Whaddaya MEAN You've Never Heard of Me?!?

That goddamn This Is Us has become the cryin'est night of my week. Granted, I'm pretty weepy when I watch shows anyway, and this one is carefully orchestrated grief porn. I know it. I don't care.

One thing I'm def taking away from it is the concept of a fun funeral, where the life of the deceased is happily celebrated. I want genuine laughter, maybe a few tears (but not the kind that rip you apart inside), and the kind of food I'd make myself if I were there. Somebody should make a mix-tape of my favourite episodes of shows to play in the background:

Simpsons: Treehouse of Horror V and Simpsons Buy a Pool
Family Guy: Patriot Games
The Critic: The one with "Take THAT, Guernica!"
The Monkees: The one with the Frodis
WKRP in Cincinnati: Thanksgiving (turkey helicopter thing)
Monty Python: Argument
And Mork and Mindy episode with Exidor.
The Young Ones: Nasty, Interesting
Community: Ep 3,
Key and Peele: Othello, first Halloween episode
SNL: Quentin Tarantino's Welcome Back Kotter, All celebrity Jeopardy, All Chris Farley show.
Twilight Zone: People are Alike All Over, It's a Good Life, Monsters are Due on Maple Street
Tales from the Crypt: Creep Course, And All Through the House, The Secret

Movies: Night of the Living Dead, Psycho, Hot Fuzz, Trading Places, A Patch of Blue, Rope, Death to Smoochy, Frailty, Head.

Obviously, it's not unique or new to say funerals should celebrate the deceased. But I imagine we've all gone to a funeral where the guy talking didn't even know my grandpa (or whoever your person is--I remember leaving my grandfather's funeral furious over all the things that weren't said, and the inaccuracy of those that were). But then, I've always been much more comfortable feeling angry than feeling sad.

After music, architecture, incense, and free wine, the best thing about Catholicism is the Friday night Fish Fry. It was a joyous event back when my family was pretending to be Catholic to get lower rates at St Mary Magdalen school.

These fish frys featured thick cuts of cod filet, deep fried (or deep fried earlier in the day and then baked). They came with, as you'd expect, fries and slaw. It was fantastically delicious.

Most Catholic churches don't do these anymore. If they do, it's only during lent or when people aren't ponying up at the collection plate. So if I want fish fry fish, I have to seek it out at a restaurant. There are a few around here who have pretty good fish & chips, but it's hit or miss since restaurants pop up and disappear on the regular.

What I want to know is--why can't I get fish like this that I can cook at home? Surely these people are getting it from somewhere. But I've never been to a store, even a decent restaurant supply store, where they have these for sale. If I found them, I'd even spring for the good tartar sauce (the kind that only comes in tiny packets now, because Kraft doesn't sell the good tartar sauce to the general public. They won't tell me why). Alas, no dice.

I've decided to pretend that I can't get the fish I want because it's a Catholic conspiracy. Something about saving unborn babies-- maybe the fish is another way of symbolically devouring the flesh and blood of the Christ. Seems like something I should write about...but is there really a fresh angle on that?

September 6th is my mom's birthday.

It occurred to be recently that I tend to refer to mater in the past tense, even though she's not dead. I wouldn't even say she's "dead to me," because I don't pretend she's dead. I just talk to her slightly less often than I talk to (or toward, more like) people who actually are dead. There are plenty of dead people I think of as better, smarter, cooler, kinder, and less violent and psychotic as mater. For the record, I last spoke with mater in September of 1995. So I guess that's a sort of anniversary as well.

Funnily, I've also been thinking about gaslighting lately (Even saw the film from which we get the term. Jessica Lansbury is 19 years old in it!!). More than the violence, constant emotional and mental abuse, being ordered around like a servant, rarely being allowed out, the gaslighting did a shitload of damage to me. It's another one of those things I didn't realize was SO pervasive until much later. It's also another one of those things that I reacted hugely and horribly to when it happened (often to a very small degree) with other people later on.
If someone tells a story wrong, I'd be outraged even if it was a stupid thing that didn't matter. "His shirt was BLUE, not green! Tell it RIGHT!" Because I grew up knowing that when someone didn't tell the truth about something, they were doing it to make me look bad. That's not actually paranoia when you grow up with one of those "You see what I've got to put up with!" parents always harping on how tough they have it while they're using their kid as a punching bag.

Everything my mom ever said about me was exaggerated to make me look bad, stupid, selfish, greedy, vain, or otherwise terrible. Didn't matter if she was talking to a teacher, a neighbor, her husband, or our extended family. If they were impressed with a drawing, she'd tell them I traced it. If someone praised my good grades, she'd lie and say she called the school and "made" them change my grades. If I lost something, she said I sold it or gave it away, or "let" someone take it. Always. Constantly. And the bitch of it is, there are still people in my family who believe that shit. I'm told my mom's husband actually thinks I invited a band of drug fiends into their house to steal sports memorabilia. Nevermind that I don't think I have a single friend who would knowingly walk into a house with a basement full of swastikkas. But I digress.

It was my mom's birthday. I didn't sit around crying, drinking, watching movies we watched together when I was a kid. I wasn't angry or short with H, or walking around finishing arguments from 30 years ago while the cats just stared at me, confounded. I had a regular day, doing all the stuff I normally do.

So I feel pretty good about that.
Guess we'll see how I do next Mother's Day.

When I was a kid, if you really wanted to talk to one of your idols, it was a long process. You had to find their fan mail address, which could be very difficult if not impossible. Then you had to hand write a letter, find a stamp, get it mailed (at a mailbox), and wait...and wait...and wait...for a response that might never arrive. When I was a kid I wrote letters to Charles Schulz, Donald J Sobel, Dr Suess, Judy Blume, and a bunch more. I got a few letters back, though they're trapped at my mom's house. When I was about 11, I even wrote a fan letter to Scott Baio. He had a PO Box in Studio City for fan mail, which I found in a Tiger Beat mag. I never got even a form letter back. As a kid, I was sad about that. But now that I know what a gross, womanizing, Drumpf-loving goon is in RL, that sting is gone.

The point is that we only wrote to celebs we really liked a lot. It took a lot of effort and time. We did it because we were fans, and we wanted our heroes to know it.

But now...
Anybody with access to a computer or smartphone can Tweet at celebs in real time. Roughly half of said Tweets are complete asshole fodder. Telling people they suck and should kill themselves is Level One for a lot of these clowns. Unlike occasional stalker behavior from deranged fans (that no one really talked about until the girl from My Sister Sam was murdered by one such nutcase), modern celebs often get daily beratings. Robin Williams's children were hounded off Twitter within 2 days of their father's suicide. Those dicks that harassed Sandy Hook parents for "lying about their kids existing" started on Twitter. Twitter hosts murder threats, rape threats, doxxing (though I hear they're better about removing stuff like that now), and a bunch of other things we used to think only criminals thought about.

