The musings of a madman...

     In all seriousness, I really probably should give more of a fuck about the world and what it thinks of me in general.  The fact of the matter, though, is that I march to the beat of my own drummer.  The “me” that the world is normally allowed to see is an international supervillain, a bearded curmudgeon.      There is this Tiny Human™ in my house who needs a hero.  “DaddyDaddyDaddy” is my routine.  Frustrating as it may be to hear back to back to back, I respond with “yes baby?” and carry it from where it goes. Fun fact: it is fucking EXHAUSTING.  I go out into a world that seems intent on destroying me most times and provide for us, then I come home and put on the happiest face I can.  She picks up on the cues around her and is a very emotional child, I work hard to avoid letting her see me break, despite the inevitable occurrence of it.  It’s human.      To her, I am the smartest, the strongest, the fastest, the best of everything.  True as these things may not be,

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1,175 Days

     It seems that this “president” and his ghost writers are at it again…     It was a rough week for the guy, opening up on some indictments of people close to his campaign, released in waves to kneecap his attempts to downplay them – and attempt he did. Apparently, though, his handlers – or as “handled” as someone like him will allow himself to be – have finally convinced him to shut the fuck up about ongoing things that could tear his ass later, even if placed on the back-channel protected tweets. …  that didn’t stop him from going in on some of his favorite subjects though…      Suffice it to say, whoever is writing for the man – and we know he can’t be writing these himself – is serving him some better material these day. As the chances that this whole Mueller thing will snake its way up his organization and eventually see him resigning or removed from office, it is probably best he begin working on his recording career.

“Controlled Chaos”      Ask me where anything in my house is, I will take you right to it.  You’d never know that to SEE it though.  It looks like some slapdash assemblage of stuff, but it really does make sense when I can explain it. My creative process is quite similar…      Imagine you sit down at your computer every morning, open FIVE instances of MS Word, then come back to each every time an idea strikes you, and scribble some notes on it.  Now imagine if you will you could somehow do this without having to necessarily sit down to the computer and type these things out. I do this shit in my head. Back in late July/early August, I had an idea for True Story© that I had been actively working on for a couple of weeks.  That idea is STILL in my drafts box.  I cut my grass one Monday and thought up, from start to finish, the Marlon story .  I went out into the yard with the first story in my mind and repeated lines to it as I worked on my grass, but the Cheaters/Marlon/d

1,176 Days

(I. need. this. board. game.)      If nothing, I fancy myself a bit of a hustler, I ain’t EVER gonna starve, dammit.  Sometimes in the course of normal daily life, I come up with plots I might one day use to sustain myself.  I have noticed that conversations with my friends often turn to topics on things that should probably never be joked about and sometimes end with me saying some fucked up shit that would probably fit the name of a punk band.  As a service, I am going to begin writing these down and offering them up to people looking for names for their bands.  As an value-added service, I will even offer to title the songs of said punk bands’ albums.      Below, I have recorded some of these instances as employed and will offer some freebies as far as how this service will work. Round 1 : Background: I was speaking to someone who likes to prattle on about how wonderful babies are and that she would love to have another one or two, but shouldn’t at her age becau

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     “There is no way I could be racist, some of my best friends are black!” is what they say when some greasy shit has been said or they’ve been caught agreeing with 45 about kneeling for the anthem.      Cruel fact: that “… some of my best friends” black friend is not even a friend at all.  He/she is some brown person – who might actually not even be black! – that the person who has found themselves cornered in conversation used to work with, or went to school with, or whose sister he tried to fuck in college.  That “friend” has never been to their house, eaten their food, met their family or played spades with them. There is nothing honorable about being the “black friend,” it is a token position for which there is no real benefit… -    Will the cops not shoot you first if y’all get into some shit out in the world? -    Would their great-grandfather not kick someone out of the family if you dated their sister? -    Have they ever ACTUALLY attempted to properly pronoun