Today we pour some out for Charles Dickens, who dropped dead on June 9, 1870.  His death was likely due to a stroke, though the exact cause remains a subject of historical speculation.  He had been in declining health, suffering from fatigue and possibly a prior minor stroke, before collapsing at his home in Gad’s Hill Place, England.

Uncle Chuck, an absolute beast behind the quill, left behind an unfinished masterpiece, The Mystery of Edwin Drood.  His works, his sprawling epics and a certain dual-city saga, went beyond simple entertainment…they sliced through the fog of Victorian pretense with razor-sharp wit and characters so vivid they practically leap off the page, reshaping the literary landscape forever.  He wasn’t some polite putz scribbling tame tales…he was a bona fide literary rockstar who flipped the script on the status quo, dragging the gritty, unvarnished truths of poverty, class, and corruption into the spotlight.  With a narrative weave so compelling it could hypnotize, he roared for social reform.  Dying mid-novel only amps up the enigma, leaving a legacy that still echoes like a thunderclap through time.

In more temporally local news, my work continues apace.  I’m busy as hell, but getting it done.  On a sidenote, the degree to which my day-to-day existence is dictated and controlled by an 8lb girl puppy is the source of great shame and embarrassment.

N.P.: “Barbaras Rhabarberbar” – Bodo Wartke, Marti Fisher, Matthias Kräutli

Happy June, dear reader.  Yo rent is due.

I’m once again running behind on the production schedule for the two books I’m working on (one officially, the other not), so I’m going to keep things on the brief side today.

Today we pour some out for literary badass Edith Wharton.  The details and timeline of the final events of her life seem to vary greatly depending on which source one consults, but all accounts agree: on this day in 1937, Edith collapsed from a heart attack.  Some sources say this happened at her French country home, while others insist it happened at the home of Ogden Codman, a big-deal architect and designer.  She survived the heart attack, but she dropped dead two months later from a stroke, hitting her at Le Pavillon Colombe in Saint-Brice-sous-Foret, France, where she died at 5:30 p.m.  But that moment on June 1 marked the beginning of the end for a writer who wielded her words like a blade, carving out truths about wealth, class, and the human condition which still sting today.

Wharton didn’t dick around with pretty illusions. Books like The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth aren’t polite little tea-party reads—they’re a liver-kick, peeling back the suffocating traditions and quiet savagery of a world obsessed with appearances. She wrote with a fierce, clear-eyed intensity that makes you feel the rot beneath the polish, the ache behind the opulence. In 1921, she became the first woman to snag a Pulitzer for The Age of Innocence, which winning was a fuck-you to anyone who thought a woman couldn’t cut to the bone of the human condition.

Her death was the end of an era for a writer who made us see the cracks in the American Dream, the ones we’re still tripping over today. Wharton’s legacy demands we face the mess of our own making, unblinking. So here’s to the literary titan who never flinched, whose words still burn with a clarity that’ll wake you up faster than a shot of Jack. Let us pour some out today for Auntie Edith.

N.P.: “Black Betty” – The Dead Daisies

Today is hot as balls in Fecal Creek.  Day two of triple digits, dear reader, and its technically not even June!  All the prognostications, scientific and otherwise, indicate that this is going to be a violently and punitively hot summer.  As I may have mentioned before, I’m actually going to try to lean into the heat this year.  Sort of an “if you can’t beat it, join it” resignation, I suppose.  To that end, I may road trip to Death Valley this summer.  If I’m feeling really ballsy, I might even book a stay at the notorious Tarantula Ranch.  After a couple of days dealing with scorpions and vipers in 120F+ heat, coming back to The Creek will feel downright autumnal.  Such drastic measures may be ill advised though…even a couple of days in those sorts of conditions can permanently scramble a person’s mind, even if it doesn’t kill him.  Rumor has it that Charles Manson was a pretty reserved, well-adjusted dude before he decided to take up residence in Death Valley.  I dunno.  We’ll see.

There’s no getting around the fact that aside from personal misery and discomfort and swamp ass, this heat makes life around here difficult.  I’m pretty much stuck in the Safe House for the time being…the asphalt on the street outside is so hot that it causes tires to melt completely in a couple of blocks.  Regrettably, I didn’t stock up on booze before the heat wave hit, so I’m shit out of luck in the tequila and whiskey department.  The heat seems to block satellite signals, so there’s no reliable internet connection.  The garage door quit working, though that might be due to demonic possession rather than extreme heat…who knows.  No one’s talking.  Even my Mexican puppy, who was whelped in the brutal Tijuana heat, finds the present conditions untenable.  She’s on strike, refusing to even be cute until the situation improves.

