HEY FUCKERS #18: THEIR DANSE IS OVER

I've taken it upon myself to reread DANSE MACABRE by Stephen King. The last time I read it was in high school, and while I knew a lot about horror back then (to give you an idea, I graduated in 1996), I still had a lot yet to learn. I wanted to gauge my current knowledge, and as an adult at the age of thirty-six, I've discovered a lot since then, enough so I'm on the exact same page as King. There are still a couple of references I don't know about, but I'm sure by the time I reread this book at the age of fifty, I'll have that covered.


Most interestingly, however, I note the dedication page. King says, "It's easy enough--perhaps too easy--to memorialize the dead. This book is for six great writers of the macabre who are still alive." And then he lists them. Much to my sadness, I realized that all six of them are now dead.

If you'd asked me back then who my second favorite writer was (first favorite was King), I would have to say it was Robert Bloch. He adapted with the times. He built himself with Lovecraft and then moved on to his own style. No one did psychological horror like he did, and very few imbued it with his special brand of humor. He died in 1994, very shortly after I'd found his work. If you've never read ONCE AROUND THE BLOCH, his autobiography, I highly recommend it.

It is my shame to admit that I've never read anything by Jorge Luis Borges, but I've heard a lot of good things about his work. This is something I intend to fix at some point. He died in 1986, a mere five years after King wrote DANSE MACABRE.

There is nothing I can say about Ray Bradbury that hasn't been said a thousand times by writers better than I. His work is a sheer delight, and I'd be surprised if anyone reading this right now hasn't delved at least a little into his stories. I would be hard-pressed to name a favorite of his work, but if you put a gun to my head, I would probably say SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES. He died a mere three years ago in 2012, the longest-living writer on King's list.

Frank Belknap Long contributed a great deal to Lovecraft's Cthulhu Mythos. His writing has gone in many different directions, but he is most remembered for my favorite story of his, "The Hounds of Tindalos." I highly doubt you're reading this and you haven't read that short story, but if you haven't, make it your business to read it immediately. Like Bloch, he died shortly after I found his work in 1994.

Donald Wandrei is one of those writers you will find if you hang out in old pulps and anthology books. Usually, his name is uttered in the same breath as Lovecraft's and for very good reason. Of these writers, he is probably the least known, but he's a very good author. My favorite of his work is, hands down, "The Red Brain," which I reviewed here. Right now, I think this story is only available in the first volume of John Pelan's THE CENTURY'S BEST HORROR FICTION, which can be found for a hefty sum here. Wandrei died in 1987, shortly after DANSE MACABRE was published.

And finally, we have Manly Wade Wellman. He's another writer you'll find if you like to read old anthologies (and every once in a while, a new-ish anthology). He is probably best known for his John the Balladeer stories about a wandering guitar player who helps out people with supernatural problems. I love it whenever I find one of these stories. I feel like I'm wandering myself, and when I find John, it's like hanging out with an old friend for a while. I could probably get a complete collection of his appearances, but that just wouldn't feel right. However, as much as I like him, I like John Thunstone even more. He's a hardcore supernatural investigator/warrior who had a particular beef with humanoid creatures known as the Shonokins. My favorite of Wellman's work, however, is a novel about John (sometimes called Silver John after his silver guitar strings, though Wellman wasn't fond of that appellation): AFTER DARK. He died in 1986.

King adds this final warning to readers: "Enter, Stranger, at your Riske: Here there be Tygers." A fitting warning for the dedication page. Tygers lurk in all six writers' works. If you're going to tackle them on my (and King's) say-so, beware. They're not for the faint of heart.

NOW AVAILABLE: POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS

At long last, my new novel, POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS from StrangeHouse Books, is now available! Check it out here. If you're on the fence about it, be sure to look inside for a taste, and I'm sure you'll want the book. Fucked up fiction from me and a knock-your-dick-off cover by Luke Spooner? All from StrangeHouse? You can't possibly go wrong.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #141: I AM ALMOST A HOARDER

I am about a hair's length away from being an actual hoarder. I can still throw shit away, but when it comes to certain things, I just can't throw them out. You never know when you're going to need useless items. Seriously, I keep just about everything except for cellophane wrappers and cereal boxes. All right, there are other things I throw away, but for the most part, I find it difficult to get rid of stuff. I've always wondered why this is in my head, and I finally figured it out. Two events from my childhood are responsible.


RAWHIDE helped me figure it out. A couple of weeks ago, I watched the episode that had aired 50 years previous (to the day), and one of the characters made a kite for a kid to fly. People questioned him on it, since he hated children but seemed OK with hanging out with this particular child. And then a memory rushed back into my head, something I haven't thought about for decades.


