GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1087: THE FUTURE IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

 The laundry room where I live recently swapped out their old washers and dryers for new models. I later learned they did this because they were selling the complex and wanted to get a better price, but that's not today's gripe. The old machines used cards for payment. The new ones require an app.

Because the future is not your friend, I ran into a terrible problem yesterday. I filled up the washer with my clothes and put the liquid detergent (DO NOT USE POWDER!!! says the taped note at the top of each unit) into the tray, and then went on the app to get it started so I could get my reading in for the day.

The app gave me a spinning wheel. Oh no.

I logged out and back in with the same result. Uninstalled and reinstalled and ditto. Called the customer service number. Lo! and behold! The app was down across the country. Did they have an ETA for when service would be restored? Nope!

I ordinarily do laundry on Wednesday, but since I was in Dixon I had to do it yesterday. Luckily I'd taken today off for a three day weekend, or my laundry might not have gotten done, and my coworkers would have to deal with me wearing the same stuff for a few days in a row. I checked the app before I went to bed last night, and it was still down.

So if this were any other week, I'd have been fucked. This turned out to be a mild annoyance, but then I turned my thoughts to the more egregious things the future has in store for us.

Picture, if you will, losing your sight and then having it restored by a chip in your head. You get used to it, but then you experience your first outage. While you're driving. And you're approaching the school crosswalk at lunchtime.

Or, more likely, you didn't pay your bill, so Elon Musk remotely bricks your device. While you're driving.

So yeah. Keep "updating" everything so you have to do it on a goddam app. And another thing! Those dang kids with their dirt bikes messed up the courtyard grass and HEY! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! Hmpf. Some people. OH GODDAMMIT, THOSE KIDS ARE BACK!

*sigh* Yeah, I know. All the same, I stand by it.

It meaning the whole app thing, not the thing about the dirt bikes. Although the dirt bikes are a real thing, and there really is a bunch of grooves in the grass outside my window. I found myself staring at it with disgust the other day and realized, oh shit. It's happening. I'm officially getting old.

I'll be 48 in a few hours. My physical therapist once pointed out that I'm pushing 50. I thought I was kind of borderline on that phrase, but now there's no denying it. I'm pushing 50.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1086: READING LINEAGE

 If you were to ask me for the best word to describe myself, I'd choose "reader." I do not remember a time when I was not constantly reading. My mom told me my first word was not mama (much to her chagrin) but book.

I've often wondered why reading is so important to me. I suspect it was because both Mom and Dad were voracious readers. Dad didn't read around me because he only had me for an occasional weekend, so he had other things he wanted to do with me. But I saw Mom read all the time, and she encouraged me to do the same.

But how did they become such readers?

Dad is easy. His mom was a teacher. There's no way she didn't get him reading. In case Mom and Dad failed me, Grandma Laurette sent me a steady stream of books, all on history, dinosaurs or Ireland. In fact, one day I told her I was having trouble finding a particular book. She said she'd been using this great online bookstore, and they always had hard-to-find stuff. I didn't want to go online. I hadn't embraced the internet yet.

She did not live long enough to see her grandson's books for sale on that very website, which was called Amazon.

Mom didn't live long enough to read my first book. Dad read a few of my books, and it made me proud to know he liked them.*

But Mom's parents were not readers. Though Grandma loved crosswords, I never, in all my life, saw her pick up a book. As for Gramps, he only ever read the newspaper until the last ten years of his life. He started reading the books in my bedroom while I was at work. Believe it or not, his favorites were both by Richard Laymon: Island and Body Rides. But that wouldn't have helped Mom become a reader when she was a kid.

I suspect it was her grandmother, Grandma's mom. As I went through Grandma's books near the end of my time in Elmhurst, I discovered that they were her mom's books, instead. She lived with my grandparents and Mom and died when Mom was pregnant with me. My great-grandma liked to read hefty novels, LIT-rit-chure.

Now I suspect there might have been someone else, too. Gramps's cousin wrote many letters to him, and one of them contained a photocopy of a family picture from Greece. I'll talk about that at some point, but the accompanying letter mentions Gramps's dad and uncles. Apparently they were all readers. She mentioned that my great-grandpa liked to hang out at the library all the time.

