GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #723: I MET CHUCK TINGLE

 

Of all my GF readers, I'd wager that I might have one of you who has never heard of Chuck Tingle, but definitely not another. I heard he was going to be in Naperville at Anderson's, so naturally I had to be there. And the one thing I can say that stands out about Chuck is that he's an absolute showman.

At most signings the author will talk a little bit. Read an excerpt. Take questions. But that's not good enough for Chuck. He put on a show the likes of which I've not seen since I went to the signing of another Chuck, that author being Palahniuk.

Chuck Tingle put together an amazing slideshow, and at one point he said he was going to reveal his face only to show a picture of Chris Pine. The next slide said that he is definitely 100% not Chris Pine. Since his new book is a horror novel instead of an erotic Tingler, he decided to look at the dating profiles of slashers. Jason, Pinhead, Ghostface, Michael Myers and Leatherface were the ones he explored, and then he had us guess which dating apps each one was on. At the end of this one he had us all vote for who we would most want to date. I wish Freddy had been up there. If I was going to go after the slasher of my dreams . . . It was a tie between Pinhead and Ghostface. If I had to choose (and I did), I'd have to go with Pinhead.

My favorite of the games was Three Tinglers and a Lie. There are four rounds. Each round has three real Chuck Tingle titles and one that he made up (and he says that he'll have to change it up for the next tour because he might very well write the lies). I'm proud to say that I made it through all rounds. There was no technical winner, but my instincts are good.

Then I got to meet the man himself. Ordinarily I would not pose for a picture with someone I'm meeting in such a way. I prefer memories over pictures. But hell, if I told you I'd met Chuck Tingle, would you have believed me?

Would you?

I don't know how much of his tour he has left, but if you have the chance to meet him, don't pass it up!

Also, no, it was not chilly. Yes, I was excited.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #722: STRONG ENOUGH TO BE GENTLE

"Freedom is the right of all sentient beings."

 

I'm not a leader, and I'm not going to pretend that I have any leadership qualities. However, I do know what makes for a great leader, and I'm sad to say that those are few and far between. I can't think of a single leader that we have in this country. Not a real leader. Sure, there are a lot of people called leaders, but they aren't actually leaders.

I think the, uh, prime example of what a leader should be is the sentient being depicted in the above picture. Optimus is the ideal. He really is. And there's a reason that, out of all the Transformers in the cartoon, only Peter Cullen continued to voice his character in the Michael Bay live action movies.

(No, I'm not going to talk about how I think they suck. You probably didn't even need to ask me that question. I'm sure you good fuckers know me well enough by now.)

It's hard to imagine someone else voicing Optimus because Peter Cullen embodies all the qualities of leadership just by using his voice. I recently read an article about how he came up with that voice, and I think it's worth reading this part here:

Transformers icon and voice actor Peter Cullen explained exactly how the character's voice was developed, along with the person who inspired it. Cullen admits, "When I voiced Prime for the very first time, I was living with my brother Larry, who was a Marine. And I said, 'I'm going to an audition. I'm gonna be a truck.' And he started to laugh, and he said, 'A truck?!' And I said, 'This is a leader. This is a hero.' And his demeanor just changed. He just went, 'Well, Peter. If you're going to be a leader, be strong enough to be gentle.' And I got to the audition, and I said, 'My name is Optimus Prime, from the planet Cybertron.' I had no doubt that this is what a hero should sound like, and I was convinced I was gonna get that role."

"Strong enough to be gentle." I don't know a better way to put it. Leaders don't belittle the people they lead. Why blunt someone when you can sharpen them? You want the best team possible, right? You would take the time to make sure everyone realized their potential to be the best they can be. Leaders are not petty. They listen. They're understanding. They're firm but are open to suggestion. Leaders who are not these things always baffle me, kind of like the concept of "toxic masculinity." I don't believe there's such a thing because if you're being toxic, you're not being masculine. You're being a pud. Self-described alpha males are most definitely not leaders. They're self-obsessed dick shakers, is what they are. "Look at my dick! See it go rawr!" Put it away, Tiny. You're not fooling anyone.

