Trashed and Lonely

Been a pretty hectic week on the hill.  My wife was in the hospital.  She's gonna pull through.  I thought I was doing a good thing by not commenting publicly on the blog, since it would invite a ton of questions, bring attention her way, which I thought she'd had enough of.  Of course, when I went up to see her at the hospital and mentioned I needed to write today's blog post, she said, "I notice you haven't written about your wife being in the hospital..."  Sometimes you just can't win... Actually, that's most of the time.

I include that video, not as much for the tired ball and chain marriage reference but for the "born to lose/destined to fail" lyric, and because I just saw Mike Ness on a cable special for Guitar Center the other night, which reminded me of a story Tom Pitts once told me about Mike Ness's brother, Chris, who was a chronic masturbator.

OK.  And maybe a little bit for the ball and chain part, too.  But my lovely wife is back home and resting and seems to be on the mend.  It was strange not having her here for these past few days.  With Justine, I am an attractive, edgy writer, with a kick-ass home gym.  Without her, I am just a 41-year-old dude, twice divorced, who cleans way too much.  I don't like not having her around.  Makes me feel...incomplete.  Like when your favorite show moves to another night without telling you.  I got a glimpse of what my life would be like if she ever left me.  And it's fucking lonely.

All right, enough with the lovefest; let's dissect some shit.

*

Got a new short story up at the always-creepy, always-kick-ass Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers (http://tinyurl.com/793kd3y).  I get judged by the traffic my stories receive on these sites.  The more people read and comment on them, the more my name gets out there, and thus the more likely I am to get contacted and asked to contribute to future issues or even anthologies, sparing me from the humiliation of the blind submission (sounds like an SF dominatrix special, the "humiliating blind submission," $345/hr.)  So if you have a minute, I'd sure appreciate it if you could check out "Another's Man's Treasure" on TKnC and leave a kind word.  (Or not so kind word.  What do I care?  Just so long as you read the damn thing.)

This story, "Another Man's Treasure," is notable for a couple reasons.  One, it's my first foray into horror, although I am not terribly familiar with the rules for that genre.  And you do need to follow those rules.  Each milieu comes with its own set, and readers, whether they are consciously aware of them or not, still expect to see certain things happen.  Although it might not be as imperative for a short story as, say, a novel.  It might just be a dark, creppy-ass story.  And the cool thing about Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers is that they are one of the few horror/noir sites out there, and "Another Man's Treasure" is sort of a hybrid anyway.  It draws on the world I once lived in, that of the tweaker flea market, and it's always fun to infuse a story with the specific details only you know.  And meth is one fucked up place. Interesting.  But fucked up. This story is as close as you want to get.

Overall, I consider Candy and Cigarettes to be a writing site.  Sure, as my Facebook friend Annie likes to point out, I do pepper the writing bits with tales of mental illness, physical impairment, and love gone wrong, but the overarching theme of this place is about the craft.  With a liberal sprinkling of pop culture.  I hate didactic. Of course, if you really want a writing site, you should check out Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds (http://terribleminds.com/ramble/), the New York Yankees of web writing advice to my Wichita Beavers' farm team.

But it's all about writing progress not spiritual perfection, right?  

Sorry.  Got my programs confused again.

The really interesting part of "Another Man's Treasure" is in its journey as a story, and I don't mean the years of research I spend snorting, smoking, and shooting meth. (Now there's a fun time.  Think I'm high strung now?  Should've seen me in a tiny closet with four smelly creepers pawing at me when I haven't slept in six days).