I mentioned this to my aunt yesterday, and she said that she was always apprehensive around Gramps's mom as a kid. My great-grandma couldn't speak English, so my aunt couldn't understand what she was saying. I learned from my research into the family stuff that she couldn't read or write in any language, so knowing that her husband, my great-grandpa, was a reader surprised and delighted me.

So. How did he become a reader, then? I don't think I'll ever find out. I know only one thing about his father and nothing about his mother. Sure, I could find out their dates of birth or maybe what they died of, but what are the odds that I'll ever find out something anecdotal about them? And if I did, say, find a letter from one relative to another talking about what a reader my great-great-grandpa was? How would I read it? It's all Greek to me . . .

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*Yeah, I heard that. You know what you can do with your comments about his bias?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1085: FIND YOUR FUN

 I always talk about how the world is currently the tire fire to end all tire fires, and I'm not the only one. I'm not in the habit of pointing out the obvious, but I say it because I'm always trying to remind people to find their fun. Fun isn't going to knock on your door and present itself, wearing its Sunday's finest and giving you a firm and vigorous handshake. Unless you're into that sort of thing. I don't judge.

You have to go out and find it. Or, if you don't want to go out, you can make it at home.

But I like to go out. Today my aunt invited me to lunch. She lives about as far west as you can get in Illinois without being in Iowa, so our mid-point is Dixon, the hometown of Ronald Reagan. I imagine that's why they call I-88 the Reagan tollway. I drove past his childhood home, and I'm sure it didn't look that nice when he lived there.

I mention it because it was a 45 minute drive through beautiful land on a lovely day. For the first time in weeks, it wasn't hot as balls out, so I could drive with the windows down, the wind making my hair dance like one of those inflatable things you see at dealerships.* I felt good, so I turned up the music and enjoyed the trip. And for just a bit, I could ignore the Great American Tire Fire (TM).

Fun shouldn't be a project, but when you find it, you should enjoy it, no matter how little it might be. I'm sure a lot of people are reading this and thinking, that is your idea of fun? It's not capital F fun, but sure, I had fun. It lightened my spirits.

Sometimes that's all it takes. Speeding down 88 at 100 mph through farmland as far as the eye can see.

Added bonus: when I got home I discovered a shipment of Tang from my friends, Alicia and Chris Stamps. It wasn't just a container of Tang. They got me TWO GIANT CANISTERS!

This is only a little shorter than my thigh, and I'm a tall dude.

Also! I won a Goodreads giveaway! That always cheers me up. All in all, it was a good day.

So yeah, sometimes fun really does show up at your door. But it doesn't happen a lot, so make sure you seek it out.

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*Yes, I'm sure it's called something. Also, I am high and do not wish to look it up. You can always write your own blog about these things.**

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**Yes, you can call your blog Goodnight, Fuckers 2: Electric Bugaloo. You're welcome.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1084: PLAYBOY 3

 I have a shit-ton more excerpts from my Playboy collection that might be of interest to us now, in the modern world, as opposed to, say, 20+ years ago when I first got them. So here's a few interesting images:

You can probably guess that was written by Hunter S. Thompson. It was a letter to Hef celebrating the 50th anniversary of the magazine, but it might as well have been written 5 minutes ago. Nothing has changed. Or maybe we're currently living in the future he predicted . . . ?

Alfred Kinsey is a subject of fascination for me. If you've never read TC Boyle's The Inner Circle, I highly recommend it. But good luck scrubbing these pigfucking stats from your brain.

That is a lie from a lying liar. Not one year later he was running for Congress, so . . .

My Favorite Playmate is usually a pretty boring feature, but every once in a while a celebrity says something so outlandish I can't help but laugh. All the same, he didn't choose Nicole Narain?

That's a pretty good author photo of Irvine Welsh. It encompasses his subject matter and tone very well.

Nine. The answer to Edward Bunker's question is nine.

The Beef's got some serious problems. When you're going to Harvey Weinstein for advice, for example, it might be a good idea to keep your mouth shut and your head down instead of doing a Playboy interview.

Speaking of Tarantino, I forgot that he did this. He also did one for Django Unchained.

Any guesses as to who is telling this story? I'll put the answer at the end of this.

I bring this up because this is possibly the worst timed bit in US comedy history. This was published just a couple of months before 9/11. *pulls collar* In case you couldn't tell, this was written by George Carlin.

