GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #555: HALLOWEEN HUMBUG

 

*sigh* I'm a terrible horror author. Yeah, yeah, I know. But here it is. I've talked about this before, but I don't remember if I was this clear about it. So here it goes.

I don't give a flying fuck about Halloween.

It used to be my favorite holiday. I went trick or treating long after I should have stopped. Even though I still dress up for Halloween parties and work (if it's on a weekday), my heart's not really in it. I'd carve pumpkins and put up decorations, the whole nine yards. But not anymore. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually like Christmas more. It's the only holiday I care about anymore. I know it's full of shit and lies, but I like the giving gifts part. Too bad my surviving family is scattered to the winds and I'm not likely to do the Christmas stuff again.

Getting back to Halloween, I don't get excited to watch horror movies during October, either. I watched horror movies every single day of my life. I went through the entire horror sections of every local video rental store around the time I was in college. But now I just don't care. I keep thinking I should check out newer flicks, but I never do. The interest just isn't strong in me. I'm kinda interested in the new Hellraiser, but I don't know if I'll ever get around to it. I couldn't possibly care less about the new Texas Chainsaw Massacre. New Leprechaun? Not for me. And I've never cared about Michael Myers. I respect the original Halloween's place in the genre, but I thought it was a bore when I first saw it. I've only ever enjoyed two Halloween movies. Season of the Witch (of course) and Rob Zombie's Halloween 2 because it was just so bizarre and different from what I came to expect of those silly movies.

(There are only two slashers I care about anymore. Freddy, obviously, but I've made my peace with the fact that Robert Englund is never going to do another one of those. That's fine. And Chucky. Holy shit, that show is awesome. Chucky keeps getting better and crazier the older he gets.)

I still dig horror books. I doubt I'll ever stop reading those. But it might be a long time before I get into horror movies again.

So what did I do for Halloween this year? Not much. I dressed up for work as Billy Butcher from The Boys, but that's about it.

Well . . . maybe I did something else. You might recall that my usual Halloween ritual involves watching Night on Bald Mountain from Fantasia. Did you know that Bela Lugosi posed for the cartoonists for that short? Pretty interesting. Anyway, if you want to take a look, check it out here.

Oh yeah! I also like this one.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #554: BLOOD CUMSHOT

 Relax, this isn't about that scene from Antichrist. You know the one. No, this is something that's been irritating me of late. I'm sure my fellow diabetics have experienced this, but ever since I quit drinking my blood tests have gotten, er, bloody.

It used to be I'd jab myself with the needle and have to squeeze my finger to get blood out. Now it comes too easily. I jab and gently squeeze, and the next thing I know I've got a blood cumshot all over my face, neck and chest. And then the fucker won't stop bleeding. I have to put pressure on it for a good five minutes, and sometimes that isn't enough either. What the fuck?

And then there's the Easy Cheese thing. You know when you're nearing the end of the can and how it can suddenly explode on you? Again: face, neck and chest. I've had blood and cheese all over my glasses of late.

Yeah, that's right. A cheese cumshot.

Ye fucking spheres! What the fuck am I babbling about? Ah, it's been a rough day, and I haven't been sleeping well. Fuck this. I'm off to bed. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #553: BORN TO BE MILD PART 1

So I'm not what you would call a risk taker, physically speaking. I mean, aside from abusing my body with decades worth of alcohol and a few flirtations with harder drugs. And I guess drinking gallons of Coke a day for nearly my entire life. I'm talking about stuff like skydiving. Or doing Jackass type stuff. Or even playing sports. I remember when the football coach at my high school tried to get me on the team because he thought I could beat the shit out of people on the field. I said no because I kind of liked getting around without crutches.

So I'm not a big fan of motorcycles. I know, everyone on the fucking planet thinks they're cool as shit. Everyone has their own fantasies about rolling down the highway with a ton of Harley between their legs. I just don't get it.

I can trace it back to my Uncle Bill, the one who married my Aunt Sue, not my dad's brother. He had a motorcycle, and he loved tearin' ass down the road.

