Face Book Short Takes

Per the encouragement of my awesome Port Orchard friend Anna Bradshaw, here’s a compilation of all the funny short takes I’ve posted on Face Book. Enjoy!

EVANESCENCE DREAM:

I haven’t been remembering a lot of my trips to the subconscious theater lately since they involved competitions of some kind (I never remember those for some reason). I do however remember pretty much all of my concert dreams. Last night was no exception. This time I saw Evanescence play a show in an abandoned bank in the middle of nowhere. Amy Lee and her new band mates were all fifty years old. I repeat, between the release of Evanescence’s first album and this dream, Amy Lee became…fifty years old. She had gray hair, wrinkly skin, Marlboro lines in her face, and she was wearing a pants suit like she was running for office. This whole time I kept asking, “What the fuck’s going on here?!” Thank god I woke up when I did. But yes, it’s true, ladies and gentlemen: as of today, Amy Lee is only fourteen years away from celebrating her fiftieth birthday. Let that sink in for a minute and then you can slowly realize it beats the alternative.

CONCERT CO-HEADLINERS:

Because I was too zonked out today to get any real work done, I made a list of bands I haven’t seen perform live yet and paired them together as fantasy co-headliners. I tried to have the pairings make as much sense as possible. Live Nation? Make them happen!

1. 3 Doors Down X Crossfade
2. David Gilmour X Martin Kesici
3. Gemini Syndrome X From Ashes to New
4. Ghost X Babymetal
5. Hellyeah X All That Remains
6. Killer Be Killed X Down
7. Limp Bizkit X Bloodhound Gang
8. Sepultura X Sworn In
9. Serj Tankian X Tarja Turunen
10. Within Temptation X The Dark Element

BATHROOM BREAKS:

Here’s something I’ve always wondered, but never got an answer to. Why is it whenever you’re talking to someone online and you tell them you have to go to the bathroom, they always think you’re looking for an excuse to get away from the computer? Would they rather you soil yourself? Would they rather you wear a diaper at the computer? I don’t know about you guys, but sitting in my own biological sludge isn’t worth maintaining a conversation with someone. It stinks. It stinks very badly. I know this because my elderly dog Maggie shits and pisses all the time and I’m usually the one who wipes it off the floor. Whenever I tell you I need to go to the bathroom, believe me. This is especially important to me after I have a whole pitcher of iced tea to drink….or two…or three. That’s a lot of urine, more than Smokey’s litter box allows. So yes, I’m going to need a non-diapered bathroom break every once and a while. Deal with it.

FIFTY SHADES JOKES:

If you surf You Tube a lot like I do, you’ll eventually watch a few less-than-romantic videos and some wiseass in the comments section will say, “Still a better love story than Twilight.” Well, I’ve never read Twilight, so I can’t say for certain, but I have read its fan fiction predecessor Fifty Shades of Grey. I gave that book three out of five stars (mixed grade), but now that I have the benefit of hindsight, it deserved less. Much less! So that got me thinking: what are the most extreme, fringiest examples of movies or books that are better love stories than Fifty Shades of Grey? In the interest of bad taste, I’ve actually compiled a list for you so that you don’t have to. Starting with…

1. A Serbian Film
2. Boston Public (stalker episode)
3. Different Strokes (bike shop episode)
4. Fatal Attraction
5. Millennium (A Room with No View)
6. NCIS (Bete Noir)
7. NCIS: Los Angeles (An Unlocked Mind)
8. Pink Floyd the Wall (“Don’t Leave Me Now”)
9. Pulp Fiction (pawn shop scene)
10. Savages (Blake Lively’s captivity)
11. Star Wars: Return of the Jedi (slave Leia scene)
12. Suicide Squad (Joker X Harley Quinn)
13. Tales From the Hood (spinning table scene)
14. Team America: World Police (scat fetish scene)
15. The Shield (David Aceveda blowjob scene)
16. Through the Shattered Glass by Jeanie Clarke (marriage to Stone Cold Steve Austin)

With a virtual cornucopia of extreme examples, I want you to think carefully the next time you make a Fifty Shades joke. Let’s say you decide The Shield is more romantic. You’re basically saying that you’d rather get orally raped by a Mexican gangster than have a bondage romance with Christian Grey. I know, I know, you desperately want to put those things on the same level, but trust me, you’re exercising your hyperbole muscles when venturing into this territory.

BLACK TEA:

In all this time of drinking iced tea, I’ve always thought black tea had a negligible amount of caffeine. I can’t stress the word negligible enough. Turns out it’s one tier below coffee and I’m just now paying the price for drinking entire pitchers of black tea. Caffeine and schizophrenia is a fucking horrible combination. Plus, there must have been some reason why I kept waking up at ten in the morning despite going to bed late at night. If you don’t see any creative work from me for a while, it’s because the black tea caffeine is working its way out of my system and I’m constantly in beddy-bye with Smokey. I can’t concentrate if I’m perpetually sleepy. It probably doesn’t help matters that I’m constantly listening to “True” by Spandau Ballet and having romantic (not sexual) thoughts while doing so. Negligible, my ass!

CHEERIOS AND SOCCER:

When I was a nine-year-old preparing to play in a soccer game, I wanted to eat a bowl of Cheerios before the match, because…and I quote directly from the tube…they had “Morning power! Kid power! Go power!” James laughed his ass off at that while I was having a hard time undoing the brainwashing of television advertising. Truth is, Cheerios won’t help you win a soccer match. As a matter of fact, my team and I, the lovable losers known as The Thunder Eagles, got our asses handed to us like a bunch of jobbers. Drinking warm Gatorade didn’t help me win either. It gave me some cardio, but not a victory. I could have eaten a hot fudge sundae and had the same results. Is it any wonder why I didn’t want to shake the other team’s hands afterwards? Participation trophy, my ass!

BABY INITIALS:

I’m too zonked out today to get any real work done other than build a few of my birthday Legos. So instead I’m going to have some fun with potential kid names (even though I still haven’t any plans to father children). Tonight we’re going to look at initials, excluding the T in Temons and keeping the H in Haines (assuming initials are only supposed to have three letters). Ready? I sure am.

1. Grant Thomas Haines-Temons (GTH (Go to Hell))
2. Heath Edgar Haines-Temons (HEH)
3. Hunter Hearst Haines-Temons (HHH (Triple H))
4. Ivan Cody Haines-Temons (ICH)
5. Marcus Edge Haines-Temons (MEH)
6. Neville Alexander Haines-Temons (NAH)
7. Roger Owen Haines-Temons (ROH (Ring of Honor))
8. Samuel Mitchell Haines-Temons (SMH (Shaking My Head))
9. Tucker Oliver Haines-Temons (TOH (Treehouse of Horror))
10. Uriah Garrison Haines-Temons (UGH)
11. Walter Travis Haines-Temons (WTH (What the Hell?))

That’s all I can come up with for now. Happy Father’s Day!

COUPLES:

Here’s something I’ve often wondered, but never got a definitive answer to. Why is it whenever I go out in public with someone, everybody thinks we’re a couple? I’ve had people assume me and my brother James to be a gay couple, especially when we have Reina in tow. Hell, I’ve had a massage therapist in Hawaii assume that me and Aunt Ruth were a couple. You’ve got to have Ray Charles vision in order to fuck that one up. This isn’t Game of Thrones, people. My family tree actually forks. If it didn’t, then according to Jeff Foxworthy, I might be a redneck. Actually, my neck is red anyways since I go out for long distance walks in eighty degree heat, but that’s beside the point. Back to the topic at hand, it would be REALLY fucking disastrous if someone thought me and Reina were a couple. And while we’re at it, why don’t we just assume that people walking their dogs are in bestiality relationships. Good god almighty!

CREATIVE NONFICTION IS REAL, DAMN IT!:

When I was taking a nonfiction creative writing class in 2009, I overheard some kid questioning whether or not the words “creative” and “nonfiction” belong in the same sentence together. His major talking point was that since the memories are real and nothing is made up, it can’t be creative. The counterpoint to his argument was that the author still had to tell a story, which means the same rules as fictional writing still apply whether it’s showing vs. telling, being a reliable narrator, using colorful descriptions, dictating a desirable pace, using correct grammar, etc. No matter how many times the kid was proven wrong, he just kept insisting that there’s no such thing as creative nonfiction. It was like talking to a brick wall. Actually, the brick wall would have a higher IQ. Roger Waters seems to agree since he built one out of his own insecurities and made a classic rock album out of it with his Pink Floyd mates. See? I told you creative nonfiction was real!

