Van Wanted: Part I

About three months ago, my Ford Taurus gave up the ghost, and decided enough was enough.  Despite only having about 165,000 miles on it, the frame was rusted badly, which I knew already but I didn't realize just how badly until two the motor mounts snapped off the frame.

The only thing keeping the motor from hitting the pavement was was the steering knuckle going through the firewall.  This meant simply turning the wheel was a colossal act of strength.  It was dead and I needed to call in a priest to give it Final Rites and hear its last confession.

Finding a replacement vehicle has been tougher than getting laid.  Seriously.  And if you've ever actually seen me, you'd realize just how dark a hole that can be, or how depressing.  Sisyphus ain't got shit on me.

It's not just the fact that I'm broke.  Or that my credit is so bad my credit report catches fire when it leaves the printer and I need a co-signer when I pay cash.

No, money is only half the problem.

The other part of the problem is the same reason I'm in this mess--the Midwestern roads will eat a car up in a fraction of its lifetime.  We don't just use salt here.  Often times you'll see trucks spraying hydrochloric acid directly on the roads because the ice is so thick.  It's why there is so much roadkill on our local roads.  Poor, unsuspecting furry animals try to cross and get dissolved into puddles of goo before they reach the other side.

It has bred a special kind of White Tail Deer that acts as a kamikazee to cars that drive up and down those roads.  They will dart out and deliberately give their lives to total your car.  Sure, you get to eat them later on because roadkill deer are yummy, but your poor car ends up in the crusher.

I tried to part my car out because every time I need to scrap a car the price of scrap metal takes a shit.  When whatever I'm driving runs right, prices are through the roof.  But when I need to scrap something?  The price I get barely pays the cost of having a guy haul it to the scrapyard.

So what's a creepy van guy without a van supposed to do?  Walk around and offer free hugs to people?  Once again, if you've seen me, that's not going to work.  I couldn't outrun a Walmart scooter.

My plan is to do some kind of crowd-funding campaign, like Kickstarter or something similar, and try to raise some money to get a van.  But it can't just be any van.  If I'm lucky (which I'm not) I'll get maybe $1500 and around here that'll be a very rusty van with a decent motor and questionable transmission.  Vehicles just don't last long around these parts.

Ideally, I would need one from someplace else, like California, Arizona, New Mexico, Florida or the likes.  That means traveling, researching, and hoping somebody can help me out.

I already have a dozen people who want to help me paint the thing.  I know some incredibly talented artists who have said they would donate their time to make sure it has the proper artwork.

FREE HUGS on one side and FREE CANDY on the other.

Plus, my blog's URL in a few places so it's clear to law enforcement that I'm not really a pedo creeper looking for my next victim.  Once again, if you've met me, this is important because my good looks ain't getting me out of anything.  I get followed when I go grocery shopping because people just assume I'm going to do something evil.

I've got a Youtube channel now.  No videos to post, but I've got a channel to put them, which is sort of why I have a checking account.  No money for that, either.

My gameplan is to have a video to post along with my crowd-funding campaign.  I have the script worked out, some pretty funny gags, and I've got just about everybody I need to be in the video.  I'm working out the camera stuff and I know how to edit the thing (I think).  Plus, I have the script for the voice-over person to read.

My goal is to have this done in a couple of weeks.  Maybe.  Like most things in my life, it's a trainwreck just waiting to happen.  I'm sure there are more than a few cliffs I'll fall down in the process.  But I've been binge-watching a show on Youtube called Roadkill, which is done by Motor Trend Magazine.

Pretty much every show is a mess but somehow they make it work.  It's my life on film.  I get it--they're working with junk and somehow they get it to run and they have fun doing it.  And this is pretty much what this project is going to be like for me.

It'll be covered in duct tape, I can promise you that.  

It's Okay, Let It Go

Every day in the U.S. about 6,700 people die.  Most of them die alone.

I used to think that was a horrible thing but I realize now it is perfectly fine to die alone.  It's not like I'm going to be having a conversation with somebody as I give up the ghost anyways.  And what in the fuck are we going to be talking about?  Regrets?  All the shit I wished I'd done but instead tried to be the person I thought I was supposed to be instead of the person I was?  Fuck that!

It's best to die alone.  Really.

I always figured I would be the guy that died in an apartment full of books.  Nobody would know I was in there unless the landlord wanted his money or the smell got funky--whichever came first.

