Every year, I think there’s a story in the subculture of Ribfest.

Every damn year.

There’s a raunchy comedy in there somewhere, and at some point, I’m going to write it.

Hell, maybe I’ll make a comic out of it. That could work, although it screams crude sex comedy with lots of butts and boobs and random dicks.

Maybe the return of the batwing, a la Waiting.

I don’t know. There could be a book in it, but hell, it’s hard to make a book that funny. I do have ideas for another book that’s funny. Several, actually, but they have heart.

Can I add heart to Ribfest?

Is there a book in this? Who would be the villain?


Yes. Vegans.

Target: 700 words
Written: 944 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 12, Think Tank: Fun With PTSD 1, Wildfire 1-2
Music: The Ultimate Best Of Queen, uh, Queen (so hit or miss - the best Queen song is Under Pressure, by David Bowie.  That said, the good is really good, the bad is... well... Bicycle.  Prog rock shite).

not quite three

Man, this kid.

Also, I’m simultaneously way out of shape and still surprised that I can scamper up a giant play zone to help lift up to higher heights or rip down slides as much as I did.

I did realize my claustrophobia is starting to get worse.

Some of those tunnels were way too tight.

Also, I couldn’t help but think about Wytches and kid farts and matches blowing the Jones family onto the wall.

Birthdays are weird.

Target: 600 words
Written: 185 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: A New Earth, Eckhart Tolle
Comics: American Vampire 9-12
Music: Oingo Boingo Essentials, Oingo Boingo


There are certain authors and creations that I’m in absolute awe of.

The ability of the Jasons to capture the feel of the South so completely in Southern Bastards. Chip Zdarsky and Matt Fraction’s incredible wit and compassion for their character’s rich internal lives in Sex Criminals. Chuck Palahniuk’s ability to create complexity out of simplicity, to blend “clever art” with something more raw.

The sheer fucking depth and expanse, both internally and in the world-building of Monstress.

Marjorie Liu has created something truly incredible, a world so full and dense that it’s hard to believe it belongs to a comic book. I’m not sure that Game of Thrones is this massive, and the written word allows for much greater detail, in general. Sana Takeda’s extremely detailed art gives that same sense so beautifully, that one almost might believe it’s building the mythos and the world on its own.

I love stuff that requires multiple readings in order to catch all the details, things where that second, third, fourth reading continues to add to the understanding, to improve the experience, to heighten the depth of one’s immersion into the material.

I’m so on board with this series, I kind of don’t ever want it to end (though it inevitably will need to, as all things do, save Batman).

Target: 600 words
Written: 68 words, novella: The Mungk

Reading: Gate Of Ivrel, C.J. Cherryh
Comics: Monstress 51
Music: The Observer, Bjork


There’s a line in Southern Bastards when the sheriff, a ex-high school football star whose career could have been astronomic if it hadn’t been for circumstance and bad choices, says about his opportunities, “I’ve fucked up every last one of mine.”

It wasn’t entirely true there. Esaw and Materhead took out his knee, on Coach Boss’ orders, thereby ending his collegiate career before it started (something you’d be surprised to see Boss do, maybe, after the way he was shafted on his own career for Bear Bryant).

But the rest? Everything after that?

That’s all him.

I feel like that’s me these days. Fucking up every single one of my chances. Settling for safety in fear and losing the plot.

Too scared to try. Too scared to ask. Bubbling up inside like a vat of acid set to boil, scraping out everything internal, until there’s nothing left but molting flesh.

There’s some thoughts for you.

Target: 600 words
Written: 1324 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Five Weeks In A Balloon, Jules Verne
Comics: Monstress 39-42
Music: Vulnicura, Bjork

last man

Okay, so it’s not the first time I’ve read Y The Last Man, and it may not be the last.

It was made to be on TV, which is what makes the fact that the first time it’s adapted, it gets cancelled after one season, so damn sad.

I haven’t had the heart to sit down and watch it, but I gather they strayed from the subject matter heavily enough to make their built-in audience tune out. I heard rumblings that the show seemed overly concerned in not offending the trans community and making them a much larger part of the universe (which is fair, in a sense, because transitioning doesn’t remove the Y chromosome, so it would makes sense that trans men would play a large role as the only remaining males).

Indeed, if there’s a fault in the original, it’s that it doesn’t really explore that particular narrative very heavily, and that’s likely a product of the times, as gender reassignment surgery has mainstreamed much more heavily in the decades since its publication.

But still. Forward thinking – in our current era, with as many people transitioning as there are, it would make sense for it to be a much larger part of the world. All the men who’ve transitioned to women would be dead, given the plague’s targeting of a Y chromosome, but the other way around? Being a trans man would make one highly sought after, I would think.

I think the issue is that delving so far into that drew away from the main thrust of the book, which is Yorick and his merry band’s travels around the world. It’s like spending the Matrix movies focused on Dozer’s relationship with his brother Tank, instead of Neo, Morpheus and Trinity. It’s a nice sideline, and it can impact the main storyline, but it’s bumper on the table, not the ball we need to keep from guttering.

