The Point is a Spear

While bastards can be gentlemen and raconteurs can be honest and phonies can wax honest the writer gets to observe and, through such observation, be everything. A chameleon of sorts. The best of us hit society like phantom bricks; hard yet unseen, in your face but unknown, at least to you. We know who we are at the end of the day. Some of us are bottom feeders, sucking on the dregs of society for an idea. Others of us are top-shelf critic pleasers, writing about what Stephen King called "yuppies and faggots". And yet others of us are ruthless, writing who we are and not giving one penny's worth of a damn whether anyone likes it or not. Square people fit into categories--they're the clique-y folks from high school, shutting out the uninvited with their secret-squirrel whisperings seeming so important. They are, effectively, Heathers. And they're boring. They are the critic-pleasers.

I'll take a bottom-feeding bastard over a fake smile any day. I'll take a con-man to the side and pick his brain before I will a tech manager. I think now and have always thought that climbing the corporate ladder is for suckers. It is for folks who don't know how to do anything except smile and kiss ass. I think that this is what Bret Easton Ellis tried to convey with AMERICAN PSYCHO. A deep thinker forced into the banality of CEO yuppie life becomes a serial killer only to find that he's not a serial killer at all. That's just genius. And it shows the sick futility of the plastic-faced fuckers that follow all the rules. But this isn't supposed to be a book review. I'm not sure what it is. It's a fucking blog.

I always sided with the hated kids. The outsiders. Not because I had to, I wanted to. I started out maybe having to but then I learned that slamming someone's head into a locker gains you a certain amount of notoriety and believe it or not also gets you laid. And women--don't deny it--when you were young, even if behind the prying eyes of your peers, you fucked at least one ruthless bastard. And I don't mean the bully-jock football hero, I mean the guy who kicked that guy's ass. I know you did because a good amount of you are notches on my belt since I was that guy who kicked the jock's ass. Oh, and for all you poor losers out there--grow some balls and whip some ass and trust me, virginity will be a thing of the past. Make some blood flow. It's a carnal thing. It's also why I sided with that hated kids. The hatred came from those who did not understand why some people have IQ's above their shoe size. Such intelligence makes young people withdraw until college, I think...I don't know. I never had the luxury of finding out. Regardless, I took up for the hated kids.

Where am I fucking going with this? I don't know. But then again, Vikings rarely knew where they were going until they got there and began to pillage. Writing is my way of satisfying the need to pillage...with writing I can rend asunder anything I please, the same way my Highlander ancestors did.

Wait, what? You didn't know Scottish people were Vikings? You didn't see I am from Scottish descent? Dude...my last name is Tannahill. That's like the Scottish "Johnson." For fuck's sake, I'm named after the second most famous Scottish poet of all time. Not to mention the Weavers....

It is late, and I finished the first draft of my second novel tonight. Now I'm bored. Time to go.

Oh, what category do I fit into, of the few I listed?

If you can't figure that out on your own, you weren't paying attention.

Psychobabble From a Diagnosed Nutter

I should be typing up my new novel so I can self-publish the thing, something I thought I'd never do. I've typed up 20K of it, and it's a real mean bastard of a novel, probably the most disgusting yet scientific thing I've ever written, definitely one of the craziest. This one more than the last one--which I'm still fucking waiting to hear something about--reflects the oddities that flow inside this head of mine, this horrible place I'll never escape and that, when manifested, tends to send people fleeing for cover. It's funny when I think about it...I came close to being a fat, narcissistic internet troll, a fake fuck who only wants to be loved, WAH!

Fuck off with your fragile egos, you cunts. Get out of the basement and run some of those fritos and energy drinks off. Use that sugar. And here you wonder why your writing is shit and you have to tell lies to get people's attention.

Just to clarify, I stopped this from happening by picking up a guitar and learning to sing and play and I got really fucking angry and did a lot of pushups and shadow boxing. Not the end of story, but the end of it for here. The rest will very likely surface in Rockford Bastard. But I digress. I'm going to self-publish because I'm sick of waiting. Fuck waiting. I have another option.

Bruni. I'm always mentioning him. Well, he's the most successful cunt I know personally. If you ask him that's not saying much but if you ask me he's well on his way to the mid-list and I'm still collecting my 200 rejection letters in order to qualify. I mention him here because I once asked him, "If I ever become successful why do you think it will be?"

"You're brutally honest and you don't care if anyone likes it or not. That and you exercise proper grammar which goes a long way these days."

Hilarious. I don't know what I'd do without that fuckball. He never taught me how to write but he taught me technique. We like to practice by killing each other in stories. He tosses those, but some of mine have gone to different rags in another form so they aren't inside jokes so much as stories. God Bless You, John Bruni.

I don't know if I'll crack and die before I see publication in any grand form or if a fight will take me because I get into a lot of those--damn rage disorder--but if it happens all my story rights revert to him. I don't even know why I'm saying this. I'm feeling my own mortality more and more as the days pass as though either the worm is going to cause the snap a lot of the people closest to me are waiting for and my ancient viking blood is going to boil over, or maybe I'll get smashed by a toilet seat falling out of an airplane. I'd probably be better off with the latter.

There are times I wish the world looked to me the way it looks to normal folks. Luckily those are rare.

Happy Unbirthday, folks.

Why Hemingway Cracked

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Some Notes: Nephilim and Techno

Here are some notes I took mainly for my buddy Kelly Knox. However, while taking them, I began to wonder if I may not incorporate them into my novel. You may find them interesting.

