I Cannot Keep My Own Secrets.

I am really shitty at being my own publicist. When I come up with a new project that I’m ready to release, I want to get it out there now, now, now. I don’t want to wait. I devise my own street dates and they become my enemies. I irritate myself.

It’s not braggadocio. It’s a child-like over-exuberant personality. This is my new shiny thing. I’d like to show it to you.

So, let’s see who really reads this blog. I’m going to tell you a secret.

I’m starting a new podcast. Yes, this makes three. One that I am a constant guest on, and two that I host and produce myself. It really doesn’t take that much time. As my patroness saint, Amanda Fucking Palmer, says, “Stop pretending art is hard.”

There is an art to a good podcast.
It’s not hard. It just takes a little time, is all.

The podcast I introduced this year, The Six and a Half Feet Under Podcast, has been reaching really high numbers. I attribute this to two things: it only comes out once a month, which makes it more of a “prestige” podcast, and people perceive it as a “serious” podcast. It is that; we go into a lot of issues that most podcasts shy away from. I give no fucks; I’ll talk about anything.

If you’ve read my fiction, you already know that. I ain’t skeered.

While the Six Point Five is still going strong, I decided to go ahead and bring out a new podcast, sort of a dream project of mine.

Logo FinalThe show is called “Kiss the Goat” and it is all about those crazy Devil movies that saw their heyday in the late Sixties and early Seventies, but which had new life breathed into them by the Italian market during the Eighties. Possession, exorcism, crazy nuns, badly dressed cult members… we’ll get to all of that eventually on “Kiss the Goat.”

Go ahead and join the Facebook group. Just do a Facebook search for “Kiss the Goat” and you’ll find us easily enough. The first episode drops on August 1.

I’m extremely pleased and proud of this because my co-host is my wife. This is a project we get to work on together. Refining, writing, choosing which piece of garbage to review next: we get to do that all as a couple. We already like each other. Hopefully that chemistry comes across during the show.

Also, Cootie has a sweet voice and the sort of openness you don’t often find on podcasts. She’s something else.

I hope it’s something you dig. All of these things — the podcasts, the stories, the blog itself — are all things designed to entertain you, the audience, my loyal Heathens. Aw, hell… they’re fun for me, too. I’ll quit doing it when you quit reacting.

Come to Hell with us, won’t you? It won’t take long and you just might have a good time. 

Have you any dreams you’d like to sell?

I have nightmares. Every night.

You kind of expect that from a bloke like me, I guess. The guy who writes the scary stories. Nightmares must be part of the job description, right?

nightmare1Well, they aren’t just nightmares.

They are night terrors. I have had them since I was five years old. They are recurrent. They make me sweat; when I wake up, my pillows are soaked with perspiration. It’s uncomfortable, to say the very least.

And they terrify me.

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I’d rather have a bottle in front me than have to have a Hobby Lobby-otomy.


There are those who are constantly super-pissed about some political issue going on in this country. How do you do that? How do you keep up the energy to remain so mad, all the time? Is there some kind of Lazarus Pit of hate y’all draw from? Is there a purity to your depth of patriotism that I’m not privy to? Or do you just like to argue?

HL1I’ve only been talking about this whole Hobby Lobby thing for a couple of days, and I’m over it. Exhausted. Done. I would much rather talk shitty movies and horror stories than get involved in gigantic slabs of political polemic.

Besides… no one seems to be mad about what I’m mad about, which makes it frustrating for me. There’s something more nefarious going on here than a woman’s right to behave as she sees fit sexually and whether or not an insurance company should be forced to pay for that. There’s something going on that affects everyone, regardless of gender or behavior.

They’re taking our language.

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The existential dread of Mondays, Part I: The helplessness of Internet friends.

I’ve always believed that friends are where you find them, especially in the Internet age. I have a lot of friends that I consider to be very close that I’ve never met in real life. I’ve Tweeted them. I’ve talked to them on Skype. But I’ve never shaken their hands or been able to smell their cologne or perfume. I don’t think that matters. The internet allows you to cut through that bullshit and get to the heart of the matter. When all you have is conversation, your on a direct road into someone’s brain. From the brain to the heart is not a long trip. And you can tell a faker or a tourist just as well online as you can in real life.

That’s what I think, anyway. I’ve never been catfished. I would like to think I can tell the difference between a real person and a person who wants to be real.

Having said that, someone that I believe to be real is having chemotherapy for the first time today. Because Mondays don’t suck bad enough, right? This woman has always been exceeding kind to me. She’s a fantastic writer, and she’s given Jim Branscome and I good, helpful notes on the scripts we’ve sent her for peer review. She always seems to want us to do well. She’s also incredibly funny, and seems to get my random, poorly timed jokes better than most.

I hate that she is going through this. I’m angry that something as small as cells can rebel against someone, turn against their host and become something dark and festering. I’m frustrated that words do not and can not make things better. I’m mad that I am here and she is there; that I can’t bring my whole family together and show up at the hospital with terrible things like sparkly shoes and 80’s wigs and cake and a shitty Michael Bay movie, and that we can’t hang out with her family and get to know each other while all this other bullshit goes down.

I am daunted by distance and by knowing just enough, but not enough.

I hope she’s reading this. If nothing else, I hope someone is reading it to her. I hope someone tells her that a lot of people think she’s brave, and that a sense of humour is the best thing to have in a situation like this. I hope someone is doing her makeup. I have reasons to believe that all these things are happening, and I am pleased by that.

I hope, also, that someone tells her there a lot of people online who think she’s real, and are thinking about her. Wishing nothing but good things for her. Ready to see her survive.

We’re writers. We tell stories, even when they’re difficult to tell. I’ve been reading the blog.
I’m looking forward to a few years from now, when the book comes out.