Jobs and the Economy

There’s so much more to life than jobs and the economy

I say it with my whole chest and I make no apologies

Life should be enjoyable even if you’re unemployable

Make peace with this mantra and you’ll be undestroyable

You can call it socialism, but I call it being human

What good is your cash if you’re not going to use it

To treat yourself every once in a Blue Moon

To vanilla ice cream and hot fudge on a spoon

To a movie theater flick filled with kung fu kicks

To a river boat date with your favorite blond chick

The suits chuckle it off like a Facebook Nazi

Hitting the laugh react button for a child’s dead body

Smoldering with ashes from an Israeli rocket bomb

About five seconds after crying for his mom

Lacking empathy is the weirdest flex I’ve heard

Suits are like serial killers plucking feathers off a bird

Then they play the victim when nobody wants to work

For a boss who keeps order by going berserk

Flipping burgers and making fries is not an identity

And being unemployed doesn’t make you my enemy

Capitalism’s made up, we pulled it out of our asses

We put random-ass people in random-ass classes

This dude is rich and the other’s dirt poor

This chick’s a prostitute, but this bootlicker’s a whore

It didn’t have to be this way, but we passively accepted

The whole damn story so that we cannot be rejected

By a society that never gave one single shit

If you’re down on your luck, passed out in the pit

Pink Floyd vs. Amir Odom: The Dark Side of the Moon...and of Dark Money

 

Foreign Man in a Foreign Land: It's Not Leftist Infighting If He Was Never a Leftist

 

Unwanted Relationship Advice, Pt. 2

 

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

Gone

“Don’t fall in love with strangers on the internet

Even though their beauty is impossible to forget

There are real life girls who’d love to take you to bed”

It’s the world’s shortest line, because they’re all gone

 

“Don’t spend all your time watching You Tube clips

While you’re munching down on a bag of cheesy chips

There’s so much cinema, characters you want to ship”

There’s just one problem, the best of them are gone

 

“Stop laying in bed when there’s so much to create

Never mind that the discourse is covered in hate

You can counter it with love, why would you want to wait?”

I’ll tell you why: because the good ones are gone

 

“Mother Nature is the very best antidepressant

The cost is cheap for every working-class peasant

You can feed the squirrels, sing with the pheasants”

It’s too hot outside, because the ozone is gone

 

“Get yourself a car, show off your convertible

Get yourself a job, get paid to be serviceable

Buy all the shit you want, stack it high and vertical”

Where are all the good bosses? Oh wait, they’re gone

 

Just gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

A shitshow of a world is what came in its place

I’ve never seen a broken spirit with a happy face

It’s camouflage for authenticity they want to erase

 

“Can’t we all just get along?” Fuck no, we can’t!

Not as long as we’re repeating the same racist chant

Not as long as the elite cuts us off at the knees

And brainwashes everyone with the greatest of ease

 

Gone! Gone! Gone without a trace!

Dear Aunt Ruth 2023

Dear Aunt Ruth,

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Love,

Garrison

Bulletproof Bikini

Marguerite Macintosh may have been wandering around Helgor City in little else than a metal bikini, leather boots, and a furry cloak, but this chilly weather should never have been confused for the “dog days of summer”. The only things keeping her warm were the burning pain radiating off of her fresh scars and her boiling blood over this wardrobe fiasco. Her bastard sword was sheathed on her hip; she kept a firm grip on the handle while her other hand carried a mysterious leather sack. She heard enough testicle jokes in her lifetime that they were to be expected when she carried around a package that big.

As she trudged down the sidewalk of this vast city with bustling marketplaces and massive architecture, Marguerite made sure to give stone cold glares at the various men who passed her with dirty thoughts racing through their melon heads. The smiles they gave her, the whistles, and the chuckles were enough to boil her blood even further. The women were equally worthy of her scorn; they twisted their faces in disgust, as though Marguerite was going to steal their husbands right in front of them.

Because the streets were so jam-packed with horn-dog men, racing children, and jealous women, she couldn’t help but bump into a few of them, though she wondered how much of that contact was on purpose. There were a few hands here and there and in an ideal world, those hands wouldn’t be attached to their owners’ arms anymore. The bastard sword was right there, yet she kept it sheathed the whole time.

“Just a few more blocks,” she muttered to herself. The frosty weather nipped at her flesh almost as harshly as the poor sucker she had been in combat with only an hour prior. Those razor talons and blade-like fangs were far from Marguerite’s idea of a fun time. But a payday was a payday and a meal was a meal. “That son of a bitch better not stiff me this time,” she said, referring to her mercenary boss Goldsmith Kingsville.

“You said stiff!” said a giggling teenaged boy as his father pulled him away, also in a chuckling mood.

Marguerite’s knuckles had turned as white as the frosty weather at the strength she was gripping her hilt. She could cause a city wide bloodbath that could only be written about in holy scriptures. She could leave heads rolling down the street like the beer barrels the men probably consumed by the gallon. She could leave intestines strewn across the cobblestones while the diarrhea they contained painted an accurate picture of all the bullshit this place was known for. She thought better off it and continued down the sidewalk. “The real battle…” She stopped herself before her words could be misinterpreted again by snot-nosed kids.

A few more bumps, gropes, and hee-haws later, she finally arrived at the steps of the Kingsville Combat Club. They would prove to be a long climb, not because of the distance, but because of the sharp pains in her leg scars with every step. She sucked it up and pulled herself up the stairs into the stone-carved barracks. It was somehow less painful than being leered at by horny men and scowled at by jealous women. And then she remembered that the cycle would begin all over again once she walked through the doors of her workplace, which she did.

Just as she had predicted, the sparring orcs, in metal armor much more protective than hers, took a break from their exercises to evilly-smile and snort at her. Some of them swirled their tongues around like they were about to eat a delicious roasted ham. Others wiggled their fingers in anticipation of a hard grip. One of them whistled like his voice was a jazz instrument, much to the hee-hawing delight of the other mercenaries. Again, Marguerite could turn this entire room into a farmhouse slaughter fit for oinking pigs. But she thought better of it and picked up her walking speed towards Goldsmith’s office. She slammed the door behind her and the sounds of sparring continued.

