Coroner's Report

The Origin of Samson Gallows

2011-08-16T23:52:00.004-04:00

Ask a roomful of writers, hell, a hundred. Shit, ask a thousand of them and the most frequently asked question they get asked is "Where do you get your ideas?".

The muse is a funny thing. Mine has been driving me banana bat shit crazy lately. She's been a naughty child who isn't focusing on what I'm telling her to. No...instead she's focusing on what's supposed to be the project I want to work on after the current one.

But no. For the past several weeks I've been getting snippets of dialogue and scenes and character sketches and... you get the idea.

Where do we get our ideas from? It's the most often asked question, but sometimes I think it's the wrong question.

Not "where" but "how" might be more apt.

I could type out some stereotypical tripe about how writers and other creatives just think a little differently. But I'm not.

Instead, I'm going to tell you about the origins and development of the character Samson Gallows in my upcoming novella Samson and Denial from Thunderstorm Books.

I'm going to tell you how the story and Samson came to be, but if you haven't read it yet, rest easy - I'm not going to give away any spoilers to the story itself.

•••

Some writers struggle to come up with a good title. They'll write the story with a working title and then when it's finished, they'll pound their head to come up with something better.

I'm not one of them. I'm a strange bird in that I get titles that come to me without the damned story attached. Sounds like a problem, eh?

Yeah,well, sometimes it is. But over the years, I've discovered something very cool about the way my subconscious works. I get the title, make a little mental note of it. Then my brain starts an internal dialogue with itself.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Cool title, asshole. Got a story to go with it?"

"Well...not...really."

"Didn't think so. You should uh...get on that, don't you think?"

And then I continue to do my thing, live my life, raise the kids, deal with drama, laugh some, cry some, pay the bills and all that while my mind works on it off the books.

Eventually, the story will catch fire and the title will start making sense and everything will really start to come together.

This was the case with Samson and Denial. The title came to me on a long drive when my kids and ex-wife were all sound asleep and my mind had time to wander. I loved the title right away but had no idea - none at all - of what the story behind it was.

Time passed. Shit happened. Life happened. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Copperfield married Claudia Schiffer. Wait.. I'm getting off topic here.

The story of Samson stewed and waited until his voice clicked into place for me. Just like that, I knew Samson lived in Philadelphia. I knew the kind of man he was – living life in the gray area between right and wrong.

In a recent review of Samson and Denial at dreadfultales.com, Colum McKnight wrote:

It’s almost as if Ford was curious as to what he would do when presented with an over-the-top scenario, and plugged Samson right in there.

Well Colum, if truth be told, you hit the nail on the head.

Samson wears a lot of the blood of my past – metaphorically at least. But with any good story, as a writer, you want to make your character go through a world of shit. There's blood on Samson from past relationships when I was much younger. Blood from my divorce. Blood from running a business hit by the economy and feeling desperate as all hell to do anything to survive. Blood from loving my kids more than the world and wanting to protect them...knowing I'd walk through hell and back to keep them safe.

Samson became a strange conglomerate of parts of me, parts of him that came to life the more I thought about him, and observations of people that I saw when I lived in Philadelphia. There are traits of my best friends and my father and parts of me that I wish I had but don't.

I lived vicariously through Samson during this tale. I hope I never have to go through anything close to the hell he does in the novella. But if I do, I sure as hell hope I deal with it utilizing the same composure and hold-onto-your-balls attitude that Samson does.

When I'm working on a project, I definitely need to know my character well. I need to fall in love with them – even if they're the most evil bastard on the planet – in order to really dig in.

Samson did that pretty quickly. I knew this guy. I loved him. I felt bad for what was happening to him. But more than that... I understood Samson. At least a good portion of him. Because I was Samson.

But when he truly started to come to life inside my head (if you are a writer, you know what I mean...there's nothing like that feeling. It's complete and utter magic) he took off in ways I never expected. The muse was in full swing – relating memories of Samson as a child. Things he planned to do in the future. Little secrets he shared with his wife. A million different things that never made it into the novella, but that didn't matter...because every single one of them brought me closer to his voice, his personality, and – not to get too purple here – but the very soul of his character.

I can only hope that all of you as readers enjoy reading Samson and Denial as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope that you get to know him half as well as I do.

Samson and Denial
Robert Ford
Publisher: Thunderstorm Books
Official Release Date: September 2, 2011. Launching at Horrorfind Weekend, Gettysburg, PA.

After Horrorfind Weekend, Samson and Denial can be ordered directly through www.thunderstormbooks.com

AT HORRORFIND
I'll be doing a signing with Rio Youers Friday night, September 2, from 7:30 until 10:00
Reading from 1:00 to 2:00 on Sunday with Kevin Lucia
Signing from 2:00 to 3:00 on Sunday with Kevin Lucia

Quadruple Decade

2011-06-27T19:36:00.002-04:00

Over the past ten years or so, on the night of my birthday and New Year's Eve, I've taken a moment of quiet time to reflect on life past and life ahead... this year was no different.

This year, the amazing and talented Kelli Owen threw me a surprise party a week earlier than my birthday. While Ron Dickie kept me occupied at the York Emporium bookstore, everyone gathered in my garage and I have to say I was humbled at some of the people who had made the journey to share in love and laughter along with me. Drew Williams drove a long way to get here (though he was sorely missing his heterosexual male life partner). Kevin Lucia found out that the drive was a hell of a lot shorter than he thought. Mike Lombardo showed up and gave me a burned stripper's g-string as a present (the stripper was unharmed. I think.). Ice bat and T-Rex puppet (that I had waaaaayyyyy too much fun with later. After mucho tequila) popped up for attendance as well.

My cousin, Kristie, started the ball rolling on my roast by filling everyone in on family secrets that only those in the ninja ryu I attended as a child were privy to. Brian Keene gave scathing insight about what happens to a man's physical body as they age. Dave Thomas worked his way around the crowd, taking turns at those in attendance with a razor's edge. John Stapleton pulled his laptop into play and gave a presentation (including a photo of me that is utter ridiculousness) that would put Mad Men to shame. His wrap up made my eyes get glassy (thx, ya bastard). Tim Baker listed off the arm's length worth of nicknames I've had over my life. Doug Metherell poked fun at my lack of facial hair, and complete inability to play sports, among other things. Joe Branson went off on an improv roast that left me feeling used and cheap. Ron Dickie, red-faced and glass in hand, made me giggle like a school girl and made me question why I ever stole him from Tomo in the first place.

Then Nikki McKenzie gave her roast... not so much a roast as a sweet poem (there's a reason why she's going to be one of the best new writers out there soon, mark my words). Her roast made my eyes glassy as well (almost had too much salt water in the ocean, darlin).

Mark Eaton had a smirk on his face as he gave me a beer cozy as a present. For a 40 oz. Feeling hardcore, I drank that later and didn't pour any out for my homies, cause they were all there anyway.
Susan Scofield was there, along with Alethea Kontis and the fairy goddaughters. Dave Stapleton and his lovely wife Beth. Tim's amazing wife, Melissa. John's incredible (but freaky lookin in contacts) wife Becky. Matt Blazi busting my chops about Michigan... and the usual crew of the Green Couch.

And more than that, the Four were back together again - John Stapleton, Doug Metherell, Tim Baker and myself. These are best friends I've known for going on 25 years - they're brothers.

There were many drinks, many laughs, and many socks (I guess you had to be there) and it was a night of magic.

I needed it in the worst way.

See, turning 40 isn't really impacting me. Age never really has, for that matter. I was never one of those kids who can't WAIT to turn 16... or are just dyyyyyying to turn 21.

40 is just a number to me. I don't suddenly feel like an old man or that my life is half over or anything like that. My world view has changed significantly over the past ten years... age is relative. And I put a lot more emphasis on the mental aspects of age than I do the physical.

I'm not old, but physically, I am not a young man anymore. But mentally and spiritually, I am young.

All of you keep me young... you are all the light I see on a dark day and I love each and every one of you more than you can imagine. Thank you all for coming to share the day with me... some amazing, hilarious presents, socks, but most of all, sharing yourselves with me. The spark you all carry collectively is amazing...

Yesterday was my actual birth date, and I spent the day relaxing in the backyard pool with cold drinks and a handful of friends. The day ended with a spectacular sunset and lots of laughter.

Thank you Kelli for an incredible day... I love you more than words and can't thank you enough.

As midnight closed in, I sat by myself and thought things over. Pretty amazing life. Lots of good things are starting to happen in the very near future. I breathed in the summer air and looked at the dark sky.

No stars were out, but it didn't matter - I'm lit from the inside. We all are.
We just have to have quiet moments of reflection to remember it sometimes.

--
June 27, 2011

Hibernation's Over

2011-03-24T12:02:00.003-04:00

It hasn't been a rough winter, but it has felt very long while I've been away.

I've been hibernating for a while. Recharging and musing and finally finishing a novella called Samson and Denial that I think is one of the best things I've ever written.

But spring is here. Flowers are blooming and it's a time of awakening again.

I'm done hibernating and I find it fitting that I've been writing about a character named Samson - another of which took down Goliath.

I'm writing today to join in the boycott of Dorchester - Leisure publishing. The full details of why can be found in a detailed timeline over at Brian Keene's blog by clicking here.

But the long and short of it is that they have been - and continue to - selling e-books for writers that they no longer have the rights to. They are also essentially holding lots of writers print rights hostage while they repeatedly distribute product for which the writers are not being paid for. All this while offering vague excuses and passing the buck instead of taking responsibility for their own indiscretions.

By doing so, they are affecting every writer that has ever been brought into their stable and trusted them with their hard work and effort of writing the words down in the first place. Writers who - myself included - once thought of Dorchester - Leisure as a great place to publish mass market horror. These writers come from a big cross section of life. Some of them - hell, most of them - still hold day jobs and snatch time whenever they can to scribble down novels, pushing onward with a dream in mind. And Dorchester - Leisure is screwing with their lives...not providing payment for their work and trying to treat them like most of big corporate America company that attempts to screw over the people they depend on in the first place.

Their actions affect the fans as well. By not paying the writers what they are deserved, bills will go unpaid in their households and some of them will simply not be able to continue to write as they will need to seek alternate sources of income instead of following with their true passions.

Fans and authors have spoken out publicly on Dorchester's Facebook page...only to have the comments deleted. They are an unscrupulous company operating without honor, business ethics, and basic ethics as people in general.

Brian Keene is leading the charge, and following his lead, I urge you:

*If you follow them on Twitter please unfollow them. *If you like them on Facebook please unlike them. *If you receive their marketing emails, please remove yourself from their list. *If you belong to one of their book clubs please consider canceling your membership. *If you are considering publishing with them please reconsider. 

Dorchester - Leisure's actions are simply unacceptable. Let's show them.
Hibernation is sometimes a good thing. Just be careful what you wake up.

The Sky Was Bright

2010-11-24T19:12:00.000-05:00

"As he peered ahead into the great land that stretched before him, the way seemed long. But the sky was bright, and he somehow felt that he was headed in the right direction."

- Stuart Little by E.B. White

As I write this, I'm in Wisconsin and it's snowing outside. Well, technically it's "Lake Effect" as I've been told previously but it's white, fluffy, and is piling up outside around my truck tires and falls from the sky. But when in Rome...

November already. Holy hell. Where did this year go? Where did the time fly?

It's been full of friends and stress and drama all round. It's brought laughter from children and tears from adults and memories good and bad. And it's coming to a close. It feels like a chapter is coming to a close as well.

When I was a kid, I used to sit on the front porch of the valley and watch the thunderstorms roll in. It was usually in early spring so the breezes were warm and brought the smell of mountain laurel and lily of the valley and the wild roses that grew across the hillside. The air smelled sweet and electric and if I close my eyes I can still remember exactly what it felt like.

The clouds would darken and I'd listen to the thunder and watch the sky as it boiled overhead. Then the lightning would arrive and I was enthralled: fireworks streaking across the sky like glints of busted glass.

I'd stay as long as I could before going inside to my room and listening to the rain beat down against the tin roof of the house.

The storm wall would move in and for a while there would be nothing but the sound of the rain, constant and comforting, and then the storm would move on, leaving everything bright and new again.

Outside, the snow is falling down, leaving a white blanket across the world. It looks blank and new again, waiting for fresh tracks to be laid across it.

I've got a lot left I want to do. The way seems long, but I'm ready to lay new tracks. I think the worst of the storm has gone by.

I feel new again. But I think I'm headed in the right direction.

- b

***
Current reads:
Peter Straub's A Dark Matter

Current listens:
Gaslight Anthem's American Slang (kicks ass)

Current writing updates:
Finished a new short story for an anthology - details coming.
Finished first complete draft of Samson and Denial and doing second round of edits.
After that... it's novel time.

Six Days

2010-09-27T13:15:00.002-04:00

I had the pleasure of reading Kelli Owen's Six Days back when it was going under a different title. I read it when there were different character names in it and some word choices that have been changed.
But the thought regarding the novel at the time never swayed... this novel was going to see the light of day.

That times has come.

Being released from Maelstrom, a line of Thunderstorm Publishing, Kelli Owen's Six Days is her debut novel. But holy hell, what a debut.

Like many of you that visit my blog, I'm an avid reader, though I used to be able to consume a lot more than I do now. I've read a ton of first novels; some writers I stuck with and watched as they improved their skills. Their later novels became much more fluid and graceful.

Others? Well... not so much.

Six Days does not read like a first novel. You know what I'm talking about. In many ways, it's like a first date. There's usually some awkwardness, you fumble over certain things here and there, and at the end, you're not completely satisfied because it didn't live up to what you had built up in your mind ahead of time.
I can assure you - this is not the case with Six Days.

In a past life, Kelli has reviewed and edited for... oh hell, the list of names you would recognize is staggering. The list of names she's reviewed that you wouldn't recognize is equally as impressive. Because of her experience, she learned what worked and what didn't. Over the thousands of pages she's read, she has developed a firm grasp of what creates tension and pace and keeps the reader moving forward for more.

As I watched her do the final edits on Six Days, from time to time she would stop and a smile would come over her face. I think in those times she finally started to understand what she had created. She started to be proud of it. She started to believe the compliments of her peers and associates.

She should know better than to think we would just blow smoke in false praise of her efforts. After all, she would never in a million years do that to us.

It's one hell of a novel, debut be damned.

Pre-ordering takes place on October 1 over at: Thunderstorm Books It's only going to take place for a single day and if you miss out, that's it.

There's only one first novel from a writer. Don't miss out on this one.

••••
What have I been up to?

Well, I'll tell ya. Been struggling with the day job/business stuff in a major way and that's really been eating up a lot of time, energy and emotions. Economy's down and so is business. Hanging on by fingernails doesn't come close to describing it. But hey, change is supposed to be good, when one door closes another opens and please feel free to insert any additional number of clichés here, thank you very much.

There should be two pieces (at least) of short fiction coming out later this year. I'll announce that as the time gets closer.
Working on a story at the moment that's due November 1. This one is going to be a lot of fun (promise it won't make you cry either, Qwee... okay, maybe just a little).

And though I'm horribly behind schedule, I've been making notes and am ready to plunge into this Big Mac novel that Kelli and I have spoken about. Though I have another non-genre novel that keeps whispering to me at the oddest times.

Current reads: Sarah Court by Craig Davidson. Amazing prose.
Current music: 22-20's, Gaslight Anthem, and Mumford & Sons.

Be good... talk to you all soon.

All sorts of chewy goodness

2010-09-03T09:43:00.002-04:00

Between dealing with this economy and the advertising business in general, a gypsy that got into a car accident, and a myriad of other insanity, I've been sorely lacking in blog posts.

BUT, to give you an update on some very cool things...

Headed to HorrorFind Weekend in Gettysburg later today. Kelli Owen will be doing a reading this evening at 7:30 pm and unveiling some exciting news she's been bursting to tell.

I'll be reading on 11:00 am on Sunday accompanying Kevin Lucia and Sheldon Higdon.

Later today, there'll be fun and shenanigans with Greg Hall on The Funky Werepig podcast. Tune in at 1:00 (if you have one of those day jobs where they crack the whip on such a thing, don't worry - it'll be archived so you can check it out later).

And lastly, I'm the Spotlight Scribe on Choate Road this month. Check the site out and read my story Bloodlegum and Lolliknives - a very rare short story that was previously published in the limited New Dawn chapbook given only to Brian Keene's board members as a Christmas gift.

Hope you to see you all at HorrorFind!

(Insanity is slowly dying down... more great updates after this weekend)
bob

Horrible Saturday - August 11, 2010

2010-08-11T12:07:00.003-04:00

This Saturday, at the York Emporium (aka the world's coolest freakin bookstore) there'll be shenanigans. There'll be good times. There'll be readings and signings and a SCREAM contest.

Kelli Owen will be reading from her novel to be released later this year.

I'll be reading some short fiction and there'll be Q & A and good times.

York Emporium
Saturday, August 14, 2010
10am – 6pm

Events Schedule:

10:30 NOEL SLOBODA, professor at Penn State-York is dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Company. He is the author the poetry collection Shell Games (2008) as well as two chapbooks: Of Things Passed (2010) and Stages (2010). He will read some of his original speculative poetry that has appeared in such places as Tales of the Talisman, Scifaikuest, Niteblade, Illumen, and Ghostlight.

11:30 SCOTT BUTCHER is an old friend of The York Emporium. We have been privileged in the past to welcome him for signings of some of his latest books. He is an author, playwright and accomplished photographer, and an architectural historian who has been known to lead walking tours of downtown York. He will regale us with tales pulled from his published work, Spooky York.

12:30 GORGO. Before there were Transformers…before there was Godzilla…there was Gorgo. This 1961 film is one of the forgotten giants of the monster movie realm. You will see London as you never have before. Free popcorn. And, perhaps, the willies.

2:00 BOB FORD, to all outward appearances, is a mild-mannered advertising guru. But he has a secret life. He spends his evenings devising plots and planning murder and mayhem. He is good enough at it to have had a number of his short stories published in major metropolitan…well, major monthly magazines. He also has several screenplays bouncing around Hollywood, and several bouncing around his head. He will be bouncing all these off us, and the walls.

3:00 HORROR 101. Joe & Gail Galusha know whereof they will speak. Collectors extraordinaire of funeralia (they own a fleet of vintage hearses) and the macabre, this husband-and-wife team will present the fun side of torture and death. With prizes.

4:00 KELLI OWEN is one of the up-and-comers in the genre of horror fiction. A resident of Central Pennsylvania, Kelli has published several fiction and nonfiction pieces over the years. In 2010 she is slated to be published with three anthologies, four short stories, an article and her debut novel In the Shadow of Darkness. She will be reading from her novel, answering questions and taking names.

5:00 SCREAMING CONTEST! It is getting to be a tradition! Our third annual Screaming Contest for braggin’ rights to the title of Best Screamer in York County comes complete with a $50 Gift Certificate to The York Emporium. A howling good time is guaranteed for all.

So, if you're in downtown York this weekend... if your Saturday consists of nothing but sitting on the couch, get off your duff and come on down to the Emporium. It'll be fun. It'll be entertaining. It'll be HORRIBLE!

Magic Among the Pages

2010-07-12T11:29:00.001-04:00

I'm a firm believer that like people, certain books come into your life when you need them the most. A few months back, during one of Ron Dickie'svisits to the States, we went to the amazing book store in York known as the York Emporium.It's filled with aisle after aisle of used books and odd trinkets of every imaginable flavor. I used to live a couple of blocks from the place and I've spent many hours among the bookshelves, getting lost.

During Dickie's visit, we were talking about what we've read or hadn't, and I told him I'd never read Robert McCammon's Boys Life. I'd read McCammon before and enjoy the hell out of his work. But somehow, Boy's Life slipped through the cracks for me.

Dickie dove into the stacks and bought me a copy and I finished reading it yesterday.

Monday's blogs are supposed to be an open ended question to you but I hope you'll forgive today's slight indiscretion. Today's Coroner's Report is an open letter to Robert McCammon.

•••••••••

Dear Mr. McCammon,

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Although I've read and thoroughly enjoyed quite a few of your books, somehow things never quite lined up for me to read Boy's Life until now.

To say the past couple of years of my life has been troublesome would be an understatement. Life has hills and valleys and I suppose it was just my turn to experience some low lying ground for a while.

It's been a long time since I've read something that pulled me in so wholly and completely that the experiences of the character spill over in such a way to truly touch my heart. While reading Boy's Life, I laughed out loud. I wept. I kept turning the pages to see how things were going to work out.

But most of all, I felt magic.

Thank you for reminding me of my childhood in so many ways.

Thank you for reminding me of the adventures I had growing up on a farm as a young boy; that I used to imagine sea serpents in our pond and creatures in the woods and was king of a castle in my barn. I once rode a wild stallion of a bicycle and had the world's best friend in the form of a dog and can recall the bittersweet moments that made me laugh while he was alive and be heartbroken at his loss.

Thank you for making me consider the magic all around us; for reminding me it still exists if we open our eyes. You've made me consider the gifts that storytellers have and the power they wield.

You've made me fall in love with being a writer all over again.

Yes, Mr. McCammon, magic does have a strong, strong heart.

May it never stop beating.

Respectfully,
Bob Ford

Moving Polaroids: Post Time

2010-07-08T18:49:00.001-04:00

My grandfather worked at the Maryland State Fairgrounds.

So did my father and a handful of my uncles and so it was a natural that I would work there when I turned sixteen.

But first I had to go to the track itself and experience it in all its glory. My dad first took me to the track when I was about eight. This wasn't your run of the mill small county fair with corn dog stands and a rusty Tilt-a-Whirl. Oh no. This was the State Fair; the Metropolis of junk food and kiddy rides and jellies and jams and pies made by little old ladies. Towering bulls and bright white sheep and livestock of all variety scrubbed up and glistening to see if they'd win a ribbon.

But that wasn't the reason we were there.

We walked in and went straight to the horse track. The fair runs at the end of summer, so it's always blistering hot. The grand stands offer cool comfort among its concrete walls and hidden coves with vendor stands offering the usual fair food and tall brown paper cups of draft beer. My dad let me sip from his cup - the beer icy cold and bitter against my tongue, but all in all I liked the lemonade he'd bought me better. He bought a racing form and we found what would become our usual spot near the show circle, where we crouched down along the cement stairs. My father grew quiet for a bit and started jotting down notes in the margins of the paper.

I studied the crowd around me. Quite a mix. Old men with short filtered cigars puffed away as they studied the forms like ancient religious tomes. Frail looking women with bright red lipstick, too much perfume and wide brimmed hats heatedly discussed numbers and funny sounding names.

Over the loudspeaker a man spoke: "Ten minutes til Post Time." I didn't know who that man was but he sounded important. He must've been because everyone glanced up at the lit board showing all the horse numbers and went back to furiously writing on their racing forms.

Then they started to line up at the window booths, money in their hands, most with a drink in the other. My dad stood up from his crouch, gave me a friendly swat on the top of the head with the rolled up racing form, and we walked over to stand in line.

He placed his bet in vernacular I didn't understand and tucked the piece of paper he got back into his shirt pocket. We walked out of the cool recesses of the Grand Stands out into the September sun and toward the show paddock.

The horses were being led around the circle and out onto the track.

I'd never seen such a thing as a thoroughbred. The ponies we occasionally had on our farm were wiry bristly things that were full of spunk and rolled in the dirt sometimes. They were more like bratty little children than anything else.

But these creatures... these were gods.

Long legged lean animals, towering up over me, muscles rippling beneath their well-brushed hides. Their bodies were shimmering obsidian come to life. Their manes were slicked back, their eyes sharp and watchful. When they walked, they pranced with an heir of pride. They were walking beings of enormous power, just waiting to be unleashed.

The horses were all led out to the racetrack. The jockeys took their saddles and they were trotted over to the starting gate.

"Five minutes til Post Time." I heard the man say and watched some of the crowd scurry back to the Grand Stand to place their bets.

My dad gave me another sip of his beer and grinned as he looked out over the infield. He stuffed the rolled racing form into his back pocket.

The excitement started to build all around us. The tension was palpable.

"They're all in line."

The crowd scurried out from the Grand Stands to line the chain link fence around the track. I stood in front of my father against the fence, looking in at the furrowed dirt track. Across the infield the view shimmered with the heat.

"It's Post Time."

My dad, along with the rest of the crowd, turned toward the starting gate.

"Annnnnnnnd they're off!"

A bell rang and metal gates flew open. A line of horses shot out of the gates like lightning and the crowd around us exploded. All around us I could hear people yelling "Go baby! C'mon baby!" Others were cussing as the horses rounded the first turn.

My father was smiling to himself and nervously took the racing form out of his back pocket. He was tapping it against his leg as he watched the horses circle around.

The announcer was reeling off the horse's names, letting us all know what order they were in. The screaming around us grew even louder, building to a crescendo. The people all seemed to be leaning toward the track, on the edge of their seats.

And then the race was over and the screaming crowd died down.

My dad kept grinning and pulled the ticket from his pocket with a nod and a wink at me.

Around us, I saw a large portion of the crowd crumbling up their tickets and tossing them to the pavement. Some shook their heads. A few gave low whistles and mumbled to themselves. Most all of them flipped open their racing forms and started looking forward to the next race to start again.

My dad and I walked down to the ticket booths and he collected his winnings. We spent the next hour or so much like that. Each race we'd sit down and plot out the race and then check out the horses as they were led onto the track.

Each race I felt the crowd surge up above and beyond themselves as a group...trying to edge their horse to the beginning of the line up through belief alone.

Some races my dad won, others he didn't. But at the end of the day, we walked away tired and smiling, with a bit of sunburn on our faces and a few extra dollars in his pocket. My father always knew what he could bet and what he could stand to lose and the two never met on the course of a horse track in his life.

I'd been through the initiation of the track. It was an odd sort of rite of passage of manhood in my family. It was a great day to experience.

A great day to remember.

The lure of Passion

2010-07-06T11:34:00.001-04:00

Today's blog question started out as something a lot darker. Because the mind of a writer is a twisted thing, jumping from breadcrumb to breadcrumb like a sparrow, my mind leapt from the 4th of July to defending our country to questioning human nature and the limits of our psyche. Yeah, I know. A little heavy for today.

Instead, I gave some other thought to conversations over the weekend and the celebration of freedom.

I won't name names, but one of my friends mentioned something along the lines of "I wish I could just up and go do that with my life."

I considered that for a bit over the course of the weekend. What is it that you want to do with your life? Passion is one of the things I've written about often enough on this blog. Responsibility is something to be considered of course. If you're passionate about making houses out of Lincoln Logs you may have a tough time making a living doing so.

Then again, I don't know about that. Perhaps, deep in the Ozarks, there's a master Lincoln Log home builder who owns a mansion based on one of his models.

At what point after realizing your passion in life do you find the bravery to take the leap to go after it? At what point do you consider the possibility that you could make a living if you just went after the thing that makes you smile and breathe in magic as you're doing it?

If you could do anything in life... if money was no longer an object...what would you do?

You all know my answer...I'd write full time. Until I reach a level of sales that I can make the jump, I weigh the risk and look at the successes of fellow writers and know the odds are stacked against me right now. But I keep on headed in the direction I know I'm supposed to be going...the one that draws me nearer each time I put new words on the page.

So that's my question to you all today... if you could do anything in life, what would you do?

Moving Polaroids: The In Between is Mine

2010-07-01T10:03:00.002-04:00

"They may look grown up," she continued, "but it's just a disguise. It's just the clay of time. Men and women are still children deep in their hearts. They still would like to jump and play, but that heavy clay won't let them. They'd like to shake off every chain the world's put on them, take off their watches and neckties and Sunday shoes and return naked to the swimming hole, if just for a day. They'd like to feel free, and know that there's a momma and daddy at home who'll take care of things and love them no matter what. Even behind the face of the meanest man in the world is a scared little boy trying to wedge himself into a corner where he can't be hurt." She put aside her papers and folded her hands on her desk. "I have seen plenty of boys grow into men, Cory, and I want to say one word to you. Remember."

"Remember? Remember what?"
"Everything," she said.

excerpt, Robert R. McCammon's Boy's Life

In January of 2009 I started a series of blogs titled "Moving Polaroids". The idea began because, at heart, I'm a nostalgic bastard beyond belief. I hold onto little things - an origami swan made by a friend. A river pebble from a lake. The ticket stubs of a movie.

I don't live in the past, but I relish great memories. I remember.

Right now I'm reading McCammon's Boy's Life. I'd read a bunch of McCammon years ago, but somehow I'd missed this one. That was rectified when one of my good friends, Ron Dickie purchased it for me during one of his frequent visits to the States.

It's one of the most poignant and beautifully written books I've ever read. It captures - perfectly - the mindset of a young boy growing up and seeing drama and mystery and adventure in his hometown. And magic. So much magic.

The passage I quoted above struck me when I read it and has hung with me long enough to prompt the relaunch of Moving Polaroids today. It kept pestering me because I wondered about the truth of his words.

As a child, I felt that magic. The farm I grew up on had rock caves and old dump piles and rusted out carcasses of cars hidden in the woods from the previous owners. There were new crops and livestock each year and old ghosts that stayed around to keep watch over things.

I reveled in all of it.

But the clay of time... yeah, about that.

As I've grown older, the clay of time seems to have taken hold. Mortgage payments, car problems, relationships, children, running a business, responsibilities...

Yes. Sad to admit, but I believe McCammon's words may be true.

I've been thinking about this blog for the past few days and as I write this, I'm still not sure what my answer is going to be to my own question. I'm not sure of the last time I felt magic.

Oh, I'm not talking about synchronicity. I witness that all the time. I see things line up the way they're supposed to be... or don't... and I can usually see why the tide flows either way.