But never mind all that…today is massive on the Dead Poets Society calendar.  On this wild, untamed day—May 31, 1819—a raw force of nature roared into being in West Hills, New York. Walt Whitman, the untethered soul who’d soon carve his name into the beating heart of poetry, came kicking and screaming into the world. This isn’t our usual birthday nod, dear reader…it’s a full-throated howl for the man who’d become the father of free verse, a literary outlaw who tore through the stuffy rules of his time with the reckless abandon of a storm. His work, sprawling and sweaty like Leaves of Grass, doesn’t play nice with polite society—it’s transcendental, sure, but it’s also got the grit of realism, the kind of voice that makes you feel the dirt caked under your nails and the thrum of your own pulse.

Whitman’s words aren’t here to coddle you. They’re a call to the wild, a dare to embrace the messy, beautiful chaos of the human spirit and the body electric. His poems still get hauled into classrooms, thank Christ, not because they’re tame or safe, but because they’ve got the kind of fire that makes you feel alive, line after line. It’s the sort of fearless, in-your-face brilliance that keeps poetry kicking through the ages.

To demonstrate Whitman’s current cultural significance, remember, dear reader, that it was Walt Whitman who ultimately brought down Walter White.  If it hadn’t been for Uncle Walt, Breaking Bad would likely be into its 10th amazing season by now.

So here’s to Whitman, the rugged bard who showed us how to sing our own song, unapologetically, with every ounce of our being. Let’s raise a glass (unfortunately the strongest thing on hand is lemonade) to the man who’s been shaking things up for over two centuries—may his spirit keep us restless, always.

N.P.: “The Heat” – The Bones of J.R. Jones

Today, dear reader, we wind the dial back to 1937, a year when the world was still clawing its way out of the Great Depression’s chokehold. On May 28, John Steinbeck—that raw, unflinching scribe of the human struggle—dropped a literary bombshell with Of Mice and Men, first published as a novella in The American Mercury magazine before it landed on bookshelves later that year.  The book was a deep dive into the shattered dreams of two drifters, George and Lennie, chasing the American Dream in a world that’s nothing but dust and broken promises.

Steinbeck was not one to mess around. His lean, razor-sharp prose slices through the page like my switchblade, laying bare the brutal loneliness and fragile hope of an era where survival was a daily gamble. You can feel the weight of the time in every line—the desperation, the fleeting glimmers of something better, always just out of reach. It’s storytelling that doesn’t hold your hand or whisper sweet nothings; it grabs you by the collar and forces you to stare into the abyss of a society on its knees. And even now, nearly a century later, its legacy burns through American literature, a haunting reminder of what happens when you dare to look away from the underbelly of the human condition.

N.P.: “Are They Real or Not – Special Version” – Boys Don’t Cry

Today’s a big one on the D.P.S. calendar, dear reader, because today—May 25, 2025—we’re tipping our hats to a man who tore through the fabric of American thought like a wildfire through dry brush. On this day in 1803, Ralph Waldo Emerson came screaming into the world in Boston, Massachusetts, and the literary landscape would never be the same.

Emerson, the sharp-eyed sage of Transcendentalism, carved out a manifesto for the soul.  I understand that your average college graduate can’t tell you what Transcendentalism is, so they likely don’t understand why they should read Emerson.  Which is part of their existentially angsty problem.  Pieces like Self-Reliance and Nature are raw, pulsating calls to break free from the herd and dive headlong into the wild, untamed marrow of existence. He’s telling you to trust your own damn instincts, to let the wind and the trees whisper truths the stiff-collared conformists of his day couldn’t hear over their own sanctimonious droning. Emerson’s words crackle with a fierce individualism, the kind that makes you want to ditch society’s rulebook and howl at the moon just to feel alive. At least that’s what it does for me.

What makes him a cornerstone of the Romantic movement is how he weaves the natural world into a tapestry of cosmic revelation—every leaf, every river is a sacred text if you’ve got the guts to read it. His ideas not only influenced his generation; they laid down the tracks for American literary identity, giving writers the courage to chase the sublime and spit in the face of convention. Emerson’s legacy is a middle finger to mediocrity, a challenge to live boldly, and 222 years after his birth, his fire still burns bright enough to light our way, but only for those of us with the guts to walk the path.

