This one's a tough one, but it's been on my mind since it popped into my head on Thursday night. I was at an outing with co-workers (and my new work-wife, who just got fired, so I'm again without a work-wife), and I nearly brought the room down with the sudden depression I felt when the matter came up. I don't even know how much I should talk about this. Those of you who have known me a long time can connect the dots, but . . . fuck it. This is my most honest platform for getting things off my mind. Besides, no one is reading right now. Who is up this late, anyway? Names will not be mentioned, just the situation.
I have always been against having kids. The thought of creating one has NEVER entered my mind, not for as long as I've known how to make one. My old set of reasoning was that I didn't want to bring any human beings into this shitty, fucked up world of ours, but as I grow older, I understand the real reason. As someone who was physically abused as a child, I'm deathly afraid that I will continue that cycle. I don't trust myself, because for the most part, I hate kids. I could easily see me hauling off and kicking one in the face. I don't think I would ever do that to a stranger's kid, but my own? I don't know.
Oddly enough, I'm actually very good with kids. Despite all the crazy shit I spout, I can handle them. I can entertain them. I can make them laugh. Why? Because I'm one of the rare adults who remembers what it was like to be that young, and I know exactly what will get to them. You see, I never want to bring a child into this world, but kids who are already here? I have no problem taking care of them.
I know that sounds contradictory. On this one, I have two separate ways of thinking about it. I hate kids, but at the same time, I know how shitty this world is. If the kid is already here, it's too late, so I might as well help the poor fucker, right?
Even that sounds hollow because of what I'm about to mention. A few years ago, I was with a woman who had a child with another man. I've known her for a long time, and we've been together on and off for maybe seventeen years. The third time I proposed marriage to her, she was a mother. Her daughter was a beautiful two-year-old, and I had a lot of fun with her. I was teaching her how to read. I was watching cartoons with her. I played all sorts of games with her, like the bucket game. She had these stackable buckets that fit into each other, and when I showed her how she could make her own voice echo with the help of these things, I think I might have changed her life, she loved it so much. Do you remember the first time you talked into a fan and sounded like Soundwave? It's like that.
There were the unpleasant things that went along with this, of course. No one likes changing a diaper. Nor do they like helping a kid who can't talk yet learn how to brush her own teeth. Hell, getting her shoes on was a pain in the ass. Kids squirm. It's unavoidable.
But the good times outweigh the bad.
A lot of people question the timetable, but I swear to you, I cannot possibly be this little girl's biological father. Too many people thought I'd been with her mother at that nine-month mark, but no matter what I say, no one believes me. We were just friends at that point--and to be honest, that's how I really like her. When we're romantically entangled, we're at our worst.
But . . . I wish I was the father. I think I could have done a good job. Not to denigrate the actual father, of course. That's not my place, and it's not my business. But if everyone else was right in their suspicions, I wouldn't have minded.
That relationship ended in a catastrophic fashion. I don't want to go into it here. Suffice it to say that my friend gave her daughter up for adoption, and the chances are very good that I'll never see her again.
That's definitely for the best. I know her adoptive parents, and they are great people. Her life is 100% better now.
But I'll miss her. Forever.
What the fuck are you doing, still reading this? It's past the witching hour. Shouldn't you be in bed?
Fine. I don't like to talk about this next part, because no one wants to hear it. But, here we go. This is your reward/punishment for getting this far. I'm not a joiner, and I don't do charities. However, Protect is not a charity. They're a lobby group for the protection of children. I am a member, and I urge you to join us. These guys actually help abused children. They're so good that they've changed laws. They are true warriors, and I wish I could give them more.
Fuck. I'm such a fucking softy when it comes to this column. Goodnight, fuckers.
Can I say "fuck" any more than I already do? I don't think so. But to quote a great shirt, "Fuck you, you fucking fuck."
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Thursday, August 7, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #31: ROGER AND ME
Of all the characters on MAD MEN, I identify most with Roger Sterling. While he takes his work seriously, he also knows that it's not so important that it's the end of the world if something gets fucked up. He's got an odd anarchistic streak in him that probably didn't exist in many WWII vets. He's even got an open mind when it comes to a lot of things, like trying LSD with his wife and hanging out with his hippy daughter.
