Dear Aunt Ruth 2023

Dear Aunt Ruth,

 

Thank you so much for the $20 check you sent me for my birthday. A little extra money will always be helpful to me. My kitty girl Piper had to go to the vet and the bill took a lot out of me. But she’s very much worth every penny. I love petting her and listening to her purr while she rubs her head against me. I hope to keep her for a long, long time even though she’s in her elder years now. She’s my little grandma kitty!

 

In a year full of creative burnout and generally low productivity, I did manage to find some silver linings in the first half of 2023. One of them was a rock concert in Seattle put on by Nothing More with Crown the Empire and Thousand Below opening for them. I had no idea who the openers were prior to going, but they delivered when it came to putting on a damn good show. I hope to own their entire discographies someday. Nothing More (yes, that is their band name) brought out the big guns with their energetic performances and emotional brand of rock and roll. They even have a machine made out of auto parts called the Scorpion Tail, which is used to create electronic sounds and basically give the lead singer something to go crazy on. This was my third time seeing Nothing More, with the previous two times being when they opened for Papa Roach in 2018 and opened for Ghost in 2019. Now that they had the stage all to themselves, they proved why they deserved to be headliners for many years to come. The fact that Nothing More has so little exposure just makes them criminally underrated. Anyone who likes heavy rock and roll should give them a listen. They won’t regret it.

 

But of course, not all of my silver linings can be about going out in public and mingling with strangers. Sometimes my introversion takes over and I need a good book to read. One of those good books was a collection of poetry and photography by Rachel Oates called “Reflections on Healing”. If you don’t know who she is, she’s a British Youtuber who make video essays about feminism, left-wing politics, atheism, and sometimes book reviews. She also occasionally shows off pictures of her Staffy dog Kyra, who has these saggy jowls and a permanently happy face. As good as Rachel’s poetry is in her book, the subject matter was incredibly heavy as it dealt with topics like psychological trauma, domestic violence, and growing up poor to name a few. But even with these difficult parts of her past, Rachel Oates has grown up to be a loving and kind human being, forever breaking the cycle of all the evil things that have happened to her. We celebrate cycle-breakers in this family, so her book gets five stars out of five, no question about it. Because the book contains poetry and it’s less than a hundred pages long, the reading experience goes by quickly, but the emotional connection stays with you forever.

 

Another book I read over the summer was a graphic novel called “Ghostbusters: Spectral Shenanigans, Vol. 1”. If you’ve ever watched a Ghostbusters movie before, then you know what you’re going to get out of this book: smart-ass characters, paranormal goodness, and a nice combination of comedy and drama. What fascinates me a lot about the Ghostbusters franchise as a whole is the names of the lead characters: Peter Venkmann, Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler, and Winston Zeddemore. I don’t know how the creators of the franchise came up with these names, but the style is definitely something you associate with Ghostbusters. Same thing when the 2016 all-female movie came out and had characters named Erin Gilbert, Abby Yates, Jillian Holtzmann, and Patty Tolan. Yep, those sound like Ghostbuster names to me. As an author myself, character names are interesting to me. I sure as hell won’t have any of my fictional characters be named John Smith or Jack Anderson. Boring! Anyways, before I get lost in my tangent, the graphic novel gets an easy five stars out of five. It was good, simple fun that didn’t appear to have any major flaws that I’m aware of. Sometimes that’s all a book has to be: good, simple fun.

 

The progress on my own writing has been slow due to constant burnout, but then again, resting up is just as important as the work itself. That’s something I have to constantly remind myself every time I feel like beating myself up. I’ve often referred to the 2020’s as the Golden Age of Tiredness, because everybody’s feeling exhausted due to one thing or another. We’ll get through this together. We’ll have up days and down days, but the exhaustion isn’t permanent no matter how many times it feels that way. I’ll have my day of victory, even if it’s not today or tomorrow. That $20 check will go a long way in making sure that happens. Thank you, Aunt Ruth. Thank you so much!

 

 

Love,

Garrison

"Reflections on Healing" by Rachel Oates

BOOK TITLE: Reflections on Healing

AUTHOR: Rachel Oates

YEAR: 2022

GENRE: Poetry and Photography

SUBGENRES: Mental Health, Feminism, and Abuse

GRADE: A

Rachel Oates has always had a complicated relationship with poetry, whether she was critiquing it on her You Tube channel or writing some of her own. But through it all, her writing skills shine brilliantly in this collection of poetry. She explores uncomfortable topics through a sensitive lens. Even when the poems don’t have happy endings, they never feel exploitative. They feel like she’s being true to herself and using her hurtful experiences to help others who are going through the same thing. In addition to helping other victims, these poems are also a middle finger to anybody who would ever beat or degrade another human being through the façade of compliments and love-bombing. Rachel Oates fancies herself a rookie in the poetry genre, but you wouldn’t know that from how expertly she handles the written word. That alone is worth an A grade.

One of my favorite poems in this book is Romb, a title which is not a typo, but a well-crafted pun. She talks about having a room to herself only for judgmental neighbors and men in suits to condescend to her and tell her how she should live in it. This is all of course a metaphor for her womb and how pro-life activists are every bit as nosy and intrusive as the people judging her room. Rachel says in one of her videos that a goal of poetry is to find innovative ways to say what the poet wants to say. She certainly lived up to her own advice in this poem and that’s a recurring theme throughout the entire book. She may be a rookie, but she’s a student first and foremost and is therefore a serial learner who takes in so much creative fuel before starting her projects. Learning doesn’t stop after graduating college. She’ll no doubt take this knowledge with her if she decides to put out another book of poetry.

Another poem I enjoyed was the much more disturbing Puppet Master, where she once again uses innovative comparisons to describe a serious topic, this time being abused by one of her now ex-boyfriends. Oh sure, the puppet master has pretty dolls and he assures you that you’re the prettiest of them all, different from the others. And through this manipulation and psychological torture, you believe these lies while becoming made of wood and strings yourself, strings that leave bruises from being tightly bound, and wood that doesn’t move until the puppet master says so. Thankfully, the poem ends on a high note of Rachel leaving her boyfriend and starting the healing process. But man, does this poem hit me where it hurts the most. While I’ve only had two romantic relationships in my whole life and neither of them were that bad in hindsight, I did have other people in my life bombard me with hate and then suck up to me with love and compliments. Rachel and I may both be atheists, but we can surely agree that there’s a special place in hell for people who gaslight and abuse their loved ones.

Of course, the other genre this book falls under is photography. She definitely has been engaging in this craft for a long period of time, judging from how professional and expressive each photo is. I especially like the one she took of downtown Southbank. Then again, cityscape photography has always been fascinating to me, whether it’s the bright lights, cool water, or beautiful colors in the sky. Honestly, Rachel could take pictures of mundane objects and it would still be considered great art by virtue of her own artistic integrity and personal lens (no pun intended). That’s the mark of a true artist: you know who made the art because their personal voice and point of view shines through in the most recognizable way possible.