Even as a child I didn't see the appeal, but one day I was hanging out with my cousin, and Uncle Bill decided to give us rides on his motorcycle. My cousin went first and loved the hell out of it. Then I got on and was taken on the terror ride of my life. I don't think I was older than five at the time, but I remember the sheer terror of going what felt like a million mph with the wind ripping at my face. I didn't wear glasses yet--that would be three years later--so I felt every inch of that goddam wind. I remember thinking, well shit, I guess this is how I'm going to die. When I got off the motorcycle I couldn't walk straight. I felt like I was in a daze and that I probably had died, but my brain hadn't caught up to that fact yet.

I tell a lot of people this story, and they still don't understand how stupid I think riding a motorcycle is. I remember feeling vindicated, however, when a friend of mine who fantasized about riding a motorcycle all her life told me she finally understood me. Part of her fantasy had been to ride just behind a hot guy, and she got her wish, much to her dismay. She did not like the ride, but I suspect it was mostly because she didn't know where to put her legs and wound up getting a horrible burn from the exhaust pipe.

So yeah. I still don't get it. And I have even worse memories from when I was arrested for DUI at a Harley-Davidson dealership, but I think I've told that story here before. Anyway, fuck that noise.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #552: TORTURE PORN

 So recently I mentioned something from Ty and That Guy about how snuff films should have awards shows, and that they should be called the Snuffies. It made me think of something horrible, and I thought I would share that with you all tonight.

You know how people who do certain jobs will see them depicted in movies and talk shit about how Hollywood doesn't know what it's doing? For example, I'm sure dentists probably picked apart Corbin Bernsen's performance in The Dentist. Or perhaps a stockbroker talked shit about the depiction of their job in The Wolf of Wall Street. I know I've heard of detectives talking about how they would never do the things done by Morgan Freeman and Brad Pitt in Se7en. That kind of thing.

Do people who torture and murder people on film look at movies like, say, Hostel and think, "Yeah, that's not how it is in real life"? "Oh, I would never use a bamboo splinter to pry up someone's fingernails. Too cliche. It's much more satisfying to use a blunt butter knife." Does someone like that watch The Girl Next Door and say, "That would never go down that way. That's so unrealistic, this is insulting."? Things like that.

Maybe there's such a thing as thinking too much. I'm going to stop now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #551: MAKE IT AWKWARD FOR EVERYONE

 

So why is it that when men go bald they want to look like badasses? I can't really answer that question myself because I still have all my hair, and it looks like it's going to stick around for a while. I think it's one of the few good looking features I have, and I think I'd be upset if it went away. All the same I think I would look horrible if I was bald. My head is really weirdly shaped, so even if I did go for the Bruce Willis look I think it would appear very, very bad.

I think I'd have no choice but to make it awkward for everyone. Like, I'd draw my hair on my scalp with a Sharpie. Make it look really obvious so people would wonder about my sanity. Or maybe I'd draw a big Charlie Brown curl on my forehead.

Good grief!

Ooh! I know! I could have a really bad combover like Gramps did. He only had a fringe around the sides and back of his head, but he grew three strands on one side super long to put over the top of his head, kinda like Homer Simpson. That would really gross people out.

Or perhaps a skullet would be the way to go. A friend of mine once told me he was going to do that if he went bald.

I guess I could also shave it all except for a vertical strip at the back of my head and tell everyone it's a mohawk. I should probably shave my beard, too, and give myself a pencil line mustache. I'm talking more like Willem Dafoe in Wild at Heart instead of John Waters. The possibilities are endless!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #550: ADVENTURES IN TERRESTRIAL RADIO

 Once again I find myself driving a rental because my car got fucked up for some reason or another. This time it would have been my second totaled car in just as many years. I was not happy about that, but at least I found a way that it's not totaled.

The last time I had a rental I lucked out and it had Sirius/XM, but all other times I was stuck without so much as a CD player, leaving me to the hell of terrestrial radio. It's not so bad, I guess. Every once in a while it's good to check in with plain ol' radio. They do play songs I enjoy but don't often listen to. Plus I have a soft spot for "Carry on Wayward Son" by Kansas. Yeah, yeah, I know.

One thing I truly don't miss about terrestrial radio is how often they'll play the same song. It just depends on which station you listen to. It took only one day for me to hear the same song twice on 97.1, and that was Phil Collins. Not Genesis, mind you, but Phil Collins. I'll let you guess which song. I'm sure you know the answer.

And yes, they played "Carry on Wayward Son" twice, too.

