Busted

Cami Delmore had never looked more beautiful. Chocolate brown hair, strawberry red lips, icy blue eyes, and a body deserving of the many bikinis she wore in these modeling photos. Owen Finley sat in front of his computer clicking through these photos while having a wide-awake wet dream. Something about this felt so wrong, yet it was so right. This was the perfect way to wake up in the morning. Every day, pictures of Cami making his life so wonderful. And then…

“Owen!” shouted a feminine voice from the bedroom doorway. The teenager turned around and covered himself up with his hands while his stepmother stared him down with a look of shock and seriousness. “Breakfast is on the table. It’s oatmeal and honey. Come on down before it gets cold,” said Cami before shutting the bedroom door.

“Come on down? Is she kidding me?” panicked Owen as his arousal went flat. He scrambled as fast as he could to find clothing for the day. Black jeans? Check. A Green Day T-shirt? Check. Sneakers? Check. He never dressed himself so quickly in his lifetime. Was there time to eat the honey oatmeal? “Fuck the oatmeal, I’m out of here!” he said to himself.

He grabbed his backpack and bolted toward the door, but stopped midway knowing Cami’s judging eyes would be zeroed in on him throughout the morning. His hand trembled on the doorknob at the thought of being scrutinized by her. He’d probably never get an erection again, nor would he want one. Maybe his balls would be cut off with an olive fork. Maybe his dick would be broken with a meat tenderizer. Maybe his face would be slashed open with a butcher knife.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god…” Owen murmured while trying to think of a better escape route. Of course! The window! He snapped his fingers at the idea and made a beeline for the fresh air outside. He didn’t care if it was a tall drop to the outside; he jumped anyways. A sore ankle was better than being castrated by his own stepmother and it was the former he got. He hobbled and limped towards the bus stop looking like hell.

The whole school day was nothing but a numbed out blur. Math homework? What math homework? Gym class? Who needs that? US history? The revolutionary war actually happened? No shit! Owen almost got in trouble in class several times for his incessant shaking. The laughter from his various classmates made him tremble that much harder. But when asked about his quirky behavior, he kept giving false answers and otherwise remained tightlipped. He kept looking down at his own crotch to make sure he didn’t get an erection in the middle of a lecture.

By the time the school bus dropped him back off at his house, Owen took his sweet time getting to the front door. The front door? He couldn’t go there. Cami was probably waiting for him with a pair of surgical scissors. These thoughts brought a weakness to his stomach and jitteriness to his legs. Where was the goddamn ladder when he needed it? He snapped his fingers once again as he remembered it was in the tool shed.

He heaved the clumsy metal object towards his bedroom window and became winded after the anaerobic exercise for the day. Owen’s heavy breathing was for more reasons than that. He tried so hard to calm his stomach down and shake the feeling back in his rolled ankle. By the time he actually started climbing, the ankle pain flared up like a burning building, almost to where he fell off several times. He hurried as fast as he could up the metal device and successfully made it through the window.

Owen’s energy was completely sapped from his body and all he wanted to do was lie in bed and sleep it off. If he never woke up again, it would mean never having to talk to Cami. Mission accomplished. Not one awkward conversation was had. Not one genital was snipped. Not one more look of anger from the object of misplaced affection. Or at least so he thought.

“We need to talk,” was the quote the snapped him awake. Sure enough, Cami was standing right there in his doorway with her arms folded and her face emboldened. Now Owen really started to sweat. His eyebrows shot up to the ceiling while his eyeballs moistened and trembled. This was it. He was a dead man. He crawled backwards toward the window only to have Cami yell, “Hey!” at him several times and drag him back inside by his ankles.

“Let me go, damn it! Let me the fuck go!” shouted Owen, but nobody could hear him and he wasn’t going anywhere with Cami pinning his legs together on the bed. He tried screaming some more. “I’m sorry! I’m fucking sorry! Now please let me go!” It was no use. Cami held her hand over Owen’s mouth and the only other screams that came were capital M’s. He could thrash around all he wanted, but there was no escape from what he perceived to be a trip to the gallows. Owen couldn’t help but let a few soggy tears out.

And then Cami’s demeanor changed when she removed her hand from Owen’s mouth and instead petted his puffy black hair. She whispered, “It’s okay” to him over and over again until the stepson stopped shaking. His tears wouldn’t stop coming, but he was at least calm enough to sit on the bed and have a real conversation with the new family member he masturbated to this morning. He couldn’t even look her in the eyes. He kept his head down and allowed his tears to stain his jeans.

“Owen? Look at me,” she said, finally getting his semi-relaxed attention. “I’m not mad at you.”

“You’re not?”

“Not at all. I was more worried about you than I was angry. You left this morning without eating your breakfast. Come here,” she said while hugging her crying stepson around the shoulders. “You don’t need to be afraid to talk to me. I may not have given birth to you myself, but I’m still your mother. Nothing will ever change that, do you understand?”

Owen wiped the tears away with his wrist and sobbed, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Look, I know you don’t take kindly to being embarrassed and that’s okay. You’re a sensitive guy and I respect that. But we need to talk about what happened this morning. I saw what you did and I saw who you were doing it to. Can we please just talk about this and not avoid each other anymore?”

Snorting snot up his nose, Owen said, “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Cami hugged her stepson some more and rocked him back and forth while she talked. “There’s nothing wrong with masturbating, Owen. It’s perfectly normal. Everybody does it whether they like to admit it or not. I bet there’re some preachers in our neighborhood who do it too even though they don’t say anything. I’m sorry I walked in on you like that. I’ll knock next time, okay?”

She kissed him on top of his head and rocked him some more. “But here’s the part I want you to understand. You and I can never be together that way. You know that, right? It would tear our family apart. Your dad would divorce me and he’d never forgive either of us. On top of that, you’re only fourteen years old, Owen. You’re way too young to have sex, let alone with someone my age. I’ll still be your mother and you’ll still be my son. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Owen’s cheeks burned a bright red as he whispered, “I’m sorry, Cami. I really am. I feel stupid right now…”

“Hey,” said Cami while pointing her stepsons chin up with her delicate fingers. “You’re not stupid. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You’re a teenager. This is what teenagers do. You’re just figuring out the world around you. And that’s okay. Besides, it’s not my place to tell you what you can and can’t fantasize about.” She pointed at his head and said, “What goes in on here is nobody else’s business but your own. Your mind is the last sanctuary you have.”

Owen’s jaw stopped convulsing and he could actually get words out this time. “I don’t know, Cami. I’m taking this sex ed class, right? And I don’t even want to ask anything in front of everybody because they’re a bunch of giggly assholes. Besides, the teacher won’t stop talking about abstinence and STD’s and shit. Yeah, like that’s going to do a lot of good. I’m already fucked up as it is!” Owen’s last sentence was punctuated by him kicking his own backpack and Cami holding him even tighter to calm him down.

“Sounds to me like you’re not getting a real education out of that class. I want you to listen to me, Owen. Forget everything that teacher taught you. There’s more to sex than just getting green stuff on your penis. There’s more to romance than waiting until you’re married. That’s all bullshit and it doesn’t work. If you see a girl at school that you like, don’t be afraid to introduce yourself to her. Treat her like an equal and she’ll treat you the same way. I should probably have a talk with the principal at your school.”

“No, Cami, you can’t do that! If the rest of the school finds out you…”

Cami shushed her stepson three times and petted his hair some more. “Nobody else has to know that I talked with him. It’ll just be a one on one conversation. They shouldn’t be teaching that abstinence crap anyways. It’s not realistic. There’s a lot they’re not talking about that they should. Do you even know how to use a condom?”

Owen shook his head and Cami sighed in disgust. “Yeah,” she said. “I should definitely have a talk with that principal. In the meantime, you’ve got homework to do. I’ll leave you alone and let you do that. And remember, if you have any questions that you don’t want to share in front of the class, you can share them with me. Okay? I love you.” She kissed him on the head again and proceeded towards the bedroom door. “Good talk tonight, son. Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Uh, Cami?”

“Yes?”

“C….could you not tell dad about what happened this morning?”

Cami smiled and made a lip-zipping motion to solidify her silence. She then waved at him and closed the bedroom door behind her. Owen plopped backwards on his bed and breathed heavy sighs of relief. Embarrassment still clung to him tightly and the tears still hadn’t dried up. But at least now he knew what he needed to do. He slowly picked his exhausted body off the bed and proceeded to delete all of Cami’s pictures from his computer. “I need this family. I love her too much for this bullshit,” Owen said to himself.