DANIEL BRYAN X PAIGE:

Another weird ass goddamn dream from last night? Sure, why not? This one is WWE themed as it involved Smackdown wrestler Daniel Bryan and Smackdown General Manager Paige. Both of them were kidnapped by a religious cult after yesterday’s show. One of the cult members openly admitted to masturbating to Paige’s leaked sex videos, which naturally made her shiver in disgust. Once the cult’s van got to a high school gymnasium to perform a ritual, they gagged Daniel and Paige with tall Red Bull cans and duct tape. It was up to me and a special team of whoever-the-fucks to raid the gym and rescue the two Smackdown personalities. Daniel was successfully rescued, but Paige was nowhere to be found even as I kept desperately screaming her name. Then I woke up feeling happy for some strange reason, probably because I got a lot of work done last night at one in the morning (blogging Escape From Chehalis, writing Because of You, and reading chapter three of The Savior’s Champion). Although that might not be the official reason for my happiness, I chose not to question the source and actually let myself have a good day today.

DISTURBING NAPTIME MUSIC:

As someone who likes good music and good naps, I can tell you now that there’s nothing depraved about falling asleep to “She Don’t Want the World” by 3 Doors Down. The lyrics are disturbing as fuck, but the music is soothing enough to cure insomnia. Same thing goes with “Out of Hell” by In This Moment, a gentle piano melody with…questionable content. Not once have I fallen asleep to these songs and had a horrible nightmare afterwards. Most of my dreams are about school, concerts, and occasionally Unitarian churches (I used to go to those as a kid and a teenager, but not anymore). Last night’s trip to the subconscious was about me actually WANTING to go to school, so I signed up for a creative writing class and a gym course. Normally Roger Waters and I would agree when it comes to crappy school experiences, but this time, I actually wanted to go. Huh. Weird shit.

JAPANESE RESTAURANT:

It’s day three of zombie brain BS, so the most you’re going to get from me today is a post about a weird ass dream I had last night. Or as I like to call it, a trip into the subconscious theater. The dream opened with me getting a report card from college: two Ds and one F. I was so fucking pissed that I threw my report card in the garbage and went on a hissy-fit rampage in front of my teachers. To calm me down, one of the teachers suggested that I find a job at the Japanese restaurant on campus. When I started working there, the TVs at the sushi bar were playing Isle of Dogs and nobody batted an eye. I changed the channel to WWE and watched Dean Ambrose, Carlito, and Mojo Rawley give a member of The New Day a triple power bomb a la The Shield. I woke up wondering just what the hell happened (what a fucking surprise). Now that I’ve written this dream post, there might be some hope for me yet when it comes to creative work. The question now is, do I want to write a blog entry about Incel Terrorism or Creative Crossroads? Hmm…decisions, decisions…

SPIRO’S FAUX PAS:

As I ate dinner with my brother James at Spiro’s, he introduced me to a new word I apparently should have learned a long time ago: Faux Pas. It comes from the French for “false step” and it’s an idiom for an embarrassing or awkward mistake. Apparently during dinner, I made two Faux Pas that night. One, I ate the entire chocolate topping off of James’s peanut butter pie (which reminded him of the episode of South Park where Eric Cartman eats the crispy skin off of everybody’s KFC meals). The other Faux Pas was when I refused to engage in small talk with our waitress. She asked me if I did anything fun for the fourth of July and I simply said, “No”, prompting James to chuckle awkwardly for some reason. Even though he’s introverted too, he can’t understand why small talk is so difficult for me. All in all, it was a fun way to end our evening. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have many more Faux Pas to make.

STUPID HOSE!:

A few years ago, I was out on the back porch trying to get my garden hose to work. I can’t remember if I was watering flowers or cleaning out the rubbish bin, but I needed that hose to work. Much to my frustration, the damn thing wouldn’t spray any water. I tried everything from checking for knots to turning the faucet on. Nothing. Instead of looking for calmer, more rational solutions, I scream, “Come on, you stupid fucking hose, get working!” Little did I know that there were little children getting off school and parents who could have misinterpreted the word “hose” as being spelled H-O-E-S. What a disaster that would have been if someone thought I was a pimp. But I assure you, I’m just a guy who gets pissed off at little things. If you’ve ever wondered why my stories and poems have an angry tone, that’s why. I swear I’m not a pimp. Hehe!

GARRISH:

One day while going out to lunch with my dad and brother, the clerk who made my sandwich called me Garrish instead of Garrison, which my dad attributed to my poor handwriting when I placed my order. Dad and James joked that Garrish sounded like an Eastern European name, but it turns out it’s a real English word, albeit spelled with one R instead of two. Dictionary.com defines it as “tastelessly colorful”, like the Hawaiian shirts I used to wear back in my twenties. You learn something new every day, folks.

INUYASHA, SIT BOY!:

One of my favorite things to watch as a college kid was Inuyasha, but the one thing that always frustrated me about that show was how Kagome could bend Inuyasha to her will by using a “sit” command. Every time she said the magic word, the dog demon would fall flat on his face and become instantly obedient. Well, I think I’ve figured out a solution to that mess. To paraphrase Agent Smith from The Matrix, “What good is a sit command if you’re…unable to speak?” Sorry Kagome, but there are no M’s in the word sit. Hehe!

LIMP BIZKIT:

Whenever I need entertainment in the late hours of the night, I can always count on the subconscious theater to deliver a five star performance. Some might disagree about the five stars in this particular dream, but I don’t. Last night’s dream featured yet another weird ass rock concert, but this time the venue wasn’t in a building that was supposed to be something else like a Chinese restaurant or an art museum. This time the nightclub setting actually made sense. The main act? None other than one of the most hated bands on planet earth, Limp Bizkit. Some of their onstage antics included blowing cigarette smoke out of a desk fan, having a face-to-face screaming match with yours truly, and doing a cover of Metallica’s “St. Anger” (as if they couldn’t be more hated). It was a nice way to wake up for my 33^rd birthday, to say the least. Another nice way to wake up was seeing everybody’s birthday wishes on my Face Book page, so thank you all for that. The rest of my birthday was well-celebrated and now all I want to do is nap with Smokey. Maybe if I nap with her long enough, Limp Bizkit will give me another kick-ass performance.

MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL:

I just looked up the term Manic Pixie Dream Girl on Wikipedia. It’s a literary pejorative for a supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the depressed or brooding male protagonist, thus helping him come out of his shell. Examples include Susanna from “The Way, Way Back”, Sam from “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”, and to some extent Sophie from “Obselidia”. When it comes to my current work in progress called Silent Warrior, I have strong reasons to believe Adrienne Simpson also falls under this category. Good god, what have I done?!

THE MARINE TEST:

Today’s my second straight day of mental sluggishness, so instead of actual writing, I’ll tell you all about a weird ass dream I had last night. In this episode of the subconscious theater, Mom, Dale, and I were vacationing in Afghanistan. While there, Mom had me apply for a job and as part of my recruitment, I had to take something called The Marine Test. It wasn’t actual military training like one would expect, but a written exam followed by a drawing test. I gave up halfway through it and decided to fly home to America. I called Mom and asked her when she and Dale were coming home. Mom said they were stuck in Israel, so I got even more frustrated. Then when I went out to the driveway, Dale and Mom were pulling in. I woke up wondering what the fuck just happened. The Marine Test? What does that even mean? And why was drawing something part of the exam? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this, but unfortunately, Sigmund Freud is one dead motherfucker and I’m not trained in the art of necromancy. Bummer.

MEET JOE BLOW:

When I was in middle school in the late 90’s, I refused to go on a date with a girl because the movie we were going to see at the theater was Meet Joe Black. I wanted to see either American History X or Rush Hour, but no, it had to be the lovey-dovey Meet Joe Black because it meets the criteria for a “date movie”. Fast forward to 2014 and I realize that anything can be considered a “date movie” no matter what the genre. My now ex-girlfriend and I went to see The Lego Movie and Peabody & Sherman when they came out. Let that sink in for a minute. Still to this day, I haven’t watched Meet Joe Black nor have I desired to. Maybe I’ll research it on Wikipedia and call it a day. Or maybe one of you, my lovely readers, has seen it and can give the Cliff’s Notes version of it.

