GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #361: THE ANARCHIST COOKBOOK

 

When I was a kid in college, I picked up a copy of this book. Not because I planned to use it for nefarious purposes, but because I like to know things. A lot of shit in here teaches survival tactics, and you can't depend on society to continue existing as it does. It always pays to be prepared. It's the same reason I bought a set of lock picks. It could come in handy someday. I'll grant you, I suck at picking locks, but at least I have the tools and instructions to help me find my own ass in the dark.

Fast forward to a little while ago. One of my brothers came to town and was staying with his mom, my stepmom, so I made the trek out to them and hung out for a while. My stepmom offered me some of Dad's books, and I was kind of surprised to see the following book among them.

My father was always a subversive guy, but I never thought he'd have this one. So naturally I took it for my own. There are important lessons in this book. For example, there are lessons on panhandling and hitchhiking. If you think you're too good to know this shit, then you have too much faith in good luck. Or maybe you've never had it bad in your life, and you don't know that becoming homeless is a very real possibility for you.

Remember: "The future's uncertain and the end is always near." It might never happen, but just in case, you might want to get familiar with cannibalism . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #360: A SHOOTING IN VILLA PARK

Police shootings don't usually happen around where I live. Yes, I live *near* Chicago, but I don't actually live *in* Chicago. I live in Elmhurst which is in the middle of the western suburbs. Villa Park is next door to me. It's a ten minute drive. It's where my comic book shop is.

So I heard about a police shooting not very far from that shop, and it kind of startled me. I looked it up online and read several different accounts, and it's a very sad story. I thought I would bring it up tonight. I think it's a story that should be known. At first it's not going to depress you, but by the end you will understand why this story should be known at a national level.

The VP police responded to a 911 call that there was a person outside a halfway house waving a gun around at 2 am. They rushed out there to find Haven Bailey on the lawn, and sure enough, Bailey had a gun. They demanded that Bailey drop the gun, but Bailey refused. One of the officers, "fearing for his life," shot Bailey four times. FOUR. MOTHERFUCKING. TIMES.

I don't care how scared you are. You are a trained police officer. It is your job to keep a cool head when everyone else is going off the rails. One shot would have been sufficient for anybody. ANYBODY. But this officer freaked out--very unprofessional--and shot Bailey four times.

But that's not the point of this. I couldn't let that fact slip by without saying something.

When the gunfire cleared, the cops tried to save Bailey's life. I imagine it was a lot like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. It's unclear as to whether or not Bailey was already dead or died on the way to the hospital.

It's not the only unclear thing. The cop thought he was shooting a woman with a gun. It turned out that the gun was actually a pellet gun made up to look like a real gun. And the woman turned out to be transgender. It's such a point that every news story I read was conflicted with this one. Some called Bailey a woman. Some called Bailey a man. There is one that didn't even bother to figure it out and just called Bailey a "person." In one disgusting instance, the halfway house owner's statements were "corrected" from "she" to "him."

Bailey was transgendered and was gunned down by a Villa Park police officer.

But that's not even the sad part. Let's rewind. Who called 911? Anyone care to guess? A nosy neighbor? The owner of the halfway house?

No. Bailey called 911. Bailey made the pellet gun look like a real gun. And then Bailey went outside and waited for the cops to arrive.

I'm lucky. I was born into a body that was right for me. I have no idea the troubles and sorrows that come with being transgendered. I have no idea what kind of struggles Bailey had to go through. Rewind a bit more, and you discover that Bailey had borderline personality disorder and was bipolar. Bailey's struggles with addiction could not have helped matters. Bailey lived at that halfway house in an attempt to get through all that ugly shit.

They call it "suicide by cop." But the story gets even sadder. Rewind just a little bit more. One last time, I promise.

Bailey had a few run-ins with the law, so the cops who showed up that night should have known better. Especially since Bailey admitted to them on several different occasions that she was suicidal and wanted "death by cop."

So Officer Fearing For His Life showed up and obliged her.

And that's the saddest part.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #359: CONTROLLING GRAVITY

 So I was watching one of the new episodes of Creepshow, and a character came up with a revolutionary way to control gravity. One of the very first things that occurred to me was how stupid that comment was. But maybe I'm the idiot. I'm no physics scholar, but I have enough of an understanding to write SF tales where I acknowledge the rules and then ignore them in favor of story. So maybe I'm wrong.

To the best of my understanding, gravity isn't just a thing that can be controlled. It's the very fabric that holds the entire universe together, right? The reason that astrogation is possible is because you can predict where your destination will be due to the knowledge of where it was the last time you checked. Gravity causes that, right?

Gravity isn't just what goes up will come down. Without gravity there would be no orbit, no revolving or revolutions. It's a force that keeps everything together and moving the way it should. So controlling gravity should be as impossible as being able to control which path a drop of water will take rolling down your hand, right?

