Ode to Joy (Excising the Self-Quarantined)

Filthy dogs.  Gutter running.  Intellectual slumming.  Social beasts that are unrealized and unmotivated social pariahs.  Blood-stained hands gnawed by blood-stained teeth.  Bark.  Bark.  Bark.  Yap.  Yap.  Yap.  Smile while you plot.  Pretend to be a star.  Wear victimhood like a crown.  Find strength in all your weakness.  Running mouth.  Shut mind.  Yapping dog.  Rat eyes.  Petty talk.  Lickspittle mind.  Apologists.  Herd mentality.  Lemmings.  Happy to be diving off a cliff.  Smile the whole way down.

Do you know why serial killers exist?  Do you know why dictators crush?  Do you know why genocides happen?  Do you know why people are exiled?  Do you know why your liberty is lost?  Do you know why you end up in a mental jail?  It's not because madmen seek power.  It's not because sociopaths slide up your streets in the dead of night looking for a window cracked to let in the night breeze.  It's because people like you don't realize what you are and you must be handled.  Tyrants will always exist.  Sociopaths will always stalk.  But you, TV reflected in dead eyes, you are gleeful in your abandon.  You smile at the realization of your own ignorance.  You wallow in your own waste and call it "luxury."  Your existence is at the whim and kindness of those who see you for what you are.  Your breath is gift.  The light in your eyes a privilege. 

You take pathetic to god-like levels.

Oh, how you feign surprise when justice takes its course.  Oh, how you plead your innocence when the boot is stomping on your face.  Oh, how you simper and drool.  "But I didn't know ..."  You never did.  You never bothered.  You never will.

You mistake symbols.  You ignore reason.  You make an enemy of common sense and logic.  You turn your back on that which scares you.  You embrace a faith you don't understand and then lack the facilities to even act accordingly.  You have lost wonder.  You have lost thought.  You have lost intellect.  You have lost all that made you human and became a parasite on the collective wasteland of mankind.  Quite simply, you've mistaken living with breathing and you have outlived your cheap appeal.

Don't fret.  Don't despair.  Incinerating the lot of you not happen as flames are cleansing and you have long lost the rights to such things.  Your continued existence is guaranteed as long as we need fuel of a different sort.  In other words: You get to continue keeping bar stools warm and QVC happy.

This disdain doesn't come from your wealth or lack of it.  It doesn't come from your religion or lack of it.  It doesn't come from you pigmentation or lack of it.  It comes from your inability to realize your potential, not because you lack the resources or knowledge on how to do so, but because you never tried.  You made a conscious choice to live a life void of meaning, void of hope, void of thought, void of introspection, void of all the things that make life worth living.  You turned your back on that and tuned out.  You aren't even a spectator.  You aren't even a witness.  You are simply there.  Like a rock.  A boil has more of an existence than you.

Prepare.  Wait.  Worry.



(Fleshing out a new manuscript is fun, fun, fun!  As soon as I have the first draft finished on the current one, this one will take hold.  Inspired by history, science and the occult.  Driven not by rage, but by the concepts of purity, love and faith.  If you think about that in the context of the above, you should have experienced a slight chill down your spine.  If you didn't, maybe it's about you...)

Human Pony Girl: A Missing Teenager, A Sex Shop, and The Manuscript

Back in the day I worked at the Pleasure Center.  For those not in Humboldt County, the Pleasure Center, before it went corporate, was this little shop that catered to people's various sexual desires.  The owner at the time, Bill, designed it to appeal to women ... mainly because he called himself a lesbian trapped in a man's body who routinely sexually harassed the women who worked for him and the female customers who stopped in.  (He's dead.  I found his body.  For the shit he, or to be more fair -- his corpse -- put me through that day, I think I can fairly call him that.  I'm not exaggerating.  I witnessed him hit on women on a regular basis.  I occasionally said something, but most of his attempts were so lame and weak that they were far more pitiful than menacing.)  One of the items we carried was this dildo-like object where one end of it resembled a horse's tail. 

You can imagine where it was to be inserted.  You'd be right.

It was while working at this place that the seeds for the manuscript I'm currently working on really started to germinate.  At the time a teen girl went missing, and while there was plenty of speculation on her whereabouts, nobody really had a clue as to what happened to her.  The most that could be figured was that she got into a white car and was never seen from again.

Humboldt, for those of you who don't know, has a pretty open sexual community.  There's the Imps, regular wife swapping, bestiality, and plenty of fetish-based prostitution.  There's also an undercurrent of the dangerous, though.  Many places have this.  Humboldt has it in spades, and I got to see plenty of it.  People who wouldn't/couldn't associate with the more open people because even the most open-minded wouldn't accept them.  Then there were the ones who just didn't care to associate with the sexual counterculture because, like most countercultures, you have to wade through a lot of crap to get to the gems.