After I got sober in '01, I reenrolled at Central Connecticut State and took some creative writing classes. "Treasure" was my very first effort.  Although aside from its flea market setting and basic premise of a ruse to look at furniture leading to violent tragedy, you would hardly recognize that incarnation.  The original version was called Bargain Hunting, and it was based on a story I'd once heard while hanging out, getting high in a tweaker pad.  This guy's speech was all fucked up and his head was seriously misshapen.  He said he used to work the SF flea markets, which a lot of tweakers do, since it relies so heavily on an ability to get dirty and sift through trash all night.  One day someone asked him if he wanted to look at some furniture that could be had for a bargain-basement price, but when he arrived at the address in the projects he was jumped and savagely beaten by some brothers, resulting in permanent brain damage.  (Might be thinking that he probably shouldn't have gone to the projects, but how do you think these people made their living? They weren't dealing at the Top of the Mark.)  It was a pretty sad story, and it stayed with me over the years, especially because he was also talking about his daughter, who lived with is ex-wife, and who he never got to see.  I thought the plight of a single father who gets beaten on his way to pick up his daughter for the weekend would prove heartbreaking.  But no one seemed terribly impressed. During workshop, when my professor, Dr. Ostrowski, began making suggestions on how to improve the piece, details I could change, add, omit to tweak emotive response, I said, "But that's not the way it really happened!"  Which doesn't make a damn bit of difference.  Because as my professor pointed out, fiction is not life; it's is life-like. Big fucking difference.  And you never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

The story languished for years, and obviously was never published in its original form.  99% of all (good) writing is rewriting, and it wasn't until I essentially scraped the original and truly revised it--as in a re-envisioning--that I started to make any headway.  On the one hand, it's just a story up on a site, but I'd also like to think it serves as proof that I've learned something about story writing over the last ten years, even if it's in very tiny increments.

*

You may've noticed, because obviously, like I, you spend an inordinate amount of time charting the most successful posts on Candy and Cigarettes, that "Debra Morgan" (http://tinyurl.com/7lqx8es) recently overtook "Burning Man" (http://tinyurl.com/3bnunoy) for the #2 slot all-time. Which sorta baffles me.  I mean, I almost understood why so many people read the stuff about Burning Man, since it's like a religion out here, with both supporters and detractors.  But an expose trying to uncover the strange sex appeal of a make-believe, foul-mouthed, wonkey-eyed, tomboy on a cable show about a serial killer?  

My hope is that maybe someday Deb herself will read this, seek me out, and we'll have a chance to be truly unhappy together... 

Until then, thanks for reading.

Best of 2011

Can't help it.  End of the year always invokes retro(intro?)spection.  More than our ages, we use it as a barometer for success or failure, inspiring changes to get it better this time, even though results are destined to fall short of our well-intended, lofty goals.

At least I don't have to worry about chubsters joining my gym, cramming the parking lot and hogging all the good machines for the first two weeks of January, never to be seen again.  Because my gym is in my basement (and if you join now, you get this special introductory rate of 0% down and get the fuck out of my garage).

As I hinted at in an earlier post (http://tinyurl.com/), 2011 fucking kicked ass.  Was I finally happy?  No, of course not.  I'm Joe.  Happiness for me hurts.

But I found it tougher to bitch this past year, since pretty much everything was coming my way.  Which reminds me of tripping on mushrooms in the Marin Headlands long, long ago with my good friend Matt. It was a shaky start to the night--y'know, where the hallucinogen begins to tingle and you can't decide if she's gonna be a good witch or a bad witch.  The radio played softly in the fog-shrouded gloaming.  Then this song came on.

And everything was fine after that.

Not that there aren't things I want to improve upon for 2012.  I'd like to finally get those six pack abs I've always talked about.  I'm getting close, down to 13.5% body fat, and I think I'll be adding some new equipment to Club Joe.  Plus, I'm trying to boost my testosterone (naturally, of course; I don't fuck around with anything illegal these days) with BCAA (branch chain amino acids) and D aspartic acid, recommendations from my former nemesis-turned-body building advisor, George Murphy (http://tinyurl.com/ ).  But this isn't about my new and improved rock hard body (or the rusting metal parts inside holding it together).  If you'd like to see some beefcake shots, we're not shy, just ask.  (Please send two dead creeping to the Tropicana Motor Hotel, c/o young Joe...) (Apologies to Tom Waits).

For the rest of this week, you are going to encounter myriad Best Of lists, every newspapers, sports' show, Late Night Special, etc., is going to feature some variation of it.  So I figured I might as well offer a distinctly personal take on the concept as the year ticks on down.  

