Lamentation Is Here!

Lamentation is here! Lamentation is here!!

I think. At least the hardcover. I mean, according to Amazon this is the release day. I’m all confused. First I heard it was the 7th, then I heard the 21st, then I heard the 7th again. I know it’s October. I’ve had my copies since August. What the hell do I know? I’m just the author. Either way, if Amazon says today is the day, who am I to disagree?

So here you go!

And if you needed an incentive: all we have to move (in the first week) is … 9,000 copies. So buy one for yourself, and your closest 8,999 friends!

Seriously, thanks for all the support. This shit really is a sweet dream come true….

Lamentation-screen-resAnd if you live in the Bay Area, hope to catch you at one of the two signings. Bring your copy and I’ll be sure to write something extra pithy!

Emotional Core

On Friday night, Lip Service West, the reading series I produce with my lovely wife, Justine, capped off a weeklong celebration at Pegasus Books up on Shattuck Avenue in downtown Berkeley. Pegasus, miraculously, has not only survived but thrived in its 45 years as a preeminent Bay Area indie bookseller, and had asked LSW to close out the festivities, which we did with probably the best collection of stories to date, including devastating readings by Kyrsten Bean, David Corbett, Daphne Gottlieb, Bucky Sinister, and of course Tom Pitts.

JunkieLoveFinalPRINTCoverI also read, which I usually don’t do at my own reading series, because reading at your own reading series is like “jerking off into a tube sock and [then] bragging that you talked it into anal.” Except for special occasions. I hope to have the video up soon, and then you’ll see what I mean. This was gut-wrenching, heart-string-pulling, down-and-dirty reportage about a life most will never (thankfully) see, written by unlikely survivors, who also happen to make the written word their bitch. But it was something Tom said to me after my reading that stuck with me, because it’s an issue that I, as a writer, deal with constantly.

tumblr_m5tc627pnU1rw9jg4o1_500We were standing outside, not smoking, because we can’t even do that anymore, Tom chomping on his licorice stick. Middle-age authors–if we are using that term to denote what it really is, the “middle of your life”–ain’t nobody living to 126–this is the wild life we now lead. Suburban dads out past nine o’clock at a reading. I had read from Junkie Love. Lip Service West is a true story series. No fiction. Definitely no poetry. And, as I said in my intro before getting started, everything interesting that has ever happened to me (minus my motorcycle accident) is in that book. And I sure as fuck can’t tell it any better.

Unknown-1Tom said, “Every time you read from Junkie Love, I forget how good a book it is. There is just such an emotional core you hit.” He waited, slawing on his licorice stick. “I don’t mean for this to sound bad, but do you worry with the new books you’re writing you won’t be able to live up to that again?”

I am paraphrasing. I doubt Tom actually used the words “emotional core.” He prides himself on a street vernacular. But that was what he was getting at. It was also a very writerly question, and as I mentioned, one that torments me. On the one hand, Junkie Love is no bestseller. It’s not like we are talking about following up Gone Girl or even Permanent Midnight.

tumblr_m4y4n41UsL1rw9jg4o1_500The biggest claim to fame I can muster re: my memoir-that-is-not-a memoir is that I have 100+ Amazon Reviews. In other words, who gives a flying fuck? Junkie Love was published by an indie house, and I am forever grateful. Battered Suitcase was the only place willing to take a chance on my little book that could, and I, in no way, want to sound like I am disparaging that faith or opportunity. Still, it’s necessary to put Tom’s question in context. There’s a grandiose self-importance I aim to avoid.

But it’s a very valid concern, at least in my world, and it sorta eats away at me. I want to be the best I can be, however unessential that career may prove in the grand scheme of life, the universe, and everything. The book has resonated with some, and as the guy who wrote it, I know I will probably never write anything as revealing and personal. This is where we delve into craft, which can bog down with verbose academic verbiage, so before we go any further, here is a picture of Kate Upton’s breasts.

I know my audience
I know my audience.

