THAT ONE KICK HAS MADE ME HEARTSICK

 Okay, so I'm late for the Chelsea Cain party. I have been seeing her name around for a while now and hearing good things. No, scratch that. Great things. When the buzzing on an author becomes so loud that it makes my head nearly explode just from being in the same world I tend to get right on it. Sorry about that, Chelsea. Better late than never though, right?

I tend to do things differently than most people. In the case of Chelsea Cain I'm working my way backwards here. I had been meaning to read her, honest. Upon its release I saw a signed copy of her newest book, One Kick, that is the start of a new series for her. It was like fate telling me that I better get my ass moving here. I'm kind of a signed book nut, see? But that is another story.

I'm a tough critic. I'll be the first to admit that I might pick up anywhere from 15-20 books on any given month, but there is a larger than life chance I will only actually finish a small fraction of those numbers. I just know what I like and, though it doesn't take much, that much seems damn hard to find at times. I have been prone to throwing a book against a wall and cursing the authors family tree after reading just a couple of sentences. So yeah, I'm tough, man. Not to sever a foot and put it on a whole other leg or anything here, but I feel like I need to state my case. I'm hard to please.

When I started reading One Kick I was instantly pulled into the story, very forcefully I might add, and did not want to come back out until I was done. There are just a handful of things that I seriously need in order to keep my attention span between the pages of any book and that is one of them. I need to be grabbed. Like right away. I don't think that is too much to ask for, now is it?

One Kick is the story of Kick Lannigan. Kidnapped as a child and left forever to be a work in progress as an adult. Aptly named, as she will kick your ass. She will also pick the lock to your heart. No, really.... she picks locks. She teams up with another mysterious bad ass named Bishop and the two of them work together to solve several cases involving missing children. The action stays popping and the story is filled with heart and soul. It's a stellar start to a whole new series and a perfect introduction to a new writer, for me at least.

I kept seeing One Kick referred to as something along the lines of "Chelsea Cain lite." The reviews were good. But people really dig her Archie Sheridan/Gretchen Lowell series. Apparently it's pretty twisted. I'm a sick fuck. So obviously I've been ignoring this party for way too long. Let's do this.

I'm not really a huge fan of reviews. It's one persons opinion and I tend to disagree with pretty much everything everybody else says. We all like what we like. But this Chelsea Cain party? Yeah, I'm a dick for not showing up here earlier. She is probably the best new writer I have been turned on to in a very long time. I finally got around to reading Heartsick and I feel like I've been welcomed home by the Jackson zombie 5 singing "Where you been, motherfucker?" as longtime Chelsea readers throw chocolate cake at me. This book kicked my ass harder than a tag team of old school Chucks, Bronson and Norris, could ever dream of doing.

I like to go into something blindly. I just feel as if books and movies work better for me if I discover their mysteries on my own terms rather than reading the whole thing on the back of a jacket or seeing one of those all too revealing trailers. I imagine that since reviews are so needed these days for any kind of art to thrive its way on into an audience I must say something here though.

In Heartsick Chelsea Cain gives us a trio of souls that are as damaged as goods can possibly be without being too broken to even exist in the scrap heap. I have heard people compare this series to "Silence of the Lambs" and I guess you could say that is fair enough. I could see where that story may have been an influence but it's like Chelsea Cain took an overall concept, cut pieces from it, threw it in a blender with her own ingrediants and made a story so compellingly twisted that it feels like any second it could jab its razor sharp prose into your eye sockets and skull fuck you for its 300 pages or so. Bravo! What more could any reader ask for?

Heartsick introduces us to Archie and Gretchen. A detective and his serial killing soul mate. Their meeting took its toll and put them both out of commission as they each find themselves retreating into other worlds. Gretchen's world exists behind a prison wall while Archie's is bathed in medicated self loathing. A new serial killer on the scene is enough to reunite the dynamic duo, though their meeting is more due to circumstance as opposed to waxing over whether this new killer prefers re-fried beans to fava. Add a spunky reporter, who is just way too damaged herself, and you have a trio of characters that will hook you into their world and never let you go. Once again I was pulled in by the first sentence here and, like One Kick, this book was stuck to my hand like blowflies on a corpse. Necessities, eating/sleeping and pooping, forced me to stop reading for moments at a time, but still I managed to knock this one out in two days and am now already halfway through Sweetheart, the second volume in the Archie/Gretchen saga.

