Nik Cubed

A Study of the Pink Pustule

2012-02-15T21:28:00.000-06:00

I’m a writer. If an idea sticks its jagged hooks inside my squishypink parts, I can’t let it go. The pen wand inside my head starts conjuring upstories, plotlines, character developments, hell, even entirely new charactersto populate even more intricate storyline. Before long, the pen starts squirting out a torrent of imagination juice inside my skull and soon, I’m drowning.

And, my horrible, beautiful minions, drowning is a totally awesomeway to go.

Sure, there is that first bit of panicking, the oh-shit-why-is-all-this-water-where-my-air-should-be?!?but, after awhile, a rosy, soft glow starts in your belly and radiatesthroughout your body until you drift away.

That’s the start of a good old fashion obsession, my friends.

Obsessions can be addictive like that. You crave to feel thatweird, floaty pink pillow feeling so you begin to see connections between ITand everything else. The color of the sky reminds you of the eggshell blue ofhis eyes. Music, oh, sweet cream, every damn song on the radio rolls out like afucking Broadway musical devoted to IT. Love songs, fun songs, sexy songs, sadsongs. Especially the sad songs. Especially because…(Immortal Beloved would be such a good fit. Dontcha think? When I startthinking about him standing on the ledge, his hand reaching out towards John ashe says goodbye-REALLY?!?! SHUT THE FUCK UP! I will carve your eyeballs outwith a spoon. Is that what you want, Inside Voice?)

Anyway…

I'm writing this post for medicinal reasons. To keep my sanity. Toexplore a pustule that erupted in my brain and begs to be pricked with a redhot pin. I need to get this out. This is sort of an experiment because, in thepast, I used to ride my obsessive waves, grinning and laughing, until I crashedinto the breakers, got back up and swam back out to catch another wave. But Idon't have that sort of time now. I just don't. And on top of that, I don'twant to be that person again. Oh, God...you know....that person....theboring wad of carbon that can't talk about anything other than whatever tracktheir brain is stuck on. Because that's what obsessions do to you.

They make you boring.

I DESPISE boring. I can't stand to be around boring people. I canfeel myself mummify as they suck the vitality out of the core of my very beingwith their boring boredom. Christ. There should be a law against people likethat, seriously. It's like being psychically raped with a melon baller. Istrain my fist muscles keeping them from reaching out to punch, punch PUNCH theoffender into silence. GODDAMMIT! Just SHUT UP!!!!

I know, I know....not everybody can be fun and witty and *on* allthe time but some people just need to never, ever be allowed to tell a story.Ever. There would be a police force assigned to every dinner party all acrossthis great nation who is armed with duct tape to slap on the face of everyboring motherfucker that opens his or her gaping wound of a mouth.

Anyway, the point is- I don't want to be that person, whether theybe a fucker of mothers or not.

So, with that in mind, I decided that the best thing to do is todrain the pus. Maybe, maybe if I talked about this buzzing, incessant storylinewhizzing around inside my skull, maybe I could be free of it. Yes? So that Icould finally get back to my own story and not spend time weaving tales forsomeone else’s magic carpet.

(And if any of you minions suggest I start doing fanfiction, Iwill break your digital digits with my mental hammer of pain. I firmly believethat fanfic is a form of literary self-abuse and if I’m going to flip anyone’slittle man in the boat it will be one of my own creation, thank you very much.)

No. There has to be a way, some sort of valve I can use to releasethis weird craving.

I haven't mentioned the name of my latest obsession. There's areason for that. I'm doing everything I can not to think about it. Really. Eventhough I'm writing a blog post about IT and, inevitably, causing my brain toflash on it (John writes a blog. I can hear my inner voice chime. It'sreally a clever plot device, very meta and you can go online and read it. Thereis even have one for Molly and one for Sher- SHUT UP, YOU!) Thisdoesn't count because I'm doing an experiment, actually, an experiment withinan experiment. While I have gotten rid of all sorts of outer visual stimulants(desktop background, printed off photos) and avoided all the Youtube mashupsand fanmade videos (Hey, my fave fan channel Deductism has a newone...omg...it's so sad.....Poor Sher- SHUT UP!)

Anyway, I wanted to rid myself of this longing. I need to. I can’tbe distracted by another storyworld when I need to keep my head in my own. So IGoogled for an answer on how to exorcise onself. One website suggested gettingrid of anything that reminded you of IT and, as I mentioned before, I did that.Got rid of the pictures, avoided the videos, etc. I changed my desktop to arandom picture of a cabin I found, a rustic thing, well lit from inside with agolden glow so you can see inside. It’s a simple studio layout, two floors.Green plants, a plush leather couch, tables with books stacked everywhere andpapers that are scattered as if someone had been working but left in a hurry.

And then I thought, “Wouldn’tthat be a perfect cabin getaway for Sherlock? What if the whole ReichenbachFall thing was some sort of plan devised between Mycroft and him and now he’sin some sort of weird witness protection kind of thing and then something goeshorribly wrong and he-”

I felt the salty waves rush up and lick my eyeballs. I let thestory unroll. I can't help it. I go under and tumble with the tide.

Christ Jesus. I’m stuck with this, aren’t I? Until it runs itscourse, I am trapped inside this wonderful, exciting, adventure filled world ofhauntingly beautiful men, razor sharp minds, an evil as sticky and sweet astaffy and a friendship that is an aching impossibility.

The one thing I can’t avoid is my own head.

Working on it

2012-02-13T21:58:00.000-06:00

Working on something about obsession. And I'm not talking about some bottle of shit perfume. I'm talking about an addiction that lives in your brain, under your skin, floats alongside your red blood cells oxygenating all your squishy inside parts.

Yeah.

So.....be right back.

Take my advice...

2012-01-22T14:39:00.000-06:00

If the one man show, Nevermore: an Evening with Edgar Allan Poe starring Jeffrey Combs ever comes to your town, GO SEE IT!

Trust me on this. You will never read Poe the same again.

Combs is a brilliant actor and I have to give him the highest credit, actor to actor, because there is nothing more dangerous than an interactive play. If the crowd doesn't play along with you, nothing...NOTHING works.

It's like playing to a room full of soggy corpses. Just silence except for the horrible drip, drip, dripping. I shudder with the memory.

It's an amazing, beautiful, heartbreaking evening with America's first mad poet. Oh, Poe is definitely an American creation. Our own first completely overlooked genius. Crushed by poverty and his own hubris, he never had a chance. Poor bastard.

Combs also read The Tell-tale Heart with all the intensity of a madman. He held a lit candle in one hand for most of the reading and waved it around with such ferocity, I worried his coat would catch fire.But that's probably just the Mom in me.

And, the poetry. Jesus. The Bells. I always hated that poem when we were forced to read it in school. After watching Combs perform it in a manic, drunken rage, I will never hear it the same again.

I'm not a poetry fan. Reading it has never been my thing but hearing it performed, oh man, THAT could make a poetry lover out of me. Hearing the sad longing of Anabel Lee and the angst of Dream Withing a Dream, shit, even a white trash public school deviant like me could get teary eyed. And the Raven. Damn. That poem is scary! Scary and sad...so, desperately...sad. I just wanted to give the melon headed lug a giant hug...and a dose of Prozac. Seriously. Thank God for modern medicine.

Here's some links. Check them out. And if the chance ever arises for you to see this show, grab it. Trust me.

http://www.nashvillescene.com/nashville/cult-hero-jeffrey-combs-throws-a-unique-celebration-for-crazy-genius-edgar-allan-poes-203rd-birthday/Content?oid=2734865

www.jeffreycombs.com

Because the Cards told me to...

2012-01-16T18:35:00.000-06:00

As many people know, this year I made a commitment, a pledge, more or less, to write this goddamn novel, the one I've been working on since 2004, just get it out and get on with my life. The idea is that I'd have a finished draft by the end of the year, something I could finally have in hand, something I could workshop around, something a bit more real and intact than just a banker's box full of journals, files and newspaper clippings.

That sounded like a rant. Maybe it was. Moving on.

My first order of business was to take everything I had done before now, everything since 2004, all the journals, files, bits of wayward notes, put them in a box and shove them to the back of a closet. I was going to start fresh, start without an eight year old decaying albatross hanging around my neck.

Oh, it was going to still be a Travis Dare story, still TPIG and all the same characters. I just wanted to go back to the beginning, back to where things were fresh and see what could happen.

And, so, I started...another journal.

You see where this is going, my friends? Oh, yes.

And, as a person with my sort of delusional mindset tends to do, I consulted a higher power, a little oracle I keep in a green felt bag dotted with sparkly gold stars. My Tarot cards. I'm a pretty good reader as anyone I've ever read for will admit and many times I just feel a pull to...well, pull a card from the deck. It's always something very...interesting.

For instance: one morning as I was leaving for work, I saw a butterfly caught in the remnants of an old spider's web so I freed it. Afterwards, as I went to my car, I saw a caterpillar struggling to cross the driveway. Not wanting to squish it, I picked it up and put it in the grass. As I got into my car, my cat jumped over the fence and ran towards the house. Dammit! I got out of the car, opened the door and let the cat inside. That's when I got the pull. I figured, what the hell, I was already late for work so I pulled a card: the Empress. The Mother Goddess card. Ha, ha, Universe. Very funny.

See what I mean?

Anyway, tonight I pulled a few cards. My intent? Just guidance, nothing special, just a little nudge. I pulled 6 of Pentacles (squandering talents), Ace of Swords (gift of intellect and communication), Ace of Cups, (gift of spirit, a start of a new adventure).

In a nutshell: Get off your ass, princess, and just start writing the damn book.

And....there you have it.

Tools

2012-01-08T12:10:00.000-06:00

When I was 9 years old, I wanted to be an astronomer. This was before my total inability to understand the mysteries of math came to light, please understand. To my nine year old self, being an astronomer meant contemplating the mysteries of the universe, traveling to distant planets and doing all sorts of coolio, cosmic adventure type stuff. I blame Star Trek and Carl Sagan. They twisted my wee head. The same way I thought being a reporter meant I got to go into sewers and find monsters and do all sorts of Kolchak the Night Stalker stuff. Television really did a job on the way I perceived the adult world.

Damn you, Mary Tyler Moore.

But I digress.

When I turned 10, I got a telescope for my birthday. One of those Jr. Astronomer get ups. I could see the moon pretty clear, stars always had a weird blue/red aura and it also came with a special blacked out lens to look at the sun. Yeah. You read that right: LOOK AT THE SUN. Obviously, optical concerns weren't a real high priority in 1976.

I set it up in my room and I used it to look at the moon until that got boring. I used it to look at the birds in the tree outside my room and that got boring. I used it a few times to look into the windows of the house across the way but that got increasingly creepy even to me.

And it sat next to the window until it found its way to the floor and then under my bed and, finally, to the dark corners of my closet where all toys go to die.

The point I'm trying to make is that you can't just throw a kid something complicated like a telescope (and even the kiddie versions are still scientific instruments...of a sort...just roll with it, okay?) and walk away thinking, "That'll make a scientist outta of'em!"

It doesn't work like that. You don't throw a hammer at a kid and think that will make them a carpenter. You don't give a kid a bunch of Lego blocks and thing that will make them an architect. Or computer bits will make a kid a geek. You have to back the tools up with education, people, with some sort of book of instructions, something that explains what the hell to do with it!

I've often said that you can only work with the tools you are given. A self aware person can decide whether or not these tools are what they want to work with and pick up a different set if they feel that they are not. Most people don't have this gift. It's a sort of magic, this trick of being self aware, that many humans aren't privy. And that is sad. But what is more frustrating is having a tool at your disposal and not have the faintest idea what it does or how to use it.

Does that make any sense?

My mother's curse

2012-01-05T21:56:00.000-06:00

On our drive home, the Boy said to me, "I had a disturbing moment in math class today."

"Well, that's why you always carry a notebook, honey, so you can hold it in front of-"

"Not...gawd....geez, Mom....."

"So, what happened?"

"The teacher was up there, yammering on about numbers and formula and writing all these symbols on the board and in my head, all I could think was, 'So, when is he going to pull out a long wavy knife to split open some kid to some dark eldritch god?"

I laughed. "HA! That's funny! You should use that!"

"NO! Christ..you're not getting it. Mom, it's not funny at all. It's not normal to be sitting in algebra, trying to understand whatever the fuck that teacher is trying to teach and all I can think is whether or not he's going to summon up the Dark Goat of a Thousand Young to suck out our eyeballs!"

"Whatever. Just know this for a fact: I'm not taking responsibility for you guys being weird. One day, you will see it as a gift. So stop being a crybaby about wanting to be normal."

The whole point of this little vignette (true story, btw) and how it ties into the title of this post is my mother had a very unusual curse. Not just the one where I always started my period before a hot date but one that I believe has had impact on me at a genetic level.

She used to say, "I hope your kids are just as weird as you!"

Too bad she didn't live long enough to see that curse come true.

2012 Motto

2012-01-05T11:41:00.000-06:00

Feel free to share.

Three hours left

2011-12-31T21:28:00.000-06:00

I've been trying to find words, new ones, some quick turn of phrase that will be witty and fresh to end this year.

Nothing is happening.

I hope this is more a coloring of how mundane 2011 has been and not some foreshadowing for 2012.

Because, and I really don't want to jinx this, people, but I have a reeeeally good feeling about 2012.

I don't know why. I just have this feeling. And for people like me, a feeling can be enough.

I don't have any great resolutions. I have the regular ones. I'll do all I can to remain healthy, watch my blood pressure and make sure I do all I can to remain colonically balanced. I want to decrease my debt and be more financially secure. All that responsible adult stuff people who are entering the fourth decade of their life cycles are supposed to be worried about.

Wait. I lie. I do have one big resolution but it doesn't have anything to do with being a Grown Up. But I really, really want this.

I want to have a work shop ready draft of Blood on the Gael ready to show. I want to be able to finally show that I can do this. I really, really can. Not just talk about it, not just sit and plan and plan, scribble crazily in a dozen Moleskins, draw three panel comics about things I want to write, not mumble to myself dialogue or playact scenes in the bathroom mirror.

I want to get this party started. I want to show that I can do this. And you want to know what is really, really weird? I don't even care if anyone else thinks I can or not. I'm far more scared that I don't think that I can do this.

Anyway, that is that. A few more hours. A turning of the wheel. Tomorrow the sun will creep over the horizon and shine down on a the same world from the day before.

It's all really silly, isn't it? Silly human buggers.

And on and on.

See you in the future.

Customer Appreciation

2011-12-23T15:19:00.000-06:00

With people holding tightly onto every dollar and penny they can clutch in their meaty paws, customer loyalty is paramount in succeeding in today's rough economy.

So, when a customer writes in the delivery instructions to "Draw Cthulhu on the box" you bloody well better draw Cthulhu on the bloody box.

Thanks to Jared at Skreened.com for making my day.

And go to their website www.skreened.com

Not only are their t-shirts funny and awesome they are made from QUALITY MATERIALS not cheap, flimsy Guatemalan fabric crap. Yeah. I'm looking at you Zazzle.

And anybody that would go out of their way to draw Cthulhu rising from deep R'leyh is ace in my books.

My Three Dan Stories

2011-12-18T21:55:00.001-06:00

There is a grace in being a man of few words. My husband is one of those men. He has cracked maybe one or two jokes in our entire marriage*. His brother, Mike, is the same way. I think I heard him make one joke in the entire time I've known him**.

I'm on the other end of the spectrum. I talk a lot. I can conversate on a myriad of topics from dead serious to dirty slutty. You want someone to blab and blab, I'm your girl, However there is a problem with being a font of hilarity. After a while, nobody even notices. It is expected and therefore taken for granted.

You ungrateful bastards.

But I digress.

The point is I remember their riffs.

Their father, Dan Hicks, was the same way. A very quiet guy, never said a word that he didn't mean. I don't even think for a second that I knew him very well even though I've known him for over 30 years. The Hicks' men are just that way. Very reserved, very internal, very quiet.

Still, I do have three Dan stories that I can share to commemorate his passing.

1) Dan Hicks once told me he saw a UFO. He used to drive from Nashville to Woodbury to date Thelma and one day, while driving the back roads to her house, he saw a silver disk, floating right above an electrical line. He said it was like it was refueling or something.

"What did you do?" I asked, wide eyed.

"I got the hell outta there! What the hell do you think I did?

2) One evening, we were in the den at his house, watching a PBS special on Joseph Campbell's Power of Myth. In this episode, an Indian woman was shown kissing the head of a hooded cobra to ensure that the rains would come that summer. Dan took a long pull off his cold beer and said, "If it were up to me, it would be one long dry summer."

3) Early in our relationship, I went white water rafting with Dan, Brian and Mike. I needed a bathing suit for the adventure and being very young and stupid, I bought a very pretty, pink one piece. I wanted to look feminine and cute, okay? I didn't know what happens to pink when it gets wet.

When I took off my lifejacket, Dan said, "Look! The roses are blooming!"

Like I said, I was young and very stupid.

God speed, Dan Hicks, rest in peace.

*One day, early in our marriage, Brian was at the door with a heavy box. "Hey, Nik, open the door for me."
"You're a big bad Marine. Open it yourself."
"I would but my zipper is up."

**After listening to a guy whine and moan about his life, Mike shook his head and said, "In a previous life, Chris was a dog that pissed on Jesus' sandals."

How I was able to avoid Christmas shopping...

2011-12-17T18:48:00.002-06:00

I am dying.

It's a triple whammy.

First, I am suffering from a wine hangover which is causing a nice dehydration vise around the back part of my head. I should've known to avoid 8 dollar bottle wine. What the fuck was I thinking.

Second on the death call list is a full blown sinusitis booger bomb that has gone off in the vicinity of my eye socket and blossomed into my forehead. I think my nose has gout. If I could cut it off, I would.

I also have the shits. I blame the first part for that problem.

My sister came by earlier this morning. I answered the door with my hoodie pulled up and wearing sunglasses. I hunkered behind the door like Renfield, trying to avoid the sunlight.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" That's the Nelson compassion coming out.

"Migraine. What the fuck do you want?"

"I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out but....damn, you look like the Unabomber."

"Shit sticks and die."

Did I mention we are the last of our line? Yeah. It's the love that keeps bringing people around.

So, my husband brought me home to Magical Pills the size of Twinkies the pharmacist said would help.

"I'm supposed to swallow these? Are you sure they aren't suppositories?"

I swallowed (heh....not my first time), crawled into bed and stayed there all day.

And that's how I missed out on the joys of Christmas Shopping on the last weekend before Christmas.

And that's why this post is so shitty.

Rewind and reload.

Titty Twister Tannenbaum (or Don't Fuck With the Death Santa)

2011-12-10T19:26:00.001-06:00

Decorating the Christmas tree in my house isn't what Rockwell imagined.

"When did titty twister tassels start meaning Christmas?" my son said as he held the golden tassels up to his chest and twirled them. "Seriously, Mom. What the hell?"

Okay, Christmas at my house isn't even safe for the Baby Jesus.

We're not a religious sort. My husband is a Christian (more out of tradition, I suspect, than anything else) My kids have never even set foot in a church. I have no idea what sort of spiritual ideas they claim to hold. I know The Girl joined an atheist group in her freshman year but she quit after two meetings because they were "such condescending assholes". The Boy tried reading the Bible but after reading the book of Job he declared that Yahweh was "a prick" and refused to give his "precious, precious belief juice over to somebody that would dick you around like that."

Don't even ask what I am. I am what I am. Move along...

So, Christmas for us is more a secular experience. Yeah. We're in it for the loot.

Anyway, back to the tree...

There were signs this wasn't going to be a family friendly experience.

I interrupted my son's Skyrim game to start up the festivities. That was strike number one.

We ventured into the colon of the house, i.e. the garage, and located the tree. We've had it for years, lots of years. Still in the original box. It's damn near a heirloom.

"What is that weird smell?" The Boy said as he picked up his end. "And why is my end wet?"

Shit. The phantom cat pisser had struck again.

But, LO! a Christmas miracle was at hand! The pisser did not sully the tree within! NO! Only the box outside fell victim to the foul feline stream.

"The tree is okay! Look. All the pieces and parts are fine. We can still use it!"

