GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #467: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #3,469: MAKE MONEY SELLING COMICS!

 I'm going to tell you something you probably don't know, but you should. Those comic books you left at your parents' house when you moved out? It's highly unlikely that they're worth anything. So when you see a story on the news about how a guy sold his collection for a million bucks, please be aware that you probably won't be that lucky.

Because that guy had key issues. Do you know how hard it is to have a comic book from the last thirty years be worth something? You can get a nice payout for the first appearance of Harley Quinn, for example. Or a first edition issue one of The Walking Dead (which I do have, signed by both author and artist). That's the kind of thing worth something. Everything else? Good luck getting ten bucks for the lot, even if there are a thousand books in your collection.

So why are the Golden Age comics worth so much? They certainly sold a lot of copies, right? Well, the reason for that is because when those old people moved out of their parents' house, their parents threw away their comic books, thus limiting extant copies by a lot. Your comic books? Everyone in your age range kept their issues because they figured that someday they would be worth something. Whoops. One of the oldest rules in collecting things is that the more limited a supply of something is, the more money it's worth.

So here's where my horrible thought comes from. You actually *can* get a lot of money for your collection, but you have to do something. Let's use, say, The Boys #1 as an example. I'm not sure how much it's really worth now, but a cursory look at Google shows that it's around seventy to eighty bucks. Not bad. In fact, it's pretty good for a fairly recent comic book.

But you don't want to sell your copy for that much money. You want to sell it for six figures. You can lie your way to that cash, but the chances of succeeding are extraordinarily low.

Which is why you have to hunt down as many copies of that book as you can and destroy them. Rip 'em up, shoot 'em up, set 'em on fire, put 'em through shredders. Whatever you must do, make sure that they are utterly and irrevocably damaged. I have no idea what the original print run for this issue was, and Google is very unhelpful on this point, but you have to find as many as possible. Because if there's only, say, a hundred left, they will be very valuable. Imagine how much more valuable it would be if there's only 50. Or twenty. Or ten.

Or one. Your copy. But make sure you're very careful with it because you're not the only one who thought of this plan. And I, too, have this issue in my collection.

Watch your back.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #466: CULT OF PERSONALITY

 To be read while listening to this.

A while back I threatened to tell you the real life story you're about to read. It was a very eventful evening, and I'm tempted to tell you everything about it because the main character of the night was the guy I based Cris Zim on. It was his birthday, and because he's an incredibly shitty person, it turned out horribly for him. To give you an example, it is customary to buy the birthday boy's drinks on that kind of night. By the end we agreed to stiff him with his bill. For very good reasons. When I write the Zimventures, I exaggerate him a little but not all that much. He is very much a piece of shit and deserves his miserable life.

(I have a secret fantasy that he's reading this column right now. Not that I'd be telling him anything new. I've never said anything about him that I wouldn't tell him to his face.)

But this story isn't about him. It's about the time I almost got in a fight at a TGIFriday's over karaoke.

I never take karaoke seriously. I'm not a good singer, and I have a tin ear, so I'm highly unlikely to ever be one. I might actually be the only horror author in history who doesn't want to be a rock star. But I take entertainment very seriously, and I do my best to make up for my lack of talent with outrageous onstage behavior. I guarantee that anyone who has ever seen me perform will never forget me. Especially the night I serenaded a blow up doll to the tune of an Elvis song.

I might tell that story someday, too.

So TGIFriday's was our second stop on Cris Zim's birthday tour, and I was in a foul mood. I forget why. Maybe it was the abscess wound an inch from my balls, which was draining all sorts of blood and pus at the time. But this place had karaoke, so I decided to burn off that mood with a performance. I discovered, quite happily, that they had Living Colour's "Cult of Personality" in their library, and I concocted alternate lyrics for my amusement and that of the audience right on the spot. It was my turn, so in my incredibly inebriated state I went down the stairs and took up the microphone. The song kicked in, and I started to sing.

"Look in my pants! What do you see? The cock of personality!"

(And I'm not making fun of the song. It's a fucking great tune. One of my favorites. But like I said, I can't take karaoke seriously. It's impossible.)

This infuriated one of the owners of the karaoke company. He marched down the stairs after me and demanded to know what I was doing. Sure, I was being an ass, but I don't think I rated the pure rage he came at me with.