"Before Watchmen: Nite Owl and Dr. Manhattan" by J. Michael Straczynski

BOOK TITLE: Before Watchmen: Nite Owl and Dr. Manhattan

AUTHOR: J. Michael Straczynski

YEAR: 2013

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Superhero

GRADE: Pass

This prequel to the original Watchmen graphic novel features three separate stories of political bloodshed and philosophical heartache. Nite Owl is seduced by a dominatrix-style madame named Twilight Lady into helping her solve the mystery of her slain call girls. Dr. Manhattan travels between time and space as he wrestles with his conscience over his godlike abilities and how they should be used. Moloch takes revenge against an unloving world after he grows up bullied and broken over his “ugly” features. Nobody will be left unscathed by these violent tales, not even the almighty reader himself.

As someone who enjoys a good love story, I’m particularly fond of the relationship between Nite Owl and Twilight Lady. Of course, there shouldn’t be any debate that this would never work since Twilight Lady is a true professional who never falls in love. But after all of their romantic interactions, the reader actually wants to root for them. Twilight Lady can read Nite Owl like a book. She knows when he’s blushing underneath the mask. She knows he’ll do anything to protect her since he grew up with an abusive father. She knows his intentions are pure. And yet, this puts Nite Owl at odds with the ultra-conservative superhero Rorschach, who moonlights as a janitor at a church. All of this character interaction and all of this drama, it makes for some pretty damn good storytelling that will leave you brooding long after it’s all over.

I wish the same could be said for Dr. Manhattan’s story, but unfortunately, it was my least favorite of the three. While the idea of a godlike superhero struggling with his conscience can make for some thought-provoking creative fuel, the philosophical tropes seem to take precedence over the story itself, making for a confusing read. There were times in this story when I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Hell, none of it really became clear to me until the end, which I won’t spoil for my readers. It shouldn’t take that long for a story’s sensibility to kick in. It was for this reason alone that I once considered giving the book a mixed grade, but ultimately, I decided against that when I read Moloch’s story.

If you’ve ever wanted to live out a revenge fantasy, Moloch’s story is for you. Surely there has been a time in your life when you’ve felt unloved, unappreciated, and downright despised. Moloch’s gremlin-like appearance made him a target for bullies whether it was a stereotypical mean girl or a jock who loved beating people up. Rising above all of that trauma is hard, so what does Moloch do? He turns to a life of crime and rakes in a huge pile of cash while doing so. I wouldn’t recommend anybody do this in real life, because Moloch you are not and to prison you will go. But if you want to live vicariously through him for a little while, he’s certainly sympathetic enough for the reader to do just that. But never forget that he’s a villain above all else, so don’t get too attached to him.

I dare say that Alan Moore, the creator of the original Watchmen comic books, should be proud of J. Michael Straczynski for what he’s done. I’ll take it one step further. If the author of this book wants to do a prequel to any of my own books, I won’t turn him down. Hell, I’d give my left eye if it meant he’d work for me. The art is fabulous, the writing is superb, and the book overall is very much worthy of its passing grade, Dr. Manhattan story aside.

Incel Terrorism

***INCEL TERRORISM***

….Guys…we need to talk…we need to talk right fucking now…

I don’t know if anybody has told you this before, but murder, sexism, and rape are all bad things. Well, not just bad things. They’re awful things. They’re horrible things. If you’re an “involuntary celibate” or incel for short, you’re not going to attract women by committing acts of terrorism. In fact, by the time the “revolution against the Chads and Stacies” is over, you will have absolutely nothing you want. You will either be in prison or dead and you still won’t have a girlfriend.

Don’t get me wrong. If anybody gets the frustration of being single, it’s me. Loneliness sucks sometimes. But do you know what sucks even more than that? Being a murderer. Being an online troll. Being an all around negative human being. If you kill somebody else over sexual frustration, there’s no coming back from that. If you post hateful rhetoric online, you lose opportunities and you lose respect. Imagine that! Women actually enjoy being with men who treat them as equals! Wow! What a concept!

And if you think I’m writing all of this just to get laid, well, as Johnny Carson once said, “You’re wrong, ozone killer breath!” I’m writing these words because I don’t like watching murder stories on the evening news. I’m writing these words because every time an incel murder happens, it makes people who actually struggle with shyness look like fools. Murderers aren’t doing a service to anybody. I mean, seriously, are you fighting for love or hate? Do you hate love? Do you love hate? What is it you want?

Do you want to know what I do when I feel lonely? I create art. I draw pictures even though they’re crappy as fuck. I write first draft novels even though by their very definition are also crappy as fuck. I write poetry. I write songs. Loneliness can be a huge motivator for someone who wants to put their psychic energy to good use. Just ask Ricky Nelson, the guy who sang “Lonesome Town”. Just ask the Statler Brothers, who performed “Flowers On the Wall”. Ask Pink Floyd, who wrote such classics as “Hey You” and “Don’t Leave Me Now”, which are both about, you guessed it, loneliness, shyness, and isolation. And don’t give me this weak crap about how you’re not good at creating art, therefore you won’t do it. Everybody starts somewhere! Stephen King didn’t come out of the womb writing bestsellers. He worked at it! If you work at your craft, you might be surprised by how therapeutic it is.

If you need something a little more immediate than art, then I’ve got two words for you: Porn Hub. If you can dream it up, you’ll find it on Porn Hub, guaranteed. For instance, if you want to find a video of two lesbians scissoring each other while wearing diapers, it’s there. Wow! If you want to find a video of Tifa Lockhart from Final Fantasy VII giving an unknown man a blowjob, it’s right fucking there. Holy shit! If you want to watch a chick give her stepbrother a foot job, by all means, go for it. It’s right fucking there! All you need is a computer and some privacy. Make sure your door is locked and your shade is drawn. Hell, you can do what Billy Connolly does and pile furniture against the door. But believe it or not, visiting Porn Hub for a night of fun is actually an option! While it doesn’t provide the same intimate feeling as a full-on relationship, it’ll tide you over until then. Don’t believe me? Ask The Who, a band that performed a song about jerking off called “Pictures of Lily”. Wow!

And speaking of music, did you know that listening to it can provide a channel for your raw emotions? Holy shit! Where did this factoid come from?! If you’re angry, you can listen to “Fucking Hostile” by Pantera, a band fronted by a guy named Phil who’s pissed off at EVERYTHING! Or maybe you’re feeling a little more romantic and you want something lighter. No problem, just look up a song by Spandau Ballet called “True”. Or you just want to relax and forget about it all. May I suggest “Inamorata” by David Arkenstone and Charlee Brooks. Music is a drug more powerful than cocaine and more philosophical than weed. Try it!

My point is, there are lots of channels for your broken heart and violence sure as shit isn’t one of them. Be nice to the women in your life and they’ll be nice to you. Treat them like shit and you’ll be treated like shit as well. This is not the Middle Ages anymore. You actually have to treat the world with the same respect you want to be treated with. Progressive change is a function of time. The more we learn, the more we put those lessons into action. You want to be loved? Then show some love yourself.

And when you show that love, don’t do it with the end game of getting laid. Do it because you’re a good human being and you’re better than the murderers and rapists of the world. I assure you that there are more important things in life than getting your junk greased, and this is coming from a guy who openly admits to being a 32-year-old virgin. Yes, loneliness sucks from time to time, but it doesn’t have to dominate your thoughts like a schizophrenic ghost. And on the day that you’re told “no” by a beautiful woman, listen to her and walk the fuck away. I’m Garrison fucking Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

Everybody's Rock

The corny commercials on TV rotted Clark Hall’s brain into mush and froze his heart into an arctic glacier. The sounds of his girlfriend Sydney Farrow sobbing only a few feet away from him did nothing to bring him out of his trance. Even when Sydney took a few seconds to blow her nose or sob even louder, she couldn’t get her boyfriend’s undivided attention. She wiped away her tears with a napkin and finally asked, “Are we going to talk about this?”

“Nope,” said Clark without even thinking about his answer. Instead he just flipped through channels in a vain attempt to find something that will rejuvenate his porridge mind.

“Say something!” shrieked Sydney.

“Something.”

