GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #297: VALENTINE'S VITRIOL

So I was driving around today just so I wouldn't have to be in my bedroom anymore. I heard something I found kind of odd on the radio. Something that I didn't really expect. Anyone remember Sam Kinison? Yeah, the preacher-turned-stand up comedian. He had this bit, which was almost certainly faked, where he would find someone heartbroken in his audience and then call the woman who broke his heart live onstage. He would then scream obscenities at her, usually over her answering machine (kids, that's what we had before voicemail, and it was the same fuckin' thing anyway, so it doesn't really matter, and I'm going to OK Boomer myself now), on behalf of the emotionally injured party. I always found it kind of awful, even if it was faked.

Fast forward to me driving around today. One of the DJs was doing a similar bit all day: call in and dedicate songs to your lying, cheating ex, and clarify why those songs. They were all basically fuck-you songs (and in one case the song was actually named "Fuck You"). Just as the DJ hit his post, he says the woman's first name, and then says, "F you."

What kind of person does this kind of thing? I can't possibly imagine how much vitriol you would have to have in your heart to call in to a radio station--a Sirius/XM station, Turbo, no less--to say fuck you to someone you used to love with all your heart. That sounds absolutely crazy to me.

Don't get me wrong. I've felt angry after a break up. I've felt heartbreak. I've felt betrayed. I understand, to some degree, how it feels to be in that position. But I would never call in to a radio station to do something like this.

I was a much younger man when I felt these things. These days I believe in free love, so long as everyone involved are adults, consenting and on the same page. Break ups don't hurt me like they used to. I've become almost bulletproof when it comes to that kind of thing. But I've been on both sides of this coin, and I still can't understand that kind of anger.

It's worth noting that everyone who made a dedication (at least that I heard) were men. There were no women with fuck-you on the tips of their tongue. This leads me to believe that this is male behavior, which should make it easier for me to understand. I still don't get it. I don't get keying her car, or talking shit about her, or stalking her, or making sure she's in a worse relationship after ours, or any of that batshit behavior.

To quote Ferris, "It's over. Go home."

For those curious, I spent my Valentine's Day alone. I think I prefer being single at this point in my life. Society always concerns itself when someone says they didn't do anything special for Valentine's Day with anyone special. They think something is wrong with you if you're not in a relationship. That's an idea that we should scrub from the social consciousness. I like my own company. Also, as a man of a certain age, my sex drive has gone way down, and it wasn't that high to begin with. I know, that's odd coming from someone who wrote Dong of Frankenstein and 6669, but there you go.

If you spent your time today with someone you love, good for you. I hope all went well. If you spent your time today alone, that's also cool. Don't let it bring you down. Don't let vitriol take over. That way lies madness and incels, and that leads to the Dark Side of the Force. But don't let it remove you from society, either.

To quote Silverchair (words you probably didn't expect to read today or any other day since the late 'Nineties), "I don't wanna be lonely. I just want to be alone."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #296: THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

I have to say that I'm shocked by how successful my gofundme has been. One day, and I'm already over my goal. I have so many thanks to give all who pitched in and helped out. I should be able to cover my meds for a while, which should buy me the time to get a job with medical insurance. I'm so grateful to you all. Thank you so much! When I lost my insurance, I considered creating a gofundme, but fear held me back. Who would contribute? I didn't think it would get far beyond maybe twenty bucks. You all surprised the hell out of me. Again, thank you!


I have to say, though, I don't think it would have been possible without the help of one person.


I've been a fan of Joe Hill's since Heart-Shaped Box came out. I followed his career through books and comic books. I met him once at Andersons in Naperville. I've kept up with NOS4A2 on AMC and Locke & Key on Netflix and his Creepshow episode, etc. I'm so glad that this explosion of attention he is getting is happening. Because not only is he an amazing author, he's also a good person.


All I meant to do was comment on Twitter on how much I enjoyed Locke & Key. It got his attention, and he must have seen my post about running out of Paxil. He said if I put together a gofundme, he'd contribute. That gave me the courage I needed to create the page. Not only did he do that, but he retweeted it to everyone who followed him, and a lot of them responded very positively. A lot of them even contributed and put me over my goal.


