Oh, how I wish I could agree with the title of this one. I've recently discovered that I'm really bad at quitting fast food. I managed to beat my addiction to caffeine, but fast food? Nope. I've been trying for weeks to defeat this one, but I just can't seem to do it.
A part of me blames Taco Bell for introducing the Quesarito, which is perfect if you order it without sour cream but add extra cheese (both shredded and nacho). That same part of me also blames Wendy's for bringing back the Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger, which is fucking amazing. And of course there are always the traditional stand-bys, like McDonald's (anything goes there) and White Castle (home of the Flesh of the Chicken Snake).
The fucked up thing? Most times, when I'm eating these things, I don't really give a fuck about them. I'm eating them because I love the idea of them, and that's so fucking crazy, not even I can reconcile it with the person I want to be. It's like jerking off even though you can't get a rod. You need to blow your load, but you can't get hard. That makes things difficult. You'll succeed, but it won't be as awesome as you think it will be. The orgasm will happen, but it will feel dull and weak, which isn't worth your time.
I need to get down to 235 lbs. for the next time I see my doctor, which is in August. Right now, I'm back up to 245. This is unacceptable. I need to tell fast food to go fuck itself, but that's the hardest thing for me to do, even harder than quitting caffeine (which was really fucking bad). I'm a fat ass who ate McDonald's for six years straight when I was in junior high and high school. I beat it when I graduated, since I managed to go an entire summer without that garbage (and I managed to lose 50 lbs. at the time). Why can't I do that again?
Fuck. Tomorrow, I'm going to try the AM Crunchwrap at Taco Bell. I'm probably going to fall in love with it. I suck at this.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #11: CROSSED
No, this is not a repeat. Last night's GF was called "Cross," not "Crossed." This time, I'm talking about the Avatar Press series created by Garth Ennis. It's an amazing, depraved book, and I'm glad it keeps getting more and more fucked up. Except . . .
I think I'm getting tired of it. I love the concept, and there are a few writers that I really enjoy on the series. However, I think that more and more, this series is about outdoing whoever wrote the previous arc instead of actually telling a great story. I appreciate people trying to up the ante on fucked up things, but there has to be something more to that going on.
Garth Ennis is obviously my favorite CROSSED writer. David Lapham and Si Spurrier are tied for a close second. The others? Eh, it's hard to separate them. Sometimes they tell great stories, and others, they're just trying to play the gross-out game. I love gross-out games, but like I said, there has to be something more to it. You can't just do it for its own sake.
The new guy is doing it for its own sake. He's showing Crossed children eating their younger siblings and begging regular human beings to fuck them. I'm not against depictions of that, although I would never, personally, do that. I think it's too easy to fuck with a reader by resorting to violence with kids, so I avoid it unless I have a very good reason. I am, however, against it for its own sake.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not on a moral crusade. I'm not telling you to boycott the book. That's silly. I just think that CROSSED shouldn't be doing this kind of thing. I'd much rather prefer stories where actual characters are suffering through real plots, that's all. You can be as fucked up as you want, just so long as there's something actually going on. If I wanted fucked up shit happening just 'cause, and women characters who exist only to show their tits, I'll read something else. Porn, in the case of the latter. Porn is really good at that. The former? I don't tend to think about it.
I think I'm getting tired of it. I love the concept, and there are a few writers that I really enjoy on the series. However, I think that more and more, this series is about outdoing whoever wrote the previous arc instead of actually telling a great story. I appreciate people trying to up the ante on fucked up things, but there has to be something more to that going on.
Garth Ennis is obviously my favorite CROSSED writer. David Lapham and Si Spurrier are tied for a close second. The others? Eh, it's hard to separate them. Sometimes they tell great stories, and others, they're just trying to play the gross-out game. I love gross-out games, but like I said, there has to be something more to it. You can't just do it for its own sake.
The new guy is doing it for its own sake. He's showing Crossed children eating their younger siblings and begging regular human beings to fuck them. I'm not against depictions of that, although I would never, personally, do that. I think it's too easy to fuck with a reader by resorting to violence with kids, so I avoid it unless I have a very good reason. I am, however, against it for its own sake.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not on a moral crusade. I'm not telling you to boycott the book. That's silly. I just think that CROSSED shouldn't be doing this kind of thing. I'd much rather prefer stories where actual characters are suffering through real plots, that's all. You can be as fucked up as you want, just so long as there's something actually going on. If I wanted fucked up shit happening just 'cause, and women characters who exist only to show their tits, I'll read something else. Porn, in the case of the latter. Porn is really good at that. The former? I don't tend to think about it.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #10: CROSS
Some of you know that I'm reading the new Cross book by Andrew Vachss. Sad to say, that's not the topic of tonight's Goodnight, Fuckers. The Cross in the title of this one actually refers to the brand of pens.
