when it rains

It fucking kicks you in the nuts.

Not to belabour the point this morning, but man, between lack of sleep, body aches, creeping depression bordering on full shutdown and a near constant stream of demands, I am on the verge of collapse today.

Of course, no one cares, because this world is now savagely devoid of empathy, compassion or basic attempts at understanding the struggles of our fellow humanity.

On the plus side, Donald Trump can’t post his bond, so there’s that. I have little faith that justice will prevail, of course, because if it was going to, the fucker would have been taken down years ago.

The rich fret not about consequence; all that matters is the score.

Target: 500 words
Written: 440 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Seth-Grahame Smith
Comics: East Of West 28-31
Music: V, Live, Vangelis: Delectus, Vangelis (you know what's weird... the Chariots of Fire riff that we're all familiar with barely actually happens in the song, and certainly not the way you remember it from the movie. That's kind of messed up.)

happy st. birthday

It’s my wife’s birthday and I think we did okay. We spent the weekend with the kids and our granddaughter, capped off by a fancy meal with her dad and some St. Patty’s celebrations at my sister.

You may have noticed… family is important to me.

Everyone’s situation is different and I don’t blame some people for cutting family members (or entire families out of their lives); blood isn’t a panacea for bad behaviour, after all.

For me, though, my family’s pretty good; there are stylistic differences, and some breaks in priorities that can be frustrating at times, but overall, we make it work.

I love my family, and my wife in particular. I’m not sure there’d be a life without them.

So, happy birthday, baby, and many more to come.

Target: 500 words
Written: 1534 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll
Comics: East Of West 24-27
Music: KROQ Weenie Roast/KUCI Ska Parade, Sublime, plus a voicemail from Kurt Cobain?

things that make the heart hurt

My granddaughter got mad at me for yanking her arm. Granted, she was about to put her hand on a cast iron stove, but still.

It’s upsetting when they look at you like you’re a monster who hurt them.

Especially when you know there’s no choice.

It was that or a trip to the hospital for a severe burn.

She got over it, luckily, but man. It’s like a dagger to the heart; makes you feel straight rotten.

But still, the alternative. Hurt feelings that go away in twenty minutes or a first-degree burn?

I would make the same choice, and suffer the same pain.

Target: 500 words
Written: 242 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell (I appreciate juvenile humour sometimes, but I just can't get on board with the constant insults; making fun of ourselves is fine; pointing out our foibles is fine; I appreciate the liberal sensibility toward sex and all... I just can't do anything but be appalled and disappointed at the constant putdowns of people for generalities that only demonstrates one's insecure ego and lack of knowledge or empathy about the people around oneself. I can't reward that).
Comics: East Of West 20-23
Music: KooKoo, Debbie Harry

grandaughterin’

We are off to see that baby bundle of toddler joy once again, on a long weekend celebrating my wife’s birthday, my Irish background and the fact of my granddaughter’s existence, a miracle unto itself.

Of course, that we’re here at all is a miracle of chance and collision, an order within the chaos, neither of which could have come without the other.

Target: 500 words
Written: 194 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max
Comics: East Of West 16-19
Music: Know Your Enemy, Green Day (I do - apathy and greed, consumerism and the overarching need to feed, feed, feed)

the smell of death

I’m not sure what’s happened in my kitchen overnight, but it smells as though something has died.

I’m not sure where it’s coming from. I made peanut butter cookies last night. Could it be from the staling batter in the sink? The dishwasher was full, man. I don’t deserve the scent of rot for not emptying the whole thing late at night.

Sometimes, it feels like life is one calamity after another, a subtle and specially formed hell.

I fell on a skinny tree stump cut off at an absurdly pointed angle when I was eight and nearly died.

It’s becoming less and less of a question in my mind: did I actually die? Is this my hell? I mean, I stole some of those pink musclemen from a Toys ‘R’ Us when I was a child, but I felt horrible about it. Is that enough for the supposed god of mercy and love to sentence an eight year old to hell?

Or maybe I overdosed at some point. I’ve never done anything harder than mushrooms and LSD, but who knows? Laced with something? I drank a lot in my youth; maybe I aspirated out on the floor.

I don’t know, but every moment of joy seems calculated to serve as a reminder of what I’m losing as each new calamity piles on.

I think about death way more than I should.

Target: 500 words
Written: 316 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max
Comics: East Of West 13-15, East Of West: The World 1
Music: Know-It-All, Alessia Cara (what can I say?  I dig introvert anthems.)

dj got us

I was thinking about the Super Bowl this morning. Not the whole Taylor/Kelce/who-gives-a-shit, but Usher.

The only song, in my opinion, worth being on that show, in fact, the one that probably could have saved that mostly homogenous and unknown set would have been DJ Got Us Falling In Love.

