GODNIGHT, FUCKERS #905: THE LAST CHRISTMAS CARD

 

You may know that yesterday I was cleaning up around the house. I posted some cool pictures on social media of a few things I found. But there was one I didn't post, the one you see above.

(My middle name is Paul if you didn't know that.)

This is the last Christmas card Grandma signed for me. The only thing is, I never got it. She put the card in a dresser and forgot about it because she had dementia near the end and hid a lot of things throughout the house. It surprised me finding this. There were a few others, blank, probably meant for my brothers. This would have been 2021. She still had about a half a year to live, and she spent most of it gone. Look at the handwriting. Her cursive used to be sweeping and beautiful, but age had turned it into a tremulous thing.

But the thing that made me smile was that she was herself when she wrote this. Grandma was hard to live with near the end for a variety of reasons that I'm not going to go into here. When I think of her I think of her near the end, incoherent, screaming, nearly blind. Not my grandma, in other words. But reading this card brought back memories of how she was before. Even on her funeral card you can tell she's not all there. She just knew someone was taking a picture of her, so she tried to smile. This card, though, helped me remember her in better times. Kinder times.

One thing about the card made me tear up a little. That last word: ALWAYS. It's like she barely squeaked it out, like she'd been trying to hold herself together just long enough to finish writing this sentiment. Like maybe she thought this was her last chance to tell me she loved me.

A lot of people seek out some silly idea of closure. There's no such thing, unless you invent it yourself. In my mind things don't really end. They change into something else. Not even death is an end, only a transformation. When I die I'll be buried, and my body will slowly turn into worm food. A fisherman will eventually use those worms to catch fish. And the fisherman will eat his catch, and so I'll be welcomed into a human's digestive tract until he shits me out, and I will have transformed yet again. Closure doesn't help. Continuation does.

But now I'm not so sure, because there was a certain finality in finding this card and nearly weeping over it. A certain peace. It's like there was someone telling me a story at a subliminal level, and the story just ended.

I'm glad I found it. It has brought me comfort, and sometimes that's the best we can ask of the universe.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #904: DEAD AND HATING IT

 I think about the nature of the universe often. I have ever since I was a child wondering what the universe looked like before the universe existed. And what it looked like before that other thing existed. Etc. I wonder if we're in the Matrix at times, but if that were true, nothing would have real stakes. So it's a wonderful nihilistic approach, but it's not for me.

We're all dead and in Hell? That's not a very original idea, but it's one that makes sense to me at times. Sometimes I think we're all dead, and the thing we call life is us watching the lives we led unfold before us, like watching TV instead of living life. It would explain why the world is such a terrible place. We all have to go through Hell to get to Heaven, right?

Maybe. Or maybe I'm a little high and exposing you to my inner thoughts. If that's the way it is, I find comfort in that. I usually find comfort in the idea that when we die, we're gone. To go on living after death forever and ever would bore the shit out of me, and I'd not cope well with it. But if we did go on living, it would be nice to put all the misery and woe behind us and make time for only future things.

All the same I'd much rather have pleasure while I'm here rather than later. I'm happy every once in a while, but for the most part my life is a slog, and time doesn't move fast enough to get past the torturous parts.

So I like to think we're all dead sometimes. It helps knowing that you're already gone. It makes life less painful.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #903: FUCK THE ALAMO

 Before we begin, no, I have no intention of ever going to Texas. I'm not likely to even fly over Texas, so I wouldn't even crash land there. So I feel safe in saying FUCK THE ALAMO.

When I was a kid I enjoyed The Alamo, the John Wayne western, and I even enjoyed the Dennis Quaid version years later. It's a great story of how plucky Americans can be even in the face of certain death. A lot of men sacrificed their lives at the Alamo, and that makes for great tales. And then, of course, there's the ending when the others (Paladin played Sam Houston!) tracked down the evil Santa Ana and ended his reign of terror in the Republic of Texas, by God.

The problem is, you're not getting the full story. The truth of it reveals these men to be craven scumbags of the lowest order, and it's very easy to see Santa Ana as the doomed hero of the story. To know why all of this went down, you have to know a little history.

Spain constantly tried to colonize what we now know as Texas in the 17th century. When Spain tossed out their religious nuts, like England did with the Puritans, they planted their flag near what is now El Paso. But the indigenous peoples managed to wipe them out. Unfortunately Spain had a seemingly limitless supply of holy psychopaths, and they really wanted to hold the land they claimed. They were very concerned about the French presence in what is now Louisiana, so they felt the need to keep trying until they finally succeeded.

And then, like we did with England, Mexico cast their Spanish masters aside and declared independence. At the time Texas was a part of Mexico. To encourage settlement the Mexican government did something incredibly stupid. They invited Americans to live in Texas. They were literally *giving* land away. Free land! Unsurprisingly Americans soon outnumbered Mexicans by a considerable amount. 30K Americans to 7800 Mexicans?

But there was a catch: any American settling there would have to convert to Catholicism and give up their US citizenship in exchange for Mexican citizenship. None of the Americans did this. When the Mexican government started adding restrictions to make the Americans yield, the Americans ignored the restrictions, too.

There's one other thing to know. The Americans in question were mostly drawn to Texas because of the cotton crop. Add to that the fact that these Americans were all Southerners living before the Civil War. Are you starting to see the major problem here?

Because Mexico outlawed slavery. And these Southern Americans found that the only way to really work their land was to use slave labor. So not only did these arrogant bastards ignore conditions that were put on their ownership of the land, they also brought slavery back to Mexico.

Those sons of bitches who died at the Alamo died not for freedom or some vague sense of pride. It's much more perverse than that. THEY DIED FOR SLAVERY.

So fuck the Alamo and fuck every single American who died there. I hope a meteor lands on the Alamo.

I would also like to state for the record that it's not too late to give Texas back. I'd love to see the look on Greg Abbott's face when he realizes he's no longer an American citizen.

Texas has one saving grace: Joe R. Lansdale and family. End of list.

I'm not the only one with a distaste for the Alamo. If you have the book, Razored Saddles, edited by Lansdale, you should look up Scott Cupp's story, "Thirteen Days of Glory."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #902: CATFISHING

 Let me start out by saying I'm not entirely proud of myself for doing this. The more I think about it the more it feels weird and gross to me, so this is a regret of mine. But it was also an eye-opening experience at the same time, which is why I'm writing this.

