Excerpt for the New Year: Books by Covers

One of my personal favorite short stories I've ever written. Happy New Year! From my anthology Slight Details & Random Events, available at Dreamspinner and Amazon:

Books by Covers

Jimmy stretched his leg muscles on the steps in front of his apartment, releasing the tension for the torture. A good run on this spring afternoon would be just what he needed. It was a beautiful day, offering lovely promises. He could run for a while and clear the obstacles, the hurdles, in his mind. He often wondered when it was the real world started taking control of his psyche, regulating his inner thoughts until they mirrored one another. Had it happened innocently? Little by little? Or was it, as he had always suspected, clump by clump?
Runners don’t like clumps. They’re unexpected. Clumps can make a runner trip and fall.
Forget the world, he told himself. Forget the world you see. Forget the world as it’s reflected in your mind. Clarity. That’s what you need.
Jimmy set off tracking that clarity. He didn’t think he’d truly find it. The answers to his questions and concerns seemed too big. He’d been troubled for weeks after all. Still, a jog could help him think, to ponder. Jimmy needed that alone time. The small college town went on around him - mothers and children on sidewalks, the postman delivering his packages, cars driving leisurely past, college students off campus interacting with the townsfolk. So serene and just so. Like a film set or TV show from the fifties.
Jimmy headed in the direction of the liberal arts school. He had chosen to go to a larger university. Got his BA at a prestigious school up north, but dropped out of grad school before he could get his Masters. He regretted that. But at the time he just couldn’t do it anymore. He had had enough of education. He had been sidetracked by other things. Like the full-time gig at the fashionable clothing store to help pay off his increasing credit card debt. Or the insurance for the sports car he no longer thought of as his baby. Now, though, he desperately needed to get back to school. He envied teachers and college professors who were surrounded by academia at all times. He was in need of a real job, a career. Especially with the wedding coming up. Gunner had his heart set on a house, an expensive house. A house so expensive both of them would have to sell their souls to obtain it. But for Gunner, Jimmy would do it. Jimmy did a lot of things for Gunner.
Sidetracked. Short cuts.

Professor Robbins taught Classic Literature at the college. She was normally a content person. She had a nice, quiet life with a loving partner who she had met at Pride years ago, she had a smart, young daughter, she had a nice home on the college campus, and she adored her students. She loved the looks on their faces when they learned something new. That spark of epiphany that doesn’t happen but every so often; just enough to make it precious and longed for. Yes, she was usually happy with her life’s course. She had designed it.
But as she stared out the window over the heads of the small classroom of students taking an exam, she saw a handsome young man jog by. It wasn’t the man that stalled her really. Her tastes didn’t run his way. It was his seeming physical perfection, his lack of flaws, that captivated her. He looked like a sculpture, the kind she had struggled to create in her undergraduate career. She had so wanted to be a great artist. She studied the classics – Rodin, Michelangelo, Bernini – but she could never quite get it right. All her life it had been her dream to bring life from stone, her hands working an almost divine thing. Like a goddess.
But life in its pushy way convinced her to try other things. It prodded her in a more logical direction. Something which might bring more money and stability. Successful artists are rare, she heard over and over. Art is ever changing because tastes and fads change daily, hourly. An artist would be unemployable, she was told. Especially a sculptor. Who sculpts nowadays? There are machines for that.
He does, Professor Robbins said to herself defensively. This young man jogging. He sculpts his body every day in the gym. Like art, it takes skill, study, persistence, and time. He must be so joyous. The world gets to see his sculpture everywhere he goes. A great artist runs among us today. Don’t you see?
But no one would ever see. No one saw the world and its unfairness as well as she.
She closed her eyes. Dreams leave me alone. I’m happy. I’m quite content.

