GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #534: SCHOOL'S OUT

 To be read to the tune of this.

A few of you have heard me talking about my three 3-hour IOP meetings since I got out of detox. Yesterday, on my 76th day without booze, I attended the final one of those. Not bad for a guy who had decided, during detox, that he was going to drink on his 44th birthday. Not bad at all.

I remember when I first heard about the meetings, and it bummed me out a bit. I really didn't want to lose nine hours a week to attending, but I committed to it because I thought it would be an important part of my recovery. It turned out to be true. In all honesty I'm kind of surprised that I got through it. But it's quite an achievement, I think.

I remember my first meeting. There were four of us, and it was the host's first group. I'm the only one of those four who got through to the end. It always makes me feel bad when someone attends a lot of these and then suddenly disappears. You hope for the best but you always think the worst. I felt especially bad when my roommate from detox stopped going. His act of kindness upon meeting him helped me get through this, especially those first few days. I was morose. I was shaking like a paint can at Ace Hardware. I felt downright miserable, and he was the first person I met there on the same level as me. He was cheerful and gave me a vigorous handshake, and I couldn't help but think, "How the hell is he in such a good mood? He's only been here a half an hour longer than me."

I'm glad I got to tell him how that helped me. I hope he's doing well out there. I hope all those who stopped attending are doing well. Who knows? Maybe they just went to different IOP meetings.

There's a part of me that will miss those meetings. There were a lot of great people there, and I'm glad I got to know them. But IOP has to end at some point. It's not meant to be a long term treatment. Eventually the baby bird has to learn how to fly, and I hope I do a pretty good job of that.

This is my 77th day. I told myself that I would stop counting the days after IOP stopped. I thought it was a bit morbid at times, but I've decided to keep going. I want to see my high score continue to go up.

Sorry if this GF column was overly cheerful. My regularly scheduled misanthropy will resume next week.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #533: THE FORGOTTEN FULLERSBURG ISLAND

 

Fullersburg is probably my favorite forest preserve ever. I've been there so many times I know the place intimately. So intimately that I know about a place that is fairly secret there, where they have a second waterfall. Everyone knows about the one by the Graue Mill, but very few know about that other one. I remember when I first found it I knew I'd been the only one to set foot there since the early 'Nineties. I found empty Pepsi cans with the old design from back then. That's how I know. If someone else had been down there, I feel certain that shit would have gotten cleaned up.

It sucks because now I can't get to the place. I can see the waterfall, but not the area I found nearby. For that you have to jump across the stream, and that involves jumping to a sturdy branch that overhangs said stream. You need two good feet for this, and I've got none. You know about my bad foot. My "better" foot is down a couple of toes. Possibly I'll be down another toe soon. I have a hole in the one next to the two stumps, so . . .

But that's not what I'm talking about tonight. See that bridge up there? It's closed off now. Has been for a few years. I'm not entirely sure why. The last time I had a close look it seemed to be intact and safe enough to cross. I'm irritated because I loved crossing that bridge and exploring the island there. There is one path, and it circles the small island, and there is one rest area with benches, tables, etc. I remember many years ago there had been a flood, and when I found the rest area, which is encircled by a stone wall that you have to step down into, there were fish stuck there. The flood had to have carried them in and stranded them when the waters subsided.

Maybe the flood is the reason they blocked off the bridge. I don't know. I miss that place. It was also good for watching deer because not a lot of people went over to the island. Not that there is a lack of deer in the woods, but they're more likely to stick around when viewed on the island instead of loping off into the wilderness.

It was also a good place to find frogs and turtles, and in the spring you could easily see armies of tadpoles swimming in the shallows.

Every year I hope they'll take down the barriers, and every year I'm disappointed. Here's to hoping for spring 2023 . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #532: THE NEW QUANTUM LEAP

(spoiler alert)

 

I am a huge Quantum Leap fan, but I've found the new series pretty frustrating. There are a number of reasons, but the ones that seem important to me are the only ones worth talking about.

My first complaint is that it's supposed to be a continuation of the original series, right? Remember that when this originally aired in the 'Eighties, the modern day was the futuristic world of the 'Nineties? The new show's modern day is 2022, but shouldn't it be an extension of their version of the 'Nineties? I think it should, but we get a regular looking 2022 that we could just look out the window and see. Where are the Al Calavicci suits?

Like this one!

And this one!

