Many of you longtime readers and friends know that I don't drink and write. I'm horrible at that kind of thing. I don't make sense when I try shit like that. Every once in a while, I will drink and edit. It helps to distance myself from my own work, to make me feel like I'm editing a stranger's work. But write and drink? It has not happened in ten years because it doesn't work.
Until now. For my secret project, I've been drinking and writing. I can't get into the proper headspace without it. It's a special brand of writing that requires being fucked up. I don't feel possessed without it. If I'm just sitting there in front of my computer and typing, it just doesn't feel right unless I've had three shots of whiskey and a beer before writing. At the least. Sometimes some Wild Irish Rose helps. Thankfully this is not going to be a novel. It won't destroy me. Just so long as I can get through the next week of writing in this weird altered state, I think I can survive.
It's weird being in someone else's head, especially the head of a dead man. I'm OK with that kind of thing when they're fictional characters, but when they're real life people, it fucks with me. I don't think I'll ever do this again. It's taking a toll on me. It's fun, but I think if I ever do this again, it will destroy me. Because . . . well . . . it's not just the drink.
Here's the weird, fucked up thing: I'm not getting paid for this gig. I'm doing it for the challenge. It's fucking with me in ways I can never say. It consumes my every thought, and I wonder if I should have ever been given all the medication I've been given all these years. Some are painkillers, and some are psychotic drugs given me because they have an effect on the strange digestion I suffer from.
What am I saying? Well shit. I've always been honest with these GF's. I'm not going to stop now. I don't recommend acting in this way, but it works for me. Shit, it might not even work for me. I don't know what I'm babbling about.
I'm almost done with this story. I think I'll be done in a week, and then I'll stop this nonsense. I won't have a reason to continue after this. I would not be doing this without needing to write this story. I have every confidence that I will stop this when I'm done. Besides, what doctor would give me more drugs to continue this madness? I'm not good at getting drugs on the street, so I won't be able to continue.
Shit. If this story sucks, I'm fucked. All of this will be for nothing. But I feel confident. I read everything I've written every day, and I think it's good. I hope it's all worth it.
Friday, December 4, 2015
Monday, November 30, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #159: I WISH I COULD WRITE THAT
On Black Friday, while the rest of America was beating the shit out of each other to get their hands on TV's that were discounted by 10% or some such happy horseshit, I was driving my brothers home to Crystal Lake. Normally I take I-90, but it was so fucking packed that I had to take the back roads, mostly using Algonquin. That's a nice, quiet country road, and I enjoyed blasting through there at 90 mph while listening to Alestorm.
Never mind that, though. I was severely hungover, but my mind never turns itself off, not when it's not in blackout drunk phase. No, as I drove down this isolated road, I saw decrepit houses with miles and miles of flat land around them. I zoned out on Alestorm, and I could see these buildings as the quiet monoliths of the Suburban Prairie that they are.
The atmosphere is astounding. I wish I was good enough as a writer to capture these quiet, atmospheric settings. I tried with this piece right here, but I still failed to communicate the feeling I experienced that night.
You know who was really good at capturing that kind of feeling? Andrew Dominik. I can't speak for the director as a person (nor for the writer of the book, which is on my reading list but I have not yet gotten to it), but he directed THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD, and there are scenes in this movie that are exactly what I want to accomplish in my fiction. He can do it with images. I need to learn how to do it in imagery. God, I envy him this ability. If I can do with words what he does with visuals, I would be very happy, indeed.
The TV show FARGO is also pretty good at this kind of atmosphere.
Shit. My new book, DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN, is out today, and it has already gotten a lot of attention from people and writers I respect. Yet I don't think I'll ever be the writer I want to be. I learn a little bit every day, but I get the feeling I'll be learning this trade until I inevitably die at my keyboard. I heard Robert Parker died at his typewriter. I can see that happening to me, and I can see myself being completely unfulfilled upon my death.
Maybe that's OK. Like Rufus says near the end of BILL AND TED'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE, "They *do* get better." A close friend of mine told me a while ago that when he read my work when we were in high school, he thought I was an absolutely shitty writer. Yet when he read my recent work, he saw leaps and bounds in improvement until I was pretty good. Maybe that's the best I can hope for.
But I'll never settle. Not until they pry my cold, dead hands from the keyboard.
Never mind that, though. I was severely hungover, but my mind never turns itself off, not when it's not in blackout drunk phase. No, as I drove down this isolated road, I saw decrepit houses with miles and miles of flat land around them. I zoned out on Alestorm, and I could see these buildings as the quiet monoliths of the Suburban Prairie that they are.
The atmosphere is astounding. I wish I was good enough as a writer to capture these quiet, atmospheric settings. I tried with this piece right here, but I still failed to communicate the feeling I experienced that night.
