GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #326: [NAME REDACTED], THE PLACE OF MY EVENTUAL HERMITAGE

It's not often that I want to keep something to myself. Well, it happens when someone else is involved, but if it's just me--AND ME ALONE--I almost never keep that thing to myself. In creating the title of tonight's column I decided to keep one of those things to myself. I have my reasons.

I'll give you an example. Something happened when I was a kid, and the only people in the world who know about this were the people there and the one person I swore to secrecy about it decades later. Before writing this, I released him from his promise. This person and I were talking about one of Gregory House's unusual obsessions.

I have a policy that those close enough to me to confide things in me know very well. You have to swear me to secrecy first, and then you can confide, and God Himself couldn't get it out of me. Oh fuck me, this is a column with a side note within a side note, but that's the kind of night it is, I guess.

I used to know this one guy who, and I can't stress this enough, I told him my policy sooooooo many times he either wasn't listening or was incredibly stupid. In retrospect, I believe both of these things. Regardless, in the cafeteria at work he told me about this idiotically unlikely sexual position he'd come up with, and he named it after himself. I ridiculed him openly to his face--AGAIN in the WORK cafeteria where others were hanging around, and he was a loud, belligerent loony--and he insisted it was a true story. I'd finished eating and intended to spend the rest of my lunch in the employee lounge reading, and he followed me. I ran into another person in the breakroom who knew all about this guy's bullshit, and I started telling her about what he'd just told me.

"No! You can't tell her!" he said.

"You know my policy," I said. He had to. I'd explained it maybe a dozen times.

He pleaded ignorance. I told her the whole thing. She laughed her ass off and went to lunch. Another coworker came in, and in front of this guy I told this coworker everything.

This sounds like bullying. It's not. I promise you. I would never do this to someone I hadn't told about the policy, or even if I'd told them twice. Three strikes, you're out. It's the next one that doesn't count anymore. And they have to be sober when I tell them. Yeah, I know, I have fucked up reasoning, but you didn't know this guy. He was a liar and a cheat and a scumbag and a manipulator and, this last part I'm 95% on, a predator. I'm not a violent guy. I can be, as faithful readers will know, but if I can defeat someone with words, I will do it.

Before my break was over (15 minutes from that moment) everyone knew. I went as far as putting the sex move--and who names an unlikely sex move after themselves?!--on Urban Dictionary. He eventually forced himself to have a sense of humor about it, and good for him. I'd do the same. He told me that I'd better get a coffee mug made with the UD definition on it for Christmas. I told him I would, and I usually live up to my word. But he's out of my life, and I didn't have the money at the time. I have it now and would have happily gotten it for him.

So I take my own policies very seriously, and I live by them to the hilt. So my friend? The one I mentioned earlier? I swore him to secrecy first. And then we talked about House's weird obsession with monster trucks. My big secret? I LOVE MONSTER TRUCKS. I was dubious at first, but then my uncle took me and my cousin to a rodeo, and part of said rodeo was a monster truck rally. AND BIGFOOT WAS THERE! And bam. I got it. I understood it. I loved it.

I don't think it was mine. I think it was my cousin's. But one of us had an RC Bigfoot after that, and there were all these shitty plastic cars that we could run it over. Oh my fuck me Jesus, I had so much fun with that shit! I wanted my own monster truck so badly. I still kind of do, especially if I have to deal with rush hour traffic.

So there it is. I finally overcame that insecurity about myself. You all know what you probably suspected already: I'm the oldest eight-year-old kid you know.

Okay, that was one hell of a left turn. So let's get back to what I was going to write about in the first place. I know for a fact that six of you on my social media know the name of this middle-of-nowhere village. I suspect ten more of you might, too. And I really want to keep that location to myself because I intend, if I somehow survive to old age and/or sudden riches, I want to cut myself off from humanity, more or less, and live out my days without ever using my voice again. No offense. I might have mentioned in a previous column that I wasn't superstitious, but there's this weird part of me thinking that if I name the place, I'll jinx myself.