I hate to say that most of my understanding of Chaos Theory comes from Jeff Goldblum, but it kinda does. I've looked into it a bit, and while I'm smarter than the average bear, I'm not a genius. I could grasp a few things, but not everything.

So am I pissing into the wind when I say that gravity is something that can't be controlled? I hope one of you reading this is a scientist. Like, a real one instead of people who theorize online. I'd genuinely like to know. And if you can answer this, I'd like to know your credentials. Not that I don't trust you, but you know.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #358: THE CROSS PEN, REVISITED

 Remember when I lusted after a Cross fountain pen? That was years ago. Months back, I finally got one. And wow, I really should have listened to my nagging doubts.

Filling the things are kind of annoying because they never write the first time, so you have to go back in and squeeze the ink cartridge. VERY GENTLY. I didn't know that at first, and I squeezed the motherfucker until ink exploded all over my hands, pants and car seat. (I was still in the Office Depot parking lot at the time). I tested it out after, and it wrote in a lovely way. I capped the pen and went home.

To test it out on other notebooks, I tried it again at home. It didn't write. I shook the pen once, and ink exploded out the tip all over my shirt and bed. There are still inkstains there, no matter how many times I wash my sheets.

And because I'd done these things the ink ran out quickly. I picked up a replacement pack and went to work, this time in a more subdued manner. Aaaaaaand it still didn't write the first time. This time I gave it a gentle squeeze, and it still didn't write. I gave it a gentle shake, and BAM!

Ink bukkake.

Thankfully I have another fountain pen, one that writes the first time and does so beautifully. I think my love affair with the Cross pen is over.

(I still have that EPL Cross pen, and while I don't use it as much as I used to-its main purpose was to sign checks, and I don't do that anymore--it still writes like a dream.)

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #357: DEATH SQUAD!

 

One day my comics guy recommended this book to me. The thing that sold me was that Garth Ennis had given it a cover blurb. Then I realized that it was an old UK comic book, and that the art was fan-fucking-tastic. So I bought it.

It took me a while to get around to it, but when I did I was awestruck. This is a great war comic, but it's also very unconventional. You can very much see that Ennis's own war books were inspired directly by this story. You see, the heroes of this one are Nazis.

Right. I know. Once I realized that they were the ones I should be rooting for, I was turned off by it. But somehow I wound up liking this group of no-gooders, as BATTLE described them. Only one of them is a true Nazi, and none of them seem to be aware of the genocide their beloved Fuhrer was committing. No, these guys were doomed to the Punishment Battalions. They were called Strafbattalion in real life. And no, they didn't deal out punishment. Being in the squad WAS punishment. The Nazis made sure that these battalions were made up of fuckups and criminals and psychopaths because their job was to NOT survive. High Command sent these poor bastards into the wintry hellscape of Russia to soften up the Eastern Front. The expectation was that they would give their lives to kill as many Russians as possible so the real soldiers could sweep through and kill the remaining combatants.

As you can imagine, being forced into a situation like that did not do well for their morale. They had to develop tough skins and insanely dark senses of humor to survive.

And that's what our main characters do in DEATH SQUAD. These are funny bastards, but their humor is viciously evil. It's very clear that they don't want to be doing these things. In fact, when they finally get rewarded with a vacation, it turns into a brutal battle for survival against British troops raiding a town where the Germans placed their laziest soldiers. The Brits didn't count on Death Squad being there . . .

There are genuinely uncomfortable moments here, like when Grandad has to execute his idol and friend. Or when one of the members of Death Squad gets his back broken by a vicious Russian torturer only to be taken captive by freedom fighters because he looks like one of the Fuhrer's most trusted henchmen. And . . . holy fuck. The writer had this published under a penname. He says it was because he already had other stories being told in BATTLE, but I highly suspect that he didn't want his name connected to a group of Nazi protagonists.

Reading this collection of all the BATTLE stories of these no-gooders kind of makes me want to write about a similar group, but definitely not from the Nazi perspective. I'd kind of like trying my hand at writing an American version of these guys because when immediate death is inevitable, nothing is sacred. It would be interesting to sit in the mind of a person like that.

It's a fun story. The bonus chapters suck, but the story itself? Pure fun.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #356: WOODEN LEG!

 First listen to this. Then listen to this. A great story, no?

There's just one thing I don't get. When we first meet the protagonist, he already has a wooden leg, right? And then the Spaniard blows off his other leg, thus necessitating the need for another wooden leg. So why, when he returns to ancient Madrid, does he chop off both the Spaniard's legs to put them onto himself? For his revenge to be exact, he'd need only one leg, wouldn't he?

Then again, why not take the other leg? I guess the opportunity was there. In his place I might have done the same thing. But it seems a bit excessive to me.