But it's nice to see we don't just have The Drive anymore. Looks like we have another rock station in 95.5, and I got some Metallica last night, which made me happy. And you know what? It's not even one of the regular tunes you hear. It was "The Call of Ktulu," which was perfect for a fall evening. It put me in just the right mood. Metallica doesn't get enough credit for their instrumentals, which are probably my favorites of their songs.

So I guess it's not all bad. It was good to hear a few oldies. I'll be very happy when I get my car back. I still don't have Sirius/XM, but I have my CDs. Alestorm, Blue Oyster Cult, Megadeth, Korpiklaani, Ghost and a few others are in my regular rotation. It'll be nice to get back to that.

Very well. If you guessed "In the Air Tonight," you would be right. Congratulations, I guess.

And just because I like a song doesn't mean it's sacred to me. I also thoroughly enjoy GWAR's cover of "Carry on Wayward Son."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #549: THE TOWN DRUNK

 Sunday will be the 100th day since my last drink. I don't usually write these things on Sundays, and those nights are busy anyway, so I'll get a head start on this. Boy, will it be embarrassing if I fall off the wagon tomorrow . . .

I used to work as a parts driver for the City of Elmhurst. Back then one of my duties was to give employees rides when needed, in particular police officers. When the cop cars needed to be dropped off, I'd give the officers a ride back to the PD so they can continue doing their jobs.

(Incidentally, I had my own set of keys that would start any Elmhurst cop car. Every time you think I'm irresponsible just remember that I never--not once--ever took advantage of that fact and the fact that I used to know the code to get into the PD garage. I could have gone joyriding at any time in a cop car, and the chances of me being caught were fairly low. But I never did that.)

This time I was giving an officer a ride to the garage to pick up his car. On the way I saw this middle-aged guy weaving on a bike, headed toward Rt. 83 on St. Charles. This was in front of Kohl's, and if you know the area it is a terrible place to ride a bike under the best of circumstances.

"See that guy?" the officer said. "That's our town drunk."

I felt offended at first. You mean, *I* am not the town drunk? How could that possibly be? It was a pretty arrogant thing to think considering that I wasn't that hard of a drinker back then. I only drank on weekends and very rarely to excess. There were times, sure, but they were few and far between. I was nowhere near being an alcoholic yet, but I was on my way. Under no circumstances could I have ever qualified for being a town drunk.

But I felt jealous. I should be the town drunk. Should I drink more? Was that what it took?

The officer continued to tell me about this guy, and it was a pretty sad story. He lived at home with his elderly mom who watched nothing but game shows all day, and this guy had to get out to have any kind of a life. So he'd get plastered in bars and get in trouble with the law. He was riding the bike because his license had been permanently revoked.

What a weird person to be jealous of. I thought about that guy often. That was waaaaaaay back in the early post-9/11 days. I'd put it at around 2002 or so. I was still in my early twenties and had no idea how low I'd sink into booze. There were a few times, in my drunkest of moods, that I wondered if I would ever qualify for the position of town drunk. It never occurred to me that I'd have to be out in public to even have a chance at the title. By the time the booze really took hold I was mostly an at-home drinker. I'd gotten a DUI, but I was found not guilty. I was nowhere near losing my license.

It never occurred to me during that time if that poor bastard was still alive. In fact the thought just occurred to me now as I write this. I'd wager he's gone. His mother surely is. Considering my own situation, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to deal with it if I was still drinking like a fiend. If he didn't get help, then he's probably dead and gone.

If he is, though, I wonder if the Elmhurst cops still tell stories about him. The guy I talked to seemed to think he was pathetic but mostly harmless. He didn't hate the guy or make fun of him. He just thought the guy was sad and slightly amusing.

Does his name still ring in the halls of the PD to this day? If so, maybe he's not quite so dead and gone as I think. They say you die twice. Once when you physically die. Second when the last person who remembers you dies.

A somber thought for a Friday night. Sleep tight.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #548: HEY BRUNI!

You know how some people call you by your first name, some by your last? A shocking number of people call me John Bruni all the time. I guess it's just the way my name sounds? I'd say 85% of the people I know do that. It's rare when someone calls me John, although I will say everyone at work calls me that probably because there is only one other John there, and he's the CEO. We're pretty easy to differentiate.

But a lot of people call me Bruni. It's natural sounding. I'm good with that. Here's the thing: I'm the only Bruni I know in the Elmhurst area. Whenever someone calls out "Hey Bruni!" They're usually talking to me.

