Season’s greetings, dear readers!  Apologies for not having time for a proper post today, but I’m busy preparing for Krampus Nacht.
For those of you uncultured heathens who are blissfully unaware, Krampus is a horned, anthropomorphic figure from Central European folklore who shows up every December 5th to scare the living shit out of rotten kids (and their shitty parents).  He’s like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother, if that twin brother had a goat’s head and carried a bundle of birch branches chains for whipping purposes. Festive, right?  Hell yes.
For me, this means procuring sufficient liquor in case Krampus happens to stop by for a break from thrashing recalcitrant children.  Like those little shits across the street.  They’re doomed, and their parents know it.  Over the weekend, they hit me up for tips on Krampus-proofing their house.  Fools.  The righteous vengeance of Krampus is unstoppable, inescapable.  But I felt obligated to tell them something, so I made some shit up.
First, there’s the traditional garlic on the windowsills – because everyone knows that Krampus hates garlic. Or is that vampires? Ah well, better safe than sorry. Next, there’s the strategic placement of fluffy pillows around the house. You know, to cushion the blow in case Krampus gets in and starts swinging those birch branches around.
Then there’s the all-important task of stocking up on comfort food. Because if you’re going to spend the night cowering in fear, you might as well do it with a tub of ice cream and a family-sized bag of chips.
And let’s not forget the most important part of Krampus-proofing: crafting the perfect ‘I’ve been a good boy/girl’ sign to hang on the front door. Because nothing says ‘please don’t whip me, Mr. Krampus’ quite like a brightly colored sign made with glitter glue and desperation.
Anyway, brave reader, so much for them.  Brace yourself: Krampus Nacht is tomorrow!

N.P.: “Till the Day I Die” – Halford

Happy Thanksgiving!

N.P.: “What We Need Is a Hero” – Alan Silvestri

There are these two books.  The first one I started writing a full 10 years before I knew what it was actually about.  Yeah, the whole thing has been and continues to be just as bizarre as it sounds.  Anyway, it’s non-fiction and deeply personal.  Call it a psychological memoir.  The second one I started to blow off steam at the end of the day from writing the first one.  I intentionally started writing the most ridiculously politically incorrect thing I could come up with and ride it out to its preposterous conclusion.  Anyway, it’s fiction and best described as a supervillain origin story.  Probably the darkest satire I could come up with.

I’ve been working on both of these books with no end date in mind…just a nebulous idea of what I was doing.  Then suddenly, late last year, both books were suddenly ready enough to be made into proposals.  Which means they’re ready to be sold, and then, after some significant rewrites, published.  This would typically be time for celebration.  But instead, this is when the weirdness really hit.  For a variety of reasons, I suddenly had zero interest in publishing either of them.  As you might imagine, this triggered the running, screaming, existential fantods.

Here’s the thing, dear reader: on a personal level, publishing books is a Pain in the Ass.  The effects it has on one’s life are far too myriad to begin to list here, but suffice it to say that every personal dynamic changes, and those changes last years.  It takes a toll, and it’s a very worthwhile question to ask: is it fucking worth it?  But that’s just me in my head.  The larger, more compelling reasons to not publish either of these things are external, societal factors over which I have no control.  Again, to wit:

No American publisher is testicularly solid enough to touch these books.  Maybe the psychological memoir, but sure as shit not the novel.  Even if I did publish the memoir on a label, that publisher would cave to the woke slaves, pull the title and cut ties as soon as they found out about the novel and felt obligated to feign outrage.

And even if anybody did have the grapes to actually stand by either book, there’s no reason to expect that they wouldn’t take unacceptable editorial action in the future to retroactively censor my work to conform to the latest moronic rules of what the mob allows to be said.  So much for the big, legacy publishers.

Which brings us to The Reading Public.  Let me explicitly say that this does not apply to you, dearest reader.  But the rest of these bastards…Jesus.

Primarily, social media is to blame.  Social media seems to have made otherwise fine audiences into absolutely insufferable cunts.  At least half the headlines in the entertainment press for the past 5-10 years are about fan reactions.  “Fans outraged at ending of latest episode.”  Or they have a problem with a certain character.  Or they are insistent that, in their learned estimation, the ending of a movie is wrong.  Who gives a shit.  Write your own story.  Shoot your own movie.  [Note: The treatment of J.K. Rowling has been absolutely abhorrent.  I admire her restraint.  If I had her amount of Fuck You Money, I’d spend a bunch of it hiring an entire platoon of people with ASPD to spend their entire days mercilessly fucking with my detractors.  Then again, I can’t even imagine what happens to one’s perspective and priorities when one’s wealth is measured in billions.  Perhaps I’ll mellow if I ever make it, but perhaps not.]