This year was a lot like that song I linked above, even though I fucking hate Santana.  Many, many good things happened in Joe's life.  So let's look at some of the highlights.  (We'll save the negative shit for tomorrow.)

Best Thing to Happen to Joe

We have a lot of entries here.  First off, like Nelly say, must be the money.  Then there's my marriage to the woman who turns more heads than anyone I've ever been with, the lovely Justine.  And the house.  Bought my first house in 2011, which brings about two more contenders: the gym in the basement, and the fucking indoor BBQ.  Any other year...I mean, how do you beat an indoor BBQ?  Too bad for the BBQ, 2011 saw the single greatest thing to ever happen to a wretch like me: my boy, Holden, who finally answered that nagging question.  What's it all for?  Him. It's all for him.  If you have a kid, you know what I mean.  If you don't, don't worry, maybe someday somebody will love you enough.  Just kidding.  At least you still get to sleep past 6.  

A few months ago, I made a comment to Justine, something like, "I love that boy more than anything in the world," and she said, "Even more than me?"  And I was, like, "Uh, yeah.  What?  You don't?"  And she just laughed.  It's OK being second to your husband or wife when you have a baby; the kid trumps all.  And Holden is doing tons of neat tricks these days, his little personality finally taking shape.  The little looks and idiosyncrasies.  Not that it's all a cakewalk.  Holden has taken to flopping like a British soccer player when he does't get his way, and six hours straight watching him on my own can make me feel like a midget is tap dancing on my last nerve.  But there is finally someone whose needs I gratefully put ahead of my own.  Best thing to happen to me this year.  Best thing to happen in my whole goddamn life.  It's like finally having that little monkey butler I always dreamed about...

Best Wedding

This is sort of cheating, since my last wedding was such a cocksucking sham.  And like that first blow job, marriages like that can really leave a bad taste in your mouth.  I lost so much with the last marriage, was so thoroughly lied to, taken advantage of, played for such a chump that, honestly, if my new wife, Justine, only sliced off one of my balls on our honeymoon night and put it in a jar of honey, we're still probably talking significant upgrade.  But the wedding and new wife have been such a rousing success, my testicles still fully intact.  Not to go all shmoopy...

But I'd like to thank my wife, Justine, for restoring a little faith in love, proving to me that this whole marriage thing needn't be a selfish series of self-serving duplicity. After all, at heart I am a Family Man.

It's nice to feel appreciated and not have your wife blowing your friends.

Best Concert

Tough one.  Two possibilities.  The Hold Steady.  Gaslight Anthem.  Saw the Hold Steady twice, once at the Fillmore, which was good, and then again with my buddy, Matt, at the Treasure Island Music Festival, which was like a prolonged rock 'n' roll orgasm.  Seriously, I think I came in my pants twice from the sheer rock force. Finn's voice and acerbic wit were finely honed that night, and the band, strangely operating without keys, never sounded better.  When they finished their 45-minute, no fat, all lean meat set, they left poor Death Cab for Cutie trying to follow up that shit.  Like watching Spinks try to take on Tyson. Woefully overmatched.

Still, I think I have to give it Gaslight Anthem.  My friend Rich and his (business) partner Dennis put on the San Jose concert series, so they got me, a very pregnant Justine, and Big Tom and his girl, Zenaida, backstage passes; and the fucking band's latest, American Slang, is a masterpiece (The Hold Steady's latest, Heaven Is Whenever, is good, but not like this) (this might've actually been in 2010, but it was so good, we're carrying it over).  Brian Fallon and Co. delivered a clinic that night, what rock 'n' roll is supposed to be all about: attitude, sneer, smart lyrics, emotional hooks and swells, romantic cynics in blue jeans and white tees and a little outlaw country twang.  And to top it all off, when I met them?  What a bunch on non-pretentious, down-to-earth, so-not-douchebag bunch of nice guys. Essentially the anti-Stephen Jenkins.