A few years back I went out to visit my Vegas family. Dad, my stepmom and my brother. My sister wasn't there at the time. I think she was out of state. Regardless, my dad and my brother took me out into the desert to shoot guns. I meant to do an Everyone's Got One column about the experience because it's pretty strange. I'm not a big fan of guns, and having fired a bunch of them, I can continue to say that. I know for a fact that I should not own one, and--that's a story for another day. I'm OK with responsible gun ownership, and that describes my dad and brother's attitude.

The point is, a bunch of my brother's friends showed up, and while I was talking with my dad, I heard someone shout, "Hey Bruni!"

I thought, naturally, given my experience, that they were talking to me. I turned with a smile on my face, waiting to greet whoever it was. Turns out, they weren't talking to me. They were talking to my brother. I think my face burned slightly with embarrassment. Do you know how rarely I feel embarrassed? Even though I probably should feel it more often? It's the same with shame, but we've discussed that before.

No one noticed, so I turned back to Dad and saw, whoops, he noticed. He had an amused grin on his face. "Yeah, I know. It still gets me, too."

I'm sure if my name was Kopoulos, like my mom's maiden name, that wouldn't have happened. But I think about that day often and get weirded out by it.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #547: MY FLASK COLLECTION

I love Justified.

 So I've been packing all my shit for my inevitable move, and over the weekend I discovered my flask collection. That was my 93rd day free of booze, and this is my 96th. What the hell am I going to do with these things?

During IOP one of my fellow addicts talked about finding a bottle of booze not too long after this person's first sober day. This person talked about not knowing what to do with it and not wanting to pour it down the sink because, hey, that cost money. At least it can work as a gift, right? I'm the same way, so I think about that story a lot mostly because it is entirely possible that while packing my shit I will find a hidden bottle. I had a bunch of them squirreled away throughout my bedroom for a rainy day. I'm pretty sure I drank them all, but what if I didn't? Would I be able to do as my friend did? Would I be able to pour it down the drain?

I honestly don't know. It hasn't come up (yet), so maybe I'll never know. But the closest I've come is finding those flasks. None of them had anything in them. They didn't tempt me to go out to the liquor store, either. BUT! I did open them and take a whiff at the insides. Holy fucking hell, I miss drinking. I'm still not feeling any cravings, but the smell brought back memories.

What am I going to do with these things? I have a pretty sweet Justified flask. I know I'll probably clean it out and give it back to the friend who gifted it to me. The others? Do I just throw them out? Some of them were gifts, too. Or maybe they're worth something? I don't know what the market is for stainless steel. Probably nothing, right? Do pawn shops take this sort of thing?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #546: TOO MANY BOOKS

 I know. I'm the same way. "Too many books?" No such thing. You fool! How could you even joke about such a thing?

Well. Maybe. JUST MAYBE. Possibly. I have too many books. In all likelihood.

So I don't know how much time I've got left in this place. I assumed that the bank would claim this house sometime between Halloween and Thanksgiving, but from my understanding they have to give us a 30-day notice before sending the sheriff in. We haven't gotten that yet, so maybe it won't be quite so soon. Regardless, I've been packing my shit. Almost all of my books have been packed. I've kept only a few available because I know they're next on my reading list, or if I can't find the book that's supposed to be next, here are a bunch that can take its place.

All my bookcases except for one are now falling apart. It seems that I have so many books that the only thing holding these bookcases up were, uh, those books that I've now packed away. The backs are falling off, the shelves are warped, the pegs are broken. I can probably fix a couple of them with a hammer and nails, but one of them is absolutely useless now. There is no possible way I can ever use this thing to hold books again.

So maybe there is such a thing as too many books.

Maybe.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #545: ANOTHER GF ABOUT CROSSED, SO YOU KNOW IT'S GOING TO BE FUCKED UP

This horsecock tastes delicious.

 

OK, I've come up with some pretty fucked up ideas before, but this one might be going a bit too far. Just . . . just hear me out.

You know how porn on occasion tries to make a serious movie with a lot of actual fucking in it? Why not do what no one else will dare to do? Why not make a XXX-rated pornographic Crossed movie? Horror movies can never go far enough to truly make a Crossed adaptation that will satisfy the gorehound perverts that read the comics, and porn can go that extra mile.

