A few recently in print items I might suggest for the bad mutha you call pop, if you're looking for gifts this week. Don't pussy out this year. Get dad a motherfucking book.
All the Wild Children by Josh Stallings - Badass, big hearted, memnoir.
All the Young Warriors by Anthony Neil Smith - The thriller you won't fucking hate yourself for loving is now in print!
American Death Songs by Jordan Harper - Hardboiled, hardcore crime stories.
Bad Sex On Speed by Jerry Stahl - Hilarious hallucinatory hellscape.
Cold, Quiet Country by Clayton Lindemuth - Lyrical, laconic, lethality.
Donnybrook by Frank Bill - Bruiser heart-disease-land pulp.
Driving Alone by Kevin Lynn Helmick - Haunted, horny, holy crap fever dream.
Fish Bites Cop by David James Keaton - These transgressive, trans-genre transmissions from the immoral majority strike like lightening bolts out of the blue. A satirical miracle.
The Hard Bounce by Todd Robinson - If you're wondering where all the wise-cracking private detectives and sanctimonious psycho-hunters went - I'd check the trunk of Robinson's car for their remains. Big hurt illuminated by dim wit - that's a recommendation, asshole.
Low Down Death Right Easy by J. David Osborne - Cracked back of Oklahoma noir. Chapped, chipped, busted-ass and split-lip -sparse prose that spares none.
Matador by Ray Banks - Once again, Banks strips crime fiction of everything you thought you loved about it, and the result is - you love it more.
Paying For It by Tony Black - Gus Dury has finally arrived in the States - in paperback! - Get dad started on his new favorite PI series, 'cause Gutted is available now too.
Point & Shoot by Duane Swierczynski - The slickest, sickest, technicolor, electric kool-aid acid test of a thrillogy concludes. Sorry, Charlie, nobody can be kill-proof forever.
The Posthumous Man by Jake Hinkson - Somebody's robbed the grave of Jim Thompson, fished in an unsettlingly lucid stream of necromantic diction and slapped the name Hinkson on these books. I want more.
Rake by Scott Phillips - Phillips weaves through the congestion of crime-writing traffic heedless the laws of literary civility comfortable and unapologetic in the assurance that all others must yield him the wrong of way.
The Rapist by Les Edgerton - "reads like congress with the Devil himself - elegantly unsettling and with a hell of an after-taste." Somebody said that.