A while back I was dating a sex worker. I also acted as her bodyguard, but I don't think I was wholly necessary to the equation in that regard. I never had to be threatening. My mere existence was enough to make her clients behave.

But one night we were both drunk, and she said I should pretend to be her with some of her potential clients. She found them on a popular dating app. I would have never though to use that to find customers, but then again I've never sold my body for sex, so why would I? But she had a few guys who were messaging her, and she didn't really like any of them, so she thought to turn me loose. The only stipulation she gave me is that I have to be weird about it.

I know weird pretty well, so I launched into it. I quickly learned that weird isn't an issue for these guys, and women are usually two or three texts away from a dick pic. I saw quite a few dicks that night, and none of them were impressive. One guy talked about how big he was, then sent this thing that looked like a branch on a weeping willow. A very short branch. Another guy had a giant glans, but his shaft was skinny to the point where I wondered if he feared it might come off in mid-coitus.

I messaged one guy about my murderous fantasies, and he was all, yeah, that's cool. When do you want to meet up? I wondered what he would say if I asked him to kill my dad. I considered sending that to him but realized that might be going too far. And I didn't really want to see him say yes. (It should be noted that I often have difficulty in knowing if I've gone too far, so if I *suspect* it's too far, it's probably waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too fucking far.)

Catfishing technically isn't a crime, which is why I'm talking about it. For it to be a crime, there must be some kind of exchange, usually money, and I didn't do anything like that. These guys weren't even paying for sex with my girlfriend at the time. She'd already decided she *didn't* want their business.

But it was a pretty fucked up experience. I said I'm "not entirely proud of myself" because I did get useful information. I'm not endorsing this idea, but it might--mind you I said MIGHT--be a good idea for men to catfish at least once in their lives pretending to be a woman. You will learn something about men that you never really thought about before. You might choose the bear, too.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #901: A GOOD MONOPOLY?

 To those interested in comics, you might be aware that until recently Diamond essentially the only distribution company for said comic books. Now there are a few, and my comics store guys are a bit miffed about it.

Monopolies are a scourge unto the country. Praise be to the FTC for condemning Google as a monopoly, so let's see how they handle that. But from talking to my comics guys it sounds like Diamond might be good as a monopoly.

Their reasoning is this: in the old days when something went wrong, they called Diamond up, spoke to their rep and got it resolved. Now, since they work with a few distributors, they've found resolving issues to be even worse. There's one company who never answers their phone and another who insists that stores do everything online. These guys are pretty old school, so they're not too knowledgeable about the internet. They don't even take credit cards there. Cash only. So I can see their frustration.

Does this mean that Diamond was great as a monopoly? Not necessarily. As a monopoly I'm sure they took advantage of their position a few times over the years. It's impossible for a corporation to *not* be tempted to take advantage. But it does seem that the retailers were happier when Diamond was the only game in town.

So I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. I've never bought directly from a distributor before, so I don't have any experience in that regard. But I know a lot of comics professionals, and I'm kind of curious to see what they think. Do I know anyone who owns a comics store?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #900: TIME MACHINE

 If I rubbed a lamp and a djinn came out of it, offering three wishes, the first would be for a limitless supply of money. The second would be to never get sick again. The third? No, wishing for more wishes doesn't work. So I have something else I want for that one.

Remember a while ago I begged the universe to send me back to my freshman year of college so I can try at life again? Because I think that would be a good starting point for me to try again. I'd know so much more (and I might be able to skip the money wish if I invested in Apple just before they introduced the smart phone). But I wouldn't want to go back to that time for the wish.

Everyone gets nostalgic, even me. I try to look toward the future as often as possible but even with that mindset I think about the past often. And I'm not talking about capital-H History here. I mean my own life, in particular my childhood before the world was ruined for me by child abuse.

This is a different kind of nostalgia. Those of you my age will know the usual kind when thinking about Thundercats and TMNT and Transformers and 'Eighties horror movies, et al. But when you're just a kid your parents drag you around in their world. Do you, like me, ever feel nostalgia for your parents' youth? Their youth was dying when you were just a kid. The world was moving on, and it was leaving them behind. The world was all but yours at the time.

I remember Mom driving down the road, me sitting in the passenger seat of her Mustang, when I accidentally knocked the cup holder off the window. It was the plastic kind with the tab you slid down into the window trim. I was horrified because it went right out the window. I started crying uncontrollably even when Mom said it was okay, that it was just a cup holder, that we could get another one.

Maybe that's the origin of why I'm almost a hoarder. I sometimes think it was the baseball my dad's parents got me, the one I lost on the Prairie Path, but the cup holder thing happened before that. I'm not too much of a hoarder now, but I still have the impulse. I'm going to have to get pretty tough about it soon.

But that's what I'm talking about. That moment I was in Mom's world, not mine. And I know it sounds crazy to label that incident as traumatic, but I think it really *did* have a say in how I turned out. But I miss her world, the one where she had friends she saw regularly before they stopped coming around. Which coincided with Mom's marriage to my stepdad, not too much of a surprise there.

But I feel a little nostalgia for my stepdad's world, too. When he would drag me around with him to hardware stores and theaters and such, I was in his world, not mine. It wasn't mine yet as we crossed the tracks, him fishing a Winston cigarette out of his shirt pocket with his Zippo from the Army. Though he wasn't Southern he did, indeed, have his name on his belt buckle. For as much self-loathing as he had, he was pretty narcissistic about it.

And then there was Dad's world. When he'd bring me to Dominick's where he worked at the deli, he'd pull lobsters out of the tank with their pincers rubber-banded. I'd touch their weird soft stomachs in wonder. Or when we'd go camping with his Viking pop-up. It had a kitchen in it which he thankfully never used. All cooking during such events was to be done over the campfire. Or the times he'd go to a party because when I was a kid, after his marriage to my first stepmom, it was his world, and he was still making grand use of it. I remember one time my cousin and I slept on one side of the camper. I say "slept," but we were kept awake because the other side of the camper bounced slightly. His world, indeed.

My third wish would be to go back in time and experience living in their world. To experience life before my world started taking over.