I still have scars on my body from my experience with my abusive step-father, so it should be no surprise that my hoarder tendencies were started by something he did. When I was a kid, he married my mom. Shortly after, Brother Dan was born. I think he was still a baby when this happened, it was that long ago. Now I have three brothers from my mom and step-father and a brother and sister from my father and step-mother. Back then? I was almost an only child.


RETURN OF THE JEDI was the second movie I could remember seeing in the theaters. The first was STAR TREK 3, which my father had brought me to see. But Bill, my step-father, brought me to see the third STAR WARS movie, and he had a shitty habit of mixing Milk Duds in with his popcorn. I hated Milk Duds, so I had to examine each handful of popcorn to make sure no Milk Duds had found their way into my grip.


Seeing this movie led to me getting a Luke Skywalker kite shortly thereafter. It was Luke dressed all in black with his green lightsaber, if memory serves me correctly. Bill helped me put it together. I didn't care about kites aside from the funny Peanuts strips, in which Charlie Brown was always outsmarted by the Kite Eating Tree. But . . . well . . . it was a Luke Skywalker kite. For the record, the first poster I ever put up in my bedroom was of Luke Skywalker. I had a boy crush on him. Of course I wanted a kite with him on it.


We went out to the park in Berkeley on the other side of the viaduct from Elmhurst, where my grandparents lived, and he showed me how to fly a kite. He was kind of a weirdo, though. He liked to get it as high as possible, so he played it out until the string was down to the last loop on the cardboard roll. He was a scientist, so he liked pushing nature's limits and humanity's control over such things. Then, he handed the controls to me.


For a little bit, I flew that kite like a pro. And then, I slipped. The string loop fell off the cardboard roll, and Luke Skywalker flew away from me. Forever. The air rushed it away to another world, for all I knew. I chased after it, panicked, but I never found it. Crying, I returned to my step-father, and what did he do? He savagely beat the shit out of me because I lost a fucking kite.


For the rest of my life, I've been terrified of losing anything. So I'm hovering on the line between a normal person and a hoarder.


A few years later, there was the second incident. In my childhood, I'd been given a baseball that had actually been used in a classic All Star game. In a moment reminiscent of THE SANDLOT, I brought it out with my friends to play ball. I didn't know the significance of the ball, so I brought it into play, and it was hit so far that we never could find it.


I didn't realize it at the time, but I felt the same panic I felt when I'd lost the Luke Skywalker kite. It's no wonder I'm the way I am today. I hope to fix that. My place is fucking cluttered as all fuck, and it would be beneficial if I could clear some of this shit out.


The only question is, now that I know where this impulse came from, can I control it? Can I really follow through with this sudden need to purge my belongings?


I hope so. I don't want to be featured on TV for my hoarding abilities.

HEY FUCKERS #17: TALKING SHIT

I just came up with another useless show idea that would never happen because no one would ever want to do it. Except for me, obviously.


Envision this: an interview show. I'm the host, and I interview A-list celebrities, but it's not conducted in a studio. Nope. The interviews will be shot in the bathroom. I'm in one stall, and, say, Channing Tatum is in the next one. I ask the tough questions, and he gives the tough answers while we grunt our way through our respective defecations. I'll call it TALKING SHIT, and it will be the new TONIGHT SHOW.


I can see it now: upon completion of the interview, we'll wash our hands and do the wrap up. I'll point to the camera and say, "23 JUMP STREET is in theaters now. Channing Tatum, everyone." And I'll shake his hand, and the cheers from the other stalls will begin. Hey, the studio audience has to take a shit with us. Thems the rules.


My sidekick? I'm pretty sure Curtis Armstrong would be down, but he only gets the job if he performs as Booger.


The band? I don't think Dr. Dirty would have a problem with taking a shit while playing the piano.


The announcer? I don't know. What about that dude from Double Dare? What's Harvey up to these days? OK, him. I'll take him.


I'm pretty sure Fox would love this idea. They'll greenlight anything.


*sigh* I can dream.

SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: MY FIRST NOVEL WILL BE OUT OF PRINT AT THE END OF THE MONTH

I just got the news this morning: Musa, the publisher of my first novel, is going out of business. There is no scandal, they're not in debt, there is nothing to see here. It's just that it's no longer financially feasible for them to continue doing business. This is effective at the end of the day on February 28, 2015. As a result, they will be taking all of their titles off of Amazon, Barnes & Noble and all the other places they sell ebooks from. STRIP will no longer be in print when they do this.