It would have sent the subliminal into the crowd, and maybe actually made that connection, instead of having most people thinking, “I’ve never heard this one” and wondering where the good songs are.

Personally, it’s the only song of Usher’s worth a shit, in my world, and one of his biggest, and he just skipped it.

I guess weird and dumb decisions always make me wonder. It’s one thing if you’re going for something different and you want to break out of a stereotype, but this is a pop star at the Superbowl.

Play your hits, dummy.

Like, if you want to get insanely arty or pretentious about it, then you need to transcend, like Cobain on MTV Unplugged or Lou Reed anything.

But a pop star? At the Superbowl?

Play your hits, dummy.

Target: 500 words
Written: 878 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell, Tucker Max (I know, I know)
Comics: East Of West 9-12
Music: Knives Out, Radiohead

i guess i shouldn’t write at night

Maybe late at night if it’s been a not-so-bad day, and I’m all keyed up and need a release.

But writing after a long day of a hard mental slog? It doesn’t leave much to be desired.

I had a thought about writing of wanting to be bigger than you are (on the inside! And not in the squishy, gooey, fatty way), but that’s too big for me now.

I am small.

My words are small. My works are small.

I am a haiku; flash fiction.

A one-shot comic.

A short story.

A novella, bordering on novelette.

What’s a novelette you say?

A book that wears heels and kicks up its legs in a line with its fellow works, all tits and fishnet, grinning to hide the awful realities behind it.

Target: 500 words
Written: 307 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Night Valia (I did like it, but the near constant podcast references slowed it waaaaaaaaaaaay down, making me wish time was as weird as they say it is, and thereby I could skim through it a bit faster.  It got to be a bit of a slog.)
Comics: East Of West 5-8 (way, way into this)
Music: Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, The Cure (I'd kiss you)

rats, kenneth

I started off today thinking things were going to be bad. I was distracted, couldn’t focus, following rabbit trails.

That bass started in Rats and suddenly, I was deep in. Pearl Jam is my jam (well, one of them), and that early work?

Shit. Follow it with a little R.E.M. and damn, son, things are looking up.

Except.

They didn’t.

Stuck drain, VPN outages, and a sinking sense of being on the way to being completely fucked… well, that’s my jam, apparently.

Seriously. Maybe fuck today?

Target: 400 words
Written: 280 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, those guys
Comics: East Of West 1-4
Music: Kiss Essentials, Kiss (judge not, sometimes, you just gotta eat some popcorn, plus God Gave Rock 'N' Roll To You is straight Tao)

yesterday

Sorry about that. I guess maybe we’re not in a place where green apple splatters and sexual proclivities are ready to be discussed.

But…

This is the thing about this blog. I never started it intending to pretend to be someone else. I spent too many years full of shit and now, I am doing my best to transition into being someone who is honest, open and compassionate, who always makes the effort to see as many perspectives as he can, while not ignoring the simple realities of things.

A softy without blinders.

A man of honest assessment, without pretense or bullshit.

Because I don’t want to be an icon. I don’t want to be a role model, though I know, if I can live the way I would like, it would inevitably set an example. Of course, every way anyone behaves sets an example; whether it’s a good one or whether anyone follows it are separate questions.

I want to be honest, and that means warts. That means too much information. That means nothing is out of bounds, save the desires of those around me not to be discussed (filtered where appropriate). I respect the privacy of others. I am a private man myself, despite my admissions.

I don’t want people all up in my business, but neither do I want to hide my foibles.

I suppose I shouldn’t hide my successes either, but damned if I won’t try to downplay them; I don’t live for praise. I would just like people to be able to see my work.

I’m not a good networker.

These things are all true.

These things are all filtered, as is everything.

Cognitive filtration is automatic.

Target: 400 words
Written: 341 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Cranor/Fink (Fink/Cranor?)
Comics: Tokyo Ghost 9-10 (seriously - maybe the best comic of all time. It deserves to be in the conversation with Watchmen, Miller's Dark Knight, etc.)
Music: The King Of Limbs, Radiohead

sixty-nine

It’s day sixty-nine of good ole twenty-twenty-four and you know, it occurs to me, that all the things I’ve done in my life, I’m not sure I’ve ever actually sixty-nined.

Weird, right? I mean, I’m probably too fat to be on top, but I love cunnilingus, so I’m not really sure why I’ve never had a woman sit on my face.

Huh.

Things to look into.

Target: 400 words
Written: 721 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Welcome To Night Vale, Cranor/Fink
Comics: Tokyo Ghost 5-8 (this might be the best comic series I've ever read. Top five, for sure.)
Music: King Animal, Soundgarden (you know what, pretty darn good for a late stage reunion album)