And there he was, his booted feet on the desk, his velvet purple suit on, a cigar smoldering in his mouth, and his eyes pasted to his magazine. His entire room was decorated with artwork of half-naked models and leopard print rugs. Marguerite had her angry eyes locked in not on those, but the pervert who hung the pictures there in the first place. He peeked out from his magazine and waved at her before blowing a drooling orcish kiss.

Marguerite marched up to Goldsmith’s desk and slammed the package on the wooden surface, almost creating a few splinters. She pulled the draw string on it and revealed the head of a rival orcish warrior, which made Goldsmith’s eyes light up like a shooting star. He grabbed the head by its hair and examined it further to make sure everything was on the up and up. “Fine job, Margueritie-Sweetie.” She cringed at that nickname. “Our client will be very happy with this!”

Marguerite then slammed her coin bag on the table with equally brutish force and opened it. She pointed inside and said, “Karma. Karma!”

“If you insist.” Commander Kingsville pulled a metal box from underneath his desk, unlocked it with a massive key, and scooped up handfuls of gold coins to put in the Marguerite’s bag. She closed it up, jiggled it next to her ear, and stuck it on her belt, ultimately satisfied with her payday. Goldsmith put the metal box away, but she was still there with her arms folded and a murderous look on her face. “What? You got your payday, now get lost.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Commander.” Marguerite cleared her throat. “Are you okay?”

Goldsmith throatily laughed and slapped his desk a few times. “Are you kidding me, babe? Business is booming! I’ve never felt better in my life! Are you okay, my ass!” He laughed some more.

“That’s not what I meant, Commander. What I meant was…are you okay…as in…what the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Huh?”

“These other mercenaries, all of which are men, get to walk around protected head to toe in armor while I’m stuck out in the cold-ass weather in… whatever this is! You say business is booming, yet you can’t afford to get me some halfway decent armor?!”

Goldsmith placed a hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, which was instantly swatted away. “Listen, lady. Walking around in a metal bikini isn’t so bad. It’s lightweight, so you can move around easier. You have any idea how heavy those other suits of armor are?”

Private Macintosh grabbed her boss’s jacket and snapped, “Cut the bullshit! This skimpy armor isn’t going to protect me from anything! Look at all these scars! Look!”

Goldsmith pulled on his own collar to signify discomfort. “Trust me, I’m looking.”

“Exactly! You didn’t buy me this piece of crap armor because you wanted to protect me! You certainly didn’t want me to move faster, because let’s face it, fast-moving women make it impossible for you to do your little thing with them. This isn’t protection, Commander! This is fantasy!”

Goldsmith shoved her to the floor. “If you want real armor so badly, then use your payday to buy some! There’s enough in that coin bag to get you at least…”

She got up and got right back in her boss’s face. “You paid for their armor, now pay for mine! You just said yourself you have the money to do it, now quit stiffing me and…”

“Stiff this, you dumb bitch!” Goldsmith tried to slap her with the magazine, but she caught it just in the nick of time and started poring through it.

This wasn’t a literary publication at all. Not a single poem about flowers and shit. Not a single piece of prose about gallant battles. Not a single epic about conquering giants. Just pictures. Pictures of women wearing the same metal bikini as her. Just when Marguerite’s stomach couldn’t twist and wind any further, the final picture in the magazine…was of her. A realistic drawing of her wearing that same bikini, posing seductively at the reader, and blowing a kiss.

Marguerite’s breathing hastened. Her heart thumped in her chest while an icy river of anxiety cooled her burning scars. She dropped to her knees and vomited on the magazine, completely undoing her entire nutrition for the day.

“Oh, don’t act so disgusted! That’s the best art you’ll ever see in your lifetime! He’s great at what he does!”

Marguerite wiped the vomit from her lips and slowly rose to her feet, her trembling hand gripping her hilt even tighter than before, to where her palms were beet red. She angrily whispered, “Did you just say…HE’S great at what he does? He? As in…the male gaze?!” She finally pulled out her bastard sword and sliced Goldsmith’s desk in half, causing the boss to jolt backwards in fear. Sure enough, he had other magazines of half-naked girls stashed in there as well as his cash box.

Goldsmith pulled his collar in discomfort again. “I can explain!”

Not giving him a chance to do so, Marguerite threw a thunderous slash his way and sliced his massive head off, the last of his fucked up mind oozing on the carpeted floor. She dropped to her knees again, shaking in a combination of anger, disgust, and fear. Commander Kingsville had been masturbating to her this whole time. He had thoughts about her. He wanted to be with her. That metal bikini wasn’t practical in any way. It was all a perverted fantasy. Marguerite threw up yet again, this time loudly enough to draw the ire of someone knocking on the door.

“Hey! What’s going on in there! You alright, boss?!”

Thinking quickly, Marguerite took her bastard sword and wedged it between the double door handles. She didn’t know how long the lock would last considering how hard the orc was knocking. The sword even bent a few times like it was made of rubber. Marguerite took the cash box, grabbed Goldsmith’s head, and chucked it through his stained glass window, giving her an easy escape and the orcs enough reason to slam even harder against the doors.

Once the doors broke down, Marguerite, with cash box in hand, ran like the wind. Her leg scars flared up to where she was begging for an amputation. But she kept running through the back alleys. She kept hearing the sounds of orcs grunting behind her. Those throaty screams and curses, as much as they pounded against her eardrum, they softened the further she ran. And then she took a sharp turn into another alleyway and her legs finally gave out on her. Blood running from the wounds made her dizzy. The burning sensation caused her eyes to well up in pain. She was certain the orcs were going to chop her up and have her for lunch…or have her for lunch regardless, which made her gag even more.

But then the orcish voices were gone. She couldn’t hear them anymore. If she was dead from her wounds, then heaven looked an awful lot like Helgor City. It wasn’t heaven at all. Maybe it was hell. Maybe it was some unseen god punishing her for murder and theft. Speaking of theft, the cash box was still right there by her side. She patted it and breathed a sigh of relief once she knew it was safe.