The discovery of this series is even more welcomed as I was coming off of somewhat of a boring book slump. Now, with four and a half more titles to go, I am certain that slump has been strangled, doused with clorox, raped and tossed into a river. All courtesy of one Chelsea Cain. If there is anyone else out there who has not gotten on board the Archie/Gretchen train I can not state enough just how necessary this mode of mind travel should be. Though still an early reader here, I have no doubt that Chelsea Cain is a writer who can deliver the goods. Heartsick has made my "Best books ever" shelf on Good Reads and there it shall proudly sit until I decide to read it again at some point. It's more than that good. It's one of those books that stays with you long after you close up shop. It's darker than dark and more twisted than pretzel people playing a game of Twister. The plotting is masterful. It's characters and story will take over your head, punch you in the chest, and rip out your heart. Well, at least your spleen.

There are so many great writers out there. Each one has their own gift. Chelsea Cain is the Queen of the pull. She will pull you right in within the first sentence and, most importantly, she will keep you there. An interesting side note, as I was reading Heartsick 

I could not help but foam at the mouth over the mere thought of this series slicing its way to a screen near you and me!

Just imagine the excitement at an Archie and Gretchen showing in any theater.

It would be THE event of any year.

Hell, I would settle for a cable series. It will HAVE to be cable though. Don't even think about turning this series into a network television show. Also, whatever medium is clever enough to snap this up might I make another suggestion to Chelsea herself? Be all up in the process of adaptation. Write it yourself. Don't allow anyone else to do it. I'll give you two damn good arguments for each side.

Gone, Girl and Dexter.

There are supposed to be more Archie/Gretchen adventures down the line. Kick Lannigan as well. Chelsea Cain has me hooked whatever she does. In the meantime, I have to stop writing this review so I can get back to my threesome with Archie and Gretchen.

THROWBACK THURSDAY- APRIL 25TH 1995 MIKE WATT AND "SPECIAL GUESTS" AT THE BLACK CAT

(I would like to point out that none of the images reflect that particular evening, or concert, and were only grabbed from the internet and used to enhance the experience of this blog.)

It was a Tuesday night. April 25th 1995. The fallout from Kurt Cobain had settled and the grunge thing thankfully was following the example set by the dinosaurs. Like all unwanted trends, many of the bands faded into obscurity. The best ones went on to experiment and enjoy a little bit of success. Trends come and go. But the true masters of the music scene rock on forever.

I heard about this special tour that was gearing up. The legendary Mike Watt was releasing a solo album and assembling one hell of a back up band to support it on the road. The tour was to stop at a newer club in DC called the Black Cat. Rumored to be partially owned by Dave Grohl.

At first there was little talk of this show. Tickets quietly went on sale so I grabbed two, for me and a friend. I called up one of my best buddies and said "Dude, you will not want to miss this concert." As the day approached word got out and things started to blow up.

The night of the concert was almost comical. There were people begging for tickets. Literally begging. Some were lying on the ground and crying. Before we got to the door I overheard one guy say "If I don't get in there tonight I'm going to die." He said that he just had to see Eddie. Oh well. Sucks to be that guy. We proudly pulled out our tickets and went inside. On that night I witnessed one of the most magical concert experiences I have ever had. A perfect night.

The opening act was a band called Hovercraft. Eddie Vedder wearing a wig on drums, his wife, and two other guys playing some weird droning shit while movies played on the screen in the background. I actually thought they sucked. But we were there for something far cooler and a couple of beers later I was able to deal with the horrid musical turd that exploded from the ass of the stage. Next up were a brand new band. A band we were most excited to see. I think, even though I wanted to see Mike Watt, I was just as stoked to see this other group. That band was called the Foo Fighters.

They had only played a few shows so we were seeing something fresh. I thought they rocked that night. At the time I had no idea Dave Grohl would be singing and playing guitar, so that was kind of cool. Pat Smear was in the band then too. They were tight and played a bunch of songs from an album that hadn't come out yet. The rest, as they say, is rock history.

When Mike Watt hit the stage all hell broke loose. But it was a subdued kind of hell. We were like some exclusive club or something that night. We all had tickets to one of the hottest shows of that year and we knew it. Mike Watt played songs from his solo album, Ball Hog or Tugboat.

He also played some cover songs. The coolest of which was a cover of the Blue Oyster Cult song "The Red and the Black." Watt's back up band that night was Eddie Vedder and Pat Smear on guitar and Dave Grohl on drums. Sometimes Grohl played guitar and the drummer for the Foo Fighters played drums.

Everybody on this tour wanted to downplay their roles as rock stars and I actually think that was what made this night so spectacular. There were no ego trips that night. Just a band playing some songs. They were quite simply one of the tightest and most rocking bands I have ever seen. When we came out of the club most of the beggars and the losers had gone home. I think I saw a few of them touching the building and making animal noises. I don't remember. All I know is that I was there and it was one of the best concerts I have ever seen in my entire life.