Also, it's worth noting that he was somehow even drunker than I was. You know how difficult it is to smell booze on someone else's breath when you, yourself, are three sheets? I was gone, myself, but I could smell the whiskey on his breath. I didn't know that was possible.

He yelled at me that this was a family restaurant, and I calmly notified him that it was past midnight, and there were no children in sight. And then I held out the microphone to his mouth for his response, like I was a reporter interviewing him on TV.

Oh, he did *not* like that. He actually attempted to slap the mic out of my hand. His mic. Do you know how expensive microphones are? Very. If a karaoke DJ murdered some drunk asshole who did a mic drop at the end of a song, I would not vote to convict. I honestly believed at that point that this conversation would end in the parking lot with the both of us either in the hospital or behind bars. Or both. That genuinely bummed me out because I didn't want to end the night (or any) like that.

Surprisingly it didn't come to that, and that was the end of it. Until I decided to put in a request for another song. It would have been "Penny Lane," but the song would now be about a street populated by scumbags and perverts, but the other owner of the company stopped by my table and very politely asked me if I was going to do the song the right way. When people are polite to me, I am polite in return, so I told her the truth: that I couldn't do that. It's against my nature.

"Then I can't let you sing it," she said.

Fair enough.

To give you an idea, the evening got even crazier from that point. But that's not my story to tell.

Also, if this song is the only Living Colour song you know, you should dig deeper. This is another great song from them. They also did an excellent cover of "Back in Black."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #465: THE PERILS OF A DESPERATE NEED TO BE IN AN ANTHOLOGY

 This one's a writing column, so if that doesn't interest you, you can skip this one.

Many years back I fell in with a group of horror writers on a message board. I have zero interactions with them now for a variety of reasons, not just the story I'm about to tell. A couple of them became fairly well known in the community. One of them has become infamous for ripping people off (their money, not their writing). But the message board, like most of them, is long gone. I'm not naming names.

They were doing an anthology. It turned out to be their third, actually, but I didn't know that until later. Back then I was a complete nobody, not just the partial nobody I am today. I'd had a few publications under my belt but nothing serious. The most money I'd made off writing was for getting published in porno mags. It should be noted that those paydays are really fucking good, more than almost any horror story I sold. If you want to make money writing, you should write porn.

Anyway, I desperately wanted to be in that anthology. I felt it in my gonads, I wanted it that bad. So I put together the best horror story I could come up with at the time and sent it to the editor. I can't tell you how badly that reject letter hurt. I'd been in the game for maybe ten years by then, and I thought I was immune to rejection, it had happened so many times. I always put those letters in a box and got the story ready to submit elsewhere within minutes. Water off a duck's back. But that one time, ooh. It was rough.

But I bought the anthology anyway, and it took me until now to read it.

Holy shit, it was bad. The first thing I noticed was the abhorrently shitty formatting, which is bad enough, but the stories were not very good. Almost all of them weren't even decent. A lot of them weren't even stories. They were vignettes, which I'm not a big fan of. I would have been flat out embarrassed to be in this fucking thing.

It did have a cool cover, though.

The lesson I'm trying to impart is that rejection is not just NOT the end of the world, it can sometimes be a god thing. Because I *do* have stories in bad anthologies, and it *does* embarrass me. Don't dwell on these things. Just get ready for the next submission.

One more lesson, and it's a difficult one. Especially today when anthologies are so goddam specific. Like, the story has to happen on a rainy Tuesday in a graveyard on Pluto, or something ridiculous like that. Never write something specifically for one publication. If it gets rejected, what are you going to do? Send it elsewhere? Editors are aware of what's being published out there, and they'll sniff you out quickly even if you do change the story a bit. That will lead to another rejection. There are exceptions. If you are invited to a publication requesting a specific kind of story, go for it. If you're invited, the chances that they'll accept it are higher than usual. The possibility of rejection is still there, so don't get too cocky, but you're probably going to get your story in there.

I've only ever broken this rule once. It was for a GG Allin anthology called BLOOD FOR YOU. I did it because I was reasonably sure I would be accepted not just because I'm friends with one of the editors (even friends will reject you sometimes in this business; don't take it personally, just roll with it and stay friends), but because I had a great story idea. GG Allin looking to score heroin in Leng? It was such an easy story to write that the only thing I was afraid of was that everyone had written one with Allin and Lovecraft. It genuinely surprised me to learn that mine was the only one.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #464: RUNAWAY

 To be read while listening to this. Also, Crime Story is a great show, and I highly recommend it. (Except for that ending. Oof.) And Superdawg, where that last shot was filmed, is a great hot dog place. You should go there. Get your fries with their cheese sauce. I'd also advise not getting ketchup on your hot dog. They will do it, but they will think less of you. Meaning, they won't kick you out like they would at Gene and Jude's, but you'll probably go on a list of some sort.

