A Different Shade of Reason

Onward! To Each Their Darkness by Gary A. Braunbeck

2012-01-18T20:25:00.002-07:00

I hate Gary A. Braunbeck.

Never met the guy. Almost everything I've read before now has been a short story of his. I hear the legend of him, the stories about him - the kind of super nice but still a little morose guy. (There should be a whole lot more hyphens in that sentence, but I'm kinda too lazy to type them.) Maybe flaky. Maybe not there when you're talking to him. But I've never met him. I can't confirm nor deny these accusations.

What I can confirm is TO EACH THEIR DARKNESS fucked me up. It messed me up like Jeff Strand's PRESSURE, and probably more impact to Mr. Braunbeck, Ketchum's THE GIRL NEXT DOOR.

DARKNESS, as it shall be now known for purposes of this writing, cuz - as stated - I'm lazy and shit, is the first book that actually made me cry. Conlon's THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, is the only book that raised the hair on the back of my neck, a phenomenon I thought but a construct of fiction until I'd experienced it. But, again, Braunbeck fucked me up. Like THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, I know I'll be thinking about this book on a daily basis for the next few months.

It's not fiction, but has fiction in it. Braunbeck's fiction. And one of the reasons I hate him is because it's sooooo damn good. The man who purports to be a reader of elementary understanding, writes literary, beautiful prose like few can, and has received the accolades and awards to prove it. I'm a writing geek. The "I used run-on sentences here for this reason and I used three-word sentences here for this other reason" is the type of thing I could talk to people about for days. I love the ins-and-outs of writing. The craft. The art (more on that to follow). The experience.

Gary, and I shall call him Gary because, again, because I'm a lazy fuck and am tired of making sure I've spelled his last name correctly, breaks down the craft on the nuts-and-bolts level while still showing the macro side of writing.

However, to think this is a book about writing, about horror in all its various media, is to sell it short. What this book is about is a writer, and possibly one of the finest writers of genre fiction in the past fifty years.

There's a section where Gary explains how a character has the benefit of explaining his motivations through dialogue - be it in film or on the page. The Definition of the Self. He gives an example of "The Messiah on Mott Street" from Serling's NIGHT GALLERY, and wrote his passage so well about it that I sought out the episode. Then he spends most of this book defining the DOTS by exposing himself in a rare, touching and emotionally draining fashion.

I cried, yes, like the pussy I am, when he wrote about his sister at the ELP concert. Afterwards, I felt even more like shit when I realized, it was the one episode in his life where things could have, should have, must have went wrong, but everything turned out okay. But the way he conveyed the anxiety over the incident hit me hard. Suffice it to say, I wouldn't wish his life on anybody.

So, for Gary...

When I was nine, I killed my brother.

Not in a way I could be convicted of, nor a way an adult would blame me for, but now that I'm almost forty-five, a way I still will never deny.

Daniel Patrick Anderson was my parent's favorite, and my sister and I would've hated that except we knew he had the right to be. He was the one who gave affection even after we laughed at him. He was the one that was far more outgoing. He was the one that you couldn't help but like.

And I killed him.

My sister and I always had a heated sibling rivalry. A rivalry that in later life, I got my ass handed to me. I struggle to take care of my family, she could take care of mine, hers, and a small city in Nicaragua. Yet, in 1977, I was winning. I was older, stronger, and damnit, Danny liked me better. I made sure of this by taking him to walk with me to school.

That was a no-no.

We lived two miles from the school and had a special city bus designated to take us to and from Spangler Elementary. But I wasn't as cool as Danny. Nor as tough. I was the smallest kid in my class except for my mouth. I got in a lot of fights. I never won one. So, I liked walking to school. I even more liked walking home from school - after a day of bullying and being so quiet that I'd almost rather piss my pants than ask for a bathroom pass. As such, being Danny's older brother, I often, and by often,I mean daily, mocked him for not walking home.

So, on April 20, 1977, my mother was five minutes late picking him up. And he walked. And he ran across Seventeenth Avenue. And he didn't make it. And I killed him.

Well, that's not what I intended when I started this silly blog.

I write, though. I want to write as well as Gary, but probably never will.

Which brings me to Gary's arguement about art. He contends that art can't be created, but it happens as a happy circumstance. The fact he shows his first brush with art as a friend who can fart a song, I believe, kind of underminds his hypothisis. I agree a lot with what he says here. Art is a happy circumstance, BUT, it usually occurs when somebody is trying to create art. Gary writes at length about Van Gogh - well, maybe not at length, but he discusses him. Van Gogh created art that few can deny. He also did so while trying to create art. The idea that art is happenstance doesn't work for me. Most of what artists try doesn't turn out to be art, but almost all art is the result of somebody trying to create it. So there. That's my main bitch.

I just want to express, I read a book that touched me - and not like one of the later passages in the book. For those that write, all we hope to do is hit a nerve - touch an emotion that means something. Gary has succeeded like no other non-fiction book I've ever read.

I hate you, Gary A. Braunbeck. And that's the nicest thing I can say.

Holy Cow!

2011-10-23T14:21:00.003-06:00

Kind of funny how time slips by. Didn't realize how long it'd been since I visited here. And it's not like I've had nothing going on - I just didn't feel all that comfortable talking about it. That's how I roll.

However, based upon the number of hits on the blog lately, apparently, people are expecting me to say something. Probably expecting me to say something stupid, because again, that's how I roll.

I suspect all the recent traffic here is because of the new project that's in presale right now -SNUTCH LABS PRESENTS: TALES FROM THE YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION. So, as I'm rusty at the blog thing, let's discuss that.