You know who was really good at capturing that kind of feeling? Andrew Dominik. I can't speak for the director as a person (nor for the writer of the book, which is on my reading list but I have not yet gotten to it), but he directed THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD, and there are scenes in this movie that are exactly what I want to accomplish in my fiction. He can do it with images. I need to learn how to do it in imagery. God, I envy him this ability. If I can do with words what he does with visuals, I would be very happy, indeed.
The TV show FARGO is also pretty good at this kind of atmosphere.
Shit. My new book, DONG OF FRANKENSTEIN, is out today, and it has already gotten a lot of attention from people and writers I respect. Yet I don't think I'll ever be the writer I want to be. I learn a little bit every day, but I get the feeling I'll be learning this trade until I inevitably die at my keyboard. I heard Robert Parker died at his typewriter. I can see that happening to me, and I can see myself being completely unfulfilled upon my death.
Maybe that's OK. Like Rufus says near the end of BILL AND TED'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE, "They *do* get better." A close friend of mine told me a while ago that when he read my work when we were in high school, he thought I was an absolutely shitty writer. Yet when he read my recent work, he saw leaps and bounds in improvement until I was pretty good. Maybe that's the best I can hope for.
But I'll never settle. Not until they pry my cold, dead hands from the keyboard.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #158: A THINKING TOOL
When I was in high school I bought my first Tarot deck. I did this for a few reasons, but chiefly among them was the fact that I was looking for a religion at the time. I hoped that this shit actually worked. Spoiler alert: it didn't. I also didn't find religion. No offense to those who have their own gods and such, but I found it all to be horseshit. To this day I'm an atheist. But that's beside the point. A story for another day. I taught myself how to read Tarot with that first deck. (PS: It was the Mythic Tarot that I bought. I did so for two reasons: 1. I'm a fan of Ancient Greece. 2. Some of the cards had boobies on them.)
Even though the Tarot is make believe, it does serve a great purpose. Back when John Sandford was writing books under his own name, John Camp, he created a dude by the name of Kidd. He's an art thief and a hacker, but he is also a Tarot reader. No, he doesn't believe it works. He uses it as a thinking tool, and he inspired me to do the same.
Here's the thing: have you ever felt like Tarot cards are for real? There's a reason for that. It's not what the cards actually say. It's the interpretation you give them. You know the situation, so you assign the meaning yourself. That's why they make such a great thinking tool.
Sometimes you find yourself in a situation where you don't know what the fuck to do. I do a quick Tarot reading because it helps me dissect a problem. It helps me see things I wouldn't have thought of before. It kicks my brain into a higher gear.
I have many Tarot decks right now, and I will ask the same question of them all. They will all help me see things from a different perspective or a new light. I highly recommend it as a thinking tool rather than an augur.
I'm incredibly depressed right now, and the Tarot serves as a great thinking tool. It helps me cope.
The most trusted of my decks? The first one I ever bought. It has served me better than any of the others. Its dedication to ancient Greek myths hits me right in the heart, so it is better suited than any other deck for me. Your mileage may vary. I recommend this to everyone with a creative bend to their minds. Don't even read the explanation book. Just look at the cards. They tell their own stories. Stories that will help you figure out what is going on in your own lives.
Even though the Tarot is make believe, it does serve a great purpose. Back when John Sandford was writing books under his own name, John Camp, he created a dude by the name of Kidd. He's an art thief and a hacker, but he is also a Tarot reader. No, he doesn't believe it works. He uses it as a thinking tool, and he inspired me to do the same.
Here's the thing: have you ever felt like Tarot cards are for real? There's a reason for that. It's not what the cards actually say. It's the interpretation you give them. You know the situation, so you assign the meaning yourself. That's why they make such a great thinking tool.
Sometimes you find yourself in a situation where you don't know what the fuck to do. I do a quick Tarot reading because it helps me dissect a problem. It helps me see things I wouldn't have thought of before. It kicks my brain into a higher gear.
I have many Tarot decks right now, and I will ask the same question of them all. They will all help me see things from a different perspective or a new light. I highly recommend it as a thinking tool rather than an augur.
I'm incredibly depressed right now, and the Tarot serves as a great thinking tool. It helps me cope.
The most trusted of my decks? The first one I ever bought. It has served me better than any of the others. Its dedication to ancient Greek myths hits me right in the heart, so it is better suited than any other deck for me. Your mileage may vary. I recommend this to everyone with a creative bend to their minds. Don't even read the explanation book. Just look at the cards. They tell their own stories. Stories that will help you figure out what is going on in your own lives.
Friday, November 27, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #157: O DISCORDIA!