“You know…maybe I will buy my own armor…and a vacation…I wouldn’t mind a vacation right now…”

IDK

We’re not damsels in distress. We’re not Mary-Sues and Gary-Stus. We’re not femme fatales. Whether we see each other this way or not, everybody in this lifetime is a three-dimensional character. One of the many things that make a character three-dimensional is a goal or an ambition, more than one, in fact. Why do you think we’re so prepared at job interviews whenever the boss man asks us where we see ourselves in ten years? It should be a piece of cake for me to know where I want to go with my writing career. I’m living in this body, so I know where all the brain neurons lead to. Therefore…my ultimate goal for my writing career is…uh…actually, it’s…(sigh)…

IDK, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how often you listen to Gemini Syndrome. As a burned out, low-energy sad sap, IDK is something I say quite often when confronted with questions ranging from the most difficult to bare-bones simplicity. “What are your plans for the day?” IDK. “Where’s your brother?” IDK. “How come you don’t know?” IDK. “What do you want to do with your writing career?” IDK. That last one is how we got to this essay. There are many reasons for wanting a writing career and all of them are valid. But the trick is finding which one suits you the best. I used to think I had a grip on it all, but then expectations vs. reality gave me the world’s hardest kick in the nuts. What once were good reasons for me don’t seem logical in today’s life, especially when factoring in mental health and financial resources.

So…what’s one common reason why people start a writing career? Fortune and fame? Sure, why not. If Stephen King can build an empire of cash, surely I could too. If JK Rowling can build a throne of bones that came from transgender people…wait a minute, bad example, never mind. Surely my skills could skyrocket me into the stratosphere and have me floating in space like Major Tom from a David Bowie song. Right? Well, I hate to burst your space man bubble helmet, but the authors who do go on to become legends are in a tiny minority. Everybody’s heard of Stephen King, but hardly anybody I talk to has heard of Brett Battles, a thriller author whose work inspired me to become a born-again bookworm. Brett Battles can crank out bangers, so why isn’t he Scrooge McDucking a pool of gold coins? Because meritocracy is a myth, that’s why.

But even if I could achieve worldwide fame where everybody knows my name like a Cheers character, not all of those people are going to love me or what I do. In fact, there are going to be a lot of trolls lurking in the shadows waiting to plant suicidal seeds in my head which eventually sprout into full-on schizophrenic hallucinations. There could be thousands of five-star reviews for one of my books, but if one hideous creep tells me I should get sodomized in prison, then my brain will self-destruct and spiral into ashes. Take that one bastard’s words and multiply them across billions of people. My head could explode just from the stress alone and so could my heart. Sensory overload isn’t good for an autistic brain with multiple mental illnesses. They call it meat with electricity inside for a reason, though it’s closer to soggy bacon or tapioca pudding.

And of course, that much fame surely has to come with billions of dollars, right? I should be able to buy Twitter with that much money and tell Elon Musk to eat a dick that looks like a space rocket. But when I think about it, do I really need that much money? Is it not enough just for me to live comfortably and occasionally travel so that I can see my online friends up close and in person? Do I really need five thousand yachts and eight hundred rocket ships that look like dildos? Do I really need a limousine when a normal car driven by one of my family members would do just fine? Do I really need to attend parties full of hookers and blow, double entendre definitely intended? What about the homeless population who are struggling to stay alive? Shouldn’t they be getting low-cost housing? Shouldn’t people in general eat three meals a day and not have to worry about whether they’ll be there or not? I don’t need to be a billionaire. Nobody does. I need for the world to be happy and healthy. I need for children to have their needs met without worrying about dying. Not really a controversial stance, is it?

Okay, so fame and fortune aren’t realistic expectations for me as an author. Maybe I should focus on the love of the craft or having a positive influence on my audience. But in order for those things to happen, I have to have a bigger audience than I do now, which means opening myself up to swarms of trolls who overrun me like little zerglings from Starcraft. But if I stay in the shadows, then my work will reach nobody at all and I’ll never know if I’m having a positive influence on my audience. Yes, I could create my art and not share it at all. I could do it all just for me. But what’s the point? What kind of permanence will it have if nobody knows about it but me? Where’s my digital footprint? Where’s my immortality? I don’t want to take my writing to the grave with me, because I don’t see the point in writing it in the first place if it doesn’t immortalize me in some way. I want it to be for something. I want to make a difference in this world. Otherwise, why am I here in the first place? No, zerglings, this isn’t an invite for you to swarm me with death threats and pictures of my house.

Are there any reasons left? Did I cover them all? There could be more, but I don’t have access to them right now. I could take a quick trip to Google and find more, but we’d be here forever and a day and I don’t have that much time in my schedule. But even if the answers were readily available to me, I’d still give my typical IDK answer, which either means I Don’t Know or I Decay, depending on how badly my mind is rotting on any given day. I don’t know what I want to do with my writing career. There are pros and cons to every available reason. There is no one size fits all plan for me. But does this mean I want to give up and do something else for the rest of my life? Hell no. I want to continue. I want to keep shouting into the void with my literary skills. Even if the entire internet hates my guts because of a cave painting I created in 7 Million BC, fuck it, I’ll continue my career anyways.

But is it okay for me to have an aimless direction? Is it okay for me to be completely rudderless and constantly in zombie mode looking for the next brain to munch on? Is it okay to prioritize my mental health over fame and fortune? Is it okay to ignore the marketing part of my job knowing that the abyss will never respond to me in a meaningful way? Where do I go from here? I could just finish writing my current novel, but even once it’s over, then what? Do I write another hoping that one will rejuvenate my career? Do I write another poetry collection? Another short story collection? Do I just keep writing and writing in hopes that something will change? Do I even want things to change? Will I be happier when things change or will I stagnate some more? Say it with me now: IDK. Does it mean I Don’t Know or I Decay? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely yes.