I want to focus on one of my favorite writers in the whole world - Kim Despins. Kim is working on a novel right now, but has been a short-story specialist up to this point - a woman after my own heart. She's a writer who you forget is there, which is the best kind. You read her stories, and she doesn't step on them. It's only story you read, and when you're done, as a writer, you try and figure out how she turned you inside out and got you lost in her prose. It's seamless.

While there's a beauty in that, there's also a brutality in what she writes. Her story "Skin" is in HORROR LIBRARY IV. Where to get? Here: HORROR LIBRARY IV. I have several friends with stories in this anthology, but while Kim's might not be your favorite when you finish, might not be the most well written in your opinion (it's very well written), might not be the one that makes you pick up the book, six months after you read the anthology it'll be the one you remember.

As far as the Yellow Rose offering, Kim does what she does best. She attacks a trope in the genre and turns it upside down. Kim, I think, will freely admit she wrote a gypsy curse story. But if one does something original with a trope, it makes it all the better. Why is LET THE RIGHT ONE IN such a powerful vampire movie? I believe it's because we're all tired of vampire movies, yet they found someway to make it fresh. This is what Kim does with her story, DOSHOLO. The title translates to "guilt" in Romanian, but I'm sure you knew that.

Here's an excerpt from the second section of the story:

Rae sat smoking a cigarette in her car, an older Camry she hated because it had been her dad’s first. She flicked ashes at the cup holder, missed and left more burn marks in the upholstery. Parked outside Corey’s apartment, she waited for the throbbing in her ankle to subside enough she could press the accelerator.
Corey had gone back to the Harvest Fair for the concert.

“It’ll look suspicious if we’re not there,” he’d said. “Besides, I want to go dancing.”

“You? Dancing?” Rae had spent countless evenings trying to pull Corey out onto the dance floor at one bar or another.

“Why not,” he’d said. “After tonight, maybe we should celebrate being alive.”
He’d also threatened to break up with her if she went to the cops. That, and go to her boss about the stash of pot she kept hidden at work for her night shifts. Rae barely made rent already. Losing her job meant moving back in with her dad. They’d barely spoken since her mother and brother died.

Ma and Danny. She’d worked so hard to forget that day, to think of them as if Danny were off at school and Ma divorced and happy in another town.

“But they’re not, are they.” Rae said to the empty car. And the gypsy knew it. She lit another cigarette from the stub of the one she’d just finished. Now she was responsible for another death. I’m a curse, she thought.

“You’re smoking now?”

The voice came from the back of her mind and was no more substantial than the smoke she blew out the car window.

Yeah Ma, she thought and flicked ashes at the cup holder. Her mother’s voice frequently popped into her head, mostly when she was doing things her mother wouldn’t have liked. And it’s not the worst thing I’ve done.

A commercial played on the radio – some annoying ad for a monster trucks rally – and she turned it off. Rae slid deeper into her seat and let her eyelids drift to half-mast. She wanted to pick up Corey, drive somewhere out of reach of the streetlights, put in Pink Floyd, smoke and watch the stars. She wanted to forget.

“Cigarettes will kill you.”

She jumped and in the rearview mirror caught a glimpse of someone in the back seat. When she turned around, her mother sat amid the litter of discarded fast food bags and empty soda cans. She still wore the navy blue suit with white piping that they’d buried her in. The faint odor of formaldehyde tickled Rae’s nose.

Ma? she thought, unable to take a breath deep enough to allow her to speak.

“Oh, now you acknowledge me. I expected you to just ignore me like before.”

“Ma, I didn’t-”

“You didn’t? Then where were you when I was dying? When I needed you most? Where?”
Rae scrambled for the handle, pushed the door open and fell onto the street. When she stood, the car was empty. The throbbing in her ankle became spikes of pain. She moaned, let out a shaky breath and fumbled for her cigarettes.

“Doesn’t family mean anything to you?” Ma stood just behind her right shoulder. Her curly red hair flared out like a halo, although Rae didn’t think she looked very angelic. The sagging skin of her mouth turned down in a sneer. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over. “You left me for dead.”

The woman who’d raised Rae and who’d never lifted a hand to her in anger pulled back and slapped Rae across the face. Her acrylic finger nails raked her cheek. Rae staggered back.

“You’re not my Ma.”

END EXCERPT

This is the example of writing I was talking about. I dropped you in a story about a third of the way through, yet you can pretty much piece everything together to this point. There's continuity. There's also a skill that drops just enough information among the action so the reader learns more about the characters with each sentence.

If you're interested in following a writer who has a huge upside, Kim would be a solid bet to check out. And do a brother a favor, check her out in a book that I have a story in, as well.
YELLOW ROSE DINER AND FILL STATION

Back to work

2010-06-13T20:15:00.009-06:00

As I'd mentioned in a previous post, I kind of let the whole collection thing get in my way far too much. The professional thing would have been to move on and have a billion stories and novels ready while I waited those four years. But, I let things get to me. I was horrified that the people I told would think I was in some way not truthful.

Now, the collection has been out for almost two months. The reviews have been great, the sales have been strong, and I'm thrilled it's over. It'd be nice to get a little more reader feedback, but...

Thing is, it's been very anticlimactic. Basically, I just have another book in my house. I knew it wouldn't change my life, but I guess waiting for as long as I did, I thought I'd enjoy seeing it released more than I have.

So, I spent a couple of weeks in a bit of a free fall, and a couple more focused on deep introspection. I'm ready to get back and give this a strong push.

I'm twelve chapters into my novel. This will be a huge challenge for me. I might not have attended college for a psych degree, and I think the one that I purchased for $29.99 and three proof of purchase from gallon Thunderbird bottles isn't really valid. However, I'm pretty sure I have a touch of the OCD. I've never finished anything unless I finally sat down and erased all I had, then finished the story in one sitting. And yes, this goes for my 13,000 word chapbook that I just had accepted. Talk about a long fucking day.

