It has come to my attention that a lot of you crazy people are reading this blog. Which, for the record, is awesome, though it does lead me to suspect that my words have some kind of narcotic effect, or that perhaps my blog exudes some kind of nicotine haze. I certainly don’t know why you keep coming back. Or why you follow me on Twitter. I’m an ass.
I don’t have the good sense God gave to a brain-damaged trilobite.
(For those of you with alternate religious beliefs, replace “God” with: Zeus, Buddha, Ahura Mazda, the Devil, genetics, Papa Legba, Shiva, Wash from Firefly, Godzilla, or John Quincy Adams.)
Regardless, here you are.
Which I totally appreciate.
As such, I figure it’s a good time to get to know one another. Here, then, is a random slapdash written-in-no-sensible-order list of things you may not know about me. It bears no rhyme, no reason. It doesn’t even strive to be all that interesting, really — it’s more or less a conglomeration of meaningless facts about yours truly. With that in mind? Let us begin.
…
I only recently learned how to belch. Or burp — whatever term you prefer. Now I go around burping because I can, and because it is wonderful. This is not good news for my wife because I am like a kid with a new toy. What’s interesting, and this may be entirely coincidental, is that once I learned how to burp, I no longer get heartburn. True story.
Mice ate my buttplug. To clarify, I did not have a buttplug for my own buttplug pleasures but rather, because a friend gave sex toys as gag gifts one year for the holidays. (Though I am not knocking said “buttplug pleasures.” I think that in this world you do whatever you like to enjoy yourself — I make no judgments on your sexual peccadilloes.) I ended up with a buttplug which went into a drawer where I forgot about it. At the time I was living in a double-wide trailer (“the carriage house”), and I had mice. The mice, I discovered, had eaten into many objects of mine (including books, the little fuckers). I opened a drawer at one point to find that mice had eaten the buttplug package and the buttplug itself, and then made a nest out of the rubbery buttplug materials. Which makes them the weirdest mice in the history of mice, living in a nest made of a buttplug. Be advised: “Mice Ate My Buttplug” is a great name for a band. Be advised also: the mice shit on my silverware. Since I am not a fan of hantavirus salad, that earned the mice a death sentence.
Speaking of death sentence, it is Squirrel War up in this bitch. For the squeamish, you have my apologies, but so far two squirrels have… lost their lives in this war. The same principle is at work: they are shitting on our front porch. They leave a line of little squirrel turdlets along the railing. That is the lesson for all animals out there: if you shit on my things uninvited, you have written your own ticket. Actually, that’s probably true for humans, too. If some dude wanders onto my driveway and takes a dump on my car, I’m going to shoot him. And I think that would be excused in a court of law.
I wrote a short story called “Squirrel Skin.” It was about squirrels who steal the flesh of humans and wear dudes like suits. That story is in this anthology — Vermin — which is apparently out. I’ve seen no payment for this. I don’t even think I realized it was out. It was a woefully mismanaged, long-delayed anthology. It’s part of why getting short stories published is a pain in the ass. Worth the trouble sometimes, but not always.
Have you read “Hell’s Bells“…? A short story about Coyote (like, the mythic character) in Hell. It features sandwiches. And the Devil. And Dybbuk. Is it any good? Eh. Funny, maybe. Wrote it five, six years ago.
I believe in ghosts and grew up in a haunted house and believe I have proof that ghosts exist. My earliest ghostly encounter was when I was about five years old as I emerged from the bathroom. I had not yet put my “boy parts” back in my pants when I saw footprints appear in the carpet in front of me. I ran. Correction: I ran without having put my “boy parts” back in my pants.
When I was a kid, I did not fear the supernatural or monsters or any of that. I feared two things very distinctly: serial killers and nuclear war. I shouldn’t have been afraid of those things so early — frankly, I shouldn’t have even been aware of them at that point. So it goes. Now I write fucked up horror stories.
The first horror book I read was Stephen King’s The Shining, but I didn’t really “get it.” I was, I dunno. Ten? Eleven? After that, I didn’t read any more King novels until high school — but I did read one helluva lot of Dean Koontz and Robert McCammon. Stinger, Swan Song, Watchers, Strangers.
I do not like eggplant. I used to not like tomatoes, fish, mushrooms, Brussel sprouts. I now pretty much like everything I didn’t used to like. With one exception: eggplant. Because, really, fuck eggplant.
I used to run a BBS when I was in high school. It went by many names: Shadowlands, BizarroWorld, Unreality. There may have been a fourth name? I used to call BBSes, too. One time I ran up a $500 phone bill because I didn’t realize calling Philadelphia was a “long distance call.” To this day, I am genuinely surprised my father did not attack my computer with a hammer. The threat was made.