Nowhere to Live

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 1

It’s never been about shit on the sidewalk

It’s about outlining more bodies in chalk

It’s never been about screaming at thin air

It’s about naysayers too brainwashed to care

It’s never been about who’s smoking the crack

It’s about looking for new ways to attack

It’s never been about saving taxpayer money

But keep laughing it off like it’s so fucking funny

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 2

A dollar bill can go for a thousand miles long

A hug and a smile can keep humanity strong

New laws to pass can kick greed in the ass

Need a closer look? Just go touch some grass

Look around at the world that you’re living in

Not everyone can take a Maserati for a spin

Not everyone can eat a steak dinner at night

It ain’t the answer to pull those boot straps tight

CHORUS 1

Government benefits were slashed in half

Homelessness doubled, it’s simple math

Paper white politicians say they’ll clean up the streets

While they rest comfortably in linen sheets

Nowhere to live, nothing to give

Nowhere to die, nothing to try

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

VERSE 3

The empathy and sympathy are long gone

The psychopathy and hatred are so damn wrong

This is how we treat those below the elite

We laugh at the paper shoes on their feet

Society is a bitch ball gagged by the rich

If you dare try to snitch, you’ll lay in a ditch

This is what it means to have a heart so cold

Piss the people away like they’re urinary gold

CHOURS 2

Division continues to be slashed in half

Prejudice has doubled, it’s simple math

So much for cleaning up the city streets

It was never a system that was easy to beat

No one to love, no shelter above

No one to embrace, just another dirty face

No one to love

No one to love

Nowhere to live

Nowhere to live

Sex

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

VERSE 1

Look at that knight and his surfboard sword

Look at the way he cuts down the orc horde

Not even their axes could put a dent in his armor

It’s made of gold and spikes, for starters

But everything about him reminds you of a dick

And his only end goal is to obviously get chicks

His sword is so long and fat around the edges

So are the spikes in his suit, gold is piss, you get it?

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

VERSE 2

Look at the damsel stuck in the dragon’s tower

Rescue her and she’ll give you money and power

One slash of the dragon’s neck and he’s gone

Head rolling down the hill into the bubbly swamp

Damsel thanks you with a passionate kiss

Whether you want it or not, no refusing this

How can you be platonic when she’s clearly a prize?

The male gaze comes with the horniest eyes

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

BRIDGE

Testosterone is the reason for all of your decisions

Sperm invades your brain like a vaginal incision

If you get an A+ in all of your classes

It’s because you fantasize about tits and asses

Never mind that you studied and prepared for life

Because it all means nothing without a sexy wife

Everyone in town walks around with an erection

Always looking for ways to get an extension

VERSE 3

It’s insulting to every gender that there is

To leave the world around you covered in jizz

Think of all that greatness we could achieve

If we had self-esteem we could truly believe

CHORUS

Everything’s about sex except sex itself

Sex is about power and really nothing else

If it looks like a penis or like a vagina

Can’t wait to get something inside ya

Fresh Out of Choices

 VERSE 1

“Start at the bottom, work your way to the top

What’re you waiting for? There’re floors to mop”

Yeah, like a janitor has any upward mobility

This ain’t a meritocracy, this ain’t about ability

“No experience necessary, but no rookies please

We pay minimum wage, but expect a pay freeze”

Ain’t no boss in town who wants to welcome me

That would actually require a little empathy

CHORUS

I’m fresh out of choices

I’m just an annoyance

To the quasi-elite

Who hand out defeats

VERSE 2

“Don’t crush on You Tubers, they’ll break your heart

The distance between you two is light-years apart

Get out of the house and try to talk to people

I’m sure you’ll find a sweetie pie who’s your equal”

Good advice, Tiffany, but there’s just one problem

I get more cold shoulders than the winds of autumn

I get more cold feet than streaking in Siberia

My awkwardness alone sends them running in hysteria

CHORUS

I’m fresh out of choices

I’m just an annoyance

To the quasi-elite

Who hand out defeats

VERSE 3

“If you want to be successful, write every single day

If you want to get noticed, all you’ve got to do is pray”

Okay, Deborah, but you know I’ve got to ask

How do I pull energy right out of my own ass?

“Get your ass out of bed and do some sit-ups

Only then can you be a smoke show and a pinup”

Okay, Kevin, but the real question that I’ve got

Is how can I be something that I’m clearly not?

EXTENDED CHORUS

I’m fresh out of choices

I’m just an annoyance

To the quasi-elite

Who hand out defeats

I blocked out the noises

Glass-shattering voices

Their ignorance angers

Fuck all of the danger

Finding Treasure

 Every last page of the treasure map has led you to this. Gold, glorious gold, beautiful gold, showers of gold…wait a minute…Anyways, now that you’ve found these mountains of lovely gold coins underneath the waterfall, you send your pirate crew to haul it onboard your vessel. As you sail away with the precious treasure, you fantasize about what you’ll spend your newfound fortune on. A much-needed vacation? An elaborate mansion? Women? Lots and lots of women? Men? Non-binaries?

Your mind races at a million miles an hour at the possibilities. And then...your train of thought has been derailed when your ship snaps in two like a twig. You and your crew are left floating around the seven seas like turds in a punchbowl. Yes, you’ve got your treasure after all of this hard work…but even your mighty vessel wasn’t strong enough to store it all. You overloaded your fucking ship and sank the damn thing. Way to go, champ! You truly are a million dollar baby and the seven seas have gotten even choppier with the addition of your salty tears.

Everybody wants to find treasure. Everybody wants to live beyond their means. Everybody fantasizes about the high life. But in the midst of their fantasies, they forget the logistics of undertaking such a quest. It’s like the episode of South Park with the underpants gnomes. Phase one, steal underwear. Phase two...Phase three, profit. The gnomes don’t know what phase two is and neither do the pirate captains looking for treasure.