I switched from literary fiction to genre for one reason: I like reading it better. The very, very best literary fiction, the books I love more than all others–the Catcher in the Ryes and Razor’s Edges–are exceptions that prove the rule. More often than not, I read literary fiction as a chore. Why would I want to subject others to a homework assignment? But there is gravitas you can attain in literary fiction that you can’t in genre, where character plays a bigger role than plot. Yanking that chain of thought back a link further, fiction itself can’t compete with non-ficiton. Of course, fiction can do things non-fiction can’t, but that’s not my point. I only mean that writing crime/mystery, which is what I do now, makes it very difficult to strike the same “emotional core” as Junkie Love. And, yet, I often feel I am competing with myself.

tumblr_m6dva9ZAbG1rw9jg4o1_500All writing pursues truth, and all good writing (regardless of genre) succeeds  because it illumines particular facets of interest re: the human condition. The lit/genre divide doesn’t present as wide a chasm as, say, music, where on one end of the spectrum you have deep-thinking Pink Floyd, and on the other lyrically dead drivel encouraging date rape and/or Nicky Minaj. Just the act of reading, even if it’s utter shit like 50 Shades of Suck My Balls, elevates the participant to a higher stratosphere. In short, people who read are better people. And I can say that without fear of retaliation because dumb fucks who don’t read won’t be reading the part where I just called them dumb fucks. (But feel free to relay my message to non-readers, the dumb fucks.)

1545897_763667103645898_1686850790_nMy job in writing any book is to cast a light on that truth, via subject matter I find interesting, with hopes others will too. I write fiction because I don’t have any other choice. I had one drug addiction story. I told that story. I am not a rehab counselor, and I don’t want to be that guy, milking tragedy endlessly. I write genre because I like stories where something happens. Like any self-respecting artist, I want to branch out, push boundaries. Otherwise, what’s the fucking point? If I’m bored writing it, you’re going to be bored reading it, and at that point I might as well just sell prosthetic testicles somewhere in the Midwest

Best of 2013 (My Year End Recap)

It’s the end of the year, which always promotes Best Of lists. Except that right now the Internet is pretty much closed, rendering blogging tantamount to dieting during the holidays: pointless (mmm, sugar and fat). Even searches for Kate Upton’s Tits (my most popular topic) have experienced a 50% decline. If people don’t want to see gifs of Kate’s jugs jiggling (and a partridge in a pear tree?), I doubt they’ll want to read my random thoughts on the past 12. But I need the closure.  This is less about “the best” and more about my life in pictures. Of cats. Lots and lots of cats. Therefore, some random thoughts, in no particular order.

Best Book

imagesGone Girl. Which is no surprise. I’ve been gushing about that novel endlessly, pushing it on anyone who will listen. The quick recap: a perfect blend of pop culture and popcorn potboiler. I desperately wanted Gillian Flynn to blurb my new novel. I also desperately wanted to date Tracy and Anne in high school. Like I tell my son, it’s good to want things.


Best Movie

Breaking Bad. Yeah, I know it’s a TV show. And while I saw several films that were pretty good, the most moving of which was a documentary (Twenty Feet from Stardom), the only drama I saw with the gravitas truly worthy of this distinction was Breaking Bad. The last half of the 5th season, or the 6th season or the final season–the final fucking 8 episodes–was a cinematic achievement of the highest. Character development, plot, writing, directing. Simply breathtaking. With the finale and antepenultimate episode (that’s a fancy ten-cent collegy word for “third to last”) being the finest two hours of theater I’ve ever experienced. The other day, the ATV Club called Breaking Bad the second best show of 2013.” I don’t know what fucking planet they’ve been living on. Fuck Mad Men

Best Record

Skunk Train Soundtrack. OK. This isn’t a real record. It’s not even a real soundtrack. Skunk Train the name of my new, unpublished novel. I know you’re probably wondering, am I really egotistical enough to award the mantle of year’s best album to what is essentially a mixed tape of an unpublished novel? Yes. Yes, I am. And seeing as how it was either this or the Wandering Jews’ new EP, All the Pretty Thingsthis is actually the less narcissistic choice, if you think about it (but not too hard). When I am writing a book, I often put together a mix to play softly in the background as I write the final draft. I ended up listening to this collection more than any actual record, its memory forever burned on my brain. 

Those are the big three. It’s what you like. Not what you are like. Books, records, films, these things matter. Call me shallow.

Now onto the best of the rest….

1465190_10202868485496613_555406929_nBest Agent

Liz Kracht. Get me a book deal, you get a 6-foot Teddy Bear. It’s as simple as that.

Best Co-Editor of the Magazine

Tom Pitts. For how many years running? Or . . . years’ running? (See what I did there?) Thanks for not dying, buddy. It’s nice having someone else who survived the war. Now if we can only survive the slush. Welcome to the blogosphere.

Best Meal

Unlimited steak at my 43rd surprise birthday party, set up by my lovely wife, Justine. There are few things in life as awesome as endless slabs of red, bloody meat sliced off a skewer. Oh, yeah, and the having friends there part was cool, too, I guess.