Target: 600 words
Written: 530 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Sword Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Y The Last Man 57-60 (that moment with Ampersand at the end... literal tears down my face, every time)
Music: Volcano, Jimmy Buffett

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)

in training

Back into it. I guess I must be doing okay at work, since they’re offering me extra work most people don’t get (or want, perhaps).

It’s not the greatest job, but as I learn more about who does what in the government and our division, I’m beginning to see that there may be other options.

I mean, as long as this writing thing isn’t paying the bills, which it’s not.

I’ve made exactly zero dollars thus far.

Of course, I don’t expect to make anything off poetry and short stories. Maybe comics. Maybe the hip little ditties if I compile them into a larger volume.

A book of short stories or poetry might work, but I’m a long way from that, and let’s face it – it’s not going to land me on the moon.

That’s the novel prerogative, and even then, it’s dicey. You gotta be good to be great and great to make any cash, which is bullshit.

We massively undervalue art in this world, always have. The absolute cream can make a living; the rest of us are scraping by.

And I don’t believe in the starving artist. I do believe that too much wealth corrupts.

But making a living?

That shouldn’t be something we have to fight for.

Target: 300 words
Written: 176 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 5-8
Music: Jeremy - EP, Pearl Jam (have we deciphered the actual words to Yellow Ledbetter yet?)

so begins canon

I’ve been poking at it for a while. Haikus and flash fiction are all good, and comic book scripts and thinly veiled political rants are something else, but proof of life, proof of concept, of talent, skill, hard work, dedication, adaptability, open-mindedness, and good old fashioned sex appeal lay in the pudding.

(Or Jello wrestling mud pit, if we’re talking that last thing).

The point is, there’s no me, as I want me to be, without books. Reading is only halfway to completion. It’s the act of creation (which is really just exploration and discovery, connection and understanding), that’s the thing that fills the cup.

(Or Jello mud wrestling pit).

The bottom line is, me as I am now? I’m not happy with that person. That person sucks. That person writes split-sentence haikus and pretentious shit about hats.

(I love them both dearly).

This person that I want to be? He gets dark. He gets into it. He understands subtext and trauma and helplessness in the face of adversity.

He knows how to crush you – your soul anyway.

(He’d likely lose in the Jello pit).

I want to make you uncomfortable; to remember that happy endings are not the only endings, and neither are grand tragedies.

Sometimes, it’s the little tragedies that wreck us whole.

Target: 300 words
Written: 794 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Getting Things Done, David Allen
Comics: Southern Bastards 9-12
Music: You Only Live Once, The Strokes (The Strokes with Eddie Vedder doing Marvin Gaye? Fuck me sideways, does it get better than that?)

romance #1

Everyone has a first. This is my first. Goofy, absurdist comedy with little point or depth, only there is point, there is depth, only no point, but interpretation of a point and Jesus, I’ve been listening to too much Night Vale.

All hail.

Target: 200 words
Written: 792 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: 5 Steps To Controlling High Blood Pressure, Mayo Clinic (not be confused with the Mustard Wellness Centre)
Comics: Mind The Gap 17 (damn it, McCann, give us the rest of the story! I'm hooked. I have questions! Questions that demand answers, damn it! Once more with feeling!)
Music: Question The Answers, Mighty Mighty Bosstones (that's fucking soulmusic right there - spaceless intended)

one man’s war

Is another person’s bowl of Corn Flakes he doesn’t even realize he’s eating.

I started writing Romance as a one-shot goof-off. Now, I realize it’s a one-shot goof-off as metaphor for how doing something in one person’s life can feel like fighting World War 3, while in another’s, it’s something they do by rote and forget they even did seconds later.

One man’s Everest is another man’s small puddle.

Probably why so many “nice” guys feel so entitled; the mental and emotional struggle, the days of build-up, the pining, the obsessing, the fantasies, the creation of a mythos around a particular girl that has no bearing in reality to who she is, what she’s done or what her motivations are… when it doesn’t work out, it’s devastating.

From the other side, the woman might be aware of the guy’s infatuation, she might not be. It might be an irritation to her or something that goes completely unnoticed because, you know, she has her own life and it’s not up to her to play the role of trophy for some dude. Unless she’s specifically using him for free shit or whatever, there’s no blame on the person for this (and I’ve known women like that – one in particular who knew damn well who had the hots for her and turned it to her advantage for all kinds of free shit).

Ultimately, it’s up to the dude to reconcile fantasy and reality; to control his mind so that he doesn’t put so much stock in something that likely isn’t attainable, or at the very least, won’t be what he thought it was. The onus isn’t on the woman. Even the user, taking advantage as she was – it was the boys that had the power, really.

They just had to decide she wasn’t such a big deal, that there were other opportunities, other women, ones more likely to be interested and to be compatible. You know, someone that actually wants to be with you and treats you well, and who you want to be with and treat well in return.

They exist.

They’re just not that one.

Target: 200 words
Written: 3756 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: 5 Steps To Controlling High Blood Pressure, Mayo Clinic
Comics: Mind The Gap 13-16
Music: Quake, Nine Inch Nails (why??)