And this glorious fuckin' thing!

Quantum Leap 2022, you have greatly disappointed me.

My next complaint is the thing that made the original work is because a lot of it has nostalgia value to the viewers. Sam Becket is the same age as the demographic of the audience, and he can only Leap within his lifetime (with a few rare exceptions). That means that the audience gets to relive some of those older days. The important thing is, the focus of the show is on the past, not the present. The new show is focused on the present, and the past is almost incidental. The coolest parts, for me, of the original show were the ones from the present because they were so, so, so very rare, and when we got a glimpse of it, it was always awesome. Remember when Lee Harvey Oswald escaped into the world of the 'Nineties? That was fucking fantastic! I have no interest in the modern day 2022 portrayed on the new show.

My biggest complaint, though, is that it ruins the beauty of the ending of the original series. Here we have Sam, who has been Leaping for years, putting right what once went wrong. He always hopes the next Leap will bring him home, and it never does. The only help he has is from his best friend Al, who is a hologram to him. Without Al's help Sam probably doesn't know what he's supposed to do or how to Leap to the next story.

Let's talk about Al for a moment. He's been married, what, six times? He's miserable about the whole thing. His life has gone wrong, and he can trace it back to the moment he lost his first wife due to circumstances beyond his control. He missed out on his happily ever after because of this.

Sam suddenly finds himself in a position to give his best friend the greatest gift ever. He Leaps back to Al's first wife and makes sure that she sticks with Al this time. Sam knows that if he does this, he will never find his way home. Al would be taken out of the equation because if Al is happy, then he never meets Sam. As a result, Al never joins Project Quantum Leap. Sam would no longer have his best friend, and he's willing to make this sacrifice just to make Al happy.

So he does.

Sam not Leaping his way home is a downer of an ending, but it's actually a beautiful ending because of his sacrifice. It was perfect. We didn't need a continuation of the series. I felt bad for Sam, but I couldn't have asked for a better ending.

And here we are with a new Quantum Leap series, and they're refusing to acknowledge that Al's life changed. According to the new show he grew old, had a daughter and died, but he was definitely there. So did Sam sacrifice himself for nothing? The new series ruins the ending of the original. Kind of like The Rise of Skywalker renders Darth Vader's sacrifice at the end of Jedi pointless.

You can see my frustration, yes?

Argh. Just fucking . . . argh.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #531: NOT WALKING

 I miss being able to do a lot of things because of my bad foot, but the one thing I miss more than anything is night walking. I used to walk two and a half miles almost every night, and I got a lot of thinking done on those walks.

The most important thing I thought about during such sojourns was writing. That's when I figured out most of the writing problems I got myself into. I unpaint my way out of corners during these times. And I really don't have any way to do that now. I'm pretty much working without a net now.

I don't know if my writing has suffered because of it. I have a suspicion it might have, but I'm not sure.

I really, really miss my long walks. Now? I might make it around the block if I'm OK with being in agony for a while. An agony I can no longer drink away. Although I did manage to get some walking done in Oak Park the other day, and I managed to stand up for more than an hour on that day. The pain is always there, but it was pretty minimal that day.

Fucking hell, I wish I could walk my usual circuit again. Just once. Just one more time.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #530: DRUG DREAMS?

 So I've been going to IOP meetings for a couple of months now. Those are the 3-hour meetings I go to three times a week in my attempt to stay away from booze. The first thing we do is check in, and each of us goes over a checklist of things. One of the questions is, do you have drug dreams? They include alcohol in that, as they should. It's the PAWS part I almost always say no to.

But over the weekend I had a pretty strong drug dream. I dreamed that I was at a bar with friends, and I did what I always do at bars: I drank. A lot. Then, after a while, I remembered HOLY SHIT! I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THIS! The first thing I thought about, in my dream, was having to admit that I'm no longer on my winning streak. Remember how last week I talked about how rare it is for me to feel shame? I felt a deep shame in this dream. I thought, how could I show my face at my IOP meeting on Monday?

Intellectually, I know that I can do that easily. If you slip up, no one shames you. Yet at the same time I have this sense that if I did say, whoops, I'm one day from my last drink now, that my peers would be disappointed with me. Which wouldn't be the case if I did show up, by the way. As long as you're there, you're showing that you want to be better.

So it makes dream sense, but also at the same time, I think dreams do mean something. Nothing supernatural. Just a mishmash of shit that's moving around in your head. I'm pretty sure I subconsciously felt that I didn't want to disappoint the others in my IOP meeting.