I once had a hedgehog, name of Poppy. She was not a happy animal. You see some hedgehogs being all cute and shit, but not her. Angry, xenophobic little lady. Cute, though, even still.
The first short story I had published was “Bourbon Street Lullaby,” a kind of Poppy Z. Brite-esque ghost story about these dead twins and their older, still-living brother. It was a good early lesson on the value of editors and so-called “gatekeepers.” Editor (John Benson) saw something good about it, but wanted changes — I made those changes gladly, resubmitted, and boom, my first publishing credit. That was, what, 16 years ago? And the pay rates for short stories haven’t gotten better. They’ve gotten worse. But it did teach me that you can get paid for this crazy gig. And, more importantly, you should get paid.
I’m probably going to die of cancer one day.
I used to think I was going to be a cartoonist. I drew a comic called Odds N’ Ends. Starring hedgehogs. One was a surfer. I had a copyright on it. Still do, I guess. Turns out, I wasn’t very good at it. Or, maybe more importantly, I didn’t want to become better. Writing, though — that’s what eventually drew me.
Not sure why, but I used to be fascinated by surfing. And surfers. This despite the fact that I was somewhat hydrophobic. Hell, maybe because of it. Maybe because surfers conquered the ocean, and the ocean is basically one big scary hungry watery mouth. And there they are, astride the churning hell-waves. Or maybe it was because there were a lot of bad-ass surfer chicks in tight suits. Who can say?
I was once stung by a lot of bees. Ran into a nest of bumblebees. I was more afraid of bees before that. Not sure why, but getting stung by a fuckton of bees (and being coated head to toe in pink Calamine lotion) cured me of my “bee fear.” You don’t hear that very often. “I was afraid of being trampled by wild boar and then stabbed in the face by natives. But when it actually happened, I was like, hey, this isn’t so bad.”
My Dad used to give me a .22 revolver as a kid, and we’d put .22 CCI shotshells in the cylinder, and I’d shoot carpenter bees who were trying to eat our barn. I still have that .22.
Someone bought our property a couple years back and tore it down and build a shitty-looking house. Our house was old. But, it’s gone. And the dickwipe also tore down the barn. A red barn. If you live in this area, you know that red barns are kind of “a thing.” Jacks the value of your house to have an original red barn and this guy kicks it to splinters. It’d be like buying a house with a Jacuzzi tub and then filling it with cement and then taking a crap on the cement. Nice job. Asshole.
I love bacon but I suspect it’s becoming overrated. I think sausage is the next big thing.
That’s not a dick joke.
That’s it for now, folks. I think I’ve bored you enough.
Your turn, if you so desire.
Flit down the comments, and drop into them one thing about you that I probably don’t know.
Ed Pettit says:
Wow, you’re fucked up. (I mean that in a good way)
February 13, 2011 — 9:16 AM
Idabel Allen says:
Similarities:
Mice did not eat my gag gift buttplug, but my gag gift sex toys (wildfire sex lotion, dice with positions, wind up penis) ended up in the elementary principle’s office courtesy of my 8 yr old daughter.
But mice did chew up the library copy of A Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. This is when I was talked into staying in a crapped out airstream for Thanksgiving while the hubbie hunted. He said it would be “GREAT”. It was in fact infested with mice that put on a most active mice circus about my head each night. I didn’t know what to do with ht ebook, turned it back in but was given back to me by the library because a “dog or something” had chewed it up. Its on my shelf.
February 13, 2011 — 9:22 AM
terribleminds says:
@Idabel:
Okay, you really have to elaborate on the “sex toy + principal” story.
— c.
February 13, 2011 — 11:20 AM
Russell Bailey says:
Most things I write are not dick jokes. Unless you mean “the joke is, this guy’s a dick.”
February 13, 2011 — 9:26 AM
Kate Haggard says:
Just one? That’s no fun. Also, eggplant is delicious, bees are the devil, and holy crap serial killers!
Ahem. Anyone, from the ages of 12 to about 17 I convinced my little school mates that I was psychic. I had tarot cards, crystals, the works. I knew it was all BS, but I still read people’s futures (and “auras” HA!) with a surprising amount of accuracy. The key is to be just vague enough that their belief in the process does the rest. Turns out belief is a powerful thing. Turns out I should have charged for my services. I had to stop when we moved to NC. Some people were into it, but most folk in the Bible Belt don’t take too kindly. It became more hassle then it was worth.
February 13, 2011 — 9:42 AM
Aiwevanya says:
I saw the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie thirteen times in the cinema, on one occasion the staff let me in for free out of pity for my obsession.
February 13, 2011 — 9:58 AM
Julie says:
When I was fifteen years old I attended “finishing school,” also known as “modeling school,” and this is why I know how to walk in absurdly high heels, dip at the knees to retrieve something from the floor, and apply makeup correctly. I am almost forty years old and do none of those things anymore.
