Kale Sweat




I need to write a decent, coherent blog post.

That is my goal today. I have no other goals. I don’t even have a list of goals of things I need to have goals about.

Let’s see. A single subject that I can prettily explore in about a thousand words because attention spans are not what they were. That’s not a slam. That’s just a hasty observation. About you. If the shoe fits, walk around in it. Shoes are awesome. Being barefoot is awesome. Socks are awesome, too. Did I miss anyone?

After all, my pretend crack addiction is actually affecting my ability to write anything other than ‘testicle fur’ at odd moments. I pretend a lot, as I don’t have Netflix. If I had Netflix, my brain could atrophy and melt. I could become one of those secret control the world bankers and just enjoy all the cash rolling in. I applied for that job but had to admit I didn’t have Netflix. I have not heard back from them yet. See what I mean? If I had a goal listed somewhere–do not go off on tangents about Netflix or secret world banking organizations– I’d not be a the end of a small paragraph of nonsense and self-indulgent fluvering. [I made that word up. It means to meander needlessly and test the patience of patient readers.]

Oh, got a really nice rejection notice. If that makes sense. You were a finalist but we went with other plays but we loved your writing. Ah!! Hope springs eternal in the writer’s droopy soul! Someone likes my writing?? Hallelujah.

Just because it’s a leftover, sitting there in the fridge like a welfare queen, does not mean it goes into scrambled eggs. That’s the number one and only rule for this life that counts. No chicken skin, no weird rubbery green bean-ish bean thingie, no no no no.

Dang it, this has several subjects by now. Bad breakfast cooking, world bankers, absence of Netflix, imaginary crack addiction, rejections that are nice…Ugh a bug.

The toast is good from that breakfast fiasco. [I did not cook breakfast this morn. Stop right there.  I would not just randomly throw shit into the eggs and call it a meal. There are things that do not go into eggs. God damn it, there are rules here. I don’t care. Yes, there are people starving and eating nuclear waste dirt right now to stay alive. I know that. I watch those miseryporn commercials same as you, you judgmental horror. You smug smuggle! Go judge yourself and eat vitamins and drink kale sweat. Bye!]

Kale sweat. My thirty-page rhyming couplet ode to my mother’s childhood pets. It starts off with a scream about nostalgia and ends with a longing for the good ole days. Arcs, people, arcs are what makes art work.

“Satanic Mafia” is going to be the title of one of my many books. It’s going to be a Christmas tale, about an animal rescue. The new title, after I get a mysterious email from the UN, will be Fluffy’s Last Stand Against the NWO, which will be a more friendly-seeming and sales-garnering title and attract a wider audience who will…Must stop torturing myself about imaginary books. Time for an imaginary hit off my imaginary crack pipe. Sometimes dreams are the only things you have left and sometimes those dreams are weird, man. Weird.

Okay, let’s end this on a positive note. +

No, just kidding. Oh, the House on Clark Boulevard has officially gone through that first round of editing. I know!! I just peed myself a little, too, in excitement and anticipation and hopeful hopes for a better tomorrow.

PS– the Orange Snowflake held its own pep rally yesterday, Saturday April 29th, because…yeah. Can’t someone send that poor Crusty Cheeto a Cheer the Fuck Up card? Maybe send him a basket of refugee children’s ears or a nice spiral cut ham? I can’t. I’m, like, totally busy, um, writing some goals down. Yeah. Goals. Mm.

dogpond 013.jpg
Clyde, in far better days. RIP, baby!

65,966 rejections



Well, don’t I feel special. Two rejections for my submitted something or other on the same day. Those pieces sucked anyway and I submitted them during the wrong phase of the moon and my energies were all wrong and I wasn’t being open to all the universe had to show me yet, of course. Life lessons or something to be learned here. Or that my writing sucks and nobody wants a thing to do with it. I’m a crappy writer who has delusions of grandeur. I should have gone into shoveling dead animals off the highway, at least I’d have enough cash to buy Christmas presents once in a while and some actual self-respect rattling around in whatever’s left of my soul. Which is poisonous thinking and I should pour some sugared sunshine posit-tronic thoughtjuice on that and smile through the pain and fake it until I make it. Wheeeee.

Yeah. Something like that.

I know we’re not supposed to admit a feeling of utter GODDAMN IT GODDAMN IT FUCK. That’s so…defeatist. No sense, none, not a single dropsicle of sense, needs to be wasted on getting upset, angry or in any way emotional over yet another rejection and another right after that and another, and yet another, oh look, another rejection form letter urging me to keep submitting; even though they enjoyed reading my work it was not suitable at this time for our needs. Maybe next time. Maybe next time. The two following little blurts are from actual rejections sent to moi. I have made them generic and every day to protect the guilty and the sadsacks alike.

Thanks again for sharing this. As always, there was a wide range of excellent responses to this image, but we received 262 poems in total, and the artist and I could each only pick one. Unfortunately we chose other work—check the [I’ll leave the name to your imaginations] this Tuesday and Thursday to read the two winners. [Subtext– come and read what a good poet wrote. Why don’t you try being a good poet so maybe your life will have meaning at last? That’s so not the subtext, brainworm. I should support other writers, so they’ll support me when I’m in the winner’s circle. And when will you get near that winner’s circle, o Ms. Crappola O’Crappy? ]

Thank you again for submitting your play, [ what does it matter? It lost. It doesn’t deserve a title.] We are finally gearing up for this year’s production of [when did I submit a play for this place? Oh yeah, back in September 2016], and while we enjoyed reading your play, we are unable to include it in the lineup.

UPDATE, as of May 5, 2017– just got one of my fave kinds of rejections. Where they tell you you did not win and then wax rhapsodic over the play that did win. Like, a giant bitchslap of just how much you sucked and that other play ROCKED THEIR UNIVERSE AND IS THE BEST THING SINCE SLICED BREAD, THE WHEEL AND THE INVENTION OF CATS. “We just thought you’d like to know you didn’t get selected.” End it there. I don’t need a revival-tent-ish testimonial to whatever did win. Fragile ego here, god damn it!! 

Now, I do have a sense of humor about rejections, I do. I laugh– ha ha-– and then try to remember that rejection is a part of life and it’s all about learning something and that when you get lemons, drink vodka and that when a door closes, you still have cheesecake. Except when the cheesecake is at the store so you spread peanut butter on stale crackers instead, which makes you feel like a total loser because a real winner, even when they didn’t get picked from a random herd of sweaty, earnest other writers, would have fucking cheesecake in their fucking house. Amen.

There’s not even those fake Dollar Store cheesy puffy things in the house that try to be Cheetos but fail so miserably it’s laughable. Ha ha. Maybe the universe can send me one of those “You’ve won five dollars” scratch-off lottery tickets [One I don’t actually have to buy. One I find out in the yard beneath the oak tree. I’m totally down for some miracles right now. Magically appearing, modest-winning scratch-off lottery ticket, I’m in!] before deluging me with rejection letters. I think that’s fair. Totally, like, fair and stuff. There’s no balance here, universe. None! It’s a lopsided smackfest! At least send some fake ass cardboard-esque Cheeto wannabe products my way if you’re gonna keep sending me multiple rejection notices every other day. Hello!!! HELLO!! Is this thing on??

Oh, P-freaking-S– I was gonna, like, take a break from this here bloggie for a bit due to needing some mental health days [like, um, you couldn’t tell or something that my mental health, like Elvis, has left the building], having life flu, and generally, planning a dance like nobody’s watching dance party marathon for one, but…yeah. I decided to vent like a pouty little volcano and spew feeble almost-ash into the indifferent air. whee

Oh– Goddamn it, France. Remember when Germany occupied you, ahem, during that thing we labeled WWII? Why are you trying to put an actual far-right fucknut on your French throne there? [I know it’s not a throne, I was being cutesy.] So the actual  right-now Germany can make movies about the noveau [neu– I hope that’s a somewhat correct German word for new. Again, I was trying to be cutesy.] French Resistance? Yeah, immigrants, Satan sent them. So maybe build a wall around France and then Satan can’t get in…oh wait, that’s America’s Bigly Planz.  Um…let me get back to ya, France. BRB.