Ah jeez.

Speaking of Silent Bob, Kevin Smith also did the 20Q feature. That Michael Jackson idea is absolutely insane. Considering *that scandal* I'm glad it didn't happen, because HOLY SHIT.

Tarantino says something here that I identify with 100%. I've read so many books that I'm bored with the things that many people find enthralling. That's why I write outlandish things. The reason I do that is because I hate boredom, and if I ever bore someone with something I've written, I would consider that a crime against humanity. Every book has slow parts, but I try to make them at least interesting.

I used to be a Ron Jeremy fan. Ever see Porn Star: The Legend of Ron Jeremy? I thought he was funny in a cornball sense ("How big is my dick? Three inches . . . from the floor!"), and I was fascinated with the fact that he came from such a high pedigree (look up who his parents were). I even learned how to detail my pubic hair from him (shave the shaft and balls bare, trim the bush until it matches the rest of your body hair). But . . .

Knowing what we know now? Define "boink," please. 

Well. He turned out to be a huge piece of shit. Also, if you looked at that and thought, uhhhh, pandering? It has an interesting legal definition. The hell with it. Don't look that up. You need some sleep.

That ended on an ugly note, but I'll have more for you in a bit. Donald Trump and Mark Cuban did the big interview, and I'm probably going to dedicate a night to a compare/contrast of the two and what they said. I've got a long way to go before I'm through with my collection, so who knows how many more editions I'll have for you? To be continued . . .

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I almost forgot: It was Denis Leary. That's right, Dean Martin called Denis Leary a pussy. I have two words for you, oh-KAY?! That's fucking funny.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1083: FOUR YEARS

My first author photo.

Whenever I talk with a friend I haven't heard from in a while, as I did recently, they inevitably say something along the lines of how they thought for sure my drinking was going to kill me. There are a lot of people out there surprised by the fact that I'm still alive. I am one of those people. As of today it's been four years since my last drink.

It's been four looooooooong years. I thought maybe I'd still drink for special occasions, like my birthday and Christmas and so on. In fact, I lied my ass off so I could get out of detox and get something to drink in time for my birthday. I planned to buy a fifth of Wild Turkey 101, but when I went to the liquor store, I drove right past without stopping. I still have no idea why. All the same, that special occasions plan would have failed. That was my SOP for maybe a year back in the early 2010s, and I strained to find ways to qualify stuff as a "special occasion."

I miss the whole thing. I miss hanging out in bars and bullshitting with my fellow drinkers. I miss the fucked up adventures boozing used to bring. I even miss hangovers, the price to pay for greatness.

Who knows? Maybe I'll take it up again. There are a few things that might force my hand, like losing my bad foot or getting fired. Or maybe I'll live to one hundred and figure, fuck it. What's the worst that could happen?

Probably not, though.

I beat my alcoholism without AA, and that makes me proud. I think of all the court ordered AA people get stuck with and think, that sounds like a First Amendment violation. AA claims to be a non-religious organization, but they're lying. It pleases me that I beat this without the industry standard. All I needed to do was beat the physical addiction. The rest of it was a breeze.

I'm not condemning AA. It didn't work for me because Step Two sounds like a great excuse to blame my problems on something other than myself. Make no mistake, I am to blame for going down this path. But they do help people, so if you need help, give them a try. Or you can do what I did and go to RCA (Recovery Centers of America). From what I understand, they have locations across the country. I personally went to the one in St. Charles, which is pretty nice. It costs, yes, but if you have medical coverage, you'll be OK.

There is an added benefit to writing about this stuff here, and that's you lovely fuckers. I typically don't give a fuck what people in general think of me, but for some reason I do in this case. I think of all the people who congratulate me, and I realize I'd let them down if I started boozing it up again. That disappointment is one of the things that prevents me from drinking on shitty days, so thank you.

Have I done anniversary posts every year? I'm too lazy to check, but I suspect I have. Maybe I'll do one for five years, but after that? I won't bring it up again until the 10 year anniversary.

Unless I've been killed in a horrific car accident. I probably won't post if that happens.

Anyway, goodnight fuckers.

For many years I had that author photo on my business card, too. A friend of mine said, "You have a picture of you drinking on your business card?" I nodded, proud, and said, "Of course." Bliss in ignorance? No, bliss in stupidity.