I've witnessed magic... been in the presence of it. I see it through my children's eyes. Watched the beauty of it when my children were born. I see it in the imagination of lots of my friends and in that regard, I suppose I have it within myself as well. After all, magic is what kicks the muse in the ass and gets writers to create worlds and weave stories and plant the beans that grow above the clouds for our readers.

I guess one of the reasons I am so nostalgic is that I do remember. If I close my eyes I can recall the smell of fresh cut hay in the barn. I can see the golden beams of dust after corn's been harvested and loaded into the corn crib. I remember how cold the water of our springhouse used to be and the little orange and black salamanders that used to live in it's shallow depths.

Yes, I remember.

But magic as an adult? I don't know. I suppose I could say it was the day I saw orbs playing over a cemetery or the circle where the priest is buried that even I won't walk near after dark.

But I don't know. I suppose as we grow older, it's our definition of magic that changes. The veil of childhood lifts and we have new fears and different responsibilities that alter our perception and change our view. The thing I've been considering though is the clay of time. If that metaphor holds true, then clay is malleable and if it's malleable... we can form it as we see fit. We can get it back. We can catch magic when we want to.

At least, I sure hope so.

*******

I've been considering it for days now, trying to figure it out, and I think the last time I felt magic as a child I was out hunting with my father in the dead of night.

When I was a kid, my father saved up his money and sent away for a Kentucky pedigreed Black and Tan 'coon hunting hound. Times were tight and I guess my father thought a hobby that could result in making money from hides (as well as keeping the raccoons from eating the chickens on the farm) wouldn't be a bad thing at all. A few days later, "Joe" arrived by train and my father went to pick him up. He'd been shipped in a large wooden crate and apparently, hadn't eaten for quite some time as his ribs were showing.

After my father fattened him up a bit, we started going hunting at night. There's something very cool about wandering around in the woods at night with the moon and stars overhead, waiting to hear the staccato barks of a hound tracking a scent. At night, you hear very different sounds than during the day. The creeks look like silver mercury flowing and burbling through the woods. Owls hoot and bats squeal and in the distance you hear branches snap and wonder what's the cause behind it. It's very different than hunting during the day.

On this particular night, my father and I had trekked all over hell and back. Joe had trailed and lost a few times and we were about done for the night due to a vigorous journey through a briar patch. It was time to head back home, grab a bowl of Lucky Charms and watch The Twilight Zone (this came to be a nightly habit for my father and I after our nighttime journeys). We had circled back around from the river and were headed back toward Valley Mill Road when we stepped free of a patch of high weeds and saw up ahead of us, about twenty feet away, a long line of glowing light.

We stopped and stared and the hackles on the back of my neck rose up. The lights weren't as bright as fog lights or anything - they were low to the ground and stretched out in a ragged horizontal line of yellow-green.

"What the hell is that?" My father asked.

I had no answers to offer, but my mind raced with the possibilities. I'd seen Tales from the Dark Side often enough. I'd stayed up late watching Rod Serling preach about stepping into alternate dimensions. I expected this was alien goo left in the woods and the creatures had already marched off to start world domination. Maybe it was a plant that had gained awareness and discovered how to bait humans in before it ate them.

This was great. I grinned to myself and my father and I walked ahead.

The closer we got, the brighter the glow became, until we were right up on it. A fallen tree was stretched out on the ground and all along its length was phosphorescent wood.

"I've never seen shit like this before." My father is a man of brevity. He bent down and turned his head lamp onto it and it looked just like normal wood again until he shut the light off and it was back to martian material. We reached out and touched it. The wood wasn't damp or moist at all. It was dry and crumbly.

I broke off a small handful and stuffed it into my jacket pocket and by that time, Joe had come wandering back to us. My father leashed him and we headed on home for the night.

I kept that wood in my room for a few days and each night the glow got dimmer and dimmer until it finally died out completely.

It wasn't until years later that I understood it was phosphorescent lichen or moss that my father and I had come across. But for a brief moment, I had something from another planet in my grasp.

I had magic in my hands and it felt amazing.

***
Back in the saddle and scribbling away. Yes, the in between is mine.

Random Acts of Kindness

2010-06-28T11:39:00.001-04:00

The Coroner's Report has been around for some time now and through the havoc of the past couple of years, I've fallen off of a pattern.

Time to change that.

In 2009, I did a series of blog posts titled "Moving Polaroids" and they all seemed to hit a nerve with people in a good way. Each post was based on a childhood memory.

I've decided to bring those back as a weekly installment. So from now on, each Thursday, there'll be a new Moving Polaroids blog. I invite each of you to share as you will. Not all childhood memories are good. Hell, a large portion of my readers had some fairly rough times as kids. You'll be reading good and bad from me because I know you wouldn't expect any less.

On Mondays, I'll be posting blogs designed to ignite discussion. You tune into see what I'll be writing about, and believe me when I say I'm just as interested to hear your thoughts and opinions. That's the situation of writers and readers; we have a symbiotic relationship and I'm perfectly happy with that.

Coming up on Thursday - the first installment of the ongoing Moving Polaroids.

•••

In the past, I've asked what's the worst thing you've ever seen. The responses varied widely, and I have to say it's a miracle most of you aren't in therapy or in a tower with a rifle by now. Either way, I appreciate the responses.

Today I'm asking from the different perspective. Let's put a positive light on things. In your entire life, what's the biggest act of kindness you've ever witness personally? Some selfless act done for the sole reason of making someone else smile.

I'll tell you mine.

My crew and I were in Florida because John, one of my brothers, was getting married to Becky. Granted, you need to understand, he's not a blood brother. I have three best friends I've know for over twenty years. They're brothers in all ways. I'd lay down in traffic for them, take a bullet, hide the body... you know what I mean. Their names are John, Doug, and Tim. They are all geniuses, retards, rock stars, and morons in their own right.

One of the things I think that has kept us friends this entire time is that we all have our own blends of sarcasm. We are loyal to each other to the letter. We have no problems throwing down if need be, but we all have big hearts - though we reveal it on our own terms.

So, we're all in Florida, having a grand time of things. We ended up going to Universal Studios to hang out and see the evening parade.

To say it was crowded would be an understatement. Everyone gathered there for the parade. The music was jamming, the parade floats started coming by and the crowd was cheering and clapping.

When they started throwing out beads, children ran to the edge of the line to catch them. People were reach and grabbing like it was a bouquet at a redneck wedding.

In these moments, I tend to pause and take a look around at my boys. I watch their faces, their expressions. I take notice of the things going on around us all. I caught Doug's line of sight and noticed him watching an older woman in a wheelchair near the back of the crowd. She had someone behind her wheelchair, helping her. She was smiling a little at the madness of the crowd and I wondered, briefly, what she was thinking about all this.

Doug worked his position toward the front of the crowd a bit. Some other float came by and tossed out a handful of beads. I saw Doug jump to catch one (that's saying a lot, you see, as he's roughly the same height as a yard gnome). Then I saw him fight his way back through the crowd.

He leaned down toward the old woman and she looked up at him. Then I saw him place the bead necklace around her neck. She smiled wide as if they really were jewels he'd given her.

She thanked him, her words lost among the noise of the crowd, and Doug smiled to himself and joined us again. I caught his gaze and gave him a nod. He returned it with that "Yeah, I know I'm the shit." expression that only he can generate properly.

We left not too long after that but the memory has stayed with me for years. I hope it stayed with the old woman too.

I wondered about her more. I'd watched her expression change. I wondered if she was thinking of her life, of another time when she was younger and a love of her life had done something sweet and kind and selfless. Had he made her smile like that?

I hope so. I think so.

I know so.

•••

So, dear readers. Tell me yours. What's the act of kindness that stays with you?

•••
Currently reading: A Boy's Life by Robert McCammon. I've read McCammon before and enjoyed everything, but somehow this book never made it into my hands. It's one of the best things I've ever read and it fills me with inspiration to achieve something so beautiful.

Currently listening to: My usual mish-mash. The Dead Weather (kind of an edgier Black Keys), some Patrick Watson (I heard a track called Tracey's Waters on a skateboarding video and fell in love with it). The new Eminem release Recovery, which I am digging the hell out of.

Currently watching: Saw Splice and enjoyed it. Still thinking about the dangers of cloning and screwing around with DNA.

The Hannya at 39

2010-06-27T03:43:00.001-04:00

But time makes you bolder.
Children get older.
I'm getting older too.
I'm getting older too.

So, take my love, take it down.
Oh climb a mountain and turn around.
If you see my reflection in the snow covered hills,
well the landslide will bring you down, down.

And if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills,
well maybe the landslide will bring it down.
Oh, the landslide will bring it down.

-Fleetwood Mac, Landslide (excerpt)

Well here it is. 3:11 am, the morning after my 39th birthday.

It was a good day.

It started with breakfast in bed brought to me by Kelli and my daughter, Chloe.

After I drank my coffee and woke up a bit, I went for a run. No. No one was chasing me. I went for a run because I signed up for a 5k run in October and I have to get my ass back in training mode for it, else I have a heart attack right before Halloween and that just won't do. I didn't run as long as I was at my prime a few years ago, but I ran...and it felt good. It felt right. That's what matters.

I got back home, rested my jello-legs and talked with Mark and Amanda for a bit over birthday wishes.

We continued the day with visiting J.F. Gonzalez and Brian Keene at a signing/fund raising effort at the Comix Connection and then stopping by my brother/one of my best friends on the planet, Buddha, aka Doug Metherell to check on his daughter, who recently broke her femur in a playground accident.

After coming back, we picked up my son, Carson, and lounged around a bit, had a picnic, ate some cake, and ended up playing with Funky Werepig, Greg Hall and his lovely wife, Sam. They brought me a codpiece to be feared and joined us while we watched fireworks and the evening ended up with some time in the kiddie pool and star gazing.

It was a good day.

So why, you may ask, am I still awake at this time of morning.

I don't know. I don't have an answer.

This post isn't going to be some maudlin entry about how I'm feeling some midlife crisis or how I'm fearful of mortality. The truth is, I don't know what it's really about.

I do feel older but not in a bad way. I look at my children. My daughter, 10 years old, but just on the edge of becoming a young woman. I revisited memories of her as a baby today. Seems so long ago that I held her in the middle of the night as the bottle warmer sizzled in its cradle. So long ago that I drove her and her mother home from the hospital as Muddy Waters' Electric Mud cd played on the truck stereo.

I look at her now. Her sense of humor. Her silliness. Her heart, easily touched. Easily hurt. Her eyes, full of emotion and baring her spirit whole and complete for the world to see.

I look at my son, six, coming into his own as a young boy. His hair always tousled and mussed. He recently learned to ride a bike without training wheels and he's taken on the mentality of a viking warrior guiding his stallion. He's willful and strong, stubborn as all hell, but carries a heart as tender as any beneath his lean chest.

Changes, every day. Good. Bad. Neutral.

I don't have a problem with change, but damn there's been a landslide over the past couple of years. Enough changes to gag a rhino.

Truth is, I am feeling older. Not as old as my years, hell no. But noticing enough to make a difference in my mentality.

My mother turned 59 this year. My father, 60.

How the hell did that happen? You're kidding, right? My mother is the one who packed down a trail in the front lawn and pulled me with her onto a homemade toboggan out of barn roof tin to sled our asses off in the middle of winter.

My father? Hell, that guy's the one that has boundless energy. He can roof a house or plow a field and still have time to stay up and watch a good boxing match at night.

Time is a beast you cannot reckon with.

It flows, fluid and slick through your days while you do your thing. You don't notice it until it's there in front of you and BOOM, there it is. Ten years have gone by and you barely blinked.

It's truth in its rawest form, but no, I'm not maudlin. I'm not upset about it.

Though the past few years have brought change without end, I've come to realize a few things.

Change is inevitable. It's going to happen so you'd best just buckle in for the ride. You can accept it, or you can fight it, but either way, in the end, it's going to happen.

Each year is a new year. Each day is a new day. Each moment, a new moment. They're all yours if you decide to own them. You can waste them. You can make use of them. Either choice is fine, but accept the choice for what it is.

Time does make you bolder. Children do get older. We get older too.

I've seen my reflection in the snow covered hills.

I've seen a landslide... but it hasn't brought me down.

I'm still standing and I'll be standing long after this.

I've got to see what happens next.

I've got to see the changes.

I've got to see.

*****
Monday... big changes in store for the Coroner's Report.

The Cost to be the Boss

2010-06-02T09:21:00.002-04:00

I've worked in the advertising industry, in one form or another, for almost 22 years. Designing ad campaigns, packaging, brochures and other marketing materials is commercial art at its definition. I am developing art based materials for a business and turning a profit by doing so.

I'll be the first to admit that reading market trends and demographic reports has made me cynical of the American public in many ways.

Yesterday, Publishers Weekly tweeted an article on the paranormal romance tidal wave. You can read it by clicking here.

It was an interesting article discussing the growing (and growing and GROWING) genre of Paranormal Romance and all it's spiderling offshoots.

After Kelli got home, she must've seen the gleam in my eyes and thus began a debate on art vs commerce.

One of our great friends, who I shall not name, was told by an editor to "dumb down" his novel and it would probably do very well. He had written it beyond a fifth grade reading level (no, I'm not making this up... the fifth-grade reading level thing is pretty much the accepted rule of thumb for best sellers) and wouldn't do well with the majority of the population.

Over the last ten years or so, I've gotten to know quite a few full-time writers. Kelli knows and has edited for tons more. Granted, most of them are writers in the horror genre instead of mainstream fiction, and that makes the chances of being a huge hit even slimmer, but there's a very thin percentage of writers that are doing well. Most bust their ass day and night in order to keep the bills paid and food on the table.

Our debate on art vs commerce continued on and I cited examples of some writers that are household names. No, I don't feel the need to mention them here but you would recognize them. So would your parents. Probably the soccer mom next door and her sister who has a reading circle every Thursday night.

A frighteningly large portion of today's best sellers are poorly written. They are literary Big Macs. They may provide great entertainment and story and an ending that wows the audience, but the writing itself isn't there.

Know who the largest group is who complains about how poorly written the books are?

Other writers. The majority of the American public either doesn't notice, or doesn't care because they are selling tons. Thus became my comment about the writers writing Big Macs can afford Filét Mignon.

Sadly, I have to direct you to THIS article, discussing this very issue.

Go on. I'll grab myself another cup of coffee and wait. Believe me, you're going to want to read that one.

I haven't read Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I have tried to read No Country for Old Men and it made my eyes bleed. At first I thought there were just typos. A badly edited manuscript. But no. As the pages kept turning I saw it was intentional. The lack of punctuation made me want to punch a dolphin.

I put the book down and it's gathering dust.

I AM THE MINORITY HERE... because No Country for Old Men sold a metric fuckton, became the buzz of the Hollywood Machine, blah blah blah.

Art vs Commerce

Raise your hand if you've read:

Karl Edward Wagner
TED Klein
Algernon Blackwood
Shirley Jackson
Ray Bradbury
Charles L. Grant
David J. Schow
Robert Bloch
Richard Matheson
Hugh B. Cave

Okay. You, you, you over there (hey, your fly's down by the way), you with the goatee and latte. The rest of you? No? The rest of you can go stand in I-fucked-up-corner.

That list is some of the most influential writers ever, gifting us with some of the best prose most of us will ever encounter. Yet, they're sliding by the way side for today's reading generation. You know, the ones who don't care about things like... PUNCTUATION.

At the end of our discussion (which I'm sure will continue), I told Kelli to write what she writes. That's what we have to do; both of us. We write what we write and I'm well aware of that. As individuals, we want to tell the best story possible in the best way. We want to have an emotional impact on the reader. Give them chills. Make them cry. Have them laugh out loud.

We do what we do and write what we write and get bitch-slapped by our Muse and when we slap its ass and send it out, an editor or agent will decide how to package it.

And, believe you me, so will the American public when they sit down at their reading circles and drink iced coffee and eat their Big Macs.

Old Ghosts

2010-05-26T15:05:00.000-04:00

Recently I went on another road trip to Wisconsin and if you follow me on Twitter @bobford you know it's always a joy of a ride. (Insert sarcasm font here).

After Kelli arrived at her parents, we slipped into a coma for a bit then just hung out for a while. But while we were there for the weekend we visited an estate sale (that one has its own story which you can read about here and I got a tour of the neighborhood, seeing her parents former homes and a childhood home of Kelli's that was, to say the least, extremely influential in becoming the woman she is today.

Like any childhood home, it had its mix of memories, good and bad, and held its share of magic and mystery and all sorts of those individual moments that make childhood what it is.

Except... the house she remembered was no longer there. It had been torn down to bare dirt.

This stung for her in ways I don't think she could have ever predicted. She'd spent time there... laughed there, cried there. There were old ghosts she had expected to get the chance to say good bye to.

I told her that sometimes old ghosts are done with you before you're done with them.

I could see her chewing on it the rest of the weekend and during the drive back she would randomly throw out "They tore my house down."

I know exactly what she's going through.

As I've mentioned in previous blogs, the farm I grew up on in Maryland was nestled in a wide rolling valley of 55 acres. As an only child, I got to know every square inch of that land.

I knew where the sweetest honeysuckle grew and where the red raspberries clustered together along the edges of the cornfields. The streams and our pond filled with spring peepers that would lull me to sleep with their high-pitched frog whistles at night. I'd spend hours in my barn taking in the sweet scent of freshly cut hay while the dust settled through the slats of the walls in golden beams.

I used to sit by myself and capture crawdads in the icy waters of the stream - back when you could still drink it fresh without worry of chemical run off somewhere.

On the hills surrounding the farm house and barn there were scattered rubbish piles from the farmer who had lived there before us. I knew them all.

Old medicine bottles and tin cans. Coca Cola and RC bottles discarded among damp postcards, old catalogs... all of them treasures for a young boy to sort through on a summer day.

My farm was a place of magic.

Once, after I graduated college, I drove back to the farm by myself. My parents had rented the place when I was a kid and the landlord had passed away. It was caught up in probate court while his daughters argued about what to do and was unoccupied at the time.

I drove into the dirt driveway and looked at how everything had grown up. The ferns had gone wild along the creek bed. Wild roses bloomed with their furious scent and bright magenta bursts.

With the absence of people, wild life had discarded fear. A doe walked by and glanced at me, then pranced off into the glen where I used to play. Rabbits were everywhere.

It was eerie coming back as an adult. I lifted a window and snuck inside the house and was flooded with memories.

The couch used to be there. Mom's bookshelf used to be behind the door. I remember sitting in the living room and playing Atari until Megamania stopped playing.

My parents bedroom... that was the night I was sick and they pulled me into bed with them. The same night the chimney caught on fire and my father climbed up a ladder with five-gallon buckets of water to pour down the chimney.

The Spiderman my mother painted on my bedroom wall as a surprise was still there. My grandfather's bedroom, small and quiet and a little sad, was empty, save for a wooden headboard and some fallen plaster dust from the ceiling.

And the attic. My attic. I crept up the creaky wooden stairs and sat cross-legged beneath the rippled tin roof, letting old ghosts haunt my mind. The sound of warm summer rain sifting down from the deep dark sky, making its own songs.

I walked outside and made my way around the property.

I stepped into the barn and still smelled the faintest odor of turpentine and axel grease. Part of the building was falling down, but I still saw remnants in the corn crib where I used to play. The hay mow I used to climb out on and leap into the air, falling down like Icarus into a soft mound.

There's the driveway where I learned to ride a bike. I used to sift through the sand with a magnet and pull iron ore free from it's binds. There's where I helped bury my favorite dog. I hid marbles and fake jewels in that rock wall as a kid.

Up there is a grove of Mulberry trees that I used to sit in and read. Beyond is a meadow where my father buried his favorite hounds.

I closed my eyes and let the sun beat down and breathed in the scents of my childhood. They had lost none of the sweetness, none of the feeling I held so dearly when I was young.

When I walked back to my truck and left, I realized I didn't want to say good bye. I loved my childhood, lonely as it was sometimes. I loved all the memories. I enjoyed the ghosts. Hell, I revisit them often.

A few years later I drove back.

The valley had been wiped clean. Property sold off to (wait for it) a doctor and a lawyer, who had split the property and built enormous homes high on the hilltop, away from view.

It hurt to see. A piece of my childhood gone forever. A house over a hundred years old destroyed for good. I left that day with a heavy heart and deep thoughts on the way home.

I guess life is sometimes like the place I grew up on. Things change. That's inevitable. But I can keep the memories. I can hold onto them. I still know where the treasures are on that land even though the people who live there probably don't.

I got a chance to say good bye before everything had been destroyed. I got the opportunity to breathe everything in one last time and hold it tighter to my heart.

I know where the treasures are in my life right now. I hold them close and keep them secret and know when I go to mine them, I'm still surprised.

The ghosts however... mine have never said good bye on their own. I don't think they're done with me but that's okay. I'm not done with them yet either. It's time to use them for fodder. I've been keeping them close all these years for a reason. Time to use their cold little whispers for a reason.

Take a look around and find your own treasures today. Appreciate them for what they are. Mine them for what they're worth.

You never know when you'll visit the place you thought you left them and find nothing but bare ground.

Dismantle

2010-03-11T22:42:00.002-05:00

Can't stop the spirits when they need you.
This life is more than just a read through.

RHCP - Can't Stop

Hi love. It's been a while, I know.

I've been... busy. Busy considering things worth considering and thinking things worth thinking.

One of the most difficult things about going through a divorce is the breaking down of everything you've helped build. Material things of course... finances, investments; things both of you worked on to ensure a future together.

But it's also the intangibles. The memories you shared. Vacations and backyard cookouts. Weddings you attended. Funerals you went to. Late nights and early mornings of quiet little moments only the both of you know about. Laughter. Tears. Intimate moments and bigger than life events, all dumped out to be sifted through. You go through each memory one by one and file them away for safe keeping. This one goes here for some bittersweet nostalgia. That one goes there for a lesson learned. That other one... we'll just sweep that under the rug and let it get dusty. Every little piece of every little thing comes with a background attached.

It's a complete and utter dismantling of your life. Walls built to protect yourself and keep the pain out crumble to pebbles at your feet. You realize you have to learn to be an individual. You have to figure out what that means again.

You're no longer a husband or a wife. You're not the other half. The significant other.

Significant other. Cliché term these days. But the whole thing tends to make you feel very insignificant.

Some days I looked in the mirror and wondered who the hell was staring back. It took a while before I began to recognize who I am again. Somewhere along the way I'd lost myself.

You tear apart, you push here, pull there and stuff everything in unwieldy little boxes until it's done. You throw yourself into the process itself until you're finished, and then step back and breathe a sigh of relief.

"Well, glad that's over with."

But then you realize the process was keeping you busy. It was holding your attention so you didn't have to think about other things for a while. After that, you have no choice but to look at your reflection in the mirror and take a long hard look because - and this is the really important part - you now have only one choice left if you're planning on hanging around a while.

It's time to rebuild.

Lay down some brand new walls where you'd like them to be. Choose wisely... learn from the past lessons. The past mistakes. Make a strong foundation. Don't forget to put a few windows to let the sun in this time. Maybe a few secret doorways to let people in or to let you hide if the time comes.

You begin to remember once again where your passion lies. Where your heart does. You remember how sun light looks behind closed eyes; how a warm spring wind feels against bare skin.

You've been dismantled, broken down to your very essence and like a phoenix from the flames, you rise again to dance under the sun.

You remember. It's different. It's the same.

But you remember.

I remember.

Current Reads:
The Resurrectionist - Wrath James White
Just finished this and it's a kick ass novel. I thoroughly enjoyed it from beginning to end. Ruthless, raw, and entertaining.

Reading The Raw Shark Texts - Steven Hall
To be perfectly honest, I bought this because of all the hype behind it. The high dollar bidding war. The fast as hell movie option, and all the buzz. So far it's a great read. Enthralling and odd ball crazy in a Matrix meets Being John Malkovich sort of way. I'm mid-way through and racing toward the end.

Current Music:
Oh hell, I've got some great new things lately and they all kick ass.

Flogging Molly - Live at the Greek Theatre
(One fun as hell band full of drunk Irish men)

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Beat the Devil's Tattoo
(Growling kick ass guitar riffs as usual)

Johnny Cash - American VI: Ain't no Grave
(If you don't have this yet, you should go out behind the house and kick your own ass because you deserve it)

Check Gauge

2010-01-18T22:51:00.002-05:00

I just wanna scream Hello!
My God, it's been so long... never dreamed you'd return.
Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town - Pearl Jam

I'm late to the game for my end of year blog - I know. I've been meaning to write this one for a bit.

I'm not making excuses mind you, but these last few weeks have been a bit more frantic than any other I can remember. I could blame crazy schedule, driving through a snow storm in Michigan and laying first tracks a'la a Lewis and Clark expedition.

I could say there was yet another outbreak of lice in the region (though I was spared the sitcom-moment indignities of revisiting the same cashier of my past experience in purchasing lice medication).

Oh, there's other things that made the holidays of 2009 hectic and melancholy and wonderful all at the same time - a collection of amazing little moments that continued to chip away at the beast of time until another year had been laid to rest before I knew it.

Each year I usually reflect about what has happened and what I'd like to see for the upcoming trip around the sun. Seems that - as people used to tell me when I was a hell of a lot younger - the older I get, the faster the years seem to go.

This year I'm not making any predictions - no long term ones. I think I'll just go day by day and stop pushing the river that flows all by itself.

Goals on the other hand... those I've got. Some are a hell of a lot more immediate than others, but I've got a handful of those at the ready. Those I'll keep quiet until you see the fruits of my labor.

There's been a lot of changes this past year... good and bad. Some I couldn't control - others I need to start taking command of again.

Some things have fallen along the wayside and I need to unfuck that. For the longest time, I forgot who I was and what I'm capable of. One of my brothers mentioned to me a while back that he hadn't seen "me" in a long time. That struck a nerve with me. A bad one.

I'm long overdue to reintroduce myself. After some emotional trauma, some people reinvent themselves... naaah, that's not for me. After this past year, I just needed to find the core of me again... unearth it and show it some sunshine.

It's going to be hard while life gets in the way, but I need to be aware of vital signs. Check gauges. Observe any warning lights. Make sure things are running as smoothly as possible. While it may not be tip-top, at least it will get me where I need to be.

I just want to scream hello!

My God, it's been so long... but I've returned.

But now here you are, and here I am.

May you all have the best 2010 you can have.
b

Dark Faith

2010-01-08T10:22:00.002-05:00

Just Announced:

Dark Faith and the chapbook Last Rites (featuring my story, The Taste of Our Indiscretions is up for pre-order.

Dark Faith Up for Pre-Order (Plus Bonus Offer)

Faith.
So much of our reality is determined by what we believe, and it can so easily become … undone.

Editors MAURICE BROADDUS and Jerry Gordon have created an anthology that explores the dark side of faith and what it may mean. These twenty-six stories and five poems (130k+ words of content) may make you cry, may make you laugh, and will certainly terrify you. You may never look at the light the same way again.

Cover art by Edith Walter

“The Story of Belief-Non” by Linda D. Addison (poem)
“Ghosts of New York” by Jennifer Pelland
“I Sing a New Psalm” by Brian Keene
“He Who Would Not Bow” by Wrath James White
“Zen and the Art of Gordon Dratch’s Damnation” by Douglas F. Warrick
“Go and Tell It on the Mountain” by Kyle S. Johnson
“Different from Other Nights” by Eliyanna Kaiser
“Lilith” by Rain Graves (poem)
“The Last Words of Dutch Schultz Jesus Christ” by Nick Mamatas
“To the Jerusalem Crater” by Lavie Tidhar
“Chimeras & Grotesqueries” by Matt Cardin
“You Dream” by Ekaterina Sedia
“Mother Urban’s Booke of Dayes” by Jay Lake
“The Mad Eyes of the Heron King” by Richard Dansky
“Paint Box, Puzzle Box” by D.T. Friedman
“A Loss For Words” by J. C. Hay
“Scrawl” by Tom Piccirilli
“C{her}ry Carvings” by Jennifer Baumgartner (poem)
“Good Enough” by Kelli Dunlap
“First Communion” by Geoffrey Girard
“The God of Last Moments” by Alethea Kontis
“Ring Road” by Mary Robinette Kowal
“The Unremembered” by Chesya Burke
“Desperata” by Lon Prater (poem)
“The Choir” by Lucien Soulban
“Days of Flaming Motorcycles” by Catherynne M. Valente
“Miz Ruthie Pays Her Respects” by Lucy A. Snyder
“Paranoia” by Kurt Dinan (poem)
“Hush” by Kelly Barnhill
“Sandboys” by Richard Wright
“For My Next Trick I'll Need a Volunteer” by Gary A. Braunbeck

AND THAT'S NOT ALL...

There's an Apex Store exclusive offer: pre-order now and receive the limited edition promotional chapbook Dark Faith: Last Rites. Only 500 chapbooks will be produced!

"Taste of Memories" by Nate Southard
"That Singing Sea" by Toiya Finley
“The Taste of Our Indiscretions” by Robert Ford
“Little Gods” by Sara Genge

Order here, order often!

Merrrrrrrrry Christmas!!

2009-12-25T10:00:00.002-05:00

And to allllll a good night.

It's been a funny sort of day, hasn't it?

2009-12-21T00:13:00.002-05:00

We dance around the ring and suppose.
The secret sits in the middle and knows.
Robert Frost

Today is December 21, 2009.

Interesting date, December 21. The Mayan's believe the end of times is coming on this date in a couple of years. It's also my brother Doug's birthday.

Some celebs were born today. Frank Zappa. Samuel Jackson.

