Blogging is Dumb, And I'm Not Gonna Do It Anymore

As above. I haven't got the time for it and I think it's lame. No one cares about my opinions, not even me. I should just shut up and write.

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Merry Christmas!

Okay, first thing's first - I don't actually like Christmas very much. It's International Rack Up Some Debt day, and the whole thing irritates me to no end.

Now that I've got that off my chest, I'll add that I do respect the fact that, whether it's for the love of family, the love of presents or the love of the Baby Jesus, a lot of other people go absolutely fucking nuts over Christmas. And I shouldn't shit on that, because that would be douchey and decidedly un-Christmas-esque. So ... merry Xmas/Happy Holidays/whatever! I hope you and your families have a nice dinner wherein none of the proffered dishes are gross in any manner, and no one gets hammered and fights with other family members. I hope that you remain safe and sound through the holidays, and you don't do anything fucking stupid and kill yourselves. Can you do that for me? Hah? Good.

Well, last year I wrote a Christmas poem, and I thought it was kinda cute and stuff, so ... I'm reposting it. Cuz I was busy with other shit and didn't write something new - so if you've already read this, get off my back, already. I'll have something new next year, I promise.

The Krampus Came Instead

Santa didn't come to see us last night

The Krampus came instead

He came down the chimney with a burlap sack

And stole us all from our beds

Now, the Krampus is a horrid sight

A sight that cannot be unseen

He's short and squat and hairy and fat

A foul and devilish fiend

The Krampus lives in a dank old cave

Full of bats, pale toads and rats

The floor is littered with pajamas and bones

And the carpets are made out of cats

As Santa rides upon his sleigh

On a cold and crisp Christmas eve

The Krampus rides a rotting mule

And he punishes all your misdeeds

He leaves no gifts behind in his wake

He feels no love in his heart

His teeth are sharp and his eyes are red

And his claws will tear you apart

Santa eats cookies and sugar-plum pie

A man eats meat, cheese and bread

But the Krampus feasts on naughty children

And uses their skins for his bed

And their souls he keeps all for himself

He keeps them locked up in a box

And what happens to them? Nobody knows

Maybe he wears them as socks!

Santa didn't come to see us last night

The Krampus came instead

To bite us and beat us, kick us and bleed us

And then he chopped off our heads!

Getting older, Not Wiser

Well, my birthday is around the corner, waiting to leap and pummel another year of life out of my hide. I am now entering the twilight of my thirties. What a bitch, man.

Don't get me wrong - I don't care if I'm not as man-pretty as I was when I was 19. Frankly, I don't give a shit about asinine crap like that (as long as I'm still physically fit, I guess ... aha).  I just don't like the fact that I'm a year closer to death, that's all. See, I'm like most people you know - I don't want to die. Ever. Not fucking ever. Other people can go ahead and die all they want. Personally, I really like living, all in all - the good AND the bad. Even at its worst, well ... better the devil you know than the devil you don't.

I have a lot left that I want to do, before I get too senile/crippled to do these things. I wanna climb another mountain face. I want to publish many, many more books. I want to record more albums and play more gigs. I want to watch my stepson grow up and become a man. I want to learn how to play more musical instruments; I would also like to get drunk a bunch more times, as I enjoy it. The list goes on and on.

Anyway, I wrote a new story.Wanna read it?

The New Fish

I was jolted awake about an hour ago, confused and disoriented; my heart was pounding and my sheets were soaked in sweat. Some slavering, malevolent horror was in the trailer with me, creeping up on me while I slept with poised claws and razor teeth. The absolute certainty of this coated my mouth with the metallic taste of fear, sour and dry and thick. I grabbed the baseball bat that lays beneath my cot and tip-toed around the cramped darkness of my trailer, straining to hear over the keening of the wind outside.

And the pounding of my own heart.

Of course, there was nothing here except my goldfish and yours truly, the sweaty guy in his underwear. It was the gusting wind that startled me awake - it happens quite often in the late autumn and early winter. The wind rips through the scrub of skeletal trees that surround the trailer park and charges, with a lion's roar, into our lonely huddle of frail little shelters. It gibbers and shrieks and pounds on our walls with fists of dead leaves and frozen grit.

Satisfied that I wasn't about to become chow for some unspeakable creature, I laid back down on my squeaky, saggy old cot and tried to get back to sleep - but I couldn't. Instead, I found myself thinking about that night in the penitentiary, the night of the lockdown; I kept thinking about Mikey and Big Rob and the rest of them, all of us huddled in a cell with the lights off and the frigid northwest winds howling at the walls. After a while, I gave up trying to sleep. Instead, I sat down in front of the computer and I started typing. I'm no story teller, not like Mikey or Hutch, but I'll try my best ...

Read the rest here ...

How I Spent My Summer Vacation (The Short Version)

I worked.

Summer came and summer went: there were a few trips to the beach and provincial parks, and we had exactly two fires in the backyard firepit (which I kept up, meticulously, all summer long for fucking no reason, apparently). I got and lost a tan ... and I worked. A lot. And so did my girlfriend. And we never really got around to doing the things that we had sworn we'd do this summer. Just like last summer.

Why? Because we're fuckin' poor, that's why. We're in debt and getting in debter by the day. As it turns out, I am not destined to make a living wage from music or writing, ha (nor she as an artist). We work crap jobs that pay poorly: we scrimp and argue and do what we can do to shield her son from the fact that we ain't been doing so hot lately. You wanna know what I find to be incredibly funny: the idea that one should have six months' worth of living expenses saved up in the bank at all times. This is fucking hilarious to me. I cannot conceive of this ever coming true; not just for me, but for most people in general. I mean ... how? Who's making all this money, and by doing what, and how are they living so goddamned frugally in the first place? I don't know who these people are, but I hate them.

I wish I could trade horror stories for utilities and lodging, like straight-up swap that shit. 1800's style. I'd give the landlord 1 bag of millet and an original story every month. Aha, who'm I kiddin'? Where the hell am I gonna get a sack of millet?.

So - enough bitching, for a second. This, instead - Anecdotes in Ashes, the horror microfiction anthology from The Assembly - it's here, and it's good, and it's free today, Oct 7th, exclusively on Amazon. Want a link? Here.

Anecdotes in Ashes

I'm still plugging away on my own anthology of longer stories ... I've got some previously-unseen doozies up my sleeve that I'm pretty sure you'll enjoy. I hope they're good, anyway - they seem like they're good at the moment, anyway. Naw, you'll like 'em. Promise.

Well, it's late yet again and it's waaaay past bedtime - I'm a shitty blogger, and possibly a shitty human being. But I'm a pretty decent horror author. There's always that.

But am I really? Well, go check that book out, and judge for yourself, I guess.