A Conversation with Myself About GRL

Me: So...we meet at last. I am a hard man to get hold of.

Myself: I am in demand, Mr. Arvin. Very much in demand.

Me: Indeed, Mr. Arvin. Indeed. Before we start, can I just say, My God! I am an attractive man.

Myself (laughing quite cockily): Why, thank you, thank you, and, as the Germans say, donkey sham. I do what I can. One must always strive to keep one's girlish figure.

Me: I mean, truly. Just gorgeous. Can I touch myself?

Myself: What? No! This is an interview. Show a little decorum, for gods' sake. Keep my hands to myself.

Me: I am. Honk Honk.

Myself: Get my hands off that! And stop with the sound effects.

Me: Sorry. Anyway, let's begin with a classic question that I'm sure all our readers want to know: If I were a tree, what type of tree would I be?

Myself: What the hell? Are you kidding me? Is this the line of questioning I've come up with? I will leave, bitch. I will leave. I have an affair with a chocolate muffin to get back to in the kitchen. She's a lusty whore.

Me. Okay, okay, Mr. Arvin. Just calm down.

Myself: Just drop the Barbra Walters impression, okay? If it wasn't good enough for Kate Hepburn it ain't good enough for me.

Me: Okay, sheesh. Diva...Are we good?

Myself: Yeah.

Me: Really?

Myself: YES. Just ask the stupid questions. I gotta be somewheres.

Me: Me too.

Myself: Where do YOU need to be?

Me: Wherever you need to be. We're the same person, douche-dangle.

Myself: That's no way to talk to a superstar.

Me: You're right. It's not.... I'll let that sink in. So, when we head to GRL, or, as I like to call it, Grrrrrrrl...

Myself: Clever.

Me: Thanks. Ass. What's something we would like people to know about us before we get there, you know, to avoid disappointing them too bad?

Myself: That I do not in any way resemble Hercules. I workout, yes, in garage/barn/gym, but I haven't the time, the money, or the energy to be a bodybuilder these days. I'd take sexy pills but they're illegal and they might interact with my recovery. So I just drink a lot of protein.

Me: I bet you do. Are we bringing anyone with us?

Myself: Why, yes I am. I am bringing along my mother. She doesn't know I'm gay, so this will be quite the eye opener for her. I told her GRL stands for Getting Real with the Lord.

Me: Really?

Myself: You're an idiot. Of course not. She's known I'm gay since I had my Malibu Barbie ride My Little Pony in Ken's nude wedding to GI Joe where my Ewoks were in the wedding party. We haven't taken a big trip together since I was in high school, though, so this should be fun. That said, it may put a bit of a cinch on any...um...grownup exploits. Having one's mother around doesn't really say, "Come and get me, boys!"

Me: I know that we are not a fan of flying. How do we plan on dealing with that?

Myself: Well, it's not the flying, it's the airports. With my vertigo they are not the most pleasant experiences for me. I'm a slow walker and I have a cane as well, which makes hectic things all the more dizzying. Did you know that once I actually fell up the ramp getting off a plane?

Me: Yes. I did know that. That was in Cleveland if I remember correctly, right before we were dumped by a certain cutie.

Myself: Indeed.

Me: Indeed.

Myself: Also, to my ever-growing throng of readers and fans I would just like to say, if you wave at me and I do not respond it is not because I'm a dick...

Me: Isn't it?

Myself: Not completely. It's because my vertigo makes it difficult for me to adjust quickly to new places. Things get blurry. And I probably won't be wearing my glasses. Damn you Vanity! So, just wave and holler and sooner or later I'm bound to see you, even if it takes security bringing you down with a taser gun to draw my attention your way.

Me: Will we be telling everyone we see about our novel Woke Up in a Strange Place winning the Gaybie for Best Speculative Fiction back in April?

Myself: What? Certainly not. How inappropriate. How gauche. I am not the type of award-winning writer who goes on and on about how he has won an award, blah blah blah award. We are all, every one of us, wonderful writers at this convention. Some of us are just award-winning at our wonderfulness, that's all. What an ass I would be if I had to point out sentence after sentence my award-winning stature! Us award-winners are graceful and grateful. Just ask Meryl. She's an award-winner too. Like me.