And you told me fortunes, in American slang...

Best Movie

Young Adult.  For all the reasons I mention here: http://tinyurl.com/6mfr6fd.  If you are pressed for time or just too lazy to click on the link: Diablo Cod's script is flawless, Charlize Theron's acting is unrivaled, as is Patton Oswalt's; and director Jason Reitman's direction gets out of the way, letting the story tell itself, which is what good direction, like good writing, should do.

Best Place to Talk to Old Friends from High School

I only wish Facebook would've come around about 20 years earlier and saved me from all that time I wasted with disappointing face-to-face interactions.

Best Book

This is another tough call.  There's Joe Loya's Confessions of a Bank Robber, and Alan Kaufman's Drunken Angel.  I reread The Dead Zone, and was again deeply affected.  There's Duane Swierczynski's Fun and Games.  Honestly, couldn't get into Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (don't ask me why).  Another gem: Pearce Hansen, Street Raised.  Which might be number one were it not for David Corbett's Do They Know I'm Running?  Which is nothing short of breathtaking, beautifully written, bestowing the best of humanity and dignity where you'd least expect to find it, in a creosote-drenched world.  It's a road book, and a love story, and the tale of a boy becoming a man, all set against the inhospitable, unforgiving Mexican landscape, pitting alien against alien.  Poignant, powerful shit.

Best Advice

Never play cards with a man named Doc, never eat at at placed called Mom's, and never lay down with a woman who has more problems than you do.  (If only I'd found his gem about 10 years earlier...)

Best Website

Hands down, Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/.  It's like Candy & Cigarettes 2.0, jacked on steroids, with a hit of crack.  The best advice on writing out there, and he's funny and irreverent as hell, no punches pulled, and he hides his disillusion and bitterness far better than I.  There are not many writers I wish I could write like.  Chuck Wendig is one of them.

Best Sports Moment

Winning my first Fantasy Football Championship.  Duh.

Best Friend

OK.  You can't really have a best friend unless you are 12 (or you are my wife, for whom every friend is her best friend).  Plus, you write best friend, and everyone else you know is going to be offended.  And I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. (Except those of you douchehookers I hate; I don't give a shit about your feelings.) But the rest of you, I love you, all.  Still, I feel the need to single out one man.  Let's call it a Lifetime Achievement Award (and no this will not be another entry gushing over the attributes of Tom Pitts http://tinyurl.com/7lqcl7a).  This mantle goes to Rich Rice.  With the exception of some family members (at least the ones who aren't dead), I've known Rich longer than anyone, and though we've drifted out of one another's life, played lesser roles at different times, like any friendship of that length, we're still friends after knowing each other close to forty fucking years.  Fungi don't last that long.  He's isn't like a brother; he is a brother.  Or to equate it to pants... Rich had seldom been the flashiest pair.  He has no rhinestone sequins, no in-style/out-of-style bell bottoms.  He is the Wrangler jeans of my life. Dependable. Comfortable.  Built tough with a relaxed fit that lasts.  Rich is Brett Farve, but without the high interception rate or sending pics of his junk to strangers on his iPhone.  And in the big moments of my life, like picking a Best Man or choosing the godfather to my only son, there was never really any other choice.  

And now the best of the rest before the boy wakes up...

Best Comedian: Louis C.K. (who wins handily over runner up Daniel Tosh)

Best Local Band: The Wandering Jews (unless you ask my wife, who will pick my ex-guitarist's band, the Hollyhocks)

Best Website after Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds: Cracked.com (http://www.cracked.com/).  I don't know when Mad's retarded little brother became so good, but I'll say it: consistently funnier than the Onion.

Best Supermodel: Kate Upton.  All you need for evidence is this:

When a woman can do that to you in her clothes, I shudder to think what she could do without them.

Best Statistic: 17% of Americans believe Joan of Arc was Noah's wife.

Best Pound-for-Pound Boxer: Manny Pacquaio.  Fuck you, Floyd, you gutless turd.