Much like men who want to show their dicks to virtual strangers (remember when that was a crime committed by a random pervert wearing a long trenchcoat with nothing underneath), stalking via the Internet is more popular (and less criminalized) than ever. Ditto hate speech. Anybody else find it insane that posting a pic of a nipple can get your Facebook account deleted, but threatening to murder the POTUS or calling him the N-word won't get you blocked from Twitter unless the feds get involved? I'm a staunch supporter of Free Speech, but with great power comes all the stuff Spiderman's Uncle Ben talked about.

And like LSD, the internet amplifies and distorts the shit we see and do every day. While we all know that the internet is incredibly helpful overall--it also allows some of the worst behavior on the planet to be widely seen, or even applauded. The immediacy of social media and the ease with which we're able to communicate with people the world over is being squandered, taken for granted, not truly considered for the opportunity that it is. A lot of that is due to people who live as if the Internet has always been there--for youngsters, it has. I started a Livejournal in 2002, in my early 30's. If that blog was a kid, they'd be old enough to have a smartphone and be on Facebook. Yikes!

Not sure what my overall point is. We can use the internet for good or bad, to help people or bring them down. We can use it to educate, inform, or to spread misinformation either deliberately or through apathy or ignorance. Is there a way to encourage people to make better online choices? Or at least, is there a way to truly hold people accountable (at least morally) for the things they say and do online? No, I'm not saying we should curtail speech. Wednes don't play that. But it's obvious that plenty of online assholes are only being assholes online because of the anonymity the internet affords them.

For now let me just ask--if you're only on Twitter to let female singers know that their asses are big, or to tell Jonah Hill that he's a "faggy asshole," maybe take some time to work on RL interpersonal skills before trolling total strangers. If you wouldn't say it in front of your three best friends or your favorite grandparent, don't say it to Lady Gaga. Besides, no one should ever insult Lady Gaga. She's amazing!

Growing up with the name Wednesday sort of set me apart from other people. It made me seem weird, conspicuous, and different at a time when I wanted nothing more than to be invisible--one of the crowd. I switched schools a lot when I was younger. Once, in second grade, I asked to be called "Wendy" instead. For those of you who know me now, the idea that I'm a "Wendy" and not "Wednesday" is pretty fucking inconceivable. After a while, I got used to having a weird name, though it was not until my 20's that I began to turn into the skid of weirdness.

I grew up with two brothers who have a different bio-dad than me. My bio-dad has 3 other kids, all of whom appear to be religious whackadoo bigots who I don't bother to associate with. Of the brothers I grew up with, one is awesome and the other is kind of a violent asshat that I don't talk to anymore. When we were kids, we three had the same last name, the first two letters of which are GU.

With that in mind, the older of my two brothers got the nickname "Gumby," because it sounded vaguely like our last name. The younger brother eventually was nicknamed "Pokey," because that was Gumby's little horse friend. Cute, right?

But see, people who didn't know us actually presumed that my parents named their kids Wednesday, Gumby, and Pokey. This made our fam look even weirder than we already were. That's hilarious now. At the time though, yikes...

H's birthday is more fun for me than my birthday.
For my birthday, I throw a party. I clean everything and cook a bunch of food and stress out about invites and reminders and every silly detail. Then the party happens and it's somewhere between fine and awesome, and then it's over.

For H's birthday, we don't really have people over. He's even less fond of other people than I am. So I cook him a nice meal, get him some cool pressies, and do all the other *ahem* stuff a good wife does. ;-)

This year, he was taken to see Star Wars, which he loved. His mom sent him the very grown-up gift of a humidifier with some kind of whiff that goes in it. Ryan got him a combination birthday/Xmas gift. Since it's not Christmas yet, H has decided to wait to open it. Where he gets his self control, I do not know. Hope it's not a puppy, because he'll be mighty hungry by Friday. LOL

I got H the following:
An assortment of classic, hot, and sour candy.
He loves that shit.
A replica of the Lawkeeper badge from Defiance.
A book called "The Science of Doctor Who" which is cooler than most similar sounding books. Not really an examination of what they got right or wrong. Rather, it's about how actual RL science could give us the kind of events seen on the show.
Coooooool.
I also got him a graphic novel version of the teleplay "City on the Edge of Forever," which is from Star Trek TOS in case you didn't know. Ellison FTW, amirite?

Later, I'll be making H some nachoes, because that's what he wants. Also, some cookies. He likes Alton Brown's puffy cookie recipe with Reece's chips instead of chocolate.

Okay, I'm off to do some child-care, which I'll actually be doing at home.
That means kids movies and Ninento Wii for the bulk of the day. Better than what I had planned, which was SEO articles.

I was fully prepared to write about Kim Davis here today. But my Kim Davis stance turned out to be interesting enough that I'm selling it to one of the sites I write for. That means you'll see it soon enough, just not here.

Besides, I realized that this second week of September marks the 20 year anniversary of the last time I spoke to my mother--outside of the screamed conversations that happen when I'm alone. Ha! No, really...

I'm not going to go into what caused the estrangement. Anybody who doesn't know but would like to is welcome to peruse my "family" or "wednes past" tags to catch up with me talking about mumsy and her whole deal. No, I didn't ever call her "mumsy," I just think that's a hilarious way to refer to a mom who wasn't especially motherly. For a beautifully exaggerated and somewhat fictionalized version of life with mumsy, you can always read my self-indulgeant debut novel, A Stabbing for Sadie. When people ask me if I'm Sadie, I like to look shocked while shaking my head and proclaiming that such would be impossible...because Sadie is fat. Hahahahahahaha!

My mom is a big TV watcher. We grew up knowing that TV was the only activity our family could engage in together without screaming or violence. By not talking to her for 20 years--we never got to discuss huge TV events like LOST, Game of Thrones, or even The Sopranos. I bet she likes them. I have no idea if she's seen the Harry Potter movies (she doesn't read, or didn't when I knew her), though I imagine she's all over that Christian Grey shit. Ew. When we last talked, LA Law, Animaniacs, Romper Room, Star Trek Next Gen, and the Arsenio Hall Show were still on the air.
I know, right?

I've changed mightily as a person since last speaking to Mater. It's amazing how much one can grow and develop when no one is hitting them, screaming how ugly, fat and stupid they are, or just generally not having someone figuratively step on your neck every time you try to speak or move. Even if I'm never as kind, considerate, or accepting as I'd like to be--I can take solace in the fact that I'll never EVER be the frightened, duplicitous, lasher-outer that passed for a mother where I grew up.
It makes me happy to hang out with kids and see that I don't have the urge to smack them, even if they're little assholes. For people who grew up thinking smacking people was normal, this is kind of a big deal.

Of course, I have almost no memory of ever speaking to my biological father. I grew up with a stepdad, only I was NEVER supposed to refer to him that way. My mom was hysterical when she thought someone was lying to her--but that was nothing compared to what she would do if someone told one of her truths.

A lot of people I went to college with are mourning the death of a classmate. A lot of the same "so young..." "such a shock," and "How terrible that this should happen to such a [kind description] person" is all over my feed.