"The Nephilim were considered Watchers, or Witnesses, to God's greatness (if memory serves) and did not do their job very well. Why? Women. Luscious, glorious human females. Who can blame them? They mated and made mutants--Goliath? I find it interesting that archaeologists have found human remains in certain parts of Africa and the Middle East that suggest humans once reached nine feet in height. Trippy.

I'll have to research this further. Could man use the "God Particle" to recreate Nephilim? Much like Dinosaur DNA was extracted in "Jurassic Park" to recreate those beasts (oops) I wonder if man's hubris will drive him to such a thing. Or her. Forgot to be P.C. Sorry, ladies. We all know you're more than capable of being smarter and more fit for leadership than us drooling dogs. No joke.

But I digress. What sort of consequences might this bring? What with superstorms and sinkholes and uncontrollable wildfires-unless you believe these things are a product of HAARP, and you may be correct-I wonder is God, if there is a God, sick and tired of all this bloodshed? What did Jesus say in the Bible? Something like "All this and more in my name ye shall do." and then I think he wept but I cannot recall. More research. Maybe.

 Also, technology-humanity may be on its way to being plugged into the Matrix. As funny as that sounds, as funny as I thought it was ten years ago these days I have to wonder. I guess I listen to more Joe Rogan and Alex Jones than I should. Or perhaps I should have kept my nose out of certain books in my younger years...after all, 2012 sure didn't happen. Did it? Or are we all just an imaginative dream perpetuating itself through some odd energy we call soul? Like Poe said "Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream?"

END NOTES.

 

OK. Back to the funny farm.

Happy Birthday, Layne

He would have been 46 today. Ten years older than me. I loved him since I was 11. When I first saw the video for "Man In The Box" I had the hook in my heart. The guy looked like living proof of everything I wanted to be and everything I could feel myself becoming. Maniacal. Great Voice. Fearless. I learned how to sing by singing along with him. Every song, every word, every record.

And it did rain on the day he died. It also rained today.

Many out there will howl "Dead junky! Who cares?" Well, I care, shitbrick. I fucking care. When Kurt Cobain killed himself, I didn't cry like a lot of people my age. I didn't, because I loved Layne more. His words, his voice, his fearlessness. Look at the lyrics for the song "Dirt." Or "Shame In You." Or "We Die Young." Or "The Real Thing." His life was never, not once, a shock or a surprise to him. He knew exactly what he was getting into and exatly how he wanted to fucking do it, and goddammit, so do I.

No, I did not cry when Cobain fell. It hurt, yes. But I did not cry. When Layne died, I did. In John Bruni's car. I think I managed to cover up my tears by singing "Rain When I Die" but I doubt it. And I don't care.

Thank you, Layne. For everything you gave me. Words, wisdom, shit, even the BAD stuff. Yes, even THAT. Without it I would not be the artist I am today.

I owe you my life. Rest In Peace.

Cat's Piss Publishing

After a long night of drinking and chopping myself I've come to realize two things: A) Rejection letters are best stabbed through the heart and sacrificed to Belial. B) Anyone who believes I've actually sliced myself up takes me way too seriously.

But seriously folks. How much further have we gotten? Editors still reject great stories, and I don't mean just mine, I mean YOURS too. Why? Because they're scared. They're scared of anything groundbreaking. It's just like Hollywood. "Don't write anything new, just remake the same old shit!" Why? Because new writers have balls. We have to. If we don't, we sound lame. I mean fuck...we can't ALL be Brain Keene or Jack Ketchum. NO! We have to OUTDO those guys if we want to be heard!

But that terrifies editors. And for the record, I love Keene and Ketchum, and I suggest you buy all their books. BUT! Having more balls, more weird shit, more gore even, scares the SHIT out of these editors and therefore, they won't publish you.

Well, that's OK. Because I am learning how to format Kindle publishings. And when I've got it together, I'll let you know. Once I do, if you've got something REALLY, HORRIBLY FUCKED UP AND WICKED--but don't forget the pith and DO NOT BE AN HOMAGE MASTER--Rob Zombie has done that enough...I'll fucking publish you. It's all part of my Glorious One-Year Plan.

These pussies are scared. And I'm sick of the stench of their fear. Well, fuck their cat piss stink. Hm. Maybe that's what I'll call my company once it gets going. CAT'S PISS PUBLISHING. Trademark, motherfucker! My only requirement--GIVE ME THE FEAR! And, of course, please self-edit.

We'll see what happens.

Clock Puncher

Have I said this before? Maybe. Fuck it. These words were meant for MARSocial, but I think they have a word cap so if they want to read it, they can read it here.

Many days, I feel hopeful. I feel like my life is going somewhere. I write, I submit, I wait. And wait. And wait. And--OK hold on. What's with all this WAITING? I suppose it's just the name of the game. Problem is, I'm not the average person. I can't stand punching a clock. When I punch a clock at a square job I REALLY WANT TO PUNCH THE CLOCK. And then begins the 8-10 or even 12 hour conundrum of bullshit paying maybe $300.00 a week after taxes. The time draws out like a piece of glass embedded in my arm. 8 hours takes 5 weeks to pass. People wonder what's wrong with me. "Why don't you ever smile? Why don't you ever talk?" I never answer them. Why? Because if I did I would end up screaming "BECAUSE I FUCKING HATE THIS SHIT!" And it's true. I hate doldrums, I hate meaningless jobs. I can't stand the system and the only people I respect are other artists. For years I turned to drugs and drink to soothe the anguish, but those were just a crutch, so I quit. Many days I wish I had not. The last job I had, a thought ran through my head: "You're wasting your life." After that, a machine broke, and the supervisors blamed it on me and fired me. Well, that's OK. If they hadn't I'm sure I would have walked out anyway.