That scenario I painted for you in the above paragraphs was actually the ending scene for Captain William Kidd from the 90’s fighting game World Heroes 2. He got so greedy for his beautiful gold that he took too much of it and it sank his ship. Captain Kidd is a lot of things in that game. He’s a great fighter, no doubt. He’s got friendly dialogue. Now we can add one more quality to his resume: dumbassery. Is that a word? It probably could be if English snobs are willing to let words like “avast, ye matey” float by without examination.

So…when constructing your story about treasure hunting, you first have to ask what it is your sea captain is looking for. It doesn’t always have to be ultra-heavy gold coins. It doesn’t even have to be multiple items. It could be a magical gem. It could be a weapon. It could be a key to the gates of heaven. It could be a book. If you think Potterheads camping outside of Barnes & Noble takes dedication, you’ve never met a sea captain who searches far and wide for a book of secrets beneath the Atlantic Ocean.

Anything can be a valuable treasure if you put enough stock into it. Even another human being can be considered a valuable treasure. Maybe the sea captain is looking for a sexy siren who when discovered will become his wife for all eternity. Sounds great in theory, but it’s not exactly healthy relationship material if one party has too much power over the other.

Okay, so you know what you want your sea captain to look for. How do they get it? Do they have access to a treasure map? If so, how difficult was it to find? Did they have to wrestle it out of the hands of an orcish army? An ogre bruiser? A sneaky goblin? What about the map itself? Is it just one sheet of paper or is it a fucking novel the size of Webster’s Dictionary? Is the map even in plain English or does the captain need a translator to accompany him on his treasure hunt? Does the translator know how to fight or will they be swallowed whole by a bloodthirsty kraken? If you really wanted to be a dick to your main character, you could have the map come in the form of a thick novel with missing pages scattered all over the world, each of them in a different foreign language. How many times can your sea captain’s patience be tested before they say, “Fuck it, I’ll live on the streets?”

As if finding the missing pages to a treasure map wasn’t enough of a pain in the ass, getting from point A to point B is full of obstacles that grind the captain’s patience down to nothing. I’ve already mentioned bloodthirsty krakens who’ll eat entire armies alive with just one bite, but not before they’re wrapped in the pirate ship’s mast and eaten like Hot Pockets. What about other pirates, though? Surely, you’re not so arrogant to believe you’re the only one who wants the treasure, right? That’s why psychology experts warn You Tube consumers not to fall in love with content creators: because there’s an army of watchers who feel the same way and the chances of you being chosen are pretty fucking slim. 

So who are these other pirates going after your forbidden treasure? Skeletons? Orcs? Zombies? Dragon people? Or maybe they’re just ordinary humans. You can breathe a sigh of relief if the latter is the case, right? Not if they’re armed with AK-47’s and all you’ve got is a measly cutlass. I guarantee you Captain William Kidd wouldn’t stand a chance against Somali pirates. He can only throw the Shark Knuckle and Shark Upper so many times before he’s pumped full of lead. Those fighters in World Heroes 2 never really accounted for firearms, did they?

If the other pirates don’t kick the shit out of you, I guarantee that the oceans and general shitty weather will. Have you ridden on a boat with choppy waves before? I have. I was vacationing in Mexico in 2017 and part of my vacation was riding on a banana boat. Because the waves were rough and heavy, I fell off the damn boat and screamed for help until the lifeguards rescued me. The only reason why I didn’t scream earlier was because my head was underwater and bubbles don’t exactly translate well to above-surface lifeguards. 

If you’re sailing the seven seas, chances are good that you’ll be bounced up and down by the rolling waves. Your crew will be jostled around so many times that some of them may even fall off the ship never to be seen again. And that’s just the ocean. What about the rain? And the lightning? Suppose the only translator you have for your overly-complex map gets struck by lightning and dies? Then he gets tossed overboard by the nasty-ass waves? You talk about being lost at sea? Bitch, you’ll be lucky if you’re ever found again. The Coast Guard ain’t going to save your ass, because if they were capable of doing so, they would have found the treasure long before you ever did.

You know those motivational quotes that tell you to take risks without thinking too much about the consequences of failure? They seem inspirational at first, but overall, it’s shitty advice, especially if you’re a sea captain. You have to think about the risk-reward factor all the time. Is it worth the danger of being swallowed whole by the sea? Is it worth being gutted alive by a skeleton crew’s cutlasses? Is it worth the sleepless nights? Is it worth being so tired that you’re constantly on the edge of having a stroke, heart attack, aneurism, or all three at the same time?

What will you do once you’ve found this sacred treasure? Will you save it for a rainy day (one that preferably doesn’t take place during your travels)? Will you spend it all at once on hookers and beer and be right back to where you started in a week’s time? Will you use the mountains of gold coins to pay your bills? Does your landlord or debt collector even accept gold coins as currency? Suppose your landlord says, “Sorry, we don’t accept Canadian money.” Your ass is out on the streets in a big fucking hurry. But at least you found your treasure! Right?

Even if you as an author don’t plan on writing a treasure hunting story of any kind, this can still be a valuable lesson in thinking things through before you rush into a project. If you improvise everything, you’ll have a shitty first draft and a lot of work ahead of you. If you plan everything in advance down to the finest detail, you’ll still have a shitty first draft, but you won’t have nearly as much work to do. I wish I heeded this advice when I started pumping out first drafts left and right. 

One of the biggest criticisms I’ve ever received (aside from having too many saggy jowled dogs and fat male villains) was that I don’t take authority and culture into account when creating my worlds. I’ve often been asked, “Where are the cops?” My logical answer would have been that I want the MC to get the credit for the victory, not the cops. If the cops can solve everything, why have a story at all? Fair point, but the cops and authority figures still matter in every story. Or maybe the country is 100% anarchy and everybody solves their own damn problems. No matter what the case, it’s good to establish these things so that they’re clear to the reader.

