I Would Walk 5.00 Miles...

The last three days here in beautiful Seattle have been a serious challenge for me, but one I was made fully aware of ahead of time by my gracious host. In short, I have been walking everywhere. Why is this a challenge, you may ask? Because in general for the last 15 years or so I have made a concerted effort to avoid physical exertion. To be honest the longest I've walked was about half a mile back and forth getting my daughters to school for a month or two several years ago, and lately it's been limited to the short distances between my car and the accounts I service for my job.

But it's been good for me. The first two days were punctuated with pain in my legs, but today was relatively easier. This pain contributed in part to my lax writing schedule here, the other part being that since one host went out of town while the other had to work, I was left to my own semi-guided devices and I'm a bit boring and not good at taking decent pictures of myself.

In any case, let's recap my adventures of the last few days...

Monday started off with breakfast at the house of a couple of eggs and leftover pancakes, then out the door to Google's Seattle campus. Because of the sensitive non-public things they're working on, my friend could not give me a tour, but he did give me directions for exploring the nearby Fremont neighborhood. It is wonderfully weird. Home to several craft brewers and a bridge troll with a dislike of VW's, there were many things to see. There's also Gasworks Park, one of the first examples of reclaiming a toxic site and turning it into something useful:

It's a steampunk's wet dream, really, and affords one of the best views of Lake Union and Seattle itself. Lots of people were there, mostly catching Pokemon. Admittedly I was one of them.

The morning got a little drizzly, so I made my way over to the Fremont Brewing Company to try a few local brews. Their witbier was excellent, as was their 13.2% Rusty Nail Imperial Stout. Very rich, almost like a liqueur. Definitely not a brew to slam, or have more than one of in a sitting.

I then wandered around some more, looking at the various artwork, statues, and unique bits of storefronts. For example:

Lenin...

A sign post marking the Center of the Universe...

And this mural on a highway exit...

I went back to The Googs to join my friend for lunch. The cafeteria was a place I could venture into, and it was amazing. All sorts of amazing options for every kind of diet. I had agreed to not take pictures as part of signing in for a guest pass, so I didn't get a snap of what I had (my friend later told my could have taken a picture of my lunch) but nevertheless it was delicious. Barbecue chicken, asparagus stir fry, steamed carrots, smashed cauliflower, and collard green slaw. I know, sounds strange, but it was unbelievably tasty.

After we finished eating I went back to exploring. This is where it gets boring, as I returned to 

Ballard and Cafe Mox both to get some more walking distance and check out it's attached gaming

store. After that I walked back to Google, walked some more with my host and another friend of his then made our way to Brower's Cafe for an incredible lamb burger and a sour beer. From there it was back to the house for conversation and sleepy time.

More in the next installment...

Crossing Bodies of Water and Oceans of Biomass...

My Seattle adventures continued yesterday with blueberry pancakes. Sweet, buttery, blueberry pancakes.

I tried to take the weight of decision making off of my friend's shoulders, but my idea fell through. I had wanted to head down to the Center for Wooden Boats for their free Sunday boat trips. Unfortunately, even though sign-ups did not start until 10:00a, some people had been waiting in line since 8:30a, and there was a hard limit to how many the center could accommodate for the day. Lesson learned.

So decision making fell back to my friend. I tried, I really did. So he opted for the next best thing: booking a tour with Ride the Ducks of Seattle. I admit, I did think for a moment that he he meant boats shaped like rubber ducks, not a DCKW:

Like this, but more touristy...

Though the first mate/tour guide certainly fit the mold:

His name is, no lie, Wade Forrit...

The excursion was pleasant, informative, and just a little bit goofy. Wade was quite adept at dropping 

puns, and useful information. My takeaway (besides a nifty duckbill quacking device) was that once again my Shadowrun jokes are becoming less and less geeky quips and more and more reality. The corporations that call Seattle home are buying up large adjacent areas of town for their various divisions, most notably Amazon. 

After the ride, we wound our way down to the world-famous Pike Place Market. The sheer number of people amassed there was amazing, especially near the fishmongers where all were waiting to see the fish fly as they were thrown between workers. I'd offer a picture at this point, but there was no way to get a shot comfortably, even a selfie.

We did stop for some real Turkish Delight. If you've only experienced it through C.S. Lewis think rose water flavored gummies drowned in confectioner's sugar. Very tasty.

We hiked back uphill to the car while my friend debated dinner, both out loud and in his head. We finally ended up at a ramen restaurant. To put it bluntly, it was amazeballs. See?

Complete with chicken genocide...

Then it was back to the apartment for tea, whiskey, and socializing with a few of my friend's acquaintances. This was certainly an epiphanic moment, as he has extremely well-informed friends, and my isolationist news policy kind of left me a fish in low-earth orbit. Still, I learned some things, met some interesting people, and after everyone was gone my friend, his wife, and I shared a few minutes of guided meditation thanks to a phone app. Technology is truly grand.

Like a broken record we we our separate ways to bed. Six and a half hours later I was up again and typing away to share this with you.

See you tomorrow!

Have to Do All the Things...

I was up and about late Saturday morning... If I were still in the Eastern Time Zone. Locally it was relatively early, about 6:30am. Grabbed some water, sat on the balcony, medicated, and punched out yesterday's entry.

It was quite the adventure yesterday. We had a late breakfast at Serious Biscuit, a beautiful restaurant nearby. The sticker shock was a bit jarring. $11 for just one biscuit? I could get a steak, egg, and cheese combo with a large tea for half that back home. But it was so delicious. Piled high with ham, egg, and cheese along with some greens and apple mustard. Not what you would typically find in the South, but it was a tasty way to find out old dishes could have new tricks.

Eating complete, it was off to the EMP museum for us. It's an incredible collection of pop culture, featuring galleries devoted to science fiction, fantasy, music, and art. The highlight was easily the Star Trek exhibit: interactive displays, original props and filming models, even a fun little thing where you and a few others get pseudo-green screened and act out a campy little scene which displayed on a tv in front of you. Oh, and You can crawl through a Jeffries tube:

Totally not special effects.