Now, I write. All the time. Unless I'm drawing. I submit and wait, as I said. And while I'm waiting I feel like I'm wasting my life. Like everything is just passing by in a constate state of gloaming. I try to paste on a smile for my wife. I try to have fun. Fiction helps me escape. My checkered (to say the least) past helps me come up with some of the most demented horror stories on paper. A few have seen print, but not enough.

If I have a point here, it is that I'm sick and tired of waiting, I'm not normal at all...something's wrong with me. I spend a lot of time writhing. I don't post stuff that is rife with positivity and exclamation points because if I did, I'd be a liar. Or a phony. And I'm no good at being either or. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't appreciate every friend I have, be they online or in real life. I do. My heart is bigger than my brain which is smaller than my mouth and none of them run at the same speed. What can I say? In short, I'm all fucked up. And yes, I'm in therapy, in case you wonder. It helps about as much as a coca-cola enema. All of this crap said, I'm glad to be here. Thanks for having this lunatic.

Epiphany

"I am going to have my cake and eat it, too. Because, you know, that's what you do when you have cake. Why have a cake if you're not going to fucking eat it? Who the hell came up with that stupid phrase?"                                     
                                       ---John Bruni, Author of STRIP and TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE

When I read this in my e-mail tonight, I had an epiphany. Thus, my reply:

"As for having your cake and eating it too...that's what the Artist can have. Never mind the canvas. I think that's part of where my drive towards art comes from. Square Jobs, man, sure, you get a paycheck, but you end up wrapped in all this American Scream doggerel that means absolutely fucking nothing. I mean, what are you going to pass on to future generations? A mortgage? Credit debt? I'm seeing this in action right now since the death of my Gramma. The wolves are descending on Mom.

"The Artist, on the other hand, passes down something else--immortality. Not only does he/she have his/her work and reknown to leave behind, but hopefully there's a shitload of money. Movies, like POLLACK, may be made out of them. And their kids will ALWAYS hear "Holy shit! That's your Father/Mother?" It may take time but the kids will learn to appreciate it and maybe even pull a Joe Hill. So yes, we writers, drawers, actors, etc. get our cake and eat it too because the cake fucking recycles itself."

Maybe that sounds crazy to some but it damn sure doesn't sound crazy to me. It's the truth. Granted, there are two sides to every coin, and if you're a failure, well...I guess you can always lie in the Rye and shoot some smack before gutting yourself with a letter opener. 

I'll admit it. I can't stand punching a clock. I feel like I'm wasting my life. The money is always shit and pays for very little when you're not some big-shot J.P. Fatback CEO or the leader of a Super PAC. Show of hands--how many folks out there enjoy living paycheck to paycheck? How many of you ever wondered if maybe, just maybe, you might be wasting your life? 

If you're an Artist you have whether you know it or not. See you later, Tortured Suns.

A Molotov Cocktail

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Spite Given, Spite Returned

Have you ever wanted to kill someone? I mean, really, honestly DO IT? I don't mean fucked shit, although it does apply if you're into that kind of thing, the whole choke-rape-death-shit, which I am NOT--and I want to make that glaringly clear--but just use your hands to fucking beat someone to fucking death, maybe stomp on their head until their fucking eyes pop out and their brains exit their earholes like a splatter of spilled lasagna? Have you? Tell the truth now...don't lie just because you're afraid of what others will think. Fuck what other people think. They're going to think what they want to think and there's not a damn thing you can do about it.

Except maybe slit their goddamn throats...holy shit. Did I really just say that? I think I did. ARTISTIC LICENSE! ARISTIC--

Fuck it. Once, I almost killed someone. Truth. No joke. I'm sure I'll lose followers on this but I really don't give a tin shit. I almost killed a man when I was 21.

It was after the Kill Hannah/Placebo concert. Me and this guy Joe and John Hillie were on the Prarie Path in Elmhurst, drinking Night Train and Mad Dog. At first, the conversation was cool. We were talking about girls we'd fucked and what we wanted to do with our lives. Joe, see, he was a pretty normal dude, despite the fact that he considered himself a Satanist. John was newly married and his wife had recently been driving him crazy. But he had been my friend for about three years, and we'd only had one dispute after he insisted that no matter what, he'd always be able to kick my ass. But when it came down to the nitty, I gave him a bloody nose using a triangle choke.

John drank faster than me and Joe. We asked him to slow down but he did not listen. The next thing I knew, he was bitching at Joe about something I don't really remember. I think it was about Joe not keeping up with us, even though I was not keeping up with John. Mad Dog is OK, but I fucking HATE Night Train. The shit tastes like puke. I'd rather drink Cold Duck. To make a long story short, John took a swing at Joe, catching Joe in the shoulder and knocking him down. Joe, he was a skinny little dude, and I didn't think the shit was fair, so I knocked John down and asked him to chill out. Here are some stats for you, to help the imagination along:

Joe: 5' 7" 130.

John: 5' 10" 175.

Me: 6' 1" 210.

John attacked me. Taken aback, I rolled down the hill with him, and began punching wildly, forgetting my training. I had earned a black belt in Tae Kwon Do by then, but I was drunk and forgot about it...for awhile. I got him on his back and pounded on his kidneys and neck. It did not phase him. John was one seriously tough motherfucker. No joke. He was an ultimate badass. Still, I left him lying there, and Joe and I headed for Joe's green pickup. John followed.