WHY ARE YOU UP SO LATE?:

I have a question for my fellow night owls. Have you ever been online past midnight and a friend sends you a message asking why you’re up so late? Usually these people live in a time zone far ahead of yours, so they’re technically up much later than you. I swear to god, one night I was online at ten-thirty and someone from the east coast asked me why I was up so late. By my math, that means the guy asking me is staying up until one-thirty in the morning. What is HE doing up so late? I’m not sure what the time difference is between the pacific coast in America and countries from across both oceans, but I’ve gotten the “Why are you up so late?” question from friends over there as well. Technically, I should be going to bed at a reasonable hour since I have sleep apnea and psychological exhaustion is one of the reasons why I don’t write or read every single day. My body says, “Go to bed”, but my mind says, “Fuck no” and wins that battle on a frequent basis. Maybe I just think that listening to music and fucking around on the internet is more entertaining than lying in bed. Perhaps this will answer some of your questions as to what I’m doing up so late, even though technically you’re up much later than I am.

ROCK AND ROLL WILL NEVER DIE!:

Would someone like to explain to me why I keep hearing the phrase “rock is dead”? Last time I checked, brand new rock and heavy metal albums are still being released to the public. Plus, if you love the old stuff, you can always, I don’t know, go back and listen to it. Music genres don’t just “die out”. People said rap rock was dead in 2001, but you still have bands like Hollywood Undead and From Ashes to New performing in that genre. Hell, there are still people performing classical symphonic music. Lindsey Stirling plays a goddamn violin, for Christ’s sake. Nightwish uses an orchestra for some of their songs. Hell, Evanescence released a symphonic album called Synthesis in 2017. If you have a favorite music genre, don’t give up on it because it’s not “trendy” or “hip”. Trends come and go, but music is forever. It’s the soundtrack of our lives. It’s medicine for the soul. Rock and roll isn’t dead now and it won’t be dead anytime soon. If for some reason it does die out (which it won’t), don’t blame it on young people, because that’s just a cheap copout. Plus, it’s bigoted as fuck. Can’t we all just…enjoy the music?!

TARJA TURUNEN DREAM:

It’s been a while since my last weird ass dream (mostly because I couldn’t remember them in the morning). This one really takes the goddamn cake. I dreamed I was in a long distance relationship with Tarja Turunen. While we’re talking on the phone, she mentions having to be cryogenically frozen until there’s a cure for whatever she has. She also says that because she lives in Philadelphia (she doesn’t in real life) and it’s polluted as hell, kissing her would be the equivalent of drinking hemlock. I tell her that since I live in the Pacific Northwest, kissing me would be the equivalent of kissing Walt Disney (because it’s cold up here and Mr. Disney is frozen). Before we hang up, I make a promise to wait for her until she’s awakened from cryogenic stasis. My mom then tells me that I don’t actually love her and that I’m only crushing on her for “pedestrian reasons”, whatever that means. I woke up with Smokey curled around my head since she’s made a habit out of trying to steal my pillow. Pedestrian reasons?! What?!

THEY’RE JUST FUCKING CLOTHES:

You know how people like to say, “He doesn’t know how to dress himself?” Well, I’ve come up with a little test to see if that’s true. Are you naked? If not, then congratulations, you know how to dress yourself. It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing sweatpants, New Romantic style, Goth boots, an Armani suit, or even a Speedo. If you’re clothed, you’re clothed. Hands down. End of story. Although I must admit, if these sweatpants weren’t so damn comfortable already, I wouldn’t mind dressing like a Goth or a New Romantic (despite the fact that it’s no longer the early 1980’s). But as it is, fashion is overrated and clothes are only good for warming up an otherwise naked body.

OVER-THE-TOP NAMES:

Reina and I just had a conversation about unrealistic names in my stories. When it comes to a college drama like Incelbordination, she thinks the names Oswald Crow and Antero Magnus sound too over-the-top and fantasy-like. They sound like they’re about to slay dragons rather than pine over hot chicks. Then there’s Beautiful Monster. Reina was strangely okay with the name Windham Xavier, but she thought the name Shelly Atwood didn’t fit the bill for a gothic seductress. Reina’s grandma is named Shelly. She rests her case. And then there’s Silent Warrior, which features a monstrous puppet teacher that appears in Scott’s dreams. Her name is…drum roll please…Aloysius Striker. As long as she’s relegated to the nightmare role, Reina has no problem with that name. Basically, her rule for naming characters is to have one of the names be fancy and the other be basic. She would have been okay with a name like Oswald Smith and she’s okay with Nikita Johnson. And then I explained to her that Crow was the last name of a pop singer (Sheryl Crow) and an actor (Russell Crowe). She didn’t buy that excuse. Me? I bought it with one hundred percent interest. I plan on showing Reina more of my overly exotic names tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!

BEAUTIFUL MONSTER WEAPONS:

I have an hour to kill before WWE Monday Night Raw comes on TV, so I’ll use part of it to explain why in my WIP Beautiful Monster, Windham uses a whip and Tarja uses a staff. There’s no Freudian psychology behind either of those choices. Windham isn’t secretly into BDSM or anything like that, but if that’s what you got out of his characterization, I won’t argue with you. The reason I gave Windham Xavier a whip is because Simon Belmont from the Castlevania videogame series had one too. I gave Tarja Rikkinen a wooden staff because Donatello from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles franchise had one as well. As long as I’m dispelling Freudian psychology in my weapon choices, Commander Rinehart doesn’t use a punching dagger because he’s secretly into fisting. He uses it for the same reason anybody else would: because it fucking hurts. I shall say no more. I’ve said enough already. Hehe!

Hollow Hills Presents: Still Standing

***HOLLOW HILLS PRESENTS: STILL STANDING***

Bullying comes in many forms. It could be an immature insult. It could be a punch to the face. It could be a lifetime of negative messages. It could be an all-out sexual assault. The pain a victim feels from bullying has lasting psychological repercussions and in many cases has led to suicide. I know this because I too was bullied once upon a time. In other words, you’re not alone. In fact, nobody should have to face this horrible social crisis alone. And thus, we have the anthology known as Still Standing. Four short stories and one poem where the victims become the conquerors. They will go through pain, torture, and torment, but will always come out the other end empowered and emboldened. If you want to read about relatable characters who will always be there for you, grab a copy of this book when it’s released to the public on December 14^th, 2018. All profits from the anthology’s sales will be donated to the Crisis Text Line.

Good Reads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41969929-still-standing

Hollow Hills Author Bios: https://www.hollowhillsbooks.com/meet-our-authors

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“My friends are so depressed. I feel the question of your loneliness. Confide, ‘cause I’ll be on your side. You know I will. Ex-girlfriend called me up, alone and desperate on the prison phone. They want to give her seven years for being sad. My friends are so distressed and standing on the brink of emptiness. No words I know of to express this emptiness. Imagine me taught by tragedy. Release is peace. I heard a little girl and what she said was something beautiful. To give your love no matter what is what she said. I love all of you. Hurt by the cold. So hard and lonely too when you don’t know yourself.”

-Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “My Friends”-

Time's Up

OPENING LINE

I see your gaslight and I raise you a scorched earth!

VERSE 1

The nightmare in her head

Isn’t limited to the bed

Never forget the shit they said

Never forget they wish her dead

CHORUS

Time’s up, you filthy animals!

Time’s up, sexual cannibals!

Time’s up, you phony god!

Put down the staff and rod!

VERSE 2

Call it witch hunt if you’d like

Carry your torches and your pikes

Thump your bible, preach your sermon

You’re still a bunch of toxic vermin

Your brutal past isn’t going away

No matter how many times you pray

Face the music or go fuck off

Her life is not yours to rob

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

Time’s up, you filthy animals!

Time’s up, sexual cannibals!

Time’s up, you phony god!

Put down the staff and rod!

Time’s up, Mr. High and Mighty!

Time’s up, Mr. Gaslighting!

Time’s up, Mr. Law and Order!

Time’s up, Mr. Sexual Torture!

VERSE 3

As long as you’ve got the magical R

It doesn’t matter if you’ve lowered the bar

Your sheep will follow, continue to swallow

Your bullshit until the inside is hollow

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

Time’s up, you filthy scum!

Justice for all, a free pass for none!

Time’s up, you barbarian!

None of this is hilarious!