Best Parenting Moment (of My 3-Year-Old Son, Holden)

Me: Hey, the little prince is up.
Holden (grumpily wiping the sleep from his eyes): My not the prince, my the king.
Me: You’re the king?
Holden: My the king!
Me: OK. What’s that make me then?
Holden: You? You the princess.

Best Parent Video

Dadholes 1, Dadholes 2, Dadholes 3. We are not alone.

Best Writing Conference

Bouchercon. This one was special for a number of reasons, not the least of which finally meeting Todd “Big Daddy” Robinson in the flesh (and, yes, Virginia, he is every bit as cuddly in person as he looks in his pictures. Like a warm bowl of hug). Bouchercon was held in Albany this year, in the same spot where Junkie Love, effectively, ends. You’ll have to read the fucking book. Talk about coming full circle.

kate-upton-twitter-pics-2423Best Blog Post

One of the smartest things I ever did was titling a post Kate Upton’s Erect Nipple. Get a few hundred folks stopping by this site every day just for that. 

Best Onion Article

This is why I started doing drugs.

Best 6 Harsh Truths That Will Make You a Better Person

Republished. Again.

Now the part you’ve all been waiting for. Two things the Internet stands for: porn. And cat videos.

The Best Cat Videos of 2013!

MerryHappy Christmahanakwanzika

See you Next Year.

Breaking Bad: Perfect Letdown Pt. II

Actual obituary from Albuquerque newspaper.
Actual obituary from Albuquerque newspaper.

It’s been a week since Breaking Bad ended. And I am still rattled. It’s more than BB’s being the greatest television since hundreds of years before the dawn of history; more than the death of a fictional icon, one of the most richly complex characters writing has ever given us. It was that final sock to the gut, “Felina,” which has stayed with me longer than even the masterful “Oxymandias,” in part because it represents the closing chapter but mostly because it is a brilliant, brilliant episode. And as such, it has of course come under attack by a few malcontents (damn malcontents always be fucking everything up, yo).

Anytime you reach critical mass and stakes this high, you are going to have these people. I’ve had them in bands. I’ve had them in writing workshops. Nebbish little fuckers sniffing their own farts, always quick with an “I don’t like it.” But you know what, dude? Nobody wants to play your crappy funk song in Eb, and no one gives a shit about your 22-page story where characters just talk about relationships in a café.

1233415_10151788486542737_1080463876_nDespite the generally agreed-upon consensus that Breaking Bad and creator Vince Gilligan stuck the landing, a few of these naysayers can be found trolling, citing everything from plot holes to playing it too safe, and I’ve been stuck, heroic mutherfucker that I am, battling these captious bastards in the name of all that right, holy, and just, a feat I will accomplish for good by writing on my own blog where retort is not possible (except via comments I must approve. Viva democracy).

Let’s start with “plot holes.” Listen, I can find plot holes in any work of fiction, from The Godfather to The Bible to Toy Story 3. Fiction is, by definition, contrived. And there were far bigger holes in BB before “Felina” came along, not the least of which is brother-in-law/DEA honcho Hank figuring out Walt is Heisenberg via nothing more than a fortunately timed dump. 

3258498-breaking-bad-season-five-posterWe don’t get a lot of great art these days, so when we do, I say just get on board and enjoy the goddamn ride. Maybe I should start out by giving my definition of “great art.” We all have one, and it is not universal. There’s simply a right and a wrong definition. Rembrandt is better than Van Gogh, Springsteen is better than Fugazi, Catcher in the Rye is better than Pride and Prejudice; and if you don’t believe these things, why the fuck are you reading my blog?

I am a pop culture guy. For me, great art involves audience. You can write an amazing novel, with oodles of footnotes and critical accalim, but if no one reads it, or it is only accessible to a bunch of nerds on a patio eating cheese, it can’t truly be great. Conversely, you can have the mass appeal of 50 Shades of Suck My Balls, but ain’t no one calling that soft-core tripe anything except really, really bad writing (and a platform for the soothing, sensual stylings of Gilbert Godfried).

Endings are always hard. So are beginnings and fucking middles for that matter. You have to capture imaginations/interest so that people are invested enough to follow in the first place, and then you have to hold up logic and plausibility through all the cause and effect. But you at least have wiggle room with those first two because you are forking roads, rivering courses. The end, well, that’s it. Breaking Bad opted, very wisely, for a literary ending, fitting closure for a show rooted is such strict literary traditions.