The Pleasure Center branch in Eureka, where I started working, attracted those who traveled below the underground ... as well as the more prominent citizens.  One of those customers was someone involved in the investigation of the missing girl.  His sleaze of choice?  S&M videos.  At that point I started to wonder if the missing girl were tied up in his basement, a bucket to the side for bodily functions, a camera on a tripod before her.  That idea bounced around in my head without a home until about a year ago, when I started the manuscript.

Walking around with that image popping up from time to time can be distracting at best.  I knew it was a good image, and I knew I would use it eventually.  (To be quite honest, however, it merely inspired this manuscript.  The actual story I want to tell about that will probably be next after this book is written.)  The image sort of made it into the manuscript in passing.  (Some of you have read some scenes from it.  The feedback has been generally good.  I've been doling it out piecemeal, though, so a complete picture cannot be formed.)  It is a strong image.  Strong enough to inspire a totally different story.  You have to respect that power.

Working at the Pleasure Center had its moments.  Great characters.  Strange pornography.  Solid co-workers.  The inspiration that came from the place cannot be undervalued.  I learned more about Humboldt County working there than I have ever learned from our local news station or newspaper.  I met newscasters whose toy of choice was Jenna's Twat Twister, and men who liked to be tied up and urinated on.  I met girls who thought they were being dirty by buying pretty little vibrators, and men who bought videos where the cover girls resembled their daughters.  (Yeah, Humboldt County has plenty of perverts that are borderline dangerous.)  It served as a spring point for many story ideas, including one I've been toying with that involved finding Bill dead.

The missing girl has never been found.  Some say she ran away.  There was a rumor she was being held captive by meth addicts for whatever sick games they had devised.  Others said she was working a carnival up in Oregon.  Me?  I had my ideas.  I never really believed her disappearance was anything other than a crime of opportunity, and for some reason I think she got buried out in Samoa someplace.  Not by meth addicts, or twisted cops, but by a kindly stranger who convinced her to get in his car and maybe party a little bit.  She was game, and soon she found herself in over her head, regretting taking a ride from that proverbial stranger.  And when she found his fingers in her mouth, she really knew she was not going to make it out alive.  She fought, and he had to explain those scratches on his arm and face to his wife, kids and co-workers ... maybe his brother or something.  For weeks he worried.  What if someone saw him?  They got the car color wrong in the media, but what if someone remembered?  What if someone put two and two together?  The missing time and the scratches?  What if a dog dug her up?  After a few months, though, when there was no loud knock at the door -- the type that cops are trained to do -- he realized he got away with it.  Clean away.  Free.  And the thought scared him.  He wasn't going to it originally.  Just wanted to cop a feel.  Things got out of hand, and he had to kill her.  He had no choice.  She would tell.  There would go his job, his marriage, his family.  He would lose everything.  He felt bad about it, for sure.  He even threw up.  When he realized he got away with it, he wasn't relieved.  He was scared.  What if he did it again?  No.  That wouldn't happen.  But now, when he's alone driving, and he sees a teenage girl walking, he inadvertently slows down his car.  He fiddles with the crotch of his jeans.  They are tighter.  He drives by, his eyes going to the rearview mirror.  He sees those headphones all the kids wear.  Her head tilted down as she watches the sidewalk.  For a moment he wonders if he looks like her, and he remembers the fingers in the mouth.  He goes home and kisses his wife.  The kids are gone now.  Off to college.  His wife never suspected.  He will never stop for the walking girl ... or so he tells himself.

A missing girl.  A porno store.  And a single video rental.  It set off a string of thoughts that hasn't ended to this day.  Funny how those things work.



FTC Disclaimer: Clicking on my affiliate link, which is actually my Kindle short story, will net me a commission.  This is not the manuscript I'm talking about.  It was not inspired by the Pleasure Center, either, but is kind of twisted in its own way. 

Tonight We Murder

If you recognize the title of this post, kudos to you. You are cooler than people give you credit for. If not, it's okay. Nobody will hold it against you. I now have two days to get a bunch of shit done that I should have got done days ago, and I'm getting sicker. I sounded like a two pack a day smoker this morning, and coughed up some stuff I'm pretty sure was alien in nature. (I pictured spitting it outside and watching as a bird flew down to examine it. The mucous would then come to life and grab the bird in, pulling it into its mass like the Blob.) I'm also hoping to send out the manuscript tonight or tomorrow. Have other plans that need attending, too.

It's the most wonderful time of the year, he says while loading his clip.

My coffee is going as cold as my heart. I smell bacon. I only had three pieces. I want more. I like seeing the slabs of preserved meat lined up on my plate. Biting into its comforting crispness. Feeling it crunch between my teeth. You never feel more animal than when you are eating meat.