"Great." The Boy picked through the assorted tree limbs. "Hey, what part goes where?"

"It's color coordinated. There is colored paint on the tips. There's an instruction sheet in the box. See it?"

"No. There's no sheet."

"No problem. We'll just put them together by their colored tips and just figure it out."

"Yeah, that's going to be hard since the paint has scrapped off."

Strike two.

Hey, look, I said the tree was old.

We dumped the tree out downstairs and brought the branches up to the living room. I let the kids sort them out by size. By that I mean, I let them fight and bicker. I fluffed up the top part of our tree which we dubbed "the Shoggoth" and clamped it to the metal pole that played the part of tree trunk with all the finesse of a Frankenstein.

In the end, we had a tree that looked like something that might very well pillage villages if given the right amount of electric shock.

"It looks swaybacked." The Girl critiqued. "Like it has scoliosis."

Well, that much better for the villagers.

Then came time to decorate.

The Boy pulled out a long red icicle ornament. "Look, Jesus-cicles!"

"What??!?!"

"I read somewhere these represented the blood Jesus shed on the cross."

"Gross!" The Girl cried out.

"You think that's gross? Don't even ask about the red stripes on a candy cane."

"Where do you find stuff like that, Boy?"

He put the Jesus-cicle on the tree. "Internet."

Strike three.

You can imagine how the rest of the day went. Below is a short list of their best zingers:

"Look at this reindeer. Look at its eyes. This is a deer that has seen things that can't be unseen."

"This snowman is froggy. Look at him. He is ready for a fight."

"Cool. Put him over here next to the rapey elf. They can duke it out."

"I could stab someone to death with this. Look. It has some serious weight behind it."

"This Santa has a scythe. Look! What the hell is that supposed to be?"

"Put it in the back so the neighbors can see it and know we mean business. Do Not Fuck with a Death Santa."

Oy.

Where cat piss smells like roses...

2011-12-04T18:24:00.001-06:00

There are days like today where I spent most of it up to my elbows in cat urine soaked pieces of furniture, clothes and whatever else the furry bastard could piss on, that I dream a stranger from the future will appear, shaking his head, saying, "This is no place for you! Don't you know who you are?"

"What do you mean?"

"You are the most famous/loved/revered/sexy/worshipped/insert narcissistic fantasy here in the world!"

I would sit up and brush back an adorable curl that has come loose and hangs wistfully in my face. I look like a Disney wet dream. "Really? Me?"

"Yes. You! Come with me! I'll show you!"

And then he would whisk me away to this place where I am adored and where my life is fulfilling and cat urine smells like rose petals (Screw science. This is my fantasy). All my needs are met, my bank account is like an deep well of cash and my family is happy and not one bit neurotic. (Wait...take back that last one. Even fantasy has its limits.)

But then the buzzer breaks into my daydream and the dryer needs emptying and the washing machine needs refilling and the whole damn cycle goes on and on and on.

Really...don't look

2011-11-29T14:08:00.001-06:00

Woke up nauseated, cramping and sick.

Nothing to see here. Move along. Quickly.

Nothing to see here....

2011-11-28T22:03:00.001-06:00

Still eating turkey.

Send more cranberries....

Greasing the wheels

2011-11-23T22:23:00.001-06:00

While looking over today's writing attempt, I like to burn away the despair with what I call Faulkner's Lubricant.

.
Don't judge me

The one where I have an epiphany

2011-11-22T21:56:00.001-06:00

I've been blocked and unfortunately I've yet to find a Writer Suppository in the laxative aisle at Krogers so I've been journaling. If writing "fuckity fuckity fuckity fuck fuck fuck i hate this fuckity fuck" over and over really counts as constructive journaling. It's a word count so...fuckity fuck.

What I've been doing as of late is making birds. I call them the Edgar Boid Gang after the original Edgar I made as the prize for the Nashville Noir contest I held for my Fiction Group last October.

The original Edgar

I have made five so far.

I don't think when I make one. I don't lay out an outline or any kind of metaphoric time line. I don't think about chapters or plotlines. I don't think about a biography or how this character fits into the Campbellian idea of a hero. I don't think at all. I just take the sculpey clay which is actually not clay at all but some sort of PVC modeling putty shit that is brittle and makes my hands ache as I smoosh and bend it into something like a brick, something I can work with.

I do have a muse for the Boids of a sort.

He doesn't say much.

I just start modeling. I let the clay tell me what to do. I squish and bend, pull it like taffy and just let something come out of nothing. Before you know it, a face starts to form and then an idea starts to form. Who this guy is, where he's from, what he has done and how he fits in with the Edgar Boid Gang. It's fun. It's just...play.

Tonight, it hit me, like most epiphanies do, when my mind was clear and my hands were full. When I am playing with my birds, I never, ever once think, "Will anyone like this? Is this any good? Is htis original? Is this boring? Is this too trashy? Too stupid? Too low brow? Am I wasting my time?"

Nope. Never. Because I don't care if no one else likes my Edgar Boid Gang. I love them. That's all that matters.

And a little voice inside me whispered, "You need to use that very same attitude when you start back to writing, sweetie. Why do you give a damn if no one else likes your story? Do you like your story? Do you love Stephen and Travis and Harry and Allison all that rest of the gang? That is all that matters. Fuck 'em if the rest of the world can't take a joke."

My muse tends to get vulgar. Deal with it.

A simple test...

2011-11-20T17:54:00.001-06:00

If you want to know how well your fellow writers are doing don't do this:

"How's that novel going?"

"Great! It's going fantastic. Pounded out 10,473 words today!"

"Really? I did 11,238 words."

"Yeah? Well, I might have done more but I drove some orphans to their vaccinations. gave blood for anemic lemurs and did a photoshoot for Sexy Writers Monthly."

"Really? I just did 10,000 more words."

"Fuck you."

Trust me. They are lying bastards. Everybody lies about their word count. It's a pissing contest for writers.

You want to know how much time your "pal" is actually putting in behind the keyboard check out their bathroom. Or the kitchen sink. Or, God forbid, the kitty litter box. If your friend, the rat bastard who constantly wants you to read their stuff but never EVER pays for the drinks, is living in a house that needs a FEMA loan to get it fit for human habitation, they are writing. The bastard. If dirty plates with half eaten sandwiches and styrofoam boxes of Chinese takeout are stacked high enough to make a fort, your friend is writing. The bastard. When a person is blessed with a horny muse that is pounding out story ideas into your mindhole faster than your fingers can type, everything else just falls away.

On the other hand, my house is fucking immaculate.

Do the math.

Bastards.

*Because I used their mug as a graphic. Check out this website.

http://www.squidoo.com/top10tipsforwritersblock?utm_source=google&utm_medium=imgres&utm_campaign=framebuster

The one where I rant and make loosely factually based theories on how to save the human race

2011-11-16T21:37:00.001-06:00

Imagine this scene:

There is a knock on the door. Pedro and Buddy, a devoted, long term gay couple answer the door. A shiny badge is thrust in their face.

"Good morning." a voice behind the badge says. Two other men in suits step inside and push their way past Buddy and Pedro and stand behind them. "Come with us."

Before they can resist, Buddy and Pedro find themselves being pushed out of their house and towards two vans. Buddy is thrown into one of the vans and the door is slammed shut.

"WAIT! What the hell are you doing?" yells Pedro.

The man with the badge opens the door on the second van. "It's simple. We are separating you two and taking you to different, unfamiliar locations. There you will be forced to mate with females. Once you have impregnated your quota, you will be allowed to return to your home."

"What?" Pedro sputters. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's for the good of the human race." The man in the suit shoots Pedro with a tranquilizer dart. "Trust me on this."

Can't happen? It is. Right now.

Meet Pedro and Buddy.

They are being ripped away from each other's flippery little winglets and forced to copulate with females by the officials of a Toronto zoo. Their Zoo Overlords promise to reunite the couple once they've impregnated their quota help. All in an effort to save their "endangered species". Sounds more like sexual blackmail to me. "You want to go home, Pedro? Mount that chick over there and get her to pumping out some eggs and we'll get you a ticket lickety split!"

Canadians. Pffft. Go figure.

First, they came for the penguins. Next, it will be that really cool gay couple down the street that can pull off a fabulous impromptu morning brunch with 48 hours preparation, crepe paper and crackers. Let's face it, people. The human race could use a quick shot of some homo-gene to spike up the gene pool. Ever wonder why fashion seems to be stuck in a 30 year loop? It's just a rehash of 70-80-90s shit over and over. And look at Hollywood. Not a decent, creative idea in 30 years.

Why?

AIDS.

Think about it.

AIDS killed off all the creative brainpower in New York and California back in the 1980s. We have only the hardy Mid-West homosexual stock left to help rejuvenate the human genome. And they've been keeping it all to themselves, selfish bitches.

Actually, now that I think about it. Forcing educated, cultured and fashion savvy men to impregnate women is starting to sound better and better.

Sorry, Pedro and Buddy, I've changed my mind. Take one for Team Homo-Sapien!

Not really my thing

2011-11-08T12:17:00.001-06:00

I've had lots of receptionist jobs. It's a real Face position for people who are attractive and perky. While I might have the aesthetic appeal for such a gig, I've never been good at being Pretty. It's not in me. I'm not good at smiling and gushing over people just because they've walked into my space. Frankly, I'm more annoyed than overjoyed to see someone coming at me. It usually means they are either 1) bringing me work that will take away from my important Facebooking or 2) going to ask me something stupid. Usually more of the later than the former.

I had a guy call me today and blurt out his glorious resume and then say, "But obviously you know who I am!"

"Nope, not a clue and I don't really care. What can I do for you?"

Hey, I ended on a high note. That counts, right?

The one where I limber up my fingers kvetching

2011-11-07T20:21:00.001-06:00

Here we are again. Just going to get my fingers back into the rhythm of typing. It’s been way too long, far too long away from the keyboard. I haven’t had much to say, not really. Rather been blocked or just too damn tired. Haunted Nashville took it out of me this year. I suspect it was a combination of age and adding an extra day to our schedule that did me in.. I barely made it, I swear. No one will know how close I came to not making it through the entire run.

It was a weird ending. I was full of so many feelings on the last night. I had imagined I would be giddy and happy and be ready to party, party party with all my castmates afterwards but…no. I wasn’t. I felt flat, dull. Done. That was it. I was done. I wanted to go home, get some damn rest and get on with the next adventure.

I wasn’t unhappy or in any way dissatisfied with HN this year. The cast was supportive and talented. My makeup artist, Jim Stinson, was kind and concerned about my comfort with wearing a face hugging silicone mask for 7+ hours a night. I had a kickass room all to myself, a beautiful Victorian parlour room with a fainting couch, a desk, a Solarium window with long white floaty drapes, a beautifully set dinner table, a china cabinet with beautiful plates, and all sorts of other sundries to outfit the room. I also had remote control candles which I used a lot in the beginning of the run. Once things got too hectic, it became too much of a bother to incorporate them into the gig. I used that room to its fullness. I would sit in the chair, turned away from the door, my face partially covered by a handkerchief. As people would come into my room, I would slowly take notice of them, “Is there someone there?’ and then I would stand, the light strategically placed to show off my face. I would slowly, very slowly approach them, “Who has come? Who? Who has come to torment an old woman?” (That is one of my lines. That is what I called the Scared Martha.) Sometimes just that was enough to make people run back out of the room and try to find some other way out. My sister, Melinda was our lead (think stage manager) and she wandered back stage and corralled errant customers back into the maze. She would tell them, “You have to go that way!”

“But I don’t want to!” I would hear them yell back to her. “ That creepy old lady is in there!”

“Hey, if you want to go through the rest of the house, it’s the only way!”

I would shriek, “IT’S THE ONLY WAY!!!” Which never seemed to help.

Another one was the “Can you hear them?” bit. I would do pretty much like before except I would let them get further in the room before I said, softly, “Tell me….tell me, please. Do you hear them?” The mark would usually say, “What?” And then I would jump up, full of fury and go into my “The GYPSIES! I can hear them! Anne says I am mad because I can hear them!” And then I’d fling myself towards the wall, dramatically gesturing the way out of the room ( two fold move) screaming, “They are in the walls!” And as the group passed, I would tap the floor with my cane, “They are in the floors! Crawling like vermin!” I was always amazed at how many people would jump at that.

I also had good luck with standing by the window, out of their line of sight as they entered the room. I would call out, “Do I hear something?” and then slowly, creep out, doing a slow burn into the light. (The one thing I learned this season is that slow is creepy). I would see the people and walked towards them, reaching out for them, “Come closer…closer….these old eyes…” Now here is where most people said, “SHIT!” and run back out the door or run past me, around the table and out of my room. If they didn’t, if they just stood there, I’d go into my “Who sent you here? Was it the Gypsies?” and then start wailing about my fate or I’d angrily accuse them of people gypsies, whatever. About this time, my act was completely dependent upon THEIR reaction.

Which could very well bite me in the ass.

It’s probably not ideal for an actor to allow the audience to dictate the show but that is what Haunted Nashville is all about: interaction. For this show to work there has to be a tête-à-tête between actor and audience. For the most part, our audience would take off their Adult Hats at the door and played the game. I loved those guys. They made my job easy and fun. They even unknowingly helped me make up new schticks. Between the screaming teenage girls who ran through as if I were going to go at them with a chainsaw and the fun people, it was a breeze.

Then there were the others. The 2%.

There were the Comedians, usually young men, who to cover their fear had to their own Stand Up Routine. I would counter with, “Oh, a funny boy. Do you all hear him? He’s a funny boy. More boy than funny, I’d wager.” I’d say as I guesstimated their penis length by pinching my finger and thumb together. That usually got his friends laughing and they’d push him out of my room.
Then you had the Drunks. Not much you can do with them but corral them out of your room as soon as possible before they 1) puked, 2) try to start a fight or 3) try to have sex with you.

For the record, drunk women are far more dangerous than drunk men. It’s as if Drunk Women think they have generations of Bad Assery they have to make up for and pass right to Try To Start A Fight. Although I did get a couple of sexual proposals from the feminine sort. Rather disturbing considering my character was a 80 year old dead woman, some sort of geriatric necrophilia fetish that I never really signed on for.

And then there were the Assholes, just regular type joes that for whatever sort of logic they used to amble through their lives in the outside world found it completely justified that since they spent $20 on a ticket that gave them the right to abuse, assault and aggravate the actors. I don’t lump them in with the Comedians because, for those poor suckers, trying to get a laugh was a stress release. No, these are sociopathic, motherfucking throwbacks that think because they’ve thrown down a few tenners on a ticket, they now have carte blanche to run ramshod through the houses, crashing our sets, attacking the actors and making the more whimsical of the crew wish for head exploding super powers.

For the dyed in the wool Asshole, this wasn’t a stress release, no, this was their mother fucking RIGHT to slam through our scenes, crash our walls and physically assault the human beings that were trying to put on a show. I suspect these are the kinds of people that started out in life thinking it was funny putting duct tape on a kitten to make them dance and eventually graduated to dumping lighter fluid on said kitten to make it dance quicker.

The only way to deal with the Asshole is to not engage. DO NOT ENGAGE. You can not win. Just point them to the nearest exit, try not to get in their way and push them through.

This is especially true for that Top of the Garbage Pile Asshole, The Gangbanger. This sort of Asshole generally has a lengthy police record and might very well have the means at hand to “jack up a bitch” as one told me one night. We also had Gangbangers threaten to come back after the show and “pop a cap” into the actors. Yes. They actually said, “Pop A Cap.” Seriously. Who writes that shit? And I forgot to mention the lovely specimens that threatened to come back and “burn your goddamn place down!” Lovely people, truly. The shining pinnacle of millions of years of evolution.

In spite of all of those extraordinary examples of why population control should be a hot topic in Congress, the ones that pissed me off the most were the Walkers.

Walkers come in different flavors. You’ve got the Hipster Walker. This asshole comes in completely aloof as if he has seen it all and can’t believe that anyone expected this to impress such a worldly specimen of humanity. He usually attempts some sort of snarky comment to show his superiority to the other hipsters (they always run in packs of 3 -5). This sort of Walker is the least offensive because as soon as I challenged them, they folded like cheap lawn furniture. Assholes.

There is the Find The Exit Walkers. These are focused personality types who only want to find their way out as quickly as possible. It isn’t they are scared as much as goal oriented. You can try an engage them but you will be wasting your voice and energy. They are like rats in a maze and they only want the cheese at the end. Drove me freaking crazy.

Another class of Walker is the Creepy Solitary Guy. They meander through the house, totally unaffected and seem more interested in the lighting, sound, stage design and makeup than they are with the experience as a whole. CSGs are usually reviewers from local papers, judges from the Haunting community (Haunted Nashville won two prestigious awards in 2010) or rival haunters come to check out your house and see what the big fucking deal (BFD) is all about.
Sometimes the CSG is simply that: a solitary, creepy guy without friends to go with him to haunted houses. Those guys freak me out. Haunted houses are a groupcentric kind of fun. Look, I’m no snob for doing things alone. I prefer to do things alone but even an introverted monster like me knows there are things that are okay to do in a solitary fashion and other things that are decidedly not okay to do alone. Eating at a nice restaurant au solitaire = okay. Eating alone while staring at children playing in a ball pit at McDonald’s = not okay. See the difference? I keep thinking those friendless CSGs are serial killers looking for their next victim. Think about it. How easy it would it be to shank a bitch, snap her neck, toss her onto the table and arrange her body so that the next group just thinks she’s just a fucking prop? It could be done. I’ve thought about this long and hard.

So, I hear you thinking (I can do that. I have powers beyond your imagining), why do Walkers piss you off more than Assholes or Gangbangers? They seem fairly tame in comparison.

That might seem accurate, dear tinny, nasally voice in my head that I imagine is yours, and in the realm of physical damage the Asshole/Gangbanger does rank higher than a Walker but what grinds me more is the psychic damage. Journalists and Judges aside, the energy I have to put out just trying to engage an Eye On The Prize Walker is exhausting. Rival Haunters, Journalists and Judges are coming through because it’s their damn jobs; I get them. Why do people pay money to conga-line through a house and actively AVOID everything around them? It’s frustrating to me as an actor. And, GODDAMMIT, I hate it when I hear them say as they are leaving, “That wasn’t scary at all.” Of course, it wasn’t. The only thing you saw was the fabric of the sweatshirt in front of you, assdrip.

Wow. That was full of venom.

Anyway, look, take it from your friendly Death Hag, there are only few rules to follow if you want to enjoy yourself at a haunted house.

1) Don’t be a dick. Take off your Adult Hat and be a kid for a few minutes.

2) Houses are ALWAYS linear. Don’t go backwards; the maze hasn’t changed since the thirty seconds you were last there. This isn’t Hogwarts. Always go forward. I can’t tell you guys how many times people would run the WRONG WAY out of my room. (Because I’m just that awesome.)

3) In an interactive kind of place like Haunted Nashville, PLAY with us. We want you to. This is Improv Theatre. Just always remember rule #1. In spite of what Hollywood wants you to think, dicks never get laid.

4) Parents, hey…look, we know you paid “damn good money” and you are going to get your moneys worth but, really…if your kid is freaked out to the point of crying incoherently, seriously reconsider your fucking priorities, ‘kay?

5) Oh, Parents Part 2: Don’t bring babies to a haunted house. And by babies I mean anyone in a diaper. Seriously. What the fuck? We had a guy come through with an 18 month old kid. Every house was alerted and we played to the kid and not the father because, hey, fucker, that’s how we roll at Haunted Nashville. You bring an 18 month old BABY into my room and expect me to make it cry? What kind of sick psycho freak are you?

6) Oh, and Ladies, here’s a quick tip of your Auntie Martha: Sweetie, if your boyfriend is grabbing you and thrusting you up in my face, pushing you into walls and forcing you to do things that you don’t like, that’s called abuse. He might tell you that it’s all fun and games because you’re in a haunted house but, sweetie, if your man is that willing to throw you to the Dead for laughs, how supportive is he going to be with the Living?

7) Respect an Actor’s Space. I’m not a whore so I do not want to suck your dick nor am I a slab of meat looking to get tenderized. I’m an entertainer doing my best to give you a good show. Really. If you have a problem understanding that, I suggest you go back and read Rule #1.