See? The internet isn't always the cesspool people say it is. Maybe tonight this shouldn't be called Goodnight, Fuckers. Because a lot of you--maybe even most of you reading this--are definitely not Fuckers. You are good people.


Thank you so much, Joe Hill, for everything.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #295: WAKING UP TOO EARLY

I don't know what's going on, but the last two nights in a row I woke up waaaaaay too early, feeling very hungry and very weak.I have a few theories, two of which I'm testing out tonight. I think it's low blood sugar, which is highly unusual for me. My sugars are always high. Yet . . .


The hungry part. Am I eating dinner too early in the evening? I don't think so, but I'm very hungry upon waking up at, say, four in the morning. Tonight I ate a late dinner. Really late. Like, I just finished eating before writing this GF entry. I can't possibly wake up early with hunger, can I?


The weak part. I've been giving myself some pretty big insulin doses because I've been drinking a lot of Coke, which yes, I know, a diabetic like me shouldn't be doing in the first place. I'm trying to quit, but so far I haven't been able to. Am I giving myself insulin doses that are too big for just before bed? I intend to lower the dose and see what happens. I hope that doesn't result in a sugar score of 200 when I wake up at the regular time tomorrow.


Ah fuck. It's got to be one or both of these things. If I wake up too early again, I'm going to be angry with myself. It means that I go back to sleep and don't wake up until three in the afternoon, completely wasting my morning and early afternoon. This has got to work, right?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #294: GALEN

How well do you know your friends with nicknames? Do you even remember what their real name is anymore?


This thought occurred to me while watching an episode of Gunsmoke earlier this week. An old friend of Doc's shows up in town, and because they're such old friends, this guy calls Doc by his real name, "Galen." Every time this happens, people around them act shocked. Even Matt Dillon is surprised by this. This is surprising, how? I'm fairly certain that this knowledge goes all the way back to season one. I'm pretty sure earlier seasons had his full name on his shingle (although that might be the Mandela Effect, so I'm not entirely sure).


Names are important, and not just for the reasons John Constantine thinks so. It irritates me when someone who has known someone else for years gets that person's name wrong. Like, say, the difference between "Jamie" and "Jaime." Or "Hastings" and "Hasting." Little things like that which probably bothers no one else, including the person in question.


This is probably why I live in constant terror of getting someone's name wrong, especially if it's someone I've known for years. Thankfully I still know the real names of all those who I call by their nicknames.


I think.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #293: AND NOW THE FUN BEGINS

I have been without medical insurance since the start of the month. Which is good because I still had it when I went to the hospital for more than half a month, and I'd really not like to be stuck with that awful bill in total. But it sucks because now my medications are running out.


The first to go is going to be Paxil. I have three left. I'm told it's one of those drugs you have to be weaned off of. So yeah. And now the fun begins. I figure I'll space out those last three pills before I take the last one. Maybe that will help. Thankfully I got most of my refills before Jan. 31, so I got a while to go on those, but Paxil is going out the door soon. Unless I can find a new job with medical insurance.


Kids, don't be like me. Get a for-real job. Something that pays at least $50K/year and gives you all the benefits. Don't just get a whatever job that's like that but you only settle for $32.5K/year, one that acts as a day job because by night you're a writer. If you get that for-real job, DON'T LET GO OF IT. Do your absolute best to be whatever the evil corporation wants you to be. You can talk shit about it all you want when you get to retire with the full package.


I wonder if I'll ever get to retire to a full lifestyle of writing and only writing. That would be so nice.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #292: HAIRY MARY

Back in first grade I had one person I could call a friend. His name was Carl (I will redact his last name on the off-off-off-off chance that he reads this and doesn't want to be named), and he would be gone next year. But that year I saw him open his locker, and I saw a sticker in there. It was grotesque, a gross parody of a Cabbage Patch doll, and according to the text, its name was Hairy Mary.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Garbage Pail Kid," Carl said.