How bad does it have to get before people…Fuck. Really bad. It has to get kill a bunch of people, mass graves, atrocities and breaking news reports read by serious-faced perfect-haired automatons bad and even then, it has to get more and more foul until we all magically remember we’re all better than that and this cannot stand and how can people do that to each other…I forget that we all forget and have to repeat everything a bazillion times to get anything through our goddamn thick heads. And then repeat it all again after that because nothing sticks in our goddamn collective thick heads. Never forget? We never remembered in the first goddamn fucking motherfucking goddamn place. Amen. I ended with this French stuff to remind myself that rejections suck but fascism sucks more. It’s all about perspective, fellow babies. Now I want cheesecake and Cheetos. Hello, power of suggestion.

from Alchetron. The Sorrow and the Pity




Let’s Go to the Movies!



Oh, gentle readers and assorted others– I was going to post something writer-ish and perhaps even share a bit of my latest little project! I really was! Instead I saw this list about movies…and felt, as in lots of feels, that I should, instead, fill in my choices for all the movie categories below. It was something I saw over on FB. If that’s even cool anymore to admit you go anywhere near FB. So!! Here ya go. It’s not scientific or artistic or of any merit whatsoever. So it will probably garner moi at least five likes and even a spam comments! Squeeee!!

Most Hated Movie: Drawing a blank here so I’ll put the Matrix. I really did not like the Matrix. I did not like it in a box, I did not like it with a fox.

Movie I Think Is Overrated: Avatar– Fern Gully did this way better and it was funnier.

Movie I Think Is Underrated: Fame– the 80’s movie about the artsy school, and if they remake this one, I’m going on a rampage. Wonder Boys– Michael Douglas and Toby Maguire. I can watch this one over and over. Why is this not a staple of TBS???

Movie I Love: Office Space. I believe you have my stapler? PC load letter. We need to talk about your TPS reports.

Movie I Secretly Love: okay, do not judge me. Don’t. These movies are my version of crack, meth, Oxycontin…Twilight. Yep. Twilight. If you doubt my sanity and have taken me off your list of future Serious Girl Writers, well, I don’t blame you in the least. I watch this movie with a hate-it/this is so oddly soothing back and forth going on in my head.

Favorite Action Movie: Captain Blood came to the forefront here. With Errol Flyn. The Run-Down, with the Rock and Christopher Walken. Okay, the Scorpion King, too. It’s fun and goofy. Um, [if you’re done judging me from the Twilight admittance] the Robin Hood with Kevin Costner. Because it’s fun and goofy and features Alan Rickman stealing the whole movie. Come on!! Thelma and freaking Louise, of course, of course. Jurassic Park.

Favorite Drama: The Color Purple. Like Water for Chocolate. A Room With a View. To Kill a Mockingbird. The Grapes of Wrath. A Streetcar Named Desire. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. An Officer and a Gentleman. Terms of Endearment. The Black Stallion. The Man From Snowy River. Where the Red Fern Grows. Old Yeller. Gladiator. Dante’s Peak.

Favorite Western: The Beguiled– why did they remake this?? Why?? Unforgiven. The Apple Dumpling Gang– does this count? It’s Disney, but it’s sorta a Western. The Ballad of Little Jo– about a woman who dressed as a man to survive in the Old West, based on a true story. The Quick and the Dead, Sharon Stone one. The Coen Brothers and their version of True Grit. [My dad likes the ‘real’ True Grit, by the way. If you don’t know that John Wayne also made a movie called True Grit, you’re probably watching too many foreign cat videos over on the youtubes.] Posse. Renegade with Vincent Cassel, because no one should never not watch a French guy in a Western. Dead Man– Johnny Depp does a fantastic turn in this dark, crystal clear black and white masterpiece from Jim Jarmusch.

Favorite Horror: Okay, here goes. Night of the Living Dead– the original one, not the remake, ugh a bug, stop remaking the classics, you fucksticks. The Exorcist– it still gives me the shivers. The Devil’s Backbone– a Spanish film that’s truly gorgeous and truly spooky. Halloween– the original because I don’t have to explain why, do I? Carrie– the Brian DePalma one, with Sissy Spacechick. Yes, I do want to see the musical based on Carrie, you bet your buckets of pig’s blood I do. An American Werewolf in London, want to watch that right now. Waxwork, both of them. Both!! The Company of Wolves– based on the Angela Carter stories, gorgeous and creepy and darkly sexual. Audition– one of the truly most frightening movies I’ve ever sat through. Drag Me to Hell– eerie and so well done with just shadows and sound effects mostly, rather old-fashioned for a Sam Raimi flick. Army of Darkness– this might be in the sci-fi category, but then again, maybe not. From Dusk till Dawn. Pitch Black. The Abominable Dr. Phibes– I have to drop everything and watch this when it comes on, just a hypnotic acid trip of a movie. I’ve never done acid, but…Holy crap, will stop there.



Favorite Comedy: Arsenic and Old Lace. Buffy, the Vampire Slayer– with Paul Reubens and Rutger Hauer and some truly 90’s slangin’ going on. Harvey. Waiting for Guffman. The Princess Bride. Blazing Saddles. Young Frankenstein. Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Run away, run away! Planes, Trains and Automobiles. The Birdcage. This is Spinal Tap. The Ref– seriously, this is Christmas with my family, or it seems like it. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. High Spirits. Dogma. The original Ghostbusters. Heathers. Best in Show. For Your Consideration.

Favorite Romance: It Happened One Night. Strictly Ballroom. Dr. Zhivago. Pride and Prejudice– I like any version of this, really. The Proposal. The Philadelphia Story. La Belle et la Bete– Beauty and the Beast, 1946. Bus Stop. Bringing Up Baby. Sense and Sensibility. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Out of Sight. Moonstruck. Penelope. The Holiday– this might come under guilty pleasure movies. House of the Flying Daggers– this might fall under action/adventure as well? The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. Little Women– the one with Winona Ryder.

Favorite Shakespearean Movie: Twelfth Night. Midsummer Night’s Dream– with Kevin Kline. Much Ado About Nothing, with Emma Thompson.

Favorite Period Epic: Far and away, the Ten Commandments. Yul Brynner chewing scenery in that sexy manly skirt outfit, yes, please.

Yul Brynner as so and so in Ten Commandments. 

Favorite Disney Movie: Darby O’Gill and the Little People. I watch this all year round, by the way. Just in case you were curious.

Favorite Science Fiction Movie: The Ice Pirates. [Go ahead, look this one up, I dare you not to wonder what happened in my life to make me list this movie in a public forum.] One I saw recently, Metropolis, a silent movie that they should show to those who think history isn’t important…The Terminator. E.T. The Road Warrior– still such a stunner of a movie. Pan’s Labyrinth. Labyrinth– David Bowie as the Goblin King!!! The Dark Crystal. The Beastmaster, with Marc Singer! If you have not seen that one or heard of it, honeychile, you need to go watch it ASAP. Eighties hair, animals, bad dialogue, oiled up heroes and villains. And standing around looking very helpless all the time ex-Charlie’s Angels eye candy. Go. I understand.

Favorite Animated Movie: Toy Story 2. How To Train Your Dragon. I still love Fantasia. Monsters, INC. Finding Nemo– that opening scene…! The first Land Before Time. Bambi. The Emperor’s New Groove.

Favorite Superhero Movie: Christopher Reeve as Superman, that first or second outing he had as the Man of Steel. [The glut of superhero movies lately have left me cold, clammy and indifferent to cookie cutter men in tights. Captain Ironman Spiderhulk Magnetic Batdude can suck it. I’m starting to hope a super-race of villainous vaginas attacks from outer space and turns all the superboring studs into those anal plugs morticians use. Is that so wrong? That was a bit mean. Maybe turn them into potted plants? That way they can brighten a room and give back to the environment.]

Favorite Musical Movie: Singin’ in the Rain. Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. Sound of Music [did you really think that one would not make a list of movies that I cobbled together???] Brigadoon. [Anything, basically, with Gene Kelly.] I enjoyed the soundtrack way more than the movie of Across the Universe. If that means anything.

Favorite Bad Movie: Um, ahem, [[twilight]] ahem. Oh– Beast of Yucca Flats. Night of the Lepus. Catwoman– omg, I can watch this one over and over and never get tired of watching Halle Berry awkwardly imitate a cat. Wow.

Childhood Favorite: Charlotte’s Web.

Favorite Franchise: Star Wars! I can’t recite the dimensions of the Millennium Falcon, so don’t ask me to.


Best Trilogy: LOTR.

