I'm thirty-six years old now, and I'm doing much better than I thought I would when I was younger, at least when it comes to appearance. I'm sure younger me would not appreciate the pounds I've put on since then, but younger me also thought I'd be bald and toothless by now. (I've always had bad teeth, and my grandfather went bald by the time he was in his early twenties, so I figured that would happen to me, too.)
I only lost the one tooth, which is an implant now. And my hair is just as thick as it was back then. I might have the 'Beetus and a bunch of other health problems, but at least I look fairly decent, and I carry my fat pretty well. Back when I weighed 306 lbs., no one would believe me when I told them that's what I weighed. So I've got a good frame for that.
All in all, not bad for a guy who thought he was going to be dead of a heart attack by 40. I won't get ahead of myself, though. An early death is still in the cards (thanks a lot, pancreas), although as I get closer to 40, the idea is no longer quite as appetizing as it once was. Plus, I have a lot more to live for now, considering how my writing career is finally starting to get some attention.
A while ago, I discovered a couple of gray chest hairs. Then, I found a gray hair on each of my sideburns. Now, my right sideburn is rapidly going gray. So I can only assume when I grow my beard for the winter, it might not be as dark as it usually is. I'm OK with that, because it looks like my hair is going to go gray in a very cool Nick Fury-ish kind of way. It worked very well for Bruce Campbell on BURN NOTICE. So yeah, I should be good on that front.
But . . . the middle finger of my left hand has been killing me the past couple of days. It makes typing very difficult, although aspirin seems to help for a short while. I feel the pain deep down in the bone and at the joints. I'm starting to wonder if I might have a touch of arthritis developing there. I guess it would serve me right, since I've been cracking my knuckles since I was in elementary school. It's kind of funny. Every time I did that, Mom would yell at me that I would get arthritis if I kept that up. It's even funnier because I developed this bad habit after watching her do it several times a day.
Well, hopefully I'm just being paranoid. If I'm not, well, thankfully it's on my left hand. I'm right-handed, and that one's doing fine.
Getting old sucks. Maybe LOGAN'S RUN had it right.
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
Monday, October 6, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #81: A BLOODY MONEYSHOT (AND YES, I MEAN A CUMSHOT ON MY FACE)
I was notified a few years ago that I had the 'Beetus. I've probably had it longer than that, but let's operate on the fact that I've had the 'Beetus for, say, three years. Now, I hate needles. Always have and always will. But my testing supplies include super-thin needles. It's not painless, but I barely feel it. I'm used to physical pain, so I can cope with these things, no problem.
But sometimes it's hard to get enough blood to test my sugars. I have calluses on my fingers because I'm a writer. I'm right-handed, which should mean that my left hand is OK to use for testing. However, I've been typing for a loooooooooong time. There are plenty of calluses on the fingers of my left hand, too. Jabbing those fingers only makes the calluses worse.
As a result, if I jab the fingers of my left hand for a blood test--and I have to, since my left hand is so weak I can't get a reliable test out of the fingers of my right hand--I have to squeeze the motherfucker to get blood out of it. Usually, I have to squeeze at the base of the finger and slowly bring the pressure up to the tip, where the hole should be. This usually results in a tiny dot of blood, which is just enough to test the sugars.
Yesterday, I jabbed myself and squeezed, thinking I'd get two millimeters of blood out of my finger. Instead, blood exploded out of that tiny hole. It was so bad that I wound up with blood in my eyes. I grr'ed and argh'ed, and I rubbed the blood out. I got my reading, which was a bit high (but then again, it was the weekend, which is when I cheat, so it was still acceptable at 140). It wouldn't stop oozing for about a half an hour. Then, I figured I was OK.
And then I saw my glasses. The lenses were dotted with blood, which I quickly cleaned off.
And then I went to the bathroom, where I saw the rest of my face. There was a LOT of blood on me, like someone had jerked off on my face, except instead of semen, there was blood. It took me a few minutes to clean it all off, because by then it had dried and cemented a little.
Still. All of that from just a teensy, tiny hole? That's fucking crazy.