Time’s up, you cockroach!

The plank is yours to approach!

Time’s up, nowhere to run!

Time’s up! Time’s up!

Uncomfortable

VERSE 1

All this time I was dating a stranger

Thinking she was my queen and savior

Couldn’t get comfortable for a second

I couldn’t form a wisecrack sentence

Stutter, stutter, stutter, stutter

Iron courage melts like a stick of butter

The keys to her heart, far out of reach

Infinite charisma, could never teach

CHORUS

Uncomfortable on her couch

Uncomfortable kissing sounds

Uncomfortable silence so loud

Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!

VERSE 2

They say I’m too shy, too out of place

Too much sadness written on my face

Too much anger building up inside

Not enough zeal, too much pride

Could never open up, make the first move

For fear of having everything to lose

Couldn’t get comfortable for a minute

The kiss goodbye never tasted so vicious

CHORUS

Uncomfortable on her couch

Uncomfortable kissing sounds

Uncomfortable silence so loud

Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!

VERSE 3

A new friend, a new song of silence

Cower away from the seductive siren

She takes my hand, she tries to dance

Another way to try to get in my pants

Discomfort became seen as weakness

My broken heart shattered into pieces

I swear it’ll be different the next time

Except there won’t be another next time

EXTENDED CHORUS

Uncomfortable on her couch

Uncomfortable kissing sounds

Uncomfortable silence so loud

Uncomfortable! Uncomfortable!

Uncomfortable in my head

Uncomfortable is what I said

Should I try to say it again?

Or will this loneliness never end?

Incelbordination, Chapter 15

“Hello? Is there anybody in there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?” Oswald sang to the dark wall in front of him. He hadn’t a single clue how much time had past since his incarceration. He could feel his brain popping like popcorn. He could feel his soul exiting through his mouth as he sang Pink Floyd lyrics. Any smile he had that day could be chalked up to mind-numbing insanity. It didn’t even occur to him to call for help even though nobody would answer him. It occurred to him even less to pound on the walls. His stomach growled in a leonine voice, but all he could hear were the echoes of a distant time come willowing across the sand.

And then his one-man show was finally interrupted by the opening of his cell door, keys jangling in the lock and all. The intense light flooded the room and burned Oswald’s retinas so badly that he cowered in the corner shielding his face. All he could see past his fingers was the silhouette of a trench coat-wearing female. It was nothing like the kind of coat Antero regularly wore to keep up his Matrix gimmick. This was professional-looking. And the woman’s voice was nothing short of professional-sounding.

“Bad few days, huh, Mr. Crow?” said Detective Mia Barry, whose face came into plain view once the light had dimmed a little.

Through a withering voice, Oswald asked, “What do you want from me this time?”

“I have some good news for you, Oz-Man.”

“You saved a bunch of money on your car insurance by switching to Geico?”

Mia giggled. “No, not that, although they do have nice customer service. I’m talking about good news as it relates to your charges.”

Oswald lowered his hands as his red eyes adjusted to the darkening light. “I’m listening.”

“Our tech guys scoured your computer and sifted through further evidence. There’s no proof you were ever involved with Incelbordination. From the looks of things, you couldn’t get out of that chat room fast enough.”

“W…wait a minute…you mean…what I did at the warehouse? That’s been cleared up too?”

Folding her arms and leaning against the cell door, Mia explained, “Three witnesses put you at that scene. Well, only two if you’re not counting that meathead Wacey Judge. Miss Sand and Miss Johnson put in a good word for you. They said you were argumentative, but otherwise safe to be around. You should thank those two, you know. They stuck their necks out for you. They wouldn’t do that if they thought you were a terrorist.”

Oswald could finally open his eyes to full capacity in expression of disbelief. “Those three…they’re alive?”

“Actually, we performed some necromancy on them and asked them the hard-hitting questions once they were properly summoned. Of course they’re alive, silly!”

A slowly forming smile crept upon Oswald’s face. “Does that mean…you finally got Antero?!”

Scratching her nose, Mia said, “Actually, that’s where the bad news begins. Antero Magnus is still out there somewhere. He and his incel buddies bailed on us at the last minute. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, because you got knocked the fuck out before we got there. You’ve still got a knot on your forehead from whatever Antero did to you.”

Oswald winced in pain as he prodded the fresh bruise on his forehead.

“Are you ready to hear the other half of the good news or do you want to poke your forehead some more?” Oswald excitedly nodded and Mia was happy to present the news after clearing her throat. “It turns out you do have a legal prescription for your marijuana use. The only reason why it was so hard to obtain was because you used your monthly dosage too soon. Just how much of that shit have you been puffing on at once?”

On account of being kneed in the face by Antero, Oswald actually had to think his absolute hardest to find out. He had been puffing every day like a diesel train without a thought of consequence. He puffed whenever he was nervous. He puffed because he could. He puffed whenever his favorite song came on his play list. Puff, puff, puff, nonstop, twenty-four-seven. No wonder his trench coat always smelled awful. He damned himself when he said, “Stupid!” and would have face-palmed if that bruise wasn’t jutting out so far.

“Yeah, you need to be more careful with your medication, Oz-Man. It’s not supposed to be for recreational use.”

“Well yeah, it makes sense now! I…just have one more question and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“You can ask as many questions as you want, Oswald. This isn’t an interrogation. Besides, I kind of owe you that luxury after you’ve spent so much time in here for nothing. This would actually be a good time for your marijuana usage.”

Oswald sighed and rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes. “Whatever happened to Jessica? Is she going to be alright?” Mia’s face softened at the mention of her name. “What? What’s going on?”

“You must be referring to Jessica Bradley, the teenage prostitute we stuck you with. Yeah, she, uh…” Mia scratched the back of her neck in search of the right way to say what she needed to say. She sighed and finally spit it out. “She hung herself the night Antero took you away. We tried CPR, but she didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Oswald. She’s dead.”

The dwarf buried his face in his hands and let the tears sting his already burning eyes. His heart sank into the pit of his stomach. His posture hunched over to where his neck ached. He even shouted, “Fuck!” as he pounded the wall behind him, aggravating his fist injuries even further. “Fucking hell!” he groaned while massaging his hand.

“Fourteen years old, Oswald. Even with prostitution on her record, she had her whole life ahead of her. She must have had some tough demons to face beforehand. Come to think of it, you’ve probably got some demons of your own to face. I would advise you to seek psychological help once you’re free. We don’t need another suicide, especially when you yourself have your whole life ahead of you as well.”

The dwarf gasped hard in between sobs. “Everything…I touch…turns to shit!”

“You see that? You see?!” Mia snapped, her following words growing more erratic as she pointed her finger. “That’s the reason why you need help! You are not a horrible person! You are not an incel terrorist! You are not a drug addict! You’re a human fucking being! If you kill yourself like Jessica did, you will have wasted your freedom and wasted an opportunity to set things right! Is that what you want?!”

“I just…I just want…” Oswald snorted snot up his nose and wiped the rest away with his sleeve. “I just want things to make sense, that’s all.”

Mia nodded and softened her tone. “I guess that’s something we all want, don’t we? But if you don’t seek help, nothing will ever make sense again. I know therapy is expensive, but it’s worth every penny. Oswald, I don’t want to watch you die in front of me. You’re innocent. You’ve been proven innocent by someone who’s waiting for you in the parking lot right now. She wants to give you a ride back to your dorm. She’s also the reason why we found your prescription in the first place. Come on, let’s go meet her.”

The detective approached Oswald and helped the sobbing dwarf to his feet. The two of them held hands together as they walked out of the police station. He knew she was just being a comfort to him, but handholding actually felt good for what it was. It didn’t have to be lovey-dovey. The kind gesture should have been appreciated and it was. I could never be an incel, thought Oswald as the last of his tears dried up on his sleeve.

After Oswald received his belongings (sans pot), Mia held the door open for him and said, “Have a good evening, little man. Get some sleep. You need it.”

His eyes lit up behind glassy vision when he saw a familiar woman standing next to her car with her arms folded. “No way,” said Oswald. It was true. She too had been through a lot. She too had watery pupils. She too had a bruise on her face, though hers was swollen over one eye.

“Come on, little dude. Let’s get you home,” said Nikita Johnson as she opened the passenger door and offered to help Oswald inside.