That's probably a good sign, right?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #529: TALK TO ME

 To be read to this song. Although it will be difficult because that song is fucking hilarious, and you probably won't be able to concentrate on what I've written.

A while back, and this was while I was still drinking between my second amputation and the death of my grandmother, I watched Steve Lemme and Kevin Heffernan's stand up special. If you don't know who they are, they are two of the Broken Lizard guys. You know, Super Troopers. The two guys who went on to Tacoma FD. I'm not surprised to discover that Heffernan is probably not acting very much in that movie, but Lemme has this bit about the shame of getting caught jerking off. I tried to find it on YouTube so you could see what I mean, but I laughed my ass off because I knew how true that is. I'm not going to repeat what he said because there is no way I could do it justice, but I'd like to talk about that feeling of shame.

For the most part I am shameless. Many of you already knew that, but I am very sincere when I say that it's hard for me to feel ashamed. These days it's because I live my life in a way that I try not to do anything that would make me feel that way. But also, I don't care who knows that I jerk off. Everyone masturbates except perhaps for people who are asexual. Although there was a period of my life that I went years without roughing up the suspect. I lost my virginity at an early age, and my first time out I got the clap. (I'd tell that story, but one of the two people involved in making that happen has passed, and he had kids since this event, so I don't want them to have that image of him. The other is very much alive and could possibly face criminal charges, so I'm keeping my mouth shut.) That put a damper on any and all sexual feelings I had at the time. But once I started having sex again, I returned to beating the one-eyed wonder weasel with gusto.

But before I lost my virginity was the Golden Era of Jerking Off for me. I'd do it four or five times a day at minimum. I should mention that this was when I was in junior high. The summer between then and high school was when I, in the Beavis and Butt-Head parlance, scored.

I've only ever gotten caught with Rosy Palm and her five sisters once. There were a few close calls, but as Lemme says in the standup routine, when you hear someone at the door you have time to do one thing and one thing only. I always made sure that I only had one action I needed to take.

Except that once. I was home from school sick, and I was in the basement watching TV. Even as ill as I felt, I still got a hard on because, well, I was thirteen. When you're a thirteen year old boy, it's easier to count the times you *don't* have a hard on. So under the blanket I started to pound my meat. I didn't hear Gramps coming down the stairs until I saw him from the corner of my eye. I hoped that he hadn't noticed, so I crossed my legs under the blanket and pretended to be watching TV with great interest.

"I saw what you were doing," Gramps said. "That's a very bad thing. Don't ever do that again."

Way to shame me, Gramps. But I felt it. I felt that shame Lemme mentioned like a rotten fruit in the deepest pit of my guts. I didn't like it. No sir. Not one bit. Which is probably why I have since gone to great lengths to never feel it again.

But as a great man once said, I'm too old to go jumping into lockers. So fuck it. You catch me, you catch me. I'm sure I'll feel that shame again, but who knows? Maybe by now I won't feel it quite so bad.

This is part of that standup special I was talking about. If memory serves, he started talking about jerking off after this bit.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #528: IT'S MY 69TH DAY WITHOUT BOOZE

Tee-hee!

 

Yes! It's true! It's my 69th day without booze! 69 long (heh-heh) days. 69 long (huh-huh) nights.

Not 68. Not 70 (that's tomorrow). But 69!

OK, that's enough. I'll stop now.

One more for the road.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #527: A MORTAL WOUND

 By now you all know how much I love books. According to my mom, my first word was "book." I don't really consider myself much of a criminal, but I'd probably steal books. And so on.

The problem is, since I'm packing all my shit, I can't buy more books, at least not for now. That would just be something else to pack. I can't tell you how much this hurts me. Whenever I pass a bookstore I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I've been mortally wounded.

But last week I couldn't *not* buy Stephen King's new book. And I tried desperately to not buy any other books when I made the trek to Anderson's in Naperville to do so. But you know me. And you can probably guess that I failed. You'd be right.

I couldn't stop myself! I had to do it! Damn you all!

And damn me, too. And you know that I had to get a few books at Printers Row, too, so . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #526: SHIRTS VS SKINS

 Sometimes I wonder if school is still the same way it was when I was there. I have my doubts. The world has moved on, as a famed gunslinger once said. I doubt that showers after PE are mandatory. I doubt that the bathroom stalls still don't have doors. And I'm pretty sure teachers screaming at students is frowned upon these days.

