Ewan McNaught (eugene/Frankie Sumatra)

If Miles Davis and Ernest Hemingway could have produced a child it would have been Ewan. True creative writing genius is a rare beast, and of all the current posters in here I can think of only one – Ewan is clearly the 400 lb gorilla in our midst

Nathan Hasalbauer, President, International High IQ Society, New York

Casa del Ionesco is wonderful little site, a repository of intelligent commentary and interesting articles culled from the net and blogosphere. And your picture is great. I frequent the Casa a few times a week. Keep it up.

Husain Naqvi, 3Quarksdaily.com

Ewan - A profound and enlightening writer for the masses, a light sardonic touch. A real post-post modernist outlook that gives him the look of a man on the edge of civilization; not dire, but an optimistically dire perspective. Sees life through the eyes of an Underworld traveller but with the panoramic scope of a flying hedonist. Darts through the mesosphere with a yawn and sometimes a slyly held middle finger

Will Weatherley, Southern California

He a jazz record. Don’t look. Listen

Robbie, Berkeley

A misanthropist with a mean streak a mile wide

Robert, San Francisco

Pretentious p****

P.B., Kirkcaldy

IHIQS interview

Atomic Magazine profile

Graeme Jamieson

Graeme Jamieson is a rhymer of rhythm.
If you're unsure of what he’s trying to do; there’s a patter of pulp there, if you’re ready to chew. Published all over the world, he’s just been ‘made’ by New York’s leading Lounge & Cocktail Culture web site, Tommy White Tie , and this for a bona fide flâneur who still lives in Edinburgh. He’s a neoligistic wordsmith who knows what time it is, while this, his freest form is: "different and intelligent… kind of like the guy who’s off in the corner inhaling nitrous and spouting off all sorts of incredibly coherent nonsense that leaves the rest of the room saying "you’re wacked" but safe in the knowledge he’s brilliant." —Senator, Consigliere, TWT

“A professional lounger” —Dazed & Confused

Vegas Jive

The grape vine was blowin’ hard about this club Vegas so I figured I’d better check what was causin’ all the flip on the vine.

I’m sittin’ in this gin joint sippin’ juice when a couple of fly girls blow in like a hurricane. These chicks are hotter than an Acapulco afternoon.. Tony “Da Wig” Tarantino zeroes in on the chicks, but this cat’s got so much wiggage he’s destined to remain gigless. I ain’t got the heart to tell him but he ain’t even gonna get a click on a pity kick. Sure enough Tony’s soundin’ out their hubcaps but he can’t find a wheel to turn. He’s all over them like Vesuvius over Pompeii.

I figure these girls need a break from the goon so I ask them

“What’s the wire on Vegas?”

“ Where you been hangin’ Mack, Squaresville?” the blonde fires back like she’s snappin’ a cap in my ass.

“You gotta get hip to the trip. Like I gotta ‘splain to you ‘bout this Sumatra dude. He’s a real gone cat. Got his
own lick.”

I say I heard he was a wrong gee, skatin’ around town with pro-skirts and palookas, snow-birds and stoolpidgeons, trouble boys and trigger men. Heard the judge marked him down for the electric cure at Quentin for the ABC job, but nobody would squeal, just like the time he nearly got dealt a three spot for supplyin’ Mary Jane and nose candy to jiggle-brained dope fiends. They say if you mess with Frankie you’re liable to fade out like a Harlem Sunset.

“Frankie a fink!, no way Jose.” the redhead shrieks like Bird hittin’ a bum note.

“You’re tootin’ the wrong ringer Daddy-O! This hombre’s chilled to the bone. The only gats this cat’s packin’ are smokin’45’s, narcotic rhythms are the only dope he’s dealin’. Say, if you ain’t dug him before dig him now. Let’s split to Vegas. We’ll suck up some juice, listen to some wax and go a little crazy.”

So I scooped up my deck of Luckies and we swung over to the club. I tell ya man I never seen anythin’ like it in all my born days. The joint was jumpin’ and these cats were with it all the way. The vibe was cool and crazy, cold war kitty’s and atomic cats havin’ a ball before the blast. Everyone was diggin’ the scene. And as for the Sumatra dude: That cat's way off track. Strictly Section 8, Nate.

Frankie Sumatra - Dec 2000