I don't know if anyone will jerk off to it. I know I'm pretty fucked up, but not even I'll go that far. It will take a very special kind of person to get off while watching sexy beheadings, castrations, stabbings, etc. I suspect only a select few among us would actually view it as such. The rest of us? It could be the most fucked up movie or series ever made. It'll make A Serbian Film look like a Saturday Morning Cartoon.

All right. I see your reluctance. And I get it. I do. But this could be the greatest opportunity porn and horror will ever have. EVER. Could you imagine someone someday topping something like that?

To be clear, I'm not suggesting that the beheadings, castrations, stabbings, etc. be real. They can do practical effects or even CGI if need be. I'm not asking for people to die or be mutilated for art. That breaks Lloyd Kaufman's first rule of filmmaking, after all. If Lloyd wouldn't do it, no one should do it.

I'm just asking you to think about the possibilities.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #544: PRAYER

 I loved The Young Pope. It was a very thoughtful and blasphemous story, and I miss watching it. If you missed it, it's about Jude Law's character, who I would consider a Satanist, becoming Pope and the debauchery that kind of thing leads to, but there is one scene that I think about often.

In fact, here it is. Take the three minutes to watch it. I'll wait.

I think I was at my last IOP meeting when this scene came back to me. You know I'm an atheist, but I try to be as open-minded as possible. The older I get, the more I realize that the universe is a very strange place. Anyway, we were talking about prayer, and I couldn't help but think of Jude Law talking about the nature of such an act, that it shouldn't be a wish list but a reflection.

I like to meditate, and I like to reflect. For the former I do my absolute best to not think about anything. I'm rarely successful, but that's what I'm trying for. The latter is a very different sort of beast. I think about things. I turn them over in my head. I seek understanding. I reflect.

And in a way, in just such a fashion as Jude Law mentions, I suppose I do pray. I'm not waiting to hear God whispering to me. More likely it's my subconscious that will do that. But yeah. During that IOP meeting I realized that in my very backwards way, I do pray.

Weird.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #543: 90

 Much to my surprise I found myself telling my doctor today that it has been 90 days since my drink. Ninety. That's almost 100. Ask me 91 days ago if I thought this was possible, and I would have laughed in your face while taking a healthy swig of bourbon. Probably Jim Beam because near the end of my time with booze I swore that I wouldn't drink anything of lesser quality. No more Fleischmann's or Ten High or that godawful Canadian shit I found for $6 a handle.

The reason I'm thinking about this today is because I'm currently rewriting a novel I wrote maybe ten years ago. I think I'm finally ready to do it right this time, and as I've been reading it again I've noticed something that I most certainly didn't think about while originally writing this thing. The character is supposed to be a social drinker who fell into a bad time and flirted with alcoholism but is now back on the right track.

And yet this guy is getting plastered every night. Just like I used to.

I would have never thought of myself as an alcoholic back then, and I wouldn't have called that character an alcoholic, either. But as I'm working on it as an older and (presumably) wiser man I would absolutely call him an alcoholic. And, in turn, me. It's kind of overwhelming how much this guy drinks. It genuinely shocked me.

I wonder if I would have thought the same thing if I started reworking this book 91 days ago. It's possible, I suppose, but I think it's unlikely.

It's weird how quickly things can change in your life.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #542: SIX DEGREES OF HITLER

 You may remember when I posted my Kevin Bacon number. A friend commented on my Facebook post that there is also a game called Six Degrees of Hitler. I googled it, and much to my horror it is an actual thing. My friend continued to link himself to Hitler, but I think he cheated. He worked on a lot of maybes and probablys.

So I was bored in the shower the other day, and I decided, as a mental exercise, to see what my Hitler number is. I found a way to cheat and get to him in three, but that relies on the use of a fictional character, so I decided to not count that. And I'm using definites. No possiblys in sight.

Dig it:

I met Stephen King during his Bag of Bones tour . . .

Stephen King got the Medal of Arts from Barack Obama.

Obama knows the living former presidents like Jimmy Carter.

As with Obama, Carter knew former presidents, too, like Richard Nixon.

Nixon was Dwight Eisenhower's VP.

Eisenhower worked directly for FDR during WWII.

FDR and Churchill were not just allies but friends.

Churchill took over as PM from Neville Chamberlain.