After one last wipe of her drenched face and smeared makeup, the pajama pants and tank top-wearing Sydney ripped the remote control out of Clark’s hand and turned the TV off. All he could do was stare her down with a frosty expression, not even a little burst of energy. With her hands animated, Sydney freaked out when she said, “Clark, why won’t you talk to me?! Just once I’d like to have a real conversation with you! For god’s sake, do something! Sing! Dance! Anything! Do anything at all!”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything at all!”

Taking her words literally, Clark moseyed on over to the kitchen table and sprinkled salt n his own head. “There, I did something.”

Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, Sydney asked, “What the hell’s wrong with you?! Are you fucking insane?! You knew damn well what I meant! You’re taking a serious situation and ripping the piss!”

“Serious? You want to talk about seriousness? How am I supposed to take you seriously when you keep crying every damn day?! Every fucking day, it’s the same thing! More tears! More drama! More bullshit! You know why I watch so much television? Because it’s the only thing that can take me away from your horseshit!”

Holding Clark’s hand in hers, Sydney wept, “Please, stop talking like that! You’re scaring me!” In typical Clark Hall fashion, the stone cold lover dropped to his knees and rattled off in devilish tongues. Sydney finally snapped, “You’re scaring me!”

Seemingly taking this conversation seriously, Clark stood back up and gazed into his girlfriend’s damp eyes. “You’re scared, huh? That’s okay, baby girl. I’m scared too. I’m scared of where this dramatic diarrhea will take us. I’m scared of never being able to feel happy again. Your sadness is making me sad! The only difference between you and me is that I’m not allowed to cry, seeing as how I’m a man and all.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t cry, Clark!”

“Bullshit! That’s bullshit! I hear people say that shit everyday! I’m always the one who has to be the strong superman for everybody! I’m the one who has to be everybody’s rock! I remember being a kid when I rode my bike and landed on my ass! Did anybody let me cry? No! Not one fucking person! Not my dad! Not my mom! They both wanted me to be a so-called real man! Well, congratulations, fuckers! I’m a real fucking man now!”

Taking her boyfriend’s hands once again, Sydney delicately said, “You can cry in front of me if you want, Clark. I won’t judge you. I’d never judge you for something like that.”

“Yeah right! If I start sobbing, who are you going to have left for comfort? Huh? Who’s going to be there for emotional support? I don’t even know how to fall to pieces! Twenty fucking years of pissed off feelings, Sydney, and I ain’t done a damn thing with all that rage! Now what?!”

Eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched, skin pink, and muscles tensed, Sydney’s rage boiled over when she whispered, “You want to cry? Go ahead, Clark. Do it. Do it! Cry, damn it! Show some emotion for the first time in your fucking life! Be the man I fell in love with so many years ago! The one who wrote me all that poetry! The one who didn’t give a shit what anybody else thought of him! Come on, damn it, cry! Cry!” Her last few words were punctuated with shoves to Clark’s chest.

He brushed his hand through his thick brown hair and used his Pink Floyd the Wall T-shirt to air himself out, but no tears came. Not one drop. Just clenched teeth and a pointed finger. “You can’t do this to me, Sydney. You’re not going to break me. Not tonight, not ever!”

Sydney brought Clark’s face over and planted a wet kiss on his lips, get a few teardrops on his shoulders in the process. The boyfriend’s eyes widened at the gesture while the girlfriend remained pissed off and intense. “Now cry, damn it. Cry! You have my permission even though you never needed it. Open those floodgates!”

Clark’s breathing intensified while he tried in vain to hide his face from his girlfriend. His muscles tightened, then relaxed, then tightened, then relaxed again. His face was concentrated on his black socks and teal sweatpants. Twenty years of being pissed off. Twenty years of nothingness. Twenty years of emptiness. It all resulted in a primal scream of the F-word followed by several punches to the couch cushions. It didn’t matter how hard he punched, because no amount of toughness could prepare him for what came next.

The first tear dropped on the couch pillow. Then the second. Then the third. And then they swarmed and multiplied until the emotional dam finally exploded. For the first time in Clark’s life, he felt absolution from being “everybody’s rock”. He tried hard to suck back his tears, but it was too late: the floodgates had permanently opened. “This isn’t fair,” he muttered. “This isn’t fair!”

As Clark sobbed some more, he felt Sydney’s fingernails gently scraping down his back while the softness of her other hand petted his hair like a kitty. She whispered in his ear, “Of course it’s fair, honey. Don’t fight it. Let them come.”

“How? How could I let this happen?”

“It’s okay, Clark. I love you. I always will. Scoot over, I want to lay next to you.” The two of them snuggled together on the couch sobbing silently into each other’s arms. It was as Clark prophesized: more drama. More tears. More bullshit. More awkwardness. But it felt right. It felt as though this was where the conversation was meant to go all along. Twenty years of bitterness could never have become twenty-one no matter how hard Clark tried. He didn’t remember much from that night, but only because he fell asleep on the couch shortly after, taking Sydney’s cherry kisses with him into dreamland.

By the time the butt crack of dawn came shining through the apartment window, Clark Hall was so drained that he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyes, which were still damp, salty, and fiery from the night before. The only difference was that Sydney wasn’t in his arms anymore. Clark slowly picked his head up off the pillow and saw that she was drinking coffee at the kitchen table, still in her tank top and pajama pants.

The psychologically emancipated boyfriend peeled his body off of the leather couch and stumbled towards the table to join his equally drained girlfriend. A cup of coffee was already there waiting for him. He took several sips of the sugar and cream-drenched stimulant, but still couldn’t wake up. If he spent eternity on that couch, it would be alright with him.

Breaking the awkward silence, Clark asked, “Did you want to talk about last night?”

“Did you?”

“No, not really,” said Clark as he stretched his arms out. “I have to be at work in an hour. All that crying drained me the fuck out.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“I don’t even want to go today, but it is what it is. Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow?”

“…Yeah…tomorrow…”

The two of them absentmindedly sipped their coffee while the lessons of the previous night struggled to sink in. Would tomorrow be another dramatic spell? Would Clark spend more time in front of the TV? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep and maybe take a sick day. But just like with all things in life, it was back to the grind again. Just another day, just another lousy paycheck. “Tomorrow…tomorrow…I love you…tomorrow…” Clark sang in his head.

I Didn't Know It Was Wrong

***I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS WRONG***

In addition to being a cardboard sign in Seether’s music video for “Fine Again”, you can also say the title of this journal whenever you create a piece of art that was unintentionally offensive. I can’t stress the word unintentionally enough. Sometimes all you want is to create a loving romance between two people and their relationship becomes hypersexual. Sometimes you want to show off the fighting abilities of a barbarian tribe from another culture, but they end up looking like stereotypes. Surely, you weren’t trying to be offensive, but that’s how it came across anyways, through no fault of your own. All together now…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

Yes, this is a reasonable defense against charges of unintentional bigotry, but there will always be that one smart ass who smashes you over the head with a hardcover book and then says…

Sorry, I didn’t know it was wrong!

You’re damn right it’s wrong! That’s assault, you moron! It carries a prison term of at least seven years! How about we save the phrase for people who actually need it? Wes Anderson, the writer and director of Isle of Dogs, could easily use this phrase and get away with it. As a white guy from Texas, his depiction of Japanese culture was frowned upon even though it didn’t deserve to be. There was nothing inherently offensive about it, at least not compared to Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s where Joe Jitsu comes across as ultra-stereotypical (in case his name wasn’t obvious enough). Hey, Wes! Say it with me!

I didn’t know it was wrong!

I wish I knew this phrase when I was writing offensive shit back in the day. It could have helped me when I wrote a pornographic parody of “Stole” by Kelly Rowland. It could have helped me when I was swashbuckling with teenagers after they read “Class of ‘13”. It might have even helped me when I was writing the super-violent Zeromancer for my second multi-genre writing class in college. None of these scenarios would have been a cheap escape if I used that phrase, because I legitimately didn’t know they were offensive reads. I don’t know if I chalk it all up to being young and immature, growing up in Chehalis, watching TV-MA rated shows and not processing them correctly, but say it with me…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

You know what else I didn’t know was wrong? Incorporating a trope called the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. It’s a literary pejorative for any supporting female character whose main role in the story is to boost the self-esteem of the brooding male protagonist. Adrienne Simpson from “Silent Warrior” reeks of this trope, and in some ways, Tarja Rikkinen from my current WIP “Beautiful Monster” qualifies too. It was never my intention to make them this way, but you have to understand…

I didn’t know it was wrong!

