Meryl Streep vs. Chael Sonnen: What Is Art?

 

Selling Your Soul

VERSE 1

You sold your soul for some paper and metal

Digital transactions from lawsuits you settled

All you have left is a mediocre shell

And a special seat for you waiting in hell

Your spirit was once so colorful and bright

Before you fell off hard after turning right

Your road to heaven was paved with blood

Your so-called “truth bombs” were only duds

 

VERSE 2

When I give my soul to the left

I get a return on what I invest

The stories of underdogs just like myself

Told in the form of books on my shelf

Songs, art, movies, and more

Keep me from becoming a bootlicking whore

I grew and matured, I learned from the best

Who cares about results on a standardized test?

 

VERSE 3

Crushing dreams is what keeps you alive

Heaven forbid that creativity thrives

They should sell their souls for a pizza party

In a corporate office packed like sardines

Into cubicles more like trash compactors

That’s how you see them, they suppress detractors

Power corrupts, it’s an insatiable hunger

Feed the addiction while the artists suffer

 

VERSE 4

Why hire meat sacks when robots are cheaper?

Why use your brain when your pockets are deeper?

Why relate to another human being?

When outer beauty is all that you’re seeing?

Beauty fades and so does common sense

Those who enable you are not your friends

They carry knives in search of a back

Slip up just a little and they’re on the attack

They run away with your big money sack

Another soulless wonder, you’re left with jack

“Capitalism breeds innovation” they say

Yet it’s the same old shit every damn day

Jerry Frost Is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots

We’ve all had days where we were out of fettle. Getting out of bed couldn’t be harder if you were cuffed to the fucking thing. Even the act of ordering fast food proved more difficult than cooking a three-course meal yourself. The wintry mix of gray diarrhea and depressive smoke bears down upon you whether you have a roof over your head or not. Wouldn’t it be nice to have somebody to talk to during these difficult moments? Someone who won’t judge you (because your brain does that enough already). Someone who won’t make you talk about things you’re not comfortable with. Someone who can put things into perspective in a way you couldn’t see before (probably because your damp eyelids were too heavy to lift). That someone could very well be licensed art therapist Jerry Frost, one of the few RPG characters I managed to get right.

Okay, so he wasn’t 100% perfect, but who would want that anyways since Gary-Stus are about as appealing as a wet paper towel. But while his portrayal of a psychotherapist was dead-on, his background story could have used a hell of a lot more work than I gave it. His childhood would have given Sigmund Freud a massive stroke (the kind in his brain, not the kind in his jockey shorts, you sick fucks). Jerry’s parents were tough on him as they pushed him towards becoming a STEM guy. He could forget his artistic pursuits and just mix chemicals all day long, because that’s what the wallet wanted. But even Jerry knew that wallets were hungry for more than just Big Pharma money or electrical engineering cheddar. Just like with menus at restaurants, there were many avenues for Jerry to choose from. But his strict parents insisted he become a STEM guy, because that was the wallet’s equivalent of an all-you-can-eat Brazilian steakhouse.

Jerry had other plans. Mixing chemicals and fusing wires together sounded about as much fun to him as watching dust accumulate on his bookshelf. Why care so much about the dust when there were perfectly good books there with stories of dragons and elves, kings, queens, and themperors, magical diamonds and fiery swords? He could write his own stories. He could draw his own creatures. He could compose acoustic guitar songs about an elven archer’s final shot into the heart of a cannibalistic ogre. He could do it all! But of course, the message of STEM guys being paid handsomely was beaten into his head so much that he had to come up with a nice compromise so that he didn’t get chucked out of the house before he was ready. Jerry Frost would become an art therapist. He still got to explore his creative avenues, but he could satisfy his STEM obligations since psychology is still a science.

So far, so good. He’s got a background story. He’s got motivations. He’s got a psychological edge to him. Now all he needs is a way to pay for college so that he can get that degree and get out there into the world. And he plans on paying for it by…working extra hours at KFC. Why wouldn’t he want to work at KFC? He looks like Jim Root from Slipknot and Jim Root has that beard and hairstyle combo that almost reminded him of Colonel Sanders. Jerry Frost is the Colonel Sanders of Jim Roots. He made a shit-load of fried chicken and served it to the hungriest bellies, all day, every day, until he earned enough to pay for his tuition. There’s just one problem with all of this: in the real world, working at KFC doesn’t pay for shit. Barely surviving in an apartment that costs an arm, a leg, a brain, and a heart is closer to reality than this dream scenario I concocted. It’s a uniquely millennial and Gen Z experience. That is where Jerry’s back story falls apart.

Another way in which it falls apart is through the act of art therapy itself. I didn’t learn this until after the RPG session, but apparently, having art as your most obsessive hobby is dangerous, because once he lose the will and the energy to do that, you’re left with nothing. Absolutely nothing. I felt personally attacked by this revelation (another uniquely millennial and Gen Z idea). As of today, almost everything I do involves creativity in one form or another: writing, reading, drawing, photography, even watching movies has creative merit (media literacy). And once I’m too tired for creativity, then what? Do I just lay around and wait for the feeling to pass? Yes! Jerry Frost probably should have warned his first patient Christian that this was going to happen, but like the chicken he made, his brain was too fried to comprehend such possibilities.

And thus we segue from the back story to the main role-play. Jerry Frost has his office set up just the way he likes: heavy metal posters nailed to the walls, drawings strewn about on his desk, books on a wooden shelf that told stories of epic fantasy battles and space opera death matches, and of course, a marble skull on his desk. Why a marble skull? Does he really need a reason? Yes, some of these decorations sounded too creepy to be in a psychologist’s office. The In This Moment poster with bloody hands sticking up and the Pink Floyd poster with the screaming face come to mind the most. But Christian didn’t seem to give two fucks about that. He was just sitting there on a puke green couch with his head in his hands and a shit-load of anger boiling inside of him. And so Jerry asked him, “What brings you to my office today?”

Obligation. That’s what brought him there. Christian didn’t see the point in coming, only that he had no other choice. Jerry, being the art therapist that he was, recommended some creative activities as a form of free association, or piecing together someone’s psychological makeup through symbols and phrases in the creations. Jerry even recommended rocking out to Sepultura to getting all of that anger out of his system. And then Christian lost it. “NO! I don’t want to rock out to Sepultura! It’s not going to bring her back!” Jerry knew that he fucked up badly. He pushed buttons that he had no business pushing. Any minute, Christian could have walked out of the room and this would mark Jerry’s first failure as a psychologist. And then he asked…

“What do you mean ‘bring her back’?” And suddenly, Jerry was on the right track once again. Christian opened up about how his lover was murdered by her own family. He wanted to get revenge on them through murder of his own, but if he did, he and Jerry would be doing this session from a prison cell that’s scarier than any heavy metal poster-decorated office. There would be no marble skulls in his cell except for the ones shattered on the floor by a dude named Bubba. So instead of murder, Jerry suggested a creative activity once again, this time as a positive outlet for his pain. Yes, drawing pictures didn’t solve everything, but they were something. And wouldn’t you know it, Christian drew a nice picture of his lover with techniques that even surpassed Jerry’s own abilities. Jerry showered him in compliments and earned his trust, while also keeping his job and his license. But the trust and the humanity was more important than a constantly starving wallet.