You see, over the weekend, I found myself in an office supply store, mostly because I needed to pick up paper and a pen refill. Ordinarily, when I'm done with a pen, I just toss it. However, the pen in question is special. I worked for almost 10 years at the Elmhurst Public Library (the library from my old forgotten column, Tales from the Library--I'm pretty sure they can't sue me now), and my reward for hitting the five year mark was a pen. It doesn't sound very majestic, but it's actually a wonderful Cross pen, one of the best I've ever owned. Whenever I have something important and official to sign, I use the EPL pen. It's old fashioned, in that you can buy refills for it, which is what I was doing over the weekend.
However, while I was in the store, matching up the old filler with a series of new ones, I saw something that intrigued me. Did you know that some major retailers are still selling fountain pens? I'm not talking about regular stationary stores, like the one I used to go to in downtown Elmhurst when I was a kid--is that even still there? I'm talking about the Offices: Depot and Max. I can't imagine they make much money off of such sales, but just after I found the proper refill for my EPL pen, I saw it there, complete with a booklet on how to use a fountain pen.
For $50+, I could have bought it. Fuck knows I wanted to. The temptation almost overwhelmed me, because who the hell writes with a fountain pen anymore? They're so impractical, it's ridiculous. But the very idea sounds cool.
I should probably mention at this point that for about a semester in college--back in about 1998 or 1999--I spent an inordinate amount of time taking notes in class with a quill pen. It's a stupidly pretentious thing to do, and I couldn't admit that to myself until just a few years ago. Yeah, I know, it was a cry for attention. A friend of mine called me out for that reason specifically, but again, I couldn't admit that back then, not even to myself. But he was right.
However, even though it took me that long to realize how stupid I was, I still stopped using the quill long before I could face my own stupidity. Why? Well . . . using quill pens are stupid. I understand that there are a few purists out there who use them for specific things, and that's fine, but quills are incredibly inefficient. Every few seconds, you have to stop so you can refill the pen. That's not good in a high pressure situation. It's not good for taking notes, either. Keep in mind, I went to college in a day when the internet was in its infancy. We didn't have iPads to help us out.
Fountain pens might not be as bad as quills, but they're still pretty inefficient. Why the fuck would I be tempted to buy something that pricey for something that a cheap Bic would do ten times better? Because . . . fuck. I'm still crying for attention. Why else would I do a nightly blog like this?
Even though I know I would get much more value out of a common, ten-cent ballpoint pen, I still can't help but lust after that Cross fountain pen. Maybe it's more than that cry for attention. Maybe it's a desire to do something different from the rest of my peers. I suspect I know a couple of people who might use a quill pen for calligraphy purposes, and that's fine. But no one else does and for good reason. The same for fountain pens.
Still. Every day that has passed since the weekend, I have felt the urge to go back and get that fountain pen.
You see, over the weekend, I found myself in an office supply store, mostly because I needed to pick up paper and a pen refill. Ordinarily, when I'm done with a pen, I just toss it. However, the pen in question is special. I worked for almost 10 years at the Elmhurst Public Library (the library from my old forgotten column, Tales from the Library--I'm pretty sure they can't sue me now), and my reward for hitting the five year mark was a pen. It doesn't sound very majestic, but it's actually a wonderful Cross pen, one of the best I've ever owned. Whenever I have something important and official to sign, I use the EPL pen. It's old fashioned, in that you can buy refills for it, which is what I was doing over the weekend.
However, while I was in the store, matching up the old filler with a series of new ones, I saw something that intrigued me. Did you know that some major retailers are still selling fountain pens? I'm not talking about regular stationary stores, like the one I used to go to in downtown Elmhurst when I was a kid--is that even still there? I'm talking about the Offices: Depot and Max. I can't imagine they make much money off of such sales, but just after I found the proper refill for my EPL pen, I saw it there, complete with a booklet on how to use a fountain pen.
For $50+, I could have bought it. Fuck knows I wanted to. The temptation almost overwhelmed me, because who the hell writes with a fountain pen anymore? They're so impractical, it's ridiculous. But the very idea sounds cool.
I should probably mention at this point that for about a semester in college--back in about 1998 or 1999--I spent an inordinate amount of time taking notes in class with a quill pen. It's a stupidly pretentious thing to do, and I couldn't admit that to myself until just a few years ago. Yeah, I know, it was a cry for attention. A friend of mine called me out for that reason specifically, but again, I couldn't admit that back then, not even to myself. But he was right.