It would be nice to have actual leadership in this country, but if there's anything I've learned from my 45 years of living here, anyone who wants the job DOES NOT DESERVE to have the job. Running for president, for example, should automatically disqualify you from the race.

Before I start on a rant about tearing down the system and building something new, I'm just going to go to bed. Hopefully when we all wake up tomorrow, the world will be a better place.

I doubt it, but it would be nice.

Yes, I know. I ran for US President once. But that was only as a book promotion! You can trust me!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #721: TMI

 There aren't a lot of cool things about being me, but there are a few, and they're pretty solid. One of my favorite things about me is something I share with Chuck Palahniuk.

A while back I wrote about meeting him for the first time (I've seen him twice). He told a story, which I'm not going to go into again, about how people view him as someone they can tell their weirdest and dirtiest and sickest secrets. He supposes it's because he wrote "Guts." If he could write a story like that, there's no way he's going to judge these other people.

It's tempting to say that people are the same way with me because I wrote something like Dong of Frankenstein, but it's honestly been this way all my life. Perhaps it's the way I conduct myself? Or maybe I just have a trusting face? Whatever it is, people will tell me the weirdest things about themselves. The dirtiest things. The sickest things. And I won't ever tell anyone else. I won't even mine it for writing material, although a lot of times I wish I could. People will confess things to me that they would never, under any circumstances, tell anyone else. Sometimes not even their spouses. Often times they're 100% sober.

It's an oddball gift, and I'm here for it. I'd give examples but, well, you know. It's stuff like this that makes this whole existence thing worthwhile at times.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #720: MIDLIFE CRISIS

 To be read to this song.

I should probably be dead by now. It almost happened a few times. Sometimes I wish it had. Because I'm pretty fucking miserable. I put up a good front. My go-to defense mechanism is humor, and it's almost knee-jerk. I don't have to put a lot of thought into that humor. It just sort of happens.

When I was in my early twenties I went through a midlife crisis, or at least I thought I did. It was a grim time, mostly because I didn't do a lot of drinking back then. Not yet. Drinking is a great defense mechanism, too, by the way. Until it's not.

But here I am at the age of 45, and I'll be damned if I'm not going through another midlife crisis. This one's the real deal, though. I felt pretty hopeless way back when, but I also knew that I still had plenty of time back then. Now I feel completely hopeless. I'm rethinking everything I've ever done. I'm looking over the mistakes of my life and regretting a lot of them.

I'm dissatisfied with the way things turned out. This is not the life I imagined when I was a kid. Granted, I thought I'd be a world renowned detective, and what were the odds of that happening? Hell, maybe that's what I should do now. Quit everything I'm doing now and get a job with a private investigations agency. Because I'd never work for the cops. In case you haven't noticed, I have a problem with authority. I'd make a great researcher, and I could probably learn the ropes quickly until I become a PI myself. I used to have that fantasy. Maybe I could do that now. I'll look into it when I have more time.

But I'm thinking back over the course of my life, trying to figure out where it went wrong, and I think I found the cause. Even when I was in high school I had confidence in my writing, and back then I really should not have. But I did. I figured I'd be making a living as an author by now, and yeah, I have books out. Yeah, there are a lot of publications to my name. Yeah, people know who I am. But I'm not even close to making a living on my writing. I'm not even a quarter of the way there. Not even an eighth.

I figured I'd keep a square job until my writing took off, so I've lived that way ever since. What I should have done was go to college for something that wouldn't turn out to be fucking useless. If you know me in real life, you've heard me say this line at least once: "I went to Elmhurst College where I majored in English and Philosophy, two things guaranteed to get me nowhere in the world." It's funny the first time you hear it. But this laugh isn't worth it.

I should have studied something more important. I think I should have majored in business instead. That's a degree I can actually do something with. I had another fantasy: start a used bookstore. I could have used such an education to do that very thing. I always thought I should open a dive bar, but maybe that would have been a bad idea, considering how my drinking turned out.