Special thanks to Alicia and Chris Stamps, who always remember my anniversary.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1082: 12 MONKEYS

 

I remember when I saw the movie, 12 Monkeys, in the theater on opening night. It was a perfect time travel flick, and it made sense 100% of the, uh, time, which is unusual for such fare. If you want to impress friends with movie trivia, did you know that one of the two writers of this movie also wrote Unforgiven?

Anyway, when they announced a TV series was being made out of it, I had to wonder how. How could they stretch that story out over the course of a season, much less more than one? They did a pretty good job of it, and the show went off in a lot of crazy and unexpected directions.

But I lost Syfy before I could watch the final season. My provider dropped the channel for whatever reasons, and ever since I've wondered how they ended the show. When I gave up cable for streaming, I always kept an eye out, hoping someone would eventually have it.

And now, while watching the new season of From and the final season of Billy the Kid, I discovered MGM+ had it. At first I thought, I remember enough of the show. I can probably just plunge myself back into it with nothing more than the previously-on walkthrough.

That was a terrible idea. I'd forgotten so much about the first few seasons that I really should have started from the beginning, but I didn't have time for that. I'm not going to pay for another month just so I can do that. The problem is, I am a completely different person from the guy who watched those first seasons. Number one among the changes: I no longer drink three-quarters of a handle every night. No wonder my memories were hazy. I was probably blacked out when I watched a majority of 12 Monkeys.

Cumulatively I'm missing about a decade's worth of my life. It's not like I turned 30 and boom, the next thing I know, I'm 40. There are bits and pieces I recall, but booze effectively erased a lot of that decade. It's more like 33 to 43, maybe 44.

So picking up the show again after so much time was surreal to me. The time travel show sort of . . . sent me back in time. I had the sensation of being that person again for the first three episodes to the point where I reached for my drink once and recoiled in horror at it *not* being whiskey.

As for the show itself, I managed to get back into the correct mindframe when that feeling of time travel faded, and I understood the story again. I recalled more until I realized there was a plot twist I'd been waiting for when I watched back in the day. The twist did, indeed, come but it was not the twist I expected. Related, sure, but different nonetheless. I won't say what it was, in case you planned on watching at some point, but I thought Cole would somehow turn out to be his own father--like a test tube baby, not the other way--hence his importance as a paradox to the story. I was close, but that didn't turn out to be the case. The actual twist is pretty sweet, though, and you should give it a shot.

In fact, the whole show is just great. If you have MGM+, check it out.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1081: A SPECIAL BIRTHDAY

 We recently, as a nation, celebrated a most historical birthday. I can't believe such a concept has survived for this long. It really is astonishing, when you think about all the years that have passed since this grand notion found its feet and started to walk, then run. When I think about the whole thing, I stand mute in awe.

I am, of course, referring to Goodnight, Fuckers. Believe it or not, as of today I've been writing these things for twelve years. In another year it will be allowed to watch the PG-13 classic, My Stepmother is an Alien. Happy birthday, GF!

Twelve years ago I began this thing without warning. Usually if I start to do something, I at least introduce the concept so everyone knows what to expect. Nope. I charged in with something exceptionally personal that I should absolutely never have shared with anyone under any circumstances.

Don't click on this. Seriously, don't. If you must know, I'll TL;DR it for ya: I developed early as a child, and when I was writing one of my Hardy Boys rip-offs on my mom's piano bench, I had an orgasm. I wasn't doing anything other than writing. It just sort of happened. There. See? Don't click that link. There are more details if you do.

I never quite intended GF to become what it did. I thought I was mapping out who I was in case any future archaeologist wanted to know. That kind of stuff still happens, but I never intended the political stuff and the history lessons and the oh-look-at-this-weird-shit profiles to be more than just points of interest instead of the whole point.

All in all, I'm proud of all that stuff. I'm glad this is how it worked out. Not all 1,081 of these things are good--can't all be zingers--but twelve years of purposely spilling my brain on the internet is pretty good, all things considered.

And GF cannot be killed. I've tried to stop on several occasions, but it's more stubborn than *I* am, and that is saying a fuck-ton. So I guess I'll still be writing these for the rest of my life.

Brace yourselves. To quote Frank Reynolds(ish):