So, I'm about twenty percent done with the novel. I see rough waters nearing. But, I'm going to try and have this finished by July 31. The first draft. My plan is to pop in here each Sunday and just spout off about how it's going.

To make matters even worse, I woke up yesterday and was closer to 250 pounds than I was to 200 for the first time ever. A buddy of mine decided he'd do the P90X thing with me. Yes, this isn't smart to try these both at the same time, but I feel I have to make up for the time I lost wallowing in self pity about the collection.

Anyways, if you want to feel better about yourself, check in now and again. For if I crash and burn, I promise it'll be spectacular.

Oh, and now for something completely different. Thanks to Lee Thompson, who asked me some questions. I answered them. My wife called me a smart ass.

The mailman has finally delivered!

2010-04-29T17:33:00.003-06:00

After five years, and now on it's third publisher, the once mythical, now really truly here, POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY has been released. Okay, it might not have been as bad as Guns and Roses Chinese Democracy, or John Skipp's Mondo Zombie, but it's been quite the journey.

I'm part elated, part vindicated, part just effin tired.

I'm really glad it's here. It's been like an albatross. Well, I let it become one, anyway. I'm very proud of it, but it's very much a time to move on for me as a writer.

Anyway, please buy it...PLEASE

Beaten to the punch

2010-04-06T17:56:00.003-06:00

Damn, Erik Williams!!!!

Erik has been a friend of mine for a number of years now. He's a writer that I compete with. Not on an artistic level, or an output level (cuz he's killing me on output), but on a publication level.

I sold my collection (perhaps you've heard of it? POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY - ring a bell?) years before Erik sold his novella, BLOOD SPRING. But, my publisher went belly up, so it's been a bit of a race to see who'd get the first book. I appear to have come in second.

Right now, his novella is available for preorder. Apparently it's shipping on April 9. So, he wins...by a lousy seventeen days.

So, instead of buying five copies of PFP, buy four and get a copy of BLOOD SPRING. Stoker Award winning author Gene O'Neill says: “Erik Williams. Underline that name, put it on the fridge. Erik Williams is the genuine article. If you liked DELIVERANCE, you will love BLOOD SPRING. The writing is crisp, the story compelling and just as terrifying as James Dickey’s masterpiece. Highly Recommended!”

Actually, why don't you still go with the five copies of PFP. Just dig a little deeper and buy Erik's book, too, okay?

Congratulations, Erik. It's a damn fine read.

The Countdown is on

2010-03-26T14:24:00.002-06:00

I received an email this morning from the Tom Moran at Sideshow Press confirming the trade paperback version of POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY will be released a month from today. The collection features sixteen stories, several of which are originals, and an introduction by Thomas Tessier.

Yeah, that Thomas Tessier.

I've met enough of the writers I've admired over the years so that I don't have that "idol" thing going on anymore. Well, except for a select few, and Tessier is definitely in that few. I'm humbled by the talent of somebody who could write classics like PHANTOM, FOG HEART and RAPTURE (although I'm even more partial to his short stories - I REMEMBER ME is freaking brilliant). But the truth is, he's about the nicest man you could ever meet and an all-round class act.

And the awesome introduction he's provided doesn't hurt:

INTRODUCTION

Thomas Tessier

Here is a box of very dark and disturbing treats for you, and if you're wise, you'll sample them slowly, savoring each one fully and then perhaps taking a short walk before settling in again to read the next. Because, you may well find it very tempting to gobble them all down in a rush – and believe me, that's not a good idea.

A good idea would be to have a fine sipping whisky at hand.

Sam W. Anderson is a writer who can perform powerfully rough surgery on the reader's psyche, casually obliterating expectations and defying anyone to doubt what he is saying. You won't.

There may be moments when you will think, He just can't do that, it isn't right. Oh yes he can, oh yes it is.

He is superb at recognizing the countless invisible twists of fate that shadow our daily lives, threatening to blindside us at any moment and throw our everyday reality into chaos. Chaos is a feeble word, though, for what some of the characters here experience when Sam delivers the twist.

Speaking of shadows, there's one in here that is more than just chilling. And a child playing harmlessly in a sandbox, it would seem. And some lizards who have been around the block a few times. And a doctor who makes a specialty of lice.

And my own favorite one here, the fever dream “Amongst the Wailing Winds,” in which the nightmare inside and the nightmare outside intersect perfectly. It is deeply felt, and remorseless.

These are horror stories, of course, front-loaded with dread, pain and terror. But as is so often the case with horror literature, merely saying that doesn't tell the half of it. Plenty of writers can produce the shocks and gore, and some of them even think that's all there is to it. Sam W. Anderson can do all of that, and better. He can pull us inside the skin and hearts and minds of his characters, and make us understand, instinctively, how they feel and why they do what they do. Thereby, gets inside our skin too. For some of us, this is what all good writing – and reading -- is about.

There is something deeply evocative about the characters and the western settings in these stories, remorseless in their exploration of the terminal underside of American life -- the vast, inhospitable geography, and the absurd, doomed activities of certain inhabitants -- that reminds me of the profoundly sad, disturbing plays and short stories of Sam Shepard. In this case, Sam W. Anderson uses a rather different literary lens, but he is pulling us into the very same dream -- and nightmare.

It's always a pleasure to celebrate the arrival of a gifted new writer on the scene, and I'm particularly happy to introduce you to these stories by Sam W. Anderson. Now, take a sip, turn the next page and – good luck.

It's over

2010-02-28T19:43:00.005-07:00

So, today, my son's basketball team lost in the first round of the playoffs. Maybe with our poor record, that should have been expected, but I honestly didn't think it would happen. Regular season we ended 2-5, but most of those losses were by four points or less, and in the last week, we figured it out. Oh, did I mention I was the assistant coach on the team? So, I'm not biased or anything. Our last win, yesterday, was by twelve points, and, honestly, my son, Nick, was the guy who changed the team's culture.