But I could have used that shit to get myself a real job, not these bullshit jobs I keep kicking around at, earning just enough money to buy a sock to jerk off into and have an extra for when that one gets too stiff. And then I could do all sorts of real job type stuff while moonlighting as an author until my writing took off. Plus, since I don't have extravagant tastes, I could probably throw my disposable income into an advertising campaign, which would really fucking help.

Yet here I sit with my dissatisfaction. You may have noticed a lot of my GF columns of late have been political/social ranting about how we're all getting fucked over by rich fucks with no moral fiber who are encouraged by politicians with no moral fiber so long as they get their payday. What do my rants get me? Nothing. Not a goddam thing. It just makes me even more pissed off, and for what? Why should I care? People bitch about inflation, but I think they secretly love it. There's no other explanation for why we haven't guillotined Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk and their likes. So why should I bother talking about it? It does nothing but work me up, and it's never going to change anyone's mind.

And then there's my current square job. How the fuck do I keep getting sucked into sales jobs? When I went for the interview, I was under the impression it was customer service. That's what a lot of companies do now, by the way. They post jobs as customer service when they really mean sales. I was offered the job, and I took it because I was desperate. I'd been out of work for more than a year at that point. I was at the second lowest point in my life. It seemed like the only way to save myself. And now I go to that job five days a week, pissed off that I don't get a full weekend. Angry that a quarter of the calls I get aren't even sales calls. Mad at all the other departments that torpedo my fucking sales. And now they're outsourcing half of our calls? I have to dig deep to get any work done, and it's driving me fucking crazy. It's a lot of effort for very little reward. And to top things off, I came within two sales of meeting my quota last month. Two. 198 out of 200. So I didn't get paid off on all that work. I should have moved on from that job by now. Why am I still there?

I realize that with my history of what is currently called "mental health struggles," that tonight's column might be a little unsettling. If I was going to kill myself, I'd just do it. No one would get any warning whatsoever. I wouldn't want anyone stopping me. So take it as a good sign that I'm writing this. So no need for any pep talks. I'm not on the ledge. I am thinking about making a lot of life changes, though. Ending Goodnight, Fuckers is one of them. Getting the fuck off of social media is another. Hell, I've even thought about abandoning who I am entirely and going to work for the villains. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Good God, I'm even thinking of going into politics! That's how desperate I am. Any fucking dickhead can be a politician. Hell, you don't even have to have even  a passing relationship with the truth. Look at George Santos. Guess what? I graduated from Harvard. I'm a lawyer now. And a doctor. Shit, why not send out a bunch of resumes packed with lies? No one seems to give a shit about that. Are they really going to do a background check?

All those times when I was younger and thought I was miserable? What a fucking idiot I was. All that shit is nothing compared to how I feel now.

Mom died at 53. That's not all that far from where I stand now. I'm running out of time.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 6

 

CHAPTER SIX

Don Draper was the first interview of the day. He was really a Donald Duck stuffed animal, and he waddled in just like a duck would. He wore a paper bag over his head, on which a smiling face had been drawn in black marker. Joey had done that, but no one knew exactly why. Donald Duck suffered a mental split at the time and decided, inexplicably, that he was Don Draper from TV’s Mad Men.

“Don,” Nightbeat said.

“This had better be good,” Don said. “I have a meeting with Pete Campbell. We have a very important client on the line, and if this makes me late—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Nightbeat said. “This shouldn’t take long.”

“It better not. Pete can’t handle this on his own.”

Nightbeat ignored that last part. “Where were you when Joey was murdered.”

“Murdered?” Don asked. “From what I hear, he had an accident. Happens all the time to kids.”

Nightbeat rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just answer the question.”

“Fine.” Don tugged at his bowtie, the one that Donald Duck was supposed to have. “I was at work. Just ask Roger Sterling. We had a few drinks after quitting time.”

Goddammit. Nightbeat rubbed his eyes. None of the toys had a Roger Sterling personality. How the fuck could he corroborate an alibi with someone who didn’t exist? “I don’t buy it. Try something else on me.”

“Come on, Nightbeat. Cut me some slack. Okay, maybe I wasn’t with Roger Sterling. Maybe I was somewhere else. I promise you that I wasn’t killing Joey. I just can’t tell you where I was.”