Guilty Pleasure: Dodgeball. The Mummy, with Brendon Fraser. The Fast and the Furious movies…any of them. A Million Ways to Die in the West…I know, shh. The Patriot, with Jason Isaacs. Peter Pan, with Jason Isaacs. Basically, anything where Jason Isaacs shows up as the veddy British baddie. [Lucious Malfoy, you betcha.]

Favorite Movie so far this year: I did go see Beauty and the Beast. I did enjoy it.

Favorite Movie Of All Time: The Fisher King. I keep wanting to write an entire post about this movie.

Okay. Yep. I think you were supposed to keep it down to just one movie per category. Whoops.

My taste in movies is atrocious. So, probably, is yours. I’ve seen a lot of those films on those big important lists that AFI and such put out. I’ve also watched those movies everyone actually watches. As trying to get through some of those ‘important’ films just makes me want to slap puppies at times. But I persist and get through them and then feel really smart and important for the rest of the day. I tried to be honest and not just list those films that make me seem super-intellectual and esoterically out there. Films that would make me seem super-duper ‘artsy’. Don’t get me wrong, I do like the obscure, made in the twenties, silent, B/W, made with actual clowns and random people passing by, German Nouveau, Post-Plague, Pre-Finger-Painting, three-hour take on a dog’s journey to bury its bone in the rotted bosom of society itself.


Oh heck yeah, I will actually watch something along those lines with real wonder and astonishment. I’ll also sit through Dracula, Untold, and enjoy a guy turning into bats to fight the Turks.


The Day of the Rabbit


Chocolate Muscovy Duck and Netherland Dwarf-cross rabbit, Peter
Chocolate Muscovy Duck and Netherland Dwarf-cross rabbit, Peter

Yes, moi is planning a stay at home all day and not mingle with the relatives be alone festival. Mostly because my ability to deal with people borders on cringing away in horror that other people actually exist outside my fevered brainlands. As said relatives, in a small town off the wilds of Boise [Idaho, for those who think I live in France or Canada, tee hee] have invited their relatives, who fill me with actual snarls. I have no wish to hear about how the lib’rals are blah blah blah and the paid protestors and…yeah. All of that swirling conspiracy crap spews from the various mouths and yours truly just wishes for that damn meteor of death already to hit. Boom. Gone. No more uncomfortable dinners with earnest little tape recorders.


I am a liberal in a very red part of my state/s. As this region here might as well be called Idaho-lite or Idahgon. But I won’t go into this, nope nope nope.

It’s the Day of the Rabbit. Where a magical rabbit hands out chocolate eggs to all the good children of the land and then there’s ham and springtime.


I know what Easter is, thanks. Brought up a Lutheran. Did the whole nine yards. Jesus and I have agreed to see other people but we still keep in touch, to misquote from True Blood. Lafayette.

I’ve been rewatching that, which is why those particular words occurred to me in this context. Not so much watching it as it’s playing in the background as I write frothy somewhat happy morality tales about talking animals.

I still grind my teeth over humorless Bill, who should have been staked in the very first episode, and shrill Sookie, the helpless little houseplant. [They made her do stupid things so Beell could save her all the time, it got old freaking fast.] I still enjoy Eric and Pam, wishing the show had cut most of the other characters and centered the show around those two Fangtasia fantastics. I won’t do a True Blood run down, don’t worry. It’s Easter! It oddly seems appropriate on the Christian Day of Blood [yeah, I went there and if you’re offended, that means you’ll come back hoping to be offended again. Yay!]

Okay! Working on my Beastface Bay tales. I have about five done. The giant squids of Jesus, Teddy’s back story, Burt and Judy and their crime spree, Sean and Bean’s exodus from Froggy Pond, and oh, how Teddy got and lost a friend. Oh. That tale went into a dark but satisfying place. I didn’t wish to write that fate of that little fish, and I know full well I can unwrite it. I’ll read over my words and see if it ‘rings true’ or not.

Oh, there are no tales about any rabbits in my Wind in the Willows knockoff.

Well, there’s a baker rabbit in Driftwood who might be selling her seven daughters to the locals for, um, favors, but that’s just a rumor there in a small town. You know how small towns are!


Oh my, this started with my staying home by myself on Easter and ended with a weird reference to a mother rabbit pimping out her rabbit daughters. With a hasty sneer toward True Blood, which I hatewatch, apparently. I should probably edit this heavily and add some smiley face pictures. Well, back to writing! I’m about to dive into Captain Isaiah’s shipwreck while hauling slave horses back to Beastface Bay during the dark days when slavery was a thing. Have a nice day, Jesus.

PS– Night of the Lepus was on last night! I laughed, I cried, I laughed so hard  I cried. I just want to thank whomever over at TCM for deciding to run that truly so bad it’s good little gem right after the rather sweet Ernest Borgnine movie, the Rabbit Trap. [I was not out having sparkling conversations with sparkling poets, sorry. I was schlumped at home with the remote control and some tap water.]



the rian group
from the Rian Group. 

Goodness, gentle readers and assorted riffraff– yours truly truly did tackle the writing prompt I made up out of thin air for some vague sarcastic point in riptide. Lesbian giraffes attacked by a giant squid sent by Jesus. I imaginatively called it The Giant Squid and wrote it in an afternoon’s passing. A little over five thousand words. I made up this sort of coastal community peopled by animals acting like people, ala Zootopia and every other fucking animal-based whathaveyou where the animals talk. Wind  in the Willows, Watership Down, Duncton Wood, The Plague Dogs, Animal Farm, the Velveteen Rabbit, the Jungle Book, Redwall series, the Narnia Chronicles, Charlotte’s Web, James and the Giant Peach, the Last Unicorn, the Tale of Despereaux, Babe the Sheep-Pig, the Tale of Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Stuart Little, the Trumpet of the Swan…

Here’s the big reveal:


It had an odd gentle fairy tale feel to it. I kept the sickening violence and adult language mostly to off-stage and not written into the tale at all levels. Yes, the squid does attack the elderly alcoholic zebra [you read that right] but the zebra dies of fright and shock and a heart attack. I just found all this…stuff pouring out of my suddenly revved up little brain and flowing out through the medium of my flying fingers. Words formed! Entire paragraphs bloomed! I smiled the whole time I composed! I wanted to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I grew to really like the voices that developed among my various characters, even the not so likable ones. I grew to completely SEE this little village of Deadlion’s End set right on Beastface Bay. A cozy little collection of houses and cottages! That there were other communities and settlements up and down this imaginary coastline of mine. Driftwood and Seagull’s Feather and Starling’s Wing and Froggy Pond and Deadlion’s End! That there were hidebound laws and traditions. That some were trying to change those laws and traditions. That it seemed this little world had been waiting for me to discover it. It seems all there, I just have to write about what I observe in my brain’s widescreen, featuring Dolby Surround sound,  inner movie theatre.

Even now, I want to dive back into this insular world. To explore it. See what pops up over in Froggy Pond, which is not so welcoming to visitors anymore, or if Teddy, the Irish Wolfhound, actually does have a litter of illegitimate puppies with a loose Labrador over in Furcape. Which is the nearest big city to Deadlion’s End or just the End as inhabitants along this coast of mine refer to it…

Now, I do have a second tale about the Beastface Bay-ites completed. About the mixed species couple that run the antique shop in Driftwood, just down the road from the End. It turned rather dark, but I am a rather dark writer most of the time, and it was also funny. What unfolded I just let unfold. I got out of the way of the story that wanted to be told. I called a whale Bluebell. I invented a sullen little feud between turtles and goldfish. I wanted to next tackle life in Froggy Pond, and why the two turtles fled its confines. I want to explore what happens to the one goldfish, Liam, that escaped the nighttime massacre of the fish pond he once dwelled in. I want Judy, the otter, and Burt, the weasel, exposed and yet I don’t want them caught for what they did, because that’s real life and people get away with all manner of stuff all the time, that’s real life. But these are talking animals living in houses and selling teapots for a living. So?? The creatures that live along Beastface Bay honeyfuggle me into telling their stories. They entice me. I am enticed.

The ideas are churning through my brain meat. I need to make notes and write down names. I need to map out relationships and who said what to whom. I need to write write write. Compulsion roils through me. It’s fantastic.


the riptides of rebellion and the salvation of savagery


Alliteration aside…or not, that is up to you, toads of the post-modern landscape…this is going to be about me swinging back to JUST BEING ME.