I think I’ve given you guys enough examples that you’re adequately educated. Luckily, there is help for anybody who needs it. When you’ve finished writing your manuscript, you can send it to somebody called a “sensitivity editor”. This person will comb through your work and make sure nothing sticks out when it comes to potential offensiveness. Because they’re sensitivity editors and get this kind of work all the time, you can bet your ass that they won’t judge you even if your manuscript is glowing like a nuclear rod with offensive material. I didn’t even know these people existed until I started watching Jenna Moreci’s You Tube videos. Perhaps I should hire the services of one when I’m ready to get cracking on editing Silent Warrior. Hell, there’s probably more wrong with it than I thought and that extends beyond Adrienne Simpson being a Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

If you think for some reason I’m just bending to the will of the Social Justice Warriors and ignoring my own individuality, you’re wrong. There used to be a time in my life when being offensive was my bread and butter. I was young, immature, and had the sense of humor of an alt-righter despite being a hard leftist. Well, some things have to change because a bigot is not who I am nor would I be proud of being one. I want to represent the positive side of humanity, not the worst. I want to be on the right side of history and be a good role model for readers who look up to me. If that makes me an SJW, then fine, I’m an SJW. Fuck it, I don’t care. In fact, you can go ahead and call me the Social Justice Barbarian if you want. Barbarians appeal to me more than regular warriors since the former has the ability to rage out of control at a moment’s notice. Plus, I get to eat raw meat, howl at the moon, and swing a bloody battleaxe. How much fun is that?!

Sorry, guys! I didn’t know it was wrong! I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In the interest of bouncing back and forth between the past and present of this novel, chapter four will feature a look into Windham Xavier’s captivity, where he’s strapped naked to a table and felt up by Shelly and Torger. Don’t worry, you won’t have to go all the way to Wattpad to read this, because no sex will take place (yet). Lord knows Deviant Art has enough nudity as it is, so a chapter of Beautiful Monster with a naked male elf won’t hurt the status quo too much. Look forward to it! And before you ask, no, I’m not gay and even if I was it wouldn’t be the reason why I write about naked male elves. Grow up!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“The world is precious, a gift to you and me. I suggest we treat her right, with love and dignity. Everybody’s looking for some peace of mind. If you seek the truth, then you will surely find. Everybody wants to have global peace, whilst the press of a button can shake the world to its knees. Some say might is right. I beg to disagree. I say we all unite and redirect our destiny. Everybody’s looking for a quick solution. Our lungs are choking from breathing in air pollution. I say put down the guns and stop the revolution. I say it’s time to make a restitution. Can you hear what I’m saying? There’s so much starvation, so much untruth, so much prejudice, so much liquidation. Oh, how long? How long?”

-Toto singing “Can You Hear What I’m Saying?”-

"King and Maxwell" by David Baldacci

BOOK TITLE: King and Maxwell

AUTHOR: David Baldacci

YEAR: 2013

GENRE: Fiction

SUBGENRE: Crime Thriller

GRADE: Pass

Sean King and Michelle Maxwell are a pair of former Secret Service Agents turned Private Investigators who take on a teenage military brat named Tyler Wingo as their latest client. Tyler is told by the Army that his father, Sam, was killed in combat overseas, but he still receives text message and emails from Sam despite this. Sean and Michelle’s snooping around gets them into hot water with the government as well as a vengeful former soldier named Alan Grant. The two private detectives unlock a conspiracy theory that could get both of them killed, or worse, sent to Guantanamo Bay for violating national security. That’s a risk both are willing to take if it means giving Tyler Wingo the peace of mind he deserves.

David Baldacci’s decades of experience shine through in his writing to where even the most oblivious readers can see it. The fast pace, which is a hallmark of any thriller or mystery, is one of the most enjoyable parts of the book. The knowledge of rules and regulations when it comes to dealing with the government? Check. The frustration the detectives feel of putting together scattered pieces of a massive conspiracy puzzle? Double check. Villains and heroes who both know what the hell they’re doing? Triple check. This novel is foolproof when it comes to tying up loose ends and making sure nothing is based on the author doing guesswork. This is a well-crafted mystery that makes perfect sense when the reader gets closer to the end.

Another detail I’d like to applaud is how the clear villain in all of this, Alan Grant, has a sympathetic side to him, thus making him three-dimensional. Villains shouldn’t be evil just for evil’s sake. This poor bastard had parents who committed suicide because of their part in a corrupt military scandal in Iran. Fast forward to the events of the novel and that’s a lot of time Alan Grant had to think about how to plan his ultimate revenge. He served in the Army, so he has combat training down to a science. But fighting in a war that traumatic can only add fuel to his already volcanic fire. If Alan’s suppressed anger was a weapon, it could easily be a nuclear missile. He appears calm and collected in front of his wife, kids, and father-in-law. But inside, he’s hurting so badly that he’s borderline insane. Right or wrong in his actions, there’s no denying that Alan had a raw deal. I can’t hate the guy even though he’s a disgusting villain.

The final part of this novel that I enjoyed had more to do with personal satisfaction rather than overall impact on the story. As part of his revenge plot, Alan Grant buys a broken down radio station and has it completely remodeled. By the time the project is finished, the building has a strong internet signal, satellites and electricity everywhere, security traps that kill upon triggering, soundproof acoustics, and an overall clean feel. I’m a closeted home improvement junkie, so watching all of this take place gave me my fill. I never like to see abandoned buildings get left behind and not used ever again. I can imagine things like abandoned grocery stores becoming heavy metal arenas. I can picture a former Taco Bell building being transformed into a geek store. Hell, in my hometown of Port Orchard, the Blockbuster Video on Mile Hill became the new location for Taco Bell. That’s pretty damn cool in my book. So in addition to writing badass thrillers, David Baldacci might very well be a home improvement nut too. I like that!

King and Maxwell is a quick and satisfying read from cover to cover. It’s action-packed, intelligently-crafted, and character-driven. What more could you ask for in a mystery thriller from a legend in his field? I wouldn’t mind reading other books from the King and Maxwell canon if they’re anywhere near as good as this one. Hell, I might have to branch out into other canons Mr. Baldacci has delved into over the decades. The passing grade this book receives is well-earned!

Isle of Dogs

MOVIE TITLE: Isle of Dogs

DIRECTOR: Wes Anderson

YEAR: 2018

GENRE: Animated Comedy

RATING: PG-13 for violence and politics

GRADE: Extra Credit

In dystopian Japan, corrupt politician Kobayashi orders a mass exodus of the dog population to Trash Island due to an outbreak of canine diseases. A small minority of Japanese citizens believe that this quarantine is nothing more than xenophobia in a disguise. One of those rebels is Kobayashi’s nephew Atari, who hijacks a plane and flies to Trash Island to rescue his bodyguard dog Spots. What starts off as a small act of defiance becomes a full-blown revolution against a five hundred year dynasty hell-bent on spreading messages of fear and hatred against dogs. No one person can do everything, but everybody can do something.

With the current political climate here in America, it’s no wonder that this synopsis sounds familiar to us. Kobayashi is little more than a Japanese Donald Trump with the way he dodges criticism and spouts bigoted rhetoric. In the case of Isle of Dogs, we know the disenfranchised dogs are easy to root for because they’re so darn cute. But being empathetic is more than about rooting for the favorable ones. It’s about rooting for complete strangers who are being crushed by oppression. True empathy doesn’t care if you’re rich or poor, white or otherwise, gay or straight. If you see injustice in the world, say something. If you’re feeling brave, do something. That’s what this movie means to me and that’s the reason why it deserves an Extra Credit grade.

As long as you’re cheering for the dogs to have a better day, why not rub their bellies, scratch their ears, and give them hot baths? Yes, they’re covered in dirt from living on a garbage-infested island for so long. Yes, they eat things normal people wouldn’t touch. Yes, they have infectious diseases. But they deserve your love anyways. Cook them a nice steak dinner. Throw a tennis ball for them and have them bring it back to you. Let them take long naps on your furniture during gray and rainy days. You can’t resist these fluffy creatures no matter how hard you try. Couple that with a powerful anti-xenophobia message and Isle of Dogs will easily become your new favorite movie.