Death doesn't bother me.  It's how I get to that point that does.  It would totally suck being fed feet-first into a woodchipper.  Or to have pieces ripped off by a pack of drunken chihuahuas half-starved and out of their minds on rot-gut booze.  In recent days, I've also learned that dying from an intestinal blockage is not only painful, but slow as hell.

I'll say this here for all to read--I don't own any scarfs, okay?  Not one!  Seriously, I mean it.  If you hear some weird story about me being found with a scarf around my neck and my pants down that's total bullshit.  I don't own a scarf.

Sometimes you have to let things like life go.  Burn out, fade away--doesn't matter.  Dead is dead and gone is gone.

It's like turning your back on unrequited love.  You care about them.  You want them to be happy and you want to be the one who makes them smile.  Just a smile.  Maybe laugh, too.  You think about them all the time and know they don't give two shits about you and probably never will.  Not like how you care about them.  And it's not even like you want them to reciprocate.

Just accepting what you feel about them is enough sometimes.  You don't want them to scream, "Oh my God!  I feel the same way!  Let's get fucking married and live forever and never, ever be apart even for a second!  I gotta poop, come with me!"

No.  Then it just gets weird.

But we all know how this ends, don't we?  You let your feelings be known, they inform you how they might be a bit flattered, that it's awkward, and they don't feel the same about you.

It's a little death.  A piece of you feels like it got infected with Ebola and died in a shitty hospital in Africa covered in feces and surrounded by flies.  You might drag that rotting piece of you around for a bit, not wanting to give it up, but flies will lay their eggs.

It's okay, let it go.

Death is awesome!  Death is just the end of a level.  It's just crossing the state lines into a state with all new drinking laws and cheaper taxes.  It's a state where the cops don't know about your past history with explosives and illegal uses for peanut butter.

Death is when you don't have to pay the tab on all the shit you ordered at a restaurant.  Forget the bills, you're dead!

The little deaths in our lives are for the best.  It's when we walk away from things that no longer work for us like a puddle of vomit on the sidewalk on a hot, August day.  We don't need it, so don't carry it.
It's okay if they don't love you.  Really.  You don't need their love to exist.  If you needed love to exist, then there would be more chemical and genetic imperatives to make it happen.  Sure, we can pro-create.  Ask any teenager about that.

But there is a huge difference between a chemical reaction on a body part and the emotional connection between humans.  We are so much more than a bag of disgusting chemicals.

So cleave off the emotional dead parts you're carrying around with you.  The unrequited loves, the jobs that no longer suit your needs or reward your efforts, the belongings you have sitting around collecting dust but for the life of you can't remember where they came from or why you even have them.

Let it go, it's okay.

I'm cleaving.  I'm getting rid of shit.  I'm turning my back and walking away.  I'm taking the dead pieces, burying them in the sand like fish heads in a garden, and planting seeds the aliens gave to me. Whatever grows there isn't my problem.

Let it go, the stump will only hurt for a short while.  Don't pick the scab.  Let is heal over and be done with it all.

It's going to be okay.  

Demon Wanted: Inquire Within

Why is everybody so fucking squeamish about demonic activity?

Today I was at the local bar getting my hot wings when somebody mentioned something about their house being haunted.  I normally don't talk to anybody in bars because usually they're drunk and saying stupid shit.  Most bar conversations are really just advertisements for low IQs.

But no, this one got my attention, so I asked her about it.

"So this started about three months ago.  Now in the middle of the night I get knocking on my walls."

"How many knocks?"

"Three at a time.  Always in threes."

"Any foul smells?"

"Yes!  We get this horrible smell all the time!"

I guess I was smiling.  I hadn't realized it.

"Why are you smiling?  Do you think I'm joking?"

"No.  I'm smiling because I think you have a demon."

The lady had a stupid look on her face anyways but she really seemed confused now.

"So why are you smiling?"

"Because demons are cool and I've been looking for one.  When can I come over?"

After that, the lady started quoting the Bible and saying she was going to call her priest to come over or whatever.  I was too pissed off to pay attention after that.

I've been looking for a demon for years.  Do you realize how hard they are to find?  I once got really excited because I'd heard about some kid that possessed but then the family got an exorcism and that was the end of that.  Really pissed me off, too.

So if anybody has a demon in their house, or the know of one, please let me know.