So let’s pick apart just why the end of Breaking Bad was so fucking perfect. Again, I don’t say “flawless,” nothing ever is, but perfect for this series. And as if I need to even fucking say this, but, um … SPOILERS.

A reader of this blog made a great point in the comments section for Monday’s BB post. At the end of “Granite State,” Walter White is sitting in that NH bar, having failed to get money to his son, and, defeated he’s alterted the police to his whereabouts. Waiting for authorities to show, he catches his ex-partners, Gretchen and Elliot, on the TV being interviewed by Charlie Rose about Walt’s early days with Gray Matter, the company he sold the rights to, which blew up and left Walt behind. Here’s the scene.

When I first viewed this clip I thought Walter was spurned on to return to Albuquerque by this cavalier dismissal by his former business associates, rackling his ire and spurring him on to go down in a blaze of glory. But that isn’t it. When Gretchen tells Rose that the man they knew, Walter White, died a long time ago, there is only one man left to do the job: you guessed it, Heisenberg. Walt is governed by emotion, he is weak, Heisenberg reason, logic–he is, above all, pragmatic. And he is strong. We trust Heisenberg a fuck lot more than Walt to get what he wants (cue donning the hat at the end of “Granite State”).

38183_41K3ZwbAimL._SX342_Walter White realizes the game is over. There is no coming back from this. A blaze of glory is all well and fine. If it achieves an end. And that end is what he now needs Heisenberg for: to get back what was taken from him/what he (H) took … from himself (W). Neat. From this point out, redemption is not the name of the game. Too late for that. It’s simply to make things as right as he can

Walt finds a way to get the money to his family (in one of series’ best scenes). And he finally comes clean with his wife, delivering one of the series’ best speeches. These are not broad strokes.  Like jockeying for position in bumper-to-bumper traffic, he only has so much room to move. He does not apologize. In fact, he is decidedly unapologetic. And Cranston nails this departure. Watch the subtle facial expressions, especially in the final scene with Jessie (Aaron Paul). I’ve watched this exchange at least a dozen times, so much love and hate conveyed in little more than a pair of head nods.

As I wrote last Monday, the correct move here was to give the audience the closure it deserved but not at the expense of the show’s integrity. Walt’s final moves, from New Hampshire to Albuquerque to the sweet meth hereafter, gave us that. And much, much more. 

Guest Post: Recovery by Celeste Roche

Every once in a while I’ll post something by someone else (especially if that “something else” is about me). Here’s an awesome essay by Celeste Roche, who came to one of my readings in CT. I don’t know her, and if I met her I don’t recall (sorry, Celeste. Crazy couple days!). Celeste wrote this piece for her professor, Debbie Bradford, who was a classmate of mine at CCSU way back when I was first sobering up in the aughts. It’s pretty cool to see how you come off looking to others (I mean, providing that you come off…cool)–and it’s nice knowing Junkie Love offers a little hope to someone else suffering from addiction (in this case a friend of Celeste). Most importantly though I am publishing this because it fucking rocks as a piece of writing, drawing an astute correlation between dope and craft, illustrating bona fide chops. (And the “senior-center-scented” line alone is worth the price of admission…)

RECOVERY by Celeste Roche

“If you don’t like how you’re depicted, then maybe you shouldn’t act that way.”

JunkieLoveFinalPRINTCoverJoe Clifford is a former drug addict, sharing his story with a group of folks at the library in Berlin. He says this when an audience member asks how he handles the “camera-shy” people in his life who might not appreciate their role in his narrative, Junkie Love.

He tells his senior-center-scented observers about many things outside of their daily sphere of concern: mimicking an addict who feels slighted by the world because his utilities mysteriously were shut off (because he didn’t pay for them), mentioning that he still harbors a measure of “survivor’s guilt” regarding the dope scene.

He didn’t know I’d be here—I didn’t know that he’d be here—and he doesn’t know who I am. But I think that part of him hopes people like me will wind up at his book readings, possibly with a copy of their own.

I came as a writer, someone hoping to hear about a local success story, prowling for some encouragement as I sheepishly plunge into the instability that is “professional” storytelling. But I didn’t check to see what the book was about, or even titled, before coming.

Before I decided to write, I majored in economics, worked two or three or four jobs and spent the rest of my time cleaning-up after dopesick guys who have more potential than common sense. My senior year was cluttered with overdoses and less significant drug-related mishaps. Even love wasn’t a valid excuse to friends on the outside—I was such a smart girl; I shouldn’t be dealing with people like that. But Mikey and I met in the Gifted Enrichment program. He was smart, too.