This book is less than a hundred pages long, so you can breeze right by it in no time at all. But the poetry and photography will stay with you long after the reading experience is over. I will remember Rachel Oates’s work for the rest of my life, not only because of the raw vulnerability, but also because of the skill in which she executes her writing. I look forward to more publications from her, just as I always look forward to her upcoming You Tube videos. She smashes the stereotype of You Tubers being cash grabbers when it comes to publishing books. She’s serious about her craft and she will prove it to you over and over again until it stays with you forever. Noticing a theme here? Nothing less than five stars. Brilliant and heart-wrenching!

The Babylon Killers

VERSE 1
He takes award-winning pictures of sensual snacks
It’s the locker room photographer Rutherford Jax
Exposing your flaws with just one snapshot
Micro dick and two cherries are all you’ve got
Sell your dark secrets to the highest bidders
Your mother, your father, and your babysitter
Your boss, your woman, and the public at large
The highest prices are all that he’ll charge

CHORUS 1
It ain’t no mystery wrapped up in a thriller
No sock puppets here, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 2
Every time you call journalism a mental disease
You have to get passed Miss Emerald Ruiz
A hit piece that knocks the air out of your lungs
Emasculates your balls, soprano songs are sung
Whether you’re a racist, a sexist, or worse
Your own words and actions are your own curse
Canceled for waving your confederate flag
Savaged everywhere for calling gay people “fags”

CHORUS 2
Your slurs and your whining are newspaper filler
No brainwashed zealots, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 3
If the right to fight is still haunting your dreams
Let me introduce your ass to Matthew Scream
You can throw the first punch for no price
When he throws one back, grab the bag of ice
Knees to your gut and boots to your nuts
Teeth to your neck, such delicious blood
Fingers in your eyes, you can tap out or die
Who’s the snowflake now? Go have a good cry

CHORUS 3
No lies for a prize, just some hard truth spillers
No boot lickers here, just The Babylon Killers!

VERSE 4
You’re a keyboard warrior with multiple personas
You’d say and do anything as long as you’re noticed
You’d break the law while flapping your jaw
You know we’ll fight back, it’s the final straw
Use your own bullying tactics against you
Until there’s nobody left to defend you
You’re a sad little lad who’s clearly gone mad
All because you couldn’t hack it, too damn bad

CHORUS 4
You’ve got sock puppets, but you’re an army of one
We’re The Babylon Killers, until the job is done
You’ve got nothing left but some ashes and tears
I’ve got The Babylon Killers and nothing to fear
And nothing to lose, not even a little snooze
Fucking with me is not a road you want to choose
If you gave up your campaign of venom and rage
You’d have something better than a crappy page

"If Only You Knew How Much I Smell You" by Roy Blount, Jr. and Valerie Shaff

BOOK TITLE: If Only You Knew How Much I Smell You: True Portraits of Dogs

AUTHORS: Roy Blount, Jr. (text) and Valerie Shaff (photography)

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Picture Book with Poetry

SUBGENRE: Dog Portraits

GRADE: Extra Credit

It’s not often that I give perfect five out of five grades to whatever I’m reading at the time. When I finally do, you know it’s a special occasion. You know that the book touched my heart in some special way or changed the way I think about the world. This picture book did the former of those two. Sure, you’ll always win me over with precious puppy-duppy pictures. But these aren’t just ordinary snapshots of dogs. They’re expressive. They’re artistic. Valerie Shaff takes special care when selecting which ones go in the book. Some of the dogs have pouty expressions. Others are playing outside. Even the simple act of lying on the couch is enough to touch the coldest of human souls. These are the sweeties we’ve come to know and love throughout our many years of owning dogs. You want to reach through the pages and give hugs and belly rubs to these precious critters. But alas, this book was published in 1998 and many years have passed since then, which means these pups have crossed the Rainbow Bridge. By the looks of these photos, you can tell that the time they spent on this earth was well-lived. That’s really all we can do in the end: give these doggos the best life they can possibly have.

But of course, Valerie Shaff’s excellent photography is just one half of this formula. You also have the simple, yet effective poetry of Roy Blount, Jr. to accompany these beautiful pictures. These poems make the dogs come off as sweethearted and lovable rather than diva-like and spicy. They do have their diva moments, but those moments don’t overstay their welcome. There’s also a little bit of toilet humor, but it too doesn’t overstay its welcome. The one poem that really hit me the hardest was the one about the owner going off to college and the dog assuming that the would-be student is dead. This poem is accompanied by a sad expression on the dog’s face and rightfully so. This gave me war flashbacks of going to study at Western Washington University and being depressed all the time about not being able to see my animal babies. The rules of my dorm room specifically stated that pets weren’t allowed, so that hit me even harder. In the introduction to this book, Roy wonders what kinds of thoughts his dogs have and what rhythm they would use to express those thoughts. I’d say he got them down perfectly, no questions asked.

Everyone could use a little sweetness in their lives, but this book goes the extra mile in securing that sweetness for potential readers. Valerie Shaff and Roy Blount, Jr. didn’t just create a photo album; they created art. This is the kind of representation that precious puppies need, especially when it comes to adopting them from shelters (don’t shop, adopt). This book does a good job of building up older doggies as well, which is important since they need love just as much as their younger counterparts. Like I said earlier, five out of five stars is what this book gets. That’s a lot of “aww’s”!

Sexy Lunch

“One…two…three!” SMASH! “Go, go, go! Move, move, move!”

These were the orders Detective Joey Roberts barked to five other police officers after kicking down the door to what used to be the Dam Hill Apartment Building. In one hand was her trusty cold magnum. In the other was the breast pocket of her black trench coat as she held it over her face to keep the foul odor from assaulting her senses. To her it was no different from performing a raid on a bus station bathroom. Filthy diapers, empty liquor bottles, rotten food, and buzzing flies covered every square inch of this dilapidated nightmare.

“Clear!” one officer after another hollered from distant corners of the abandoned trash heap of a building. The more Joey heard that word, the more her rage bubbled to the surface. To think that three years of mind games and false hope would lead to a big waste of time killed her inside worse than a dagger to the heart.

“Come on, Sanchez, where are you?! Show yourself!” barked Joey as she continued bolting down the various corridors with her eyes bloodshot and her pistol packing heat. “That smell better be your dead corpse!” Her wishful thinking led to even more spilled trash covered in every human fluid imaginable. She almost tripped over a dead cat being eaten by maggots. One dead cat led to another. And another. And another. The trail of blood brought her to apartment 12A, the door barely hanging on its hinges. One elbow strike was all it took to knock the motherfucker down.

There he was laying on a mattress with his baggy pants around his ankles and his striped shirt pulled up to his chest. Wearing a nearly toothless grin with an unkempt Mohawk was the man of the hour, Matt Sanchez, who smiled at Joey coldly and with psychotic intentions.

This should have been an open and shut case for the detective. However, she lowered her gun slowly and gazed at the wall behind Mr. Sanchez with wide, horrified eyes and quivering lips. Photographs were pinned to the wall, not just of ordinary people, but of Joey and her two elementary school-aged daughters. All three of them were at the beach enjoying a sunny day and…wearing bikinis. Joey’s saucer eyes morphed into angry slits when she saw the words “Sexy Lunch” scrawled across these photos with what appeared to be and smelled like old, crusty feces.