By the way, if the doctors ever take my bad leg, which they want to do, I'm going to get a wooden leg and start dressing like a pirate. It's the only way . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #355: A CONFESSION I'M COMFORTABLE WITH MAKING NOW

 I have denied an ability for most of my life because I was afraid that if I said I could do it, people might want to do it with me, and I couldn't stand the very thought. Because this is a skill I learned very selfishly and with an exact purpose. Granted, I was never able to complete this vision, but that doesn't matter because now it is impossible for me to do this.

Don't get me wrong. Most dances I just can't do, but I learned how to tango very, very well. I kept that under lock and key, but now that I don't have the full use of my legs, I can safely and comfortably admit that I possessed this skill.

I was OK at waltzing. I could foxtrot a bit if you didn't mind me trampling your feet. But I was really good at the tango.

Knowing I could do that is kind of weird, right? I'm the last person you would expect this of. But I had one reason and one reason only for learning how to do this. I'm sure you'll understand in a moment.

I wanted to dance to "The Masochism Tango" by Tom Lehrer.

I never got to, sadly. I didn't know anyone sick in the head enough to do it. Ah well. To quote a great man, "So it goes."

I never got around to it, but I thought at the time that the only other dance worth learning was the Mamushka!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #354: BEING AN OPINIONS COLUMNIST

 

I remember when I was in high school I discovered the badass motherfucker you see in the image above. His name was Mike Royko, and he was an opinions columnist for the Chicago Tribune. I delighted in his columns, and I had even more fun when I found out that there were collections in book form that I could dive into. He'd worked in Chicago for decades, and I had all that work to look over.

No big surprise, but he inspired me to want to be an opinions columnist. As you can imagine, I was in seventh heaven upon discovering Transmetropolitan in my college years.

So I went to college, and I wound up writing for the paper. I wanted to be the opinions guy and the movie reviewer, but I knew they wouldn't let me do both. I went for the movie reviewer job and did not get it. I had a backup plan, though. I became the first comic book reviewer (and probably the only one) for the Leader. I don't imagine anyone read my work outside of the editors. The professor in charge certainly didn't because I cursed in those reviews, and he never busted me. He caught my partner and I when we cursed in our regular feature, Primitive Underbelly, and made it clear that language would be unacceptable. I thought about still cursing in the reviews but decided not to risk it.

Life moved on, and I never got to be an opinions columnist. Except . . . I did. Not for money. Just for your amusement. Because what else is Goodnight, Fuckers than an opinions column?

One of the things I never expected was running out of ideas for these things. I'm in good shape now with a few pages of topics, but there were times I had nothing. What did Royko do in his day? I also didn't expect to write half of a column and suddenly realize that I'd done this one before. That's happened maybe five times so far. And no, I wasn't drunk for all of those. Just, like, four. I wonder if Royko ever caught himself doing that.

Sometimes I think about doing a newsletter. I enjoy reading them, so why not do one myself? But no, it wouldn't feel the same. I wouldn't get a Royko boner like I do when writing Goodnight, Fuckers. So that's what you're getting. Ah well. Goodnight, fuckers.

PS: I also got to be a movie reviewer for a few years. RIP Forced Viewing. That was a fun time.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #353: COOKING WITH BRUNI

 Those of you who have known me the longest know that I can't cook for shit. I have--no kidding--fucked up making cereal at least a half-dozen times in my life. I have set three kitchens on fire (so far). I couldn't even microwave something.

I really don't know what it is, but I recently decided to change that. I think there might have been a block in my mind, but I figured out a way to unblock it about, eh, three or four months back. That's a story for another day. But I put all my effort into learning how to cook, and guess what.

It turns out I'm good at it. Not great. Good. At least, as far as I'm concerned. I'm only cooking for myself, and I make some damn tasty food.

I started simple with soup and rice. I graduated to spaghetti and other pasta. I learned how to use the microwave. I learned how to make eggs. Then I moved on to that great McDonald's breakfast sandwich that has been discontinued: the Egg White Delight. That's a great hunk of food right there, and I was able to replicate it perfectly.

(And no, I didn't make Canadian bacon to go with it. I do not like Canadian bacon, I do not like it, whatever rhymes with Canadian bacon.)

I moved on to tacos, which are very good provided I eat them right away. I decided to recreate that great Taco Bell food item that was discontinued: the Beefy Quesarito, and goddammit, I knocked that one out of the park. I make 'em big enough to feed a family of four for a week. It's what I made tonight.

Yeah, I know. This probably isn't very impressive to most, but before this I couldn't toast a Pop Tart. I think I'm moving on to meat balls soon, and I plan to use every sexual innuendo possible while doing so. Same for bacon. Real bacon, I mean.

In related news, I'm blowing up in size yet again. Mostly because I'm high every night instead of drunk. The muchies is a real thing. People say that I can't get fat from eating gummies, but they don't think about me shoving all the food I can down my gullet in order to make the crave go away.

So yeah, I should probably stop that. Maybe.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #352: WHAT IF . . . BRUCE WAYNE DESERVED HAVING HIS PARENTS KILLED?