But then there is other stuff. You know how, when it came time to play basketball, the boys teams were split up between shirts and skins? Meaning, one team kept their shirts on, the others off? I fucking hated that. Being a fat kid, I always wound up on the skins team. No one wanted to see my fat ass wheezing across a basketball court, and quite frankly I didn't want to be seen like that. The PE teachers always chose who were shirts and who were skins, and I'm almost certain that they conspired against me to make sure I was always with the skins, probably out of some fat shaming thing.

But they can't do that anymore, right? I remember when Gramps told me about PE when he was a kid, and he said swim class was done in the nude. For the boys, at least. They didn't even get the Black Beauties that we wound up with at York Community High. Just hang out with your wang out. Rock out with your cock out. At least we had banana hammocks, even if they did leave nothing to the imagination. So shirts and skins isn't a thing anymore, right?

Right?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #525: DAD IN MY FACE

 So yesterday I shared a pictures of my mom and dad, and it reminded me of something that happened a while back, back when I'd just gotten out of the hospital for my second toe amputation. If you saw those pictures, you know that I look more like my mom. A lot more. The last time I saw my dad, I'd been with him in Vegas. His neighbor was also there, and he'd asked my dad, pointing at me, "Does he look more like you or his mom?"

"Oh, he definitely looks like his mom," Dad said. And it's true. Very true.

So imagine my surprise when I was shaving for the first time out of the hospital, and I saw my dad's face in my reflection. It's very odd (although it could have been the oxy I was on at the time). I'm big like Dad was (although I beat him on height). I'm hairy like Dad was (although my back hair never got to the bigfoot-like thickness of his). And I have a giant head, just like Dad's was. It's one of the reasons I don't wear hats. None of them look good on me, and they always look tiny. If I was a dickhead, I'd get one of those giant Stetsons Texans favor. I'm sure that would fit me, but I'd look like a prick. Well, more than I already do.

But seeing Dad look back at me from the mirror was very weird. It threw me off that day, and I couldn't shake the sensation. This has also been on my mind a lot lately because Dad died of not just one heart attack but several all at once. If memory serves, his dad died of the same thing. On Saturday I saw Clerks 3, which has a heart attack at the, uh, heart of the story. And I've always suspected I would die of a heart attack, too.

I guess you have to die of something, and if I've got to go, I'd rather it be something quick like that. As opposed to, say, cancer. A long drawn out illness where your life gets worse and worse and worse until you don't have it anymore at all does not suit me, thank you.

Either that, or maybe I won't die. Maybe I'll be the first person in history to not die. That would be kind of nice, at least until the earth dies in the expansion of the sun. But maybe by then I'll be out in the galaxy. I've always wanted to go to space, but I'm a tall guy. Space is for short people. But maybe by then they will have figured out how space can be for tall people, too. I guess I'll have to get in shape for that.

I have a fantasy, but I won't mention it here. Back when I thought the rest of my life could be measured in months instead of years, I wrote a final Goodnight, Fuckers. One day someone will post that here, and you'll know about my fantasy. And when that day comes, I hope I'm right. I have my doubts, but who knows? The universe is a weird place.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #524: ALMOST A HOARDER

 I'm almost a hoarder, and the more of my stuff I pack up for my unfortunate move from this place, the more I wonder how I got that way. To illustrate how bad things used to be, whenever I removed cellophane wrappers from something, I kept them. This was decades ago. I have no idea why I was doing that, but I'd keep them. Do you remember those annoying stickers on CDs? I kept those, too. I don't know why. I just did. I finally came to my senses and threw that shit out, but the compulsive hoarder in me is still there, lurking. Waiting to save everything.

As I'm going through my shit, I find myself baffled as to why I kept some of it. It's just crazy to me. There's no way I would have a use for some of this stuff. Ever. But I don't want to throw it out. I'm forcing myself to do it, but my soul resists every attempt.

I think I can trace it back to when I was a kid. I remember driving with my mom in her blue Mustang. This must have been around '83 or so. We used to drive around a lot, and the windows were always down. I had this cupholder that you'd slide a tab into the rubber gasket for the passenger window. I'd constantly have a drink there, usually Coke. One day I reached for the can and accidentally hit the bottom of the cupholder, sending it flying out the window. I was horrified. I tried to get my mom to stop the car so we could go back for it, and she wouldn't do it. "It's only a cupholder," she told me. "We can get another one."