I'm not going to say my son is a perfect kid. He doesn't live in the same neighborhood as perfect, the same zip code, hell, maybe even the same planet. But I am in awe of my son.

Since kindergarten, we've been "encouraged" to have him tested for ADHD, and we resisted. Like we weren't good parents if he had it, I guess. But now, he's in the fourth grade, and he was miserable. Yes, he's ADHD. Yes, despite everything I wanted, we finally agreed to have him medicated. If you have thoughts on this, and haven't been through it, fuck you. If you've been through it, then you understand the trauma, the lack of self-esteem; you understand. If you got through it without meds, please, PLEASE let me know how.

Nick, who's in the highly and gifted class,- an actual genius IQ wise - and a brown belt, is going to make the honor roll this week for the first time. This week, he grasped if he plays hard, the team feeds off him. In a game, where we lost 14-13, he scored two points, had four rebounds, one foul and numerous - NUMEROUS - times where he caused a jump ball by tying up the opponent. He's not a gifted athlete at this point...he's big and hasn't grown into his body, but he's far ahead of anything I could've ever hoped to have been. (Although, we have the common trait of hitting free throws - Nick was 6 for 6 this year.)

I don't know what karma train I took to get this boy as my son, but it was the best ride ever. No matter what I do - be it writing, curing cancer or making more money than god - raising this boy to be the young man he's becoming is by far my greatest accomplishment. Thank you, Nick, for never giving up. Thank you for fighting every day. Thanks for doing as I say, not as I do. I love you, and have found you're by far the better influence on me, than I could ever be to you.

Hello darkness, my old friend

2010-02-18T18:36:00.005-07:00

Anybody who follows this blog, God bless ya...cuz you're some patient mother fuggers.

Yes, I've been neglectful of my duties again. I suck. But I make these promises to myself and I kind of keep them. I wasn't going to post until I finished my chapbook. So, it's done. Took a lot longer than it should have, but honestly, I needed that time to do it right. I'm screwed in the head, and it's the way I work. But, the good news is, "The Unusual Events of a Saturday Afternoon at Big K's Truck Stop and Fine Dining Emporium - A Money Run Tale" is done and will be out later this year from Sideshow Press.

So, what else has happened for me? Well, I had my story "Son of...a Bitch" accepted by the Horror Writers Association anthology, BLOOD LITE II: OVERBITE.

And then the immensely talented Jeff Strand said some nice things about my upcoming collection POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY. Anybody interested in checking out a really well-written, truly disturbing book, should seek out Mr. Strand's PRESSURE. Probably the most disturbing book I've read since THE GIRL NEXT DOOR. He's also got a bunch of new stuff out that I look forward to picking up.

As for Mr. Strand's review, I kinda thought "Tossing Butch, Saving Theodore" was a deep story about family relationships and finding a sense of belonging. However, there is a lot of laxitives and midget tossing going on.

More about PFP, dropping on or about April 26 - cover and some art by Tom Moran.

Happy mudda-puckin Halloween!

2009-10-31T15:55:00.002-06:00

I went to this movie with my wife and another couple. The memory of it is all four of us leaving, getting in the car and driving home with nobody saying a single word. I'm not sure if Se7en is my favorite horror movie, but it's in the top three.

Now, go eat some chocolate.

Friend's crap...er, I mean congrats to the homies

2009-10-15T20:09:00.008-06:00

Been a couple of weeks, huh? Well sue me for having the swine flu, bitches. Sorry, still a little cranky...not feeling up to snuff does that to me.

But it's been a busy few weeks for mis compadres. Since I'm trying to prove to myself that I'm not a self-centered prick, I'm going to discuss them.

First, a big congrats to a couple of the Snutch Labs crew. Kurt Dinan and John Mantooth both received honorable mentions from Ellen Datlow in her Best Horror of the Year. See here: Kurt and John are assholes.

Plus, congrats to Kurt and his family on their new son with the awesome name. Sam Dinan is a fine, fine moniker.

A lot of friends, acquaintances and big names on that list...too many to go into, but I'd be an ass if I didn't give the proper recognition to Trish Cacek and Steve Tem. They're both kind of de facto mentors for me, great people as well as uber-talented writers.

Also, another Snutcher, Erik Williams, signed a contract for his novelette, THE REVEREND'S POWDER, and it should be available next summer. He's holding back on all the details until the publisher announces it, but I'm a blabbermouth.

For those interested in free fiction from a titan in the horror genre, the Library of America has posted Thomas Tessier's story, NOCTURNE. Tom is one hell of a nice guy and probably my favorite genre writer. And congrats to him on the recent addition to his family, too.

Finally, Paul Tremblay's new novella, THE HARLEQUIN AND THE TRAIN was reviewed in LOCUS - a pretty big deal:

"Tremblay’s main thrust seems to be that anyone can become evil when subjected to the proper pressures, and that the line between the banal and the monstrous is thin and ever-shifting; the case he makes is compelling, and messy, and creepy as hell. The human potential for monstrous behavior is always scarier than external monsters, anyway. The Harlequin and the Train is a memorable read..."--Tim Pratt, Locus Magazine.

Want more insight into Steve Tem, PD Cacek, Tom Tessier or Paul Tremblay? Check out the Snutch Labs chats we've had with them: Snutch Labs bloggity blog

And to wrap up, let's talk about me - or at least look upon me in all my splendor. Erik's posted the ~~evidence~~ pictures from last month's KillerCon. Awesome effin time!

You know, they're right. Pimpin ain't easy. Posting links is a pain in the ass.