Bacon cannot be overrated. Ever. It is delicious and one of the main reasons my attempt to be a vegetarian in my early 20s failed.
February 13, 2011 — 9:59 AM
terribleminds says:
@Julie, Sabrina —
See, the thing about bacon isn’t that it’s not good. It’s glorious. So I guess the word I’m looking for isn’t “overrated” so much as “overused.” It’s become a culinary crutch for a lot of restaurants.
I just think bacon needs to step aside for a little while and let some other meats — cured or otherwise — play in the spotlight, y’know?
— c.
February 13, 2011 — 11:21 AM
Sabrina Ogden says:
I can belch pretty good and like to show my skills when it is least expected…at dinner parties and at lunch with friends. My nephews think I’m cool.
I also just started eating onions a couple of years ago. Sausage can never push bacon out of top spot. Ever.
I took up piano at 37…I’m not very good and have decided to quit. It’s a complicated instrument with too much theory to learn at my age.
I’ve never tried eggplant.
February 13, 2011 — 10:32 AM
Elizabeth Poole says:
The first story I really remember writing was in third grade. It was about kids who were vampires. They had pet bats and wolves, and ran around in black Dracula capes. It was called Children of the Night, and I can still see the yellow paper I wrote it on. I thought it was the most original thing in the history of books.
Years later, not much has changed. 😉
February 13, 2011 — 10:58 AM
M says:
You know nothing about me, but I’ll lead with this — Weird Al Yankovic sat on my lap. I cherish the memory.
February 13, 2011 — 11:06 AM
terribleminds says:
@M:
The Weird Al story must also feature elaboration. TELL US THE TALE.
— c.
February 13, 2011 — 11:22 AM
Christopher Gronlund says:
I was six years old when Jaws came out. The movie scared me so much that I was convinced a great white shark would leave the Atlantic Ocean, swim up the St. Lawrence River, enter the Great Lakes, find one of the creeks I played in that spilled into Lake Michigan, swim up that creek, and then flop along the road like a walking catfish–to my house–and devour me in the night.
February 13, 2011 — 11:20 AM
M says:
well, it sounds better to leave it all mysterious and whatnot, but basically I saw him in concert. During one song he makes his way through the audience, sitting on various laps. Mine was one.
He also gave me a scarf he wiped his armpits with! Hooray!
February 13, 2011 — 11:23 AM
Sheri Blume says:
I once dreamed that I met Hitler at a Pink Floyd concert.
February 13, 2011 — 1:36 PM
Shullamuth Smith says:
As a kid I couldn’t afford my reading habit, and I was forever in hock to my library.
Back then, the few books I owned, I bought for a quarter from thrift stores. In seventh grade, I read Pet Semetery then took it to school to show all the dirty parts to my friends. That was my first Stephen King (because of it, I misspelled cemetery up until I wrote a book that takes place in one). I read and reread The Bachman Books, It, The Stand, The Dead Zone, Eye of the Dragon, and every other SK I could beg, borrow, or steal, then branched out to Koontz as well– Strangers is my favorite– but that wasn’t enough. I’d devour my Grandma’s John Jakes, and my mom’s boyfriend’s Asimov, mingling their reading obsessions with my own.
Limited access to my desire made me an omnivorous reader, yet my writing always comes back to that dark through line where characters discover their truest nature in the depths of destruction.
I’ve also been shoulder-humped by a kilt-wearing Jesus :).
February 13, 2011 — 2:13 PM
KD Sarge says:
When I was younger–possibly 8, but I don’t know, the memory is fuzzy for some reason–my brothers and a couple neighbor kids decided to build an elevator by throwing a rope over one of the rafter-beams in the barn and tying it to a burlap sack. As the only girl in the group, I was nominated (I thought it sounded cool) to be tied inside the burlap sack.
The boys pulled on the rope, lifting me into the heavens which was awesome except I couldn’t see a thing, and banged me on the beam a few times before deciding this elevator thing was not so fun and bringing me down. When they let me out I was dizzy for some reason, and a neighbor kid carried me to the house because I wanted my mom.
This is not the only time my brothers gave me a possible concussion. In retrospect, this may explain much.
February 13, 2011 — 2:15 PM
Amber J. Gardner says:
I used to have daydreams that I was the next coming of Christ and would do all these miracles and create world peace. I still fantasize about it sometimes as if I can actually do it…
February 13, 2011 — 2:41 PM
Neliza Drew says:
I’ve never been confident enough to try surfing, though my sister’s been doing it at least weekly since late middle school. She travels to places specifically to try out their waves. I have to admire this sort of passion for something which requires physical activity and equipment. I *have* tried windsurfing, done a lot of snorkeling, and have had repeated sailing mishaps. (I was with a group that, on separate occasions: sank a sailboat in Biscayne Bay, ran into a house in the Bay, ran aground, ran into a dock in Key West, and nearly set a yacht on fire.)