The college lawn was always Jimmy’s favorite part of the campus. Everyone was carefree as they studied or lounged on the grass. Their minds caught up in frivolous pursuits. Not a notion that things might get worse in the future. He remembered the future in college sounded to him like an obscure idea; something other people thought about. Something that was whispered with hushed dread, but never truly confronted.
Plan for the future? An impossibility. How can one plan for what they don’t know or have never experienced?
Jimmy felt envious of the students on the lawn, of the boys tossing frisbees over the heads of lovers. He wanted to sit among them again, to feel that blissful unawareness. But he also worried for them. How many would survive after college? How many could surmount the world’s bulky hurdles?
Dotting the lawn like wildflowers, the coupled lovers kissing made him think of his relationship with Gunner. Would they stay as passionate? He wanted a life-long romance. (Oh, how Hollywood has ruined that word!) Would it happen? Would Gunner stay with him till the end? Would Jimmy want him to?

Elise watched the man jogging. She wasn’t the only one, but she was most likely the only one not lusting, not hooting and making vulgar noises. A gaggle of girls on the south side of the lawn were doing enough of that. Elise was instead struck by the runner’s resemblance to her high school sweetheart. A twinge of bittersweet remorse enfolded her heart. The chemistry book on her lap suddenly felt heavier, less about her future and more about things left behind.
She was a senior now. She hadn’t seen Bud for over three years. She left him the summer before her freshman year saying she had to go. She had to get out of the small town she had grown up in. There was nothing for her there. Those were painful words to say. She realized they were probably even more painful to hear.
“There’s me. I’m here,” Bud had pleaded.
That wasn’t enough. She didn’t understand why he didn’t understand. She had loved him. And now this runner was breaking her heart and he didn’t even know it.
Elise couldn’t imagine ever feeling the way she felt about Bud toward anyone else. The world was filled with little boys and tiny men. Bud was different, mature. He was as wonderful as any woman could have hoped. He wanted to marry her. She had wanted the same once.
What happened?
She knew she shouldn’t regret her choices. College was always down the road for her in high school. But still, the runner was making it hard to forget lost chances. She tried to look away. She tried to focus on the body, not the face. Bud and the runner didn’t have the same body. Bud was strong from years of farm work, not weights.
Elise imagined the runner had never made a bad choice in his life. Mr. Perfect with his perfect body, his perfectly planned life.
That’s what she chose to believe.

The wedding was only two months away. Still too soon for Jimmy. Not that he didn’t want to pledge himself to Gunner. No, he wanted it more than anything, but there was just so much to do. There was a life neither of them could see that needed to be planned out.
“We’ll get by,” Gunner always said.
Money doesn’t fall from trees. You have to climb up to get it.
All their arguments lately had turned into fights. Fights about money. It could get bad. Fists could fly over money, over what needed to be done with it or how much should be spent when. Whenever Jimmy brought Gunner a gift, Gunner reminded him the money spent could have been used toward the house.
Gunner’s big, beautiful house that he had to have.
Jimmy tried to shirk the thought of that house off, to leave it behind on the college lawn as he ran. But it kept up the pace. Worries seem to be able to do that. They’re more up to a challenge than clarity. Clarity is free and unbothered. It drifts; it doesn’t run.
The way Jimmy saw it, they couldn’t both afford to go back to school. Gunner had already started with his new degree. But to afford that house, they both would have to get much better jobs. And Jimmy couldn’t get a better job without going back to school.
Circles and circles, running in circles.
Jimmy really didn’t want the house. It was very nice. He agreed with Gunner about that. But a nice apartment would have been better. In the long run, a new, larger apartment would be better both financially and for their relationship. Funny how money can take dreams and love apart like disection.
Love is all finances now.
Jimmy ran past the new construction site on campus. A state of the art science building was going up, replacing the old one. He didn’t understand why. The old one was nice. The construction workers were on a break. They whistled and catcalled at Jimmy.
“Nice tits!” one yelled. The others cackled in macho solidarity. There was contempt beneath those laughs.