After touring the galleries, we left the museum and walked around Seattle Center for a bit. Huge food festival going on this weekend, but we didn't try anything except some funnel cake because the lines were insanely long. We eventually wound our way back to the car, drove around for a bit, and then I was introduced to this guy:

Yeah, I take horrible selfies...

So, for all my Shadowrun jokes it turns out there is at least one troll in Seattle. Speaking of games, after a quick stop at ye olde liquor store we made our way to the Ballard neighborhood and Cafe Mox for a late lunch/early dinner. This was a really cool place where you could get something to eat AND borrow a game to play from the attached gaming store next door. We ended up playing original "Ticket to Ride" and while I completed two out of three route, I still came in last. Most fun I've had losing in a while.

We walked for a bit through Ballard, my friends playing Pokemon Go as we went. Browsed an actual music store (a dying concept back east) and sampled some gourmet popcorn at KuKuRuZa. Ended up taking home a mixed bag of Sriracha and Salted Caramel because the flavors worked so well together.

Back to base for naps. I was still wide awake though, and started into one of the books I brought with me: Forrest Aguirre's "Heraclix & Pomp." Once the sun went down we fired up their projector and watched the original Star Trek pilot "The Cage," inspired by our meandering a through all things Trek at the EMP museum.

Six hours of sleep and two hours of writing brings us to a new day, hopefully filled with more adventure.

Learning to Fly...

It has been a long time since I've written anything for this blog. Too long. I'm planning on doing a series this week that isn't my usual woe-is-me, doom-and-gloom ramblings because I've embarked on a unique opportunity for a bit of adventure. An old friend invited me to get out of my comfort zone and stay with him and his wife for the week in Seattle, Washington.

Normally I wouldn't do anything during vacation time except stay at home. Prior to this trip I've been a firm believer that if I can't operate the vehicle myself then it isn't worth the risk of going. Not because of a fear of heights and enclosed spaces that are part and parcel of air travel, rather simply because I'm not in control of the vehicle. Also because I haven't been in an airplane since I was two or three, and have had thirty-plus years to develop all kinds of anxieties and neuroses that could turn into an unpleasant experience for myself and other travelers at thirty thousand feet.

What I've discovered is that flying is exhilarating. For about an hour. From takeoff to about ten thousand feet my thoughts were "Aren't we humans amazing? Look at what we've accomplished!" and "Hey, I can see my neighborhood!" From ten to twenty thousand feet my thoughts turned to "Look at the ground... No lines of demarcation... We humans are collectively insignificant." Once cruising altitude was achieved it dawned on me that "Wow, I am completely insignificant." I imagine the experience is scaled up considerably for astronauts.

As I mentioned above, this train of thought lasted about an hour. For the remaining three hours to the Phoenix Sky Harbor I tried everything I could to keep my mind off the fact that my seat was incredibly uncomfortable. This turned into a bit of a balancing act of distraction, as I had no way to charge either my iPad or phone, and I'd need the phone to call my friend once I landed at SeaTac. I would have liked to sleep, and could have if I'd had the foresight to get a travel pillow and attempted to charge my devices while I waited at CLT. Lesson learned.

Aside from all of that joy and misery in equal measure, I made it whole and hale to what could have been the Seattle Metroplex had history taken a different turn in the early 2000's.

After a light snack of a wing and leftover poutine at his home, I finally crashed after being conscious for twenty-four hours.

Now I'm up, having my first (ever) iced coffee, and this is my view as I punch this out on my iPad:

I think I'm going to enjoy myself...

Learning to Fly...

It has been a long time since I've written anything for this blog. Too long. I'm planning on doing a series this week that isn't my usual woe-is-me, doom-and-gloom ramblings because I've embarked on a unique opportunity for a bit of adventure. An old friend invited me to get out of my comfort zone and stay with him and his wife for the week in Seattle, Washington.

Normally I wouldn't do anything during vacation time except stay at home. Prior to this trip I've been a firm believer that if I can't operate the vehicle myself then it isn't worth the risk of going. Not because of a fear of heights and enclosed spaces that are part and parcel of air travel, rather simply because I'm not in control of the vehicle. Also because I haven't been in an airplane since I was two or three, and have had thirty-plus years to develop all kinds of anxieties and neuroses that could turn into an unpleasant experience for myself and other travelers at thirty thousand feet.

What I've discovered is that flying is exhilarating. For about an hour. From takeoff to about ten thousand feet my thoughts were "Aren't we humans amazing? Look at what we've accomplished!" and "Hey, I can see my neighborhood!" From ten to twenty thousand feet my thoughts turned to "Look at the ground... No lines of demarcation... We humans are collectively insignificant." Once cruising altitude was achieved it dawned on me that "Wow, I am completely insignificant." I imagine the experience is scaled up considerably for astronauts.

As I mentioned above, this train of thought lasted about an hour. For the remaining three hours to the Phoenix Sky Harbor I tried everything I could to keep my mind off the fact that my seat was incredibly uncomfortable. This turned into a bit of a balancing act of distraction, as I had no way to charge either my iPad or phone, and I'd need the phone to call my friend once I landed at SeaTac. I would have liked to sleep, and could have if I'd had the foresight to get a travel pillow and attempted to charge my devices while I waited at CLT. Lesson learned.

Aside from all of that joy and misery in equal measure, I made it whole and hale to what could have been the Seattle Metroplex had history taken a different turn in the early 2000's.

After a light snack of a wing and leftover poutine at his home, I finally crashed after being conscious for twenty-four hours.

Now I'm up, having my first (ever) iced coffee, and this is my view as I punch this out on my iPad:

I think I'm going to enjoy myself...

Week three...

Another short one. I've had some thoughts this week, but none of any import.

I did come up with a six-word story today. Probably been done before but here it is:

Button pushed, the world kept turning.

I have to wonder if I'm clinically depressed or in the grips of some other psychiatric malady. I refuse to self-diagnose, and I have no time or money to waste on therapy or medication. I don't know. I've been living in my head for a very long time. Between analyzing my self and observations of others I'm not sure if I'm just normal, or really suffering from a treatable problem.

Saw some beautiful artwork. Audrey Kawasaki. Uses oils and wood panels to create distinctly Japanese-influenced pieces that are both innocent and erotic (female subjects are prominent.)