In the final moments of the role-play, Christian wanted to take Jerry on a field trip to the cemetery to pay respects to the dead girlfriend. But before that scene could come to fruition, the RPG group went dark for the longest time. It didn’t get deleted. It was just…inactive. A ghost town, of sorts. I didn’t know when they were going to be back. I didn’t know what the future held for Jerry Frost. So I left the group without saying goodbye. Do they still think about me to this day? That’s the hope I have with a character like Jerry Frost. I wanted him to have a positive impact on my fellow role-players.

Come to think of it, that’s what I want for myself going forward: to have a positive influence on the people who read my stuff. For years and years now, I’ve been writing stories purely for shock value. Yes, they had a clear-cut narrative with a beginning, middle, and end, but they also had things like torture, rape, pedophilia, and a whole shit-load of disgusting garbage that would never qualify as positive in this or any other world. Some people don’t mind being disturbed, but if that’s all I have going for my stories, then that’s a good way to drive my audience elsewhere. Everybody has their limits when it comes to raunchy content. We all have things that disgust us beyond belief and none of it makes us “snowflakes”. Okay, maybe the people who are asking schools to remove Maus could be considered snowflakes, but that’s beside the point. At least Art Spiegelman had a message. What do I have? Shock! I’ve got shock!

Jerry Frost is one of the few shining examples I have of a character gone right (KFC and art therapy be damned). He didn’t have to be an edge lord. He didn’t have to be vile. He didn’t even have to be overly flawed. Being a gentle and understanding soul was a requirement for the job he took. If it feels like he’s not flawed enough, that’s why. Yes, he did almost cause Christian to storm out of his office when he pushed the art therapy narrative too hard, but that’s only because he’s still a rookie at his profession. Inexperience is a great flaw for a character to have.

So…will I revive the Jerry Frost character in a future RPG? How about a future story? Or a poem? That all depends on whether or not I need a psychologist in any given work. He has potential to be something greater than a flash in the pan. I might have to tweak his back story a little bit, but there’s still hope for him…somewhere in the world…

I'm Fine

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 1
You broke your oath to do no harm
When I waved you off with my charm
For more answers, you twisted my arm
Until the cows came home to the farm
Is it suicide or just a matter of pride?
Do I keep it all tucked away inside?
Are these the tears I’m trying to hide?
Nothing is wrong! I’m fucking fine!

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 2
When everything is stuck in past tense
From prehistory to way back when
A trauma drama from the middle ages
Or the bloodstains on my diary pages
I swear it’s all just an overreaction
No need to call the white coat faction
You can chalk it up to artistic passion
I’m doing fine! I’m gaining traction!

CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!

VERSE 3
What goes on in my head and heart
Can be summed up as a work of art
There’s no need to come to my rescue
“I’m Superman here to defend you!”
“I’m Wonder Woman! I love your soul!
“I’m the Human Torch! Get out of the cold!”
“I’m Batman here for your fifty-one-fifty!”
I’m fucking fine! I’m not dying or sickly!

EXTENDED CHORUS
I’m fine!
I’m fine!
Nothing is wrong!
I’m fine!
I’m dandy!
I’m manly!
Everything’s fucked!
This sucks!

FINAL VERSE
Push me for answers? Are you the necromancer?
If I pass your test, can I get my Master’s?
If I confess the darkest parts of my mind
Is there a Hold Harmless form to be signed?

Don't Be a People Pleaser

***DON’T BE A PEOPLE PLEASER***

Yesterday evening, I had to republish four of my books to accommodate for the fact that I removed copyrighted lyrics from them. Even little insignificant snippets of lyrics are enough to violate copyright laws and get an author into hot water. I personally think it’s a bit ridiculous for a music corporation to sue an author for millions of dollars over one line of text, but it is what it is and I had to play by the rules. Copyrighted lyrics have now been eradicated from my entire catalogue. But that’s not why we’re gathered here today, my dearly beloveds, no, no, no, no, no. We’re here to talk about what else was in those books that could be potentially damaging, not in a legal way, but in a social way.

My very first collection of poetry, Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage, has an Eric Clapton parody called “Retarded Tonight”. I wrote it through the perspective of people who see me as a cartoon character and nothing more. And when you’re a cartoon character, everything about you is hammed up to the extreme. While my poem wasn’t meant to be an attack on mentally disabled people, I can understand if people see it that way and get angry afterwards.

In my second book of poetry, Necrograph, there’s a parody song called “Texas”. On the surface it seems like stereotyping and mockery, but I only wanted to call out people who are so far on the fringe that they become parodies of themselves. Not everyone from Texas acts that way. Not everyone from any other geographic location acts that way either. Pantera is from Texas. Nothing More is from Texas. My favorite indie authors, Christina McMullen, K.L. Cottrell, and Markie Madden, are also from Texas. Quite frankly, I could have changed the name to Fringe Toast and it wouldn’t generate as much controversy. But at the same time, I empathize with people who would be upset by this song.

I’m sure there are other examples in my books of stories and poems I should apologize for. That’s what you have to remember as you go through life as an author: if you unintentionally hurt people, apologize profusely and make peace. It’s a classy move that’s good for all parties. But at the same time, you don’t want to change so much of your approach to creativity that you lose your individuality. I considered removing some of my more offensive material from my books, but if I did that, I’d have no books. Art is subjective. One man’s trash is the next man’s treasure. If you please one person, another gets upset. Bottom line: you can be a warmhearted public figure, but you can’t please everyone. If you try, your work will become so bland that the whole world will hate it.

And that’s why we’re gathered here today, my dearly beloveds. It’s a cautionary tale not to be a people pleaser. Yes, the criticism you receive will hurt badly at times, but the love you receive from others is also valid. The negativity bias and low self-esteem is why some authors become people pleasers. Peace is comfortable. Agreeability is also comfortable. But being TOO comfortable in your own bubble doesn’t allow for personal growth or a courageous reputation. Sometimes you have to be just a little bit offensive in order to get noticed. You don’t have to go full Milo Yiannopoulos, and really, you shouldn’t even consider it, but just be controversial enough that you have a message.

Think of all of your favorite musicians, artists, and writers and how they too dared to be offensive in the face of adversity. What if Marilyn Manson was a people pleaser? What if Roger Waters cared too much what his brutal teachers thought of him? What if George Carlin toned himself down and never got in hot water with the FCC? That would make for a pretty bland world, wouldn’t you agree? Everybody would be wearing the same putty-faced masks Roger Waters introduced in the movie Pink Floyd the Wall. Nobody would laugh at George Carlin. Nobody would have the courage to be themselves if Marilyn Manson didn’t have the courage to be himself.

At the same time, you don’t want to be like a pizza cutter: all edge and no point. Roger Waters, George Carlin, and Marilyn Manson at least had a profound message in their performances. If you write a book with nothing but racial slurs and R-word implications throughout, you probably deserve the wrath of the online mob. Have a purpose. Have something to say even if it’s not the most profound message in the galaxy. Yes, you can write strictly for fun, but if you’re being offensive just for the sake of being offensive and you have nothing to back yourself up, then enjoy your one and two-star reviews, my friend.

Going back to my point about how “Texas” was about fringe people, you also don’t want to be on the fringe when it comes to the people-pleasing/edgy-jerkwad spectrum. A nice, healthy middle ground is what you should look for. If you can’t find it or it’s obvious that you’re not trying to look for it, your audience will notice. They noticed it with books like “Trigger Warning” by William Johnstone. They noticed it with that Dr. Pepper 10 commercial where they say, “It’s not for women.” While it is true that art ages poorly sometimes, it shouldn’t take such a short or instantaneous amount of time to do so.

