Men's Journal

James Ellroy’s latest novel, Blood’s a Rover, came out on September 22. Here, the author discusses his scars, drinking, and the best way to win a fight.

Interviewed by Sean Woods

What’s the best advice you’ve ever received?
In the waning days of our marriage, my second wife Helen told me, “Seek God, tell the truth, don’t drink or use drugs, speak less rashly, consider other human beings before you act — even though it’s not your nature — and you’ll get more of what you want out of this life.”

What should every man know about money?
It comes and goes. And God wants us to spend more money and be more generous in bum economic climates. Go out and get yourself a hamburger — you’ll feel better.

What’s your favorite drink?
When I drank, the only way I gauged booze was by the alcohol content. Highest back then was T-bird. “What’s the word? Thunderbird. What’s the price? Forty twice.” In a short-dog bottle, which was the half-fifth. I’m recalling the taste from 1975 now — like a sweet turpentine — and my stomach just flip-flopped.

What skill should every man have?
The ability to gauge human character in a heartbeat and to fairly and judiciously confront it.

What’s the best way to win a fight?
There’s something my dad taught me. If somebody starts tapping you on the chest with a finger and gets in your face, they usually don’t really want to fight. But if you determine they are serious, then abruptly reach up with your right hand and bend their finger back as hard as you can, at the bottom of the digit. You’ll break the finger. They’ll be down screaming on the ground, and you can run. It’s just reaching up real fast and bending — snapping your wrist as fast as you can. It saved my ass at L.A. City College in the ’60s.

Do you have a scar that tells a story?
I have a scar on my right hip that I got in the summer of 1964. I stole a bottle of Thunderbird from the Larchmont Safeway in L.A. — and I got chased by the store guys and tackled. I hit the ground with the bottle in my waistband, and it shattered. It hurt like a motherfucker. The store guys just laughed at me and left me there moaning. It got infected and full of pus. So I stole some Bactine and sprayed it.

What’s the best cure for a hangover?
More booze.

What’s the best cure for heartache?
More women.

When is it okay for a man to lie?
When the truth would be utterly devastating and a lie would spare her from all-around sorrow.

What article of clothing should every man own?
A navy cashmere blazer. Because it feels good, and you will look good. It’s stuck around all these years for a reason.

What article of clothing should a man never wear?
Shorts. They detract from a man’s essential dignity.

Have you ever cheated death?
September 10, 1966. I was 18 and riding my bicycle down Western Avenue at 1 am, and it was very dark out. A car hit me from behind. I flew up and did a dipsy-doodle in the air. I thought, Holy shit — it’s September 10, 1966, you’re 18 years old, and you’re dead. I fell on the hood of a 1946 Pontiac, with the Indian-chief hood ornament. The car pulled over to the curb, and I rolled off, out in front of this gay bar called Joly’s. It catered to all these ancient queens. These guys came up and said, “Oh, hi. Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” The upshot was, I lost all the skin on both cheeks of my ass. My bike was totaled. Some cops dropped me off at home, then I got a ticket in the mail a couple of weeks later for not having a light on my bicycle.

What piece of gear should every man own?
An elliptical machine. And a boombox, to listen to the late Beethoven string quartets — the most profound music ever written — while you exercise.

What’s the secret to being good in bed?
Take your fucking time.

What should every man do before he dies?
Try with every cell of your will, every iota of your brainpower, every inch of your schlong, every nanosecond of your shifting perverted consciousness, to find a woman.

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This article originally appeared in the October 2009 issue of Men’s Journal.