And today, I've been married for thirteen years.

Thirteen years. Holy shit. Where'd the time go? What happened to them? Mentally, I'm still about a nine year old boy, but there are days... oh, there are days when I feel so old. Much older than I should.

See, I'm in the process of not being married anymore. It's been a long haul. There were a lot of things along the way we could've done... should've done... and didn't.

We have some great memories. Some really amazing ones, actually. Tiny, quiet little moments and great big giant ones with a bullhorn attached. Laughs with friends and loved ones, and awkward times where neither of us knew what to say or do anymore.

And yeah, some tough times and bad moments to get us here.

Along the road, we brought two absolutely amazing children into this world. Two kids who bring the laughter and maddening insanity only children can summon. But they're incredibly in their own right. It's amazing and a bit unsettling at times to see the qualities they've picked up from both of us - both emotionally and odd sorts of innate talent.

Each time I look at them, I can't help but thank the path of the Universe for guiding me where I've been so that my children could breathe the same air as me, and show me how to see the world through their eyes. Just to share life with them.

I'm not as talented as my grandfather. That man could not only recall the event, but the day it happened on. But I have a memory that allows me to relive the shared moments. I relish all of them.

The bad memories... well. As I've gotten older, I've learned it's better to just let the bad memories go. Yes, they effect you as a person. They change who you are and how you feel. They can sometimes crumble you to bits of ivory at the edge of a tower or turn you to salt to blow away in an October wind.

No one can make you happy, but you. It's as simple as that but it does take quite a few years in life to learn that one. Hell, some never do.

I'll admit, in my life, I've been lucky in love. I've had heart break, of course. No one who's truly lived life hasn't had their heart broken. If you haven't... you haven't risked enough... loved enough or thrown caution to the wind.

Let us be crazy reckless & wild. If you are too careful both love & God will escape you. Rumi

I've always been forthright - when I felt I was ready - in telling people I was in love with them. Sometimes that worked out and sometimes it hasn't, but y'know what? I've never regretted telling someone I loved them. Not ever.

Oh hell, sometimes the realization they didn't love me back hurt like a swarm of black hearted bees driving right into the core of my heart. Sometimes, the girls smiled a funny little smile and I saw love reflected back in their faces. Sometimes they told me they'd pack it away for the future. Either way, I was happy with the fact they knew where I was coming from. What they did with that knowledge was up to them.

Some took it and ran with me. Others had their reasons and buried their feelings like precious treasure for a rainy day. A rare few felt absolutely nothing beyond friendship toward me and that was something I had to swallow and deal with.

Whether I got my heart shattered or not, I thank each and every woman of my past. You've all taught me lessons in life. Some were a hell of a lot more painful than others, but they were all earned.

But then again, isn't that what life is all about? Learning lessons? Doing what you can to teach others the same? Oh, I've had my mistakes. Hell, I know damn well I'll have more than my share before I push up daisies. But the ones I've learned from - I try to help others not make the same mistakes.

In a handful of days, it'll be a new year and I'll be writing an end-of-year blog. Some view a new year as a clean slate. Starting fresh.

I don't know about that anymore. I used to think along the same lines. I'd post thoughts about a year of change and predict Ka like the wind, but it never seemed to come to fruition. Maybe I wanted it too much. Longed for it more than I should... and just had to let go.

Every year - every second - is breathing fresh air and starting anew. Each minute is a choice. Each moment is precious and it's up to you to decide what to do with it.

A much wiser hippie than me was quoted as saying "Life's what happens when you're busy making other plans." No truer words have ever been spoken. The irony is that incredible man was John Lennon and he was gunned down in his prime on December 8, 1980... while he was busy making other plans.

Ka came to me when I least expected it... no longer believed in it, to be honest. But, nonetheless, it came down on me like a freight train.

Life is a path and though it may feel otherwise, we each travel alone. We plant what we can, harvest when we're able, and along the way we learn about the gardens of our heart.

So today, the 21st of December, I celebrate my lessons learned. My life path has taken me places I never thought I'd go. Some filled with happiness beyond belief. Others could create a sea filled with tears.

And blessed, or cursed, I still have the memories. I still have the lessons. Each moment, I'm still learning... and I'm the better person for it all.

Why there Are so many songs about Rainbows

2009-11-25T23:11:00.001-05:00

There are so many things in this world that we take for granted. We see them all the time so they become mundane. Average. The every day things that if we stop and take a moment to consider, are truly amazing, but because they've become commonplace, we overlook them.

Then there's the other things.

Things that leave us wide-eyed and slack-jawed. They're awesome. Disgusting. Curious and misunderstood.

They're surreal and mysterious and most often, they don't make any sense at all. Yet they still... are. Sometimes those things can hurt us if we move without caution. We get caught up in the moment and throw care to the wind.

And yet... those things are the things most worth pursuing. They're intriguing to us because of their very nature. They leave us with smiles on our faces and butterflies in our stomach. They instill fear in some and bravery in others.

They're a result of circumstance and timing and all the stars aligning at the right moment. They take our breath away and make our heart go pitter-pat and kick in the fight or flight instinct at the back of our minds.

Yet most of us stand our ground.

Why?

Because the chase... the end result... the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow... it's all worth it. We fight through our fire and we hold onto our faith and we push forward.

Sometimes, that faith is blind. And that, my friends, should frighten the living hell out of us. It should shake us to our roots and make us kneel in prayer to whatever gods, old or young, will listen to our pleas.

I'm familiar with fire walking. Not literally, mind you, though I happen to think I'd give that a shot too, if it should cross my path. No, I mean mentally.

It's not fun, but not without merit either. Because when the fire walk is over, after you've walked the bridge, the other side offers peace and cool winds to keep pushing you on.

I'm thankful for both faith and fire this year. I'm a man transformed.

There's scar tissue, yeah, but what else is new?

This year, be thankful for your joys. Be thankful for your pains. They all make us who we are.

Most of all, though, I'm thankful there are still so many things in this world that make absolutely no sense to everyone around me... and that's still ok.

Never become too old for magic. Never become too cynical to be awe struck or amazed.

Never be too old to stop chasing rainbows.

Because no matter how much faith you have to draw on... no matter how much fire you have to walk... what lies on the other side is always worth it if you decide it is.

Happy Thanksgiving.
b

Sleeping with a Full Moon Blanket

2009-11-24T05:08:00.002-05:00

How far we all come. How far we all come away from ourselves. You can never go home again. James Agee

If I should be short on words
And long on things to say
Could you crawl into my world
And take me worlds away
Should I be beside myself
And not even stay.
- Chris Cornell, Seasons

Recently, the porch of our house was filled with great friends. Lots of laughter. Lots of smiles. A few new in-jokes were created. There were things that were healed while brand new cracks appeared elsewhere.

It was a good weekend.

It's late as I write this. Or early, depending on your point of view. I just got back from a walk outside. The sky's jet black and the stars are so sharp and clear that I found myself caught up in their beauty. The neighborhood trees reach for the heavens, their arms now bare and absent of the color they had only weeks ago. I pulled my wool peacoat tighter around me, trying my best to close off the wind, but tonight it was an exercise in futility.

Winter's on its way.

The farm house I grew up in had lots of drafty windows. My bedroom was on the third floor, just beneath the uninsulated attic. Sometimes at night, I'd sneak upstairs and look around. The wooden floor was gritty beneath my bare feet. Boxes here and odd ball furniture stashed there. Gray barn spiders would spin their traps along the edges of the wooden ceiling beams.

Some of the things in the attic belonged to my parents or my grandfather. Others belonged to the landlord, who had left some things behind. When we moved, I found letters and postcards tucked beneath the floorboards and a few glass Indian trade beads.

In the spring, I'd sit and listen to the rain pattering down on the tin roof, but mostly I'd just pull the chain link string on the single lightbulb in the ceiling and think. There were two windows on either side of the attic and in the winter it was often cold enough to see my breath inside the house. It was creepy being up there alone at night, but I liked it.

I enjoyed the solace. The quiet. The space to collect my own thoughts (yes, I was quite the deep thinker even at a young age) and it was a great spot to let my still-maturing muse find her voice. I'd wonder if there were ghosts up there beside me.

I'd stay up there for as long as I could, until my hands and feet had started to go numb, and then I'd go back downstairs into the soft quilts of my warm bed.

Life has damn sure changed.

Over the years, I've adopted many spots to let my muse whisper to me. Barns. Woods. A lake. A cemetery. They've all given her the ability to speak openly and freely to me when she needs to.

But nothing's ever lived up to the attic of my youth.

The barn collapsed and the farm house has been torn down now for years... 55 acres of farm land divided in half to make homes for two well-to-do familes. I went back as an adult and took pictures before it was gone. Even in photographs, the place still held magic, though it had developed a patina with age and a mournful sort of sadness to it, like a god that had been worshipped mightily for eons, and been forgotten.

I visit the old place in my mind sometimes. I'd memorized every ridge of the farm; knew where every interesting part of the stone wall was... where the sweetest honeysuckle grew down by the stream where the crayfish made their home. I knew where two hunting dogs were buried, and where I laid to rest the best friend a boy could ever have.

I could tell you where the best spots to pack down a sled trail were and how if you greased up the sled with just the right about of Crisco oil, how far you'd make it before the sled stopped in a cloud burst of white.

I can see it all in my mind now... just as if I still lived there. I visit the barn and my attic most often... can picture them clear as a bell in my mind... see the plumes of breath curl from my mouth and nose as I sit in a corner, arms hugging my knees.

Some days, that seems like so long ago.

A Bad Turn

2009-11-02T10:09:00.002-05:00

Keene throttled the Harley and felt it rumble beneath him.

Watched the people on the New York City sidewalks give him a startled glance and pick up their pace. People in this city knew the difference between crazy and bat-fuck crazy. They recognized the look in his eyes.

He grinned. The bike was chrome thunder beneath him. He nodded, the sound of his iPod blasting Maiden in his ears. He didn't know shit about this bike. Couldn't tell the difference between the carburetor and the driveline. Didn't make a shit. People scattered before him and that was all that mattered. He puffed on the stub of cigar in his mouth and bared his teeth.

behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Keene's grin grew wider.

"Zombies? Fucking zombies? I'll give you SOME GODDAMNED ZOMBIES!" He screamed it out loud, though he barely heard it over his music.

He reached out a hand and patted the saddle bag to his left, considering the contents. A glass beaker topped with a Mason jar clasp was nestled inside. A maniacal brainstorm from his 'biggest fan"; a twenty-something mad genius who worked at a government lab. Someone who'd read every shred on the zombie apocalypse. Someone who thought it'd be fun to make it happen for real.

Keene goosed the Harley, heading to the core of the city.

It had only taken several emails to other fans to find out the schematics of New York City's water supply and review the perfect spot to dump the plague. By the time the outbreak began, Keene would be back on the highway, close to red lining the Harley's engine, driving like the apocalyptic horseman he truly was to get back to Journey's End. He'd be sipping Knob Creek and smoking Cubans when the news reports began.

"Fuck 'em all!" He growled, and raced down an alley. The side street opened up into a market place and that's where things started to go wrong. Fast.

Keene roared out into the street and squeezed the brakes but got nothing in response. He steered around a homeless lady who screamed "Shel Silverstein must die!" as he clipped her shopping cart.

A dented cab blew its horn at Keene as he drove between it and a produce delivery truck and still the Harley wouldn't slow.

He tried to avoid three blonde powersuited women sipping lattes and that's when he saw the business end of the mounted policeman riding one of the biggest horses he'd ever seen.

The front wheel of the Harley hit dead center of a fire hydrant and over the crunch of metal as the bike crashed, Keene felt himself lift off the bike and fly forward. He had a split second to see the glass beaker fly free of the saddle bag, bursting in a silver spray against the street curb, before realizing he was making a bulls eye for the ass of the horse in front of him.

He plunged head first into the horse's sphincter, a sound like a boot being pulled from wet mud, and Keene was immediately surrounded by damp mucus. His arms were clamped down at his sides. His body dangled freely in mid-air.

From outside, Keene heard the horse give a startled neigh, the cop utter an angry "What the fuck?", and the horse began to gallop. Every heavy trot sent jolts through his body, constricting his ribs and cutting off his air. He could feel himself begin to shut down.

The odor, Keene thought, slipping away, it's familiar. It smells just like... the small press.

••••

Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.

Pleasing Marlena

2009-10-01T12:59:00.002-04:00

My one and only zombie story, Pleasing Marlena is live at

Tales of World War Z

Beautiful Monster

2009-09-08T23:10:00.000-04:00

Recently I was part of a conversation discussing what we, as humans, are really capable of.

What would I do in a plane crash in the Andes Mountains type of situation. Answer: Sorry Doug... I get hungry enough, and you're already dead, I'm carving up a slice of your thigh with a side of Caracaras eggs for breakfast. Yes... I would eat you to survive. And y'know what? If I'm dead and good meat... eat away, my fine friend. Just cut away my hippie locks and use it to scare the buzzards away. I'm cool with that, capiche?

What would I do to someone who hurt my loved ones in a very violent way; eg., rape, murder, etc.?
Answer: After thoughtful consideration, I've decided it's best I DON'T answer this one in a public forum. Suffice to say, my revenge would be served cold and there would be prolonged periods of tremendous agony that I would take great joy in inflicting upon the individual responsible. All of which involve a fun assortment of modern power tools and old farming implements. See me at a con sometime and keep the tape recorder off and we'll share a beer and talk. Until then... naah.

So... emergency situation or not, what are we truly capable of?

Look around you. Driving in traffic. Sitting on the bus. Beside you in the oak pews of church. Those people. That skinny guy over in the corner buying a dirty magazine. The old woman with the faded flower-print dress, flicking a cantaloupe to see if it's ripe. That timid coffee shop girl who smiles sweetly as she pours you a third refill.

They're all monsters.

Given the right circumstances, those people would do whatever the hell they had to in order to survive. Oh sure, there are lots who would mentally crumple into a ball of rubbish and that would be that. The ones that are left... well honey... those are the ones that feed and live. They're the ones that do whatever they have to do in order to keep breathing and looking at the sun one more day.

I'm capable of the worst actions a person can do, and also for finding the wonder in the tiniest of things. Capable of devising and creating beautiful things, and of self destruction at the highest levels possible.

I'm capable of committing the worst atrocities and breaking all manner of sins against God... but also shattering the emotional confines humans have to show what our hearts can truly deliver.

I'm empathetic and sympathetic and selfish and greedy and I share my cookies and hide my gold all in the same day.

I am Brahma the Creator and Shiva the Destroyer wrapped up in a recyclable cellophane wrapper with an indefinite shelf life.

I crave revenge and thrive on peace and I envy and lust and am prideful sometimes. I want to unleash my wrath and sic Richard Simmons on my gluttony and yet I still sing my children to sleep.

I'm loyal and brave and I betray and cower and even though I know my direction, I still wander like a child lost in a cornfield.

I give and I take and I open my heart and then skirt its borders with sky high walls.

I am ugly and beautiful and am a stewed mix of good and evil.

I weep at certain songs and my mind hardens at times and I still long for tender moments. I trust almost no one and open my heart to many and have kissed new life and held the hand of old death and am haunted by the memory of both.

I walk in darkness and light and among the shadows in between and come out whistling dixie on the other side.

I do all these things and more... and less. But I know and accept what I'm capable of. It's a choice. It's always a choice. But we're all capable. It's our own individual pendulums we have to pay attention to in order to administer balance.

It's the human condition. Accept it or don't. But you are what you are.

My name is Bob Ford and like all of you, I am a beautiful monster.

Cherry Blossoms

2009-09-03T22:42:00.000-04:00

In and out
through the little gate
to the cherry blossoms.

-- Basho

I don't recall exactly when, but at some point I learned about the tern "hanami". I suspect it came from reading one of Eric Van Lustbader's novels years ago. I devoured them when they came out and re-read them several times.

Since I was little, I've been in love with all things Asian. I once had the nickname "ninja Bob" and was told I was probably a samurai in a past life. I don't know about all that shit, but I do know that I've watched hanami ever since I knew the meaning behind it.

This year, even though there was turmoil beyond belief in my life at the time, I sat in the cemetery I used to live next to and watched the trees for a few hours one day. Later that week, I watched them on a hillside elsewhere.

Hanami is the time of year when the cherry blossoms bloom. It's a festival of sorts - in Japan, people have outdoor parties during daytime or at night.

Thousands of people participate and observe it. Many openly weep, because of the beauty to be certain, but mainly because of the larger metaphor behind it the event.

Hanami is beautiful. Even in a light breeze, the blossoms rain down in a blush of pink to cover the ground. Their scent a light fragrance; the tender skin of a girl's neck, the subtle smell of a child's tears, and nothing more.

But hanami is mournful too. It lasts for a week or two at most, and in that time, the cherry blossoms bloom, show their extraordinary beauty, and die. It's the nature and cycle of our life in condensed form.

I've been to many funerals over the course of my life and even so, at 38, I find myself lucky to have avoided more.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table as a child and watching my grandfather - who lived with us - receiving phone calls about this friend or that who passed away.

He'd get this look in his eyes after he hung up the phone; this faraway look in his steely pre-cataract eyes, as he stared outside for a while and clicked his fingernails absently.

I didn't know what that look meant when I was younger but it bothered me. He was sitting still, but it looked like he was trying to hold onto something and I hadn't the faintest idea of what.

Over the years, his friends died one by one and each time it seemed as if he took it a little better than the last, but now I don't really think so. With a couple more decades under my belt and gray hair creeping at my temples, I think a little differently now.

I don't think my grandfather got better at accepting the deaths of his friends. I think he simply got better at accepting his own mortality.

I've brushed against the overcoat of death a few times in my life. Twice as a child, more as an adult. Those are the instances I can't argue with. There are a few that I just consider myself lucky. If things had turned a fraction here, a fraction there... well. Doesn't matter much either way, I'm here for the moment.

I remember the first funeral I ever went to. It was my great grandmother's. I honestly don't remember her age when she died, but I know she lived to a great old age. She used to smell like cinnamon all the time and feed me Sun-Maid raisins as snacks. She used to make the most amazing baked goods. She was a little hard of hearing and when you spoke to her, she moved her lips like she was whispering; some odd habit she'd picked up while trying to make out what you were saying.

I was fairly young, only about nine or ten I believe, when Granny died. At her funeral, there were lots of men and boys dressed in suits and women and girls in their sunday best, and I had no idea who most of them were.

A writer's mind is a messed up thing - as many an ex-spouse will tell you - but I remember so many little details from Granny's funeral. The fleur de lis wallpaper in two-tone gray... the smell of the flowers... my grandmother walking around holding a tissue... the sign-in book at the front with a fluffy white feather...
Stupid little things that just stuck.

As I grew older, I went to many other funerals. My best friend's grandparents. My wife's grandparents. A co-worker. An up and coming writer who was a great friend. My own grandmother.

No death is easy, and some I took harder than others, but over time, my perception and reaction to them changed. Maybe it was because I was getting older, viewing death in a different way. Maybe because I was starting to feel the tickle of my own mortality at the back of my brain.

I don't know, but the grief behind their deaths didn't get easier. But it became acceptable to a degree.

If we're going to live, then we're going to die. That's a given.

But in the same token... if we're going to die... then we'd damn well better live while we're here. There's having life... and there's living life.

Big difference between the two.

We all have our own beliefs or disbeliefs, but the truth is, none of us really know what lies beyond our own mortal coil. The only thing we know is that if someone is in pain, once they've passed on, they don't hurt anymore. They're no longer suffering.

They've gone through the little gates and beyond, falling like cherry blossoms in a warm spring breeze.

That's all most of us can ask for.

Isn't it?

Rest in Peace, Linda.

Dying on the Vine

2009-08-23T12:05:00.001-04:00

Hey love. It's been a while, I know. Lots going on lately, so you may as pull up a rock and sit down. Grab a glass and pour a finger or two of your favorite poison in it. You'll probably want to sip and savor as we go.

For years I've been posting on New Year's Eve that there was change coming. Ka like the wind, to steal a phrase from King. Until last year when I stopped mentioning it.

Which is exactly why it all happened.

My life has taken on a surreal sort of quality... most times I walk around in a dreamy sort of state, floating along... little whispers in the back of my head chanting David Byrne's chorus from Once in a Lifetime.

Yes love, a lot's been going on.

Over the past months, my wife and I have separated and will be getting divorced. I share almost everything with you, but there's some things that are too raw and bloody for me to talk about. All I can say is that I truly don't wish the emotional pain on any of you. It doesn't matter if you come to the realization you've drifted apart, or your heart's not in it or you simply don't have enough energy to try. It's agonizing and brutal no matter which side you're on... making the decision to end a marriage with someone you love and care about and in many cases, still do. There's nothing else that compares.

Would I have done things differently, knowing what I know now? Yep... you bet. But sometimes life catches you when you least expect it and things just... are the way they are.

I'm finding a happier place in life though. I've lost things I didn't know i had and found things I didn't know I was looking for. My muse is back and she's got a bullwhip at the ready. I'm afraid of her for the first time because she's full of faith and fire like I've never seen her before. I don't know if I'm ready for her to unleash her rage but I suppose I'd better find a way because it's time. It's long past time and she's got a lot to tell me since I've seen her last.

Now on to other news... you'll want to take a sip out of that glass... maybe refresh with some more.

Anyone who's been paying attention has learned about a screenplay of mine - The Pink Room - getting picked up by a production company called Saints and Sinners our of Philadelphia.

It started off fast and furious. I saw an online post from S & S seeking gritty city screenplays. They were an indie production company looking for something different than the mainstream crap Hollywood has been pumping out. They were looking for a calling card to build to bigger and better things.

All right, I thought to myself. I've got nothing to lose here. I'll send them a synopsis of The Pink Room. It's gritty all right. Story was based in Philly. Was a rock star of a script for HBO's Project Greenlight competition a few years ago but because of the topic matter I knew damn well would never make it to the finals.

(See, The Pink Room centers around a porn shop and it's owner, Smooth. It's got murder in it, a few of them actually, along with the first ever appearance of my character Free Ride Angie. It's also got a pair of home made Siamese twins and a lady seeking a vibrator for her dog, an old man ordering a sex doll so he can relive his last moments with his wife (no, you perverts.. not that. It's much worse, believe me) and all sorts of other chewy goodness.)

So... I sent the synopsis.

And got an email ten minutes later. The email was polite and professional and asked with lots of excitement to read the script, which I promptly sent.

The script was met with as much excitement about a project as I've ever seen. This was PERFECT for their calling card project. They'd read a few hundred scripts and hadn't read anything close to this. There were laugh out loud moments and phone calls from the two producers asking "Have you gotten to the old lady with the dog yet? Oh my God! Who writes like this?"

The following week they drove down from Philly to my Harrisburg office to meet and review. It was an incredible meeting. In the week since, the girl had done her homework. She knew the script inside and out. Knew the characters, and by that, I don't just mean she knew their names. She KNEW the characters. She got them. She'd investigated head shots for actors and actresses and nailed every damn one of them. She asked about the "baby of the script... Free Ride Angie."

Holy shit, I thought. She's really the person for this. She gets this script, big time. Her partner had designed a poster for the script - not too shabby - and was already laying out ideas for a web site.

She'd lightly contacted venues for filming, and Adult World out of Philly wanted us to film in their location. Condom Nation was on board to donate giveaways for a pre-shoot fundraising event. Bands were donating music for the score.

A young up and coming director with a great eye had pushed away another project because he loved the idea of working on this script.

She was creating an investment package to send out to raise funds - which... according to her... was her area of expertise.

They left full of enthusiasm and excitement and it was contagious.

It appeared they really had their shit together. This... as I found out... couldn't be farther from the truth.

Two weeks went by and I hadn't heard anything at all. She was probably tied up discussing things with investors. All right. No sweat.

Then an email: She and her partner had a falling out and were done. He'd sent out an email without her approval and had possibly screwed up a big investor. Not good, but okay. She was hard nosed and a perfectionist and did what she felt was right as Executive Producer. Business is business. Moving on.

Another two weeks without anything and I was twitchy. I shot off an email with no response. Hmmmm.

Three more days and I received a call that her mother had passed away. I spoke with her and gave her my sympathies and explained that I couldn't begin to understand what she was going through. I told her to take some time to do what she needed to do and let me know when she was ready to proceed.

Another month. Nothing.

I shot an email off and... got a bounceback. Her email account no longer existed.

DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!

The following weeks consisted of repeated calls to her psychotic boyfriend trying to get hold of her. Things were falling apart on this project and I reached a point where I just decided the hell with it... if it was falling apart, I was going to throw gas on the fire to make the flames sky high.

Except I needed a few things. I needed them to remove the artwork and my name and any association with me from their online presence. This simply wouldn't do.

I was ignored and then yelled at by the psychotic boyfriend. I had fun with him and kept calling back until I reached his boss and had a great conversation with him explaining how he'd though the girl was a... crack pot.

I was going to call on the full resources of Keene's F.U.K.U. army. I was going to post psycho boy's cell number online and ask them all to repeatedly call his number at all hours of the night until the artwork and any association with me was removed online.

This was going to be fun for me and the F.U.K.U.

But at the last minute, a response from their My Space page... not with words, but with action. All manner of association with me was removed.

War was averted by seconds and part of me was disappointed.

I learned a lot of lessons through all of this.

Don't believe anything until cameras actually start rolling. And even then... be damned suspect.

Re-learned my most important life lesson... some of life's biggest disappointments are caused by you thinking someone will act as if you'd react in the same situation.

And no matter how attractive and lovely and exciting some things look... they can still die on the vine right in front of you, no matter how much you don't want them to.

Have a happy sunday, kids. Finish your glass. The fire's dying out and there are only embers left. Gotta go have some fun. Gotta to listen to the muse before she pulls that damned bullwhip out on me.

Gotta listen to ka.

Ink Pink, You Stink

2009-07-29T11:47:00.002-04:00

There will be an update on the status of The Pink Room in the next day or so, tops.

There is foul play going on.

Army? Mobilize... you may be called to battle to correct an injustice in the world.

Writing for the American Idiot

2009-07-25T14:15:00.000-04:00

This town needs an enema.
-- Jack Nicholson, as The Joker, in Batman

I was going to write up a report on what a great time I had at Necon this past weekend. I was going to blog about how incredible it was to see old friends again and how I giggled myself silly off of tequila and dirty comments as I held my Foosball championship title. Or how great it is to be around like-minded people and get my batteries recharged.

But noooooooooooo. Instead I had to do some market research this morning, and am now filled with hate and rage (insert bitter box here).

I've been reading horror and watching horror flicks for a long time. I grew up with parents who let me pursue my interests freely. Books of Blood, Monster magazine, Fangoria... not much that was really off limits.

I saw the heyday of 80's horror when anyone and everyone was jumping into the frenzy to cash in. I read and watched a lot of... well... shit is the word that comes to mind. There were lots of diamonds in the rough, mind you, but you had to dig through the mess to find them.

Brian Keene predicted a while back that things were getting ready to implode. And, not that I doubted him, but holy shit kids... taking a look around this morning at the markets has me ready to line up double-shots of Yagër bombs and start howling at the sky.

"Enough with the fucking zombies!"

I've heard this rant again and again of late. And while I tend to agree as I'm getting a bit worn out by them... the undead won't go away if the american public demands them. And the writers who are doing it are laughing themselves silly. All the way to the bank.

Zombieland.

Dead Snow.

The Carriers.

Oh hell, I'm SURE there's more, but that's just off the top of my head.

But for the sweet blue fuck of all that's holy... ZOMBIENAUTS????

As a long time self-employed businessman, I understand supply and demand. I understand you feed into the trend of what's hot. But damn...

Zombies in space... that's a bit of a stretch isn't it?

How about... a little crew of people who were out on a three hour tour and got shipwrecked on an island? There'll be a professor, a movie star, a millionaire and his wife... GILLIAN'S UNDEAD!

Wait! I know! A ship full of sailors will find a zombie mermaid and they'll drag her aboard, infecting the entire crew until the ship runs into the land of the free and the home of the brave.*

Of late, I have become increasingly convinced that the days of readers seeking out a well written book with great characters and plot are gone. It is writing for the American Idiot.

"But wait, Bob," you say. "I'm not an idiot! I like great characters! I love great dialogue! I seek them out!"

Fine, pull up a rock and sit by the fire. You're like me. I can't handle two-dimension characters in a story that has a plot line thinner than a truck stop's bathroom tissue either. But guess what? WE ARE THE MINORITY.

Most of the public seems to want their fiction and flicks with sex and explosions all bundled into a fast food container so they can get in, get out, forget it and move onto the next carton of nuggety entertainment.

Don't agree? That's fine. Take a look at the majority of what's been on the NY Times Best Seller List. Look at what's "hot" at the box office.

Mmmhmm. Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?

The literary IQ of most of the public no longer requires that things are well written. Give it a catchy bass line and a good drum rhythm, and you're off to writer rock stardom. Things have degraded to the point where it's like The Kingsmen's song "Louie, Louie."

You know the song, right? The one from National Lampoon's Animal House?

Catchy beat right? Ok, now sing any of the lyrics other than "Louie, Louie, ohhhh no!"

If you know any lyrics beyond that, you win a prize of the next zombie novel to hit the shelves.

That's our majority right now. Quick catchy bursts that are fun while you're reading/watching them, but later, you realize you really don't have any idea what the hell it was about.

I'm done grumbling for now. I'm off to brainstorm about chick-lit novels and a zombie screenplay.

*If any of you bastards steal this and sell it to Hollywood for six-figures (which... in all seriousness, I think would actually SELL RIGHT NOW), I will hunt you down and beat you with a zombie arm. Or leg. Or whatever else I can find within reach.