Of course, with any piece of art, there will always be critics. It’s as certain as death and taxes no matter how good the movie appears to be. In the case of Isle of Dogs, the biggest piece of criticism it received from the public was the possible appropriation of Japanese culture. The movie has Taiko drummers, sumo wrestlers, sushi meals, school uniforms, anime references, and plenty of other tropes that might be deemed racist. Well, I’m here to tell those critics to relax. You’re looking for a controversy that’s not even there. I’m not worried about a white American like Wes Anderson using these tropes. I would be more worried if a director used them badly. Watch the old Dick Tracy cartoons from the 1960’s and contrast them to Isle of Dogs. Not even a close call when it comes to offensiveness. As my mother always says to people who are uppity, “Calm down, relax, take a deep breath.”

With a powerful political message, cute animal babies, deadpan comedy, and an all-around good story, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was a semi-truck full of Oscars waiting for Wes Anderson and his beautifully-done masterpiece. Everybody who participated in this movie deserves high accolades, from the voice actors to the animators to the translators to…everybody! It took a whole village to put together an awesome movie that all ages can enjoy. Five out of five stars, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

The Last Ice Man

***THE LAST ICE MAN***

Poor sportsmanship seems to be a common topic among my blog entries lately. I guess my brother James was right: I did take everything personally back in those days. Everything! One small example was when I threw punches at an Everlast in a mall and the clerk told me to stop. Being the sensitive small child I was, I cried my eyes out on the way to the car. But of course, this blog entry is called The Last Ice Man, and unless I was training to be the next Chuck Liddell, that’s not the main focus here. Instead we go back to the early 90’s where my parents, brother, and I went to an ice skating rink in either Seattle or Vancouver (I forget which one).

Skating has never been my favorite thing to do since I always fell on my ass due to a lack of dexterity. I kept secretly wishing for ice skates that were double-bladed and had a wide berth, but alas, The Secret didn’t come out until 2006, so I was SOL. On this particular day, I held onto the railing and grinded my blades against the ice, making a little depression where I was standing. Of course, the female staff didn’t appreciate this, so they told me to stop. That should have been the end of it, but because I was a six year old child with poor sportsmanship, I took it personally yet again.

When the female staff skated by again, I shook my fist at them the same way a ballerina would do to express nonverbal anger. No middle finger, no crossed arms, just a ballet fist shake that I learned about in the first grade while studying that particular form of theater. The female staff skated over and tried to physically remove me from the rink, but I kept holding onto the railing for dear life, even when more staff members came over to help her. They finally relented when my mom explained to them that I was autistic and didn’t know any better….at least I think that was the argument she used. While I didn’t dig my skates into the ice again, I did manage to do a few laps around the ice and fall on my ass some more.

In my blog entries about soccer and swimming respectively, I actually considered making those scenarios into full-length novels. In the case of soccer, I’ve got a synopsis and character cast ready, but no chapter-by-chapter analysis. In the case of swimming, I’ve got nothing. Absolutely nothing. But how exactly does one make a novel out of this particular scenario? Does the main character get traumatized after being banned from the rink? Does he hate skating anyways? Does he have to learn good sportsmanship the hard way? If nothing else, this is just a cute story that I’m sure some of my readers could relate to as children.

Boy, I really didn’t think this one through, did I? If nothing else, writing a new blog entry will give me the chance to make announcements about my future projects, starting with…

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In case you couldn’t tell from the kinky action going on in chapter two, there are going to be future chapters of this novel with even more explicit sexual content, particularly chapters six and eleven. One of them will feature female-on-male rape and the other will feature consensual sex. No more spoilers beyond that! No, no, no! Then again, even Stevie Wonder could see this coming from miles away, so it’s not much of a spoiler.

***SHORT STORY***

I know I said months ago that I would discontinue American Darkness 3 because of how similar the stories were sounding. However, I’ve had this one idea that’s been rolling around in my head ever since drinking a shit ton of cold black tea, which is bad for schizophrenics in particular. Now that I think about it, black tea might be responsible for the brooding going on in my blog entry called “Wrestling With My Mind”. Green tea and jasmine tea don’t do that shit. But before I go too far down the rabbit hole, I want to present you all with a short story idea called “Everybody’s Rock”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Clark Hall, Aloof Boyfriend
2. Sidney Farrow, Tearful Girlfriend

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: The apartment scene opens with Clark vegging out in front of the TV while Sidney is crying hysterically and trying to get his attention. After a while of prodding, Clark goes on a tirade about how his girlfriend cries about everything while he has his own pain that he’s supposed to keep on the inside, thus being “everybody’s rock”. Clark wants desperately to be able to fall to pieces the same way Sidney is, but being a man hasn’t allowed him to do that due to male stereotypes and the general discomfort of those around him. Sidney pushes her boyfriend some more in an attempt to open his floodgates once and for all, but Clark is stubborn as hell. Sooner or later, everybody cracks no matter how strong of a rock they are.

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Sunlight bright upon my pillow, lighter than an eiderdown. Will she let the weeping willow wind his branches around? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Every night I turn the light out waiting for my velvet bride. Will the scaly armadillo find me where I’m hiding? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams. Will the misty master break me? Will the key unlock my mind? Will my following footsteps catch me? Am I really dying? Julia dream. Dreamboat queen. Queen of all my dreams.”

-Pink Floyd singing “Julia Dream”-

Space Jockey

VERSE 1

Let’s go to Mars and drive flying cars

The whole desert planet is all but ours

Don’t worry about the lack of oxygen

Rise from the dead and then walk again

Open armed greeting from the Martians

Sweetheart deal, one hell of a bargain

Never mind that they shoot with ray guns

Or the gravity feels like hauling eight tons

CHORUS

Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!

Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey

Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!

Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky

VERSE 2

Let’s try to hook up with Faye Valentine

Give her a ring and ask, “Will you be mine?”

Let’s go on adventures with Spike Spiegel

Fly through space like an American eagle

Let’s catch bounty heads, be broke anyways

Just like on earth, same old shit every day

This isn’t all just arrogant wish fulfillment

We’re a fucking team and we always kill it

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!

Dance in the moonlight and play tonsil hockey

Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!

Never mind that this shit is way too damn cocky

See you, space cowboy! See you, space cowboy!

Fill your heart with carbon dioxide and pure joy

May the force be with you, my Jedi knight!

Let’s have a light saber battle on Mars tonight

BILL MAHER QUOTE

Fuck Mars! Make Earth Great Again!

VERSE 3

Burning fossil fuels and killing the planet

Cutting down jungles so the rich can have it

Rinse and repeat on the planet of Mars

Control C, control V, drive flying cars

This ain’t the Jetsons, it’s the real world

On Planet Mars our flag shall not unfurl

It doesn’t take Yoda to figure it out

No such surface will you breathe in and out

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

Live long and prosper, you sons of bitches!

This conspiracy theory leaves me in stitches

I am Groot, motherfuckers! I am Groot!

Space colonization will not bear fruit

I’m Buzz Lightyear! I come in peace!

Then maybe this madness will finally cease

Come on, space jockey! Come on, space jockey!

The atmosphere is dead, the land is rocky

FINAL LYRICS

Fuck Mars! X4

The Last Aqua Man

***THE LAST AQUA MAN***

Remember a blog entry a few weeks ago about my childhood soccer team The Thunder Eagles? Well, that wasn’t just a fun story. It’s now an undeveloped idea for a novel somewhere down the line. The reason Silent Warrior resonated so well was because it was loosely based on real experiences I had. The Last Thunder Eagle, as it’s now called, will hopefully resonate as well since I used to be a sore loser. In some ways, I still am a sore loser and perhaps this novel idea is what will exorcise those demons forever. But that’s neither here nor there. I’ve already written the first chapter of Beautiful Monster and I intend to see that one through to the epilogue. Wish me luck!

But as long as I’m being inspired by stories from my past (that thankfully aren’t too traumatic), I might as well throw another one out there and see if it sticks. In the same way The Last Thunder Eagle is intended to be about soccer, The Last Aqua Man will be about swimming lessons, should it ever become a novel idea. When I was a kid, I already knew how to doggie paddle from point A to point B. But that just wasn’t enough for some reason, so my parents signed me up for swimming lessons at the community pool. Although I didn’t get hit with any soccer balls or knocked down, I still was not a happy camper.