Me: Yes. I can see how that type of person may be... grating. They're nearly as bad as people who talk just to hear themselves speak.

Myself: Ugh. Agreed. What a bunch of Bachmans.

Me: Who are we looking forward to meeting at GRL?

Myself: I open my arms to everyone. But -

Me: Legs too, no doubt.

Myself: Excuse me?

Me: Nothing. Just some predictable insult. We were saying?

Myself: I am looking forward to finally meeting my arch enemy, Tj Klune. There shall be a battle. A battle like none ever witnessed before. Of course, it will all be in my head, but still... And after this great battle there shall be the makeup sex. All great battles end with makeup sex. And then the two of us and a few of our craftier ne'er-do-wells plan to take a trip to Roswell and capture us an alien. I'm hoping for an alien more reminiscent of the one at the beginning of Prometheus than the one that pops out of tummies. But I realize one can't be choosy these days when shopping for aliens... especially so near the Mexican border.

Me: Are we planning any other side trips while in New Mexico?

Myself: I'm hoping me and my mom will be able to hit Santa Fe.

Me: And did I hear we are staying at one of the most haunted hotels in New Mexico?

Myself: Ah, yes. The Andaluz. We're Andaluzers. I'm looking forward to being molested while I sleep by the ghost of a muscular groundskeeper. Fingers crossed.

Me: And what about the strippers that first night?

Myself: They can molest me too, if they want. But I'm not a big fan of strippers. They're all, "Hey, look at my wiener! Let me shake it in your face. Let me pretend you're the only one I care about. Wiggle wiggle wiggle." Such posturing. They're hurting people. They're hurting people, dammit! I was in love once with a... Never mind.

Me: ....

Myself: ....

Me: What's it mean when one has an awkward silence with one's self?

Myself (shrugging): A Lobotomy.

Me: So...uh...we're not bringing any swag to give to people to draw them to our books?

Myself: Not this year. This is my first huge event, so I just want to observe, really.

Me: We don't have any money to spend on swag, do we?

Myself: I'm broke. Broker than Brokey McBrokeback. A reader of mine, a hot actor named Barrett who I intend to court and woo, came up with an idea that I quite like, though, and I think I might use it someday. I might have some undies made, and on the butt cheeks have my name in big juicy lettering with Kid Christmas (as designed by Absolutbleu) lounging across it.

Me: Oooooh! That sounds fun.

Myself: Yeah, it does.

Me: Am I getting as turned on as me?

Myself: You know it. Are we done here?

Me: Yep.

Myself: Good. Then let's play with our boobays.

I: Hey! What the fuck? Why wasn't I invited to this little soiree?

Myself: Shit. Because, man, you always talk about yourself in third person.

Me: Yeah. It's weird, dude. Real weird.

EXCERPT: Kid Christmas Rides Again

Today's excerpt is from my novella "Kid Christmas Rides Again," a slight piece of erotica illustrated by the wonderful Absolutbleu. The bit I've chosen is right from the start so all will be explained...well, most will be explained.

"Kid Christmas Rides Again!"

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.)

All had gone as planned for the Kid at first. There was a week to go before his first outing as the new Claus and things were clockwork. There were a few minor glitches. There always are in such cases. His pants ripped out a few times (he really liked how he looked in his new suit, and flexed obsessively for anyone who would watch), and there was a tiny revolt from the unemployed reindeer…but they – um, that is to say, it was soon put down. The elves were warming up to him too. Even Father Time came by for a visit, grumbling his grudges. Yes. Everything was going quite smoothly, like a well-lubricated oingy-boingy. 

And then the unthinkable happened (again): Kid Christmas was Chris-napped!

The last he remembered he was on a midnight shag and stroll and had stopped to lick one of the large lollipop fence posts outside the Santy-Shanty. (In all his twenty-three years he had been chided for licking the fence posts, but now – woo-hoo!) Then, there was a sudden, sharp pain in the bum and everything went dizzy, then dark. A poison peppermint dart had been shot into his muscular buttocks from afar. Later, in recollection, Kid Christmas had to admit that bending over to lick the lollipop fence post with his musculus bumulus high in the air was an easy red target, something very hard to miss. 