I'm kind of surprised that we haven't been kicked out of our house yet. A new bank bought out the bank that owns our house, and they've shown an interest in us again, but we're still here. So I've been going through the house, trying to undo my hoarder-ish ways by throwing out stuff we don't need. Part of that process involves finding caches of photos that Grandma hid all over this house during her last year or so. Many of the photos are of my world, but not all. Quite a few are pictures of Mom's world. Of Dad's world. Of Grandma and Gramps's worlds. But looking at pictures, while amazing, isn't good enough. When you look at old pictures it's easy to think of that old world as being in black and white, for example. Or oversaturated with yellows, browns and greens like photos from the 'Seventies and early 'Eighties. Photos don't do it justice.

I want to immerse myself in that world. Not for long. I wouldn't want to stay there. I think maybe five minutes would work.

When you live a full life it's easy to look around and think of things as permanent. I'll bet the dinosaurs never suspected that they would be wiped out. Just like I'll bet that almost each and every one of you thinks America will go on forever. I know *I* think it will. It won't because that's what the world does. It moves on. The world of my parents is gone as if the Langoliers had eaten it up by the second. *My* world is gone. The generation who would have been my children's age if I had them? Their world is gone, too. If I had grandkids it would be *their* world right now, at least until the world moves on again. Stein's Law: "If something cannot go on forever, it will stop." Not even the planet is permanent. There will someday be no Earth.

Which is why we should all strive for excellence, as Outlaw Vern would say. If all we have is our moment in time, we should make it the best we can.

900 Goodnight, Fuckers columns. When I started these I knew I wouldn't stop, that I'd keep going and going until the world stopped me. The only reason I'm surprised that I made it to 900 is because I'm surprised that I'm still alive. I always figured to die at 40, and I almost did. But before I figured that, I used to think I'd die at 46. I'm 46 now. I was probably wrong about that, too.

Thank you for reading, everyone. Sometimes I idly think I might stop at 1000 if I made it that far. Now that I'm close to that milestone I can safely say I'll keep writing these as long as I keep getting ideas. And one more! The one I wrote for when I die. Nighty-night. See you next week.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #899: ANSWER ONLY THE QUESTIONS YOU'RE ASKED

 I feel like I've been complaining all week in these things, so I'm going to try to be helpful tonight. Many of you I trust already know this lesson, but a lot of people in the world do not know it, and it's important. When confronted with authority figures who want info from you, answer only the questions you're asked and nothing more. Do not volunteer info.

I've been thinking of a way to explain this lesson, but when I was watching The West Wing, Oliver Platt's character did it for me. He's trying to teach CJ how to answer questions in a courtroom, and the thrust of his teaching is exactly what I'm talking about.

He asks her, "Do you know the time?"

She looks at her watch and tells him. He says she's wrong. The answer to that question is either yes or no.

Thank you, Oliver Platt! I can think of no simpler way to say it. Also remember that if the answer to their question involves incriminating yourself, plead the Fifth. Invoke your right to silence.

One more thing to pass on. Always keep this in your back pocket. It's important to know your rights. A friend of mine used to have three things tacked to his ceiling: a drawing of someone touching a monkey, a map of the universe and the Bill of Rights. He felt that you should respectively know what you're doing, where you are and what your rights are.

The Pot Brothers say it best. Tomorrow's Friday, but close enough. Goodnight, fuckers. Tomorrow's 900!

This is also helpful.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #898: PARTY LIKE IT'S JANUARY 6

 Another old news article from my GF notebook. It's a story that absolutely appalled me at the time, but it made me think about many things. The nature of treason, for example. Think back to my piece on Benedict Arnold. I made the point that the current crop of psychopaths and dumb shits on the right had no real reason to commit treason. Benedict Arnold actually did.

Do the people who still worship the Confederacy celebrate the day Ft. Sumter fell? I have a suspicion that they don't. That would require paying attention in history class, and no one really likes history or, bafflingly, they don't see history's relevance. Why you gotta bring up old stuff? But everyone seemed to be paying attention on January 6, 2020, and it doesn't mean the same thing for all. To me January 6 represents the day a presidential candidate tried to pull a coup by sending a bunch of Qanon and MAGA goons to the Capitol to hang Mike Pence. I don't particularly care for Pence, but I have to give him credit for doing the right thing in certifying Biden's election to the White House. He was instructed to lie, and he didn't. For his efforts they tried to kill him.

But for a lot of people January 6 was a pleasant trip to the Capitol with no loss of life, no violence, no property damage, just a bunch of good, Godfearing white people going on a tour. But the fact is, people *did* die. Granted, mostly Trump supporters, but all the same there were three cops who died because of this. I know, I know, me talking about dead cops sounds weird, but one officer literally died in the riot. Two more killed themselves shortly thereafter. That's a hell of a nonviolent tour of the Capitol, eh?

But let's dig a little deeper. Those on the left agree that it was a riot. Those on the right agree it was a tour. So who starts these conversations? I've never heard a conversation about this started by the right. In my experience 100% of these talks are started by the left because IT WAS A FUCKING RIOT. But the right only talks about it if the left starts the discussion. Why? If I went on a tour of the Capitol, I'd take pictures. I'd talk about my tour. I'd show those pictures to my friends. I'd remember it fondly.

To be fair, they did share their pictures. Nancy Pelosi's gavel looked a little odd in the hands of someone who was not Nancy Pelosi. Same for the lectern. And don't get me started on the shaman.

But those on the right don't bring it up in a pleasant fashion. Never have. If they're so proud of their keen li'l tour, why aren't they bragging about it like any other vacationer? Unless they know the truth and won't admit it.

Which brings me to Marjorie Taylor Greene and that story I mentioned at the beginning. She planned an event in Florida to COMMEMORATE JANUARY 6. And Florida--let me remind you FLORIDA--shut that shit down. To MTG January 6 is a reason to celebrate. And she made sure that local Republicans knew it was a celebration for that august date and nothing else.

Why, then, did Florida have to kill the event? Because MTG told Florida representatives that it was an MTG book signing event, nothing more sinister than that. Someone must have ratted on the Republicans' side of the aisle because Florida then learned the true nature of the event. Why did they have to learn it? Because MTG advertised it differently. She made sure no mention of January 6 was involved. If she's so proud of her celebration, then why did she feel the need to lie? Later, when asked about it during a Trump campaign stop, she avoided the question. "I don't really understand the point of your question. It doesn't make any sense."

It's really easy to think of her as stupid because, well, she's Marjorie Taylor Greene. But she's smart enough to lie about her true purposes, which should disqualify her from holding any office in our nation. But treason isn't the scary word it used to be, and somehow we as Americans are okay with her committing treason and then wanting to throw a party over it.