So here’s to Uncle Ralph, the man who taught us to walk our own path, to find divinity in the dirt beneath our feet. Crack open his essays, let his words sear your brain, and join the rebellion he started all those years ago. The world’s still too tame, populated mostly by vacuous Crok-wearing, screen-staring automatons—let’s make it wild again.

In other, more personal news, there’s still no sign of my ass, which stormed off in protest last Thursday night.  I’ll probably head to the Fecal Creek Flea Market later today to see if I can find it there.  If not, I’m not sure what I’m going to do…haven’t been able to sit down for days, which has made things like sleep virtually impossible.

N.P.: “Behold Bofadeez!” – Bourbon Bach

On this fine, unassuming day of May 22, 1859, in the cobblestone shadows of Edinburgh, Scotland, a certain Sir Arthur Conan Doyle clawed his way into existence—a man destined to become the architect of one of literature’s most enduring icons, Sherlock Holmes.  Doyle’s detective stories revolutionized an entire genre, blending razor-sharp logic with the gritty, fog-drenched atmosphere of Victorian England, spawning adaptations that still slap harder than a backhand from a scorned lover. But Doyle himself? He wasn’t a typical scribbler hunched over a desk with a quill and a monocle. Dude was a doctor, an adventurer, a spiritualist nutcase who’d probably try to séance his way out of a bar fight—and that wild streak of eccentricity injects his legacy with a flavor so unhinged, it’s practically psychedelic. So here we are, on May 22, 2025, tipping our metaphorical hats to the man who gave us Holmes, Watson, and a masterclass in how to be a cultural juggernaut without losing your edge.

Doyle’s work isn’t just a collection of tidy little mysteries where the butler did it and everyone sips tea afterward. His stories are a labyrinthine fever dream of intellectual flexing—Sherlock Holmes, with his cocaine habit and violin-scratched musings, is the kind of protagonist who’d make lesser writers weep into their typewriters. The man’s a walking syllogism, a deductive machine who can tell you your entire life story from the mud on your boots and the way you knot your tie, all while sneering at the bumbling Scotland Yard boys who couldn’t find a clue if it was tattooed on their foreheads. Doyle birthed a mythos, a sprawling tapestry of brain-bending puzzles wrapped in the kind of atmospheric grit that makes you feel the damp chill of Baker Street in your bones. The adaptations are a cultural juggernaut in their own right—spanning everything from Basil Rathbone’s old-school charm to (my personal favorite) Benedict Cumberbatch’s modern-day sociopath, with pit stops for graphic novels, radio plays, and probably some fan fiction that’d make your granny clutch her pearls. It’s a testament to Doyle’s raw, unfiltered genius that his work still resonates, still punches through the noise of our oversaturated, algorithm-driven present.

But let’s not get too cozy with the idea of Doyle as some sainted literary figure, because the man himself was a walking contradiction, a kaleidoscope of quirks that’d make even the most unhinged among us (mirror, mirror, on the wall…) look positively pedestrian. A doctor by trade, he spent his early years slicing open cadavers and peering into the abyss of human physiology, which probably explains why his stories have that clinical, almost surgical precision when it comes to dissecting human behavior. But then he’d flip the script—ditch the scalpel for a sextant and go gallivanting off on adventures that’d make lesser men soil their trousers. Whaling in the Arctic? Check. Chasing glory in the Boer War? You bet. Doyle was the kind of guy who’d stare down a storm and laugh, the kind of lunatic who’d probably challenge a shark to a fistfight just to say he did it. And then there’s the spiritualist angle—because apparently, being a doctor and an adventurer wasn’t enough. Doyle dove headfirst into the occult, communing with spirits and preaching the gospel of the afterlife with the fervor of a man who’d seen one too many ghosts in the mirror. It’s the kind of batshit detour that makes you wonder if he was trolling us all, but it also adds this delicious layer of chaos to his legacy, a reminder that the guy who gave us the ultimate rationalist in Sherlock Holmes was, himself, a little unmoored from the tethers of sanity.