Bull. That’s what they called him because that’s what he looked like. A big angry bull.
“Nice tits,” his fellow construction workers repeated what he said in a congratulatory manner. As if it were the most brilliant thing ever muttered and they wanted to remember it. They’d repeat the story at the bar that night.
Bull smiled, accepted their compliments, but he didn’t feel like a clever man. He felt full of doubts upon seeing the young man jog past. He wasn’t always a bull. He was healthy and young once too. He had a body others admired at one time just like the runner. Girls loved him. But now, after years of neglect and bad habits that body had disappeared beneath layers of another. Where had he gone? Not this flabby man sitting on scaffolding in the sun, but the man he was, the man he truly was, who had a sense of pride in how he looked. Where had that man gone?
This happened, he thought, as he took a huge bite of his double bacon cheeseburger. Life. Family. Responsibility. Everything that young runner was yet to find, if he ever would. He looked the type to never have problems.
Bull had looked like that once. Had people thought the same of him? That he never had problems? In Bull’s life, things were not handed to him. Things were earned or taken. Lots of things were taken. His little girl after his wife left him; all the money his ex-wife took from him each month; dignity; looks; health.
The doctor told him he’s have a heart attack if he didn’t start eating right. He was too overweight, his cholesterol too high.
Bull looked at his burger. He remembered a time when he was concerned with his health. He should try to be concerned again. But it was hard now. He would never get his body back anyway; he would never find his former self hiding within.
Why try?

Nice tits. Funny. Jimmy smiled, trekking onward toward the baseball diamond. He had to admit his pectorals, though all muscle, did bounce when he ran. Tits are tits to straight men. He could have been offended, but why bother. Those construction workers probably had so little fun in their lives, so little real purpose, that he would allow them their fun at his expense. At least the remark had momentarily distracted him from his problems.
He respected construction workers. Theirs was a hard job. A job with an estimable outcome. Something that might benefit society. Jimmy couldn’t say the same about his own job, his non-career. Managing a clothing store. What was so special about that? Day after day of hearing Little Susie Gotta-have-its gush over designer clothes. All his years of education, of being told by countless teachers that he could change the world, and what? Teachers lie. It’s their job.
The world changes without you just fine. You’re a colonist. A useless colonist. You’re a faceless runner in the Boston marathon.
The college baseball team was at practice. Hot young guys in shorts that molded their asses deliciously. But Jimmy wasn’t in the mood to gawk. Even if he was, he wasn’t too attracted to the younger set anymore. Besides, ballplayers had only space enough in their brains for a few things. Baseball, women, and doping.
Stereotypes play out before us. We accept them because we choose to.
Jimmy wished his mind was that vacant. He wished he could forget everything. Everything but men. Then he’d be a stereotype too. Just what the world wanted. He wished he could forget Gunner for a moment. He wished Gunner’s house away. Fallen down. Burnt down. Torpedoed.
Play ball, boys. Enjoy it.

Trevor watched the muscle man jog past. He was readying to practice his swing but the pitcher wasn’t ready. Trevor had seen the runner before. He must be from town, he thought. A townie. Townies like being around the college boys.
Trevor didn’t understand why he couldn’t look away. But when the muscle man came into view he had to watch. He was mesmerized by the mass of the man. He felt an uncomfortable tightness in his shorts. Thank god for his jock strap or the guys would think he was getting a boner staring at the muscle man. They couldn’t see it, but he felt it. Usually that excitement was a good thing, but he felt bothered by it in this instance.
I’m not gay. I’m not gay. But I bet he is.
Earlier in the day Trevor had taunted a classmate at lunch. One of the gay kids, out and open about it at the small college.
He was asking for it. It’s just teasing. He’ll survive.
Trevor was certain the kid was looking at him, leering. The kid wanted him. All the gay boys had a thing for him. He was sure about that. So this muscle jogger must have a thing for him too.
Were there such a thing as gay vibes? Homo-radio waves? Maybe the runner was sending his waves to Trevor.
Why did he feel so bad after he mocked the gay kid? After he called him names in front of everyone. The kid deserved it, right? Like this runner. Flaunting himself in front of the college boys. Trying to get noticed.
Which way’s the gym? Follow me to the locker room.
Trevor couldn’t stop watching the runner’s chest. How it bounced and moved. Beautiful. Could another man be beautiful?
Did I just think that? Why am I hard?
Trevor didn’t hear the pitcher say he was ready, though he rose the bat at the sound of his voice. His attention was still on the runner’s chest and his own crotch. But he definitely felt the pain as the ball nailed in the testicles.
Oh, God! I’m gay.