But she, like her ilk, are treasonous. Which means, in my opinion, that she and her ilk hate America and all it stands for. They love to praise Putin. If they love him so much, perhaps they should try living in Russia. See how that works out for them.

I wonder how many of them will accidentally fall out of windows should that happen. Hm.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #897: THE FIRST RING

 I talk to about 100 people a day. Sometimes more, rarely less. Yesterday I talked to nearly 160 people, today about 105. Many of those calls are outbound, and I will never, for as long as I live, understand people who pick up the phone on the first ring.

Let's pretend for a moment that I don't hate talking on the phone with the heat of a thousand suns going supernova. Even in that case, I still don't know why people answer the phone so readily. Are you that desperate for a conversation? I don't think you are. How often does someone cheerfully answer the phone only to be disappointed by me on the other line trying to sell them something? Nearly every time. There are a few people out there who love to dicker and can do that all day and even look forward to it, but they are the minority.

I have worked jobs involving tons of phone work since 2007, and even before then I hated talking on the phone. When our family got caller ID for the first time I was relieved. No longer would I have to gingerly answer the phone, not knowing who might be on the other line.

I'm getting this eerie feeling of deja vu. I may have written about this before. But I'm almost at 900 of these, and I don't feel like searching across that many columns.

I'm partially lucky because I work a job where, if I take a personal call, I get in trouble. So I ignore any and all calls I get throughout my workday. Even if I do recognize the number. If it's important enough, there will be a text, and I can read that while I work. When I'm not on the clock, I only answer calls I am expecting or that I recognize as someone important to me. The guy who had my phone number before me was a deadbeat, so I used to get calls for him all the time. That hasn't happened in a while, but I also attract a lot of attention due to my various problems and issues, so any unknown phone number to me could be scumbags, and I make it a point to not talk to scumbags on my phone. I consider scumbags people who are trying to get money out of me for any reason whatsoever to the point that they've betrayed their own people and have gone into debt collection as a way of life. But even without the scumbags I would still not answer my phone on the first ring for ANY reason whatsoever.

I get a call. I don't answer it. I look at the caller ID. By then it's on the second ring, and if it's someone I know, I will answer.

Are people lonely? Is that it? Do they not talk to anyone over the course of their day and are desperate to get a conversation in, even if it's an unpleasant sales call? Because there are some people who don't just get it on the first ring. There are people who pick up the very instant their phone rings. The. Fucking. Instant. Are they aware that there is an option to NOT answer their phone? That a phone can ring and ring and ring and then magically go to the second greatest telecom invention ever, voicemail? (The first greatest is texting. I don't like to text, either, but I'd much rather answer a text than a call.)

I don't have anxiety about talking on the phone. I'm not a very anxious person. I don't fear it. I hate it. I don't use the word "hate" lightly. I don't hate many things, but that's just the right word for talking on the phone for me.

Sorry. That's been building up for a while. It just irks me that an object that I've hated all my life is now so ubiquitous that it is easily within my reach 24/7. I wished that instead of developing cell phones to be more than just a phone, we'd just fucking killed phones and replaced them with beepers. Even that would piss me off, but it's the preferable option.

GOODNIGHT FUCKERS #896: 1940 OR 2016?

 I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels royally fucked by the 2016 election in the US, the one that put Donald Trump in the White House for those outside the US. There were a lot of rumblings that Russia interfered with that election (and the next one, but that news comes from Trump and is, thus, suspect), and I kinda believe it. It's the only election I have ever been wrong about since 1988. The fact that Trump won against all common sense stuck in my craw. I wouldn't be surprised if it was a stolen election. After all, the GOP usually accuses everyone else of doing the things they, themselves, are doing.

But is it possible that Hitler tried to interfere with the election of 1940? As in, the election year before America got into WWII? Not only is it possible, but it's true. The part about him trying, not about it actually working.

The number one issue of the election was whether or not America would join that war. Here's a nice little quote that explains better than I could (from the Washington Post):

Susan Dunn, who teaches at Williams College, accurately describes what was at stake as American voters went to the polls on Nov. 5, 1940: "The humanism of Western civilization and the essence of Christian morality, the peerless legacy of the Enlightenment and Thomas Jefferson's immortal affirmation of the inalienable human rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness all stood on the brink of annihilation" as Adolf Hitler's massive army stormed across Europe, soon to be joined across the world by the forces of imperial Japan. Yet "on that day, while much of the world reeled from violence and chaos, an orderly, free election was calmly taking place in the United States at its regular, constitutionally appointed time."

That's heavy, Doc. Remember, this is a time when America didn't stalk the rest of the world, doing whatever it wanted. That had begun, but it wasn't as prolific as it is today. The only things the common American knew about our adventures abroad were from WWI, and memories of that weren't so hot. A lot of people wanted the US to stay out of the war, especially Hitler! Having fought in WWI, he remembered how Germany might have won if not for US intervention. He preferred that an isolationist would be elected instead of FDR. Also remember at the time that no president had served more than two terms at that point because Washington only served two, and that's all she wrote. But that law wasn't signed until years after WWII. No one really wanted or expected FDR to try for that third term, but he swung for the fences.

Here's how Hitler tried to get an isolationist elected instead. William Rhodes Davis was an American entrepreneur with Nazi sympathies. What put him on Hitler's map was that he was an oilman selling Mexican oil to Germany during WWII. He was a "sketchy" guy, for sure, but he was Hitler's man. He also had a lot of connections with the Democrats, who FDR was running for.

In 1934 Britain blockaded all German ports, which practically killed Davis's business. To save his investments he knew he had to broker a peace deal. To his credit he went to the White House with his plan first, but FDR turned him away. With no American interest, Davis went to Germany where he had a sit-down with Goering. He pitched the idea of interfering with the US election, going as far as to mention a labor leader with the CIO as a possible candidate, as he despised FDR.

(It should also be noted that when he returned to the US, FDR refused to meet with him because he suspected that Davis was now working for the Nazis. Good call, FDR.)

Goering loved the idea so much he left five million dollars at the German Embassy in Washington, DC, where Davis could readily get at it.

But events conspired against Davis, and the GOP nominated an interventionist instead. With two interventionists in the race, Davis didn't have a chance. Not that it mattered, anyway. I'm sure whoever they put against FDR, even if it was Charles "Hitler is a very great man" Lindbergh, it would be thie snowball in Hell. FDR won 449 to 82. It wasn't even a contest.