Your Name Is Motherfucker

VERSE 1

Dehumanize you like you do to your foes

It’s such a mature tactic as everyone knows

I don’t care what it says on your ID card

Your name is motherfucker, now play the part

Your name is dip-shit, your name is jackass

A whole lot of flash, but not a lot of class

I can be cool and edgy just like your bitch ass

But in the end, we’re going nowhere fast

CHORUS

Your name is motherfucker! X4

VERSE 2

Can’t we talk to each other like grown men?

Or on a sour note will our conversation end?

Your name is mud, your name is bullshit

Drag you through them both if I so wish

CHORUS

Your name is motherfucker! X4

BRIDGE

You did it to yourself with nobody’s help

Put us all through hell with the lies you tell

Defamation and subjugation

Diplomacy has become lost in translation

VERSE 3

Don’t blame the victim, blame the attacker

Don’t use the words of a middle school slacker

Don’t build and army of trolls and assholes

Don’t build a wall of your critics’ skulls

Your name is coward, your name is lunatic

Your past is covered with abusiveness

Your name is six-double-five-three-two-one

It’s the number on your orange uniform, son

CHORUS

Your name is motherfucker! X8

Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice

MOVIE TITLE: Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice

DIRECTOR: Zack Snyder

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Superhero

RATING: PG-13 for violence and language

GRADE: Mixed

In the public eye, Superman is either seen as a godlike savior for the neighboring cities of Metropolis and Gotham or a reckless oaf who leaves destruction as part of his heroism. The Wayne Enterprises building and the people inside happened to be victims of Superman’s carelessness and now Batman wants revenge for the fallen. Stirring the pot between these superheroes is Lex Luthor, a corporate prodigy who comes into possession of Kryptonite (Superman’s weakness). Can Batman and Superman get along and team up against the real threat to humanity or will their shades of gray characteristics blind them into fighting each other to the death?

The fact that Zack Snyder uses shades of gray logic to define Batman and Superman is part of what makes this movie unique. Superman can be careless when it comes to containing his powers, but Batman can be just as sadistic and merciless when he brands the bat symbol onto criminals before sending them to jail. These two characters cancel each other out when it comes to the moral high ground, so much so that political pundits such as Charlie Rose and Neil Degrasse Tyson had to be brought in to discuss their risk vs. reward values. I’m not saying we’ll have a recklessly devastating superhero scenario in real life, but if we did, are we as a society prepared to make compromises and see the middle ground? We ccouldn’t find that middle ground even without Superman and Batman killing everything, so we’re pretty much doomed. Just look at all the buildings that get destroyed in the name of superhero politics. People give anime a hard time for having buildings burn to the ground so easily, but they need to see this movie for more of the same.

This fictional political climate might have been more jarring to watch if the shooting of the movie was better executed. Something about this movie makes me want to give it a mixed grade despite all it has going for it. It could be the lack of character investment. It could be the slow pacing. It could be the cliché violence and destruction. It could be that the pieces of this plot were lazily thrown together. Maybe it’s the way the movie dragged on for over two hours of nothingness. I can’t pinpoint one feature of this movie that’s responsible for the negative reviews it got, but when my brother asked me what I thought of it, all I could say was, “Meh”. The movie had loads of potential to be something great, but something about it just made me want to tune out.

Whatever the main negative point could have been, it certainly wasn’t Jesse Eisenberg’s acting when it came to his portrayal of Lex Luthor. I know he got a Golden Raspberry award for worst supporting actor, but I disagree with that opinion. Lex’s character drew a lot of parallels to Heath Ledger’s version of The Joker with how delightfully insane and quirky he was. I have a soft spot for crazy-minded characters due to how relatable they are (not in every way, but in some ways). Sometimes the villains are more relatable than the superheroes. In fact, they can be just as “shades of gray” as Batman and Superman are in this movie. I keep wondering what it was that made Lex Luthor snap the way he did. We don’t get a clear answer by the end, so that makes me even more curious. Either way, I love his kooky portrayal! The body language, the tics, the cadence in his voice, even Lex’s hairstyle reminds me of The Joker. Golden Raspberry, my foot!

While Batman vs. Superman isn’t a perfect movie, I’m not going to completely dump all over it despite its glaring flaws. A mixed grade is nothing to sneeze at, especially considering everybody else seems to be headhunting these days when reviewing suspicious movies. I wanted to enjoy this movie. I love the DC Universe. I stuck with the film until the end. Again, it’s not perfect, but the haters can calm down just for a little while before they click that one or two-star option.

Incelbordination, Chapter 14

Falling asleep in the middle of danger seemed to be a common occurrence for Oswald Crow. He wondered how many blows to the head he’d taken since fighting against Incelbordination. Apparently, not enough to forget the pain of loneliness. Or the pain of being labeled a terrorist. Or the pain of possibly being thrown in jail for a roll of weed. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit if he woke up a jail cell right then and there. But low and behold, he woke up (if one could call it that) back at the warehouse, a dark and empty warehouse at that. No bloodstains. No dead bodies. No crying. No pleas for help. Absolutely nothing at all.

And then what few lights there were began to flicker brightly at a rapid pace. Oswald held his aching head as he stood up and allowed his swollen eyeballs to adjust to the light. Needle pains pierced through his system and caused him to whine gently to himself. Not knowing where he was going, he bumped into a wooden crate that seemed to be filled to the top with bullets. Entranced, he sifted his fingers through the metal like beach sand. Somehow this was relaxing to his anxiety. A phantom woman appearing out of nowhere, however, was far from it.

An attractive black woman with long hair and a longer gray dress hovered over Oswald with a smile on her face. “Hello, Mr. Crow. Remember me?”

If the dwarf’s eyes weren’t wide before, they were now that this ghost appeared before him. “Mrs. Mills?”

“That’s right, Oswald. It’s me: Mrs. Mills. It’s been a while since the two of us talked. It’s almost like you’re avoiding me or something. Why would that be?” She leaned her face closer to Oswald and said, “That’s right, I remember. You never wanted to show your face again after you wrote me that love letter. I can’t say I blame you, teenage hormones aside.”

The dwarf’s face glowed nuclear red as he tried to come up with some dialogue. “Mrs. Mills…I’m …I’m sorry…I really am…”

Waving it off, Mrs. Mills said, “Don’t worry, Oswald, it’s not a problem at all. It’s not like I went through my own version of humiliation, being divorced and fired and whatnot. I must admit, you know how to tell a good love story…for high school standards, at least.”

“Please…Mrs. Mills, just go away.” Oswald sifted his fingers through the bullets yet again, but the anxiety relief wouldn’t come for him this time.

“Why should I, little buddy? Am I saying things you don’t like to hear?” said Mrs. Mills in an increasingly erratic tone. “You think you’re starving for love? What about me? Where was I supposed to get mine? From you? Don’t make me laugh, I’m in enough trouble as it is. Oh wait…I can’t be in trouble….because I’m dead! My bad!”

Oswald made a fist with the bullets he grabbed, as though he was ready to go to war right there. “You know how you could have saved your job and your life? By telling the other kids our phony relationship wasn’t true. You could have sent them to the principal’s office. You could have whacked their hands with pencils for all I cared. Do something to set things right, that’s all anybody could ask for. But no…you did absolutely nothing to stop those rumors from spreading to the kids. I’ve never heard so many kids laughing at me in my life. You? You might as well have laughed with them. You were complicit by your silence.”

Caught in her own debunked logic, Mrs. Mills shook her head and confessed, “Oswald, there was nothing I could do. I was just as unbelievable as you were. If they didn’t listen to you, what makes you think they could have listened to me?”

“Because you’re a fucking teacher and you know better than to let shit happen!” bellowed Oswald before throwing bullets at the phantom. “Get out! Get the hell out of here and stop haunting my dreams!” The dwarf threw even more bullets until the ghost fizzled out of sight.

And then by some strange magic, the crate refilled with more bullets, just in time for yet another ghost to appear: a baldheaded teenaged cancer patient trapped in a wheelchair with a psychotic frown on her face. “What about me, Oswald? You’re always talking with Antero about how you want cards and flowers on your grave, right? Where were my flowers when I needed them? Where was my love? Were you too embarrassed to admit that I was your girlfriend or were you too cowardly to take care of me when I needed someone the most?”