I have the new Writer's Market sitting on my desk. If this publisher I am sending to rejects it, I will hit up every publisher of horror in that book. It's a mission. I need to get it out there. I need to take more steps so that I don't have to keep doing what I'm doing to pay the bills. It is necessary.

I got an e-mail on the previous post already. That's almost record time. Again, no comment on here, but an e-mail taking me to task for thinking "entertainment is bad." I don't think entertainment is "bad." I just think a steady diet of it is less than ideal. I find it sad that some people don't get inspired by works of art, that limit their input because of things like subtitles or genres. I find it disturbing that people not only don't like thinking about what they are seeing, but are proud that they don't. If that's what people took from that post, they are right. If they think I don't like entertainment, they are very, very wrong.

Okay, let the day begin.

California Death Tripping

I had this surreal day. Time with my daughter was well-spent, but we ended up at this birthday party/tea party for people we really didn't know, and neither of us is really all that comfortable in that kind of situation.

Felt awkward, but it was a nice gesture on their behalf, and my girl had a fine time. I kind of let my mind wander, as I tend to do in these situations.

I've had this new story in my head for a while now. Nasty bit of work. The kind of thing publishers say they want, read, and then decide it's too much for them. It's a study in depravity and evil, of acting without consequences and how bad you can fuck with someone who doesn't realize they've stepped into your playground. Part of that stems from conversations with friends. Part of it stems from me trying to figure out what I want to do with my future. But most of it stems from my imagination and a few images that have been in my head for months.

(As an aside, people wonder why I'm sometimes moody, off, or just plain weird. I don't care that they think these things. Don't care at all, but I will explain part of why that may be the case. When I'm coming up with a story, it usually starts with an image or scene in my head. This will just come to me out of nowhere. Then it festers. Sometimes for over a year. Usually these scenes are quite vivid/explict/terrible. Imagine having that stuck in your head, knowing that it won't go away until you can figure out a way to use it in a story. It's not fun.)

I like this new story idea. I wish I had time to write it, but I don't at the moment. I won't think of the ending because that's how I operate. I've never completed a story with the ending already in mind. I don't think I can. If I know the ending, I have no reason to write it. I write these stories to find out how they end. If I know, why waste my time? Someone else may want to read it? I don't care. They need to tell their own tales, then.

Originally this scene I came up with was to be used in a film, but I eventually figured out a story around it and how to fit it into a manuscript. It won't be pretty, but my fiction rarely is. I take the job very seriously, and I don't write light. (Or "lite," as it were.)

As I stood around the party, watching faces, listening to conversation, I started to think more on an idea of been working on. A study of fear. (I also thought about pieces on the embracing of victim culture, and one dealing with death of emotions. Fear seems more interesting.) Namely, which segment of society is more frightening: city folk or country folk? I'm not writing it yet, but I have my answer. I only have to go about proving it.

I also thought about this idea I've been having for a private dinner party. Just a few people. Invite only, of course. Spicy foods. Beer, soda, wine -- whatever. Pleasant, intelligent conversation. Perhaps a bit elitist in nature (but anything on that level will be in one form or another), but also people unafraid of truth. All of this came about because I was talking in the Mirror, so to speak, about my mashed potatoes.

The fear study came about when thinking of ideas for the blog, thank you for asking.

So my mind was all over the place. I forgot my cell phone, so I couldn't even check the time. I was trapped with my thoughts. It was okay. I'm not afraid of my ideas.

When we left the party we came home to make dinner before the annual truck parade. For those not from Eureka, California, the truck parade involves trucks done up with holiday lights. My daughter likes it, so I'm all for it. The tradition seems nice, too, so it's not like some creepy St. Patrick's day parade. We enjoyed it. I overheard something interesting.

"Seems like some people need a hurtin'."

You can bet I'll be using that line.

I've got the story fleshed out thanks to the party. Now all I need is the time to write it. Ideally, I'd be working on it every waking hour of the day until I got it done, but that's not realistic. Nice, but not realistic. I don't need to work on it yet, either. It's fresh enough that it needs to simmer for a month. If I still want to visit it then, I'll find time. Until then, though, it's back to picturing some scenes and wondering why I get strange looks whenever I open my mouth.

Shoot First

I apologize for any emotion that drifted into this blog again. There are other venues for that, and I've been good about that up until now. So, my appy-polly-loggies, to quote my dear droog.

I started reading some Rollins last night. Trying to get myself centered, and it may or may not work. I have become convinced, however, that I have to wipe out some stress. I don't know what that will mean, however, but like pornography, I'll know when I see it.

We are just days away from Black Friday. The business news coverage on it is shaky at best. Nobody wants to commit to an answer on consumer spending because they are getting mixed signals (that's how it should be). I did see some stats saying less people say they are going to spend less than they did last year. Of course, last year a lot of people spent rock bottom so there really is no way to spend less, meaning those stats could be off quite a bit.