I may put in on a sales route that opened up. I may not. I need more money, but I'm not a salesman. Not even a particularly good merchandiser for that matter.

I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Week the second...

Nothing new to report. My boss wants to pull me out of the normal ninety day rotation we do an put me on permanent Monday-Friday duty. So that's cool. Might give me a chance to do some day trips for other Raw Dog Screaming Press events this year without cutting into my vacation hours.

Still no romantic prospects. It's equal parts too-high standards, inability to use dating sites effectively, and lack of time to do anything about it.

I certainly don't expect perfection. I'm an imperfect person. But damn it, she should be beautiful (to me,) interested in some of the things I enjoy but also possessed of her own unique interests. Have just as sick and twisted a sense of humor as I do, and love and freely use all the worst words in the English language. (Except one; the n-bomb. It has no place outside of historical pieces and academic discussions of the pre-, during, and post- American Civil War era.) She should be confident and comfortable with herself, willing to be the aggressor every now and then.

This is really the short list. Above all these things she must read.

This is a short rambling. I'm trying to write more. I really am.

It's Been Too Long...

Two years. Almost two years have passed since I've done anything on this blog. In that time I have met some incredible people, been to some interesting places, become gainfully employed once more, lost a spouse (not by death, or my choice, unfortunately.)  It has been far too long since I've done anything writing related. It hurts.

There is so much I want to say and can't. Partly due to legal ramifications stemming from running one's mouth too much, but mostly because it's just whiny self-pitiful bullshit. But, hey! That's what crappy free internet blogs are for, right?

It's a new year, too. 2015. We've got hoverboards, holographic dead performers, legal weed in some places, and legal same-sex unions, too. On the other hand we still have pop music, reality television, and rebranded internet hoaxes. So yeah, culture is somewhat balanced.

Balanced society or not, I've not come up with any resolutions for this new year. I want to eat better, lose weight, get my own work published, and find a beautiful woman who can deal with my more annoying tendencies. All of which are not likely to happen this year or in the next ten.

Yes, yes, I know I'm being down on myself, but that is how I am. To the outside observer it would appear to be a lack of self-esteem. That's not the case. I'm totally full of myself where it's warranted. Namely in my skills with the written word (criticizing and editing other's work,) and arguing pointless things. Other than that, not too many marketable skills that can increase my cashflow or my romantic pursuits.

But at least I'm trying a little here. A whole blog post! Yay! That's a good start. Then maybe a book review this week. I've purchased and been given so many over the last two years, yet I've not sat down and read them. Which makes me feel like shit. 

And I'm rambling. But I do need to get some sleep. The day job beckons at 5am local. Excuses, excuses. 

But a blog post! That counts for something, right?

Cover Reveal: Odd Men Out

Dog Star Books' lineup of science fiction adventures has another title to add to its growing catalog with this steampunk/alternate history novel: Matt Betts' Odd Men Out.

Coming July 2013 from Dog Star Books

The Civil War went on far longer than anyone expected, prompting the North and South to call a truce to fight their common enemy: The Chewers – dead men come to life to attack the living. As a result, a peacekeeping force called the Office of Military Operations is created to watch over the tenuous peace.

Cyrus Joseph Spencer didn’t fight in the war and couldn’t care less about the United Nations of America that resulted from it. His main concern is making money and protecting his crew from all manner of danger. To escape a horrible tragedy, Cyrus and one of his wards, Lucinda, board a U.N. dirigible for safety. They quickly discover their situation has not improved as the U.N. team is chasing a group of rogue soldiers in hopes of stopping them from obtaining a terrible weapon.

They also have to contend with a larger threat - Drago del Vapore – a giant lizard attacking the West Coast and wreaking havoc on everything it encounters. As the two sides face off against each other and the huge beast, Cyrus feels more and more like an Odd Man Out and finds it harder and harder to stay out of the fight.

You can find more about Matt Betts at his blog: http://zombiewrangler.blogspot.com

Cover artist Bradley Sharp keeps a portfolio here: http://www.bradsharp.co.uk/

Show Some Love for Preston Black!

Jason Jack Miller and Raw Dog Screaming Press are proud to present the second volume of the "Murder Ballads and Whiskey" series: The Devil and Preston Black.

From the back cover:

Preston Black has a nasty habit of falling in love with the wrong women. But girls who don't play nice are the least of his problems. This charismatic bar-band guitarist isn't washed-up, but he's about to be. He's broke, he's tired of playing covers and he's obsessed with the Curse of 27. If he doesn't wise up he'll be adding 'deal with the devil' to his list. Lucky for Preston, he has help: an angelic beauty who matches him note for note and a music professor who deciphers the old Appalachian curses binding Preston to a song that is his only shot at redemption. And when things get real bad, he has the ghost of John Lennon to remind him that "nothing is real." Let Raw Dog Screaming Press author Jason Jack Miller take you to a place where love is forever even when death isn't, where magic doesn't have to be seen to be believed, where a song might be the only thing that saves your soul.

The Devil and Preston Black

by Jason Jack Miller

228 pps; ISBN: 978-1935738305

Raw Dog Screaming Press (January 28, 2013)

Paperback: $14.95 USD; Kindle $2.99 USD

You too can help us celebrate the release of The Devil and Preston Black this week. Anyone who shares the "Show Preston Black Some Love" graphic above along with the book's link, http://tinyurl.com/aocuwuh, will receive a Valentine pack from Preston Black himself.

The Valentine pack includes:

• card signed by Preston Black

• limited edition Preston Black guitar pick

• limited edition "Preston is My Valentine" 4.25 x 5.5 graphic print

• Hellbender postcard

• access to an online 'sneak peak' of the next book - The Revelations of Preston Black

Due to mailing costs this contest is only open to residents of the US and Canada

To receive your prize send an email to books@rawdogscreaming.com with your mailing address.

Work-in-Progress: heart|STRINGS

Strangely appropriate for February, I've broken my usual tradition of only making a novel attempt in November to write a hard scifi novel with a heavy helping of romance. I'm still not sure if this is going to work, but I figure since I've advised friends to just do it (write) I can't let this sit for a year. Months. Whatever.