“Getting some strange on the side?” Nightbeat asked.

Don sighed, biting his lip. He still didn’t want to talk, but he knew Nightbeat had his number. “Yes. I was. You can’t tell my wife. She’ll kill me.”

“One condition,” Nightbeat said. “Tell me who you were with, and mum’s the word.”

“Dammit, Nightbeat. A lady’s honor is at stake, here.”

Nightbeat stared him down, not giving any quarter.

“Fine. I was with one of Felix’s ex-wives.”

“Which one?”

“Fucked if I know. They all look alike.”

Interesting. This was the second time one of Felix’s ex-wives came up. “Was there anyone else with you?”

Don opened his mouth to say something, but he hesitated. After a half-second, he shook his head. “No one.”

“Lie number two,” Nightbeat said. “You’re just not good at this kind of thing, are you?”

“There was no one else.”

“Bullshit. There was someone else, wasn’t there? Someone with two big floppy ears? Except maybe his ears were slicked back?”

“Fuck,” Don said. “How did you know that?”

“Just a hunch. I suppose Jack Bunnyson was covering for you. Didn’t want word getting out what a cad you were. He’s a good friend, probably.”

“You absolutely can’t talk to my wife about this,” Don said. “It’d be worse than death. She’d divorce me and take me to the cleaners. I can’t have that, not when things are going so well at work.”

“Relax,” Nightbeat said. “I’ll keep quiet. Think of it as payment for helping me clear the two of you.”

“So . . . I can go?”

Nightbeat nodded. “Try laying off the coke, Don. It gives you a superiority complex.”

Don laughed. “Why do you think I do it?” And he waddled out of the closet.

Spike came in next, pitching his smoke. “’Hello, mate.” Leaning against the wall instead of sitting down.

“Spike. You know the drill.”

“Funny ol’ world, innit. Still can’t get me head around it, Joey bein’ dead. Poor blighter.”

“Where were you when Joey was murdered?” Nightbeat asked.

“I hate to say it, but I was with long, tall and stupid. We were havin’ a discussion on the morality of whatever he was whinging about. I barely paid him any mind.”

“You mean Angel?”

“Ding ding ding! You win a kewpie doll. Huh. Do they still have those? Bloody ‘ell, I’m gettin’ old.”

“You and Angel don’t get along. Why is that?”

“Long story, mate.”

“Indulge me.”

“Well, it’s bad enough that he’s an Irish cunt, but that’s the least’ve it. He did the whole vampire-with-a-soul business and fucked an underage vampire slayer. The usual. Oh yeah, and he tried to kill me loads’ve times. Well, I guess it’s not that long of a story. Took centuries to live, though, lemme tell you.”

“But you were friendly enough to have this discussion?”

Spike shrugged. “Not much else to do around here, I guess. Too bad they never turned Buffy to plush. The things I’d do. Oh.” He uttered a laugh, shaking his head.

Nightbeat ignored the sex talk. “So despite this enmity, you would both supply each other’s alibis?”

“Enmity? You gotta stop readin’ the dictionary, mate. Short answer: begrudgingly we would.”

This struck all the right chords for Nightbeat. He nodded. “You can go. Send in Angel, would you?”

Spike grunted and left. Shortly thereafter Angel stepped in. “You wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat.” Nightbeat indicated the carpet next to him.

Angel sat. “I hope you’re not trying to enlist my help. It’s not going to happen.”

“Why are you so dead set against helping me?” Nightbeat asked. “Joey was our kid. We have to help each other solve his murder.”

“There’s no ‘have to’ in this,” Angel said. “I left that life behind me. There’s no use opening up old scars.”

“So that’s what this is about. You’re selfish.”

“Fuck you,” Angel said.

“Joey is worth more than our personal scars,” Nightbeat said. “He was our kid. Without him, we don’t stand a chance. How long do you think it will be before we end up in a garage sale? We owe Joey. So what if it brings back bad memories? Joey was murdered.”

Angel paused and nodded. “I’ll give you that. Okay, fine, maybe I am a bit self-absorbed—”

“A bit?!” Spike shouted from outside.