Sunday, October 5, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #80: RESERVED SEATING
Whenever I go to see a movie in the theater, I like to go to a matinee at the York in Elmhurst. It's cheap, and it's close to home. The only problem is, it sometimes doesn't get the movies that I really want to see, like TUSK or THE DROP. In those cases, I tend to head off to the Marcus theater in Addison, because I can't stand the super-expensive AMC in Yorktown, and those are my only other options.
I hadn't gone to the Marcus in a while, but this month I've gone out there twice, and they had a mighty unusual change recently: apparently, they don't have regular seating anymore. They have reserved seating, and all the chairs are wide recliners.
At first, I hated it. It seemed silly to want reserved seats for a movie, and who needs recliners? Are they trying to get me to fall asleep at the show? More so, I'm shocked that Hollywood is OK with this, considering how this cuts down on a theater's capacity to hold people. How would something like this work out for the opening night of, say, the new STAR WARS movie, when it comes out? They can only fit maybe fifty people in there, whereas before they could fit a lot more. It doesn't make much sense.
When I saw TUSK, I didn't like the seating arrangement. But when I saw THE DROP, I kind of didn't mind it. I'm a fat guy, but I'm not a whale. I can fit comfortably in a regular theater seat. (I'd say I can fit comfortably in a seat on a plane, but I'm also a tall guy, so I don't have the leg room to make me comfortable.) The new theater recliners were pretty wide. Plus every pairing has an armrest that comes up, so if I brought a lady friend, we could act like we were on a couch instead of at a movie theater.
It was kind of nice to put my feet up. And put my arms behind my head. And maybe roll around a bit if one of my ass cheeks starts getting numb.
All right, I like it now. I'm cool with it. It won't make me go out to Addison every time I want to see a movie, but if I had to make the trek, that's fine.
One more thing: both shows I went to the Marcus for had almost no audience. I found that pretty bothersome. Both times, there were me and two other people. Yes, they were matinees, but attendance shouldn't be THAT bad. TUSK is a Kevin Smith movie, and Smith has a rabid following. There should have been more people in the audience. THE DROP is based on a Dennis Lehane novel, and his books are adapted by the likes of Clint Eastwood and Martin Scorsese, and they contain major star power. This one has Tom Hardy, who is probably the greatest new actor we have, in addition to the final performance of Tony Soprano himself, the late James Gandolfini. There is no possible way that such a film would have an audience of three, even at a matinee.
That's disappointing. I know that movies on the big screen are a fading part of the experience of being a human being, and it will be a shame when that's gone. There is a certain excitement that comes with the ritual of buying a ticket, getting popcorn, and experiencing a movie with an enormous crowd of people. I remember when I saw SE7EN in the theaters, and I heard people responding--with genuine shock--to the scene with the Sloth victim.
There is no replicating that experience.
I hadn't gone to the Marcus in a while, but this month I've gone out there twice, and they had a mighty unusual change recently: apparently, they don't have regular seating anymore. They have reserved seating, and all the chairs are wide recliners.
At first, I hated it. It seemed silly to want reserved seats for a movie, and who needs recliners? Are they trying to get me to fall asleep at the show? More so, I'm shocked that Hollywood is OK with this, considering how this cuts down on a theater's capacity to hold people. How would something like this work out for the opening night of, say, the new STAR WARS movie, when it comes out? They can only fit maybe fifty people in there, whereas before they could fit a lot more. It doesn't make much sense.
When I saw TUSK, I didn't like the seating arrangement. But when I saw THE DROP, I kind of didn't mind it. I'm a fat guy, but I'm not a whale. I can fit comfortably in a regular theater seat. (I'd say I can fit comfortably in a seat on a plane, but I'm also a tall guy, so I don't have the leg room to make me comfortable.) The new theater recliners were pretty wide. Plus every pairing has an armrest that comes up, so if I brought a lady friend, we could act like we were on a couch instead of at a movie theater.
It was kind of nice to put my feet up. And put my arms behind my head. And maybe roll around a bit if one of my ass cheeks starts getting numb.
All right, I like it now. I'm cool with it. It won't make me go out to Addison every time I want to see a movie, but if I had to make the trek, that's fine.