And fan fiction?  All of that can fuck right off.  Maybe other authors are okay with it…some seem to find it amusing.  I personally would litigate viciously.

But whatever my issues with the reading public, they are almost totally eclipsed by my issues with the greater American public, at least the more ignorant and boisterous factions.

Perhaps I’ll go into more detail of this soon and alienate even more friends and readers. But not today.  Today is Sunday, which is for relaxing and windy walks with puppies and such.

N.P.: “I’m Not Giving Up Tonight (David Holmes Remix) – Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds

Hello, loyal and seemingly perpetually attractive reader.  It has been, as the kids would say, a minute.  I’ve been here, and I’ve certainly not forgotten about you.  I’ve just been going through what I guess is best called a period of intense growth.  Personally, professionally, psychologically…all of it.  Which was prefaced with a couple years’ worth of tectonic existential freakouts.  It’s been weird as hell, and could probably only be accurately described in very Jungian language, which would make it sound like I had slewn a dragon or escaped the Matrix.  Which I haven’t.  But I have seen that there is a Matrix to escape and that all dragons have fatal vulnerabilities.  In my quest to figure myself out, I unwittingly pierced the veil and ended up also figuring out quite a bit about others and the Nature of Things.  Suffice it to say, I have answered all the questions that needed answering.  Jesus…see?  This is already meandering into the metaphysical.  I think I’m supposed to be talking about writing.

Rewind to the previous century, when I started Writing (with a capital W…as both performance art and blood sport), I honestly thought I was prepared for anything.  Rejection, failure, starvation, depression, isolation, insanity…I had prepared for all of it (insomuch as someone can be said to prepare for that sort of thing without having actually experienced any of it).  Anyway, it all happened, some of it hit harder than some of the rest, and I managed, one way or another, to get through it.

But a couple of decades ago, very slowly, like the frog in the slowly heating pot, I started feeling increasingly separated from American culture.  When the divorce finally happened, it happened  so quickly, I was left blindsided: one minute, I was tossing back cocktails with the people who make the culture at the top of some high-rise on the Avenue of Americas and taking meetings with producers at Universal Studios, and maybe two years later being completely and acrimoniously split from the entire rotten culture, sitting behind locked doors with both middle fingers raised.  Which was awkward as some sort of artist, but still I thought somehow sustainable.

Pero no.  Over the course of the last 5-10 years, Americans and their insidious culture have changed for the unacceptably stupid and absurd, and now I’m left facing a bunch of challenges I honestly never saw coming.  This has left me in a very awkward position vis-à-vis my agenda and overall plan as a writer.

Continued tomorrow.

N.P.: “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” – 3TEETH

“I, who have also been betrayed, assassinated, and cast into a tomb, I have emerged from that tomb by the grace of God and I owe it to God to take my revenge.  He has sent me for that purpose.  Here I am.”
~ The Count of Monte Cristo

N.P.: “Dancing On Your Grave” – Motorhead

“Father, beware, our revenge will be terrible when we take it.”
~ The Count of Monte Cristo

N.P.: “Kicking and Screaming” – Blues Saraceno

“For all evils there are two remedies – time and silence.”
~ The Count of Monte Cristo

N.P.: “Trouble’s Coming” – Royal Blood

“Woman Laughing with Salad 2” by Tasty Piece,©️ The Safehouse Collection 2023

It kills the very brave and the very good and the very gentle indiscriminately.  If you are none of these, it will kill you too.  But there will be no special hurry. ~ Ernest Hemmingway

Hey, dearest reader…I’m back.  Where I’ve been I can’t say, as per our usual arrangement, but suffice it to say I’m glad to be back.  Wandering endlessly in the Darkness…felt like I was gone for ages.  Sorry about the lack of notice.  You know how it is, dear reader: when it’s time to Go Dark, it’s actually kind of rare that you get any notice.  Occupational hazard, I suppose.
Anyway, things have been Weird and I need a nap.  We’ll catch up soon.

N.P.: “Sho Been Worse” – Tyler Bryant & the Shakedown

Remembering the life and love of Mary Wallace and her family.  “Always and forever.”