OK, now to start this thing for real. I've never been the kind of run-away-from-home sort of kid. Even back then I thought that was needlessly dramatic. But there was this one time that I did. I think I was seven years old. I lived in poverty at the time, and I was stuck with an abusive stepfather. So yeah, you can probably see why I did it.

I don't even remember what, specifically, set this off. All I remember is waiting until the sun went down, and then I got my backpack, which I put my most important belongings into. Pencils and paper for writing. My most important books, including the one that made me want to become a writer, which was The Haunted Fort by Franklin W. Dixon. Yes, a Hardy Boys book. And, for some inexplicable reason, my crayons.

Yeah, I was a kid, and yes, I had coloring books. But that's the thing: I didn't pack any coloring books, just the crayons. It must have made sense back then, though.

Once I had my things gathered together, I took off out the back door. I rushed down the rickety steps to the ground floor, snuck by the line of garages to the sidewalk and picked a direction. I didn't know where to go, but anywhere was better than there.

I didn't make it far. My mom caught up to me four blocks away and dragged me home, where I got a sound beating from my stepfather before being grounded for the rest of my natural life and then some. I wasn't even allowed to leave my room for a week, as it was summer and I had no school obligations.

I don't know why I was thinking about that today, but there you go;.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #463: VINDICATION

 

As most of you know I've been having problems with my guts for the last few years. More or less, it was a mystery illness. Sometimes it went unexplained. Sometimes it was pancreatitis. Sometimes it was gastroenteritis. But now I finally have a solid answer for what's wrong with me. And now that I do, I have serious doubts that I had pancreatitis or gastroenteritis or any of the other feeble diagnoses that I've been given over the years.

Also, everyone, up to and including ER doctors, was wrong. And I was right. In fact, many of you reading this now have told me what my problem really is, and you were all wrong, too. After my most recent stay in the hospital earlier this week, I feel vindicated.

I've mentioned before about ER doctors relying too heavily on Occam's Razor and not actually investigating an illness. You know, otherwise known as doing their jobs. They're not the only ones who lean on that one, though. Almost everyone does. Doing work is hard. If you tell an ER doctor that you drink heavily, then obviously that's the problem. Stop drinking and you'll be fine. Dummy.

But they are the dummies because they're too lazy to find out what is *really* wrong with you. They're impatient to get to the next patient. They only have a couple of minutes for you. Sadly, many real doctors rely on the ER doctor's diagnosis and go from there. This time? I met a doctor who actually wanted to find out what was wrong with me and treat me accordingly.

AND I FINALLY HAVE A REAL ANSWER! And sorry, everyone. Alcohol was NOT the problem. It was actually my oldest addiction that caused this: caffeine (more to the point, the Coca-Cola it comes in because I don't drink coffee). A real doctor came to me in my hospital room and told me that I had . . . I don't remember the name of it. I was gone on morphine at the time. He said that in some diabetics, if blood sugars get too high, it causes the stomach to freeze. You can still put stuff in it, but it's not going to go through it. Since the stomach freezes, all that stuff has no choice but to come back up the way it went down. Hence the constant puking. It also causes extraordinary pain (hence the painkillers).

So yeah. Alcohol had to go, more or less, one way or the other. But it did NOT cause my health issues. A lifetime of drinking ten Cokes a day (a conservative number, by the way; some of those Cokes were Super-Sized McDonald's Cokes) is what did it to me. Now I actually have a chance of winning this battle. They put me back on insulin, which is a hassle, but it's not that bad. After everything I've gone through, one gets used to needles even if they're going into one's stomach, self-administered.

I'm sure my future won't be hospital free going forward, but there will be a lot less ER visits. Because now I know, and knowing is half the battle.

Oh, and for the record, yes, the ER doctor put me on Ativan, which has one use for an alcoholic in the ER. It stops him from having seizures due to withdrawal. Despite me telling him that I don't drink every day anymore, and I don't need a drink to get out of bed anymore, he didn't believe me. Granted, alcoholics aren't exactly the most trustworthy people in the world, but still.

