My book

Hi. My book, House on Clark Boulevard, is on sale over on Amazon until July 22. Go have a read, leave a review. And thanks if you do. 

Just got a bit of happy writing news so I thought I’d also post that MY BOOK IS ON SALE RIGHT NOW, GO GET IT FOR YOUR KINDLE OR E-READER AND HEY, LEAVE ME A REVIEW. 

Okay!

 

 

Also– try Oregon Gothic. What have you got to lose? Some sleep? Enjoy!

 

 

 

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Sparklepony Jesus Spammer

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Heaven. I’m in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…

Admit it. You’ve been missing my genteel and delightful titles. Today’s post is about a persistent spammer with a Jesus fetish.

Now “Emmanuel Love” seems hellbent on trumpeting the end of the world is nigh messages. The first full sentence of this spammy spam was praise for the Insane shitweasel for moving the US embassy to Jerusalem. Naming it the capital of Israel which needs to happen before a chain of events gets set off that will usher in…uh huh. It’s a parallel of the dominionism beliefs.

{If I am fuzzy here on Israel and all that, sorry. I’ll go look all this up, do some research.}

 Dominionisn?? What’s that? Ah. That’s Mike Pence and the Duggars. The Quiverful Movement. Where the women get bred like cows and the men are men, and don’t you ever forget it or they might snap and shoot you in the face cause Jesus. Where the end of the world is pretty much nigh and boy, oh boy, are they prepared for it. You can add survivalists in here. End time preppers. Hardcore Christians nearly vibrating with malice toward others. That’s my take. Just a vibrating set of WHEN JESUS GETS HERE YOU ARE ALL GONNA DIE AND BE SORRY SO THERE. 

That’s why the whole public masturbation over Israel. Because stuff needs to be arranged there to fit prophecy…cause Jesus needs help? Jesus can’t make shit fall into place? I know and you know Insane Shitweasel did that with Jerusalem on Mike Pence’s whispery pleadings. And the praise he got shivered shitweasel’s timbers.

Did you notice America’s birthday got hijacked? That California belched out an earthquake and DC brewed up a witch’s cauldron worth of rain, lightening and general bad wet awful weather?

I’ll let you go read up on this particularly awful branch of Christianity.

Now, my sparklepony spammer spams this same copy and paste completely batshit insane fanfic/novella at me about two or three times a day at times.

As if constantly bombarding me with nonsense and wrongness will turn my head.

Do you really want me wandering over to your site, dude? Or allowing your spammy shit to post, then taking it apart so hard you’ll still be crying for mommy in the echoing halls of some fourth rate hell?

I did go look at the site this darling oozed from. Holy hell and by the scaly tail of the devil!! Anti-human rights, anti-everything, pro-…?

From gay-bashing to how Noah’s Ark is super-real, you heathens. How evolution is fake. Yep. Anti-science, too. Anti-human rights. Anti-women.

The mark of the Beast, for the love of cupcakes and G-strings! Is, gasp, Obama still the Anti-Christ, dude?? Tell me MORE. Oh wait, don’t. Heard it!! Heard all this crap! Makes me giggle uncontrollably.

Prolly not the reaction you want, Emmanuel. 

All with the word ‘love’ thrown around like candy at a fascist rally. We do this out of love, I hear about such hardcore, used to be on the fringe, Christians. We do this to save you…Yeah, no.

Let me go to hell in my own way, to paraphrase Robert Frost.

I have no problem with religion or those who have faith or practice something. I have a problem with others demanding I practice a form of their whatever as well. I want to state that here.

Oh you’re just bashing Christianity!

Well, fuck yeah, I am.

When some lame ass spammer keeps spamming me about his fap fantasy end of the world ocean of blood cum dreams, I get a bit peevish.

Leave me the hell out of your everyone dies but about four people deathgasms. Leave me out of your world ends in fire and blood nuttery.

I’d rather fantasize about a deserted island, with a gorgeous beach and that inviting expanse of water. I can add whatever I need here.

A cocktail.

Someone to talk to, a brace of cheerful friends, a manta ray I can watch swim about.

Oh yes, I dream of going to the beach. That’s my heaven.

Not Emmanuel Love’s [maybe change your name to Blade Kill Em All, Blade Killemall]  grubby, awful, narrow vision of savagery. 

Blood to be spilled by a terrible version of the savior figure that floats through your fanfic like a combination of Voldemort and Rambo.

Just fuck off, sparklepony of hate, fear and jonesing for a big death show to end everything we know of life on this planet.