Why have you never heard of this plot? They certainly don't teach it in history class. I learned about it because I'm curious and look into things. But there's a very good reason for you not knowing. It wasn't discovered until Truman was president, and he did his level best to bury the story. No one knew about it until 1961, presumably when everything was declassified.

So authorities in this country are very right to be afraid of election interfering. Too bad the dipshits and fuckfaces on the right are the only ones talking about it, since they're the only ones who are probably guilty. Well, them and the Russkies.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #895: WHEN WILL THIS END?

 Sick again. Had to go to the ER. It helped. I'm not in pain right now, and my nausea is low. It's there, and I am tired of puking. I've been doing it all day. I'd rather not continue.

I don't know if I'll have a newsletter for you all tomorrow. I'll have to see how I feel. But holy shit, today was fucking rough. And I'm going to have to somehow find the strength to do laundry tomorrow, or I'm going to work naked on Monday. I've lost some weight, but there's some loose flesh because of how quickly it happened. It's weird seeing my belly button want to turn inside out. It would probably be even weirder if I was an outtie, but I'm an innie.

All right. I hope this qualifies as long enough for a GF. I'm going to try to sleep now.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #894: THE APPLE TREE

 I went for a walk today, which is a big no-no for me. I've been told that I have to stay off my feet because of a hole in the sole of my bad foot. I didn't walk for long. I can only do a block, anyway. But that block is one I've walked around my entire life, starting when I was a little kid with Mom.

We used to go for walks all the time. I don't think I was even in school yet, I was that young. We'd head out from where we lived at the time, which is two blocks from where I am now, and we'd head toward Jefferson Elementary because there was a park there I could play at.

The neighborhood has changed a great deal. Almost none of the houses are the same. But there was a house that had a beautiful garden that we liked to look at all the time. It lasted quite a while until the old couple who lived there moved out. That was maybe 20 years ago. One of the first things the new owner did was wall in the garden. Although I'm pretty sure they also ripped it up, and that there's nothing to look at even without the fence. It's a shame. It was very beautiful.

But there was another spot we used to stop at, and I thought about it today as I walked past. There was an old man who lived in a cottage that had an apple tree in the backyard. If he was there, he'd give me an apple, freshly picked. And I'd eat it on the way to the school park.

Wait, li'l John Bruni eating fruit? Yes. To this day I can tolerate apples. I can also stomach corn (and not just as liquor!). While in the psych ward I learned that I can stand pears, too. So me eating an apple at that age isn't that far afield.

I was attending that elementary school when the old man moved away. I remember asking Mom if the new owner will keep giving me apples. She said she hoped so.

But the new owner didn't. One of the first things he did was uproot the tree. There is a piece of sidewalk now where that tree used to be, a stone path through his backyard. At first I thought, with a child's simplicity, that the new owner just didn't like me, but that guy probably had no idea of all the walks Mom and I took through that neighborhood, and he certainly had no idea of the enjoyment a simple apple could give a small boy like the one I'd once been.

I miss that tree. I even had a taste for apples today. As Vonnegut used to say, "So it goes."

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #893: JUSTINE

 Has it been months since the last time I shit-talked Elon Musk? I guess so. To quote the song, I'm back in the saddle again.

Remember when I said I used to like Musk, but then I paid more attention to him? It seems that his first wife, Justine, felt much the same way. They met in college before either one of them was 20 yet. She gave him five children, so she clearly loved him at some point. Let's take a look at her thoughts on the subject of Ex's biggest douche-nozzle.

Their first date seems to be an incomplete description from what she wrote in Marie Claire. It seems he invited her out for ice cream, but it doesn't say whether she said yes. He did go looking for her with two ice cream cones, searching all over campus, ice cream melting over his knuckles. Of this event she said, "He is not a man who takes no for an answer."

From context, I think she said yes and then was difficult to find. They dated for a while and then went to different schools, but they stayed in touch. Sent each other letters. Visited and had dinner when they could. She wrote of him, "It was the first time that a boy found my sense of ambition--instead of my long hair or narrow waist--attractive." Interesting.

They separated for a while, and she lived in Japan before coming home to Canada and getting back together with Elon Musk. She moved into his apartment, but they argued often, sometimes in public. "[He] never hesitated to let me know that I was wrong about something," she said.

As he got richer, he often made jokes about dumping her for a supermodel. Instead he proposed marriage to Justine. Musk's friends (and even his brother) tried to talk him out of it, but they got married in 2000. During their first dance he told her that he was the alpha in this relationship. As if the supermodel thing wasn't bad enough as it is.

Their first child died in his sleep. This set her down a path of depression, but she got pregnant again and had more children, but the marriage was far from happy. "Elon was obsessed with his work. When he was home, his mind was elsewhere. I longed for deep and heartfelt conversations, for intimacy and empathy." She told him how much she hated him. He called her moron and idiot. He once said that if she were his employee, he'd fire her.

"I met him when he didn't have much at all," she said of him. "The accumulation of wealth and fame changed the dynamic."

He wanted her to dye her hair blonde. Blonder. Platinum! He wanted her to go to parties where men talked and women looked pretty. Finally, Justine said of herself, "I barely recognized myself. I had turned into a trophy wife, and I sucked at it." Not surprising, as she's an author. We authors don't make very good trophy partners.

They divorced after 8 years, and 6 weeks later Musk gleefully texted her that he was getting married again. And that should say everything.

Justine Musk went from being loved for her ambition to an attempt at turning her into a trophy wife instead of a person. That's pretty fucked up. I'm trying to imagine Musk walking around campus with those melting ice cream cones, and I can't see it. I wonder if maybe he was this way the whole time, and Justine didn't notice. I certainly didn't notice, not at first.

Oddly she doesn't regret her marriage to him. I think I would. Most definitely. I suspect a touch of Stockholm Syndrome, but one thing is for sure: Elon Musk is a Grade A Prick, USDA Approved.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #892: PET SEMATARY AND PET SEMATARY: BLOODLINES

 I recently found myself with some free time (due to feeling ill), so I decided to watch the remake of Pet Sematary and then its prequel, Pet Sematary: Bloodlines.