Now, some good news

2009-09-30T07:00:00.003-06:00

I'm glad to announce that my previously mentioned collection, POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY, has been sold (again) to Sideshow Press. Presale begins about January and the collection should finally see the light of day around June of 2010.

The original and reprinted art of Russell Dickerson will still be included, along with new art from Tom Moran, and a new cover - which might be the best news of all. It's been expanded to sixteen stories, including the first three Money Run stories - "Of Lot Lizards, Love and Money," "Degrees of Persuasion" (my personal favorite), and "Tossing Butch, Saving Theodore." I hate to brag, but I think "Tossing Butch..." might be the most important story in the history of the gay midget tossing genre. The collection will also include an updated introduction by Thomas Tessier, which is a huge ego boost for me - like I need that.

More details to follow... (Oh, the drama!)

First, the bad news...

2009-09-25T11:39:00.004-06:00

And by saying "first," I mean there's much more news to follow, but none of it would make sense without the bad news first.

My collection, POSTCARDS FROM PURGATORY, is not going to be published by Doorways Publishing after all. I have nothing but nice things to say about Doorways and Brian Yount and their crew, but timing wasn't working on our side. I still talk to Brian every week, mostly to give him crap about how bad the Reds suck, and the decision was mutual and very amicable. But for those of you looking forward to a book with a postman standing next to a trash bin on the cover, I'm afraid I can no longer help you out.

But let's not dwell on the bad news.

Fine! I'm back already - sheesh

2009-09-23T18:37:00.004-06:00

Where have I been? Wouldn't you like to know! Actually, probably not.

It's a long story, but...

I'd began on my novel in earnest in April and decided I wasn't doing anything else until I managed to finish it - for good or for bad. So guess what? I'm blogging, huh? So that means...with the novel?

Yeah, that's not done. I anticipated the jump from short stories to novels would be difficult and a long process. I just underestimated the long part. The good news, I'm unusually happy with what I have down so far. Typically, I hate everything I write until like the sixty-fifth draft - then I'm just so tired of it, I have no opinion.

However, I've had another opportunity come up to where I've had to put aside the novel for a bit. I'm back to the usual process of hating the work (being the new project), but slowly it's getting there. I'll update on that in the future.

Anyways, I've found something odd about this blog thing. Sometimes people read these. Imagine that. And I attended KillerCon in Las Vegas this past weekend and got quite a bit of flack for my cyber-absence. All along I've thought I don't have much to say or share, but on the plane ride home, I realized I actually do have quite a bit of news. So, I'll be sharing that over the next week or so. Yeah, I'm a tease.

Creamed Cramer, with a side of pleas.

2009-03-13T19:10:00.003-06:00

Last night, the best journalist in the country undressed the feigned outrage of financial clown and scumbag, Jim Cramer. And yes, it's a sad commentary when the best questions we get are from Jon Stewart...he's clearly biased, completely cops to it and usually looks more for laughs than insight. But usually, he gets the insight.

The much-hyped evening turned into a well-thought-out condemnation of the country's financial structure, and more importantly, the media (sensing a theme from me?) who not only ignored the current financial crisis warning signs, but cheered for it and the insanity that led to our current situation.

I can't help but wonder where our country would be right now if two events never occurred: First, when Secretary Paulson, who had kept the company line of "the fundamentals are strong," as his message right up until his act. That act being "the sky is falling, give me seventy billion dollars and look the other way." Then Mr. Cramer going on The Today Show telling his sheep to "sell, sell everything."

And who points this out? The financial gurus of CNBC? Fox and all their financial reporting (funny how the Wall Street Journal missed this)? Bloomberg? No, a comedian who never succeeded until his current format had to expose the "shenanigans."

What happened last night probably ended Cramer's career. It also probably raised Stewart to an entirely different level. Which, on one hand we need, but is a disturbing thought that things have deteriorated to the point that the guy who serves as our best watchdog was the exagerrated stoner guy from Half Baked.

current jam: Ida Maria, I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked

Goddamn Bob Dylan...

2009-02-26T21:34:00.003-07:00

I hate it when he's right, but the times, they's a changing.

First, Stephen Page leaves the Barenaked Ladies. Okay, BNL will never be accepting an award from the Rock-and-Roll Hall of Fame, but they've also been severely underrated. Funnest band I've ever seen in concert, and over the last nine years, the only band I've seen everytime they've come through Denver - usually between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I get it...he effed up. Bad. As a group they'd sold out, made some deal with the devil, er Disney. Released a Christmas album and a children's record with big things on the horizon - possibly millions of dollars lost for the group. And as a band, you can't forgive somebody for that. But god, it sucks. I saw BNL at Fiddlers Green, when it was still Fiddlers Green, with my wife seven months pregnant with our son. I saw them in the theater district when my wife was eight months pregnant with my daughter. And it will never be the same. Change really blows sometimes.

Speaking of change, tomorrow is the final edition of the Rocky Mountain News, a Colorado mainstay for 150 years. It was my parent's paper of choice when papers mattered. It was my wife's paper when I met her. It's a stupid thing to think of, but it's played a part in my life since I've been born.

But, more serious than the loss of BNL, the crisis in America's newspapers is a serious issue. Since Reagan killed the Fairness Doctrine and the constriction of media ownership over the last twenty-five years, a vital part of our country has been dying a slow, apparently unnoticed death. An uneducated electorate is a dangerous electorate. I have no doubt Bush won his second term because of the lack of media presence calling him out on the bullshit of the previous four years.

Media today is a joke. It's TMZ. It's Murdoch. It's Disney. If Nixon pulled the shit he did today, he'd get away with it, but we'd sure as shit know which days Brittney decided to leave her undergarments at home.