So here is a working title and synopsis of my idea, and (probably) the first chapter. Hopefully the CC license I attach to everything here at FTL will protect it from getting ganked by the internet's less scrupulous denizens.

I hope you enjoy. Criticism is always welcome and very much encouraged. I'd rather know it sucks and drop it for other, better, projects than spend a lot of time on something that doesn't resonate even in a rough form.

***

heart|STRINGS

Patrick Barrett is a brilliant theoretical physicist. He has the respect of his peers, a great job sharing his beloved subject with the next generation of great minds, and he thought he had the love of a woman who shared his passions.

After his wife asks if he loves her then commits suicide before his eyes, he could have buried her and moved on. But as a man who routinely shows the world that God's dice are loaded, why should he?

He will cross the boundaries of this world and the next, and go beyond to answer his dead wife's challenge:

Prove it.

***

Chapter 1: Interpretations

“Do you love me?”

“Beyond the limits of the universe.”

She whispered two maddening words in my ear: “Prove it.”

I pulled away from our embrace, and in that tiny moment my world was shattered with all-encompassing light and deafening sound.

I watched my wife's brain stem explode across the empty space between her neck and the white cinder block wall of our shared office. Slow-motion spray of crimson. My chest consumed with a singularity of despair. Fear pouring from my eyes.

Her body went limp in my arms; the small handgun she insisted on owning for protection falling to the floor. I didn't hear its blue-black steel clatter against the conglomerate tiles. Didn't see her blood sprayed across the white board, making an incoherent jumble of our figures and equations written out in green and black and red and blue. The rest of reality tuned out, faded beyond perception as I locked my horrified eyes on hers.

She was gently smiling. She was as beautiful as the day I met her, but that vibrant aura she carried that made her truly irresistible was dimming. Her life was fading so quickly from her eyes, and yet through those stunning sky-blue eyes she was still giving me her “come and get me” look.

I eased her to the ground as best I could. My knees were so very weak, I nearly fell. I held her close to me, rocking her back and forth, a broken man. I cried, I screamed, I caressed her face. I moaned, I called out to God, I grasped her hand and brought it to my tear-soaked cheek. I brushed her soft, auburn hair away from her brow. I gently ran my thumb across her lightly freckled cheek.

Time no longer registered in my mind. Events were occurring around me. Others came running in, I assume when they heard the gunshot. Colleagues, friends, passersby. I don't remember who or how many. Just faceless, nondescript people. All I could see, all I wanted to see was her death-pale face, her blue-tinged lips. I faintly recall voices coming through the ringing in my ears. Oh-my-Gods and call-an-ambulances and help-is-on-the-ways.

I knew she was gone. All the hope in the world couldn't change that.

“Prove it.”

Her last words to me played over and over in my mind's eye, her softly smiling face still warm and pink and alive. My heart ached as I tried to rationalize what she had done. “Prove it.” I pulled her close to my chest, sobbing. Wasn't she happy? Did I miss something? Was she just putting on a brave face for me? “Prove it.” My throat was tight with anguish, my face aching with sorrow. Why would she do this to me, to herself? What would possess her to exit life like this? What the hell did she mean by “Prove it?”

I looked up to scream to the heavens.

Mid-rise my eyes stopped, my voice caught before a single note of pain could be unleashed. The paramedics were pulling me away from her, or pulling her away from me, I wasn't sure and in that moment I couldn't have cared. I just stared, mouth agape. I stood and walked around the uniformed men, my wife's body. There on the whiteboard, surrounded by the arcane maths we conjured daily and spattered with her blood was quite possibly the most important symbol in all of creation.

In that moment I understood what she meant, everything she meant by the words “Prove it.”

I began laughing like a madman. Everyone present likely thought I was in shock; or that I had suffered a psychotic break when I straddled her body and held her up, shoving the medics away as I hugged her and kissed her cold dead mouth. I was Aristotle running naked through Athens. I was Galileo looking through the telescope. I was Newton and the damned apple.

Everything was so clear now. She wasn't dead. Not for me. Not yet. I looked past the emptiness in her eyes and saw the first gateway back to her. I felt many strange hands grab my arms. My heart had been broken and mended in less than ten minutes. My colleagues pulled me to my feet as I smiled at her and whispered “I will.”

Still I laughed at that silly little symbol, that ancient mark of forever, an eight knocked to its side. The key and the keyhole.

Infinity.

Arnzstigation Days

Raw Dog Screaming Press editrix Jennifer Barnes has issued a unique challenge to fans of Michael A. Arnzen (100 Jolts, The Gorelets Omnibus) in commemoration of his "Fridge of the Damned" fridge magnets reaching their main Kickstarter funding goal and to encourage funding of the stretch goal for nice tins to hold said magnets. Quoting from the Facebook event page:

"Now through the end of January post a short story, poem, piece of art, excerpt from a longer work instigated by Arnzen or even a blog reflection on his influence. Then post a link here, on the RDSP FB page or send it directly to books@rawdogscreaming.com. I will share it through our page, our twitter account and collect the links in a permanent blog entry on the RDSP blog. This will support the cause and also showcase your project.

"The catch—you've got to include a link to the Kickstarter: http://tinyurl.com/b4zkr5m. Invisible slimy bonus points to those who include some explanatory text such as: Be an instigator, support the Fridge of the Damned poetry magnet kickstarter."

Now for my offering: an untitled short/flash piece based on Arnzen's "Twisted Prompts for Sicko Writers (31)" from December 30, 2012. WARNING: NSF Work, Lunch, and probably our continued friendship. First the prompt (I've highlighted the one I selected):


Begin with a Woman…
+ Begin with a woman…defiantly shaking a phantom (or prosthetic) arm at the heavens.
+ Begin with a woman…requesting plastic surgery to make her something LESS (beautiful, endowed, perfect, etc).
+ Begin with a woman…who reads more than she should into her ‘time of the month.’
+ Begin with a woman…discovering something alive in the meat drawer.
+ Begin with a woman…in love with a man BECAUSE he survived her murder attempt.
+ Begin with a woman…applying mascara to a corpse.
+ Begin with a woman…alienated by the newborn creature in her arms.
+ Begin with a woman…baking a dangerous cake.
+ Begin with a woman…and end with a man.