I have lost my way. As a writer, as a human, as a human writer. I’m more focused on what can sell or does sell or doesn’t sell at all, fuck it god damn it fuck…than on actually writing stuff. Stuff and things. The things that catch my attention. Instead of focusing on market trends and just how much to blog and share and how to infiltrate writer’s groups and not come off as creepy or aggressive bitchy salesperson…I should instead glory in figuring out how a giant squid can devour an entire village of lesbian giraffes. [I made that up. I’m not actually working on a tale or play about a giant labial-ish squid, in the manner of Cthulhu, set to devour a village full of prickly quadrupeds who are full of the love that dare not speak its name. Mm. Mm!! I could call it–Jesus Sends a Squid, and then market it to fundie Christian markets. Or not.]

I need to stop trying to be commercial or whatever that is.  Stop being hesitant. Self-censoring. Hesitant.  JUST BE ME, MYSELF AND I, HELLO, SHUT THE DOOR, GET OUTTA HERE, DUH. Just fucking write. Stop worrying about how to sell it or market it or get it into the correct slot!  [Except realistically I can’t do that. I don’t have a trust fund. I’m not in a Hallmark movie. Reality never bothered me much before so why start actually facing shit now?]

Gosh, will this fit into the PG family-friendly horror category my publisher wants or more toward kitchen sink post-apocalyptic anti-modernist comedy stylings that seem to be trending right now?


Just write. Write. Let it splatter out like hot shit from a goose’s saucy backside. [As they poop a lot. A lot. As in they have lots and lots of poop and it splatters.] Stop caring about things like dragging in pennies every few years for something I’ve put out there! So what if my family has written me off as a good argument for an abortion. Just write.

If you don’t know already, I’m not talking to the collective you. I am ripping into myself in a sort of pep talk. I am trying to get some inner riptides to savage me. Yeah, I went there. I had to find a way to give that romance novel bodice ripper compound title up there some sort of legitimacy.  I’m trying to rip the scabs off and let the inner infected fluids fly out as they will. Splatter and splash as they will. Yippee kye aye!! Stop trying to be something you’re not, kiddo!! Stop trying to please everyone with your bowl of limp wilted lettuce offerings. Stop trying to produce prose that slinks apologetically about like a whipped canine. Get busy writing or take up sculpting!

Gol dang it, could you be any more precious and fragile?

I could be. Oh yes, I could be.

For those of you who might be confused, this is where I pretend I pretend I don’t actually have inner voices talking to me all day long. It’s cute. It’s probably getting stale by now. It has a whiff of cutesy stale crackers by now. Okay!

Well, don’t. End this buckaroo burbling and bumble off…BINT.

Funny. Bint. Ha ha. Urr urr urr. Too bad I can’t harness you to a wagon and turn you into cash.

What? Was that a crack about how we’re not pulling our weight?

Kinda. If the shoe fits.

Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read. Try that! Why has that not occurred to you?

Like what? I am open to suggestions. Hit me. Power point me. Note card it and do a speech at the podium.

Are we actually having this fight in public for the one person who actually bothers to read this bumblesnatching burblefluff?

Why not? Posting my actual work seems to be a real snort-and-ignore.

A snore?? Bwha ha ha ha. Bwha ha ha. There’s more laughter coming at your expense. For the rest of the day.

Thanks, as always, for your non-help. You do realize we’re all in this together?

Hey, we can migrate to other brains and infest them any time we wish. We’re imaginary!! Maybe you should get back to being precious and writing creativity checks you can’t cash.

Oh fuck you.

That’s the spirit! You go, girl!! Go write something good for once. Don’t worry, you’ll get all tough and don’t-care and then come right back to wah wah wah can’t write can’t write wah wah wah!

That was just mean.

Oh we’re sorry. Do you want a donut? Hey…

I’ll end that there. Because why be self-indulgent when you can be off writing about a giant squid attacking a village full of talking same-sex giraffes?

PS– Hi. Hi there. It’s the day after this, um, we’ll call it a post and not a mental breakdown…Yours truly has, indeed, tackled the lesbian giraffe village attacked by a giant squid possibly sent by Jesus. Apparently, Sunday afternoons is when my short story gears grind into motion. I plan to clean said short story up and submit it. I might even do a series of tales about my beloved, now, to me only at the moment, characters from Deadlion’s End, who live along Beasthead Bay. Always Be Hustling. ABH.






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Oh, I totally lied, gentle readers. I’m not going to jump into my enduring love for Terry Gilliam’s The Fisher King. Not right now, anyway. I’m teasing you,  for now, you–the collective three people that drop by once in a while to peruse whatever I’ve smeared and smushed into an incoherent blog post. Thank you all, by the way, for reading my posts. I appreciate it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.


I wrote this short story about a miniature dragon. I set it in one of Idaho’s actually truly historically famous towns–Idaho City. Which used to be the biggest city between St. Louis and Portland during the late 1800’s. Used to be. There was a gold boom in Idaho, and Idaho is now known as the Gem State. They have Famous Potatoes, but they’re actually the Gem State. Anyway!! Personal note: my aunt and uncle used to live up past Idaho City, up around Centerville, which might sound gigantic and Chicago-sized, well, it’s not. It’s teeny. As is Idaho City. We visited there a lot for holidays and otherwise, so yes, Idaho City and those gorgeous mountains do figure in my writing. Gold miners, murders, boom town, Native Americans, history of the real west…it’s like human nip to me. That’s cat nip, except for humans! Or maybe that’s just chocolate. Or coffee. Or fries drenched in gravy. Or homemade bread just out of the oven. Or tacos. Or. Or. Or.

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So I just imagined, being a writer, that’s kinda my job…a business owner with a surefire tourist attraction, a little dragon in a cage. A woman business owner, who has made the best of her situation and where she lives and what she has to work with. This is probably one of the favorite things of mine I’ve ever composed. I like how pragmatic and practical Jane is and I rather like how that dragon developed. I won’t post the whole story, as it’s close to eight thousand words…and hey, you can read it yourself in…wait for it….wait for it…OREGON GOTHIC!!! Which is available for purchase! And– if you can, go leave a review. Good, bad, indifferent, leave a review. I need to start asking folks to LEAVE A REVIEW. Apparently, word of mouth only works if there is actually, um, word of mouth.

Oh…even though my BOOK might be titled OREGON GOTHIC, it does include tales of a somewhat Idaho-laced Gothic nature as well. Because Eastern Oregon, where I am and Western Idaho happen to be hopelessly intermingled. Eastern Oregon is rather snidely referred to as part of Idaho. We’re even on Mountain Time here, instead of Pacific, like the rest of Oregon. You switch time zones when you go past Farewell Bend, up by Huntington, if you’re inclined to go investigate that. Snake River, Farewell Bend, Huntington.  Anyway!!!

And now!! An excerpt from COME FOR THE PIE, STAY FOR THE DRAGON, one of the tales included in the fabulous and awesome and wonderful and fabulously awesomely wonderful OREGON GOTHIC:


Along Idaho Highway 21, there’s a little mining and logging town called Idaho City. Well, once upon a time, about a hundred years or longer, it had mining and logging and the reputation of a real hot place to be any time of the week. Now, it’s more of a sedately dying tourist trap. But that’s for quite another tale. People do drugs here now and sell stuff to tourists passing through. There’s also skiing and snowmobiling during the winter months. It’s a busy little two-lane heading up into the Idaho mountains, that ole 21.

Now, Jane Spudman, she changed her name because of the tourist trade, her actual last name was something like Heinburg or Hindendammer, Jane ran a little diner and curio shop. The name over all this was, yes, The Spudster. It featured local game– elk and venison and pheasant, mostly– the famous Idaho potatoes, homemade pie and one caged, tiny, always depressed miniature dragon.