"HIT ME!" he screamed in my face.

I did not. I asked him to stop. I did not want to fight anymore. I don't like bullies, and it seemed like he had been bullying Joe, so I took action. The action resolved, I thought it over.

"HIT ME!" he screamed again. And then he hit me so goddamn hard I almost passed out. But I didn't. Instead, I snapped a tiger kick at his knee cap and dislocated his patella. Drunk, he was hardly phased. He limped after us, foaming at the mouth like some kind of goddamn movie monster. Joe and I got into the truck. John pulled my door open and pulled me out.

I lost it. I throated him in the windpipe. I grabbed his arm and twisted his wrist until it broke. I kicked him in the temple and heard something snap. I saw his arm clawing the pavement and I ground it down with my boot much like children do ants.

And then I saw the flashing lights. I jumped back into Joe's truck.

"GUN IT!" I howled, and he did. We ended up crashing into the train tracks behind the Elmhurst 7-11 and the cops busted the window out and pulled me out of it and I got the beating of my life. I'll never forget the crashing of batons against my back and neck or the jackboots between my shoulders as the fascist pigs hogtied me and threw me into the back of a cruiser.

Facing Felony Aggravated Assault, I fled to Texas. When I finally came back to Elmhust after three years I turned myself in, went to jail, and after talking to the judge, the charges were dropped to disorderly conduct. John had lied to the cops. He said he was beat down by four black guys, the racist cunt. I paid $200.00 and still owe $1000.00 for bail-jumping.

I have no idea where Joe or John are now. I only know that Joe repaid me by stealing my girlfriend at the time. Fucking asshole.

So if any of you want to know why I can be such a fucking jerk sometimes, this is one of many stories that explain it. I've got more. Give a holler if you'd like to hear them.

I still love you all. Thanks for reading.

Salve the Bones: A Poem in Black

Shit. And to think, I could make money off of this, but no, I'm giving it away for free because I love my readers. Huzzah. And if the formatting (words in black) looks fucked...sorry. At least you can read the words and that's the important thing, isn't it?

 

"Salve the Bones"

 

As I sat awake one night of toil
Wishing to sell my soul
A knocking sound inside my head
Came rushing down like soil
My breathing failed
My stomach ailed
I dreamt awake in pine
Realizing I was buried
Not yet dead; alive.
I fancied my pen mighty
I knew my pick was quick
But past is past and future gold;
Just copper Devil's tricks.
Men call the present “Present”
Meaning it a gift
Open the box and within find
An endless mire of shit.
The knock becomes a pounding
Rattling now like stones
Any poison would do well;
A thing to salve the bones.
Howling snow as harpies blow
Their siren song of cold
Melt my eyes with lye if thou
would only salve my bones.
Prayers akin to women's words
Scrawled upon the air
If only all the myths were truths
This life we could call fair.
A grinding spine
Testes in twine
Gelding men with school
I finally understand just why
I call myself the Fool.
That cursed rattling pounding
Shall never cease to grow
Hence I wonder will I ever
One day salve these bones?

 

                    II

In fatigue, have I salved these bones?

With Dirt you call drink
And a sign you call home—
To build your home.
And with that ugly thing it seems
I have salved these bones.
Ah, but Hell, you decry
Awaits such as I, and perhaps,
Impresses your ego
But all of us know that the muck
And the snow and the warmth
(from the gut)
From the Hogshead soothes these bones,
A side-effect; maniac tones.
For tones are they not?
Are they not songs insane?
Or inane, or a pain?
Apathy seems to save
Or at least soothe the quivers.
At that point
Find
That the kind
(cursed kind)
Such as I find the strength to deliver.
The marrow is rank
But the bones are at rest
And never were they bones at all!
The fact of the matter is something far fatter
Quiet the Purple and incessant drone
Of the numbers much higher than mine.
At length--find myself a mess, me
What a most horrible thing to be.
The Horror of such a thing
(I wish I could say)
Escapes me.

              III

Ullo Modo!

I must salve these bones!
Lest I cease to function
And lose more than gumption
My mind will cease to flow
My Devil Half blossoms
And Angels be tossed
With their trumpets
Far Below.

Bellow

Cream-colored milk

Once did salve these bones
But strychnine it was although Heaven Above
It did force to open the doors
Golden doors
Something I
(or one such as I)
Within seek refuge and not be refused
Though refuse the Many call I.
So instead I sit and reflect on things
Better off charnel and rotting
For stink they cause--
I wish the stench gave me pause--
But with custom comes wisdom
And amber brings wisdom

 

That poison alone will salve the bones.

 

A reflection in the light

Flowing through colors and symbols of life
A color conductor Immortal;
From time beyond time
Needs must find that one
Realizes a thing or three.
A fool turned to hermit yet still a knight
Prized with the gift of poem!
Little ye know
The To and the Fro
And the real reason
I seek
To salve the bones.

                IV

So sitting awake on this night of toil

I wonder, am I alive?
Excess rules on the Ship of Fools
But often we seek
To Salve the Bones
It is far from just I who seeks comfort
Succor and Aid for the Ace of Spades
The World is alive with the Dead.
Etched inside, the hymns of the Dead
Let it go
And tell the Medico
That the urge to sin will not subside!
Give me the thing
I need to flee
Or I’ll find my own way
Down to Under.
Shall I dig through the skin
To the bones
And the marrow within
And sell it for meat and plunder?
The pith of me is far better one sees
To sell than to leave rent asunder.
If I sell me
Will I salve these bones?
Or unlock a box without hope?
It does not matter
At this point I’d rather
Die, die, and die again than NOT
Salve these Bones.