Be yourself no matter what they say. Some people will like it, some people won’t. In the end, it’s up to you which battles are worth fighting and which ones aren’t. Know when to open fire and know when to lay down your arms with your hands in the sky. It takes practice to do this, but with a little wisdom and a little input from those you love, you can do it. I know you can. Let’s be artists together! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!


***LOST WITHOUT YOU***

I’ve talked about this story idea on Face Book and a little bit on Twitter, but not everywhere else. Because I’ve fallen in love with the fan fiction genre after writing “A Little Bit Off” and “No Country For Old Farts”, I want to keep the spirit alive with a story called “Lost Without You”. It’s a Super Street Fighter II based fan fiction and it’ll feature a lesbian romance between Chun Li and Cammy. No, it won’t resemble something you’d see on Porn Hub. The romance will be written in a classy way with three-dimensional character work. I may be offensive sometimes, but I’m not THAT offensive, especially when I know the implications of what could go wrong if I whiff this story. Wish me luck!


***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

After a month-long vacation from my editing job, I’ve finally tightened the prose for chapters 14 and 15. It was an easy edit, but not all chapters will be like that, so I tread slowly to make sure I don’t overwhelm myself. Next on the chopping block is chapter 16, where Windham rents a hotel room in Morgan Town and eats hallucinogenic leaves, prompting a conversation between himself and his leonine deity Mageta. Windham may be a misguided zealot sometimes, but Mageta will always provide him with good points. I do so love good conversation even if it’s with a hallucination.


***QUOTE OF THE DAY***

“I’m not a prophet. I was off by 490 years.”

-Mike Judge talking about “Idiocracy”-


***POST-SCRIPT***

Mike Judge is definitely not a people pleaser and he carved out a nice, long, healthy career for himself. I don’t agree with every single one of his views, but I agree that Idiocracy was a fucking awesome movie. Funny as hell!

"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”!

Give It Back

Give me back my money, give me back my mind

These priceless treasures were never yours to find

Give me back my freedom, take away my demons

Give me back my house keys to the Garden of Eden

Give me back my beauty so people can still use me

Give me back my rights in case they want to sue me

Give me back my toys, give me back my animals

Give me back the snacks you feast on like cannibals

Give me back my life, give me back my dreams

Give me back my art and turn STEM into STEAM

Give me back my story in all its rough draft glory

Give me back my creativity so I won’t be boring

Give me back my energy, give me back my health

Give me back my teenage clothes, a new notch in my belt

Give me back my hopes, give me back my jokes

Give me back my career so I don’t have to be broke

Give me back my passport so I can go on adventures

Give me back my courage so I can be an avenger

Give me back my strength so I can be a badass

Not a puddle of pudding and a fucking sad-ass

Give me back everything that you took from me

Before I make you suffer, before I make you bleed

Torture you for information, torture you for fun

Torture you with a whip, maybe even a loaded gun

You drove me to this and gave me no other choice

This is heavy ass metal, not cacophonic noise

Give me back my innocence, let me walk the streets

Without cuffs on my wrists and shackles on my feet

I had the right to rage for my very last page

Now you’ll never live beyond your final age

Rusty

VERSE 1

It’s been too long since my last dance

Never gave my tired soul a single chance

To rest and unwind in the easy chair

While complaining that this isn’t fair

Fifteen hundred words sung like birds

The most drunken shit you’ve ever heard

Colored pencils on a blank white canvas

Muscled orcs swinging big fucking axes

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

VERSE 2

Three days coming, three more going

Ran out of gas, showing signs of slowing

Can’t concentrate worth a good goddamn

Can’t be your Adderall addicted superman

A candle that burned at more than two ends

A streak of sadness growing hard to defend

The lowest of lows and the lowest of blows

Is when everyone cares, but nobody knows

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

BRIDGE

How much more can I do today?

How many obstacles are in my way?

How many hours must I spend in bed?

To not feel like I’m the walking dead?

VERSE 3

Complaining about it doesn’t feel right

When others have a much bloodier fight

Keep my chin up and ball up my hands

I don’t expect the world to understand

I don’t expect the world to forgive me

For this rusty life that I’m truly living

I don’t expect the world to bow down

I’m tapping out in the final round

CHORUS

Not a problem, it’s just a little rust

Blow the pages into a cloud of dust

Clear the cobwebs from my head

Thank the universe that I’m not dead

Right Here Right Now

VERSE 1

Get your ass out of bed

You ain’t fucking dead

You just want to pretend

You’re at the contract’s end

I will sue your tired ass

If you don’t get your act

Together right this minute

This fight? You can’t win it

CHORUS

Right here! Right now!

Next show! Next town!

You were born for greatness!

So I won’t accept your lateness!

VERSE 2

Chug that can of Red Bull

Until your bladder’s full

Pop those bitter pills

They help pay the bills

Sign your autographs

Share a few horse laughs

They’re your fucking fans

Treat them like your clan

EXTENDED CHORUS 1

Right here! Right now!

Next show! Next town!

You were born for greatness!

So I won’t accept your lateness!

Right here! Right now!

All smiles! No frowns!

I won’t accept mediocrity!

Or this will end in tragedy!

VERSE 3

Do it for the exposure

As you find some closure

With your corporate deal

Your pie in the sky meal

You’re stretched so thin

It’s almost like a sin

How we treat our staff

It’s all just for a laugh

EXTENDED CHORUS 2

Right here! Right now!

Next show! Next town!

You were born for greatness!

So I won’t accept your lateness!

Right here! Right now!

Make me rich! Make me proud!

You can rest when you’re dead!

But you’ll still be in my debt!

Boring

VERSE 1

“Get a real job!” is what they say

Blind conformity equals good pay

PRE-CHORUS 1

Trade school is boring

I can’t keep from snoring

Come on!

Fuck off!

CHORUS 1

You see, it’s their fault

We don’t have no dreams no more

Colors fading, not worth parading

Society has become a chore

VERSE 2

“Go work in tech!” is what they scream

Crushing your dreams, it makes them cream

PRE-CHORUS 2

Tech jobs are boring

I can’t keep from snoring

Come on!

Fuck off!

CHORUS 2

You see, it’s their fault

We can’t do what we love the most

Paintings destroyed, artists left unemployed

While the boss men laugh and boast

BRIDGE

Crushed all our pride

We can’t get inside

Nowhere left to hide

We sleep outside

Come on!

Fuck off!

VOICE-OVER

Trade school: the one part of the educational journey where it’s okay to fall asleep in class! Sign up today and get fucked for your first three months free!

Deviant Artists

A rainy night had fallen upon the Crystal Hill Art Gallery long after the last staff member locked up the building. Ironclad doors with heavy bolts sealed off the front and back entrances as well as the individual rooms where art was displayed. Discouraging thieves became even more of a requirement as the double paned windows were guarded with steel bars. If this wasn’t already a museum for art, it could easily double as a prison for the worst kinds of criminals.

Even the dark of night couldn’t suppress the shimmering beauty of the pearlescent marble statues. Curvy goddesses barely covered in silk tapestry. Armor-clad warriors carrying the heaviest weapons. Seductive mermaids with the sweetest grins. They all shined and reflected off of one another in the moonlight pouring through the stained glass windows. A dark paladin covered head to toe in spiky armor stood angrily across from a thickly muscled female orc warrior, who also looked ready to rip someone’s head off.

A bolt of lightning flashed in the night sky and as if on cue, the dark paladin and orc statues cracked and splintered, shedding large chunks and spraying specks of dust across the room. The cracks became deeper canyons until their marble coating was completely destroyed, revealing living versions of the warriors the art portrayed.