But just because a fine eye for detail is required for any writing project, doesn’t mean you have to explain every…little…thing to the reader. There are some obvious parts of your world that you can trust your readers to form pictures of by themselves. Your book shouldn’t be overly long explanations sandwiching the crucial action and drama of your story. That shit just gets boring after a short while. I’ve DNFed books that took too long explaining everything, case in point, the first Game of Thrones book. The author wouldn’t shut his yap about the details of the characters’ clothes and histories, so the action suffered because of it. I would argue that Empress Theresa is the worst offender when it comes to over-explaining things. Then again, Empress Theresa is the worst offender no matter what category you’re talking about.

Finding a nice balance between over-explaining and not thinking at all about the extra details is paramount to a readable book, whether you’re writing about treasure hunting or not. Treasure hunting is just one genre that deserves this middle ground. It could also be true of contemporary dramas where the world-building details are the same as what we experience in real life. So maybe when Captain William Kidd washes up on the shore, he can build another pirate ship and only take half the gold this time around. And then he’d have to find a way to convert that gold into modern day money. If he really was the devious pirate he claimed to be, he could start his own pyramid scheme with that amount of gold. And then when he finally gets taken to court, he can bypass prison altogether and wind up in the safety of a nut house, because no modern day human being talks or dresses the way he does unless it’s Halloween. See? Details matter!

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds

 His driver’s license said Gabriel, he went by Gay

He’d do anything and anyone to get his fat payday

He had the 70’s moustache and a tray full of ash

Viagra and cocaine tucked inside his private stash

Eight hours of on-camera sex was what he had

A waterfall climax until his pecker looked so sad

For god knows how much money, the gig wasn’t bad

No longer will he miss a payment on his bachelor pad

Couldn’t find this kind of cheddar jockeying a cash box

Couldn’t find all these greenbacks curing smallpox

Would end up on the streets if he went to school to teach

Couldn’t cut it as a field hand picking every last peach

But the biggest price he paid when he got himself laid

Was some protests on his lawn and some online shade

More DM’s in his inbox than he could possibly delete

Asking for a free fuck, on their marriages they cheat

Every judgmental eye stares some daggers in his soul

They know about every hole, terrorism is their goal

A Molotov bomb thrown through his front window

Before they even get a chance to try to fucking know

What his struggles really are, explosives in his car

Blowing every little piece of him fifty feet apart

Why all of the hate for a guy trying to get by?

Couldn’t win against capitalism even if he tried

No love from the police, not a desist or a cease

Not even a bodyguard with a wild pay increase

The world learned to hate, so they sealed his fate

Could’ve been a porno legend, could’ve been great

Everybody mocks what they don’t understand

Rest in Power, Gay Reynolds, in the Promised Land

Never did he know that he left behind a daughter

Mother was a fellow actress also led to slaughter

A kid in foster care never stood a chance there

I wouldn’t blame her if she was constantly scared

Calling out for her parents but the bullies answer

Wishing her to have a malignant form of cancer

Who is anybody to point and laugh and judge?

Roles were reversed? Life would be just as tough

Buy Buy Buy

 Here’s a million bucks, go fuck your friends

Here’s a million more, put their lives to an end

Here’s another thousand, sell out your country

Who cares where it comes from? It’s just money

It’s an ultimatum of the very worst kind

A mediocre life is about all you can find

Maybe homelessness is what you’ll get

All my CEO friends have a running bet

Here’s a million bucks, look into the camera

Here’s a million more, sell out your grandma

Here’s another thousand, sell out your minority

Money talks and it’s your only authority

We can buy celebrities for pennies on the dollar

Buy politicians and make them hoot and holler

Buy the police and give them palms full of grease

Buy, buy, buy, it’s an addiction and disease

Here’s a million bucks, don’t give it to the poor

Here’s a million more, don’t shop at little stores

Here’s another thousand, give it all to charity

Tax loopholes are written with such clarity

Ever hear about The Man Who Sold the World?

He gave it to us for the price of diamonds and pearls

We’ve got whole countries sucking our dicks

They come to us when they need a cabinet pick

Here’s a million bucks, go buy the universe

Here’s a million more, go empty your purse

Here’s another thousand, bring aliens to their knees

Business is booming, we buy debts and fees

Whoever said money is the root of all evil

Isn’t hanging out with all the right people

It’s a big ass club only a select few can join

If you’ve got the power, we’ve got the coin

But the younger generation already knows

We’re full of shit and it certainly shows

But what can they do about the world burning?

Oh yeah, our failures are what they’re learning

Philosophy

 Let me ask you a philosophical question…

If I write a thousand stories and nobody cares

Do they suddenly vanish into nothing but air?

If I fall in love and leave everyone disgusted

Can any of my feelings really be so trusted?

If I make money delivering another cook’s meal

Are they the ones who deserve all of the zeal?

If I pet a thousand cats and make them purr

Does worldwide harmony suddenly occur?

If I feed a thousand hamburgers to hungry dogs

Will anybody hear their little howling songs?

If I have a thousand dreams underneath the sheets

Will I wake up just to taste lifelong defeat?

If I get a thousand likes on this picture of me

Is it true beauty that the public wants to see?

If everybody tells me that I should shoot my shot

Will I hit the target every time? Probably not

Success is more heavenly than the pearly gates

So why is it that I continue to sit around and wait?

Because taking action has a lethal consequence

High risk, high reward, no sitting on the fence

Failure is inevitable, but it shouldn’t be deadly

A safety net is what the gods should send me

But no universal space god watches my back

One big mistake, my whole world goes black

Playing it safe is considered mediocrity

I’m just living my life at a snail’s velocity

Let me ask another philosophical question

If a shooting star falls, does it even get a mention?

Dirty Laundry

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to another episode of Beneath the Surface. I am your host, Aaron Moore. Tonight we’ve got a special treat for you. It’s no secret how Dread City’s debt crisis has ravaged our poor and working class population. Many of our citizens are losing their homes, their jobs, and in many cases, their families due to not being able to pay their debts on time. Here to expose the secrets of this little known debt industry is a man who wishes to be known by the pseudonym Heath Riggs. Heath, welcome to the show.”

“Good to be here, Aaron.”