And the story:

There's just something about a man who refuses to die.

I've tried, really I have! Poison? Shrugs it off. Bullets? No more than mosquito bites. Immolation, irradiation, blunt force trauma, asphyxiation, exsanguination, vivisection, he just won't stay down.

And I love him all the more for it. His inability to die, his appetite for pain make him so much more interesting than other, lesser men.

I sometimes wonder what it's like for him. When we make love and he allows me my fantasies or I indulge his. Like the time he let me blow out his skull as he came (my idea,) or when I cut off his balls as he was ejaculating (his idea.) Is there a line between pleasure and pain for him? Does the little death of orgasm compare to those moments when I force his soul from his body? Is there any difference between the two, really?

For a woman of my peculiar tastes he is the perfect partner. He is willing to do anything for me, and I am willing to do anything for him. If he wants to be choked with his own intestines, that's fine. As long as I can take him from behind with my special strap-on (the blacksmith called it his masterpiece.)

It's so nice to have a man you can murder over and over again with no consequences. So stimulating.

Judge me if it makes you happy. But until you've experienced an explosive orgasm while squeezing a man's heart to the point his cock is as hard as diamond and you're massaging ten out of twelve pints of his blood into your skin you've really got nothing to say to me.

Or you can say something...

But then I'll have to kill you.

Another Beautiful Dog Star Books Reveal!

Coming Summer 2013 from 

Hugo and Nebula award winner Mike Resnick:

The best way to learn about an alien species is not only to live among them, but to become them in both physical form and function, but could a human really learn to think like an alien, and at what cost to his humanity?

Journalist and adventurer Xavier William Lennox becomes obsessed with the rituals of the Fireflies, an alien culture of gold-skinned inhabitants living on the planet Medina. When he gets too close to their mysterious society, he's captured, tortured, and banished for his curiosity, but vows to learn what it is that the aliens are so desperate to hide, even if it means becoming one of them.

But his curiosity doesn't end with the Fireflies. As opportunities arise to study more alien races, Lennox undergoes a series of cosmetic surgeries so that he can blend in with their cultures. But each time his humanity is stretched until he faces his biggest challenge—trying to return to the ordinary life of a man who has experienced the universe in ways he was never meant to.

My Birthday Wish

Greetings Everyone!

In roughly a week and a half I turn 32. Now rather than spend the next several lines of text listing every last bit of the expensive things I would love to have I'd instead like to make a plea.

As you may know the anthology I conceived and brought together, Death to the Brothers Grimm, was released into the world by Omnium Gatherum Media a few weeks back. Inside its beautiful glossy cover are ten interpretations of classic fairy tales penned by some of the most talented authors I know.

It is for them that I am making this birthday wish:

I would like for you to buy a copy of Death to the Brothers Grimm.

Now before you go making the assumption that this is less altruistic than it would appear, allow me to explain. While I can not go into the details of my contract with my publisher concerning what I will receive, I will take a major risk of breach of contract by saying that the contributors get paid first.

Those ten authors put their faith in me and entrusted their work to my scrutiny. Some made some serious artistic compromises as part of being included in this volume. All extended a professional respect to me, a relative unknown, and as such I want them to be compensated in a way that my sincere (but to me inadequate) words of thanks can not begin to cover.

Some of you may be friends or family who don't have the same appreciation for speculative, strange, or weird fiction that I do. I understand completely. You don't need to read the book if you don't want to. Gift it to a person you think will enjoy it. (Though I will say there is a little something for everyone: horror, post-apocalyptic scenarios, alternative perceptions, light humor, morality plays, peanuts bent on world domination.)

So please share this blog post through your social media circles: Google+, Twitter, Facebook, etc.

Thank you so much for helping to make my birthday wish come true by supporting some incredible writing talent!

Death to the Brothers Grimm is available on Amazon.com in both perfect-bound trade paperback (US $13.99) and Kindle digital (US $3.99) editions.

Cover Art Reveal

Coming March 2012 from Omnium Gatherum Media

I want to kill Mickey Mouse. Or at least piss on Walt's frozen head...

Well, I hope everyone had a wonderful New Year's celebration. I had to call the cops out for some idiots raising hell in the street in front of my house. One of the four guys hid behind my van when he saw the cruisers pull up at the corner, then of course did the dumb thing and ran. Yeah, fun. Especially considering my paranoid idea that somehow they would figure out I called the cops and might try to do something to me, my family, or my property. I have a tendency to assume the worst.

New Year's Day was spent on a mad dash to Orlando, Florida. Yes, my family started off 2012 at Walt Disney World. Now, before you start calling me a lucky bastard here's some background information:

My mother decided it would be nice to get her side of the family together as we have not seen each other in many years. Prior to this week I had two small cousins I had only known from pictures and Facebook posts. So the plan was this: My grandmother, mother and father, her two sisters, their husbands, children (3 cousins), my siblings (2 sisters and 2 brothers), their significant others and children (well, one wife and daughter), my wife and I and our three little rays of sunshine all brought together at the Treehouse Villas at Disney's Saratoga Springs Resort and Spa for five days of magical familial bliss.

Most of you know I'm not the most social person in the world, so you can imagine my frame of mind concerning this arrangement.

Don't go thinking I'm complaining. This was an awesome Christmas gift. It was far less painful and awkward than I imagined, but there were rough spots; mostly related to the experience that is Disney.

First: The Treehouse Villas. Awesome place to stay. Stand-alone roughly octagonal houses raised from the ground on single cylindrical support structures. Imagine a man-made wooden mushroom with windows and a staircase/patio at the base of the cap. Full kitchens with appliances and dinner/cookware, master bed w/ bath and hot tub, two more bedrooms with a shared bath, and flatscreens in every room. Nestled away in a grove of “cypress, oak, and pine”, it was truly isolated from the rest of the madness compared to the main resort that features apartment-like villas.

And that was the problem. Disney world has a reasonably efficient shuttle service to all of the Disney resorts and parks. But we had to take an extra bus from the Treehouses to the main resort and then transfer to another bus to get where you wanted to go. Inconvenient, and time-consuming.

