Saturday, February 15, 2020


So I was driving around today just so I wouldn't have to be in my bedroom anymore. I heard something I found kind of odd on the radio. Something that I didn't really expect. Anyone remember Sam Kinison? Yeah, the preacher-turned-stand up comedian. He had this bit, which was almost certainly faked, where he would find someone heartbroken in his audience and then call the woman who broke his heart live onstage. He would then scream obscenities at her, usually over her answering machine (kids, that's what we had before voicemail, and it was the same fuckin' thing anyway, so it doesn't really matter, and I'm going to OK Boomer myself now), on behalf of the emotionally injured party. I always found it kind of awful, even if it was faked.

Fast forward to me driving around today. One of the DJs was doing a similar bit all day: call in and dedicate songs to your lying, cheating ex, and clarify why those songs. They were all basically fuck-you songs (and in one case the song was actually named "Fuck You"). Just as the DJ hit his post, he says the woman's first name, and then says, "F you."

What kind of person does this kind of thing? I can't possibly imagine how much vitriol you would have to have in your heart to call in to a radio station--a Sirius/XM station, Turbo, no less--to say fuck you to someone you used to love with all your heart. That sounds absolutely crazy to me.

Don't get me wrong. I've felt angry after a break up. I've felt heartbreak. I've felt betrayed. I understand, to some degree, how it feels to be in that position. But I would never call in to a radio station to do something like this.

I was a much younger man when I felt these things. These days I believe in free love, so long as everyone involved are adults, consenting and on the same page. Break ups don't hurt me like they used to. I've become almost bulletproof when it comes to that kind of thing. But I've been on both sides of this coin, and I still can't understand that kind of anger.

It's worth noting that everyone who made a dedication (at least that I heard) were men. There were no women with fuck-you on the tips of their tongue. This leads me to believe that this is male behavior, which should make it easier for me to understand. I still don't get it. I don't get keying her car, or talking shit about her, or stalking her, or making sure she's in a worse relationship after ours, or any of that batshit behavior.

To quote Ferris, "It's over. Go home."

For those curious, I spent my Valentine's Day alone. I think I prefer being single at this point in my life. Society always concerns itself when someone says they didn't do anything special for Valentine's Day with anyone special. They think something is wrong with you if you're not in a relationship. That's an idea that we should scrub from the social consciousness. I like my own company. Also, as a man of a certain age, my sex drive has gone way down, and it wasn't that high to begin with. I know, that's odd coming from someone who wrote Dong of Frankenstein and 6669, but there you go.

If you spent your time today with someone you love, good for you. I hope all went well. If you spent your time today alone, that's also cool. Don't let it bring you down. Don't let vitriol take over. That way lies madness and incels, and that leads to the Dark Side of the Force. But don't let it remove you from society, either.

To quote Silverchair (words you probably didn't expect to read today or any other day since the late 'Nineties), "I don't wanna be lonely. I just want to be alone."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Friday, February 14, 2020


I have to say that I'm shocked by how successful my gofundme has been. One day, and I'm already over my goal. I have so many thanks to give all who pitched in and helped out. I should be able to cover my meds for a while, which should buy me the time to get a job with medical insurance. I'm so grateful to you all. Thank you so much! When I lost my insurance, I considered creating a gofundme, but fear held me back. Who would contribute? I didn't think it would get far beyond maybe twenty bucks. You all surprised the hell out of me. Again, thank you!

I have to say, though, I don't think it would have been possible without the help of one person.

I've been a fan of Joe Hill's since Heart-Shaped Box came out. I followed his career through books and comic books. I met him once at Andersons in Naperville. I've kept up with NOS4A2 on AMC and Locke & Key on Netflix and his Creepshow episode, etc. I'm so glad that this explosion of attention he is getting is happening. Because not only is he an amazing author, he's also a good person.

All I meant to do was comment on Twitter on how much I enjoyed Locke & Key. It got his attention, and he must have seen my post about running out of Paxil. He said if I put together a gofundme, he'd contribute. That gave me the courage I needed to create the page. Not only did he do that, but he retweeted it to everyone who followed him, and a lot of them responded very positively. A lot of them even contributed and put me over my goal.

See? The internet isn't always the cesspool people say it is. Maybe tonight this shouldn't be called Goodnight, Fuckers. Because a lot of you--maybe even most of you reading this--are definitely not Fuckers. You are good people.

Thank you so much, Joe Hill, for everything.

Thursday, February 13, 2020


I don't know what's going on, but the last two nights in a row I woke up waaaaaay too early, feeling very hungry and very weak.I have a few theories, two of which I'm testing out tonight. I think it's low blood sugar, which is highly unusual for me. My sugars are always high. Yet . . .

The hungry part. Am I eating dinner too early in the evening? I don't think so, but I'm very hungry upon waking up at, say, four in the morning. Tonight I ate a late dinner. Really late. Like, I just finished eating before writing this GF entry. I can't possibly wake up early with hunger, can I?