“Were you masturbating to me and my family?!” Joey growled.

“Yep,” said Matt Sanchez matter-of-factly, his lips smacking and tongue clicking as he chuckled insanely.

This would have been the perfect time to put a bullet in her stalker’s brain and get it over with. Joey’s finger edged oh-so-close to the trigger while sweat poured from her palms like a fine mist. That obnoxious laugh of Matt’s echoed through her mind much like the smell of this apartment complex burned her nostrils. Ultimately, she decided to sheath her weapon…but not out of a sudden change of heart.

Joey ripped a hardcover bible away from the bookend on the nightstand and started pounding it relentlessly over Matt’s head, arms, and back. As stiff as each blow sounded, not even the savage beating could drown out the serial killer’s girlish screams as he attempted badly to cover up. Detective Roberts wouldn’t stop. Her eyes flared up like burning gasoline. Drool splashed all over the already filthy carpeted floor. Every strike became more brutal and faster-paced the longer she went.

It took three police officers to clutch her around the arms and waist and yank her away from the beating while two more officers yanked a bloodied and bruised Matt to his feet to cuff him. Even when pulled away, Joey wouldn’t stop thrashing around, growling loudly, and swinging the bible. “Detective, that’s enough!” she heard one officer say, but it was the understatement of the year. She had to be restrained against the piss-stained wall in order to calm down just a little bit.

“What the hell are you doing, Detective?!” asked one of the cops. “You’re not supposed to be doing shit like that!” Holding his body cam, he said, “You’re going to get us all in a whole fuck load of trouble if you keep that up!”

Joey’s thrashing slowly diminished into heavily-breathing calmness at the realization of what she did. Her eyes and thoughts still burned at the sight of Matt Sanchez’s shit-eating grin superimposed on the unwanted photos on the wall. “You’d better listen to your friends, Detective. Your sexy daughters won’t have mommy to come home to otherwise.”

“You son of a bitch!” shouted Joey as she broke free from the officers’ grasps and spear tackled Matt in the ribs, knocking the rotten wall behind him over. Scandalous photos splattered over the two of them as Joey rained down the heaviest fists she could muster, slashing the serial killer over and over again. This time all five officers had to restrain her to the floor and shout orders for her to calm down. Out of the corner of her eye, Detective Roberts could see Matt Sanchez spitting out some teeth (not that his ugliness changed with them in his mouth). Still was that sadistic grin.

“What the hell are you holding me down for?! Get him before he gets away! That’s an order!” belted the Detective. Sure enough, Matt tried to get back on his knees (cuffed hands be damned), but two officers held him down once again and ordered him to shut his “filthy hole”.

Dripping with blood from his mouth, nose, and fresh cuts, Matt was hauled to his feet and carried from the door, still smiling arrogantly at his “sexy lunch”.

“Now, Miss Roberts…can I trust you to not go berserk this time? Is it okay to let you up or are you going to go ballistic some more?” asked an officer. Just as the glassy-eyed, saliva-mouthed detective was about to answer, a resounding thud echoed throughout the building. The three cops and detective headed out to the lobby and found Matt lying on the ground in a pool of blood and vomit. How much of it was his was up for debate. The two cops attending to the serial killer called for a medic while looking disgustedly at Joey.

“Do you not give a shit if our jobs are on the line?” asked one of the cops. It was hard to tell them apart due to Joey’s blurry tunnel vision and traumatic ghosts haunting her mind. “Hey, are you listening to me?! Our suspect just collapsed and it’s all because of you! The captain is going to have our balls for this! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Attempting to form a sentence through her jittery stutter, Joey said, “Did you…see those…pictures? Did you…see what…he called me and my girls?”

“Detective? And I use that term loosely,” said another faceless officer. “You should know by now that this job isn’t supposed to be personal. We need your head in the game and here you are beating the shit out of our suspect. You know how many times my family has been threatened by this asshole? What about the rest of us? Do we get to pound the hell out of him too? No, we don’t! This is a job! Take it seriously!”

Taking longer breaths and lowering her guard, Joey said with quiet anger, “It’s too late now. He’s already dead. What’s done is done. The world isn’t going to miss him and neither are any of you. Those body cams can record whatever they want for all I care. Hopefully, they recorded all of those…pictures…those pictures…those goddamn pictures!”

An officer leaned Matt up in a seated position, the killer’s body fading in and out of consciousness. But still there was that smile, like he had eaten the world’s sexiest lunch and had a comfortable BM afterwards. “What are you smiling at?!” burst Joey. “What the hell are you smiling at, you little rat turd?!”

Spitting blood on the floor, Matt said, “Looks like I’ve got one more kill under my belt. Well…much more than that if the whole police department gets taken down. My life…is complete…my work…is done!”

With a mile-long stare into Matt’s soulless eyes, Joey said, “You heard him, boys. His life is complete. His work is done. There’s nothing left for him to do. We’re all screwed one way or another. Hell, he probably put those pictures up just so we’d find them and commit career suicide. Mission accomplished. Now that we’re dead, let’s go have a few beers.”

Seeing the writing on the wall, the cop that was attending to Matt Sanchez pulled out his gun and blew the killer’s brains out, doing no more damage to the apartment complex than already stated. The legal shitstorm would come quickly and destructively. But the joke was on the DA because the cops and detective didn’t have any money to give to the plaintiffs. They spent it all on hot wings and beer!

"The Dogist" by Elias Weiss Friedman

BOOK TITLE: The Dogist

AUTHOR: Elias Weiss Friedman

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Picture Book

SUBGENRE: Dog Photography

GRADE: Pass

Aptly subtitled Photographic Encounters with 1,000 Dogs, these precious puppy-duppies are featured in a variety of categories and not just in terms of breed. Some of these categories include ears, toys, heavyweights, smiles, and close-ups to name a few. Every single picture in this book will put a smile on your face and make you say “aww” until the very last page. You’ll wish that you can reach through the pictures and scratch them behind the ears or rub their bellies. These aren’t just cute doggies: they’re photogenic supermodels!

Of all the categories in this book, my favorite has to be the pit bulls, some of which include dogs that were rescued from Michael Vick’s fighting circuit. Seeing these precious creatures in a positive and cuddly light goes a long way in dispelling the aggressive stereotypes surrounding pit bulls. Sure, they’re used for fighting, but they only fight out of loyalty to their owners (and also because their owners are sociopathic jerks). The more awareness we can raise for this breed, the better off they’ll be. It’s especially important because there are cities around the world where pit bulls are banned and will be put to sleep if they’re seen in those territories. We can do better than this, people! We have to!