“Shut the fuck up, Spike!” Angel yelled. “God, I hate that guy.”

“Speaking of hate,” Nightbeat said, “what’s going on between you and Spike? Why do you hate each other so much?”

“I won’t hold him being English against him,” Angel said. “I’m over that. But he’s a prick of the first order.”

“And proud of it!” Spike said.

“One more word, Spike!” Angel shouted. “Say one more word! I dare you!”

“Stop this,” Nightbeat said. “Just—”

Spike said, “One. More. Word.”

Angel growled and sprang out of the closet, tackling Spike at the waist. Both puppets went down and rolled on the floor. Cat swept in from above. “Ooh! A fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!” The others took up the chant, too.

“Kick his ass, Angel!” Felix said.

The toys gathered around the warring plush dolls, chanting for their favored friend. Spike brought both his fists down on Angel’s back, and Angel responded by a couple of blows to Spike’s belly. He grabbed Angel’s head under one arm and fell backwards. The blow didn’t do much good, as the floor was carpeted, so Spike continued to follow through by flipping Angel over him.

Angel rolled with it and got up on his feet, plush fangs bared. Spike bared his own, and they grappled with each other. Angel tried to slip a hand up to push Spike’s head back, but Spike pinched Angel’s tricep under his armpit and hammered him in the face with his fist. Angel stumbled back, and without fanfare leaped, aiming a kick at Spike’s face. This one landed, and Spike flew backward into the wall. He flipped to his feet, and the two plush vampires circled each other.

“Break it up!” Nightbeat shouted.

“I’m taking bets!” Felix said. “Come on! Put your money where your mouth is!” He had a little black book and a golf pencil, ready to take some action.

Nightbeat tried to get between the combatants, but they easily slipped him. In a fury they clashed against each other, making it impossible for Nightbeat to separate them.

“Guys! Stop!” This from Bunny. “Someone’s coming!”

Everyone paused except for Angel and Spike. It took a moment for it to register with them. The toys scattered and dropped down, playing dead.

The door opened, and Wally and Mimi stepped in, glancing around. Both of them looked slightly inebriated. Nightbeat guessed that Wally had a new bottle, and Mimi had her pills.

“I could have sworn I heard something in here,” Wally said.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Mimi said.

Wally sighed and sat down on Joey’s bed, burying his face into his hands. “I still can’t believe this is happening. Why us? Did we do something wrong?”

Mimi sat next to him, but at a distance. “I don’t know. I think it’s just one of those senseless things that happens in a random universe.”

“God, is that all there is?” Wally’s eyes shone, the beginnings of tears welling up.

“I don’t know.”

Silence for a moment. Then: “Do you think maybe this room is . . . I don’t know . . . haunted?”

Mimi shook her head. “I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”

“But I heard something in here.”

“Maybe it was the house settling.”

Wally looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I think these toys are kind of creepy,” Mimi said.

“Oh?”

“You might laugh at this, but last night I could have sworn I saw one of them moving in the hallway.”

Wally didn’t laugh. “Which one?”

“I don’t know. I think . . . that’s the one.” She pointed at Nightbeat.

Wally stooped to pick up the Transformer. He turned Nightbeat over in his hands, looking for anything aberrant.

“It was probably the pills,” Mimi said. “You know how those things knock me out. For all I know it was a dream.”

“Probably.” Wally placed Nightbeat back down.

The husband and wife sat on their dead son’s bed for a while longer. They said nothing to one another, staring off in opposite directions, lost in their memories. The toys felt uneasy, considering the strife they were involved in when these two entered. Spike chanced a look over at Angel. He mouthed the words, “This isn’t over.”

Angel gave an almost imperceptible nod.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #719: PACK RAT, EXPLAINED!

 

You may recall, when I was still going through my stuff, that I found my Castle Grayskull and Snake Mountain, and I posted pictures on my social media. Later that day I realized that these weren't actually the same ones that I had when I was a kid. I mean, I had these as a kid, but these weren't the original ones I had. I was thinking about it more today, and a lightning bolt struck me.