Next: The parks. I hold no illusions about the fact that Disney World is a money-making venture. I get that. What gets me is that there is such a disparity in the ratio between what is covered by your admission, and what you have to shell out more money for. Yeah, they'll take your picture at prime locations. That'll be $14.99 for a 5x7, but you can see the picture on our proprietary site for free! That is if we get it uploaded.

And $2.75 for a 20 oz soda? Having worked in restaurants, I know all about bulk buying and contractual leverage. Your average “Big 3” pizza place has about a 100 to 150% markup on their bottled drinks. Those are large companies. Disney is one of the largest in the world. You can't tell me that if they came down on the price by say a dollar they'd start losing money all of a sudden.

Then there were all of the novelty kiosks/carts. LED fiber-optic mohawks, random stuffed animals, light-up swords. Most of that you can buy from something like Oriental Trading Company for like $20/dozen or better, but Disney wants you to pay $15 for a knock-off lightsaber with a Mickey Mouse sticker on it. Arghh.

What about the food? Fortunately my mother provided breakfast, lunch and dinner for all of us at the Treehouse. We were able to bring in our own food and drinks so we wouldn't have to hoof it back for lunch (an extra hour or more wasted in transit). But my wife and I wanted to do something special for the kids that we'd wanted to do since our last visit five years ago. Lunch in the Moroccan area of the World Showcase at EPCOT. We knew it was going to be expensive. It's a theme park so that's granted. But $70 to feed two adults and three children? It was good, and fun. I discovered I like couscous and hummus. We all got to try things we had collectively never had before. But was it worth the money? The blister on my butt where my wallet was argues no.

“But Pueschel...” you say, “It's a theme park. Everything is overpriced. Why complain about stuff you knew going in?” Because it makes me feel better to vent. Because it boggles my mind that Disney can justify that sort of blatant excess. They have money coming in from all directions. Movie revenue, advertising revenue from their many cable and satellite networks, inflated and carefully controlled DVD sales, IP-related merchandising, et cetera, et cetera. Some of those profits could be used to fund and expand the parks, you know, like other large businesses do.

Now we come to my greatest gripe: the other “guests”. I'll go out on a limb and say that half were American, the other half were from distant lands. Those from other countries have an excuse for being ignorant. I'm cool with them. The natives, on the other hand? Did you miss the part of kindergarten where everyone lined up single-file on the RIGHT side of the hall? How about that little lesson in physics where you learn that solid matter can't pass through other solid matter? How about no cutting in line? Or standing in the way of traffic? Do you know anything about personal space? It was all I could do to NOT go running into town, find the nearest gun store with loose policies, and alleviate the problem with the liberal application of automatic weapons. (A funny side note: when expressing these feelings to my mother and aunt one evening, my aunt, whom I have never known to be anything but a wellspring of serenity and patience, agreed. Well, with everything but the automatic weapons part, I think.)

Overall I think my children had fun. They were too absorbed in the experience to care. The rides, the characters, the time spent with other loved ones: for them I think it really was a treat and could be defined as a vacation. My wife and I? We survived. Though if I even hear the word “Disney” in the next ten years it will be too soon.

I think I would prefer the next family reunion to take place somewhere more sedate. Somewhere, like, I don't know, the middle of a national forest.

Well, that's my story and I'm stickin' to it. To my family: thank you for the great time we had in your company. To Disney: !@#*$^@*@&$^^$^%%%%@**&^(*&((Q@*&&$#*(!!!!!!!

Next week: little stories of the fun I had with my family. See you then!

One Last Post for 2011, Gratitude All-around!

Well, ladies and gents, to put it mildly it has been one hell of a year.

I got fired, established some incredible working relationships with some awesome people, and managed to get a book deal. With all of that in mind, I believe some heartfelt gratitude is in order before the close of the year.

I would try to include this in the final printed work, but I feel that this would be too long. If there is a thank-you, I will likely make it very all-inclusive and terse. This is the best way I feel I can express my deep sentiments of gratitude in a more specific way.

To the people responsible for my termination: thank you. You freed me to do what I really love, even if it doesn't produce a steady paycheck. You know what they say about doing what you love...

To John, Jen, and D., and Cameron: Thank you for offering me the opportunity to work with you. I have learned so much from all of you. It is a privilege and an honor.

To Jeff: Thank you for pointing me in the right direction!

To Kevin: Thanks for starting the Brigade! I enjoy every minute of it!

To all those writers and authors who signed on early for my little anthology project: Thank you for putting your trust in me. You had little to no reason to join me on this venture. I only hope that I can repay that trust in kind in the coming year.

To those who are joining my project now: Thank you. It is incredibly humbling to have so many talented people entrust their work to me.

To Kate and Omnium Gatherum Media: Thank you for taking the chance on this anthology. It is appreciated more than my words can describe here.

To my online friends and acquaintances who have spread the word for my Call for Submissions: You are all amazing! Thank you, Thank You, THANK YOU!

To my family: thank you for everything this year. All you have to do is call, and I will find a way to be there for all of you.

Finally, but certainly not least, to my wife. My Cinnamon Girl. I still have no clue why you married me, but your love and support in these trying times has meant the world to me. By some miracle you've managed to keep this house together with your incredible intelligence and goddess-level multitasking skills, and I hope I let you know everyday how much I love and appreciate you. If I'm failing there, just keep this little note in mind. Believe me, I know I don't deserve you, but I'll try to figure out how to get you that Ferrari eventually. Love you, hon.

With that I bid all of you a Happy New Year! If you have not yet, may you find your bliss as I have. If opportunity comes knocking, let it in and embrace it as you would a loved one.

PS: Be on the lookout for "Death to the Brothers Grimm!" in March of 2012!

National Novel Writing Month 2011

Well, it's that time of year again. Once more I shall attempt to bang out a short novel in thirty days.

My only success, Intergalactic Pizza Whores in the 3rd Dimension, has been sitting in my writing directory gathering digital dust. My first attempt, 1NF3RN0, is doing the same. The other three failed projects, I'm just not sure if I'll ever go back to them. All have been my sorry attempts at writing Bizarro novels, and I have to admit to myself: I'm no Carlton Mellick III.

