GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #307: MORE, GIVE ME MORE, GIVE ME MORE

 I remember a few years ago a friend tried to get me into Vikings by showing me the first episode. At the time, it did not resonate with me. I could not connect with it. Fast forward until recently. I gave it another try, and it hit home perfectly. Watching it now is the perfect time for me to watch it. Because it has given me a lot to think about.

Before I continue, I need to make it clear that I believe the Vikings were insane motherfuckers. Their idea of the afterlife is that they get up every day and fight each other to the death, and when the fighting is done, they all get to dine in Odin's hall. To be fair, no one else came up with that shit. Vikings did. Everyone else has their own ideas about life after death, and none of them involve battle and food quite like that.

In case you don't know me, I'm an atheist. I believe that when I die, I'm dead. I also believe in the cycle of life. When I'm buried, maggots will feed on me, and so the transfer of energy is complete. And then they will grow up to become flies, and frogs will eat them. And then some fish or whatever will eat the frog. And a fisherman will eat the fish. And the fisherman will die and be buried, and so the cycle comes around and the new cycle begins. I won't care. I won't be here to care.

But I think about those Vikings, and I think about myself. Ultimately, I think I've been considering the whole thing from the wrong perspective. My run of bad luck is about a decade old. Now I am disabled, and I'm in a lot of constant pain. But here is the very interesting thing about Vikings: they feed on all out fucking life. They take pleasure in everything, even the horrible parts of life. They fear no death, and they enjoy life to the fullest.

That's where I went wrong. When I learned that I was going to be disabled for life, I could think of nothing to make me feel better. I think of the Tool song which states: "Was invincible. Now my armor's wearing thin." I used to be invincible. I was a force of nature. I wish you all knew me in my early twenties instead of the useless middle-aged man you know now.

I'm pretty sure you have all seen Apocalypse Now. I can't imagine a person who hasn't, but just in case, find it. Watch it. Sit back and enjoy the lunacy that made that movie. My favorite part is Kurtz's speech near the end where he says that he has made friends with horror. I have decided that I am going to make a friend of pain. Gregory House says that life is pain. It is. For me, at any rate. So now that I know only heroin can make that pain go away for a while, I can safely say that not using it will make me a friend of pain.

I have wallowed in self pity long enough. I thirst for LIFE. I want more. As the song says, "More, give me more, give me more." Fuck this shit. I'm not here to be miserable. That would be a waste of the life I have. I am here to enjoy myself. I'm here to have fun. I refuse to let my problems weigh me down into the ever-drowning mud.

I can't work out like I used to. So I'm going to find a new way. A way suited toward disabled people like me. I'm going to stop wasting my life in my bedroom trying to escape from my problems. I am going to suckle at the teat of life and take as much as I fucking can, because goddammit I deserve it. I have exiled myself for long enough.

And to all the bullshit that rains upon me, I say that I want life. AND I WANT FUCKING MORE OF IT!

I still fear no death. It happens to us all, and I'm ready for when it comes. I used to fear the process of dying, but I don't anymore. When death comes for you, all you can do is face it. Nothing more. I might regret that I didn't have more life. But it won't be a concern for me.

Because I need life. I need it. And more importantly, I want it. You may recall that I said that I wanted only to live long enough to make it to 60, just so I could beat my parents. But fuck it. I'll take all I can get. More, give me more, give me more!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #306: JOHN BRUNI GOES TO WHITE CASTLE

 Before I start this, I have to tell you that I love White Castle. They have the best fast food mozzarella sticks, and I love their chicken rings. Or course, chicken doesn't naturally come in that shape. A friend once said that it was made from the Flesh of the Chicken Snake. Which is perfect. The honey mustard that goes with it is exquisite. The burgers are lame unless you eat them immediately (they don't travel well). The fish burgers are great. I think I've defended them enough here.

Also, I shudder to think where Harold and Kumar would have gone if White Castle didn't exist. All I know for sure is they wouldn't have gone to Arby's. Probably Taco Bell.

I only order one burger from their drive thru. They are glorious if consumed right away. And yet every time I go up to their speaker . . . things don't go well.

Me: "I'd like a cheeseburger--"

WC worker: "How many?"