Breathing heavily through gritted teeth, Oswald scooped up more bullets in his hand and shouted, “Man, fuck you, Trish! You were just as complicit as my deadbeat English teacher! You didn’t stop the laughs! You didn’t stop the rumors! Even a sick chick like you could use a smart phone and make things right! You did nothing about it! Fuck you, Trish! Fuck off!” The dwarf threw even more bullets than before and caused Trish’s ghost to fade away in the darkness. And once again, the crate magically refilled with tossing props.

Yet another ghost haunted Oswald’s tortured soul: a blond haired teenage boy with a rainbow-colored shirt and his chin tucked in shame. “Are you going to throw bullets at me, you little shit?” The dwarf’s expression softened as he dropped the bullets back in the box. “All I did was place my hand on your shoulder and help you carry your books. I admit, I started to like you for a while. I told you how cute you were. And you just…you just snapped like a madman.” The boy tried in vain to wipe tears from his eyes, but they just kept flowing.

“You got me all wrong, Hunter,” said Oswald, his voice muffled in defeat. “I’m not one of those homophobic assholes. You just caught me on a bad day, that’s all. All the laughing, the name calling, the beatings I took…it just wasn’t my day. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Hunter’s ghost dissolved in the darkness and gave way to an army of angry young men with red hot neon in their eyes. Oswald dropped to his ass and breathed heavily in fear as these ghosts called him every name in the book while pointing accusatory fingers at him. The dwarf clutched his chest in an attempt to prevent a possible heart attack when Antero Magnus’ ghost appeared in front of those kids. Antero’s eyes had glowed a little brighter that night, giving off that same creepy shiver down Oswald’s spine.

“What do you people want from me?! Leave me alone!” the dwarf shouted in between winded breaths.

“You see all these kids, Oswald?” asked Antero as he waved his hands in both directions to show them off. “You let them all down, my former friend. You let me down too. You could have been one of the greatest revolutionaries of all time. You could have put Che Guevara to shame. You could have changed the world. Instead you turned your back on us .Of all the people you’ve seen tonight, we were the only ones who gave a damn about you. You threw it all away, Oswald. You’re not a supreme gentleman. You’re not even a manlet. You’re a fucking loser!”

Oswald kept screaming, “Shut up!” as he desperately reached into the bullet box and threw in every direction he could. Bullets to the left, bullets to the right, bullets to the center, bullets in a three hundred sixty degree angle. No matter how many he threw, the ghosts kept growing in numbers. Sure, the box refilled as it always did, but what good were those weapons if they only counted for a few victims?

The one victim Oswald wanted to hit the most, Antero, had put a stop to his rebellion with a one-handed chokehold to the little guy. Between the throat squeezing and his own heart-exploding anxiety, Oswald struggled to stay alive as he flopped on the ground like a fish, the ghosts of Incelbordination creeping over him and laughing like high school children. Mrs. Mills was among that crowd as well. As was Trish. As was Hunter. As was an entire underworld of tormentors waiting to gobble up Oswald for a late night snack. Just because he was paranoid, didn’t mean the world wasn’t out to get him.

When it looked like he would be permanently dragged to hell for his romantic sins, Oswald awakened in a dark cell by sitting upright and gasping in a raspy voice. He could finally breathe again even though he was drowning in sweat. Hopefully the stain on his pants was sweat too. The little guy plopped backwards and continued to catch his lost breath whilst clutching his chest.

“What the fuck was all that? Where am I? Hello?!” No answers, only darkness. Imprisoned, blighted, depressive darkness. But even the black nothing was better than being anywhere near Antero’s warehouse. “Wait a minute…if I’m in this cell…where’s Antero?! Where is everybody else?! Where the fuck am I?! Somebody help me!”

Self-Forgiveness

***SELF-FORGIVENESS***

One of the things you learn about yourself as a creative person is how hard you can be on yourself when you hit near-bottom. Maybe you hate your rough draft so much that it’s food for the paper shredder. Maybe you didn’t meet your deadline quickly enough and things fall to shit. Or if you’re anything like me, the biggest sin you can commit is not getting anything done for a whole day. At the end of that day, what does punishing yourself really do for your productivity? Nothing. In fact, it’s less productive than doing nothing at all. It’s counterproductive!

Learning self-forgiveness for your creative “sins” is a skill that needs to be sharpened by all artists at some point. Some days are productive and you can pump out entire novels in one day. Some days are slow and sluggish and all you want to do is nap. For the latter of those two days, even if the reasons for being exhausted are legitimate, there’s always a negative voice telling you to “suck it up” or whatever other tough love phrase comes to mind. Hell, one of the ways I try to wake myself up for the day is by slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t actually do anything; it’s just unnecessary physical pain.

If you have a mental illness like me, self-forgiveness is more important than ever. Punishing yourself can be a symptom of this illness and it’ll only make you feel more depressed than before. Just because the world can’t see your illness, doesn’t mean it isn’t there. It could be the medication making you tired. It could be the illness itself. It could be a hermit lifestyle. It could be a fucked up sleep schedule. Whatever it is, something is weighing you down and it’s okay to admit it. Part of learning to forgive yourself is acknowledging that you have a problem to begin with. Pushing it down until it festers isn’t “manly” or “macho”. In fact, opening up takes a lot of strength in and of itself.

Yes, I admit that it can be hard to open up and admit your worries whenever you see authors out there professing that you must write X number of pages a day or X number of letters or words. While that can be good advice at times, it’s also important that they’re not hard-and-fast rules. There’s no one definition for what a writing goal should be because every author is different. What works for one author won’t work for another. If an author is mentally ill like I am, then writing X number of words/letters per day is damned near impossible. If you need to take it easy on yourself, then don’t feel shame for it.

Even Chris Brecheen (the admin of Writing About Writing) knows how important self-care is. Yes, he posts memes on Face Book almost every day saying some form of “You Should Be Writing”. He’s not doing it to be malicious or arrogant. He’s doing it because he wants his readership to succeed. But even Mr. Brecheen knows that certain factors can get in the way of doing so, mental illness being chief among them. He admits to not being an expert on the topic of mental illness, but his empathy speaks volumes when he’s giving his warmhearted advice to depressed writers. I fucking love this guy. I really do.

One of the things Chris tells the mentally ill people who ask him questions about word limits is that there are no set limits. It’s part of the reason why he hates NaNoWriMo, because writing 1,667 words a day is unrealistic and it can wear on an author’s psyche. Maybe the word count should only be a few sentences. Maybe it’s somewhere below five hundred. The point is, do only what you can manage. As long as you’re doing something, you’re sharpening your skills. And if you don’t do something for that day, don’t beat yourself up over it. Try again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after. And the day after. Eventually you’ll have a good day and be a writing machine.

If you want to write a quirky Face Book post, do that. If you want to write a letter to someone, do that too. If you just want to write a Tumbler or Twitter post, that’ll make your writing strong too. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Writing is a long and arduous process that takes time. It shouldn’t be bogged down by unrealistic goals and limits. Who knows? Maybe fame and fortune isn’t the answer after all for some people. It doesn’t have to be. And that’s okay. We have comfort zones for a reason. While it feels nice to step outside every once and a while, overwhelming yourself is only going to lead to more guilt and more depressive pain.

If you have a creative person in your life and he or she is feeling down, don’t judge that person. Lend a helping hand. Squeeze their shoulders. Ruffle their hair. Help them with their chores. Do whatever you have to do to keep that person from spiraling downward. Self-forgiveness isn’t just some “pseudo new age BS”. It’s something we all have to do eventually. The lack of self-forgiveness in the mentally ill can actually lead to suicide in some cases. I remember when I first started having schizophrenic symptoms in 2002. My head voices affected my work rate to where I wanted to kill myself. I got the help I needed and I’m a better person for it. Granted, I still have days where all I want to do is nap and be lazy. Then again, lazy days are a part of the human experience. It’s not weakness. It’s pain.

I’m still learning how to forgive myself for my least productive days. Like I said, it’s a skill that needs to be practiced every waking day. But just like the writing process itself, moving along slowly is better than standing still. Although I will never threaten suicide again, it’s still important for me and all of the writers out there to take good care of ourselves. You can do this. You can conquer. You’ve got this! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain! Man, those Three Days Grace lyrics never felt more important than they do now.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“It’s such a rainy afternoon. No point in going anywhere. The sounds just drift across my room. I wish this feeling I could share. It’s such a rainy afternoon. She sits and gazes from her window. Her mind tries to recall his face. The feeling deep inside her grows.”