PLANES ARE ONLY LANDING BECAUSE SKIES ARE FALLING

It was a day just like all the others this time of year. Summer was gone so the sky had given up much of its blueness to the patches of grey. The air over at Annapolis Junction smelled like tar, morning dew and burning tobacco from all those lucky enough to have smoke breaks. Leaves were readying to change colors and tumble to the ground. Fall was just around the corner.

I worked at a pool company so everybody was in mad closing meltdown. From the second I walked into the door I was bombarded by the simultaneous ringing of all four lines on my phone. I sat down at my desk and proceeded to open up my ear so that angry customers could scream into it. That was what I did back then. While it doesn't sound glamorous I had been working this job for a couple of years so I was actually beginning to feel as if I had managed to fall into a niche that was comfortable enough to stay put in. I was a human punching bag for the rich and wishfully famous. You know who I mean. People who live in mansions and drive high five digit automobiles. The kind of people who never make the front page and always treat others as if they feel slighted by such omission. It wasn't all bad though. Some of the people were pretty damn awesome. Most were just awesomely ass-holish. But I learned to keep those types at bay and on that particular morning, September eleventh two thousand and one, I realized that my job and my life were finally in order as I sat there answering phones and putting out fires.

The office was small. It smelled like chlorine, potato chips and boss farts. There were just two of us working there. Me and Guy Thomas, flanked by two doors. One door lead into the warehouse and back to the construction division. The other kept us closed off from the administration types. They liked that shit a whole lot because they considered us, the service division, the black sheep of the company. I liked it even more than they did. Those two doors were like family to me. They were always there. They didn't say much but they stood vigil between me and the enemy, a guy named Dick. It should go without saying that Dick was aptly named but I can't allow that to happen.

Guy's wife, Angela, was supposed to be in that day because I needed help during opening and closing season. Those were some crazy crazy days. I remember him saying that she was going to be in late because she had to drop off their kids at school or something. I didn't care. The phones were ringing non-stop. Caring sounds good on paper but time and circumstance severely prohibited me from getting involved.

It was eight something in the morning on a Tuesday. My methods for recalling certain mundane details can be a little unusual at times. In this case I knew it was Tuesday because it was new release day at Best Buy and the Slayer album was coming out that day. During closing season my brain seems to function in three modes. Eat, sleep and answer phones. But there is always time for a little soul music and my agenda that day was simple. Let people scream at me, then race out the door at five so I can hit the nearest Best Buy and pick up the new Slayer. It was going to be a good day. I could just feel it.

One of the perks of working in an office, and particularly with a cool boss, is having the radio on a good station. Our station of choice had become Ninety Eight Rock ever since the Greaseman got yanked again for that whole Lauryn Hill comment. The Greaseman is a hard act to top but I had grown overly fond of the Ninety Eight Rock morning show. Kirk, Mark and Lopez. KML, baby! These guys made mornings worth smiling about over at Guilford road.

The morning was its usual chaotic self. Phones ringing off the hook. People yelling that they wanted their pools closed yesterday. My head was spinning. My ears were sizzling. My chair felt as if it were closing in around my lower extremities.

But life was good.

Pumpkin beers poured from the taps of my mind. I had visions of turkey stuffed with all the trimmings crawling up off my plate to do the "three days on and four days off boogie" in celebration of the soon to come Thanksgiving work week. Slap all that up on a biscuit and sit it next to Christmas and New Years and you have a buffet of reasons why it's great to be in the pool business on the East coast.

Kirk, Mark and Lopez were yukking it up on the radio while Guy and I yukked it up in the office. I think he farted again or something. It doesn't take much to entertain us guys. Oh, and the new Slayer. This day was going to be legendary. These were my last relevant thoughts at somewhere around eight forty five that morning. Pretty much everything after that was a blur.

The first plane was said to have hit the North tower at eight forty six a.m. Even at that moment none of us knew just how drastically life would change. It seemed tragic and yet, at the time, it was random. The radio changed its course as the morning show went from comedy bits to buzzing about this horrible accident. What could have happened? At this point, only those responsible were in the know. But three other planes were soon to attempt similar fates. Speculation fueled the flames of conspiracy. But it wasn't until seventeen minutes after that first plane hit that all of us knew what had happened, even if we didn't know why and that those responsible weren't done with us yet. Nothing else mattered at that moment. The United States of America had been attacked by terrorists.