This combo diner and curio shop sat smack right on the highway, where one just had to jerk the wheel a little to arrive in the dirt parking lot. Jane had painted the outside a sedate pioneer white– the actual color on the paint cans had been Pioneer White. This had been obtained from a mark down sale at Home Depot, she told everyone. Jane hunted out bargains and mark downs the way others hunted fish. Her eyes would light up, her blood would race as she made her ten dollars, usually all she carried in cash, stretch to the utter limits. She even bargained at times if she had to. Americans don’t know how to haggle but Jane did. Well, Jane knew slightly how to haggle. She mostly just walked away if she got insulted enough. Where or how she had gotten that miniature dragon in the cage, she never said. It was her greatest secret, she often murmured, with a twinkle in her very German blue eyes. Her grandfather had spoken German and lived in Nebraska most of his life, Amherst, Nebraska– if Jane can be trusted. Her ancestors had come over right before the Civil War, she was the daughter of actually very acceptable immigrants. She often said she was not Irish. For some reason, she had a great loathing of Irish roots. Also, her far-distant German immigrant ancestors had not been slave-owners, which she was also proud of. Jane had a framed picture of some grim-looking folks who vaguely resembled her, wearing old-timey clothes, a black and white print, which she claimed was her relatives from the 1880’s. As Jane stood over six foot tall, with dyed black hair, and wore a Levi vest over a Boise Broncos t-shirt most days and Wrangler jeans over bright purple cowboy boots, well, there was really no telling if Jane had simply found this old picture and claimed it as her own. People did that when they worked with tourists for a living.

So, on a late fall day, with snow threatening at any moment, Jane put a freshly made coconut cream pie in her revolving pie and dessert case. There was also key lime, banana cream, lemon crunch, rhubarb, cherry, apple, huckleberry, chocolate silk and peanut butter. She changed the lineup of her pies to keep things interesting. Once in a while, she whipped up a cake, during those long winter months, to amuse herself. Cake just seemed more filling and right during January storms, she said. Her cook, Leanne, flipped burgers on the grill, her hair held back in a bun covered by a hairnet. A couple of hunters sat drinking coffee and waiting for their burgers and fries, and yes, pie. They wore the Day Glo vests of orange and also wore the camouflage pants that no deer or elk, of course, could see, ever. The deer were always fooled by the half-missing humans pointing bang sticks at them. One hunter was bald, the other was not. Others in the Spudster ate omelets and stacks of pancakes, as breakfast was served all day long. People liked breakfast all day long, Jane had never understood diners who only served eggs and toast and bacon to ten or so in the morning. Give the people what they want, they’ll pay you money for it, was her genial motto. Her waitress, [ and of course Jane had several waitresses on reserve with names like Becky and Susie], Cathy, who had dropped out of high school to give birth to a very much unwanted baby just last year, slopped coffee and topped up water glasses. She never smiled but she did manage to keep her snarl of a voice pleasant enough when at work. Nineteen and already used up and spit out by life. Cathy also said the dragon had come from Satan’s bedroom. Cathy had taken up Jesus big time since her life had gone to Shitsville for a possibly life-long stay. As Cathy didn’t bother the dragon or even go near it, Jane let it slide. As long as Cathy worked and slaved for pennies, what did it matter how Cathy thought the dragon had come from God’s arch-nemesis? It was more funny than threatening. And God knew laughs were needed to get through a day spent with tourists.

Jane went to the curio side of her business. Two children stared in at the sleeping dragon, which had two mottled bicolored wings– fog gray and grass green– curled along its sinewy back. The boy was about ten, with an upturned pig snout of a nose. The girl, a sister or even twin sister, was about the same age or just big for her years. They had reddish-orange hair, curly and rather repugnant. Jane had no urge to pat their heads nor did she honestly find them adorable. They were not. But she put on her pleasant face, and busied herself near the shelf of antique dishes. The dragon slumbered on. There were faded scars on its shoulders and the long, horse-like face where it had tried to bust itself out of its jail. Jane had placed the cage, five feet by five feet, on a pedestal and had roped off the area around it so no one could poke at or hurt the dragon. It was, after all, about a foot long, maybe longer. Men judged everything on inches, she did not. She had no wish to see her big draw taken out by a careless or malicious tourist, and truth be told, tourists were both most of the time. People traveled out of their home towns and turned into bona fide turds. She herself experienced this the further she got from Idaho’s borders. On the rare instances Jane did manage to drive or fly anywhere, her impulses went from kindly and polite to unkindly and impolite. She pushed and shoved and demanded with the best of them. Once in O’Hare, she had shoved an old lady to get on a tiny plane headed back to Boise. It had been a supreme act of arrogance and meanness. And so satisfactory!

“It’s not a real dragon,” the boy said, looking at Jane like one might look at a math problem one didn’t want to do, with loathing and exasperation and disbelief. The girl clicked her tongue, making a tuk-tuk-tuk noise. What had they been doing in here unsupervised? Oh dear.

“I assure you, it is.” Jane moved her carnival glass up to eye level. Cathy served the hunters their burgers and fries. She had even more zits clustered around her mouth than usual today. A good healthy dose of self-esteem and Dove soap might help. Cathy also needed a winning Powerball ticket, and a trip to some bountiful future where poor stupid girls became rich intelligent women.” You two from around here?”

They were not. Jane knew just about everybody who crouched, lived, squatted and rented around these parts. These two goblins masquerading as children were not local spawn. “Pasadena. The good part. We ain’t from this fucking shithole. We’re from California. God!” The girl said.” It’s not a real dragon. It’s an iguana. Or a Komodo Dragon. I watch a lot of reptile shows. I know reptiles.”

“Yeah. A fucking iguana. This is lame.” The boy added, giant shallow eyes raking over the curio side of the diner with absolute disgust. The dragon in the iron cage opened one sky blue eye. The girl stepped back, barely avoiding a jet of tiny black-tinged flame. The boy hooted like a sick owl. “What the hell!”

“It’s not an iguana,” Jane reiterated gently. The no-trespassing space about the dragon was both to protect the little animal and to protect tourists and locals alike. It spat fire now and then. She had been burned rather badly during a careless moment passing too close. That burn, on her left forearm, had taken almost a year to heal. The doctor had had to graft skin from her thigh to close up the nickel-sized hole. Jane had not been careless like that since. The dragon hated her with all its tiny might. It never grew tame or compliant. But. It drew in customers and customers paid the bills. And very few people these days in Idaho City could actually pay their bills.

“It’s a trick, a dirty old trick.” The girl said, quite determined to prove an actual dragon just an ordinary lizard which someone had rigged with fire-breathing abilities. “Come on, Walter. Let’s go get some pie. Stepmonster said we could have some if we behaved.”

Walter, the boy, the goblin in disguise as a boy, all children were actually goblins in disguise, sniffed, wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I thought dad said no.”

“Dad can suck it,” the unnamed girl said without a look at Jane. But the blue-eyed dragon got a glare, which it returned with interest. Jane smiled her vague, of course I’m happy to be here with you smile. The dragon was due for a mouse. It ate them from the tail to the head. Tortured them as it ate them. But. It was the only food Jane could get the miniature monster to eat. She had tried lettuce, seeds, nuts of every kind including the expensive macadamia. She had tried hamburger and pork sausage, both raw and cooked versions. Chicken, too. The dragon had allowed itself to be fed a mouse now and then. A live mouse or at times, if the dragon was hungry enough, a dead one from a trap. Its hide, a smooth furless hide, would ripple and change color when it was hungry. From the normal dull gray-green to bright poisonous lime and bright black. She knew then that it would accept any mouse in any condition when its body looked like a tennis ball intersected with bright black bands. Minus the fuzzy roundness, as it was a lean little monster, with its ribs clearly marked, the hollows of its long face marked and immediate. It was also unnervingly silent. It just watched. It just observed. When she cleaned the cage, she had to put the dragon into a gunny sack full of nails. The dragon had to be handled with falconer gloves and placed into the gunny sack. Full of nails. Little iron nails. The dragon would not move. And she very carefully placed a bucket over this. The dragon had tried, once, to escape, even though touching the nails had clearly hurt it severely. It had panted and moved about and shuddered for days after. And licked the raw places the iron nails had touched, looking at Jane with real understanding that it was Jane and Jane alone who had caused all this misery. Some sort of allergy, had to be. As she herself had an allergic reaction to metals, she had a faint sympathy for her tourist draw. Her ears grew into bright red, pus-filled horrors if she wore earrings. She had tried three times to have pierced ears. Same result every time.

Of course other places had tigers and bears and alligators for draws. Or some sort of sideshow. She had heard of a small hole in the road somewhere in the wilds of the Cascades, somewhere in Oregon, where they kept a naked two-headed boy on a chain. And the tourists could pay money to watch this two-headed naked boy being fed rats. Or chickens. Sort of a messed up version of the circus geek, usually a male who had bitten the heads off live animals for people’s amusement. As people were highly amused by watching cruelty and observing freaks. Always had been. Always would be, no matter the clime of political correctness.