-Snippet from “The Actor” by The Moody Blues-

SWAuTocrat

VERSE 1

All that rage over a videogame

Have you no fucking shame?

Murdering kids with one phone call

9-1-1, watch the bodies fall

You’d kill your mother over Halo

Kill your father, don’t try to say no

You’d kill a stranger over Call of Duty

All because he plays like a newbie

CHORUS

SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!

How’d your ego get so fat?

SWAuTocrat! To the mat!

In a real fight, you’d fall flat

VERSE 2

You think you’ve got some absolution?

Excuses are nothing but noise pollution

Although you didn’t pull the trigger yourself

You’re still a murderer on your way to hell

EXTENDED CHORUS

SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!

How’d your ego get so fat?

SWAuTocrat! To the mat!

In a real fight, you’d fall flat

SWAuTobot! Time to rot!

A tough guy you are not

SWAuTomatic! Rage addict!

Rage quitter! Total bat shit!

VERSE 3

Bowser never yelled racial epithets

King Wart never shot for the head

Golbez never called the SWAT Team

Even Mad Gear knew it was all a dream

Akuma never needed a letter of pardon

Even Joker stuck around in Arkham

Fantasy and reality are mutually exclusive

You have this knowledge, fucking use it!

CHORUS 2

SWAuTocrat! Fuck that!

SWAuTobot! Take your shot!

SWAuToerotic! Psychotic!

SWAuTo race! What a waste!

SWAuTocrat!

SWAuTocrat!
SWAuTocrat!

Fuck that!

"Preacher, Vol. 5: Dixie Fried" by Garth Ennis

BOOK TITLE: Preacher, Vol. 5: Dixie Fried

AUTHOR: Garth Ennis

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Horror

GRADE: Pass

Reverend Jesse Custer, Tulip, and Cassidy venture down to New Orleans to seek help from a voodoo priest. Jesse wants to access the supernatural power within him in an attempt to find God and make him pay for turning the world into a bloody mess. It just so happened to slip Cassidy’s mind that a den of vampires want revenge on him for what the Irishman did to their master several years ago. Graphic violence is the name of the game for these characters and anybody would be lucky to make it out of this story alive, let alone without any gushing injuries.

As someone who never hits on women, I enjoyed the subplot where Cassidy drunkenly confesses his love for Tulip despite the fact that she’s loyal to Jesse instead. Alcohol or not, it paints Cassidy as a shady pervert who could be easily ousted to Jesse for what he did. The idea that this is even a secret is enough to make me want to read more. You know sooner or later the secret might come out. When it does, a whole powder keg of emotions will destroy the otherwise solid friendship between Cassidy and Jesse. Does the secret actually come out in this volume or will it be saved for a later issue? Maybe. Maybe not. I guess you’ll never know, because I don’t give spoilers beyond the basic synopsis.

Another thing I like about this issue of Preacher is the wisecracking dialogue peppered throughout. Yes, it’s raunchy and vulgar, but the author can write the dialogue without coming off as a teenager trying to be edgy. I would advise my writer friends not to try and duplicate what Garth Ennis has written. Coming from his pen, the dialogue is gritty and rough. Coming from anybody less experienced, it sounds sloppy and awkward. I don’t want to give away any of the dialogue in this review lest I break the PG barrier. Yep. It’s that dirty…and I love it!

And of course, where would the Preacher series be without the delicious violence to go with all of this nasty dialogue? Decapitations, mutilations, gunshot wounds, sex-themed attacks, and vampires burning in the sunlight: what lovely guilty pleasures! But the violence isn’t superficial at all. There’s a deeper plot beneath it all and none of that gets lost in the shuffle. We’re talking about a minister on a revenge mission against God himself. Of course there’s going to be some wild and wacky violence. Of course there’s going to be some three-dimensional storytelling. If all you wanted was violence alone, you could just watch a UFC pay-per-view. Word of advice, Dana White: don’t allow Jesse Custer on any one of your cards. While we’re at it, let’s keep Cassidy and Tulip away from the cage as well.

The fifth volume of Preacher is a satisfying read that makes me want to finish the series. I must know what happens with Cassidy’s secret. I must enjoy more crass language and violence. I must see what happens when Jesse finally confronts God for a battle of epic proportions. A passing grade will go to this exciting graphic novel!

Game Night

MOVIE TITLE: Game Night

DIRECTORS: John Francis Daley and Jonathan Goldstein

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Black Comedy

RATING: R for violence, language, and suggestive dialogue

GRADE: Pass

Competitive gamers Max and Annie Davis have the chance to upstage Max’s obnoxiously successful brother Brooks when he sets up a live action murder mystery game with a Stingray Corvette at stake. As part of this role-play, masked criminals raid Brooks’s house and kidnap him, though the fight scene looks a little too realistic for everybody’s tastes. The deeper Max, Annie, and their gamer friends dig into this mystery, the more they realize that it wasn’t a role-play and that Brooks’s life really is in danger.

I know that this is supposed to be a goofy comedy movie, but it could easily pass for the thriller genre due to how well-constructed the mystery is. Every time you think Max and his friends have the answers, there’s always another swerve to cut them off at the knees. There are no easy solutions and not everything is part of a role-playing game. That’s the mark of a good thriller: it keeps you guessing until the climax. You don’t know how, you don’t know why, you don’t know who, but if you pay close attention and wait until the end, it’ll all become as clear as day.

And then you have the various subplots within the main one which make hopping between characters an interesting way of storytelling. Max and Annie are trying to have a baby, but Max’s sperm count is low because he’s stressed out by his brother. A black couple named Kevin and Michelle keep arguing over which celebrity Michelle allegedly cheated on Kevin with. Ryan and Sarah argue over Ryan’s blatant stupidity and ignorance while Sarah comes off as a posh and intelligent Irishwoman. Gary is a socially awkward cop who wants to join game night, but keeps getting ignored due to his weirdness. And then we find out that Brooks isn’t really who he says he is, though I’ll say no more than that, because I don’t want to give away spoilers. Bouncing from subplot to subplot keeps the movie from getting monotonous, though it’s hard for monotony to happen when there’s so much comedy going on all at once.

Yes, let us never forget that this is a comedy first and foremost. I watched this movie with my older brother and we kept guessing who the celebrity was that Michelle slept with. We were hoping and praying that it wasn’t Bill Cosby. Oh dear. Speaking of Michelle and Kevin, they received a clue from the mystery role-play where they’re looking for an object that holds whiteness together. Kevin’s first guess was Donald Trump, but it was actually a stapler since paper is white. And finally, another favorite part of mine is when Max’s bullet wound drips all over Gary’s dog, carpet, and shrine of his ex-wife. Yes, I said it: there was blood all over a shrine of Gary’s ex-wife. Let that sink in for a moment. I’d tell you more funny parts, but I’d rather you watch the movie yourselves.

If you’re in the mood for some good wholesome fun, watch Game Night, though I don’t really think wholesome is the word to describe it. It’s dirty, it’s dark, it’s funny as hell, and it’ll make you want to have a game night of your own, though hopefully yours won’t involve kidnapping and murder. Maybe you should just stick to Scrabble. They don’t kill people in Scrabble…as far as I know. A passing grade goes to this hilarious black comedy!

"Double Whammy" by Carl Hiaasen

BOOK TITLE: Double Whammy

AUTHOR: Carl Hiaasen

YEAR: 1987

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Environmental Thriller

GRADE: Pass

In the always wacky state of Florida, RJ Decker is a private investigator trying to make ends meet and his latest assignment fetches a high price. He’s assigned by an arrogant sports fisherman named Dennis Gault to catch his rival Dickie Lockhart cheating in a high stakes fishing tournament. What seems like an easy assignment quickly escalates into a murder conspiracy involving a psychotic eco-terrorist, a seductive blackmailer, and a shady televangelist to name a few. Nobody is safe from this chaotic form of storytelling and that’s the way Carl Hiaasen likes it.

One thing I will always love about Mr. Hiaasen’s books is how reliable he is when it comes to delivering the goods. I haven’t read a bad Hiaasen book yet and Double Whammy is no exception to the rule. It’s especially refreshing to read considering a previous book I read from another author was so god awful that I couldn’t make it past the halfway mark. There are plenty of aspects to choose from when it comes to liking a Hiaasen book: extensive knowledge of the law, colorful characters, satisfying comeuppances, or just being hooked until the very end (not unlike the twenty-plus pound bass the fishermen in this tournament are trying to catch).