One friend of mine remarked that she was surprised not to hear anything about terrorism with Black Friday. I reminded her that they don't want to scare the mindless consumers when they are supposed to have only one thing on their minds (spend). So retailers have their fingers crossed that Al Qaeda and Mother Nature co-operate. Good luck. I hope all works out well for everyone and everyone sticks to their prescribed roles so that the system continues to operate smoothly and everyone gets stinkin' rich.

Some have said I'm obsessed with Black Friday. Not true. I am, however, interested in consumerism, especially of the blind quality. It is something I think is worth studying. I don't care that people show up at the door at 2 a.m. (I think it's dumb but it has no bearing on my life). I don't care if they are getting cheap televisions to fill some void in their lives. I care about the mindset. I want to know what drives them. I want to know how that is used to herd them, to control them. That stuff is worthy of examination.

I'm also interested in what it does to our economy. (On a related note, CA now has to borrow money from the Feds in order to keep UIB going. It needs something like $7.4 billion just to keep it running through December. All of you CA unemployed people who are still lucky enough to be collecting a check should be keeping an eye on this. And as for the rest of the country ... coming soon to an unemployment office near you!) I am interested in what it does to "consumer confidence," which, if you look at how that is generated, is far from an accurate count of anything but is given so much power.

Some people care about the latest Nic Cage movie. Some people care about the massacre in the Philippines. One of the things I care about is this. At least I care about something, right?

Obama is set to make an announcement about troop additions in Afghanistan. This announcement could come next Tuesday (timed as to not disrupt the shopping patterns over Black Friday, I'm sure). The Nobel Peace Prize recipient is in a bit of an ironic pickle, especially since that award was given with a look to the future. What, oh what, is a president to do? Increase the troops? Pull out? Keep things status quo? My guess is that he'll increase the troops, but not as many as is recommended. He is, after all, a man who excels at the compromise. Pleasing everyone and no one at all ...

I've finished the formatting on the manuscript, isolating the problem. If I can get this published, get a movie deal (not necessary, as Hollywood would only fuck it up), make enough to quit my job and continue my goals, I'll be happy. Being the realist for now, however, I realize this is going to be a tough sell because "depressing" doesn't sell. Since most of the country is weepy, they want uplifting. They want Hugh Grant and John Cusack stories. They don't want Sid Haig wearing some girl's tits. (You can kind of get an idea of what kind of manuscript it is from that line.)

I'm watching a commercial for I Got Clocked. If you haven't seen this, the company puts a picture of you or a loved one (even pets!) on a clock and your arms indicate the time. $50 for such shit. Anyway, the commercial tries to be "racy." "We got clocked on our wedding night!" "I clocked my dog!" (She must be from Humboldt.) It turns out being cheesy instead. This is the kind of thing that interests me. This would actually not be all that hard to make on your own, and you could give it a better name. Instead, a crappy ass commercial makes a product I'm sure some people would want seem cheap. ("I got clocked up the ass in prison!" Okay, they don't actually use that one, but I was hoping.)

More writing tonight if I'm up to it. Having not really written for a few days, I feel a need to get a few posts done. Get your sleep. In days we shop ... but tonight we murder

You Can Be The President

Those mission posts were done from my cell phone while I was attending a function. I am on a mission, though. Go out to PA. Sell a manuscript. Quit my job. Everything else will fall into place. Honestly, I could quit any day and live out of my car, but it makes seeing my daughter hard. Haven't ruled it out yet, though. Yeah, I'm disliking it that much, and I do feel bad about an e-mail I sent to my supervisor where I kind of laid out what is bugging me.

Instead of concentrating on the hate, I am going to channel that energy into getting out of there. It'll be good for my sanity.

And once I fly out to PA, a plan will be set into motion and live will be good.

"Don't want a gig or a good time" -- Black Flag

Truth be told, I'm all for gigs and a good time, but concentration is key. Being focused laser-like on the ultimate goal. Set myself and family up for life. My biggest wish is that my daughter never have to deal with the fuckwads that I must put up with. I know she'll run into her share, but I hope it's never on this massive scale.

I would love for this blog to earn me some decent income. It's a slow ride there, but the word of it is starting to get out. Promote, promote, promote. That's not something I ever liked (as my publisher will tell you). I believe in letting the work sell itself. Promotion feels too much like, "Buy my snake oil. It will cure what ails ye." I was never comfortable doing that sort of thing and have a hard time trusting those who are. It always feels a little whorish, if you know what I mean.

Focus, like a samurai, on that mission. Blood staining the clothes and the sword cutting through bone. Eyes open while I sleep.

This is what I need to do. This is what I must do.