However, there is one thing about his character that I get so much more than the rest of it. In one episode, his mother dies, and he takes it pretty well. His family falls apart around him, but he plays it off with very few ruffled feathers, almost to the point where everyone else thinks he might be kind of crazy since he doesn't show his emotions like a normal person.
Yet later in the same episode, the shoeshine guy he's used for decades dies, and Roger breaks down and cries. No one expects it, but . . . well, I get it.
Don't get me wrong. When my mom died, I broke down. I knew she was on the way out, and when my grandparents got the call, they told me right away, and I lost it. I knew it was coming. I'd prepared for it most of my life. Also, it should be noted that Mom and I had a lot of anger issues with each other. We spent most of her latter years arguing with each other. But the moment I heard about her death, I cried. The second thing I did? I told my brother Bob, and we cried together.
It's the second part I understand more. For example, I've been going to my barber for as long as I can remember. He knows how I like my hair. He's not a hairstylist. He tells off-color jokes. He likes to drink (although I think he quit smoking a while ago). If he ever died, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I could bring myself to go to a salon.
Or how about the comic book store I go to? I've known the proprietor for many, many years, from way back when I was first buying comics in the 'Eighties. What am I going to do when he's gone? I can't get into the chain stores, like Graham Crackers.
With these old school guys, it's about environment. It's about experience. These are things that can't be replicated on a mass scale. Seriously, when I get my hair cut, I might as well be in the barber shop in Dodge City on GUNSMOKE, and whenever I visit the comic book store, it feels like I'm in an old smoke shop of old, searching for pulps (and let's face it, I've actually bought pulps in this place).
Roger Sterling's co-workers looked at him like he was weeping over something superficial, but they're wrong. He was weeping over the end of a way of life, and that's something I really don't want to think about.
However, there is one thing about his character that I get so much more than the rest of it. In one episode, his mother dies, and he takes it pretty well. His family falls apart around him, but he plays it off with very few ruffled feathers, almost to the point where everyone else thinks he might be kind of crazy since he doesn't show his emotions like a normal person.
Yet later in the same episode, the shoeshine guy he's used for decades dies, and Roger breaks down and cries. No one expects it, but . . . well, I get it.
Don't get me wrong. When my mom died, I broke down. I knew she was on the way out, and when my grandparents got the call, they told me right away, and I lost it. I knew it was coming. I'd prepared for it most of my life. Also, it should be noted that Mom and I had a lot of anger issues with each other. We spent most of her latter years arguing with each other. But the moment I heard about her death, I cried. The second thing I did? I told my brother Bob, and we cried together.
It's the second part I understand more. For example, I've been going to my barber for as long as I can remember. He knows how I like my hair. He's not a hairstylist. He tells off-color jokes. He likes to drink (although I think he quit smoking a while ago). If he ever died, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I could bring myself to go to a salon.
Or how about the comic book store I go to? I've known the proprietor for many, many years, from way back when I was first buying comics in the 'Eighties. What am I going to do when he's gone? I can't get into the chain stores, like Graham Crackers.
With these old school guys, it's about environment. It's about experience. These are things that can't be replicated on a mass scale. Seriously, when I get my hair cut, I might as well be in the barber shop in Dodge City on GUNSMOKE, and whenever I visit the comic book store, it feels like I'm in an old smoke shop of old, searching for pulps (and let's face it, I've actually bought pulps in this place).
Roger Sterling's co-workers looked at him like he was weeping over something superficial, but they're wrong. He was weeping over the end of a way of life, and that's something I really don't want to think about.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #30: SOMETIMES I DISGUST MYSELF
Many of you may be aware that I'm working on a story called DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN for MonstErection, an imprint of StrangeHouse Books that publishes monster porn. Tonight, I wrote a scene for this one that kind of rocked my brain. I couldn't believe I was doing something like this. There are a few times I had to wonder if I was crossing a line or not (and if *I* have to wonder that, chances are good that I'm crossing a line). But then again, some of the images are so incredible, I can't help but pat myself on the back.
To the future readers of this story (should MonstErection publish it, of course), I'd like to say that there have been things I've chosen not to write. That may sound hard to believe, but it's true. There have been some pretty nasty ideas in my head over the course of my life, and there are some that are so vile that not even I will write them. For example, I thought I might want to do a story about an alternate universe, in which NAMBLA actually stood for North American Monster Boy Love Association. OK, so it's easy to see a guy like Freddy Krueger being a member, but think about Jason and Leatherface and Chucky and all those guys wanting to fuck boys because they love them. Yikes.