The dark paladin, Golo Quinn, dusted his hands and armor off while Junie Axel, the orc, kicked pieces of marble across the room like soccer balls. “Goddamn, am I glad to be out of that,” she said.

The two of them met in the center while Golo summoned a glowing orb with his palm and gazed around the room they successfully infiltrated. “Look at all of this crap…Look that this!” he growled. He shined the ball of light towards the goddesses and mermaids in particular. “Who in the hell wants to pay thousands of gold pieces just so they can have women in their rooms they’ll never be able to fuck?!”

“I bet if we found that Golden Dagger, we could carve better statues out of our own shit. Where the hell is it, anyways?” complained Junie as she dusted her leather armor off.

“Beats me. For all we know, the fuckers who built this place could have hidden it among one of the ‘masterpieces’. It could be in one of the mermaid’s bras for all I know. Or it could be up somebody’s ass. I guess we’ll never know until we start looking.”

Cracking her neck in both directions, Junie asked, “How do you want to do this? Should we sneak around like cat burglars or should we just wreck the shit out of everything?”

Golo shook his head. “It’s a little late for the cat burglar shit considering how we got here. I say we just smash everything to pieces. The art sucks anyways, so who’s really going to miss it? Plus, if we actually find the goddamn dagger, we could make our own pieces and sell them to the stupid curator for a cool payday. Come on, help me with this door.”

“My pleasure,” said Junie with a vomit-breathed smile. She effortlessly yanked one of the warrior statues off of its pedestal (while accidentally tearing its leg off) and started ramming it against the iron door. Though the dents in the door resembled meteor craters, the statue was just another worthless pile of dust afterwards. “Looks like it’s going to be harder than we thought. I wonder if any of these jerk-offs in armor are really that tough.”

“Only one way to find out.” Golo sent the ball of light floating overhead while he wrapped his arms around a mermaid and yanked it free, also with little effort. This time, he swung the statue like a baseball bat against the door, detaching its head, then its torso, then crumbling the flipper into powder. The door had even more massive dents, but it still wouldn’t budge. The dark paladin growled like a beast.

The two would-be thieves continued this process of ramming and smashing statues against the door until the entire room was caked in dust, causing Junie to sneeze a glob of yellow slime all over one of the goddess’s detached breasts. “Now that’s what I call a money shot!” she chuckled before burping loudly.

The iron door resembled a battered semi-circle rather than a symbol of security. All it took after every statue was desecrated was a spin kick from Golo’s metal boot. The twisted door crashed to the ground while Junie coughed and waved the smoky air out of their solitary confinement.

“Quit being a wuss and help me find the damn dagger,” said Golo while marching over the fallen door. He held out his palm and brought the ball of light back into his grasp, shining it over various paintings with nature scenes. Snow-covered mountains, enchanted forests with faeries, relaxing beaches with nude models, they all made Golo cringe and curl up in his suit of armor.

“If you spray some more dust in my face, I could sneeze again and create better paintings than these pieces of trash,” joked Junie while wiping her nose with her finger.

“Or you could jerk me off over a sheet of paper, either one sounds more profitable right now. Why would anybody think that painting trees is interesting?! They’re trees! They’re goddamn trees that don’t do a damn thing!” yelled Golo, who then punched one of the paintings and ripped it off the frame.

“Allow me!” said Junie as she and her accomplice went around ripping up paintings and cursing at them. Shredded canvases lined the floor and raging attitudes had the burglars banging their fists against the wall. They were no closer to finding the Golden Dagger. “This is horse crap!”

“Yes, I know how badly these paintings suck.”

“No, Golo, this is actual horse crap! Where the hell is that dagger?!” Junie folded her arms in frustration and slammed her back against the wall. The ridged frame of the picture behind her sent shockwaves of pain through her spine. She roared and held her wound while Golo pointed and laughed at her.

“Why, you little!” Junie turned around and started punching the hell out of the painting, bruises the size of molehills forming on her knuckles with every strike. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she ripped the picture off the wall and revealed something that instantly calmed her anger. “Oh my lord.”

Golo’s laughter turned to confusion. “What?”

“I don’t believe this. I knew it! I knew it was hidden among one of these pieces of garbage!” Junie stuffed her non-aching arm into the hole and pulled out a source of brilliant light that rivaled Golo’s fluorescent sphere. A pearl handle poked out of a leather pouch that the orc held in her hands like a kid receiving a Christmas gift. After a while of trying to contain her giggly fits, she pulled the handle and revealed the source of her and Golo’s greed: the Golden Dagger. The one artifact that could create pieces of art out of stone despite the user’s underachieving skill level.

Junie dropped to her knees and gazed upon the dagger with neon eyes. “This is beautiful. This is a work of art on its own.” Even though Golo wore a horned helmet that covered his face, the orc could tell he was smiling too. “We’re going to be rich…we’re going to be bloody rich!”

Holding the dagger like she was about to murder somebody with it, she tested its powers on the wall next to the mini-vault. Instead all she ended up doing was ripping a few chunks of wood. Nothing artistic, nothing glorious. “What the hell’s going on here?! Is this stupid thing just as worthless as the rest of the crap in here?!” She tried stabbing the wall again and had the same result: a whole lot of nothing. “This thing sucks! We wasted our time in here!”

Junie threw the dagger to the floor only for the magical artifact to float in the air before it had the chance to crash. The wide-eyed, shaky thieves slowly backed away from the artifact while it danced and spun around, shooting golden dust every which way and rendering the ball of light redundant.

With a mind of its own, the dagger stabbed itself into the wall and carved a proper piece of art within seconds. It was detailed. It was lifelike. It was…a mosaic of Junie Axel crapping her pants, to which Golo Quinn laughed himself into soreness yet again. The orc stomped her foot and complained, “Really funny, smart ass! Really goddamn funny!”

Junie lunged for the Golden Dagger’s handle only to have it fly away and carve yet another masterpiece out of the wall: Golo doing a striptease with a saggy gut hanging low. The dark paladin threw his gauntlet to the ground and shouted, “What the hell is going on here?! Is this some kind of joke?! When did a shitty piece of art become such a smart ass?!”

The anger tapered off into shaky fear as the dagger pointed at both Junie and Golo. Was the maniacal artifact going to fling itself into one of them? Was this how they were going to die? At the blade of a dagger with a sense of humor? Not yet. The dagger found more empty wall space and carved out a message for the intruders: “Frauds”.

Golo gazed at the message with hatred while Junie’s body convulsed in the corner. The dark paladin threw down his other gauntlet and yelled, “Frauds?! We’re frauds?! We’re not the ones carving these ridiculous-looking statues and painting these faggy pictures! We’re not the ones who suck! I purposefully stayed away from art class so that I wouldn’t have to make these pieces of shit!”

The dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Lazy”.

“Why you!” belted Golo as he chased after the floating dagger with his footsteps quaking the ground beneath him. The chase led him around the entire gallery, his legs aching and his heart thumping like a war drum. He jumped in the air whenever the dagger soared too high, but his heavy armor caused his shoulders and legs to burn with pain afterwards. He hunched over for a quick breather and even ripped off his helmet, throwing it to the ground and cursing.

The Golden Dagger spun around in the air before finding another empty space to carve a message into. All the weapon could muster were the letters L-O-S-E before Golo found a second wind and lunged at the blade with the last of his rage. His hands gripped the pearl handle with such force that he almost broke it off as it struggled for freedom. “I got you now, you little prick! Hold still! Junie, get your big ass over here and help me!” The orc remained cowardly in her corner. “Now, damn it!”