One more thing: both shows I went to the Marcus for had almost no audience. I found that pretty bothersome. Both times, there were me and two other people. Yes, they were matinees, but attendance shouldn't be THAT bad. TUSK is a Kevin Smith movie, and Smith has a rabid following. There should have been more people in the audience. THE DROP is based on a Dennis Lehane novel, and his books are adapted by the likes of Clint Eastwood and Martin Scorsese, and they contain major star power. This one has Tom Hardy, who is probably the greatest new actor we have, in addition to the final performance of Tony Soprano himself, the late James Gandolfini. There is no possible way that such a film would have an audience of three, even at a matinee.
That's disappointing. I know that movies on the big screen are a fading part of the experience of being a human being, and it will be a shame when that's gone. There is a certain excitement that comes with the ritual of buying a ticket, getting popcorn, and experiencing a movie with an enormous crowd of people. I remember when I saw SE7EN in the theaters, and I heard people responding--with genuine shock--to the scene with the Sloth victim.
There is no replicating that experience.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #79: 10 YEARS AND THE GUY WHO INVENTED METH
This happened a few years ago. The seeds were planted at Mullen's in Lisle, where a friend had a regular karaoke gig at the time. That night, the guest was a DJ from Q101, and anyone who got on stage and sang would be given free tickets to a local show. If memory serves me correctly, the DJ was Sludge. Anyway, I'd already planned on getting up and singing. The previous week, I'd gotten my friend into trouble because I serenaded a blowup doll to Elvis's "I Want You, I Need You, I Love You." I had to play nice this week. I'd planned on wearing a strap-on dildo to stroke while singing Chuck Berry's "My Ding-A-Ling." Because I didn't want to fuck my friend's gig up, I wore a string of bells around my waist instead. When I was done with my rendition, a Q101 rep came up to me and gave me my choice of concert tickets.
I hadn't heard of any of the bands he'd mentioned except for Tantric and 10 Years. I flipped a mental coin and went with 10 Years.
That night, I was arrested for DUI. After years of struggling with the legal system, I was found not guilty. However, at the time, I was about to lose my driving privileges for a year. So I invited my girlfriend at the time to the show. It turned out to be one of our most memorable dates.
I remember sitting in the back seat of my car in the parking lot of the venue because they weren't open yet. Others were tailgating, but she and I were messing around a bit. When they let us in, we hung out, had a few drinks (most of them poured from the airplane bottles I'd hidden in my pockets), and before you knew it, while 10 Years played on the stage, she and I were getting pretty heavy on the dance floor. It got to the point where we were almost kicked out for public indecency. The bouncers were very uncomfortable with how far we'd gone.
But we didn't get kicked out. Instead, we drank more, danced more (even though I hate dancing) and she tried to get me into a three-way. Long story short: I don't like sex with more than one person at any given time.
Anyway, the show ended, and she liked the band enough so that we got their album, and then we had to figure out what we were going to do next. The father of her daughter was taking care of the kid, so we were free to do whatever we wanted. We got a bottle of Evan Williams, and she pointed out a truck stop in Bolingbrook just south of I-55. We parked and drank some more and then she invited me into the backseat of my own car. I'd like to say we made love back there, but seriously. You can't make love in the backseat of a Ford Focus while parked in a dingy truck stop. We fucked so hard I eventually had to get my car detailed. The windows were fogged up, but we could still see the silhouettes of truckers as they walked by on their way to the store.
But no one bothered us. When we were done, we got dressed, and she wanted to show me around the truck stop. She'd originally wanted to fuck in the showers, but I expressed my reluctance, as shower sex is kind of awful, in my opinion. Anyway, she showed me the showers, the store, everything. We wound up with some energy drinks in the lounge, where truckers sat around, watching TV.
And then one of the truckers--a skinny guy in a baseball cap--started a conversation with us. I don't know how it started, but he wound up telling us about his history on the road. He'd done plenty of drugs over the course of his life, but he'd been clean since 1976, which was two years longer than I've been alive. (She was born in 1983, so . . .) And then, he made an incredibly ridiculous claim: that he'd invented meth back in the 'Seventies. Neither of us could refute his claim, so we sat back and listened to him babble about this for a while. Then, he must have gotten bored talking to us, so he watched TV until we decided to get the fuck out of there.
I didn't realize it at the time, but that was pretty awkward.
I hadn't heard of any of the bands he'd mentioned except for Tantric and 10 Years. I flipped a mental coin and went with 10 Years.