Heath parked his ass at a dimly lit studio table across from his host, while live cameras filmed the interview from every angle behind the shadows. Aaron Moore clearly enjoyed the spotlight as evidenced by the fancy gray suit and tie he wore just for this occasion. Heath Riggs, on the other hand, thrived in anonymity, his black leather jacket, sunglasses, and hood covering everything but his black face driving the point home. While Aaron leaned his body in to ask the tough questions, Heath kicked back with his fingers in a triangle position and his heel across his lap.

“Now Heath, I want to start off by addressing with you the harassing ways in which debts are collected. The late night phone calls, the vulgar speech, the contacting of family, friends, and coworkers. By your own admission, these tactics should be illegal, yet debt collection companies get away with this all the time.”

Heath cleared his throat. “Well, you’re right about the fact that these tactics should be illegal. If they came from anybody other than a collector, the police would be called in a heartbeat. But the funny thing is, the harassment doesn’t actually get us our money faster. Then again, neither does the impending lawsuit and the subsequent garnishing of wages. This isn’t about collecting money we’ll never have. It’s politics. It’s all about weeding out the poor and disenfranchised so that they can’t influence our governmental policies. It’s not a conspiracy. This shit’s as real as it gets.”

Aaron, who was drinking a mug of hot coffee during Heath’s answer, spit out his beverage and choked on whatever was left. After wiping his mouth with his expensive sleeve, he said, “Mr. Riggs, I appreciate your honesty during this interview, but I have to ask you not to swear when giving your answers. We’re on live television in over a million homes. Surely, you understand.”

“Of course I do.” Heath grinned like he was onto something. “Wouldn’t want to offend your audience’s precious Christian ears. Wouldn’t want the children to hear any of this shit. Lord knows they might grow up to become free thinkers. We know that can never happen.”

“I’m warning you, Mr. Riggs….”

Taking his sunglasses off and revealing gray mechanical eyes underneath, Heath said, “Don’t worry, Aaron, I got the message loud and clear. You can’t swear on television, but if you do it behind closed doors with an unwilling secretary, it’s A-okay. I’m not just exposing the debt industries secrets, but yours as well. I agreed to do this interview because I want a clear conscience. Fourteen years of debt collecting began to wear on my soul after a while. I figured, as long as I’m here with an alleged sexual harasser, I might as well go the full nine, you know what I’m saying?”

“Cut the camera feed! Cut it now!” demanded Aaron. Without checking to see if his orders were followed, he leaned in closer to Heath’s face and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re trying to pull, but you have no proof and neither do any of my accusers. Those cases were settled a long time ago. Now do you want to discuss debt collection or do you want to keep toying with me?”

“Why can’t he talk about both? It’s not like you two don’t deserve last words,” said a robotic feminine voice from the shadowy background. While Heath remained calm, cool, and collected, Aaron went bug-eyed and his body trembled at the sight of a cyborg assassin holding two severed heads by the hair like they were cheerleader pompoms. As soon as this mysterious woman stepped into the light, headless bodies all around the studio dropped to the ground and soaked the wooden floors in human blood and cyborg oil. A bald black woman with golden earrings and a green metal suit stared her newest victims down with a mischievous grin.

While Aaron curled up in a ball on the edge of pissing himself, the assassin said, “Don’t worry, honey. None of what you or Heath said made it on the airwaves. I made sure of that. It’s probably just as well. Although, if you want to tell your mindless viewers goodbye for one last time, I suppose I could let you do that.”

“Please…I don’t know who you are, but I’ve got a family I need to get home to. Don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” quivered Aaron while Heath smiled and shook his head.

“It’s the same old excuse: think of my family so that I don’t have to when I’m trying to take the secretary to pound town. Don’t worry, Aaron, I’ve got this.” Heath cracked his knuckles before getting out of his chair and strutting towards the assassin, who tossed the cameramen’s heads off to the side like they were easily disposable to begin with.

“What are you so cocky about, Mr. Riggs? You’re not making it out alive any more than Hard-On Henry over here. In fact, you’re the reason I came here today,” said the assassin with a grin.

Heath gazed his assailant up and down and whistled. “That’s some expensive hardware you’ve got there. How much did them arm blades set you back? Hundreds? Thousands of dollars? And that metal body? Shit, man, I don’t know how you pay for all that with just a Street Ronin’s salary. If only there was somebody here who knew how to make debt disappear quicker than those cameramen you laid out. Hmm…” Heath stroked his chin as he mockingly pondered this question.

The assassin flipped one of her arm blades and held it underneath Heath’s chin. He didn’t back down from his confident demeanor, but he was all ears for his would-be killer. “When you’re as good as me, money isn’t that hard to come by. I don’t know what kind of lies you’re telling about my client, but these poor suckers don’t go into debt because of politics. They do it because they could never make it in a capitalist meritocracy. That’s my special way of saying they’re fucking lazy.”

“Sure, whatever you say…Harlock!”

Upon hearing the assassin’s name, Aaron slowly lowered his feet to the bloody floor, obviously not caring that much about his designer shoes. “Wait a minute, you know this woman?”

“Not as well as I’d like to, but when you’ve been on the job as long as I have, you learn something about these poor pathetic motherfuckers. The boss man gives you a name, an address, and how much they owe. The rest of the research is up to you, hence why we often resort to calling friends and family to collect the debt. Harlock here doesn’t care about the circumstances of others, which is ironic considering those cyborg parts didn’t come easy in this so-called meritocracy. Besides, if she was really as hot shit as she thinks she is, she wouldn’t have revealed all this information to me. We’d both be dead as fucking fried chicken right now. But as it is…”

“Shut the hell up!” said Harlock as she drew a tiny droplet of blood from Heath’s cheek. He still didn’t budge, only smiled wider as he cleaned the wound off with his finger and licked it.

“Face it, lady,” said Heath. “You don’t want to admit it, but you can see the irony of a debt-burdened assassin working for a debt collection agency. You’re desperate for cash, so you’ll whore your services to anybody who can make shit go away. But the truth is…paying those suckers off ain’t going to solve everything. You would not believe the tricks they pull out of their asses just to keep you paying up. Ever heard of zombie debt? How about fifty percent interest? How about debtor’s prison? They still have that shit.”