Jimmy stopped near the woods that bordered the campus. He needed a rest from all the voices in his head. All the ‘what-to-dos’. He took a deep breath and let in decision. It flowed through him like clarity. He knew what he had to do because there was simply no way around it. Appearances be damned.
They would make it past this bump in the road. He and Gunner would have a great life together and their wedding would be gorgeous. As big as Gunner wanted. They’d splurge. They’d use the money they were going to use for the house.
The house they would not be getting.
Gunner could hate him for a few days. That was preferable to Gunner hating him for the rest of their lives simply because finances had driven a wedge between them. Jimmy would explain this. Somehow, Gunner would understand. Surely, he would. Gunner was short-sighted but he wasn’t ignorant.
“And,” Jimmy thought, “it’s my life too. I’ll make him happy without a house.”
They could even go to school together. Both of them. Classmates.
But first he would have to think about when to break the news he had received that morning.
The doctor said, “Jimmy, you have a lump on your testicle.”
God, when to tell Gunner! He’ll fold. I know Gunner. Know him like a book.

My Favorite Music: Top 10 of 08

Here it is: The long-awaited, much-debated list of my favorite music of the past year. This was a really good year in music IMHO, so it was hard to narrow it down. Without further ado:

1.
@#%&*! Smilers, Aimee Mann
Mann’s best collection since 1999’s Bachelor No. 2: or, The Last Remains of the Dodo, and that’s saying a lot. There’s an apathetic wit to her voice that simply cannot be copied. She can make something that might come off as silly or mundane in the hands of another songwriter, and turn it into a profound statement of regret. From the daring of a speed junkie (“Freeway”) to the desparation of the bored and lost (“Looking for Nothing”, “It’s Over”) to the warped narrative of a fairytale (“Borrowing Time”, originally written for Shrek 3), hers is the voice of America’s fumble into the 21st century.

2.
Viva la Vida, or Death and All His Friends, Coldplay
They might be the most important rock band since U2. Coldplay constantly offers intelligent rock music that’s as great to listen to as it is to think about. They have never put out a bad CD. Parachutes is still my favorite, but this one comes damn close. They tried a different route with this one: not as radio friendly, with massive shifts in temperament mid song. But it works. And Chris Martin is a poet. “Viva la Vida” is as fantastic a political song as I’ve ever heard, and “Death and All His Friends” is at first mournful and then inspiring.

3.
Promised Land, Dar Williams
Dar’s best work since 2000’s The Green World. She tackles everything from hypocrisy (“Buzzer”) to the environment (“Go to the Woods”), but as always with Dar, the strength is in the storytelling. And she’s a fantastic storyteller with a real gift for the rhyme. Her ode to reluctant but necessary personal change “It’s alright” hits very close to home, and “Holly Tree”, the tale of a farm widow, is a heartbreaker. There’s also a knockout remake of “Midnight Radio” from Hedwig & the Angry Inch.

4.
A Larum, Johnny Flynn
I’m a fan of Nick Drake and Alexi Murdoch and this young fella fits right in there with those masters. His songs aren’t as plaintive, though. There is something of that in his voice, a Celtish wail that’s perfect for a folk song. But he’s got a snarky wit to him as well. Songs like “The Wrote & the Write” and “Tickle Me Pink” are showstoppers in my opinion. Listening to this CD makes me think of one of my favorite books, Jamie O’Neill’s At Swim Two Boys. Maybe it’s the Joycian undercurrent.

5.
Day & Age, The Killers
Their previous CD, Sawdust, a collection of B-sides and rarities, was okay. Not great. With this CD I think they’ve very nearly topped Hot Fuss. There’s everything from synth (“Human”) to David Bowie-like glam rock (“Neon Tiger”) to just plain rock brilliance (“Spaceman”). It’s dance-inducing and fun, and in the end isn’t that all you want from a Killers album? Well, besides a picture of Brandon Flowers on the sleave.