Thanks!

It's a Dark & Stormy Night...

Right now as I write this, it's a dark and stormy night.

No, really.  We've got a storm blowing through and my cell phone keeps annoying me with flash flood warnings because of all the rain we've been having.

We writers aren't supposed to use the line, "It's a dark and stormy night."  Maybe it's because the line is a cliche.  We're supposed to use our Big Boy Words.  Dark and stormy doesn't convey much.

It pissed more rain than an incontinent skid row bum after a case of Old Milwaukee.  

How's that?

There are always other ways of saying things.  But I really love "It was a dark and stormy night." There's just something cool about it.  It is plain and direct.  

But we can't say it.  

So tonight isn't a dark and stormy night.  It's a shitty night.  Cold wind howls and lightning flashes as rain stabs down like chilly little knives.  But really, you know all of that just means it's a dark and stormy night, right?  

It doesn't matter what fluff or purple prose I come up with, it's still just a dark and stormy night.  

It's a melancholy night.  It's sitting at a computer or by the phone and waiting for the chance to talk to the woman you care about.  It's wanting to hear her voice but you can't tell her that because if she thought you were bearing down on her like a freight train she would run like a white-tailed dear.  

It's a disjointed night.  It's a night where you want to sit and write but you're hungry and can't eat because your stomach just won't allow it.  So instead you watch a movie you've already seen and try not to think of Her or what you should be writing instead of fucking around online.  

It's an aggravating night because storms are much more interesting than making sure your character development actually happens at the right pace so your reader doesn't figure out too quickly your MC is a piece of shit.  

It's a self-indulgent night.  The current work in progress (WIP) has too much of yourself in it and the line between self-pity and backstory isn't very well defined.  So you go with it and put stuff on paper you hope your mother never sees.  

It's an annoying night.  You want to just put the words down on paper that are in your head.  You know what you want to say but for some reason it doesn't translate in all of that mess of a brain so you muddle through.  At the tip of your tongue is an eloquent paragraph of linguistic beauty and master wordsmithing but all you can get on paper is, "It was a dark and stormy night."  

It's a romantic night.  You just want to hang out with Her.  You want to feel her head on your shoulders as you two tell stories about past failures and glories.  You want to smell her hair and hear her breathe--nothing more.  You want to tell her jokes just so you can hear her laugh and see her smile.  Because tonight, like all good stormy nights, was made for couples to be together and just enjoy each other.  

But I need to get back to my WIP.  It's not easy but it has to be done.  I want to do it, too.  I got a novella submitted last week.  It was the first I've ever finished and submitted off--a big step forward for me.  But I've been resting on that for too many days and I need to get my shoulder back on the rock because it's not going to roll up the mountain by itself.  

So I'll enjoy this dark and stormy night for what it is and lament what it wasn't tomorrow.  

That Damned Laughing Chipmunk

I've always loved Jim Belushi.  Most of the characters he's played reminded me of myself.

Only he always said the great lines I wish I had said.  More often than not, they were said to really hot women, who eventually found his charms sexy.

But there was one move I really loved him in--K-9.

There was a recurring gag they used in that movie where he had this small handheld video game.  One of those toys you could get at Radio Shack back in the 80's.  Belushi's character kept loosing badly and every time, this chipmunk would laugh at him.  It was the most obnoxious laugh.  The game would beep like some kind of timer and then there would be the laugh.  And Belushi always lost so you heard that damned chipmunk laugh a dozen times in the movie.

I feel like Belushi today.  Ain't nothing gone right.

But I'm not going to whine, piss, and moan.  Nope.  I'm working on stuff.  Big stuff.  Stuff so big that it impresses even me.  Stuff so awesome that I can't wait to brag to my mom about it.

I'm working on a deadline to submit a novella and it's killing me.  I love deadlines but I'm terrible when I have to deal with one.  I'm lazy right up until the final countdown and then I'm a flurry of work.  When I submit is always missing something, too.  It's never quality work or the best I could do--just the best I could throw together in a short period of time.

I'm not a hack but I certainly act like one.  And I'm hearing that timer.  It's just a matter of time before I hear that damned chipmunk laugh.  But my goal is to get this novella submitted before that happens.
So that's what I'm doing tonight.

