Pardon me, do you have any sorts? I seem to be out of them.

I had a birthday this past Sunday. I turned… an age. Everybody was cool about it, didn’t bring numbers into it all.
Except my dad.

My dad kept reminding me how old I am all throughout the phone call we had. I wasn’t sure if he was amazed I have lived as long as I have, or if he was amazed he lived to see me be this old. Regardless, he sang “Happy Birthday” to me while playing his ukelele. I don’t care how old you are: that’s pretty awesome.

AmbroseI got a video game for my birthday from the young’uns. It seems like an odd thing for a man my age to receive, but fuck. John Carpenter spends his time playing Dead Space 3 and watching basketball. I could do worse. Besides, they got me the WWE 2013 game. And it’s fun as hell. I could spend days playing that damned thing. I guess I have done that for a couple days anyway.

I love pro wrestling. I don’t have any guilt. I love to play the game, I love to watch the shows, I’ll go see it live, I don’t care. I know more about the history of that particular thing than I do most things.

Wrestling. Horror movies. World religions.

Even to me, I seem odd. In a lot of ways, I’m still coming to terms with myself. Maybe I’m the embodiment of the New South; still clinging to the old ways, like watching NWA legacy families rise through the ranks of WWE, a distinctively Northern company, yet embracing the new ways, like computer technology and not lynching people because they’re a little bit different.

It’s that weird feeling of being half a step behind that plagues me. A little off kilter. Dancing to the wrong beat.

The part of my brain in charge of writing feels like hot Silly Putty, a little melty and weird. It still is what it is, and knows what it is designed to do, but it’s not quite up to doing it yet. I need to absorb things for a while, not constantly put out, like a cheerleader with horrible self-esteem and an amazing reputation.

I haven’t had to do anything. And I haven’t done anything. It’s a weird feeling. Puts me out of sorts.
Yet I understand that a pitcher that does not get refilled will have nothing to pour out.

So I’m refilling. Might be a couple days, might be a few weeks. Who knows? I don’t. I can’t predict this shit.

Gotta go find my sorts.

 

In defense of “Motherf***er.”

A minor kerfuffle started on Twitter last night. Nothing huge, mind you, but it was enough to make me think about words and language and stuff.

samOne of my Twitter friends was complaining because he had a moment of realization: that most of the people he followed on Twitter were “cynical motherfuckers.” Someone replied that any male tweeter who has a child can rightfully be called a “motherfucker.” I, too, have thought this, and responded that I fuck a mother as often as I can. Which I do. My wife’s daughter is eighteen.

My wife is a mother. She is also hot. We have sex. Therefore, I am a motherfucker.

For some reason, this made everyone else in the conversation feel “icky.”

How does sex still make adults, presumably non-virgins, feel weird? I understand not wanting to have the mental image of my hot wife and I going at it, but I wanted a little more information from my Tweeps. I asked why that admission made people feel weird. The only response I got was that it sounded like I was hanging out in gynecologists’ offices, hoping to get lucky. “Hey, gurl, how’d that ultrasound go? Wanna try my pre-natal vitamins? Come on, get in my mini-van.”

I find myself unsatisfied with this answer.

I want to know why it’s not okay to use “motherfucker” in a positive fashion.

After all, we’re the society that embraced the concept of the MILF (Mother I’d Like to Fuck). There is (or was) a television show called “Cougar Town,” which is about older women, who have had children, hooking up with younger men. Remember the song “Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne? It was a hit, this song, this ode to having sex with women who have kids. In fact, I would say there’s a bit of societal pressure to, in fact, be a motherfucker.

Not your mom, obviously. Your mother is a pristine untouched woman, who can’t be sullied by such things as secretions and bodily fluids, right? If someone says they’re going to fuck your mom, that becomes a reason for violence and anger. It’s an insult. This hearkens back to a time when Motherhood got the capital “M.” It was a calling, something to be honored and sainted for. Everyone who gave birth was placed on a pedestal. You get your own day, you get your own advertising demographic, you get your own kind of blog.

