Dang, Saturdays Are Ghost Towns Around Here

Last month or so, Saturdays have been creepity-quiety around these here terrible streets and awful alleys. Not sure why. I expect that you’re all hungover. Laying somewhere, forehead against cool porcelain, your chin dipping in a congealing pool of your own sick. The crotch of your pants shifting and tenting as the squirrel you’ve trained to pleasure you grows restless. Somewhere, an infant cries.

I know the deal.

I don’t know what will bring you fuckers here on a day like today. Nudity? Snuff films? Cat videos?

I don’t have any of those. I mean, I have nudity, but you don’t want a piece of this.

So, until I figure out the magic formula, I’m just going to ape John Hornor. He did this thing earlier in the week he called “Synaptic Misfires,” which I’m basically just gonna, y’know, fucking steal. We writers are magpies and mockingbirds after all, just thieves and liars.

Thus, welcome to the purest form of painting with shotguns, where I just type whatever dumb shit enters my head. I don’t have a cool name for it yet.

Please to enjoy.

• • •

I’m sick. I hate being sick. I don’t normally get sick. But this is like, the third time this year. I’m coughing up things that squeal like demons and run from the light. The only thing that kills them is fire and drain cleaner.

• • •

Yesterday’s little “Chuck asks you to help him figure out what project he’s working on” bullshit session actually seemed to do some good. I’m very close to settling on the YA story (tentatively named Woodwine) because it resonates and offers a lot of fun. I’m not writing it specifically to be a YA story, but I think that’s just how it’ll end up. Odd for me, as it will contain none of my trademarks: blood, profanity, a general hatred for my fellow man.

• • •

“Brain dump.” Maybe I’ll call it brain dump.

• • •

I cannot stress enough how awesome I consider this video to be. It’s called “Fuck Shit Stack.” By some dude named Reggie Watts who is apparently a real performer, and a good one at that, but he also does comedy? I don’t know. But this song is funny. And the video is clever. It’s making fun of something that maybe doesn’t need to be made fun of quite as much these days, but even still, worth watching. Heck, I just like it ’cause it has bad words, let’s be honest. I’m a simple creature.

• • •

In fact, it’s safe to assume that my mental age is approximately half of my actual age. So, I’m about to turn 34. Hence, I’m probably… 17, mentally. I know! Crazy. Soon my mind will be able to join the military. Serve a stint in the MIND CORPS. They’ll jack my psyche into some shit-stomping robot. He’ll march across the Middle East, kicking up his own desert storm.

• • •

“Mind Feces.” That might work.

• • •

Or “Songs From My Shitconscious.”

• • •

I am a Photoshop dabbler. As you well know by now. I’m not necessarily good at it, but I do have fun, and I am getting better. My exploits can be found here. I like letting my visual side come out and play. Swing from trees. Fling poo. Play with Tonka trucks. Fling poo and Tonka trucks. Whatever. Unlocking the visual mind helps give an extra dash of flavor to your writing, I think. Also, LSD.

• • •

It’s a good week for George Washington. First, this thing from Creased Comics, which I’d seen before. And then there’s this ludicrously awesome painting of Washington fighting a Bengal tiger on the Delaware River. The blood in the water is what sells it for me. Right now, I’m kind of hot for the idea of historical figures in mythic scenarios. Not just the Abe Lincoln, Vampire Hunter shit, either. I’m saying, crank that knob. Amp up the ridiculous factor. Ben Franklin builds a lightning gun, takes down time-traveling Nazis. Jesus wrestles an out-of-control golden robot. Tesla and his mechanical whale. Napoleon and the series of Tiny Clockwork Napoleons nesting inside of him.

• • •

To go back to that visual thing, I’m really liking Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker. The opening line is a good example of metaphorical visualization, the kind of writing I gleefully suck up through a straw: “Unpaved, uneven trails pretended to be roads; they tied the nation’s coasts together like laces holding a boot, binding it with crossed strings and crossed fingers.” Nice.

• • •

I’m starting to feel like Texas is a big, barnacle-encrusted boat anchor just dragging this country down. Or maybe it’s a colostomy bag. Lord knows it’s heavy with shit. This nonsense over yonder about changing the “standards” for social studies (read: polluting fact with fiction because it serves your dickface agenda) is out of control. It sort of makes me think, “Gosh, as a country, we’re more or less fucked.” We celebrate ignorance. We give the middle finger to progressive thought — I don’t mean a progressive agenda. I mean future-thinking academia. I feel like we’re living in a time when it’s okay to be a stupid fucker. It’s more than okay. You get a high-five for “thinking outside the box,” for “going against the status quo.” You think cavemen rode dinosaurs? High-five, you independent thinker, you. Let’s give all the dummies a reward. Right? Wrong. The willfully ignorant should be punished by a Tasering in the public square.