Another favorite category of mine (though it’s unofficial in this book) is saggy jowled dogs. I always have a soft spot for puppies with saggy jowls, because they remind me of a dog I once had named Maggie, who was a Springer Spaniel/Bassett Hound mix. Wiggling jowls and watching them bounce is the cutest, most heartwarming experience I can imagine. Pit bulls and bulldogs are especially notorious for having extra cheek and they really got my “aww” motor going. And while we’re at it, let’s include floppy ears into that same category as well. They’re not ears; they’re puppy wings! And yes, Maggie had floppy ears too and I always loved to flap them up and down.

There isn’t one bad picture in this whole book. Then again, that’s to be expected when encountering dogs in the real world: every puppy-duppy is special and they all deserve the love that they get. The relationship between human and dog is a therapeutic one that will bring infinite happiness to both sides. Flipping through these well-done photographs makes me believe in the power of doggy love all over again. Does a passing grade sound good to everybody here? I thought so!

STEM Sell

VERSE 1

You show off your engineering degree

And laugh at those with artistic needs

Telling them to get a real fucking job

Dress in suits and ties, not like a slob

When will the lesson finally sink in?

Creativity is never an economic sin

While you’re miserable and stressed

Money isn’t happiness’s litmus test

CHORUS

Don’t try to sell me a life of pain!

I’d rather keep from going insane!

Art is my life, my heaven, my hell!

I’m not buying your STEM sell!

VERSE 2

You can buy a house and a fancy car

Yet you still waste away at the bar

A boring life marred with depression

The sadness spreads like an infection

Take out your blight on those who write

Those who paint and those who create

Those who strum chords on a guitar

Those whose dreams seem so far

CHORUS

Don’t try to sell me a life of pain!

I’d rather keep from going insane!

Art is my life, my heaven, my hell!

I’m not buying your STEM sell!

BRIDGE

I’m not a machine for a technomancer

I’m not a pill, the doctor’s answer

I’m not a number, don’t file me away

I’m an artist and proud to stay that way!

EXTENDED CHORUS

Don’t try to sell me a life of pain!

I’d rather keep from going insane!

Art is my life, my heaven, my hell!

I’m not buying your STEM sell!

Take your paycheck and shove it!

I create true art because I love it!

Drive your Mustang into the river!

Coldness and sorrow will make you shiver!

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words

Many told Bernard Hamm that he would never amount to anything. They told him he would die in his twenties due to his obesity. They told him he was too lazy to get anything done. And yet, here he was sitting at a booth at the Paulson City Public Library signing copies of his debut fantasy novel “Memento Mori”. The crowd was modest in size, but Bernard didn’t mind. The fact that he got his novel out there said something to all of his haters: that he was here to stay despite being over three hundred pounds.

Mr. Hamm looked the part of a professional author in his beige polo shirt, black slacks, and thick-rimmed glasses. He also felt like one when his massive autographing hand was getting tired. He gripped his wrist and rolled his hand around as if that would give him any circulation. He had to put his exhausted paw to use once again when he wagged a finger at a teenaged girl trying to take pictures of him, to which she apologized and walked off.

One person Bernard kept his eye on was a caramel-skinned man with puffy black hair and a white tank top. The familiar figure kept looking at his dying cell phone and cursing loudly, to which the librarians had to shush him. Bernard shook his head and continued singing autographs until the last of the small crowd had dispersed for the day. The tubby author clutched his wrist and rolled his hand around some more. He even opened and closed his fingers while the puffy-haired gentleman asked the clerk loudly for internet access.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Bernard kept his eyes down and fiddled with his hands some more, a sure sign that anxiety was building within him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of this library for the day. But first, Bernard cracked both of his wrists and popped his fingers, as if this would alleviate some of his nervousness. He also took deep breaths due to his heart racing inside his massive body. Just get up and walk casually out the door.

“Barney-Boy? Is that you, buddy?” said the loudmouth from across the library. The shit-eating grin on his face put a saggy frown on Bernard’s. “Remember me, big man?” said the man as he approached the author’s booth. “It’s your boy, Diego Martinez! We used to go to school together! Holy shit, man! You ain’t changed one bit, buddy!”

“Some things never do,” said Bernard with his chin shamefully tucked against his chest.

“Holy shit, I gotta get a picture of this. This is gonna go live, man! You’re gonna be famous!” said Diego as he pulled out his cell phone. “I still got some juice left. How did that happen? Let’s snap a few of these bad boys!”

“Put the phone away, Diego. I don’t allow pictures at my book signings,” said Bernard with a lack of conviction, still keeping the shameful look on his pudgy face.

“Hey, it’s a free country, man. I’ll take a picture of whatever I want. Besides, you want people to buy whatever the fuck you wrote, right? Well, you gotta put yourself out there, big man,” said Diego before snapping the first few pictures and yelling “OH!”

“Put the goddamn phone away and stop taking pictures of me! Don’t you have any respect for privacy?” said Bernard as his tone grew more aggressive with his sausage fingers clenched.

“Man, you ain’t gonna get no sales sitting behind a booth all day. Trust me, buddy, you need those sales for some kind of gym membership or something,” said Diego while snapping more pictures.

Bernard’s chubby cheeks were burning bright pink. His short fingernails dug into his palms. Sweat poured from his face like a rainstorm with plenty of thunderclouds. “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t put that goddamn phone away, I’m going to bend you over this booth and shove it up your ass!”

“Man, why the fuck do you care about stupid shit like that? That bullying business was a long time ago. Ain’t nobody gonna care if you’re a big guy. Your doctor might, but I don’t think anyone else will. Seriously, man, I’m doing you a favor. You need some motivation or something,” said Diego while once again snapping photos with the frequency of a machinegun.

“That’s it!” shouted Bernard as he bulldozed the booth and charged at Diego, who was too busy playing the role of paparazzi to notice the three hundred pound juggernaut was ready to strike. Diego snapped out of his Face Book-addicted trance long enough to feel boa constrictor fingers around his throat.

Everyone around the library went from anxious ignorance to fleeing panic, screaming as they ran away rather than doing something to help Diego. The librarian behind the desk fumbled with the phone cradle as she punched three familiar numbers. Her speech was reduced to stuttering gibberish as she fearfully related the incident over the phone.

As the purple-faced Diego was on his knees trying to pry Bernard’s fingers loose, the heavy hitter bellowed, “I told you not to take any fucking pictures, you stupid son of a bitch! I don’t like being fat! I don’t like being bullied online! I don’t like…!”

The fading Diego used the last of his strength to uppercut Bernard in the balls, forcing him to release the chokehold and stumble on the ground holding his family jewels. The wannabe photographer rolled on his side and coughed up a conservative amount of blood before taking labored breaths in and out that felt like swallowing knives.

As soon as he got an adequate amount of oxygen in his lungs, Diego pointed his finger at the downed Bernard and said, “You know what? I tried to help you! I tried to put the good word out there! I tried to help you get some motivation to get your fat ass off the couch! Now I’m gonna sue your ass!” He pointed at the shivering librarian and said, “You’re gonna be my witness!”

The librarian crouched down on the floor in the fetal positions and stuttered, “I…I can’t do that, Mr. Martinez. I…I just…I can’t!”

