GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #701: THE NOT-SEE PARTY

 Ever see Tusk? A lot of people hate it, but I fucking loved it. I love a lot of Kevin Smith's more unusual movies. I even loved Yoga Hosers. What, I hear you ask, about Jersey Girl? Eh, let's not get too crazy. Besides, I said "unusual."

(Stop before you bring up Cop Out. See previous answer.)

Anyway, in Tusk, Justin Long and Haley Joel Osment play podcasters, and their show is the Not-See Party Podcast. Which, naturally, gets Long in trouble when he tries to get into Canada. "What do you mean, the Nazi Party?" Guess it's not so funny now, eh?

When I first started taking calls at my job, I had to find my voice, my script, my style. When someone calls in wanting their windshield repaired over replaced, I have to qualify them. Depending on whether it's a chip or a crack, I would ask them, "Would you be able to put a quarter/credit card over it and not see the damage?"

I didn't really think about it until I realized how it sounded to others, and then I wondered how the hell no one ever stepped in and said, hey, don't ask the question that way.

I finally figured it out. Now I ask, "Would you be able to put a quarter/credit card over it and not be able to see the damage?" It sounds a lot better and not very likely to get me into trouble. Holy fuck, what if someone thought I was speaking in code? "The way he said 'not see' implies that this company is a safe place for Nazis." Kind of like the Klan used to speak in code to assure each other that they were in like-minded company.

Honestly it still feels weird when I say it, but that's only because I know how I got to that place and why. Just thought it was a strange thing that a lot of people don't really think about otherwise. Your mileage may vary.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #700: WALTER BISHOP IN CHINATOWN

 There's an episode of Fringe in which Walter Bishop gets lost in Chinatown. Remember, when we first met him, he was on a psych ward and had been for almost two decades. Now he's been out for a while, but people have to keep a close watch on him because, well, he's an old man with the sensibilities of a child. He yearns for more freedom, but he just can't have it. So in this episode he defiantly goes to Chinatown on his own, and sure enough, he gets lost. He's stranded without any hopes of contacting his son Peter or the rest of his Fringe Division team. He's a brilliant scientist who figured out how to go to a parallel universe, but when it comes to more mundane things? He doesn't have a good grip on things. He's practically helpless.

It reminded me of Gramps from a long time ago. Back then he worked at Dulles Cleaners in Elmhurst. The store he used to work at is no longer there. I think the flagship still is, but I'm too lazy to look it up now. Regardless, from my house to Dulles is a five minute drive, and that's allowing for a lot to go wrong. It's about a mile and would take me--in my prime--about 30-45 minutes to get there by foot.

Gramps needed a ride to work, and I told him I would give it to him when I got back from running errands. He expressed some concern that I would not be back in time, and I told him that would be no problem. I'm usually very punctual. When I'm hanging out with friends, I usually arrive to the minute I say I'm going to be there. When it's something else, like work or a signing or some kind of event, I'm almost always early (except for Printers Row, but that's a story for another day).

I ran my errands, but I did run a little later than I expected. I told Gramps I would be there at 4:50 pm, and he had to be at work by 5. I said this expecting to be done with everything by 4:30, but like I said, I ran a little late. I still made it back at 4:49. I honked the horn. Gramps didn't come out. The clock switched to 4:51, and I went inside to find out what's going on.

Gramps wasn't there. I searched around until I found Grandma in the basement with the laundry. She said that Gramps left a half an hour ago ON FOOT to go to work. That stubborn old man guessed I wouldn't be there on time. I asked her why she didn't stop him, but I needn't have.

Angry, I got back in my car and sped down the road, keeping an eye out. I found Gramps about three-quarters of the way, and he was looking rough. By that point in life he was already bowlegged, and he struggled to keep moving forward. It was more of a hobble than a walk. There was no way he would have made it.

I pulled over and unlocked the door, pushing it open and shouted to get his attention. When he saw it was me, he got in the car, and I drove him the rest of the way. I was so fucking angry with him that I let him have it with both barrels. Not a second went by without me yelling at him, not even when I pulled into the lot by the side of Dulles. I sat there for a little while longer, because I had another couple of minutes to rant at him. I forget how much time has passed, but he was probably in his early eighties at the time. How could he think that he could have walked all that distance when he had difficulty going up and down stairs? He could have been hurt. What if I didn't see him? What if he fell down and had to be brought to a hospital? What if . . . and so on. I can still feel the heat of my anger right now as I type this out.

And he sat there and took it without a single fucking word. Finally, when I ran out of steam and it was 4:58, he said, "I'm sorry, Dodge. I am. But I have to go into work now."