So this year I'm going to take a stab at something more traditional, but with my own twist.

A few months ago I put out a call for submissions for a Bizarro Fairy Tale anthology, and that project is coming along swimmingly. Not a lot of response from the many publishers I've inquired with, but there's definitely a lot of support from the authors who have graciously joined in my venture. I mention this because I think I'm going to go with the idea that spawned the antho to begin with: I'm going to fix a fairy tale.

I know this has been done before, possibly by far more talented writers than I could ever hope to be, but as a publisher friend once told me: take the story and make it your own.

I won't go into specifics about what I have planned (as far as the particular tale), but I will describe how I intend to "fix" it.

I am a D&D junkie. I love rule books. I am the quintessential rules lawyer: if it isn't listed or done the way the book says, then it is wrong. This is what aggravates me about fairy tales in general, or at least the modern depictions (e.g. Disney). So I intend to marry the modern concepts of fantasy with the fairy tale, as well as present more realistic conflict. There will still be a happily ever after, but the characters are going to work for it dammit, and there will be farther-reaching consequences and reasonable explanations for everything.

Am I taking the "magic" out of it? Maybe. But as Chris Knight said "it's a moral imperative."

Yes, I went there.

In Which I Declare Myself Imperator Vitae of North Carolina

Today the North Carolina House of Representatives passed a bill on to the Senate that, if passed, would create a (state) constitutional amendment banning homosexual marriage in this state. This does not surprise me, given the ultra-right wing leanings (read: christian with a lower-case “c”) of the south on certain issues.

Personally, no, I have no dog in this fight. I am a 30 years-old heterosexual white male conservative. I have three kids, a cat, and a dog. I am not afraid to pull the “some of my friends are _____” card. My mind works in rationality when it comes to real-world applications. No emotion, just logic.

With that in mind, let's have a little thought experiment on how this little event should play out were I to be the dictator-for-life of North Carolina.

First off, let's examine the concept of marriage. Wikipedia likes to put an emphasis on the “social” and “legal” parts of the definition, while at the same time is unable to offer even a remote origin for the practice. Strange how that works. We have a rough idea of when humans began settling down into the currently accepted model of civilization (+/- a few centuries), but darn it, we just can't pin down that pesky date when we decided that it would be a good thing to engage in monogamous life-long relationships witnessed by the greater community. Anthropologists of the world: your kung-fu is weak.

In my mind, marriage has been and always will be a tradition that finds its origins in the metaphysical and spiritual. It is not a contract. That is a legal term, and law stems from the Hammurabic Code, which we have a definite date of origin for. It is a bond between two people that is based in mutual and enduring love which, as any storyteller will say, conquers all.

Thus, I posit that marriage is above the law. It transcends the law. Regardless of what a bunch of pencil-pushing vote-grabbing narcissists and sycophants would have you believe, there should be no secular law governing the application and indulgence of such a relationship.

Nay, friends, the problem truly lies with material issues, which are governed by contracts and at this time in certain circumstances by marital status. Wills, estates, insurance benefits, medical decisions, etc. are all passed along to your other half with a much smoother transition if a marriage license is presented. This, by my decree, must be done away with. If soulless entities (read: businesses) can enter into mutually beneficial agreements for the distribution of material goods and legal protections, then so too should soul-mates.

So what I propose is this: anyone may enter into a contract with anyone else for the transfer of material possessions and legal authorizations regardless of race, ideology, or sex. In return, my government will stay out of your homes and allow you to pursue life, liberty, and happiness in whatever way you deem best for you. Institutions of religion may continue to selectively choose to recognize (or not) such relationships as is in accordance with their dogma, policy, longstanding tradition, etc.

Your sublime and terrible leader hath spoken.

P.S.: the NC legislature can bite my ass.

History of Bizarro Part 1: the Early Years

Bizarro. The word is most familiar to comic book fans, referring to the strange world of DC Comics' Superman where everyone and everything is flipped around and distorted including the eponymous Man of Steel's counterpart, who is of course named simply Bizarro.

The references in popular culture abound. Perhaps most famous of all, the episode of the 1990's situation comedy “Seinfeld” where the main characters found their Bizarro counterparts. Tens if not hundreds of mentions and nods to the illogical and mind-bending realm of Bizarro-world came before and after, but none sticks in the public consciousness quite as firmly due to “Seinfeld's” relative popularity.

So why then name a fledgling genre of fiction “Bizarro”? There are many reasons one could list “why not”, but what was the reason a group of small and independent presses decided to place this label on their work?

Publisher Rose O'Keefe (Eraserhead Press) said it best in a 2005 post to the Mondo Bizarro forum (http://mondobizarro.yuku.com/topic/362):

“It's all about the audience. A lot of people love this type of work but have difficulty finding it. They don't even know what to call it. Well, by creating the Bizarro genre this just makes it easier for readers to find Bizarro books and films. It also makes marketing to the Bizarro audience a bit easier.”

Weeks later on the same forum, author Kevin Dole 2 (Tangerinephant) posted an essay entitled “So What the Fuck is this All About?” Some fans and critics have said this piece is a “manifesto”(Dole firmly denies this before the essay begins), when in reality it is a history lesson on the early days before the term “Bizarro” was adopted.

As Dole classified it as “copyleft”, I present the whole of the essay here (http://mondobizarro.yuku.com/topic/968?l=1):

I realize that most of you have probably already read this, but I thought that I'd re-post my essay here for posterity seeing as it was in a way the impetus for this board. Consider it copylefted--- feel free to link to, replicate and distribute as necessary.

SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS ALL ABOUT?

NOT A GENRE MANIFESTO!

but rather, an attempt to shallowly explicate this new genre, whatever it's called, thus far . . .

In October 2001 I sold my first short story to an interesting little journal out of New York named Happy. It was a formally experimental piece with a faux-recursive structure titled "We're Counting On You,"in which a science fiction-ish device is used under the guise of the supernatural to an end so bleakly horrific that it could only be satirical. It featured artificial intelligence, a Pentecostal preacher, S&M, a fraternity party, gay sex, and gerbil sacrifice all in less than 1400 words.

