easter sunday

And so, He is Risen.

And by he, I mean the turkey I’m about to bake (that’s right, motherfuckers. Turkey on Easter – you don’t own me).

Also, I’m not entirely certain of the turkey’s gender. If I’ve misgendered you, gentle gobbler, I apologize.

Of course, we’re still searching for the giblets. I’m not sure why these turkeys we get seem to hide the giblets, but mostly, I just like saying the world giblets. It always feels like should involve the word tickling.

Tickling Giblets – the quintessential tier 3 Nineties alternative band.

Or, the start of a very enjoyable evening.

You know, whatever works.

Target: 500 words
Written: 226 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Dead Until Dark, Charlaine Harris
Comics: Rat Queens v2 13-15, Rat Queens: Swamp Romp 1
Music: The Very Best Of Echo & The Bunnymen: More Songs To Learn & Sing, by (holy shit) Echo & The Bunnymen

dance good

My niece is a competitive dancer; she’s pretty darn good. I, on the other hand, do a passable white man at best.

I can sort of do the Carlton (and yes, I have a couple of favourite Tom Jones songs – probably the same ones as every other white boy).

I am a basic bitch.

But she is not. She is skilled to the point where maybe it could be a career. I’m not sure dancers make careers out of it for the cash, but rather, the love of the dance, the camaraderie, possibly even the travel.

And then, of course, a school. Teaching what can be taught to the willing and unwilling alike.

But it is the love of the thing that makes it worthwhile; it is a failure of our society not to reward the arts as it would any other profession. A dancer plays a role in society, with more love than some paper-pusher. It is refreshing to the soul, ours and the artist’s.

That’s worth something, is it not?

Target: 500 words
Written: 308 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Dancing Barefoot, Wil Wheaton
Comics: Rat Queens 4-7
Music: Venue Songs, They Might Be Giant (an entire album of hastily composed songs about the stages upon which they played on a particular tour? Well, then. Kind of brilliant, in a way.)

lollobrigada

I like saying that. I know next to little about her, other than maybe she was gifted up top, but I think the best part is her name.

Lo-llo-bri-gah-dah.

Say it. It’s fun.

Loh-loh-brih-gah-daaaaah.

This has been traffic.

Target: 500 words
Written: 451 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Pride And Prejudice And Zombies, Seth-Grahame-Smith, probably.
Comics: East Of West 44-45 (ending felt rushed, but still, so good)
Music: Velvet Underground & Nico, Velvet Underground & Nico

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)

full moon?

The day was perfectly fine until I left the grocery store. First, my batteries fell out of the cart, and the box broke open, sending batteries sprawling across the sidewalk into the torrential rain.

Then, as I went to take my very full cart down the ramp and across the parking lot, a black Charger pulls up and blocks the ramp. And stays there. I had to knock on the idiot’s window to get him to pay attention to the guy standing in the middle of a thunderstorm will a full cart who probably isn’t going to be able to get it down the curb.

He moved. Grudgingly, from the look of it.

I slog out to my van, load it up, put the cart in the cart return and hustle back to my car, rain streaming off my sodden coat.

I get in, plug in my old school iPod nano and cue up some hard rock. I put it in reverse and…

A tan SUV pulls up behind me and stops.

Okay, whatever. Probably just waiting for someone to back out or something.

Except… no one’s moving. None of the other cars are even running. Plus, there are numerous empty spots because I’m one of the very few dummies to grocery shop during a storm. Like, at least eight different options within fifty feet, including on either side of me.

I look at the woman in the window. She’s screaming. Literally screaming. At me.

I can’t figure out why. I haven’t actually moved yet. Not even an inch. Then, I realize, because she rolls down her window and keeps yelling…

She wants my spot. Apparently, I’m keeping her from getting into that spot.

The spot she’s blocked me into.

Never mind that there are at least four open spots on the other side or that BOTH SPOTS on either side of me are empty. Never mind that I’m not on a bicycle, and there’s zero percent chance than my Grand Caravan is getting around her without an eight hundred point turn.

She doesn’t like my suggestion that if she wants my spot, she has to let me out first. I thought it was reasonable, but apparently, it demanded a response of slamming it into drive and tearing off into the parking lot. I think if it wasn’t raining, her tires would have squealed.

I don’t know who shat in her Corn Flakes, but I hope there’s some reason for what was clearly some kind of mental breakdown – both from a logic and an emotional standpoint.