Learning to Fly

2009-07-08T07:09:00.002-04:00

I've often spoken of life growing up on a farm as a child. There was an endless laundry list of animals showing up that were badly hurt and we almost always tried to mend them.

Raccoons, (which... incidentally... are the coolest thing next to having a pet monkey when you're a kid and make very cool pets if you set aside the whole rabies thing). An albino skunk (which... incidentally... are sort of disgusting during the winter when they do this light hibernation kind of thing and still stink to high heaven, glands removed or not). Many, many, many feral cats. A tree-rat.... er... squirrel (don't get me started) and other odds and ends like newts, frogs... the general assortment of what you'd expect to find on a farm.

A week ago I found a bird in the street. It was early and I hadn't even finished my first cup of coffee, but I saw the bird out there, flapping its wing uselessly. It looked young and hurt, so I went out and picked it up, brought it into the yard so it wouldn't get turned into a flapjack by an early morning commuter.

I set it in the grass and talked to it for a bit. Gently checked it's wings, which seemed to work fine. Eased out its legs - also in working order - and left it in the lawn, away from the street, before I had to leave for the office.

That evening I was outside on the porch and walked around to check on the little guy. Apparently my efforts that morning weren't enough because he was laying there in the grass, deader than the proverbial doornail. It saddened me more than it probably should, seeing that dead bird. Sort of a bittersweet acceptance.

That was a tough lesson to learn as a child. That sometimes, despite the best intentions and efforts, things don't make it, even though you think they should. Even though it seems as if they ought to and you can't fathom exactly why.

If enough time passes, you sometimes have to learn that lesson all over again, no matter how old you are.

Some of you know and some of you don't, but no matter which camp you have your sleeping bag in, you should realize there's been a lot of life changes going on with me lately. It's one of the reasons I've been so quiet for a while... probably the longest stretch ever since I started this little blog of verbal masturbation.

The short version is that there was a bird in life who couldn't fly anymore and despite a lot of effort and best intentions, it didn't make it.

Sometimes the feeling is a bittersweet acceptance. Other moments come with an emotion that I'm not quite sure carries a name. It's broader in scope... looking at a larger picture of things around us all. I've never truly bought into it, but a grand plan maybe? I don't know. Some birds can only fly for so long, I guess.

Well kids, I've gotta run. I require more caffeine this morning. I'll be making updates more often now that life has settled down a bit.

Soon I'll tell you about the insanity of dealing with producers and screenplays.

I'll tell you about updates on some cool little things I've been working on and what's in the works on a grander scale.

I'll tell you. Pull your rock closer to the camp fire so you can get warm.

I'll tell you.

****

Current Reads:
Fresh Blood; A very cool chap featuring Dave Alexander, Kelli Dunlap and Bob Freeman. Nicely produced and hella-fine reads by all. You should pick up a copy by clicking here

Cover; Jack Ketchum. I've been looking to sink my teeth into a great read, and as usual, he does not disappoint.

Current Music:
A metric fuckton, but some highlights:
The Black Keys - Magic Potion (absolutely amazing).

Dan Auerbach's (of the Black Keys) solo release, Keep it Hid. Exactly what you'd expect from half of the Black Keys. Soulful, heart-wrenching and kickass.

Ry Cooder; The Ry Cooder Anthology: The UFO has Landed. Because... quite simply... Cooder is one of the best.

Cold War Kids: Robbers and Cowards. Great voice and catchy melodies.

And almost daily: I'm on a Boat. Just 'cause.

Current Movies:
Ice Age 3. Exactly as funny as you'd expect.

The Unborn. I'll let you know as soon as I don't fall asleep through it.

TV special on lost civilizations in the Amazon. Because... the universe knows exactly when to provide such a source of information for me when I need it.

Nothingman

2009-05-20T09:42:00.000-04:00

Nothingman

Once divided...nothing left to subtract...
Some words when spoken...can't be taken back...
Walks on his own...with thoughts he can't help thinking...
Futures above...but in the past hes slow and sinking...
Caught a bolt a lightnin...cursed the day he let it go...

Nothingman...Nothingman...
Isn't it something?
Nothingman...

She once believed...in every story he had to tell...
One day she stiffened...took the other side...
Empty stares...from each corner of a shared prison cell...
One just escapes...ones left inside the well...
And he who forgets...will be destined to remember...oh...oh...oh...

Nothingman...Nothingman...
Isn't it something?
Nothingman...

Oh, she don't want him...
Oh, she won't feed him...after he's flown away...
Oh, into the sun...ah, into the sun...

Burn...burn...
Nothingman...Nothingman...
Isn't it something?
Nothingman...Nothingman...
Could've been something...
Nothingman...

Eddie Vedder/Pearl Jam

Saints and Sinners

2009-05-01T17:23:00.002-04:00

Saints and Sinners, based in Philadelphia has optioned my screenplay, The Pink Room. After our initial discussions and meetings, they are full of enthusiasm and have hit the ground running on pre-production events. As things develop, I'll be posting them here.

•••••••

First up:

Saints and Sinners is currently working on the feature film THE PINK ROOM which is in pre-production with filming scheduled to start in July 2009. We have cast and crew, all from Philadelphia and surrounding areas, including published author Robert Ford who is the writer of the film.

THE PINK ROOM is a production friendly, budget conscious screenplay that doesn't rely on lots of special effects or exotic shooting locations.

Investment and advertising opportunities exist for both individuals and companies. Businesses can advertise in the film for complete packages ranging from $6,000 to $1,500. Individual sponsorships are also available. For only $5,000 an investor can receive up to 5% revenue from the film.

The script and offering documentation along with THE PINK ROOM business plan will be made available to any interested and qualified investor.

Please feel free to contact us at nataliejblumberg@yahoo.com for additional information. Serious inquires only please.

Coming Soon...

2009-05-01T12:39:00.000-04:00

Think Pink

2009-04-25T11:56:00.001-04:00

There are a few minor details pending, but in a couple of days, I'll be making a HUGE announcement.

2009-04-23T10:31:00.002-04:00

I feel the need...

2009-02-25T12:46:00.002-05:00

the need for caffeine.

I KNEW there was a reason I loved coffee so much.

I smell... FRANCHISE!

Breaking News

2009-02-14T11:48:00.002-05:00

There'll be a new post coming shortly, but Brian Keene, mentor, American Patriot, and all round kickass friend, has created a message board for me and a great group of other authors:

Click here to visit

After registering for his board you can come on in, pull up a rock and we'll chat about whatever you like.

Moving Polaroids Part IV

2009-02-09T10:48:00.000-05:00

All right... I lied, but I hope you'll forgive me. This moment came to me and I just had to write about it as one last installment of Moving Polaroids. Next blog will get back to our regularly scheduled programs of mayhem and madness.

------

I had my first girlfriend when I was in kindergarten and her name was Lisa W. She had a cute, pixie face, dirty-blonde hair and dark eyes that always made me laugh.

It was puppy-love, of course, but when Lisa leaned in close to me and whispered in my ear that she loved me, my heart sky-rocketed and I'm sure I turned all sorts of red. When she moved away right before the end of kindergarten, I was heart broken. But then school let out and summer came and I filled my days playing in creeks and building hay forts in the barn and pretending I was Bruce Lee fighting off twenty ninjas at the same time.

In first grade, I met Ruth. And Ruth... well... Ruth eclipsed Lisa by a mile. I was absolutely smitten with her. Her hair was shoulder length and curly in the style of Charlie's Angels and her eyes were blazing chunks of ice that turned me into a stuttering fool whenever she looked at me. I was head over heels.

The fact that she didn't feel this way about me at all didn't deter me at all (yes... even in those days, I was a poetic, yearning fool that pined away for what he could never have). I wrote love note after love note (note: Ruth... if you do happen to come across my blog, and for whatever reason, you still have any of those notes... you might want to save them for Ebay later. They just might fetch a decent price as some of my earliest writing samples) and it didn't matter to her.

This heart-wrenching crush continued on through the sixth grade and that year I did something foolhardy and pound foolish and utterly spur of the moment.

It was the sixth grade talent show try outs and the gymnasium was filled with students watching the auditions. I had no plans - none at all - to try out for this show. I was perfectly happy sitting back and watching my fellow classmates fumble their magic tricks and play their clarinets or trumpets or whatever.

But then... the gym teacher called the next try out and I saw Ruth and four of her friends start walking toward the stage. Things suddenly got extremely interesting for me.

The five of them were on stage and the gym teacher pushed play on a cassette player. Ruth sang The Rose (and yes... I completely laughed my ass off during that scene in Napoleon Dynamite when he does the dance skit to The Rose... hey, it was the seventies, what the hell do you want from me? I was still wearing flair hippie jeans and silk shirts). Maybe it's my almost 40-year old memory, but looking back, her voice was angelic. Mesmerizing. Rose petals fell from the ceiling and I felt hot all over.

Her audition was over and the kids erupted with applause. Their act was definitely in.

The teacher asked if there was anyone else who wanted to try out and hadn't signed up yet. And somehow... my hand raised of its own volition. The gym teacher called me and I rose to my feet in a fog and started floating toward the stage like Bugs Bunny.

I had no magic act. I played no brass trumpet and didn't have a clue how to tap dance. I was just some little kid who grew up on a farm and caught crayfish and spring frogs and helped bale hay and attempted to ride a pig once in a while and I had absolutely no fucking idea what I was going to...

Wait... I could sing.

Hell, I'd been doing it at every family gathering for as long as I could remember. I once sang while sitting on my grandmother's lap when I was so young I could barely pronounce the song lyrics to John Denver's "Grandma's Feather Bed" (yes.. John Denver... piss off, I was little and I'd seen him on The Muppets and thought he was cool).

So I walked onto the stage, grabbed the microphone and explained to everyone that I was going to sing a song I'd learned from my grandmother and it was going to be without music.

The song I sang was "Bringing Mary Home"

No real surprise it's a song dancing around a dark topic, eh? Even then my true colors were starting to show. I sang the shit out of that song and when I was over, there was a beat of silence in the gym and then a huge round of applause. This made me a happy boy, because I looked into the crowd and saw Ruth smiling and clapping.

Oh yes. This was indeed a good day for young Master Ford. After all, I'd pulled this stunt to impress her.

The gym teacher caught me as I stepped off stage and told me right away that I made the cut but asked me if I knew anyone who could play an instrument to accompany me.

As a matter of fact, I did.

When I got home, I told my mother she'd been volunteered to play guitar on stage with me. My mother does not do well in front of large crowds. My mother is full of piss and vinegar. My mother was going to strangle me.

After I told her how many people would be at the show - only the kids themselves and their parents.. a hundred or so... maybe a couple hundred - she turned a pale shade of green and nodded her head and bit her lip and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette.

I think she went upstairs to lie down after that.

But she came through for me in flying colors. The night of the talent show came and we were ready. My mother had her Gibson 12-string acoustic ready and we'd been told the order of acts, so we knew we were coming up next. I know she was nervous and it made me giggle a little inside because I was nothing of the sort. I had the verve of the Incredible Hulk, the courage of Perseus and the heart of Bruce Lee.

Then I stepped up on stage again and damn near wanted to piss myself.

The lights were dim but I could see the dark sea of the crowd. Holy hell. Had I thought there would only be a hundred people? There must have been thousands of faces out there, all expectant, smiling, waiting. And looking at me.

My mother strummed the opening chord to the song and I looked over at her. She smiled a tiny smile at me.

And I promptly forgot every single word of the song I was supposed to sing. This revelation did very little to help my bladder condition. Mom strummed again and I saw her raise an eyebrow slightly, questioning. I turned back to face the crowd and my head snapped back into place. Lyrics slammed home and I began to sing.

My mother and I rocked the freakin' house that night. People clapped their asses off when we were done. More than one person came up afterward and thanked us, shook my mother's hand and gave me a pat on the back.

On the ride back home, we smiled and giggled and talked about my momentary stage fright. My mother teased me and slapped and told me she really would strangle me if i volunteered her for that again. But I know she was happy. I know it's something she would have never attempted by herself. I was proud of her and I know she was proud of me.

After all that, I'd love tell you that Ruth was so impressed that she planted a kiss with her bow-shaped lips and we rode off on a white horse into a fiery sunset.

I'd like to tell you that, but that ain't how it went down. My little attempt didn't make a dent in Ruth's attention. But I'll tell you what did - when I finally stopped giving a damn. The following year, in seventh grade, I threw myself into classes and went to dances and had great times with girls named Sunny and Jennifer and Barbie and Angie (and actually danced with those last two at the same time. Oh yes... I was the envy of many a wall flower. The only thing that could've improved my status was having them get into a cat fight while ABBA's Dancing Queen played as background music).

I didn't so much as forget about Ruth, as I left her go. My parents decided to move at the end of that year and I suppose the news hadn't circled back around to Ruth yet. I'd only had one class with her that year and we hardly ever talked. A week from summer vacation, she stopped me at my locker one afternoon, smiled brightly, and asked me teasingly "How's it going? You don't say hi anymore?"

Well, I'll be damned.

I smiled right back and told her that I was going to move in another month or so. It's been years since that moment and I still can't adequately describe what I saw move across her face that afternoon. I just remember her looking down and pausing for a moment, then locking her sapphire gaze on me again. She leaned over and kissed my cheek and left my life without a word.

But I still hold all those pictures in the scrapbook of my mind.

Moving Polaroids Part III

2009-02-02T10:13:00.002-05:00

I considered telling you about the first beer I ever drank in my life (Miller Pony Bottle) while fishing with my father and listening to Fleetwood Mac's Rumors and Steve Miller jamming Fly Like an Eagle on 8-track from the open doors of my father's pick-up.

It crossed my mind to tell about how my father convinced me that rubber gloves would prevent me from getting shocked from an electric cattle fence, but those are other stories for other times.

What I'll tell you in this last installment of Moving Polaroids is one of my earliest memories. When I was five, we lived in a small, run down house in Sparks, Maryland. Times were very tough and while my mother worked nights, my father worked swing shift. Often, they would meet on a parking spot along Route 83 and just pass me, still in my pajamas, from one car to the other.

But this one particular morning, I was home, standing on the front porch while my parents said their good-byes. My father was heading out to work and even though the sun was shining, there was a light drizzle coming down. The morning had an odd light to it and there was a thin low mist hovering beyond the house. My father took a drink from his coffee cup and handed it to me. His mug was that old school drippy brown style, thick-handled and too heavy for my young hands, but I always got the last sip (hmmmm... perhaps THAT'S where my coffee addiction came from? Thanks Dad, I love you for it).

I can't tell you what my parents were talking about; grown-up things I suppose. Probably discussing moving elsewhere or that I needed some new sneakers or where the money for the next electric bill was going to come from.

But while they talked, I held my now empty mug out into the drizzle and caught some sun-touched rain drops in it. When I took a drink of rainwater, my mother, as mothers do, lightly scolded me for drinking it.

And my father just smiled at me. He leaned in and kissed my mother good-bye and smiled at me again before he went off to work. I don't know if he remembers that or not but I often wonder what he was thinking that day.

***
Thanks for staying with me while I walked down Memory Lane for a while. This was fun and I hope, at the very least, it stirred up some happy memories for you as well.

There'll be a mini-update later this week, but right now I need... NEED to dive into some work-related nastiness.

Be good.
b

Moving Polaroids Part II

2009-01-28T20:50:00.001-05:00

I'm seven years old and it's the week of Halloween. This was in the late 70's and schools still had things like costume parties and handed out trick-or-treat candy during the school day. It was my favorite time of year and the costume party was the next day.

I got off the school bus and walked up the long driveway to my house. My father wasn't home from work yet. My mother had left only moments before to handle the night shift, and my grandfather was most likely puttering around the barn or feeding the animals.

I walked over the small culvert pipe bridge with the stream babbling beneath (always, always, always making me think of the Three Billy Goats Gruff), past the springhouse, where the water was ice cold and so pure and fresh it almost tasted as if there was sugar in the water. I walked up the stone steps winding through the rose bushes and trimmed lilacs and up the stairs into the house.

In the kitchen, I slung off my backpack and grabbed some chocolate milk from the fridge and a handful of cookies from the cabinet. I set them on the kitchen table and turned to switch on the tv, and stopped dead in my tracks. My stomach turned to mercury and the hair stood up on the back of my neck and arms.

There was a monster in my kitchen.

Its head was enormous, its four-inch jagged teeth brilliant white rows framed in thick, blood-red lips. A black mustache curled, Dali-esque, at least a foot wide, and eyes the size of grapefruits rested beneath furrowed brows. Its expression was fierce and full of rage and I know I jumped backward, almost falling on my ass in the middle of my own kitchen.

And then I began to giggle.

All alone, in the middle of the kitchen, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt and my ribs ached. I think if my grandfather or either of my parents had found me there, they'd think I'd gotten into the cough medicine.

My loving mother, during her hours before leaving to work the night shift, had taken an oversized brown grocery bag and created a monster worthy of battling Jason and the Argonauts.

The artwork had been done in felt marker, and the teeth had been colored in heavily with white crayon. The thing was hideous. It was terrible. It was scary and enormous and eclipsed the monsters I'd read in The Wild Thing.

I absolutely loved it.

I took it to school with me the next day and brought home a prize ribbon (oh button your lip... I was seven. ALL the parents did their kids costumes) and I'd like to think that as happy as I was, it gave my mother some pride to know that she truly pulled it off with her creativity.

I inherited my mother's streak of mischief... her slightly twisted sense of humor (all right, all right... so mine's a bit MORE twisted) and her sense of play.

I still have that monster mask... I just wear it on the inside now.

Moving Polaroids

2009-01-27T14:32:00.001-05:00

You can see children's faces light up when they get a birthday present or open Christmas gifts. The toys are shiny and novel and keep their attention for a while (unless it's a Wii system, and then apparently it's electronic crack, as it is with my own kids). But over time, most toys are forgotten. Their entertainment value isn't lost, but unless it's a favorite stuffed bed time animal, or a touch-worn blanket, there's usually no emotional attachment.

I look back on my own childhood and remember only a few favorite toys. A red and black Team Murray bicycle. My first Atari system (Megamania ring any bells? Cause that was MY electronic crack as a kid). A Rubik's cube that drove me to the brink of a padded jacket and then made me cheat and break it apart to put it back together again correctly just so I could find some mental peace. And... and... I don't know. I'm sure if I took some time and did a little mini-mediation I could come up with more, but the long and short of it is that any thing material isn't what makes me smile and look back on my childhood with fond memories.

It's the spaces between... it's the things that didn't cost money that are indelibly etched in my mind.

And I'll invite you to do the same. Have a favorite childhood memory? Think for a bit and put yourself back in the moment. What were the little details you thought you'd forgotten? They're there. Let me hear it...

I've got a few moments I'll share with you over the next couple of days, but here's the first...

Eight years old, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of Lucky Charms in front of me and Tom and Jerry playing on the black and white 13" tv in the kitchen. My father has already gone off to work and my mother should have been gone too. By this time of morning I should be dressed and waiting at the end of our long driveway, waiting for the screeching brakes of the school bus to announce its presence.

But this morning, my mother is still home. She's standing at the front door, sipping her coffee and smoking a cigarette, while thick heavy flakes drift down from the sky.

My grandfather is already outside, most likely tinkering in the barn or sitting on an overturned 5-gallon water bucket and watching the snow come down too.

I tilt my bowl of cereal, slurping down the last of the milk, turned a robin's egg blue, and turn to my mother... who is smiling at me. She doesn't say anything... just stubs her cigarette out and slips her feet in a pair of my father's work boots. She shrugs on her coat and pulls a knit hat on, then reaches beneath the kitchen sink for a can of Pledge and tells me to get dressed because she'll be back soon.

I watched her through the side window of the kitchen as she made her way toward the barn. The snow was already deep, easily seven inches or so (and looking back, it makes me think that times must have been a bit tighter than I thought... what the hell was my father doing out driving for?) and it took my mother some effort to make her way toward the barn. I had no idea what she was up to, but usually when she got one of those grins on her faces, it was something to look forward to.

I ran to my room, threw on some clothes and raced back downstairs. By the time I pulled on my gloves, hat and boots, my mother was back at the front door, her grin even wider, and she motioned for me to come with her. She withdrew the can of Pledge and coated the sheet from top to bottom. The air was thick with the smell of fake lemons and the metal glistened.

The house where I grew up was a farmhouse over a hundred years old. It was surrounded by cedars and oaks and walnut trees and rolling hills and the valley that everything rested in was bookended by a humongous tin-roofed barn.

My mother, full of mischief, had a 3 foot x eight foot sheet of roofing tin, and she had curled the end up toboggan style, punched two nail holes at the corners and knotted a rope as a harness at the sides.

We trekked out into the snow and stood at the crest of the hill in front of our house. It was a long stretch, leading out about fifteen feet to a four foot berm, and then another ten feet to a deeper drop and continued on for a good forty feet. Mom giggled to herself, sat down on the tin and made me sit Indian style in front of her. It took a few pushes and jerks to get ourselves started, but once we hit the crest of the first hill and gravity took over, to say that we hauled some serious ass would be an understatement.

That slicked roofing tin cut through the snow like it was soft butter, and it only got faster as we forged a path and packed the snow down hard. I think we spent the better part of three hours out there in the cold, playing like children with not a care in the world.

Rosy cheeked and frozen, we finally came inside to warm up. I'm sure I had hot chocolate and my mother had coffee, but I don't truly recall. What I do remember, even is flying down that snowy hillside with my mother, arms raised high as if on a roller coaster, giggling and laughing as the snow drifted down on my face and open mouth. I remember my mother's arms around me.

I remember.

We Now Interrupt this Broadcast...

2009-01-26T09:34:00.001-05:00

I've been laying kind of low lately, and I know it.

I've spilled blood, sweat and tears here, so no point in stopping now.

Over the last couple of months, my wife Jennifer was diagnosed with stage II Hodgkins Lymphoma. To say that it has been a whirlwind doesn't do the situation justice. She's been undergoing chemotherapy and this week we'll be getting scans done to check the progression of treatments. There's been huge advances in nausea medication, and overall, that really hasn't been a factor yet. Each time she gets another round of chemo, she has to have an injection the following day to boost her white blood cell count and kick those little guys off their lazy asses into production again. The shots make her bones ache but have been very effective. The main things that have gone down are extreme exhaustion and the various mental side effects that chemo brings along for the ride. Yes... to say it's been a whirlwind doesn't do it justice. It's stage II but it's a very treatable condition and everything the oncologists and specialists have been saying are very promising, though there's roughly another four months worth of treatment involved.

Today just happens to be her birthday.

Jen has started a blog to document what she's going through, and you can check that out by clicking here

She's a very talented and creative interior decorator by trade, handling all matter of accessories, faux and regular painting, furniture, and designing custom murals for both home and commercial use. The murals she's done on several churches, both interior and exterior, are beautiful and amazing work.

On her blog, you'll see that Jen has recently been creating custom knitted hats and scarfs. Her goal is to take this to a point where she can also donate some to children with cancer. So, if there's anyone you know who has been affected by cancer, please spread the link around... never know what karma will bring.

Likewise, my day job is as partner in an ad agency. We handle all manner of creative, both for small companies and Fortune 500s. Logo and brand identity, ad campaigns, brochures, packaging... ahh... if you know someone who might be interested in working with us, go check out our site by clicking here.

Thanks to everyone who stops by. You keep reading... and I'll keep writing.

Tune in tomorrow... next post is "Moving Polaroids" and I think you'll all like it.

be good,
b

Fresh Tracks

2009-01-19T21:19:00.003-05:00

Maybe it's because the words of Epictetus hit a nerve with me. Or because right now I'm jacked up on enough coffee to make a Rhino float.

Or because I recently found my iPod cord, have filled it to the brim with new music and have been (to borrow a phrase often used by Geoff Cooper) felt like I should rock out with my cock out (not literally, you perverts).

Maybe it's because my daughter read this odd little book she found tonight that was amazingly clever with its one liners (this book, of course, followed Alethea Kontis' AlphaOops which, incidentally, if you have kids and you don't have a copy, you should really fix that situation. It's a beautiful and amazing book by a beautiful and amazing person.

Or maybe it's because of recent mental vacations to beaches or mountains... a little zen thought-sauna, so to speak.

Over the last several months, I've been told I have a broken spirit (I disagreed with this). I've heard I was a bit Hemingway-ish (all right, this made me laugh, cause it was right. A little bit.)

But right now, I have to say, I feel fricking great.

I haven't felt this great since I smoked weed on a nude beach in Jamaica, crystal clear waters in front of me, and the sun's rays beaming down.

Crazy thing is, I still can't put my finger on the reason why. It's a multiple choice thing, but I'm not quite sure the reason matters at the moment.

There's still a fecal storm hovering around my house. Still sickness going on with my wife. Still tight finances (hellllloooo economy? Want to get your shit together please?), and emotional turmoil going on, and all of it still weights heavily on my mind.

But right now I just got back from a walk outside. It's freezing. I mean, it's not Wisconsin cold, but it's enough to make your teeth chatter and tears spring at the corners of your eyes. The wind itself has icy fingers that reach up under your clothes and grab you like a pervert on a New York subway. But it snowed today. Not a lot really. It looked like a damn blizzard outside earlier, but overall, it didn't amount to much.

Next door, the cemetery was oddly deserted all day long. No tire tracks from grieving visitors had broken the new snow.

It had been a while since I'd visited the cemetery - unusual for me, as it's always been a place to clear my head... to unburden.

The sky was overcast. The moon had been tucked in safely out of view. But the night still glowed brightly. I laughed at myself, internally hearing the voice of that creepy-ass woman in Poltergeist (Go toward the light!), and continued my way around the headstones. As I crested the hillside, the wind died down, but it still caressed the branches of the oaks, making small white flurries drift down from their heights.

In a place that held the end of people's lives, I looked across the fields and saw the fresh snow and saw a clean slate. Pure. Unbroken.

As I walked around, headphones blasting Nine Inch Nails, The Black Keys, and Lady Sovereign, I made fresh tracks where there were none before. It felt good and right.

I think I'll try to make this a habit.

You should try it... you might like it yourself.

General Updates

2009-01-16T10:49:00.003-05:00

I never really read anything by the Greek philosopher Epictetus. He was thought to be born as a slave, lived in Rome for a while, then got exiled to another part of Greece where he lived the rest of his life. His stance was that all natural events are determined by fate and are out of our control. All that's left for us is to just nod our head and accept how things turn out. Any pain comes from not being able to accept what happens.

Anyway, there's a phrase of his that has come up lately.

"If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid with regard to external things."

Lately, this seems like some decent advice, and I think I just may expand my horizons a bit by reading a bit more of Epictetus' wise words.

Thought foolish... hmmm.

And one more as a parting gift:
Whoe'er yields properly to Fate is deemed
Wise among men, and knows the laws of Heaven.

Current Reads:
10 pages away from finishing King's Just After Sunset. REALLY dug the story in there titled "Mute."

Current Work in Progress:
Still cranking away on Samson and Denial and just got through another particularly violent and bloody scene. It will make you cringe. It will make you laugh. It will make you look at broken beer bottles in a different light.

Recent Movies: Eagle Eye. Popcorn action movie with Shia Lebeouf. The plot jumps the shark a bit, but it's a good "what if" situation involving how much technology is affecting our lives.

Juno. Now, I see what all the hub bub was about. Great little story and incredible characters.

Current infatuation:
Being thought foolish and letting go of things.

Current Music: Jaydiohead.

Be good.

With Rose Colored Glasses: Part II

2009-01-15T01:17:00.002-05:00

Dear 2009,

Um... I don't think you were paying attention to these rules. Learn them. Live them. Love them.

Now, carry on and go about your business.

With Rose Colored Glasses

2009-01-08T10:44:00.000-05:00

Well, well, well. Hello 2009. Pull up a rock and sit with me a bit. I realize you and I are just getting to know each other, still in the flirting stage, so to speak, but I think it's important we lay a few ground rules first, just so we're both on the same page.

I'm looking at you with rose colored glasses, and though I'm still nervous about where this is all going, I still have those excited butterflies in my stomach.

#1: My most important rule: You will not be careless with my heart. I refuse to put up with that shit this year.

#2: I can handle a lot of bullshit, but you will promise to provide me with wading boots high enough for me to get through it. If you don't, I will take my marbles and go play in another playground.

#3: I have my goals and objectives for this year and you'll cut me some damn slack once in a while to achieve them.

#4: No more bullshit with anything health related for anyone I know. Refer to Rule #2.

#5: You will also cut my friends some slack in order to achieve their goals. Most of them seem to have had enough shit to deal with lately as it is. If you don't, we shall all gang up on you and beat you with a boat oar.

#6: Economy Shmaponomy. There will be new clients attracted to my business because of our creative approach, our talent, and our all around coolness factor.

#7: Can we stop with the drama? Really? Reallllly? If I could package my surroundings and put it in pitch format, you'd all be watching it on FOX next season as a reality show.

In return for you following these rules, I promise to hold your hand when the mountains turn into valleys. I promise to hold up my end of the bargain and put the work in when I have to. I'll do my best to keep looking at you with rose colored glasses and smile; even when you're not wearing make-up; even when you have bed head hair and are grumpy; even when you act pissed off and don't really mean it.

P.S. Thanks to everyone who got a copy of New Dawn and was really into my short story, Bloodglegum and Lolliknives (you earn an additional two points for saying it was your favorite title of the collection). It was my pleasure. I had a ton of fun writing that bloody little tale, and I'm so glad you enjoyed it. Many thanks to Brian Keene and my other fellow contributors in the collection. I promise you'll be seeing more.