I’m starting to have no fucks to give anymore. Maybe this next decade is the ‘just go fuck yourself, you annoying shitmeister’ span of years as I toddle off into the surf to pet manta rays.

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from a calendar of sexy Jesus stuff. 
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Anyone else getting these numbingly frequent headscratchers? I cropped it. Emmanuel Love’s opening gambit. Notice that bull about prophecy, in case you thought I was inventing. 

Activities with Rocks

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Early attempts at painting rocks

I wrote a scathing diatribe on the political hellscape that is ‘murica lately. Instead, to welcome yet another interminable month in this interminable slog of a life, I’ll write about rocks.  I’ll mention two novels that will hit sometime that could be any time, really. And something of mine that got included in a literary journal.

Rocks? Wha?

Military parade with a bloated price tag. Tanks. Money to pay for this culled from the national parks and veteran’s programs. With ticket prices, VIP seats! Sumbitch! Kids in cages. But hey, Nike pulled the Betsy Ross flag design and PEOPLE LOST THEIR MINDS CAUSE FREEDOM AND RIGHTS AND HONORING THE TROOPS OR…or…or…mm. Is that blood leaking from my ears? 

Yeah, I’m painting rocks. Badly. But it’s been a long time since I’ve painted anything. It seems a lot of people I know have turned to artsy crafty stuff to deal with…the drumbeats that celebrate the end of my country. With those supporting this screaming that we should get over it. With a ‘snowflake’ thrown in there.

I have friends also painting mandalas on rocks, leaving them places. Or writing some inspirational on a pebble, leaving it where others can find it and hopefully get inspired.

I do have a reason for why I’m slapping cheap paint on free rocks.

Last year, I went to the Death Rattle writer’s conference in Nampa, Idaho. I tried to sell some books. I was ill prepared. I didn’t have the fancy bank transaction app on my knock off Chinese-made phone. Where you can take people’s credit cards, run a transaction. Cause I didn’t even know that existed…I’m woefully behind the tech times. I’m also not up with how to sell your shit in these ultra-modern times. So. Learning experience.

I did get out of the house and mingle with others. Plus right there!

So I will attempt another attempt at a booth. You don’t have to pay a fee. Just apply for a spot. It’s held in a small alley by a bar. You sit there and try to smile and look inviting and friendly. Everyone seems to know everyone else. They’re all old friends or at least nodding acquaintances. But this time, for my wares, I intend to offer some art.

This takes place in October so I have the long hot summer to create. Or try to create something I can display without cringing.

I’ll also make some salt clay somethings. I was thinking pendants. One of a kind, small, tasteful, pretty. As I would love something like that and would scrape pennies out of the cup holders in the car to get one. I could also do some Christmas ornaments or even Halloween ornaments. I do write a lot of horror fiction. And it is my fave holiday.

If I focus on this rather pleasant problem, I do not focus on the crud coating my brain or the GODDAMN FUCKERY THAT IS CHEETOLINI and all that. At least, not entirely.

Also, I find other friends painting rocks or quilting. I noticed that Seth Andrews, who does the Thinking Atheist podcast, among other endeavors, got hooked on the Great British Baking Show. He’s been baking. I know tons of folks who love that show and then try to bake. Like, oh, me. Me, I’m one of those. 

 I am also hooked on baking competition shows.  I find baking so oddly fulfilling. I take raw ingredients, produce something roughly like what I saw. I’ve even managed to produce loaves of bread. I’ve moved from just schlupping the dough into a heated up giant cast iron pot into cutting the lump of dough in half, then placing that into bread pans.

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I made this!

I’ve graduated to seeing what I can shape the dough into. Can I braid it or…turn it into something actually pretty or French Bakery-esque?

Yeah, no, not yet. But I haven’t been baking bread for that long and it takes a lot of flour. And yeast. It seems like a lot of people need comfort and an outlet to deal with reality lately. That everyone seems to have picked up some sort of art hobby or baking or throwing away all their stuff in some sort of supercleanse or life enema. I wonder why.  I don’t. That was sarcasm. I don’t wonder why at all.

Rocks.

I feel like I’ve got an actual plan here, planning for a booth space I might not even get. But it’s a long-range plan. Longer than “make it through day.”

Ah, a flash fiction piece of mine, By Starlight By Starlight My Dear, is included in the latest edition of A Door is a Jar literary magazine. I had entered an earlier version of this same one that got soundly rejected, with actual criticism sent my way. I rewrote it. It got better. A Door is a Jar accepted it and there ya go.