 

Comics like to ask the what-if question often. So do I. I sometimes find myself in a position where I take what seems like an obvious course of action and come up with the least obvious explanation and still have it make a degree of sense. Tonight I'm wondering if maybe Bruce Wayne should have had his parents killed.

Yes, I know. Not a popular train of thought, but let's ride it to the terminus.

I'm not the first person to wonder what the fuck the wealthy Wayne family was doing walking down Crime Alley in the first place. It's a thought that has crossed many fans' minds, so I won't bother going too far into that one.

Picture if you will. The Wayne family. Happy couple Thomas and Martha (why did you say that name?) with their son Bruce decide to take in a movie for the night. They head out to the theater, back when that was a special occasion, so they're all dressed up. Martha has her finest pearls around her neck. They watch a Zorro wannabe movie, and Bruce loves it.

But even a mugger (or possible hitman) like Joe Chill likes going to the show every once in a while. Maybe he likes the Zorro wannabes out there. So he sits near the Wayne family, having no idea who they are. And all of a sudden, their kid starts making faces at Joe. He ignores the kid, but then the kid gives him the middle finger and makes quiet laughing gestures throughout the entire picture. Joe's pretty steamed up. What's the best revenge you can get against a child?

You kill his parents. Joe waits for them in Crime Alley, his home away from home (or possibly just his home), and then he murders them. But while he's here, that looks like a lovely pearl necklace. It'll keep him in beer money for quite some time. Why not rob the obviously wealthy family?

And yeah. Let's leave li'l Bruce alive so he can remember the time he made fun of a man, and the man killed his parents to give him what-for. Snot-nosed brat. He had it coming.

It could have ended there, Bruce. You should have taken your licks and stayed down. But oh no, you had to become a sociopathic lunatic dressed in a bat suit, beating the shit out of people left and right, driving a vehicle that is obviously not street legal, to say nothing of the plane and the chopper and whatever the fuck else you have poor put-upon Lucius Fox building for you.

Alfred, you son of a bitch. You could have nipped this in the bud a long time ago, but you didn't live up to your guardianship of young Master Bruce. I blame you, Alfred. You let the Batman get out of line. WAY OUT OF LINE. You've got a lot of growing up to do, I'll tell you that. Ridiculous.

Maybe Joe should have just shot Bruce in that alley instead of his parents. I like that version from Flashpoint, where Thomas Wayne is Batman and Martha Wayne is the Joker. Good times.

I'd say that I'm available to write for DC, but that's a gig that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. But hey, at least my bullshit would be a lot more interesting than 95% of what DC is putting out these days.

Check that. DC, give me a gig writing Section Eight. That's the only title you have that's worth getting fucked over by you guys. Oh, the things I could do with Bueno Excellente . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #351: DREAM HOUSES

 I will never understand the concept of dream houses. Maybe that's because I've only valued living spaces as a place to keep me and my stuff sheltered. I see all these commercials about people obsessing about their dream houses that it puzzles me. I just don't get it. Then again, I've never been one for fashion or design.

I will always play the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, but sometimes the prize is a car, which I don't care about. It's always for an SUV, and I don't need something that big. But then sometimes the prize is a dream house. They make me go through the motions of selecting what I want before I can be entered into the sweepstakes, and the whole time I'm thinking, dude, just give me the money.

Shelter for me and my stuff. That's all I need. If I was asked what I wanted, it would be a place with a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room and two bedrooms. One to be treated like a bedroom, the other to be my study. A simple apartment could give me these things. I'd never imagine calling it a dream house.

OK, I lied a little bit. When I was younger and naive I had a dream of one day moving back into my childhood home. I remember having a lot of fun there, but I gave up on that one. To be the only person living in that big of a house would be too decadent for my likes. I want to have rooms that I actually use, not something that I might look at if I'm bored or drunk some night.

In the past I've joked about buying a castle if I ever won the PCH sweepstakes, but look at Nic Cage. That didn't work out for him so well, did it? Did he even visit those castles? Probably not.

Wait. I take it back. I'll live in a library. Yes, my dream house is the greatest library since Alexandria. And only I get to live there, so you're out of luck, bud.

*sigh* Fine. You're invited. But you have to read the books here, okay? There will be no lending at my gosh darn library!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #350: THE STATE OF ILLINOIS VS. ME

 Remember when the State of Illinois tried to fuck me over on the car that I no longer have? Ever wonder what I said in the letter that I sent to them? The letter that, big shocker, didn't wind up in the correct place? Yeah, some other department got it, and it was shuffled around for a week or so before someone called me and apologized about the whole mess and refunded the money that I'd spent in trying to clear up the mess. Well, wonder no more. Below you will find a slightly redacted version of the letter. Remember: always roll the dice. I was told by many to give up and cut my losses, but I don't ever do that. I fight to the last drop, and it has very rarely failed me. Enjoy!