There were six different levels of difficulty for these classes: Beginner’s Level Parts 1-4, Intermediate, and Advanced. During both rounds of swim lessons, I was placed in Beginner’s Level 4 and never passed to the next tier. One of the big reasons for this was because I hated sticking my head underwater without plugging my nose first. I hate water in my nose, I hate coughing it up, I hate blowing it out, and I hate water in my ears. I would have worn a pair of goggles that protected my nose, but the swim instructors wouldn’t let me use them. Instead they suggested that I hold my breath before sticking my head underwater. Didn’t work. I ended up feeling like a whitewashed version of Crazy K from Tales from the Hood. I know I make that reference a lot, but there aren’t a whole lot of movies out there where somebody shoves IV straws up another man’s nose, so that’s all I’ve got to work with.

During the second season of swim classes, one of our assignments was to dive right into the water, head first, arms extended. The first time I did this came without incident. In fact, my parents applauded me from the sidelines. And then with every successive time came more water in my nose and throat and not enough ways to expel it. After a while I just refused to dive and instead did a pencil jump while holding my nose shut. I already told you guys that I never passed either season of classes, but at this point I didn’t give two shits and a flying fuck. I was the Last Thunder Eagle and the Last Aqua Man all in one childhood. Sports really aren’t my thing after all. Hell, even gym class in general was an exhausting nightmare at times.

When I talked about The Thunder Eagles, I mentioned how soccer could be improved if hardcore violence was allowed. Well, I don’t think the same could be said for this blog entry. My misery was nobody else’s fault…this time. Nobody pushed me in the pool. Nobody tried to drown me. Nobody splashed me while I had my clothes on. Who was I going to beat the crap out of? The closest I could ever come to that would have to be literally cutting my nose off to spite my face. Yeah, that’s right! It’s my nose’s fault for allowing water to get in there in the first place. That’s not what noses are for! Isn’t that right, Melanie Good’s character from Die Watching? Now there’s a reference absolutely nobody is going to get…unless you’re into that sort of thing. Then again, “that sort of thing” is the only reason why I know that movie exists. How sad. How relentlessly sad.

So how exactly would The Last Aqua Man become a reasonable story? Would it be too similar to The Last Thunder Eagle? Am I just destined to write novels about sore losers my entire career? Mitch McLeod was a sore loser (when he did lose, which was not often). Mario Bryan was a sore loser. And now the main character from The Last Thunder Eagle, a ten-year-old named Alex Woodley, is going to be a REALLY sore loser. Brock Lesnar once said it best: in order to know how to win, you have to know how to lose. He was a sore loser in college and so am I in the real world.

And that’s the thing about life itself: failure is inevitable, but it’s how we react to it that will determine future success. Some people will pick themselves up and dust themselves off to go to work the next day. Others will crumble under the pressure and give up altogether. There were some things in my life that were worth continuing and some that I gave up on. I gave up on playing the guitar because I couldn’t move my fingers quickly enough across the frets. I gave up on playing Street Fighter IV because Abel kept getting cheap victories over me. I gave up on playing Magic: the Gathering because it became more about capitalism rather than the love of the game.

But when it comes to my creative outlets, mental health, and physical health, those are things I will never compromise on. These three things can’t exist without each other. I write for a living. I work on other creative endeavors for the love of art. I need a clear mind to do those things. And as far as physical health goes, I know my bulging belly will tell you otherwise, but I’ve actually lost a lot of weight in the past few months. I eat only three meals a day without snacking on sugary foods, I walk long distances whenever it’s nice outside, and I drink a lot of unsweetened iced tea. A lot! I haven’t kept track of how much weight I’ve lost, but I know I must be doing something right, because I can make it up and down the stairs without being overly winded. I guess there is life beyond childhood soccer and swimming. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

ME: You know, Reina, there was once a time when I considered Squall Leonhart from Final Fantasy VIII to be my own personal hero. He had no emotional attachments, no unnecessary relationships, and he mastered the art of giving zero fucks.

REINA: So basically your hero was an angsty teenager?

ME: No, that’s not what he is!

REINA: He sounds like an angsty teenager, Garrison. I bet he listens to a lot of Linkin Park.

ME: Final Fantasy VIII came out a few years before the first Linkin Park album.

REINA: He still would have listened to them.

Extremism

***EXTREMISM***

When you’re young and naïve, extreme comments can be very appealing, either because of comedic value or aspirations of badassery. As a teenager, blatantly offensive jokes were the funniest to me. During my early twenties, I still found them wildly hilarious despite me conforming to a college environment. With age comes wisdom and what was once cool in the past isn’t so cool anymore. My 33^rd birthday is this coming June and I’d like to think I at least have enough wisdom to know the difference between what’s acceptable and what’s not. I often find myself measuring my posts online for this very reason. Would you like to hear some of the salty stuff I said during my youth? You may find it darkly funny, then again, your jaw might fall on the floor. Either way, it’ll be a slight departure from the emotional diarrhea blog entries I’ve posted lately. Speaking of which, I finally learned the word that sums up the act of “Wrestling With My Mind”: brooding. How did I not learn this word earlier?!

This journal entry will have three different examples of extreme dialogue and the first one is the most contemporary example I can think of. The year is 2010 and a Roger Waters concert at the Tacoma Dome has just let out. I’m walking the streets with my dad, my step-mom Charlie, and her son Ryan. We’re walking adjacently to the train tracks and there are drunken morons wrestling around on them and yelling like lunatics. The drunks were warned by train station personnel to get off the tracks, but they kept hooting and hollering. When I describe this incident, I could just as easily say things like, “What a night that was!” or “I’m glad we got out of there!” But this is a blog entry about extreme dialogue, so instead I say…“I was kind of hoping the drunks would get run over by the train.” You all know via my poetry how I feel about drug addicts and alcoholics who behave obnoxiously in public, but this is a stretch even for me. And by stretch, I’m talking Gumby levels of stretchiness.

Example number two. The year is 2009 and I’m taking a creative nonfiction class at Western Washington University. As part of the class curriculum, we had to read certain books and one of them was “This Boy’s Life” by Tobias Wolff. There’s a scene where a young Tobias is with his mother at some kind of Seattle fair and these two bearded guys in flannel shirts approach them. The guys treat the Wolff family to sugary treats, hotdogs, and rides on bicycles. The smart thing for me to do would be to answer the actual assigned questions on the online forum for our class. But instead I…sort of…compare the two bearded men to the mountaineers from Deliverance. You know the ones. “Squeal, piggy!” The next day, the teacher announces that several people were offended by my post and that I should be careful about what I say on the internet. In hindsight, this was a good lesson. The problem? I was too arrogant to heed it, so I silently stewed for the rest of the class and laughed about it once we were dismissed.

Final example. The year is 2008 and I’m still attending school at WWU, this time for a dramatic writing class. The class met every Friday afternoon and that was when our scripts for short theater scenes were due. Mine happened to be about a kid named Kurt Liddell who had to be comforted by his girlfriend Georgia Cushing after getting a D- in US history. Kurt could have phrased his feelings any way he wanted. He could have wished for higher marks. He could have vowed to work harder. He could have wished for a transfer request. But no. He says something that would unfortunately be a hallmark for plenty of school-related stories in my future career (including, sadly enough, Silent Warrior). Kurt Liddell says…”Those Columbine kids had it right all along.” Let that sink in for a moment. Kurt channels the Columbine kids because he got a D- in school. If that’s not extreme behavior, I don’t know what is. Nonetheless, I got an A on that assignment and was given the opportunity to write more scenes in that series as an alternative to the scheduled work, so I thought that was pretty cool.

Needless to say, these were not years where I had my shit together. I’m 32 years old and some of my shit is still scattered here and there. If you learn one thing from this blog entry, it’s to not let your ego get in the way of a good lesson. No matter how good you are (or how good you think you are), there’s always room to improve your life, whether it’s creatively, professionally, or personally. The day you stop growing is the day you get complacent. Complacency can be smelled from miles away and it stinks like shit. If growing from extreme behavior is your way of moving on in this world, go for it. I know growing up sucks, but there are still aspects of youth that can be appealing to adults, Legos and videogames being chief among them. I’m Garrison Kelly! Keep climbing the mountain!

***THE NEXT NOVEL***

Silent Warrior has finally been put to bed for the very last time. It’s only a first draft, so there will be lots of editing in the future, which I’m very much looking forward to. In the meantime, I need a new novel to work on. The ideas that seem the most appealing to me right now are Beautiful Monster, Booger the Clown, and (maybe) Suck It Double Dork. Only Beautiful Monster has been developed from beginning to end. The other two need some fleshing out, which is why I spent so much time brooding in the first place. Heh. Brooding. I love that word! Brooding!