The weak part. I've been giving myself some pretty big insulin doses because I've been drinking a lot of Coke, which yes, I know, a diabetic like me shouldn't be doing in the first place. I'm trying to quit, but so far I haven't been able to. Am I giving myself insulin doses that are too big for just before bed? I intend to lower the dose and see what happens. I hope that doesn't result in a sugar score of 200 when I wake up at the regular time tomorrow.

Ah fuck. It's got to be one or both of these things. If I wake up too early again, I'm going to be angry with myself. It means that I go back to sleep and don't wake up until three in the afternoon, completely wasting my morning and early afternoon. This has got to work, right?

Tuesday, February 11, 2020


How well do you know your friends with nicknames? Do you even remember what their real name is anymore?

This thought occurred to me while watching an episode of Gunsmoke earlier this week. An old friend of Doc's shows up in town, and because they're such old friends, this guy calls Doc by his real name, "Galen." Every time this happens, people around them act shocked. Even Matt Dillon is surprised by this. This is surprising, how? I'm fairly certain that this knowledge goes all the way back to season one. I'm pretty sure earlier seasons had his full name on his shingle (although that might be the Mandela Effect, so I'm not entirely sure).

Names are important, and not just for the reasons John Constantine thinks so. It irritates me when someone who has known someone else for years gets that person's name wrong. Like, say, the difference between "Jamie" and "Jaime." Or "Hastings" and "Hasting." Little things like that which probably bothers no one else, including the person in question.

This is probably why I live in constant terror of getting someone's name wrong, especially if it's someone I've known for years. Thankfully I still know the real names of all those who I call by their nicknames.

I think.


I have been without medical insurance since the start of the month. Which is good because I still had it when I went to the hospital for more than half a month, and I'd really not like to be stuck with that awful bill in total. But it sucks because now my medications are running out.

The first to go is going to be Paxil. I have three left. I'm told it's one of those drugs you have to be weaned off of. So yeah. And now the fun begins. I figure I'll space out those last three pills before I take the last one. Maybe that will help. Thankfully I got most of my refills before Jan. 31, so I got a while to go on those, but Paxil is going out the door soon. Unless I can find a new job with medical insurance.

Kids, don't be like me. Get a for-real job. Something that pays at least $50K/year and gives you all the benefits. Don't just get a whatever job that's like that but you only settle for $32.5K/year, one that acts as a day job because by night you're a writer. If you get that for-real job, DON'T LET GO OF IT. Do your absolute best to be whatever the evil corporation wants you to be. You can talk shit about it all you want when you get to retire with the full package.

I wonder if I'll ever get to retire to a full lifestyle of writing and only writing. That would be so nice.

Monday, February 10, 2020


Back in first grade I had one person I could call a friend. His name was Carl (I will redact his last name on the off-off-off-off chance that he reads this and doesn't want to be named), and he would be gone next year. But that year I saw him open his locker, and I saw a sticker in there. It was grotesque, a gross parody of a Cabbage Patch doll, and according to the text, its name was Hairy Mary.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Garbage Pail Kid," Carl said.

And so I was introduced to the wonderfully disgusting world of Garbage Pail Kids. For the next year I wouldn't shut up about them. I begged whichever adult who was with me whenever we went to 7-Eleven to get me all of the GPK packs, complete with cardboard gum. They might grant me one pack, but never more than that. I amassed quite the collection, which I have somewhere in my basement. My dad loved them, but he said they were today's version of something he called Wacky Packs. This delighted me, and he found his own collection from when he was a kid and gave it to me. I also have those in my basement somewhere.

I should really hunt those down and look at them again. I need a good nasty reminder of how horrible they were to look at. Not too long ago, they tried to make a comeback, and I thought they did an excellent job of updating their usual repertoire. My particular favorites are their Donald Trump inspired ones, which can be perused here. GPK take no sides, so they skewer just about everyone in the 2016 race (except me and Danger_Slater, the cheap bastards), but they're pretty spot-on when it comes to Trump.

Which reminds me. I should probably start ramping up on my 2020 campaign . . .

Sunday, February 9, 2020


So I went to see the movie, The Gentlemen, earlier today. It was great. Go fucking see it. Guy Ritchie returns to his roots. (OK, so I talked a little about it.)

Before showtime I had to take a shit. I went to the bathroom, chose the stall next to the urinals, and unloaded mostly gas, but also a bit of a turd. I heard something hit the floor beside me and then thunk against the toilet. What the fuck was that?

I looked down and saw a water bottle. One that had been opened but only sipped maybe once. The guy at the urinal cursed, and I wondered, what exactly is the etiquette for a situation like this? Should I give the bottle a nudge so it rolls back out? Should I hand it to him under the stall? Did he even want it back? It's a theater bathroom floor, after all. I asked myself what I would want in a situation like this, and I decided I wouldn't want it back.

I wiped and flushed and put my coat back on. I then exited the stall to see . . . no one. Whoever had dropped the bottle had decided to abandon it. Just as I would have. So now I have an answer to that extremely awkward question. Should something similar happen to you, don't do anything.

I should also note that I had to go to the bathroom after the show. The bottle was still there. No one wanted any part of it. Which seemed right. The world turned just as it should.