wait, blowdryers cause cancer?

This is a new one on me, that I just heard today.

How? Too much… air?


Do your hair release dangerous radioactive particles under pressure of wind and fire?

Is there some kind of magnetic field like a microwave?

Are people that blowdry their hair more likely to smoke and eat fish filled with mercury?

How is this possible?

Jesus, this world is the shits.

Target: 300 words
Written: 733 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 25-28
Music: John Henry, They Might Be Giants


It’s 7:34AM and I feel like I’m already spent.

Granted, my day starts typically at 4:50AM, so I’ve been up almost three hours.

I’ve written a bit, did some yoga and some meditation, thought about the state of world, wondered why the hell so many of these insane right wingers continue to get away with shit that is clearly illegal and no one appears to be even considering charges, wondered if I’m capable of writing humanity changing works, but it won’t matter because climate change and divisive, authoritarian politics will kill us all before it can make an impact, wondered if aliens would find these pages years later and not be able to understand a damn word, showered, maybe thought about sex a little (because I do so roughly every three minutes) and then peed, ate breakfast, made coffee, fed the dogs, let the dogs, gave the dogs their joint medication, fed the cats, unloaded/loaded the dishwasher, played Wordle and Worldle, a game of Go on a 9×9 board with a 8 stone handicap (because I need it, apparently), then sat down and went over my to-do list, what’s left of it.

And I’ve a whole workday ahead of me.


Target: 300 words
Written: 227 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Sex Rx, Lauren Streicher
Comics: Sex Criminals 17-20
Music: Jimmy Buffett Essentials, Jimmy Buffett (fuck you, Jimmy rocks)


It’s one of the funnest parts of being a writer – the first draft.

Just freeform flow, letting your mind go wild as you pour out whatever it is you’re trying to get across onto the page.

It’s the act of creation, in one of its purest forms.

It also produces utter shit. Sure, there will be a few gems in there, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the first draft is little more than a really, really detailed outline, which then is ripped apart and reconfigured to get rid of all its inconsistencies and mistakes.

It’s a flabby slob getting liposuction and a makeover.

It’s the raw body before the nose job and the tummy tuck. The trick is adjusting only just enough to enhance one’s appearance and not turn it into one of those plastic surgery freakshows that show up on the television far past their prime, more Elephant Man than aging beauty.

Natural beauty has its place, and natural solutions to look better are always better than going under the knife or injecting chemicals into your face.

That’s how you lose the capacity for emotion, after all.

I think I’ve lost the plot, and this metaphor, first draft that it is, has gone into the toxic waste pile, with the rest of the fat.

Target: 300 words
Written: 524 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: Sex Criminals 9-12
Music: The Jerky Boys, L7 (what can I say?  I've been busy.)

fun fun fun

Until the daddy puts the T-Bird away, I think. Or, in this case, the granddaughter.

Man, that kid is something else. Total ham, smart as a whip. Freakin’ adorable.

Starting to go through that “big feelings” stage, where she’s trying to learn how to deal with things beyond the absolute basics.

Really didn’t like the idea of being a “pre-schooler” soon. I hope one day I’ll be successful enough as an author, so she can say, “My Bop-Bop wrote THIS” and then be ashamed by all its darkness.

Wait. Was this a good plan?

Target: 300 words
Written: 689 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Face It, Debbie Harry
Comics: The Necromancer 5-6, The Necromancer: Pilot Season 1
Music: Jefferson Airplane Takes Off, Jefferson Airplane

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 write 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?)

determined to make it better

Or to *wink, wink* get back again to the spirit of the thing.

Bad people lamenting how they can’t go back to the way things used to be, and good people moving forward, content in improvements, however small, so long as the monster’s out of the room.

My monster is a motherfucker. We don’t get along.

And it’s rarely out of the room. The monster inside your head cannot be expunged.

Maybe exorcised?

Is depression simply demonic possession by another name? Only instead of shooting pea soup and stealing souls, it’s content with the slow crumbling of the soul it already has?

Jesus, dark.

Target: 200 words
Written: 518 words, short story: Get Back Again

Read: The Princess Diarist, Carrie Fisher
Comics: Fanboys Vs. Zombies 17-20
Music: You Could Have It So Much Better, Franz Ferdinand

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??)


Life’s full of them.

See what I did there?

Target: 200 words
Written: 2190 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: Get It Done When You're Depressed, Julie Fast
Comics: Mind The Gap 9-12
Music: Quadrophenia (Soundtrack), The Who ("is it me, for a moment?")

for a moment…

for a moment…

for a moment…


I love the absurd. More specifically, I love absurd that knows it’s absurd and leans into it. I don’t like weird for weird; people being weird but taking themselves seriously over it.

But absurd and knowing it? Not caring and laughing along? Leaning into it?

It’s why movies like Evil Dead 2 and Army Of Darkness were so brilliant. It’s why once Legends Of Tomorrow realized how ridiculous they were, the show got infinitely better, contributing one of the single best season finales I’ve seen on any show ever. Beebo, anyone?

It’s why Airplane, The Naked Gun and Major League were instant classics. It’s why Monty Python works. It’s the basis for Seinfeld and Community.

To embrace the absurd is to embrace ourselves, our foibles, our fuck-ups, our downright stupidity. It’s to understand the utter ridiculousness of the human mind and human condition and find a way to laugh along with it. Humanity is exposed by comedy; our self-importance is flayed by absurdity.

There is no one more at peace than the one who is not only perfectly comfortable being absurd, but perfectly aware of how absurd they are.

Target: 200 words
Written: 389 words, comic: Romance #1

Read: Get It Done When You're Depressed, Julie Fast
Comics: Mind The Gap 5-8
Music: Quadrophenia, Discs 1 and 2, The Who