Current Read:
King's Just After Sunset. It's been a long time since I've read anything by King and I'm digging this short story collection. Next up: The Shack, then The Reach, by Nate Kenyon.

Current Music:
Nothing major, but into songs with meaningful lyrics lately.

Current Infatuation:
Subtle moments. Glimpses of things not meant to be seen. ;)

Recent Movies:
The Bucket List. Meaningful, yeah, but extremely difficult to watch in parts if you've ever had a loved one die of cancer. Both Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman come through, and Rob Reiner does his usual kickass job of directing.

Current Work in Progress:
Untitled short about killing Shel Silverstein. (You're gonna like this one, trust me)
Samson and Denial (Shut up Kelli) is back in full force and going well. No hang-ups, no blocks and it's sailing.
Untitled novel; set this one aside for a bit, but picked it back up and found where it needs to go.

xo,
b

Once upon a Midnight Dreary

2008-12-31T23:44:00.004-05:00

As I write this, it's closing in on midnight and the last little dregs of 2008 are winding down. The house is quiet. Kids are sleeping. The dog and cat are in their respective beds, dreaming dog and cat things. My wife has been upstairs sleeping already for the past hour or so.

I just came in from being outside and saw a sliver of moon and Orion's Belt are right where they're supposed to be. It's windy outside tonight. A blustery cold that hits you like a gut punch, almost as if the spirits next door are restless.

I know the feeling. I'm restless too.

2008. What a fucking year. Part of me is excited about 2009. Part of me has that old feeling of an open slate waiting to be filled. But that other part, the one I keep hidden back in the shadows? That part of me is scared shitless at what's to come.

Apparently karma, the great Divine, or whatever you want to call it decided 2008 was a year of hard knocks. Lessons and wisdom gleaned by the blunt force of a hammer rather than the delicate guidance of a patient teacher.

I've learned that just because you can't see the weeds growing in your garden, don't be lulled into thinking they're not growing where you can't see; where you don't want them to be, and eventually they'll come to light and you have to deal with them.

I learned that wishing might not be a foolish endeavor, but seeing your wishes wither and drift off like dust in the wind really sucks. And no matter how much you might want something, just wishin' ain't gonna make it so. For the record, I still throw out a few wishes once in a while.

I thought about risks I should've taken. Actions I should've done. Instances where I should have seized the moment but didn't because I was either too afraid or I held too high a court in my own head to go through with. That's going to change for me in 2009, courage, rejection or failure be damned. I'll deal with the fall out later.

I guess they're right when they say it's things you don't do, that you regret the most later on.

Life is short... what are you going to do about it? In the words of The Shawshank Redemption's Brooks, Get busy living or get busy dying.

This year I've seen ghosts come back to haunt me that I thought were long dead. Some have even taken up residence in my house and right now I can't help but see them every day.

We all stumble. We all fall. Yet I know my circle of friends will be there to catch me when I do. I hope like hell they have enough faith in me to realize I'll always be there when they do too.

Sometimes the muse takes a vacation and it sucks the size of Montana, and when it comes back, though the words are sweeter because of it all, that shit's not like riding a bike. You remember how to do it, but you still need training wheels to find your way for a while.

I've learned you can sometimes feel like the loneliest person in the world in a crowded party or a shared office. You can also feel your heart bursting at the seams with a few well-chosen words or a familiar shared expression.

My walls are sky-fucking-high right now for many reasons. Mostly it's self-preservation and I'm sure some of that will be revealed here in time. Even so, there are some of you who know how to wriggle your way beneath the nice, pretty foundations I've built.

I've learned that tattoos you put on your arm or your wrist, pale in comparison to the marks you put on your soul as reminders.

That person you greet in the mirror each morning and each night? Ask them questions - hard ones - and answer back as truthfully as you can. You'll be better off in the long run if you do, believe me.

A clean slate. Breathe in, breathe out. Feels exciting, like the first warm day you can wear a t-shirt. New. Unblemished.

Every day should feel like this. Every day can feel like this.

On TV, the fireworks are going off. Times Square is crowded with drunk partygoers of every walk of life. Part of me wishes I was there among the throngs, sharing in that wave of exuberance and atmosphere they all seem to be bathing in with their smiling faces and half-lidded expressions.

And part of me thinks I'm right where I belong. Here with you, my laptop feeling like a heater against my thighs, writing a little love note to usher in 2009.

Yeah. Somehow I think I'm right where I belong.

But 2009's gonna be better right?

Dancing with the devil 'round a fire.
Mess your mama's bed for a little more magic.
Make you wanna run around naked,
'cause you know it looks good on you.
But you ain't never had my corn bread.
A little bit of heaven and a little bit of hell yeah.
Cut it down the middle, open wide and jump right in.
- Dave Matthews Band - Cornbread

This year, you're gonna try my cornbread all right. A little bit of heaven and a little bit of hell yeah.

You'll see.

Be good. Glad you made it here another year with me.
-b

P.S. Oh... and wear sunscreen. =)

Why Shel Silverstein Must Die

2008-12-27T10:50:00.004-05:00

Last night was the fourth night in a row that I dreamt that I was a child and Shel Silverstein was chasing me through my childhood home with a double-bladed broad axe. This one was bad-ass enough that I woke up drenched in sweat and biting my lower lip to keep quiet.

I've had this dream roughly eight or nine times over the past month or so.

Yes, my life is awesome. Of course, this means I may need to consider a couple of things.

One: I may need to stop eating pumpkin pie late at night. (Who am I kidding? THAT shit ain't gonna happen).

Two: Shel Silverstein must die.

All right, all right, before anyone gets their fur in a twist, I'm not talking about really killing him. I'm gonna put it all on paper in an attempt to get rid of this dream (yeah, I KNOW I've been having it since childhood, shut up). I know the man's written a ton of incredible children's books. One is up there with my all-time favorites, The Giving Tree. And Where the Sidewalk Ends never ceases to make my daughter laugh.

But I'm not talking about the guy who wrote the great kid's books. Have you seen a picture of Silverstein?

Now... go ahead. Just go ahead and tell me that dude's not enough to make you piss yourself while trying to hide from his broad shoulders and sharpened axe? Last night's dream elevated a bit from previous episodes. Last night, I saw his axe blades already had blood on them. Oh yeah. Good times. Not only was he after me, but I knew he'd done some nasty-nasties before coming after me.

So... there'll be a thoughtful post coming up shortly regarding the end of the year and going balls-out into 2009. But for now, I need more coffee. I need some hard music. I need my Smarty Jones hat on and the glow of flames in my eyes. I need to mentally dance with the Devil around a fire and shake a stick to keep the shadows away.

I need to go kill Shel Silverstein.

A dick and a dollar

2008-12-13T14:24:00.004-05:00

My muse has gone haywire.

I just got done writing an 8 minute comedic skit. I say writing, but what I really mean is dictation, because I didn't think it, as much as just try and keep typing fast enough to catch up with the running litany in my head. 8 minutes of material and something I may even venture to try at open mic night sometime.

I also am damn near finished another short and still working on the boring parts of another very cool project.

But I digress.

This week I promised you the post, "I'd bet my Dick and a Dollar."

So be it.

This colorful little phrase originated from my mother's side of the family, though to which individual I have no recollection.

This phrase is used in the context of a situation where a person doesn't quite know, yet suspects something pretty heavily. He's not quite, but almost, sure of his suspicions, so much so that he would be willing to wager not only one US Greenback, but also his manhood.

Example given:

"I'm not sure, but I'd bet my dick and a dollar that Grandpa's diddling the neighbor's wife in the afternoons."

The general reaction to this phrase may be one of humor to communicate disagreement with said phrase. This is expressed with a shake of the head and an uncomfortable laugh.

The only other acceptable reaction is the Robert Deniro eyebrow raise and head nod to indicate agreement with the gossip at hand.

Use this phrase at the office next time the situation presents itself.

Example given:

"I'm not sure, but after his last fuck up, I'd bet my dick and a dollar that Stevens grabbed his chapstick and kissed the Boss's ass to keep his job."

You'll be happily surprised at how quickly the phrase catches on during casual office conversation.

*Women, you may substitute any word you like for "dick" depending on your mental constitution and intake of alcohol during the moment this situation arises.

Current Read:
Almost done with a Year's Best Horror Anthology. Reading and re-reading a lot of my own stuff to see how my voice has changed over time.

Current Music:
Mish Mash of everything. Rediscovered Chris Cornell's unplugged in Sweden cd.
Indian chants. Gaelic monks. Yeah... a mish mash of shit.

Current Infatuation:
A Mentality of Openness.

Recent Moment of Zen:
Seeing an old man in Harrisburg waiting for his wife inside a bank. While she was inside handling her business, he bought her a single red rose. when she came outside and smiled, she wasn't an old woman anymore. Before the cold hit her and turned her frail again, made her pull her coat closer to stay warm. For the space of two heartbeats she smiled and she was no longer an old woman anymore. Her smile was the smile of a sixteen year old girl looking at the love of her life.

Bloody Writing

2008-12-07T13:42:00.001-05:00

This week's family phrase will be "I'll bet my dick and a dollar" and that blog will be coming soon. Err... well, maybe that wasn't the proper way to describe it because now it sounds dirty, but I digress. That blog will be posted soon.

But first, let's talk for a bit about "bloody writing."

It's been said before that all writers can be bastards. We can be complete bastards that seek the solace inside ourselves instead of in others. We build sky-high walls with bricks forged of pain and scar tissue that are damn near impenetrable to all but a few that we allow in.

All that, and more, is something I'd agree with completely.

Every writer I've ever known uses their craft to expel demons they tend to grapple with. Bleeding on the page. Bloody writing.

Most have stories they've written and put in a drawer, maybe only to be seen by a few faces - if only to share their methods of exorcism. Most, but not all, of these stories will never see light again.

I touched on that in high school for a bit - I had reams of poetry filled with angst and heartbreak that were for me and only read by me to get the shadows out of my head.

I'd never written a story that I thought would be placed into cold storage until recently.

I'm bloody up to my elbows on this one.

Did I mention I love metaphors?

So today, you go do what you do best to make you feel happy. Go play with the kids. Go put on a pair of red high heels and dance the blues. Throw Muddy Water on the cd player or scream the lyrics to Public Enemy.

Me? I've got more blood to spill.

Wish in One Hand...

2008-11-26T10:11:00.000-05:00

Kelli Dunlap has her weekly Coffee Talk.

Brian Keene blogs about topics ranging from the silly to the cerebral.

Geoff Cooper blogs about... well... he blogs infrequently, but his posts, like those of the late George Carlin, are always damned entertaining and most often thought provoking.

So I've been thinking a lot lately. Losing the ability to sleep will offer that opportunity.

Growing up, I had quite a mix of influences in my family. The maternal and paternal sides couldn't be more different, but one thing they did share was a penchant for obscure phrases and sayings. Some of them were just "old timer" sayings. Others... who knows how and where they developed. But I'm going to attempt - at least as long as I can - to offer up a phrase a week and we'll see how things go along.

This week we'll take a look at a saying from my late grandmother on my mother's side. She was a virtual cornucopia of sayings, but the one I've been thinking of lately is when she'd hear someone use the phrase "I wish..."

Not that she was apt to kill any magical thinking of wishing, but then again, she'd been through some tough times when wishing did nothing but instill false hope, and though she prayed, I think the logical part of her put faith in her own two hands to get things done.

Her response to "I wish..." was sometimes... "Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see what that gets you."

My grandmother was a wonderful, colorful character, and for her words: how very, ridiculously true.

In a bad situation, you can wish your ass off and it won't make it go away. Have to face the music sometime or another. Lately, there's a hell of a lot of things I'd like to wish for but like my grandmother, my Bob-logic tends to put more faith in my own two hands. Oh, I'm not adverse to getting help along the way, and I'm a huge believer in the power of positive thinking... the laws of attraction and all that. But I almost never wish anymore.

I've been thinking a lot lately about being a kid and having that magic of wishing... having that power of belief and conviction - not because you don't know any better, but because no one's ever really told you any different.

As you get older, does that magic have to fade away?

I'm sitting here typing this in my office. My business partner isn't here yet. I've got a fresh mocha coffee at my side and music blaring. It's the day before Thanksgiving and I'm looking forward to a long weekend. This day is very far from being over. It's a pivotal sort of day. A day for wishing.

And both my hands are empty.

Reading

2008-11-25T07:49:00.003-05:00

The reading at Arndstville Library has been rescheduled for a later date due to various moments of ridiculousness. Information to come at a later date.

I've got a post coming in the next day or so.

This may not make any sense except for long time readers here, but it took about three years for Shel Silverstein to revisit me with a vengeance. This makes night time adventures a lot of fun as an adult, I have to say.

Reminder

2008-10-28T11:28:00.002-04:00

Just a reminder...

This Thursday, October 30, at 7:00, I'll be doing a live reading/lecture/signing at the Arndstville Library.

You can get directions by clicking on this handy link and get a printable pdf.

If you all behave, I'll take you out later to any local watering holes we can find in Arndstville.

A Little Halloween Treat

2008-10-21T11:30:00.001-04:00

A little Flash Fiction... since it IS my favorite month...

Baby's Breath

She held the baby close, feeling its warmth. She pulled away the last button on her blouse to let its tender skin come in contact with hers. It moved puckered lips against the small of her neck, made a wet gurgle and she smiled. She closed her eyes and reveled in the details of the moment. It’s heart beat, strong and rapid. The sound of its breathing, soft as butterfly wings. The touch of unblemished flesh and feathery hair. Scent of diapers and powder. Even more subtle, the odor of the umbilical cord blackening in a crimped curl.

And the gentle, sour smell of its breath.

She wondered if the baby’s mother wondered where it was yet.

Black Hats and Heart

2008-10-19T07:40:00.001-04:00

It was 1986. I was fifteen and school had let out for summer vacation, my father took me with him to work one day and dropped me off at the Maryland State Fairgrounds to get a job. You see, it was something of a family tradition.

My grandfather worked there for years doing everything from groundskeeping to helping train the horses with sulky carts. My father worked there. Lots of my uncles worked there. And so it was a given that I'd be working there.

It was hard work, no question. As a young grunt, my work consisted of mowing and raking grass on the infield, shoveling sand mounds inside the livestock buildings or packing cedar chips for the cattle and sheep that would come in for the Fair later that summer. I also dealt with shoveling so much cow dung that... well... let's just say that I could have fertilized half the crops in York County. And let's not forget riding on the back of a garbage truck that led to the single most disgusting incident I've ever been privy to (it involved a blazing August heat and a dead iguana, but that's another story for another time).

It was hard work, but also mindless and even though the pay was for shit, there are some days that I truly do look back upon the three summers I worked there with fond memories.

I'd been with my father many summers to go watch horse racing. It can be harsh at times - even cruel to be certain, depending on the owner and trainer - but when there's a horse that's loved and cared for, the excitement of being at the races... whether it's a $2 bet to win, or a $50 bet on the long shot... the time between Post Time and when you see the blur of silky blacks and browns crossing that finish line... the surge of the crowd as one cheering entity, the smell of draft beer and heavy cigar smoke, the sound of scores of people swatting their thighs with a folded racing form, all of them screaming for their horse to pull through... it's like nothing else.

Fast forward to 2003.

A beautiful lean thoroughbred, described by the original owner as strong-willed from birth, Smarty Jones made his racing debut and won the race by 7 3/4 lengths. At his second race, two weeks later, he won by 15 lengths.

Move ahead to the Kentucky Derby, and Smarty Jones became the first unbeaten Derby winner since Seattle Slew in 1977, taking the win by 2 3/4 lengths, and securing his place in history.

At the Preakness, a couple weeks later, Smarty blew the other horses completely away, blazing ahead to the finish line a record margin of 11 1/2 lengths. It was the second leg of the Triple Crown.

I remember watching the race... beer in hand, warm weather outside. It was incredibly exciting. It was history in the making. I remember calling my dad and hearing the excitement in his voice.

By the time the Belmont Stakes came around, Smarty Jones had become a rock star. Offers for breeding rights were coming in regularly as high as 40 million dollars. He had a legion of fans to cheer him on. The public had gotten Smarty Jones Fever.

And yet... it wasn't meant to be.

The Belmont kicked off and Smarty came in second, losing to a long shot horse of 36-1 odds named Birdstone. There is a lot of speculation as to why Smarty didn't win, but in the end, it doesn't really matter.

Watching Smarty come up short was devastating. I was completely and utterly depressed that he didn't win. It was the first time in my entire life I saw the owner of the winning horse apologize for winning. She had tears in her eyes as she spoke at the podium after Birdstone won.

There were a lot of people in the crowd at Belmont that had tears in their eyes too. It was as if hope had been stolen from them.

Smarty jones gave his entire being to the race. He gave his heart and spirit. He did the best he could to win and still fell short.

Sometimes shit happens.

During the time between the Preakness and Belmont, my father gave me a black hat and pin with Smarty Jones name on it. Like I said, it was a big deal... the public had caught Smarty Fever and there was everything from t-shirts to thongs with his name on it. Never before or since have I seen that sort of thing in horse racing.

When I write, I usually have a mug of coffee at my side. I wear that Smarty Jones hat flipped backwards like I'm a gunner ready to wade into battle.

It seems kind of silly but I think of that horse and that last race at Belmont a lot. He didn't win, but that doesn't matter much.

Smarty Jones never gave up heart. His spirit never faltered. That's the best we can strive for ourselves isn't it?

It's not the finish line we should be striving for... it's the race itself.

It's early as I write this. My family will start stirring soon, but I've still got some time. Outside, the sun is just beginning to peak its face over the skyline and it seems as if we've gotten our first frost of the year.

The monitor of my laptop glows brightly in the dark dining room and there's a faint head of steam rising off my mug of coffee.

I have my Smarty Jones hat on and I can feel that excitement building like I'm ready to watch a race begin.

Somewhere in the back of my head, I can hear the announcer blowing his trumpet.

It's Post Time and I'll see you all on the other side.

Russian Tea Houses and My absent liver.

2008-10-06T10:46:00.002-04:00

I'm guilty.

I admit it.

This Context report is unbelievably late. But duty called and no, you won't know why, but that doesn't matter. Because... like my little Ka-Tet of friends... I'm nothing if not loyal, and with loyalty comes responsibility to be there when called.

But let's take a breath for a moment and talk about Context.

The morning I left started off with me grabbing several hours of sleep the night before as I had some work deadlines I had to meet. These required me ingesting enough coffee to make a rhino dance an Irish line dance.

Throwing assortments in my bag, I headed off to meet Brian Keene and JF Gonzalez

I promptly got behind an entire convoy of school buses that apparently had engines only allowing them to go five miles below the speed limits. This prompted a call from Brian.

"Where the hell are you?"

"In Dante's hell. I'm minutes away. Is Gonzalez there?"

"Of course he's here... he's already in the car kicking the back of the seat screaming "Let's Go! Let's Go!"

I arrived and tried unsuccessfully to coax Sam-dog to come to me, though he was wagging his tail, so that was a good day.

And we were off.

There's a certain feeling of relaxation being around other like-minded individuals, and the ride up was great talking about things going on in the genre... plans for JF and I to accomplish world domination... and the political arena/circus that we're all witnessing right now.

After witnessing an incredibly lovely welcome committee to Ohio, we pushed onward and arrived at Context.

And promptly got into an argument in the parking lot with an idiot in a black Audi.

I rifled through my cash supply to see if I had bail money. Check.

And then the argument fizzled out... we moved on. The fur on the backs of our necks went down and we walked into the con, revenge tactics whirling through our minds.

And promptly found Kelli Dunlap sitting in front of the door with her laptop cracked open.. deep in the throes of editing. This was a better welcoming committee than Ohio.

After settling into our rooms, Gonzalez and I stared, confused, at the shower in our room. It was something out of HBO's Oz. It was a murder or prison rape scene waiting to happen. I kept locking the door throughout the weekend. Something was off and I'd seen this movie before... there's a drain hole in the middle of the floor for a reason... so the blood washes down easily.

The weekend was a blur of meeting new faces. The incredibly lovely and ridiculously talented ball of sunshine herself, Alethea Kontis,one of the most amazing women I've ever met. I picked up both AlphaOops and her incredible collection of personal, insightful essays called Beauty and DynamiteShould you not have a copy... you should go remedy that situation now.

Also met Mark Sylvan, aka Dezm... a huge genre fan and all-around, one hell of a guy, that I proceeded to have a who-can-buy-the-next-round-first contest with.

The first bartender we met was Tina... a likable, odd-ball personality who has written the most extensive occult book I've ever seen, and who entertained us with magic tricks (how the hell did she bend that fork?) and who we befriended throughout the entire weekend.

The first night of a con, everyone is drifting in... it's a chance to unwind a bit.. play catch up with loved ones you hadn't seen in a while. It's a chance to vent and wail and unload and find that unity and camaraderie that only exists in that environment. It's a chance to purge and reveal and is so needed. It's synchronicity at its finest.

The con organizers wanted to take us to dinner... and chose a new Russian restaurant for the experience. And by "new" I mean... "maybe you should've considered staying closed for a few more... years.

They had seven menus.

Total.

I'd go into detail, but it's not necessary. The thought behind it was nice... though I think all of us would've preferred going across the way to Whiskey Dick's biker bar. They had a band and a lot of beautiful bikes and I'm sure my bail money would've come in handy.

Friday was a signing upstairs, and I met some new faces, signed some copies of my chapbook and wandered around the dealer room.

Friday evening, Dezm brought Kealan Patrick Burke. I'd read Kealan before, but had never had the opportunity to meet him in person. This was one of the highlights of the weekend. The man has a liver the size of Texas and a constitution for alcohol like none I'd ever seen.

Then I introduced him to Cuervo Black and the world tilted on its axis and remained unhinged for a while. I took great pleasure in this... especially when Maurice Broaddus attempted to leave a half cup of the Mexican elixir behind in Keene's room. He got busted for alcohol abuse and, in true Black Camelot form, downed it in a gulp.

This made me giggle. And I think it made Maurice time travel.

Ever see this Jamiroquai video? The one where he walks like this? That's how Kealan was walking that night.

I'm convinced that Kealan has my liver and is using it as a paperweight. I have asked him to Fed-Ex it back to me, and he has confided that he's traded it for a mason jar of Grade-A moonshine, but also offered words of consolation that he thinks livers grow back.

Saturday was a great day... I got my traditional wake-up call from Kelli... we had a truck-driver's breakfast downstairs, and the day kicked into full gear.

I helped Jason Sizemorefrom Apex set up for his party and assisted in mixing some incredible Rum concoctions that looked like anti-freeze, but tasted like ambrosia with an uppercut.

We had an incredible dinner at a local Mexican restaurant where I witnessed the sheer enormity of Keene's appetite. During his order, the waitress listened patiently, responding at the end of his dialogue "This is all for you?."

It was. And he finished it all with a burp and a smile.

The Shroud Publications also had an incredible party. JF Gonzalez and Michael Laimo signed and sold some books and I saw Gonzalez levitating a bit after being force fed some shots of Basil Hayden. Well.. force-fed may be a bit strong of a description... there wasn't much arm-twisting involved, but all had a great time.

Kealan returned... batteries recharged and ready to wash, rinse, and repeat Friday's experience. He proved he's a stand-up guy by intervening with some drama in the bar, and I'm casting my vote for him to be the next Agent 007.

And then, as it always does, the last day of the con comes way too fast. There were moments left over for one last pass through the dealer's room... catching some panels and saying goodbyes.

We hit the road, bound for home and both Brian's and my head started to melt like the Nazi at the end of Raiders. It was not a pleasant experience.

Got home.. exhausted... and stayed awake long enough to edit a story and submit it... then fell into a coma.

Back to the grind... looking forward to seeing you all again.
xo

Current Reads:
Alethea's Beauty & Dynamite - Amazing collection.. you need it.

Triage.. Ketchum, Laymon and Edward Lee. Heh heh... this fills me with evil giggles.

Current Music:
Not much.. but reading a shitload of lyrics.

Current Infatuation:
errm.. Honey Crisp Apples... mhuhahahahah

Doorways

2008-10-04T14:17:00.003-04:00

The question recently came up that if a door suddenly appeared in your living room, would you have the courage to open it up and step through to the other side.

Would you?

-- Wild at heart, but whose mind keeps reeling it in.

====
On duty today for various things... Almost finished Context report and that'll go live on Sunday.

Same as It Ever Was...

2008-10-02T08:28:00.001-04:00

Although my chest feels as if I have turning leaves rattling around inside, for the most part, Captain Tripps has left me unscathed, unlike other fellow Contexters, who sound as if they are Death warmed over.

I'd been working up a Context report... and that'll be forthcoming, honest. But there's more important fish to fry at the moment.

See... my morning started halfway through my first cup of coffee with a call from Brian Keene. I answered groggily, still savoring caffeine on my lips, and continued questioning for a few moments until I realized he wasn't going to speak... just let the song Once in a Lifetime, by the Talking Heads, unfurl in the background.

Not that I don't enjoy talking to Brian... but this time, the song was all that was needed.

The song has always resonated with me and depending on when I hear it and what's going on in my life at the time, it takes on new levels of meaning. I'd have to dig back in the archives here, but I'm pretty sure I've quoted it on my blog once or twice. And over the past few days, it's taken on yet another few definitions to explore.

Not sure why, but it appears that a lot of my friends are having relationship issues right now in one form or another. I recently told someone that I think sometimes it's more important to realize who you don't love, than who you do love.

Anyone who's followed this blog long enough knows that I'm a believer in karma.. what comes around goes around. And on that same path, there are things that happen in your life that shape your future. Things that you have to go through and experience to prepare you for something else... something... bigger.

And there are those odd little moments of synchronicity. You know the kind... you're running late because you spilled coffee on your shirt and because you were running late, you missed the jack knifed rig on the highway by seconds. Someone steps away from a slot machine and you throw a quarter in and hit the jackpot. Strange little moments of time and chance coming together in a little sensual dance.

And then there are the people you meet in your life. The ones that somehow, subtly nudge you in certain directions. They make you view life with a new pair of eyes and see things that were right in front of you the entire time. Just that you were either too stubborn or too beaten down to notice them yourself.

Those are the moments that I love the most. I suppose it's easy to look back and justify the past and how it affects the present. Any hack writer with half an imagination could do that. But often times, the people who have entered my life have altered things for me in ways that I could've never dreamed.

We are walls. We are open doors. We are both exits and entries. Each moment is an opportunity for bettering ourselves and those around us. Each moment a chance for refusing to put up with the lives we've become accustomed to, and push ahead and fight for something better... something we deserve as basic creatures.

One of my best friends is standing at an open door at the moment. On the other side is a world of unknowns. It's scary. It's somewhat intimidating. But what it is, is an opportunity to wring karma silly little neck and forge a brand new path.

It takes bravery to do such a thing - to step through. It takes a small amount of insanity too. It's jumping off a cliff based on nothing but faith... nothing but the glyphs of power you've chosen as your own.

And no matter what she decides - what we all decide - those days keep going by.

---

**Thanks for the call, Brian... right now, that's not a bad song to have rolling around in my head at all.

...

2008-09-29T10:16:00.001-04:00

Back from Context, but can't say it's in one piece.

I think Kealan Patrick Burke picked my liver up from the sidewalk and is using it as a paper weight on his desk.

Full report coming later today...

Bilbo Baggins and Cuervo

2008-09-24T23:27:00.003-04:00

Right now I'm beating the last several projects from clients... and considering beating the clients themselves.

I have NOTHING packed for Context and have to meet Brian Keene and JF Gonzalez at 8:30 tomorrow morning.

I DO have a bottle of Cuervo Black that Kelli Dunlap MIGHT get to share if she behaves herself and doesn't use my head as a trampoline to wake me up as she did at Necon.

The only things I have ready at 11:30 as I write this are business cards and chapbooks, so I may be wandering around Context in a pair of Spiderman Pajamas and a gray wife-beater tank at this point.

Behave... I'll be twittering while I'm away and promise a report when I get back...

Although Gonzalez has warned me that I may run away in hysterics at the Sci Fi fans filksing - playing acoustic tunes about Bilbo Baggins.

This can only end badly.

Reading/Signing/Q&A

2008-09-23T10:49:00.002-04:00

Next month, I'll be doing a live reading, signing, and discussion on horror at the Adams County/Arendtsville Library.

I'll be there 7:00, October 30th. If you can make it, I'd love to have you.

Directions and information can be found by clicking here.and here.

More details as the date gets closer.

Busting ass with work and headed to Context in a couple of days.

Homework Assignment

2008-09-18T20:04:00.002-04:00

My daughter is in third grade and my wife and I went to an Open House at school on Tuesday. I walked out with a homework assignment: write an essay - a million words or less - on "My Scholar".

Here's the results:

I make my living in advertising. I spend my days designing layouts and writing ad copy. Each project has it’s space constraints and most often, I’m limited in the amount of words I can use and forced into brevity of message.

So when I read my assignment to describe my scholar Chloe - limited to a million words - it offered a freedom that I’m not normally accustomed to.

But it also offered quite a challenge.

A million words to describe my scholar? I’m not sure it’s enough.

When Chloe was born, she was our first child. She came into the world through a long, arduous labor that my wife endured. Being our first child, my wife and I were understandably excited about her birth, and though no angels blowing horns or cupids strumming harps were in the delivery room, when Chloe was born, she seemed so alert and bright and shining, that it almost seemed as if she glowed.

When I looked at her for the first time, she was quiet and without fuss, and seeing her gaze upon the world for the first time was truly one of the most dazzling moments of my life.

As a baby, Chloe was a joy. She passed through infancy and into being a toddler as softly as a warm, spring breeze. I lost count of both the quiet moments of shared solitude, and the occasions of out-loud, crying laughter that our family had.