Harlock narrowed her bladed eyebrows and dug the weapon deeper into Heath’s skin. He flinched a little bit, but not enough to give away whatever modicum of fear he might have been burdened with. She leaned in and said, “You know nothing about me and my struggles.”

“Exactly! Debt collectors don’t know shit about you, which is why they keep calling your ass in the first place! You could come crying to them with your whole life story and it wouldn’t be enough. They got no heart. They got no soul. If a big ass mega corporation had a heart and soul, they wouldn’t be in business for very long, would they? Capitalism is a bitch.”

Harlock’s eyes slowly lowered to the soggy floor as if Heath’s words got through to her. He took this small window of opportunity to grab her by the arm and swing her blade into her own stomach. While Aaron was in the background this whole time shivering and weeping, Harlock’s mechanical guts spilled all over the ground as she coughed up oil and blood. Heath yanked the blade upwards and split the rest of her upper body in two, bloodying the floor even more than it already was.

“What the hell did you do that for?! She was cooperating!” Aaron screamed.

“Recognizing how badly you’ve fucked up isn’t a Get Out of Jail Free card. In case you hadn’t noticed what’s been going on here the past few seconds, look on the ground. That bitch is beyond redemption. Speaking of which, let’s get them cameras rolling again…”

“No! No cameras! No! I’m done with this!”

“Oh, we’re just getting started, Aaron. We’ve got a lot to discuss. Debt collection and sexual harassment all in one story, although that piss stain on your pants will be bigger ratings boost than anything we talk about.”

Aaron spread his shaky legs to see that there was indeed urine on his groin. “Goddamn it!”

Heath shushed him. “Ah, ah, ah! No swearing! There’re children watching!”

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

Jackie Brown

MOVIE TITLE: Jackie Brown

DIRECTOR: Quentin Tarantino

YEAR: 1997

GENRE: Crime Drama

RATING: R for violence, nudity, and language

GRADE: Pass

LAX flight attendant Jackie Brown is busted by the police for smuggling cocaine and money across the Mexican border. Facing up to five years in prison, the only way out of doing hard time is by ratting out the gun dealer whom the money was supposed to go to, Ordell Robbie. As a sting operation is set up to smuggle the rest of the money out of Mexico, it isn’t always clear who’s double-crossing who. Will Jackie take off with the money herself? Will she stay true to the police or to Ordell? She has the know-how and seductive nature to pull off any deal she wants. Can she do it without getting shot or sent to jail permanently?

First and foremost, the show-stealer of this movie was Samuel L. Jackson as he portrayed Ordell Robbie. His dialogue was delivered naturally and believably. His swearing wasn’t forced at all. He carried himself like the crime lord he was supposed to be. The audience will either be intimidated or thoroughly entertained by Mr. Jackson’s antics (why not both?). However, one of the biggest criticisms this movie got was how frequently the N-word was used by him. To those critics, I say chill out. Quentin Tarantino didn’t write it in the script so many times because he wanted to push a racist agenda. In the criminal underworld, it sounds completely natural, especially coming out of Samuel L. Jackson’s mouth at a hundred miles per hour. This is one instance in cinema history where it’s cool to root for the villain.

Speaking of dialogue, that happens to be one of Quentin Tarantino’s strong suits as a filmmaker and it shows in this movie. While Samuel L. Jackson stole the show, every other cast member could be credited with bringing a believable story to life with their dialogue alone. It could be Pam Grier talking about getting old and starting over again. It could be Bridget Fonda having a casual chitchat with Robert De Niro. It could be Robert Forster talking about how much he hates his job (while still delivering his dialogue like a true professional bondsman). Whether it’s mundane conversation or it actually advances the story, you’ll want to keep your ears open the whole way throughout this movie. It certainly makes up for the oftentimes slow action sequences in between.

If I have one criticism for this movie, it’s that the storyline mechanics were hard to piece together at times. I’m not talking about the audience constantly guessing who Jackie Brown is going to double-cross, that part I’m okay with. I’m talking about keeping up with how the final transaction of Mexican money is supposed to go down. I’m talking about all the ways it went wrong. I’m talking about the climax of the movie and why it couldn’t have happened sooner. I understand that Quentin Tarantino loves his complex storylines, but too much complexity can take the audience out of the viewing experience, especially if things don’t click together by the end credits. But this is a minor criticism at best, so don’t let it discourage you from watching this movie.

I’ve always known that Quentin Tarantino was a master storyteller the minute I watched Pulp Fiction. Watching his other movies, this one included, proves his mantle over and over again. Jackie Brown didn’t feel formulaic. It felt fresh and new despite the fact that it was released in 1997. I hope to one day watch Mr. Tarantino’s entire collection of movies and give them all high praise. But for tonight, Jackie Brown gets a solid four out of five stars.

Boots and Tongues

VERSE 1

Lick all the ass cheeks, lick all the dicks

Lick all the pussies until you get sick

Drink all the juices, every last ounce

Then tell the world to compare bank accounts

PRE-CHORUS 1

You won’t rinse with mouthwash

Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!

You won’t use dental floss

CHORUS 1

Boots and tongues! Collect your pay!

Boots and tongues! The corporate way!

Boots and tongues! It tastes okay!

Boots and tongues! Lick it!

VERSE 2

Lick all the bare feet and savor the treat

Toe jam and toenails are the new lunch meat

Lick all the nut sacks and kiss all the rings

Kiss all the asses and lick everything

PRE-CHORUS 2

You won’t brush with toothpaste

Lick it! Lick it! Lick it all!

Dental insurance is such a waste

CHORUS 2

Boots and tongues! Collect your cash!

Boots and tongues! Marry into trash!

Boots and tongues! Hide your stash!

Boots and tongues! Lick it!

CHORUS 3

Boots and tongues! Collect your coin!

Boots and tongues! Stroke your groin!

Boots and tongues! The club to join!

Boots and tongues! Lick it!