The problem is that no salve exists

Aside from the one with the dark hood
And the chains around its wrists

So until then I just have to take my punishment and give back more
I’ll stay sore

Until I find that repose

That lies for all of us

For all of us…

For us all.

Good Morning, Hammerheads!

A fat, coked-up member of the Hell-Fire club once said, in his rube's almanac that, "Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise." Yep, that's gool ole Ben Franklin, founding father, signer of the Constitution, and a man's whose picture many materialistic rappers strive to get.

OK, enough politics. Who the hell wants to talk about those? I just thought it funny that a Satanist was able to make a bunch of Bible-thumping farmers rise to his occassions while he was out butt-pumping whores and filling his nostrils with cocaine.

I can hear some people saying, "Who are you to judge? You're no straight! We can tell by your writing! You're a fucking cokehead or junky or even (sign of The Old Rugged Cross) crackhead!"

EEERP. Wrong. None of the above. I don't even smoke weed. All my drugs come in little orange bottles with my name on them and that makes them OK, right? Excuse me while I lean back my head and laugh.

DEATH! Let's talk about that for a moment, shall we? How many people are sick of all this DEATH? I can't even turn on the computer without Yahoo! News screaming "DEATH! DESTRUCTION! PERIL! PRESIDENT SAYS WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!" or "KIM KARDASHIAN DOES SOMETHING ELSE TO MAKE HER LOOK LIKE A STUPID SPOILED WHORE: Paris Hilton eats own dog in fit of depression at having her crown stolen."

All the other news channels, it's the same thing. Death, disease, Tsunamis (but where's Cthulhu?) Now here's Tom with the weather. Ye fucking gods, the coffee needs to kick in. And no, it isn't Irish.

Join me tomorrow when I say something else sure to inspire or, at the very least, piss you off! Bring fire! We'll toast marshmallows.

Honesty and Other Things That Can Destroy You

"I fucked my life up."

--Dave Brockie

"The truth will set you free."

--Some Lying Prick

Both of these quotes mean a lot to me especially when it comes to taking ownership over my life. Over the years, I've done some horrible things and met some horrible people. I won't specify but short of murder and rape if you can think if it chances are I've done it. Maybe I don't deserve success. Maybe I don't care if I deserve it or not. I'm damn sure not going to stop trying to attain it.

If God exists, if some all-knowing Comic in the Sky really did give me creative talent, I'm not about to provoke Him/It into kicking my ass any further than my ass has been kicked by the omnipotent fuckstick; I barely have one left. Since age 15 I've done my level best to make sure humans have to work really fucking hard to kick my ass. But God? He's got it easy. Oh yeah. Every single day. It seems as though He has found his favorite hobby in kicking the ever-loving dogshit out of me until I lie bleeding from the anus and grinding my teeth on my bed. If I make it that far. Occassionally, the floor appeals.

The truth is I am a bastard and a lover. I'm not beautiful. I'm a mean and maybe evil motherfucker when someone pisses me off. My guts roil with anguish and hate on a constant basis--constant I say again, never mind daily--which I try to hide underneath positivity and my odd ability to inspire others. It is through doing this and by creating mainly through writing that I find some semblance of peace.

I feel sorry for my wife. I haven't touched her in a long time even though I love her very much. Worse, my skin crawls when she touches me lately. That's a terrible fucking thing to admit but it is the truth. I hope it stops soon because she is far too wonderful a woman to have to deal with such tripe.

I'm not saying any of this to impress anyone. Shit, if you're impressed, boy are you fucked up. Maybe we should go bowling. I'm always open to a good round of bowling.

OK, enough honesty. Especially in public. I must be crazy for posting this but then again I have the papers to prove that I am. Some say it takes strength to admit things like this. My father would have kicked me around the living room floor for showing this kind of weakness. Oh well. Fuck him. He's a cunt. Having said all of this, do I feel set free? No.

I have the Fear--no, screw that--The DOOM.

See you next time. Stay frosty. 

A Commandment: Amended

THOU SHALT NOT SELF-PUBLISH. Hm.

More and more I think about this one and wonder why I wrote it. To my credit I did tell everyone that there are no real commandments, only suggestions but I said that more in the subtext than just out loud. It is true. There are no commandments or Golden Tickets and you sure as fuck don't need a pink permission slip from the hall-monitor to call yourself a writer, or any sort of creative person. All you have to do is create.

OK, back to the point. There once was a stigma against self-publishing because doing so told editors that either you did not have enough confidence in yourself to try and get published "for real" or that you sucked balls and/or did not self-edit first. Seeing a self-publication credit on your resume was grounds for immediate decapitation. "TRASH IT!" says the editor to his assistant. "He/She thinks he/she's so good, let 'em publish their own goddamn shit. I've got REAL writers to read." Now, this dialogue is just an assumption (and, it seems, a sort of breaking of my top commandment) but I'm sure that most editors are really wonderful people despite what Stephen King said:

"Most editors would steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes." (ON WRITING)

Coming from the Master's mouth, this bears consideration. Also, another thing that has had me thinking about the pros and cons of self-publishing came from the afterword of Brian Keene's EARTHWORM GODS, where the eds told him to take out one of my favorite parts.

The soft guy. Not Keene, his character. If you've read the Deadite Press edition you know who I'm talking about. The creep factor in that moss covered pile of walking gelatin is so shudder-worthy that I can barely believe a horror editor would want to remove it.

I've gone on enough, I think. Will I break my own commandment? I don't know. Hell, tomorrow I may wake up with zombies for testicles. It could happen....