And so he went. I was his ride home that night, and I spent a lot of my time thinking about other angry things to say to him, but when I picked him up we didn't say anything.

And now here I am, a few weeks from turning 45, and I understand why he did it. No one ever wants to admit that their best days are behind them. Someone who used to walk miles and miles all the time doesn't want to get used to the fact that they can't do that anymore. No one wants to admit to themselves that age is getting the better of them. That they can't do the things they used to. That youth is gone and all that remains is the time you have left with your own ever-increasing decrepitude and how long that takes to wear you down to the pencil nub they'll put in the ground at the end of your life.

Because I feel that now, and I'm only half the age Gramps was when he went out for his walk. I, too, used to walk a lot. At least a mile a night. Just for the fun of it. I can't do that anymore because of my bad foot. My joints are going bad on me. Not too long ago I thought I had rheumatoid arthritis, but it turned out to be trigger finger instead. Still, it's pretty debilitating. I'm going under the knife for one of my hands soon, and I've been advised that it will be out of commission for a while so it can heal. My right hand. The one I write with. One of the hands I need to type with. I thought about just ignoring the doctor's warning, but then I thought of Gramps on his way to Dulles. Walter Bishop lost in Chinatown.

And I thought about the years ahead of me. What happens if my bad foot needs to be amputated? What if I lose the other one, too? What if my hands go so bad on me that I can't just charge forward, doing whatever I want to do anyway? Who is going to do these things for me?

I don't want to admit that one day, if I live long enough, I'm going to need someone to take care of me because this getting old thing doesn't show any signs of stopping. And I don't want to give up and sit in bed and wait for the end to come. I want to walk to fucking Dulles, for Christ's sake!

But I can't. The world has moved on and will always move on. I, too, have moved on.

O Discordia!

TOY CRIME STORY PART 2

 

CHAPTER TWO

Cat rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

Spike said, “Nightbeat’s always serious. Bleedin’ wanker.”

“What makes you think it was murder?” Angel asked.

Nightbeat hesitated. He didn’t know if it was a good idea to answer this question, at least not in front of everyone else. The truth was, he didn’t know for sure. He had a gut feeling, nothing more. “There is going to be an investigation. For the time being, I’d rather not tip my hand.”

“I can only assume I’m the number one suspect?” Cat asked. He waved a mittened hand near his face like a fan. “Be still my beating heart.”

“You’ll know soon enough,” Nightbeat said. He didn’t think Cat did it, despite the long list of horrible things he was capable of. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the misanthrope out of hand. Nightbeat needed to be objective.

He glanced around. Everyone was there. It meant nothing. The killer could very easily have snuck back in while he wasn’t looking. Wait, there was someone missing. “Where’s Felix?”

“Yo!” This from Don Snowy. “He’s over here!” Pointing.

Nightbeat walked over to Don Snowy, who pointed into the closet. There was Felix the Cat, passed out in a puddle of his own sick. He reeked of gin.

“Jesus Christ,” Nightbeat said. “Hey Felix! Wake up!” Nudging the black feline.

“What the fuck do you want?” Felix muttered. “I’m sleeping. Go ‘way.”

“Goddammit, Felix. Wake up!”

“Have my secretary autograph a picture for you. She’s great. Better at signing things than me. Great big hooters, too.”

Nightbeat could feel his teeth grinding against each other. “Felix! Joey’s dead!”

That must have broken through the booze haze. Felix’s eyes straightened out, and red as they were, they locked with Nightbeat’s. “Joey? Can’t be. He’s just a kid.”

“Took a header down the stairs,” Spike said.

“What happened? Did he trip?”

Nightbeat kept a poker face. “I think he was murdered.”

“Murder?” Felix shuddered, remembering the old Hollywood days. Back when he was a star instead of this washed up bum getting drunk on cheap gin. How many scandals? Lies? Truths? Bodies buried? “Who would murder Joey?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” Nightbeat looked out at the crowd. They buzzed with the news. With sorrow. With anticipation of the possible adventure about to begin. He would have to interview them all, and he would need help. Angel and Spike used to be detectives, although he didn’t trust Spike. He was a bit slippery.

Nightbeat approached Angel. “I’m going to need help with my investigation. You up for it?”

Angel waved a dismissive hand. “Those days are behind me. Besides, I was only ever good for beating the shit out of people. My team usually did the investigating.”

“Cheer up, mate,” Spike said. “You’re also good at whinging and brooding.”

“Oh shut up, Spike.”

“I could use the help,” Nightbeat said. “Come on. This isn’t your first rodeo.”