To whoever reads these things,

 

 

Enclosed, please find a copy of the stunning waste of my tax dollars that I found taped to my door today. I greatly enjoyed your threat. It seems that you are very quick to act when you think you can get money out of me, but any time I need something out of you, suddenly the speed of government crawls to a near halt. I have also sent a similar missive to your portal, not that you will read it. If you did read such messages, we wouldn’t be where we are today. 

 

And how did we get here? A brilliant question. I hope by the end of this letter that you completely understand the process. And yes, this snail mail is necessary. You don’t pay attention to messages sent to you through your online portal. There is no email address I could send something to. Your phone queue is disgusting. I do not have the time to sit on hold for hours until I finally get someone . . . who inevitably says I’m in the wrong place and transfers me. So in effect you have made it nearly impossible to contact you. This is a great practice for a state government. 

 

So here’s what happened. The plates mentioned in the oddly intense threat (two exclamation points?), which are [REDACTED], were attached to a 2012 Honda Civic. That car is now a useless hunk of steel and probably in a junkyard somewhere. I have my suspicions that my insurance was actually able to pay for repairs, and some ill-fortuned person will eventually be driving around in it. Nothing I can do about that. Regardless, this car was involved in a crash that effectively totaled it. In order to get money from my insurance company, I had to prove that I owned this car. However, I didn’t have the title anymore. When I first got the title my grandfather said he’d hold onto it and keep it in a safe place. Sadly he passed away several years ago, so I couldn’t ask him where he put it, and I had no luck in finding it. So I had to suck it up and reach out to you, as unfortunate as that sounds. As I have described above, dealing with the Secretary of State’s office is nearly impossible. I was told by my insurance that before the plague began it would typically take a month to get my title from you. I can’t imagine what it’s like during the plague. I can’t go without a car for an indefinite amount of months, so you had me over a barrel. 

 

Thankfully my insurance rep advised me of an easier, quicker and significantly cheaper way to get my title: go through American Honda for it. They’ll also remove themselves as the lien holder, as I paid this car off years ago. I immediately canceled the check to you, and I wrote to you via your online portal. I was a bit more naïve back then. I thought you actually read those messages. I’m older and wiser now, and I will not rely on that going forward. I think if I broadcast my message out into space like a radio wave, I would have better luck contacting you than by using your online portal. If you had, indeed, read that message, I would not have to sit here writing this lengthy letter to you. 

 

So if [REDACTED] has any designs on getting those plates from me, he’s going to have to go digging around Illinois junkyards (unless we outsource that kind of thing, in which case he will have an even more difficult time). 

 

In short, your entertaining threat is useless. I would be honored if you’d simply cancel my plates, [REDACTED], for my old 2012 Honda Civic and not contact me on this matter ever again. I greatly hope there actually is someone who reads these, but all things considered, I have my doubts. I will also leave a message for [REDACTED] on my door so at least I know someone will be aware of the situation. I’m fairly certain that will cover my bases short of actually going to the office and tacking a copy of this letter to the front door. 

 

Best wishes, 

John Bruni 

 

JOHN HOLMES, VAMPIRE SLAYER by John Bruni

 

Behold the glory of that cover! This is a Kindle original and will not be reprinted elsewhere. In case you were wondering, this is the monster porn novella I was talking about earlier. John Holmes comes from a long line of vampire slayers, and now he seeks vengeance against the Prince of LA who killed his father. And yes, the cover is accurate. His dong glows when in the presence of vampires, and he stakes them through the heart with the ultimate morning wood!

Buy it here! Also, there is an uncensored version. The dong glows here because I didn't want Amazon to bust me for being the lewd pervert that I am. There is a version where it is very obviously a dong. Send an image of your receipt to me here, on Twitter or Facebook or at my email, tabardinnedgewoodent@yahoo.com. I will then send you the original cover as an incentive. Thank you!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #349: BRITISH STERLING

 I can't stand almost every cologne meant for men. They're always overpowering and strong and disgusting, a lot like Axe Body Spray. I don't know why anyone wears this shit. When I was a lot younger I chose my own scent which was very understated and barely detectable.

But for some reason every store everywhere stopped selling it. I hunted up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, select, start. No one had it. I had to go online to continue buying the only masculine scent I give a fuck about. I've been doing so for the past few years. It sucks, but there you go.

British Sterling is amazing. It's not offensive in power. I could probably pour a bottle over my head and no one would notice. It smells good but it doesn't overpower. It's like Baby Bear's porridge: Just Right.

I have used this cologne every day of my life, sometimes twice a day. A friend who has known me for decades once hugged me. Surprised, she backed away. "You smell good." As if she'd never smelled my cologne before. I suppose that's the danger to using an understated scent. But it's a price I'm willing to pay.