Undoubtedly, part of the problem is the interwebs. Free information means no advertising dollars for newspapers. The other major issue is the consolidation of media ownership. But the biggest problem is the media consumer - you and me. Mostly you. Just saying

Where's the fucking outrage? Goddamnit people! Our country was started by some pissed off dudes who took on the most powerful empire in the world. Now we're so fat and satisfied, we don't care that our country has been in two wars in a row that were not declared by legal means. No, the president can't declare war - only congress has that power, and even though congress gave Dickhead authority to use military force in Iraq, no declaration of war ever was passed. Shouldn't this bother us somewhat? But so long as we get our Cinemax and American Idol and our iPhones work and the microwave doesn't burn our popcorn, we don't care.

And as long as the media can feed us pablum, we'll eat it up. We'll decide elections on three-word slogans, whomever has the most money to repeat those slogans always winning. We'll ignore important issues, possibly boring issues, to read about Octo-mom. Well, that's not true. Most of us won't read anything.

Change has been a theme this country's heard a lot about the last 18-24 months. Some of it sux.

Double Root Canal

2009-02-19T14:49:00.002-07:00

Pretty much enough said. Except, damn, that's a violent procedure.

C'mon Vicodin.

Somebody shoot me

2009-02-18T12:40:00.003-07:00

Pain is a constant companion of mine. I have some herniated discs in my neck that can range from a minor annoyance to excruciating. I played sports in school and landscaped for most of my twenties, and the forty-something me isn't too overjoyed with the twenty-something me's complete disregard for my body. Of course, my twenty-something me would call the forty-something me a pussy - and wouldn't be completely inaccurate, either.

But over the last few months I've discovered a new type of physical pain that deserves a special classification. An agony so perverse and detestable that I think I've come as close to understanding childbirth as I ever could. Except with childbirth, you know it's going to end, and you can get an epidural. And before you ladies jump on my case, I'm not saying this hurts as bad as childbirth, I'm saying it's as close as I can get to understanding it.

I've had a toothache for six months now. I've had a cap put in and a cavity filled. I've been to the dentist more in the last three months than I'd been in the last twenty years. And if I had a gun in my house right now, I'd shoot myself. The pain is constant and over the last five days has grown to such proportions that I can't sleep for longer than twenty-minute spans. I pop Vicodin like candy, and it's powerless against it. I can't lie down because it triggers a pain attack - and I don't know if that's a medical term, but I'm coining it as one right now.

I have an appointment with an endodontics specialist tomorrow to see if they can ascertain the origin of this. If he can't, I'm going to tell him to take all of them out. I'm not kidding.

It starts on my right side. I've determined it's usually the "six" tooth on their charts - the one that kind of resembles a fang. The throbbing begins, and pressure builds, before shooting up to my temple. Within minutes the entire right side of my face is being pelted with tiny fireballs - my gums, my ear (fuck it hurts my ear), the sinuses in my cheek, and in the really bad attacks, down my throat and into my nose.

I can't sleep. I can't concentrate. I can't write. I'm not a father or a husband. I'm a blubbering fool, calling for his mommy and reaching for the Orajel and another Vicodin.

I don't really have a point for this post, but I thought it'd make me feel better. It hasn't.

An Open Letter to the NBA

2009-02-03T22:53:00.005-07:00

A little background: I used to have Nuggets season tickets - when they were horrible. They should give me tickets just for going to those games. That said, I'd rather the Nuggets win a championship than any other team I root for. Hell, I'd rather the Nuggets win a championship than I breathe every hour. But, as you will see, I'm soooooooooooo pissed.

To Whom it May Concern:

I just returned home from the Nuggets/Spurs game, and I want to know who in the NBA to complain to about the Spurs sitting out all their talent.

I saved for weeks to buy this game. My son is nine-years old, and this is the first year he's shown any interest in sports. I explained to him all day who Duncan, Ginobli, Parker and Bowen are, and I show up and only Bowen plays and only a half game. I understand if somebody is hurt, but they rested them? These people make seven-figure (some eight-figure) salaries, to work three hours a night, eighty two nights a year. And they're tired?

If this was a music festival of eight bands, basically, the top three bands didn't play, and the fifth played a half a set. I paid to see these people, and as such, I should expect them to play. This is not acceptable. I paid $73 per seat to watch a JV team.

I understand it's not the Nuggets fault, but it's very hard for me to ever consider attending an NBA game again knowing that it's a crap shoot to see who plays. Somebody's injured? Fine. Somebody's tired...screw you. That is an insult in every way. And it's not the first time. Shaq did it earlier this year. If you're so old you can't play every night, retire. Don't ask me to support you. It's like watching the E-Street Band, but Bruce Springsteen is backstage icing his package after sliding into the camera.

I'm tired every day I go to work. Shut your stupid, whiney butts up and give me my money back.

Sincerely,
Sam W. Anderson

Dad

2009-01-30T16:34:00.003-07:00

Today, my father turns 67, near as I can figure. Happy birthday, Dad, and thanks.

My father and I are about as different as two people can be. I'm not really sure we're from the same gene pool, and I think the milkman used to leave extra butter, but that's beside the point. He thinks Rush Limbaugh is a flaming liberal, and if I were any more left-wing, I'd be gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Dad pulled himself up from a childhood of poverty and became a financially successful man. I came from a world of relative privledge and now stuggle to make ends meet sometimes.

But I respect no man, like I do my dad. Especially now that I'm a father myself. The "this is how it is, and I know you don't believe me, but I went through the same stuff, too" speeches were true.

Dad left a leg in Vietnam, but never once complained about it. In fact, he called it the best thing that ever happened to him, because it forced the government to pay for his education - vocational school. He bowled, played volleyball and occasionally would play one-on-one with me in the driveway. The one-on-one ended when his prosthesis slipped off and he hit his chin on the wooden leg that remained standing, knocking him out. I so still took it to the hole. I learned that from him, too.

