Starting a cult would probably be pretty profitable and no small amount of fun.  The thought does cross.  Get a few friends together and head out to the desert and start a “family.”  Maybe after this book comes out.  Hell, it’ll probably be inevitable.  Heh.

N.P.: “Helter Skelter” – Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson

The future really was so much better in the past.


Make another serial killer laugh today.  It was actually probably more of a chuckle.  Still counts.


There will be no next time.  This was it.

N.P.: “Fear Inoculum” – TOOL

Just busy as hell, dear reader, with all sorts of non-writing, lifey things.  Still managed to get a few pages down.  Now I must collapse.  I hope you are well.

N.P.: “Crank It – Living with Ghosts” – John 5

It’s August.  And down in Mexico, that means it’s bullfighting season.  It might be time to head back down to Tijuana to dance with the girls in the red dresses.

Or maybe not.  Maybe I should just sit tight, lay low, hunker down here in Room 5, and not come out until I finish one or more of these goddamn books.

N.P.: “Bombshell from Hell” – Scum of the Earth

The good news is that I didn’t start a bunch of new projects today.  The bad news is I didn’t finish any old ones, either.  Still, progress is being made.  I can probably do another page before collapse.

It occurred to me last night/this morning that the main book is maybe closer than I thought to being submittable/salable.  Unsure.  We’ll see.

N.P.: “Come On – Thomas Tank Remix” – The Notorious B.I.G.

“Even a stopped clock gives the right time twice a day.  And for once I’m inclined to believe that Withnail is right: we are indeed drifting into the arena of the unwell..making an enemy of our own future.” ~ I


Just a weird weekend.  Sort of annoying because there was a lot of waiting and seeing going on, so the whole thing felt like being on call,  I’d like to think that things will calm down tomorrow, but they won’t.  I could probably benefit from some therapeutic couch time.  Or I could just keep working on these books.  That’s been pretty cathartic of late.

N.P.: “Doc Holliday” – Volbeat

Me: Cheers.

He: Cheers.

Me:  Why did the chicken cross the road?

He: Why?

Me:  To get to the idiot’s house.  Knock knock.

He: Who’s there?

Me: The chicken.

He: You fucker.

Me: Cheers.

He:  Asshole.

N.P.: “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues” – Chris Thomas King

Writing and whiskey: the breakfast of champions.  Also the lunch and dinner and late supper of champions.

N.P.: “Hey Man, Nice Shot” – Filter

It’s getting a bit dark in here.

My spontaneous responses to a series of questions Oprah asks of authors she is considering for her book club:

Q: Finish these sentences: The world needs _______.

A:  A species-thinning plague.  And me.

Q: I believe in _______.

A: Nothing.

Q:  Love is _______.

A:  Always conditional.

Q: I am grateful for _______.

A: My enemies.  They give me something to look forward to.

Q: What is the soul?

A: The human psyche’s delusion created out of the ego’s complete inability to cope with the brutal truth of mortality, that when you die, you cease to exist.  Completely.  On every plane.

N.P.: “Cry Little Sister” – Carfax Abbey