While trolling the dark dungeons of the internet for other places to publish my writing I ran across some zine-ish thing called The Earwig Flesh Factory. It turned out to be published by an outfit called Eraserhead Press, named for a David Lynch pic I still haven't seen. The EHP site listed some more chapbooks but also some novels (with ISBNs and everything!), mostly by some guy named Carlton Mellick III.(I didn't know it then, and if you're still reading this chances are that you don't know, that Carl Mellick is both the Johnny Appleseed and the Johnny Rotten of this thing I am trying to explain. He's also our Nyarlathothep and thankfully, NOT our Neal Cassady. I could also rightfully compare Carl to both R. Crumb and Beavis, but Carl is uniquely Carl, and despite that fact manages to make a living.) The books had weird cover art and ridiculously provocative titles like Satan Burger. What the fuck was this all about? I email the guy and he told me that EFF was kaput, but that I should check out their webzine The Dream People, which the website said was about perverted sex fantasies. Ummm . . . no thanks.

Instead, I sent my writing to every listing in Writer's Market that claimed to be interested in "adventurous" and "experimental" fiction. With the notable exception of Happy, I received nothing but rejection upon rejection. The few non-form rejections indirectly asked, What the fuck is this all about?

By Summer of 2002 when "We're Counting On You" finally saw print, I was putting the finishing touches on my first novel, Tangerinephant. It's about an advertising executive in a make-believe future where the relentless pursuit of money is the only force keeping society together and people cybernetically modify themselves to have really weird sex. From this my Tangerinephant is abducted by deranged aliens who force him to reenact bad daytime TV from the 20th century. You could call Tangerinephant sci-fi, except there's no science in it. The action was kind of surrealist, but things followed logic, mostly. The language was aggressively experimental, still intelligible. The plot seemed absurdist, but it had a happy ending and was concerned with character development. It was a book that I was proud of but could not imagine the publisher who would risk printing it. Ace Science Fiction? My main character came equipped with what can only be described an "anal blade." Grove Press? They seem rather content to keep republishing the formerly radical books they bought in the 60s whose authors are now dead and can no longer collect royalties. McSweeneys? They're actually pretty cool, but like to publish books that stand a chance of getting reviewed in the New York Times. Xlibris? Please-- I wasn't that desperate.

The following November an editor friend of mine told me about a contest being run by some web publication called Bold Type, the only criteria be that the story needed to be under the word limit and prominently feature a fish. BT turned out to be owned by Random House, but hey, they were "bold" right? So I went for it. My entry was a funny little story called "The Sainted Lady of the Sea" which featured not only a fish, but a really big fish with a vagina! Also therein were global warming, mermaid mythology, and randy pirates who make surprisingly moral decisions.

I never heard back from BT. A later reader would call my story "just plain nasty and vile," which made my think again of The Dream People. By then it had apparently been taken in a whole new direction. So I submitted, and they liked it, as they would later like a story of mine, conceived as the script of a comic book, about Ernest Hemingway breeding giant killer housecats as he descends into alcoholic oblivion. This kind of acceptance prompted me to take another look at EHP, which had spun off TDP to another press entirely. Apparently Carl had gotten tired of every weirdo with a manuscript knocking on his door and told them to start their own damn companies if they wanted to see their work printed so badly, so that's exactly what John Edward Lawson and Jennifer Barnes did, setting up an outfit called RawDog Screaming Press. Also, it turned out that EHP was running a first book contest.

So I entered. And waited.

In the meantime it started to dawn on me that something was brewing.
New venues for what had been previously unpublishable started to pop
up all around me. There was Bastard Fiction (R.I.P.); The New Absurdist and bizarrEbooks (R.I.P.? Resurrected? Who knows?); a goth-ish affair called The Dodsley Pages. Kevin Donihe was asking people for weird story about walruses--excuse me, walri--- and The Dream People had become a rather fertile spawning ground. Soon, I was guest-editing an issue. I was in the middle of a new literary scene, witnessing the emergence of a new genre of fiction that some call "bizarre," others "irreal," or "new absurdism."

So, you ask, What the Fuck Is This All About?

Allow me to explain by way of example. Harlan Ellison was never a fan of the phrase "science fiction," at least not when applied to his own work. A more appropriate term, he felt, would be "surreal fantasy." After all, even though the bad guy in "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" was supercomputer, it might as well have been the devil. Nor did H.P. Lovecraft like it when people called his stories "supernatural"--he preferred "weird fiction"--because what did his hateful cosmic nightmares have to do with Victorian ghosts and goblins? And William S. Burroughs was not, despite what any prosecutor said, no matter how explicit Naked Lunch got, a pornographer.

Those writers to not belong to us, but in some ways we clearly belong to them, to the extent that we belong at all. On the Venn diagramof literature I place us at the point where all the disreputable (and some reputable) genres overlap. We're kind of sci-fi, but more concerned with the aesthetics of technology than material prediction; magical realism with a little too much of the former and not enough of the latter; horror more interested in the grotesque than the macabre; stuff that would be pornographic if it were in any way an attempt to be sexually titillating. Very dark, but often funny, and while not always in consensus with objective reality, making sense when taken on its own terms. This stuff embraces the elbow room won by post-modernism while tending to be entirely unacademic. We mix our metaphors when we feel like it. D. Harlan Wilson may have a PhD in literary theory and most of us have a decent grasp of it, but we try not to be snobs or assholes about it.

On New Year's Eve 2003 I learned that I did not win the EHP 1st novel contest, but I came close. Rose O'Keefe (by now EHP's "dominatrix in chief") told me that they'd like to publish Tangerinephant anyway. That never happened, because, as Nick Mamatas likes to put it "writers make lousy accountants," but Carl & Rose were kind enough to put me in touch with Karen Townsend, who was starting up her own press called Afterbirth Books. Another runner-up in the 2003 contest, Alyssa Sturgill's Spider Pie got picked up by RDSP.

As I write this my book is in print and many more like it are in production, from myself, from writers I've mentioned in this essay, and from people I haven't even heard of. This little rant may be over, but this new type of literature, whatever you call it, is just beginning.

-Kevin Dole 2
June 19th, 2005

To be continued...