When I was three, I'd steal his leg and make him hop after me. I'd run outside with it, and I believe that's when I became known to the neighborhood as Goddamn Sam.

He used to be a Marine. He became a Marine because when it was time for him to get drafted, the Army, Navy and Air Force sent him recruitment materials. Since the Marines didn't, he joined them.

Stupid jokes are his thing. Puns mostly...elaborate puns. Like half hour stories that end with the punch line of "Pardon me Roy, is that the cat that chewed your new shoes." He apparently has a lot of free time to put these together.

He spent something like eighteen hours in a rice patty, his entire unit dead except for one other survivor. The Viet Cong sat in the jungle, arms aimed the rice patty, but unwilling to move in because of a tank that was behind his vehicle. The tank was disabled, but Dad thinks the enemy didn't know that. He'd been shot in his left arm so it was useless. In his right hand, he spent hours removing the pin from his grenade, determined to take as many out as he could if they came to finish him off. Once he'd removed the pin, he kept his hand on the safety, waiting for hours. If he'd have dozed off, I most likely wouldn't be here.

Enduring all this, he never displayed any signs of PTSD, not that I'd ever seen. He thinks psychology is for pussies. I need therapy if there's pulp in my orange juice.

He's a math genius. He can give square roots off the top of his head. Until I got to college, I thought I'd never be as smart as my dad. I'm not smart like my dad, but I'm as smart as him. And he deserves a lot of credit for that.

I disagree with a lot of things my father did in his life. I think he would, too. But then again, I ain't too happy with a bunch of shit I've pulled. Even with that, he's the finest human being I've ever known. For a Marine to endure the sensitive pansy I could be, and to do with understanding and guidance, it speaks of a far deeper person than one sees on the surface.

I've seen him cry twice: At my brother's funeral, and once after a temper tantrum when I told him I hated him. Sure I was a stupid kid, but to this day, I feel terrible for that.

Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks.

The sports crap blog entry

2009-01-07T00:37:00.004-07:00

Okay, all Hell's broken loose in Gaza, we're bringing in a new president, economic woes abound, but in my shallow life, the sports world's been rocked lately.

First - Shanahan being fired. Can't say I argue too much with it. I think he's a Hall of Fame coach, but things weren't clicking anymore. I have friends argue about how good the offense was despite losing seven running backs, but two facts remain: He presided over a collapse of historic proportion and has won only one playoff game since Elway retired.

Who's the next coach? Spags from the Giants probably. Wouldn't be shocked to see some Marty ball in Denver, though. Assuming it's not the latter, I think whoever gets the job is merely keeping the seat warm until Kubiak's contract runs out in Houston. Yeah, I said it.

Second - Carmelo's injury is freaking huge. The Nuggets are jinxed. I could see them competing this year, but a long-term injury to your best player is too much to overcome. I think they'll be competitive for a few games, but by the time he comes back, they'll lose their identity. I thought they had a legitimate chance to be a top two seed in the west this year. Right now, I think they sneak into the playoffs again. It's a crushing blow.

I don't have a third.

Writing - I finished a story that's crap and I'm trying to turn it into something. But I've written pretty consistently since last post. That's the main step...produce, then worry.

This song is over, thought I had something more to say.

All In

2008-12-05T10:48:00.005-07:00

Dear Sam,

Thanks for sending me "Craving Soul Food." I'm afraid it didn't work for me.

Ellen

I apologize in advance for the breadth of this post...I was considering titling it "More Than You Ever Wanted to Know."

Above is the rejection letter I received for the story I'd mentioned in my previous post. I'd gotten rather used to rejection letters, but the last couple have cut unusually deep. I had a story at GUD for 130 days and was getting my hopes up too high. It'd been awhile since any good writing news, and I was starting to count on the acceptance.

-Radio edit - please excuse.

But the latest rejection sent me down the road of introspection. I mentioned my writing group before. It seems to me that any story they put their all into ends up rewarding them. For me, not so much. The logical conclusion is I suck. Nobody's ever accused me of being logical, though.

I've very seriously considered chucking the writing aspirations. I'm a decent husband and a very good father. I'm pretty good at my day job. I think without the constant distraction of writing, I could be great at all those things. And I'd be much less frustrated.

Just when I decided to take the leap, to quit cold turkey, I get a call from my dad. Over Thanksgiving, he'd watched my son for a day. Without prompting, Dad told me how Nick had boasted to him that "My dad's an author." While I dispute the claim somewhat, it's kind of a nice feeling to have your son bragging on you. The shoe's so often on the other foot, it caught me a little off-guard.

So. Now what?

I can't let my boy down, but I'm not going to go through the next few years on this emotional roller-coaster - affecting every aspect of my life when writing things don't go my way. But I can't look myself in the mirror without thinking "Damn, I'm a pretty man!" - Sorry bout that, I get distracted when I look in the mirror. I meant I can't look at myself and know I've tried my hardest.

I just don't feel I've really given writing a consistent, concentrated effort.

This post is me throwing down the gauntlet for (at?) myself. I'm all in until my next birthday on July 31 (cash is always a nice gift, btw). Perhaps things will be going well enough then that my goals can be modified, but something huge will have to occur.

What must happen before then:

My collection must come out, and the reviews better not completely suck. I don't need anymore justification of that logic thing I previously mentioned.

I must sell to a professional market.

I must finish my POS novel.

I have two interviews with established authors that I've promised to complete, and they must be completed.

Most importantly, if I look in the mirror that day, and after throwing myself the required kisses, know that I'm still not giving it the effort, then I quit. If I can't sustain a solid effort for eight months, it's time to turn my attention to other pursuits.