The two goblins disguised as children went back to their table where their parents, two ordinary pinkish sorts, were slurping down chicken fried steaks and talking about leaving their awful offspring somewhere for others to raise. Or so Jane imagined. She liked to amuse herself imagining rather terrible things about her customers. It helped her deal with their demands and impossible arrogances. It helped her deal with their disbelief that an actual tiny dragon existed, let alone existed in a cage in Idaho City, Idaho, Boise County, United States of America. She considered such dark fantasies harmless and was very good at wiping her face clear of any actual emotion or reaction she might have felt toward anyone.

It was that night that the dragon disappeared.

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“You ever read any Nietzsche? Nietzsche says there’s two kinds of people in the world: people who are destined for greatness like Walt Disney… and Hitler. Then there’s the rest of us, he called us “the bungled and the botched.” We get teased. We sometimes get close to greatness, but we never get there. We’re the expendable masses. We get pushed in front of trains, take poison aspirin … get gunned down in Dairy Queens.” from the Fisher King, as spoken by Jeff Bridges as Jack Lucas.

I have written several drafts, by now, under the title of the Bungled and the Botched. I started off with a summary/review of one of my favorite films, the Fisher King. It was light and delightsome. And novel length. It was up there, patient darlings. Don’t worry!! The following is merely flash fiction length!

Oh, it’s not. It’s just short story length now. Fartknockers!



Chemical attack. Sarin or chlorine gas used. Savage raw footage of actual children and adults dying, struggling to breath, white foam around their noses and mouths. Yet, America has denied entry of Syrian refugees because they might be terrorists, even the children. “We can’t let them in, those kids get indoctrinated. They might be terrorists! Fuck Syria, LOL.” [I remember reading words all over to that effect.] Oh look, if you Google ‘refugee children as terrorists’ or some such amalgamation…fuck me running, I’m wigging out here, I’m buggin’. There’s many a tale of evil refugee children disguised as those fleeing from violence and the utter destruction of all they know to win our sympathy.  EVIL TERRORIST CHILDREN COMING TO AMERICA. Who will win our hearts and then blow us up.

from CBS. 



I should get a job writing that sort of fiction for various sites. I have some training as a writer, of plays, fiction and poetry, and just general writing in general. If it pays enough, who cares who it hurts? Right? I feel so modern or ancient, as this seems a tactic of olden days, too. Mm…I could be totally sarcastic and caustically bitter and it would come off as ‘true’. God damn! New career path! And I can write a book about all that when I’m exposed as a charlatan or a fake. Go on talk shows and sob about Free Speech. Talk about how my freedom has been curtailed because I am no longer allowed to make up stories about refugee children. You have to play the cards you’re dealt, right? And since I’m a bitter, cynical little kitty most days, I really think I would be wonderful at the whole ‘fake news’ writing. All you have to do is try. And keep trying until the day you die. You’re only a failure when death gets you or something like that.


Holy shit, my inner voices. Evil bints!

Hey!! Get back to your diatribe, you silly daisy. Better?? And that was all you. We just sat back and rolled our eyeballs a lot.

You have eyeballs? Sorry!! You’re right. Back into the splooge of my diatribe indeed, inner voices.

Great! So splooge away. That’s a really gross word. Maybe strike that from your ten word vocab list? We’re ignoring the eyeballs snark. We’re imaginary, after all. We’re just voices. We’re just voices in the wilderness, ha ha. What’s for High Tea? I believe you were splooging

And then, on the one hundredth anniversary of WWI,

Tangerine Vader drops about a hundred million worth of Tomahawk missiles on a Syrian base. But first, he calls Russia to warn them of this. [Did he also warn Ass-Hat? Did they have a cozy three-way chat about this whole thing? Ugh a bug] And 45 doesn’t call or warn American citizens what’s about to go down or ask Congress to approve or not an actual act of war. Because the Constitution, fuck it! Suddenly…this uncaring asshole of the mating between a hair piece and a snake oil salesman cares about children dying in a war zone? Overnight, seemingly, it suddenly develops some empathy for others?


I just see a huge theatrical gesture here. I see someone trying to get his ratings up. I see someone looking for a ratings boost. I see someone who only cares that his approval ratings go up. That he comes off as tough and manly. That he come off as not a big ole pussy. After all, Obama was ‘weak’ on Syria. Obama was the ‘pussy’ about Syria. That it’s a distraction from domestic troubles. That it deflects attention away from domestic woes. Ooooh, baby.[I’m also starting to have real sympathy for those with Conspiracy Theory Derangement Syndrome, those who splutter about the real 9/11, that we never landed on the moon and that dinosaurs live in the center of our flat earth. Ahem, Russia, ahem.]


And it’s not just me, I checked. I looked around. I read stuff. And not just on one side. I briefly glance at the ‘other side’ and then retreat to the dry slopes of an all-organic oat bran muffin mountain washed down in an artesian water binge while listening to NPR’s three hour tribute to the music of tree frogs as performed on kazoos by slightly gifted students. It’s about balance, man. Balance.

I see a lot of sound and fury, signifying a PR ploy. And done with real goddamn missiles and with a cynical disregard of the situation there in Syria and those living with this war for close to seven years now. And…ugh.

Suddenly, my truly sadheap of a life lately doesn’t seem so…botched and truly bungled.

Self-realization, ah, how smug and shallow I can be, oh yes! I tied it also back to the Fisher King!! And Nietzsche!! Elitist and snowflake-lite am I! Ah, the world’s about to get a taste of WWIII, as played now with nuclear weapons for all, so my stuff doesn’t seem so awful. Ah!! SILVER FUCKING LINING. Diplomacy is for pussies, WWIII for those manly men whose dicks are FULLY ERECT AND READY TO SHOW THE WORLD JUST HOW ERECT THEY ACTUALLY ARE. Let the manly seed flow like water! Like water!! RAWRRRRRR.

That is seriously my take of all this three-way posturing among Tangerine Vader, Putie and Ass-Hat AKA Assad. It’s just a global My Dick Is Yuge, No, My Dick Is Huger contest. Sort of like the war right now between Christianity and Islam– it’s a Dick-Off. The Super-Colossal  World  Death Match on Whose God Has the Biggest Set of Male Funsies Contest. The losers get to die, a lot. In bigly ways. In horrible ghastly thoroughly televised ways! You can also throw in other major or minor religions that sport Super-Alpha male deities. Go ahead, it’s okay with me.

Can’t we hire three people to walk around with these three world ‘leaders’ and tell them, constantly, how manly they are? [Possibly do with this with all insecure dictator wannabes and actual dictators? What about a GofundMe campaign to help defray costs?] Can we get that into some UN meeting or into Congress or…? It’s job creation, look at it that way.  It’s capitalism. It’s a blow to socialism! It’s people pulling their own weight at last! You’d have to hire, actually, about fifteen to twenty people per dictator wannabe or actual dictator. Nine to cover all the shifts– seven to three, three to eleven, eleven to seven. As even in sleep, manly leaders need to feel reassured. Even when asleep, the constant praise must not cease to be! And then hire some additional on-call folks when people get sick or need a mental health day. These Dick Whisperers can ring bells or make some sort of noise while their Fragile Boys are in public. “Your Penis is Magnificent! Your Penis Outshines the Sun! Women Find Your Penis Very Nice!”

For women dictators, we can hire guys and dress them in kilts. They can tell her she’s beautiful and smart and that of course dominating a country doesn’t make her less feminine. Her oatmeal cookies just hit the spot! Her math skills rival Einstein on his best day. Her excellent and keen fashion sense rivals her policy of brutally suppressing artists who paint her as the fat lady in a sideshow for being great. Then those guys in kilts can accidentally get caught in a high wind. She gets a glimpse of naughty bits, gets praised for her least little thing and they get paid a comfortable salary. Win-win, baby. Win-win.

[All of the above would also depend on the woman in question. She might not be able to make cookies, after all. Not all women can bake, sadly. #NotAllWomen]

Can we get someone ON THIS, PLEASE? Can we get someone to actually plan out and execute this Dick Whisperer campaign? Not me. Someone else who’s not me. I came up with the idea. Now the rest of you can pick up the damn slack. We’re all in this together.

Wow, that went to a weird, dark, penis-laced place, didn’t it?

