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Another Saturday Night in Jukebox Hell
Paperback
Fiction AnthologiesGeneral Poetry
Publisher Price: $15.00
Publisher: Roadside Press
Published: May 1 2024
Pages: 130
Weight: 0.38
Height: 0.31 Width: 5.50 Depth: 8.50
Language: English
The smartass bartender, narrator, is locked in a bar with thousands of uninvited guests. The jukebox is virtual which means it is practically infinite and people can and will play music Loud for hours while the hapless, somewhat hard of hearing bartender tries to make the best of this disco inferno ( though the music is rarely if ever remotely disco like). Our bartender refers to the jukebox as the infernal machine and the guests are demons with unlimited credit. Snarky, irreverent and based on actual firsthand experience.
Alan Catlin worked for the better part of 34 years in his unchosen profession as a barman in and around the greater Albany, NY area. He has published dozens of chapbooks and full-length books focusing on his work and the people he met while laboring in the trenches of bar warfare.
Like a sequel to his previous collection of bar poems, Bar Guide for the Seriously Deranged, Alan Catlin's new collection begins, appropriately, in Hell, among those condemned to short, sad, violent lives of pain, humiliation, and self-destruction. There are many doors to Hell, he confides. The one you choose is always / the wrong one. The whores, the drug addicts, the gang members, the karaoke killers they've all walked in through different entrances but wound up in the same place. Fate? In Maybe it was meant, Catlin philosophizes: to be, to end this way, / a life spent on the edge / always playing a loser's / hand but pretending /otherwise, and fooling / no one. Another Saturday Night in Jukebox Hell has moments of humor and scenes of poignance, all so familiar, all so human, all so doomed, all so damned. Belly up to the bar, have a seat. Drink it all in!-Charles Rammelkamp, author of The Trapeze of Your Flesh
This the kind of place the children and grandchildren of the Dead-End Kids would go. They'd call themselves something like the Wild Bunch or the Wrecking Crew and the bartender, good to his word, would be taking notes and writing it all down. If you see yourself in these poems, it's your own fault.-Elenora Fagan, poet, lyricist
If hell opened up all its' gates, gave every good citizens a couple of hundred bucks to spend at happy hour; they'd end up at this bar, super-charged and ready to go, making up for lost time.-Patrick Allen, occasional poet
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