Until next year, Happy Haunting…..

Writers are people, too.

2010-08-02T19:12:00.003-06:00

I'll make a confession about something all writers are guilty of: I have a bookcase full of books about the craft of writing that I have never read. And probably will never read.

That said, I just got two more.

I just received in the mail: Write That Book Already by Sam Barry (Dave Barry's brother) and Kathi Kamen Goldmark (some chick) and The Art of War for Writers by James Scott Bell.

Yeah, I plan on reading them. Hopefully.

I showed them to my daughter, "Hey, look what I got."

She flipped through one of the books obviously absorbing all the wisdom within via osmosis. "Writers. I swear. There is just something about you guys that just....pisses me off."

"What?"

"I mean, really. You guys always seem so angry."

"Angry?!?! I'm not angry. Why does everybody say that I'm fucking angry?!?!?"

"Oooookay. It's like you guys are so pissed off about all the work you do. If it pisses you off, why do it? Shit. You all just need to chill."

Let me explain: my daughter is an artist. Oy.

"Look, you artist guys have it so easy, okay? I mean, you draw something and say to somebody, 'Hey look at this!' then the person takes one second, one measly second and goes, Wow! and then you're off on your next piece."

"Yeah. So?"

"Even musicians have it easier than us. They strum a few chords, belt out a tune and bam! Instant recognition."

"And your point is?"

"I'm just saying that I can spend months writing a story and then I have to find somebody and say, 'Hey, will you take a few hours out of your life and read my 55,000 word story and tell me if it's any good?' and then wait for maybe days, weeks for them to respond or, as it is more than likely, for them to avoid me so they won't have to tell me they didn't like it or, even worse, didn't even read it!"

She just rolled her eyes and handed me back the book. "Whatever. Writers are nuts."

We might be nuts but we have a damn good reason to be angry.

Even if we aren't.

Music City Mythos

2010-07-04T11:53:00.003-06:00

It’s nearly that time, my friends. The Nashville Writers’ Fiction Meetup Annual Spooky Story contest is nigh. This year’s challenge is going to be especially, well, challenging but the rewards, should you emerge from the task spiritually and mentally intact, I promise will be two-fold.

But I am getting ahead of myself…

First, a little history for those just arriving to the party. Every year I host a contest for the Nashville Writer’s Meetup www.meetup.com/nashvillewriters. There is a different theme each year. The past two years we have had Spookapalooza (ghost stories)and Zombielongadingdong (take a wild guess). The rules are simple: write a story that fits that year’s theme, 1500 words or less, typed, double-spaced, a title page BUT NO AUTHOR’S NAME. On the day of the October meetup, everyone who wants to take a chance brings a story and we read each one aloud. After each story is read, a ballot is cast and three stories are chosen as the winners. Each winner receives a horribly tacky prize handcrafted by yours truly.

This year, however, there will be an added incentive. Every story submitted will be taken into consideration for publication in an anthology, Music City Mythos.

If you enter, not only could you be the winner of a tentacled tacky treat but there is also the wonderful prospect of being published! How’s that for a piece of fried gold?

I understand that this year’s theme might not be as recognizable as in previous years. Classic monsters, done that. Ghosts, check. Zombies, they are SOOO last year. Lovecraftian horrors from beyond? YES! THAT is what I’m talking about.

This year I challenge you all to write a short story wrapping our beloved city, Nashville, into the eldritch nightmares of H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos.

Never heard of H.P. Lovecraft? Do the stories of Elder gods, Deep Ones or Cthulhu not ringing any bells?

Shame on you.

You have, you just don’t know you have. H.P. Lovecraft is the most influential but least known writer of the 20th century. Trust me: there isn’t a horror writer alive today that doesn’t have a little Lovecraft ink running through their veins.

To help you get into the swing, check out these sources:

Books:
Tales of the Cthulhu Mythos
Lurking Fear and other stories
At the Mountains of Madness

Movies:

Dagon: wonderful movie based on the story The Shadow over Innsmouth

Mouth of Madness: John Carpenter’s attempt to capture a Lovecraftian horror. It works…sometimes.

Re-Animator- a hilariously campy movie with Jeffrey Combs. Based loosely on the story, Dr. Herbert West-Reanimator.

The Call of Cthulhu- an excellent movie produced by the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society. The film is done like a silent movie from the 20’s. The production values are amazing considering that it was pretty much filmed in a guy’s backyard! Don’t let that scare you. I’m a harsh critic and it was a fantastic movie and was able to capture the spirit of a Lovecraftian story better than most talkies.

Internet:

Just Google Cthulhu or Lovecraft. Trust me, there are scores and scores of freaking websites out there. Crikes, I gotta do everything for you people???

The date of the October Meetup will be October 21. I don’t know where we’ll be having it this year so that will be announced at a later date.

You now have FOUR MONTHS to get off your asses and get cracking on a story so no whining!

If there are any questions, please contact me at tpig@comcast.net

Pleasant dreams!!!

(For those of you not in Nashville or a part of the Meetup and you'd like to submit something to the anthology, I'd love to read them. The 1500 word limit won't be applied to you. Contact me if you want more info.)

Good evening, Mr. Nix

2010-06-11T19:06:00.002-06:00

I got an email this evening from a David Nix wanting to be friends on FB.

My first reaction was: Uh-huh. I wonder if this is really the David Nix or just some asshole pretending to be David?

Cuz I got serious trust issues, people.

After a few email volleys, I am now convinced that Mr. Nix has returned, like the Prodigal Son of old, to his FB family.

And I couldn't be happier!

Ciao, Mr. Nix....

2010-04-27T10:21:00.002-06:00

A year or so ago, I really don’t remember nor does it really matter, I received a friend request on Facebook. He said he enjoyed my posts on a mutual friend’s profile (Cthulhu Phtagn) and thought I was funny. Would I friend him?

I’m a sucker for anyone who thinks I’m funny so I agreed.

That is how I met David Nix.

I don’t know much about him. I know he lives in Louisville, Kentucky. He is bald (or at least his profile pic was). Works for some corporation up there (I suspect KFC or something), does something in HR (I suspect from his posts about interviewing people), has a cat and lives alone. He travels for work to Seattle, Irvine and Texas.

That’s about it. I do know he is the funniest person I’ve had the pleasure of meeting on FB. I looked forward every day to whatever twisted, irreverent and ROFLMAO comment he would post.

Then, one day, I received an email from Annie (one of the Harem, what we girls on David’s friends list called ourselves):

Hey Nikki,

Can u still see Nix on ur fb? I think he blocked me or removed his account. Several other people that were on his friends list have messaged me saying the same thing. Do u know?

I looked on my account and…no Nix. There was no trace of David Nix anywhere on FB.

I emailed her to tell her what I had found and to see if she knew how to contact him.

She replied:

"Not sure if anyone from the harem talks to him or not. I was also wondering if fb deactivated his acct. It's a mystery!!"

A mystery, for sure. I created a FB fan site, Where The Heck Is David Nix? It currently has 24 members. I post on there every day, just to keep it active. I take cellphone pics of bald guys and post them as a possible Nixian sighting. I ask people to post their favorite Nixian quotes.

It has been five days since he went missing. I have mourned his disappearance like a death.

Ah, Mr. Nix, we barely knew ye…caio, baby. Such is the way with internet relationships. Brief, intense and fun but, unfortunately, rarely lasting.

However, not all is lost. This experience has inspired a storyline. As you do.

Hear this out:

Okay, there are bunch of people that are online friends on a social networking site, call it MyFriendSpace or whatever tosses your boat. They share more with these online buds than they do with the fleshpods with which they share a living space. It is so easy to be witty and sexy with the proper lighting and a delete key.

Then one of them disappears. Just poof. Person X is gone. All evidence of his/her existence is erased.

There is an initial outcry, “Where the hell is Person X?” but, as time goes by, interest wanes and soon it dwindles down to a hardcore group of five people who still care.

The Five pool what they know about Person X and decide to meet, in the flesh, in the city where they believe Person X lives.

The Five meet at a local bar. Then they check into a local motel. There are the usual hook ups, jealousies and friendships that occur.

The twist is this: One of the Five is Person X.

Person X never existed. It was just an alias for one of the five. This person plays cat and mouse with the other four. Twisting, hurting, loving and basically mind fucking them.

The damage done, Person X disappears and starts up another alias on another site and starts the game all over again.

Fun, huh?

It's the simple, cathartic things....

2010-03-24T19:27:00.003-06:00

For as long as I could remember, I always mixed my sweet peas with my mashed potatoes. Maybe it's a Southern thing like salt on watermelon or eating tomatoes off the vine like an apple. I never thought twice about it. Until our first dinner in our first apartment in Oceanside, CA, when I served minute steaks with mushroom gravy, mashed potatoes and sweet peas. I began to mash my peas and taters together and I heard my husband, Brian, say while gagging, "What the hell are you doing?"

"Peas and taters. What's wrong with it?"

"Only everything! That's disgusting!"

And I never had mashed potatoes and peas again.

A few months ago, while making dinner for my family, I found a can of peas in the pantry. My sister, Mel, had given them to me. Nobody else in my family likes peas so I made corn for them, peas for me. And, hey! How about some mashed potatoes....

Oh, yes. It slammed me in the face: I had not enjoyed peas and taters in over twenty years. Twenty years! All the time I lived without this one simple, wonderful treat because I thought it was weird and I was afraid of grossing my husband out.

Twenty years. Fuck that.

Well, friends, I am no longer that girl and it occurred to me that evening, while mashing my taters, that it was high time to take back my taste buds and reclaim the wonder that is peas and taters.

It's not much but it is something of a catharsis for me. You don't really see how much of yourself you give away, day by day, year by year. Sometimes you have to take a stand and grab a piece of yourself back.

One pea at a time...

St. Paddy's Day Science Trick

2010-03-19T18:42:00.003-06:00

A co-worker, Layne, very kindly made some St. Patrick Day's cookies for the office. Here is a pic:

Tell me you don't see it. Yeah, you see it. Cookies in the shape of a wee shillelagh. See it now?

I pointed it out to Layne and she instantly recoiled in horror. "Only you, Nik!"

So, to prove my point, I called Eddie over. "Hey, come look at these cookies. Tell me what you see?"

Eddie meandered over; he is not a man who is in a hurry to get anywhere. He took one look and smiled. "You see it, right? The wee green weinee?"

"Naw. All I could see were the boobies."

Thus began the great St. Paddy's Day Science Experiment.

Understand, the plate had more cookies before I had a chance to snap a picture. There were an equal number of boobies versus shamrods. That is very important.

I found that, without exception, every man who passed by the plate and grabbed a cookie, grabbed a booby. Likewise, every woman snagged a wang.

By the end of the day, there was only one willie biscuit left. I went to run and errand and when I returned, it was gone. No one would admit to eating the last donger.

But it wasn't me.

It's a trap!

2010-03-07T10:28:00.003-06:00

So....yesterday I was wandering around the Factory in Franklin. For those of you not in the know, the Factory is this very interesting conglomerate of stores, offices and even a theatre in what used to be an factory that made stoves way back when. There are a dozen art stores, some very good and interesting, some I suspect are run as a hobby by wives of very wealthy husbands. If you get my drift. Never have I seen so many oil paintings of dogs. Really? REALLY?

And vaginas. I swear, everywhere I looked, I'd see abstract, wispy watercolors that looked like purple and pink labia. One artist, God love her, was trying for what I assume was an angel but the stylistic flappy wings and the nubby brown spot for a head just screamed vag. I refuse to believe I am the only one who does not see it.

Or maybe I am.

The real shocker of the day came when I saw a group of smiling, happy people standing in front of a bulletin board that read, "Wellness, Health and Cosmic Happiness Expo!" (or something like that...to be honest, I don't remember but that was the gist.) I walked up to them and they welcomed me with big smiles. "Come in, come in!"

"What is this?"

"It's a Wellness, Health and Cosmic Happiness Expo! It's all free! Please! Come in, come in!"

So I stepped inside.

There was about 10 small tables set up. I'm no stranger to New Age Expos. I looked around but I didn't know any of the faces or businesses being promoted. Hmmm, still it was the same old stuff. Simple plastic tables pushing miracles and magic. Some of them had books on herbs to make you healthy, another table that had ionized water to help alleviate pain and promote enlightenment, some other tables with just smiling, happy people sitting behind them, waving at me and smiling. All the smiles. It should've tipped me off.

I was in the middle of the room when I turned and saw a man sitting in a chair across from a attractive smiling blonde. She was asking him questions and, in his hands he was holding two thick silver tubes.

Uh-oh.

I looked at the table next to him. Stacks of books. The titles were in small print but I could still read it: Dianetics.

"Oh, fuck me!" I said loudly, alerting the tables around me. "Scientologists! I am outta here!"

I left quickly, expecting to feel the needle prick of a drugged dart piercing the back of my neck.

Snow Goon 2010

2010-02-03T19:56:00.005-06:00

After much nagging and pestering and reminding my children of the size 5 body I used to have before they wrecked it by being parasitic leeches on my innards for 18 months, my son, Daniel, finally went outside into the cold mushy snow and made me a snowman.

It brings to mind the idea that nothing done out of love can be evil. Of course, that doesn't mean it can't be downright ugly. Still, it's the thought that counts.

Mittelschmerz

2010-01-15T21:14:00.004-06:00

Yeah, it's another writer rant entry. Pass on by if you want to.

But I wouldn't.

So, I am at that part of the story where, frankly, I just want to wrap it up and write the words, "....then they all died." or something just to be fucking done with it.

Do all real writers go through this? Not just us hacks? It's a common enough complaint that I hear from people in my Fiction group: "I just can't keep going. My interest wanes. I just can't seem to finish anything."

Bah. I think that is what separates Us from Them.

By that, I mean, any damn fool can make shit up but it takes a Major Fool with a Huge Shiny Hat with Bangles On to keep on drudging even though all the while you are thinking, "FUCK FUCK FUCK What the hell am I doing?" all the way to the bitter, cold end. AND THEN, face the horrible task of the endless editing and rewrites. Oh, the rewrites. I am already making notes about what I want to change in the beginning chapters.

Oy.

This story, Travis in a Box, started out as a short story. Really. In my head, I saw it as an event that lasted 24-48 hours, tops. But the story is growing and growing. The characters are morphing and filling out, telling me things about themselves that I had taken for granted. And while it isn't To Kill A Mockingbird, it isn't anything Faulkner or Joyce or any of the Literati would consider worth reading, it is a GOOD STORY.

It really is.

I love my characters. I love them all. Even the bastards. I don't want to water them down, the bastards, I mean, but I want them to have a reason for doing the shitty things they do. Just as much as I want my heroes to have a reason for doing what they do. It all matters, people. Having someone just whack another guy "Just Because" might work in the real world of people and places but in the World of Story, people and things have to have REASONS.

Maybe that's why I like stories so much. At least, with them, I know there is some sort of rhyme and reason. The same can't always be said for reality off the page. People in stories are always so much more real than the person sitting across the table from you. Ever notice that? Really? Take a look. I bet you know more about Luke Skywalker than the coworker you spend 40 hours a week with.

Is that sad? I dunno. I'm just racking up the word count, baby.

So, back to me. Yeah. I'm at that stage of the story where I am seeing that this mother can be so much more than what I first envisioned and I am terrified of the enormity of the task. Do I know enough to pull that kind of trick off? Am I smart enough? Clever enough? Do I have the balls?

Dunno.

I guess we'll have to see...

Box of photos, stashed in the garage

2010-01-13T22:01:00.004-06:00

This week is retro week on Facebook so I wanted to find a picture of myself as a kid.

I went into the garage. Remember the Great Garage Enema of 2009? Well, it's settled more into the Garage Blockage of 2010. A lot of shit is gone but now it's just settled into one hunking big mess in the middle of everything.

I went searching for photo albums but I found a big plastic box stuffed full of photos. I dragged it out from the middle of the pile (of course!), took it upstairs and spent a good three hours just going through a mountain of photos.

Hundreds of pictures of my kids back when they were young and cute. It's amazing to think that sullen child in her bedroom was once that golden, grinning little imp.

Pictures of me when I was a kid through my teen years. God, I was so skinny. Awful skinny.

Pictures of a lot of people, now dead. That was sad, at first, but the pictures were always of times when they were smiling and happy. I realized that, in spite of a lot of crappy times, the majority of our lives together were fun. I decided to forget the bad times and focus on the fun. It's better that way.

I found some photos from our first apartment in Oceanside and a picture of me in the bathtub that Brian swears he did not take. Uh-huh. He claims he couldn't have since he was overseas according to the date stamp on it. Riiiight. Whatever.

Lots of pictures of pets. Little John, the beagle that I grew to HATE with a passion. Ginger, a wonderful boxer. Merlin when his hair was shocking white like a punker. And cats. Lots and lots of cats. Yasuko, Calvin, Graycat...those are the only ones whose names stuck with me. Sorry, furry guys.

I decided to post the picture of me at two years old. My dad had gotten me a cowboy outfit. It had two side holsters with guns. Check it out. Even at that young age, I was wearing a black hat.

Battling the Fish Menace @ Work

2010-01-12T12:17:00.002-06:00

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Blog

2010-01-11T19:18:00.001-06:00

If you think writing is all about sitting in bars and being witty,
become a drunk. It's easier.

Pulling off the tit...

2010-01-10T21:33:00.002-06:00

I realized I had a problem when I stopped to check Facebook before taking a shower and then, twenty minutes later, wet, cold and wrapped only in a towel, I stopped to check it again.

People, that is the sign of an addict.

What a shame.

SO, to prove to myself that I can live without checking to see if anybody has given my latest bon mot a thumbs up or if David Nix has gotten lucky yet, I'm going offline for a few days.

Sure, I'll go online to check my emails (you never know when opportunity is knocking) and to do banking and to get my daily LOLcat fix. And porn. I'm not stupid.

But I have to prove to myself that I can live without FB.

I can, I can, I can....

Snow Drizzle of 2010

2010-01-09T22:41:00.003-06:00

It's stopped snowing. This is pretty much all we got on the yard. The streets were a different story. The main roads were clear but the secondary roads you have to travel to get to the main ones were scary as hell.

(I posted this mainly because I forgot to post yesterday and I am determined to have 365 posts by December 31, 2010. A person needs goals, dammit!)

Alphabet Soup

2010-01-09T14:09:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, every day...every single damn day of my summer vacation, my grandmother would send me off to the store at 11:15 to get 1 can of soup and one packet of Kool-Aide.

Why I was always chosen to go, in the heat and rain, when there were 4 other healthy kids in that house to choose from is another blog entry.

Today's entry is about the soup. It was an either/or option. We had alphabet or we had chicken noodle.

As for me, I loved alphabet soup. We all did. Not just because it was hearty and healthy for our tummies. It was because we would have contests to see who could spell the most dirty words. Childhood innocence. What a glorious time.

Do you remember alphabet soup? Go look for it. You won't find it anymore. Why? Because now it is packaged as Vegetarian Vegetable.

WTF?

What sort of PC crap is this? Did some ACLU funded group for illiterate bastards pop up and say, "Um, that soup makes us feel icky inside."

I've got a pot of Vegetarian Vegetable on the stove right now. Let's see what kinds of words I can spell in response to that....

Morning quickie

2010-01-07T06:54:00.002-06:00

I had imagined posting a lovely snow picture this morning but since the Great Blizzard of '10 fizzled, I've got nothing to show but bare assed naked grass on my front lawn.

Lying bastards.

I am convinced that every winter, the meteorologists and the managers of Krogers get together in a smoke-filled pool hall and scheme on how to get rid of all their after holiday overstock.

What's the best way to dump it and keep a profit?

Forecast bad weather.

Every Tennessean is programmed, I suspect it is something slipped to us in our State-sponsored milk when we are in kindergarten, to stock up on milk, eggs and toilet paper when we hear the word "Snow" being said by someone in a sport jacket in front of a blue screen.

Bastards.

Morning Post

2010-01-06T06:24:00.002-06:00

Thought I'd start this day off with something positive since my pants have decided to shrink a size too small today. Yes. My pants are SHRINKING....shut up.....