"ONE cheeseburger." And then I continue with my order. It happened so much that I felt that I needed to change the way I asked

Me: "I'd like ONE cheeseburger--"

WC worker: "Fifteen cheeseburgers?"

Me: "NO. ONE cheeseburger."

I'd try again at another location.

Me: "I would like ONE cheeseburger--"

WC worker: "Fifty cheeseburgers?"

Me: "NO. ONE CHEESEBURGER."

This has happened maybe twenty times in the last few months. I can't get my head around it. The only thing I can think of is that I am the only one ordering one fucking cheeseburger from them. Don't get me wrong. I've ordered ahead for a Crave Case for burgers for my job when I had one. But when it's just me, I only want ONE fucking cheeseburger. I can't be more explicit than that. Why do WC workers insist that you are wrong about having one cheeseburger, that you need enough to feed the entire state? This happens at EVERY FUCKING WHITE CASTLE AROUND ME. It's like you have some kind of mental illness if you only want one of their cheeseburgers. I need White Castle to understand that their cheeseburgers fucking blow if they are not eaten right away. If you wait until you're home, then you have a mouthful of puke to chew on for a while. That is never fun. All I fucking want is ONE cheeseburger to eat right away, on the road, as I drive wherever I am headed. Am I as bad as Osama bin Laden if I wanted only one burger? I don't want to scream at these workers because I know that food service is a hard place to keep your sanity. But I've given my meager order only to be confronted by a fifty dollar charge. When I said why does a three-piece mozzarella stick, a six-piece chicken ring, and one cheeseburger cost fifty dollars, they look at me like I'm the bad guy.

"You ordered a hundred sliders," they would say.

Gritting my teeth, reminding myself that food service sucks and doesn't pay well, I tell them, "I ordered ONE cheeseburger."

"They're in the oven right now. I need to speak to my manager."

At that point, I give up. I go to McDonald's, where they are absolutely shocked that anyone wants even one of their burgers.

*sigh* I need to get laid.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #305: NEVER UNDERESTIMATE ANYONE

Back when I was in college, and the dinosaurs still roamed the earth, I majored in English and Philosophy. I like to say that they were two things guaranteed to get me nowhere in the world. It's not necessarily true, but it's close enough for government work.

One of my English professors was a real sight to behold. He was stick thin and maybe three inches shorter than me. I'm a big boy, so that's not uncommon. What is uncommon is his wonderful Sam Elliott mustache. To my disappointment he comported himself in a very pretentious manner. He wore a scarf no matter what the temperature was, and he always seemed to have a stick up his ass. Back then, before alcohol saved my life and changed me into a much better person, I liked to take pretentious people down a peg or two.

I remember when he was teaching us Paradise Lost by Milton. We were discussing the differences in Adam and Eve before and after they had eaten of the fruit. (Not an apple, by the way. It was never referenced. It was just an unnamed fruit.) I wanted to see if I could shake this guy. I raised my hand to give my opinion on this discussion. I'm usually the first person to raise my hand in class. Everyone hates me for it. But no one else had their hand up, which was fucking typical, so he chose me.

"The main difference between the before and after is," I said, "that when Adam and Eve were together, they made passionate love to one another. After they ate of the fruit, they got down to some hardcore fucking."

Everyone in class laughed. It's easy to make people laugh. But my professor didn't so much as flinch. He actually agreed with me and used the thought as a theme through the rest of the class.

Never underestimate anyone. Ever.

I had another course with this professor. This time he was teaching Beowulf. People who don't care about the history of language never realize how different their mother tongue is from the original version. English is a Germanic language. There are three versions of it.

Old English. For an example, here is Beowulf in its original text.

Middle English. For an example, here is The Canterbury Tales in its original text.

And Modern English. Which, by the way, includes Shakespeare.

Do you know how rare it is for someone to speak  Old English? Almost no one does. And yet I have met one person, in all of my 42 years, who could do so without so much as a stutter.

So there I was in class with this stick-in-the-mud trying to teach Beowulf to us heathens, and my professor, scarf and all, began to read to us from the original Old English. It stunned me. I fell back into my seat in a state of shock. It was so beautiful and overwhelming I never thought he had it in him. Here was this man I had ridiculed (to friends, not to him, but still) bowling me over with one of the most beautiful readings I have ever heard. I would never have thought that he had the emotional range to do this. Yet by the time he was done, you couldn't have pried me from my seat with a crowbar or a bullet.