A moral blow was dealt to me today. Just now. I'm not going to say much about it, but it hurt me a great deal. No matter how badly it hurt me, it hurt someone else a lot more. She did something terrible and is now reaping the terror that comes along with that. She says she wants help, but her actions don't prove that.
I do want to help her, but I can't. She doesn't want that help. She wants to revel in her own bad decisions, no matter what she says. She'll deny it, but then she'll do whatever the fuck she pleases because she needs to be the way she is. I spoke to her last night, and she told me she was drunk, but she was intoxicated with something else. I can't deal with that. I told her I can deal with anything except for that, and she chose that.
Fine. It's done. Don't pity me. I placed myself in a position where I thought her and I were good. But I can't do that anymore. I can't help her anymore. I'm done. O discordia!
I do want to help her, but I can't. She doesn't want that help. She wants to revel in her own bad decisions, no matter what she says. She'll deny it, but then she'll do whatever the fuck she pleases because she needs to be the way she is. I spoke to her last night, and she told me she was drunk, but she was intoxicated with something else. I can't deal with that. I told her I can deal with anything except for that, and she chose that.
Fine. It's done. Don't pity me. I placed myself in a position where I thought her and I were good. But I can't do that anymore. I can't help her anymore. I'm done. O discordia!
Thursday, November 26, 2015
HEY FUCKERS #24: THE MURDERERS' NATIONAL DRINK
Before we go any further, you should read this. Nothing I say here will make any sense without it, and it's a pretty short and entertaining read.
Now: to business. I have never had Wild Irish Rose, although I've kept an eye out for it thanks to the above mentioned article. Someone asked me to buy wine last night, and while I was looking for what she wanted I found, in a dusty and forgotten corner of my usual liquor store, three bottles of WIR. It's a four day weekend. I would be a fool not to try it.
When I got home, I cracked the seal and smelled the neck. It smelled like wine, all right. Nothing special. I took down a mouthful (because something tells me the only way to drink this stuff is to drink it directly from the bottle), and JESUS GOD! This vile swill tried to poison me! It's horrible, horrible shit. But it's cheap shit. I got a fifth for five bucks, and that's cheaper than the cheapest vodka Mom ever had me go out and buy when I was younger. Despite its cheapness, I would never waste alcohol. The last time I felt like this was when I got Bacardi's 151 rum, and it tasted so godawful I wouldn't drink it straight. I could barely tolerate it mixed in Coke. I might as well have drank gasoline straight from the pump. But goddammit, I didn't waste it, and I wasn't going to waste this WIR.
I drank half of the bottle, and I didn't even have a buzz. I never get a buzz when drinking wine. My system is used to high proof bourbons. However, WIR has an exceptionally high (for wine) proof of 34. I should have felt something kick in. No dice. I gave up and switched to the half of a fifth of Jim Beam I have on hand for just such emergencies.
That's when I discovered the true power of WIR. It's not something you can get drunk on, not really, but if you need your pump primed before you move on to something that WILL get you drunk? This is what you need. I soared with the goddam bats once I'd finished that bottle of Jim Beam. The Jim Beam alone would have given me a nice buzz, but on top of the WIR I felt like a god king. I was bulletproof, and I didn't really want to horsewhip someone with my dick, but goddammit, I could have.
I've been working on a story for a top secret anthology for a while now, but I just couldn't get into the right mind space for it. It involves being able to get into a specific person's head, but God broke the mold when He made this man. What I was working on just felt like a pale imitation . . . until last night. WIR and Jim Beam propelled me into his head, and I'll be goddammed if I didn't THINK like him. I sent out posts and texts, and it wasn't me. I was possessed by this man. And I got the best writing on this project I've done so far. And now I can't get HIM out of ME.
I still have half the bottle of WIR left, and I have a shit-ton of whiskey. When the proper holiday is over, I think it's time to rock and roll.
Now: to business. I have never had Wild Irish Rose, although I've kept an eye out for it thanks to the above mentioned article. Someone asked me to buy wine last night, and while I was looking for what she wanted I found, in a dusty and forgotten corner of my usual liquor store, three bottles of WIR. It's a four day weekend. I would be a fool not to try it.
When I got home, I cracked the seal and smelled the neck. It smelled like wine, all right. Nothing special. I took down a mouthful (because something tells me the only way to drink this stuff is to drink it directly from the bottle), and JESUS GOD! This vile swill tried to poison me! It's horrible, horrible shit. But it's cheap shit. I got a fifth for five bucks, and that's cheaper than the cheapest vodka Mom ever had me go out and buy when I was younger. Despite its cheapness, I would never waste alcohol. The last time I felt like this was when I got Bacardi's 151 rum, and it tasted so godawful I wouldn't drink it straight. I could barely tolerate it mixed in Coke. I might as well have drank gasoline straight from the pump. But goddammit, I didn't waste it, and I wasn't going to waste this WIR.
