A House in Taos — poetry.
Something Popped in my Lower Abdomen when I Was Peeing Just Then — memoir
Remind Me Not to Kill Again — thriller
It’s Not My Blood — memoir/family stories
The Overt Shenanigan — collected essays
I Seriously Can’t Spell Convenience. Like, Even When You Spell It for Me — essays on writing
Sending Japs to the Ocean Floor — stories about my grandfather
Killing People for Fun and Profit — how-to guide
Seriously, Asshole, Buy This Motherfucking Book, It’s Only Fucking $3 You Cheap Cunt — nonfiction
About a year ago, I discovered Slavery Footprint, which tracks the “virtual” slaves behind our posh lives here in the world’s last, great empire. Because I’m a Luddite who wears the same clothes for 20 years (or until they fall to pieces like some sort of lunatic castaway leaping around on the shore of an uncharted island), I only have 26 slaves. Most of my friends have around 55 slaves.
At first, I felt a touch superior in the knowledge that I had a smaller slavery footprint, but then I became jealous. I want to have 55 slaves. In fact — fuck this virtual thing — I want to actually own these slaves.
Continue reading ‘Slavery for Fun and Profit’
Between 1992-1995, I stole $30,000 from the County, and it felt good.
Continue reading ‘Confessions’
Jabba and Slave Leia Cosplay. Presented without comment.
Continue reading ‘Happy Easter from GS!’
I have finally completed my 20 year study on why women think it’s acceptable to stick their fingers up your ass. The results are below.
Continue reading ‘The Finger’
I was in New York with friends in the early 90′s shortly after I cranked out the second half of the Boble. At the time, I was running a tiny little publishing company called Purple Publications, where I put together homemade chapbooks and sold them for around $5 a pop. The Boble was my top seller, bringing in over $500 a year (shockingly), so I had decided to split it into two sections, selling them independently. A plan that I’ve now resurrected, with slightly more vim and vigor, and a decade’s worth of lessons, for a proposed 2015 release.
Then, as now, I was editing The Boble in an attempt to wash it clean of the childishness. I’d originally started writing it as an angst-filled teenager, so it was a challenge to come at it with book sales in mind. In 1993 or so, I had a pretty simplistic frame of mind when it came to book sales. Make a few bucks and call it a day. It’s a bit more difficult now when you juggle the concept of a worldwide release and a much larger investment. In a way, the “soul” of the work is sacrificed. It’s no longer a ranting screed written by a troubled boy, it must now be whipped into shape.
In 1993, as I struggled with edits, a friend cautioned me about losing that soul. He leaned in close and he told me to “stay angry.” He told me that only my anger would fuel my writing.
Continue reading ‘Anger’
I figure that I can’t die until I’ve lived longer than the following people:
- Jesus Christ (33 — success!)
- Mom (46)
- Mohammed (62)
- Dad (69…uh…dude)
- Siddhartha (80)
I was the third generation of my family to go to our eye doctor, Dr. Bradley. A Navy man! Old Commander Bradley! He’ll fix you right up.
He worked on my grandparents, their kids, and then we hit my generation and his one time humble office had turned into a bustling, popular practice with four locations around the area. This eventually morphed into a sort of teaching practice, and he’d wander around with a gaggle of eye doctor students hanging on his every word whilst his optometrist peons slavishly worked away, seemingly too terrified of the great master to even speak to the patients.
Continue reading ‘The Commander’
The question asked one happy hour was: If you could go back and give your 18 year old self one piece of advice, what would it be?
Everyone had the usual answers like invest in Google or whatever. I think that’s the 40 year old in all of us talking. I think we should pause and take a look at what makes life worth living.
I would tell my 18 year old self to get snipped. Then fuck absolutely everything possible.
Continue reading ‘Get in there, boy!’
I learned my “haste makes waste” lesson from Catherine Tolnay, my 4th grade teacher at my Catholic grade school. And I hope she died a lonely death at the end of a hard, empty life.
Continue reading ‘Haste Makes Waste’