wine and assassination attempts

On my sister-in-law’s birthday, Trump supporters stormed the capitol, nearly completing their insidious coup.

Now, on my birthday, some idiot takes a potshot at the asshole, leaving us all to wonder, just how bad is this going to get?

Staged or not (and I am in the camp that fully believes there’s a very good chance this shit was staged – I mean, the guy has followed by Nazi playbook step for step and is surrounded by Infowars believers – don’t tell me he doesn’t know the Reichstag fire and what a false flag operation is), it doesn’t bode well for freedom and democracy in this world.

So, happy birthday to me? We don’t know where this is going, but I’ll guarantee nowhere good.

Target: 700 words
Written: 551 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Elfstones Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Symmetry 4, Postal 11-12, Think Tank: Creative Destruction 1
Music: Unbridled Funk And Roll 4 Your Soul!  Red Hot Chili Peppers!

dogsitters

I wish there was time.

I wish I didn’t love animals as much as I did.

Fuck that. I love my animals to death. I love all animals, even the ones that slither.

Doesn’t make me a vegan, though.

I have too much respect for nature and the environment for that.

The history of agriculture is the history of imperialism.

Target: 700 words
Written: 855 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Elfstones Of Shannara, Terry Brooks
Comics: Postal 7, The Tithe 5-6, Postal: Dossier 1
Music: The Ultimate Tribute To Linkin Park, Various Artists (man, this Various Artists band gets around)

ribfest

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?

Vegans?

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).

echo chamber

There’s one in my head, and it rings with hopelessness. It sees the march of fascism, the flagrant entitlement of the world’s insipid victim mentality, and it knows the end of us is near.

There’s an external echo chamber as well, harming right and left, cutting off the ability to see any other perspective at all, let alone try to truly understand the other, which is the only method of finding resolution and peace.

I try to limit my external echo chamber. I don’t wish to be like my stepson’s friend who was heavily radicalized during the pandemic, to the point of losing a very good teaching position at an Ontario college because he bought into all the “vaccines are poison” nonsense.

Yesterday, he was posting about how a woman in Tennessee won her case and received three quarters of a million dollars for being fired for not getting one, making it sound as though a litany of similar lawsuits were about to bring the corporate world and government to their knees.

Of course, for a guy that I used to think was fairly smart, he sure didn’t much think it through. I’m not even sure he read the article he posted.

First, the woman won in deep red Tennessee. That has jack to do with Canadian law, and second, in the ruling, it specifically noted that the award was given not because the woman didn’t take the vaccine, because she’d had other vaccines, but rather, her religion opposed abortion and there were rumours (that at the time apparently had yet to be debunked) that the vaccine was made using fetus cells, and she felt, on religious grounds, she couldn’t inject that into her body.

Regardless of where I fall on the abortion issue (pro-choice), I can see why she’d be opposed to it.

It was noted in the article that the case was different than most other cases wending their way through the system, because the documentation proved without a doubt that the woman was doing it on religious grounds, not political or ideological ones. The vast majority of vaccine deniers can’t say that. All they can say is they were being selfish and stupid and would rather endanger other people’s lives than do something a liberal might support.

This was a one-off. Hardly the landslide this young man was celebrating.

It’s a weird thing to me, that prior to Trump and the Putin-pushed (and social media and mainstream media endorsed) disinformation pandemic, that perfectly intelligent, otherwise logical individuals could have gotten so locked into their echo chambers that the ability to reason, think or even want to question the information being presented to them has completely disappeared.

I understand the celebrities that do this; they’d been irrelevant before, and this buys them a fan base. It’s a grift.

But the average individual? Even the ones that had previously shown no hate in their hearts?

It’s terrifying to know how quickly someone can abdicate their own mind.

Garbage in, garbage out, as the saying goes.

Unfortunately, their willful myopia is likely to kill us all.

birds fall down upon / weighted wings they choose to fall / blindly into night

Target: 700 words
Written: 254 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 8-11
Music: Ultimate Air Supply, Air Supply (why would I do this to myself?  Must be a masochism day.)

it’s the 4th of july

And it’s truly terrifying. I don’t know what scares me more – fascist plans unfolding around the world or the absolutely ineffectualness of the opposition.

I mean, we can all vote, but there’s so much more they could do and have done on the other side, but this fucking “honour” is hamstringing them, and has us on the verge of just handing the fascists everything because we’ve rendered ourselves impotent by insisting on taking the higher road.

A little dishonour now might just save the whole goddamn world from a great deal of bloodshed and misery later.

I fear for this planet; I fear for my family. I fear.

It’s the Fourth of July, and we’re all going to hell.

Target: 700 words
Written: 98 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Living Dead In Dallas, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Think Tank 1-4
Music: Uh Huh Her, PJ Harvey

pop

I usually hold pop music in disdain, but especially this morning. What makes modern pop different than shitty 80s pop?

Slight better production? More revealing clothes?

Is there anything more tedious than some rapper bragging about how great a rapper he is? Would you even watch a ball player or a concert pianist if all they did was brag about how many homers they hit or how well they tickled the ivories? Or would it get old super fast, and no matter the quality of the production, get lost in the pathetic and annoying ego of its progenitor?

I don’t actually have anything against love songs or sexy little ditties, but man, do it fucking right. Add some depth and emotion to it.

At least we seem to be moving past the phase where some producer takes a pithy inspirational phrase and creates a song around it, where there’s nothing but the same goddamn phrase repeated endlessly.

If your song has more writers than the road crew contains members, you’re not a fucking artist; you’re a commodity.