To give you an idea of how out-there this place is, I'm convinced there are more horses in that village than there are people. Or township. Or whatever.

While driving through the other day, to do some forest preserve reading, I saw that a farmhouse was up for rent. The land was sizeable, too. Not that I'm a farmer or could even do a good job of doing that. I'd kinda like to have a horse. I speak a big Western game. It would be nice to actually be able to ride a horse, though. I'd hate to look like Clint in Unforgiven when he tries to get on his horse so he could go out and murder a few fellas.

I seriously considered just going there now. I even looked it up online. Turns out, I actually have enough money to pay rent on the place for five months and still live relatively comfortable. The problem is, I have no job. Well, I have one, but the start date keeps getting delayed. I can't rationally make the decision to rent the place without actually having a concrete job. Without the rent, living here, I could survive 2021 in an absolutely basic level of comfort. I have to have a job by then. Or maybe I'll win the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes?

I really want that place. The houses in that area were built in the mid to late 1800s. They look like the houses that I adore from those aforementioned Westerns. There is one that reminds me of a house from the film, THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. If I could rent that, I would probably beat my own skull in after my money ran out.

But it might be worth it.

Man, I just can't rent that place. I wish more than anything that I could. Well, I'm fairly sure I'd be labeled a city boy by most of the closer neighbors. Sadly they'd label me a lefty. I'm not. Biden's not my guy, but he got dipshit out of office, so I'll take him. There is one house I saw had a sign bolted to the ground so it wouldn't be easily removed. One word is spray-painted on both sides: TRUMP. The owner isn't the only one, but I find faith in the others who have Biden signs up. Not many, but enough. Who knows? If it came to it, maybe I could tip the scales in local elections. Probably not.

But I really fucking want that place.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #202: I RODE WITH JESSE JAMES

I'm a huge fan of westerns. Those of you who know me know that and probably look the other way. When I was a kid I loved all the classics and GUNSMOKE and RAWHIDE and THE LONE RANGER and all of that. But my interest waned as I grew older. It was practically dead by the time UNFORGIVEN came out.


I saw that one in the theater. Amazing experience. At the time I believed it to be the last great western, and I gave up on the genre. So did most of America. Every once in a while we'd get something like, say, AMERICAN OUTLAWS, but for the most part the western was gone.



Fast forward a few years. I started reading PREACHER by Garth Ennis and Steve Dillon. They reawakened my interest in westerns. I looked back at the old movies and TV shows I loved as a kid, and it all came back to me. I loved the genre again, and I desperately hoped for a resurrection.


I think we might be on the cusp of a revival. THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN is back in headlines, and WESTWORLD is posed to become HBO's next greatest hit. Tarantino put out a new Django movie, and THE H8FUL EIGHT was fucking amazing, especially with a score by Ennio Morricone. That makes me so happy.


When I was a kid I didn't read westerns. I only watched them. When I rediscovered the western I started reading them starting with GONE TO TEXAS from BF Carter. (Side note: I recently discovered that Carter was a white supremacist. That came out of left field for me. His Josey Wales books are arguments for the fair treatment of Native Americans. I can't believe a racist wrote those two books. But, well, it's historical record that he was in the KKK.)


I dug into Zane Grey and Louis L'Amour and everything else. Fucking Larry McMurtry, guys. Read LONESOME DOVE. It'll change your life. By the way, if you're wondering I would choose L'Amour as my favorite western writer. Read his nonfiction book EDUCATION OF A WANDERING MAN, and you'll understand why. Frederick Faust, better known as Max Brand, was a beast of a writer. He could write novels in weekends. That's a pulp writer for you. But L'Amour was the best. Interestingly enough, he was a member of the Communist Party for a while with Jim Thompson, my favorite crime writer. Very unusual for a writer so many patriotic readers identify with.


Not too long ago I finished another collection of L'Amour's hard-to-find westerns from his pulp days. It reinforces something I've noticed in a lot of other westerns: many western protagonists have a history fighting for the Confederacy, and very few of them believed in the racist views. They looked at themselves as rebels. They wanted their own way of life. They didn't condone slavery; they just wanted to live free, and they didn't want to be under the yoke of the Union.