Five-year-old me tried to tell her that it wouldn't be the same because the new one wouldn't be MINE.

Fast forward a few years, and I was playing baseball with others. I had a ball given to me by my dad's parents, and we were using that. Someone hit a pop up that went into the woods, and we couldn't find the ball. I freaked out because dammit, that was my ball. Given to me as a gift, no less. I couldn't lose it. That's crazy. I scoured the area looking for it while the others knew to give up. Besides, no ball meant no more game. I couldn't accept that until my mom's parents found me and dragged me home.

So whatever this urge is, it's been there a long time. And I really need to get over it right now. I can't take everything with me when I leave this place. I have my stuff prioritized. Books are the most important and can't be abandoned. (That includes comic books.) Movies and music comes next. Stuff that might be valuable comes after that, but I'm probably going to sell that stuff. Childhood playthings are last, as I can't let that shit go yet. I'm 44, so I doubt I'll ever play with my Transformers or GI Joes ever again, but this part of me refuses to let it go.

At least I don't have a giant box full of ripped cellophane wrappers to pack up.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #523: NEEDLE DISPOSAL

Yeah, it's worse than that. Not even Renton would reach into the Printers Row port-o-potties.

 Whenever I'm not at home I get concerned about getting rid of needles. I'm a diabetic, so I need to test my blood sugar at least three times a day. Then I have two insulin pens. I use one to inject myself three times a day and the other to shoot up once. The lancets for blood sugar testing are small and could get anywhere and come with no guards, so I only use those at home. But the insulin pens? Those needles do come with guards, so if I were to throw them in the garbage, chances are good that if someone reached into that garbage, they wouldn't stick themselves. Unless they're a child with tiny fingers.

I'm very careful about this kind of thing. I won't toss a needle unless I'm certain no one will go rooting around in that garbage. And I will also ask if there are any children likely to reach in there. Life as a diabetic can be pretty weird, I guess.

One of the things I liked about Printers Row was my ability to throw needles away without thought. The reason being, I had to use port-o-potties when injecting myself. Yeah, it's gross, but I had sterile pads to make sure I didn't get any infections. After shooting up, I'd toss the used needles into the toilet. I did this because I felt, to a moral certainty, that there isn't a single human being in the world who would reach into that toilet. I'm pretty sure if someone dropped their wallet down there, for example, they wouldn't go after it. If I did that, I'd think to myself, "Well, it was nice having those things in my wallet. Oh well. I guess I have to get a new driver's license."

Even if someone, through some form of lunacy or another, actually did reach down there, my bloody needle would be the least of their concerns. I can understand if someone wore a biohazard suit, they might reach down there. But the needles have those guards around them, so it's impossible that they would tear the suit even if it was flimsy as shit.

No, there's no way anyone is going to pull a Renton on these things.

Don't be Renton.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #522: METALLICA VS MEGADETH

 To all three of you who read the Zimventures, you know all about D-Dolla', who is based on a real person. He is one of those people who believes, with all his heart, that you can only like either Metallica or Megadeth. This is, of course, a stupid belief. It is familiar, though, as a lot of people seem to think that way. I am of the firm opinion that you can like both bands, that there is no need to pick sides. D-Dolla' loves Metallica and hates Megadeth. We used to work together at a place called Conference Plus, which sadly no longer exists. I decided to feed into his bullshit just to fuck with him, so I would always take Megadeth's side.

It was an easy POV to argue from because for the longest time, and I apologize to Metallica because I really do like them, but they sucked for quite a bit. I started seeing them pull out of it a bit with Death Magnetic, but at the time it just wasn't good enough to top Megadeth's albums. Megadeth put out more albums and they were all better than anything Metallica did after And Justice for All and before their latest.

D-Dolla' is no longer a friend (or even an acquaintance). He cut me and just about everyone else he knew at Conference Plus out of his life. It's a shame because when Metallica released Hardwired . . .  To Self-Destruct, it was actually better than Megadeth's Dystopia. D-Dolla' only ever once got the best of me in nearly ten years of knowing him, and I'm sure he would have found pleasure in getting one over on me again. I would have fully admitted that Dystopia just couldn't beat Hardwired . . . if only he hadn't excommunicated me from his life.