Never underestimate anyone. Ever. You may not think they have the capacity for beauty, but they might. Often times, they do. I'm glad I'm a different man now. I don't know if he is still a professor, but I would give anything to hear him read from the original Beowulf again.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #304: WE LOST A WORLD

 So last time I talked about Gore Vidal's historical novel, Empire. I went in search to  many used bookstores looking for his earlier works in the series, in particular Burr because I wanted to read them in order. While I found many treasures along the way, the only other one of Vidal's I could find was Lincoln. In all honesty, that was the one I was most interested in. I knew that the older John Hay was portrayed as a misanthrope, but one who very much still had his finger on the pulse of society. I knew in Lincoln he would be portrayed as a young man, someone who was an adult but still couldn't grow a beard, so he took to gluing fake beards on his face so that people would take him seriously.

I bought the book, and I went to one of my favorite places in the world: the Graue Mill.

I don't remember the first time my mom took me there, but it was so long ago that they didn't have signs that said not to feed the ducks. She would give me a half-loaf of bread so I could break them up and toss them to ducks and geese. I couldn't have been older than four. That place is very dear to me. The Fuller house still stands to this day. The woods are named after that family, Fullersburg. But the Graue Mill is not just any old place. It is one of the very last working mills in Illinois. Most importantly it was a stop on the Underground Railroad, helping slaves escape to Canada. And at one point in time, Abraham Lincoln stayed at the house here. I'm fairly certain that it's not the same house, that it was razed years ago and now a new structure stands there. Regardless, Lincoln walked on this land.

I have been a regular visitor all of my life. It is the place I feel the safest. It is the place where my best thinking happens. I try to go there when most people are at work or in school so I more or less have it to myself. And the ducks. The geese. The chipmunks. The deer. The occasional fox and coyote. No bears. They have not been seen in this area for decades.

Sometimes I read there. Sometimes I write there. Back when I had the full use of my legs I hiked everywhere. There are even a few paths that lead to dead ends, and you either have to walk back or climb a minor cliff face. I usually chose to climb the cliff face. There is even a very, very secret place there. I only go there in the most intimate of moments because there is evidence there that no one has been at that place since the 'Eighties. I know that because I recognize the litter. For example, I saw a Pepsi can from the 'Eighties there, and you'd think that would have been cleaned up by now.

In case you're interested, there is a nearly complete wooly mammoth skeleton on the far side of Fullersburg Woods. Touching it is like touching something from a far distant past.

And so I found myself reading Vidal's Lincoln on the very ground that Lincoln once walked. It probably shouldn't have mattered so much, but I could still feel the power of his presence in the novel. It made it feel so much more real, and history should always feel real. That's the only way you can connect with it. And once that connection is gone, it's gone. There is no retrieving it.

History is never too far behind us. And while Hay might have been right in Empire, about us having lost a world, there is still a world to be remembered. And, having that knowledge, maybe moving into a new world. One that is different, but one that has learned from the mistakes of the past. I forgot who said it, but someone once pointed out that it's only a mistake if you don't learn from it.

And now there is some talk that the Graue Mill will be destroyed due to a reorganization of Salt Creek's flow. No historical consideration is being given to it. If you drive by today, you can already see how different Salt Creek looks as opposed to the way it looked only ten years ago.

If this happens, we will lose another world. An important world to history.

An important world to me. I can't imagine living in a world without this place. The only place that can bring me peace or even a calm state of mind. We can't let this happen. We can't let this piece of living history die.

Or it will be another thing that we lost for the sake of ignoring all that came before us.

PSA: MY GOOD DEED FOR THE DAY

 If you are not like me, meaning a small press author facing bankruptcy, then this post will hold zero interest for you. Feel free to skip this one. However, if you are indeed like me, this is going to be essential reading.

I've had a horrible run of shit luck for the past, I don't know, decade. It keeps getting worse and worse until this year finally broke me. I went crazy several times, and I made a slew of horrible and uncharacteristically bad decisions. Some of them were pretty public. Others I kind of kept to myself, more because it might hurt someone else instead of me. If it hurts just me, I put it out there. It's my self-therapy.