And for shit’s sake, The Weeknd, try not to sound like you’re completely bored with your own music.

Of course, it is boring garbage, and it bores me when it comes on, so why wouldn’t the man who played it a million times not be?

Target: 700 words
Written: 127 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Gregor And The Prophecy Of Bane, Suzanne Collins
Comics: Saga 65-66 (depending on how it ends, this may be the best comic series ever written)
Music: 18 Singles, U2

canada day

On this day, I fear for our country. Poilevre is nothing more than a Trump in waiting, a Christo-fascist wannabe poised to become our new Prime Minister because Justin Trudeau can’t see the writing on the wall.

All that needs to be done is to have him step down, merge with the NDP and put up a solid candidate as a united left wing, without all the baggage of the prior parties.

Because Poilevre is going to fuck us all, and I don’t want to live in a fascist state with regressive, hateful policies.

I can only pray people come to their senses before this happens, but given the apparent stubbornness of the parties on the left and their unwillingness to sacrifice their own power in order to save the country, I think we’re all on a straight road to hell.

Target: 700 words
Written: 67 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Gregor And The Prophecy Of Bane, Suzanne Collins
Comics: Saga 57-60
Music: Overrated, Mudmen

how do i sell myself to you

It’s a question I’ve wrestled with since the day I decided I wanted to be a writer.

I want to be authentic. Open. There should be nothing between you and my thoughts but the desire to keep other people’s secrets secret, because they’re not mine to expose.

Of course, we all present ourselves through a filter, either by intentional omission or unconscious deceit (or vice versa – intentional deceit and unconscious omission.)

I don’t like to do either, but at the same time, I don’t want to be a martyr anymore than I want to be a charlatan. I’d like to write for a living, but there are two non-negotiables:

First, what I write is what I want to write. I hate the idea of being tied to a particular genre, and I don’t want anyone else to dictate the content of my stories. No Hollywood motherfuckers who think they know better or need to “sex it up” (although I am heavily fixated on sex, so that seems like it might not be an issue), or publishers/editors who want a happier ending or something more “clever”.

Save me from clever art, as Palahniuk would say, while being weirdly over clever, yet somehow, managing to hold that instinctual, emotional raw nerve. (It is a brazen and wondrous talent, those who can do this, and I am in awe of it.)

Secondly, I don’t want to be someone I’m not. I’m not perfect; if anything, I’m terribly broken, complex and boring, typical and atypical simultaneously; unique, in the worst and most generic way.

I am a work in progress. I’m an ugly piece of granite, in the process of seeing what’s underneath.

It might be a toad.

It might be Psyche.

I don’t know, but I know what I’m trying for.

How on track I remain will determine whether I’ve the smooth and incredible detail of a Cellini or the clumsy stack of a inukchuk (although, given the spiritual connection to the land and to honouring what is, in nature and spirit, that is totally cool). Maybe shattered gravel would be a better metaphor.

Or a pile of crumbling mud.

Anyway, how to tell the world of what I’ve written, while not compromising my self into something I don’t want to be?

I want to be honest, in work and in life.

Anything else isn’t worth it, and bullshit.

Target: 700 words
Written: 98 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The $100 Startup, Chris Guillebeau
Comics: Saga 49-52
Music: Outcesticide, Nirvana

nothing finer

Than to be in a v… wait. No.

There’s nothing finer than a cup of coffee, a mix of David Bowie/Rise Against/Nine Inch Nails in your ears, as you finalize the edits on the fourth draft of your novella.

Thirteen scenes I hope to combine to six.

I know you can’t sell a novella. I’m hoping to package it as The Mungk & Other Bullshit, which I realize will be a tough sell on bookstore shelves, but it’s also an eyecatcher. It was suggested to me to call the book The Little House In The Country, but that sounds fucking boring and generic.

The Mungk is a weird name. And people love swearing.

You see the word Mungk and ask, what the fuck is that (although you might be one of those people who don’t swear like longshoremen, so you might say, “what a strange looking word, perhaps I should inquire as to its meaning” and then drink some tea with your pinky out and adjust your monocle, you fucking weirdo), and then pick it up.

Pick it up and maybe buy it. And then maybe that money goes through the various systems of skimming off the top from the store, the distributor, the publisher, agents, managers and probably some grifting professional organization that claims to advocate for authors, but actually keeps them poor and begging, like the RIAA and MPAA do to movies and music, and then finally, that pittance will arrive in my bank account, where it’s probably already been paid out in an advance and I’ll actually get nothing extra for it at all.

But if enough of you do it…

Well, shit.

Break out the fucking tea.

Target: 700 words
Written: 302 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter
Comics: Saga 21-24
Music: Out In L.A., Red Hot Chili Peppers

flatiron to times square

We did that walk. Down Broadway. In ninety degree heat.

On the plus side, I got a good deal on good shirts and shorts from an Aeropostale outlet.

Also, of fashion in New York. I’m not sure who convinced women that the new trend should skin-tight, see-through and bra-less, but hell, good job, Illuminati or Obama or whoever we have to thank for that.

I know, I know.

Dirty old man, it’s horrible. I’m horrible.

I should be spayed and neutered already, and I would be, if it wasn’t for this damn sex drive. I’ll get you next time, meddling sex drive.

I think it’s official; I’ve got heat delusion. Goodbye, Central Park Zoo. I love your red panda and your penguins, but you should really let them all go home.

Target: 700 words
Written: 456 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Assholes Finish First, Tucker Max (this shit is colouring my views, thank heaven it's done)
Comics: Saga 1-4 (HOLY SHIT)
Music: I Don't Give A Fuck About You, Pearl Jam