I mean, how can this be? With all the stomach crap I've had lately...I've been living on tea and bread mostly. I eat one meal a day. What the hell? Is this middle age paunch? Cuz, I don't like it.

I'm writing it off as winter survival weight. And that's that.

Onward....

So, today will be a very productive one at work because everyone will be trying to get as much done as they can in preparation for the Great Snow of 2010. Every weather wizard online and on TV is promising us a winter wonderland tomorrow. And every person I work with or pass by in the hallways is swearing they will not be coming in tomorrow.

I'm finally feeling better, psychically, so I will be starting back on the latest Travis Dare story today. It's boiling down to the end scene so I've been having problems getting it just right.

It's a writer thang.

Okay, 6:31 a.m., I need to go make the kids' lunches, finish up my morning routine and dig out some pants that fit.

Shut up.

An artist thang

2010-01-05T21:59:00.005-06:00

Tonight's little nugget will be a re-run for my FB minions but it's late and I'm tired.

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This is a portrait my daughter, Brenna, age 17 and currently single, did of the Master (John Simm) from the Doctor Who television show.

Is she awesome or what? However, she did command me to say that it is unfinished. If I don't tell you, she informs me she "will die".

I think it's brilliant but, of course, all she can see are the defects. It's an artist thang. I think she should a copy to John Simm but she says that, again, she "would die" if she did. Teenagers are very fatalistic these days.

Finding a vein

2010-01-04T20:56:00.004-06:00

Listen to me rant for a bit.

It's not easy trying to explain to non-writers how hard it is to write a story. Normal people sneer at me and say, "What? You sit down, drink a hot cuppa and just bullshit on a keyboard. It's not fucking brain surgery, is it? Nobody is going to die if you just quit, push delete and go get a real job, will they?"

Maybe.

And I doubt anyone in my life would give a red rat's ass if I were to stop writing.

My family would probably enjoy the extra attention I could give to laundry, cooking and keeping the bathroom sinks shiny clean.

Friends would probably appreciate me not boring them with inane plot points or me being in a foul mood because I'm living in someone else's head.

And maybe I would be happier if I walked away, went back to school and got more training on how to be the perfect cube drone. Twenty years and counting, folks! How deep is that hole?

It wouldn't kill me, would it?

But I would die. I know it. I can't stop. Something inside of me, some crazy, twisted fucking sadistic bird that pecks and pecks and pecks in my head, screaming at me until I get back on the keyboard so I can jab, jab, jab until I find that vein that bursts the clot and feeds the bird that puts the story on track and flowing.

It's fucking magic, people. Creating something from nothing. Making people live, breathe, eat, shit and die. And all the time worrying whether or not you, the reader, are having fun.

It's been hard lately, finding that vein. I jab and jab and pull out sand. It's there, somewhere. I just gotta keep poking around until I hit it.

But, God...it hurts....

Cage Free Chickens

2010-01-03T18:32:00.002-06:00

Brian took me to a Whole Foods store today. I have to confess something to you all: I have never been to one before. It was like walking into another world.

Is this how the world looks to rich people?

Mouth watering smells. Beautiful, fresh flowers. Blueberries for $4.00 a box. A Juice Bar, a Gelato Bar, two different hot bars where they are served right there as they shop. Organic teas that promised me youth, health, relaxation, strength, intelligence, weight loss, premenstrual tension relief, energy and bowel movements. Fish, beautiful fish, laid out on white, incredibly white crushed ice. Meat. Rows and rows of rich, red meat. Cheese, an entire wall of nothing but cheese. There was a salad bar with eighteen different types of olives. Breads and desserts. A whole section for vegans and vegetarians. Choice, choice, choice.

And eggs. Who knew there were that many types of eggs. What caught my imagination the most were the eggs that a sign proclaimed them to be "Cage Free Eggs".

Cage free? How different can the ovulation process be for chickens, caged or otherwise? Are uncaged chickens happier as they are forced to ovulate than their caged sisters? And how does one gauge the happiness of a chicken? Do they have a more jaunty spring in their step? Is there a sense of nirvana like contentment in their red tinged black iris?

Or do my richer cousins simply salve their conscience with the idea that their Whole Food chickens spend their lives on some Happy Happy Funtime Farm?

Me and the Doctor

2010-01-02T21:19:00.003-06:00

I started watching Doctor Who back in the '80's. It would play on PBS, every Saturday at 9 p.m. My first Doctor was Tom Baker, an excellent vintage. I loved his character, quirky, smart with just enough snark to be edgy but not mean.

My mother in law made me a honest to goodness scarf just like the Doctor's. I still have it and wear it. Most people who see me on the street have no idea what it is. They just think I'm wearing a freakishly long scarf, just Nik being Nik. I quit even trying to explain. It's something of a geek test now. Much like most of my Miskatonic wear.

I got to meet Tom Baker many years later. Turned out to be quite the prick. As most of the people I admire. I don't know what that says about me exactly but, there you have it.

Then the new Doctor Who series started up a few years ago. I was a little hesitant but the dark, sarcastic Doctor of the the new millenia won me over. And then the little skinny, rooster boy, David Tennant. Again, at first I wasn't too bowled over but I eventually learned to love him as well.

And, best of all, Tennant seems to love the Doctor as much as his fans. I like to think that, if I were to meet him, I wouldn't be as horribly disappointed as I was with Baker.

Did I mention he was a prick?

Now, when I settle on the couch on Saturday nights to watch Doctor Who, my kids are with me. It's great. To share something I loved so many years ago with the people I love now.

01/01/10...I bet you binary geeks are just nerdgasming at that...

2010-01-01T20:15:00.003-06:00

Oh, hey there...been a while.

Miss me? Of course you did.

It's not that I forgot about the blog, on the contrary, every day I felt the chasm between us deepening.

But there was a reason...and it doesn't involve aliens or anal implants.

I had planned on chronicling my time at Haunted Nashville but I had no idea how completely exhausting that adventure would be. I would work Friday/Saturday/Sunday nights and would be wiped out until Wednesday. I wouldn't be fully human again until Thursday and then it would be Friday/Saturday/Sunday and the whole cycle would start again. Fuck me, it was a killer. I don't know how stage actors do it.

Then November came. And then November went and still no blogging.

Same goes for December.

For the record, I was writing, if anyone really cares. I started a new Travis Dare story in September and, as of today, it is still unfinished. What started out as a fun little short story about kidnapping and torture has blossomed into a fucking novel or worse, a novella. I truly don't know anymore. However, I can promise that, when this thing is finally ready for human consumption, it is going to be one hell of a read.

Right now, it is called Travis in a Box. Oh, yeah. You read it right. In A Box.

Anyway, I'm taking a quickie break from Travis to send a little love note to you on the blog because that is my #1 resolution this year: to get back on the blog.

And I will be regaling you all with Tales from a Dark Hallway, my adventures at Haunted Nashville.

Oh, and check out my new profile pic. I think it really captures my inner me. My sister said it made me look like Yoko Ono but she's just jealous of my killer hair. Bitch.

Happy 2010 to all my lovely minions!

I will be back tomorrow. Auntie Nik swears it...

Popping in

2009-10-07T18:43:00.003-06:00

Hi!

I have so much that I want to tell you guys about last weekend but I only have time for a teaser.

Okay....

On Friday night, I did the door host at the House of Distortion. I put my hair in cute pigtails, high on my head, so I had this perky Harlequinesque thing going on. I spent the day working on and learning my spiel which I eventually just winged as the night went on.

More later about skin heads, spiels and "I'm a SOL-JER! I'm a SOL-JER!"

On Saturday, I resurrected Martha! YAY! Had a good time. I was groped, smashed, hit and head-butted. Learned one very important lesson: imperious glares don't work in a pitch black room. And when it all comes down it, a good scare is all you need to make a night fun!

Sunday, I was Martha again and I learned what Haunters do on 'dead' nights.

I'll be back with more!

Promise.

Because the minions demand it*

2009-10-01T05:21:00.003-06:00

Yesterday we had a little "Congratulations on your new job, now get the hell outta here!" party for Neal.

I presented him with his Soul Jar.

Look deeply into his eyes, people. That is the smile of the damned.

*and you'll take what I give you, filthy minions.

Neal's Soul

2009-09-27T14:05:00.003-06:00

Before the Great Pustule Plague of the previous week, I learned that one of my co-workers was leaving. The rat bastard. He took a job with a legal firm across the street, directly across from our building. I believe he did this just so he could look down on us as we struggled up the hill to our menial State employee jobs. Bastard.

He left a glorious career of working the legal puzzles that surrounded highway bulletin boards and dealing with snobbish bastards that were upset about TDOT cutting pampas grass in the right of ways to go into the cut throat, pirate world of Corporate Defense.

Why? There is only one reason.

He sold his soul to the Devil.

He leaves October 1st to start his soul staining corporate career. Sure, he'll be rolling in excess cash and all sorts of fringe benefits. But what does that matter when you are eating dog shit in Hell???

As a going-away gift, I made him this special bottle to keep his soul in.

Take that, Neal, you glorious bastard.

Wow....I really did not see that coming....

2009-09-25T10:27:00.002-06:00

Welcome to the end of the shortest theatrical career. Ever.

Let's roll back to a few days ago...

Monday evening, after work, I went to Bass Pro Shops to take a second look at some lanterns I thought would be killer for Martha. See, Nathan wanted me to work in this dark corridor with a spooky light. I would turn the light up and down, all creepy-like, and say things to freak people out. After looking the lanterns over again, I decided against them and went home. As soon as I walked in the door, my palm started itching....

I took a look and all around my elbow were small red bumps. What the hell? The itched but nothing major. I ignored them and went on with my night.

I woke up Tuesday morning with red, burning, itchy welts up and down both of my arms. What the hell??

My first thought was: bed bugs. I stayed home from work and cleaned my bed, the kids' beds and washed everything in hot-hot-hot water. I took that bed apart, people, and couldn't find any evidence of bed bugs. No blood spots, no feces, no bugs.

Then I noticed that the red welts were now appearing on my legs.

Hmmmm.....

I decided to call and make a doctor's appointment. The earliest I could get would be the next morning at 8:30.

I run to Krogers and load up on calamine lotion, Cortaid lotion and antihistamines. I make myself an oatmeal bath by blending up some oatmeal and putting in a warm bath. (FYI don't use heat on hives. It's a big NO-NO. Big thankful that I'm telling you. I had to learn the freaking hard way.)

While waiting to pick up my daughter from school, I feel the first bump rise on my face. I FELT it, people. By the time I get home, both cheeks and down my neck are covered.

I call the doctor to see if she could get me in that afternoon but, no! They were booked up with people with the flu. Damn those flu people.

Wednesday morning, the bumps have moved up to my ass. They have become long, weeping, crusty welts on my arm. I look like a plague victim. The itching and burning is enough to make me want to break down and cry. The kids make their own breakfast and lunches; I don't want to touch their food.

I drop them off at school and make it to my doctor's office. My doctor is a middle aged black woman who reminds me of Oprah. She comes in and says, "Girl, what have you gotten into?!?"

She asks me to drop trou and I do. "Girl, it is all up and down. Oh, yes. You got it bad, don't you? What have you been doing?"

I tell her about the haunted house and all the makeup. "Oh, girl, yes...yes...that's probably it. Looks like you're gonna to have drop that hobby right now!" She gave me a steroid shot in the ass, some pills for the itching (hydroxyzine. That shit rocks!) and something for the crusty staph infections.

Fuck.

See here is the rub: A decade or so ago, it became a joke in my family that whenever I tried to go to college, someone either died or I got pregnant. It happened every damn time. I would register, sign up for classes, pay my fees and somebody would die. Or I'd get pregnant. The second time, with Daniel, I gave the Universe the finger and went anyway. I felt like a fool, lumbering my fat ass pregnant carcass through those hallways, but I had to let the Universe know that I wasn't fooling around.

Now, it seems to be the same curse with any second job I get. Two years ago, I landed a neat part time job that actually had some potential to turn into something. Yay! I went to orientation, got all set up and then, BAM! my intestines blew an O-ring. I was shitting myself for nearly a week. I couldn't leave the house; my feet were stained from the bile. When I called to let them know I had to quit the job, surprise! my diarrhea went away. Upside of that, I was officially stamped by a doctor as having IBS. Big freaking whoop. Like I didn't know that already.

And now there is Haunted Nashville. People don't understand; I really thought I had finally found some kindred souls. I spend my time surrounded my stupid, dead cubicle drones all goddamn day. I thought that, maybe, this would be something that would lead me out of that world.

And now, this. A plague of boils. People, I do not make a very good Job. I don't like being a pawn and, personally, think Yahweh is a bit of a prick.

So, I've let myself crawl down the rabbit hole for the past two days to let myself grieve. One more dream down the drain. Goddammit.

This weekend is the opening of Turbidite Manor. I won't be there, of course. I'm still covered in weeping welts. Will I be able to return? I don't know. I want to but I also know that the show has to go on. And, on top of that, I am so scared. What if I go back and get this shit all over again? I have missed four days of work this week. I've probably dried up all my sick/annual leave.

Fuck.

Beginnings are always messy things

2009-09-20T18:35:00.004-06:00

Last Friday was the big opening day for Haunted Nashville. However, due to red tape and technical difficulties beyond our control, Turbidite Manor, the house I am playing in, did not open. However, since House of Distortion was up and running, Nathan asked if we would come and just advertise the place. By that, he meant walk around the graveyard or on the porch, looking spooky, etc.

I took the Friday shift. Shilo took Saturday.

I was told to be there by 5 p.m. because my makeup was going to be so labor intensive. The makeup artist was showing me all the sorts of things she was going to be doing to me and I thought, "Cool! This sounds like fun."

Ah, the naive thoughts of the initiated.

I get there at 4:45. No makeup crew. Oky-dokey. I hang out with some other people hanging around. Logan was there, hobbling around on his messed up ankle, completely exhausted. He asked why I was there.

"They told me to come."

"Really? Weird. Nobody told me."

Finally the makeup chick comes and I follow her backstage. Her name is Jen. She has red hair from a box, a shade nature never intended. She has several horror themed tattoos up and down her arms. Interestingly, I have found that most of the Haunters seem to have ink of that nature; I'll have to remember that for the book. Anyway, she gets down to business, mixing up blood and this and that and I stand there, feeling invisible.

I finally got up my nerve and walked over to her. "So, will you be doing Martha's makeup tonight?"

"What?! I thought Turbidite wasn't opening tonight?"

"It's not but I was told to be here just to advertise."

"Shit." And she leaves.

Oooookay. Awkward. I go back up front and find Nathan still struggling to make the graveyard. "Nathan, do you still want Martha tonight? I mean, there's no graveyard..."

Poor Nathan. He is near loopy from exhaustion. He has lived there, 24/7, working on the sets. "What? Oh, hi! Yeah...yeah....yeah, sure....."

"Okay. It's just that Jen didn't know about my needing makeup."

"Oh, yeah. Right, right, right. Sure. I figure you can just, ya know, walk around the porch, maybe talk to people as they walk by. Yeah. Sure. Sure."

He turned away and started working on a tombstone. I went backstage and waited for Jen.

She came back with a roll of toilet paper and started mixing up something in a brain jello mold. "See, here's the deal" she said to me, stirring the brain, "I gave the guys a list of stuff I would need and they didn't buy anything. It's only me and one other guy working tonight. I have only what I have in my bag to work with so, frankly, I am fucked. But, it's okay. This isn't my first time at this rodeo. I'll do what I do with what I got. Right! So, we have to make you old, right? Fuck. Where is that photo? Oh, yeah, right. I don't have it. The other chick does. The other chick who can't be here for two more fucking weeks. I am so fucked. Okay, put your blouse top on."

I put on Martha's blouse and sit in the chair. She starts dipping toilet paper in the goo. "This is TP in latex. Okay? Just sit there for a bit while I put this on."

People, let me clue you in on how inexperienced I am to the whole of the stage. I thought makeup would be a relaxing experience. I would sit there, peacefully, while people worked and fussed over me. Sort of like getting a facial. I was wrong. So, so wrong.

She started on my cheeks. She slapped what felt like three pounds of latex soaked toilet paper all over my face. She stuck her fingers UP MY NOSE to make holey bits. She then covered my LIPS with the shit. My eyes. My ears. My neck.

"Okay. Now, let that set and dry."

Fuck me.

Michael Crawford, remember him? the original Phantom of the Opera in the musical?, once complained that he hated Sundays because he had to perform two shows, a matinee and a night show. Because of that, they put him in makeup before lunch and he said the latex on his face was so tight, he couldn't open his mouth wide enough to eat anything. After my little experience, I can't imagine how the hell he sang at all!

After it dried, she picked away at my lips so that I now had this weird effect of double lips. she painted my lips a darker shade to give it a decayed look. It looked pretty cool and creeped people out which was great. Downside, drinking without a straw was damn near impossible.

Guess who didn't have a straw?

Then came the powder. Black powder, flesh toned powder. I don't know what the hell kind of powder. All I know is I am still wiping the shit out of my ears two days later.

Then she started drawing purply veins all over my face.

the end result was....interesting....

(I'm hoping for better when they actually have the real stuff...and, yes, they will do my my hands next time. Jen came up later and cursed, "Shit, I forgot your hands. Christ...I'm sorry...I just got so flustered...")

By the time she finished with me, the rest of the cast from Distortion had showed up and then the blood started flying. God love her, she had and her partner had their hands full.

The wardrobe people came and costumes were everwhere. People needed things stitched and burnt at the last minute. One wardrobe chick was pissed because they bloodied stuff up so much at dress rehearsal that, now, they weren't going to be able to wash and clean the outfits. "Blood doesn't come out! It just turns pink! Febreeze can only go so far. These things are going to be funky in 6 weeks!"

Chaos reigned.

I left, went up to my porch and tried to figure out how I was going to fill the next 6 hours.

I practiced my creepy walk on the porch. Tapping with my cane and trying to put off a generally "don't fuck with granny" aura. I tried to get in touch with my inner cranky old bitch. I don't know how well I did. Many of the cast and crew said I was freaking scary just standing there, silently, staring at them.

I gotta tell ya, the biggest problem with this part is that she is such an inwardly driven character. She is composed and not given to tantrums. She is not a screaming, hollering banshee of a ghost. It's going to be really a hard sell to project that in the few seconds I have with anyone who happens to walk up to me. I don't know if I have the stuff.

Anyway....

That night was not exactly a coup for me. My inner demons rankled that this was proof that I was not up to the challenge while my higher angels comforted me that this was my first time and it would get better.

Frankly, I think the truth was somewhere in the middle.

We had about 70 visitors that night. Mostly friends and family of the staff and crew. As they would come in the door, a veteran Haunter named Darren would jump out at them and scare the piss out of them. He is dressed like a killer demon clown like thing and he has this horrific high pitched laugh. On top of that, he crawls around on the floor, like a slippery snake, in and around their legs. He looks terrifying!

How the fuck does my Granny with a Grudge compete with that?

Nathan kept at me to walk up to people, talk to them, ask them to come back when "the master and mistress are in residence. Perhaps you could visit and stay a while? Perhaps forever?".

Yeah. Trust me. I tried and I got one or two scares but, frankly, Darren would creep them out so much they ran right past me.

Enough bitching...

One thing I saw that night that might interest you, my minions, was a family of 5 adults and two children. It was around 10 p.m. and they brought two kids, 5 & 7, to go to House of Distortion.

People, let me tell you this: if you want creepy scares, Turbidite Manor and Riddles of Horror are the ones for you. If you want bowel disrupting terror with a side of psychotic damage, House of Distortion is right up your alley.

The first thing that tipped us off was that the kids didn't even want to come in the front door but the parents finally got them through.

Then, they met Darren.

Darren had not been informed about the kiddies and did his routine. One kid nearly wet himself right then and there.

Lindsey, a woman working the HoD door, went up front to talk to the kids. She finally convinced them to come in. I was standing by my post and they saw me and nearly ran. I went into the shadows to hide; I didn't want to freak them out.

When they past by my house, I stepped out and waved. They shrank back but waved back.

See? They were scared of me. How would they fare in HoD?

Another chick, the girlfriend of a set designer, offered to watch the kids while they went inside. No deal. The parents were going through with the kids in tow.