However, even though it took me that long to realize how stupid I was, I still stopped using the quill long before I could face my own stupidity. Why? Well . . . using quill pens are stupid. I understand that there are a few purists out there who use them for specific things, and that's fine, but quills are incredibly inefficient. Every few seconds, you have to stop so you can refill the pen. That's not good in a high pressure situation. It's not good for taking notes, either. Keep in mind, I went to college in a day when the internet was in its infancy. We didn't have iPads to help us out.
Fountain pens might not be as bad as quills, but they're still pretty inefficient. Why the fuck would I be tempted to buy something that pricey for something that a cheap Bic would do ten times better? Because . . . fuck. I'm still crying for attention. Why else would I do a nightly blog like this?
Even though I know I would get much more value out of a common, ten-cent ballpoint pen, I still can't help but lust after that Cross fountain pen. Maybe it's more than that cry for attention. Maybe it's a desire to do something different from the rest of my peers. I suspect I know a couple of people who might use a quill pen for calligraphy purposes, and that's fine. But no one else does and for good reason. The same for fountain pens.
Still. Every day that has passed since the weekend, I have felt the urge to go back and get that fountain pen.
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #9: I FEEL LIKE A FRAUD SOMETIMES
Last night's post made me think a bit about how much writing I've been doing lately. Sadly, I don't think I'm up to par. I'm getting there, but I have a ways to go. About a month or two ago, I got a bad cold, and I can't write when I'm sick so I slacked off. Just as I was getting back into it, the flu came along and crippled me for a week. I barely left my bed in all that time. It still killed me for a second week, during which I got out of bed but did zero writing.
The week after that? Very little writing got done. I was lucky to get 100 words out a night. I fell into an awful depression where I tried to tell myself I didn't give a fuck anymore. Instead of trying to write, I'd read. Or watch TV. Or anything else but write.
It took me a while to get myself out of that funk. I had to remind myself that this writing thing is finally working out, and I'd be a fucking moron if I gave up now. Not only is my new book, POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, coming out next month, but I also have another book coming out from Barbarian next year (it's a romance crime novel, if you can get your head around THAT) and a double book I'm doing with Spanking Pulp (it doesn't have a release date yet) will probably get out there soon. Not only that, but there are at least five anthologies coming out with stories by me in them. ALL OF THESE ARE PAYING GIGS. Some more paying than others, obviously, but it's SOMETHING.
That lit the fire under my ass again. Proud to say I've been hitting my 2,000-word minimum every night for two weeks (except Sundays). Sometimes, I even get more. Tonight? 2.5K.
I hate feeling like a fraud, but sometimes I deserve it because I am. I dared to call myself a writer when I was barely writing anything. That bothered me a great deal, and I'm glad to say I've put that garbage behind me.
The week after that? Very little writing got done. I was lucky to get 100 words out a night. I fell into an awful depression where I tried to tell myself I didn't give a fuck anymore. Instead of trying to write, I'd read. Or watch TV. Or anything else but write.
It took me a while to get myself out of that funk. I had to remind myself that this writing thing is finally working out, and I'd be a fucking moron if I gave up now. Not only is my new book, POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS, coming out next month, but I also have another book coming out from Barbarian next year (it's a romance crime novel, if you can get your head around THAT) and a double book I'm doing with Spanking Pulp (it doesn't have a release date yet) will probably get out there soon. Not only that, but there are at least five anthologies coming out with stories by me in them. ALL OF THESE ARE PAYING GIGS. Some more paying than others, obviously, but it's SOMETHING.
That lit the fire under my ass again. Proud to say I've been hitting my 2,000-word minimum every night for two weeks (except Sundays). Sometimes, I even get more. Tonight? 2.5K.
I hate feeling like a fraud, but sometimes I deserve it because I am. I dared to call myself a writer when I was barely writing anything. That bothered me a great deal, and I'm glad to say I've put that garbage behind me.
Monday, July 14, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #8: ONE WEEK AND GOING STRONG
To be honest, when I started doing this Goodnight, Fuckers thing, I didn't expect much of a response. I figured I might get five of you who were up late enough to read these posts. I've been doing this for a week, and a shocking amount of you have been reading them. I appreciate you all. Thank you for reading. I guess this means I'll have to be more self-conscious when I write them . . . or fuck that. I've gone a good portion of my life without giving a fuck what people thought of me. Why should I start now?