6.
This is the Life, Amy MacDonald
What a knockout voice MacDonald has. I heard “This is the Life” on Graham Norton and had to get this CD. She’s only 19, but she can write a good tune. Her lyrics are way ahead of her age. Finally, a teenage rocker I can get behind. And did I mention her voice? Like Brandi Carlile and Neko Case, MacDonald’s is a voice that haunts you whether she’s singing about an infatuation with Jake Gyllenhaal (“L.A.”) or ripping on certain aiimless soccer wives (“Footballer’s Wife”).

7.
Our Bright Future, Tracy Chapman
I’m so glad to see her back in form. This is my favorite Chapman record since Telling Stories. Her soothing vocals lead us through the troubles of our times, and behind those vocals there’s a hint that everything will be okay in the end. “I Did it All” ponders a life lived to the fullest and its consequences, and the gospel-sounding “Save Us All” questions religious identity. It’s fantastic writing.

8.
Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst
Speaking of poets (and I did), I am dumbfounded by this guy everytime he releases something. It’s unfair that he has such muses at his command. Unfair! I don’t think I’m overstating when I say the guy is brilliant. This is his first solo record, but under Bright Eyes he has crafted some of the most personal songs I have ever heard. He keeps it up here with the easy-going road trip ode “Moab”, the clever and fun “I Don’t Want to Die (in a Hospital)”, and I get chills on the last stanza of “Danny Callahan.” I thought that song was going in a completely different direction until I heard those last few lines. They put a lump in me ol’ throat.

9.
All That I Intended To Be, Emmylou Harris
Girl can sing a sad song. She’s the best at them. And this collection has thirteen of them. Nothing beats her one-two punch of Wrecking Ball and Red Dirt Girl (so far), but this isn’t trying to reach those heights. These are simpler songs, more along the lines of Emmylou’s earlier stuff. Her remake of Tracy Chapman’s “All That You Have is Your Soul” sounds as if it was written for her. Her fallen angel voice fills in every inch of that song. And in “Sailing Around the Room” dying actually doesn’t sound half bad. In fact, it sounds kinda gorgeous!

10.
Oracular Spectacular, MGMT
This is the most consistently original CD I heard all year. Everything about it – instrumentation, vocals, writing, and song production – is so different than most of the stuff out there. It’s a psychedelic throwback with modern slang. In “Time to Pretend” the lead singer ponders getting high on heroin and fucking beautiful models, not giving two shits about the future. It’s one of the most nihilistic, yet undeniably catchy songs ever conceived.

And one to Grow on:

Volume One, She & Him
Zooey Deschanel sings lead in this duo (M. Ward is the other half). She sounds like something straight out of the 1960s, sometimes edging toward Motown, others with a more country flair a la Patsy Cline. It’s groovy stuff, relaxing and very “California.” And just for shits and giggles, go to Youtube and watch the video for “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?” It’s a hoot.

Favorite CD not from 2008 that I bought or received this year:

South of Delia, Richard Shindell (2007)
This collection of remakes is a gorgeous showcase for Shindell’s haunting, ghostly voice. He’s a storyteller and he’s picked some humdingers to tell. My favorites: Jeffrey Foucault’s “Northbound 35” where he sings plaintively and quite profoundly “Grace is just the measure of a fall”; Bob Dylan’s “Senor (Tales of Yankee Pride)”; Woody Guthrie’s “Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos)”; and Josh Ritter’s amazing ode to struggle “Lawrence, KS.”

I've Been Databased!

Everyday I get updates from Google about my name popping up on the web in regards to my writing. This isn't so much an ego thing (maybe a little...teehee) as it is a way to see if my self-promotion these last few years has worked at all. Anyhoo, this morning I got a notice that I was listed on the QuOD blogspot. That's a site that lists openly gay writers, artists, etc. So I went there, and sure enough there was a pic of me. Yay! I was just added yesterday so I was on the first page. It was very cool to see. Anyway, head on over there and look me up. It's a fun time-waster to search through the database and see "who's in and who's out."

Saturday Morning Thinking

Random thinking: You need no further proof of the fluidity of Time than a 20-minute jog on a treadmill. It....takes...so....long. *Gasp, cough, spasm*

The picture above has nothing to do with jogging, but it is about the whole workout obsession thingy. It's also from my book Slight Details & Random Events (the "Gordy" stories)as illustrated by the illustrious HVH. I hope it's not considered too "indecent" by the censors.