The orc took her time in getting up while Golo wrestled with the struggling blade on the ground. Junie slowly tiptoed towards the scuffle and hunched over her cohort, not wanting to jump in too soon. And then the blade jerked upwards and brought the dark paladin to his feet. Now it was Golo’s turn to hold the weapon like a murderer. “Wha…what are you doing, buddy? Golo?” pleaded Junie.

With a complete loss of control over his hand, Golo brought the Golden Dagger down upon Junie in a series of rapid-fire stabs that decorated the walls and shredded paper in blood. The dark paladin screamed, “No!” as his friend was being mutilated, but he couldn’t even release his grip. The blade kept raining down upon the orc until she was nothing more than a pile of broken bones, shredded skin, and pooling blood. The knife flew freely from Golo’s grip while the dark paladin pounded the floor repeatedly, tears welling in his eyes.

“What the hell did you have to do that for?!” Golo screamed, wiping an angry tear from his eye with his finger. “She was my friend, damn it!” The dagger lowered itself down into Golo’s field of vision and illuminated it with its golden glow. Dancing and prancing in front of him, the dagger’s light showed him a vision of beauty created from the madness of violence. Junie wasn’t just a mere corpse. She was a sculpture of something more beautiful than her wicked soul could become. “A mermaid? Seriously?! You…you made a mermaid out of my friend?!”

The Golden Dagger carved out another message on the wall: “Profit”.

“I…I don’t understand…you want me to sell this to the curator?”

One final message was sent loud and clear to the boohooing knight. It wasn’t he message he wanted to see carved out. It was the message he needed to see: “True art!”

Why I Post My Works Online

***WHY I POST MY WORKS ONLINE***

As a published author who wants to make money off of my work, it would seem counterintuitive to post my writing online for the public so they can read it for free. It’s the old Napster argument all over again. Why spend money on an album/book/movie when you can have it for free? Will you buy the whole thing if you like bits and pieces of the medium? Some would argue this is a great marketing tool for anybody who doesn’t have the corporate machine backing them. Case in point, rapper Immortal Technique.

At the end of the day, I don’t do it for the marketing. I could be doing it for the constructive feedback and although it’s nice to have it, it’s also not the main reason why I post online. In order to understand why I do this, we have to use the Napster example yet again. Two words: free storage. That’s right. Why would I want to pay X number of dollars to store my writing and art when Deviant Art and Face Book will do it for free? These public forums are hardly my only means of storage since I have three flash drives and also use my email accounts to store my shit. Maybe I’m just paranoid about keeping my art safe.

Just think of how badly it would suck if a project you worked on for years, maybe even decades, was suddenly erased by bullshit means. I take that same approach to my own art and back it up in as many ways as I can. Deviant Art, Face Book, Blogger, Good Reads, Wattpad, god knows what else. But the biggest drawback to this is that if I have to edit a piece of writing for a small error of some kind, that means I have to visit all of those sites and make that change. And then I find another small error. And another. And I have to visit those sites over and over again. Ultimately, I pick my battles and only edit my works on Deviant Art and Wattpad. Besides, I still have my email addresses and flash drives, so it’s not a huge deal.

I don’t have a whole lot to say aside from that. Goddamn, I really didn’t think this blog through, did I? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“I’ve been mad for fucking years. Absolutely years. Been over the edge for yonks. Been working my buns off for bands. I’ve always been mad. I know I’ve been mad. Like most of us, it’s very hard to explain why you’re mad, even when you’re not mad.”

-Dialogue from “Speak to Me” by Pink Floyd-

Milkshake Blender

VERSE 1

Everything looks the same to me

Blended together by conformity

Every line and every rhyme

Characters who never shined

Every plot hole I couldn’t fix

Masked by phony Jedi tricks

Everything I’ve ever created

Has left me bitter and jaded

CHORUS

A milkshake blender of blood and shit

Mixing together vinegar and piss

It’s all the same, I am to blame

It’s my only claim to fame

VERSE 2

Starting over never felt so tough

My macho façade is only a bluff

A blank sheet of paper glaring at me

Stripping my heart of its self-esteem

CHORUS

A milkshake blender of blood and shit

Mixing together vinegar and piss

It’s all the same, I am to blame

It’s my only claim to fame

BRIDGE

A legacy built on repetition

Antithesis to the artist’s mission

Molded by the public opinion

I’ve taken more than I’ve given

VERSE 3

Now’s not the time to say goodbye

Now’s not the time to fucking cry

Now’s not the time for a lullaby

Pick up that pen and redefine

What it means to be creative

Instead of fearful and evasive

If at first you don’t succeed

Write until your fingers bleed

ALTERNATIVE CHORUS

A milkshake blender forever destroyed

My artistic side will never be a toy

My life is not a divine comedy

Not dictated by a capitalist economy

Things That Empower Me

***THINGS THAT EMPOWER ME***

I had a look at my most recent blog entry about things that scare me. Goddamn, did I sound like a sad sap. It could have been that the month of June was a weird one for me and I was still grieving. But July is finally here and it’s time to start over again. No going back this time around! Instead of talking about things that scare the shit out of me, I’m going to talk about things that empower me, thus turning a negative thought into a positive one. Positive thinking has been at the forefront of my happiness since December 2014, when I vacationed at Lego Land in San Diego and when I had the best goddamn Christmas I could ask for. I lost sight of that positivity somewhere in early 2018, but I’m working on bringing that shit back and it begins with this blog entry. Let’s start the list off with…

***SELF-TALK***

Dr. Phil can be full of more shit than a cow pasture sometimes, but the one thing he got right on the nose was that the words we tell ourselves are very powerful, for better or worse. When you tell yourself you’re too fat, too ugly, or not good enough, you believe those things like they’re the word of god. But what if you start sending yourself positive messages instead of negative ones? Let’s say I, for instance, repeat the mental phrase, “If you step outside your comfort zone, good things will happen.” Or what if I just imagine a good-looking version of myself with a skinny body and a sexy haircut like the one I had in my senior year of high school? Or what if I tell myself that I can afford anything I want to buy? What if I tell myself that the world loves me? You say these things often enough, you believe them and you become a happier person because of it. You know what? I’m going to have these thoughts more often, especially the one where I look like a sexy stud with a sweet ass haircut….not an ass haircut, that’s different. Hehe!

***MUSIC***

Some people call it “just noise”, but to me it’s more intoxicating and enchanting than the world’s most powerful drug. I remember being a little kid and listening to my dad’s CD’s from The Police, Pink Floyd, The Moody Blues, and Toto. I loved my Pink Floyd CD’s so much that I spent the entire late 90’s listening to the shit out of them. Then the 2000’s came along and I started listening to alternative metal like Limp Bizkit, Linkin Park, Three Days Grace, Korn, and Papa Roach. My musical library expanded tenfold since then and I wouldn’t trade any of those bands for the world. My current favorite bands include Soulfly, Nightwish, Five Finger Death Punch, Pantera, and Halestorm among others. I love music so much that I refer to concerts as “one-day vacations” and “pilgrimages” rather than “just shows”. I went to a Roger Waters concert in 2000 and my dad referred to at as “taking us to heaven to see god”. There will be many more concerts in the future, which means more opportunities to get high on my drug of choice…which if you haven’t figured it out already is music.