Adios, Fair Readers. Let me count the ways....

Rockford Bastard: The Advent Thereof

Christ, I hate being cursed with Intermittent Explosive Disorder. For those of you who don't know what that is, look here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intermittent_Explosive_Disorder

This is just one of my disorders. I also have ADHD and Bi-Polar Axis 2. What this means to the layman is that I am, on the inside, a monster. And do me a favor. Please save your pity. People in wheelchairs hate that shit, so do I. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, I'm simply stating a fact. My brain has no filter for bullshit. If I see something that angers me I want to attack it. I want to grind it into paste. I've tried weights, yoga, aikido, tae kwon do (or tae kwan don't, for all you martial arts afficianados out there), kenpo, and brazilian ju-jitsu over the years, mastering a decent portion of them. In sum, yeah. I'll fuck someone up. And I'm not an ITG (Internet Tough Guy for those of you who don't know) or a goddamn Troll (I think I've actually belabored the point on my hatred for those fat cunts hiding in their basements spouting lies that morons without the tenacity to do a little research fall for). Nope, I'm real. Highly medicated and a patient at Ecker Center here in Elgin, IL.

Zoloft. Sometimes it works.

Ritalin. Can't say enough good things about it.

Klonopin: Even better--peace found in a pill.

I still lift weights and do my katas. I still have to watch out when someone starts talking that shit in society. I almost fucked my life once because of this. Aggravated Assault is no bullshit felony. Lucky for me, the shithead who got his knees broken and his skull cracked and his fucking hand ground into paste lied to the cops, saying he got jumped by four black guys. Isn't that just like a cunt. Blame it on the ethnic. I, on the oher hand, told the truth. Then I booked for Tennessee. Facing serious time in Menard did not have me excited, not in a good way. When I came back enough time had passed for the charge to be dropped to Misdemeanor Disorderly Conduct.

OK, all that aside, I'm still going to break my own Commandment and self-publish my memoir, ROCKFORD BASTARD. Why? Because I don't want anyone to have to pay for it. I already paid for it, and I continue to pay for it every single day of my life. While others are out there pasting on the plastic used car salesman face and playing phony Mr./Ms. Come-Hither, I'm just not capable. Kurt Cobain once said that if he weren't playing music he would not be doing anything else. That's me. If I weren't writing I would not be doing anything else. This is my grasp at salvation. We'll see how it works.

Now, in the immortal words of Clint Eastwood (before he started talking to chairs) "If you want a guarantee, buy a toaster." I can't guarantee my success, I can only strive for it and work my ass off. Hard work beats talent when talent doesn't work hard, and goddammit I work my ass off. In these days of self-publishing, poor self-editing, and the like, I may have a shot. So I'm going to give it a try here first with ROCKFORD BASTARD. My other stories, if I self-publish them, will appear in another blog on this very same page called TWELVE REJECTIONS. I figure if someone doesn't want to buy a tale after twelve tries, I may as well shoot it out there for free.

POLARITY will not suffer. I'm almost done polishing the lovely, wicked, drug-fueled crime novel.

Whenever I read a blog from an acclaimed author, it seems sweet. Once again, Brian Keene comes to mind. My guess, pretentious though it may be, is that he's a nice guy and never mind all those evil Satanists and tentacles. I try, I really try, but as Nick Cave said in his song "Thirsty Dog", "I'm sorry that I exist and when I look into your eyes, I can see you're sorry too."

OK. This really is enough out of me. Thanks for the ears. Without them I'd be dead, and that's no sales pitch.

The Duality of the Creative

I believe all creative people, be they writers, artists, sculptors, what-have-you, suffer from the pains of duality. A good example of this can be found in Stephen King's THE DARK HALF. Many of us are able to compartmentalize, like serial killers or detectives do, and go on about our daily lives wearing the mask of normalcy. Others of us are not. Some of us are all or nothing but we still suffer from that same mind-maddening duality.

Look at my Twitter picture. I look like a sweet, goofy guy with a beautiful wife, right? Now look at my picture here. I look like the type of bastard who would rip one's throat out just as soon as look at them. Both are true. I am the type who cannot compartmentalize. These two sides of me fight constantly inside my head. Both are adept warriors--neither will give up or back down and sometimes it is soul-shattering. However, I would not change this for it makes me able to create. Without that inner war I'd never get any ideas. I'd never be able to let myself go and be wild, which is necessary to the writer, or artist--creator. Sure, I'd have lived a safe life but fuck that. A safe life. What the hell does that even mean? Job, White Picket Fence, 2 and 1/2 kids, Two-Story in the suburbs? A mortgage, maybe two, and credit cards? A life that starts out with happiness but usually ends up in the fucking War of the Roses? No thanks, I'm good.

What I am doing is not safe. I am betting even. After 20 years of boring, mindless jobs that pay pennies I have given it all up to write. Boy, has that bumblefucked my resume. I'm betting even like a psychotic gambler, trying to convince those around me that yes, I can do this.

I don't sleep all day and I'm not lazy. I wake up at 5:30 a.m. much like the rest of America. I make some coffee and have a cigarette (because if I tried to quit cigarettes I'd fucking kill people and I'm not kidding) while waiting for my novel to download. POLARITY is in the polishing stage, the final stage where it is damn near ready to submit to an editor, or many editors, if needs be.