Oh, she had her tantrums to be certain. But somehow they were almost always tempered with humor until the storm passed, and it was sunny skies on her face once again.

Early on, Chloe developed a quirky sense of humor, hamming it up and stepping it a notch higher whenever a camera was present. Her twisted sense of humor has never left her, and for that I am grateful.

My closet comedian came out in full force. There was nothing exempt from my actions to receive a giggle as my payment, a belly laugh as my standing ovation.

Time passed and I continued to revel in Chloe’s wonder of the world, trying to see it fresh and new through her eyes. Aged dandelions became a well of wishes to blow in the wind. Cardboard boxes morphed into space ships and the woods turned into Sherwood Forest, full of adventure and mystery.

I’ve heard Chloe referred to as an “old soul” more times than I can remember, and anyone who spends some time with her will understand that’s true. Her eyes sparkle with good-natured mischief, always looking for a good joke, a magic trick, or a good bout of tickle-wrestling. But there’s understanding in those eyes... knowledge and comprehension beyond her years, and she never ceases to surprise me with some of the choices she makes.

She never ceases to make me proud.

Chloe received the best of both my wife and I. She has a trusting, open heart that’s loving and caring for almost every living thing; noted exception being creatures with more than four legs that stings, bites, or has the ability to crawl walls.

She wears her heart on her sleeve and gets her feelings hurt easily, though I think it’s because she still views the world through a filter of kindness she thinks everyone should look through. She’s sympathetic. She’s empathetic. She has her moral compass set in just the right direction.

Some of Chloe’s favorite movies are King Kong (we were both teary eyed at the ending, even though I knew long before what was coming), and Chloe understood it was a love story. She loves Garfield and Shrek and anything pink and frilly (though she still loves playing on her grandparent’s farm with the horses).

She has a brain for nostalgic memories, though she forgives grudges easily. She makes friends easily - much more so than I did at her age - and I think it’s because of the warmth that radiates from within her. People are drawn to her light and constant smile so that they too can be lifted up by her side.

Chloe loses herself in books and has an imagination for writing that even I as her father, am sometimes envious of. Many are the days I’ve seen her curled into a corner, jotting notes and writing in blank journals. Tales of princesses and unicorns and bear cubs fighting the draw of sleep so they can see Santa Claus when he arrives.

She loves American Girl dolls and weird toys. She wants to learn to play chess with me and could spend days in the pool like a water rat.

It’s sometimes been said that before we’re born, we choose our parents. I’m unsure as to what I could’ve possibly done in the past to deserve her gift of choice, only overjoyed and accepting at its result.

As a father, it’s somewhat heartbreaking to know that someday Chloe will inevitably go through the pain and experience that life offers. She’ll go through betrayal and heartbreak. She’ll learn about injustice and that life is far from being fair. She’ll learn that luck and timing sometimes trump hard work, but that it doesn’t mean you should stop having faith in either.

I know someday Chloe will fall in love with someone she’s meant to be with. She’ll willingly hand over her heart strings to someone that I can only hope does the same with her; put the care of their heart willingly and honestly into her hands, and trust in her with everything they have.

My only hope is that when Chloe does find someone, that they look upon her with the same eyes I do. That they bear witness to the funny, intelligent, beautiful girl that she is. That they notice all the little things she does, all the things that individually may not mean much, but gathered together make her as amazing a person as she is.

I could keep writing... but there’s nothing I could possibly write that would explain what I already know and what you already realize.

To look into the eyes of my daughter, to share her laugh, to feel the warmth of her spirit, you’ll find yourself with only one conclusion to consider - to know my daughter... you have to know her.

And to know Chloe, is truly, to love her.

Blind Truckers and Virtual Shots...

2008-09-17T10:00:00.002-04:00

Annnnnd the follow up to Death being at our side...

I'm headed to the office this morning, slightly groggy even though I've already ingested enough caffeine to give a rhino a heart attack. AC/DC is jamming that they're Back in Black. My mind is churning over a million things... the economy, creating a new branding campaign for a client, an essay I have to write for my daughter's teacher, upcoming Context and the effects tequila has on Kelli Dunlap.

I'm getting close to the exit where I need to turn when this rig just starts coming on over like Freddy-be-frigged RIGHT INTO MY LANE. No signal... no "Move, you fucker" hand waving... just heading right on over. He came so close I thought he was going to shave off my bumper... close enough that I not only could see the row of bird shit on his bumper, but can tell you that the birds ate someone's poppy-seed bagel earlier in the day.

I wasn't in his blind spot... I was right at the ass-end of his rig. I had to slam on my brakes and pull over onto the side of the highway or else accept the fate of getting the front of my truck slammed into. Behind me, several cars swerved and braked, one of which passed by, looked at me, pointed at the trucker and mouthed a series of obscenities that i couldn't hear, but I'm sure would've been entertaining had I heard them. I saw him ask if I was all right, then keep on going.

I then proceeded to gun my truck and catch up to this half-blind, inbred, ignorant asshole of a truck driver.

For my convenience, there was a handy 800 number on the back for calling in to let the headquarters know how their drivers were doing.

I phoned in and got an answer by someone sounding like a cross between Fran Drescher and Roseanne.

"I'd like to report a driver on the highway who's driving like an idiot."

"All right. Do you have their log number on the back of the truck?"

"I do. I'm right behind them."

At this point, I hear a shuffling of papers on the phone and Christopher Cross singing "Sailing" in the background.

"All right, go ahead."

I read off the call letters from the back of the rig.

"Was that a G?"

"No. B."

"E?"

"B. B. B. B as in Bastard almost ran me off the road."

"All right."

Another shuffling of papers. I now want to hear Christopher Cross gargling with bleach.

"Well?"

"Is that all sir?"

"Well, what happens now? Do you file a report or something? You need my name or anything?"

"No, I don't need your name. We'll have dispatch talk to the driver."

"And... what? They'll tell him he's driving like an asshole? I think he knows that already."

She sighs. I have a mental image of her chewing gum and painting her nails neon orange.

"Sir, I understand you're upset, but there's no reason to be rude. Sometimes accidents happen on the highway."

"I now loathe you and your company more than the driver."

And she hung up on me.

**Special thanks to Ron Dickie for his virtual comfort this morning.

So... you wanna hear a horror story?

2008-09-14T10:15:00.002-04:00

The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.
-- Everybody's Free (to Wear Suncreen)

Let's talk for a moment about real horror.

Many great friends of mine write tales about monsters. The shadows in the corner. Shambling, rambling zombies that get their motive from elder gods. Immortal creatures that view the beast of time like grains of sand on a beach. Nameless faceless creatures that haunt our dreams. This group includes myself, but that's not the kind of horror I'm talking about.

I'm talking about the out-of-the-blue things that happen on any other day. An everyday event that you can't possibly be prepared for, only look on as a series of occurrences allows it to unfold before you, and you're just along for the ride, destination be damned.

One of my best friends called me yesterday afternoon. I know he's been busy and traveling a lot lately because I haven't heard from him. When I saw his name on my cell, I figured it was a call to catch up, give me hell for his constant pummeling of me in chess, and just a general bullshit session.

I couldn't have been farther from the truth.

I'm taking certain liberties in retelling this, but stay with me... the core is here and you'll understand.

"So, you wanna hear a horror story?"

That was how the conversation started. His next words assured me however, that it had a happy ending.

My friends live in Tampa in a great neighborhood. He does very well and his wife is of elegant style and refined tastes. They're a phenomenally great couple, both intelligent and cultured and have fought their way from their humble upbringings.

They have two daughters, one around eight and the other at fifteen-months old.

It was a typical Friday evening. He was traveling out of town, heading back on a return flight. Their older daughter had some friends over playing in the back yard and pool.

A slightly cracked sliding door... an unlatched gate... the slightest moment of distraction... and gravity took hold.

One of the older friends came walking back by the pool and thought "Why would there be a baby doll with socks on in the pool?"

And when realization hit, she started screaming.

Their other daughter of fifteen-months had made her way outside.

My best friend's wife ran outside to the screaming and felt something I can't begin to imagine - something I never want to imagine - grabbed her limp dishrag of a daughter and ran screaming to the neighbors, holding - in my friend's words - essentially, a dead baby.

Fortunately, their neighbor was home and immediately started CPR, and brought her back, sputtering and coughing up water.

By then, their older daughter had called 911 and the ambulance was on the way.

As my friend's plane touched down and he could turn his cell phone on, he got a text "Call me - emergency."

Amidst the ambulance ride, and the shrieking sirens, his wife explained everything as they were headed to the ER.

After many tests and I'm sure, a surreal, out-of-body night, they assured them that their daughter was okay after the trauma. CAT scans and others revealed that she was all right. The staff seemed incredulous after seeing many other drownings, that this happened, and by the time my friend called me, everyone had just gotten home.

THIS, my friends, is horror, not the creepy crawlies that we can imagine in our nightmares. The things we least expect... the things we can never expect or be prepared for.

Carlos Castaneda's philosophy is that death is always at our side. A sobering thought, but also a respectable one.

Life is short indeed. We can go to church several times a week or ignore religion entirely. We can go to the gym and have a healthy diet or drink ourselves to oblivion and live off fast food. We can take precaution to the extreme or live life on the razor's edge of danger.

But none of it matters. When the cold winds of fate blow against our back, it's our time and there's no way to prepare for it.

Except... there is.

Fingerpaint on the walls? Crayon drawings on the coffee table?

It's just material things...

Bickering over trivial things?

It's not worth it in the overall scheme of things.

Going through troubled times?

Don't forget your friends... each day... each moment may be your last. Show people you care about them. They're there for a reason, but it's a two-way street. And it only takes the tiniest things...

I am thankful today.

I am thankful for my best friends and loved ones. I'm thankful that a tragedy was missed by a fraction. I am thankful that the cloak of death has not descended when it easily could have. I'm thankful that a little girl's breaths today may taste sweeter than they did before - though she may not understand why.

I'm thankful that though I recognize my gift of imagination... of creating worlds, that I have yet to experience real horror.

And though I know at some point, it's inevitable for us all, I hope those of you that read this, have a long, long time, before you experience it too.

Current Reads:
Finished Lee Thomas' Dust of Wonderland... great read and I'm lining up something else by him already.

The Dark Tower - The Gunslinger Born. I bought the collected hardback comic and both the writing and artwork kick ass.

I skipped over Cormac's No Country for Old Men for the time being and dove into Mary Sangiovanni's The Hollower. Digging it... very creepy and nice atmosphere.

Recent Movies:
Martian Child. John Cusak is great in this.. different role for him, but great story line.

Live Free and Die Hard. I'm a sucker for these movies... and though as an action movie with some serious full automatic weapons, there are, of course, some serious moments that I had to put my brain on the shelf, the story's based around a cool, very timely concept of a technological "firesale" and is a frightening social prospect in itself.

Current Music:
Nothing new... any recommendations?

Current Infatuation:
--==sigh==--

be good,
b

Drown

2008-09-06T09:24:00.003-04:00

I re-read these lyrics that I posted a link to recently... and the song's so damn good even after all this time, that it's been running through my mind ever since. The memory of it takes me back to buying the cd soundtrack of Singles and a summer where I didn't have a care in the world. I was working at a shitty job that I busted my ass at, but didn't have much stress. I was early into my relationship with my soon-to-be wife. It wasn't too long before that I'd finished the final draft of a never-to-be-released novel with a co-writer who vanished off the face of the Earth. But that didn't matter because I was optimistic and hopeful for the future. It was the summer of me sitting on a mountain top around a fire, at a lonely little cabin among a gathering of friends, drunk off my ass and closing my eyes as I nodded my head to Mother Love Bone's Chloe Dancer as it echoed off the oaks and pines.

Music takes me away. Doesn't it you?

Drown - Smashing Pumpkins
No matter where you are
I can still hear you when you drown
You've traveled very far
Just to see you I'll come around
When I'm down
All of those yesterdays
Coming around

No matter where you are
I can still hear you when you dream
You traveled very far
You traveled far, like a star
And you are
All of those yesterdays
Coming around

Is it something someone said?
Was it something someone said?

Yesterday the sky was you
And I still feel the same
Nothing left for me to do
And I still feel the same

I wish, I wish I could fly
I wish, I wish I could lie
I will, I will try
I will, I will
Goodbye

I'm tattered and bruised from the last couple of weeks in more ways than a few.
A friend of mine told me I looked pretty stressed yesterday. Hmmm. The weight of years my friend... the weight of years.

Very much looking forward to Context in a few weeks. Heading up there with JF Gonzalez and I'm sure it'll be a blasty-blast. Plus, I get to see my slave-driver and partner in crime, Kelli Dunlap. Keene will be there too. Ohio is doomed. Hide the sheep and lock up the cigar bars, we're on our way.

Current Reads:
About fifty pages away from finishing Lee Thomas' The Dust of Wonderland. Have been so busy I've had to schedule bodily functions, let alone read much. And a great little expanded tale from Kelli Dunlap. (yes... you'll have notes!!)

Recent Movies:
hmm... yeah. Uhm... I watched Enter the Ninja last wednesday, laughed at how ridiculous Sho Kosugi was in it, and how cool I thought that was in my early teens. Other than that.. nothing.

Recent Infatuations:
Coffee and.. coffee. No use posting anything else.

Recent Music:
Went old school and have been listening to old Public Enemy and D.O.C. Oh, and a kickass release that my friend Tim turned me onto - One day as a Lion from the Rage Against the Machine crew. Short and sweet as a bar fight.

A meatier post is on the way. I need to recharge my batteries.
be good,
b

The Taste of Our Indiscretions

2008-08-29T10:30:00.001-04:00

That's the title for a story I have notes on in my ramblings file. It's a strange, surreal little story and I don't know if I'll ever write because there's so many other things in front of it. The entire thing hasn't really come together yet and since it's Friday I figured I might share the skeleton concept with you. The story deals with a man who wakes up in a waiting room outside of Heaven, something akin to waiting at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Everyone's impatient, the staff is disgruntled, and no one at all really wants to be there.

The man realizes he's dead, and after an attendant reviews his records, he leads him to a large warehouse-style room filled with shelves and shelves of water cooler jugs. The attendant then proceeds to lock the door behind him on his way out.

See, the thing is... the guy was kind of a prick when he was alive. A corporate suit that cheated and robbed and stole. An asshole on the streets, turning a blind eye to the poor and needy, and keeping kindness and good will tucked neatly in the pocket of his pants.

The attendant explains to him that every ounce of grief, every shred of pain, every tear that he's caused in his lifetime has been captured and is waiting for him. The jugs are filled with the tears he's caused, and to walk through the pearly gates, he needs to drink them all and experience the hurt, the pain, the grief that he was responsible in life; The Taste of his Indiscretions.

Told you it was an odd little story, and I don't even remember what triggered it back when I wrote the notes. Been seriously busting ass lately at work and I guess my mind has been turning things over inside on a smorgasbord of topics.

Poor choices that most people wrestle with after the fact, our indiscretions can take many forms. I'm a firm believer in karma; you get what you give. Be an ass, people will be an ass back. Don't love? You won't be loved. Be open and true to your friends, and they will be to you. I hate to break down emotional aspects, but it ties into physics really. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

There's a fine balance in life, held together by gossamer strings that break with the faintest of touches. Take care what you do and how you treat people, lest you want the same in return.

Or someday you'll taste your own tears as a result.

In the words of Maya Angelou, People will forget what you said. They'll forget what you did. But they'll never forget how you made them feel.

--

Current Reads
Lee Thomas' The Dust of Wonderland. VERY cool read and I'm ashamed to say it's the first thing I've ever read by Lee. Almost to the end and the pages are burning my fingers to get done. Next up: I suppose I'll trudge back into No Country for Old Men, though the first twenty pages gave me a headache when I attempted it last time. Then, the Raw Shark Texts because it's been a while since I read book that sold for six figures.

Recent Movie
Hmmm. Actually, I haven't watched a damn thing lately except AMC's Mad Men.

Current Music
The Kooks: A band from the UK that kicks more ass than a donkey. Think acoustic Strokes with less edge. Very cool.

The Subways: Caught them on Sundance Channel's Live from Abbey Road. A three-piece band that jams. And as a bonus, the guitar player is quite the cute rock-chick.

Delta Spirit: Bluesy and kickass. Click here to check out their track titled "Trashcan" on their MySpace page:

Current Infatuation
Hmmm. Nope. I got nothing... except maybe Chapter 14 of my novel.

Current Frustration
Uhm... among other things... clients that give me lo-res photographs to use in their layouts.

behave yourself,
b

I am turning into Bill Murray

2008-08-23T11:04:00.002-04:00

And this week on the Funk of Skunk...

So it's Friday night. This has been a long week. No.. let me rephrase that... this has been a LONG FUCKING WEEK for many reasons. Professional, personal and all of the above. Been knee-deep in work and was only able to write one night for a good chunk and another for a handful of words.

I was looking to unwind a bit, have a few drinks and just catch my breath, but obviously the universe has decided that my life doesn't have enough drama in it already.

I was just finishing putting my kids to bed when I came downstairs and saw a look of trepidation and unease on my wife's face.

"Pepe's back."

Adrenaline kicked in and I grabbed my shotgun, a couple of shells and bolted from the house, a flashlight in the other hand.

Loading the shotgun on the run, I ran around to the back of my barn and swung the flashlight around and caught motion in front of me. At this point, my feet did one of those Bugs Bunny tire squeals.

Yes it was a skunk.

But this was no Pepe.

It was a much smaller target and colored much blacker. Offspring of the hell-spawn herself.

So I gave chase and fired off a shot. Monsieur Le Pew ran to hide beneath my raspberry bushes and I reloaded and fired again.

Effectively shredding my raspberry bushes.

He bolted like black mercury from the bushes into a row of Laurel trees and I ran around to the other side - standing in the cemetery and yelling battle cries and yelling for my wife to get me more shells as I tried to focus the flashlight and find him again.

I aimed and fired.

And buckshot ricocheted off something, hit my truck's gas tank and the entire thing burst into a fireball in my driveway.

Well, at least in my head it did.

I reconsidered where I was aiming and in that instant, I heard Monsieur Le Pew's leprechaun-like voice utter "Fuck you, Mon Capitan" and he ran around the barn again, headed toward the woods.

I ran the opposite side of the barn, intending to cut him off, and didn't realize how fast the little bastard could run.

We ran parallel in the darkness toward the woods, me screaming obscenities in a horrible French accent (I've no idea why... it seemed the right thing to do) and then the little bastard disappeared.

There is a very large Oak tree along the drive in the cemetery. It would make a good hanging tree. It's base is as wide as three of me and it's wrapped in poison ivy. And there is a hole at it's base.

The Le Pew's new residence. (Cue the Jefferson's Movin' On Up theme song here)

I kissed the tip of my middle finger and dramatically showed him that he was clearly number one tonight and slowly made my way back home.

The rest of the night was spent doing exactly what I had intended to do in the first place. Having a few drinks and unwinding.

But in the back of my head, I was plotting.

This morning, coffee in hand, I made my way to their new abode and leisurely dropped a lit quarter stick of dynamite into their hole.

It made a very gratifying bang but since I'm fairly certain their domain is in the ninth quadrant of hell, I don't think it did anything.

I came back later to check and see if anyone had pulled themselves free of the trenches.

And was promptly stung on my ankle by a yellow jacket.

Oh Miss Pepe. Oh, you bitch. Clever, clever girl.

There are several holes in the ground by their new home. And they are all filled with a particularly spicy variety of yellow jackets.

I came back home, grabbed a beer and returned.

With a can of Super 77 in hand.

Some of you may not know what Super 77 is, so I'll explain. There is a craft material called spray glue that comes in a can much like spray paint. The normal variety works very well and you can also peel up and reposition things with it after you've stuck it down.

Some genius at 3M realized that the denser glue that settles at the bottom of their vats could be marketed as a high-end industrial spray adhesive. Once this is sprayed, you'd better damn well position things correctly, cause it's not coming back up with a crowbar.

While my ankle continued to throb with venom, I spent the next 1/2 hour spraying the yellow jackets without mercy, watching them pass by like planes with King Kong, and drenching them with 3M's sticky goodness, and laughing gleefully at their writhing bodies in the dirt. I also sprayed their holes until it looked like vanilla ice cream at the entrances.

Tonight, I shall load up and return to the scene of the striped demon's lair.

The only good varmint is a dead varmint.

Intolerance for Intolerance...

2008-08-22T15:23:00.002-04:00

Shortly after I first met Brian Keene, he invited me to one of the infamous Keene-Con's in his back yard. This was years ago, and since then, we've become close friends. At his party, it was barely two weeks that I'd known him, and he made a statement to me. He said that he couldn't speak so much for other genres, but most everyone in the horror genre are some of the most accepting, tolerant and open people around. Their only intolerance is for intolerance.

I'll admit, looking back, in high school I used to be an ass in some of the ways I thought. No excuse, but it was the environment I grew up in... surrounded by a variety of students, ranging from red neck to outright hillbilly, I became a product of nurture, not nature.

But as I've grown older, I've reached a point of maturity and growth where I realize both that 1) I don't really give a shit and 2) as long as it's not affecting me or my loved ones, it doesn't really matter. I'm not of the homosexual nature and I've met some incredibly wonderful people over the past ten years that I've began to really take writing seriously... of both hetero and homosexual natures. And it doesn't matter.

It just doesn't matter. They're people and that's the end of it.

In this fucked up world that we live in - and if you think it's not fucked up right now, you seriously need to turn on CNN once in a while and get some meds - if two people find love and solace and comfort in each other, more power to them. I'm happy for them because finding that is so rare... it's like Ishmael tracking the white whale.

Having said that, if you're interested in, write for, read from, or otherwise a fan of the horror genre, you should read Brian Keene's latest blog post. You can check it out by clicking here..

And also his addendum here..

Roy at Bad Moon Books has publicly aired his own beliefs in a completely arrogant and belligerent way. There's no call for it. I for one, don't see myself buying any future books from him - no matter the writer. You reap what you sow, and Roy has planted a crop for himself and his company that I predict will fail miserably.

Anyone who's paid attention to my blog for a while will know that I've no faith in a religious sense, but what I do believe in is karma because I've seen it work out time and time again. You give what you get. I think Roy has yet to understand that.

And as for Brian's original statement to me years ago, standing in his back yard and sharing beers and burgers... intolerance for intolerance...

Brother, I couldn't agree with you more.

***
Been busting my ass this week with work... but there'll be a new blog post soon and some updates on what I've been doing before all hell broke loose with my day job.

Dear General Public: I'm done with you.

2008-08-06T00:12:00.001-04:00

It was 1992. I'd just bought my first Mac - a Quadra 660AV and I was loving life. For a 15 inch monitor, a computer with 24 megs of ram (that's right baby, you know you're jealous, and you don't need to tell me I'm showing my age here, thank you very much) and a 120 meg (yes.. MEGS) hard drive, I think I paid around $3,200. I think my hands were trembling as I wrote the check.

But that machine was the bomb. I brought it and Peter Gabriel's Secret World interactive cd home with me and hibernated in my room for a few weeks.

Then I discovered the internet through AOL.

A lot has changed on the internet since I first heard the static handshake of a 2400 baud modem connecting to the outside world.

But then again...

See, each time I think the general public has hit a new low... an entirely new threshold on just how far they can sink, they surprise me yet again.

I won't even go into the foulness of two girls, one cup. If you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen it, avoid it and save the Big Mac and fries you had for lunch.

Recently I became aware of a new phenomenon site involving naked girls, cakes and farting. I... won't even get into this one either suffice to say that once again, an entirely new level of ridiculousness has arrived to grace the electronic world and I wasn't exactly waiting anxiously on what the net would dish up next.

At least I hadn't been until today. And once again...

I'd like to talk to you about a site that breaches all former bugfuck, crazier-than-a-shithouse-rat protocol, but first, a slight digression.

I've never been hesitant to talk about my platform regarding religion. I think if you want to believe in God, the Tooth Fairy or little green forest fairies, whatever gets you through the night, good for you. Just don't shove your beliefs on me, and we'll get along just fine and share the bottle of tequila without issue.

I, however, have always been inquisitive by nature, since I was a kid. I question too often, do not generally take things on blind faith, nor put much stock in 2,000 year old books with missing pages unless I see some sort of proof.

I am a doubting Thomas.

So I pose a question: Are you familiar with The Rapture?

No, I'm not talking about the naked girl and cake site... I'm talking about the belief that God will eventually come back and scoop up those that truly believe in Him, take them to heaven and then unleash some serious nastiness on Earth.

With me so far?

All right, then let's proceed.

There is now a site www.youvebeenleftbehind.com (and no, I'm not even hyperlinking this one... you want to visit it, go type it yourself) whereby people who believe they'll be hoisted in the hands of an Angel and Super-Dooper-Looped to Heaven after the Rapture takes place, can send an email to whoever they choose, six days after the Rapture, for the recurring annual fee of $40.

That, of course, is also taking into consideration that the Net will still be operating after the plague of pestilence, locusts, famine and war have arrived, post-Rapture.

The beauty of it all, is that how would they know if the email is even sent?

As an aside, the site's owner has an email going to his wife. Mmhmmm... you read right. His wife. Evidently, he thinks that while he's going to be on the stairway to Heaven, his wife will be playing dominos with the rest of us heathens, as she has no relationship with God.

And what, you may ask, will his email say? The password to his stock account so she can trade.

Yes, I know. I needed bread crumbs to get back to the land of logic after I read it too. After he's been called away, he's sending her a message from the afterlife so she can TRADE STOCKS. Tell ya what sport.. how about you just write the password down on one of those fancy yellow Post-It notes and save the communing with the dead stuff to somebody else.

Ludicrous you say? Ridiculous? His cheese has slid off his cracker?

Oh, but wait, there's more.

At this point, over 1,000 people have signed up for it and paid their annual $40.

You read right, my little holy wafer eating friends. ONE THOUSAND.

That's 40,000 American greenbacks for this service. AND IT JUST BEGAN.

Their mission statement: Our purpose is to get one last message to the lost, at a time, when they might just be willing to hear it for the first and last time.

I have written just shy of 20k words on a novel this past week but tonight I think I'm foregoing fiction and working on a business plan involving cakes, nude women and religion. Apparently PT Barnum was right, there really IS a sucker born every minute.

And apparently, they're among the chosen.

Bob why-does-this-Kool-Aid-taste-funny Ford

Recipe for Muse Soup

2008-08-05T13:25:00.002-04:00

On my way back from New Jersey this weekend I heard that the area I live in had been under its second tornado watch in two weeks. This does not bode well for I am a firm believer in the rule of three. So far, both the barn and the house are standing.

I'm still waiting to see Flying Monkeys arrive.

After I got back I walked around the cemetery with a beer in hand to see if the place had gotten ripped up at all.

There were no limbs down. No trees broken off at their ankles as their sometimes are.

I'm very respectful of the dead when I'm over there. If there are flowers overturned or something out of place, I tend to put it back. I make sure the kids are respectful too - not bothering the many things that people sometimes leave there. And people leave things there all right. Baseballs or stuffed animals for stillborn infants. Cards or photographs for husbands and wives long gone. Someone once even left a metal military helicopter for a buried veteran.

But what I found there over the weekend was a note tucked into a plastic ziplock baggie in the middle of the paved road. It only had a single name to the addressee, so I have no way of knowing where exactly it came from.

This note was obviously meant for the dead. As I stood there in the cemetery, beer in hand, sun setting behind me, it made the hair stand up on my arms.

I LOVE that. =)

But I figured I'd let you read it now.

Inspiration comes to the muse from everywhere it seems.

Tune in tomorrow for a new rant... "Dear General Public: I'm done with you."

Driveby Update

2008-08-03T22:37:00.002-04:00

20k words into a novel and it's sailing baby, it's sailllllling. It's a raw lump of clay at the moment, but I'm digging it. A lot. I hope you will eventually too.

***
In other notes, you should all go grab a copy of Nate Southard's new release, Just Like Hell. You can buy it by visiting Thunderstorm Books

Recent Reads:
Sleepers, Lorenzo Carcaterra. Amazing. Go get it. NOW.
Next up: Selected Scenes from Earthworm Gods, Brian Keene, and Old Flames, by Jack Ketchum.

Recent Movies:
Ghostrider. I don't even want to talk about this as it made me want to poke my own eyes out. It was a train wreck that I couldn't turn away from and for the life of me, aside from Nicolas Cage's Hollywood name weight, I have absolutely no idea how this movie got made.

Recent Infatuations:
--

Recent Music:
Been listening to a lot of My Morning Jacket and NIN's The Slip.

Unspoken Words

2008-08-03T22:31:00.001-04:00

I seldom re-read books.

And by seldom, I mean I've only done it four times. It. The Stand (abridged and unabridged). I Am Legend, and Sleepers, by Lorenzo Carcaterra.

That last one is one I just finished re-reading today and even if you've seen the movie by the same name, I urge... no, I demand... that you read it.

I came across the paperback of Sleepers by accident years ago. It was before my children were born. Before I got married. I was three years into being self-employed and living in my first apartment with my soon-to-be wife.

I saw Sleepers on a rack at a local pharmacy and read the blurb on the back. It hooked me and after I got home and cracked the spine, that was it. I disappeared. It was a Sunday afternoon and I simply vanished until the early hours of Monday morning.

Never had I read a story about a group of friends that close. A group of friends that would do anything for each other, whatever that meant. Loyalty without bounds. At all costs. Friendship beyond blood.

It struck a nerve with me because I live by the same ties that bind. The friends that I have - those that have made their way beyond my self-made stone walls - are ones that I'd do anything for. Their happiness - whatever that means - means everything to me. There's trust there. Love. And so many things unspoken.