Oh, so I think I have two books in editing right now. Alice in Oregonlandia, the not at all anticipated sequel to my dead on arrival House on Clark Boulevard. I kid, I kid! You’re supposed to Always Be Closing. That line from the Mamet play, Glengarry Glen Ross.

It takes up about ten years after the end of House. Alice gets a turn. The fall out of Nancy’s time in that house. Alice discovering a few truths about herself. How Art steps up as dad and caregiver.

Aftermath, which is my take on…wait for it…zombies. I know. I know. But!! It follows Hannah as she finds herself in a world run by zombies, after killing herself because she was trapped in a dead end space by zombies. Hannah tries to navigate her way through a vastly changed world, where zombies run everything and have all the political, economic and actual power. Set in Boise, Idaho, because, frankly, it’s an hour down the road from me. I had great fun writing this. Isn’t that the point of all this?

Thank you to everyone who bothers to read these. I appreciate it. I can be a tedious bore with my depression and endless string of failures. My tiny advances that give me a tiny bit of hope that maybe I should keep writing. That maybe today I can find whatever courage or gumption it takes to just keep plugging on.

Plug on, you dull bit of coal. My shout out to Pink Floyd…

 

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Available in A Door is a Jar, latest issue.
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Miz Bridge and Molly the Chocolate Lab.

 

 

Three Happy Dogs

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Brigit, Jake in the middle and Molly to the right. The Oywhee River.

I took the three dogs out to the Owyhees, which is the mountain range about forty minutes away. I loaded them into the Jimmy or the GMC, took some water, three dog bones, a towel. The old dirty blanket got placed across the back seat because there’s a small river up that way. And the three dogs love to fling themselves into the waters, whether pond, mud puddle, ocean, lake, trickle, stream, or river.

The wind a bit gusty but the sun out, the day beautiful otherwise. June day, not too hot but hot enough.

It seemed my mood lifted the second I crossed the tiny bridge over the Malheur as I drove toward the state park area. There’s a road carved into the rocks and sagebrush that leads up to the big reservoir where you can boat or swim or just hang. I don’t go up there cause…people are there and my entire goal in life right now is to avoid all human contact. That’s not sarcasm or being cutesy. That’s my depression, which has won and is just waiting for me to cut my wrists already so it can move on to someone else who at least poses a challenge to it…

Medication? Other than whatever’s in the fridge? No.

The three dogs whine and whimper. When they get to go anywhere, their other ends spew. They get excited, they have to empty the chambers. So I pull over, as there are little roads cut into the hills, as well as free range cattle and places to shoot off mortar rounds and…it’s Eastern Oregon. You can also see where the wagons cut grooves into the earth for all time, seemingly. Oregon Trail tracks. No kidding. Come see the permanent damage people have done to the earth, y’all!

I slow down when I see a ‘road closed’ sign, and a traffic cone. One of my favorite little spots to hunt rocks. This part of Oregon is rock hound heaven, in case I have not mentioned that. There’s a Thunderegg Festival in Nyssa, Oregon. That’s where people bring rocks to sell, along with other things. A thunderegg is another name for a geode.

The bridge, a tiny stone and wood structure you can drive across, had been swept away by a spring flood. The litter of that bridge in the river yet, which rushed past it importantly. Now. This is a narrow little river but it packs a powerful current with a strength more suited to the Mississippi at times. Same with the Snake River. It’s deceptively narrow but treacherous as the current regime of Gross Old Perverts. Crossing it on a covered wagon, in the days before dams and crumbling bridges, shudder. There’s a couple of famous crossing places that have been preserved in Idaho and Oregon. Farewell Bend, for instance. It’s where you left the river and went up into the Blues. By this time in your Oregon Trail adventure, you were just happy you were still alive.

Up the badly maintained road, often with rocks tumbled across it from the stony outcroppings that lean over it like something from a LOTR movie, I discover one of my favorite spots has no camper or group of scrubbed tourists lounging there like ticks on a hound. The dogs explode out of the back of the Jimmy, I notice I’ve left my bucket at home. I did bring a small ice cream bucket and a sack but nothing to put any or all the rocks I was sure to find. Hope is always eternal when I rouse myself enough to sneak off to hunt the elusive stationary rock. Some trips I find agates or chunks of crystal this or that almost at my feet when I park. I make sure I can get back on the road again as getting stuck out there with no phone is not a goal of mine. I can’t afford minutes at the moment.

The dogs go swimming. They sniff. I wander about noting the rocks, how the river must have flooded this little area, as the ground is yet muddy and water plants had died in straight lines. I had just seen the small bridge destroyed by the Owyhee River. I knew of hikers trapped by a mudslide not days ago. Fifty or more. A man had been swept away after falling asleep when rafting this same river. Found safe after a while.