When it comes to colorful characters, there are none more colorful than Clinton Tyree a.k.a. Skink. This former governor of Florida wanted to run his state the honest way, which meant refusing money from special interest groups and never selling out his democratic beliefs. And then he was forced out of office by his corrupt opponents and went delightfully insane. Now a drifting eco-terrorist, he runs around in a shower cap and rain suit looking for creative ways to dismantle his opponents. If this already sounds like a wonderfully-written profile to you, you’re in luck, because Skink is a recurring character throughout most of Carl Hiaasen’s catalogue.

And of course, wherever there’s Skink, black highway patrolman Jim Tile isn’t far behind. Don’t worry, because Jim Tile and Skink are actually close friends who help each other out for the common good. Mr. Tile takes a lot of racially-charged abuse from the people he pulls over on the highway, yet he maintains his cool and serious demeanor through it all. He doesn’t use force unless it’s absolutely necessary, in which case, his amateur wrestling background will come in handy for turning a racist redneck’s arm into a wet noodle. To be honest, we need more cops like Jim Tile and less murderers like Darren Wilson. If black readers ever need a hero to look up to, they can always rely on Jim Tile to be their role model.

Thank you, Carl Hiaasen, for bringing me another fantastic crime novel and thank you for being a constant influence on my own writing. There’s a reason why you’re one of my favorites. In fact, there are many reasons, but I won’t name them all lest this brief review turn into a novel itself (and not a novel as entertaining as Double Whammy). I’ve made it a personal goal of mine to read through Mr. Hiaasen’s entire catalogue. I’ve already blitzed through over half of it, so getting through the rest is going to be easy-breezy-lemon-squeezy. A passing grade will go to this delightful and fun novel!

I Don't Have a Dog

CHORUS

I don’t have a dog in this fight

I can’t decide who’s wrong or right

We can go all day, go all night

If only there was an arena in sight

VERSE 1

He said this and then she said that

What they said was a whole lot of jack

Hidden agenda, open challenge policy

Open the door for verbal sodomy

Everything’s on the table for the media

Sooner or later, it’s marked with tedium

Whatever happened to keeping the peace?

When will the madness finally cease?

CHORUS

I don’t have a dog in this fight

I can’t decide who’s wrong or right

We can go all day, go all night

If only there was an arena in sight

VERSE 2

Slinging mud and slinging shit

They’re hoping for a critical hit

Drinking poison, wishing for death

On each other, it makes no sense

This isn’t a wrestling or boxing ring

Stop fighting over every little thing

Diplomacy is what you all need

Before you fuckers start to bleed

BRIDGE

Conscientious objection

This ain’t some kind of election

Digging up the dirt

Will cause both of you to hurt

Friendly fire, both are liars

It’s what the camera requires

I don’t have a dog in this war

I don’t want to see any more

EXTENDED CHORUS

I don’t have a dog in this fight

I can’t decide who’s wrong or right

We can go all day, go all night

If only there was an arena in sight

I don’t have a dog in this battle

I don’t blindly follow like cattle

Reality TV is rated TV-MA

Disgusts me so much, I turn away

Pedestrian Knowledge

***PEDESTRIAN KNOWLEDGE***

One piece of writing advice you hear all the time is “write what you know”. I’ve heard arguments on both sides when it comes to agreeing with this claim. On one hand, you’re better equipped to write an intelligent sounding story with very few people doubting you. On the other hand, exploring new knowledge is what helps us grow as authors. I’ve said in the past how research is my least favorite part about the writing process. It’s not because I don’t want to learn or grow. It’s because if I get just one minute detail wrong, my critics will feast on the carcass like wild animals. It drives me nuts how picky some people can be. Doesn’t anybody just enjoy what they read anymore?

Well, that attitude towards the research process has changed the minute I received my critiques for Beautiful Monster. The problem with relying on pedestrian knowledge is that the things you think are well-known are actually more complicated than you originally anticipated. To use an R-rated example from that story: cock rings. Conventional wisdom dictates that you just slide the ring down to the base of the dick and that’ll keep a man hard forever. Well, to give you an idea of how complicated it actually is, I had my beta reader Marie Krepps tell me that the government can spy on HER computer instead of mine. Oh dear. Hehe!

You know what else isn’t pedestrian knowledge? Pregnancy. It’s not as simple as growing a big stomach and pumping out a painful baby after nine months. It’s a process. It requires extensive planning. Marie dinged me for this as well when at the end of Beautiful Monster Tarja gave birth to Windham’s daughter. Not only is Marie a loud and proud woman, but she actually gave birth to four lovely daughters, so if anybody can call bullshit on my “pedestrian knowledge”, it’s her.

What other things in life are not as pedestrian as we think they are? Fight scenes, psychology, farming, hunting, fantasy religions, and pretty much everything on planet fucking earth. As much as I don’t want to bend to the will of the nitpicky critics, it’s something I eventually have to do if I want to find success as an author. Think of all the movies out there that get shit on because the details and research are way off the mark. You see these criticisms all the time on places like Amazon and IMDB.

This is especially problematic when it comes to sensitive topics like disabilities, race, politics, cultures, and religion to name a few. It’s much harder to recover from bigotry accusations than it is to miss one crucial part of setting an animal trap, for instance. There were times in my writing career when I almost bawled my eyes out because my writing was seen as unintentionally bigoted, Tainted Love and Class of ’13 being my most infamous examples. I will admit that prejudice is hard to forgive, but if it was completely unintentional and the artist is sincere in his apology, then you can’t compare that to the Milo Yiannopouloses of the world. If you want to depict another culture in your writing, do you research and don’t rely on stereotypes. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartache. It’s not just “SJW” stuff. It’s actually important.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that nothing can be considered “pedestrian knowledge”. The world is a complex place and people do complex things. As a writer, you’re being relied upon as a bringer of change and a representation of everything that’s right. It’s a huge responsibility, so don’t fuck it up. If your readers don’t trust you, they’re not going to read anything of yours ever again. You wouldn’t want to study math from a teacher who doesn’t know the cube root of twenty-seven (spoiler alert, it’s three). You wouldn’t want to go to a rehab facility where the nurses have powder underneath their nostrils all the time. So why would anybody want to read books from an author who doesn’t care about the world around them?

And for god’s sake, please don’t rely solely on television and movies for your “research”. Do you know how many lawyers call BS on shows like Suits and Law & Order? Enough to make you question everything. Hell, there were flight attendants who boycotted the movie Flight Plan because of how their occupation was portrayed in that movie. Another spoiler alert: the flight attendants in that movie were depicted as uncaring jerks. If you legitimately don’t know what you’re talking about, do a Google search. Ask someone from that occupation. Or if you really want to get deep undercover, do what Marcus Sakey did when he was writing The Blade Itself: shadow cops and detectives. Just like in school, research can be a bitch sometimes, but it’s necessary for that all-important A+.

Wish me luck when it comes to fixing Beautiful Monster and getting my facts straight this time! I still haven’t fleshed out my chapter-by-chapter synopsis yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be in a rut forever. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’m back in my house and you’re still sitting down. The crimson couch never felt so uncomfortable. And the room is so cold. The tape on your mouth is slowing your breath down. The rope is so tight. The tension becomes so tangible, so unbearable. I’m sorry if I crossed the line. I know I’ve lost it, but you are always on my mind. Obsessed with you and me. To love is harder than you think. I’m sorry if I raise my voice. I never meant to hurt you, but I had no choice. Don’t ever lie to me, ‘cause I’m smarter than you think. You love me, ‘cause I hate you. Everything but love. There’s no running away. There’s no guilt and no shame. I’ve crossed the line. Is this the end? There’s no running away even if you’re afraid. I’ll make you mine until the end.”

-Lacuna Coil singing “You Love Me ‘Cause You Hate Me”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

That Lacuna Coil song happens to be about Stockholm Syndrome and that could be an element I could add to Windham’s psyche when I rewrite Beautiful Monster. With Shelly Atwood being as lovey-dovey and tender as she is with Windham, why wouldn’t he have Stockholm Syndrome? But then again, I’d have to compromise that with his desperation to get out of that hellhole of a castle she lives in. Is it possible to work both sides of the argument into one mind? If not, then I’ll ditch the Stockholm Syndrome angle altogether.