses at the end of his press deal. The audience applauded and people were even crying.

Crying for what—throwing a balloon of piss into space?

Most of the country tends to support the mission. You’re supposed to be patriotic and get all choked up. So everyone buys flags and hangs them on their houses as the launch date nears. The other day, I saw a guy dressed up in an astronaut suit at a used car lot. Everyone crowded around him waiting to take a picture. They probably sold a lot of jalopies that day.

A minority of vocal opponents claim these missions are driving us dangerously close to economic collapse and are the primary reason we’re invading Spain. The public and mainstream media ignores them as wing-nuts. Universities do protest, but nobody really cares besides the students. It’s their college so let them do whatever the hell they want. Kids need to rebel. Next week they’ll be crying over a new crusade.

The reality is public support is too strong for the missions to stop. It was on the news that an anti-launch protestor was shot in front of his house. That caused a big uproar for a minute and then quickly became old news. A million other things could be done with the taxpayer’s money than throwing a piss balloon into outer space. What does it even have to do with anything? The whole thing just gives me a headache.

I’ll admit it: I was interested in the launch. It was difficult not to be. Just walking through the grocery store, electricity was in the air. Customers treated each other as if they were on the winning team. As I walked away with my bags, the cashier shouted, “Hey buddy!” I turned around and he gave me thumbs up. I tried to smile, but it probably came off a little weird looking. On the drive home, motorists flashed me peace signs as they passed by. Goofy stuff like that happens every time there’s a launch.

The funny thing was that nobody mentioned the piss-balloon-throwing part. I mean, c’mon, it’s the main reason we ever gone. But that aspect remained entirely unaddressed. A group of big time American bozos debated launch statistics. They brought up astronauts by their first names as if they were personal friends. And the way they described the shuttle, you’d swear they built the damn thing. All the while, a swollen balloon of piss lingered over their heads. Nobody comments on the balloon. And this wasn’t the first time we’ve taken a crack. The previous launch, Eagle One, was a total failure. A malfunction occurred and we lost a whole team of astronauts. Now they’re considered national heroes. Folks get touchy on that subject.

The launch day was finally underway. I got off the couch and walked into the kitchen as the TV yammered on. I reached into the cupboard, got a bottle of whisky, and poured myself a drink—one to wish the astronauts good luck. The camera followed the astronauts to the shuttle, followed by close ups of American flags and hopeful faces. The astronauts waved at the crowd before they shut the hatch. A grainy voice from tower control came over the air.

“Eagle Two, this is Tower One. All systems are go for launch, Eagle Two.”

I listened anxiously with the rest of the country as the head astronaut responded back, “Tower One, we copy that. Eagle Two is all systems go. We are ready for launch.”

“We copy that, Eagle Two. Is that an affirmative for countdown?”

“Affirmative for countdown.”

“Countdown is to commence. God’s speed, Eagle Two.”

“Roger that.”

His voice was emotionless as he started from ten. We were all digging our fingers into cushions. I held my breath when the Eagle Two commander reached five. Then the rest came:

“4…

“3…

“2…

“1…

“Ignition.”

The thrusters flared up in a massive cloud of fire. The shuttle lagged then slowly lifted off the ground. The TV switched to a skyward shot of Eagle Two burning towards heaven. It rose until it looked like a shining star in the middle of the day. It was a beautiful sight. The launch was a success. I poured another drink.

Despite their absurd objective, I hope they make it. Throwing a piss balloon into outer space has to serve a purpose. If it’s for nothing, then the feat in itself must mean something. Just think about it—when they finally get up there, one of our guys is going to stare into the mysterious dark universe, cock back his arm, and throw a balloon filled with piss right into God’s face.

A neon ballerina hits the stage in the savage world of Bangkok. She’s grinding her body on stripper poles and trying to take the right kind of men back into hotel rooms, because from the gutter, she can see her million dollar dream glinting in the tropical night sky. She seduces a man out of a briefcase he says is loaded with everything he’s worth. Later her body is found with the head cut off inside her ragged apartment. The briefcase is gone from the scene of the crime. Private investigator, Joe Dylan, is hired to retrieve the missing briefcase from Bangkok’s seedy criminal underbelly.

The city is a savage jungle of sex, black magic, and murder—the Nirvana of debauchery. The clues lead Joe Dylan into the dark and dangerous quagmire known as Demon Dreams, a shadowy S&M brothel for high profile clients with unusual needs. The madam, a gorgeous transsexual, and her brother, a mute kick-boxer who sees demons, hold a grim secret that connects a string of murdered women and the missing briefcase.