Right now, it's only available as an ebook, and that will only last until the end of the month. After that, it will be out of print, so if you want to read it, now's the time. Hell, it's even for sale at Musa's website. 80% off! How can you turn away from an ebook for $1.20? Get it here, while you still can.


If you're still on the fence about it, here's my favorite review. Take a look at Amazon for some customer reviews. There are even a few at Goodreads. If ultra-violent, hyper-sexed neo-noir is your thing, then you should really check it out and fast. You only have one week left.


It's not all bad news. To be fair, I was unhappy with the contract I signed. It's my fault, I know, but getting a physical print run would have required higher sales than I got. I overestimated the book's ability to get out there. This will free me up from the contract, and I think I'm going to bring it to Createspace for a physical run. It won't have the same awesome cover, since the name of Musa's imprint is on it, but I do have plans to re-release it. It's just going to be a while.


Nothing against Musa. They gave me a chance when others wouldn't, and I appreciate it. I wish everyone involved the best of luck in the future.

HEY FUCKERS #16: HE WHO INSTALLS INTERNET BEHIND THE ROWS

As some of you are aware, I recently had big boy internet installed at home, so I'm no longer depending on a measly little Jetpack for my internet needs. Since my house is old enough to be wired for antenna only, not digital, it involved having the Comcast guy drill a hole through my wall and add to my wiring in order to support said big boy internet.


As I watched him do this from below (he had to climb a ladder to the second story to do this), it felt kind of odd knowing that he'd just drilled a hole from the outside world into my bedroom. How unusual that must be. And then I looked around and saw all of the other wires that ran from the poles in my alley into holes in the brick of my building. I was suddenly awed because I've lived here for about 25 years, and I have probably seen these wires all of my life, but I never noticed them until now. I looked at the insane amount of wiring to each building connected to the alley out back, and I wondered how much planning and effort had gone into this project so many decades ago. I was dumbfounded, mostly due to my complete lack of understanding when it comes to infrastructure, the world that exists below the world we casually observe. I imagine it's like fitting a puzzle together, only to realize that it's a part of a vast network of other puzzles, something I just can't wrap my head around.


No matter where you are in the city or suburbs, there is a world behind the world you see, and that world is what makes this world function. How many residents of my hometown Elmhurst know, for example, that the downtown area (in particular the York Theater) is connected to the quarry through a subterranean maze? I wonder how many bootleggers made use of this during Prohibition.


It's staggering to think about, but at the same time, it's kind of ordinary. So before I start wondering how magnets work, I'm going to shut up.

HEY FUCKERS #15: SURREPTITIOUS READING

From Lamebook

I love Lamebook, but at the same time, I'm glad no one I know has been posted there. I think that shows I have great taste in friends. Anyway, I was hanging around Lamebook when I found this post of a guy who just couldn't wait to get home to watch some porn. He thought he was being clever by turning his device away from everyone, not realizing that the window would show the reflection of what he's watching. I thought, "What a stupid thing to do. Just wait until you're in the privacy of your own home before you watch people fucking." And then I realized that I was kinda-sorta guilty of the same thing back in November.


I'd gone out to Vegas to visit my father, step-mom, sister and brother, and since it's a long flight, I brought plenty of reading material to keep me sane. The perfect reading material for a flight? Bizarro fiction. The books tend to be short, and they always tend to be interesting, so I can usually knock out a couple of them on the way out and a few more on the way back.


This time, I had brought Carlton Mellick III's THE BABY JESUS BUTT PLUG. I have no problem with reading nasty, crazy books in public. I proudly read RICO SLADE WILL FUCKING KILL YOU by Bradley Sands with the cover facing the entire world, so I figured tBJBP wouldn't be a problem. And then I discovered that there were illustrations in the book. Very questionable illustrations. I have no problem with them, of course, but the people who had to sit next to me? I kind of worried about them. The thought of being jailed for public indecency got to me, and while I read the book, I covered the illustrations with my hand if they were on the right side of the page (I was at the window seat on the left side of the plane). If they were on the left side, I turned the book slightly, so they wouldn't be able to see. (And I closed the blind to the window to avoid any reflection.)


I loved the book, and I discovered something odd about the people sitting next to me: THEY DIDN'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ME. They never even glanced in my direction because they were too involved in their own boredom-killing attempts. I was paranoid for nothing. Even now, as I write this months later, I don't even remember their faces, and I'm sure they haven't given me a second thought since getting off the plane.


So fuck it. Next time I'm on a plane, I'm going to watch A SERBIAN FILM.