Labels, like Cream o' Mushroom...

The following is a rant I wrote that recently ran (that's a lot of Rs) on Web Digest Weekly. I got a lot of good response from it so I thought I'd run it here:

Labels are for soup. Not people.

We all know that labeling someone this or that is narrow-minded, but we all do it anyway. Sometimes it’s just an easy and harmless way to describe someone, i.e. “This is my gay friend John”, “This is my black friend Ted”, etc. as if they’re the only gay or black men that the speaker has ever known. Other times the sole intent for the labeling is sheer spite and derision that has most likely grown from the label-thrower’s own insecurity. If you’ve ever been on the tail end of one of these hateful descriptions, you know it’s painful and can stay with you long after said labelers have already forgotten it.

As a gay man, I’ll be honest and say I hate the word “gay”, but I use it because everyone understands what I’m talking about. It would be great if I didn’t need to explain myself in that particular way, but the world ain’t that forward yet, folks. People around my neck of the woods still assume a person is “straight” unless you say otherwise. There are other terms that the world uses to refer to gay people, of course. More malignant ones. You know what I’m talking about, so I won’t repeat them. Some of these terms, the “gay community” (such a strange phrase…like we all live in little huts just outside of Houston or something) has adopted as their own. “Queer as Folk”, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. Some think it is a way to claim the word so that it doesn’t mean what it once did. Got news for you: the negative connotation still lingers on that word no matter how it’s used. It’s like that coffee that’s made from monkey poo: it may be packaged up all nice for expensive retailers, but it’s still shit. As my friend Anthony on Myspace pointed out, “queer” means “strange” and I don’t see myself as particularly strange. I’m not normal either. Nobody is normal, and thank God for that. I’m me. Fuck off. (And you thought this was going to be a journalistic piece. Silly you.)

The term “homosexuality” did not rear its ugly head until 1869 when sociologist Karl Maria-Kertbeny coined it in a pamphlet against a Prussian anti-sodomy (ugh! There’s a mistranslation of the Bible, huh?) law. (That’s right, boys and girls. It was coined by a man who today would be referred to as a “gay.”) His coining of the word, however, has led to much divisiveness. I imagine that’s not what he intended. But now, it’s out there. Gay, straight, black, white, red-state, blue-state, Obi-wan, Gandalf. There’s so much that separates us these days. Sometimes I think we look for wedges just so we can have reasons to get shitty with one another.

Of the more modern phrases that I have grown up with, (and have even used and accepted before I knew better), there are some that raise my dander more than others. “Straight-acting” is one of the dumbest phrases I’ve ever heard. There’s even a website you can go to and get your “straight-acting” rating, like some merit badge to paste on your personal webpage. WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Think about that term. It implies that being gay is not as good as being straight so one should try and mask being gay…somehow. What does that mean exactly? I am not a “feminine-acting” man, and because of that people refer to me as “straight-acting.” That’s so offensive! I’m not heterosexual, nor would I want to be. I am completely satisfied with my sexuality just the way it is and always has been. I know a lot of gay men who are more “masculine”, if you want to use that word, than any heterosexual football player I have ever known. And counter that, just because a guy does hair at Becky’s Boutique and listens to Judy doesn’t automatically make him gay. It might make him “gay-acting”, though. See how stupid that sounds?

“Sexual preference.” What dumbass came up with this? And I’ve used it in the past, so I’m just as big of a dumbass, I guess. Sexuality is not a preference as far as my experience has shown me. There is no choosing involved…unless of course you’re threatened with ostracism so you choose to “straighten up.” Unless you then choose to grin and bear a life of self-hate and posturing. I might have been a choosy kid. Hell, choosy kids choose Jiff. But I have never heard of one that chose his/her sexuality.

“Tolerance.” On the one hand, tolerance is good. Intolerance is bad. Give me a damn degree and I’ll frame it on my wall. I’m a fucking psychiatrist now, right? But I have decided that for myself I don’t want anyone’s “tolerance.” You tolerate the weather. You tolerate the smell of salmon. You tolerate a headache at three in the afternoon so you can be done with work faster and get home. You don’t “tolerate” people. You accept them and you respect them.