The facts kept roaring in. Soon two other jets roared in as well. The third would hit the Pentagon at nine thirty seven. The last plane found its hostages putting up a fight. It was said the final target was to be the United States Capitol. It wound up crashing in a field somewhere in Pennsylvania. Three planes hit their intended targets that day. Those aboard that fourth one made sure those statistics wore a death cap. By ten thirty that morning both towers had collapsed and nothing would be the same ever again. The citizens raced through the streets as the tides of terror gushed its waves through the city of New York. As Lady Liberty watched in horror the towers fell, leaving a black hole in the wounded heart of both New York City and the rest of the country. An Islamic terrorist group called al-qaeda had taken a bite out of the big apple.

At the time this occurred, many people, myself included, wouldn't know al-qaeda from Al Capone. I never paid much attention to the circus of politics. I still know very little in the scope of things. But one thing that is universal knowledge, on that day, thirteen years ago, life in the United States changed. Everything we do, everything that we are.... it all comes back to that one moment in time and wondering if whether it could have been prevented and what can we do to prevent something else of the sort from happening again. Looking around at politics, and life in general, it seems as if our country is being slowly flushed down the toilet now. Nine eleven was one of the most horrific moments in our lifetimes. Over the years it has taken on a whole new meaning. I say this not to detract from the tragedy itself and those who were, and still are, directly within its grasp. I say this as an American, but most of all as a human being. Things have changed since then, and it doesn't seem like any of it's for the better. That day. That fucking day is what started this mess we are all left to squalor in. I don't know what could have been done to prevent it from happening. I certainly don't know what can be done to prevent anything of its ilk from happening again. I just know that as Americans, and humans, we can all hope and offer prayer of some kind that things will turn around. Though none of us will ever forget those events at the very least maybe we can build enough strength and stature so as to assure something so horrific will never happen again.

I don't know, man. I don't have any answers. Sadly, it doesn't seem like our own government has them either. I can only ever speak for myself. After those planes hit my mind was kind of a blur. I remember more chaos being piled upon the already chaotic day. I remember how fearless and diligent Lopez from Ninety Eight Rock was as he went above and beyond the call of duty to make sure we the people, though we didn't exactly feel safe, were well informed. Lopez himself died a few years later from cancer. God rest his soul. God rest the souls of everyone who died on nine eleven as well.

I have never once given up hope. I talk a mean game of skepticism and my volume can be rather loud at times. But at heart I am as soft as melted ice cream. I wish things could be different in this world. I wish that we could all get along. I don't think it's wrong to point out that it is certainly not happening right now. Far from it actually. I feel like nine eleven was some kind of tipping point. I always hear people saying how united we the people were then and after that day we all came together and loved one another and blah-blah-blah. Maybe in fire houses and victims funerals that was the mode emotions took but I remember what it was like back then particularly well. In the streets. Let me tell you, people hated each other around that time. Halloween was scary for all the wrong reasons. Thanksgiving was pointless because.... well, what did any of us have to be thankful about at that time? We were among the living, sure. But that moment will not be remembered for its unity and humanity. More like hostility and intolerance. The seeds of separation were sowed for American humanity on that day. Modern day finds everyone hating each other even worse than ever before. I'll never give up hope though. I'll kick, scream and rip all the finger/toe nails from my body fighting for hope if I have to.

Things will get better. Things have to get better. When nine eleven rolls around each year just contemplating the alternative seems like such a bad route to travel. I have lots of scattered memories from that day. All the crying and screaming. Everybody scrambling to get where they were going, even though some people didn't even know where they were going. I never once watched the televised images of people jumping to their deaths as the towers burned. But just knowing that the ghoulish media found these images newsworthy enough to replay them over and over is enough to make me cringe for future generations. I mean, it's one thing to have hope for mankind. But the media will never change. These people are the biggest parasites on the face of the earth. If human beings can all realize this and turn off their televisions and ignore their news feeds whenever a death scene is showed in graphic detail or a nine one one call is played back for some lunatic to revel in.... well, that would be a start now wouldn't it?

Nine eleven is of course no longer considered a day like all the others. Its scope reaches all around the globe and its relevance comes in different shapes and sizes to each of us. As I said before I can only ever speak for myself. Like everyone else with a soul I can say this day is a sad one. It's sad for all the people who died then or as a result of then somehow. It's sad for their families. They have to live the rest of their lives remembering the horror that was inflicted upon the country and their experiences run blood deep because they have to do so while looking at table spaces that are as empty as the ones in their hearts. For me nine eleven seems like a doorway. I mean, life was never perfect. But before that day it was good enough for most of us. It was like we all did our thing up until September tenth two thousand and one and then had to pass through that doorway. Once we all came out none of us were the same. On this day I shall mourn for all the families directly affected by this tragedy. But who I shall mourn for the most is Lady Liberty. As those towers burned, and eventually fell, she had to stand helpless and watch as the smoke billowed to the Heavens. This image has never left her. Just as those images forced upon us by both terrorists and the media will never leave any of us human beings in America.