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GANGSTER A: What about us?

GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.

GANGSTER A: You just drove by and started blasting.

GANGSTER B: That shit was wrong, man.

GANGSTER A: We weren’t even the ones who capped your homie.

GANGSTER B: That shit was really wrong, G.

CRAZY K: Man, fuck you niggas! It was your set that did my homie Little Joe! You motherfuckers would try to kill me if you had the chance! Man, fuck you niggas! Fuck y’all!

-Tales from the Hood: Hardcore Convert-

***POST-SCRIPT***

Andrew Gale a.k.a. Booger the Clown is a huge fan of gangster rap and the movie Tales From the Hood. If his story is the one I end up writing, TFTH will be referenced quite a bit. Hell, in the opening segment, I’ll have Andrew drive down a dark highway with “Born II Die” by Spice One blasting on his stereo. “My gat screamed fire! The bullet told me shoot that motherfucker, he’s a liar!” Man, I love those lyrics! Badass!

Silent Warrior, Final Chapter

“Good morning to you…good morning to you…good morning, dear Alan…”

“G…g…good morning to you!”

“Alan, why are you so sad?”

“Why wouldn’t I be sad? This isn’t good morning. It’s fucking dark in here, Ally! I don’t see any sunshine! I don’t hear any cock-a-doodle-doos! Instead all I hear are screams. It could be another prisoner screaming in pain. It could be a guard screaming bullshit instructions. Or it could be me screaming ‘cause I’m constantly in fucking pain! Why, Ally? Why all the worms and maggots?”

“I’m a biologist. I deal with such creatures on a daily basis. I’m not going to just sacrifice my life’s work because you find earth’s critters disgusting. Everything in this world has its own special place. It could be a bat eating mosquitoes. It could be a pack of wolves hunting down deer. It could even be something as natural as a mother bird regurgitating worms into her babies’ beaks.”

“Cut the bullshit! You know how disgusting you really are! Scott had it right all along and I didn’t listen to him! He’s got more common sense than the two of us put together!”

“Don’t you talk to me that way, little boy! If I wasn’t a hallucination, I’d wash your chubby mouth out with soap! I left Scott George on his own for the same reason I left his father Carter. They rejected me, just like you’re rejecting me now. I tried to keep the peace between you and Scott. I even showed up at his trial to put in the best possible word for you. But you threw that all away when you tried to stab him in your cell. Now you’re in the darkest part of jail and you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”

“It should be Scott in this room, not me!”

“Then prove it, Alan! Scott became the man he is today because he fought for everything he believed in whether it was right or wrong. Now’s your time to fight. You may be under lock and key, but your war with Scott is far from over. As long as your mind continues to destroy you from the inside, you have all the reason in the world to fight. You don’t want these images and words, do you? Forget the worms and maggots for a minute. Your real enemy isn’t anything that can be found in the animal kingdom. It’s your own weakness!”

“Weakness? I’ve been beating ass since the day I was born and you have the gall to call me weak? What about all the crybabies on the playground who threw a fit because they couldn’t hang with me? What about all the teachers who care more about precious self-esteem than they do about the real world? Why aren’t you calling them weak?”

“Because they’re not weak, Alan. They have the kind of strength you could only dream of having: strength in numbers. You’re only one man trying to fight an entire world. But if Mr. Simpson has taught you anything, it’s to pick apart the army one soldier at a time. Mr. Simpson may have softened over this long exhausting semester, but that doesn’t mean you have to. I want you to take every ounce of your insanity and use it as a weapon. Fists alone have achieved nothing.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in solitary confinement! You even said yourself you’re a fucking hallucination! Who am I supposed to use this weapon on? There’s nobody here with me! Even the guards have tuned me out, for Christ’s sake!”

“You can’t stay in solitary confinement forever, Alan. Even the strictest prosecutors know this to be true. For what you did, you won’t even be in jail forever. You may be a destructive bastard, but you’ve never once murdered another human being. Implanting suicidal thoughts in someone else doesn’t count. I’m talking about the worst kind of murder there is. I’m talking about animalistic rage that can only be forged in darkness like this. Channel that rage and don’t let the world get away with locking you up like this!”

“…You want me to survive this place…by beating the shit out of everyone here? You want me to find my exit by pushing around people more powerful than me?”

“This isn’t the sandbox, Alan. This is jail. If you don’t stand up for yourself here, nobody else will. The guards aren’t here for your protection. They’re here to make sure you conform. They’re here to use you as a punching bag whenever they damn well feel like it. You’re not going to let that happen, are you?”

“…Never…I never wanted to be a part of society…I never wanted to follow anyone’s rules…Why should these assholes in uniform be any different? Is it because they have keys? Is it because they have so-called training? Is it because they’re tougher than me?! I don’t fucking think so!”

“Good! That’s what I want to hear from you! That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear from you since I married your father! Nobody pushes my baby around! And when I say baby, I’m not talking about that ungrateful snake Scott! I’m talking about by one true baby. The one I’ll forever cherish. The one I’ll forever spoil and love. Alan…this is your time. Don’t screw it up!”

Alan Young awoke in his solitary confinement cell with rough stubble on his chin, razor sharp hairs poking out of his bald head, and his heart beating a combination of fire and nitro glycerin. He breathed heavily like a wounded animal. He lusted for violence and aggression with bloodshot eyes. He smiled so hideously that he could smell his own sour breath.

Only a small patch of light illuminated the room through the barred window to the outside. Even though the sun was barely rising over the landscape, Alan still had lost track of how much time he spent cooped up in here. No clocks, no indication from the guards, only the occasional shitty meal which was inconsistent with the rest of the feedings.

Alan stood his clumsy body up and grabbed hold of the bars while staring out into the horizon. He held his stepmother’s words deep inside him until his very core was hot enough to melt away the last of his sanity. What once was a heart was now a heap of ashes. What once was a racing mind was now a zombie’s rage. The urge to kill had taken over his entire body. Just one taste of blood…anybody’s blood…

Surely another prisoner would satisfy his violent appetite just fine. He even believed some of the guards deserved a few undead thrashings. But the ultimate dessert at the end of this blood-soaked meal would be none other than Scott Marcus George. All Alan needed was one opening to strike. One tiny mistake made by another occupant of this hellhole. The rest would come as naturally as breathing.

“Scotty-Boy…I’m coming for you…and not even your marsh-dwelling girlfriend will be able to save your skinny ass this time!” Alan ranted as he shook the bars like a steroid-pumped professional wrestler. “I’m coming for you, motherfucker!”

THE END?

Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2

MOVIE TITLE: Guardians of the Galaxy, Vol. 2

DIRECTOR: James Gunn

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Superhero Film

RATING: PG-13 for sci-fi violence and crass humor

GRADE: Pass

The Guardians of the Galaxy, led by Peter Quill, are on the run from bounty hunters yet again after raccoon teammate Rocket steals high energy batteries from the Sovereign race. The golden aliens go so far as to hire Quill’s adoptive father Yondu and his ravager mercenaries to recapture them. The Guardians’ only saving grace comes when Quill’s real father, a celestial god named Ego, rescues them and brings them back to his psychologically crafted home planet. The more time Quill spends with Ego, the more his father’s darkest secrets bubble to the surface and the more danger his crew is in.

When I write this review, I don’t want any of you to think that I’m crapping all over the humorous aspects of this movie. They serve their purpose and are easily the most entertaining part of the movie aside from the violence and the emotional aspects near the end. Having said that, they’re a double edged sword. On the positive side, you’ve got Rocket’s raunchy dialogue, Drax’s socially awkward behavior, Quill’s pop culture references, and Baby Groot’s naïve attitude towards everything. I especially enjoyed what the director has done with the unfortunately named Taserface, whose self-chosen moniker has become the butt end of everyone’s crass insults. And then there’s also Rocket’s dismantling of Yondu’s army in the forest with his gadgets and traps. Rocket is easily the funniest character in the whole movie, bottom line, end of story.

But with every double edged sword, there are negatives to the positives. Marvel movies in particular get this criticism a lot, but nothing seems to change. While humor in and of itself is a major boost to any movie script, there are times when the casual jokes take away from the emotionally charged parts of the film. This descent from emotional highs is called bathos, an antonym for exalted. I would have loved to see some tearjerkers between Quill and Ego, Gamora and her vengeful sister Nebula, and Drax and the empathetic mantis named…well…Mantis. But alas, being funny was more important to the director than being emotionally invested. It must be a guy thing. The only real emotional connection the audience can feel with the movie is in the movie’s conclusion, which I won’t spoil save for that one tidbit. Something needs to change, Marvel. I hope you’re listening.