After reading it again, thirteen years later, I saw it in a different light, but the same resonance came away with me. That beautiful overwhelming friendship that exists so rarely in this world that when you find it, you have to hang onto it at all costs because it's a true gift.

The simple fact is that life is full of a lot of bullshit. Oh, it all balances out for the most part. There's laughter and happiness to be sure. But there's also mourning and grief. Pain and loss. Betrayal and heartbreak. And we're there for each other, thick and thin.

It's sort of cliché and overused, but John Lennon said that "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." So very true. Just when you think you've got things figured out, along comes a strong wind and knocks over your carefully built house of cards. You can go it alone if you want. Experience the rollercoaster of emotions that go along with it all. But with a core group of friends you don't need to. They can help you share the burden. They're the ones that will sit and listen and nod at the right spots, offer comfort and solace and maybe a few words of advice.

They're the ones that will weep at your sadness and celebrate your victories with the same gusto because they're there for you no matter what.

They're the ones that will look at your expression and know without you having to say a word. The ones that will be willing to give you a hug or a smile, not saying a word because it's unnecessary; they already know.

And sometimes, the things that go unspoken are the truest words of all.

Pepe Must Die

2008-07-23T22:19:00.002-04:00

All right, here's the set up.

Kelli Dunlap and I had only gotten back from an incredible trip to NECON a few hours before. We were sitting on the porch reading random twitters and having a little pow wow as that was her last night before flying back home.

As we were sitting there, we heard noises close to my barn and heard something pulling on the raspberry bushes. A flash of white and it disappeared. I ran behind my barn and listened, heard more rustling in the bushes and I clapped my hands a few times.

This is obviously a sound that Pepe does not like because he came barreling around the barn, tail raised high, prepared to use his ass strength to obliterate me.

I'm not too proud to say that I screamed like a school girl and cussed like a dock worker as I ran back to the porch.

Kelli, my wife Jen and I shared a giggle and they both noted they didn't know I could run that fast. Neither did I.

** side bar:
Later on, Jen went to bed and Kelli and I watched a truck pull into the cemetery next door. An old man got out, leaving the truck's headlights on, and walked to a headstone. Moments later a young boy of around ten years old got out too and they talked. The man put something on top of one of the headstones, then they both got back in the truck and left.

This left our muses freaking out with many questions, so we of course grabbed a flashlight and went next door to see what the hell that was all about. We explored for a bit and talked about dead priests and some freaky spots (told ya Kelli, didn't I?) in the cemetery and wandered back to the barn.

No sooner than Kelli had spoken a few sentences about a mausoleum on the far corner of the cemetery then we heard rustling in the bushes behind us.

It was then that I witnessed the patented Dunlap levitation trick. Somehow she was beside me talking one moment, then in a split second, levitated completely behind me, grabbed my shoulders and was using me as a human shield.

This maneuver does not bode well for my future if she and I are ever in a hostage situation together and has thus been duly noted.

At this point, we didn't waste time getting back to the house.

Last night was largely uneventful, but tonight, after the kids were in bed, Jen and I were outside on the porch talking. It was dark and in the shadow line of our porch light, I saw a small patch of white by the kids swingset.

This was less than ten feet away from us.

Pepe... is NOT respecting the circle.

Okay... now let me paint a picture for you.

Me in the dark with a small flashlight and a pistol I haven't shot in roughly seven years trying to shoot a moving target that could make me stink enough to knock a buzzard off a shit cart.

I came around the side of the barn with the flashlight and saw him there.

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

I drew.

I fired.

And emptied the entire clip into the dirt as he danced like Michael Jackson into the field.

At this point I realized I'd broken the cardinal rule... always.. ALWAYS have a spare clip on you.

I ran back to get my spare clip and by the time I got back, he'd hauled his stinky ass to the woods at the far side of the cemetery, safely out of distance.

He has made himself a nice home behind the barn. It's dry from the rain and he has a good close supply of berries and grubs to eat.

But Pepe must die.

I cannot have this.

Pepe has not respected the circle.

Stay tuned. Hilarity will ensue.

This week on The Funk of Skunk

2008-07-21T22:01:00.001-04:00

I was going to write a NECON report tonight and talk about meeting the many incredible people there, the really bad food, the amazing restaurant that we ate at and me kicking ass in foosball.

But since I got back, the wildlife around my house has gone insane. The doe is snorting like a mini-steam train in the cornfield next door. The Junebugs look like flying Volkswagens. There is a huge pile of bat dung in my garage since Fester has taken residence there for a summer home, and apparently the groundhog gave up the hole behind my barn and subleased it to a Skunk who has decided he's comfortable enough with the lay of the land to use my back porch as a toilet.

I'll tell the entire tale of this and then follow with NECON, but right now my legs are trembling with the prospect of getting sprayed with Eau d' Pepe Le Pew, my wife's heel is punctured and bleeding and I've decided to throw in the towel. Tomorrow will be better and I will continue then.

Real Life with a Twist

2008-07-13T22:05:00.000-04:00

''Horror is an unknown actress, perhaps the girl next door, cowering in a cabin with a knife in her hands we know she'll never be able to use.''
- Stephen King

The Strangers, Liv Tyler:
''Why are you doing this to us?'' she whispers.
To which the woman in the doll-face mask responds: ''Because you were home.''
- -
And from two amazing screenplays by Kevin Andrew Walker:
8mm, The Machine talking to Detective Welles
"What did you expect? A monster? You want to know why I do this? Daddy didn't beat me. Mommy didn't neglect me. I do it because I like to do it."
- -
Se7en, Detective Somerset, Detective Mills, and Police Captain talking..
MILLS
What about the trace on his bank account
and the guns? There must be something to
connect him with a past.

CAPTAIN
So far it's all dead ends. No credit
history. No employment history. His bank
account's only five years old and it
started as cash. We're even trying to
trace his furniture, but for now all we
know is he's independently wealth, well
educated and totally insane. We may never
know how he got that way.

SOMERSET
Because he is John Doe, by choice.

- -

There's an excellent article by Stephen King in this week's Entertainment Weekly (thanks for the heads up, John) about horror and what it really is, and why Hollywood Studio Suits should put the crack pipe down and get back to the nuts and bolts of what scares the shit out of people.

You can check it out by clicking here

But I've been thinking about it a lot lately myself and the things that have made that odd little tingle go up my spine. Not just in movies, but in real life - because that's the basis of things that work in horror books and movies.

It's real life with just a tiny little twist... looking at reality with a pair of shades on. When I was in Philadelphia going to college and for a good while after I graduated, I used to clip out newspaper clippings of bad crimes or oddball stories.

I've got one about some guy in Milwaukee that police arrested on charges of cannibalism and "as yet unconfirmed necrophilia." Some swell guy named Dahmer.

The things that I've seen that have unnerved me?

When I lived in Philadelphia in front of my apartment building.

A four inch piece of leather belt from some guy on a bicycle that was run off the street into a plate glass window. The blood was washed off the street but somehow the cops and the clean-up crew forgot that little piece of sliced belt.

--

One of the first homeless people I saw in Philly; some girl, looking all of maybe fifteen, sixteen at the most. Her face was a little slack and you could tell mentally she wasn't quite together. Her face was dirty and she held a flannel blanket tightly at her side as if it was life itself. The expression she held was one of immense confusion and she looked about as lost as anyone I'd ever seen. It was the expression you see in Emergency Rooms at three in the morning when someone has just been told their husband or child is dead. That look of not knowing what to do next.. not now... not ever again.

I slipped her a few bucks here and there for the next few weeks - always on the same street corner. Sometimes she was awake, others she was sleeping near the steam grate. And then, suddenly, she was gone and I never saw her again. I often wonder what happened to her.

If that happened now, I'd most likely try to help her.. steer her somewhere so she could be taken care of. But back then, I was a young stupid 19 year old living in the largest city he'd ever been in before.

I often wonder what happened to her and worse, how she got there in the first place.

- -

On my honeymoon, my wife and I drove back through alligator alley and up into Georgia on our return trip from Florida. I didn't realize that major routes on Rand and McNally maps sometimes turned into dirt roads in Georgia. I also didn't realize that many homes in that region are built from nailed together warehouse skids, their bottom edges gradients of rich red Georgia clay.

I don't think - even while traveling through the gypsytowns of West Virginia - that I've ever been as sketched out while on a trip. I had a healthy fear - a legit one I believe - that if our car broke down, my long-haired self would have been in some dire jeopardy.

In the city, gangstas will shoot your ass.

In the sticks, hillbillies will turn you into the family pet.

- -

The summer after I got out of seventh grade, my parents decided to move to Pennsylvania from Maryland. Like most of my friend's parents, they were hard working blue collar stock, and moving to the cheaper land prices of Pennsylvania meant they'd be buying their first house.

To say it was a fixer-upper would be putting it mildly. But my mother saw opportunity. My father saw a lot of busy weekends with a power saw and a 16 oz carpenter's hammer.

The property was just shy of three acres if I remember correctly, and beside the main house that we were going to live in, there was another house, a medium sized work shop/garage, and two small mobile homes.

There was a man there by the name of Jack Lease and he was insane. I've got to go back through my blog archives, but I'm pretty sure I may have mentioned him before and the pranks of my mother while cleaning up Jack's utter messes. The remnants that he left behind... to imply that they were the rantings of a very disturbed mind would be a huge understatement. It was like reading the journals of Satan with a hangover. There were very logical statements mixed with absolutely ridiculous sentences. Ramblings with a list of names with large angry underlines with the words "These can be disposed of" beneath them.

50 Gallon oil drums dragged into the trailers. A small campfire circle of cut off telephone poles. Canned tomatoes, stewed vegetables. Dirty forks and steak knives with odd stains on them. Correspondence from strange companies. A few nudie magazines and piles upon piles upon piles of dirty clothes. Jack had no legal right to be there. He was a squatter. Came upon the place - abandoned - one day, and decided it might be a nice place to live. He was known to ride around the property on a lawn mower with a pair of overalls and a wool Elmer Fudd hat.

Crazy. Absolutely bugfuck crazy.

But I remember thinking what in the hell was wrong with this guy? What happened in his life to make him like this? Was he born like that or did some tragedy happen? Was he in a war? Post-war stress? A little Agent Orange cocktail turn his mind into silly putty?

This unknown, this person who I'd seen but didn't know. This unstable frame of mind freaked me out. At least I knew where vampires and werewolves stood. There were rules man... silver bullets and holy water... full moon, sleep in a coffin. They were predictable.

Not this guy. He'd as soon mow a lawn for you as do a little Ginsu magic and put you in some canning jars for a long cold winter.

After he left and we moved in, I'd see him from time to time in town. He'd see my grandfather drive in to pick up feed from the grain mill or else I'd be riding my bike and see him walking around. He'd look. And I knew he remembered me.

Worse than vampires or werewolves. Worse than that queen bitch Alien dripping acid blood. Worse than Freddy Krueger messing with my dreams or
the serial killer wearing a pale white William Shatner mask wanting to snuggle up to Jamie Lee Curtis...

Jack... was real life with a twist.

And that made him freak me out more than anything Hollywood could pump out.

So.. what does horror mean to you?

Tattoos and Dead Men update

2008-07-06T02:29:00.002-04:00

Okay... as it turns out, it was just two high school kids getting stoned and playing stinky finger.

I told them to beat feat if they didn't want the cops to bust their ass because the bars just let out and they patrol the cemetery. They thanked me profusely and didn't waste any time driving their Subaru the hell out of there.

But never mind all that... it gave me a hell of an idea.

Welcome to the fucked up beautiful way a writer's mind works.

best,
b

Tattoos and Dead Men

2008-07-06T01:00:00.000-04:00

It's late as I write this... well, to be honest, sort of average for me. It's 12:45 and of course I'm still up. This year, I'm doing the exact same thing I did last year at this time... I had a glass of wine and went out in the cemetery earlier to watch the fireworks go off on all surrounding sides of the hillside I live on. Those of you who know me, know that the hillside I speak of happens to be a cemetery. It's peaceful there and I've walked there countless times in the dead of night. Aside from a close call with a skunk and a near hit-and-run with a pissed off doe, I've never felt threatened there.

But I just got back from walking around moments ago. While I was walking - speaking out dialogue to myself for a story I'm working on; not at all uncommon for me - I saw headlights pull into the north side of the cemetery. Thinking it may be a cop wondering what sort of freak would be walking around a cemetery this time of night, I sidestepped and went among the graves themselves to disappear.

The car pulled in and cut its lights and after a few moments, I saw a thin LED flashlight bobbing around, going row to row. Searching.

I hid behind a mausoleum, sipping wine and watching the entire time. There were two figures there walking around, talking quietly with each other, though I couldn't make out any of the words.

After a few minutes, I felt they were getting too close and I skirted along the ridgeline of trees and made my way back home.

And all the time, my muse was kicking into overdrive.

Thinking about what would make someone go into a cemetery this time of night to search for something. What would be that important?

I also thought about how long a tattoo would survive on a dead man's skin.

A tattoo of a map that would lead someone to a shitload of dirty money.

And once that map was dug up again... would there be two people getting back in the car... or would the grave hold the bodies of two people instead?

****

Hope you're all enjoying your Holiday weekend.

secret

2008-06-25T13:10:00.002-04:00

came across this posted anonymously and thought it was pretty cool:

I am your brother - a part of the human collective. You can meet me, shake my hand, hug me, kiss me, fall in love with me, hate me, fuck me, shoot me, and love me again. We can share stories, we can unfold ourselves, reveal our innermost fears and desires, talk about music, about the world, about our pasts, about ourselves. I may know you for two seconds or I may know you for a hundred years. We may be enemies or friends, lovers or strangers. But you, my brothers, my sisters, my parents and children, you will never know me, nor I you. It is the one true bond between us, and it keeps us apart as the ocean divides up the lands. Forever, no matter what, we will always be apart, and although you may gaze in my eyes until the stars shatter, you shall never know the mind behind those eyes, nor the heart that, like and unlike yours, hopes in vain for the comfort of knowing that somewhere in the universe, there is another one just like you.

This is our secret.

Sad News

2008-06-23T08:21:00.003-04:00

Sad News to hear first thing this morning that the satirical, witty, though-provoking comic genius known as George Carlin, has died at 71.

Some of his gems:

“Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town.”

“If you can't beat them, arrange to have them beaten”

“If God had intended us not to masturbate he would've made our arms shorter”

“I have as much authority as the Pope, I just don't have as many people who believe it.”

“"I am" is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that "I do" is the longest sentence?”

“Have you ever noticed that anybody driving slower than you is an idiot, and anyone going faster than you is a maniac?”

“You know an odd feeling? Sitting on the toilet eating a chocolate candy bar”

“I like it when a flower or a little tuft of grass grows through a crack in the concrete. It's so fuckin' heroic.”

A Rose from My Garden

2008-06-20T10:03:00.001-04:00

No real secret that I've been in something of a writing funk for the last few months but have been working my way back out of it. I'd been breaking the cardinal rule of abusing the muse and it took me far too long to realize it wasn't working.

So I changed pace. Modified my patterns. Adapted.

Recently I gave my Muse a rose from my garden. The question I heard whispered back was "Am I still your Muse?"

I've been working on Samson and Denial (I know... I hear you all groaning in the back of the room. It's coming along a lot more slowly than I'd ever possibly imagined, but it'll be worth the wait). Wrote a script treatment for a romance-comedy (again with the groans... yes, not my normal type of thing, but circumstances are what they are and it needed to be done), and last week my Muse returned my rose back to me in the form of an entire novel outline I'm calling Crimson River.

Crimson River is very different from what I normally would approach, but my Muse knows best and apparently it's what I need to get the train back on track so I'm listening to her.

I'll be working on that and a screenplay until they're done, then get my hands dirty while they age a bit and finish Samson and Denial and Big Stakes Jackie. Have to limit my projects or else I definitely fear getting lost. My "Ramblings" file of ideas, brain farts and snippets of stories, dialogues and ideas is an 80 page file that's akin to that scene at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indiana finds that government warehouse of all the wooden crates. But I'll get to them all eventually.

And Muse? Yes, you're still my muse. You've always been my Muse... even before I know what that meant. An endless well of inspiration and spirit and faith that if I just continue on and push through, it'll all be okay.

P.S. I did find out where that damn suitcase of money came from... but you're all going to have to wait.

Recent Reads:
Kill Whitey, Brian Keene. Can't say enough about this one. Fast paced, well written... the only thing that stopped me from finishing it in a single sitting was going out of town to New York City.

Jack Canfield's Key to Living the Law of Attraction. Pretty interesting read, but didn't cover a lot of ground already covered in other books of the same vein.

Recent Movies: Mr. Bean goes on Holiday and... and... that's about it.

Current Music... various.. though I'm itching for something new.

Current Infatuations: Summer Squeeze and Texas Hold 'em

question for the day...

2008-06-07T16:51:00.002-04:00

where'd the briefcase full of money come from, damn it?

I'm going out for a walk in the cemetery.

drive-by update:
current reads: Fetish, J.F. Gonzalez. As kick ass as everything I've read from him.
No Country for Old Men. Cormac McCarthy. This one better f'ng get better because so far all I see is that he's in love with the word "and" and half-page paragraphs. Yes, he's a name author, but if anyone else low on the totem pole submitted something like this, they'd have spikes driven through their wrists.
Next up: Kill Whitey, Brian Keene. And believe me when I tell you, I've been waiting for this one for a long while.
After that... The Raw Shark Texts. Google it and once you read the book deal, you'll see why I just had to read this.

current tunes:
The Black Keys: Attack and Release. This is SUCH a kick ass cd I can't even begin to tell you. Get it.

current infatuations: among other relaxing things, mental breaks with Uno/Poker/Trouble

recent movies: A FUCKTON of chick flicks for reasons I won't reveal just yet. Sugar, and Living in Oblivion. Both of which I had high hopes for, but ended up with me wanting to hollow out my brain with a melon spoon.

2008-06-03T10:04:00.003-04:00

I am extremely pleased to announce that my great friend Kelli Dunlap has had her first novel purchased by Larry Roberts at Bloodletting Press. It will be published under their new imprint of Morningstar in 2009. I am ecstatic and overjoyed and I know she is levitating in her living room with excitement. This is the first of many to come from her.

Bruises Where You Can't See

2008-05-31T22:13:00.002-04:00

If you could read my mind, love,
What a tale my thoughts could tell.
Just like an old time movie,
'Bout a ghost from a wishing well.
In a castle dark or a fortress strong,
With chains upon my feet.
You know that ghost is me.

If you Could Read my Mind - Gordon Lightfoot (though I much freakin prefer the cover by Johnny Cash)

Hey there. You in the back standing by yourself. Come here. Come closer and take my hand. Let's go for a walk. I need to ask you something.

Do you remember what if felt like?

Passing notes in class; crude elementary school drawings with hearts, and a haggardly drawn phrase “Do you like me, yes or no?” And that wonderful buzzing sense of joy the first time it returned to you with the “yes” circled with multiple exclamation points.

Heart hammering in your chest, clammy palms... walking to the front door after a chaperoned date; that awkward moment of indecision, standing at a crossroads, bare and unadorned. And finding the courage to lean closer, feeling your eyes close of their own accord, praying to any gods that will listen that the other person won’t pull away. And feeling for the first time, that fluttering of something that was no longer fully innocent, but still far away from anything sensual. That first incredible kiss that blotted out the world and turned it to psychedelic shadow; the sound of wind rushing in your head like a freight train. That soft brush of lips and the elation that followed as you walked away. And later, awake in bed, reviewing the night, trying to savor it like some wonderfully exotic candy.

That's what filling words on a page feels like to me.

Do you remember the first time you reached out to hold someone’s hand and they held it back?

And the first rejection; the first heart break. That aching hollow that feels like it’s threatening to consume your entire being... that seems to desaturate everything. Each time you see them is like touching a raw wound and your heart dies another little death, and slowly you realize your first adult lesson; the only thing that can take the hurt away is time and time alone.

Do you remember?

I never believed in writer's block before. I always thought it was a bunch of shit. Hell, for that matter, I still do. I know the source of it all comes back to the individual. Shit, I know it well. But sometimes shit happens. And sometimes you veer off into a part of the woods where you see bad wolf-shaped shadows. Sometimes you get out on your own... other times you need someone to throw a flashlight your way so you get the fuck back out.

They say that if it wasn’t for the darkness, you wouldn’t be able to recognize the light.

These moments - these lights and darks - they make us who we are. A friend of mine recently said that bruises give you character. She was in a position to say that since this same friend not only has taken a lot, but recently dished out quite a lot of bruising. But when that door is opened, it’s a Pandora’s Box with no way to stuff all of shit back where they came from. But even so, that’s never stopped most of us from trying anyway. It spills out no matter what you do - no matter what Band-Aids you try to use.

Here's to gypsy stones and cold spots.
Here's to a sucker bag of Patrick Swayze and Black Panther Parties.
And here's to not just knowing the light's still there... but knowing you can get your ass back to it.

The rusty wire that holds the cork
That keeps the anger in
Gives way
And suddenly it's day again.

Two Suns in the Sunset - Pink Floyd

The Path of the Insane and Righteous (continued)

2008-04-01T18:50:00.003-04:00

All right kids... I was going to fill you in on a fun little email exchange with William McClean who apparently has twisted his religious attitude to focus on delivering high and mighty anti-gay bullshit emails... and I'd have included my responses to him that had to do with him sexually entertaining a sheep and some midgets while he drink sacramental wine from the ass of a stuffed chipmunk.

BUT... little Willie decided not to continue to play. I admit... I couldn't help myself and got carried away replying to his second email in which he recounted members of his family who gave away the Hope Diamond, an uncle who was the Attorney General for the Austrian Empire in 1938, and a particular sordid tale of William himself being nine years old and living at the Los Angeles Foster Care where he says he was seduced by two seven year olds.

William is now 69 years old and apparently rip-roaring-right the fuck out of his twisted little brain.

The last response I received from him today was letting me know that he was ending this "unprofitable communication" and closing his ISP account.

Mission. Fucking. Accomplished.

I've got no tolerance for idiots like this who have no tolerance for however people want to live their life... and even less tolerance for people like this who send emails to me out of the blue spouting it off... AND I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO THEY ARE.

One more mouth that rattles and prattles and spouts off verbal idiocy... removed from the net and next seen at your local bus stop or subway ride. He'll be that guy mumbling to himself in the corner and conducting the 7th Street Pigeon Orchestra to the funny little music playing in his own mind.

The Path of the Insane and Righteous

2008-03-27T23:05:00.003-04:00

Alllll right boys and girls... each of you pull up a chair and sit closer because there's a lesson to be learned here.

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I've got a particular stance when it comes to religion... but to each his own. Believe in God, Allah and little green forest fairies... if it works for ya, and you're not blowing anyone up in the pursuit of your beliefs, then more power to ya.

However when I receive an email out of the blue as such as the following in my email inbox...

Both you and Bryan have made a terrible mistake. In fact, most of the world has made the same mistake. God created man and woman to enjoy love and sex - and everything else with each other. It is Satan who created disease and death. Just look at your body and deny that this is exactly how God created you. Don’t you see? God created you to enjoy life on every level of your being. It is Satan who is making sex and love seem to be evil. Satan made all the STD’S. It is Satan who created AIDS. It is Satan who created war. Yes, almost all so called Christians have it wrong.

Please help me to spread this truth.

I am Bill McLean

Now.. here's the thing, boys and girls... I don't know Bill McLean. Nor do I know any Bryan. I know a 'Brian" but somehow I get the idea that if Bill McClean approached him recently with bullshit like this, he'd be buried in the woods somewhere.

So... learning from my past experiences with Mary and my blog post, The Chipmunk Rigor, which ended all too abruptly for my taste, I'm taking my time forming my response to dear old Bill.

I don't really want to scare him away... he has to be treated like reeling in a marlin... but on the other hand... this is too good to pass up.

I'll keep you posted.
=)

The Weight of Years

2008-03-19T22:56:00.002-04:00

Today I woke to the morning sun and for the first time in my life, I felt the weight of years upon me.

To say that there's been a lot of changes going on recently is, to be honest, the understatement of the year. All around me it seems as if there's an undercurrent in the tide of life.

One of my best friends and his wife just had a baby. It's been a long, rough road to get there, but they had a son and everyone's doing fine. I can't begin to describe how happy I am for them because I know they've wanted this for so long. And quoting the Bible, and Lorenzo Carcaterra, and my brother Doug's speech at my wedding... what happens to the least of my brothers happens to me.

Their joy and happiness is mine.

Another of my best friends... she's finding happiness among chaos. Her life is a mixture of thunderstorms and sunny days, but it seems as if she's finally finding herself at a time of calm and peace... the springtime of her life.

Her happiness is mine in so many ways.

My children are healthy. My son is changing and developing... to have him alone with me at times, I feel as if he's already a young man filled with a great sense of humor and a healthy respect for things that he should be respecting, though he's still young and just registered for school this week.

My daughter... well... my daughter continues along her path amidst my constant amazement. She's sensitive and silly and simply amazing. She continues to reveal her creative talents with art and writing. Her current story is for a contest and if I do say so myself, is pretty damn good. She's been published twice this year in the local newspaper and we share a wink each time she gets in. I'm proud of her.

And amidst it all, I feel the weight of years.

It's not age. Age - physical age - has never bothered me. I've never understood why people get their knickers in a twist over physical age. The big 30. The big 40. The big 50. So fucking what?

I've always felt you're as old as you feel. Most days I feel around 13.

But lately, the weight of years has been feeling heavy on my shoulders.

They say wisdom comes with years, but I don't know. I've seen some pretty dumb-ass old people too, so I'm not sure that theory holds water. I think wisdom comes from recognizing when you or others around you fuck up. You can try to roll that knowledge off at times... but only if it's accepted. If not, it only comes off as being preachy and giving a sermon.

Thing is... people have to learn from their own mistakes. Hell, I never used to think so, but I think now, it's almost the only way to truly learn. And no matter your age... mental, physical... you never stop. Only thing you can do is recognize... accept... and try to correct whatever you see. Sometimes... even against the most heartfelt advice... you have to pack things away. It's the only way to survive... the only way to feel lighter, though you still carry that burden deep inside.

And that burden becomes the weight of your own years. The weight we all carry over time. Some days I just wonder why it has to feel so heavy.

Recent Reads: The Indifference of Heaven, Gary Braunbeck.
If I'm to be honest here, I have to say that I liked it... I didn't love it. I'd heard so much about this book and Gary's writing but it didn't affect me like it has many others. There were a few passages in it that I absolutely LOVED. But overall... eh.

Current Read: Heart Shaped Box, Joe Hill.
Oh... it's got a hook, all right. I'll keep ya posted.

Recent Movie: Eastern Promises. Yep. Cronenberg directs a great flick here... very well written script and the direction carries it well. Viggo kicks ass in it.

Current Music: The Zutons, Tired of Hanging Around. Two tracks: Valerie and I know I'll Never Leave have got me listening to the whole cd.

And NIN: Ghosts. Ohhhh Trent. Quite a little mindfuck here and some superb stuff to listen to while I'm writing. Thanks...

Current Infatuation:
Springtime and what that fever does to people.

Current Frustration: (edited by author) No... I don't think I'm going into that here.

Had a bit of a derailment lately with writing because of several large work projects, but am back on Samson and Denial... you'll get a peek soon.

always yours,
b

Current Reads

2008-02-16T18:20:00.002-05:00

I could tell you what I'm reading... I could tell you that it's really good... and that it's holding my attention more than a lot of things that are on the shelves right now...

But I'm not gonna.

I'd rather let you all pick it off the shelves with shiny foil titling on it at some point in the future.

Drive by update:
Current Read: Little Silver Book of Streetwise Stories, Brian Keene

Current Writing: Samson and Denial... hee hee.. ohhh this scene I'm working on... two words for you: pizza cutter

Last Movie: The Reaping.. not bad.. a bit predictable, but not bad. Next up is Raw Feed which I hope is as good as the Netflix blurb.

Current Infatuation: Champagne Truffles and pin-up girls

Current Music: Still jamming with Puscifer

Ball Gags and Murder

2008-02-06T00:36:00.000-05:00

Let's talk a bit about inspiration and how I recently became an accessory to multiple murders with my inner muse.

A while ago I told my friend Kelli that I had too many open projects going on and that I wasn't going to start anything new until I started finishing the open ones I had. I felt like I kept running off on tangents and not getting anything completed. Evidently this is a common malady among writers as most of them have any odd number of text files and scribbled notes for this and that and the other.

I was going to attempt to shove a ball gag in the mouth of my muse. Tell her to shut her mouth and stop those hot little whispers in my ear for new ideas just for a little while.

Inspiration comes from all over. In the past week I've had story threads come to me from seeing a woman and her dog walking through the graveyard; a trio of some seriously fucked-up looking underground subway mutant people in a mini-mall in downtown Harrisburg; the sound of two birds arguing with each other at the end of the work day; and an old couple shuffling along the city streets and still holding each others hand as if it was life itself.

Now, that's the visual type of inspiration and that shit never stops. Unless you walk around with a pair of wrap-around Ray Bans and tap a cane in front of you when you walk, the story threads from what you see never stop unless you make a conscious effort to block them out.

The other type of inspiration is emotional...

For most writers that I know, myself included, when you're happy and in love, inspiration is a bottomless euphoric well you drink from. These are the best of times. Your head is filled... no, not just filled... it's jam-fucking-packed with ideas. It's as full as your heart feels with love, and both seem to have no origin or end. They just flow and flow and flow...

Of course, like everything dichotomous, there's also the flip side.