One of the worst things ever happened to me in January this year: for the first time since I was 18, I found myself without a job. Having worked so long in technology companies, I decided to look for a similar job. The problem is, I'm 42, and no tech company wants a middle-aged guy working for them. Heed this warning, youngsters: when working square jobs, your expiration date is your 40th birthday. I've been trying to get a new job for a long time, and all I got were warehouse job offers. I am not just middle-aged, I am also disabled. I get around with a cane most times. I explicitly state in my resume that I can't stand for 8 minutes, much less 8 hours. But HR always skips that part because they see I can operate a forklift. (Which I can, but I never got my license. So yeah, if you need me to illegally operate your forklift, count me in. Pay me under the table if need be. Taxman don't need to know shit.)

Needless to say, my money ran out. I lived on the kindness of friends and family. I am ever so grateful for those who lent me money in this difficult time. This disaster led me to do the thing I swore I'd never do: I cashed in my 401(k). I was able to pay back everyone, and I had some money to throw around for a bit. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten into drugs and sex workers quite so much, but it's been a tough fucking year. Give me a break, all right? But I still have a good sum of money pigeonholed as a last line of defense as well as a decent chunk of savings.

Unfortunately I also had a stack of bills thick enough to gag an elephant on. I decided to file for bankruptcy. I just got around to putting in an appearance with my lawyers today. I have no real estate. No assets of any worth. I don't even own the bed I sleep in at night. The only thing I had that I feared my creditors might take away is my car, a 2012 Honda Civic (bought when it was still the year 2011). Yet at the same time, there is so much damage to that car, and I rode that thing into the ground over the course of almost a decade. I figured if they had one look at it, they would just forget the whole thing.

IF YOU GOT LOST IN THE EXPOSITION, THIS PART IS THE PART YOU REALLY, REALLY NEED TO PAY ATTENTION TO IF YOU ARE A SMALL PRESS AUTHOR FACING BANKRUPTCY.

The attorney asked me if there were any other assets, or if I had copyrights on anything that would get me royalties. I said that I was an author of several books, but I wasn't making much money at it. Who among us really does? But I felt it necessary to mention that because when people hear you're an author, they think you make Stephen King money.

She asked me how much my royalties are, so I told her. She thought about it for a moment, and then she said, "Yeah, I don't think they would be interested in those books as assets."

Wait a minute. Losing the rights to my books was on the table in the first place?! Well, yes. And yes, I am focusing on the brighter side of her statement to me, and not the negative connotation that I'm kind of a loser. Hm. Maybe I should make this out in big caps for those who are skimming.

IF YOU ARE A SMALL PRESS AUTHOR FACING BANKRUPTCY, IT IS A VERY REAL POSSIBILITY THAT YOUR CREDITORS WILL WANT TO TAKE THE RIGHTS TO YOUR BOOKS AWAY FROM YOU.

Granted, it probably won't happen. But if you make better royalties than me? I'd step very fucking lightly, my friend.

Here's another thought, though. If my creditors really did want to take my books away from me, what the fuck would they do with them? There is a small perverse side of me that kind of wants to see what the holy shitstain fuck they would do with a title like Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks. Or how about Tales of Questionable Taste? You know, the one with the space giant fucking the sun on the cover? If only Dong of Frankenstein was still in print!

Well, I'm pretty sure I'll walk out of this with my books still belonging to me. But I never even imagined that the possibility of me losing them was even a part of bankruptcy. Armed with this knowledge, I am doing my good deed for the day. I know a lot of you who read my posts are fellow authors, and I know some of you are probably doing better than me financially. May these words of wisdom find you well.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #303: GORE VIDAL AND HISTORICAL FICTION

 My first day on the psych ward. After a torturous meeting with one of the doctors, who looked oddly like Jerry from Parks and Rec, only meaner, and after having my body gone over in search of damage, kind of like when you drop off your car to get body work done (Hey, you came in here with that, so we didn't do that to you), I was shown to my room. The first thing I noticed was that there were two beds in there, so the possibility of getting a roommate was very real. It never happened, but if it did, I was prepared with a bowel full of farts to discourage any stranger from assaulting me. And then I was left to my own devices.