An interesting side note to the events of my day thirteen years ago.... in all the chaos I forgot about the Slayer album. I like to think that life should go on for those of us left in the shadow of tragedy. Work of course let out early and people went home to do their thing. Some hugged their kids extra hard because they never wanted to let them go. Others kissed their wives longer and stronger, as if to hold the moment forever. At that point in my life all I had was my music and my books. After being let out of work I decided to take a drive to the nearest Best Buy, which of course was closed. I didn't think anything of it. I went home and mourned. Then got up the next day and tried to get on with my life. Booking closings, getting yelled at. I spent the days in a funk and didn't really really give much thought to anything I did. On September twelfth I left work and grabbed the Slayer album. The dots didn't really connect until I had the cover in my hand. The name of that Slayer album was God Hates Us All. At the time those words seemed real. All these years later it still seems rather morbid. Even though to some God might seem forsaking, I like to think God certainly doesn't hate anyone. Let alone all of us. On days like nine eleven maybe it seems like God does hate us all. But life happens around us no matter what. Part of life is death. A factor of death is tragedy. Though things seem really fucked up now in the world we need to pull ourselves together and unite. Both as humans and as a country. Even if God did hate all of us, that doesn't mean we have to follow suit.

RIGHT NOW IS THE TIME TO WRITE NOW

***Writing from the "Daily Random" series I have been doing. This one dated and timed 2-25-14/2:34 a.m. est



Late at night, only minutes until my head hits the dirty pillow, is probably not the best time to contemplate writing something.




Let alone actually writing something.




It seems wrong
and yet
these previous days
it has been so right.




Write, rather.




I love writing. I live to write. It's the one thing that instantly springs to mind that I know I'm good at. Writing comes as natural to me as breathing might come to others. No matter how it comes, all that matters is that come it does.



I get ideas and I write them. Simple enough.




There are other times when I just feel words building up inside of me so rapidly it is as if they are gaseous and threaten to blow my top unless I turn the nozzle and bleed them accordingly. Sounds painful, no?




... And even still, there have been many times when I just sit down and have absolutely nothing in my head what so ever and wind up writing anyway. Times like late at night when I am counting the minutes until my head hits the dirty pillow.



Times like right now.




In this case, for no other reason than I can, I decide to write. Now.




It's beautiful, this gift of gab.


I am truly in love with writing. I love everything about it. I love the before, during and after. The precious giving of thoughts and words. Each word is like a gift to be given where once-
only moments ago-
there was none to be found.




The brain tingles.



The fingers move.




Before we know it, magic has been made.




The whole concept, as well as the actions of such magic itself, can be comforting on levels that transcend height.



It's like we're building something in the mind and the limits....
well, there are no limits.



Not the brain. Not the skull. Not the fleshy mask that wraps around the brain and skull.




Hell, when one begins to write even the sky stands down its majesty.



Creative thought, and the resulting words that flow, laugh at the sky and then just keep on going.



That is, until we, the writers, decide that it needs to stop.




Like a river that flows at our command.
A rocket ship that penetrates the clouds on its way towards the stars.
Fuck that. We past the stars if we want.
There is nothing stopping us.
Except.... Us.



We're on a journey that lasts as long as we want it to last.



A few seconds and we could be over and out.


We might keep on keeping on until some sort of bleeding has transpired.



Maybe we'll find ourselves paving roads that were never afforded previous existence. Cool.




Going, going, going and.....
Oh, look. We have managed to  piss off the energizer bunny.
Why?
Because we go and we go.




But we're never gone.




The words are our epitaph. The energizer bunny rocks and rolls and poops and fucks until they run out of batteries and then....



they get new batteries and just wind up doing the same shit all over again again.



But writers?




We purge our souls until the very end of days and nights and when we decide to throw in the towel we toss off the light and then.....


we do it all over again again.
But different each time.
It's magic and every trick is unique in its performance.



Such are the politics of writing. The only type of politics that don't give me a headache or the shits.



I love writing. Have I said that already?



I love this journey that my brain and fingers and very soul have embarked on. It's a journey of epic proportions and the most intense beauty made simple all by the clicking of my fingers.



Tap-tap-tap




aaaaaaaand we're off into the wild blue yonder.