Also, just about everyone rode with Jesse James. From Josey Wales to Jonah Hex, they put on their gray uniforms and fought by the side of the boys from ol' Missour-ah. If Jesse James had really ridden with all of these fictional heroes (or anti-heroes, as per your perception) he would have whipped the shit out of the North.


Unless some of these guys are talking about the bank/train robbery days. In which case Jesse James would have beaten the daylights out of the Pinkertons. Never mind fuckin' Robert Ford.


If all of those protagonists existed in real life, Jesse James would have been Al Capone before Al was even born.


Something to ponder for those who give enough of a shit about the western.


PS: The character of Jesse James has been portrayed maybe a thousand times in books and cinema. My favorite, however, is the movie version of THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. I haven't read the book, but from what I understand the movie is probably the closest we will ever come to the truth. If you haven't seen it, you should. Check out the masterful score by Nick Cave and violinist Warren Ellis. It's my second favorite score of all time. #1 is Ennio Morricone's THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE UGLY. #3 is THE DARK HALF from Christopher Young. #4 is . . . I'm not going to sit here all night. Just fucking watch the movie. Enjoy the score. Remember the western. 'Cause it's coming back, and it might be here for a while. The blues and the birth of rock and roll. And the western. True American art forms.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #159: I WISH I COULD WRITE THAT

On Black Friday, while the rest of America was beating the shit out of each other to get their hands on TV's that were discounted by 10% or some such happy horseshit, I was driving my brothers home to Crystal Lake. Normally I take I-90, but it was so fucking packed that I had to take the back roads, mostly using Algonquin. That's a nice, quiet country road, and I enjoyed blasting through there at 90 mph while listening to Alestorm.


Never mind that, though. I was severely hungover, but my mind never turns itself off, not when it's not in blackout drunk phase. No, as I drove down this isolated road, I saw decrepit houses with miles and miles of flat land around them. I zoned out on Alestorm, and I could see these buildings as the quiet monoliths of the Suburban Prairie that they are.


The atmosphere is astounding. I wish I was good enough as a writer to capture these quiet, atmospheric settings. I tried with this piece right here, but I still failed to communicate the feeling I experienced that night.


You know who was really good at capturing that kind of feeling? Andrew Dominik. I can't speak for the director as a person (nor for the writer of the book, which is on my reading list but I have not yet gotten to it), but he directed THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD, and there are scenes in this movie that are exactly what I want to accomplish in my fiction. He can do it with images. I need to learn how to do it in imagery. God, I envy him this ability. If I can do with words what he does with visuals, I would be very happy, indeed.


The TV show FARGO is also pretty good at this kind of atmosphere.


Shit. My new book, DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN, is out today, and it has already gotten a lot of attention from people and writers I respect. Yet I don't think I'll ever be the writer I want to be. I learn a little bit every day, but I get the feeling I'll be learning this trade until I inevitably die at my keyboard. I heard Robert Parker died at his typewriter. I can see that happening to me, and I can see myself being completely unfulfilled upon my death.


Maybe that's OK. Like Rufus says near the end of BILL AND TED'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE, "They *do* get better." A close friend of mine told me a while ago that when he read my work when we were in high school, he thought I was an absolutely shitty writer. Yet when he read my recent work, he saw leaps and bounds in improvement until I was pretty good. Maybe that's the best I can hope for.


But I'll never settle. Not until they pry my cold, dead hands from the keyboard.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #72: THE WRONG STUFF

Today, while hungover, I referred to PUSHING TIN and AMERICAN OUTLAWS on Twitter.


WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?!??!?!?!?!





















































I would have included THE QUICK AND THE DEAD in this post, but I actually liked that movie. Like, a lot. And if you're looking for a great Jesse James movie, you need to see THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD. It's one of the most beautiful movies ever made. It's like a novel but in movie format. That sounds silly, because everyone knows movies made from books. But once you see this movie, you'll understand what I mean. It's a novel you can just watch instead of read.