And so I was introduced to the wonderfully disgusting world of Garbage Pail Kids. For the next year I wouldn't shut up about them. I begged whichever adult who was with me whenever we went to 7-Eleven to get me all of the GPK packs, complete with cardboard gum. They might grant me one pack, but never more than that. I amassed quite the collection, which I have somewhere in my basement. My dad loved them, but he said they were today's version of something he called Wacky Packs. This delighted me, and he found his own collection from when he was a kid and gave it to me. I also have those in my basement somewhere.

I should really hunt those down and look at them again. I need a good nasty reminder of how horrible they were to look at. Not too long ago, they tried to make a comeback, and I thought they did an excellent job of updating their usual repertoire. My particular favorites are their Donald Trump inspired ones, which can be perused here. GPK take no sides, so they skewer just about everyone in the 2016 race (except me and Danger_Slater, the cheap bastards), but they're pretty spot-on when it comes to Trump.

Which reminds me. I should probably start ramping up on my 2020 campaign . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #291: THE GENTLEMEN (IN WHICH I DO NOT TALK ABOUT THE GENTLEMEN)

So I went to see the movie, The Gentlemen, earlier today. It was great. Go fucking see it. Guy Ritchie returns to his roots. (OK, so I talked a little about it.)


Before showtime I had to take a shit. I went to the bathroom, chose the stall next to the urinals, and unloaded mostly gas, but also a bit of a turd. I heard something hit the floor beside me and then thunk against the toilet. What the fuck was that?


I looked down and saw a water bottle. One that had been opened but only sipped maybe once. The guy at the urinal cursed, and I wondered, what exactly is the etiquette for a situation like this? Should I give the bottle a nudge so it rolls back out? Should I hand it to him under the stall? Did he even want it back? It's a theater bathroom floor, after all. I asked myself what I would want in a situation like this, and I decided I wouldn't want it back.


I wiped and flushed and put my coat back on. I then exited the stall to see . . . no one. Whoever had dropped the bottle had decided to abandon it. Just as I would have. So now I have an answer to that extremely awkward question. Should something similar happen to you, don't do anything.


I should also note that I had to go to the bathroom after the show. The bottle was still there. No one wanted any part of it. Which seemed right. The world turned just as it should.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #290: AN OPEN LETTER TO DISNEY

Dear Disney,


First I want to congratulate you on bringing the Skywalker ennealogy to an end. I had some problems with that final film, but overall I enjoyed it, and it made you a lot of money. Congratulations.


So, where do you bring Star Wars from here? The Mandalorian seems to be keeping you busy, and I know you're going to do a bunch of one-off films, but what's going to be the next trilogy? You know you need one to keep people interested.


Well, you're in luck. I have a pitch for the next trilogy, and it's going to have you rocking back in your seat with heads like Adam Bomb from the Garbage Pail Kids. Strap in, because it's going to get your dicks so hard they might break off in your pants. That goes for lady boners, too. Ready?


Get this: THE EMPEROR IS STILL NOT DEAD. Whoa, right? The audience would never expect that. He's really in hiding, and this time he is building a fleet of Super Death Stars. Shit that could blow up entire galaxies even if they are far, far away. Could you imagine the damage a fleet of Super Death Stars could do?


Of course we have to wait maybe twenty, twenty-five years to make this trilogy. The Emperor has to be in hiding a long time. In the meantime, the enemy could be the Second Order, or whatever. It doesn't matter what we name it. No one is paying attention, anyway. I wonder if we could get that one guy from The Walking Dead to play the evil general. What's his name? Doesn't matter. The show is red hot. Anyone would be perfect.


In this future, Rey has become a Jedi Knight (even though the Jedi have ended). She has taught a bunch of new people with the requisite amount of midichlorians to do the same kind of space ninja shit . . . wait. No one liked the midichlorian shit. Never mind. They're all just special people with the ability to use the Force. Yeah, that's the ticket. Anyway, the Emperor's evil forces Rey to go back to Tatooine to get those lightsabers, but hold up! The Mandalorian already swiped them! Yeah, he's a Sith Lord now, and Rey has to turn him back to the Light Side of the Force. Jedi Ghost Ben Solo shows up and gives her advice on how to do that. By the end of the new trilogy, they'll have to face off and "kill" the Emperor all over again. Throw Finn and Poe a bone by having them have to enter one of the Super Death Stars to blow up all of them at once. There's a switch in all of them, I bet. Rose who? Oh yeah, her. The fans hated her. Let's relegate her to Jar-Jar status like in episodes two and three.