All in. Public humiliation is a great motivator.

mmm...Leftovers

2008-11-28T23:28:00.002-07:00

As it's the day after the best day of the year, leftovers seem an appropriate subject.

First, for the billions following, sorry I've been a little lax in the blog updates. In my real life, there's this job thing and it thinks it's hot shit cuz it gives me money to support my family. Anywho - I have a certification test coming up on Friday that I've been studying for. Sorry to let you all down, but I won't let priorities get in my way again. Promise.

Next, I'd be remiss if I ignored the election...yes, it's been awhile since I've bloggy-blogged. I don't want to get all political, but thank god the right guy won. I supported Obama from the day he announced his candidacy, volunteered to be a delegate at the county level and even donated. You know that important lint brush they used before his half-hour infomercial...I paid for that.

But being in a marital union of mixed race, it meant something on a personal level. Few white guys, and I'm about as white as you get - even used to sport a mo-lit - can even begin to appreciate what this meant along racial lines. I don't claim any great fountain of wisdom, either. However, having kids with the same racial make-up as the president-elect, I believe I have an appreciation many others can't. I mean, there's not a lot of families that have to deal with a dinner conversation where an eight-year old spouts "You gotta problem with black people? We're sitting right here!" No matter what the racial make up of the family, that's just not a sentence you're prepared for...trust me.

Anyway, I have a point, and not just on the top of my head. I kept my boy up on November 4 so he could watch the speech. Personal interjection; Obama + speech = effin genius. So, the boy's watching the speech and spending the majority of the time playing with his transformer. Yeah, he's eight. But a couple of days later he's talking about it because they had a discussion at school. I asked him if he thought it was cool that a black man could be president? He answered, "I already knew that, Dad."

Maybe we're further along than we give us credit for. Until you read the increase in racially-motivated crimes since the election. I hate people.

Finally, writing-wise, two tidbits.

#1 Finished a story last week that I've submitted to a major anthology. I like the story quite a bit technically. I think it's layered and touched on many different themes that the anthology was asking for. But I don't like the story because it's a stereotypical horror ending...the anthology kind of dictated I do it that way, but I'm disappointed I went that route. If I don't get it in the anthology, I'll probably never submit it anywhere again. I'll elaborate more when I get an answer.

#2 Returned quite some time ago from The Lake House. Great weekend. Great to see the guys. Disappointed in no swimsuits, but Alabama was beautiful. And I ate enough fried crap and BBQ to raise my cholesterol 60 points. It was awesome!

Squeal like a pig, bee-atch!

2008-10-22T17:00:00.002-06:00

My title is so inappropriate, I can't stand it, but it makes me laugh.

Tomorrow I leave for Alabama, home of college football greatness, kudzu, and my very good friend, John Mantooth. For future reference, refer to him only as "Mantooth." You're blessed with a name like that, you wear it like a badge of Mantoothyness.

But the purpose of the trip, besides killing brain cells, is to reunion-ize with my online writing group, "Snutch Labs." Yes, that Snutch Labs. I look forward to an intense weekend of writing, critiquing, crying, gawking (a lot) and laughing...lots and lots of laughing.

Snutch formed from the ashes of the Borderlands Boot Camp of August 06 (class of 06 rules!). We originally consisted of five members: myself (cuz we go in alphabetical order) Kurt "fuckin'" Dinan (the fearless leader), the aforementioned John Mantooth, Petra Miller and Erik Williams. We picked up a straggler along the way - the immensely talented and wonderfully chested Kim Despins - the mistress of the interwebs for the whole group, and soon to be Borderlands graduate. We like to think we graduated in 06, and Kim will in 09 (along with Erik, again), but we're sophomoric.

These people are family. I've been in their physical presence less than a week total, but due to shared experiences - Borderlands and WHC 2008 - and a shared devotion and understanding of the commitment it takes to write, I'm probably closer with them than many people I see everyday. Not my real family, of course, cuz Morgan could kick all their asses and then yell "that's disgusting!" And Nick is awesome, and Nichelle is hot enough to melt my keyboard- and puts up with me (there's a special place in heaven just for doing that). But I'm looking much forward to a weekend of debauchery, stimulating conversation and Petra and Kim in bathing suits - or out of bathing suits.

I'll report back soon - I've got plans for this blog thing. They're just lame.

Fashionably Late

2008-10-01T05:16:00.003-06:00

So, this is the blog-o-sphere?

Thanks for having me. Nice place you got here. Looks like lots of folks are ahead of me for the food line.

Quite the diverse crowd at that - a few really interesting people, but an awful lot of self-centered assholes. I should fit right in! And if any of the silver's missing afterward, don't blame me.

About myself? Well, I'm married - I can hear the virtual hearts breaking. Also got two of them rugrats - boy and a girl that are just too cute to kill. And I do quite a bit of that writing thing, too. Not as much as I'd like, but enough to keep me out of major trouble (so long as nobody looks in my trunk). Mostly macbre-type stuff, but I'm branching out into trying new things. Got a little mythos I'm working on that seems to be getting a little interest, but not a lot of success yet.

Published? Oh yes. Not enough that you've probably heard of me, but enough to feed the habit. I hear I have a book due shortly, but I've heard that for over a year now. I don't wish to jinx it, but it's apparently in the final editing stages. No, you can't get it at a bookstore, but I'll let you know when and how when it's available. Trust me, I'll let you know.

What's that? You gotta' mingle? Oh that's fine - I'll try to figure out how to work this crowd myself. I'll catch up with you, soon. I'm much more interesting after I relax a little, feel more at home. I'll have much more to say later. After all, I'm full of two things, and one's opinions. I'm sure I'll be back to share some of them before you really care, but share them I will.

Take care.