Because fuck all those horribly awful smells that the cologne industry tries to sell men, thinking that everyone wants to smell like a 'Seventies shag rug. I'll take understated elegance any day.

OK, this is a weird GF to get from me, but I was thinking about Charles Bronson. That's what led me to thinking about my scent. If you've never seen this ridiculous commercial, you should watch.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #348: MUSIC AND WRITING

 I can write under any conditions and have over the last few decades. I'm fond of saying that I'm sure I could write in a war zone. I've never tested it and don't really want to, but I'm sure I could do it. But writing with music is very helpful. I try to tailor said music for each project.

The first for-real novel I wrote (not just something I threw together in high school) had a protagonist obsessed with old time rock songs. His father was an abusive Elvis impersonator, and the character never put two and two together as to why he loved that kind of music so much. While writing this book--which will never see the light of day, in case you're wondering--I listened to a lot of Elvis. Chuck Berry. Buddy Holly. Roy Orbison.

When I wrote STRIP I listened to the kind of rock you might hear in a strip club. AC/DC. GNR. Whitesnake. I also listened to the kind of rock you might hear in a honky tonk. George Thorogood in particular.

POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS needed wall to wall punk music. From Sex Pistols to Dead Kennedys. Anyone who read that book is probably thinking, yeah, no shit. Those influences came right through.

While writing the short bizarro novel I just finished, I listened to the score for The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. It gave me the exact feeling I wanted for the story to go. And while rewriting my splatter western, I listened to the score for The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (and if I was still writing when it ended, I'd go over to A Few Dollars More).

For the splatter SF I'm currently editing, I listened to weird spacy music. Shit that wouldn't make a lot of sense unless you were thinking with the distant future in mind.

So yeah. I believe that the music you listen to while writing not only helps, but it gets into your mind and inspires. I highly recommend the process.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #347: THE MIDNIGHT ROAD

 

So whenever I find one of my top five favorite books of all time in the wild, I buy it with the intention of passing it to someone who would really appreciate it. Not too long ago I found one of them at the Frugal Muse down in Darien. The Midnight Road by Tom Piccirilli.

So I bought it and brought it home. I'm thinking one of you here would like it. So I'll give it to you for free. I'll even pay for the shipping. The book is in perfect condition. All you have to do is tell me why you feel you should have this book. You can talk about it in the comments below. You can DM me on Facebook or Twitter. If you have my phone number, send me a text. I'll pick one lucky winner and send it out to you.

And you'll love this book. Just wait and see.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #346: BE PREPARED

 Whenever life fucks me over, I try my absolute best to make sure that it doesn't get the chance to do the same thing to me again. This is an idea that took about three and a half decades for me to come to. It led me to imagining worst case scenarios and thinking of ways to avoid them.

For example, my previous car had a nasty habit of dying on me at unexpected times. In all cases but one, I have no idea why. That one case was because I'd left the dome light on accidentally overnight. Whoops. But because of this, I now carry a jumper pack in my trunk. I charge it up once a month, per the instruction booklet. Just in case. Also, for some reason my front passenger side tire always lost air. Inexplicably. No matter how new the tire was. It could have just been put on, and a week later it was flat. So I have an air compressor in my trunk, too. And a tent, should I ever be stuck somewhere without shelter. And a compass in case I got lost and didn't have a signal on my phone. And an axe. For . . . reasons. Let's leave it at that.

I also hide money all over the place. Just in case. It's not a lot. Just a $20 bill here and there. One is in my console in the car. One is in my jacket pocket. Etc. This is in case I forget my wallet at home. This has happened a couple of times, and my secret money stashes saved me.

Whenever I travel abroad (by car, that is), I carry two things with me: a Harley-Davidson knife built so it is impossible to leave fingerprints on it and a blackjack. The former is legal as the blade is shorter than the width of my palm. The latter is not. I carry them for protection because when you're on a road trip, you have no idea what might happen. Or WHO might happen. So far I've never used either one, and I hope that continues.

At my previous job I had to ride the train every day. One morning I didn't lift my foot far enough up for the top step into the train. I tripped and fell down the other side, hitting my ankle. I got to a seat, and it hurt, but not too bad. When I got to the office I checked on it, shocked to see how much blood had run down my leg. A friend noticed, and he (being a former Marine) got his first aid kit and got me cleaning and bandaging supplies. So guess who carries a small first aid kit wherever he goes now? *hooks both thumbs back to myself*

I'm trying to ease off of alcohol with cannabis. I've heard a lot of horror stories about seizures or seeing shit that isn't there. Hell, I've gone through the latter rather extensively. Never had a seizure, though, so I'm wary of it. Obviously I keep alcohol at home just in case, but I carry an emergency supply of Wild Turkey 101 airplane bottles whenever I go outside. Just in case I start to feel weird without having alcohol in my system. I haven't needed them yet, but it's good to know I have them.