The current at this peaceful little spot, with a small ranch next to it with actual livestock wandering through now and then, seems relentlessly evil. The dogs have trouble swimming against it and I worry I might have to rescue either of the two big Labs or the young Kewpie. Or cow dog as I think of Miz Bridge.

However, they enjoy being out of the yard and I trudge about. I am happy enough as well to be out of the yard, so to speak. But there’s no real joy in me at being in what has always seemed a spiritual place that renews what little I have left in my life’s batteries. It’s my big birthday. I turned fifty. Is that it? I am just down over how old I am?

Yes, to be frankly honest as hell. That is a small part of that yesterday. I expected. I expected a life beyond failing over and over and over, with nothing to show for my writing efforts but two books nobody’s even read. Including people in my own immediate family. My own fault for not becoming a teacher way back when, a real one, with certificates and such. As I pushed to do by my mother and others, and I did see myself teaching English to high schoolers or even, gasp, my little dream of teaching theatre in a college. And if I go into any of my abject wrong turns here or actual dead end blunders, I really will give in despair. More than usual, anyway.

I am not writing this for sympathy or thrills. I am attempting to sort everything out before I can’t. Or am not able to anymore.

Yes, it’s that bad. All the time. That little trip yesterday was my birthday treat. That was it. My family didn’t do anything special for me and I was grateful to even have my dad remember it was my birthday on the actual day of my birthday. I am grateful for a scrap of ‘hey, birthday, whatever’. Grateful. I have never mattered to my family…that’s how I feel.

And we’re not supposed to have feelings anymore. Or ever?

Once my mother brought a German Chocolate cake for my birthday. From the bakery markdown selection. The frosting had cracks in it, as it was old. Cheap old cake. I realize now that during June farmers don’t have a ready supply of cash and that I should be happy she bothered to get me a town cake at all. I just…want to feel that I matter to my own flesh and blood a bit.

And every birthday, it seems, I am faced with the evidence that I don’t.

The lifelong depression is going to win. I’m not going to magically defeat this thing in my head. I can barely concentrate enough to write this. I want to give in so badly and just end it. There it is. If I can look that in the face a bit, maybe I can…

take the dogs for little jaunt somewhere else that’s strange and new to me. Where I have no memories to remember. And I make it through another day.

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Not the bridge I mentioned, obviously. You can see the river doesn’t look formidable or anything else.
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Already dry as a bone. Sagebrush and rocks.
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Happy Jake after he emptied the chambers.

 

Downton Game of Witches

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Tingles! Downtown Abbey about to politely delight and thrill us ere again. Dame Maggie Smith!

Part one!

I mashed some titles together. I feel so clever.

I actually have three different posts here, I decided. Instead of one mashed together mess, I know! I’ll do a three-parter! Woot woot!

Downton Abbey.

Game of Sighs.

A Discovery of Sugar Cookies.

Mash seems to be my fave word today! Also, if I wish to go off on a rage-rant that has nothing to do with anything…well. I won’t.

My despair over DC has reached coma-inducing levels. Which is what THEY want. They. Tiny “victories” constantly overshadowed by actual bad shit done out in the open.

I need a gallon of pudding. Ever had that pudding that’s canned? By the gallon? Yeah, that stuff.

Shall we briefly revisit our favorite Upstairs/Downstairs knockoff??

Just watched the Downton Abbey teaser-trailer.

Oh. Yes.

When-is-this-on?? Hold the sherry! This is an actual movie. It won’t be on Masterpiece? What the…? Oh polite eye roll and sniff of suppressed annoyance! Excuse to leave house, though…!

A ROYAL VISIT??!! What wine will they serve the queen?? Which queen is this?? Must remember to look up what queen that is. Will not remember. Sigh!

I am so there for Downton Abbey the Movie. I know. It’s a snobby exercise in snobbiness. Yep. Don’t care! 

Lady Mary with that really cute short haircut! Will she and Edith have their sisterly rows or have they declared a sort of sisterly armistice? Oh hey, is that the same actor who plays Vampire Dude in A Discovery of Sugar Cookies? Is Lady Mary’s second hubbie VAMPIRE DUDE? Mind. Blown. Blown. BOOM. Just checked and yes, it is. Matthew Goode. Wait. His name in real life is Matthew, too? Hold it together, brain.

Back to squee central. 

What is Thomas up to??!! Are Anna and Bates SUFFERING AWAY AS PER USUAL?

Mr. Carson walking up toward Downton Abbey!

I need a scone!