As for the food issues: Morningstar “bacon” is surprisingly good for something that looks like a Play-doh food.
Eggplant is at its best when sliced thinly and cooked in a pan with curry powder, grapeseed oil, and a bit of vinegar before being served on rye bread with spicy hummus. All other eggplant ideas must bow before that one.
February 13, 2011 — 4:02 PM
Chris says:
Let’s see… You know I ran a BBS, and have had hedgehogs…
How about this? Hoshi, our tux kitty (http://yfrog.com/h011fqhj), is a hermaphrodite. When they went to neuter him, they discovered that he had both ovaries and testicles.
February 13, 2011 — 4:42 PM
annaliterally says:
I had squirrels invade my house on two occasions. Both times, I supposedly had house-sitters.
The first time, the squirrels invaded for six weeks. It took almost two weeks of cleaning to set things right.
The second time, they were only here for a day or so.
I hate those furry little fuckers.
February 13, 2011 — 4:45 PM
KDJames says:
I’ve been following along for a while now, for the sole purpose of trying to determine the answer to that buttplug question. Now that you’ve answered it, your mysterious narcotic allure has… caused me to wonder other things.
One thing you don’t know about me? I play a mean game of pool, something that has come as a surprise to an astonishing number of beer-drinking men.
Also? I love squirrels. :narrows eyes warningly:
February 13, 2011 — 5:50 PM
Michael LaRocca says:
You may not know this, Chuck, but I’ve been paid to masturbate boars. And okay, fine, any of my readers who are reading this are saying “I can’t believe Michael is trotting out the old boar masturbation story again,” but I know the Wendigerman isn’t one of my readers, so it’s all new to him. Bonus fact: When a boar is having an orgasm, his butthole twitches. You wouldn’t want to use a buttplug because it’d block the view. Oh, and all my boars were very happy to see me. Hi guys!
February 13, 2011 — 9:13 PM
Tim Dedopulos says:
I’ve been a medium. Passing specific bits of info & imagery that you know you don’t know to someone you’ve never met and having them start crying as a result… there’s no wiggle room there. You can’t pretend to yourself that maybe you knew that particular stranger was coming and so you did research into them. Even unconscious cold reading can’t tell you that someone’s grandmother used to have a cherished porcelain plate with a horn of plenty in the middle. It puts you in the very uncompromising situation of having to accept that whatever the hell is going on, it is genuinely going on.
Wonderful experience.
February 13, 2011 — 10:34 PM
Sparky says:
I have a small planet (five miles wide) named in my honor.
Also I once had a conversation with something that was either my own intelligence made manifest, God, or Destiny of the Endless from Neil Gaiman’s Sandman comics. No hallucinogenic substances were involved.
Figure those out.
February 14, 2011 — 12:06 AM
Jennifer says:
I, too, at a tender age of about 7, was afraid of Serial Killers and Nuclear War. Thank you, NBC news and the Nightcrawler (a serial killer in the 80s in the San Francisco Bay Area – I think that was the name) and that movie, The Day After.
And oh, the Cold War. I distinctly remember those crazy ass threatening headlines sometimes on the newspaper. Scared me to death.
And Earthquakes. Scared to bloody hell of Earthquakes. I moved out of California as soon as fucking possible.
February 14, 2011 — 7:56 AM
Bobby Cooper says:
I can fart on command. It’s because I’m always gassy. Right now it’s a superpower, but I’m pretty sure, when I get older, that I’ll lose the ability to control it and just fart all day.
February 14, 2011 — 1:46 PM
Elizabeth says:
I started reading Stephen King about 11 or 12 too. But I started with IT. and LOVED it. Dean Koontz I’m pretty ‘meh’ on though. What about Christopher Pike, did you read him? I was OBSESSED with him. Christopher Pike is to RL Stine as Stephen King is to Dean Koontz. True.
February 14, 2011 — 10:27 PM
Marian Allen says:
When I was a kid, I, too, was scared of serial killers and nuclear war! So maybe the thing you don’t know about me is that we’re secretly twins. Or the same person or something.
February 15, 2011 — 1:17 PM
Danielle says:
Last night an old friend/ex of mine and I were reminiscing about music we used to listen to. Thanks to the magic of the YouTube, I was up till about 7AM listening to songs I hadn’t heard in between 5 and 8 years, depending.
In the midst of this, I ended up listening to an old favourite song called “0214 Valentine”, by D’espairsRay. It was only yesterday that I realised that 0214 wasn’t just a random collection of numbers, but a date. The date of Valentine’s Day.
It took me 8 years to figure this out.
February 16, 2011 — 6:30 AM