What a fucking waste of a movie. It thinks its being clever because it hit all the usual Pet Sematary beats until it deviates from the script. Of course, doing something like that would require being surprised by the fact that Ellie gets hit by the truck instead of Gage, but that was pretty easily ascertained from watching the trailer. Whoops. Although I will give it credit for an exceptionally cruel ending. I remember thinking, shit, the only thing that can save this movie is if [censored] dies in addition to the other things that happen, and I'm glad I got my wish, but it was not enough to save this film.

Bloodlines doesn't start out too bad. It's actually decent for maybe the first half. It's good rural horror that knows how to pace itself until it stops knowing that. Things get out of hand fast, and its a shambles by the end. I appreciated the ending because of what it means for poor young (sexy) Jud Crandall until you realize that he's supposed to be a young John Lithgow, not a young Fred Gwynne. Then he stops making sense, too. Stupid sexy Jud Crandall.

But if you look at the movie from a different perspective, it's actually pretty good. If Timmy Baterman is the protagonist, it's actually a horror story about returning home from war, where everyone is suspicious of you and treats you differently until they want to kill you. But no one is going to watch it from that perspective.

All told, I wasted my time. But I knew that going in.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #891: THE DOLLAR OR THE CROSS

 A while back the state of NY did something that put commerce in the direct path of religion, and I'm very interested to find out who wins. In America there are only two things that are holy: making money and at least pretending to care about Christianity. No other religions need apply. That's the only one that matters in America's eyes, and woe be to them who step in its way.

Except these two holy things are now going head to head in a winner take all bout.

The thing that NY did was the Restaurant Rest Stop Act. The thing it is trying to accomplish is to make all rest stop restaurants stay open all seven days of the week to prevent travelers from going hungry when they're on the Thruway or at Port Authority, especially on Sundays, the busiest travel days of the week. There is one restaurant, though, that has problems with that.

You guessed it. Chick-fil-A wants their Thruway locations to remain closed on Sundays. There are seven Chick-fil-As on the Thruway with three more planning to be built. But the restaurant, owned by very strict Christians, needs to be closed on Sundays for worship.

I do not like Chick-fil-A. I have never liked them. I have also never eaten there, so I'm still pure when it comes to my disgust for them. I'm not one of the many, many people who fucking hate that place and yet still eat there. When I first heard of them I said, "Can they not spell?" Filet is a pretty easy one (or fillet, if you prefer, spellcheck takes them both, apparently, McDonald's container notwithstanding). Ordinarily I'd make a crack about Christians trying to NOT educate people so they can continue to rule over people, but Catholics are surprisingly good with education. A Catholic would not stoop to saying "fil-A."

Sure enough, the owner is a Baptist. That does explain a few things.

But this is actually not a hate fest for Chick-fil-A, because I see their argument, too. I am a huge fan of the First Amendment, which includes the freedom of religion. I just hate it when the religious use their rules to fuck the rest of us over. Thoroughly and without lube. I believe it is Chick-fil-A's First Amendment right to be closed on Sundays. And that's a good thing! I remember when I was a kid and tons of places were closed on Sundays. And when five o'clock rolled around on all other days? That's when places started to close down. And I miss that. But corporations today have been granted powers that drive them to abuse their employees at every turn, so to know there is still one place that is guaranteed to be closed one day of the week is good news, indeed.

Some people are thinking this is a great way to put Chick-fil-A out of business, and it could be used that way. But it would be more likely if the owner died, that they would make the company publicly traded. Then the FinBros can move in, steal the company, buy out all the properties the restaurant rents, then rent them to death with new prices. But the owners are smart enough to not sell stock in the company. Chick-fil-A is almost a time capsule, in that it's an old fashioned company, not a new monstrous corporations like the ones we've been dealing with since just before 2008. (And going even further back! But I'm watching those fuckers between 9/11 and the recession because those are the fuckers to watch.) (Also, they're bad fuckers. Fuck them. *You* are all my fuckers. The good fuckers.)

This is sounding like too much of an appreciation, so I'd like to remind you that earlier I stated that I don't like Chick-fil-A, and that's not going to change just because I see the company as a novelty. They are exceptionally cruel to all the people Christianity is usually cruel to. So fuck 'em. Thoroughly. Without lube.

This is one of the older GF ideas in my notebook that I'm finally getting around to. Unfortunately there doesn't seem to be a clear winner, so the fight continues. Somebody win so I can figure out what is more powerful in my own country: the dollar or the cross?

It's worth noting that Christianity doesn't pay taxes in this country, so perhaps the true power of America leans in their direction, not Capitalism. A marriage of the two would seemingly be ideal in a crazy send-me-directly-to-Hell kind of way, so I can see the true power of America leaning in Joel Osteen's way. But this is a scrap I want to see, especially since I'll have to shit-talk whoever wins. Because whoever wins? We lose.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #890: RT 55

 On Saturday night I was feeling better, so I decided to head down to Braidwood and hang out with a friend. Get high. Pet cats. I thought it would have an excellent effect on my miserable life, and I was correct. It was.

But driving out that way is goddam beautiful, if you can stand looking into the sun for that long. It was unseasonably cool that day, and driving was a very pleasant experience. To get from Elmhurst to Braidwood, the best bet is to go down Rt. 83 to Rt. 55 and take that all the way down. I used to go down this way to Bolingbrook for many reasons. I used to go on parts runs down that way for the city, and a girlfriend used to live there for a while. So I know the road is beautiful, but when you get past Bolingbrook? That's where true beauty takes over. That's where the suburbs start to transition into farm land. Braidwood is definitely a rural community, and it's good to get away from what I'm used to.

The air did me good. Having it fly through my hair was great. Listening to good music, driving through beautiful land, driving very, very fast. That's ideal. If I was driving a Delorean, I would have definitely gone back to the future several times.

Then I got to do it again the next day, except I was a teeny-tiny bit high. That made me feel even more relaxed. At ease with the world. The mph sometimes kissing a hundred. Hell, even Joliet looked nice, and that's next to impossible.

For all the complexities of our world, aid and succor comes fairly easily to us. All we need is beauty in the world, that's all.

Of course, that didn't stop me from waking up feeling like garbage today, so . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #889: SHOGUN

 I recently watched the new version of Shogun, and it's fucking great. I don't remember much about the original Shogun, mostly because I only watched it when I was passing through the room while Mom was watching it, and I remember thinking, that looks boring. At the time I was exclusively interested in the Hardy Boys, Star Wars and not much else.