When it's time to rest our head, it might seem like the journey comes to an end. But we're only pulling over at the rest stop to take a sabbatical.


We're having a moment.


Because when it's time to get back on that road and cuddle up to the stars all over again we're off and running.




Creativity is like a great beast that rules the roost.



A car on the highway of existence with an endless supply of life's blood in our gas tank.



We ride and we ride some more and even though sometimes it might seem like we're coasting on fumes we just scramble ourselves together and continue to spit words out even if our teeth find themselves becoming clenched shut.



Ultimately inspiration is our fuel and inspiration can be found in every single grain of existence or crevice in the galaxy.



Fumes and muses aside-



this beast runs on legs of steel and knows nothing but that it will survive because indeed this beast called creativity possesses the ultimate will to survive.



A will that is second to none and exists only because of this one simple equation-
Words have been written.



It's bedtime now. But the journey shall resume when my soul powers up its energy and spits forth another clump of words.




Until then, know that while I sleep there are others out there and these others are writing too.


A writers flame is never smoldering. We burn bright and we burn forever because as long as there are in fact others out there writing, we continue to pass the torch.


 

PHILIP SEES MORE HOFFMAN BUT HE'S STILL DEAD

The world is now reeling in shock, anger and frustration over the death of actor Philip Seymour Hoffman. An actor. A man that certainly could have been your friend or family member had gene pools been poured differently. To his immediate circle of family and loved ones he was actually those very things and these people have every right to be shocked, angered or frustrated. All three if they're so inclined. Absolutely. But to the rest of the world? He's an actor. Was an actor, sorry. Incidentally, the words I have used here.... "Shocked, Angered and Frustrated".... these are actual words I have seen used in regards to his death. Words used in regards to his death made by people on Fuckheadbook who didn't know him from a hole in the wall versus a hole in their own head.

Even another person compared the impact of his death to that of losing a family member. As insane as this sounds to me nothing surprises me anymore though. I mean, when Kurt Cobain died the public referred to him as the "new John Lennon." Hell, when John Lennon died they said he was the "new Jesus." The general public is just so sensitive. I guess to them it makes perfect sense to be "Shocked" or "Angered" or "Frustrated" over this sort of shit. Me? I just don't get it.

If these people didn't know Philip Seymour Hoffman personally why would, or should, any of them in fact be "Shocked"... or "Angered".... or even "Frustrated"? It's a legitimate question. Answer me. Somebody. Why? The man was an actor. A great one I will give you, sure. I am sorry that he is dead and my sympathies do indeed go out to his real family and the friends that did really know him. As for everybody else? Jesus people, get a fucking life. Here it was super bowel Sunday and all everybody could talk about was this actor who overdosed on drugs. There are lots of other things going on in the world today too. Everybody hates each other now more than ever before. Oh man, and Kim Kardashian changed her hair color as well. If that is not news worthy I don't know what is. (Actually someone somewhere, and somehow, deemed this newsworthy, which is why I even mentioned it in the first place) But I digress.

Philip Seymour Hoffman was yet another Hollywood star that succumbed to the throes of addiction.

"Anything I could get my hands on. I liked it all." His own words quoted from a 2006 interview.

The number of actors and musicians and writers that have become addicted to drugs or alcohol, and eventually died from such cravings, is beyond comprehension and calculation. In fact, musing on history one could argue that this sort of behavior might go with the territory. Even another argument could state that great performances, masterful writing and some of the best music known to earkind are a direct result of drugs and alcohol. Just for the record, I have a human degree and soul dipped decree in drugs and alcohol and I happen to fully subscribe to this theory. Just sayin'.

While the jocks, cocks and all those graduates from the school of hard knocks drank Budweiser out their foam coolers and yelled at an inanimate object, this being a very large screened television, every time a man in a meat helmet, pointy shoes and a pair of tights either caught a ball or dropped one the artful side of humanity apparently finds itself weeping and punching walls because yet another actor died from too much skag in the bag. Oh, that humanity is such a fickle pickled cunt.

I have known plenty of people that became addicted to drink or drugs, or both. Some paved the road to ruin then ended up smashing into a brick wall they didn't see coming because they were too high to notice it blocking their view of the rest of la la land.

On the other hand I have known many that were lucky enough to swerve, jump the curve, and ultimately wind up in the end zone far away from that wall. Good for them. If I wore a hat I would take it off in salute to such a person well before I would give a squirt of piss over a dead actor, or for that matter some overpayed asshole scrambling for a pig skin prize. Athletes typically tend to be a bunch of drug addicts as well you know.