And who tried to appease Hitler during WWII? That's right.

There you go. While it took more than 6 degrees, my Hitler number is 9. Which means something else, and I think you will all be absolutely horrified to learn this.

But here we go. Are you strapped in? Ready for this disgusting thing you're about to know about yourself?

Just by knowing me, your Hitler number is 10.

Sweet dreams . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #541: VOICEWORK

 I've been told that I have a very pleasant voice ever since I was a child. I think I refined it perfectly when I worked for many years as a conference operator. I've had lots of experience reading aloud. Everyone from my mom when I was a kid to the people I shared my IOP meetings with, they've all said I have a great voice. I'm so good at it that customers at work routinely ask me if I'm a bot or a real person.

So fuck it. Maybe I should go into voice work. I think I could probably be some cartoon character's voice,  or perhaps I could do some audio books. Shit, I think I could even do voiceovers on commercials.

I looked into it a bit, and the number one piece of advice the internet seems to have is to get a decent recorder. That's all well and good, and if I'm really serious about this kind of thing I think that should be a pretty good step one. But what's the point if I can't find anywhere to submit applications?

I know a few people who do voicework, and maybe some of you are reading this. How does one get into voicework? How do you find jobs in that industry? I'm not seeing a lot on Indeed about this, so I'm guessing there are other places to go job hunting for this kind of thing? Any suggestions?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #540: IS ANYONE REALLY SAFE?

 So I read this last week, and I think you should give it a glance before continuing with me.

So yeah, I've been seeing a lot of talk about this lately, and people seem to think Darryl, Maggie and Negan are safe because they're getting spin-off series. But is anyone really safe?

Because I don't take it for granted that those shows are happening. I think the one with Rick and Michonne is definitely happening because for some reason, unbeknownst to me, everyone loves Rick fucking Grimes even though he's a murderous psychopathic piece of shit who seems convinced that he's a good guy. But it's happening. The others? I'm not convinced.

Not following me, Axel? Check this out:

Do those covers look familiar? They might. They might not. But at the very least, if you read the comics, you might think, hey, didn't TWD end at issue 193? Why yes, it most certainly did. Then what are these covers? Fan art?

Nope. Kirkman wanted to shock everyone with an unexpected ending to the series, so he had two covers made up so he could solicit them as if the comics were actually going to exist. It angered a lot of people, but I gotta say it impressed me. I didn't think anyone was capable of such trickery, and I appreciate the effort that went into this.

So do you really put it past AMC to make up spin-off series just for the sake of lulling you all into a sense of false security? "At least I know my beloved Darryl won't die on the show! He's getting his own show after this!" Until they kill him in the last episode, and Norman Reedus and Scott Gimple and Robert Kirkman show up on Talking Dead to explain their ruse.

Does that seem so far fetched? Does it?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #539: I'VE BEEN ON THE FORCE FOR 40 YEARS

 I saw a friend I haven't seen in years yesterday, and we were talking about college when it dawned on me that I'd graduated 22 years ago. It's rare when I think about my college days, but it's kind of funny feeling that revelation. I remember when I was a kid and I'd watch movies and TV shows, and characters would talk about doing something for decades. For example, there was always a grizzled cop on the edge who plays by his own rules saying things like, "I've been on the force for 40 years."

I remember thinking back then that it would be pretty cool to have done things for decades on end. Back then I was, what? Ten? Now that I'm 44 I realize that I actually have been doing things for decades. I've been writing professionally for decades. I've known friends for decades. I recently realized that I've been a college graduate for decades.

It seemed so mystical when I was a kid. Now that I'm middle-aged? Not so much. But it still feels kinda cool.

Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #538: THE NEW BLUE OYSTER CULT ALBUM

 

I've been a longtime fan of Blue Oyster Cult. I have some of their albums on vinyl originally given to me from my mom and dad's collections. And I've loved the fact that they keep making new albums, but they kind of fell off about 20-ish years ago. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that they released a new album in 2020!

And it fucking rocks. Their tastes have not changed over the years. I love that they're still singing horror songs like "Tainted Blood." "The Alchemist" also scratches that horror itch. They look kind of frail in "That Was Me," but they sound tough as hell. And it's good to see they've embraced the cowbell. I miss Buck Dharma's mustache, though. And, uh, does he have a Swiss cheese guitar?!