It should be mentioned that I do have a copy of the book. I think it was my mom's copy, but it's possible I got it from a friend's mom when she passed. And so we're on the same page, if you're generally the same age as I am, your mom almost certainly had a copy of the book. FOR REASONS. I never read it, which makes me think I got it from my friend's mom. If it was around the house when I was a kid, I would have read it by now. I'm behind on my reading list, but not *that far* behind.

At any rate, this isn't a review. If you want that, it's the excellent story of a Protestant ship's captain who finds himself stranded in feudal Japan with his only hope of translation being his mortal enemy, Portuguese Catholics. Over time he finds himself enmeshed with his environment, falls in love, quickly learns Japanese and I'd rather not go further than that. Because there's a moment late in the series that I found very interesting, but it's an absolute spoiler, and I won't mention it here.

If you're anything like me, you're already watching it right now. But I know people in general don't like history, and Americans in particular don't like non-American history. That implies that life outside the great 50 is manageable, but really, the rest of the world can't survive without us. Can they?

But like I said, this is no review. It made me think about Japanese culture and honor, and it's very easy to get sucked into wanting that kind of thing. Dishonor rides the United States like a horse. There are politicians who literally cannot tell the truth. It's impossible. You watch them talk and talk and talk, and you can see in their eyes the brown smirk of bullshit. The same goes for, well, let's skip time and effort. You know my usual hobby-horses.

The thing is, the punishment for dishonor is seppuku, ritual suicide that involves you shoving a blade into your guts and disemboweling yourself while someone else cuts your head off. So you, yourself, have to deliver the initial killing blow. Could you imagine Donald Trump ever doing such a thing? Elon Musk? Do you think it even crossed the Boeing CEO's mind when that door flew off in midflight? In feudal Japan, he would have had to kill himself. It was the law.

So for the truly honorable, such a society would be a blessing. The reason you can't be a dickhead is because you will have to kill yourself if you are? That's pretty effective at keeping one honest.

But there is a drawback, and I see it written all over Shogun. Who decides what is honor? And what happens when that definition shifts meaning? It will. Words in any living language constantly evolve. (Although it irritates me when someone tries to mutate the language, like using "literally" when you mean "figuratively.")

That's a real problem and why such a society is doomed from the get-go. In case you're wondering what the real problem is with democracy, it's that people are generally not educated, and they pine for an emperor instead of a president. If you don't believe me, go ask Julius Caesar. If you can get past the 23 stab wounds. And he supposedly denied the crown three times! Just think what might have happened if he accepted the first time! The ancient Romans might have gotten angry enough to invent gunpowder.

Out of curiosity, I decided to see when seppuku was outlawed. It never entered my mind that it might still be practiced. I'm sure it is, but Japan simply calls it suicide now to discourage such things. It was banned in 1873. A sound decision. So even the society most closely associated with the practice doesn't do it anymore. That explains why we shouldn't take up the cause, even if it is to clean up corrupt politicians and sleazy CEOs.

I cheated on this one. I'm not going to be home tonight, but I'll be posting it from a friend's house, where I intend to be very high tonight. I also have my newsletter ready to go for when I wake up tomorrow.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #888: INDECISIVE DRIVERS

 Fuck. I got sick again. So I don't know how I'll figure out the numbering thing yet, but I shall.

Anyway.

Yeah, it's going to be Goodnight, Fuckers: The Pet Peeve Edition again. Because I can't fucking stand drivers who are indecisive. That's bad enough as it is, but the true crime of these people are not staying the course whenever they make a decision. They will change course at the last fucking second, and all drivers in their vicinity can go fuck themselves with a firehose.

The worst offenders are those who get into a turn lane, then suddenly realize this is not the correct turn, so they shove back off into traffic, nearly avoiding someone like me plowing into their rear bumper. It's a crime almost worse than jaywalking.

People think I'm joking about jaywalkers. I'm not. I believe that you should be punished with up to five years for each instance. Harsh? Nope. These are people who are fully willing to jump into the street and expect you to stop, even if you're merely ten feet away. I think public execution Judge Dredd style would work for me, but I don't think anyone else sees things that way, so I'll settle for five years in the isocubes, creep.

Indecisive drivers should get ten years, though. They're making traffic hell for the rest of us who know what we're doing. If you make a shitty call, then stick to it. You can always turn around or make the block. It's time consuming, but it's also YOUR fuck up, not mine. Cutting in front of me is what gets you the extra five years jaywalkers wouldn't get in my ideal society.

Don't get me started on people who can't possibly bring themselves to go the speed limit, especially if the speed limit is 45. There's a stretch of Lake St. I take to work every day. It's 45 mph down there, but I usually go 60. Unless, of course, I'm unlucky enough to be behind someone who thinks the speed limit is 35. Or 30. Or once 25. I want to mount a bullhorn to my car so I can scream out of it, "IT'S FORTY-FUCKING-FIVE MILES AN HOUR! GO FORTY-FUCKING-FIVE MILES PER HOUR IMMEDIATELY!"

I guess I started myself on that one. Fuck. Enough with the anger. Time to settle down and go to sleep. Goodnight, fuckers.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #887: SICK AGAIN

 Dammit. It keeps happening to me. I'm still clueless as to why. I spent yesterday puking my guts out, praying for the pain to go away, Finally I went to the ER, where I was given the usual and allowed to rest for a bit. I got home feeling like shit, and I felt like shit through most of today. I think I'm OK now. I hope that my guts will stay where they belong, especially since I plan on getting a burger tomorrow for lunch with a friend.

I hate this. I really do. I quit drinking primarily so this illness would go away, and it did. For a year and a half. I'm sick of puking until my sides are splitting, my back screaming to not have to hover over the toilet like that. I'm sick of, after a bout like that, going back to my bed only to have to get up and do it again 15 minutes later. I hate that sleep is impossible in moments like this. It will keep me up for days if I don't go to the ER for my Zofran and morphine.

I guess it wasn't those pills I've been on for years, after all.

Every morning for the past week I've gotten up and puked. Then everything went back to normal, and I could go to work. It's just that yesterday, after I puked that first time, I got worse instead. I was starting to think it was my lot in life to puke in the mornings and get it over with before heading out into the world. I just want this bullshit to stop.

Maybe I should take up drinking again. At least that way there was something to blame my sickness on. And I do miss having that in my arsenal when it comes to pain. Instead of popping painkillers I could down some whiskey. Any time my teeth bothered me? I could take a mouthful of booze and swish it around in my mouth, and the pain would go away. I miss that.