If someone I actually knew died of a drug overdose, well.... yeah, color me shocked, angered or frusrated with permanent marker. For someone outside of my own immediate circle I might bow my head and give a little shout out in the form of a prayer on a wind aimed directly at their proper loved ones and kin folk. Sure, it's sad and I am human. But I certainly am not going to let someone elses poor decision making and the resulting actions get in my way or ruin my day. I won't be "Shocked" because celebrities, quasi or actual, do this kind of shit all the time. It comes and goes with the territory and when it does it's certainly not any kind of news. To "Anger" myself over something so common place and out of my control seems like an awfully lot of negative energy that is both mis-placed and mis-spent. Truthfully? I'd rather put some energy into something way more positive and self affecting, like sleeping or taking a shit.

This all leads me to "Frustration." An extreme action. Anxiety that tends to be reserved for things that actually make a difference and somehow benefit either ones self or society in the scope of things. How does an actors death even come close qualifying to something of this magnitude? I mean, sure once again.... great actor. Yay. He made lots of cool movies and I am sorry that he won't make any more of them. My deepest sympathies extend their hands and shoulders far and wide to encompass the vast array of people this mans physical existence did in fact touch. But if you think for one micro-second that I am going to give any of this a thought past writing this blog or waste my time and energy on being "Shocked and Angry and Frustrated" over something that happens all the time to people that I don't know and never will know...... well, you are out of your fucking mind.

Millions of people die from addiction to drugs and alcohol every single day. I imagine even somewhere that someone has died both while I write this blog and post it. That's two people that the world won't even know about or care about. What makes celebrities and their inability to cope with getting out of bed every day and keeping their shit in check matter any more than all of the countless nameless and faceless?

Before you curse me with some sort of rare form of crotch rot for being harsh and sounding like an asshole all I am doing is being realistic here by raising a simply query over a legitimate beef. Why does this matter? More specifically, why should I or anyone else who isn't related to this man or that has him on their speed dial list be shocked, angered or frustrated?

Look, don't get me wrong here. I am not by any means saying that it's wrong to be "Shocked" or "Angered" or "Frustrated" over this. We all handle our shit differently. I get that. Just like some we all handle our highs differently. Some float a little, laugh it off, and then go to work the next day. Some eventually figure out this is not the way to go and kick the habit because it is much safer than say, kicking a bucket? Still others get fucked up, then die and achieve some sort of immortality and higher props because..... well, why? What makes them so special? That is all I am asking here, people. Tell me what makes this one death so special that we should all lose our minds and curse the great gummi worm in the sky and kick holes in the dirt with our clod hoppers. Why, I ask? I have no reason or rhyme, only realism. I am a simple man even. I won't even demand that you tell me why I should be shocked, angered AND frustrated. I'll settle for just one. Why should I be any of the three? Operators are standing by. In the meantime, the world continues to turn, people go on hating each other for no apparent reason other than they just feel like it, oh.... but celebrities? They belong on a pedestal or a cross.

Things are rough now. People fucking hate each other, man. It's an "Obamanation." There are two sides of the shit box now and both are scratching lines in the sand that designate where their toes can dip and curl as they spit on each other while standing in place. It's fucked up and I wish that things could be different. I don't see it happening anytime soon though. If it is going to happen at all I don't see how people punching walls or shedding tears over someone they didn't even know and probably wouldn't have even cared about until the news came on and said they were dead is going to do anything to help matters anyway. That's just me though and what do I know? I'm not a celebrity.

Another dead actor just means another day the groundhog saw his shadow and predicted that Winter is going to be colder than it's ever been in the history of Winters. People are still gonna drink cheap beer and call each other names when their team wins or loses. Balls will be dropped and then picked up again. Next week.... or next month..... or maybe even tomorrow and the day after that (celebrity deaths are supposed to come in three's after all) another actor or musician or writer will die. Whether it's a drug overdose or a car wreck or from a life that resembled a car wreck, lots of these people are going to die. If your life is so empty that such a thing can only bring you "Shock, Anger or Frustration" then I highly suggest you do something more productive with your existence. Maybe do like that Kim Kardashian does and go dye your hair. It sure beats dying in a pool of your own waste.

 

COMING SOON- FOSSIL LAKE ANTHOLOGY

I am very pleased to announce that my story poem "The Rack" is going to be featured in an upcoming anthology that is going to be called "Fossil Lake." Just one of the things that is so exciting is that I will get to be in an anthology alongside the legendary Ramsey Campbell. I also look forward to reading the other writers as well. More details will follow as they are made available. The book is being published by Daverana Enterprises in 2014. Here is a look at the cover and table of contents.