I drank half of the bottle, and I didn't even have a buzz. I never get a buzz when drinking wine. My system is used to high proof bourbons. However, WIR has an exceptionally high (for wine) proof of 34. I should have felt something kick in. No dice. I gave up and switched to the half of a fifth of Jim Beam I have on hand for just such emergencies.
That's when I discovered the true power of WIR. It's not something you can get drunk on, not really, but if you need your pump primed before you move on to something that WILL get you drunk? This is what you need. I soared with the goddam bats once I'd finished that bottle of Jim Beam. The Jim Beam alone would have given me a nice buzz, but on top of the WIR I felt like a god king. I was bulletproof, and I didn't really want to horsewhip someone with my dick, but goddammit, I could have.
I've been working on a story for a top secret anthology for a while now, but I just couldn't get into the right mind space for it. It involves being able to get into a specific person's head, but God broke the mold when He made this man. What I was working on just felt like a pale imitation . . . until last night. WIR and Jim Beam propelled me into his head, and I'll be goddammed if I didn't THINK like him. I sent out posts and texts, and it wasn't me. I was possessed by this man. And I got the best writing on this project I've done so far. And now I can't get HIM out of ME.
I still have half the bottle of WIR left, and I have a shit-ton of whiskey. When the proper holiday is over, I think it's time to rock and roll.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
THE DONALD SPEAKS #1: TRUMP VS. ALEXANDER THE GREAT
[This is the first in what I hope will be a series of my imagined ramblings of what Donald Trump would think of particular historical figures. If you have any suggested targets for The Donald to take on, let me know in the comments, and I'll give it a shot. Let me know if this actually entertains you, or if I'm wasting my time on something only I think is funny. --JB]
Why does everyone call him Alexander the Great? Is it because he conquered the known world when he was so young? I don't think that's an accomplishment worth bragging about. If he was truly great, he would have discovered America. Did he discover America? No. Anyone could conquer the so-called "known" world. I think Genghis Khan did it once, and do we call him great? No. Alexander was a proven loser. He died at the age of thirty-two. That's pretty lazy. I guess that's what happens when your mom is a snake handling freak.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #156: IF YOU DON'T READ THE WALKING DEAD, TURN BACK NOW
I'm serious. I mean it. If you don't read THE WALKING DEAD comic book series, you need to turn back now. This also includes those of you who have not watched tonight's episode. I'm giving you a chance to back away. Spoilers lay ahead. I'm not fucking with you.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I'm pissed off about tonight's episode of THE WALKING DEAD. I think I might be the only person in the world who is angry that Glenn is still alive. I think the writers took the coward's way out. They decided not to kill a fan favorite because that would kill ratings. Sure enough, it would. But it's not the right creative answer.
I wanted Glenn to be dead because of one reason and one reason alone. Those of you who follow the comic book series know that Glenn meets his end when Negan beats his fucking head in with Lucille, a baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire.
If Glenn died the way the TV series suggested he might have, do you realize who would have died beneath Negan's Lucille? If the TWD writers had balls (which, at this point, I have to believe they don't), they would have killed Glenn episodes ago, and in his place, they would have put Daryl. That's right, Daryl would have died due to Negan and his love of Lucille. How incredible would that have been? Yes, there would have been riots . . . online. Not in real life. No one loves a character enough to actually riot BECAUSE IT'S NOT FUCKING REAL. It's a story.
That's a great story that could have been told, but it won't be. Because the people who write for THE WALKING DEAD thought they had balls, but they don't. They just wanted a who-killed-JR moment in TV history. They proved that tonight.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
I'm pissed off about tonight's episode of THE WALKING DEAD. I think I might be the only person in the world who is angry that Glenn is still alive. I think the writers took the coward's way out. They decided not to kill a fan favorite because that would kill ratings. Sure enough, it would. But it's not the right creative answer.
I wanted Glenn to be dead because of one reason and one reason alone. Those of you who follow the comic book series know that Glenn meets his end when Negan beats his fucking head in with Lucille, a baseball bat wrapped with barbed wire.
If Glenn died the way the TV series suggested he might have, do you realize who would have died beneath Negan's Lucille? If the TWD writers had balls (which, at this point, I have to believe they don't), they would have killed Glenn episodes ago, and in his place, they would have put Daryl. That's right, Daryl would have died due to Negan and his love of Lucille. How incredible would that have been? Yes, there would have been riots . . . online. Not in real life. No one loves a character enough to actually riot BECAUSE IT'S NOT FUCKING REAL. It's a story.
That's a great story that could have been told, but it won't be. Because the people who write for THE WALKING DEAD thought they had balls, but they don't. They just wanted a who-killed-JR moment in TV history. They proved that tonight.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