Diego leapt to his feet and sucked down a whirlwind of precious oxygen. “You saw what that fat fucker did to me! You’d better cooperate! I’ll sue this whole damn library if I have to! What’re you guys good for anyways?!” He slowly stalked the cowering librarian like a tiger on a wounded animal. “You think either you or this fat bastard over here are gonna get famous with books?! Nobody cares about books no more! I came in here to get some free internet and you’re gonna give it to me, bitch!”

Bernard held onto a nearby bookshelf to try and pull himself to his feet, but he kept his legs crossed due to the searing pain in his balls. He fell over on his side and watched Diego hold a hand up like he was going to slap the librarian for not doing her job. Mr. Martinez shouted, “Come on, little lady! Be a woman! Do what I tell you!”

Bernard got on his hands and knees in another attempt to pull himself up, but he fell over once again, the pain in his groin too much. Diego’s shouting turned into a cacophony of gibberish, which meant the corpulent author was fading into darkness. He heard the sound of skin slapping skin and that was enough to wake him up in a burning rage.

He slowly stood up while trying to ignore the pain in his nuts. Diego was a blur from where he was standing, but he was enough of a clear shape for Bernard to unleash his pent up anger. So many times he’d been called out for being fat. So many times he was called a loser. So many girls refused to go on dates with him. Those that did ended up doing it on a dare. And now this piece of shit known as Diego Martinez was going to bring those nightmares back to life like a necromantic apocalypse.

Bernard grabbed a hardcover book off of the shelf and tried to focus his eyes on Diego, who was screaming more gibberish and slapping the librarian in short bursts. The good thing about being this massive was that it gave Bernard a liberal amount of strength. He raised the book over his head while the pain in his nuts got hotter. Even with a testicle injury, Bernard threw the hardcover book and dropped to his knees in pain.

He heard a loud thud before his vision became somewhat dark. The last thing he remembered hearing was the sound of a body dropping on the floor. Even with blurry eyes opening halfway, that hairdo of Diego Martinez was unmistakable. Even little spots of red danced across Bernard’s eyes.

The hardcover book found its mark: right in the back of Diego’s head. Why lift weights when the strength was already there? Why change who he was when his inner strength was more impressive than his physical strength? Bernard would have loved to tell Diego that, but both men were too unconscious to have a real conversation.

The next couple of days were a blur for Bernard Hamm. He spent some of that time in the hospital and was too sedated to remember it all. He stayed at home recuperating and dreaded getting out of bed one morning because his computer was right there. With computers came internet service. With internet service came trolls. With trolls came pictures snapped by Diego’s phone.

Bernard’s stomach was in more knots than a hangman’s rope, which he was certain he needed once this day was over. How many days had it been since the incident in the library? Two? Three? Seven? Surely that amount of time was long enough for a few fat pictures to circulate.

The author slumped out of bed, but slowly, not only to help him recover, but also to delay having to see the inevitable. He sat down at his desk with ease and powered on his computer. As the machine was booting up, so was the cold feeling in his veins and the ill feeling in his stomach. He broke out in an icy sweat and took note of his rapidly beating heart. And then the computer was fully functional.

Bernard took labored breaths before opening Google Chrome and checking his Amazon page. Sure enough, the trolls had come out from under their bridges. One-star reviews, fat jokes until the end of time, and Photoshopped pictures of Bernard as Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. Tears welled up in the author’s eyes as he grabbed a nearby tissue and blew his wide nose.

What he saw next brought even more waterfalls to his sore eyes: five-star reviews to counteract the one-star hits, book sales doubling, and comments about Bernard Hamm’s heroism in the library when he knocked out Diego Martinez long enough for the cops to take the obnoxious punk to jail.

Bernard’s chest was soaked with tears and snot. He couldn’t blow his nose fast enough to keep all of the emotion from flowing out of him. For every Diego Martinez in this world, there was an angel from the heavens. For every anti-fat bigot, there was a beautiful soul. For every poorly-spelled message on an internet board, there was a copy of “Memento Mori” sitting on a bookshelf waiting to be read. For the first time in Bernard Hamm’s life, he was free.

Mom's Knee Surgery

***MOM’S KNEE SURGERY***

A lot of my friends and family members are asking about this, so I’m going to use this journal entry as an opportunity to answer those lingering questions. This past Tuesday morning, my mom had surgery on her left knee. This operation had been a long time coming since she was always having trouble walking around, especially when it came to climbing stairs. There was even a time during our Hawaiian vacation back in October where she had to be pushed around in a wheelchair to get to our flights on time.

Dale and I visited Mom in the hospital yesterday and she was in good spirits. She said that the surgery wasn’t anywhere near as bad as she thought it was going to be and that she would recover quickly and uneventfully. The whole operation took an hour and half and she was up and walking by herself a short time later. She had to use a walking device that we borrowed from our next door neighbors Bill and Chris and it turned out to be a huge help in her getting around. I can’t thank my neighbors enough for their undying support.

Earlier today, Mom came home with Dale doing the driving. Mom isn’t allowed to drive for at least six weeks while her knee heals. She’s also going to need to take Vicodin in case her pain flares up. I personally would have suggested medical marijuana since it’s legal in Washington state, but I’m pretty sure it’s a banned substance when it comes to receiving social security benefits. Oh well. Mom is a fighter when it comes to hardships. She survived the remodeling of two houses in 2016, one in North Carolina and one on our own home. She also survived a rat infestation which has her traumatized for life. At 69 years old, she still has a lot to give in this life. If she needs hair fuzzles and shoulder rubs along the way, I’m more than happy to give them to her.

Tomorrow morning, she begins physical therapy to rehab her knee. I’ve had physical therapy before when I had to tighten my left labrum back in place, so if she needs encouragement or experience, she can turn to me. Yes, the exercises can be excruciating sometimes (especially for a 69-year-old woman), but all of the hard work will be worth it in the end. We have a Mexican cruise planned in March, so she’ll have plenty of time to get her knee ready for some fun in the sun. I’d love to see Mom swimming around with manta rays and turtles like we did when we were in Hawaii in 2010.

Just like with any physical setback, the road to recovery is going to take some time and hard work. My mom has been through a lot in her lifetime, so doing physical therapy exercises isn’t at the top of the list when it comes to hardships. She can get through this. I know she can. She’ll have all of us to cheer her on. And then when she comes home for the day, she can fall asleep in her rocking chair with a kitty on her lap and Bones on TV. I always rib her for being a stereotypical old lady who falls asleep in her chair, but it’s all in good fun. To be honest, she’s earned her right to snooze and snore for as long as she wants to. She’s a wonderful mother and I wouldn’t trade her for the world.

If you want to wish my mom a speedy recovery, then you can do so in this blog entry. Thanks in advance! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

The new contest started yesterday and the theme will be “Brand New”. When I posted this synopsis on Good Reads, I already had someone say they could relate to the main character (Bernard). Let’s hope he can keep relating when I actually write the story. It’s called “A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Swear Words” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Bernard Hamm, Corpulent Author
2. Diego Martinez, Obnoxious Photographer

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Bernard’s debut novel could be considered brand new.