Dave, a set designer that knew all the exits (chicken doors, as they are called)went with them.

The rest of us outside, me, Lindsey, some security guys and a woman running a face painting booth, stood there and listened.

Oh, yes. There was screaming. The first part of HoD went as usual but David must've radioed in to the rest to tone it down because the screams, all of them, the ones from the kids and the cast's, died away.

The silence was even creepier.

Then the kids got to the Tesla coil. Oh, yes. The screams started up again. High pitched, girly screams. We all looked at each other and shook our heads. Lindsay said, "There's some therapy bills in their future."

At the end, the Big Boss of the House comes after you screaming, "COME BACK HERE! I NEED YOUR SOULS!!!" Big guy, covered in blood, great actor with a booming voice. I prayed, "please, please, please, don't do it, don't do it!"

But, no....."I NEED YOUR SOULS!!" came bellowing out, followed by girly screams and two little boys running ahead of their parents.

Darren, the creepy snake clown from the front door, ran up to the boys to stop them from going outside. Seeing him, they screamed again. Darren threw up his hands. "No, no, no! I just wanted to say you guys rock! You made it!" and then he did some high fives with the kids. They giggled and high fived him back.

The parents followed shortly afterwards. I still think they suck.

Shortly afterwards, we got the call to close up. Thank God! I don't think I could've taken one more hour in that makeup. I was getting close to scratching my face off.

And I have 6 weeks of this to go.....yay. I figured out the pay per hour ratio on this gig. It's just a little under $5 bucks an hour.

On the upside.....peeling off latex and toilet paper is an excellent exfoliate and pesky facial hair remover.

It's all about the glamour, baby...

2009-09-13T19:25:00.003-06:00

Why else would someone get involved with a theatrical production (albeit a haunted house)?

It's all about the glamour, baby.

I spent Saturday at Haunted Nashville with Logan, the big dude playing the sheriff. Turns out, he has some skills at stagecraft and knows his way around a paint can.

I learned quite a few new skills that day myself. I mastered the art of turning planks of wood into sheets of marble. It's amazing with what you can do with water-based acrylic paints and a bunch of rags.

Oh, and I also learned to never underestimate the creepiness of purple.

Nathan spent the day on a ladder carving trees out of styrofoam with a weekwhacker. For your information, it sounds remarkably as if the weedwhacker is saying "nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah" until it inevitable jams up.

If you go to Haunted Nashville, please take special notice of the outside facade of the House of Distortion. Logan and I did that!

Today (Sunday), I spent the day cutting up boxes to make paint splatter shields, taping paper over stuff they don't want splattered and then covering rotting bones with (guess what?) tape. It was all done to protect them from some sort of horrible concoction that Logan is going to be spraying the place down with tomorrow. I don't know what it is but Nathan said it goes on hot, melts stuff and seals it in. Hmmmm, sounds like a perfect murder weapon for my Haunters novel...

As I was leaving, Nathan asked me to do one more thing: staple a skirt on the Turbidite Manor porch set. No problem. I had this coolio stapler gun and whackity whackity whackity that bitch down until I got to the end pieces and then the gun pooped out on me. I put in fresh staples and it was shooting them out but for some unknown reason, the gun would not shoot them into the wood. Finally, with my knees bruised and my fingers blistered, I said, "Fuck it." and left. I figure it was a sign from God it was time to go.

I was starting to feel like the fat kid everybody invites to the party to help clean up anyway.

What I learned...

2009-09-10T20:43:00.000-06:00

Wow. What to tell you.

I learned so many things last night.

I met my cast mates: Shilo, a beautiful blonde woman playing Anne Turley, John, a quiet man playing Edward Turley and Logan, a tall Alan Moore clone, who would be playing the Sheriff.

There were also three others who would be playing Staff 1-2-3: Rodrickus, a professional actor who has done Shakespeare in the Park, Tamara, a short black woman and a tall ginger woman whose name I never caught. While Staff 1-2-3 doesn’t sound like plum roles, they are, quite frankly, the most important part of the show. If they don’t get the people to suspend their disbelief and create the necessary tension, the rest of the story falls flat on its ass. I really, really, really hope those three understand how important they are. Even though they might not get to wear cool costumes or makeup, without them, the rest of us, running around in costumes, are screwed.

I learned my character will be haunting pretty much most of the house and that my lines are completely improvisational. Sweet.

I learned that Martha is 80 years old, a staunch Christian, who believes that nothing done out of love can be evil. And she loves you more than you can stand. She is the House Keeper and she really, really hates visitors.

I learned that I am the first Martha to ever fill the role. Nathan said that the role of Martha was normally done with special effects because he could never find the right sort of actor to fill the role. I had that special brew of anger and evil that he felt completed the role. Nice. No pressure on me.

I learned that people who do this sort of stuff professionally call themselves “Haunters”.

I learned that Haunters will sabotage other Haunters at the drop of a hat. Going so far as to call in a bomb threat so that the police and fire department closes down a rival’s house for a night, costing them thousands which, of course, the house down the road profits.
Which, of course, set off my Writer Bells. I should write a story exposing the seedy underbelly of the haunted house subculture. Throw in a murder, corruption and a cast of fun, carny freaks. I’d title it “Haunters”. That’s a slice of fried gold, baby!

I learned that there is a very good chance I will be assaulted or groped. I’m still not sure how I feel about that.

I learned that there will be a very heavy security staff to watch over us, the guests and to keep other Haunters from wrecking the show. Isn’t that comforting? Not only do I have to worry about drunken red necks, I have to worry about some Scream Zone shit from down the road throwing a stink bomb at me.

I learned that the air conditioning unit in this building was taken out ten years ago. It would cost $50,000 dollars to replace it so, guess what, kiddies? No air conditioning. And my costume is a high necked, long sleeved 1890 dress from hell. Yay! Why am I worried about my IBS? Heat prostration will kill me first!

I learned one of the special effects that make up the show cost $15,000.00 to create. And that is just ONE.

And, finally, I learned that I am really, really lucky to have the opportunity to be a part of this.

I can’t wait.

The adventure begins...

2009-09-10T05:01:00.003-06:00

So, here’s a little secret few people would guess about me: I don’t do haunted houses.

Sure, I will go investigate a house where paranormal stuff has reputed to have happened. I have spent my share of weekends, wandering around houses in the dead of night, EMF meter in one hand and a voice recorder in the other, asking questions of the darkness.

Who hasn’t?

I can say with confidence that I slept on the floor where six children were brutally axed to death with nary a willy.

Graveyards do not give me the creeps and I love a dark, stormy nights.

I love scary movies and write horror stories. I have two statues of Cthulhu on my writing desk, for crying out loud!

Still, in spite of all of this, I do not do haunted houses. The carnival kind where people pay to have costumed ghouls jump out at you, where animatronic bogies spray you with blasts of water or where strobe lights line the walls of a dark tunnel, turning your only escape out into a seizure filled hell. .

God, I hate strobe lights. Flicker vertigo puts me down for hours.

It’s not only the boos and scares that make me avoid haunted houses. I also avoid them because I am a complete menace to anyone working inside. See, my instinctual reaction to being startled is to kick, hit, flail and try to kill that which is scaring me. Ask anyone who has had the misfortune of walking into me in a dark hallway. It’s not a pretty sight and not something I am proud of.

So, why would I even consider auditioning not once but twice for a role in a haunted house?

What is the best way to beat your demon than to get inside it?

The first audition was easy. It was just a meet and greet. Nathan, one of the owners of Haunted Nashville, wanted to find a cast and crew he felt comfortable to work with. This was just to feel you out, see if you would fit in with the crew.

I think it was my knowledge of Lovecraft and Steampunk that sealed the deal for me. That and my hair was particularly long and stringy that day, ala that scary chick from The Ring.

The second audition was more focused.

“Let us hear your vocal range. Scream for us.”

“Okay, now scream like you are in a cage.”

“Scream like you have lost all hope.”

“Great. Now, can you make a regurgitating sound. Like, you are in the middle of transforming, from human into something else?”

“Can you do anything from The Exorcist?”

“Nice.”

Then I was outed for being in a zombie movie.

"Oh, really? Show us your zombie."

How many places are you ever asked that?

“Okay, here’s the scene….you’re child is dead, you are in the grips of grief, you snap and suddenly know what you have to do….you get your child, hold it and then hang yourself….”

“Let’s see if you can do this one: You are the housekeeper. You are the Keeper of the House. You are strict, rigid and hate everyone walking around your house but you can’t show your rage because that would be unseemly. Show us that rage and then you catch yourself before you explode. Okay? GO!”

Yeah. I was freaking awesome! Or so I felt for a few hours afterwards until I started replaying it all in my head, nitpicking all the details of what I could’ve/should’ve done better. I let all those little voices eat at my confidence until I finally figured I’d never hear from them again.

I got the email a week later. I got the part of Martha, the housekeeper.

Tonight is the first rehearsal and we will learn more about our parts and what is to be expected of us.

Saturday, they are taking the cast and crew to a haunted house called Monster Madness so we can see how a show works.

Ummm, did I mention I don’t do haunted houses?

This should be interesting…

Update

2009-08-13T20:06:00.003-06:00

Thank you, Horrid Reality, for thinking of me. Unlike the rest of you minions...you shall all be dealt with accordingly.

SO! Truth be told, after getting there, reading the forms and meeting with the lab techs, I punked out.

I don't know if it was the nagging little problem that a vaccine much like the one they were using was tested in the Seventies and had a nasty habit of causing paralysis and death in the volunteers or the fact that the money was going to be paid to be in small increments of ten and twenty dollars, here and there.

Fuck that. I want a check. Either now or at the end. A fat check for the full amount.

So, yeah....I punked out.

For the best, I suppose. I have so much going on this week. School starts, Killer Nashville is this weekend and I auditioned for a role at a haunted house, Turbidite Manor.

Google it, people. If this guy can pull it off, it will be freaking awesome.

Now, I am waiting to see if I impressed the guys with my encyclopedic knowledge of horror and if I look spooky enough for the part.

And, best of all, it's $600 dollars! KA-CHING!

I am such a whore.

On other fronts, I have finished the near final version of Almost Jenny and have plotted out the next Travis Dare adventure. I really get into a little character torture in that one. Oh, yes. Something about a guy in pajama bottoms, strapped to a chair, being tortured for information just gives me chills, ya know?

I am currently working on a little short story that I plan on presenting to the Fiction Group. It's a little 21st century homage to Mr. E.A. Poe. I've got it plotted out. I think it will pan out well.

Anyway, thank you, Horrid Reality, for thinking about me and caring whether or not I had suffered at the hands of medical experimentation. Your commendation is in the mail.

The rest of you minions will be receiving your punishments shortly.

That is all.

For Science!..... and cold cash

2009-08-10T05:34:00.003-06:00

Today is the day I hand my body over to the cold, clinical hands of Science.

I have been accepted into a trial for the H1N1 vaccine. This morning, I am going to let perfect strangers in white coats spray some unknown virus into my nasal passages just so they can see what happens.

And all for $430.00.

Why would I do this? Is the money that good? Frankly, after last weekend's Back to School shopping spree, that money would help pay a chunk off of a credit card bill.

Not that I would ever use guilt as a tool against my kids. But I am putting my life and health on the line so they can have new blue jeans and backpacks for school.

I'm just saying.

They assure me the virus is dead so there is no way I can get the Swine Flu.

Personally, I'm hoping for super powers.

I'll fill you all in as things progress.

I'm still here and thinking of you....

2009-08-02T20:36:00.002-06:00

but I've been busy writing a short story, Almost Jenny. Don't feel abandoned.

I'm always here. Somewhere.

Take care and keep your eyes open.

Nikcubed

Introducing.....

2009-07-08T20:30:00.005-06:00

We got a new kitten. We were in the market for one but had decided to wait until the garage fiasco was completed but, as things happen, the Universe dropped one in our lap.

He seems to be very affectionate with humans but doesn't like other animals. Bear, our senior cat, is not happy with the new addition. Merlin doesn't seem to care and Sage is terrified of all 5 ounces of him.

We had him for a couple of days and tried several different names on him for size. I believe that naming a cat is an organic thing, something that grows on it or simply happens.

Brian wanted to name him Twitcher because of the weird twitchy thing he does with his tail when he sees one of the other animals in our herd.

Daniel wanted to call him Largo for unknown reasons.

Brenna wanted to call him Blackbeard the Pirate because of some online promise she made to a stranger.

I wanted to call him Mercury because he is silver and very, very quick.

But none of these really worked on him. They all simply slid off his back like, well, quicksilver.

Then, tonight, I walked in and saw him sitting there on the table, looking so handsome and I just blurted out, "GREEBO!*"

And he was named.

Welcome, Greebo!

*Greebo is a fictional character in Terry Pratchett's Discworld books. He is first introduced in Wyrd Sisters. He is a foul-tempered one-eyed grey tomcat whose owner, Nanny Ogg, insists against all the evidence that he is a sweet, harmless kitten. In the course of the books, he has killed two vampires, eating at least one of them in the novel Witches Abroad:

"The bat squirmed under his claw. It seemed to Greebo's small cat brain that it was trying to change its shape, and he wasn't having any of that from a mouse with wings on."

Birthday Post

2009-07-06T18:35:00.003-06:00

Normally on my birthday I post a bunch of It's Your Birthday horoscopes and make snide remarks.

Sorry, guys, it's not happening this year.

It's not as if I didn't check out my birthday horoscopes. I did. I'm a sucker for that kind of shit. But, frankly, it was the same as last year. Supposedly this year will be one of great triumph and tragedy, hills will be conquered and creeks crossed.

My favorite ones were the horoscopes that proclaimed me to be the "artist of my own life" and that I would "find opportunities" that would finally "show the world my true colors".

Yadda, yadda, yadda.

It's not that I don't appreciate the sentiment but I know that, with or without some astrological help, all of that doesn't amount to a hill of beans if I don't get off my ass and MAKE shit happen.

And I think that is what I find the most irritating and annoying about New Age philosophies. This soft sort of magical thinking. This idea that if I think happy thoughts, happy things will come. Or if some planet aligns just right with another planet, the universe will open up like some sort of cosmic gumball machine and shower me with all the red ones.

When I was a kid, things used to just happen for me. It was sort of magical, in a way. I remember on my tenth birthday, I went out early and stood by the bank of the creek. There was a mist on the water, I remember; the heat of the summer hadn't yet come full force and it was still cool. I found a turtle. It came crawling up out of the creek and waddled right over to me. I thanked the creek for my birthday present and played with the turtle all day. That night, I took it home and gave it back; I knew this wasn't a forever present, just a loan.

My early years were very gypsy; we rarely lived in a house more than two years tops. However, I lived near or around Cooper Creek for some of the best years of my childhood. The creek knew me. I never went without for fishing supplies. I always found hooks, line and sinkers there on the banks which is how I spent most of my summers. Fishing for me was a simple affair. I would stand on a rock, hook a piece of bologna and cheese and drop it into the water. As soon as I would see a thick pair of lips near the bait, I would JERK and slap! there would be a fish on my hook. I carefully unhooked my catch and set it free.

The water moccasins and I had an unspoken pact to leave each other be.

What I am trying to say is that I understand the power of magical thinking. My life was once filled with magic; I could tell you more stories that could only be explained away by magic. It's not that way, not anymore. I don't know why. Is it time? Some sort of horrible chronological tear that scars us, hardens us to all that is faerie and kin?

I wish I knew. I can only hope that this is, like so many other things, a phase and will pass away, lifting this heavy veil and release me back to those happier, wetter times back at the creek.

30 days of enema

2009-06-14T16:49:00.004-06:00

We rented a dumpster so for the next 30 days, we'll be sorting out the debris of our lives and giving our garage a giant enema. It's a form of catharsis I think everyone should have at least once in their life.

So, I'll be posting odd bits of things I find that I think might be of interest.

Today's little bon bon is this old comic I found. Feast your eyeballs on this.

At first glance, it's just a typical horror comic cover. From the glory days of comics when shelling out a dollar meant it was something special. 80 pages of spooky nastiness. 7 Chilling tales inside!

Okay, now look at the cover with older eyes. More mature eyes. Cynical eyes. What do you see?

That's right. A cornucopia of Freudian woo-wah splashed out there for little kiddies to consume. We got a whole bouquet of tentacle raping and vaginal consumption that would've made Lovecraft weep.

And look up in the right hand corner. Uh-huh. It was approved by the Comics Code wankers.

And people wonder how I got so f'd up. This kind of psychological damage doesn't happen overnight. No way. I got a whole life time of whackiness drumming in my veins.

And onto the next box....

Another thing I really like about getting older

2009-06-11T20:24:00.002-06:00

A long time ago, when I lived in California, I was in a newsstand in Oceanside picking up my monthly supply of magazines. I had Harpers, U.S. News and World Report, Atlantic Monthly and the Utne Reader. I was 24 and felt it was my responsibility to be current on news and worldly stuff to prove that I was a real, ya know, like, adult and stuff.

On top of that, I had John Kohl in my life. To describe him quickly: he would call me up and say, "Nietzsche said God is Dead. What did he mean by that? I'll be over in an hour." and he would expect me to be able to discuss and debate. John was raised by Jesuit priests, did a couple of tours in Vietnam and was the closest thing to a mentor I've ever encountered.

So, yeah, I read all those magazines to keep up.

I went over to the guy running the register, a balding guy, his remaining hair tied in a desperate ponytail. He took one look at my stack and said, "God, I'm glad I don't have to do homework anymore."

I laughed and said, "Yeah, well, I like to keep current."

He snorted a laugh and said, "Trust me, kid. It never changes."

He was right. It took me twenty years to realize it.

One of the great things about getting older is that now I can profess ignorance and, better yet, admit that, frankly, I don't give a damn. Now, I read what I want to read and I let the world keep right on turning.

Cuz, frankly, my dears, it doesn't really give a damn either.

Ink Monkey is OUT!

2009-06-03T16:28:00.006-06:00

My minions! I need you to help out the starving clan of writers and click on the title above (Ink Monkey is OUT!) to go to that website and buy an issue of Ink Monkey!

The Boy, Daniel, has a KILLER story in it and I have a little ditty as well.

That is all. Go forth, my loyal minions, and do my bidding!

BUY INK MONKEY TODAY!!!

Let me explain myself

2009-05-28T19:10:00.009-06:00

Recently, on Facebook, I created a How Well Do You Know Nik quiz. Several people* have asked to elaborate on some of the questions so I thought I'd use this forum to do so (that and the fact I thought it would eat up some blogspace).

First Question: Who do I blame for my shitty life?

Interestingly, many people** answered either c)my mother or e) God. Neither of these answers are correct. Mom is dead and could care less about what I do and God has better things to worry about. No. If you knew me at all, you would know that the answer to who I blame for my shitty life is Mary Tyler Moore.

Let me explain. You have to remember that the Seventies was a turbulent time with wars and social changes and lots of stuff I see on the History Channel documentaries that I barely remember. What I do remember, as a latchkey kid of the Seventies, is TV. That was my window the world, my instructor, my best friend, my rabbit-eared parent. And who did I have for a role model? Who? Mary Freaking Tyler Moore.

I grew up believing that I would get a job where I would find a ready made family of friends who would share in life's joys and heartbreaks. I would find a boss that would become a mentor and I could spend my time living in a cute apartment with a big ass brass letter N on the wall, looking for that Mr. Right.

That is what I was promised. What I got was a parade of deadend jobs, bosses that ranged from alcoholic to sociopathic and coworkers that were rejects from Shaun of the Dead.

So, yeah, I blame that bitch, Mary Tyler Moore for my lot in life. Today's girls have it so much better. Look at their heroes: Xena, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and even that buff chick from Terminator. Can you imagine how I would've turned out if I had those chicks for role models?

Sure, I had Wonder Woman. That's true but she in no way compares to hardass bitches like Xena. Face it: all of Wonder Woman's weapons were accessories. Her tiara was nothing but a headband. Her lasso was a shiny belt. Her bracelets...well, they stopped bullets and that is pretty cool but they were bracelets none the less! And, really, I bet she did all the filing at the Hall of Justice.

Question 2: What was my worst job?