***HAVING AN AUDIENCE***

I know I said in my “Things That Scare Me” blog that being in front of large amounts of people makes me want to swallow Xanax. But make no mistake about it: the fact that there are people out there who are willing to listen to me is a blessing. Whether you’re complimenting my writing or critiquing it (hopefully not trolling), I’m grateful to have you as a member of my audience. I know writing is supposed to be a business, but you can’t put a price tag on having someone’s attention and never letting go. Whether writing becomes my main source of income or not is irrelevant, because some things in life are more important than money, like love, friendship, good advice, creative fuel, and the power of a good story or poem. To everybody who has supported me throughout my career, thank you so very much. To everybody that doubts me, your creative fuel is every bit as welcome. There’s another thing to be positive about: creative fuel can literally come from anywhere, whether it’s a news story, a personal experience, or the pencil sharpener sitting on my desk, which I once used in a toy photograph of Razor Ramon doing elevated pushups.

***SPENDING MONEY ON OTHER PEOPLE***

This goes hand-in-hand with my self-talk about being able to afford anything I want. When you believe you’re good with money, you can probably afford to shell out some of it on other people. That’s why I buy birthday and Christmas gifts months in advance for the ones I love: because I can and love them…that, and buying gifts ahead of schedule is a good way to avoid the stress of things like Black Friday. I also donate some of my money to various charities whether it’s the ASPCA, Extra Life, or St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. Spending money on other people, whether in a big or small way, will actually make you happy in the long-term, because you’re strengthening your relationship with that person. You don’t have to clean out your life savings just to make one person happy, but having that kind of confidence with your money and that kind of love for the one you’re spending it on, that says a lot about your mindset.

***CREATIVITY***

To paraphrase Cenk Uygur from The Young Turks, OF COURSE this was going to be a list item! Writing stories and poems gives me a sense of purpose in an economy where English majors and Millennials are frowned upon. I don’t write for the money or the fame. I do it because I fucking love it. I do it because it’s hard work that I can be proud of. I do it because having a legacy is important to me. Do I have lazy days occasionally? All the time. But lazy days are temporary while legacies are forever. I realize that not everybody will like what I have to write, but that’s the nature of subjectivity. There are people who love the shit out of Fifty Shades of Grey and despise Winnie the Pooh. Yes! People actually hate Winnie the Pooh! But if I denied my audience the right to hate my works, I’d come off as a dictator rather than a role model for individuality. Life doesn’t end because of a bad review, or even ten of them. Your career isn’t over until you say it is.

***CONCLUSION***

Goddamn, I’m taking a long time to write this blog entry. Then again, it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning and I spent most of my day in a mental fog. If you can’t concentrate, you can’t write…at least not very well. Here’s hoping my messages of empowerment are well-received by you, my lovely audience. If not, well, at least I tried. I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***DOMESTIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(In the summer of 2017…)

JAMES: Hey Garrison, what was in the Amazon package you got in the mail today?

GARRISON: Duct tape and a CD.

JAMES: Those two things do not go together! What are you going to do, bind and gag one of your Face Book women and torture her with your music?

GARRISON: That’s not what the duct tape is for!

JAMES: Uh-huh. Sure! The only thing more disturbing than that was that it came in a long and narrow package. I thought it was another one of your corporate pop metal posters.

GARRISON: Goddamn it, James!

Thanks For the Creative Fuel, Asshole

CHORUS 1

While you’re ruling everything in your castle

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, asshole!

VERSE 1

Every time you lay hands on me

Every time you haunt my TV

Every time my broken heart bleeds

You’re planting another artistic seed

I’m not in the business of staying down

I’m in the business of running the town

If it’s pen to paper or fist to chin

I’m already the favorite to win

CHORUS 2

While you’re making the whole world sick

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, dick!

VERSE 2

Art is a weapon and I’m the warrior, bitch

My words will leave you dead in the ditch

A traumatized mind and a body of bruises?

They mean nothing if my enemy loses

CHORUS 3

While you’re shopping for discount caskets

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, jackass!

VERSE 3

I don’t need a sword or automatic rifle

To leave my enemies in the highest pile

You do the work for me by being a clown

Lower than bathroom stains so brown

Lower than a sewer rat guzzling piss

Lower than the target you’re sure to miss

Lower than the ball bag of a venomous snake

I celebrate your doom with ice cream and cake

CHORUS 4

While you’re gifting me a number one hit

For every time you throw a fucking fit

For every throat that I want to slit

I’ve got to say

Thanks for the creative fuel, you little shit!

I’ve got to say one more time

Thanks for the creative fuel, asshole!

Silent Warrior, Chapter 11

A clear mind was all Scott George ever wanted. Clear of Mr. Simpson’s condescension. Clear of Alan Young’s brand of “humor”. Clear of worms that had no business being there in the first place. While his brainwaves weren’t a complete heavenly paradise, he was able to dry his eyes long enough to get through art class in one piece. The whispers of his classmates weren’t obtrusive enough to hold his attention. Instead his focus was pinpointed on a drawing he had been working on since the opening buzzer.

Rainbow colored flowers decorated the borders of Scott’s drawing. Pink clouds filled the negative spaces in between with a crisp golden sunshine lingering in the background. In the center of this latest masterpiece was heaven’s most beautiful angel. Instead of a radiating golden light, she brightened the picture with green flames and a purple haze. Rather than looking at the subject, her face turned slightly away with shyness, her hair down to her chest and her face a brilliant shade of red.

Unfortunately for the cloud nine-residing Scott, his one true love wouldn’t be in English class to see this marvelous masterpiece he created. Her desk remained empty throughout the entire hour and that brought a disappointed frown to his face. Where could she be? Did somebody figure out that she and Scott were dating? He hid his face as much as he could that day, fearing the absolute worst. It could have been a simple case of her coming down with a fever, but Scott’s mind wasn’t a place where rational adult thinking took place.

By the time lunch period rolled around, Scott still tried looking for Adrienne, even going back to the spot they sat at yesterday. He even visited the salad bar, which was slightly better than the spongy chicken nuggets, but not by much. He wanted to follow her advice as much as humanly possible and not worry about some stupid worms crawling in his meal. He took his Caesar dressing-covered greenery and sat at the same empty spot he took yesterday, hoping Adrienne would miraculously show up.

A few nibbles of spinach later, nothing. A few more nibbles, still nothing. A half hour of rabbit bites and Adrienne still hadn’t shown up. With nobody coming to save him this time, Scott’s stomach began to ache and flare up as he felt funny little creatures crawling around in his intestines. He felt as though an alien was going to pop out of his body and latch onto his face at any moment. And then an oddly comforting hand touched his shoulders and he was back to reality. When he saw who the hand belonged to, Scott’s comfort died down like a wounded animal.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asked.

“Long enough to see you writhe around in pain for whatever reason. My history class isn’t that bad, you know,” said Mr. Simpson with an unfunny smirk. “Mind if I sit here? Of course you don’t. We have much to discuss.” The history teacher took a seat across from Scott and folded his hands across the table. “I’m assuming that the reason you didn’t show up to my class today was because Miss Williams had a little chat with you.”

“Where’s Adrienne?” asked Scott pointblank before covering his mouth quickly.

“That’s none of your business,” said Mr. Simpson. “Besides, I wouldn’t know her whereabouts anyways. We haven’t talked in such a long time. Kind of like the way you and I never talk anymore except to breathe fire down each other’s necks. Actually, you’re the one who insists on not talking, which is why your grade is currently standing at a C- when it could be much higher.”

“if you came here to make fun of my introversion, then I’m going to go sit somewhere else,” said Scott, who tried to stand up only to have Mr. Simpson grab him by the wrist and sit him down again.