SYNOPSIS: Bernard’s debut novel was just published and he’s promoting it at a local bookstore by signing free copies. His only request is that nobody takes pictures of him due to his self-consciousness about his weight and general appearance. Diego completely dishonors Bernard’s request by pulling out his smart phone and taking unwanted selfies with him. Diego justifies his forceful photography by saying the author owes it to his fans and that this is a free country. Bernard becomes increasingly angry with the intrusive picture taking and attempts to strangle Diego with his own bare hands. Diego goes so far as to threaten a lawsuit against his attacker, but Bernard doesn’t care.

FUN FACT: This story is inspired by an incident that happened to Amy Schumer a few years ago when an obsessive fan took unwanted pictures of her in South Carolina. Now Miss Schumer won’t allow pictures of any kind because of what happened.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Up next on the chopping block is Casey Carter, the creepy undertaker from “Having a Cold One”. Come to think of it, there aren’t really any heroes in that story. It’s just two villains fighting over a dead body, but for different and often disturbing reasons. I already did a drawing of the other character in that story, Jay David, so Casey Carter was naturally next.

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

CUSTOMER: Cute cat. What’s his name?

RANDAL: Annoying Customer.

CUSTOMER: Fucking dickhead!

-Clerks-

Laziness

***LAZINESS***

I’ve beaten this dead horse so many times that it’s nothing more than shredded flesh and bone powder. I wouldn’t blame any of my readers if they suddenly got tired of hearing about it. But if I don’t write about the topic of laziness for the hundredth time, I feel like this will be a missed opportunity. There seems to be an updated version of this song and dance every time I write about it. So here it goes.

As of today, I don’t have a whole lot going on in my life. I haven’t lifted heavy furniture or done any strenuous chores around the house for weeks now. I still don’t have a high demand for book sales. I wanted to apply for a job with What Culture, but I didn’t think I could make the cut since I’m not as knowledgeable about pop culture as the admins. I’ve been on the job application sending circuit in the past and not one boss said yes to me. The WSS and my Deviant Art page have both been slowly declining in activity since old friends are falling off the face of the earth.

So I guess it stands to reason that I have all of this time in the world to work on my creative output and boost my self-employed career as an author. I can keep putting out chapters of novels, short stories, and heavy metal lyrics in hopes that one day, just one day someone will see them and help spread my message like a virus. That’s pretty much what being an indie author is all about: hoping that the right people will see you and want to invest their time and money in you. It’s like fishing in the sense that the right lure will catch the biggest and tastiest fish.

But here’s the thing. Yes, I do have lots of free time on my hands now that my schedule is clearing up quickly. However, most of my free time has been replaced with zombie walking. In other words, I pace around the house, lay in bed, or surf the internet hoping that my motivation will come back to me. The motivation has always been there, but every time it’s time to read, write, or edit, there’s this sensation in my brain that keeps me down. It’s a combination of sensitivity and numbness (for lack of a better description) and it robs me of the energy and willpower to get any creative work done.

I thought this problem was long behind me. I’m using my CPAP every night, I’m eating less and losing weight because of it, I haven’t had a schizophrenic attack in forever, and life is comfortable in this cozy town of Port Orchard. So where exactly is this mysterious brain sensation coming from? Self-doubt? Possible depression? Dare I say, the gray weather? The outside world’s influence? Aging?

That last item is important because when I was in my teens and 20’s, I used to get shit done on a regular basis. When I worked on a novel, I wrote a chapter a day with the longest paragraphs. When I had a college assignment, I worked relentlessly on it until it was done and turned in on time. When I had my volunteer jobs here and there, I worked my ass off and made my supervisors happier than the Pillsbury Doughboy being frisked by the TSA.

So what changed? How did I go from writing a chapter or short story per day to barely getting anything in at all? Am I really feeling like an old man at 31 years old? Is my obesity really that much of an influence? Keep in mind that in my teens and 20’s, I was skinnier and drank a lot of caffeinated energy drinks. I’ve since shot back up to 300 lbs. and I can’t drink Red Bulls anymore because they make my heart race. Maybe there’s also something about not having a routine schedule that makes me sluggish. Maybe I have to have work in order to do work.

I don’t claim to have all of the answers to my own dilemma, but I’d like at least some idea of what’s going on. I’ve read articles on procrastination and boredom and they’ve suggested that irregular sleep cycles, lack of exercise, and too much caffeine were among the reasons for that. Those seem like easy problems to rectify, but you have to remember that sleeping late, eating fast food, and drinking caffeine are all addictive behaviors. It’s just another way for my own brain to fuck with me. Thanks, brain.

Laying around and walking like a zombie might seem like paradise to someone with an overworked schedule. But make no mistake about it: there’s nothing glorious about feeling sluggish. There’s nothing normal about not being able to do what you love because of a technicality in your own fucked up mind. I repeat: a technicality, with many loose explanations, but no concrete answers. I see people brag about how hard they work and it hurts that I can’t put in as much firepower as them, all because…of a technicality in my goddamn brain. It’s a technicality that seldom existed in my younger years and little has changed now that I’m a 31-year-old.

If I could put out creative project after creative project 24/7 for the rest of my life, trust me, I would. I love writing. I love reading. I love editing. I even love my drawings and photography even though they’re not my main products. Common sense dictates that doing these things more often than I do would increase my happiness and fulfill my hardworking nature. So why am I not doing them? Because of a technicality, that’s why.

By this time in the blog entry, the dead horse is beyond necromancy. Not even Papa Shango’s silly magic from 1992 WWE television will be enough to animate this horse’s dead body. It used to be that every time I talk about this subject, the next day would result in a cornucopia of creativity. Maybe that’s what will happen tomorrow, maybe not. I don’t know anymore. It’d be nice to have some solid answers, but who do I look like, Dick Tracy?

***WRESTLING QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“Go ahead, Miz, go do what you do best! Whatever it is, it sure as hell isn’t wrestling!”

-Daniel Bryan-

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Distractions From Eating

***DISTRACTIONS FROM EATING***

I have my creative work to thank for a lot of things in my life whether it’s easing schizophrenic symptoms, getting my voice out there, or just having some good old fashioned imaginative fun. Now I have another thing I can thank my art for: distracting me from overeating. As many of you know, I’ve struggled with my weight for a good portion of my adult life. I’ve tried the Atkins Diet and was successful with it, but only temporarily. My main problem was that I was always bored and overeating was my favorite source of fun. It didn’t matter if it was McDonald’s, candy bars, soda, or pizza; if I was bored and junk food was available to me, I would wolf it down and feel like shit afterwards.

Say whatever you will about my skill level with drawing pictures or my frequency of cat pictures, but alongside my writing, reading, and editing, they’ve been welcome distractions from overeating. And whenever I posted a piece of art to my social media accounts, I would scroll through my pictures and admire my handiwork, not because I’m an arrogant jerk, but because I don’t have to think about eating. Even when I’m watching What Culture’s WWE videos or Last Week Tonight with John Oliver episodes on You Tube, I’m doing something other than stuffing my face. Living in a boring place like Port Orchard, it’s easy to give into your food-related vices since there are restaurants, grocery stores, and convenience stores pretty much everywhere you go.