So where does that leave us on this May 22? It leaves us with a legacy that’s as messy and brilliant as the man himself—a body of work that’s still kicking down doors and taking names, a character who’s more alive today than half the influencers clogging your feed, and a creator whose sheer audacity reminds us that the best art comes from the kind of minds that don’t play by the rules. Doyle built a universe, one that’s been picked apart, remixed, and reimagined by countless others, yet still feels as fresh as a slap in the face. And if that’s not the mark of a literary titan, then I don’t know what is. So here’s to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—may his spirit still be out there, raising hell and solving mysteries, wherever the cosmic winds have taken him.

N.P.: “Line of Blood” – Ty Stone

Gather close, sexy and nocturnal reader.  Today we celebrate the publication of a tome that has, since it’s unholy genesis on May 19, 1897, served as nothing less than the sanguinary keystone of gothic literature: Bram Stoker’s Dracula. More than a novel, Dracula is a veritable cathedral of dread, its spires of epistolary prose piercing the fog of Victorian propriety to reveal the pulsating, crimson heart of fear itself—a fear that is, at its core, an exquisite commingling of the erotic and the eschatological, the known and the unfathomable (damn, that was sexy, if I may say so myself).

For those of you who didn’t spend your university years dissecting the entrails of literary theory—perhaps you were sensibly studying something practical, like engineering, or simply avoiding sunlight for reasons I shan’t pry into—let me illuminate the epistolary form, which Dracula wields like a silver dagger. An epistolary novel is one told through letters, diary entries, newspaper clippings, and the like, a narrative stitched together from fragments of personal accounts, as if you’re piecing together a shattered stained-glass window in a crumbling cathedral. In Dracula, this means we experience the creeping horror through Jonathan Harker’s meticulous journals, Mina Murray’s desperate letters, and Dr. Seward’s clinical notes, each voice a flickering candle in the dark, revealing the Count’s shadow through their fractured perspectives. It’s intimate, voyeuristic, and maddeningly fragmented—like eavesdropping on the last confessions of the damned.

Stoker’s masterwork, you see, is less a narrative than a palimpsest (look it up) of primal anxieties, its pages dripping with the ichor (look this one up, too…I borrowed it from Poe’s The Conqueror Worm from last night’s reading) of the unknown—those tenebrous forces that slink beyond the candlelit periphery of human understanding. Through the diaristic machinations of Harker, Seward, and the ill-fated Lucy Westenra , Stoker conjures a Count who is not merely a monster, but a metaphysical rupture—a walking, stalking lacuna in the fabric of modernity, his castle a labyrinthine memento mori where time itself curdles like blood in a chalice. The novel’s exploration of sexuality—veiled, yet throbbing beneath the surface like a carotid artery—anticipates Freud by a hairsbreadth, its subtext a gothic danse macabre of repression and release, wherein Mina’s purity is both shield and sacrificial altar, and Dracula’s bite a perverse Eucharist, transubstantiating innocence into damnation (c’mon, dear reader…who else gives you “transubstantiating innocence into damnation” on a Sunday?).

And the influence! My god, the influence of this sepulchral text sprawls like a plague-ridden shadow across the cultural firmament—its tendrils ensnaring film, theater, and the collective unconscious with a rapacity that would make the Count himself proud. From Murnau’s Nosferatu to Coppola’s baroque fever-dream, from stage adaptations that revel in crimson melodrama to the modern horror renaissance that owes its very lifeblood to Stoker’s creation, Dracula remains a cultural juggernaut, its themes of alienation, contagion, and the seductive pull of the abyss as resonant in 2025 as they were in 1897.

Initially a modest success, Dracula has since metastasized into the very DNA of vampire mythology, its legacy a testament to the enduring power of literary horror to excavate the darkest recesses of the human (and perhaps inhuman) psyche. Read it, I implore you, beneath the flicker of a dying candle, and feel the chill of eternity seep into your bones. In its pages, you’ll find a reflection of the void—and the terrible, beautiful hunger that dwells within it.