In all reality, this has been a very good thing for me. There are some days when I don't get my 2,000-word writing target. I rarely fall too short--maybe by a couple hundred words--and this always seems to fill that gap. Or maybe I do make my goal and even more. This is the icing on that particular cake.
It pains me to admit it, but there are nights when I don't get ANY writing done . . . and this blog is the balm in Gilead that helps me sleep at night.
But never mind all of that. This column holds a special place in my heart because it is the most honest writing I have done. My Everyone's Got One columns are 100% honest, but to be fair, I take time to construct them. I mean everything I say, but I write them and I edit them, and sometimes that takes a while. Sometimes I sit on a column for a couple of weeks. Sometimes, a whole month.
Goodnight, Fuckers is written on the fly. I pour my brain out onto the keyboard, and I post it without a second thought, even if I'm drunk. The last two were done under the influence of alcohol. I don't know if that helps my case or not. I'll leave that up to you. But these eight columns are probably the closest I've ever come to gonzo journalism. I know it's not the same. If it was, I'd be reporting these things as they happened. However, in my case I have these emotional and intellectual moments, and I report them right away as I feel them. And that is pretty close to the definition.
I hope to have more of these moments for you, since you obviously like them. I haven't missed a night yet, despite drinking, so I'm pretty sure I'll be back tomorrow night with another Goodnight, Fuckers. Until then, don't do anything I wouldn't. (That doesn't leave much, I know, so have some fun, you crazy fuckers.)
In all reality, this has been a very good thing for me. There are some days when I don't get my 2,000-word writing target. I rarely fall too short--maybe by a couple hundred words--and this always seems to fill that gap. Or maybe I do make my goal and even more. This is the icing on that particular cake.
It pains me to admit it, but there are nights when I don't get ANY writing done . . . and this blog is the balm in Gilead that helps me sleep at night.
But never mind all of that. This column holds a special place in my heart because it is the most honest writing I have done. My Everyone's Got One columns are 100% honest, but to be fair, I take time to construct them. I mean everything I say, but I write them and I edit them, and sometimes that takes a while. Sometimes I sit on a column for a couple of weeks. Sometimes, a whole month.
Goodnight, Fuckers is written on the fly. I pour my brain out onto the keyboard, and I post it without a second thought, even if I'm drunk. The last two were done under the influence of alcohol. I don't know if that helps my case or not. I'll leave that up to you. But these eight columns are probably the closest I've ever come to gonzo journalism. I know it's not the same. If it was, I'd be reporting these things as they happened. However, in my case I have these emotional and intellectual moments, and I report them right away as I feel them. And that is pretty close to the definition.
I hope to have more of these moments for you, since you obviously like them. I haven't missed a night yet, despite drinking, so I'm pretty sure I'll be back tomorrow night with another Goodnight, Fuckers. Until then, don't do anything I wouldn't. (That doesn't leave much, I know, so have some fun, you crazy fuckers.)
Sunday, July 13, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #7: MY TASTE IN MUSIC
When I was a kid, I loved a lot of music. Now that I'm an adult, I love a lot of music. The difference between the two situations? A lot. Very few artists from my youth survive today as music I listen to now. Let's face it, one can't listen to the same ol' shit over and over again.
Who survives now? You might be surprised. At the top of the list is Weird Al Yankovic. You may be shocked, but I enjoy his music now even more than I did when I was a kid in the 'Eighties. Of all the shit I listened to back then, he's the only guy I still listen to now who has gotten even better. As much as I like "Nature Trail to Hell," I love "Party in the CIA" even more.
I'm so glad he's got a new album coming out soon. I have already pre-ordered MANDATORY FUN, and if you are anything like me, you should have done the same. It'll be hard to be better than my favorite album, POODLE HAT, but I think he can do it. ALPOCALYPSE was really fucking good. I can't wait to see the new songs he has in store for us.
Who survives now? You might be surprised. At the top of the list is Weird Al Yankovic. You may be shocked, but I enjoy his music now even more than I did when I was a kid in the 'Eighties. Of all the shit I listened to back then, he's the only guy I still listen to now who has gotten even better. As much as I like "Nature Trail to Hell," I love "Party in the CIA" even more.
I'm so glad he's got a new album coming out soon. I have already pre-ordered MANDATORY FUN, and if you are anything like me, you should have done the same. It'll be hard to be better than my favorite album, POODLE HAT, but I think he can do it. ALPOCALYPSE was really fucking good. I can't wait to see the new songs he has in store for us.