I'm not able to get on that train. See, the person in question was a mean-spirited asshole. A goes-out-of-his-way to be cruel to strangers asshole. An I-don't-even-know-you but I'm going to spend a few minutes each week making your life hell, and then when confronted with that fact do everything in my power to pretend I didn't do anything wrong asshole.

To this late-person, I'd like to say, Yeah, it sucks at least a little bit when someone dies. Not only does it snuff out a life that some decent people might care about, but it snuffs out your chance to be a better person. Did you ever try to be better? Did you succeed? I don't know. You were such a fucking asshole to me that after college I made it a point never to think of you again. And I haven't--until I heard that you died. If you have a family, I hope they're taken care of. If you have a god, I hope s/he treats you slightly better than you chose to treat others.

From me personally though, fuck you. Fuck you right in the ear.

I wasn't going to weigh in on Rachel Dolezal in any sort of public way. As a white chick, I don't feel like the issue in general is any of my business. But I also don't feel like all the hate ascribed to her motives is okay. I'm hearing people say she lied to "steal a job that should have gone to a person of color," and that she, "engaged in cultural appropriation in order to obtain privilege she didn't deserve." If Black Privilege is a thing, this is the first I've heard of it. Her actions have been called "insensitive, self-aggrandizing, hateful, hurtful," and the ever-popular PC standby "problematic."

To my mind, she wanted to change her identity to distance herself from truly horrible people that, sadly, she had a biological bond with. I relate to this fully. Yet, I hear people railing on about how "She lied, SHE LIED!!! OMG, how can you let it go that she LIIIIIEEEDDD?!?!?!11/11" For fuck's sake, if any of you try to tell me that you've never lied--or even that you've never lied about anything important, I'm gonna have to tell you that you're a goddamn liar. Yes, I realize that there are racial components to her lies, and that I'm skipping right over them in this post. I'm not going to argue with anyone who thinks the racial implications of Dolezal's actions make them unforgivable. That's none of my business.

I'd like to tell you all something. Given some of your reactions to Dolezal, this may come as a shock to you (though honestly, I bet it won't).

My legal last name is NOT Friday. That's right, I "lied." When I wanted to distance myself from a family that didn't give half a fuck about my well-being, I toyed with the idea of changing my last name to Friday, legally. This was around 1997, my lowest point of mental health crisis in my adult life (though I had suicidal ideation all through high school and most of college). I finally said to my family, "I don't want to have anything to do with any of you until you can treat me with some basic goddamn courtesy and respect." I never heard from my mother, or her husband (my adoptive "father") again.

To be extra clear, this was long before I started writing "A Stabbing for Sadie," my first published book, and the first time I used the Friday name on anything substantial. I continued to use the Friday name in my personal and professional life. I legally took H's last name when I married him, but continue to use the Friday name anywhere that isn't a bank, doctor's office, tax document, or other situation where it's illegal to use a false name.

I never changed it legally. That shit is expensive. Plus, my mom paid the state to falsify my birth certificate as a kid, so I don't even have a copy of one that says what my birth name is. I was told that it's perfectly fine to use whatever name I want so long as it's not for the purpose of committing fraud.

Let me ask, how many of you feel "lied to, deceived, taken advantage of?" Who thinks I should apologize to everyone I've "misled?" Who thinks the abuse I've endured has "nothing to do with the adult" I am today? Who thinks lies are NOT an integral part of growing up with a mentally ill parent with no clue about their own mental illness? If you really don't understand why abused children lie, and why the habit of lying is so hard to break--hit me up. I'll be happy to explain it to you--that is, if you think you can trust a liar like me.

Picking Brains with Wednesday Lee Friday: Joshua Hoffine.

Hoffine has a Kickstarter going on RIGHT NOW that can land you some sweet new art.

Joshua Hoffine is a Kansas-born artist with a degree in English Literature. He worked as a professional wedding photographer before moving on to do work for Hallmark, and has been commissioned for publicity photos for various rap artists including Tech N9ne. His current works often utilize themes of children in peril, and quintessential human fears like spiders, clowns, and monsters lurking just outside your field of vision. His own four daughters are the perfect subjects, natural and photogenic girls whom you don't doubt for an instant are truly terrified.

Artists who work in the medium of horror have a hard time of it. Unlike web comics that get passed around with gleeful abandon, horrific art is something that comes on you slow. You have to really look at it, think about it. And it's unlikely to wind up taped to your cubicle or hung from your fridge with a decorative magnet. Still, there are some truly exceptional artists with a passion for examining mankind's most pervasive fears. Luckily for us, one of those geniuses has consented to answer some questions just for us.

WLF/ZZN: Let's get this out of the way: Of all the emotions an artist can choose to evoke, you've chosen fear. Is that because you secretly loathe humanity?

I do not harbor a secret hatred for humanity. I find Horror to be a compelling genre. Horror is psychological, existential, and inherently metaphorical.

WLF/ZZN: Please tell us a bit about your relationship with the undead. When did you first become aware of zombies?

I saw NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD when I was 12 years old. Upon reflection, I'm very grateful that this was the first zombie movie I ever saw. When my daughters asked to watch SHAUN OF THE DEAD, I insisted that they watch NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD first. (WLF Note: Yay!)

WLF/ZZN: I think it's awesome that you terrify children for the sake of art. That alone is delightfully horrific. Can you reassure your fans that no children were harmed in the creation of your amazing work?

The children featured in the photographs are my own daughters. Other family members play the monsters. The girls are never frightened. For them it's like a big game of dress-up.

WLF/ZZN: Your work is often a single frame that evokes a story. How are you able to say so much in one still photo?

I choose a moment that will offer the possibility of suspense, and then I will often try to suggest a specific sub textual meaning through my production design. Michelangelo Antonioni called this 'symbolic mise-en-scene'.

WLF/ZZN: Many, if not most zombie stories feature undead kids. What do you think it is about zombified tots that is so damn scary?

On some level, they represent the ultimate unruly child, beyond control or discipline, bent on violent and destructive behavior.

There is also the tragedy inherent in child mortality.

Distorting traditional icons of innocence and life, and rendering them as lifeless (and soul-less) - pushes a deep button in most people.

And for some reason, people respond to diminutive sources of threat - spiders, rats, parasites, the dwarf monsters in PHANTASM, and children. Small can be scary.

WLF/ZZN: Your work features varied monsters, both real and fictional. What inspires you to choose a subject?

I look for universal ideas, or cultural iconography, that we can all relate to.

WLF/ZZN: Many horror artists assert that the horror genre still doesn't command the respect it deserves. Do you agree with this? If so, what can be done about it?

I do agree. I am on the very fringes of the art world, and my choice of subject matter is the primary cause. I hope to continue to illustrate and discuss the potential depth of the genre. Films like PAN'S LABYRINTH and LET THE RIGHT ONE IN shine as exemplars of what the genre is capable of.

WLF/ZZN: Who in the wide world of horror inspires you the most?

It's a tie between Mario Bava and Walt Disney.

