In sorting through two boxes I found my small collection of Richard Brautigan books and put them on the small bookcase next to my bed – which was probably a bad idea – as I haven’t stopped reading them since. But that got me thinking, could the late Mr Brautigan be my favourite author?

The slamming of screen doors and dogs barking and the rattling of breakfast pots and pans and roosters crowing and people coughing and grumbling and stirring about: getting ready to start their day beat like a drum in Billy.
It was a silver early-in-the-morning drum that would lead to the various events that would comprise 13 July 1902.
The town drunk was lying face down in the middle of the main street of town. He was passed out at peace with the summer dust. His eyes were closed. There was a mile on the side of his face. A big yellow dog was sniffing at his boots and a big black dog was sniffing at the yellow dog. They were happy dogs. Both of their tails were wagging.
A screen door slammed and a man shouted so loudly that the dogs stopped their sniffing and wagging, ‘Where in the hell is my God-damn hat!’
‘On your head, you idiot!’ was the female reply.
The dogs thought about this for a moment and then they started barking at the town drunk and woke him up.

Taken from The Drum in The Hawkline Monster (A Gothic Western), and Just one of the many reason why I think ‘yes’ he could well be my favourite author…

While enjoying a cold barbecue with friends on Friday we started talking about books and how we hadn’t seen any second hand copies by our favourites authors of late. Granted, the odd one or two turns up every now and then, but they are usually books we already own, or in such bad condition that they are only fit for reading in the bath!

Then on Saturday while hunting for bits and bobs for an adventure I am planning (more on this soon), I happened to stumble upon a book by Mick Farren, which as you can guess, is one of my favourite authors! The book in question turns out to be Gene Vincent, a book I had been looking for for a while, so not only had I proved our BBQ conversation wrong, I had also found a little gem.

The book is currently on back-order on Amazon, but the synopsis is spot on:

There’s one in every town: Gene Vincent was the original and legendary black-leather bad-boy of rock ‘n’ roll. His records were banned and censored, his live shows incited riots, he wrecked hotel rooms while Keith Moon was still a schoolboy, his private life was a combat zone of booze, pills, guns, and women, and he ultimately died for the bluejean bop. Without him there would have been no Jim Morrison, no Sid, no Marilyn Manson, and even Elvis would have struggled. And that’s why Gene Vincent is still remembered and celebrated thirty years after he should have been dead and gone.