Most people were stumped to find out that it was not the job where I had to pick rat turds out of Bird of Paradise seed. Yes, that is true. I am not making that up. Thanks, Mary.

But, no, the worst job I have ever had was a receptionist gig at a Japanese corporation in Irvine. I sat in a cold, dark foyer at a desk in front of automatic doors that were so sensitive that they would open because of a strong wind. It was the loneliest job I have ever had. I got my first gray hair there; I still have it in a journal.

To really sum up how much this job sucked, get this: on New Year's Eve, they gave all the women Windex and paper towels and told us to clean the windows as a ritualistic cleansing of the building for the New Year. The men were taken to have saki with the god of the building that resided in an empty room downstairs. If you know me at all, you can imagine what I used to clean those freaking windows.

Question #3: What book am I working on now?

I don't blame you if you didn't know the answer to this one since I work on so many at one time, never finishing anything.

However, if you answered either d) Christ, you're still working on it? or e) Give it up already. For fuck sake! Loser! please keep it to yourself. I don't need more voices in my head telling me what fuckhead I am.

Question #4 What is your personal spirit totem?

Again, I can't blame you if you haven't seen my bare backside lately. It's a heron. I have an awesome tattoo on my lower back. It's a long story that I don't really feel I know you well enough to go into. However, for a small donation, I will tell you the story and for a little bit more, maybe throw in a little dance.

Question #5 I have how many spawn?

I have two although they barely leave the house since converting to vampire time.

Question #6 My childhood hero was?

I have a warm, soft spot in my heart for Carl "Night Stalker" Kolchak. And I mean, the Darren McGavin incarnation not that bastard abortion with that pretty boy Lestat wanna be. If you have never seen Kolchak the Night Stalker, I have the entire series on DVD. Come on over, bring the salsa and we'll make a night of it.

You wanna know why I love Kolchak? It's not the adventures or the cool hat or the repressed homosexual vibes between him and Updike. No, it was how every week this little guy would save the world, put his life on the line and save the whole freaking city of Chicago from vampires, aliens, rakshaska, pierre montfei and still, he could not get his shit published!

That speaks to me.

* Imaginary
** Not imaginary

The Spider Is Dead

2009-05-12T20:12:00.002-06:00

(not the actual picture of the spider in question but, what the heck, a dead spider is a dead spider is a dead spider)

R.I.P Little Spawn from Hell.

Consider me Karma

2009-05-11T19:16:00.005-06:00

When I arrived at work today, A co-worker, Layne, was entertaining an unknown gentleman at my desk. They were looking at a jelly jar she had brought from home. Inside, the jar was a little goodie she caught in her kitchen.

A spider.

A Brown Recluse Spider. A very angry Brown Recluse Spider that skittered and clawed around inside the jar, its razor like legs scraping at the sides of the jar, with the obvious intention of killing everyone outside the jar.

For those of you unfamiliar with this arachnid horror, here's a picture:

Cute little bugger, aint it?

Harmless? Hardly. Check these bites out:

So, you can understand the fear I felt when Layne said she was going to take the spider spawn to a field and let it go.

"WHAT?!?! You can't let it go! It might bite some kid. It's basically Hitler with eight legs!"

"I can't kill it." she said. "That's bad karma."

Look, I'm all about live and let live but, frankly, when it comes to poisonous spiders, I say, fuck karma. No way could I let her let that thing go free to bite some poor, shoeless toddler. What if that kid was destined to cure cancer or save the world? So, by killing this spider, I am doing the entire human race a favor. Right?

Damn straight. Consider ME karma, bitch.

So, here's the thing: how to do the deed?

I could just wait it out, let it suffocate in the jar. I figure that would take a really long time. What is the aspiration rate of a spider?

I could drown it. Flush it down the toilet. But what if it survives and crawls back up the drain to bite me on the ass? I don't need that stress while I'm doing my business.

I was wondering about the microwave. Definitely a Youtube kind of deal. Then I'd have to deal with PETA and who needs that? And what if the microwaves gave it superpowers? Maybe mutates it into some kind of Mega Spider with Super Strong Spider Gunk. I think I'll pass.

Brenna said I should put burning paper into the jar and just watch it fry. I really worry about that girl.

Or I could just smoosh it with my shoe but that would mean letting it out of the jar and giving it a chance to escape, breed and retaliate. It's babies would crawl up my nose and then lay eggs inside my sinus cavity. Then, one day, at lunch, I would come down with a horrible, pulsating headache and then my face would burst open, releasing thousands of baby spiders into my salad.

Crap. Who knew murder could get so complicated?

So, tell me: how should I do it?

Suffocate, Smoosh or Incinerate?

I leave it up in your hands.

Grrrrrrr. Arrrrr. Zombies in Smyrna

2009-04-26T15:07:00.005-06:00

Today, I hobbled down the sidestreets of Smyrna, covered in goo and gore, as I did my part for zombie cinematic history. I was an extra in what will be a horrible-eye-gouging-sweet-Jesus-will-someone-make-the-pain-stop! D-list movie, Dead Start.

I heard a few things that I will hand over you to in case such an opportunity ever drops itself into your lap.

1) Bring a chair. There is a whole bunch of standing around and waiting. It's a part of the whole glamor of showbiz. You stand in one line to get painted on. Then stand in another line (hopefully in the shade so your paint doesn't melt off) to get powdered. Then stand in another line to get bloodied.

2) Bring an umbrella for shade. Again, lotta standing around and waiting. Showbiz is glamorous, people!

3) Bring a colostomy bag. Really piss poor productions like this one might not shell out the big bucks for a Port-A-John and that standing around takes it toll on your bladder. I truly suspect that the director, some guy named George, was completely overwhelmed by how many people came out for the zombie open cast call. I think he was expecting around 50, maybe 75. He got 500. Five Hundred People. All lining up at 6:30 in the morning, in downtown Smyrna, waiting for their big break. And, as you can imagine, all those bladders with no where to express themselves, things got really iffy at the local Mapco, four blocks down the road. I had to ask the lady there, "pretty please let me have the key to the bathroom or I'm gonna leak all over your floor." before I got the key.

4) Wear light colored shirts. Being splashed with buckets of vampire blood on dark colored clothes is really a waste of blood. You can't see it and all you end up with is really hard, pasty shirts that give you nipple rash. BE AWARE that everything you wear will be ruined! It's best to go to Goodwill and buy something for the day.

5) Which brings me to: Wear something that will make you stand out but not something that forces them to write a whole new plotline for you. For example, if the scene calls for zombies wandering in the back alleys of Smyrna, being on stilts is not congruent to the scene. Sure, everybody notices you but you will not be picked for any scenes. I tried to figure out why some got chosen for the A group (attack scenes and they got super cool makeup) and some got chosen for the B group (losers like me who got to mill around in white past and red corn syrup all day). A Group people had a specific look they could use. If you want to play with the big boys, you'd better play your A Group card.

I got there at 6:45. I didn't get to be in a scene, a group zombie crushing down a alleyway at that, until 2:15.

It was fun and I'd do it again but with a little bit more flair. Maybe even get to be in a killing scene. I could nom nom nom me some brains SO MUCH BETTER than those bitches!

Next time, bitches, next time!

Reflections on gifts past

2009-04-24T19:45:00.006-06:00

For those not in the know, last week was Administrative Professional day. That’s PC for secretary. It’s a day when we pathetic underlings get recognition for all we do. I don’t want to piss on anybody’s parade; I know there are a lot of people out there who enjoy being an Administrative Professional. I am simply not one of them. Even though I have been doing these sort of jobs for over 20 years, I really hate being reminded of it.

I got an Admin Professional gift today from the Office of Strategic Planning. Their secretary left a few years ago and I help out with the usual stuff: copies, stuffing notebooks, ordering supplies. Nothing exactly mentally taxing. Today, they came over to my desk and gave me a card and a wrapped present. They giggled as I opened it to discover that they had purchased for me a Personal Toothbrush Sanitizer. Yeah. It's their attempt at humor because they are under the impression I'm a major germaphobe.

Yeah.

This has made me reflect on all the really crappy gifts and/or bonuses I've received in my past illustrious admin prof career.

There was the boss that thought he was an undiscovered Hemingway. He would do travel journals when he vacationed and then would have me transcribe them. We the employees would receive them in lieu of Christmas bonuses. In retaliation, I used to throw away two or three pieces of mail a month and rub his pens on my bare backside.

There was the time that everybody got Christmas bonus checks of $150 dollars. Except me. I got soap. Soap that came off the shelf. Old lady soap that makes you smell like a lingerie drawer. I had been with that retail store since the inception, four years, and I got soap. In retaliation, I took merchandise that equaled the value of the check I should've received. I gave away stuff to kids as freebies. I stopped dusting and vacuuming. I later quit. They soon asked me back because their little teeny bopper glory girl cut her hair and ran off to Europe with her boyfriend.

There was the time I worked for a Japanese Corporation. On New Year's Eve, they threw a saki party for the men. All the women were told to give the building a "ritualistic cleaning for the New Year." We were given bottles of Windex and papertowels and told to clean the 12 foot tall windows so that the "sun of the New Year could shine brightly in!" Can you guess what I used on those windows?

I once worked for a computer repair/supply shop. The man who owned it was a moron, knew nothing about computers and, we all felt, only started the business to hang out with 19 year old boys. If you know what I mean. The guys would often tell him to order multiples of motherboards and sound cards that they wanted and, when the merchandise came, they would stash them up in the ceiling until he forgot about them. Then they would sell or use the stuff as they pleased. I didn't do much evil there compared to those guys. The owner was a complete pr*ck so I would make up for his attitude by helping myself to stuff. I miss not having to pay for ink.

There was the time a co-worker gave me meat. Meat. He took me aside and said, “Nik, I have a little present for you for all the things you do for me.” I am thinking “SCORE! Maybe a Starbucks gift card.” No. It was meat. Bloody, prepackaged, past it’s expiration date, bargain bin meat. I took it home to show my husband who had, coincidentally, just taken a Food Safety course as a part of his job. He took one look at it and trashed it. THIS from a man who has eaten raw goat eyeballs.

There was the place where, as I was preparing to quit, I erased spreadsheets, took the filing systems I created from scratch and threw away the combination to the post office boxes. That last thing was done in complete innocence; I had no idea no one else knew the combos! They had to stand in line for two weeks to get their mail until they were assigned a new box! This was in CA and things go slower there. The best thing was that I left that hellhole on the day payroll, INS reports and Dept of Agriculture reports were all due and I was the only one who knew how to do them! HAHAHHAHHAHHAAH! That's what you get when you rifle through my desk, cut my hours, lie to me about using the company truck for errands and bring in field hands to laugh and make rude comments about me and my co-worker as we try to do an impossible task YOU should be doing. I am happy to report that that business is now gone and both of his sons are dead. But I had no hand any of that.

Ah, those were younger years. Now, I don't have the energy and even the passion to care anymore. Lucky them.

I fought the stump...

2009-04-19T16:28:00.004-06:00

I blame hormones. I was flush with Superwoman frenzy brought on by ovulation. That has to be the only reason why I would have even contemplated doing battle with The Stump pictured above.

It's an ugly thing, isn't it? Bloody red stubs, giving me the horticultural finger. I hate that thing.

See, a few weekends ago, Brian cut down all the bushes that had presumably been in front of our house since wooly mammoths used to cross their herds through this neighborhood to get to the Cumberland. That's the only reason I can figure for these things to have roots so deep and so monstrously thick. The only things left of them are now the monster stumps that now designate our house as the most ghetto box on the street.

We have plans, don't think we don't. We have ideas. We are thinking of maybe putting down some concrete blocks, making a nice little sort of patio kind of thing where can put cute garden statues and potted plants. Very, very Southern Living. Or we might go the whole eco thing and make it very green and natural with grass and wild flowers and cool garden fairies or things poking here and there. We have dreams of what we want it to look like in the future.

I like this guy. He reminds me of Tsoggthua.

But, right now, what we have are stumps. Ugly, ugly stumps surrounded by brown patches of dirt.

Yesterday, I went to war with the stump. My sister and I started off patiently sawing, thinking we could just cut them down at ground level. You would need the patience of Job and skin as calloused as a gator to finish that job.

Then we started whacking away with a handaxe. It was cathartic but not all that effective.

So, we did what everyone does when they come to a dead end and need guidance: we Googled.

Some fat country boy in overalls posted on a website that the best way to deal with bush stumps was to simply shovel out a trench around the stump and go under, pulling it out that way.

We tried it. We shoveled and shoveled and found ourselves stymied at every corner by roots. Thick, hellsprout roots that seemed to have no end. I kept whacking away but my sister, Mel, had by then given up. "It ain't gonna happen. Give it up." she said.

"No! I will not be beaten by a bush! And a dead one at that!"

"What do you expect? Did you really think we were going to get all these up?"

"At least let's get one of them done!"

"Damn, girl.....you must be ovulating. I don't have that kind of mojo right now." and she left.

I kept at it until the sky darkened and the rain began to fall. Crap! I put up my tools but decided to use the rain for my advantage. I sprinkled some grass seed/mulch/fertilizer stuff and wildflower seeds I bought at Wal-Mart on the dirt and figured the rain would start it's magic.

Then the rain stopped. Crap!

Not to be defeated, I hooked the backyard garden hoses together so they would reach the front yard and did what Mother Nature failed to do.

Then, it started to rain.

I could hear the stump laughing at me.

Not many like him around anymore

2009-04-10T20:42:00.003-06:00

Have you ever just wanted to pack a bag, get on a Harley and drive off into whatever adventures Life throws your way?

History is full of stories about writers that did just that. Just wandered around, looking, exploring and writing what they saw and felt. But history books are dusty things, filled with dead people and cold ideas. Things like that don't happen anymore. People, normal, sane, responsible people just don't do things like that anymore.

My friend, Mickey, did. After his last layoff, he decided to get on his Harley and ride, just ride on. He'd pitch his tent where he could and write. In one of his latest posts he talks about what he says when people ask him what he does. "I write." he says. "I'm a writer."

Lucky bastard.

I met Mickey through the Nashville Writers' Meetup. Actually, to be honest, I first met him at a ghost hunters meetup, a now defunct group which I don't believe ever even had a name. He was doing research for a novel he is writing; I was there checking out yet another dead (ha ha) end. We ran into each other again at the Writers Meetup where I organize the Nashville Fiction Group, a splinter cell of the NWM.

Mickey and I are a weird combo. Not only do our names rhyme but we found that we were working on similar projects. I would bring a story to the group only to find that he had a story with similarly named characters. I would often say to him, "Mickey, get outta my head!" It was freaky.

A few months ago, he set out on his spiritual odyssey. He posts his adventures on his blog www.theprodigalscribe.com

Check it out. He is currently in Tombstone, AZ. and hopes to make it to Sedona soon.

God, I envy him.

You know you've made it when you end up in the funnies

2009-04-01T05:49:00.002-06:00

Although I think it's rather rude to call them ARSE.....

The Evolution of The Boy

2009-03-31T05:38:00.010-06:00

Today is my son, Daniel's, 15th birthday. Here is a glimpse at the evolution of The Boy.

Monday mornings suck

2009-03-30T16:15:00.000-06:00

I fell down this morning. I went in to flip over the eggs, tripped over my own two feet and fell in a glorious fashion, skip-stepping across the kitchen floor until gravity finally took over and I fell, smashing the side of my head against the sink and then down to the floor.

Ouchies.

I have a nice goose egg growing over my left eye and a cut on my left cheek. I also scrapped a nice layer of skin off my left forearm and smashed both knees. I am sure there is other damage that won’t crop up until later in the day. I am willing to bet that tomorrow, I am going to be in a world of hurt.

But here’s my real problem: I need a better story to tell, just in case I do a Natasha Richardson and keel over from some subdermal hematoma. I don’t want to end up on some schlocky show like 1000 Ways to Die with some snarky bastard cracking jokes about me flopping over my big assed feet, cracking my head open on the sink and then slamming it with some lame-assed label: CRACKED EGG, SKIP TO THE LOO or RIM SHOT.

I thinking along the lines of:

“Well, I was sneaking out of Keith Urban’s place…Nicole was out of town but that bitch came home early…I think she suspects something….anyway, as I was trying to sneak out, I tripped over one of Keith’s guitar cases, the silly thing just leaves them everywhere….”

“So, there I was…..the rest of the team had been scared off, I guess the bleeding walls was just too much for them….but I stayed behind determined to explore the ruined mansion on the outskirts of town. Legend said there was a treasure buried here, Incan gold the owner, now deceased, had stolen during an archeological dig back in the 1890’s. I think I must have been getting close to the secret because as I stepped through the portal, a screaming, bloody skull came rushing at me and I tripped over a ribcage that was just lying there….”

“It was early this morning at Krogers. There was just an old man buying milk, a pregnant mother with three kids in tow and me in the only line open. I was just minding my own business, waiting to pay for some doughnuts for the office crew, when a band of skin headed ninjas came in and tried to rob the place. I knew then, my time to shine had come and I went into action…”

Any other suggestions???

Let me tell you all a little story....

2009-03-26T16:19:00.004-06:00

Let me tell you all a story. It’s a true story, for the most part, and it’s the reason I believe in God even when I really don’t want to.

It was October, 1984. I was working as a file clerk for Acme School Supply while I waited for my future to sprout wings and fly me away. I was an insufferable shit in the way that only a nineteen year old can be. I thought I everybody around me was dull and boring and were waiting for me to show them how things really are because only I had my finger on the pulse of the Real World outside.

Now, whenever I meet a nineteen year old and they start telling me about Life and how things are in the World, I have to resist the urge to slap the shit out of them. I restrain myself with the knowledge that, ha-ha, Life will do that for me soon enough.

So, it was 1984 and one bright October morning, I woke up to the news that Indira Gandhi had been assassinated by one of her body guards. I can’t explain why but the news affected me deeply. I didn’t know much about Gandhi or even her politics. I remember thinking how completely unfair that it wasn’t a sniper sent by her enemies but it was her body guard that shot her. A person she should have felt safe with, someone who should have protected her. It was just so wrong and unfair.

To a child of the Seventies, who had been breastfed by muppets and weaned on the sermons of Sesame Street, Fairness was a key factor to how the world worked. My generation was on the front tip of the X-Generation and so the cynical slyness of that bunch was not as ingrained. I remember having a class called Values in school where we would cut out faces from construction paper, one side was happy the other sad, and then glue them to popsicle sticks. The teacher would ask a series of questions. “How do puppies make you feel?” and we would hold up our happy faces. “How do rainy days make you feel?” and a sea of frowny faces would flood the room. If someone was mean to you, you would tell the teacher and the little boogerhead would get a spanking, right there in the classroom. Justice was swift and it was fair.

Being capped by your bodyguard was definitely Unfair.

And the whole thing sent me into a downward spiral.

For days afterwards, I grumbled and ranted with the passion only a deflowered nineteen year old can muster about how unfair the world was and how there was no goodness, nothing righteous. That only evil prevailed and that people were deep down in their rotten souls just bastards and sons of mutated monkey whores.

Now, in those days, I drove a 1978 Honda Civic. It was a small car, painted dark brown, and rightly so because it was a total piece of shit. The engine in that thing was no bigger than something in a lawnmower and sounded like one. The seats were cramped, it smelled like damp newspapers and it had no radio, not even a tape deck. Luckily, in those days, I was more than happy hearing the sound of my own voice and I would fill the void by talking to myself.

So, on a cloudy day in October, as I was driving home from work, I was talking, loudly, to myself and anyone who would listen about the injustice of life and the evils of humanity. People sucked. The whole creation of the human race was a great cosmic, wet stain on the pants of the Universe. Blah, blah, blah.

I came to a stop sign at Riverside and Shelton and my car died. It just stopped. Son of a bitch. This was before cellphones, remember, so I was on my own. Still, I wasn’t far from my house, I could walk home.

Then the sky opened up and it rained buckets. Son of a fucking bitch!

I sat there, cursing, pounding my steering wheel, when I heard a small “beep”. I turned and there was a car pulled up alongside me. I rolled down my window.

It was an elderly woman. She said, “I don’t know anything about cars but could I call somebody for you?”