No, I wasn't a Boy Scout. I was, however, a Cub Scout. Regardless, I took their slogan to heart. BE PREPARED.

So that brings me to my COVID vaccination. I'd heard very few stories about bad side effects from the first dose, so I didn't worry too much about it. My arm hurt a little for the rest of the day, and the day after I was fine. The second dose, on the other hand, I'd heard a lot of horror stories regarding side effects. Horrible sickness a day or two long. I suspected I'd be fine. I usually am. I used to get horribly sick one time a year, always the same time. Now I don't get that kind of sick ever. My body has turned against me in my middle age, and it's been too busy doing this that it didn't bother getting regular sick. Just life-threateningly sick.

This is probably because I've treated my body like garbage. A lot of people are quick to point out my ability to drink shocking amounts of alcohol, but that's fairly new in the grand scheme of my life. From early on I made it clear to those around me that I would not eat fruits or vegetables, that I would go out of my way to eat unhealthy things because those actually tasted good. I still do this today. If salad is so great, why is there salad dressing? One way or the other, no thank you. You can have my salad.

I have had just about 40 years of fast food pass through me. To say nothing of the Coca-Cola and Monster I drink constantly. I'm trying to quit caffeine again, by the way. When I beat it, I intend to also quit sugary drinks (except for my morning Tang). But that doesn't change the fact that my body is more of a dumpster than a temple.

I think it worked out in my favor, though, for the second dose. My body is used to filth, so the virus probably didn't stand a chance of making me really sick. It might have even helped that I had an edible and three glasses of whiskey last night to fend it off. I woke up fine this morning. The worst of it was yesterday when my arm hurt like all hell. Part of being prepared for the second dose was also having a shit-ton of NyQuil and DayQuil on hand. I took the NyQuil before bed, just in case.

My mouth is pretty dry today, but that could just be the abuse I put my body through last night. I got through this one pretty easily, I'm glad to say. If my body was just used to being trash and took care of COVID almost as an after thought, then I could probably say that I've spent my life being prepared for just this occasion.

Yeah, yeah, all right. I'm just bullshitting here. Probably.

Hey, for those who read to the very end, thanks for sticking with me so far. I didn't intend to link to that Tom Lehrer song when I first started writing this. But I also found another video of his that I thought might interest you. While everyone else in the 'Eighties were thinking only of pop music and cocaine, I was overwhelmed by fears of a nuclear cleansing of the human race. Give this song a listen.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #345: TENNIS ELBOW

 Remember a while back when I was lifting weights and one of my arms couldn't take it anymore while my other kept going strong? I don't recall if I mentioned how much pain I was in the day after or how that pain has not stopped since. We're maybe a month and a half in on this one, and it's still bothering me. It hurts the worst when I try to pick something up with that hand. I've been icing it and putting Icyhot on it and gobbling aspirin. Nothing helps much except icing it, and that only works for a half an hour.

My doctor sent me to a specialist. He said that she only works on upper extremities. Only right arms. I suspected he was fucking with me a bit on that one, and he glanced over to see if I bought it. "That last part is a joke," he said. "That's the way specialists are. Like an eye doctor who only works on left eyes."

Anyway, I got the referral and saw the specialist. After less than two minutes of examining me she came to the conclusion that I have . . . wait. This is a pretty good joke. I'm maybe the least athletic person you know. I don't play sports. Hell, I don't even watch sports. OK, I played baseball when I was a kid, but I only did that because I thought that was what people expected of me.

But tennis? Fuck that. The only time I've ever played tennis was when I was forced to for a week in PE in high school.

So here I am, almost forty-three years old, and I have tennis elbow. Fucking tennis elbow!

I'd heard of it before. I thought it was kind of a silly thing to get. Boy, was I wrong. This fucking thing hurts like hell. Not too long ago I found myself in a position where I needed a morphine shot, and it didn't even touch the pain in my elbow.

So yeah, it's a cosmic joke, but it's a pretty painful one. The specialist told me to come back in a month if it doesn't go away. I even wear this brace around my elbow, which helps but not significantly. I think I'll be going back sooner. And I'll be demanding better drugs. I got this shit at immediate care that claimed to be an opioid, but it did not help in the slightest. Once again I find myself in need of Vicodin. The last time I went down this path it led to heroin. I still maintain that was not a mistake. It's a wonder drug that has been dragged down into the mud. All the same, I'd rather not go that far down this path again. It would be nice to go a day without nearly screaming because I accidentally hit my bad elbow. Or I tried to pick something up. Or I simply didn't do anything and it hurt like hell anyway.

Just one day. That's all I ask.

Fuck.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #344: A LESSON FROM DAD

 I remember I was in junior high when this happened. I'd been visiting my dad in Vegas, and there was something playing on TV. I think it was a Gay Pride Parade. Or maybe it was a protest. I don't remember exactly, but one way or the other it was about gay people trying to be accepted and treated fairly.

