The title Death in the Ring should not be taken literally. Most boxers don’t die during fights. They survive their careers of violence but are too often left brain damaged and vulnerable to many other maladies, medical and psychological. Nevertheless, I haven’t written an indictment of boxing. It is, rather, a celebration of the brave and talented men who in epic confrontations stir the souls of millions and thus persuade them to ignore the tragedies and premature deaths that await those who fight in the ring.
In this collection of thirty-eight chiseled short stories, George Thomas Clark introduces readers to actors, alcoholics, addicts, writers famous and unknown, a general, a lovelorn farmer, a family besieged by cancer, extraterrestrials threatening the world, a couple time traveling back to a critical battle, a deranged husband chasing his wife, and many more memorable people and events.
Hitler Here is a well researched and lyrically written biographical novel offering first-person stories by the Fuehrer and a variety of other characters. This intimate approach invites the reader to peer into Hitler’s mind, talk to Eva Braun, joust with Goering, Goebbels, and Himmler, debate with the generals, fight on land and at sea and in the air, and huddle in the death camps as, everywhere, civilization is consumed.
Category Archives: The Doors
Oh, what a foolish risk it was. It really should be illegal. I don’t know why it isn’t. All rational people understand it’s dangerous to drive while listening to Jim Morrison sing “Light My Fire.” Actually, I had been thoroughly reasonable all day, easing out of my motel in San Francisco and carefully driving through […]
Surveying the ballroom I’m pleased it’s similar to intimate clubs where The Doors generally played best. About five hundred people are filling the room and sipping drinks if they drink at all. For years, before my reformation, I would’ve viewed such mature restraint as an affront and camped at the two rear-corner bars. Ray Manzarek […]
Three days after telling me to get my ass out of his hospital room, Jim Morrison died in a Paris apartment. Don’t cry for the Jim who departed. Yearn for a less-tortured man who would’ve wanted to live and become a pensioner last year at age sixty-five. I’m a decade older still, and we’re both […]
In early July 1971, I was vacationing in Paris. Ordinarily, by inclination I would’ve been attracted solely by traditional destinations such as the Eiffel Tower and Louvre but, having recently been deserted by my wife, was amenable when friends suggested I visit the Rock ‘n’ Roll Circus, a nightclub where top bands jammed, the chic […]
We live on Love Street in a house with garden, maybe not yet but someday. Jim’s going to buy a church in the south of France and we’ll turn it into a wonderful home. He owes me for so often loving me the wrong way I ache and have to grab thorazine and other things […]
I try not care simpletons think I’m wild sometimes I’m a considerate friend and listener who responds with wit and insight during interviews I spontaneously polish remarks about rock writing and death I don’t want to miss in a plane crash or overdose but savor the only time it ever comes. Before then I can’t […]
I don’t need a psychiatrist though I guzzle whiskey wine and beer and hang outside windows several stories up and drop every pill in hand and yank Janis Joplin’s hair and dash onto Jimi Hendrix’s stage grabbing his legs to shout I want to suck his cock and often screw haunted masochistic women and carouse […]
I love movies and just graduated from UCLA film school in spring 1965 and am ready to create. I don’t think I’ll do films right now though. I’m not lazy but have ten fingers on each hand then fifteen or twenty back to ten I’m not really counting I’m looking at the moon melt into […]
I wish you had appreciated I’m not only your father but a graduate of the Naval Academy and was at Pearl Harbor and didn’t panic when the Japanese sneak-attacked our big warships across the harbor. From the little minelayer Pruitt we fired antiaircraft guns at the bastards and I later volunteered to be a pilot […]