N.P.: “The Last Path Home” – CHANT

Greetings, attractive reader.  Today we rewind the tape to May 17, 1824 – a date that ought to be seared into the cerebellum of every self-respecting lit nerd, a day that marks not just a loss but a cultural felony so egregious it makes you want to scream into the void, or at least shotgun a bottle of absinthe in protest.  I’m talking about the incineration of Lord Byron’s diaries and manuscripts, a scorched-earth operation orchestrated by his publisher, John Murray, with the complicit nods of Thomas Moore and other so-called custodians of the poet’s legacy.  These manuscripts weren’t just scribbles and doodles…they were the raw, unfiltered synaptic firings of a man whose very name still conjures storms of passion and rebellion, a man whose life was a dirty bomb detonated in the lap of the staid Regency establishment.  And yet, in a fit of sanctimonious hand-wringing over Byron’s “scandalous” reputation (oh, the horror of a poet who dared to live as he wrote!), they torched it all, reducing to ash what might’ve been the Rosetta Stone of Romanticism.  This, dear reader, is what some have called “one of the worst literary crimes ever committed,” and they are not wrong – they’re just not loud enough.

For those of you who aren’t Initiates in the Dead Poets Society, I’ll unpack this travesty with the kind of clarity that only hindsight and a righteous fury can provide.  Byron, dead at 36, had already been buried at Westminster Abbey, his body barely cold in the ground when his supposed allies decided his legacy needed a good, old-fashioned Puritan cleansing.  The man had lived a life that was, as we have discussed here recently, a high-wire act of excess and genius – seducing half of Europe, penning verses that could make angels weep and devils blush, and generally giving a throbbing, glowing middle finger to every moralistic busybody who crossed his path.  His diaries, his manuscripts, his private correspondence were artifacts, the kind of primary-source gold that scholars would have killed for, the kind of material that could’ve given us a front-row seat to the mind of a poet who redefined what it meant to be a rock star before the term every existed.  Imagine the confessions, the unexpurgated rants, the late-night jottings of a man who once wrote, “I awoke one morning and found myself famous.”  Imagine the secrets, the loves, the hates, the sheer electric hum of a consciousness that burned that hot.  Now imagine it all going up in flames because a handful of pearl-clutching Victorians couldn’t handle the heat.

John Murray, the ringleader of this literary lynch mob was Byron’s publisher, a man who’d made a fortune off the poet’s words, a man who should’ve known better.  But Murray, along with Thomas Moore and the rest of the crew, decided unilaterally that Byron’s reputation – already battered by rumors of incest, sodomy, and general debauchery – needed “protection.”  Protection from what, exactly?  From the truth?  From the messy, glorious humanity that made Byron who he was?  This wasn’t protection; this was erasure, a deliberate attempt to sanitize a man whose entire existence was a fuck you to sanitation.  They burned the very essence of what made him dangerous, what made him real.  And in doing so, they robbed us, the future, of a chance to grapple with Byron on his own terms, to see the man behind the myth without the filter of Victorian prudery.

Here’s a fun mental exercise for perspective: imagine, for a moment, that someone decided to take the letters of Emily Dickinson or the journal notes of Virginia Woolf and use them to kindle a campfire.  Picture Franz Kafka’s senselessly neurotic scribblings turned to ash because someone thought they didn’t look flattering for Kafka, Inc.  The stomach churns, does it not, dear reader?  Now amplify that sense of loss and ruin until it feels properly global, because that’s what this burning was.  We’re not talking about a few stray poems or doodles on cocktail napkins.  Byron had poured himself into these volumes, and their destruction was nothing short of full-on cultural vandalism.

No one knows what was in hose diaries for sure, which is particularly maddening.  Were they full of crude jokes?  Quiet admissions of regret?  Detailed records of those countless, juicy scandals that followed him like a bad smell?  Or maybe all of the above.  Whatever we lost, if was irreplaceable, and the really sad part is that Murray, Moore, and the rest knew it.  They reportedly burned the pages in small bundles, and at least one of them admitted to sobbing during the process.  Even as they were committing this literary arson, they understood they was erasing something extraordinary.

This was a crime!  A cultural heist of the highest order, and we’re still paying the price 200 years later.  The loss of those manuscripts is a gaping wound in the body of literary history, a black hole where insight should be.  We’re left with the polished, published works, sure…Don Juan, Childe Harrold, all the hits…but what about the rough drafts, the half-formed thoughts, the diary entries where Byron might have let his guard down and shown us the cracks in his Byronic armor?  What about the letters where he might’ve spilled the tea on his lovers, his enemies, his own fractured psyche?  We’ll never know, because a bunch of stiff-collared cowards decided that posterity couldn’t handle the unvarnished truth.  And that, dear reader, is the real scandal – not Byron’s life, but the fact that we were denied the chance to fully understand it.