I love this novel with all my heart. The one person who has read it, John Bruni, calls it "a work of genius." I think it kicks ass but I'm not Kanye West. I'm not going to run around calling myself a genius. If others do, good: As Sailor Jerry once said, "My work speaks for itself." And to me, that's the way it should be. To reiterate, I'm not saying I'm a genius. Bruni said that. If you'd like to disagree, take it up with him.

Do I digress? Have we lost the point? I don't think so. For all my faults (and there are many--I am absolutely unable to paste on that used car salesman face and cannot tolerate anyone breathing down my neck) my wife believes in me and that is all that matters. She knows part of me is a sweetheart who just wants peace and to make a living as a writer. She also knows that a part of me is a fearless nutcase prone to take fifteen foot leaps off of high-rise patios and run through the woods because I "want to go on an adventure." True story.

I'm a social animal, a wanderer, and a writer. Plus many other things. Maybe you are too.

As an aside, before I jump off of here and go about my duties as a househusband (yes, I'm Mr. Mom, and if you say that to my face I really hope you're a buddy of mine, for both our sakes) I'd like to address something that was said to Brian Keene, one of my favorite writers. Someone called him a "hobbyist". What the fuck is a hobbyist? I don't see the man petering around in the garden. I mean, maybe he does but he also churns out books like candy factories do gummi bears. Hobbyist my ass. Whoever said that to him out to be hung up by their ankles for a few hours and have their nipples removed.

Unless it was a woman. We can't do that to women. We can only squint and grip the bridge of our noses and hope we don't bust our own noses.

Well, enough out of me. Thanks for being here, beautiful reader, and that's coming from both sides of me. 

Titles Deadite Press Would Die For

First, let me make this clear: I love Deadite Press. I do. I have read WHARGOUL at least seven times though that could be due to the fact that I've loved GWAR since I was 13, and I look forward to reading THE ASS-GOBLINS OF AUSCHWITZ. I mean, shit, how could you NOT want to read a book with such a title unless you're a senior citizen? However, I am 100% sick and fucking tired of Zombie books. I still love THE WALKING DEAD but to me, that comic/show is the final comment on Zombies. I feel as though it is time to move on.

I'm the only one who feels this way. Outnumbered, I remember the teachings of Tom and Jerry: "If ya can't beat 'em, fuck 'em in the ass with an iron rod." Or wait...maybe that was Caligula. Anyway, the following are titles of books I may write in the future if I don't want to keep bouncing for a living, or junking hustles at the flea market, lifting fifty pound boxes, helping friends move, etc. I won't bore you too much, I promise. Here are ten (10) titles I have come up with for future books that may pull me out of the fucking conundrum I have been stuck in since I began working shit jobs at 14.

Oh, by the way...don't even try to steal these. They're MINE, fuckers!

1. MY TESTES ARE ZOMBIES BUT I AM NORMAL. Boy, does this one beg a serious question. Can you imagine it?

2. FASCIST ZOMBIE COLON MORTAR. You know...I'm not even going to explain. Use your imagination.

3. ZOMBIE GIRLS ARE FUCKING WILD IN BED. Hm. There's an interesting one. Are they fucking wild in bed or are they in bed, fucking wildly?

4. ZOMBIES CAN GLITTER TOO. Danger, Will Robinson! There may be some copyright disputes with the producers of TWILIGHT and WARM BLOOD, but I am willing to take the chance.

5. ZOMBIES ATE THE DINGO THAT ATE MY BABY SO I ATE THE ZOMBIE AND NOW I AM SICK. Oh shit! Where does the protagonist go for help? Not to the CDC.

6. RUDY EUGENE: THE AMERICAN IDOL EXTRAVAGANZA. Wow. That one's low. So fucking what?

7. FUCK SANTA CLAUS, I SAW MOMMY KISSING A ZOMBIE AND NOW SHE IS LIPLESS. Am I grasping? I don't think so....

8. SATAN ZOMBIE GANGBANG VOL. 246,872,003. Well, I've only directed so many pornos. I guess I have a lot of catching up to do.

9. CAPITOL HILL ZOMBIE INTESTINE AND TENTACLE FEST. Funny, if zombies took over Capitol Hill this country might actually get MORE done.

and, finally...

10. DEAD SEX IS BETTER THAN LIVE SEX: JUST ASK OTIS. If you know anything about serial killers, this needs no explanation. Otherwise...well, you're fucked, because my undead wife has just turned my penis into a zombie and it is growing these weird whirling teeth so I'd better find a good use for it. After all, idle hands....

If you're not laughing by now, you probably want to pull out my intestines. That's cool because I'm a zombie. I'll get over it.

I love you, my tantalizing little sexpods.

The Days of Music

Yes. The Ciphers of Malice when we had just started playing shows. We had nine songs back in 2007, and this is one of my favorites. Evidently one of Marilyn Manson's favorites too, since he more or less copied the damn thing with "I Have To Look Up Just To See Hell" in 2009.

That's OK. Hell, I'm flattered. Thank you Mr. Warner.

Members: Daniel Dyar: Vocals, Keys

Robert Tannahill: Guitar

Terry Tipton: Drums

Song: "All's Well That Ends". Music and Lyrics by Robert Tannahill. Published by Abiel Publishing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dELG0GedWFg&list=PL956ADBCB3CDB6B29

But as all things move toward their end, so did we in 2010. I went solo for awhile and got fat. Heh. Glad these days I have lost the chunk. But in case you're interested I give you "Shot By A Coward", my song about Jesse James. Published by Abiel Publishing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Es5zYg6k1yE&noredirect=1

Well. That's enough out of me for a day. Goodnight, my dears.