My dad looked at me, pointing to the screen. "You believe this? All these gays want rights. Kind of stupid, isn't it?"

At the time I was no longer being physically abused by my stepfather, but it was still fresh in my mind. If I disagreed with him, that earned me a beating. It was seared into me to the point where I did everything possible to avoid that beating. I did that with every adult because I thought that would keep me the safest. So that's what I did with my dad that day. Though I firmly believed in their cause, I lied to my dad and agreed with him.

"You don't really believe that, do you?" he asked.

I hesitated, and I felt suddenly like I'd been caught in a trap. I should have taken into consideration that my own father had only ever struck me twice, and both times I deserved it. And they weren't like the beatings I got on a regular basis at home. Each time it was one swat to the butt, more shameful than anything that really hurt. But I should have thought about that. Sometimes it was OK to trust adults. And because of my self-preserving deep distrust I got caught in the trap.

I told him no, I didn't believe that. Much to his relief. I think he was testing me. He wanted to see what kind of a person his flesh and blood was becoming. He didn't really know me all that well, after all. When he still lived near Chicago he had custody on a regular basis, and what I remembered most were the times we hung out and watched Three Stooges and monster movies and read MAD Magazine and Tales From the Crypt and, one of the more formative things in my life, watching movies that had the occasional nudity in them. Everyone else always made me turn my head or close my eyes, but Dad never did. I was always grateful to him for that.

Then he moved out west, and our connection faded a bit. Now puberty was hitting pretty bad, and that's the point where people start to decide who they're going to be for the rest of their lives. Dad probably wanted to get a read on me.

And I learned this lesson pretty well, I think. Throughout the rest of my childhood I was still wary of some adults, but I was a bit more trusting when I thought I could be. And I never lied about a social belief again. I'm pretty sure that if I was faced with an ass-kicking now for daring to say gays should have rights, I'd probably not back down. Then again, I'm a lot bigger and stronger now than I was when I was a kid.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #343: NOTEBOOKS I HAVE LOVED

 

I love notebooks. Always have. Every year just before school started, I'd con my grandparents into getting me extra notebooks, just in case. I even love those stupid spiral notebooks that usually fell apart pretty quickly or the wire would warp so you couldn't open it properly. To this day I still buy all kinds of notebooks that I will probably never use. Like the one above. My version has a different design on the cover, but otherwise it looks just like that. Handmade. You can still see the wood pulp in the paper. For some reason I thought I'd gotten it at the Bristol Ren Faire. Nope. Looking back I actually picked it up at Wizard World Chicago back when I still went to that wretched con. I still haven't used this notebook. I'm saving it for something special. I will probably write in it using my quill pen.

While still in high school I started writing my stories--the ones I would actually submit to fiction magazines--on these yellow legal pads. I was possibly inspired by Thad Beaumont in The Dark Half. I wrote in pencil--Black Warriors, not Black Beauties--and I was always happy with the result. I may one day return to this practice.

Then I started writing a nightly journal in composition notebooks. I felt I'd really classed myself up with this move. I used to write with Pilot Precise pens, but those wound up pissing me off because the tips were so easy to bend or break. Now I use a Uniball whenever writing in my journal. I rarely do this anymore because I write Goodnight, Fuckers instead.

I'm a huge fan of Field Notes, even though I only recently figured out what to do with one of them. I write down my ideas for Goodnight, Fuckers! In fact, Notebooks I Have Loved is written in my Field Notes. These were used by reporters back in the day. Watch on old fashioned black and white movie, and you will see reporters hounding City Hall while scribbling madly into these things. Sometimes I fantasize that I'm doing just that while writing in this thing.

I love a good Moleskine notebook. Hell, they're all good. I have one in which I write story ideas. Many of the books of mine you've enjoyed/despised had their starts in this notebook. I also got a Moleskine pen to go with it, but I stopped using it because it does not have a natural feel. Pens are supposed to be rounded for comfort, not squared so you kill your fingers every time you use one. Inspired by Warren Ellis on this one. Yeah, he suffered the consequences of his unsavory actions, and I'm glad he did, but credit where it's due.

Yes, I have a waterproof notebook. I have no idea what to do with it, but I like that I have it. I'll probably write in it with my space pen. Yes, I have a space pen. Jealous?

I also have a tiny notebook that looks like a Canadian passport. I bought it for the laugh. Who knows what I'll ever do with it. It's got a map of Canada in there, even though I was pretty familiar with it to start with. Well, more than most Americans. At least I know more than just Montreal and Toronto. There is even a list of helpful phrases for the French areas. Also, they list if an area has bears. Good to know.

The second fountain pen I bought came with this notebook. It looks pretty cool and sturdy. I imagine that when I figure out what to do with it, I will use that fountain pen to write in it.

That's the brief tour. What are your favorite notebooks? Please let me know in the comments and send me links so I can get them, too.