So here we are, on May 17, 2025, exactly 201 years after the face, and I’m still pissed.  I’m pissed because the burning of Byron’s papers wasn’t just an act of cowardice – it was an act of arrogance, a declaration that some stories are too wild, too raw, too real to be preserved.  But isn’t that the whole point of literature?  To confront the chaos, to dive headfirst into the maelstrom and come out the other side with something true?  Byron did that every goddamn day of his life, and he deserved better than to have his inner world reduced to cinders by men who couldn’t handle the fire.  So let’s raise a glass to a poet who lived without limits, and let’s curse the small-minded fools who thought they could contain him by burning his words.  This is the sort of shit that keeps me awake at night, dear reader, howling at the moon for a glimpse of what we’ll never get back.

In better and more temporally local literary news, the book is finally taking shape, emerging from its amorphous, unfocused blob form into an at least somewhat coherent structure.  Remember those deep focus pictures all the hipsters were hanging on their walls in the early-2000s?  The ones that people would stare at for some ridiculous amount of time, waiting for their eyes to “relax” and “unfocus” to the point where they could see the hidden picture?  And then when you finally saw the picture, you celebrated briefly, then you couldn’t not see it, and then you’d wonder why it took you so long to see it in the first place?  That’s what it was like the other night as I was looking over what I had written so far, when I finally saw the hidden picture.  I smiled.

Anyway, I must be getting back to it.

N.P.: “Love Me Two Times” – The Mission

Today, dear reader, we’re diving into a shadowy corner of American literary history that’s as haunting as the tales it inspired. On May 16, 1931—yep, you read that right, though I suspect the date might be a typo for 1836, since Poe passed in 1849—Edgar Allan Poe, the master of the macabre, married his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Clemm.

By today’s standards, this marriage raises every red flag in the book. A 27-year-old man tying the knot with a 13-year-old girl—his own cousin, no less—was a bold defiance of social norms, even in the 1830s. Back then, marrying young wasn’t unheard of, and cousin marriages weren’t as taboo as they are now, but this union still turned heads. Poe and Virginia’s relationship was a middle finger to convention, a theme that bled into every chilling tale and mournful poem he penned. The controversy alone could’ve made headlines, but Poe wasn’t one to shy away from the dark and forbidden—his life mirrored the eerie worlds he created.

Virginia, often described as delicate and ethereal, became Poe’s muse in the most haunting way. Works like The Raven and Annabel Lee are steeped in her influence, their melancholic beauty reflecting her frail health and early death at just 24 from tuberculosis in 1847. Poe’s obsession with death, loss, and the supernatural wasn’t just artistic flair—it was deeply personal. Virginia’s decline and passing shattered him, fueling the raw, anguished emotion that makes his writing so timeless. You can almost feel the weight of his grief in lines like “Nevermore” or the aching longing of Annabel Lee’s “kingdom by the sea.” Their marriage, though troubled by her illness and Poe’s own struggles with alcoholism and poverty, gave his gothic legacy a visceral, lived-in edge.

But let’s not romanticize this too much. The age gap and familial ties make this a hard pill to swallow, even for the most diehard Poe fans. Some scholars argue Poe saw Virginia more as a sisterly figure than a wife, at least initially, and that their bond was more platonic than passionate. Others point to the cultural context of the time, where such arrangements weren’t as shocking. Either way, it’s a stark reminder of how Poe’s life was as turbulent and unconventional as his stories—always teetering on the edge of societal acceptance, much like the crumbling houses and unhinged narrators he wrote about.

This marriage not only shaped Poe’s work, but also helped redefine American literature. Poe’s fearless embrace of the dark, the taboo, and the deeply personal carved out a space for the gothic tradition to flourish. He wasn’t afraid to plumb the depths of human despair, and his union with Virginia gave him a front-row seat to tragedy. So, the next time you’re shivering through The Tell-Tale Heart or whispering The Raven’s refrain, remember the real-life heartbreak behind the words—a love story as doomed and defiant as any Poe ever dreamed up.