WLF/ZZN: You've spoken about your emphasis on the psychology of fear. I'm guessing that you're a Jungian. Am I right?

Yes I am. I believe that Horror functions as a projection of the repressed and forgotten fears lurking in the Unconscious mind. I study Jungian psychology partly to better inform my ability to explore and exploit this psychological process in my work.

WLF/ZZN: Your work clearly illustrates some of our most primal fears. What do you see as the value in confronting people with the things they are most frightened of?

Part of my motivation is to show how we are all afraid of the same things.

I also believe that Horror provides a sanctified space for the expression of repressed feelings, such as terror and rage - which is beneficial and necessary - for both the individual as well as society.

WLF/ZZN: How do you think your intimate relationship with monsters and fear will improve your chances of surviving a zombie uprising?

Absolutely. Horror films remind you that life is dangerous - they keep you on your toes. Horror films teach you what not to do in a crisis situation. For instance, you know from countless slasher films that you never go out into the dark woods alone to investigate a weird noise or search for a missing friend. That's just an obvious way to get yourself killed.

WLF/ZZN: After zombies, clowns are probably next on my list of creepy things. As such, "Balloons" is freakin' terrifying. What is it about clowns that frightens us so?

According to child development psychology, young children are easily frightened by distortions of the human form or human face. Clowns fit this bill perfectly. If you see your first clown at a very young age, you are likely to remember them as frightening.

WLF/ZZN: "Pickman's Masterpiece" differs from much of your work in that there are five frames instead of one. It is also based on a Lovecraft story. Can you talk about the process of creating this awesome piece?

Famous Monsters of Filmland Magazine asked me if I would be interested in creating 5 images to illustrate an H.P. Lovecraft story called PICKMAN'S MODEL. I read the story and fell in love with the character of Pickman, a brilliant but ostracized Horror artist. With only 3 weeks and $300 to work with, I chose to focus on the moment in the story when Pickman reveals his masterpiece to a visitor in his underground studio. I found and re-dressed 2 different basement locations to serve as my backdrop. I talked Chad Michael Ward into donating some of his photographs to double as Pickman's artwork. I borrowed everything I needed, including easels and painting supplies, and talked my friends into helping me.

I enjoyed spreading a scene over 5 images. I may do more.

WLF/ZZN: What are you working on next?

Either a child-eating plant or a horde of spiders coming in through the window.

WLF/ZZN: How can fans contact you and buy your work?

All of my work is available for purchase on my website at http://www.joshuahoffine.com/ using PayPal. Signed original prints start at only $25.

WLF/ZZN: Thanks so much for taking the time to answer our questions. Anything you'd like to say to the fans?

Thanks!

(WLF note: Pics used in this interview are NOT complete versions of Mr. Hoffine's various works. They cropped and altered for space and so as not to give away the goods. The best way to see Mr. Hoffine's amazing work is to head over to his website and order some for your very own.)

At the Delonis shelter in Ann Arbor, homeless people have to take a drug test before they can be admitted. If they can't pass a test within three days, they don't get to stay and work the program. However, if the weather is below 20 degrees F, anyone can stay in the sitting room so nobody freezes to death--even if you can't pass a drug test.

When I was learning this in the training classes for volunteers, the instructor couldn't remember if it was "20 degrees or below" or "twenty degrees below." Finally she reasoned that 20 degrees below zero was absurdly cold--in fact, we all had to think hard to recall if we'd ever been in a place where the temperature was literally 20 below, not factoring for wind.

Well kids, when I checked the weather at 5am this morning, it was 27 degrees below zero. And all I could think was, that shelter has got to be fucking packed.

In other news, the Kickstarter for The Horror Within is slow going. I made a new video in the hopes that it explains who we are and what we do a little more clearly.



We have 20 days remaining, so please do tell everyone you know about it--especially writers, horror fans, rich people with money to burn, and budding philanthropists.

I've been doing Wednesday Reprints of my old Zombie Zone News articles since they can no longer be seen on the site. Taking a break from interviews this week to reshare my article detailing why I hate The Evil Dead--especially when everyone assumes I must love it.



I hate The Evil Dead: Explained, because you asked for it.

As a life-long zombie fan from the great state of Michigan, I am met with varying degrees of surprise when new friends learn that I loathe The Evil Dead movies—and indeed, all of Sam Raimi's horror. "Even Army of Darkness?!?" they say in feigned hipster shock. Yes, 'fraid so. People have been asking me to explain (read: justify) this for at least 20 years now. I wanted to explain it, but I honestly didn't know—until now. This might end up being more about me than the film itself, but hey, you asked. See, I don't just "dislike" Evil Dead. I loathe it. I've reached a point where I'm pissed that people praise it so highly, love it so much—especially when the most gung-ho people aren't even zombie fans. "The Evil Dead" is kind of a silly title if you think about it—akin to The Mean Murderer or Bad Men We Don't Like.

Until my preparation for this article, I hadn’t seen the original Evil Dead in over 15 years. I remembered it as tritely scripted, horribly acted, rife with ridiculously bad dialogue, and generally shitty overall. It was also advertised as a zombie movie, which it really isn't. On the off chance that I asserted this, I would typically be met by—let’s say vigorous disapproval. Eventually I became perplexed, suspicious that there must be something I was missing. The disagreement was SO strong that I doubted the veracity of my hatred—even Stephen King has admitted liking The Evil Dead.

"But…it's terrible," I'd say, referring to the aspects of the films which are…you know…terrible. And here's the thing—no one disagrees that Evil Dead has horrible acting, is poorly written, has amateurish special effects and makeups that are lit far too brightly, and is generally stupid. Everyone concedes these points. "But, you don't understand--they had so little and did so much," they bray. What I gather from that is that I'm supposed to love the movie because they took the time to make it, and it was hard. It's probably hard for Uwe Boll to make movies, but the fact that he did so isn't enough to make me go. I'm not falling for THAT again. Now that YouTube exists, we now know that movie making is not some elusive skill that only Kubrick, Fincher, and Hitchcock were ever good at. Simply making a film with a small budget is not a good enough reason to like it.

Side note: I once paid to see Drag me to Hell in the hopes that there would be ONE Sam Raimi horror movie that I could enjoy. No dice. I love Spiderman, but all of Raimi’s horror watches like he’s enjoying a private joke that I just don’t get. The talking goat was enough to make me want to walk out in a huff; and I spotted the **spoiler alert** button switch from a mile away. Sad, because like Evil Dead, Drag me to Hell has a promising beginning.
It's even been suggested that I don't like Evil Dead because I'm a girl. And apparently, Girls don't know anything about zombies. Pish tosh, I say. If you don't think chicks know zombies, I'd implore you to check out Z Magazine, and its proprietess Eloise Knapp. Hell, you can read my own zombie book, The Finster Effect, which is a damn sight more interesting than any horror Raimi has ever directed. AND it's set in the great state of Michigan.