“Trust me, Scott, I didn’t come here for amateur comedy night. We really do have a lot to talk about, especially as it pertains to your punishment for not showing up to after-school detention. You didn’t think there’d be an easy way out, did you? There never is, my little silent warrior. But you should at least be thankful that this wasn’t a court appearance instead. If it had been, you’d be in jail. At least with school, some of the harsh punishment is easy to serve.”

Scott leaned his face closer to his teacher’s as a way to suppress his deepest fears. “Principal Williams basically told me that my fate was in your hands. If that’s the case, then stop wasting my goddamn time and tell me what’s going on.”

“I had no idea your ‘goddamn’ time was so valuable to you, Mr. George. You certainly didn’t feel that way about me when you left me hanging for thirty minutes straight. Isn’t my time valuable as well? Considering I’m several decades older than you, I’d say that’s the case. Well, you’re not going to waste my time anymore, buddy-boy. You want to learn your fate? Here it is. If you have any plans this weekend, cancel them. You’re going to serve an hour of detention bright and early Saturday morning.”

“What?!”

Cleaning his glasses with the waist of his shirt, Mr. Simpson said, “I believe I made myself abundantly clear. Since we’re spending an hour of quality time together, I’ll have to think of something for you to do other than clean off the desks, thought that can be pretty time consuming. Students love to leave unspeakable objects underneath the desks whether it’s chewed bubblegum, nose goblins, graffiti, god knows what else. One time I caught a student sticking gummy worms underneath the desk.”

The gummy worm trigger caused Scott to gag and lurch as he fought desperately to hold his salad down. He could feel the adrenaline sewage bubble up in his stomach…then to his chest…then to the back of his throat where he could taste it. He swallowed a massive tidal wave of saliva to keep the burst of bile down. He breathed heavily with his tongue hanging out, like a dog locked in a hot car.

“Listen,” said Mr. Simpson while holding his hands up in mock defense. “I know cleaning off dirty desks isn’t the most pleasant way to spend an hour of detention, but for the first time in your young life, it isn’t your fault, Scott. Kids today have no respect for public property. They think a desk is their own personal toilet.”

Scott’s violent breathing muffled most of his words when he said, “F…fuck this shit…I’m not coming.”

Mr. Simpson let out a sarcastic laugh and leaned in closer so that his diabolic eyes could shoot straight fire into Scott’s already burning pupils. “Oh, you’re going to show up alright. You’re not getting away with anything this time around. Eight o’clock in the morning sharp, not a second late. If you even think about bailing on me again, you might as well stay at home for the rest of your life, because you won’t be allowed back on school grounds. I’ll have you expelled from this place so fast your head will spin. And then what’ll you do with your life? Treat sewage? Clean toilets? Dig ditches? Whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be a lot more fun than taking another history class from me. Compared to those disgusting jobs, cleaning off desks doesn’t seem so bad, does it?”

The teacher stood up and allowed Scott to keep choking down whatever was boiling in his throat. Mr. Simpson pointed a finger at his student and said, “Remember: eight o’clock on the dot. I’ll be waiting with a fresh cup of coffee, though you’ll probably won’t want to put anything in your mouth after the grungy work you’ll have to do. See you soon!” He gave a two finger salute and walked out of sight.

Scott’s mind raced with schizophrenic banter and a crippling headache. His stomach felt as though he had endured gyroscopic torture. His throat, eyes, and face burned worse than if he stuck his head in the same deep fryer the kitchen used to make those awful nuggets. Not being able to fight the good fight against his own body much longer, he rushed towards a garbage can and unleashed a waterfall of vomit that stunk to high hell. He could hear the other students backing away in a hurry. Some of them laughed. Some of them made disgusted “eww” sounds. A few of the girls gave off a shriek of horror. Scott didn’t care. He unloaded his weapon of mass disgust all over the inside of the garbage can.

He then slid down on the floor on his ass and breathed so heavily that the remaining students held their noses at his oral stench. If he had taken a diarrhea dump in that garbage can, it would have smelled like a bed of roses compared to this mess. Speaking of roses…

“Are you done, Mr. George?” asked Mr. Simpson while holding a piece of paper. “I wanted to give this to you before you forgot it. Nice work, if I do say so myself. It’s no history essay, but it’s still pretty good. You should be proud of yourself.” He handed Scott the drawing he made from art class and patted him on the shoulder before attempting once more to walk out of sight.

Scott gazed deeply into the drawing and wiped off a stream of chunky spittle that hit the page. He banged his own head backwards into the soft garbage can repeatedly while the buzzer for the next class echoed throughout his agonizing head. It might as well have been a room full of babies crying instead of a buzzer. He felt like he could be one of those babies right now. How simple life would have been at that moment.

"A Carlin Home Companion" by Kelly Carlin

BOOK TITLE: A Carlin Home Companion: Growing Up with George

AUTHOR: Kelly Carlin

YEAR: 2015

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

Growing up as the daughter of legendary comedian George Carlin presented itself with some unique challenges as well as heartfelt moments for Kelly. Whether she helped her parents through drug addictions, they helped her through toxic romances, or she forced herself to confront her parents’ deaths and become her own creative beacon, Kelly Carlin’s life story was never short on exciting and sorrowful milestones. Her love of comedy, creativity, music, and life in general was shaped and influenced by the wonderful father and friend known as George Carlin. Even today, Kelly doesn’t take anything for granted and knows how precious life really is. She knows better than anybody that laughter heals all wounds and there’s nothing wrong with a good cry every now and then.

In the late 90’s, Kelly’s mother passed away due to cancer complications. In 2008, she lost George as well. The way Kelly describes the emotional trauma of losing her loved ones is the biggest reason I’m giving this book an extra credit grade. Whenever she feels pain, you feel it too. Even if your own parents are alive and well, Kelly’s writing makes you aware that nothing lasts forever. She shed many tears and suffered plenty of panic attacks during this moment of coping. If you as the reader cried along with her, I wouldn’t blame you one bit. In fact, I’d probably give you a big old teddy bear hug to ease some of your pain. Dealing with death never gets any easier as time goes by, but with Kelly’s wisdom and George’s comedy, you’ll never feel alone in this world.

Another part of this book that makes me feel for Kelly is the way in which she describes her various romantic relationships and how they’ve soured badly over time. The worst offenders in this case were a high school class clown named Terry and a coked up loser named Andrew Sutton. These two former lovers put Kelly through enough pain and suffering to scar her for life, which doesn’t make dealing with dead parents in the future any less torturous. I cringed when I read about all the times Kelly refused to break things off with her lovers, because I wanted her to have a happy life without disgusting people ruining it for her. Fortunately, she did find a husband who was actually worthy of her love. His name is Bob McCall and he’s the luckiest dude on planet earth.

And finally, I want to touch briefly on Kelly’s need to break free from her parents’ shadows and become her own person. She still loves them with all of her shattered heart, but when it’s time to spread your wings and fly, you’ve got to do it. George constantly challenged her comfort zone through his comedy routines and wise parenting (drug addiction aside). While the comfort zone is a beautiful place, nothing ever grows there. Kelly took a while to find her creative footing, but when she did, she accomplished so much whether it was becoming a licensed therapist, a performing artist, a writer, or anything else she damn well wanted to be. Readers can learn a lot from her life story and hopefully what they learn will propel them to new heights. Yes, it’s scary at first as Kelly will attest, but conquering those fears will only make you stronger.