I probably shouldn't take up drinking again. But think of this: after more than two years away from the bottle, my liver is probably in great shape!

OK, to keep up with my numbers, I'll post a GF on Saturday, too.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #886: MORE THOUGHTS ON ALIENS

 Remember last week, the GF column I wrote about people looking up at the sky? I didn't miss the aliens. I still have no idea what that was all about, but it wasn't aliens, unfortunately.

So where are the aliens? Perhaps all those flying saucer and anal probe stories are true. I'm not inclined to believe that, though. I loved Communion, but I don't think it's a true story. Sorry to Whitley Streiber fans. I also loved Fire in the Sky, but those guys eventually came out and said they made it up. So I don't put too much faith in those stories.

Is it possible the aliens never visited? It's likely they haven't. The universe is a big place, and we're in an isolated corner of it. It would be cool if they had visited, but I doubt it. Chances are, if their civilization is advanced beyond ours, they have their own James Webb telescope but better. If that's the case, maybe they've been watching us much like we would watch a trainwreck. How can they be this crazy and still think they're civilized? Or even better, aliens think the earth is a bad neighborhood, and they don't want to get mugged or have their flying saucer stolen.

So maybe if we don't get our act together the aliens will NEVER come and visit. Which means we need to stop kicking each other in the nuts whenever we get the chance. Perhaps we should stop indiscriminately killing one another? How about we stop shouting platitudes and Political Views (TM) and possibly work toward fixing things and getting along?

I've gone over this before, but not out of desperation for us to meet aliens. If that's what it's going to take, we need to get our collective shit together. I want to meet the aliens, dammit. You probably do, too. Let's meet the aliens. Together.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #885: READING GLASSES

 

Remember a while back when I said that my eye doctor wanted me in bifocals by 45? And I turned 46 about a week ago? I obviously didn't get them when I got a new pair of glasses because fuck bifocals. I knew wearing them would fuck me up. How could a zone in each lens where the prescription is different NOT fuck up my vision?

I talked to a lot of people with bifocals. The people who are happy with them are old. I'm talking senior citizens. Those around the same age as me fuckin' hate their bifocals. I remember when I was a kid I used to put Gramps's glasses on, and he had bifocals, and I didn't like looking through that part. So I knew, 100%, that I would not like having them myself. I said that I would wear reading glasses over my actual glasses. I don't care if it looks stupid. I would much rather do that.

I was cleaning up around the house yesterday. You know how most people have a junk drawer? We have a junk DRESSER. I want to get rid of it, and I've been going through it just in case there's something in there we need to save. Lo! and behold! I found the reading glasses you see in the picture above.

It's a little odd. No one who has ever lived here needed reading glasses. My grandparents both wore regular glasses. My mom wore regular glasses. My aunt and two cousins wear contacts. Two of my brothers wear glasses (although they try not to ever wear them), and the brother I live with is the one and only lucky person on my mom's side of the family who never needed glasses. I can only assume that these belonged to a visitor who forgot them here, and we held on to them for some reason. And I know they're old because they were filthy when I found them.

I put them on and HOLY SHIT I CAN SEE COMPUTER SCREENS AGAIN! I've been squinting and crouching over my keyboard so I can read whatever I'm typing, whether at home or work. It is fucking amazing how well these help me. The one thing is, I tried them out at work today. Yesterday I only spent an accumulative two hours staring at computer screens, but today I had to spend about eight hours doing it. Every time I left my station I took them off, and they kind of fuck with my regular vision a bit. I have to give myself some time to adjust. But as I write this, wearing them now, it's really a joy to not have to guess how many typos I'm leaving on the page.

It also helps me with reading books. What I usually do is, I take off my glasses and hold the book about five inches from my face to read it. I don't have to do that anymore. Although right now I'm reading a book with larger than usual print, so I don't really need the reading glasses for this.

And that reminds me, no, no matter how big I made the fonts before, I still had to squint. I could clearly see the letters if I made the font size 72 and put it in bold, but I can't exactly write anything that way, can I?

I still see the floaters in my left eye, but they're not as bad as they were before. It's good to know that, no, I'm not going blind. I'm just getting old. I can live with that.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #884: HAUNTED HOUSE STORIES

 At first I debated if I should post this over on my GMF newsletter, as it is vaguely related to writing, but I decided not to because it's more about reading for me.

I'm not a fan of haunted house stories. There are a few exceptions. King's The Shining, obviously, and Matheson's Hell House. And I have a warm spot in my heart for Hodgson's The House on the Borderland, but that might not count. I'll also add any of Laymon's Beast House books here, too, but the threat in those books are from monsters, so I'm not sure if they count either. But haunted house stories usually turn me off. It's practically the same thing every time. Family moves into a new house, someone returns to their childhood house after their parents die, blah blah blah.

I think what turns me off is that this is a capitalist concern. *I* have moved into this house. This house is *mine* not some ghost or demon or whatever. I bought and paid for it with my hard-earned American dollars. I will not be driven from my house, from my land, by supernatural elements. I'll get the exorcist or John Constantine or Tangina Barrons or whoever, but I'll really be the one who saves myself and my family in the end because of yawn, etc.

Oddly enough I don't count haunted castle stories. I'm into haunted castle stories possibly because like nearly every American I know I did not grow up in a European ancestral manse. It's different, and the haunting is usually about more than someone's ownership of the castle. There's usually a delicious curse involved, or sins of the father, stuff waaaaaaaaaaay more interesting than some capitalist worry.

A while back in my newsletter, maybe when it was still on Patreon, I talked about writing two haunted house stories, which is unusual for me. One of them is actually based on my own real life experience and will not see publication while I'm alive or while anyone involved as characters are alive. The other is a very unusual American haunted house story, not because of what haunts the house, but because of who is haunted. These are projects that I'm merely tinkering with now, as I have other stuff to work on.

This GF was prompted by my habit of picking up free horror ebooks. I no longer do this (unless it's written by someone I know personally) because I've read just about all I can stomach of paint-by-numbers haunted house stories. It's to the point where I no longer give constructive criticism in my reviews. (I believe that if you pick up a free ebook, you should always review it.) I just give the starred rating and move on, hoping that the next book isn't yet another one of these. It sucks that so many people out there are bent on telling the same story over and over again, especially when there's so much other stuff we could be writing about. Ah well.