Sadness can also be used as fuel for the fire... I know damn well I've used it. Not so much been inspired by it, so much as took the pain and let my words fall on my pages like midnight rain.

You take it all and use it for what it is. The love, the happiness, pain, hurt, whatever. It's yours. Own it. Make it yours.

I stifled the muse instead of just accepting whatever she presented and taking it for what it was worth. It's true, not everything is worth exploring, but everything's definitely worth looking at to find out if there's more. Some stories never get off the ground and maybe deservedly so. Sometimes the timing's not right for things to come together. Sometimes it never will be and others... well, I've had things brewing for years until they finally came together and I knew it was just meant to be... that it had to have some age and experience on it for things to work at all.

But if I don't even let things have a chance... if I push them away and don't allow them even the opportunity to live, I'm guilty of killing the ideas all by myself.

So, my muse is unleashed again... I'm taking whatever happiness and pain comes my way. She's chatting up a storm here and I'm just jotting it all down, absorbing it all, and waiting for when the time is right.

***
Recent Reads:
Finally finished Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and am on pause because there's some new stuff headed my way.

Current Music:
Puscifer, Side project by Maynard of Tool. Wow. Fuckin Wow. Go get it.

Current Infatuations:
Doodling. New Clients. Mini-Mental Breaks. Toys.

Scar Tissue

2008-01-28T20:52:00.000-05:00

I was very tempted to write a blog post about a recent comment on my blog, but refrained.

Careful... careful what monsters you poke a stick at. Sometimes they know a whole lot more truth than you care to have revealed. Those skeletons in the closet? I'm the guy that knows what color and texture the bones really are. I'm the guy that knows what those skeletons look like in the light of day and none of them are pretty.

But instead I'm just going to do a mini update.

There's been a lot going on the last month...

Lots going on with business... lots going on personally. Lots going on with getting my ass beat in chess (fuck you, chromeoly... you're almost FORCING me to read a freaking book to learn new strategies).

I've got a new taskmaster behind me. She's become one of my best friends, and like most best friends, she can be a SERIOUS pain in the ass... I'm sure we may fight at times. We may yell and scream or drink tequila shots till the morning sun at some point. But I know damn well she's got my best interests at stake.

And I have hers in mind as well.

The thing is... once again I've become so focused on surviving with everything else in life except what I need to do mentally. And the truth is.. if I'm not doing that, I'm not surviving at all, I'm merely existing.

I've been assigned to 500 words on toilet paper and did it.

But I've avoided the threatened assigned topics of ear wax, air ports, and sneaker tread.

This doesn't mean, necessarily, that I'll avoid them for good... just that I've dodged those particular literary bullets for a while. And the only reason I've avoided those assignments is by doing what I know I have to be doing all along. Not "should" be doing, "have" to.

I'm finding my groove again. Lil bit each day... discovering something big... wiping the dirt off... uncovering it all. Quite honestly, it's a feeling I haven't had in a long while. I let a bunch of that other surviving shit get in the way.

I read recently that if you fall in love with someone you give them a piece of your heart that you'll never get back. And you have to truly be willing to do that to make it work. I read that and thought about it for a long while before I gave in and agreed with it.

To fall in love with someone or something, I think you really do give up a piece of yourself. I've always thought love is sacrifice... and loving writing or playing music or any other pursuit of passion

There's always a fear of giving up so much of yourself that you don't have enough left to push blood through your own veins. But hell, there's worse things to be scared of.

***
I began this post on Saturday morning, before going on an out of town trip for my wife's birthday.
While out of town, (Baltimore City to be exact), I lost my wallet - I'm about 99% sure it was in the back of a cab around midnight on Saturday.

The sheer and utter bullshit to go through of having a credit card, my driver's license, social security card, parking garage pass, credit union identification... all of that was lined up in front of me.

Driving to my office this morning, some loose cash in my pocket, passport in my coat for id, and my former hole-punched license, I had it in my head that it'd come back to me somehow. I also started playing with the symbol of losing my id... losing my actual identity, and what that could mean.

Then I got a call from my wife a little before eleven o'clock this morning.

Her voice was unsteady. She was very unsettled.

She'd went out to our mailbox and sitting squarely inside, without a note or anything else was my wallet. The money was gone, but everything else intact.

Sometimes when you lose your identity, it can come back. Other times... well who knows. Maybe sometimes it's better it doesn't...

Driveby Update

2008-01-28T00:52:00.000-05:00

Yes.. I know... I KNOW.

There'll be a lengthier update in a day or so at the most... lots to update about..

Back working on Samson and Denial and it's going really well.

Told my Muse to hang tight for a little bit while I catch up and finish with all the chewy goodness that she's already given me.

Reading the first three chapters of a friend's work... and digging it. =)

Current Read:
I'd put aside Fear and Loathing for a bit and then picked it back up again.. about fifteen pages or so left...
Headed into Shapeshifter by JF Gonzalez

Current Music:
Plain White T's
Chevelle
a hodge-podge kick-ass mix of music singles ranging from Sia to Jem to John Mayer to..

TV spot singles...
Landon Pigg - Coffee Shop
Dakota - Strange
Ween - Your Party

Recent Movies:
Ocean's Thirteen, not bad... up to par with the rest...
And AMC's new series, Breaking Bad. Go watch this. You won't regret it. Only two episodes out.. catch up.

Current Infatuations:
Peanut Butter Jelly Time
Gloves made from Chewbacca fur
"Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur..."

The Girl Next Door

2007-12-24T09:54:00.000-05:00

I am an addict and I accept this.

I'm almost done my second cup of coffee for the day, so physically the caffeine is kicking in and I feel whole and complete on that regard.

Mentally I'm still bits of broken glass.

This month has been out of control with work. It feels like I've gotten around eight hours of sleep this month. Emotions have been riding some serious highs and lows. And not to sound all biblical, but this too, shall pass.

Regardless, I've been getting even less sleep than normal. I've been writing in broken snips but not enough to really vent anything. Not enough to exorcize any demons that have been building up.

Little things impact me harder when this happens... expanded through some mental magnifying glass way beyond their normal scope of things.

It's Christmas Eve and I'm working today. At least for a while. There's shit that needs done and it won't happen by itself.

But last night I took a break. But in my mental state it probably wasn't such a wise choice to watch Jack Ketchum's The Girl Next Door.

I am bits of broken glass.

When I first read the book, I was late to the game. I'd heard about it, but no one would really tell me anything about it. The only thing that was revealed to me was that it was based on a true story, though no one would tell me what the true story was about.

I never knew what hit me. That book took the core of me and slapped it around, recycling it into something else. Any innocence I had left in me at the time had a chunk more carved off, never to return.

You've heard the saying, When you dance with the devil, the devil don't change. The devil changes you. Once you see certain things, you can't un-see them.

Ketchum's book and the movie are like that. It's a great cast. Very well directed. And the girl. My god, the girl.

Go read the book. Go watch the movie.

But don't say I didn't warn you first.

Current reads:
Tucker Max: I hope they serve Beer in Hell.
Tucker is an arrogant, womanizing, alcoholic, and quite possibly one of the funniest writers I've ever read. That he's simply recounting his own personal exploits doesn't diminish the humor. I don't recall the last time I was crying and fumbling badly at actually speaking words when I attempted to read a story out loud.

Joe Hill: 20th Century Ghosts
Holy shit. This collection is... y'know what? Fuck it. Quit reading my blog and go get it. Let's just say that with Joe, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. Pop Art and The Black Phone are my own personal standouts.

Hunter S. Thompson: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
It's been a while since I've read this, and I needed some sort of drug-inspired, literary bukkake to take me as far away from work mind as possible. Gonzo never fails.

Music:
A mutt-mix of everything. Rap, classical, acoustic... even some oddball Romanian gypsy music. Only thing that I don't think I've listened to lately is twang-country and polka, but hey, the month's not over yet.

Current Infatuation:
Too goddamn busy to have infatuations right now.

Hope you all have a happy holiday...

Saga Part II: The Chipmunk Rigor

2007-12-06T23:25:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd gone overboard with Mary, but no, she was just being coy and hard to get. I received this today and as promptly as I could, replied back:

DEAR ROBERTO:

I'm sorry to hear you business is not doing well. I spoke to Mr. Abiola Williams, the present officer in charge of operations at BANCO DE ORO UNIVERSAL BANK and I am reviewing the paperwork for the transfer sum of (120,000,000) U.S.D. one hundred and twenty million dollar of which I intend to make you the beneficiary of the funds.

This money in question belongs to a deceased foreign contractor in Nigeria of which I know 100% well that the money is hanging loose and unclaimed within the Central Bank of Nigeria Territory. Due to my current position as a present worker in the bank and also a Civil servant I cannot lay claim on this money.

I intend to part you with 20% of the total sum, for your assistance while 80% will be my own cut of the deal. Every record concerning this funds and all legal contract documents backing the funds are in my possession.

Please, my good friend, i want you to limit this matter personally to yourself, whatever your decision might be, all correspondence must be through this mail box or my private number at 234-42-255873. This deal is 100% risk free I look forward to hearing from you soonest.

thinking you in anticipation,
Mary Ellaine Manguerra Villanueva

My Dearest Mary,

I'm SO happy to hear back from you. I've been known to be forward sometimes. Other times I reveal too much of myself (I only got arrested once for it, but I was on the merry-go-round, so I guess I deserved it).

I also thought maybe I'd scared you away after learning of the type of work I do. In fact, just today I finished stuffing the cutest set of chipmunks. They are all at a tiny little table with green felt top, holding tiny little cards in their tiny little paws. They all have the cutest smiles on their rigor stiff faces. I would make one and send it to you, but I'm not sure how they would hold up in the heat in Nigeria. I'm afraid they would end up smelling like a Taco Bell bathroom in August by the time they arrived.

One hundred and twenty million dollars is a lot of money here in the states. I'll bet you and I could have a lot of fun drinking beer at the bowling alley and having dinner at the Famous Hot Wiener. It would be so much fun to buy everyone a round - we would be the talk of the trailer park, I bet. ha ha.

I'm so glad that your offer is legal and that you have all the contract documents. It's so hard to believe everything people say these days. Each year I run to my mailbox to get a letter from that Ed McMahon fellow because he says I could have already won. But so far, nothing. I don't really like him or his belly laugh anyway, so I'm really glad you are bringing this offer to me, so's I don't have to worry with him anymore.

Mary, I'm glad you think of me as a good friend. I'm not sure I feel comfortable keeping this only to myself though. I share all my secrets with Gibby. He's my best buddy and it just wouldn't feel right keeping things from him. He's been real good about keeping that thing we done with the peanut butter and no clothes, quiet. But I guess since you'll be coming to the states, I won't need to worry with that no more neither.

You take a lot of worrisome things off my plate Mary. You're a good girl, but like I said before, you're naughty too, just like I like 'em. Like my pappy used to say, I like my wimmen like I like my chicken, a little bit of fat on the end. Not too much and not too little, just enough to make me grin.

I am also thinking of you in anticipation,
let me know how I may move ahead with things and I will give you a deposit and a withdrawal (ha ha... see, I can be a naughty boy too)

Roberto

The Saga Begins

2007-12-03T16:56:00.001-05:00

Well, friends, today I've gotten a lovely spam email from none other than Miss. Mary Ellaine Manguerra Villanueva. I've gotten emails from her before, and probably her sister, from the Nigerian Bank, with an offer for me to take 10% of her 20 million dollar bank transfer (apparently her husband was a wealthy prince and passed away recently).

Since I need some entertainment, especially since Brian Keene's Hail Saten blog is down, I'm low on coffee and feel particularly evil right now, I've decided to secretly switch Mary's crazy pills with StarBurst fruit flavor candies and write back. Let's see how how this plays out.

This is Mary's email:

Good Day,

Let me start by introducing myself, I am Miss. Mary Ellaine Manguerra Villanueva, an ACCOUNTS OFFICER with the BANCO DE ORO UNIVERSAL BANK. I am writing you this letter based on the latest development at my bank which I will like to bring to your personal edification.

This is a legitimate transaction and you will be paid 20% for your "Assistance".If you are interested, please write back

Kind Regards,
Miss. Mary Ellaine Villanueva

And my response:

Hello and Good Day to you, Mary Ellaine Manguerra Villanueva.

Wow! That's some handle you've got there... how long did it take you to learn to write your full name as a child?

It must be tough having a name that long on your business card, but I guess someone with a title like "Accounts Officer" at the Banco De Oro Universal Bank can pretty much choose the size of their business card as they see fit, right? Right? Come on, be honest. You've got a staff of peons waiting to do your bidding, don't you? You're a naughty girl. I knew there was something about you. I can tell from your letter. But that's okay. You're not stuffy and uptight like the other executives.

I'm curious about the latest development at your bank, although I'm not sure what an edification is. My uncle had constipation once, but I don't see how that works into banking matters.

I am very interested in the 20% part. Lately work as a taxidermist here has been slow. People just aren't taking down game like they used to, although the neighbors down the road in WaterCress Mobile Park brought me a opossum last week to work on. It turned out well, though it's smile sort of looks like George Bush when he's speaking about the war or oil.

I have to run for now - time to feed the Chitlins (they're dirty little vermin, but it's a living until I get a fancy business card too) but I look forward to hearing more about your transaction and how I may assist you.

Fondling,
Roberto

whatever you do...

2007-11-27T09:23:00.001-05:00

don't click on this link:

you'll be exposed to shit like this and it's bad enough watching CNN without looking at all this stuff.

I've gone out to find myself...

2007-11-09T14:07:00.000-05:00

It's 12:05 and I've been clicking this mouse and tapping this keyboard faster than a young Ray Charles going through smack withdrawl. To say it's been busy would be an understatement, but I just took a break to grab some lunch and to feed my dog's little addiction.

You see, I've become a biscuit peddler and he has turned into a crack whore. I don't know what the hell they put in those things, but he's taken to following me around and making these odd actions like he's trying to tell me something. If I ignore him, he persists until I, stupid human, understand that he wants another biscuit, or else go somewhere that he can't follow, like back to my office. It started with two a day, one in the morning, and one later at night, but now he walks around making these moist lippy noises and eyeballing me like a gargoyle until I cave.

It's unsettling.

But even more unsettling than that is this past phone exchange.

I got a call from Coop a few moments ago:

"Where the fuck are you?"

"umm... home."

"Okay, 'cause, I just saw your fucking doppelganger walking down the street."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way to the shop and passed this guy walking down the streets of Hellam and thought that's fucking Bob. I was going to go turn around and pick you up."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment more than you know, but nope. I'm right here. At least I think I am."

Then Coop had to hang up because he was headed into work.

I hear my dog at the top of the stairs licking his lips again for another smack biscuit, but if you happen to see me out anywhere, be sure and tell me that I said hello and send my best.

Dirty Pillows and Hoegaarden

2007-11-06T09:56:00.000-05:00

Well now.

I spoke to a great friend of mine today who's been going through a shit storm over the past year. It's been a while since we talked, and we caught up with each other; about life in general and writing more specifically.

I told her over the past few weeks my schedule had been such that I'd not been able to write hardly anything. As a result, I'd been feeling cagey, like I'd drank way too much caffeine; wanting to crawl out of my own skin.

Apparently, this isn't something singular to me, as she immediately related.

She told me to go write 500 words about anything. Toilet paper. The color of insanity. Whatever. Just go do it. And I was going to tonight. I wasn't sure of the topic, but I was going to do something other a blog post.

Then I got a call from my mother, which spun me in the direction of a six pack of Hoegaarden and I've settled down here to write this instead.

There's an old Indian adage that's been beaten to death in Hollywood westerns, but it's a conversation between a grandfather and his grandson:

"Each of us has two wolves fighting inside them. They're fighting all the time because they're so hungry." Grandfather said. "One is dark and angry and hateful. The other is light and gentle and loving."

"Which one will win?" asked the Grandson.

"The one you feed." Grandfather replied.

Some of you who come to read this blog know my childhood and others definitely don't have a clue.

Being extremely sheltered aside, overall I had a pretty great childhood, but I come from a family that's roughly 90% knuckle-dragging, rifle-rack hanging, rebel-flag waving, all-other-than-white-hating, hillbillies.

No, I didn't say rednecks. There's a difference. Rednecks will guzzle down Budweiser and watch Nascar.

Hillbillies will do the same thing, but they'll do it barefoot and their tv will be set up on old tires on the back porch so they can get better reception from the antenna.

Rednecks may have a mullet.

Hillbillies get their haircuts with an electric razor and keep a banjo handy for special occasions.

You see, on my mother's side of the family, there were nine kids, including her, and they all grew up in... (wait for it) West Virginia.

Over the course of my childhood, growing up in Northern Maryland and Pennsylvania, I saw quite a lot of those nine kids; my uncles and aunts. I was witness to many a bluegrass picking session at my grandparents, who played bass, mandolin, banjo, six and twelve string guitar, and when he was drinking heavily, my grandfather could also strum a mean ukulele when it got down to it.

But I digress.

Thing is, those nine kids as adults were the source of so many fist fights at cookouts, weddings, general get togethers, halloween, birthday and graduation parties, Christmas and New Year's Eve celebrations (oh, there was a stabbing at one of those when I was younger... sixteen maybe, but at the time I was extremely drunk on screwdrivers and really didn't care about a stabbing. I did however, care the next morning when it felt like my very soul was going to strangle my brain for my misbehavior the night before. Again, I digress).

Those nine kids spun out across the area of Maryland and Pennsylvania. One of them (as a child, he said he wanted to be a liquidator when he grew up. My grandmother asked him what that was and after explaining that it was basically a paid assassin, he got his ass beaten from one side of the house to the other) actually ran a bar in Pennsylvania (a bar... are you fucking kidding me? That's like Courtney Love running a cocaine farm)

A few kept their act together but most didn't. Their entertainment of choice was alcohol or worse and as such, they all sort of blended together when I'd describe the craziness to my friends. They became almost a single entity, like flocks of snowbirds you see all twisting and turning in the air, one mind, one purpose.

Now, I could tell you about a fight between two uncles where a right cross and a large turquoise ring busted out a tooth. I could tell you about the cops being called (then of course, I'd have to decide upon which time they were called) for domestic disputes. Or maybe my uncle throwing a tomahawk at his wife and sinking it (burying the fucker really) into the side of a truck camper as she drove off. Perhaps a drunken argument resulting in one of them screaming at my father (one of the most mild-mannered, hard to anger men you'd ever want to meet) that "Come here, you little blonde-haired son of a bitch. I'll kick your ass!" spoken with about as thick a true hillbilly drawl as you'd imagine. The Hatfields and McCoys would've been in total agreement and equally proud of him that night.

But tonight I'm writing specifically about one of my Uncles; Squeak.

Now, I know what you're thinking. Squeak? Are you fucking kidding me? Squeak's his name?

Well no. Not really. His real name is Carl Openshaw. He got the nickname "Squeak" when he was younger from the way his voice sounded. High pitched and mouse-like, Squeak was a teasing nickname at first, then it just stuck from then on.

He's crazier than a shit house rat. Always has been. He was in the military when he was younger. Spent a lot of time overseas and then in Texas when he came back to the states. Worked on helicopters (gooooood decision for our military there).

I don't know what happened to him. At some point there was a shift in him. He got married, had two children. Nuclear family, though his little girl got caught in a freak fire accident when she was very young.. six I think... and went through a tremendous ordeal of recovery. I think roughly 85% of her body had 2nd and 3rd degree burns.

He drank as long as I've know him. And I'm sure since he was overseas, he's never stopped smoking the ganja either. But other stuff... I don't know. But when he started, he never stopped.

He doesn't know it, but I owe a lot to him.

I suppose, in fact, that only about six or seven people do know this story... as, for whatever reason why, I'd never really spoken about it until this past year's HorrorFind.

For a time when I was a kid, my Uncle Squeak lived with us. He didn't act crazy then. Kind of had his shit together actually. At the time, I always had my nose buried in a book of some kind. Usually some monster comic or strange horror paperback that I was probably too young to be reading. He teased me good-naturedly about it, calling me the Little Professor, but in a weird way, I knew he was proud of me too. It felt a little odd, having someone outside of the general sphere of our family act that way. But good too.

Squeak kept a ton of his stuff out in our barn too. It was dry out there, and animals couldn't get to it.

After a few months, Squeak went off to live somewhere else, abandoning the knick-knacks and other miscellany he'd brought with him. Me, being a curious little kid with way too much time on his hands and not enough entertainment close by, decided to rummage through his stuff. I found a few High Times magazines, a Penthouse Letters (oh yeah, that was good stuff to a kid my age) and then, there it was.

This worn paperback with a black cover. There wasn't even a title on the cover, just a girl's face and the phrase "A Novel of a Girl Possessed of a Terrifying Power."

Ohhhh man. This looked like it would be quite the shit to me.

So I started reading Carrie, by Stephen King, hiding it from my parents because though my mother was pretty liberal in what she allowed me to read, after a few pages, I was pretty damn sure that I wasn't supposed to be reading this one.

Which made it all the better.

Quite honestly, I was blown the fuck away by that book.

The oddball way of breaking out sentences and thoughts. The whole freakish mentality of Carrie's mother. This poor ugly-duckling of a girl who is being chastised and picked on and is the outcast of the entire school. It all resonated and strummed just about every synapse in my brain.

My mother definitely primed the pump for me, buying me my first Famous Movie Monsters, Fangoria, Tales from the Crypt and keeping me company while we watched Tales from the Darkside and Twilight Zone. She laid the foundation brick by brick.

But by leaving that tattered paperback of Carrie behind, Squeak indirectly kick started something else entirely new in me.

Some days I'm not sure whether I should thank him or not for it though.

Over the past ten years Squeak has spiraled into a drug-induced whirlwind. I can't say that I know exactly what he's on, but if I had to guess, I'd say the predominant drug of choice is either smack or meth, both good choices for soul rot.

Last night I got a call from my mother asking if I'd seen the evening news. I hadn't, so she let me know that Squeak had gotten into a fight of some kind and ended up stabbing a man. He hadn't died, but was in the hospital for observation. Squeak was taken into custody and questioned and there was no additional information.

I can't say that I'm exactly shocked. It was a matter of time really and to be perfectly honest, the only thing I'm surprised about is that the fight didn't end in someone's death.

So many of my family have chosen to feed that dark hateful wolf inside them. It's easier to do that, I know. It's always a struggle, but it's always a choice too.

Well, I just finished my last Hoegaarden. I feel more tired tonight than I should. I feel... heavier than I should.

But tomorrow's another day. And I'm sure both wolves will still be hungry.

..

2007-11-05T09:00:00.000-05:00

Every night I go looking for ya.
Everyone in the world adores ya.
A little pocket of something kind,
to find your reason.
Coming up on it everyday, for
look at me and it's what I stay for.
A little locket of fantasy,
that we believe in.

red hot chili peppers - warlocks

Driveby Update...

2007-11-01T09:30:00.001-04:00

Current Reads:
Jack Ketchum's Off Season. Amazing.. Ketchum on fire.

Scar Tissue. Autobiography of Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Alternatively exciting, funny and heartbreaking, this is a thick-ass book with tiny print, but I can't put it down. Can't say exactly why I was drawn to this book in the first place, but I can definitely say I connect with Anthony's mentality of spiritualism and overall philosophy of living. An extremely interesting read.

Next up for reads:
Into the Wild, Jon Krakauer
Forbidden Knowledge: 101 things NOT everyone should know
20th Century Ghosts by Joe Hill - been waiting to get this one for a lonnnng time.
Tequila Sunrise; Brian Keene. Ditto on this one...

Current Music:
Niggy Tardust (Trent Reznor, the force behind NIN has taken this guy under his dark, black-feathered wing, and it shows.. oooh boy, does it show)

Avett Brothers (cd of misc tracks my cousin Kristie sent me that kicks much ass. Plus, these guys do one hell of a live show; bonus points if you're drinking Jack Daniels and still vertical while watching it)

Into the Wild Official Soundtrack. I first heard the cover of the song, Hard Sun about two months ago and immediately tracked it down. I turned on a friend of mine to it, and he got the entire soundtrack. The movie looks amazing... the soundtrack is put together by Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam, and is as close to perfect as possible.

Current Infatuations:
Positive thoughts, Stella (now that it seems the world has released it back on tap), trying to find balance, Crackerjacks, necklaces, laughter, and really bad dirty jokes.

Current writing projects: Ummm... does editing over my own stuff count? Other than that, odd little fragments here and there that pop through the lint trap of my head, and adding a paragraph here and there on a novella and trying to keep track of the flood of thoughts coming to me on a novel that I should really be working on.

A Thin Veil

2007-10-31T10:08:00.000-04:00

Been a while, I know. It's kind of dusty in here. Looks unkempt. I haven't gone back and checked, but I think this may be the longest gap between posts since I started this blog. Except for some humorous sidebars once in a while, I think it's because if I post, I don't want to post just for the hell of it. Much like my life, I don't want to just fake it just because it's here.

A lot's happened lately. Some I'll eventually talk about. Other things I can't. Still others, I simply won't. I've come up against so many old ghosts, old memories, old wounds... and that feeling of being haunted is still raging strong.

Today's Halloween, or Samhain, the day when the veil between the world of the living and the dead is thinnest. I woke up this morning thinking of another time like this. Not Halloween, no... this was high summer and I had just turned nine years old.

I was still living on a farm in Maryland, this enormous, sprawling hillside framed with wide fields and woods. It was one of those perfect summer days where the sun is nothing but a white hot sphere in the sky. My grandfather lived with my parents and I, and the entire day had been spent bailing hay.

Don't get the wrong impression though - it's not like we were Amish and had to use a mule team or cut it down with scythes. Bailing hay pretty much consisted of my grandfather driving a tractor around the field with a bailing machine in tow, scooping up the hay he'd cut and raked into lines a few days before. The bailing machine would scoop up the hay, compact it all into dense rectangles, and eject them out the back.

This whole thing was pretty boring to a nine year old. Nothing much to do until it was time to gather the bales and put them on a hay wagon. So the better part of my day was spent nestled in the limbs of a mulberry tree and reading a tattered paperback of Michael Resnick's Redbeard; some violent post apocalyptic nuclear tale that I'd somehow talked my mother into letting me read.

Soon, the bailing was done, and the hay wagon was hitched, and then my part began. The wagon itself was big, roughly twelve feet wide by twenty feet long with regular car axles and tires at its base. Stacking bales isn't exactly hard work, but it's messy, especially in the heat of summer. By the end of it, you're covered in dust and that graininess of plant grit that just seems to permeate everything. But the thing is, the sweet smell of new hay bales seems to obliterate it all. Even today, sometimes I'll drive a different route just to catch the scent of newly cut hay.

By the time the wagon was done being stacked, and my grandfather was driving the tractor down into the valley again, back to the barn. The sun was low on the horizon; now an angry red light that flowed over the hillside and filtered through the tree lines like some strange psychedelic circus.

Even now, I can see it in my mind... looking at the back of my grandfather as he drove... his teal work shirt, sleeves rolled up; brown workman's gloves on with the fingertips blown out like some Darwin-esque street urchin's costume.

Then we passed below the horizon line, the sunlight dropped, leaving that odd, shadowy red haze on everything around us. I could hear the barn swallows as they began deciding to pack it in for the evening. My father's little Ford Courier truck was parked in the driveway.

The dirt road we were on was all downhill, and during a thunderstorm, it would transformed into a small river, turning up large loose rocks in the path. I remember after storms it was always like some archaeological dig to see what new things turned up. Over the years, the road had turned into more of a ravine, narrow and like a trench at its sides.

And then it happened... simple thing really... nothing out of the ordinary, but one of those moments where your mortality hangs in the balance. The wagon ran over a rock and tilted insanely enough that it caught me unawares and I fell off.

I landed square on my back, the wind knocked completely out of me and upside down in relation to the wagon. My legs were tilted up along the bank of the trench, and I turned to my left, watching the rear wheel of the hay wagon rolling toward my face.

I'd like to say it was one of those moments where everything slows down... and you have time to consider choices, but it wasn't. Not with the weight of a over a ton of hay rolling toward me. It would've been quite enough to squash my head like a cantaloupe and my grandfather would've never known until he arrived at the barn.

What I do remember is that things happened so fast I never had time to think of what to do; my body simply reacted on its own accord. I did this bizarre yoga sun-dog meets cat's-ass sit up thing and raised my body up just enough that I could feel the tire rub against the back of my head. Everything around me had this hyper-detail though. Hell, I can even remember looking at pebbles stuck in the grooves of the tire tread.

We pulled into the barn and walked back to our house for supper. And that was that. For a few days after though, I felt like I was coming out of a fog or sorts; dreamy; looking at things a little differently.

My grandfather never saw what happened and even though I honestly can't say why, I really didn't feel the need to tell him or anyone else about what had taken place. Yeah... I got a glimpse of what lay beyond the veil.

Thing is... that moment - it's here every day.

I feel like I'm waking from a fog now. Work lately has been heavy. There's a lot of good things going on, but it's also like rains washing out an old dirt road, making its own path and uncovering new things in the process.

I looked around this morning and saw that the leaves have changed into this brilliant palette of colors and I have no idea how they hell they got that way. Seems like it was only a few weeks ago it was summer and I was standing in my backyard with a friend of mine, emotional and drinking and contemplating the future.

I feel a little unbalanced, but good. Hopeful. Optimistic. Full of my own brand of faith.

And once again, here I stand where I always do - on the path in the middle of one big, fat Mobius strip, surrounded by old ghosts. But I've accepted it. I know them. And they know me. Oh yeah, they know me.

Yep.

2007-10-10T15:40:00.000-04:00

Yep

I'm fucked.