Speaking of fucked up shit, I got confirmation tonight that Robert Tannahill completed a new COCAINE! BROS. strip. I haven't read it yet, but from what he says, I'm pretty sure it will be depraved. I don't know when we'll post it, but I'll let you all know.
PS: there is a very gleeful part of me in regards to that DoF story I'm writing. Mary Shelley would do a spinner in her grave. Percy Shelley might like it, but Mary? [pulls collar nervously]
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #29: DAY ONE
Success! Day 1 worked out exactly as I thought it would. No cheating. No fast food. I had the energy drink like I thought I would, and I didn't desire more. (Plus, despite that can of Monster, my pm blood sugar reading came out at a pleasant 98, which probably shouldn't have happened. But it did. Indeed.)
But my work is far from done. Yes sir, I always start out strong. Day 1 is always a winner. Day 2? It could go either way. Day 3 will be the day I figure out if I'm going to fail this time. If I make it to Day 4--which is the day I'm allowing my bad habits to rear their ugly heads--that will be interesting.
One thing, though: I was planning on going out for a walk tonight. I guess that monstrous rainstorm fucked me on that, eh?
I promise to not write another GF as boring as this one. Not even I'm paying attention anymore, and I'm writing this fucking thing. It's just that I didn't have anything else to talk about this time, and I don't want to skip a day if I don't absolutely have to. This thing is more of a writing exercise than anything else, I suppose. Although if some of these posts bring relief from boredom to someone, then that's cool, too.
This one didn't do that, though. I can feel it in my balls.
But my work is far from done. Yes sir, I always start out strong. Day 1 is always a winner. Day 2? It could go either way. Day 3 will be the day I figure out if I'm going to fail this time. If I make it to Day 4--which is the day I'm allowing my bad habits to rear their ugly heads--that will be interesting.
One thing, though: I was planning on going out for a walk tonight. I guess that monstrous rainstorm fucked me on that, eh?
I promise to not write another GF as boring as this one. Not even I'm paying attention anymore, and I'm writing this fucking thing. It's just that I didn't have anything else to talk about this time, and I don't want to skip a day if I don't absolutely have to. This thing is more of a writing exercise than anything else, I suppose. Although if some of these posts bring relief from boredom to someone, then that's cool, too.
This one didn't do that, though. I can feel it in my balls.
Monday, August 4, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #28: CHRIS PRATT LOST HOW MUCH WEIGHT?!
I've had problems with my weight for almost as long as I can remember. When I was in elementary school, I remember being pretty skinny, and then I wound up with a terrible McDonald's habit. By the time I graduated high school, I weighted 245 lbs. After I got out of that place, a local public TV station played a taping of my graduation, and I was horrified when I saw myself. I looked like Chris fucking Farley, it was that bad. I vowed to lose weight, and over that summer--a mere three months--I lost a shit-ton of weight, enough to actually look attractive when I got into college.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
I did well for a while, but I gained it all back and more--at the tune of 306 lbs. A few years later, I lost it again, down to 220 lbs. Not perfect, but much better. And then? I shot back up to 260 lbs. I'm holding steady at 240 lbs. right now, but I need to get this fat off of me as soon as possible. I would like to be around 200 lbs. If I can pull that off, my doctor will take me off of my meds. That would be very nice.
When I was younger, it was so much easier to lose weight. Now? I'm 36, and it's next to impossible, especially since I've found so many other fast food wonders, like the quesarito at Taco Bell. Sometimes, it's so difficult that I feel a craving, and when I give in to said craving, I spiral out of control. My main thought, and I am fully aware of how flawed it is, is this: "Well, I already fucked up. I might as well continue fucking up because I'm just not suited for this. So fuck my plan, let's get some quesaritos."
I'm getting too old for this shit. I've got to find some way to control myself, especially since I've got all of these health problems.
I saw GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY this weekend, and Chris Pratt is a very attractive man. Imagine my shock when I learned that not too long ago, he weighed 300 lbs. How is that possible? Did you see him with his shirt off in the movie?
Holy shit, right? Recently, someone asked him how he got in shape, and he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that anyone who wants to do this needs to cut the shit out of their diet and get some exercise. Some advice never fails. There are no shortcuts. There's just hard work, and he's right. This is a truth I've always known. I mean, shit. I've lost a lot of weight before. This guy lost a lot of weight in an amazing way.