You're welcome, Disney. I'll just sit here and wait for the billions of dollars to be dropped off at my place. Good talk, guys.


Best wishes,
John P. Bruni, BS

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #289: SERIAL KILLER DOCUMENTARIES

Neflix these days is mostly known for stand up comedy and serial killer documentaries. I want to talk about the latter of this odd couple because I've recently watched a few of them. There is something I've noticed about most, if not all, of them.


Most times, I don't care much about the serial killer in question. What I do care about is the archival footage. Not the interviews with the killer, usually conducted behind bars. No, I mean the imagery of the world from back then. You get to see what America looked like before the corporations took over. You might see a Walmart, but I guarantee is will be spelled Wal-Mart. All you see are mom and pop stores. Corporate graffiti hasn't been smeared across the American landscape yet. You'll see a greasy burger joint instead of a McDonald's. You'll see local banks instead of PNC or US Bank or fucking Bank of America. You'll see gas stations that usually have the owner in the name of the place. It might be Standard Oil, which was *the* gas corporation back then, but it won't be BP or Shell or even a goddam Thornton's.


We still had a middle class back then, and they might not have thrived, but they were doing a lot better than what they have become today. It was a different time. Even looking at shows like Making a Murderer, which sticks to early '00s footage, looks like a different time, and that's not that far behind us.


"The world has moved on." Stephen King said that in The Dark Tower series. He wasn't kidding. I remember my first draft of Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks. I'd written it twenty years before it was published. I fucked it up the first time, but I learned from my mistakes, and it was what I needed it to be by the time you all read it. In that first draft, my main point was that the world hadn't changed all that much since the 'Fifties, so I figured it wouldn't have changed much in one hundred years. I was wrong. Sooooooooo fucking wrong. That's what helped me figure out where I fucked up that first draft. Things you see today will be gone or different twenty years from now. Ten years from now. Five years. Maybe even next year.


A lot of people chose not to move on with the world. They're the ones fucking it up for the rest of us. They're the ones with tiki torches. The ones who think they are nice guys so they are entitled to women's bodies. The ones who think there are only two genders because you either have a penis or a vagina.


Once upon a time there were dinosaurs. The world moved on, and then there were mammals. The world moved on and a lot of those died off. But a critter who moved on two legs instead of four managed to survive and move on with the world. And here we are.


We are always--ALWAYS--living during an extinction event. Let's try to make sure we're not on the doomed list this time, yeah? Let's move on with the world, change our ways, all that good shit.


While we still have the chance.


Also, I'm aware that this is the third GF in a row that involves taking a strong look at the past and the old ways of doing things. I'm doing this mostly because my present is horrible. I can't even sleep without problems. I dream about being helpless and fighting back and still being completely useless no matter what I do. I can't promise that this trend ends here, but I'll try to write about something different next time. To quote a song written by two bands, "My life was easier at five."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #288: IT STARTED WITH A BAR

Last night's entry reminded me of the old way of doing things. I've said it before and I'll say it again now: I believe that the 'Eighties was the death toll of the 'Fifties. Think about all the nostalgia projects that came out in the 'Eighties about the time of DA haircuts, cars with fins and that old time rock 'n' roll. Not much of that leaked into the 'Nineties. That was when the world really, really began to change.


I grew up in the 'Eighties. I remember what it used to look like. At the risk of sounding like an old fart, I remember a time when stores closed at five and were always closed on Sundays. Cigarettes were everywhere, and the only reruns you could catch were from the 'Fifties and 'Sixties. Oh yeah, and you could hit your kid in public and no one would say anything about it. Women still belonged either pregnant or in the kitchen (preferably both). You had to be white to live in my hometown of Elmhurst. So don't get the idea I'm getting nostalgic in my old age. But I think about things a lot.