Saturday, July 12, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #6: NIGHTS OF YORE
I went out for my walk tonight, and it was longer and later than usual. However, it can't hold a candle to the walks I used to take in the nights of yore. I remember about fifteen years ago, I used to go out for a walk every night, and it was never before midnight. I hate my town when it's earlier. People are walking their dogs. Their house lights are bright. Their TV's are too loud. But after midnight? Things are quiet. It's just me and the crickets. And the occasional bat.
Back in the old days, I didn't have a job that required me to be there early in the morning. I miss that, because interesting things happen when you walk in Elmhurst at one in the morning. When I made it to Spring Road in the old days, there was a fairly good chance that a drunken woman would stumble out of Doc Ryan's and show me her tits. Just 'cause.
But that's an extreme case, and it happened rarely. No, I mostly liked my old walks because I didn't have to see anyone. I could just wander alone with my thoughts. Strangers wouldn't try to start up inane conversations with me. I could just work out my problems with no interruption.
But those days are gone. When I go out for my walks at the mundane hour of nine pm, I have no choice but to run into people walking their dogs. The script is always the same. I say hi, just to be friendly, and their dog tries to attack me. The owner apologizes and goes on his or her way. And that's the end. At the very least, such exchanges are brief. I'm into that whole brevity thing, man. At least when it comes to ordinary bullshit.
When I go for my walks, I just want to be alone. I have a million thoughts racing in my head, and going out for a walk is a rare opportunity to organize them and beat them into submission. But! But, on occasion, human contact can be interesting. I remember one instance, when I was in college and walking at two in the morning, a stranger walked up to me and offered me ten bucks to deliver flowers to his girlfriend, with whom he was on the outs. Of course I did it. I nearly had my nuts bitten off by his beloved's attack dog, but she didn't call the cops on me. Plus, I made ten bucks for five minutes of work. Not bad for a guy who made six dollars an hour back then at a part time job.
I miss the adventure of my late night walks. I miss the solitude. I miss the blankness of Elmhurst at such a late hour. However, that's not to say that things still aren't interesting. Tonight, as I closed in on my block after walking two and a half miles, I saw a herd of cops canvassing the neighborhood. They drove their cars with the headlights off, and they stopped the dog walkers and asked them questions. I don't know what happened--I'd heard fireworks earlier, so I guessed they were on the lookout for the perpetrator--but I'm surprised they didn't stop me for questioning. Maybe they recognized me from the time I worked at the public works garage. I don't know.
But hey. It was kind of interesting, for a nine pm walk, when the sky was barely dark, and the stars were just starting to shine.
Back in the old days, I didn't have a job that required me to be there early in the morning. I miss that, because interesting things happen when you walk in Elmhurst at one in the morning. When I made it to Spring Road in the old days, there was a fairly good chance that a drunken woman would stumble out of Doc Ryan's and show me her tits. Just 'cause.
But that's an extreme case, and it happened rarely. No, I mostly liked my old walks because I didn't have to see anyone. I could just wander alone with my thoughts. Strangers wouldn't try to start up inane conversations with me. I could just work out my problems with no interruption.
But those days are gone. When I go out for my walks at the mundane hour of nine pm, I have no choice but to run into people walking their dogs. The script is always the same. I say hi, just to be friendly, and their dog tries to attack me. The owner apologizes and goes on his or her way. And that's the end. At the very least, such exchanges are brief. I'm into that whole brevity thing, man. At least when it comes to ordinary bullshit.
When I go for my walks, I just want to be alone. I have a million thoughts racing in my head, and going out for a walk is a rare opportunity to organize them and beat them into submission. But! But, on occasion, human contact can be interesting. I remember one instance, when I was in college and walking at two in the morning, a stranger walked up to me and offered me ten bucks to deliver flowers to his girlfriend, with whom he was on the outs. Of course I did it. I nearly had my nuts bitten off by his beloved's attack dog, but she didn't call the cops on me. Plus, I made ten bucks for five minutes of work. Not bad for a guy who made six dollars an hour back then at a part time job.
I miss the adventure of my late night walks. I miss the solitude. I miss the blankness of Elmhurst at such a late hour. However, that's not to say that things still aren't interesting. Tonight, as I closed in on my block after walking two and a half miles, I saw a herd of cops canvassing the neighborhood. They drove their cars with the headlights off, and they stopped the dog walkers and asked them questions. I don't know what happened--I'd heard fireworks earlier, so I guessed they were on the lookout for the perpetrator--but I'm surprised they didn't stop me for questioning. Maybe they recognized me from the time I worked at the public works garage. I don't know.
But hey. It was kind of interesting, for a nine pm walk, when the sky was barely dark, and the stars were just starting to shine.
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