When he awoke he was on the floor of a crystal ice cave, stripped of his new threads but wrapped warmly in a wooly throw. Unfettered by the cold surroundings (living in the Poles, one builds a tolerance), Kid Christmas threw off the throw. The reflection from the ice absorbed the absurd over-abundance of muscle. He was excited by what he saw, and could have stood there for a while in self-adoration, but first needed to investigate where exactly he was. As he felt along the walls, leering at his own rude reflection, there seemed to be no way out of the hall of ice. The room was solid, and the holders were too strong to break through. At least the company was pleasant. He made a mental note to have a hall of mirrors added to the Santy-Shanty.

A cool, crisp voice echoed from nowhere and ricocheted from wall to wall. “How do you like your new dwelling, Kid Christmas? I decorated it myself.” 

“Who is that?” the Kid demanded. “Where are my clothes? Show yourself!”

“You won’t be needing your shocking threads any longer,” the voice replied calmly. “I’m having them altered.” A slender male figure with cool ice skin stepped from behind a wall. “I’m called Snow Globes.”

The Kid understood why: Snow Globes’ balls were enormous. They were a mesmerizing sheen and hung like ornaments tattooed with perfect blue snowflakes. No wonder the suit had to be altered. 

The icy eyes of the chiseled captor wandered down Kid Christmas’ physique and rested on the Jolly-man-in-waiting’s own delicate area. Kid Christmas covered up with some embarrassment and envy. “It’s cold!” he excused himself.

“Well, I suppose certain things are going to look out of proportion with everything around them being so very, very large.” Snow Globes chuckled. “Still, I imagine your backside more than makes up for it. Ho, ho, ho…right?” He winked.

“I don’t say that anymore…Wait, what?” Poor Kid Christmas was flustered. His cheeks turned bright red. “What am I doing here? Let me out of this place.”

“Oh, one day I will let you out. Most definitely. My plan would be pointless otherwise. But you have to stay put for a little while, my strapping snowbunny.” Snow Globes walked forward. His balls chimed together in a sweet melody; the Kid couldn’t stop staring at them. The collection of reflections around them resembled something like an orgy; The Kid reminded himself again to get a hall of mirrors in the Santy-Shanty.

“You see,” continued Snow Globes, “once your suit is altered – which shouldn’t take too long – I shall take on the role as the Claus. Only I won’t be the creepy sugar-fiend known to the world. No. My plan is to totally destroy the name that has been built up by your predecessors over the years. Grown men will fear the Night of the Claus, and soon they will want nothing to do with you. ‘Bring me the balls of Kid Christmas!’ they’ll shout. Oh, yes! There will soon be a bounty on your bountiful booty.”

“But why? I don’t understand.” But why wait for an explanation? There was a crazy man standing in front of him! A sexy, lusty, boffo-balled, certifiable lunatic. “I won’t let you do it!”

Snow Globes wiggled his hips flirtatiously, making his balls sing with clinks and clonks like a captivating Christmas carol. The Kid was baffled at first by the seductive dance, but then felt the cave move under his bare feet. He heard the unmistakable sound of something coming…and coming hard!

“Have fun with Willie,” Snow Globes said as he quickly disappeared behind an icy divider. “And watch those pointy stalactites.”

“You mean stalagmites?”

“Whatever.”

Kid Christmas waited, standing battle-ready and booty-beautiful (by now it should be clear that the Narrator has a thing for the big guy’s triple-beeehind). Yet he was unsure as to where to direct his defense. The one called Willie did not have need of any hidden entrance, though. He broke through the floor with a shattering clamor, throwing the muscle-bound merry man across the chamber. Kid Christmas landed on his handsome face with a smash-rattle-oomph, his mighty rear high in the air. He was dazed, but not broken. Behind him, he caught a glimpse (how could he miss it?) of a lengthy and large, growling and snorting, libidinous and fully erect disembodied snow penis. It bowed its massive head, huffed a puff of cool air, and crouched like a bull ready for the charge. Intent and starved, it sped toward our hero’s helpless bum. 

The List: Epics, 1975, & Penile Silicone Injections

1. Simple Men is now available in Spanish and Italian. I'd read them, but I'm not a very... cunning linguist. Yeah. I know. That joke doesn't really work in that instance. STOP JUDGING ME!!