He weighed 300 lbs. I'm at 240 lbs. Why can't I lose my stupid gut?
Granted, he lost the weight because he knew he had a great paycheck waiting for him. I have no monetary reward waiting for me. However, it would be nice to live past 40. I never expected that, but it would be kind of cool, especially since I have two and a half new books coming out soon. It's not even a matter of making myself more attractive, because shockingly enough, I still got laid at 306 lbs. It's a matter of being successful, I think, and maybe being able to look myself in the mirror without blanching at the flab hanging over my belt.
In fact, fuck Chris Pratt for the moment. I mean, I like the guy. He's attractive and charismatic, but he's Hollywood. Let's turn our attention closer to home: Jon Michael Lennon, creator of PRODUCT OF SOCIETY. I've known the guy for a long time. When I first met him, he was not in good physical shape. Now? He's doing pretty fucking well. He's got this old driver's license, and for the first time since I met him, he actually looks like that old photo. He lost a hundred pounds, or somewhere in that neighborhood.
I don't even need to do that. All I need to do is lose 40 lbs. Once upon a time, I did that and more in one summer. I don't expect that from my 36-year-old body, but maybe, by the time the holidays roll around, it would be nice to be back in shape.
So here it is: time to quit my bad habits again. I say this a lot, but I think this time, I might do it for real. Caffeine is my one true addiction. I've battled it in the past, and recently I defeated it. However, I've been partaking again recently. Not to the point where I'm addicted again, but I'm afraid if I keep doing that, I might backslide and get hooked, just like I used to be. I also need to quit fast food again. I love McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Wendy's Pretzel Bacon Cheeseburger and Taco Bell's quesaritos (among other things), but I've got to stop. I really have to.
Also, I should cut back on the booze again. I don't drink much anymore because of my pancreas problems. I usually don't drink enough to get beyond buzzed. Buzzed, for me, is OK. Beyond that is testing the limits. I haven't gotten really drunk recently, except for last night, which was fun but also scary at the same time.
So here's the plan: tomorrow, I'm allowing myself an energy drink in the morning, but that's it. It's late now, and I'm still kind of wired, so I've taken a sleeping pill. Sleeping pills make me feel like shit the next day. If I don't have a Monster, I'll lose my job. If I lose my job, I'll just give up and spiral down into lunacy and depression and don't-give-a-fuck-itis. But after that, no more bad habits until Thursday night, which I've already planned on. It's an unofficial work outing, so I'll indulge my booze-tooth. On Friday, I might allow myself another Monster, and Friday night might involve a couple of drinks. Nothing crazy. But after that? I don't want to plan too far into the future, because my plans tend to fall apart after a week's length. But I'll want to pull back on everything at that point.
Yesterday, I saw Nicole Evans in jail. She co-wrote "Suicidal Tendencies" in TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE with me. She's been behind bars for nine months, and she might be gone for another year in actual prison. The last time she saw me, I had twenty extra pounds on me, so even though I knew I looked like garbage, she said I looked nice.
I bring this up, because the next time I see her will probably be a half-year from now (since the drive to actual prison is about three hours, and there's no way I can make that on a regular basis). Here's my goal: the next time I see her, I want to be in shape. I don't have to be perfect, but I don't want to look like a fucking slob, like I do now. Wish me luck.
Goodnight, you wonderful, wonderful fuckers.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #27: EBOLA MADNESS
I've noticed a lot of people posting fearful comments about the Ebola patients being flown to America, and I totally understand that. The most basic human need is survival. Everything else takes a back seat. And it's OK to talk about it. Of course it's OK.
But I also noticed a lot of people who expressed a great deal of anger about these patients. I want to talk about the ones who are bordering on homicidal, in addition to the ones who are heartlessly trying to keep these patients out of our country. They're the ones who bug me. I get fear, but I don't get it to the point of irrational hatred.
Because no matter how scared we are, these patients are a million times more scared.
That's the key to understanding these poor fuckers. Their days are numbered, and the number is not very big. OK, there's no cure for Ebola, and for a disease so pants-shittingly terrifying, that's even more scary. But if these people have a chance of surviving, well, it's here. Maybe we don't have a perfect healthcare record, but we have the best resources. If anyone can find a cure, it's us. If we turn them away, we're heartless scumfuckers.