But don’t let this mild descent into bathos distract from the idea of this movie being entertaining from beginning to end. If you like hardcore sci-fi violence, you’ll certainly get plenty of that. If you like a well-crafted story with quirky characters and occasional lovey-dovey aspects, this movie has that in spades. If you like wild imagination with your sci-fi stories, and really, who doesn’t, buckle up for the ride. For all intents and purposes, this is a damn good movie that deserved to draw in all the money it did. You know that Futurama meme with Fry holding up a wad of cash and yelling, “Shut up and take my money!” That’s the attitude you should have with this movie. A passing grade will go to this fine piece of cinema!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 27

It took fifteen seconds of staring at his own Nikes, but Craig Dunham finally said what he needed to say: “Look, Scott…I’m probably the last person who should be asking you for help right now. You threw a garbage can at me only a few months before. Hell, you probably feel like doing even more than that, maybe deck me a good one on the chin. But…I didn’t ask for this appointment for nothing, I swear to god.”

Sitting in his comfy swivel chair with the ease and professionalism of a true counselor, Scott calmly said, “Listen, Craig, whatever happened between us in the past, it’s all over now. Things are different now, just like Miss Williams said they would be. I have a new job and you happen to be my first client. You’re here for a reason and I’d probably be right in thinking it has something to do with that scar on your hand.”

Craig sighed and lifted up his hooded sweatshirt to reveal he had even more scars than that. One on his belly, one on his ribs, and a couple of bruises on his chest. Scott hypnotically gazed at them in sympathy and replied with a whispery, “Holy shit. Those are fresh. Who did this to you?” No response. “Craig, if I’m going to help you, I need to know everything that happened. How did you get these bruises? Walking into a doorknob doesn’t do that to people and neither does falling down stairs.”

“Funny, because that’s what I’ve been telling people this whole time. Anytime I took off my shirt for gym class or football practice, they’d be as plain as day. I’d laugh about them with the guys, but there’s no way in hell I’m telling them everything. Oh, and I also said they’re from being tackled during games. I think that was what threw them off my trail.”

“Craig, you didn’t answer my question.”

“My dad did this,” said Craig with trembling lips, causing Scott to lean back in his chair with even more pathos in his eyes. “He, uh…he caught me listening to some…questionable music. Here, let me show you.” As Craig choked back tears, he pulled various CD’s out of his backpack, all of the cases cracked, all of the music preaching nonconformist values: Marilyn Manson, Rob Zombie, Motionless in White, and Ghost to name a few.

“Is your dad religious?”

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly. He makes the old testament look like a Disney movie.” Craig still refused to make eye contact with Scott. “The first time I heard about him talking about God and shit, I didn’t know what to make of it. And just for that little bit of doubt, he beat the shit out of me. I was only six years old then. That’s not some Freudian shit and I know it doesn’t excuse what I’ve done to people like you. It’s just that…” The tears slowly fell from his face and Scott was there to hand him tissues.

Scott leaned forward in his chair to further engage in his subject and placed folded steeple hands in his own lap. “Listen to me. I’m sure not many people are inclined to tell you this, but I’m going to tell it to you right now. Nobody…and I mean nobody…should ever use their religion or politics as a weapon against another human being. It’s not a dad’s job to beat the shit out of his kids over a minor disagreement. It’s not discipline. It’s barbarism. There’s nothing wrong with the music you’re listening to and there’s nothing wrong with questioning authority.”

With his lips trembling even harder, Craig wept, “What will the team think of me? They can’t see me crying like this.”

“Well, that’s funny, because I always thought the true definition of a friend is someone who is loyal to you until the end. It’s like Marilyn Manson always said: if you want to find out who your friends are, sink the ship. The first ones to jump are not your friends. If your football teammates make fun of you for being emotional, they’re not true friends. They’re bullies with a close connection to you. The reason you picked on other students so much was because of all these negative influences, and no, that’s not Freudian bullshit.”

Craig shrugged and said, “They’re the only friends I’ve ever had. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“You know what’s worse than having no friends at all? Having shitty friends who bring you down just to build themselves up. I’m sure those kids have some deep-seeded issues just like you do, but until they come forward with open arms and open hearts, they don’t deserve you. If you want to cry your eyes out, you’re more than welcome to do so. Not only is this stigma of men not being able to cry bullshit, but you’re doing it in a safe place: my office. Nothing you do here will ever leave this room…except for one thing.” Scott handed Craig the phone cradle and nodded knowingly at him.

“You want me to call 9-1-1 on my dad? Are you crazy? The cops aren’t going to believe me. They don’t believe anybody who doesn’t have more DNA evidence than a CSI laboratory.”

“Your bruises and cuts are more than enough evidence to put your father away for a long time. And even if the cops don’t believe your side of the story, at least this police report will set everything in motion so that you don’t have to see him again. If there’s another family member or friend you can stay with, find them and pack your bags. The cops may be overly skeptical, but if you don’t try to at least reach out to them, this is going to continue and things will only get worse. Come on, Craig. Just try.”

After a while of staring at his counselor with dewy eyes, Craig took the phone cradle with a convulsing hand and slowly brought his fingers to the keypad. “Would you mind giving me some privacy, Scott? This is my first 9-1-1 call and I…I can’t explain it right now.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me, Craig. I’ve been there before. The first call is never easy. I know this, because I was the one who made the call when my own father died. You never forget your first time for a lot of things. If you want privacy, I’d be more than happy to step outside the office for a little while. Take as much time as you need and don’t leave out any important details.”

With one arm, Craig gave an awkward hug to Scott and thanked him over and over again for his help. Scott reluctantly returned the hug and stepped out of his digs to give Craig his due privacy. Once the door was closed, Scott rubbed his face and breathed sobering sighs. He almost didn’t see Adrienne standing in front of him with a brown paper sack and a smile on her face.

“I take it your new job’s getting pretty intense right now,” said Adrienne.

“It’s a lot to handle at once, but overall, I’m glad I took the job. I just need some time to recuperate after that, that’s all. Is that my lunch?”

“Sure is. You left it on the kitchen counter this morning. And no, there aren’t any worms or maggots in your lunch today. Instead, you’re getting a classic favorite: peanut butter and jelly. Not just any kind of P&J, but Concord grape jelly and crunchy peanut butter. Your favorite!”

“No way!” said Scott with a sudden burst of happiness. Sure enough, he pulled the sandwich out of the sack and there it was in all its glory: the ever important grape jam. “You’re the queen!” he said before kissing Adrienne on the cheek and hurriedly unwrapping the plastic from his sandwich.

“Let me know when you get off work and we’ll see a movie or something. See you soon!” smiled Adrienne before she waved and hopped off to her next class. She didn’t see it, but Scott waved right back at her in a hypnotically slow manner. She probably got the message by now.

Scott had a seat in one of the chairs outside his office and eyeballed the contents of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He even pulled the two pieces of sourdough bread apart to see if there really were worms crawling around in there. His smile slowly descended into a faraway introspective expression. He searched every corner of his sandwich, every squished grape, and every broken peanut in the peanut butter. It was as though he was a detective honoring a search warrant. But no. Not one worm, not one maggot, and not one sing-songy command from his now-known biological mother.

The real test came when Scott took his first bite of sandwich. As he chewed, he rolled the food around in his tongue for yet another throughout inspection. Not one slime-covered creature swirled around in his mouth. In fact, the sandwich tasted as delicious as a P&J could be, probably because it was his personal favorite. Scott took another bite. And another. And another, until the whole thing was gone in record time. For even more reassurance, Scott lifted his T-shirt and saw that the skin was forming nicely over his previously exposed ribcage. If someone was looking for signs of an eating disorder or PTSD, they’d have to actually have the detective skills of someone honoring a search warrant.

Principal Williams made a throat clearing sound and Scott was immediately yanked out of his trance long enough for him to realize he’d been exposing his belly this entire time. Pulling his shirt down, he smiled and allowed redness to envelop his face. Principal Williams didn’t punish him for it, just smiled right back at him and said, “It’s good to have you on the team, Scott. Carry on.”