Lady, wherever you are… smoke some weed or have a White Russian or something. Get laid. See a therapist.

Because that spot… it ain’t worth the aneurysm.

Target: 400 words
Written: 876 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: The Practicing Mind, Thomas Sterner
Comics: The Wake 5-8
Music: Kill 'Em All, Metallica (I swear, not planned)

the squirts

Does anyone else feel like we’re close enough to talk about bowel movements yet?

Is anyone reading this?

If I write about the green apple splatters in the woods, would anyone hear?

I don’t do the sound of one hand clapping; I long ago learned the trick from Balki Bartokomous.

Instead, it’s farts in an empty house.

Although these days, with Alexa, Siri and Google Home, the answer is always yes.

Your X-Box is listening to you pee. I don’t mean that as a joke; they really are.

Target: 400 words
Written: 279 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: If Chins Could Kill: Confessions Of A B Movie Actor, Bruce Campbell (I mean, who doesn't love this guy?)
Comics: The Wake 1-4
Music: The Kids Are Alright, The Who

drinks with rednecks

I think it’s good to share a drink with the enemy sometimes.

See, the thing is that in the media, and particularly in social media, it becomes very, very easy to paint everyone with a particular brush. If you believe the right wingers on social media, all lefties are part of a millions-strong conspiracy to use fake science to push an agenda of… ending pandemics and climate change (it is unclear how we profit from these deceits), while using immigrants as fake voters to protect our ability to do so. Of course, if you listen to most right wing bloggers (and their bots/commenters), lefties are all pedophiles, and somehow, vaccinations and green energy helps with that? I’ve never understood the logic of what they think our motivations are. I’ll guarantee it’s not pedophilia, and there are an awful lot more headlines of right wingers getting busted for that stuff than there are drag queens and other lefty icons (Bill Clinton aside – sorry, Bill, but that’s fucked up and you should go down for it).

On the left, however, we tend to think of right wingers as hateful, uneducated, mindless boors, Nazis slavering over their chance to cleanse the population of all but straight, white males and their subservient women, but the truth is more complicated than that. If all you ever read is left-wing bloggers and newspapers, I’ve got news for you. You’re only seeing the worst of the worst there. If you’ve ever actually spent time with a southerner, for example, you’d know that despite their political views, most of them are pretty genial. They don’t spit racial slurs in the faces of minorities (although they will probably say it behind their back, in couched terms), and the majority of them, split off from the rhetoric, are actually quite nice. Even kind of fun. There’s a good natured, joshing camaraderie that’s a breath of fresh air when compared to the pearl clutching culture of non-offense and victim identity often experienced in my usual left wing circles. Despite the fact that I completely disagree with Trumpism and the politics of bigotry, I do agree with one thing: we’re too fucking precious here on the left.

Being offended is good, if it’s something really, truly to be offended by. But tiptoeing around everyone because we’re afraid of the constant threat of labelling and outrage, of possible cancellation, for even a perceived (not actual) slip? It’s a poor way to live, if only for our own mental health.

I miss the Nineties, when we young, grungy punks opted out, opposing bigotry and authoritarianism while declaring no topics off-limits, no subject too dirty. We all got to be fucked up in our own ways, but if we were being whiny little bitches about it, we got called out. If we weren’t, we got hugs and sympathy.

It’s good to eat shit every once in a while. It’s good to poke a hole in the old ego, the identity, especially if it’s one that disempowers us and makes life miserable for those around us.

Fucking have a drink. Have a laugh. Get off the high horse, and don’t engage the bullshit. Find common ground. Forget the stereotypes and take them as they are – imperfect representations of things that may or may not resemble them.

Because that’s the problem with stereotypes: at some point, you have to do with the actuality of the person or people you’re trying to stereotype. If you can drop the stereotype and find that common ground, all the bullshit goes away, and you can have a pretty decent time. You may not agree on everything; you may vehemently disagree on some things, but if you set the preconceived notions aside…

Well, shit. It’s almost like we’re all human.

Target: 400 words
Written: 227 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Aesop's Fables
Comics: Nailbiter 24-27
Music: Katy Perry Essentials, Katy Perry (don't judge me, I love the tongue-in-cheek aspect.  I appreciate someone who doesn't take herself too seriously.)

wait, blowdryers cause cancer?

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

How? Too much… air?

Heat?

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

spent

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 out, 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.

Shit.

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)

draftin’

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.)