 “A Letter from the Lake” – Ramsey Campbell
“Eat Yourself” – Michael Shimek
“The Varmint of Fossil Valley” -- Lewis Unknown
“Road Kill Angel” -- Dana Wright
“Silver Screen Shadows” -- Mathias Jansson
“C-C-Cold” – Ken Goldman
“What’s Your Beef?” – Mark Orr
“Alchera” -- D.J. Tyrer
“The Dank” -- Doug Blakeslee
“Dark of Madness” -- Tanya Nehmelman
“All That Jazz” -- Maegan Hightower
“Revolver Concert” – Spencer Carvalho
“Thick” -- Melanie-Jo Lee
“Ziggurat of Skulls” -- Joshua Dobson
“Apartment B” -- Stinky Cat
“Pretty Girl” – Deb Eskie
“Come Fly With Death” -- Wesley D. Gray
“The Horn of Plenty” -- Russel Nayle
“The Lost Link” -- Carl Thomas Fox
“Nat Poopcone vs. the Beast of Fossil Lake” -- Jerrod Balzer
“Where Lost Ones Dwell” -- Tony Flynn
“Lana Doesn’t Get Lucky” -- Kerry Lipp and Emily Meier
“Gothicism on Trial” – G. Preacher
“Finding Miss Fossie” -- Melany Van Every
“Arkham Arts Review: Alienation” – Peter Rawlik
“Mishipishu” -- Mary Pletsch
“Malicious Intimacy” -- William Andre Sanders
“Beneath” – Michael Burnside
“Passionate in Chicago” -- John Goodrich
“Mr. Winter” -- Jeremy Terry
“Impressions” -- Christine Morgan
“Make Me Something Scary” – Patrick Tumblety
“The Depths” – Stacey Turner
“The Day Lloyd Campbell’s Mama Came to Town” -- Scott Colbert
“The Rack” – Mike Meroney
“Beautiful” – John Claude Smith
“The Last Revelation of Gla’aki, an Excerpt” – Ramsey Campbell

THE WRITER

I am a writer-

I am human first-

but writer second-

though sometimes the two do get mixed up.

I have been known from time to time to question my humanity-

but no matter what side of the bed I woke up on today-

I wake up folded in the arms of one constant truth-

I am a writer.

I can write poetry that will make you swoon-

I can even make you fall in love with me

or somebody else-

without even opening my mouth

or reaching inside of my wallet-

I can paint a picture made of dreams-

you and me-

we're like two peas in a pod-

we can climb a mountain

or reach out for the stars-

we might even touch them

or maybe we'll go to the moon-

just put your two lips together

and whistle-

you don't have to pray-

just have a little faith

because I got it like that-

I'm a writer, see.

You stand next to me

and we can do it all-

sky high

or mountain tall-

just don't piss me off

and make me kill you-

I don't even have to have a reason

for I am a writer and it's in my nature to make somebody die

It's how I roll

and should I choose the avenue on which you're standing around

taking up space and doing nothing but wasting air and concrete

you best believe that I am going to roll right over and flatten your ass like a pancake

oooooh, pancakes-

is it breakfast time?

Is it break time?

Of course-

that's all life really is-

break time-

you're either breaking time-

or time's breaking you.

Every day people break their backs-

only to be stabbed there by the hands of the grim reaper-

that's why we all have to make our mark-

before we get marked-

Me?

I write.

Writing can be many things-

It can be therapy-

It can be joy-

It can be sweeter than a pair of sugar tits filled with high fructose corn syrup-

but something that many people do not realize

is that writing is work-

these tend to be people who can't read-
or write-
or both.

Fuck them.

The world needs less of these types anyway.

Writing is work-

whether you're writing about the Gettysburg address

or a blood stain left on the dress of the woman you loved so much that it made you put a steak knife through her neck-

It's all work-

and even that blood stain comes out in the wash- 

because no matter how many times you find yourself stabbing that woman in the crimson coated dress-

it's only on the page-

and in your head-

so be rest assured those blood stains will never end up on the floor.

Not if you are a writer-

like me.

Maybe you are simple-

and what could be more simple than composing an ode to tater tots?

If that is what you were born to write-

then you were born, right?

You're here-

so write.

Note to my own self that I wish to throw in a copyer and give to every single person who has ever written-

You are a writer.

Yes, writing is work-

it's working the heart-
mind-
soul-
and fingers all at once.

Sometimes writers break their backs-

and maybe even find themselves pierced by the sharpened boney fingers of that grim reaper guy.

But a writer never dies.

We live-

we write-

and then-

we go on living-

for forever.