I asked if I could get the books I brought with me. I had to assure them that none of the three were hardcover, because apparently hardcover books could be used as weapons on the psych ward. They said they would see what the doctors had to say, and then I sat down at the desk provided to me in the room. Much to my surprise, the former patient for my room was a reader and had left all their books behind. I decided to pass the time by reading one of them.

I chose Empire by Gore Vidal because Vidal was the only author I knew of the bunch. I'd read essays by him previously, and I was very familiar with his screenplay for the notorious Caligula film. I'd never read any of his novels, so I gave him a try. I thoroughly enjoyed it to the point that I took it with me when they let me go. It turns out that this is part four of his take on American history. The first is simply called Burr because one of the characters learned that he was the illegitimate son of Aaron Burr (which apparently wasn't an uncommon thing back then; Burr fucked like a maniac). Empire covers the period of time leading up to the so-called American Century. It tries its best to explain why our backwoods isolationist country decided to become the biggest empire since Britain. I did some research, and it turns out that Vidal really, really put his all into this. A lot of it is historically accurate (though there are some artistic licenses taken). Still, you know what they say about who writes the history books, so we can never be too sure.

This book introduced me to one of the great unsung public figures of the late 19th century: John Hay. I remembered from history class very little about him, but when you look him up, he truly was important. He had no idea that he was, but by the time of his death he helped mold the America that our great-grandparents stood witness to. He was a very close friend and confidant to Abraham Lincoln, who was the first US president to die before his very eyes. Every dead president from then to McKinley had Hay in their presence. Hay is a fascinating guy, but what made me enjoy the portrayal most is that he plays it like a misanthrope. He and Teddy Roosevelt get along, but Hay is one of the many people who make fun of him constantly. If you like history as much as I do, I highly recommend you do some research into Hay.

Hay has stuck with me ever since I got off the psych ward. There are two masterful scenes with him in this book. The one I'll not speak of. You have to experience that for yourself. The other? Well, allow me to quote, and I think you'll get why I got so much pleasure from this book.

Quote: There was a long, loud applause, as Theodore finished. In the north a black cloud appeared. Taft helped Hay up. To Hay's surprise, Taft asked, "Was it here that Lincoln gave his last inaugural address?"

Hay nodded. "Yes. Right here. I remember now. There was rain at first. Mr. Johnson, the Vice-President, was drunk. Then the rain stopped, and the President read his speech."

Taft looked thoughtful. "I know that speech by heart."

"We never suspected, then, that we were all so--historical. We just saw ourselves caught up in this terrible mess, trying to get through the day. I remember there was applause before he had finished one sentence." Hay had the odd sense that he was now, if not in two places at once, in the same place as two different times, simultaneously, and he heard, again, the President's voice rise over the applause, and say with great simplicity the four terrible words: "And the war came."

"We lost a generation." Taft was oddly flat.

"We lost a world," said Hay, amazed that he himself had survived so long in what was now, to him, so strange a country.

OK, me again. There is one more thing I'd like to say before I post this and go to bed. We almost had a Trump situation just after the turn of the century. Thank fuck no one in their right mind took William Randolph Hearst seriously. This book was written long before Trump even thought about running for president, but with my modern eyes, I can't help but make the comparison. A business tycoon with no regard for truth, creating wars just to make insane amounts of money, all in the name of making sure that he is worshipped throughout the rest of history? Yeah, that does sound pretty familiar. For those who don't remember very much about our history, Hearst started the Spanish American War simply to sell newspapers. In retrospect, it was considered Yellow Journalism. I can't help but think that while Hearst is gone, he still has a grandson in charge of his mega conglomerate fuck fest. I've said it here before, and I'll say it again. History is not that far behind us. Life is a constant cause and effect. I'm certain that we're in this horrible second Civil War because of all the crazy bullshit Hearst flung, like a monkey at the zoo throwing feces at visitors. And somehow his visitors ate it all up.

Does that, too, sound familiar?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #302: A FUCKING BASEBALL BAT

 So I picked up NEGAN LIVES. My favorite Negan moment exists here. He's getting weepy over Lucille's grave. He's not talking to the bat. He's talking to his wife.

And then he screams that his norm is, "TALKING TO A FUCKING BASEBALL BAT!"

He apologizes. He's out of his mind. He's a villain who was never killed.

I love Negan. He's my favorite TWD character. I'm so happy that the series is over, and Negan is the only interesting person still around.