• • •

It’s also amazing that this “health care reform” thing has zero traction with Middle America. I don’t know anybody who would agree, “Health care is in great shape!” and yet, mysteriously, they don’t want to change it. It’s like sitting around with a full diaper, acknowledging that your diaper is full, and then refusing to remove it. “Is your diaper full?” “Yes. It’s boggy with my body’s garbage! It’s so heavy, I’m finding it hard to walk.” “Then take it off.” “No! Fuck you! Liberal agenda! Awooga, awooga! I have my freedom. You want to take my freedom away. Death panels, death panels! Socialism! La la la la! I can’t hear you.”

• • •

“Turd Corn.” That’s a good name. Sure, it doesn’t have the same elegance of “Synaptic Misfires,” but, c’mon! Corn! Just by mentioning corn, I get a check from the US government. I’m a farmer now.

• • •

Corn is in pretty much everything Americans eat. This is not a good thing.

• • •

I want to hear more from Wood Ingham and Aaron Dembski-Bowden. I miss those two surly gents.

• • •

Being a writer is scary. I’m cocky about it, but I suspect it will forever be a terrifying path to walk. Ironic, then, that I don’t do well with uncertainty, and yet I chose a wildly uncertain career path. Fraught with giant question marks that hop like Q-Bert and crush you beneath like one of… uhhh, Q-Bert’s enemies? I dunno. What the fuck did Q-Bert kill, anyway? Snakes, right? Springy hoppy snakes? What’d they ever do to him? I’d really like to play a game where I’m a little mushroom dude, and I constantly try to kill a level full of little Italian plumber assholes. I could never get behind Mario as an avatar, as the protagonist. Maybe I hate immigrants or plumbers and I just don’t know it. But secretly I always wished, “Man, I hope Donkey Kong fucking kills this dude.”

• • •

What was I talking about? Being a writer is scary. But writing is awesome. I guess that’s why I do it.

• • •

“Word Spooge.” Yeah. Or no.


  • Too…much…to…read. Brain…no…work…good. Uh oh…

    ***STOP 0x0000000DI (DeLaurentis, Paul A., Jr.)
    A problem has been detected and your sentient thought has been shut down to prevent damage to your brain.


    If this is the first time you’ve encountered this STOP error, restart your brain. If this error continues please go to bed and wake up later.

  • It dawned on me a while back as I watched many of my high school friends get married and start shooting out kids that they have a portion of their brains that has matured well beyond mine. I expect my inherent selfishness and passive tendencies towards self-destructive behavior will never allow me to mature beyond a mental age of 18.
    Frankly, I’m fine with that.
    I enjoy making odd noises at people who annoy me, joining profane utterances together in here-to-for unknown patterns, drinking well beyond my limit, and generally polluting the world with my opinions and attitudes. I have even managed to get my wonderfully tolerant woman to accept the fact that I will leave the house every Sunday morning to attend a morning meeting of fractured and excitingly diverse minds that become even more frenetic and unintelligible as we down pint after pint of highly alcoholic beer.
    We are men-children (man-childs? boy-men? wait… this sounds like a NAMBLA brainstorming session… I’ll stick with ‘immature’)…
    We are immature.
    And it’s a good thing.
    Well… for us.

    • Out of all seriousness, the immaturity is fun, but I try not to let it affect… y’know, my adult life. I compartmentalize. The man-boy and the man-dude do not play together. When it’s time to man up, it’s time to man up.

      And when it’s time to take the pants off, it’s time to take the pants off.

      Wait, what were we talking about?

      — c.

  • I hate ‘writing is like…’ statements. They’re always twee.

    So here’s mine!

    Writing is like falling in love with a stranger. Every time you start it up again it’s terrifying because you could end up happy with it for the rest of your life, or it could cost you all of your money and leave you covered in venereal diseases.

  • I just want to say, that after mentioning man-boy and man-dude in the same sentence, you might want to put that warning up to the authorities again. It seemed to work last time.

    That painting of Washington and the tiger is going to be replacing the painting of the JSA from Smallville as my desktop. That is rad with a capital kick-ass.

  • Hoo, boy. I may need to educate my kids via home school after all, just so the education system here in Texas doesn’t turn them into ignorant little gits.

    Also, Boneshaker does indeed freaking rock.

    • @Rick:

      Word. One day, the authorities are going to come crashing through the windows of this place. SWAT-style. Boosh.

      The Washington image is my desktop, too. Heh. Nice.


      I know. Homeschooling is looking like a reasonable alternative these days.

      (How do you like EVE, by the way?)

      — c.

  • I… got nothing. No wit, no insight, no smug and superior comment about the Canadian schooling system. My mind’s a complete blank.

    Can I borrow some of your synaptic diarrhoea? I seem to be lacking my own.

    Err… on second thought, please just forget I asked that. It sounded better rattling around my empty noggin.

  • @Chuck: I’ve played it for something like 2.5 years, so clearly I like it fairly well. (Did you do some mission writing for them? I vaguely recall that’s how I found you to follow, but I could be wrong about that.) FWIW, I write an EVE blog called Ecliptic Rift, including various fiction bits surrounding the game. *cough*

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