2. The film I have the LEAST amount of interest in seeing this year: LINCOLN. I haven't liked a Spielberg film since A.I. There was a time when I looked forward to everything he made. Oh, Steven. Why hast we grown apart so?

3. This week's great publicity idea: get each of my artist friends - HVH, Patrick Fillion, Absolutbleu, Charlie Esquiaqui, Gus, etc. - to illustrate a scene from one of my books or stories of their choosing. I'll provide the book. I'm not certain what I'll do with the pieces yet - an art show maybe? Right now I'm just loving the idea.

4. I reached 1975 friends on Facebook last week. That's my birthyear!

5. My older comic book about a female pirate, "The Blackbeard Legacy", was re-released on Amazon. Get you some on Kindle, matey! HERE 

6. Did everyone read my interview of EPIC PROPORTIONS over at The Inspiration Forum? No? Well, HERE you go.

7. Walked into Rue 21 last Thursday whilst out shopping with my sister and immediately felt old and uncool. So I went to the GAP and bought a couple of cardigans.

8. Penile silicone injections. This is grotesque and dangerous, but fascinating. Honestly, I'd like to touch it. I'm definitely going to base a character on a guy like this and I have just the outline for him. You can watch the video: HERE

EXCERPT: Another Enchanted April

Today's excerpt is from my book Another Enchanted April. The story centers on three young friends in need of change who take a vacation at a B&B, the beauty of which they are unprepared for. In this scene the guys are waking on their first morning there and quite astonished at the look of the place:

Tony woke refreshed the next morning as well, though he would never admit it to Jerry. Streams of sunlight peaked through the shutters and he stared at the high ceiling, smelling the flower perfumed air and at last appreciating the bed linens that had been his comfort all night. He didn’t want to move, but Jerry and Doug were most likely awake, and if history were any indication, Doug would be racing into the room very soon and tickling him until he got up. Doug tickled hard, and Tony really didn’t want finger bruises on his abdomen.

Tony reached for his cane which had fallen to the floor in the night. He admired the old furniture and the look of the room itself. This was most definitely an old place, decidedly un-American in its build. He, like Jerry, was not used to such fine surroundings. He hadn’t been able to work since the accident and got by on the small stipend the government claimed he could live on. That meant a very modest apartment. Anything else now made him nervous. Nothing was ever free or without strings.

Tony headed bleary-eyed to the French doors at the side of his bed. He was not prepared for what the opening of them would bring him. There was a balcony, its wall draped in vines and ivy. Below him were gardens and, beyond them, a small forest. A patch of trees, really. Finally, the sea could just be heard hitting the shore beyond that. Sea birds flew in the distance against a ferocious blue sky. He felt like Eva Peron on her balcony, ready to sing to the masses.

“Jesus Christ on a hang-glider!” he said, breaking into something of a smile as a warm wave, not unlike the waves he imagined on the beach below, rippled through him. He sat for a moment at the table on the balcony and watched the unexpected treasure before him. Unlike Jerry, he was not thrown into a dizzying fit of overwhelming awe. Awe of the more simple variety was good enough.

When at last he was able to stand, he left his room to find what Jerry and Doug had gotten themselves up to. Jerry was in the main hall, an old book in his hand, but he was staring in appreciation at the magnificent cavern above him. He had not changed from his boxers and t-shirt. Doug had risen as well by this point and had already headed out to the gardens, more at ease around beautiful things than either of his friends. Kind attracts kind.

“Can you believe this?” Jerry said. “I mean, can you believe this?” He gestured so wildly the book fell from his lap and slid to the floor.

“We’re still in America, right? We didn’t take any wrong turns did we? Like to Italy?”

Jerry laughed. The two strolled slowly through the hall, studying the paintings and feeling the plush sofas and lounge beds draped in soft, clear, and willowy fabric. Doug was used to this posh lifestyle. He had been raised in a well-off family who owned, and invested in, just about everything. But this was all new to Jerry and Tony.

At last, they headed onto the veranda. It seemed to Tony that Jerry was somewhat cautious, as if he needed some hand-holding before going outside.

“It’s like Oz,” Jerry said. The two stood on the veranda as the sun shone down on them. There was nothing for Tony to say or do but nod in agreement at the silly statement.