"Florida Man" is actually kind of mournful, which I didn't expect, but I dig it. And I very much enjoyed "Fight," the last song on the album. If this is their last song, I think it's a perfect one to go out on.

It's good to see they're still putting music out, and that it's up to par. But if you're not interested in that kind of thing, you can always lean on the classics. Ever see this video?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #537: CLIVER BARKER AND MY MOM'S COMA

 So today is Clive Barker's 70th birthday. It's weird because Stephen King just turned 75 last month, still alive despite struggles with addiction and having gotten brutally hit by a van. I've mentioned it elsewhere, but I'm of the firm belief that King is the best he's ever been now, and considering the beloved classics he gave us once upon a time, that's saying something huge.

But it's hard to think of Barker at 70. I imagine (Imajica?) he's more or less retired from writing, considering his ill-received The Scarlet Gospels. I liked it, but I understand why most everyone despised it. I met him a couple of times and enjoyed both experiences. I know he's had some struggles of late what with the toxic shock incident, but it's good to know that he's still around.

So when I was in high school my mom was in a coma. I know that sounds like an odd transition, but I promise it will make sense soon. She was in a drunk driving accident so severe that she lost a year and a half of her life in the hospital.

I only have a teenager's memories of this, so I might have the details wrong, but she had been partying at a bar and got a ride home from a guy who was also pretty drunk. They wound up crashing into the back of a UPS truck at full speed. I'm told the car looked like an accordion. The driver was OK. Mom was not because she had a lifelong habit of not wearing her seatbelt properly. You know the part that's supposed to go across your chest? She always put that behind her back because it irritated her, she always said.

So instead of protecting her, the seatbelt destroyed her guts to the point that she had to have her belly open for about a year. The doctors had to keep going in for surgeries, and sewing her up would defeat the purpose. She lost a lot of her insides because of this. The nature of her injuries was pretty singular, and the doctors who treated her wrote her case up in medical journals. All in all, it was a pretty grim situation.

I visited her every night with my family. We would spend hours at Loyola, usually in her room, but a lot of times the doctors had to get inside of her, so they asked us to wait elsewhere. The caf was kind of awful, but the waiting room was decent and comfortable enough.

I forget who gave it to me (I want to say my dad's friend, Garth, but I don't recall for sure), but I had a gift card for the local B. Dalton. Remember those? If you don't, they were a chain of bookstores. Not too long after the accident I went into that B. Dalton to cash in the card. They had a bunch of Clive Barker books, and I'd heard a great deal about him and had seen Hellraiser (and possibly Nightbreed, but I can't be certain), so I bought the first three Books of Blood. I would sit in the hospital room and the waiting room and even in the dreaded cafeteria reading those books.

So my earliest memories of Barker's fiction will always be entangled with my mom's coma. See? Toldja I'd wrap it up in a nice bow.

Happy 70th, Clive Barker! And many more!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #536: SIX DEGREES OF KEVIN BACON

 

So last week there was a thing going around social media about people trying to play the game Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon using themselves to see how close they can get. It turns out that I'm actually pretty close to him. A lot closer than I would have expected. Dig it:

I, John Bruni, wrote a story called "Family Man" in an anthology called A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre.

I could use any number of authors in that one, but the easiest and fastest is Joe R. Lansdale. He wrote a Richard Matheson tribute story for He is Legend.

Richard Matheson wrote the book A Stir of Echoes.

That book was turned into this movie starring who? That's right. Kevin motherfucking Bacon.

Pretty neat, eh?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #535: AT LONG LAST

This is my first night without my regular IOP meeting. I kind of miss it, yeah, and I certainly miss the people who attended with me, but I have to do a lot of stuff I put on hold, more or less, so I could do IOP. I got to meditate gtoday for a full session, which was very nice. I went pretty deep, too. I'm very relaxed as I write this now.

More importantly I got a shit-ton of writing done, and it has been a long time since I did that. It felt very good to feel the words flowing out of me at full force instead of the tiny gasps stolen from a couple of minutes here or there.

I'm actually pretty surprised at how good I feel now even though my world continues to crash around me. I still have to worry about my car, which may or may not be totaled. And there is the looming prospect of homelessness. And a bunch of other stuff that I'd rather not talk about right now.

At long last I had a great deal of time to myself with very few tasks at hand. And it felt really fucking good.