The Evil Dead starts out fine. There is some great footage of a swampy, wooded area (that isn't in Michigan, for some reason) where scary shit is no doubt brewing. These swooping opening shots are fun and visually appealing—setting us up to think the movie will have a certain artistry that just doesn’t develop. By the time Ashley et al have a near-miss car collision, it’s clear to the viewer that not a single one of them can act. An abundance of 20/20 hindsight tells us that only one of these people went on to do any actual acting—if indeed, Old Spice commercials and Bubba Ho Tep can be counted as "acting." ;-)

Because this film is so well-known among fans, I'm not going to do a play by play of character or plot. If you're reading this article, chances are you don't need the information. That said, I do feel compelled to mention the following:
--How am I supposed to like a character who thinks it's funny to point a loaded gun at his buddy? Unless the setup is "they're a bunch of douchebags and you shouldn't care if they die," I don't see the point.
--Some of the props are really cool—the book and the skull in particular.
--A chick is raped by a tree. I'm gonna say that again in case you aren't getting that. A Chick. Is Raped. By a Tree. Evil Dead is considered to be an American classic, and a shining example of great filmmaking on a tiny budget. And in this zombie opus and source of American pride—a chick is raped by a tree. Women have come a long way in horror since then, but c'mon.
--Scott: Huge Asshat, or the Hugest Asshat? In fact, for being such close friends, all of these people are serious dicks to each other.
--Um, is that gerbil supposed to be a wild animal? If so, really?
--The clouds going past the moon shot is an affront to all things lunar. If you can't just shoot the actual moon, please don't bother.
--"Zombism." Personally, I believe in a relaxed and inclusive definition of "zombie" which can include infected, voudon, bite-based, chemical, viral, etc. But being possessed by a Demon is not really zombism. Evil Dead "zombies" don't seem to want to actually eat anyone, not as a primary goal anyway. What really bugs me about this is how many zombie aficionados will scream for days that 28 Days Later is not zombie movie because infection isn't dying blah blah blah, but have no issue with this? I guess later in the film it's a little more zombie-like, but really? Evil Dead is a zombie movie like Pet Sematary is a zombie movie—which is to say: kinda, but not really. In fact, it isn't even marketed as a zombie movie anymore.
--Bruce Campbell. I know he has legions of fans, and is purportedly a really nice guy. He's handsome. Ridiculously, absurdly, chiseled-out-of-stone handsome. No disrespect, but Bruce looks like he could be Mitt Romney's brother. He's so handsome, I'm suspicious and want to dislike him on general principle.
--Claymation. I gotta admit, I like it.
--Zombies don't talk. And you can posthumously tell that prick Dan O'Bannon I said so.

Lets agree for the time being that The Evil Dead is a zombie movie. Zombies are part of the horror genre, and will be until they sparkle and make the romance with teenage girls. But The Evil Dead isn't scary. It's gross and silly and ridiculous. It doesn't take horror seriously. And I do. Horror is serious business, and if you're going to piss on it with your foolish FX and shittier than shitty dialogue (which is free, BTW. Good dialogue costs nothing, and the only thing you need to get it is talent) it needs to be at least as funny as say, Fido. Evil Dead isn't, not in MY humble opinion. It isn't even as funny as Saturday the 14th and how many of you have even seen that little gem of a film? ** insert horsehead bookends joke here **

There's one more thing that keeps me from digging The Evil Dead. And I didn't put it together for the longest time. And it begins with the Fake Shemp. A "Fake Shemp" is a delightfully nerdy expression derived from when the Three Stooges had to complete a few shorts after Shemp Howard's sudden death. They worked around him with (what we now call) some Ed Wood-style body doubling. They had to shoot around Bruce Campbell to finish the film. Since Ted Raimi was far too adorable to stand in for Mitt jr, they used a series of these Fake Shemps.

Hmmm…a Three Stooges joke. Even with that knowledge, it still took someone actually telling me that one reason I don't appreciate Evil Dead movies is that I don't like the Three Stooges. Once I looked for it, Evil Dead was rife with references, parodies, a veritable cornucopia of Three Stooges humor. That's the ongoing joke that I just don't get. And let me assure you, that running gag is holding that movie together more than some of you realize. Without it, the whole thing turns to an unfunny crapshack.
Even more eye-opening was the realization that I don't know a single chick who likes Three Stooges. Not one. I mean, I've seen a few of their shorts and don't wish them any specific harm. A lot of fingers in eyes and pies in rich dowager's faces. Hardee har har. But aside from thinking that recent movie was an affront against the gods of cinema, I know fuckall about the Three Stooges, and am quite comfortable with that. But I was pissed to realize that my dislike of Evil Dead had more to do with me being a chick than I'd care to admit.

In the end, I can forgive lame special effects, bad makeups under too bright lighting, suspiciously handsome actors, and can even learn to tolerate poorly written dialogue. But if I'm not scared, I need to be laughing, intrigued, or care even the tiniest bit about these characters. I wasn't, and I couldn't, and I still can't. And that, ultimately, is what keeps me from enjoying The Evil Dead.
Aren't you glad you know?

There's a book I was trying to remember that I read in school. Or maybe it was read to me. Probably 4th grade or so, but could have been anytime between 2nd and 6th. It was about a kid who does something innocuous, not anything illegal or particularly mean. He gets sent to a kid jail where they make them sit alone in their cells without pillows while they pipe in creepy stories. I also recall that it's the book that taught me to use the word "mock," which is still one of my favorite monosyllabic words.

I couldn't remember anything else about it, except that it really creeped me out as a kid. Scary stuff for kids was rare in the 1970's, Goosebumps hadn't happened yet. So we had "How to Care for Your Monster" and "Bunnicula," and then the Halloween specials of anything we already had, like Charlie Brown or Bugs Bunny.

Somebody finally hipped me to it!
It's called Jacob Two-Two Meets the Hooded Fang.
Apparently, there are two other books in the Jacob Two-Two series. I got the first one from eBay, because they aren't available for Kindle, or in print anywhere. A little digging told me that someone just recorded them all as audiobooks that are being released later this year.
That's gonna be sweet!

Most of you who know me are aware that my initial reaction to sad things is to feel angry. Much more familiar and comfortable. So when I found out that an old ex-boyfriend of mine killed himself, I was pretty pissed. First of all, he had kids who needed him and an ex who, as far as I could tell, was allergic to managing her own life. Secondly, he wasn't dying or in constant pain--which makes killing yourself a cowardly move. Third, he had plenty of judgemental and shitty things to say about me when we were together and I was horribly depressed and suicidal.

One might think I should have more compassion for him, especially given my own suicide attempts. But I don't. I can't. All I can think is Fuck you, you were surrounded by people who wanted to help you and you didn't even try.

I was living with this dude when I began the draft for what eventually became The Finster Effect. He's actually the character Blue LeRoy in that book, as well as Count Drunkula in A Stabbing for Sadie. He never knew it though, that's actually what I was trying to catch up with him to tell him. Procrastination never pays, kids!