Writers and heroin addicts are very similar. We look back on our previous fixes, wondering what made us think they were anything like good ideas. We try to convince ourselves and others that we’re not thinking about it, when really every conversation is just a veil over the syringe, an interlude in the story. We tend to have difficulty “getting a real job,” often finding ourselves between temporary gigs, chasing what it is we truly want, occasionally ending-up on public assistance in the process.

There are two big differences.

One: when an elder, probably a very upright aunt at a family gathering, asks us why we don’t have a stable career and a modest family at this point (we were always so bright and quite popular with our peers, of course), the junkie tells a beautiful story that is, for all intents and purposes, a lie. The writer, perhaps in her one moment of virtue, balls together a few strings of courage and defends her paperback dreams.

Joe is married now, though not for the first time. His young son and eight-pound poodle are points of pride. He rolls his arms lightly as he lists all of his ties to the literary world, including a successful blog where he chimes to the universe about his dear child. With little concern, almost as an afterthought, he assures the audience that he, of course, has a real job as well. From the excerpt he reads us, we feel that he has desired this life for some time: he bemoans the paranoid and childish antics of a certain Debra and a couple of other friends while rattled by coke somewhere in the snowbanks of Vermont.

A creaky voice inquires how he went from what he was to what he is—how he killed junkie Joe and got to be a remarkably average-seeming, almost-clean-shaven, productive member of civil society.

“Each detox,” he says, referencing over a dozen clinical experiences, “chipped away at it a little bit more.” He adds, and the audience laughs, that he had been writing his success story since before he ever went clean.


I remember that.

When Mikey and I got in touch after years of not talking, he went into a thirty-day rehab program. When he came out, we were ready to get a boat and sail around the world together, making wonderful music and helping out however we could wherever the winds took us.

When Mikey got his job doing direct sales after four months of rotting in our apartment, he advanced quickly, beating the record for fastest promotion (four months) within his first week on the floor. He chirped at me, tired, flailing his cigarette, “I can own my own business in a year! How do you like that? Drug-addict-turned-business-owner. I like how that sounds.”

“You need to focus on the former before you can achieve the latter,” I’d sigh, carrying the dirty dishes from his floor to the kitchen.

A few good fights, a parting of ways and a couple of overdoses later, he e-mails me asking if I have a copy of the resume I had made for him. After waking up in the Bliss Wing at Hartford Hospital to a gaggle of angry Italians and one very sad Jew demanding that he go into a program, he moved to California to live with his ex-stepfather and his younger half-brother—also a recovering addict.

I know, how Joe knows, how Mikey knows—everyone needs to climb his own ladder.

Two: the goal is different. The dopehead is not looking to commit—not to Mary Jane, Lucy, Crystal, Molly—he exists “for nobody.” The goal is to go as far through the door as possible without actually leaving. Flirt with death, buy her a few drinks, maybe slide your hand up her leg—but don’t bring her home. You only bring her home when she’s the sole soul left in the bar, when even the owner, the jukebox and those snide little peanuts have abandoned you. Writers, on the other hand, aim for the deep end. An overdose that only swells in your throat without causing the lungs to explode and leak out of the mouth just isn’t worth it. Go big, or get a nine-to-five. Or…at least try to go big.

733924_10200311189276901_2124374403_nJoe reminisces about writing bad checks to get through life with his and his significant other’s drug habits. Likewise, he reminisces about writing bad stories: there was something about monkeys in an earlier version of this not-quite-memoir. But he killed the monkeys because they were holding him back. The addict Joe only ever fed them. Every addict has a happy little clan of monkeys who tug at his cheeks when they’re hungry. Writers have no time for monkeys—it’s hard enough to keep one stomach full while freelancing.

Mikey had a monkey.

We were sitting in the “family lounge” outside of the ICU, staring into our own horizons of guilt and rage. Mikey’s mother mused about all the little signs—how she should’ve known that he wasn’t really doing well. I curled my legs up into the little nook of a chair, resting my head on folded arms.

A white-haired Puerto Rican entered the room, muttering in a language nobody ever understands. He kissed Jenny and handed her a stuffed monkey.

“A dis, found Mikey’s monkey, eh, I taught I bring him.”

