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 and throw away those bras, 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

also fact

Ninety-nine percent of Gen X males who were in either their teens or twenties in the Nineties will also picture themselves as moustachioed detectives sliding across car hoods, Starsky and Hutch style, when the song Sabotage by the Beastie Boys is on.

None of us will think a real life moustache is cool, unless you’re a police officer, porn star or either Tom Selleck or Sam Elliott (like, best ‘stache ever, am I right?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 50 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way, Ash
Comics: Danger Girl/Army Of Darkness 2-4, Danger Girl: Revolver 1
Music: An Open Letter To NYC, Beastie Boys


There are things that I know to be false and things I know to be true.

We are mostly made of nothing. The whole universe is largely void.


Gravity is a thing.


Puppies and kittens are cute.


And finally, ninety-nine percent of all Gen X males who were either in their teens or twenties during the Nineties will think or say some version of “Oh hell yeah” when the opening chords of Sabotage by the Beastie Boys hits.

True story.

Target: 700 words
Written: 192 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Make Love! The Bruce Campbell Way, Bruce Campbell
Comics: Danger Girl: Body Shots 2-4, Danger Girl/Army Of Darkness 1 (a Bruce kind of day, apparently)
Music: One Particular Harbour, Jimmy Buffett (and sorry about the Chester crack yesterday, it was uncalled for, especially from a guy who followed it up with Jimmy Buffett and suffers from depression. I should know better. In Chester's defense, the best two songs on this otherwise generic pop album were the ones written by him. They tried something different and it didn't work out. One evolves, sometimes. Sometimes, one just gets off track. Everybody fucks up sometimes.)

gettin’ on wid it

I think it’s time for the whinging to stop (I know that’s not the spelling of whining, but it’s like the British insult version to me).


Win. Jing.

Alrighty, movin’ on then.

Target: 700 words
Written: 152 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (I think the utter lack of cohesive plotlines or thoughts is driving me insane; even a fairy tale should have a logical flow.  How did this ever become famous?)
Comics: Danger Girl 4-7
Music: One Hot Minute, Red Hot Chili Peppers

teriyaki burgers, coffee stout and junior concerts

So, my whole day was hijacked. For the first time in a long, long time, I got to the end of the day and realized, I hadn’t read a thing, so I sat down and did five minutes before bed.

(This is not helping me get through the 1140-page complete fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson, already a more tedious read than the bible, but I am a completist and it is “research” for a project down the road).

Did you know Anderson once visited Charles Dickens and turned into the houseguest from hell, extending a short stay into a five week hellscape that forced Dickens to tell him to get the fuck out?

I guess Dickens’ platitudes about charity don’t extended to irritating houseguests.

Anyway, after a morning concert for my father-in-law, some running around, a lengthy dog walk and some pool time with homemade teriyaki burgers and grilled pineapple (made by yours truly), we followed that up with a campfire at my sisters.

The dogs are spent.

And so am I.

Why is it, again, that I am involved with people? Oh right, I actually enjoyed the day, but still, it doesn’t do well for one’s goals to enjoy oneself all the time.

Target: 700 words
Written: 104 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Most Tedious Fucking Stories
Comics: American Vampire 7-10
Music: One Fierce Beer Coaster, Bloodhound Gang

all i’m saying

Is when you’re talking about suicide, depression and mental health around others, be aware that there may be sufferers nearby for whom your demonization or minimization of their struggle impacts negatively, reinforcing the very stereotypes about themselves that may be keeping in this state of diminished being.

Your words could spiral someone who was teetering, and you might not even know it.

Leave the place better than you found it. That’s all I’m saying.

And for Pete’s sake, if your only contribution to empathy is a social media post or bluster to friends, just stop pretending you give a shit, so everybody can know what an asshole you are, and not just those attuned to recognize hypocrisy and bullshit.

(Also, who’s Pete? Why are we doing things for Pete’s sake? Is Pete depressed? Should we be worried about Pete?)

Target: 700 words
Written: 41 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales (so.  goddamned.  long.)
Comics: American Vampire Second Cycle 11, American Vampire Anthology 2, American Vampire 1976 1-2
Music: One By One, Foo Fighters (the last great rock band - unless you count Jack White, which I don't after the White Stripes ended)

seriously, sorry

I don’t know what came over me yesterday.

I think maybe I’d had enough of the bleak, and needed something light and stupid to take my mind off of it.

And so, you get a bad, probably old and tired, fart joke.

It was no Ryan Gosling/Mikey Day as Beavis & Butthead, but we can’t all be geniuses by just sitting there and looking confused.

Although, I’m getting pretty good at being confused. Sitting there takes some work.

Target: 600 words
Written: 314 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire: Lord Of Nightmares 5, American Vampire 32-34
Music: On Your Own, Blur


In an effort to dispel a little doom and gloom, or flagrant ego, we note that we try, several times a year, to have themed dinners with the whole family. And we picked Mediterranean.

And it was good, but apparently, a trail of gas is following me around like a trail of death, according to my wife.

And I woke up in the night, thinking, I don’t usually get that from Greek food.

And my butt answered.

This is not Greek food.

This. IS. FARTA!!!!!!

I’m so terribly sorry.

Target: 600 words
Written: 866 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Hans Christian Anderson's Fairy Tales
Comics: American Vampire 30-31, American Vampire: Lord Of Nightmares 3-4
Music: On Your Own, The Verve


I use it mostly to create zucchini noodles, but sometimes, it likes to take up residence in my head, and spin me out of control, akin to a piece of fluff floating on top of a bath, that’s being rapidly drained out.

Where does all that water end up? The sewer?

Am I a piece of fluff, doomed to hang out in the shit the rest of my life?

I used to think I’d like to aspire to living in a cardboard box, but it’s a hard life, feeding yourself and begging for enough money for booze and drugs. Too responsible.

Then, I thought I’d like to be super rich, but rich people are always fighting off scavengers for their money, and there’s a disconnection and cruelty that festers beneath the freedom, and that’s not who I’d like to be.

Plus, there’s all you have to do to get there. You have to, at least, go to the convenience store attached to the gas station and buy the lottery ticket.

There’s no escaping responsibility.

The only way out is through.

Or death, but that’s a whole other topic.

Target: 600 words
Written: 725 words, novella: The Mungk

Read: Five Weeks In A Balloon, Jules Verne
Comics: Monstress 35-38
Music: VU, The Velvet Underground