James Newman has commented, “The Red Night Zone is an acid trip, where the loose ends don’t tie up. Or if they do then not the way one expects.”

Red Night Zone is a voyeuristic pulp fiction that’s always on the verge of dissolving into madness but keeps it together. Newman is a literary risk taker. He gambles hard with his storyline and subject matter like a strung out Vegas junkie betting his wedding ring and bus ticket back home. There’s a dread looming over him, but he manages to say something funny about the way people die. Newman’s style is morbidly funny with a clean prose that reminds me of Stephen King. His journalistic portrayal of Bangkok and his insider knowledge of everything weird is homage to Hunter Thompson’s gonzo journalism. Red Night Zone is the second book out of his Bangkok series. You don’t have to read the first book to enjoy this one, but they’re better together like a pair of stripper breasts.

In the 1950’s Raymond Chandler gave pulp readers Philip Marlowe. James Newman gives us a private investigator for our generation, Joe Dylan. His book is available on Amazon.

I was hesitant about reading The Rip Off because of everyone claiming how much it sucked. Well, after reading it I can definitely say it is only they who are doing the sucking. This book cracked me up! I had to do a fake cough several times to cover up my laughter. Thompson knows how to write dialogue. It’s witty, original, and occasionally outrageous. Likewise is the cast of desperate characters who are big enough to speak them.

The Rip Off is about a guy out in the country who is screwing around on his wife. He isn’t very bright, in fact he’s a moron. Well, sticking your thing into everything that walks is bound to get you in trouble and that’s exactly what happens. The dude get’s caught up with these crazy dames that don’t know if they want to screw him or kill him.

The biggest gripe against this book is that it’s lacking the blood and guts violence from his other novels. Ok, that I will give to you. There isn’t very much violence, it’s more of a flirtation with disaster. It’s refreshing to see Thompson write a hard-boiled comedy without dumping a bucket of blood on top.

The plot is a little so-so, but as Stephen King says about plot: “The good writer’s last resort and the dullard’s first choice.” What makes this book shine are the character interactions and risky situations.

Good pulp doesn’t have to be all gore.

Nightmare Town is a collection of short stories from the originator of the hard-boiled crime genre, Dashiell Hammett. As a private eye for the Pinkerton Detective Agency in San Francisco during the Prohibition Era, Hammett experienced shootouts, knifings, stakeouts, and cold-blooded murder for cash. These experiences convinced him of one thing: everyone is a suspect. He began writing short stories based on his detective work for pulp fiction magazines.

Nightmare Town is a book of high-quality stories punctuated by brilliant gems. This book shows Hammett as a versatile writer able to work in any area concerning crime. He can use the first or second person perspective and put readers in foggy city streets or little desert towns with a whole cast of psychologically-unique characters.

Several stories break away entirely from the detective backdrop. “The Man Who Killed Dan Odams” centers on an escaped convict hunted across a barren countryside. He’s wounded and desperate, and nobody is going to take him in alive. This story has the life-or-death feeling of John Steinbeck. “His Brother’s Keeper” is told in the first person perspective of a young boxer who just can’t figure out the deadly plot closing in on his brother. “Afraid of a Gun” lays out the naked fear of a gangster with a phobia of guns.

The stories range from crimes of passion to bone splintering violence. In every instance, there are tightly-drawn plots unfolding at an exciting pace. The dialogue is original and enjoyable. Hammett’s prose is economical, achieving the greatest impact and solidity with the least number of words possible. He tells complex mysteries in a barebones style.

Nightmare Town is a great book because it gives lowbrow subject matter a literary-grade treatment. For all the pulp, noir, and crime readers out there, get back to your roots with these hard-boiled masterpieces.

Suttree is a dark book. At times it will make you outright smile. It was dragged out of the Knoxville swamps drenched with whisky, blood, spattered with semen. A catfish was said to have been dragged out with it. I followed the trail of broken tears, it lead me to this book. Shortly after we became drunk. A pool cue smashed my teeth. I woke up with a whore that was insane, and she gave me money. There was the smell of suicide on this scorching hot day. I will never eat that man’s watermelons again.

This book is largely devoid of plot. The long paragraphs of description may become a toil for some. At those times my eyes often ached with the long, beautiful labor. Yet, I kept taking and taking from this book and it was like the sea. I’m glad to have read it.