“George!” Jenny pat the stuffed monkey. “Mikey gave me this one Mother’s Day—he asked me what I wanted, and I told him I wanted a monkey. He was always so sweet.”

I buried my head deeper into my fetal cave, the irony paining me.

Nick, Mikey’s older brother, seated quietly, brooding and redditing in the corner, clears his throat as the Puerto Rican man—the third ex-husband—leaves the room.

“I think we need to consider the fact that Mike might have done this on purpose.”

I lift my head and press it back against the wall.

“Why would he do that?” Aunt Linda is sincerely perplexed.

Nick and I stare at one another, silently, knowingly. Because every man clearly wants to live on the Planet of the Apes.

Joe Clifford apologizes as he speeds through his pitch; our society demands that artists be ashamed of the notion that they should be paid for their work. His status as a recovered addict does nothing to change our culture’s view of him as a writer. People like to think that writing is easy, even though it is usually more difficult than living through the things worth writing about.

I neglect to buy a book directly from him, but I put two copies in my Amazon shopping cart. I think I can learn a lot from Joe, as a writer. And I think I know someone else who could use a good example.

The Lone Palm, Cat Power, & the All Consumption of Art

waketheundertaker-187x300That was the original name of Wake the Undertaker, which, for all you luddites, is now out in print. Thus concludes my glut of recent publishing good fortune (at least until Liz lands us a deal for Lamentation). 

I was thinking about the writing of that book this morning, which began as my thesis novel at Florida International University back in 2005. I really thought that was going to be the book, the one that would put me on the map. I’d work on it all through the night, my new wife (#2 for those of you keeping score at home) asleep in the next room, and I’d step out in the hot Miami night at 2 a.m. to take a smoke break, thinking, Man, I’ve arrived. 

Of course it’s when you think that sort of thing that life lines up to kick you in the ass. I was so consumed with the writing of that novel and my graduate work that it left little time for anything else, like wives or nurturing relationships. I was obsessed. So much so that in the weeks leading up to her running off with a buddy in Houston, I had no idea why she was playing this song on endless repeat.

How great is that clip? The Kerouac footage is new. I mean, I didn’t do it. Laramore Black shared it with a few weeks ago (the look on Ginsberg’s face at the 2:12 mark is brutal). It might’ve been the first time I listened to the words. Yeah, felt a little silly not seeing that one coming. 

But that’s art. When you are really immersed, invested, and another “i” word I am too lazy to think of, the rest of the world sorta ceases to exist. It’s happened with all the novels I’ve written. For the most intense four months of drafting Lamentation, I scarcely saw my family (of course, thankfully, this time my wife was a little more understanding and stuck around). It’s like I came out of a daze and suddenly my kid was speaking in full sentences (with five o’clock shadow [the testosterone runs heavy in the Cliffords]).

399927_394759993964761_1069054257_nWhat else can you do? There’s only one way to do it. Writing, love, life. You go all in and take your hits until there’s nothing left to put out there. It’s like Brian Fast used to say, “If you’re going to be the craziest guy, then be the craziest guy. There’s no point being the second craziest guy. Where’s the glory in that?”

And if not for glory, then why bother?


I know (some of) you are waiting for a report from the Junkie Love filming, which was quite an eventful day. And I plan on it. It really did take an emotional toll. 

Until then, here is a report from the field from Kyrsten Bean, who plays my girlfriend in the trailer. (It’ll give you a glimpse of how fucking hard it was for the recovered/ing.) Much love goes out to her and Joel Landmine (who played a younger me). I will give proper, um…props?…soon.

And here is an interview I just gave with Shotgun Honey. I like this one a lot. Ron Earl (SH editor) shot the questions over several weeks, and I, like a fucktard, didn’t remember my responses, so I repeat myself. But it’s kinda funny that I am so insistent on kicking the literary shit out of Jane Austen. If this were one of her crappy novels, we’d probably be destined to be…in love. 

Thank God it’s fucking not.

And I leave you with some jiggle…


Digital Book Today Interview

This post offers you nothing but a link to my most recent interview, just up at Digital Book Today, in which I discuss rock ‘n’ roll, my messiah complex, and Ayn Rand being a douchenozzle. 

But just for stopping by C&C today, here is your daily gratuitous Kate Upton photo of her licking a popsicle. (I am starting to think the popsicles she’s always seen sucking on are symbolic of something. Like they aren’t really popsicles but represent…America. ‘Cause they are red, white, and fucking blue. Just like Kate. So, yeah, she’s sorta licking herself. How awesome is that?)