Ah well. Megadeth, in proper Megadeth form, put out yet another new album, and it kicks ass. I'd say it's about equal with Hardwired. My favorite song is probably "Mission to Mars." Maybe it's a little nerdy for a metal song, but I dig it, even the groan-inducing part where they reference "Rust in Peace." If you're looking for something that sounds a bit closer to classic Megadeth, I'd advise you to listen to "Dogs of Chernobyl," which is a lot of fun. For something a bit more lively, I really enjoyed "Life in Hell." 

So there you go. Happy listening!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #521: 60 DAYS AND COUNTING

 Today is my 60th day without alcohol. That's two months, more or less. Also, that's crazy. I'm kind of surprised I've lasted that long, and I'm even more surprised that this has been super easy. I rarely think about drinking, and on the occasions that I do, it's easy to just stop thinking about it.

I kind of marveled at the idea of getting through Printers Row without having a single drink. Every year I show up hungover, and every year I drink at least a six pack of Alpha King each day while selling books. More often than not I'm also nipping away at a flask of cheap whiskey. By the time we get to the usual live reading (which we didn't do this year, sadly) I'm pretty drunk. This year the only time I thought about drinking was discussing detox with my friends. The only urge I had to drink was very brief. I went into 7-Eleven to get something to eat. I'd forgotten that in the city it is common for them to sell whiskey behind the counter. I saw Jim Beam and Jameson, and I thought for a second that buying some booze would be a good idea, but the urge died pretty quickly.

The only time I truly felt like I might give up and drink came the weekend before last. I'd gotten dinner with a friend, and we were going to see a movie, but we were in the dead zone where all the movies had just started, and the next round would start in a couple of hours. Usually we stop at a bar to drink that time away, and I very seriously thought about doing just that. I think my friend might have seen those gears turning in my head and said that we could call it a night instead, which is what we did. But that was the closest I've come so far to drinking again.

It's weird because I had every intention of drinking on my 44th birthday. That would have been a few days out of detox. Even when I was still at RCA I knew to a moral certainty that I would get a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and drink my birthday away. I also told myself that I wouldn't drink again after that for a long time. Which I meant, but who knows how that would have worked out?

But I didn't drink on my birthday. Earlier that day I'd reminded myself to stop off at the liquor store for that bottle, but it just slipped my mind. When I realized I'd forgotten, it didn't bother me all that much.

Living without booze is pretty crazy for me. Then again, I've made friend with lunacy many, many times, so . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #520: FLOODING ELMHURST AND GETTING RAINED OUT AT PRINTERS ROW

 The way it works in Elmhurst, where I live, is that if there is a torrential rainfall, all the sewer drains lead to the massive quarry in town. It's to prevent flooding, but there is a catch. If memory serves correctly there is a switch that has to be flipped to make sure this happens.

If that is, indeed, the case someone forgot to flip it yesterday. I knew the rain would be bad for Printers Row, but I didn't know quite how bad it would be. I got soaked to the skin just going from my house to the car. And then I started driving. I saw a puddle that looked fine, but about midway through I discovered that I was up to the halfway mark on my car door in the middle of this puddle. The only way I got through it was because I had momentum.

Along the way I saw other extraordinarily deep puddles. Even by the 7-Eleven I usually go to, a giant pond had formed on York making it damn near impossible to get through.

What I should have done was say fuck it and stay home. That's not what I did, though. Instead I found a way to the Eisenhower that didn't involve getting stuck in a flood. I still nearly hydroplaned at the bottom of the onramp. Getting through the horrible rains was not fun at all. It stopped raining long enough for me to pay for my parking and get to our table, but then it rained so hard that I saw the street in front of me fill up with a small creek of running water.

I knew there was no way we were going to sell anything. But I was there, so I figured I'd stick it out. Besides, getting home would probably be a complete and utter bitch. I felt certain that my one way out of town would have flooded after I'd gotten through.

We called it quits, and I managed to get home just fine. However, on the way back I saw the inbound side of the Eisenhower had been blocked off, and there was a detour. Cars were backed up for miles. This was around the Des Plaines River, so I figured the water must have overflowed onto the expressway. I'm just glad it didn't spill over to the outbound side.

Still, yesterday was not much fun at all. I remember a time when both days of Printers Row were *not* rainy. Now it looks like we're going to have to suffer through rain at least one day of the weekend. That's been the case for the last few years. It sucks because that's my favorite show of the year.