Finally, “lifestyle.” Me falling in love with another man and devoting myself to him is not a “lifestyle.” It’s a life. Now, if me and said man o’ my dreams are deciding whether to live in a bungalow or a condo, THAT would be a style of living (I think I’d choose the bungalow). Again, to me “lifestyle” implies some weird choice. It is not conducive to my definition of the world. It is not helpful or instructive for those around me either. They need to know where I’m coming from, and why. Seeds are planted by the words we say.

So, here we are. Struggling through the politics of language. Still. It has nothing to do with being politically correct, though some may argue with that. I am just as guilty as the next person when it comes to hanging labels on people and drawing assumptions from those labels. I still have to jump on myself regarding my prejudices (and I realize that’s what they are) against very religious people. But I’m trying. It’s one step. I make mine. You make yours. Soon we’ll be moving along just fine.

Old School (HC to be exact) Christmas Eric

This is the only Christmas image I have of me. It's from yonder back in the Hanover College years when I was walkin' around Wiley Hall shirtless, like ALL THE TIME. What a lil' whore! Anyway, thought I'd put it up today...you know, it being Christmas and all. Don't know how long I'll keep it up. I'm a bit embarrassed by it, but hey...it was fun when I did it ;-)

btw, please excuse the Manjam label in the corner. Again, soooo embarrassed!

Alex Says, Happy Holidays!

Hubbaduh-hubbaduh-hubbaduh...

Someone please explain to me the appeal of Rick Warren. He comes off very smug and self-satisfied whenever I see him in interviews. This is the guy people are going to for spiritual enlightenment? Aren't there worthier examples? People who don't sing about purpose from one end and shout hate from the other? Just saying.

I won't say a thing about the inauguration controversy, because you've heard it already. But bigotry is bigotry be it racial or not, and unfortunately gay folk are one of the groups left that it's still "kinda sorta" okay to discriminate against. There are gay Christians out there and I would think they are especially hurt by some of the recent ramblings of certain hate hounds.

Oh, well. What do I know? I'm just a guy. A guy with a blog who's been through enough shit to know garbage when I see it.

Move Move Move Away From the Barbell

So, I'm finally taking a week off from working out. It's been a while since I've done that. Too long actually. I try to take a break every three months, but this time I went a little longer...a lot longer...two months longer. The thing is, since my surgery and the horrid physical therapy I did after it (and still do to some extent), I get nervous when I'm not active. I have this fear that everything I have gained will fade away - balance, strength, musculature - if I don't workout and move constantly.

I can't sit through a movie, y'all. Honestly, I get up and stand sometimes.

I guess this anxiety comes from having to lay in bed for so long when I was really sick. The idea of constant movement is a silly notion, I know. But it's mine to bear. Having been a fitness whore my whole life I realize that the body needs breaks to recover and to climb past plateaus, but...ugh! This week is hard. I have to look at it as a Christmas gift for myself. I have to remind myself how good it will finally feel when I start up again.

Anyway, I'll write about something more important next time. I just thought the four of you out there would appreciate hearing about my nueroses.

Kid Christmas Review

I posted this on my other blog, but thought since I posted a preview of the "Kid Christmas" story earlier today I'd point everyone to a review it received from Enigmatically Emily last week.

"LOL! No wait, that isn't good enough. ROFLMAO! Yeah that's better. Where to even begin?? This story is a level of humor that is truly brilliant. Laugh out loud, spray your drink all over, spit through your nose brilliant. The story is hilarious and is filled with every euphemism you can possibly imagine. This is a racy adult tale filled with dirty sexual innuendos and it's rauncy and fun and a laugh riot. I loved the humor and am convinced that Eric is the kind of guy you want to have around when you need a good laugh. This is a super short tale but it's a wild ride from beginning to end. I mean seriously my fellow readers, we are talking about a story with a Santy-Shanty, a villan whose balls are enormous, a large "fully erect disembodied snow penis" who turns into a thousand little penises, and our hero's "rigid South Pole". And those are just a few of the snarky bits of this awesome story. If you need a good laugh, grab this story for a quick read that will have you rolling on the floor and laughing out loud."