That night, I was arrested for DUI. After years of struggling with the legal system, I was found not guilty. However, at the time, I was about to lose my driving privileges for a year. So I invited my girlfriend at the time to the show. It turned out to be one of our most memorable dates.
I remember sitting in the back seat of my car in the parking lot of the venue because they weren't open yet. Others were tailgating, but she and I were messing around a bit. When they let us in, we hung out, had a few drinks (most of them poured from the airplane bottles I'd hidden in my pockets), and before you knew it, while 10 Years played on the stage, she and I were getting pretty heavy on the dance floor. It got to the point where we were almost kicked out for public indecency. The bouncers were very uncomfortable with how far we'd gone.
But we didn't get kicked out. Instead, we drank more, danced more (even though I hate dancing) and she tried to get me into a three-way. Long story short: I don't like sex with more than one person at any given time.
Anyway, the show ended, and she liked the band enough so that we got their album, and then we had to figure out what we were going to do next. The father of her daughter was taking care of the kid, so we were free to do whatever we wanted. We got a bottle of Evan Williams, and she pointed out a truck stop in Bolingbrook just south of I-55. We parked and drank some more and then she invited me into the backseat of my own car. I'd like to say we made love back there, but seriously. You can't make love in the backseat of a Ford Focus while parked in a dingy truck stop. We fucked so hard I eventually had to get my car detailed. The windows were fogged up, but we could still see the silhouettes of truckers as they walked by on their way to the store.
But no one bothered us. When we were done, we got dressed, and she wanted to show me around the truck stop. She'd originally wanted to fuck in the showers, but I expressed my reluctance, as shower sex is kind of awful, in my opinion. Anyway, she showed me the showers, the store, everything. We wound up with some energy drinks in the lounge, where truckers sat around, watching TV.
And then one of the truckers--a skinny guy in a baseball cap--started a conversation with us. I don't know how it started, but he wound up telling us about his history on the road. He'd done plenty of drugs over the course of his life, but he'd been clean since 1976, which was two years longer than I've been alive. (She was born in 1983, so . . .) And then, he made an incredibly ridiculous claim: that he'd invented meth back in the 'Seventies. Neither of us could refute his claim, so we sat back and listened to him babble about this for a while. Then, he must have gotten bored talking to us, so he watched TV until we decided to get the fuck out of there.
I didn't realize it at the time, but that was pretty awkward.
Friday, October 3, 2014
READ THE FIRST 5 CHAPTERS OF MY FIRST BOOK FOR FREE
Despite the things I said in this post, I really do want you to read my first book, STRIP. I'm not going to try too hard, considering how it's the redheaded stepchild of the publisher, for whatever reason. But it is a fun read. Most of you know me from my horror work, and this is a crime novel. It's hyper-sexed and ultra-violent, like most of my work, but it is a crime book. If you're feeling kind of weird about giving a crime novel a try, why not read the first five chapters for free? Go here, and click on the LOOK INSIDE arrow, and you'll get the first five chapters (plus a few pages of the sixth chapter) for free. There isn't a lot of action this early in the book, but you get to meet the characters, and you get to see the seeds of the plot being sown. I think if you check it out, you'll be interested in finding out more. For a mere $5.99, you can read the rest of it. (Plus, you'll get to see the adult content warning that I talk so much about.) It's got a five-star rating, so it's got to be good, right? If you buy it, be sure to leave me a review to let me know what you think. Thanks, as always, for your time.
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #78: NIGHT OF THE LIVING BOOZER
Once upon a time, I was one of the hardest drinking motherfuckers you could ever meet. Every night, you'd find me at a different bar, hanging out with friends. Mondays were Doc Ryan nights, because they had dollar pints. Tuesdays were Elmhurst Public House nights, because they had dollar personal pitchers. Wednesdays were, I think, random bar nights. My memory is fuzzy about that one, but I think I'm recalling correctly. Thursdays were spent at Seven-Ten, but I forgot the drink special. Fridays were Spring Inn nights, because drinks there were always cheap, and they were five minutes away from home. And more often than not, Fridays ended at Brauerhouse, because they were open even later than the Spring Inn, and they were even closer to my place.