The rain also killed my wining streak. I haven't gone home with any of my own books in years. Ah well. To quote a great man, "So it goes."

POST PRINTERS ROW BOOK SALE

 Since we got rained out on the second day of Printers Row, I still have stock of my own books. Here is what I have and what each one costs. And I'll tell you what, I'll give you a deal. Buy any three books? That's $30 in total, shipping included.

-THE LIFE AND TIMES OF HIERONYMUS ALOYSIS ZIEGE: 23 copies. $12 each. If you buy this book, you will also get a copy of SHIT POEMS NUMBER 2 for free! Limited to 30 copies! First come, first serve.

-TALES OF UNSPEAKABLE TASTE: 3 copies. $14 each.

-BLOOD: 5 copies. $12 each.

-POOR BASTARDS AND RICH FUCKS: 2 copies. $10 each.

-TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE: 2 copies. $12.

-STRIP: 1 copy. $15.

-GONZO RISING: 1 copy. $12.

And what the hell? I have a bunch of copies of issues 1 and 3 of TABARD INN. I'll throw those in for free for any purchase. I'd put issue 2 in there, too, but I'm pretty sure I'm out of those.

RIP PETER STRAUB

 

By now you've heard the news that Peter Straub, author of Ghost Story, Shadowland, Koko and many others has passed. He was a hell of a talent, and I will always wonder what the third part of the Talisman trilogy he was writing with Stephen King might have been like.

I wrote a poem about him once. It's probably not very reverent to post on the date of his death, but what the hell. This is from the first volume of Shit Poems, which is out of print.

PISSING WITH CREATORS: PETER STRAUB 

By John Bruni 

The first time I got a press pass 

was for the first C2E2—So I wore a suit. 

I attended a panel for Vertigo. 

Surprise! 

Peter Straub was a guest! 

I wanted to win stuff, but every time I raised my hand 

I was skipped. 

Karen Berger told me it was because of the suit. 

She thought I worked for C2E2. 

 

We all rushed out. 

I had to piss. 

There was the bathroom—two urinals free. 

I took one. 

And Peter Straub pissed next to me. 

I wondered if I could ask for an interview. 

(I was working for the Napalm Assault) 

But I chickened out. 

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #519: WEEK OF SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION

 As most of you know, on occasion, I do a Week of Shameless Self-Promotion for my work. I set a week aside and post a whole bunch of links to my stuff, and some of it is free, and then I shut up about being a writer until the next WoSS-P starts. More or less.

It is with deep regret that I am bringing this age to an end. The last two times I did it, I noticed a drop in interest and sales. I'm guessing that the plague and inflation (*ahem* corporate greed) have something to do with it. So I'm retiring that plan for now. Instead I'm going to take the time, once a day, to pimp something I've done. Most of it will be stuff you can buy, but there will also be free stuff, too. And not to worry, I will still ramble about stuff and quote movies and shows and post ridiculous memes, etc. It will just be in addition to pimping something once and only once a day.

I may pimp more than once a day if I have something new that just came out, just so you're aware. And I'll post reminders about my website maybe once a week. We'll see how things go.

Also, Monday is Labor Day. I've decided to take a week off from this column. It will resume the week after that. In the meantime don't take any wooden nickels, and . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #518: BEHOLD! MY STUFF!

 

A while back, while I still had nine toes and my grandmother was still alive and I wasn't going to be homeless in a matter of months, I considered starting a series here, maybe not for GF, but for my blog about the cool stuff I have. Then life took a hard nosedive, and now I'm scrambling to get said stuff packed away before the final knock on my door comes. I anticipate that it will come sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving.

I thought maybe I'd start doing the series while I packed, but I have so many things and such little time that if I did, I might not get everything squared away in time. Perhaps someday I'll do this series, possibly when I'm unpacking things in wherever I get to live. I doubt I'll be getting into low income housing, as there is a wait of at least a year at each place I applied. They said that a lot of people get taken off the list when a new apartment becomes available due to them finding other living arrangements in that time, so it might not be as impossible as it sounds, but the odds are against me on this one.

I do have a few things that are worth money, but almost all of those things are very dear to me, and I don't want to part with them. If I start thinking about cannibalism as a legitimate way of feeding myself, perhaps I'll reevaluate those items. We shall see.

Until then I just need to get everything packed as quickly as I can.