“No. No. It’s okay. I don’t live far from here.”

“Okay but be careful. You might want to wait until the rain stops.” And then she drove on.

I rolled up my window and kept turning the key. Nothing. Not a sound from the ignition. Fuck.

Another “beep”. This time it was a middle aged white guy. “Look, I don’t know anything about cars but would you like me to call someone for you when I get home? A tow truck or your parents?”

“No. No. It’s fine. I don’t live far. I’ll walk home when the rain lets up.”

“Okay. But be careful. It’s coming down hard.”

And it was. It was raining as if the Earth was desperate for a drink, as if the ground was dying of thirst. The thunder overhead shook my little car. I was getting a little scared.

“Beep.”

I turned to look and saw young black woman. “I don’t know anything about cars but would you like me to call someone for you?”

I was about to give her the same line as I had the others but I stopped. “Yes.” I wrote down my sister’s name and phone number and passed it over to her. “Tell my sister where I am at and she will get my parents to come by.”

She said she would and she drove on.

I sat there for a minute, feeling very, very sheepish. Sheepish is a feeling, not just some literary word you read in books. It’s the feeling you have when you know you’ve been really, really stupid and the person who has been watching you be so stupid is standing there, eyebrows cocked, grinning at you.

“Okay. I get it. People are not evil. I’m stupid. Can I go home now?”

I turned the key and the engine roared to life. The rain stopped, I swear to you it stopped! And the sun came out for a brief moment before being winked out by a passing cloud and I drove home.

Woolf lied

2009-03-15T18:10:00.003-06:00

Virginia Woolf lied. What a woman needs is not room of one's own but a bed.

My husband, Brian, spent an entire week in the Piney Woods of Louisiana playing Civil War boy. I had the bed all to myself for an entire week.

People, it was glorious.

I could sleep sideways, longways, stretched out catty cornered, however I pleased. I could wrap the covers all around me like a burrito or kick them off all together. I could sleep with a dozen books and stay up as late as I wanted reading them.

And, best of all, I never made up the bed. Not once, all week. Every night it was like climbing back into a cushiony womb, warm, soft and already carved out in my own personal shape.

I can't tell you how wonderful it was.

But, as all good things go, it did not last. Brian is back and I'm again resigned back to my one side of the bed, the bed sheets firmly tucked in and the bed made, religiously, every day.

Sigh. I wonder when he's going away again?

Day 14

2009-02-22T19:25:00.004-06:00

My throat is sore from the coughing and my sinuses hurt from the vile forces that are attacking from within but, in spite of it all, I really do feel much better.

I keep reminding myself of that. Soon, it will be a world of sunshine and rainbows and I will be back on my feet 100%

In other news, for those who care, I have finished the outline for the soon to be bestselling horror novel of all time, The Church of the Living Waters. Oh, yes. I want to comb through it one more time. And then I will begin the first draft. Oh my yes.

In spite of my recent health issues, I did manage to get some things done this weekend. Mel and I finally ordered a headstone for my sister, Beth. They said we might receive it by her birthday, April 12, which is also, by great coincidence, Easter! Mel and I will have to do something special, sort of a ground breaking kind of thing.

And, even closer to home, I finally bought Daniel a new mattress. The one he has is so awful even the dogs won't lay on it. It truly is torture. We should receive it on Thursday. It has a lovely plush pillow topping so I hope Daniel will finally quit sleeping on the couch and stay in his own bed. The only downside is that I have to find time to clean up Daniel's room before they deliver it so they can find the bed. What? Did I hear someone say, "Make him clean up his own room!" BWAHAHAHAHAH! Oh, you don't have a teenage son, do you? His idea of putting his clothes away is wadding them up and shoving them into one drawer. The last time I cleaned his room, I felt as if I needed to call the CDC for health violations.

Oh, and while I am talking about Daniel. This weekend, I forced my children to attend a Young Writer's Workshop. I know. What a bitch I am. They grumbled and griped about having to get up early on a Saturday to go to something that was obviously going to be "lame" and "gay". When I picked them up at 3 that afternoon, they survived and managed to have a good time. Daniel wrote this piece, I swear, it is so good. I'll post it when I can get it in Word.

And, that's that.

Day 11

2009-02-19T21:15:00.002-06:00

It's Day 11 in the trenches. The aches have subsided, my nose has cleared up and the fire in my throat have been doused.

If I could only stop the dry coughing and the general malaise, I think this battle could be won.

Not dead yet

2009-02-15T09:06:00.003-06:00

Gods, I felt so much better when I was unconscious.

It's as if, upon awakening, I stirred the little buggers inside of me to action. Sitting up, that had to be the trigger. Laying down, all my humors were at rest but the act of sitting up set off some catalyst, some sort of morning bugle call to let the bastards infesting my respiratory tract know it was time to start torturing me again.

It's a vicious cycle. I cough because the drainage (eww) going down my throat tickles but the coughing irritates my throat so I cough even more which damages my throat further which causes more coughing until I want to take a butter knife to my trachea and rip the whole damn thing out.

Ice cream helps but what doesn't ice cream not help? From depression to pneumonia, it's a freaking panacea.

And, on top of this, I started my period. There should be a Universal Law that says if one half of your body is corroded, the second half should be put on hiatus. It's not fair!

And, on top of that, drinking two cups of coffee on an empty stomach this morning did not please the IBS demons. No, siree.

Fuck. I'm a mess.

On an cheerier note, I'm up to Chapter 18 in my outline for the Church of the Living Waters. Yep. The boys meet Mr. Cloyd. And then stuff really starts getting fun.

I feel particularly generous. I let three...no, four people survive in the house. They will require years of institutional care but they might, eventually, regain enough sanity to work at Wal-Mart as a greeter some day.

Would you be my Valentine?

2009-02-09T17:19:00.002-06:00

Because I am drowning myself in all things Lovecraft, here is a eldritch Valentine.

Because even the Great Cthulhu needs love...

A piece of me.......

2009-02-08T15:36:00.003-06:00

I'm watching High School Musical 2. Yeah. I'm actually sitting here and watching it.

I wish I could say I was enjoying it.

I really wish I could say that I could let the pablum of happy happy syrup wash over me and let it numb my mind.

But I can't.

Oh, I understand the attraction. I understand why this kind of movie fills the void for some people who need to believe in justice and polyester shiny goodness. Where people can suddenly burst out in song and where talent shows are the ultimate stage for the battle between good and evil.

So, I get it. I really do.

I just wish I could get into it but I can't. I really, really, REALLY can't.

I'm I just that dead inside?

Monkey Brain

2009-02-05T06:17:00.004-06:00

Why am I awake? That is what my inner monkey brain is screaming. Why? Why? WHY?

Why did you leave the warm, soft cocoon of your bed? To walk across a frigid, wooden floor, make your way downstairs just to strip off any remaining vestiges of warmth and get into the shower, just to get wet and cold? And then, once the water is steaming hot and you are starting to feel life rushing into your veins, you have to leave it, stand in the cold with the water beading on your skin into ice crystals.

Then you make you way upstairs, dodging the animals that want to be fed, feed the damn things, remember you forgot to set the coffee, damn, towel yourself dry and try to find clothes to cover our shivering, furless bodies.

And all of this just so I can go sit in a cubicle where they keep the median temperature at 65 degrees.

My inner monkey brain might not be the best dinner companion but at least it knows when to stay the hell in bed.

Find your shades...

2009-01-28T19:43:00.006-06:00

It's everywhere. You can't avoid it. Hell, I even saw a flyer in the bathroom stall at work! You know what I'm talking about. The imminent digitalization of TV.

So, it's got me thinking. Why? What's the big deal? Why do they need to do this? Who is making money off of this? And who are THEY anyway?

Then I remembered something.

You guys remember a movie that came out way back in the 80's? A little sci-fi flick called They Live starring Rowdy Roddy Piper? Remember? The whole premise was that aliens had taken over the whole planet by using TELEVISION against us. By using TELEVISION WAVES to put us in some kind of weird waking sleep.

The rich (alien scumbags) got richer and the rest of us humans just got poorer and poorer. The only way to tell humans from aliens was with specially coated Raybans that blocked the mind altering waves. A few rebels were fighting the alien sons of bitches but it was a losing battle until our boy, Rowdy Roddy, took down the beacon and showed their ugly, decomposing, meatless faces to the world.

I'm not saying that this whole digitalization thing is some kind of alien plot. I'm not saying anything.

I'm just saying: keep a good grip on your Raybans.

Science Fair Memories

2009-01-25T17:21:00.005-06:00

School science fairs have come a long way, my friends.

When I was in sixth grade, we had a science fair. It wasn't mandatory but, being the complete brown nose that I was, not only did I enter but I had an entire club devoted to it: The Monsters Investigators Club, MIC for short.

Hey, I might have been a teacher's pet but you don't get to my level of weirdness overnight, my friends. This sort of dementia takes a lifetime to cultivate.

Our project was on Cryptozoology, a word I had just learned via my latest obsession: Bigfoot.

People, as a child, I was damn near Aspergerish when it came to my "interests". When I fell into Bigfoot frenzy I went so far as to write to the Bigfoot Investigation Team in Colorado. They sent me back manila envelope full of information which not only fueled my obsession but also validated it.

I was a weird kid.

We had a papier mache mountain that was supposed to be the Himalayan caves where the Yeti lived. We had a shoebox diorama of a the famous Patterson Grimlin Bigfoot film. We had a toy pleisaurus nailed to a plank of wood that was painted to look like Loch Ness. And, the piece de resistance was an aquarium with a toy giant squid that would bob up and down.

I also had audio that I got off a television show about Bigfoot and played it my cassette tape recorder. That was as high tech as we could go in 1977.

We got a honorable mention.

My son, Daniel, goes to Martin Luther King Magnet School. This school specializes in math and science. Why my son who detests math and is skeptical of science goes there is just one of God's funny little jokes.

Every year, EVERY student at MLK has to do a science fair project. Perhaps some of my loyal readers will remember last year's project: do totems help writer's creativity or not? I asked some of my writer buddies to be lab rats.

This year, Daniel has decided to do something more visceral: how does distance affect blood splatter?

Don't worry. I won't be asking anyone to be a lab rat this year.

I'll let you all know how this goes as the experiment plays out.

BTW: for all you beautiful people wondering how my CLW story is going, I am glad to say I finally found the vein for Chapter 2. I've got Chapter 1 and Chapter 3 done, well, not done done but a nice skeleton for me to plump up with some meat later on.

I'm pretty happy with how it's going. A little concerned about how the whole using Styx lyrics and all might be a problem later on if this thing ever makes it to publication. But, I figure, fuck it. Let the corporate guys deal with that shit.

It's easy to be cocky at this stage.

P.S. My sister, Mel, has started up a new blog. www.thechroniclesofmel.blogspot.com
Check it out. We spent today doing a photo shoot for her blog picture.

Finding a vein

2009-01-21T21:36:00.002-06:00

A few hours at the keyboard, trying to get the fuzz in my head down on paper.

So, I'm poking around, looking for a vein. It's there, rolling under the skin, but it's been a bugger to pin down.

Oh well. Just a lesson for all my fellow scribes: keep on poking. You'll hit something eventually. More or less.

One new thing came up today. I'll just say this much: Cthulhu Mythos + Mr. Roboto.

Trust me. It'll be cool.

Once I find the right vein.

CLW update

2009-01-20T21:40:00.002-06:00

Stared at the screen for an hour and wrote down one line: "Exactly how far up Jed Clampbett's ass is this place?"

And that's about it. Need some more specs on the van. Or something. Maybe more coffee. Or something.

Crap.

Calling all gearheads

2009-01-20T21:34:00.005-06:00

Anybody out there know much about the 1965 Volkswagen split window van? I need some gearhead specifics like what is that steering wheel type called? What sort of material is used in the seating? What does an original dashboard look like and what sort of materials were in it? What sort of smells, sounds, etc?

If you know any books I should consult, let me know.

Thanks!

And in the beginning..

2009-01-19T21:28:00.003-06:00

So, I started the Church of the Living Waters (or CLW for short) today. I got 1684 words in. Most of that will be chucked by the end. Nevertheless, it has begun.

Today's chapter we had Jack Dickens and Delfin Pointer, boys from the wrong side of the Black Rock Gate, unclog a sink at The Cold Bird Inn.

Let's just say, our boys didn't use Drano.

Rumors of my death...

2009-01-18T21:25:00.004-06:00

Recently, a friend asked if I had given up the ghost on my blog. I assured her that I haven't but that I've been waiting and waiting for the Muse to call me up for a cup of coffee but so far, she's been decaffeinated.

I have been writing other things. I finished a short story, Thumb Drive, that my fiction group enjoyed. I've sent it out to Cemetery Dance. My first baby of the year to be sent out out of the nest. I await the first rejection slip of 2009.

I've also started on a new novel. The working title is The Church of the Living Waters. The bud of this story started a few years ago when my husband and I did a ghost hunt at the Thomas House in Red Boiling Springs. The town of RBS is very small; Brian and I walked the entire town in little more than an hour. Back in the 1800's, the town was hotspot for mineral water enthusiasts. People from all over the world would come there to take to the waters for healing. When you walk around the town, you come across faucets for Red Water, Black Water and White Water and each of these waters promise miracle healing properties.

Okay, isolated haunted hotel with miracle waters? I knew there was a story here somewhere but I didn't know what so I stored it in the vault.

A few weeks ago, as Brian and I were coming out of the Mitchell's Deli, a white van drove by with the logo, "Church of the Living Water" on the side. Brian said, "Whoa. I wonder what that's about?" But I knew instantly: Tsathoggua worshipers.

And that's all I want to say about that. Don't want to give much more away.

On the subject of stories, my fiction group gave me the greatest idea recently. Remember my Christmas story? Round for the Holly King? Vincent said, "I would pay $12.95 for a book of stories about the Bogie Bar. You could call it Bogie Nights! It would be a collection of stories of the denizens that hang out in the Bogie Bar." Awesome. I'm working on that in my spare time. Getting ideas and working out plots.

After that, I think I would like to do a series of stories in the Angel Bar. Because I think the job of a guardian angel would have to be one of the crappiest jobs in the universe.

And, no, I haven't given up on all my other novel babies. They are all still there, germinating and biding their time.

Other than the fact Mars farted the other day and astronomers around the world giggled in glee, nothing much else has been happening around here.

How's it been with you?

The Buzz

2009-01-05T20:06:00.003-06:00

A little bearded bird told me that Mike, a friend of mine from the Nashville Writers Meetup, has said some kind words about my blog. He put out the buzz that I hope will snare some new readers.

So, if you are here due to Mike's buzz, welcome! And feel free to browse around. This blog dates back to 2006 so check out some of the older stuff.

I'll be back to post some more stuff for 2009 as the Muse strikes.

The End

2008-12-31T19:14:00.003-06:00

As the ending of 2008 comes upon us, I am overcome with all sorts of emotions.

This year has been a royal pain for many of my friends. Deaths, divorce, debt and lay-offs plagued so many of them. I've been pretty fortunate. But, still, my mind, as it often does, goes back to The End.

Ya know, the Big End.

And what to do with what is left behind.

Well, my friends, I think I have found the perfect ending for a writer.

Check it out:

Nadine Jarvis is a designer that has come up with an idea called Carbon Copies. You can check it out at http://www.nadinejarvis.com/projects/carbon_copies

In a nutshell, what they do is take the ash from your cremains and turn them into PENCILS! 240 pencils can be made from an average body of ash. The pencils come in a lovely wooden box and each pencil is foil stamped with the name of the deceased.And, get this! on the box is a sharpener so, as you sharpen, you deposit the cremains back into the box making it an urn.

Isn't that awesome?

So, Happy New Year to everyone! And I hope 2009 is everything that we can make of it.

Good luck!

My gift

2008-12-24T20:47:00.003-06:00

A quick story for all of you. Merry Christmas!

A Round for the Holly King
by
Nikki Nelson-Hicks

An old god walked into a bogey bar on Christmas Eve…

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before…

The old god walked into a bogey bar and sat down hard at the counter. A huge hulking shape of a man, his hair wild and uncombed, it was hard to see where he began and the hair ended. Somewhere underneath all that hair, he wore britches made from red deerskin. He smelled of wet dirt, old sweat and sunshine. His hands were chapped and calloused from living rough. The only thing that spoke of his divinity was the bright green lights that danced in his eyes, like small galaxies, swirling around each black iris.

Bub, the bartender, sidled over to him. “Rough night?”

“’Tis the season.” The old god scratched at his head. A sprig of holly fell onto the counter. He picked it up and twirled it in his fingers. “Tch. Always the same. It just starts to gets to you sometimes, you know?”

Bub shook his head. “I hear ya. So, one for the road?”

The old god tossed the holly sprig on the floor. “Might as well. Time is short.”

The bartender looked over the old god’s shoulder. He pulled a cold bottle out of the air. It opened with a crack and spilled froth on the floor. “Shorter than you think. Your friend is here.”

The old god did not turn to look. He could feel his adversary as sharp as a splinter in his heel. He didn’t need to see him to know he was there. The air crackled. The Usurper was charged, vital, fertile, powerful.

But, worst of all, the old god did not want to turn and see her, his beloved, now his, wrapped around his adversary like a wedding band.
His eternal beloved.

He would not be able to touch her, be able to kiss her lips or run his fingers through her tangled hair. He had lost her. Again. And even though he could not bear to see her, he could still smell her. Dammit. Her scent hugged him like invisible arms, stroked his face and danced on his tongue. Damn. He grabbed the beer and drank it all in one gulp to wash away the taste of her. He slammed the empty bottle on the counter. “Another.”

Bub pulled another out of the air. The old god grabbed the beer and began sucking at the bottle like a starved newborn.

A voice from behind startled him and he clipped his front teeth on the bottles rim.

“Two more, barkeep.”

Bub looked into the old god’s eyes and shrugged an apology. He pulled two more down and passed them to a slender pair of hands. The old god saw them out of the corner of his eye and turned away. Her whispered thanks were like cold strikes to his face.

“Why don’t you take a seat over there, love? I’ll be with you soon.”

The old god heard a giggle as the adversary slapped her on the bottom. He took another deep drink from his beer.

“Mind if I sit here, Brother?”

"Does it matter?”

“Can I do anything more for you gentlemen?” asked Bub.

The old god looked up and caught Bub’s eye for a second and then let his gaze drop and shook his head.

The adversary smiled brightly. “No, barkeep. We’ll take it from here.”
Bub nodded and stepped back into the shadows.

The two brother gods sat together, drinking. Neither spoke; they never did.
Their silence rippled through the bar like no sound wave could. Other patrons of the Bogie bar, whether or not they were aware of the exchange happening, became silent. The Domovoi stopped his ceaseless chanting and the Tommyknockers put aside their hammers. Shadows thickened as those who could dissolved into them. The rest, trapped solidly in their corporeal shells, suddenly became fascinated with the groove of the wood grain in their tables. Someone inevitably coughed, as someone always does, when the air becomes smogged with tension and mumbled, “ ‘scuse me.”

“Goddammit.” said the old god. “Will you just get it over with?”

His brother shrugged. “As you will.” He thrust his hand through the old god’s chest and pulled out his heart, red and raw. “And there you have it.” He took the heart, still beating, over to his eternal beloved and offered it to her. She took it, kissing him hard on the lips, and then, putting the heart to her mouth, she bit into it, chewing and swallowing it in pieces.

The old god fell forward, gasping and clawing the wood of the bar beneath his fingers as he struggled to sit up. He felt his chest close up and that infernal, horrible itching begin deep inside. The bud that would grow into his heart had already begun to take root. Six months, he would be good as new. Just like before. Just like always.

Bub came out from the shadows and grabbed the old god by a tuft of his hair. He pulled the old god’s face to his and asked, “Why? Will you just answer me that? Every year, the same thing. You come in here, have a beer, he kills you and then, in a few months, you kill him. Over and over. What’s the point? Why do you do it?”

The old god looked into Bub’s runny black eyes and a small laugh broke from his lips. How could he explain it to this pathetic creature? How to explain a love that creates and destroys itself, season after season? How to describe the joy, the ecstasy, the sheer need to be with his beloved? Because I love her would never appease the question. Because I love her didn’t forgive the scars. Because I love her didn’t erase the agony of being torn away from her, again and again. How to explain?