Maybe I'm still angry because this guy was drunk, mean, and afraid to leave the apartment without a gun. He carried a .357 in his lunch pail. Seriously. Once, he hit me in the face because I told him if he offered his 10-year-old son drugs again that I was calling the cops. I went inpatient psyche when I lived with him--because I'm not exactly the picture of mental health myself. After we broke up, I had another fucked up relationship that ended pretty badly. Three years after that, I met H and it all came together.

I'm not surprised that he is dead--though I did think it would be from drinking or drunken shenanigans than anything pro-active. His son gave me the news, so I didn't want to ask for details. I'd be surprised to learn that it wasn't a gun-death. His son has depression as well, and I really, really hope he's able to find his way through it. That's the kind of history that should never repeat itself.

I don't even want to consider what it says about me that my overriding emotion here is that I'm glad I got the hell away. How gross is it that outliving someone should be seen as some sort of triumph? My life is far from perfect, and my choices far from flawless--but I am grateful to have a nice life that's full of love. I need to remember that more when I'm having bitchy little fits over shit that doesn't fucking matter.

When I was a kid, religion was not really a thing at our house. Mom practiced no faith, and her husband was a non-practicing Christian who had no patience for people who thought anything other than Christianity was "real." We learned about Santa before we learned about God/Jesus. My grandparents took us to church sometimes, but it had no more meaning than a movie or a concert to me. I had a public school teacher who made us pray, and who called me a "heathen" for not knowing the Lord's Prayer so I could say it after the Pledge.

( Cut for potentially boring chatter about why I'm going to church this Sunday. )

Pope Francis has the potential to cause the biggest Church upheaval since Martin Luther and his hammer. It shouldn't be that way, but sadly, it has to be. So this Sunday, I'm heading down to St Francis Church to hear mass and see if my local Catholics are in line with the new Pope and his message. Because if I can get in on this wave of spreading compassion and comfort, I'm in!

( I wrote St Francis' outreach person... )
So far, this seems okay to me. Watch my new "church" tag if you want to follow this adventure.

Before I begin with today's post, I just have to say:
How in the name of complete and utter fuck is it September already?

Moving on...
When I was on college, I once whipped up some green bean casserole after a night of drinking and et cetera. A couple of my friends were amazed by it. "Green beans and mushrooms and some kind of creamy sauce?" Outrageous!

I didn't know how anyone could get through life without encountering green bean casserole. This is even more true when you're talking to people whose families go to church. How do you get out of a church picnic without a scoop? Not to mention um...Thanksgiving.

Years later, H told me the same thing. He'd never heard of green bean casserole, but he really liked it. He wanted it all the time. A few years ago, H's grandmother told me about this wonderful dish she had at a church Christmas dinner or some such. She also had never heard of it and was really hoping she could find the recipe. She described it--and it was green bean casserole. Of course I sat down and wrote it out for her, and sent it in the mail so she'd have a hard copy. I don't think she has a computer.

Thinking about it, I realized that all of the people who didn't know about green bean casserole were African American. In case you don't know, green bean casserole was invented in the 50's. Campbell soup company put it in a recipe book called "Cooking with Soup." They used to send it out free to--well, wives, so they'd have even more reasons to buy Campbell's soup.

A few days ago, I told H that I had a craving for tuna casserole. He asked me what that was. *blink blink* Really? Tuna noodle casserole? How is it possible that--oh...it's yet another recipe that calls for Campbell's cream of mushroom soup (or thereabouts). The stuff in the Cooking with Soup cookbook is mostly recipes that require no fresh ingredients. I honestly don't know whether or not that would have been more economical at the time.

Now I want full data on how those cookbooks were distributed, and to what target demo. I mean, I have a guess...but it's just weird to me that with people living in the same cities at the same time (Detroit, for example, or Philly)--some people completely missed out on information others were given for free. Surely Campbell's wanted as many people as possible to buy their yummy, salt-filled soups?

Anyway, we're having tuna noodle casserole tomorrow. I don't think I have any peas though, so probably I'll use broccoli. It won't be completely authentic. H should like that fine, and it's not like he's gonna know any better. He's never had it before. o.O

We are not as poor as some people, certainly. When I need to go to the doctor, I get to actually go. When he writes me prescriptions, I can get all the generics filled. When he prescribes non-generics, he'll work with me to get samples and stuff. We're pretty lucky, we know it.

Our apartment does not have rats, or mice, or roaches (LOL). The ants are kept at bay from diligently cleaning (LOL, again) and calling the bug spray guy fairly often. Still, I'm not wild about having poison sprayed around my home.
Whaddaya gonna do, amirite?

After two illegal entries in one year, (and several others over the years that ended up being less horrible than the recent ones) many broken agreements with the office, we want to get the hell out of here. We've been throwing rent into the trash for over a decade now, because that's what poor people with no credit have to do. Well, we're sick of it. At the same time, we don't really have any options. The last time I felt like this, I contemplated doing a robbery so I could have a place to live that was less abusive than where I was (at "home"). But now I have an awesome husband, we're just fucking poor despite both having full-time jobs.

So yeah...we're looking at manufactured homes.
I feel so dirty.

I meant to have H take these pics and post them over the weekend. But them my weekend got kinda wild. Plus you know, I'm not in the habit of posting pics of my whole self online. As much as I talk a good game about fat acceptance, I'm still rather fearful of what haters will say to a fattie like me--because I secretly fear that whatever it is, they are right. That I'm a fatty-fatty-two-by-four (thought what the hell kind of FAT measurement that is, I do not know) who deserves a steaming cup of derision. Yeah...still working on that.


But you know what? Fuck it.
This is what I look like in my new Max pajamas.
No makeup, hell, I didn't even shower today.

And look how goddamn happy I am!

Wolf girls in da house represent!
(I uh...didn't have a scepter handy)

So yeah...I'll eat you up, and soforth.

It's not a very obscure literary reference, so I'm gonna assume you all know.



So this happened. Finster came in town from Cali just to go to the show. What show, you ask? Jason McCauley Berry and the All Night Fish Market. Back in the day, Finz and I went to these shows endlessly, roughly weekly but sometimes more. If you picture them dark and blurry, it'd look something like this.


It was a time for beer drinking and terrible jobs, hunting for a cool boyfriend and eventually realizing a girl friend would make more sense. A time for drugs and floundering, figuring shit out and wallowing in grand ideas and stupid mistakes. A time for a Heathen Ranch, gazing up longingly at the poverty line, and realizing that I was honest to Zod crazy and needed to do something about it.

Before the gig, there was a BBQ at the new home of my old friend and former Heathen Ranch roommate. A few other friends from that era were there. Newsflash: Having children ages people a LOT. Everybody's still as sexy as ever though. The dude on the far right is Joe, who is Our Narrator in the KMLYLM podcast. I know, right?


Merriment ensued.


My old friend literally lives within walking distance of my mom's house in Royal Oak. We drove right by it on the way to the bar, which was in Ferndale.