Ever since I’ve been occupying my mind in even the smallest ways, I’ve been eating less frequently and looking better in the mirror as a result. If I ever did get bored enough to eat, I’d usually drink a bottle of distilled water instead and piss away the pounds. I drank a lot of water and ate minimally while I was in Hawaii and have already noticed changes in my body. When I first flew from Seattle to Kauai, I would need a seatbelt extender. When I returned home to Sea-Tac, the airplane seatbelts fit perfectly fine. I’ve also noticed that I’m getting full off of less food and I’m not huffing and puffing when I return home from my walks.

Obviously, I’m still a heavy guy and there are times where I occasionally grab a bag of Mickey D’s or a Pizza Hut pizza. I am by no means a weight loss guru or a super athlete. However, I’m not the only one who says that overeating can be triggered by moments of extreme boredom. Scientific studies, gym teachers, food documentaries, I’ve heard them all echo these sentiments. While I understand that what works for one person won’t necessarily work for the other, I can say with confidence that little distractions are helping me lose weight. It may be a slow process and I may have miles to go, but the thing about losing weight is that you feel the effects right away. Your mood improves, you have more energy, and you look at yourself in the mirror with less judgment.

But of course, there are days when I don’t feel like working on creative endeavors. Today was one of those days. My guess is that I’m still in recovery mode from these past few days of housework and remodeling and that’s why my brain doesn’t want to cooperate with me. Hell, I had to go to the chiropractor yesterday after lifting a whole bunch of heavy furniture. I had a shelf break because it carried a shit ton of CD’s. Dale wasn’t happy about that since he’s in no way a musical person. He doesn’t understand the beauty of David Draiman’s golden voice or Dimebag Darrell Abbot’s shredding guitars. All that aside, I was definitely in need of some recuperation. I’m a fragile introvert after all.

Even with all of this mental exhaustion working against me, I managed to only eat two meals and I got full after both of them. They weren’t even big meals, at least not compared to what I ate before. My afternoon snack consisted of three plums. My first official meal was at 5:00 at night and it was a baked potato with no toppings, a portion of spam, and a banana. At 8:45, I ordered a sandwich and breadsticks from Domino’s Pizza, both of which aren’t even close to being as fattening as a full pizza. I have no plans to end the night with more food.

I may have to spend some more time in recovery mode tomorrow and the next few days because that’s when my family and I are going to paint my bedroom walls light blue. We might do one or two walls one day and do the rest of it over the course of Monday and Tuesday. I won’t have to do a whole lot to disconnected my electronics since they’re all hooked up to a power strip. We’re not going to move out my furniture for the painting process; we’re just going to scoot it over a few feet. God, I love my wooden floors! I would have never been able to scoot things over on a dust-collecting carpet.

I hope all of my readers are doing okay considering what a wild and crazy October it has been. Halloween is coming up soon and for any metal heads who live near the Tacoma Dome, Five Finger Death Punch and Shinedown are going to perform there on November 5^th with Sixx AM and As Lions opening for them. November is also National Novel Writing Month. Last year I completed the first drafts of my Poison Tongue Tales stories. This year I’m going to storm through all 17 remaining chapters of Demon Axe. I’m also going to use some of those days to compete in the WSS contests like I normally do.

We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

One of the best things about being in recovery mode is that I still have enough mental energy to pump out a drawing or two. Although to be honest, I’ve gotten a little bit rusty with my latest effort, a picture of Detective Shawn Henry from Demon Axe. I’ll do better next time when the time comes to draw Edge Spider, the drug dealing gangster from the Poison Tongue Tales 2 cyberpunk story The Audiomancer. One of the pieces of advice I constantly receive from Angie at the WSS is to write about villains who are sane-minded since they’re scarier than the wild and crazy ones. I hope I achieved that with Edge Spider.

***VIDEOGAME DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

MIKE HAGGAR: Hello? Mayor Haggar here.

DAMNED: Hehehe! Mr. Haggar, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I believe you know who I am. Don’t hang up! We have an important business proposition for you: your daughter for your cooperation. Plus, we’ll throw in a monthly bonus to your salary.

MIKE HAGGAR: What?! What’s happened to Jessica?! Who is this?!

DAMNED: Not so fast, Mike. Turn on your TV.

MIKE HAGGAR: You son of a…what have you done with her?!

DAMNED: Nothing yet, but we’d enjoy the opportunity. Listen to reason, man. Why make your job difficult? Just let us do as we please like the mayor before you did! Agh-hahahahaha!!

-Final Fight-

Brutally Honest Dating Profile

***BRUTALLY HONEST DATING PROFILE***

There used to be a time where I would frown and pout at the idea of not having a girlfriend, especially one of celebrity status. Ridiculous, right? I think so too. At this point in my life, I couldn’t care less about the dating scene. I care even less than that about online dating. I’ve tried it several times with no success and I’m ready to say, “Fuck it, I’m done”. I have so little compassion for online dating that if I ever decide to make a profile for a place like OK Cupid, Plenty of Fish, E-Harmony, or any of those other sites, I’m going to take the Buzz Feed route and be brutally honest about all aspects of my life. For the sake of real life, I’m going to use my birth name instead of my penname. So without further ado, let’s get on with the Brutally Honest Dating Profile. It goes like this:

　

“Who is Garrison Haines-Temons? Most people don’t know, because they only see the surface of who I am: an out of shape and socially awkward man child with the worst case of allergies and the wrong answers to every socially acceptable question. If you’ve made it this far into my profile, I applaud you for not running away like a scream queen from a 1980’s horror movie.

The most common question I get asked by strangers is what I do for a living. If I wanted to be a funny guy, I could tell you that I work with impoverished children in the Democratic Republic of None of Your Damn Business. But that wouldn’t be the honest answer. The honest answer is, I’m an amateur writer who gets social security benefits for not only being schizophrenic and autistic, but also for having retired parents. I don’t go around telling people that because the person I’m talking to could either be a tea-bagging republican who judges poor people or a potential girlfriend who only dates men for their money and cars. If you’re going to judge me, do it on my character and not on my economic status. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks relationships are built on love and honesty instead of shallowness and greed.

What exactly is my character? The good news is, behind all of this social weirdness, I have a creative side to me. As I’ve said earlier, I’m an unpaid writer, but I also like to draw pictures of brutally violent warriors and take photographs of my toy collection and my animals. If there’s a creative project, I can get it done in style. For a while, I played the piano. I don’t do it much anymore, but the musical bug will come back to bite me soon enough.

What about my interests? Aside from expanding my creative outlets, I also love to watch professional wrestling, read books, and listen to heavy metal music. I used to play a lot of videogames, but ever since getting the shit kicked out of me multiple times by a lava dragon in Final Fantasy III, I’ve become too frustrated to continue that hobby. But I have to admit, videogames can be great creative fuel for when I’m writing a short story or heavy metal song.