Because…trying to make sense of the events this week has made me a cynical, numb just want to shoot some horse and float off to Narnia kinda burned out empty shell. Where’s Aslan to save the day and rip the face off the Orange Queen? [Yeah, I know it’s the White Queen. I know. Thanks.] It’s the absurdly awful use of an actual fucking tragedy, the cynical taking of a chemical attack and using it like toilet paper to wipe away shit from your own political asscrack and holding that toilet paper up with a shark’s empty grin that just made me grind to an actual halt.



“See? I’s a caring big boy who carez. See?? I’s so manly! I’s a president! How are my numbers? Did my numbers go up?? Check my score!! I need to go golfing. This is hard! Why is Brian on Twitter so mean to me?? Can we nuke Des Moines? I’m nuking Des Moines. Take that, Brian! Yuse got sleepy eyes!”

Yes, time for some organic oat bran muffins and a dirty used syringe full of smack. Do the kiddies still call it smack? Must go look that up now on Urban Dictionary.


PS or Afterword or Background Noise I really will come back to the Fisher King for a non-political hysterical penis-flavored rant on world events some day soon. Probably tomorrow or even later today.

I totally botched this interview this week; oh honey, did I come off as stupid, stupid and idiotically stupid, oh yes. I bungled and botched a grammar question. I about burst into tears I was so mortified. And then, because I’d driven a bit of ways to reveal what a true numbskull I am, the interviewer ‘nicely’ threw some questions at me. Guess who botched and bungled that as well?? ME!! Moi sucks at job interviews.

And yesterday I crowned myself as Queen of the Bad Interviewers. I might have to make myself a crown out of my joke of a resume, my hopes and dreams and some glitter. Yay!! I might even add some stuff I find in the bottom of the fridge, that grurdge that has dried to a permanent fixture on the very back. Grurdge, a mixture of syrup, ketchup, splattered leftover juices and assorted substances that surely came from other planets to come try life on the inner walls of the fridge. No amount of elbow grease will actually remove all traces of grurdge. I know, once a year or so, I do try to get the grurdge to migrate to another family for a home. It just grunts at me, tells me to think positive thoughts, that it’s up to me to make the day a good day or a bad day. I splash Dollar Store bleach on it and let it be. We call it a draw and declare we both have Yuge Genitals of War-Like Ferocity and both of us are happy. Amen.

PSS– this is a last shout out to me for predicting the universe would drop a hammer on my head. Interview. Hammer. [I take no responsibility that I turn into a deer in headlights, that I’m maxed out on the stress meter, that my reaction to interviewing is on par with getting root canal surgery without the nice numbing agents, that…yep.]

And yet another Post Script thingie– the GOP used the nuclear option to push through Neil Sucks Whores, or whatever his name is. [Gorsuch. Confirmed as Supreme Court Justice April 7, 2017. Leadership means fuck the rules and Constitution and everything else and just do what you want. Got it. Heroin and Positive Life Slogan Exchange later, everyone? I’ll text the details whenever I get around to putting minutes on my Trac phone. Later, gators!]


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Shenyang, China. That red ribbon is to keep away the bad or evil spirits. 

Before you settle in for a batshit read about how yours truly is being haunted by actual spirits from beyond the pale…uh, sorry.

I’m rather spooked [as in freaked out!] by my recent string of almost victories in the wide and varied field of writing. I’m expecting some real hammer to fall on my head. An actual hammer to counterbalance the smidgeons of somewhat successful news received last week regarding various projects. Which taps into how superstitious I am! Goodness gracious! I mentioned said projects in the other post I posted today. The conclusion of my three-part take down of a Hundred Days of Things I Love.

There’s actually a fourth thing in that list of three. I’m being included in a reading list for a university in Macao. I made a reading list! Students will be reading my stuff and having discussions! Something I wrote will be deconstructed and put together in new and probably very very very interesting ways! This has, in fact, happened before. Having my stuff read in a classroom is not a brand new spring awakening. [I still have not bothered to look up the plot to that show. I suck!] So maybe that breaks the spell/curse? And tonight, we have all the ingredients to make TACOS.

American tacos. Yeah, don’t get excited. Hamburger, store bought shells, shredded fake cheese, tomatoes, cukes, onions, salsa, lettuce. I might even pop out and get some SOUR CREAM. I love tacos. They make me happy. It’s like Christmas showed up. A real Christmas full of miracles and joy and good smells and happy happy smile faces. And I’m…spooked.


What bad things are heading my way? I’m naturally a pessimist. [What?? No!! Not you, Ms. Ann! Say it ain’t so!!] Oh…sometimes the voices in my head write stuff for me. Did I not ever mention that ever? Okay. Well. Mentioned!! I tend to seek out the negative and downer and bad and awful. Because it’s easier? It feels right? It’s a comfortable pattern of self-destruction? Because I’ve trained myself to trust the bad stuff over the good stuff?? Ugh? Actual ghosts are controlling my thoughts??? I slipped one in for those still hoping for some batshit off the wall nod to ghosts, spirits, eidolons, specters, haunts, demons, spirits of the dead, devil, phantom, shadows, shade, phantasm, manes, visitor, ethereal being, or otherwise dead and came back to cause some shit sorts.

I know I’m not alone in this one. At all. Those who cringe at good fortune. As it is usually followed by actual floods, tornadoes, deluges, dust storms, smackings, slappings, bank error and now you owe thousands; broken bones from tripping over your dog in the dark, food poisoning from granny’s birthday cake which your family bought from the mark down racks at Wal-Mart; stonings, flat tires, death, a weird pimple full of weird smelly fluids that your doctor [if you can afford even going to the low-cost clinic that’s open once a year now due to budget costs] thinks might be linked to your entire intestinal system being full of cancer and tape worms…I mean, there’s a list here. One little good thing happens or comes to pass and…OMG WHAT THE HELL IS ABOUT TO DESCEND ON MY HEAD LIKE THE BLACK PLAGUE?

I feel so normal! Others go through this!!

I’m not a weird singularity stranded on this awful planet far far far from my alien outer space homeland. I’m a human. I’m not a stranger in a strange land. I’m not full of hot ices. I’m not incubating my entire home planet’s remaining eggs in my chest. [Because those from other planets might not be built like humans, hello. I’ve read enough sci fi to dimly conclude that Captain Kirk might not be able to mate with all the Space Princesses he ran across in his travels. No matter how busty and painted with green eye shadow they were!]

Where was this going? Voices?? A little help here? VOICES?

Shut up! We can hear you just fine, lady! Yeah, we’re right here. We’re not flipping deaf, you silly bint!

Suddenly, you’re all British, voices?

Uh, no. Why?

Um, bint is a British word.

So now words have NATIONALITIES? What kinda weirdo grammar goose-stepping asshole are YOU?


Hey!! Get back to your blog!! Remember?? Your  two-peat here. You just posted some blather about 2014 and now you’re backdoor bragging about some minor maybe good shit that maybe might happen but you’re being coyly vague and not actually listing what the projects are. Or is that passive-aggressive? We can’t keep the new-fangled terms for being a diva straight.

Maybe you voices need a nap? You’re very crabby.

Fuck you! Oh yeah, tonight, we’re going to tell you about those pants and what you look like in them!! Bwha ha ha ha. It’s going to be a riot. For us. For us, baby! Oh, could you do us in the hot pink option for text color? Bob’s your uncle!

[[That’s what goes on in my head ALL DAY LONG. And sometimes into the night…All. The. Time.]]

Oh yes, feeling spooked by tiny successes. Haunted by the waiting for the universe to swing the giant balance over to ‘Must counteract Ann’s Tiny Successes’. As it will. As it must. Here come the glooms. There they are, waving at me from the deep shadows of my own brain. Little blobby shadows waiting to blobbily pounce and sink their dull little claws into the startled meat of my brain. Wahooo!!!

Did I mention the Boise River is at flood stage and the stink of rotting mouse corpse had reached my nostrils? Consider it mentioned, lovebugs!





Beijing, China. The Summer Palace. School trip with the kiddies

Wuh!! Weeee!!

We, using the conclusion that others will read this, are at the end of my magnum opus of bloggy goodness. Part three of my Hundred Days of Things I Love. Yes!! Hallelujah!! Let Oregon rise again!

I’m not in the American South, so to say Let the South Rise Again would just be puzzling and not geographically correct. Not to mention, that battle cry is, um, a hearkening back to the Civil War and assigned to the side that LOST. So.