I finally know why I'm a pack rat. Yeah, I like to hold on to things. A lot of things. But I'm not a hoarder. I'm *almost* a hoarder. At least I throw stuff out, and if a pet died I would certainly not pop the li'l guy in my freezer.

When I was a kid living with my mom and stepdad and (at the time) my two brothers, we lived in this shitty apartment by the train tracks. I had to check my shoes every morning for cockroaches. There was no A/C, and the heat was provided by those big coils set in the floor in each room. And, most importantly, I had to always be careful lest I get the shit kicked out of me by my stepdad.

(As an aside, Pee-wee's death this week reminded me of the time my stepdad got my brother, Dan, a toy version of Pee-wee's Playhouse. I wanted to help my brother put it together, and I started applying the stickers. My stepdad stopped me and said that I'd screw it up. I was fairly confident in my ability to put stickers on a fucking toy, so I ignored him. He was right, though, and I did screw it up. When he saw it he whaled the shit out of me for messing up his son's toy.)

Thankfully my grandparents decided to rescue me from his clutches. The unfortunate side effect of this was, I had to surrender nearly all of my possessions. Mom would never let me leave without my clothes and toiletries and things of that nature, so I had to choose what I wanted to keep with me, and it had to fit in my backpack.

What happened when I realized I was going to get kicked out of the house I currently live in? I packed my books first and foremost. Big surprise, that wasn't the first time I did it, because I did the same back then. I shoved every book I could into that backpack, and I carried one of those extending files that contained the stories I'd written back then. To this day I regret that I had to choose between my Hardy Boys books and my Tom Swift books. The Swift books my dad had given me from his own childhood.

Among the things I left behind were all of my He-Man toys. Thankfully I had my Star Wars toys already at my grandparents' house, so no worries there.

Fast forward a couple of years, and I'm about to go into junior high. One of my friends decided to sell all of his toys at his family's garage sale, and guess what I bought off of him that day.

Oh yeah.

I'd never really thought about this before, but the trauma of losing almost all of my possessions stuck with me deeply. Think about the times I wrote about the piñata and the baseball I lost on the Prairie Path and the piggy bank and such. It totally makes sense now, doesn't it? I guess the shrinks call that a "breakthrough." Which means I gotta get rid of stuff now, right?

I think I'm finally going to start doing that. Dusting and cleaning everything off. Selling it off. And maybe throwing some useless shit away, too. My friend's Castle Grayskull and Snake Mountain helped me get through some shit, so maybe now it's time to pass it on. Let the cycle of stuff continue.

Plus I could really use the money. Speaking of which, remember that I have a Patreon? For just a dollar a month you can get weekly updates of stuff I don't even talk about here. Stories I'm working on. I plan to do excerpts from forthcoming works there, and maybe even full short stories. I'm also planning on doing giveaways there, too, so why not join up?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #718: KULL

 

So I'm reading Robert E. Howard's Kull: Exile of Atlantis, and it's pretty good. I usually enjoy Howard's work, and, of course, I love Conan. Howard's work sometimes gets dismissed as an orgy of blood and violence, and there is a lot of that stuff, but it's so much more than that. For example, his Conan stories can be seen as one big missive against slavery. Keep in mind, when Howard was alive, there were still former slaves living in the US. It was still within the realm of possibility to bring slavery back.

(It still kind of is, but the odds are low. So far.)

A lot of his work also supports the idea that women are not property, and they should choose to be with someone, not be forced to be with someone. Pretty progressive thinking from someone who lived back then. And then there's this passage from the book I'm reading now.

"Why should laws not change? Time never stands still! Why should people today be shackled by laws which were made for our barbarian ancestors thousands of years ago?"

What do I keep saying? Why do we still follow a Constitution written nearly 240 years ago? I know, I know. There is such a thing known as amendments. But that's not good enough. How does the meme go? Modern problems call for modern solutions. Why are we still doing the same thing we did almost two and a half centuries ago?

But if Howard can write something like this almost a hundred years ago, I guess that doesn't bode well for change. But hey! I have a good idea for a new first amendment!