Kid Christmas Meets Snow Globes: Preview

Here's a little tale a wrote for Dreamspinner Press for their Christmas Advent Calendar. I thought I'd give y'all a peak at it...but just a peak. You can get the rest of the tale at Dreamspinner Press. By the way, I had originally intended to publsh this story under my pen name, Silas Frequentlee. That made me giggle. Anyway, Here's a bit of The Kid:


The idea was simple: change the public perception of Santa Claus. Even if it hadn’t been the right thing to do – even if the holiday hadn’t become a gluttonous season of tooth-rotting fervor – it was still the only thing that could be done. After all, Santa as the world had known him had just died of a massive coronary. See, he was trying to break up another elf fight (elves are known to be very short-tempered and are not at all stingy with the drink), and after years of stress and binge-eating he just finally collapsed in the tussle. Being that there was not a more jollier fella on Earth nobody could lay claim to the particular image he had trademarked. The era of the “bowl full of jelly” was ended, and the line would have to be retired from lullabies the world over. Besides, Christmas had become a more grown-up holiday of late, and the most recent Claus was looking a bit…um, lazy.
It was decided by those who decide such things that a younger, healthier Claus would he hired. A fit Santa. Trendy. A Santa who didn’t get sidetracked by cookies and milk. There had been way too many close calls the last couple of years. The old guy had become clumsy and was nearly caught by the curious on many an occasion while he snacked at their Santa-traps. None of the elves wanted to say it (unless they were drunk), but there was a sigh of relief that Santa wouldn’t have to be laid off. He had kindly died instead. That was the thing about Santa: Always thinking of others, right up to the gasping end.
The Committee to Oversee the Christening of Kringle (COCK) named our hero, a young gingerbread cookie house guard, to the task. It was a surprise to everyone, especially Father Time who had been eyeing the position for some…time. (Time was, and is, often wasted and he was woefully underfed.) The new Clause was the handsomest of men: a strong, clean-shaven jaw replaced the white beard, and a body built from years of lifting stubborn reindeer and carrying drunken elves home from pubs replaced…well, the rest. The Santa Suit was altered to fit the new guy as well. The Santa hat remained traditional (there was no need to get all crazy), but the sleeves of the jacket were cut so that the young guard’s 22-inch arms could breathe. The pant legs needed to be loosed to accept his thighs and still the thick red velvet barely held them. The consensus was that he looked altogether too bulgy. When fully dressed his chest, his buttocks, and his crotch looked like Christmas candies ready to burst from their wrappings. COCK was a bit concerned at first, but then thought maybe this was the direction they needed to go. The world was a frightening place and the committee eventually convinced itself that people needed a figure that signified impenetrable strength.
The sled was put away, the reindeer were laid off (the economy is a bitch, even at the Poles), and a new flying snowmobile, the Claus 3000, was provided. It was shiny and red and gold, with a flashing beacon on its very tip. (Rudolph’s lawsuit is still pending). There would also be no more ho ho ho! Instead, the new Santa would fly across the rooftops and shimmy down the chimney saying Hells yeah!
He called himself The Kid…Kid Christmas, that is. (Clearly, a fan of western films.)

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/advent.htm

Still just playing around...

The cover for my book Slight Details & Random Events (Dreamspinner Press). The cover art is done by HvH. I thought this would be a classier photo test than any of he half-nekkid men I have on my hard drive.

In the Beginning...

This should be fun, eh? I've been asked by some of my readers on Myspace why I don't have a blog separate from that. It's something I have always thought about, but...well, that particular bandwagon was always a bit cramped. Yet here I am. I caved. It's a windy, cold Sunday morning, I can't get to sleep, and I caved. I think I might actually enjoy this blog, though. It's got to be less irritating than Myspace. My Dell did not get along with the Myspace blog at all. Oy!

Anyway, bear with me as I get used to this. I'm sure there will be errors made. I'll try and keep everyone up-to-date on the little things in my life, as well as my writing. I might even post some pictures. Who knows?

Until next time,
Eric