Besides, who do you think is handling transportation? A bunch of fuckwits? Everyone knows the stakes, and none but the best professionals are in charge of this. An overwhelming majority of people in our country do not want Ebola getting introduced to our general population. Relax. We have professionals on the case. Ease back and let them do their job.
My first reaction when I heard the Ebola patients were coming here? Fear. Of course. It's 100% natural. I read THE HOT ZONE, after all. But we can't turn them away. They need our help.
And if we don't give it, we're not worth the flesh we're printed on.
PS: They're Americans who caught Ebola in a foreign land. Put yourselves in their shoes. Would you want to die in a strange land surrounded by strangers? Chances are, they're not going to make it. Their insides will be liquid shit by the time the sun rises. But at least give them the dignity to die at home.
But I also noticed a lot of people who expressed a great deal of anger about these patients. I want to talk about the ones who are bordering on homicidal, in addition to the ones who are heartlessly trying to keep these patients out of our country. They're the ones who bug me. I get fear, but I don't get it to the point of irrational hatred.
Because no matter how scared we are, these patients are a million times more scared.
That's the key to understanding these poor fuckers. Their days are numbered, and the number is not very big. OK, there's no cure for Ebola, and for a disease so pants-shittingly terrifying, that's even more scary. But if these people have a chance of surviving, well, it's here. Maybe we don't have a perfect healthcare record, but we have the best resources. If anyone can find a cure, it's us. If we turn them away, we're heartless scumfuckers.
Besides, who do you think is handling transportation? A bunch of fuckwits? Everyone knows the stakes, and none but the best professionals are in charge of this. An overwhelming majority of people in our country do not want Ebola getting introduced to our general population. Relax. We have professionals on the case. Ease back and let them do their job.
My first reaction when I heard the Ebola patients were coming here? Fear. Of course. It's 100% natural. I read THE HOT ZONE, after all. But we can't turn them away. They need our help.
And if we don't give it, we're not worth the flesh we're printed on.
PS: They're Americans who caught Ebola in a foreign land. Put yourselves in their shoes. Would you want to die in a strange land surrounded by strangers? Chances are, they're not going to make it. Their insides will be liquid shit by the time the sun rises. But at least give them the dignity to die at home.
Friday, August 1, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #26: OLD PEOPLE ARE KIND OF COOL
Not many of you know about my non-genre work. That's OK. I'm not Thad Beaumont or anything. While I love everything I write, even the clunkers, I'm not going to turn into a dick-stroking pretentious fuck. My fucked up horror and bizarro are obvious favorites of mine, but I DO write other things.
Namely "The Hand that Shook the World," which appeared in a literary magazine called THE BRACELET CHARM. (I'd post a link here, but it would seem that they're so old school that they don't have an internet presence, which is cool in its own way.) This story is narrated by a WWII soldier who just came home after the a-bombs were dropped on Japan, and he runs into an old man who tells him a story about how he was a drummer boy at Gettysburg in the Civil War.
When you think about it, history isn't just a string of events that happened. It's a collection of memories. The winners get to write history, of course. We all know that. But . . . that's not the whole truth, because sometimes the losers survive to throw their two-cents in. It's not much, but it's enough to make people doubt, which I greatly appreciate.
Today, in 2014, we look back and we recognize three generations who can tell us history: our own, our parents and our grandparents. Very few of us have great-grandparents who can do this. Yet, in an odd way, we do because our grandparents REMEMBER at least three generations before them.
I'm lucky enough to still have both of my grandparents on my mother's side still here. John and Shirley Kopoulos. They are full of stories. Gramps was born in 1927, and Grandma was born in 1930. They were alive to experience Prohibition. My grandfather tried to lie about his age to get into WWII (and failed). It's great to get those first-person accounts from them. All you have to do is listen and absorb.
But there's one extra step you can take. Both of my grandparents remember their grandparents, who were alive up to 100 years before their prime. Those are the stories that get REALLY interesting. For example, my great-grandfather used to run a shoe repair store. At one point, the place caught fire, and he was severely burned in it. So badly that all the skin on one of his hands was burned to the bone. How did the doctors fix it? BY SEWING HIS HAND INTO HIS STOMACH SO THE SKIN COULD GROW BACK. Can you imagine having something like that done to you? Of course I put that in a book once. It never got published, but it still had a profound effect on me.