The COCAINE! Bros. in Peril

Have you ever spent fifteen hours working on something only to find that when the deadline came around, you couldn't find it? This happened to me yesterday, and at the wrong time of day. If this had happened at the time I wake up, you know, NOW...I could have re-drawn the much-awaited (or so I like to think) issue 8.2 of "The COCAINE! Bros." However, at four o' clock in the afternoon, around the time I'm ready to relax with a good book, maybe have some dinner, I decided to go ahead and do some cutting so Bruni would receive CB on time.

It was not in my safe place. As if through some act of doom, the issue had disappeared. Just POOF! Gone. No mas. I wondered if maybe I had put it elsewhere. My scanner has been acting like a dick lately, not wanting to scan things they way they are but the way it wants them to look. So I figured I'd outsmart the bastard and cut panels carefully making them more concomitant to this nefarious piece of technology's idea of how a scan should look. Maybe I'd done this study the night before. I'm working on so many things they seem to tangle together like kissing tongues.

I tore my room apart. A tornado touched down on the carpet. No issue. My wife came in to help and I left. She looked more calmly, ever patient. No issue.

I got to work. Unfortunately, I'm not the wealthy man with the high-pro equipment yet; that'll come later. No, for now I pay my dues hunched over my bed and drawing in the quiet. I did pretty well finishing two pages of pencils in three hours. Deciding to take I break I stood.

Well, tried to stand is more like it. I have to face facts. I'm edging up on 36 here. The last vestiges of my youth are beginning to crumble like a cookie. In other words, I needed a fucking cane. I settled for straightening my abused 73 inch form using one hand on my back and the other on my forehead pushing and pulling respectively. Crunch. Ever had a bowl of Rice Crispies?

I've already lost two weeks on CB due to other projects, technical difficulties and also my sister's sudden decision to move to California, which is turning out to be a cluster fuck I'm afraid will kill my mother. While things of this nature are nothing new they always suck. Don't they? I'm sure you've got your stories--we all do.

8.2 will be ready Monday, for all who are interested. Whether or not Bruni decides to publish it or make the fans wait is entirely up to him. I've known this guy for 22 years and love him though I do he's a bit of an OCD nutter. But then, we're all a pain in the balls in our own ways aren't we?

See you tomorrow, Angels and Devils.

The Ten Commandments of Fiction Writing

I expect to be taken at least as seriously as Moses which is to say, not at all. But, what the hell, right? It's early, and I need to let the coffee kick in.

1. THOU SHALT NOT DIS THINE EDITOR. Follow this one mainly because if you don't, you're fucked. First of all, it's a waste of time, no matter if you're sending to a fledgling 'zine or a top-notch magazine like Cemetery Dance. All editors have a wastebasket, and your rejected submission will stay there no matter how much you foam at the mouth. You may even end up on the much-feared blacklist which, of course, doesn't exist. OMERTA.

2. THOU SHALT PROOFREAD THY OWN WORKS. If you can't bring yourself to read yourself, who else is going to waste their time with you? Plus, I'm sorry, but none of us is the Literary Zeus. We all make errors. Know them, find them, and destroy them with impunity.

3. THOU SHALT READ THY MARKET. Yeah, there's a lot of suck asses out there, but if they are up on the board, they have a credit and you don't. They may even be getting paid.

4. THOU SHALT NOT SELF-PUBLISH. More and more I hear about people losing money doing this than making money. So why bother? If it works for some, OK. So far the only thing I see it do is get people Twitter followers. Wow. Don't pay to play. It's the equivalent of Payola in radio.

5. HONOR THOSE WHO HAVE COME BEFORE THEE. We all have our favorites, but those boring writers you had to read in high school should be honored.

6. THOU SHALT NOT WORSHIP PRINTED IMITATIONS. Even if you come across a magazine (and I've come across many) that says "We take things in the style of Lovecraft, Gaiman, Poe, etc." that doesn't mean they want you to write LIKE those guys. At least I hope not. As a man I once played music venues with said "Imitation is not flattery." So, unless you're 12 and just getting started, don't write like anyone but yourself.

7. THOU SHALT BE THYSELF. Well, I pretty much explained this up above, but the Bible repeats itself, I figured why fuck around? You cannot avoid being who you are no matter how hard you try or how hard you yearn for acceptance. Who gives a shit if people like you? Don't change who you are just to be the popular kid. Shit, if you do, those J-Holes will just tell you "you try to hard, dude."

8. THOU SHALT NOT WRITE WITH DOLLAR SIGNS IN THINE EYES. Don't do it. It won't work. Money does not come first. Story comes first.

9. THOU SHALT WRITE EVERY DAY. This is the only way you're going to get better. You'll see your mistakes. You'll see your awesomeness too. And then you'll know better what to do.

10. THOU SHALT LET THINE CHARACTERS BREATHE ON THEIR OWN. Remember, you don't own them, they own you. Sure, you think it's the other way around, but it isn't. You can say "Hey, I'm gonna write about Benny jumping the fence!" Well, what if Benny gets to the fence and you ending up writing that he can't jump it? What if suddenly his not being able to jump it makes a cop come after him because Benny wasn't supposed to jump that fence in the first place? What if Benny turns around and tells you to eat cock? (Whoa. If that happens, you may need therapy.) What if...what if...what if...see what I mean? Don't force your characters. They won't let you anyway.

Follow these and you're sure to succeed.

Believe that and hear the sound of laughter from up above. It's all just a gamble, folks. Roll the dice or play your hand or don't. There are no real commandments to success or magic items or sure-bets or having an IN. It's all about persistence. Keep on keepin' on, gorgeous.