How much do you know about your own town? I love history, so I know a lot about mine. I recently tried to remember, though, what mom and pop store used to be where the Jewel/Osco is today. I remember going there a lot with my mom or grandma. Mom's gone. Grandma doesn't remember. One day I stumbled upon the answer because I discovered that the Elmhurst History Museum actually has a lot of old pictures up on their website. I looked through them all until I found a picture of the place. Here is a link in case you want to peruse some of the sights. If you're from Elmhurst yourself, I think you'll find a lot to interest you there.


It started with a bar. Without that bar, Elmhurst would not exist. But there it was, and the town grew up around it. There is a rock where the bar used to be on Cottage Hill and St. Charles, but it's all residential. The guy who ran the bar got the US to put a post office in the bar, and so the town began to really fire on all cylinders. It was called Hill Cottage back then, but soon changed to Elmhurst due to the amount of elm trees. This was before Dutch Elm disease took most of them out.


The clincher came when Union Pacific wanted to put a railroad through town. That's when Elmhurst truly began and slowly morphed into the small city I live in today. Some of the pictures showed images of places I know to be residential now, but were nothing but prairie back then. My junior high was Sandburg. It used to be Elmhurst Junior High. Carl Sandburg lived here for a while, but I had no idea he was there when they changed the name of the junior high. I see people fishing and cutting ice out of Salt Creek near what is now Spring Road (guess why they called it that). And it's hard for me to imagine horses walking down Park and York, much less actually see it in a picture. It's interesting to see what was there before they put the underpass in (which they surprisingly did when I was a mere year old). And then there were the gas stations that looked a lot like Gomer Pyle's on Andy Griffith.


What do you know about your own hometown's history? In the end, maybe it means nothing. At the same time, aren't you interested to see what came before? How did your town begin?


Some people laugh at my horrible attempts at trying to nickname Elmhurst the Suburban Prairie, much like Warren Ellis has the Thames Delta. It is very much tongue-in-cheek, but at the same time, after looking at those pictures, well. It makes some measure of sense.


Look at your own historical museums. Tell me what your nickname for your living space is.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #287: WORTH THE SQUEEZE

Since my return from the hospital, I have mostly been cooped up at home, mostly in bed watching stuff on Netflix and Prime. Today I did something I haven't done in years. Maybe decades. And it felt so fucking good I had to tell you all about it.


I decided I wanted a book. Badly. Instead of going to Amazon I decided to get it the old fashioned way: go to bookstores and find it myself. Don't you sometimes miss that? Hunting something down instead of letting Jeff Bezos find it for you and possibly sending it to you the next day? Sure, I go to bookstores, but it's mostly to browse. I haven't gone to one in ages looking for one particular book. So I got outside today and did some hunting.


Yes, I went to every fucking bookstore within comfortable driving distance, and I searched them all for what I was looking for. I had to have been in half a dozen Half-Price Books. I went to Anderson's. Hell, I went all the way down to Darien to the Frugal Muse. And not a single fucking one of them had the book I was looking for.


My final planned stop was Cornerstone, a used book store in Villa Park pretty close to my comics shop. Dammit, I made it too late. They were closed. Then I had a horrible thought. So terrible that I don't want to admit it here. But . . . well . . . here goes.


There's a Barnes & Noble at the Oak Brook mall. Why not try there? It was still open. What else do I have to do? Go home and watch more Netflix?


So I went to Barnes & Noble. I went past all the crap that aren't books that they sell. I went up a fucking escalator, for fuck's sake. And then I went to the section I needed. And guess what?


They had the book I was looking for. They had three copies.


Shamefully I grabbed the book. I made sure it was the right one. Then I went down the escalator and bought the book. I hated that I had to resort to this. Who knows? Maybe in the end my purchase will keep Barnes & Noble alive for a full three extra minutes in the end.


Then I got out to my car. I held the object of my day-long hunt in my hands.  And goddam, if I didn't feel fucking elated. I'd done it the old fashioned way. It was still possible. Maybe I didn't win the way I expected, but goddammit I fucking won.


I can't tell you how happy that made me feel.


If you're wondering what the book was, take a guess. If you've been following me on social media, I'll give you a hint: it's the basis of one of the shows that kept me going during my most recent illness.