“No,” Angel said again. “Just . . . no.” He walked away, seeking out a pint of alcohol-infused blood.

Nightbeat sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it alone.” Thinking about how much longer this task was going to be without Angel’s help. He looked to everyone else. “All right, all! Line up here.” Pointing to the edge of the closet. “I’m going to use this closet as an office. One by one, I’m going to interview you until I’ve talked to you all. Understood?”

“Oh bother,” Cat said. “I’d rather not play this game of sillybuggers. I have souls to eat.”

“Namely Joey’s?” Nightbeat asked.

“No need to be so crass,” Cat said. “But maybe.” He slinked away, tail twitching.

Nightbeat had an urge to stop Cat and have him be the first interviewee, but this was not time for pettiness. He had enough on his plate as it was, and nothing but the cold hard facts would help him in this time of need.

The others had lined up, Felix at the front, since he was the closest. He weaved slightly, probably still drunk.

“Okay Felix,” Nightbeat said. “You first. Let’s go.”

Felix staggered into the closet with Nightbeat, closing the door just enough so the others would have to strain to hear what they had to say.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #699: SELLING BOOKS AT COMICONS

 A while back I saw this thing about whether or not authors should try getting a table at comics conventions. A lot of people seemed to be of the opinion that it's something that should be done with the idea that most people aren't there to buy books. Do it but don't expect much.

I tried selling books at Wizard World Chicago once upon a time, and it is my considered advice to not do it at all. Back then I loved comics conventions. Now I have fallen out of love with them. I have no interest in ever going to one again. But keep in mind, back when I tried to do this, people still went to these things because of comic books. I'm sure there are still a few who do, but they've been overshadowed by movies and TV shows so much that it's kind of galling that anyone dares call these comicons.

So yeah. Almost everyone is there to meet celebrities or go to panels on whatever's going on in the MCU or to see whatever disaster DC is putting together for the big screen. After customers have paid ungodly sums for just getting a ticket and then parking, they're not likely to buy books. They have a list of people they want to meet and how much they will pay for that. Considering the prices for these things, they won't have money to buy a book. There's a reason Artists Alley keeps dwindling year after year. It's been a while since I've been to one of these things, but I wouldn't be surprised to discover that there are only a couple of rows in AA these days.

Here is the number one thing that will happen to you if you decide to do this. I know all about it because this happened to me over and over and over again. Someone will pick up your book and flip through it, then put it down. "I thought there'd be pictures," they always say. Always. And then they'll walk away.

Let's assume that your publisher isn't going to go crazy and get a booth. I don't know of any publisher crazy enough to do that because publishers want to make money, but let's assume they're not involved. You're going to wind up paying hundreds of dollars for a table in AA. Maybe it's up to a thousand by now. I wouldn't be surprised. And then you're going to sell maybe five books. I think that's what I sold over the weekend I tried this at WWC. Certainly no more than ten.

Financially, it's not worth it. The only thing you might have to gain is word of mouth, and when most people aren't interested in buying that book, they're definitely not going to talk about it. Maybe the five people who buy the book will talk about it. Possibly. As far as I know, my five did not.

If you must go to a comicon to sell books, don't do one of the big ones like C2E2 or San Diego. Not unless you like losing massive amounts of money. Take it to a smaller show. The ones that can be contained in a high school gymnasium, for example. Or an outdoors place like DuPage County sometimes puts on. I miss Dancon. I would have sold books there in a heartbeat. If you write horror, and chances are, if you're reading this you do, I'd try shows like Days of the Dead or Flashback Weekend. I've done both shows and did well, although I recommend going with a partner and sharing the costs of the table.

But for the love of fuck, don't sell books at a comicon. It's a disaster waiting to happen. A disaster I know well.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #698: HOW I WAS SIGNED UP FOR MEDICAID

It's weird. Over the last two-three weeks maybe four or five friends started talking about Medicaid. I don't know if there's something in the air or not. I mentioned that I might write a GF column about it to one of them, so here it is.

Back in the first half of 2020 I was signed up for Medicaid. I can hear some of you editors out there grimacing at the passivity of that statement. I assure you, I did *not sign up* for it. I *was signed up* for it. Or if I did sign up, then I don't remember.

I lost my job in January 2020. I went through a lengthy hospital stay later that month and went through alcohol withdrawals at the time. And since I constantly had stomach issues back then, I was a regular at the ER. My veins actually collapsed because they put so many IVs in me. To put a new one in, they had to use an ultrasound. Without a job--and by extension, without insurance--how would I pay for that?

More importantly, how would the hospital get paid for that?