H actually got the night off work to come with. Because I asked him to. He hates bars, parties, going out, and being around crowds. He mostly sat at the table watching my bag. I mostly walked around acting like the queen of the castle, puffing the wacky tobacky, drinking tons of water and a few sips of coca cola, and dancing my ass off. I imagine some unflattering pics of said dancing will be showing up on Facebook over the next week. Can't wait...


Officially, the party was for our friend Bill, who was turning 40. Bill is an awesome guy who totally has not changed since back in the day. It's a weird thing to suddenly be back among people who knew me when I was a totally different person. And it's crazy to hear how people remembered me, how they "always knew" I'd be successful, and how I always seemed like I'd do great things. Not for nothing, but I don't recall 98% of these people mentioning that at the time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Anywhoo...


The gig was amazing. Jason still has the sweetest voice ever. I love it so much. The last song of the night was about me. I don't mean that in an absurd drunk-girl kind of way. The song Blues for a Better Wednesday was written about me, roundabout 1990. I'll probably podcast it sometime so you can all hear it. Jason called it their best song. I was quite touched.

The whole event was tremendous fun, and illustrated rather sharply the differences between my life then, and my life now. There were a bunch of people I was delighted to see, and a few conspicuous absences, and a healthy handful of people who said how happy they were to see me--who I didn't recognize at ALL. I look pretty much the same as ever, but most of the dudes put on weight and lost their hair. A lot of the chicks totally changed their hair, and everyone was wearing dark glasses for some reason. People kept hugging me and H would ask who they were, and I wouldn't know. Bizzarre, but nice to be so well loved, amirite?


In other news, I have a ton of work to do this week. Tonight I'll draft the review of the Dexter premiere, which I'll finish and put up tomorrow. Also tomorrow will be watching and putting up a review of the new Boardwalk Empire ep. Have you been reading my Reviews at GeekBinge? You totally should be. I'll also be covering American Horror Story when that comes back--in just 17 days!!!

Also, I'll be finishing the new Stig and the Puppetman comic. After that, I'll be tearing into A Stabbing for Sadie to make edits for the 2nd edition. I changed almost nothing from KMLYLM. It's gonna get a new introduction and some new "Thanks." I thought about going back through some of Dami's dialogue but decided against it. That book is pretty good as it is, and doesn't need me um...Lucasing it up. Sadie, OTOH, is getting tore up and thematically embiggened.

The next book is outlined and ready for me to write the hell out of it for NaNoWriMo. If you're planning to get down with the NaNo this year, be sure to add me as your buddy. This one is set for a 2013 release as well, so I kind of have to rock this thing hard core. Luckily, that is typically how I roll.

In sadder news, I walked away from cooking bacon today and it burned to an inedible blackened crisp. I was sad. Bacon abuse. No.

Today is my brother Mark's birthday.
He was born on Friday the 13th.
He is 36. Who ever could have guessed that any of us would live this long?
Seriously...

Just to give you some contrast, here's what I had to say about my brother's birthday in 2004.
Yeah, it's locked. So if you really want to see it and can't, hit me up privately and I'll decide whether or not I can trust you. ;-] = o.O
The jist is that in 2004, I hadn't talked to him in years and missed him a whole lot. Now he comes over for lunch once a week or so, and we watch TV and hang out. That is pretty goddamn amazing, all things so considered.

So yeah, I'll be making my brother cookies later on tonight. Chocolate chip with walnuts. I was going to do a second batch of peanut butter and jelly cookies. H forgot to get jelly at the store, even though he went back a second time because he also forgot peanut butter. I've been thinking about that microwave fudge I've made a few times--the Alton Brown recipe "fidge" that's super easy and crazy good. Think I'll make that again.
If I drove, I'd take some to the old day job. I hear it's gotten WAY worse there since a bunch more people left. FOUR more people gave notice since I left at the beginning of July. I like to think it's because I gave people hope.

As most of you regular readers know, my mom is a very angry person. Zero-to-pissed at the drop of a hat. Angry when someone uses a word or phrase she doesn't know, furious when anything doesn't go as planned--no matter how minor; flies into a rage over anyone daring to disagree--infinitely worse if someone dares to suggest that she's wrong about something, and catagory 5 tornado of rage if she actually turns out to be wrong. When I was a kid, she threw a swingline stapler at my face because I said Ally Sheedy was a brunette in The Breakfast Club even though she's a redhead in real life. I know...clearly something you need to do violence to your kid over, right?

I've been feeling angry for well over a year now. My usual mode is sarcasm. Most of what I encounter (granted, this is home, work, friends, shopping, and the internet--all pretty irritating) ends in my feeling somewhere between annoyed and incensed. It doesn't just affect my feelings. It affects my real work, my stupid-day-job that I hate, and everything else I need to do. I've stopped leaving the house for all non-essential activities--I don't even go grocery shopping anymore. I can't get into a car without constantly thinking of hurling myself out of it while it's moving (though this is more of an express way thing, not around down). Last night I thought about what would happen if I smothered H with a pillow so he wouldn't have to put up with my crap. (No, I'm not actually going to do it.) That's the same rationale that mommies use when they drown their kids in a bathtub, or drive them over a bridge.

I don't mind telling you, that scares the crap out of me. If I was still single and sans insurance, I'd get myself admitted to inpatient psyche. I clearly need it. I can feel an utter emotional collapse coming on. As it is, inpatient psyche for even a week would wipe out our entire savings. Every last bit and then some. So I'm stuck. And guess what? That makes me angry too.


In other news, The Walking Dead sucks. Fuck those guys. I'm putting my Evil Dead article on hold so I can write about this in detail for ZZN.

I'm delighted to hear that the feds are now involved in Trayvon Martin's murder. All you pricks who went on and on over KONY don't seem to give a shit about an American kid who got murdered by some neighborhood watch loon who calls the cops every time a neighbor sneezes. This kind of goes back to my earlier point about how fucked up everything gets when people can't get the mental health treatment they need.
And the Obama spokesman who said the White House doesn't want to be involved? Seriously? We invade liberate and free every oil-infested country in the whole damn world--but when a young kid is murdered for the heinous crime of buying candy in a posh neighborhood--suddenly we don't want to be involved?
I call bullshit on that.

I'm in my 40's. I can remember a time when that seemed ridiculously old. I can remember learning that my grandfather was *gasp* 54 and it seemed like the oldest thing in all of time.

Not having kids means I get to continue to live like a teenager in many ways, despite my advanceD decrepitude. And face it, decades of sloth and gluttony have indeed rendered me a bit less jaunty than other peeps my age. I'm working on strength training so I can eventually get into the house of horrors that is Cardio. But yeah, for a 40-something, I feel pretty tired, sore, and old.

That said...I learned today that another friend of mine is dying due to one of those things that people blame on fatness, AND/or "not taking care of yourself." I've not seen this dude in years, so I have no idea what his habits are. But he's a Big Guy, which means there's always some douchebag who will blame bad health on being heavy with absolutely no other facts.