An Open Letter To You, Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

Many of you I have met.  Many of you I know online only and haven't met yet.  And there are a few of you lurking I know nothing about.  Whatever our relationship is, I'm glad you are here, and I wanted to pose a challenge to you.

It's simple, really.

I want you to think of your life as a mythological story.  Your life is an epic journey.  Your life has all the great components of mythology.  You live, you move forward, you love, you lose those close to you, to brush with Death, you recover with lessons learned.

Your life has meaning.  Your life is important.

Your life, Dear Reader, has lessons for others to learn.

I've been thinking of this all day.  Last night I watched the documentary Mythic Journeys and it got my brain boiling with all kinds of wonderful thoughts.  I see more potential now and I feel much less cynical.

If I were to describe my life as a mythological story, it would be a journey.  Much less cliche than the usual sort we are used to in our cinema.  It is missing pieces and there are plenty of monsters, demons, charlatans, thieves and trolls.  Rites of Passage were missed, lessons were skipped, battles were lost.  And I'm not Percival--I'm no fool.  I didn't always follow the righteous path and sometimes I went to the left-handed paths.

This is not your history.  I'm not asking for your autobiography.  History is just journalism and we know how inaccurate that can be.

No.  Imagine your mythology, your life, would be taught to children sitting in a circle around a storyteller.  You are the hero and they are hearing your story because there is a lesson to be learned here.  The storyteller has chosen your story because there is a lesson to be taught to these children so they may develop into better people.

Your story, originally found written on a scroll, tucked in a clay jar in the back of some cave, will be re-told over and over again.  The central themes are that important.

You are needed.  Your story is needed.

Dear Reader, you are more than an earning unit for the Plutocracy.  You were not put on this planet to earn a little bit of money to buy crap you don't really need to impress people you don't really like.  You are not measured by your car, your clothes, your house or your job.  You are not a cog in the wheel.

You, Dear Reader, are a hero.  You may not have slayed or even seen a dragon, but you've dealt with your share of pitfalls and ugly situations.  And if you're young, as many of my readers are, then you need to do this more than anybody because you will suddenly be shown just how many paths are before you and how many options you have.

Exciting, isn't it?  You now have more places to go, more people to meet, and more chances to really fuck up and get yourself into all kinds of trouble.  Imagine the heartbreak just waiting for you!

I'm sorting this out for myself.  This is something I'm doing, too, for the exact same reasons I mentioned above.  And for the first time in a very long time, I'm not bored or cynical.  I don't feel the need to destroy anything or anybody.  I'm not angry.  I'm filled with a curiosity.

And right now, Dear Reader, that's good enough for me.  I have no idea how this story is going to end and frankly, I'm beginning to get curious, which makes me want to turn the pages even faster.  

A Monster Called Cancer

Cancer is a monster.

It creeps up on good people and destroys lives.  It seeks out those who are healthy and takes everything it can away from them.

Sure, cancer is a disease, but in a way it's also a form of living creature.

My mom had cancer last year.  She had a painful surgery to remove it and so far she is cancer-free.

So far.

I was incredibly upset as this all took place.  There was nothing I could do but be a sort of cheerleader while she went through all of that nastiness.  Feeling helpless sucks.

William Meikle has put together an anthology about this monster.  All profits go to The Beatson Cancer Research Institute.

On his website, William Meikle says,

My Dad has cancer. More than one kind in fact. He's fighting hard, but cancer is a devious bugger. It hides, it lurks, and it pounces when you think it's down and defeated.

Cancer is a monster.

It has been a presence in my life for as long as I can remember. I first came across it in the late Sixties. My Gran's brother came back to town to die with his family. I was fascinated by this man, so thin as to be almost skeletal, wound in clothes that were many sizes too large for his frame, his skin so thin that I could see his blood moving... not pumping, for it had long since stopped moving enough to keep him alive long. He rarely spoke, just sat by the fire as if trying to soak up heat, his eyes frequently wet from tears, not of sadness, but of pain. He lasted for months in that condition until it finally took him and I knew then that cancer was a monster.

This anthology has a great list of names and has been in the making for years.  I'm really excited to see it has been fully realized.

Now we need folks to buy it and read.

Everybody knows somebody who has cancer.  And sadly too many of us have to watch family members fight this monster.  It's an ugly thing to watch.

Please check this out and have a read.  Not only are the writers top-notch, the cause is way too close for many of us, and we cannot sit idly by while those we care about suffer.