Here's a Craig Ferguson joke for you about alcoholics versus junkies. I've been an alcoholic, and while I've done heroin, I was never a junkie, but I've known a few. It sounds like a reasonable assessment.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #462: BOOMERANG

This fuckin' guy annoyed the shit out of me.
I'm glad he died in the second movie.
Don't worry. This GF isn't about him.

 

A long time ago in this very galaxy, I believed boomerangs were bullshit. Sure, I knew all about them from cartoons to Legend of Zelda, etc., but there was no universe in existence that would have convinced me that if you threw this bent piece of wood that it would turn around and come back to you. The very thought seemed insane to me.

And one day I found myself gifted with a boomerang. Now that I actually held one I knew for certain that there was no way this thing really worked. It felt like balsa wood in my hand. No fucking way.

So I packed it away for a couple of years, and I rediscovered it. I'm pretty sure I was in junior high at the time. I lived (and still live) across the street from the Prairie Path in Elmhurst, so I decided to test it out. I stood in the middle of a strip of "wild prairie" (actually tamed by the Elmhurst Park District) and with all of my might I threw the boomerang and watched it disappear into the distance.

Ha! I knew it! Fuckers had to get up pret-ty goddammed early in the morning to . . .

HOLY SHIT! IT'S COMING BACK TO ME AT FULL FUCKING FORCE! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!

I stood there helplessly as it bulleted back to where I stood, and I just knew I was going to get it in the face. I'd even made my peace with it. And then it dipped down and one end of the boomerang sank halfway into the ground directly between my legs. A few inches higher and it would have gotten me in the nuts.

So yeah. Boomerangs are not bullshit. I can see now why they're used as weapons.

But still. Fuck Captain Boomerang.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #461: WHAT IF . . . ?

 I'm higher than usual right now, probably because I had a few drinks with a friend earlier tonight, so this will have to be shorter than even last night.

What if we--us human beings--are cell components for earth, which is the complete cell. And all these planets and stars are part of one big being, the universe. And what if, by fucking up our cell, we're making life miserable for that being?

Whoa.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #460: THE CULT OF BRUNI

 In case you missed it, I have a new book coming out from Bizarro Pulp Press soon, and the cover was recently posted. You can read the entire article here. I bring it up because it asks if you are a part of the Cult of Bruni. I like the sound of that. I will take all eye sacrifices. Meaning, you can keep your eyes, but they have to move across the words of my books and stories. And if you'd like to leave an honest review, I would greatly appreciate it.

But if you truly want to worship me, and that might not be a great idea, I want you to know that the Eucharist is a little different than what you're used to. Let's just say my body is a cheeseburger, and my blood is Wild Turkey 101. And yes, transubstantiation will transform into my actual body and blood, you sick and beautiful cannibals and blood drinkers. This is the way I want to be remembered by you when I'm gone.

Or, to quote a great man, "This is the way."

Have I told you that I'm finally caught up on The Mandalorian?

One of these days I'm going to have to tell you about the "Cult of Personality" incident at a TGIFridays years back. I think it was one of my finer drunk moments.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #459: HORRIBLE THOUGHTS FROM MY HEAD #568,212

 

So this horrible thought is inspired by Windy City Heat. If you don't know what that is, it's a practical joke on a guy who desperately wants to be an actor. So they get a whole bunch of people to pretend they're Hollywood people and want him to star in this movie.

So yeah, what I'm about to say is exceptionally cruel, and if anyone actually does this to someone, I'll . . . probably do nothing. But I'll think a lot less of you.

So imagine a writer like most of us reading this. There is some level of success, but you're still working your day job. No sportscars or high level escorts for you in your near future. Just more of the grind.

And suddenly someone approaches you claiming to be a Hollywood producer. And there are many others around him. Actors, directors, etc. And they all want to pay you a lot of money for the rights to one of your novels. AND! They want you to write the screenplay for even more money. And because there are so many of them, you believe them. There are even planted stories online and on Wikipedia, so they seem pretty legit.

Except it's a practical joke. There's no money or fame in it for you. Just a lot of people laughing at your expense.

See? It's a fucking horrible thought, isn't it? I would never do something like that, of course. But I had the thought, didn't I?

Anyway, I'm going to sleep. When I wake up tomorrow, this blizzard better have been fucking overblown and I won't have any trouble getting to work. Goodnight, fuckers.