The hospital signed me up for it. If I signed any paperwork for Medicaid, they had me do it while I was three sheets on Dilaudid. As I recall they were out of morphine at the time and had to up me to Dilaudid. So it's possible that I signed it while in an opioid haze. But I think they just signed me up for it.

That saved a lot of my finances. I ended up declaring bankruptcy in February 2021, so a lot of it would have gone up in smoke anyway, but I still had my stomach issues, and I didn't get insurance again until maybe April or June of that year? So yes. Still very helpful.

During the pandemic Medicaid decided not to hound recipients to renew, so even though I now had insurance, I had *two* insurances. I didn't have to pay for anything, which pleased me to no end. The ride had to come to an end, though. Now that the pandemic is over, Medicaid is having people renew. There's no way I'll be allowed back on due to having a job and insurance. I guess I'll have to go back to paying copays, etc. Ah well. It was fun while it lasted.

It was nice of the hospital to do that for me/them. Considering the state of my mind back then (including a trip to the psych ward), I don't think it would have been something that would have occurred to me.

All good things . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #697: HAPPY 4TH

 Since I dropped two GFs heavy on politics last week, I promised myself that I would stay away from politics this week. Give you all a rest. So there won't be anything political about me wishing you a Happy Fourth.

I've said elsewhere that holidays don't mean much to me anymore. I thought perhaps it was just a matter of me getting old and not caring anymore, but I think I figured it out over the weekend.

When I was a kid, Gramps was all about the Fourth. Since actual fireworks are illegal in my state, and Elmhurst cops will arrest you for setting them off in the town limits, he'd get all those smoke bombs and snakes and shit, and we'd have a grand ol' time. As I got older, I realized that since fireworks were illegal here, then setting fires should be OK. I used to cut the heads off matches and then use the wood part as kindling with some liberal amounts of lighter fluid to create majestic fires as the denouement to our holiday celebrations.

(Although one year I did get my hands on a set of bottle rockets. I forgot how this happened. I was probably drunk at the time. But that was fun, and I didn't get caught.)

(One other aside. One Fourth, when I was a kid, my dad had me. Usually Mom had me for holidays, but this one time Dad picked me up. We went to his parents' place, where they used actual fireworks. It was unusual for me because I'd never seen anything like it before. I find it kind of funny that most people involved in that fireworks display are now law-n-order people.)

But I don't care about the Fourth anymore. Or any holiday except for Christmas, and I care less and less about that one every year, too. My epiphany over the weekend was this: Gramps was the driving force behind holiday celebrations. Grandma only cared about Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's, but every once in a while she watched Gramps set off the "safe" fireworks that IL endorses. But Gramps died in 2017. Possibly 2016 if I'm right about being from an alternate universe. Regardless, that's when I started noticing my lack of caring about holidays. Without Gramps around, it just wasn't the same. And I think maybe that's the real cause behind my holiday apathy.

I had today off from work, and I'm grateful for that, but in all honesty I couldn't care less about the Fourth of July. If you celebrate, I hope you enjoyed it. I just made hotdogs, got high and watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which felt pretty good. It's good enough for me.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #696: BLACKOUTS

 

Maybe a couple of weeks ago I read the new book from Brubaker and Phillips, Night Fever. It's fun. Not sure I like the ending, but everything else is a good time. It's about a promoter for a publishing house going to Europe for a convention only to get into some serious fuckin' trouble, especially when he blacks out in the presence of another character, but the panel above really spoke to me. As someone who has been a heavy, heavy drinker for almost two decades, I've had my share of blackouts, and I always wondered what was really in the driver's seat. Because it certainly wasn't me.

Brubaker continues: "You're not unconscious, passed out in some corner . . . You're just not there somehow. So what part of your mind is pulling your strings then?" An excellent question for which I don't have an answer. I think about the saying, "First the man takes the drink, then the drink takes the man." Is there a spirit (heh) to the alcohol that takes up residence like a possession? And only sobriety can exorcise the demon? Or maybe another you, like a split personality? Perhaps it's the lizard brain come out to play.

The scariest blackout I ever came out of was when I came back to myself behind the wheel of my car, going about 60 mph down an expressway. A tollway, at that. I do my absolute best to avoid tollways, so Blackout Me decided it might be a good idea to take one? What the fuck was he thinking?

(He asked, as if that was the most horrifying part of this anecdote.)

But most blackouts are pieced together the next day after I wake up, like a mystery. Has science tried to get to the bottom of this? We probably should do a study. If I was still drinking I'd volunteer in a heartbeat. Because I'd like to know, who am I when I've had so much to drink that I'm not me anymore?