The old god smiled and drank the last of his beer.. “’Tis the season, my friend.‘Tis the season.”

Some Advice to all you Sick People

2008-12-06T11:04:00.003-06:00

I have two pieces of advice to everybody out there with the winter crud.

First, a story. When I was living in Budapest, I came down with a nasty cold that soon morphed into a horrible upper respiratory infection. I went to the doctor and was given some antibiotics and told to just wait it out.

As I was leaving the office, an old gypsy woman, bundled up in three coats and a red and gold headscarf came up to me saying, "Burn it out! This thing you have. You must BUUUURRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNN it out!"

It was creepy in a way I can't illustrate in a written format. I kept expecting Lon Chaney Jr. to come jumping out of the bushes.

But I took her advice. I drank hot tea, hot soup, took hot baths. I kept taking my meds as well but within a week, I was fine.

So, every year around this time when I start feeling like I'm coming down with something, I always remember the little old gypsy lady. And that is what I am telling you all. If you are feeling crappy and got the winter crud, drink some hot tea with a nice shot of Jack Daniels if you have it, take hot showers, drink hot soup and bundle up until you are sweating through the sheets. BUUUUUURRRRRNNNN it out, my friends. BURRRRRRRRNNNNNNNN it out!

Secondly, keep the hell away from me. I don't want your cooties.

A quick note to atheists...

2008-12-03T21:11:00.005-06:00

Look, leave the baby Jesus alone, okay?

I'm sure you've all read about the brouhaha on Capitol Hill. A religious group has put up their traditional Nativity scene.

So an atheist group has to make sure they put their two cents in and put up this.

What the hell is your problem, atheists? OOOOH, so do you feel the need to show off your liberal arts educations? Whoa, the Winter Solstice, huh? Christians stole it from the pagans? Really? Well, la-dee-dah. It's not like they were using it. Well, except for the 20 or so English gits who dress like Jedis and dance around Stonehenge once a year.

See, atheists, this is why people don't like you. You feel the need to show off how smart you are. Oh, look at me! I've figured out that religious belief is based on magical thinking and fairy tales. Whoopity-Doo! Give the boy a dollar! No shit, Sherlock. But, see, here is where you all need to just settle down a little bit. Most people know that religion is a little whacky. But most people just kinda learn to roll with it.

Oh, wait..what do I hear? Religion is the cause of so much sorrow, you say. Look at all the wars, all the horrors that have been inflicted for the glory of God. Oh, yeah. The Inquisition is always a hot button to push. I agree. The repression of thought and learning during the Dark Ages. Ouch. And the suppression of women...oh man, don't get me started.

True, true. You have a point there.

But, might I add that alot of atrocities have been committed in the Name of Science. I could name, in just recent history, the Tuskegee syphilis experiments, the Japanese vivisectionist experiments on American soldiers, the Nazi experimentation on human beings in concentration camps and, oh, how about all those surgeries performed on the mentally ill? Lobotomies and electro-shock therapy? Women who had their vaginas ripped asunder because doctors thought them insane because they were menopausal?

See what I am saying? Nobody is lily white here.

Religion has also done some wonderful things for humanity. Gave it a moral compass, in it's own imperfect way. Every society gets the god it deserves.

And, trust me, I'm all for rational thought. Believe it or not, I really am a very secular, critical thinker, in spite of all my squirrely beliefs.

But, they are my beliefs. And they don't hurt anybody.

And neither does Christmas.

So, back off on the baby Jesus, let me sing religiously themed carols in public and, for crying out loud, it's a Christmas Tree! Not a holiday tree. And Merry Christmas!

Or, if you really want to know my views, check out my pal, Foamy. He says it best.

http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/208058

Oh, fricking Christmas tree....

2008-11-30T19:45:00.006-06:00

Today we put up the tree.

It should've been easy. We've had this tree for nearly 10 years but for some reason, limbs wouldn't stay, the tree kept falling over and generally everything was a pain in the ass.

Daniel and I took it apart and tried to reassemble it over and over again. Words Father Christmas would not like to hear were said.

And a few phrases the Baby Jesus wouldn't approve of either, I'm sure.

The problem was that the part that was supposed to go into the stand wouldn't fit. For some reason, it was too big. Why? WHY? WHY? We played around with it and tried it up and down. Finally, Daniel said, "That's it. I'm getting the hammer."

And, voila! A Christmas miracle! It finally slipped into place. Nothing like the threat of violence to grease the wheels.

With the tree finally put up,it was time to fluff up the tree. Daniel threw up his hands. "I've done my part. I'm outta here." and left me to poof out the limbs.

After a year of being stuffed in the garage left the tree with a serious case of bedhead. I poofed and teased and twisted. The only thing I left out was blow dryer and some gel.

Daniel popped back in and helped me with the lights. He string and I trailed behind him, keeping it from tangling up into a Lovecraftian mess.

That manly chore done, Daniel disappeared again. Leaving me to string the garland and put on all the ornaments. This year I decided to do something a little different and put toys and gift boxes in the big holes left behind in spite of all my primping. Look, I said the tree was old, okay?

Here it is, in all it's glory.

Nauggie has found his place under the tree.

Somebody's gonna pay

2008-11-30T10:48:00.002-06:00

The Boy has had a rough Thanksgiving break. The week off from school he had been looking so forward to was a complete bust. He has been sick the entire time. Sore throat, fatigue and general cruddiness. God love him.

I took him to the doctor on Friday. I figured they would take one look at his throat and say, "Yep. Gonna need some antibiotics for that." and we'd be outta there.

But, no. We had our own little mini episode of House. You know that formula. Let's figure out four different diseases, test the patient for every one until one or two major organs fail and then figure out it was a simple bacterial infection all along.

First, it was a strep test. Now, I knew the Boy didn't have strep. First, his energy level and appetite was fine. Secondly, he didn't have that weird yeasty smell you get with strep. Trust me, I had strep loads of times as a kid. Living with a CF patient will do that do you. Beth was a walking strep factory.

After jabbing a Q-tip down the back of his throat, we had to wait. And wait. And wait. To find out the test was negative.

Okay. So, let's test him for Mono. Good grief. The boy doesn't have mono. I had mono at 16 and I can tell you, if he had it, I would know it. But, we are at the mercy of the medical profession and thus the test was ordered.

Getting tested for mono means having blood drawn. Two vials of blood. The Boy has inherited my phobia of needles so this was not going to be good.

When the nurse came in with the needle, I held his hand and kept him focused on the window, looking outside, trying to think about anything other than the sharp, horrible needle poking into his arm.

It took forever. The nurse kept saying, "The vein just keeps wobbling around. It's a jumpy thing. Look at it roll!"

Shut up....shut up....shut up...

When she finally got finished, the Boy said, "She used me for target practice. Oh, man, somebody is gonna pay for this!"

So, we waited and waited. And, TA-DAH! The test came back negative for mono.

No shit.

In the end, two hours later, we got our antibiotics.

I am happy to report, the Boy is doing much better and should be well enough to go back to school on Monday.

Ain't that a bitch?

Thanksgiving Day Thingie

2008-11-27T13:03:00.003-06:00

Sit back and listen to the story I have to tell about the little butterfly you see above. The picture is proof, the only proof I have, that he existed.

A few days ago, when a wintery wave of cold air was freezing Nashville to the bones, I made my way to the library to pick up a book I had ordered. As I passed by the Plaza with my head bent down, fighting against the arctic wind, I happened to find a monarch butterfly in crack in the sidewalk. I reached down with my glove to retrieve it. It was complete, not a wing out of place. Brilliant orange and black wings against my red gloves. I figured it was dead but then one of its legs twitched. Poor thing, I thought, it's frozen, probably dying. So I cupped it in my gloves and made my way to the library.

I found my book and while checking out, I uncupped my new friend. It stood up and flapped it's wings, very slowly, but never left my glove. Okay, I thought, I guess it just needed to be warmed up a little. So I decided to take him upstairs to the courtyard to set him free.

Up in the courtyard, I put him on a seat in the sunshine, next to the tree but he kept creeping back to my glove. Okay, I figured, I'll take him back to the office.

I must've looked strange. Walking against the wind, my hair slapping me in the face, a book clasped beneath my armpit and my gloved red hands held out in front of me like a tent.

I got inside and waited for the elevator. I overhead a guard say, "I bet she's got a mouse." I didn't respond.

I went to my cube and carefully took off my glove with him still attached. I Googled Monarch Butterfly and figured out that 1) it was a boy (boys have spots on their lower wings) 2) he was probably trying to get to Mexico for some winter shagging with the other monarch honies.

Poor little guy. A TDOT cubicle is a far cry from the Mexican orgy he was dreaming about.

I took him to a few other offices and showed him off. He was so beautiful. So perfect. I had never seen a butterfly so perfect. He sat on my hand and seemed content to stay there. Everyone I showed him to just oohed and aahed. Where did you find a butterfly on such a horrible cold day like this?

Just lucky, I guess.

What are you going to do with him?

Set him free when he's strong enough. Can't keep a butterfly for a pet. It's just not right.

Several of the women wanted to keep him in the office. How pretty, they said, it would be to have him flying around.

Stupid women. What would he eat? He would starve and you would watch him die all the while saying, How pretty, how pretty.

I took him back to my desk and he started flying. He flew around the office and landed back on my arm. Then he would light off again, fly a few circles and come back. I decided he must be ready to go free.

I took him outside, back to the Plaza. He put him in the flower bed near the waterfountain. He didn't look very happy. I figured the wind must be too hard here. I cupped him up in my hands and turned to take him to the courtyard, near the statue
of Ares, thinking it would have more shelter from the wind there.

As I turned, I felt a ripping, like something was pretty torn away from my hand. I looked down and the butterfly was gone. I stopped in my tracks, afraid I had dropped him and would step on him. But he wasn't on the ground. I looked up but didn't see him anywhere. I looked all around but still could not find him.

What happened to him? I don't know. I never found him again.

One of the best things about being a writer is that I can imagine different endings, whether they be true or false. So I pull this license and I have decided to write the ending as I want it to be. In my story, I watch him fly away, strong and fiery, on a warm wind that takes him to Mexico where he can shag and lap up nectar all the winter long.

So, how is this a Thanksgiving day story? Think on it like this: that in the dreariest, wet winter day, you might find a slice of summer, a hint of a better time to come, just laying on the ground, if you remember to look.

Happy Thanksgiving! Be thankful for all those who surround your table and remember all the ones who are missing.

The Minions Demand!

2008-11-23T16:52:00.005-06:00

I have been asked to post a picture of the aforementioned Bucky the Bald Ferret.

So, to spare the psyches of those a sensitive natures, you have been warned.

My sister, Mel, holds the horrible beast. Look upon it and quake!

Such a cute face to sit upon such naked horror!

Bucky wears a stunning hot pink coverup. What horror lies beneath the thin cotton t-shirt????

BTW, the link I hoped to post was www.ferret.com Good prices on all sorts of pet supplies.

Bald Ferret

2008-11-16T21:10:00.002-06:00

Other than being a cool name for a rock band, my ferret is actually bald. One of them, anyway. Bucky. It's a common problem. Some sort of adrenal thing. I'd post a photo but it would be too shocking for the human eye to behold. To gaze at the sheer ugliness that is a bald ferret is to court MADNESS!

Anyhoo, check out the link I've inserted. I found two adorable t-shirts that I am hoping will keep Bucky from freezing to death this winter. And it didn't cost me an arm and a leg. I got two t-shirts, a play tunnel and a new hammock all for less than $30.00! You can't beat that! It would cost just that to get a freaking plush hammock at Super Petx.

Anyway, gotta go clean out the cage now.

Today's Horoscope

2008-11-16T12:51:00.002-06:00

You are feeling -- and looking -- extremely good today, and your positive energy will only grow with every social encounter you have. So talk it up and get your flirt on -- shine your bright smile on everyone you meet, and you will make their day! Expect a lot of double takes and slack jaws wherever you go. By the end of the day you might even feel embarrassed at all of the attention you've been getting, but why fight it? The fact is, you are one hot ticket.

Um....yeah......maybe my birth certificate is wrong...

We apologize for the delay....

2008-11-15T10:19:00.005-06:00

Fucking B of A....

I am, right now as I type, listening to their automated pleasant voiced little girl voice tell me they are so sorry for wasting my time but they will be with me shortly and, for your added torture, listen to this piped in muzack from 1973. Christ, right now it is some synthesized rendition of Atlanta Rhythm Section's Spooky. I swear....

In a nutshell, here is the story: in October, I opened up my B of A bill. It said I owed $325.00, please, thank you very much. What? What the hell? Turns out, my interest rate went from 8.9% to 23.9%. Holy fuck. So I called and a nice man named Jay helped me out. He said that back in the summer, everyone was sent a letter that said if we used our cards in a certain month, our rate would skyrocket. Oh my.

So, he took a whole bunch of info and said if i paid the 325.00 he would get my rate down to 8%.

This month my bill is 385.00. WTF.

I called and found my request was not turned in. WTF.

I had to sell shit, borrow and steal to pay 325.00.

So now I am on hold with chris. And typing with one hand. The saga continues.....

OKay, so now I am listening to some sort of muszak where the lyrics seem to be, Oh Lay Lay Lay Oh Wanna Be Oh Hey, Hey Lay Oh Lay Oh. I suspect the soothing sax solo is actually supposed to be broadcasting subliminal suggestion....

So.......

turns out Chris Shuput (his real name he claims) talked with the Vice President (right) and they got it down to 8%. BUT he said I would have to pay the $385.000 and I threw a huge fit. Yeah. One the phone. I said this was the same business I got last month! When it was 325.00 and now it is 385.00??? How am I supposed to trust you? What will it be next month?

On his behalf, he kept calm and tried very hard to calm me down. To my credit, I did not curse once. Hey, I'm evolving.

So I asked him what should I pay this month? What should I pay? He said, "Looking at your past....I would say around $200.00." Great.

So, I will keep an eagle eye on this account......and SO HELP ME GOD, Chris Shuput, if next month my bill is wrong, you will hear from me again.

John spoke...

2008-11-08T13:06:00.008-06:00

So, here in Nashville, our Public Library patrons held a big $1000 ticket party last night with John Irving as it's token Great Author. Of course, those of us peons that use the library wouldn't be able to go to such a swanky shindig but, hey, I suppose that's our fault. Being poor and all. If I was wealthy, I wouldn't be reduced to reading hand-me-down books with God-knows-what sort of DNA smeared all over it.

But that's neither here nor there. John Irving gave a free lecture at the Ryman this morning. So, they can keep their artisan foods and duck liver spread over bits of hard cracker. We peons got to hear John Irving speak for free.

And, what a weird voice the guy has. Maybe it's a New Englander thing. He speaks like a typewriter, with a strange sort of staccato rhythm. Tap, Tap, Tap, Tappity, Tap, Tap with an occasional space bar UM. Except when he gets excited, then his words come out like a cool stream, no spaces, just fluid, raw excitement and just when you think he's going to go over the edge and slam down on the podium, he draws back and it's back to Tap, Tap, Tappity Tap, Um.

He didn't talk much about the craft of writing so much. He spoke many on the insanity of banning books (although a good banning is always good for sales) and how he wished more of his books had been banned. Of the 11, only four have gotten that honor.

He talked about how the world sees America has a very conflicted weird place. They wonder why we, Americans, are so uptight about alcohol, sex and gays. As a New Englander, the answer to that question should be innate. Americans have never gotten far from their Puritan past. If we don't like something, we figure everyone shouldn't like it and, to protect the poor bastards from the things we don't like, we make it illegal. For your own protection, of course, you silly bastards.

Then he gave us a very interesting history of abortion. Hmmmm. I had no friggin idea it was completely legal to get abortions back in the early days of our nation. It was only until the 1800's when doctors decided they wanted a little piece of the midwifery action that it all got screwy. Really? Men. Always digging their fingers into someone else's pie.

BUT the main thing I took from today's speech is that Mr. Irving said it is a writer's DUTY to offend. That it is the sole heart of the craft to ENTERTAIN and that there is no way to do that without running the risk of offending somebody. Somebody somewhere is read what you write and, if you have done your job well, it will rub their fur the wrong way.

That made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Lord knows, as a self appointed agent of chaos, I have a innate talent to offend. Pulling people off their scripts, hell, reminding people that they are living their lives by a script is jelly on my toast, people!

And, now, I think I'll go out and do a little offending...

Goodbye, Gary

2008-11-06T17:31:00.003-06:00

The guy above is Gary Root. He was a big old lug that had a laugh that would bounce off the walls and slap you right between the eyes. When I first met him I pegged him as a gamer geek straight off. Turns out, he was more than that. Sure, he gamed (who didn't) but he also loved science fiction and fantasy and wanted more than anything in the world to write the Great American Science Fiction Novel.

I met him in my Nashville Writer's Meetup Fiction group. He brought with him a fistful of handwritten chapters of his novel. Yes. A novel he had written BY HAND. God love him. I let him read a few pages but I told him I would slap him upside the head if he came in with anything else handwritten.

He was such a loveable old mug. Sort of like a big kid stuffed into a man's body. You know the type. Full of energy, he just sort of bounced around. He was a good guy.

His wife called to let me know he passed away, very suddenly, on October 8th. He was sitting in his favorite chair, sleeping, and just didn't wake up. I don't know how old he was. I know he was younger than me. Jesus. You just never freaking know, do you?

Debra,his wife, said he had told her so much about me and how much he really enjoyed my group and how he thought I was such a big help in getting him focused on writing. That meant alot of me. Sometimes, because this stupid, obsessive craft is such an inward thing, you forget the impact you have on the other people around you, good and bad. It makes me really happy to think that he felt I had a good impact on him. It'll be nice to have at least one person Over There who will vouch for me when it's my turn to cross over.

R.I.P. Gary. We'll miss you. I wondered where you were on Spookapalooza. I hope you were there in spirit at least.

Interesting times

2008-11-05T06:04:00.002-06:00

So Obama won. He's going to be the next President of the United States.

Hmmmmm.

There's a reason why "may you live in interesting times" is a curse.

It's going to be very.....interesting.

Nik Cubed

A Study of the Pink Pustule

Working on it

Take my advice...

Because the Cards told me to...

Tools

My mother's curse

2012 Motto

Three hours left

Customer Appreciation

My Three Dan Stories

How I was able to avoid Christmas shopping...

Titty Twister Tannenbaum (or Don't Fuck With the Death Santa)

Where cat piss smells like roses...

Really...don't look

Nothing to see here....

Greasing the wheels

The one where I have an epiphany

A simple test...

The one where I rant and make loosely factually based theories on how to save the human race

Not really my thing

The one where I limber up my fingers kvetching

Writers are people, too.

Music City Mythos

Good evening, Mr. Nix

Ciao, Mr. Nix....

It's the simple, cathartic things....

St. Paddy's Day Science Trick

It's a trap!

Snow Goon 2010

Mittelschmerz

Box of photos, stashed in the garage

Battling the Fish Menace @ Work

Blog

Pulling off the tit...

Snow Drizzle of 2010

Alphabet Soup

Morning quickie

Morning Post

An artist thang

Finding a vein

Cage Free Chickens

Me and the Doctor

01/01/10...I bet you binary geeks are just nerdgasming at that...

Popping in

Because the minions demand it*

Neal's Soul

Wow....I really did not see that coming....

Beginnings are always messy things

It's all about the glamour, baby...

What I learned...

The adventure begins...

Update

For Science!..... and cold cash

I'm still here and thinking of you....

Introducing.....

Birthday Post

More stories from the stalls

30 days of enema

Another thing I really like about getting older

Ink Monkey is OUT!

Let me explain myself

The Spider Is Dead

Consider me Karma

Grrrrrrr. Arrrrr. Zombies in Smyrna

Reflections on gifts past

I fought the stump...

Not many like him around anymore

You know you've made it when you end up in the funnies

The Evolution of The Boy

Monday mornings suck

Let me tell you all a little story....

Woolf lied

Day 14

Day 11

Not dead yet

Would you be my Valentine?

A piece of me.......

Monkey Brain

Find your shades...