Whether you’re a devout fan of George Carlin or a lover of literature in general, Kelly Carlin’s memoir will bring you to the edge and back again with her tales of growing up with one of the greatest comedians of all time. Despite all of the hardships and heartaches, Kelly made it through life a much stronger person than she was in her younger years. George wasn’t a perfect father (then again, who is?), but he was the only one she’d ever known and life would be boring without that influence. This is a tale of love and inspiration. Pick up a copy today!

I Still Remember

I still remember the games we played

I still remember the price you paid

I still remember the lashings you took

In the name of the so-called good book

I still remember our time as kids

I still remember the good we did

I still remember the world’s response

Our biggest gain was their total loss

I still remember our videogames

I still remember your name

I still remember what we created

How teenaged years left us jaded

I still remember the crazy cartoons

Good guys, bad guys, all were buffoons

I don’t remember where those tapes went

I hope it was money well-spent

Now we are older, time passed us by

High school made us want to die

Though I wasn’t there to see you cry

I could have been if I only tried

Different cities, different stories

Different defeats, different glories

We can never return to those young days

Do you still remember how to play?

Is That What It Takes?

VERSE 1

No one in this world is untouchable

Even less people are bulletproof

Turning that shit up to eleven

It’s what it takes to smash the glass roof

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

VERSE 2

If I would have known this years ago

I’d have my own internet radio show

Spewing off at the mouth like dragon fire

While faceless callers label me a liar

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

VERSE 3

I could apologize until the end of time

I could pay off that heavy ass fine

Drop to my knees and beg you, “Please”

It wouldn’t be enough to wash off the sleaze

You never apologized for your own sins

Throw your death threats in the rubbish bin

Everyone around you is a precious snowflake

The news of your hypocrisy must be so fake

CHORUS

Is that what it takes to get some fame?

To use the power hungry’s names in vain?

Is that what it takes to climb the ladder?

To be slicker than a load of baby batter?

Is that what it takes to cash my checks?

To be more offensive than bestial sex?

You ignore the rest of my achievements

Gaze into the microscope at my demons!

FINAL VERSE

For whatever it’s worth on this scorching earth

I apologize for the very idea of my birth

I don’t mean it, but neither do you

Keep on screaming until your face is blue

STEAM

***STEAM***

A few weeks ago, I wrote a song for Lunatic Justice called “STEM Sell”, where I argue that having a STEM degree doesn’t necessarily equal happiness despite the job opportunities and abundance of money. In case you don’t know, STEM stands for Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics. The kinds of jobs that come with a STEM degree include medical doctor, mechanic, computer expert, and architect to name a few. As much as liberal arts majors like me hate to admit it, STEM skills are in higher demand than creative ones.

But think of how boring this world would be without art. If everybody had STEM jobs, you can kiss Harry Potter, Pink Floyd, Wonder Woman, and everything else considered fun goodbye. Speaking of Pink Floyd, there’s a scene in The Wall movie where Pink’s math teacher beats him for writing poetry in class instead of doing homework. That scene is based on Roger Waters’s childhood. If he had caved in to the hate and got a “real job” instead of singing in a band…well, you know how this conversation is going to go.

Want another real world example? Jim Carrey gave a college speech about how his father could have been a professional comedian with the sense of humor he had, but instead took a financially safe job as an accountant (the M in STEM). Jim Carrey’s father was laid off from his job, which proves that failure isn’t something only artists experience. Imagine if Jim Carrey took the “safe route” and became an accountant like his dad. Actually, no, don’t imagine that, especially if you’re prone to crying your eyes out.

Ever see the bumper sticker that says “Earth without art is just eh”? Well, every time I hear a STEM student brag about how he’s better than liberal arts majors, I think of that bumper sticker. That same braggadocios student is probably wiping his tears away with those hundred dollar bills. That’s not to say STEM doesn’t have a place in modern society, but it shouldn’t be the only thing we have available jobs for. We need to find a balance between happiness and financial stability.

All you have to do is stick an A (Art) in between the E and the M and you’ve got STEAM. Think of all the creative fields out there and how they’re interconnected with STEM. The music industry is a prime example of this. Of course, the creative side comes from the songwriting and performances. But if you want to put together an album or put on an elaborate concert, you have to have a fairly extensive knowledge of the equipment involved. Rammstein concerts are fun as fuck, but without sound engineers, lightning designers, and pyrotechnicians, I don’t care how good they are as musicians, because their concert will sound like shit without those essential crew members.

The movie industry has STEAM applications as well. Sure, there’s the acting, screenwriting, directing, makeup art, and all of that. But you still need a STEM guy to know how to work the camera, create special effects, edit the film reels, and engineer the sound effects.

Take any creative endeavor and it will have connections to STEAM no matter how much someone argues otherwise. And since I’m an author, I might as well throw my personal experience into the mix. My job is to put words onto the screen and edit the final product so that it’s nice and polished for publication. If you plan on publishing, you have to have an extensive knowledge of economics (math), computer skills (technology), audience psychology (science), and…help me out here, I’m trying to think of an engineering example. Or perhaps your STEM experience can reveal itself in your actual manuscript. Maybe you’re writing a spy novel where someone has to use explosives (technology). Maybe you’re doing a combat scene and have to diagnose the traumas of each fighter (science).

STEM jobs and artistic jobs both require a great deal of dedication and hard work in order to succeed. Failure is a part of both sides of the spectrum and being able to dust yourself off and get back up is the true test of success, not money or college experience. I’ve experienced my fair share of failures in my career. I’ve had two-star reviews, angry criticisms, and plenty of doubters who simply thought I sucked.

I could go with the safe route and be a computer specialist, but would I experience the same amount of joy as I do when I create a story or poem out of thin air? Hell no. STEM jobs are important and highly abundant, but there’s more to life than changing oil in somebody’s car. If you’re a STEM employee and you’re happy with life, good for you. But that’s no excuse to put down liberal arts majors when you’re just as capable of failure as they are. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***POISON TONGUE TALES 2: THE RIGHT TO REMAIN PSYCHOTIC***

It’s a new week at the WSS and it’s time for a new story. This time we’re dealing with Baby Steps as the major theme. What better way to conform to that prompt than by writing a story called “Where’s My Damn Money?” What else am I going to call it? Here’s how it goes:

CHARACTERS:

1. Chetty Claymore, Elf Necromancer
2. Pia Caine, Cat Wizard

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Pia’s small payments against her debt are considered baby steps toward the larger goal of being financially free.

SYNOPSIS: When wandering mage Pia is wounded in battle, Chetty saves her life in return for a whopping amount of money. A year has passed since these events and Pia is no closer to paying off her crushing debt. One night while concocting a potion in her lab, she is visited by the impatient Chetty, who threatens to kill her and the ones she loves if she doesn’t pay what he’s owed. Pia believes she can simply fight her way out of debt, but Chetty is part of a much larger organization of debt collectors and even if she wins, he won’t be her last opponent. Chetty also reveals that Pia’s personal information has been shared with her attacker from one year ago.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Earlier tonight, I posted my non-WSS story called “Lionize” and Andrea Lovell, the CEO from that story, is next on the chopping block. Andrea was originally a character conceived by my old D&D friend Heather when the two of us would do private role-plays together on MSN Instant Messenger. She’s usually cool with me using her RPG characters in my stories, but if she isn’t this time around, then I’ll happy use someone else. I think she’ll be happy with what I come up for her as a drawing.

***FACE BOOK POST OF THE DAY***

WWU stands for World Wrestling University and WWE stands for Western Washington Entertainment. Both acronyms are said the Michael Cole way, which is by pronouncing them with extra emphasis on the W’s. Wait a minute, something’s not right here.