This tendency to protect our mothers is natural. However, what if your mom really wants to sleep with someone? What if she is sleeping with someone? The person she’s schtupping is definitely a motherfucker, but is he/she a motherfucker?

We’ve got to stop thinking we’re all the product of some Immaculate Conception. You were conceived amid sweating and grunting and odd smells. Get used to it, human. There can be no mothers without mother fucking.

slitherSome women look at motherhood as a competition, like a “guess how many things are in this jar” contest. Nadya Suleman, the Octomom, whose gigantic pregnant stomach reminded me of a scene from the movie “Slither,” used in vitro fertilization to have her grand total of fourteen children. Really no motherfuckers involved in that situation, and no one has ever been called a “mother implanter.”

There are also women in the Quiver movement, who have as many children as possible, because it’s their religious belief. Believe me, I’m not in a position to make fun of anyone else’s religious beliefs, but they seem less like mothers and more like insect queens. Those aren’t families; they’re colonies.

And you can’t tell me Jim Duggar isn’t a motherfucker.

Is it simply the inclusion of the word “fucker” in that particular compound word? Really, is “fuck” still THE bad word? Is it even a bad word at all? Do we still believe in the concept of “bad” words, as a society? It certainly seems like we’ve moved on since George Carlin first confronted us with the Seven Words You’ll Can’t Say on Television (which are now the words you almost always hear on television). I’m sure people are still offended by the word, “fuck,” but I’m not sure I understand why.

Our bad words are all political now. “Liberal” is a bad word. So is “Conservative.” You can’t say the words “Tea Party” anymore without starting an argument. It’s hard enough using the words “Left” and “Right.” You have to point to make sure others know you’re talking about directions, not ideological leanings. Once again, we’ve taken words and redefined their place within our language, and given them a moral value.

A moral value is a silly thing to give words.

Emotional depth? Yes. Do words have weight and power? Absolutely. You can destroy or empower a kid depending on which words you choose when you speak to him/her. But can words be good or bad? I don’t think so. Words are a tool. A misuse of words is like trying to open a can with a flat-head screwdriver. You might get the point across. You might also stab right through the palm of your hand. But those two options don’t negate the fact that you are using the tool incorrectly.

The intention behind the word decides the effect of the word.

If you come at me with your fists raised and you call me a “motherfucker,” I can rightfully make the assumption that you are upset, and your intent for that word was to hurt me somehow (it doesn’t). If you are in my home, enjoying the company of my children and my hot wife, and you call me a “motherfucker,” I can take that as a term of good intention (e.g. “Look what you have accomplished simply by choosing to spawn; you are a motherfucker”). If you call me a “motherfucker” and you are Jim Morrison, then you should take a face from the Ancient Gallery and walk on down the hall. Also: stay out of Miami.

Maybe I take things too literally. When someone calls me a bastard, I laugh. I know both my parents. That statement is categorically untrue. Telling me to go to hell is like telling me to go to Narnia or Westeros. Calling me a motherfucker is just a true statement. It’s neither an insult nor a compliment (unless you are also complimenting my hot wife).

Got kids? You’re a motherfucker.
In a relationship with a woman who has children? You’re a motherfucker.
Your dad? He’s a motherfucker.

The world needs motherfuckers like me. Sorry if that offends you.

This one is different because it is mine.

I’ve been doing a lot of podcasts lately, mostly in support of “Short Stories About You,” but the last one I did was just for fun.

Logo FinalOf course, I’m talking about the podcast I created and host, The Six and a Half Feet Under Podcast (where we dig just a little deeper into the mass grave of genre cinema). This particular episode gets a little weird. The subject is Giallo films, but it isn’t an introduction to Giallo. There are already plenty of those. This episode assumes you know the major players in the field, have seen a Gialli besides “Deep Red” and are not easily offended by long, protracted discussions of pubic hair.

Please give it a listen, if you are interested by such things. As of this writing, we’re sitting at #125 in the TV & Film category of Podomatic. For only having new episodes once a month, the show keeps debuting higher and higher. It’s almost like people are waiting for it. Won’t you help me push it into the Top 100? You want to hear me talk about giant wooden dildos, don’t you?

Because that happens. And not just on the podcast, either.