It scares the hell out of me knowing that people my age are dying from this kind of shit. My right foot has been numb, which gives me constant nightmares about doctors coming in to cut it off in the night. My knees are bad, and it's difficult for me to get up off the floor by myself. I'm not ready for LifeAlert or anything, but the very idea that I could fall and take 20 seconds or more to stand back up again? Yikes. Fucking...yikes. I mean, what if I couldn't stand up at all? I can't even imagine.

I figured that since Stephe--excuse me, Richard Bachman's book/novella, Rage is no longer in print, that it wouldn't chafe any balls for me to download it as a pdf, and reformat it for my shiny new Kindle. So I did. Like most sad freaks with brains, I read Mr King voraciously as a kid ("kid" in this case, meaning age 10 thru getting the hell out of that house at 17, and then through my 20's). I loved the short stories in particular, and indeed went through multiple copies of both Night Shift and Skeleton Crew (that had the same terrifying monkey on the front that my Grandpa had in his basement). King is the guy who first taught me about the effectiveness of different POV's. Personally, I find that 1st person is the only POV I can write convincingly, the only truthy option for me. King taught me tons about how to craft a story, how to scare people, how to keep things hidden from the reader while looking like you're baring it all. And this was years before he wrote Danse Macabre and On Writing. He took horror seriously, in a way that few others did. He was, and is, a fucking genius. I want to nut-punch these asshats who bitch that King is no good anymore the same way drunk dickheads in their 20's complain that The Simpsons just aren't as funny as it was when it started--you know, before they were even in the womb. If you deny the genius of, or the effect that Stephen King has had on horror, and all literature, then you're either functionally illiterate, or a total asshat.

So...
I finished re-re reading RAGE about an hour ago. I intended to sit right down and write this, but having a houseguest makes every non-bathroom task take thrice as long as it should. I honestly believe that RAGE is King's best and most truthful book. My short story, Whitman, I ain't is loosely based on it. And while I didn't realize it until recently, my first novel, A Stabbing for Sadie is really just a novel-length attempt to capture the feel and style of Charlie Decker and his Fantastical Adventure in Getting it on.

It pains and saddens me that King wanted RAGE out of print. I'm aware that at least 2 kids who shot up 2 different schools had copies of this book when their rooms were searched. Searching a kid's room and taking guesses as to why he did what he did is something Decker would have taken profound exception to. I understand fully how potent the power of a book can be. I know that some of the books I've read have changed my life and the way I live it. And I'm pretty sure there are books that have affected me so subtly, that I'm not even aware of their influence. I admit that. Non-sarcastically. Really, I do.

But...people need books. They need to hear and feel and think in a different way. They need to at least consider my oft-asserted premise that there is no such thing as evil people. That's important, so I'm going to say it again:

There is no such thing as evil people.

Yes, people do evil things. They kill, hurt or hunt for pleasure, they steal and lie and do all manner of ghastly shit. But I'm telling you, these people are BROKEN. They are not inherently evil. You don't repeatedly throw your iPhone on the pavement and then blame the web browser when it stops working. You don't hit a kid for years and then wonder why he's angry. You don't lie to someone over and over and then wonder why they no longer trust you. You don't treat someone like ass, again and again for their whole damn lives and then act all shocked and surprised when they do something back. Oh wait...lots of people do that. Tons. Maybe even the majority.
And that's why we like to slap the label "Evil" on behavior that we don't like. It totally takes the burden off the shitty things we do that make other people what they are. Sure, we all have choices, and we all have to take responsibility for what we do. All of us. That includes not blaming a book for a kid that everyone around him had a hand in breaking, and the kid who may or may not cite the book as his inspiration. I think that's something adults foist on kids more than something kids actually do. If Ozzy or the guys from Judas Priest were here, I imagine they'd agree.

I wanted to get out there and tear shit up as a kid. I wanted to make good ol' mater feel as bad as she made me feel. I didn't exactly know how, but I had a few ideas. In high school, I once had a therapy session where we role played me putting poison in her bottle of Mountain Dew. I had said to the doc I was sure I'd feel terrible. But when we role played it, I laughed. A giggle at first, then more--and by the end I was like a cackling supervillian. I didn't want to hurt people. Not really. But to be powerful, for just a few minutes? Yes. Just...yes.

That's how I always felt about Charlie Decker. Charlie cozying up to his Id warmed my sad, adolescent heart. It's why I didn't ever start a fire in MY locker--why I didn't carry a gun to class (although I did spend a few years in college carrying a big knife for some reason. I felt nearly naked without it), or actually physically hurt anybody. Eventually, I was able to get out of a terrible situation, then another, then another, and get the help I needed. I used to kind of wish Stephen King would tell us what ever happened to Charlie Decker like he's about to with Danny Torrance. He hasn't, but I like to think Charlie was able to figure shit out, and that he turned out a lot like me.

Was sick on Friday so they sent me home from the day-job early. Super tired and run down and sore. Saturday was homecoming at my alma mater, wherein I was welcomed:


Had to leave Ann Arbor by 8am to arrive nearly by 9:30am. The alumni ass-kissing was exceptional. Tons of students and staff checking in to make sure I was comfortable, if I needed anything, and then just asking me stuff about writing and getting published. As usual, my assistant was awesome. She even wrote down all the things I was agreeing "to do sometime, no rush" so I wouldn't forget. I ought to have her start writing down the names of people I met; I swear I don't remember half of them--which sucks because everyone always remembers my name.

Anyway, there were lots of people I was delighted to see, including one of the few professors I love who are still on campus.


Hung out at the house for a bit. For those who don't know, "the house" refers to the home of Alpha Lambda Epsilon which is where I pledged when I was a student. If you think pledging is only for assholes, it's because you've not met the fine men and women (Yup, co-ed house) of ALE.

Every pledge class makes a plaque with their names on it, a motto or phrase that reminds one of the pledging experience. As it happens, I designed, carved and painted out plaque, except for the names. I used to be quite handy with a set of tools.


If you're wondering what that bizzarre series of letters is after my name, it's the second name I had as a kid--technically belonging to my dear mater's second husband. It's also the name I used for the longest...so far. We'll just see how long I live. *snerk*

And finally, here's me and NYT best selling author Scott Sigler, who is more famous than me...and still a damn nice guy. It was nice to see him, and to sell more books than he did--because he didn't bring any. Ha!


Even though the party went on until well after 9pm, we left before 3pm because I was feeling so damn sick and tired. Everybody talked about how happy I seemed, and how happy they were for me. Then one of my sisters came out this way and crashed at my place. Somehow, it never occurred to me to take a pic of her. Ultimately, I had a nice time and sold enough books that I didn't lose any money on the trip.

Woke up this morning with a completely empty humidifier dish in Ye Olde CPAPe. As such, I had no voice whatsoever. Sucks too, since I was kind of awake at 6am. Drank a bunch of tea and went back to bed on heavy humidity. 5 hours later I'm feeling okay and can talk, though the high notes may not be back until later.

Finally, This is my favorite song at the moment.

Feeling stressed, tired, tense, generally off my game.
and then I realized.

Today is my Mom's birthday.

Living well is the best revenge.

And now...

...I'm done talking about it.