Best Kids in the Hall Clip to Appear on this Blog:

Best TV Show, like, in Fucking Forever: Breaking Bad.  (If you don't like this show, you are wrong.)

Best Website to See Before and After Pics of Methheads: Faces of Meth (http://www.facesofmeth.us/main.htm)

Best Bet at the Track: $900 on the 5th horse in the 6th race.

Best Online Porn: Too many to choose from (but if you make me, I'd say redtube).

Best Color: For 36 years out of 41...black (we try not to acknowledge the green years).

Best New Swear Word: douchehooker (thank you, Annie!)

Best Way to Make Duane S. from Texas Stop Reading: Tebow.

Best Gym: My basement.

Best New Old Show: Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Best Place to Pick Up Women Online and Have Anonymous Sex: That's a joke to see if you've read this far, Justine.

Best New Sports' Radio Channel: 95.7, The Game.

Best Pic of a Man Dressed Like a Unicorn: This guy:

Best Potential Serial Killer I'd Like to Date:

Best Emotionally Damaged, Potty-Mouthed Sister of a Make-Believe Serial Killer I'd Like to Date:

Best Reminder to Be the Best Dad Possible:

And last, the category you've all been waiting for...

Best LOL Cat of 2011:

Debra Morgan

I don't know how many of you watch the Showtime series Dexter.  Even if you don't, you probably know the premise by now; it's been around a while.  But just in case, here's a quick summary.  Dexter (Michael C. Hall) works for Miami Metro as a blood-splatter specialist.  He is also a serial killer, but he only kills people who deserve it, so he's not one of those bad serial killers.  There's lots of stuff about a "code," and he refers to his need to kill as his "dark passenger," and his dead father's ghost appears, offering advice.  It sounds a little goofy when you put it like that, and the show probably jumped the shark (I hate myself for using that expression) a couple seasons ago, but the writing is still better than most, even if they are running out of believable ways to introduce deserving victims for Dexter to slay.  (Who knew Miami was crawling with so many homicidal lunatics?  I lived there and had no idea!  Lazy, brain-dead douchebags, sure, but all these madmen, makes me glad I didn't leave my condo on the beach more often.)

The theme song and intro is one of the better ones.

The acting is pretty good, and Michael C. Hall proves a likable protagonist.  In a weird way, I enjoy seeing Miami from afar.  Sorta like revisiting the playground where the bully chipped your tooth on the monkey bars; you derive a perverse satisfaction in having moved on to a better place.  

It's a neat little ensemble cast.  There's no reason to list the actors who play these parts.  Fuck, I don't even care enough to look up the correct spelling of the character's names.  There's Batista and Quinn and LaGuerta, and this creepy little oversexed Asian dude, Masuka.  Overall, it's hardly a Breaking Bad.  I wouldn't even put it on par with The Walking Dead.  Then again, neither of those shows have what Dexter has.  Namely, Debra Morgan.

Deb Morgan is the character played by Jennifer Carpenter, who is Michael C. Hall's ex-wife in real life.  Hall also just got over cancer.  Not sure why either of those details is relevant, but there you go.  On the show she plays Dexter's sister. Anyway, this blog has four revolving topics: writing, that proverbial dead horse we've been beating the shit out of for the last two weeks.

Then there's my mental illness and this new journey I'm on, fatherhood (those are two separate topics.  Most of the time).  Lastly, there are the posts about the women, specifically the numerous ways I have loved, lost, and contracted a venereal disease; the women who drive me mad with...I'm not sure what.  I wouldn't say desire, necessarily.  It's more about approaching the subject through the eyes of a 12-year-old boy, which would make them girls I guess, and the way you view them at that age, a time when they were still magical and you didn't have their names tattooed on your chest or know the pleasure of working with a divorce lawyer.  Part of me still thinks about them like that, at the fairs and dances, the way my palms would get all sweaty just thinking about her, the fun part, before the work.  I guess the word would be "crush."

And I have a serious crush on Deb Morgan.

Every time I watch the show with my wife, Justine, the conversation is the same.