If you’d rather, you can also find the show on iTunes and Stitcher Radio. Just do a search for “The Six and a Half Feet Under Podcast” and you should go right to the thing. That’s one of the joys of having a long unwieldy title for your show; no one else is going take it.

Thank you, Heathens, for not only placing me in your eye sockets, but for shoving me into your ear holes as well.

 

I’ve Been Everywhere, Man — The Weekly Roundup

It’s been a busy week for me, Heathens, which is far better than being not busy. Idle hands may be the Devil’s workshop, but I’ve spent most of my time running my mouth. Let me show where you can find me this week on the world wide web of internets.

Cinema Beef Jeff_WillisFirst of all, you can check out an interview with me by Grumpyhawk and Benjamin Combs. We talk about the book, “Short Stories About You,” which you really should buy if you haven’t yet.

Then you can hear me rant and rave and use terrible language on the Cinema Beef Podcast with host Gary Hill and his other guest, Wildman Willis Wheeler. I had a lot of fun with this one, because I got to defend one of my favorite John Carpenter movies, “Prince of Darkness,” and brutally attack a movie I have never liked, “The Neverending Story.” I love to talk about movies and Gary just let me run riot, which I appreciated. Maybe not for sensitive listeners, but if you were that sensitive, you wouldn’t be reading my stuff.

Hey! I’ve still got three books for sale and there’s plenty of word of mouth for you to spread about those. Pick one up or help a brother out, won’t you? As always, I appreciate it greatly and I thank each and every one of you who has dropped dime on any of my stories or spent your time reading my horrible words. You’re the best.

Have a good weekend!

Hawk and Combs: Private Investigators at Law!

Not really. Actually, they’re podcasters who recently interviewed me about “Short  Stories About You.” It was a really good time. Both Grumpyhawk and Benjamin Combs are really cool guys. There were about ten minutes after the interview where we just shot the shit about wrestling, and that was a lot of fun. They’re just personable dudes, both of whom I would love to grab a drink with at some point.

The podcast is live now, and if you would like to hear me practicing my region-free dialect, certainly give it a listen! I come in around twenty minutes in, but you really should listen to the whole thing, because it’s a highly entertaining show.

 

Don’t fuck around with vampires from Harlan County.

midnightcoverIt feels good when I can bring a book to your attention that I can highly recommend. It’s also good when it is a book I didn’t write.

I’m sure that’s a relief for you, too.

The book is called “Midnight” by Mari Adkins. I’ve had the pleasure of reading this book at various stages during its creation. Mari has been working on it for a while now; believe me when I say this book is a labor of love for her. “Midnight” has just come out from Apex Publishing. It looks gorgeous, and knowing what’s inside, waiting for the reader (especially if you’re a vampire fan), you’re not going to be able to get your hands on this book fast enough.

It’s all about bad-ass bloodsuckers from Harlan County, Kentucky. Harlan County has a bit of a reputation, don’t you know, for being a rough area of the country. And it is country, to be sure. It’s also about family, and the lack of it, with some good insight into the (in)human condition.

Worth your time and money? Absolutely it is. Get your fang on and give “Midnight” a go.

http://www.apexbookcompany.com/collections/all-books/products/midnight/

 

Sixteen

I was stuck at work when it became apparent that my son was moving in with us, more quickly than he or we had anticipated. My wife went to get him and bring him home.

The Adventures of Cootie & X: Life Without GPS

It was 7 pm on a Friday. The sun was making its slow decent in the western sky. I lowered my visor and squinted at traffic. The air conditioning blasted its protest over the June heat and the man-child sniffled quietly in the seat beside me as his hometown slowly faded into the distance behind us. For a moment, I remembered him as a small child hiding behind his father.  Now his tears were falling from a face hidden behind long hair; the last vestige of the childhood of a boy trying so hard to become a strong man.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” I asked him, “Knowing that your entire life will fit into one car.”

He laughed, a little bitterly. “Yeah.” he said, “Yeah, it is.”

I squeezed his hand reassuringly and we drove for a while without speaking.

Later, he asked “Will you cut my hair?”

I smiled…

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