I had a good week last week. Three nice things happened! A possible go ahead on two of my short plays being included in a Hungarian universities anthology collection– in Hungarian, of course. A friend from undergrad days contacting me about sending her material for a reading series at the theatre she works/volunteers at. And…a short play of mine possibly being directed by a famous person and shopped around to film festivals. Now, I already have several little films out there based on my work…yeah. I do. Here’s one:


The above is based on my play, Traces of Memory.


So!! Mama had a good week!

That’s a shout out to the odd way I chose to label myself when I blabbered on about romance novel stuff and popular literature. Which is oddly Southern…and parts of my family do come from the southern regions of the US. Well, after they migrated from Europe, that is. And then settled in…yeah. Anyway!!

Here’s the tail end of my Hundred.

As always, I edited them for too personal content, took out names and generally sanitized them for public consumption. I plucked the hairs from its chin, in other words…

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That’s eggplant and peppers in a sweet sauce and that’s rice beer. From my fave noodle shop just a hop and a skip from my, yes, dorm room in China. 


62. Breaking Bad is good, but it is pretty racist. Kermit the Frog! A giant bathtub with lots of bubble bath and candles. The smell of banana bread or pumpkin bread or any of those breads cooking on a cold snowy day. M. coming to see my Mermaids play. {I had a one night only staged reading of my full length in Los Angeles. Go me!}

63. Looking through old pictures. The mindless comfort of knitting, row after row. Can’t think of much– still giant problems in Ferguson, MO. The dead boy, Mike Brown, has been smeared to hell and back to make his execution seem justified. Like they did with Trayvon Martin and rape victims who come forward and…fuck, fuck, fuck. I hate America right now, I hate her racist rotten grungy slimy heart showing like this to all the world. But maybe we need this to really address our problems…maybe this time it will be different. Except…no, it won’t be. There’ll be another shooting, another killing, another murder covered up as justified because he/she was a ‘thug ‘, a gangbanger, a…whatever those trying to cover up what they did can think of. And the public spoons it up gratefully because it’s the expected narrative. It’s what supposed to happen– the bad guy gets gunned down by the good guys, justice, justice, justice. Except. It ain’t even close to the truth and…fuck…fuck…[Chills right now reading this.]


64. Big violent storms moving through, the air cool and crisp and clean again. A reporter beheaded by the ISIS, James Foley. Wanting to write again. Throwing the ball for Trouble. My cuke plants growing away [cuke–cucumber]

65. Skipped. Went out side by siding.

66. Being out in Eastern Oregon wilderness areas. Saw a bazillion deer yesterday by the Little Malheur river. A cloudy, windy day. Manta rays of all sizes. The tadpoles are all getting large and sassy, with their legs well developed now. Pork rinds.

67. Being by myself.

68. I released the tadpoles into the settling ponds. I spilled them all over the front seat, however. Ugh. Covered with bug bites, goddamn it!! Problems with a friend, ugh. Got the flier for Beatrice [a play of mine] today. [[That would be Beatrice and the Puppies, by the Overtime Theatre in Austin, Texas.]

69. And now [friend] is mad. [I took this part out. I’m older and kinder now.] Trouble beat to hell! Did he fall out of pickup? Breaking Bad swept at Emmy’s. Can’t think of anything new I love. Music– Beth Hart. Love her smoky raspy voice. Pretty girly things, like mini tea sets, makeup, pretty clothes, fabulous footwear.

70. Nothing from [friend] Her dad gave us cukes and tomatoes today. I love cukes!!!!

71. Nothing from [friend] I feel very weighted down by this friendship and guilty I feel so. The guys left while I went to library, fine. Can’t think of anything to love today. It’s hot again.

72. Okay, word from friend. [ edited!!] Stormy day maybe, clouds showing on little internet weather thingie. My mother playing cards, how she loved games. My mother playing Heroes, a computer game. Had weird dreams last night, something about bulls, there’s a bull, we have to get back in the truck.

73. Watched Hobbit before bed– desolation of Smaug. And dreamed about Darth Vader and fighting for territory- H. V. was in the dream. She looked very different with a pig-like nose, very skeletal face, and burgundy paint smeared on her face. But I was successfully defending my turf against all comers until this tall guy had my sword put into a vault-like box only Darth could access. I was supposed to fight him but couldn’t find my sword. So I told him to hold on, he was very rude and yet oddly flirty/creepy. So finally figured out where my sword was, Darth Vader had it. Darth only wore his helmet, otherwise he had on normal clothes, a red shirt and jeans. The creepy/flirty guy got upset, he’d been following me around and taunting me. I fired back at one point, I’m a girl who’s held off all comers. It was cold, I had socks on but no shoes. My area was piled high, like a kid’s fort. I was at college or a boarding school. My sword was in a long black box that Darth Vader had to thrust his gloved hand into to open. Lovely windy cool night. Being alone all day.

74. I dreamed I became an OBGYN to pay off my student loans. Yeah. Wandering along the beach picking up shells. Gabriel Iglesias, for making me laugh, for his Aloha special and the story of him and his stepson fighting over deodorant. [I still love this bit. Still.]

75. That fall weather creeping in so gradually. Pumpkins ripening in a field. A good book on a long drive.

76. Did two submissions

77. Found three movies at thrift shop for ninety cents. VHS. Ah, technology. Sorting through clothes and belongings and finding stuff I’d hid away.

78. Finding Nemo opening– sigh, so good and so sad. My play open tomorrow in Texas. Still no word on ESL job, will apply again.

79. Molly’s faces, her scrunched up don’t wanna little face, so darling. A perfect leaf in its fall coat.

80. Watching the Beijing opera with C. Ponds full of koi, their flashing sides, the secret watery world they live in. How funny people are at times, how funny. Cambodia?

81. Cambodia? When the Breaking Bad marathon starts on Sundays. Earrings on sale. A storm, any storm, any storm will do.

82. I think it’s a no on Cambodia because life is all about the money, right? I can’t think of anything. A big giant moon last night. Heard an owl or some nightbird. Can feel the rot setting in. Nothing about play or…fuck.

83. Went riding yesterday. Lovely cool day.

84. Being happy for others when something good happens in their lives.

85. The most beautiful pumpkin of a moon last night. And wind, a windy night, just perfect for odd dreams. I was a witch guarding a castle against all comers, guarding it until someone else came back for it. M. in dream at the end of it– he was buying guns with another guy to come after me, we, my helpers, were pleading our case to leave us alone, it wasn’t our castle, just leave us alone.

86. Did I forget a day?

87. Songs that I love. Back in Black, Hell’s Bells, Highway to Hell, You Shook Me All Night Long– AC/DC. Hearts in Armor, On a Bus to St. Cloud, Georgia Rain, Trisha Yearwood. On My Own, Les Mis. Somebody Else’s Story, Chess. I’m Moving On, Rascall Flatts. If He Tried, Lorri McKenna. Runaway Train, R. Cash. Strawberry Wine, Deanna Carter. How Far, Whatever You Say, This One’s For the Girls, Martina McBride. A Thousand Miles from Nowhere, D. Yoakum. Anymore, Travis Tritt. Born to Run, Darkness on the Edge of Town, Tougher than the Rest, The River, Born in the USA, Jungeland, Thunder Road, Bruce Springsteen. Sinner’s Prayer, Beth Hart. Shadows on the Night, P. Benatar. A Long December, Counting Crows. Sweet Emotion, Walk This Way, Aerosmith.


88. Skipped?

89. Skipped?

90. big beautiful thunderstorm. Dogs shaking.

91. My big pimple thing squirted lots of blood and pus today, oddly satisfying. [Yuck!!]

92. I have no idea.

93, Skipped.

94. Saw snake, so cute, so tiny and scared, out by barn.

95. ?

96. Coffee sometimes seems to the only good thing left in the world.

97. Breaking Bad

98. Have no idea. I have no love in me. Loved the Roosevelt’s on PBS. I was actually weepy at times. Ford factories could put together a bomber in 63 minutes at one point. A million parts or more to each plane. Put together in an hour.

99. I’ve skipped.

100. Had a dream last night, Oct 1. Did a play of mine in Missouri, crazy high sets, at a college somewhere. And then did a reading of a musical I was working on, with people singing the parts. Weird hazy yellowish light.

And there ya go, gentle readers!! Some laughter, some tears, some truly head-scratching puzzlers in there…Did I not deliver on my promises? Whatever they were? Okay then.

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Blackbird eggs in the old rose bush