(Deb comes on screen)

Justine: I can't believe you have a thing for her.  Look at her!  She's gangly and awkward; she's got a body like a boy.  Look at how she dresses!  And she's a mess of a human being.  And her eyes are all wonky and crooked.  How can you possibly find her attractive?

Me: I love her.

One of my Facebook friends, Annie, was commenting on the strange appeal of Deb. She was speculating it might have something to do with her vulgar mouth, and she does swear up a shit-storm.  That's certainly part of it.  I mean, what guy doesn't love a classy girl who says fuck a lot?  

But I think it's more this: I know if Deb Morgan were my girlfriend she'd make me really really really unhappy.  She'd be an absolutely awful girlfriend, and most definitely cheat on me.  She'd take advantage of my love for her and take a giant dump on my heart.  And, obviously, that appeals to me.  

A little context.  

When my second wife left me for a friend in Houston, I was still in grad school in Miami, and it left me reeling from the rejection.  I was taking the whole thing pretty hard, a situation made worse by the fact that I still had to be writing and reading and taking tests and editing the magazine and all that.  I didn't have any time to do what I wanted, which was hole up in my apartment, chain-smoke and feel sorry for myself.  

I went to a reading one night, where I met up with a friend and his girlfriend.  It was very crowded.  We said hi, and then they went to get punch or something.  Anyway, I'm staring at the door, watching the people showing up, when this drop-dead gorgeous Eastern European-looking bombshell walks in, and she's got everything I like, the high cheekbones and long legs, absolutely stunning.  What really gets me is the eyes, that intense, soulful gaze, you know, the come hither stare, and I'm instantly in love.  I'm thinking, "Now THAT would help me get over my ex-wife."

My friend and his girl walk back over and see me staring like a cartoon fool, tongue hanging out, and my buddy's girlfriend is, like, "Oh, I see you've noticed so and so. She's a friend of mine."  And I'm thrilled, at last something's coming my way.  I say, "You have got to introduce me!" And she says, "Oh, no, I can't do that.  She's a schizophrenic alcoholic.  You need to stay away from her."  And I'm thinking, of course!  Because if a schizophrenic alcoholic walks into a room of 50, you better believe I'm zeroing in and falling in love.  In other words, my self-loathing runs pretty fucking deep.

The best relationships I've ever had have been the ones that occurred through no doing of my own.  Like moving next door to Justine, or being set up on blind dates, whatever.  All I know is if it is left up to me and my own devices, I will make the wrong choice every time.  

I pick the basketcases and the nutjobs, the ones who fall apart when they can't find their glass of water.

I think such women appeal to my messiah complex.  

My friend Rich says his father gave him three rules to live by: 1.) Never play cards with a man named "Doc" 2.) Never eat at a place called "Mom's," and 3.) Never lay down with a woman who has more problems than you do.  And I like those rules, but if I tried to live by them, I'd never get laid.

Maybe my crush on Debra Morgan is actually simpler than that.  Maybe it really is about viewing this through the lens of a 12-year-old boy.  Or, more accurately, a 16-year-old one, since I don't think I ever really matured past that age. 

By now you know my favorite book is Catcher in the Rye.  Hell, I named my son Holden, of course you know.  I think I am always after Jane Gallagher.  You remember her, right?  She was the girl Holden met that one summer up at their vacation home because her family's dog was always coming over and taking a shit on the Caulfield's lawn.  Holden runs into her later when he's at Pency, before that suave-looking bastard, Stradlater, tries to give her the time in fat-ass Ed Banky's car. Holden won't even go down to say hi to her when he finds out she is on a date with his roommate, and although he keeps talking about calling her up, he never does. Jane remains perfect, untouchable, because Holden knows it's never getting any better than his memory of her that summer they first held hands.  Any future interaction will only be a letdown.

Well, maybe Holden doesn't know that, exactly, but that's why I think he never gets in touch with her.  It's a fantasy, and you can control your fantasies, and in them you never, ever get hurt.

Plus, whenever Deb Morgan speaks, her mouth goes all muckle.  Just like Jane Gallagher's.