You’ve made it this far into my dating profile without cowering away. You deserve a parade with confetti and marching bands. Now we’re going to get serious for a minute. I don’t have many pet peeves, but one of my biggest ones is people lacking respect for my introversion. You know the kind. They make small talk until the end of time, they always want your attention 24/7, they give you no breathing space or privacy of any kind, and they get pissed off if you call them out on their aggressive bullshit. If you’re one of these people who loves to smother your boyfriend with multiple texts, phone calls, and visits, then I don’t need you in my life. Every worst enemy of mine was someone who invaded my privacy and gave me no alone time to process my thoughts. Introversion may sound like an excuse to a lot of people, but it’s real to me and if you don’t honor it, you can’t be my girlfriend.

There you have it: Garrison Haines-Temons, bullshit free, nonconforming, live, and in color. Truth be told, I know not everyone accepts this kind of brutal honesty. In fact, I expect that most girls will see my profile and swipe to the right. That’s okay, though. I’m really joining this dating site out of protest and I really don’t need a relationship based on shallowness. Either you love all of me or you hate all of me. I don’t change for anybody. I don’t need to be told how to dress. I don’t need to be told what career to embark on. I don’t need to be told how to live life. I know what my life is about and I’m happy with my situation even though others aren’t. So what do you say? Will you give me a chance or will you keep pursuing your dreams of getting in the sack with Christian Grey?”

　

Now I’m actually curious as to how many hits this profile will get. I shouldn’t get too hung up on it, though. After all, I’m going into this thing with the ultimate “I don’t give a fuck” attitude. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

With the additions of Autumn the parrot and Shadow the dog, it’s time to add yet another former animal of mine to the series. Remember Ottie-Doo from the short story of the same name? Like Autumn and Shadow, I don’t have any photographs of the elderly kitty. A drawing will have to do instead. And now that I think about it, Ottie had a lot in common with my current elderly kitty Smokey. Maybe I could use a picture of Smokey for a reference model. Hmm….

　

***COMEDIC QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“New rule: couples who make out in public have to bring a bucket for me to throw up in. I didn’t come all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by your dry humping. I came all the way to Applebee’s to be sickened by the food.”

-Bill Maher-

Mitch Axel

Throughout my entire writing career, my most commonly used male given name is Mitch. Brawl Mart’s lead protagonist is named Mitch McLeod, Water Slaughter’s lead protagonist is named Mitch Monson, and I even have an unemployed cyberpunk character named Mitch Lee. What do you say we add one more Mitch to the list since it’s a likable and kick-ass first name? In this case, we’re looking at a high school garage band guitarist named Mitch Axel. He was supposed to be part of a high school themed RPG. He had the guitar gimmick and he looked like Matt Walst from My Darkest Days. But instead of going straight to the top of the charts, he decided to join the school’s photography club. He took pictures of everything and briefly interacted with another student whose name I can’t recall. That was the last anybody ever saw of Mitch Axel. Guess why. Too much inactivity within the group. What good is an RPG if nobody’s participating? Yeah, I know it’s hypocritical of me to say that given I stayed silent throughout most of my college classes. You have to remember that classrooms are mandatory and RPG’s are optional. Why join an RPG if you’re not going to do anything? So now we have this kick-ass teenager named Mitch Axel who’s currently in the unemployment line in my imagination. Originally, I was going to have him be a part of a short story called Black Hole, where he and his brothers Leif and Thomas try to woo the lead singer of their band Caitlin Ambrose. Sounds good on paper, but I’m afraid if I do that, Mitch will be overshadowed by the other characters. It happened to Karlos Ludwig and pretty much every member of Death Blade with the exception of Jill Serra and Lokus Leadgoth. How can we make sure that Mitch Axel will get top billing and keep it? He’ll have to do some wicked tricks with his electric guitar. He can’t just be a shredder, he has to be the whole fucking show, to quote a wrestler named Rob Van Dam. Sorry, Leif and Thomas, but you two are going back in the womb if you can’t help Mitch reach the stardom he craves. This is a guy who had a world of potential, but no forum to release all that creative energy. That will have to change very soon. He doesn’t necessarily have to be in a band, he just has to do something magical. Maybe he can be a fantasy bard or a cyberpunk rocker boy. Maybe he can be a wrestler who hits people with his guitar more often than Jeff Jarrett used to (that would really hurt if it was a plugged in electric guitar and the victim was submerged in water). I’ll think of something for Mr. Mitch Axel, but not right now.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“One day I fell asleep and dreamt of something to keep. Opened up my dying mind to see the things that I'd never find. Something true and beautiful was waiting there for me. In a dream where I believed I'd find my way back home. I think you should know how it feels falling down and out alone when no one cares. I think you should know how it feels when the world buries your soul and you're still alive.”

-Crossfade singing “I Think You Should Know”-

"I Am Puppy, Hear Me Yap" by Valerie Shaff (photos) and Roy Blount, Jr. (text)

Remember how during my review of “All Cats Have Asperger Syndrome” I said that a blog about fast reads wouldn’t be complete without picture books? The same is true now that I’m talking about “I Am Puppy, Hear Me Yap”. Each page consists of a cute and cuddly picture of a puppy-duppy along with an equally cute and cuddly poem on the opposite page. These poems and pictures can be about anything from chewing shoes to playing in the dirt to peeing on the bed to pretty much anything man’s best friend is famous for. The poems are clever with their joyful rhymes and childlike antics. But come on, we know why you’re really reading this book: for the sweet and lovable puppy-duppies! You want to see them roll over before you reach through the page and give them a much-needed belly rub! Puppies always seem to like a good petting whether it’s on their bellies, on their butts, behind their ears, or on their saggy jowls. Not only will you want to pet all of the puppies in this book, but you’ll want to take them all home with you. Little baskets of puppies all over the house just rolling around and being animal kids. The only thing these puppies don’t come with is purring muscles in their throats. Purring puppies? Aww! That would be a cuteness overload, as my friends on DeviantART might say. As I write this blog entry, I keep asking myself, what more could I say about this book that I haven’t already? It doesn’t have any plot, obviously. The poems wouldn’t make sense without their respective pictures next to them. I guess the only thing left to say is, go out and buy a copy of this wonderful picture book. You may brush through it in a matter of quick minutes, but as long as you’re in the mood for cuteness, you can read it as many times as you want. Maybe one day the author and photographer will make a calendar out of these wonderful puppy-duppy pictures. Imagine flipping to February and seeing a floppy-eared wiener dog staring you in the face with pretty brown eyes. Wouldn’t that just melt your heart like an ice cream cone? If you didn’t have a valentine by the time February rolled around, then maybe the floppy-eared buddy would be there to comfort you. I’d tell you more, but you might actually die by cuteness, another phrase my DA friends love to use. Hehe!
　

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Two guys are walking down the street and they see a dog thoroughly licking himself. One of the guys says, “Man, I wish I could do that!” The other guy says, “Shouldn’t you pet him first?”