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 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’
A couple of friends have recently told me that I need to talk about my problems. All the childhood madness, all the fears, all the things that cripple me emotionally. If I talk about these things, then they’ll have no power over me.
Continue reading ‘The voice across the line’
When I was a kid, I used to think there was a little man in my stomach who was responsible for handling all of the poop. Day after day, there he was, at the bottom of my stomach, surrounded by vats of bubbling acid, endlessly shoveling poop down a little hole that led to my intestines. Sometimes the hole would get stuffed up and he’d have to jump on the poop to force it through.
Continue reading ‘Tommy the Poop Man’
Following on from “The Business of Death” posted earlier this month…
January, 2007. It took my father four hours to choke to death. I sat vigil in his hospital room as he fought the fluid in his lungs, his face a mask of agony, unable to speak or communicate in any way. His eyes, shining with fear, would occasionally lock with my unforgiving stare. Pleading eyes. Begging for release, mercy, an end to all things. Each time, I would only offer a quick, tight grin in reply.
No…no. This is how you die. After all you’ve done, you’re going to die here. Forgotten. Accompanied to hell by the boy you destroyed, the man who hates you.
In the end, exhausted by the spectacle of his death, I stood and told him that I forgave him. If that will let you die, I said, then I forgive you. Before I finished the words, he gasped his last breath.
My father had won again.
Continue reading ‘Choking to Death’
I haven’t had sex since 1995. Good sex, I mean. Enjoyable sex. The pain started in 95. A pain so severe that drawing breath felt like I was being tasered in the eye. Sex, of course, was almost out of the question. Pursued and practiced simply because I choose a self-destructive path designed to defy the reality of the pain. Every coupling, for 12 years, was a teeth-grinding agony that whited-out my vision and filled my brain with a horrific internal scream.
Continue reading ‘God is Dead’
From the archives (2006): A review of the original 1986 Transformers movie.
Continue reading ‘Cult Culture Archive: Transformers: The Movie’
Long ago, a girl once said that I wouldn’t be able to survive the death of my grandparents. A comment that disturbed me then and now. She was so up in my shit that she asked me to marry her, and is now entering her sixth year of aggressively stalking me, and yet she didn’t know the first thing about me, or my family, or my life.
Continue reading ‘Death & Family’
For quite some time now, I’ve been having a recurring dream. I guess. The dream itself isn’t the same, but it always has the same sort of ending – I’m walking at night in my childhood neighborhood and enter a convenience store.
All very mundane! But I’ll still write about it because it’s stupid “project Monday” and my notes say “write about Dream Mart, the Thanksgiving Hippies, baking bread, and how much I really really hate the holidays.”
Continue reading ‘Dream Mart’
The holidays – starting with Thanksgiving – have always pitched me into depression. I’ll spend the long stretch until the new year pissed off, envious of the happier people, and generally mourning what I view to be a disastrously wasted 36 years.
Continue reading ‘Post-Family’