But that's just a personal touch. If you still have your grandparents with you, and you're roughly the same age as me (thirty-six), then you have access to people who remember people who were born during the Civil War, maybe even earlier. Why are you not talking to them and asking for their knowledge?
Those who have actually read "The Hand that Shook the World" will have an objection: the old man in the wheelchair had lied about his involvement with Gettysburg. Yes, that is a real problem with history, but to be honest with you, I'm not too concerned with that. Remember, ALL of history is a recollection of individuals. How can you know for sure what really happened?
You can only be sure of the quality of the story you just heard. There are a lot of old people still around. Ask them questions. Learn a thing or two. You never know: your grandfather's dad might have met someone like Teddy Roosevelt, and how awesome would that be?
My grandmother isn't very vocal about the past, but my grandfather has great stories. I think I'll tell a few of them in the near future. Because let's face it, famous people from the past are ONLY famous because enough people thought it was important to tell stories about them.
Still with me? OK, if I've peaked your interest in "The Hand that Shook the World," it can be found in THE BRACELET CHARM Quarterly Winter Edition 2012. I've marketed this story longer than ANY other story I've written. Seriously, it took me fifteen years to find a home for it, and I'm glad I did. It's possible to find it online, but it's not likely. I wish you the best of luck. And thank you, as always, for reading.
Namely "The Hand that Shook the World," which appeared in a literary magazine called THE BRACELET CHARM. (I'd post a link here, but it would seem that they're so old school that they don't have an internet presence, which is cool in its own way.) This story is narrated by a WWII soldier who just came home after the a-bombs were dropped on Japan, and he runs into an old man who tells him a story about how he was a drummer boy at Gettysburg in the Civil War.
When you think about it, history isn't just a string of events that happened. It's a collection of memories. The winners get to write history, of course. We all know that. But . . . that's not the whole truth, because sometimes the losers survive to throw their two-cents in. It's not much, but it's enough to make people doubt, which I greatly appreciate.
Today, in 2014, we look back and we recognize three generations who can tell us history: our own, our parents and our grandparents. Very few of us have great-grandparents who can do this. Yet, in an odd way, we do because our grandparents REMEMBER at least three generations before them.
I'm lucky enough to still have both of my grandparents on my mother's side still here. John and Shirley Kopoulos. They are full of stories. Gramps was born in 1927, and Grandma was born in 1930. They were alive to experience Prohibition. My grandfather tried to lie about his age to get into WWII (and failed). It's great to get those first-person accounts from them. All you have to do is listen and absorb.
But there's one extra step you can take. Both of my grandparents remember their grandparents, who were alive up to 100 years before their prime. Those are the stories that get REALLY interesting. For example, my great-grandfather used to run a shoe repair store. At one point, the place caught fire, and he was severely burned in it. So badly that all the skin on one of his hands was burned to the bone. How did the doctors fix it? BY SEWING HIS HAND INTO HIS STOMACH SO THE SKIN COULD GROW BACK. Can you imagine having something like that done to you? Of course I put that in a book once. It never got published, but it still had a profound effect on me.
But that's just a personal touch. If you still have your grandparents with you, and you're roughly the same age as me (thirty-six), then you have access to people who remember people who were born during the Civil War, maybe even earlier. Why are you not talking to them and asking for their knowledge?
Those who have actually read "The Hand that Shook the World" will have an objection: the old man in the wheelchair had lied about his involvement with Gettysburg. Yes, that is a real problem with history, but to be honest with you, I'm not too concerned with that. Remember, ALL of history is a recollection of individuals. How can you know for sure what really happened?
You can only be sure of the quality of the story you just heard. There are a lot of old people still around. Ask them questions. Learn a thing or two. You never know: your grandfather's dad might have met someone like Teddy Roosevelt, and how awesome would that be?
My grandmother isn't very vocal about the past, but my grandfather has great stories. I think I'll tell a few of them in the near future. Because let's face it, famous people from the past are ONLY famous because enough people thought it was important to tell stories about them.
Still with me? OK, if I've peaked your interest in "The Hand that Shook the World," it can be found in THE BRACELET CHARM Quarterly Winter Edition 2012. I've marketed this story longer than ANY other story I've written. Seriously, it took me fifteen years to find a home for it, and I'm glad I did. It's possible to find it online, but it's not likely. I wish you the best of luck. And thank you, as always, for reading.
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