Switch gears now…I hear from the hippies that today is ostensibly Endangered Species Day.  So, on this Endangered Species Day, May 16, 2025, permit me to eschew the lachrymose dirges for some benighted amphibian or ichthyic obscurity and instead hoist a tumbler—Jack Daniels, no ice, thank you—to the most critically endangered taxon of our epoch: Scriptor Americanus Badassus, the Badass American Writer. This isn’t your milquetoast MFA drone or some clickbait-churning digital serf. Nay, this is a whiskey-guzzling, iron-packing, censor-defying, chaos-conjuring literary berserker, teetering on oblivion’s brink, harried by the dual hydras of governmental overreach and social media’s sanctimonious inquisition. Strap in, dear reader, for I shall delineate, with Friday’s typical verbosity (resulting from consumption of a Triple Mocha Frozen Coffee and no fewer than four (4) Dunkin’ donuts) and a certain outlaw panache, why this species merits veneration and preservation above all others on the endangered roster.

Dig, if you will, the Badass American Writer in their primordial milieu: a dive bar redolent of stale Marlboros, a manual typewriter hammering like an M-16 on full auto, a fifth of bourbon perspiring profusely beside a dog-eared Moleskine, and a snub-nose .38 nestled in the small of the back, lest some apparatchik or algorithmically empowered prude dare intrude. Their phenotypic markers? They imbibe with the fervor of a desert prophet, curse with the baroque flourish of a Elizabethan cutthroat, and brook precisely zero nonsense from any quarter—be it federal, corporate, or the perpetually aggrieved Twitterati. These are the scribes who craft narratives that flay the epidermis from polite fictions, who hurl verities like grenades into the complacent agora. They don’t dabble in ephemeral “threads”; they etch tomes in blood and brimstone. And, alas, they are vanishing, extirpated with ruthless efficiency.

Whence this peril? The etiology is multifarious yet depressingly banal. The state, that Leviathan of bureaucratic cupidity, slathers “disinformation” warnings on anything with a pulse, its tentacles probing every syllable for subversive intent. Social media, those panopticons of performative virtue, exile dissenters to the shadowlands with a keystroke, their terms of service a guillotine for the insufficiently meek. And then there’s the cultural clerisy, those pursed-lipped arbiters who recoil at a well-placed expletive or the whiff of unfiltered Camels in a public space. Scriptor Americanus Badassus does not genuflect to such pieties. They’d sooner torch their oeuvre than submit to the red pen of a content moderator. But this intransigence exacts a toll. Publishers, craven as ever, shun them. Platforms throttle their reach into oblivion. The mob, wielding hashtags like pitchforks, brands them “toxic.” Extinction looms, and it’s clutching a fucking style guide.

Now, to the crux: why does this species outstrip all others—your pandas, your rhinos, your esoteric mollusks—in deserving salvation? Pandas, for all their photogenic charm, are evolutionary cul-de-sacs, too indolent to procreate sans human intervention. Rhinos, while formidable, aren’t out here penning jeremiads that recalibrate the national conscience. But the Badass American Writer? They are the sine qua non of a free polity, the final bulwark against a world hellbent on muzzling truth and planing down anything with an edge. Their prose is an arsenal of ideation, each paragraph a claymore detonated in the face of orthodoxy. They safeguard the republic’s soul, a task no other species can claim. Without them, we’re doomed to a monochrome dystopia of approved narratives and content warnings.

How, then, to stave off their demise? First, dismantle the censorial apparatus—let these writers breathe, blaspheme, and provoke without fear of digital crucifixion. Second, patronize their work; seek out the tomes banished by school boards or algorithmically consigned to obscurity, and buy them in bulk. Third, amplify their defiance. When some platform immolates a writer for “violating community standards” (read: daring to exist), raise a clamor louder than a Harley at full throttle. And finally, the area I’m attempting to support,  cultivate successors. Inculcate in the young an appetite for strong spirits, straight shooting, and prose that doesn’t flinch. Breed Scriptor Americanus Badassus, not another cohort of screen-addled supplicants.

So here’s to the Badass American Writer, the most endangered and indispensable of creatures. They fight not merely for their own survival but for the survival of a world worth inhabiting. Raise your glass, chamber a round, and join the insurgency. For if we let them perish, we surrender the fire that keeps this nation from dissolving into a tepid, sanitized abyss. Long may Scriptor Americanus Badassus reign. Let’s ensure their saga doesn’t end in a footnote.

—One of the Few Badass American Writers, still out there, raging against the dying of the light.

N.P.: “Magic (Macy’s Theme)” – Stimulator