Now? I don't have specific drinking nights. If there's a special outing, of course I'll drink. And if it's Friday or Saturday, I'll probably have a few drinks. But it was nothing like in my drinking prime. I miss those days.
My pancreas stopped working a while back, so I've got to be careful. Even if that hadn't happened, my wallet has gotten considerably lighter, so I've got to be careful about that, too.
Tonight, we had an unofficial work outing. Ordinarily, I'd be one of the last fuckers at the bar, reluctant to go home even after being about ten drinks in. Tonight? I left before midnight, and I barely had a buzz.
It's like I barely know myself. I miss the old days of getting hammered and blacking out and trying to piece together the mystery of last night. That's why I enjoyed THE HANGOVER as much as I did. When you get down to it, it's about solving the mystery of whatever the fuck you did last night. It's almost like trying to figure out a novel by William Faulkner.
Those days are behind me. Except . . . sometimes, I get the urge to become Future Booze Jesus again. I might do that later this year. Maybe for New Year's Eve. I probably shouldn't, because my pancreas might stop working again, but I'm feeling nostalgic.
One of my coworkers/friends reminded me of a time when we used to get drunk and spend the night at another coworker's/friend's place. When I woke up the next morning, I saw an unfinished drink. The first thing I did? I reached down and drank the fucker.
I miss those days. I need to drink more often.
Now? I don't have specific drinking nights. If there's a special outing, of course I'll drink. And if it's Friday or Saturday, I'll probably have a few drinks. But it was nothing like in my drinking prime. I miss those days.
My pancreas stopped working a while back, so I've got to be careful. Even if that hadn't happened, my wallet has gotten considerably lighter, so I've got to be careful about that, too.
Tonight, we had an unofficial work outing. Ordinarily, I'd be one of the last fuckers at the bar, reluctant to go home even after being about ten drinks in. Tonight? I left before midnight, and I barely had a buzz.
It's like I barely know myself. I miss the old days of getting hammered and blacking out and trying to piece together the mystery of last night. That's why I enjoyed THE HANGOVER as much as I did. When you get down to it, it's about solving the mystery of whatever the fuck you did last night. It's almost like trying to figure out a novel by William Faulkner.
Those days are behind me. Except . . . sometimes, I get the urge to become Future Booze Jesus again. I might do that later this year. Maybe for New Year's Eve. I probably shouldn't, because my pancreas might stop working again, but I'm feeling nostalgic.
One of my coworkers/friends reminded me of a time when we used to get drunk and spend the night at another coworker's/friend's place. When I woke up the next morning, I saw an unfinished drink. The first thing I did? I reached down and drank the fucker.
I miss those days. I need to drink more often.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #77: AW, FUCK
Goddammit. A bit of a set-back in my battle with the 'Beetus. When I tested my blood sugar after lunch, it was a bit higher than it should have been at 148. Oddly enough, I felt like I was having a low blood sugar incident, which made zero sense.
But . . . I felt something else: withdrawal symptoms. I looked the internet up and down, and there is no history of this drug being habit forming. It felt like when I quit caffeine, except without the pain. Could I really be addicted to these stupid fucking things?
Maybe it's Taco Bell withdrawal. I haven't had a Quesarito since Friday.
No, it's the pill. I took my pill, and the withdrawal symptoms went away almost immediately. Am I the first motherfucker in the world to be addicted to 'Beetus meds? That can't be right. It's got to be my mind fucking with me.
More experiments to come . . .
And I promise, GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS isn't going to be a running tally of my battle with the 'Beetus. It's just this week that's fucking with me. I'll do something different tomorrow.
But . . . I felt something else: withdrawal symptoms. I looked the internet up and down, and there is no history of this drug being habit forming. It felt like when I quit caffeine, except without the pain. Could I really be addicted to these stupid fucking things?
Maybe it's Taco Bell withdrawal. I haven't had a Quesarito since Friday.
No, it's the pill. I took my pill, and the withdrawal symptoms went away almost immediately. Am I the first motherfucker in the world to be addicted to 'Beetus meds? That can't be right. It's got to be my mind fucking with me.
More experiments to come . . .
And I promise, GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS isn't going to be a running tally of my battle with the 'Beetus. It's just this week that's fucking with me. I'll do something different tomorrow.
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