The gardens of the Manor House in Beechwood were as such: As stated, they were separated into levels and areas. The veranda had no railing along its edge nor any wall, so the effect was a dramatic drop to the next level. A dangerous fall if one was not aware of one’s surroundings. This thematic design was continued down all the levels of the gardens, giving the effect of large descending steps, or, in some cases, walls of vegetation and ivy like waterfalls. The flow of the gardens was, in this way, undisturbed, and served as an ode to the sea at the doorstep of the Manor House. Benches, tables, and places to lie down were afforded to each level. As many types of flowers and trees that could be imagined were in the gardens all the way down to the path which led to the small forest and out onto the beach. 

Statuary and ornate pots and vessels lined the walkways, and various fountains gave continuous sound to the gardens. The closer the garden to the patch of trees, the wilder it became. Indeed, those flowers nearest the bottom were not just ready to bloom, but to explode in magnificent color.

Tony was soothed. He instinctively took off the shoes he had worn all night and let the cool feel of the moss and stone relax his feet. It would be harder to walk for him without shoes, but how could he wear them here? It seemed rude.

They heard a steady stream of water as they descended that differentiated itself from the fountains around them. It was not as natural sounding and was often interrupted, as if something was repeatedly obstructing its flow. They followed the sound to a slightly hidden area on the second level. There, past tall wispy trees and statues of satyrs, Doug stood stark naked, cleaning himself underneath an outdoor shower with a detachable shower head. The sun shone and gleamed on his flesh and every muscle sang, every striation became a tiny river. Tony, knowing the effect Doug had on a lot of men, especially Jerry, offered his friend his cane so he wouldn’t fall over.

“Look at that,” Jerry said. “Has there ever been a more greedy sun? A more lusting morning light?”

Doug was, of course, all smiles when he saw them watching. He was Doug, after all, and had star billing in Holt’s Pride Parade, where he wore as little as possible. “Yeah, babies! Get a load of this!” He shook and flexed playfully for them under the stream, completely at ease.

Tony rolled his eyes. Something he did often when he was with Doug. It had become habit, even when Doug made sense. “Settle down, muscle boy. You’re not impressing me.”

Jerry meant to say something in agreement with Tony, but…he couldn’t. He had forgotten to breathe. Tony slapped him on the back to encourage life.

“If I knew my mom’s friend had this place I would have been here every weekend! Didn’t I tell you she was an awful mother? What a bitch.” Doug was not giving up his shower. He splashed and danced and sang a bundle of popular tunes. A show only made sense (at least to him) since he now had a couple of spectators.

His small audience, only half of which was truly enthralled, soon noticed a change in the showering showman, however. A very physical change in the form of a stiffening penis.

“Oh! Come on, Doug,” Tony said. “We get it. You’re sexy. Enough with the show. Put that away.”

But he noticed Doug was smiling flirtatiously past both he and Jerry. “Well, hello there,” Doug said. The greeting hurried over their shoulders. If it had mass it might have knocked them both down.

Tony and Jerry turned to see a young man in a blue baseball cap. He wore dirty overalls, no shirt, and a large pair of brown and dirty gardening gloves. He leaned on a shovel and smiled pleasantly in that way that all Italians have, the description of which lies somewhere between friendship and lust. “Good to see you all up and Adam,” the young man said. Clearly, this was the mysterious stranger from the previous evening.

“At them,” Tony corrected the gardener (it was better than calling him their ‘host’, he decided).

“What?”

“It’s ‘Up and at them.’ Not ‘Up and Adam.’ That makes no sense. It’s like saying ‘I could care less’ when you really mean ‘I couldn’t care less.’”

The gardener smiled broadly at this. His eyes glinted. The glint Tony had noticed the night before and only now re-remembered. Tony swallowed and felt the hairs on his neck bristle pleasantly. He swatted them back down.

“Sexy naked man standing right here,” hollered Doug from behind them. He was never too keen on shifts in attention away from him.

“Be careful of the mosquitoes,” the gardener said. “There are some around here that would make your pecker swell up bigger than what you are packing right now, though not in quite such a pleasurable way.”

Doug grabbed a towel and covered his nakedness at once, looking around for possible penile assault until he was dizzy from the looking.

“There’s a shower room inside that can hold twenty.”

Doug’s penis poked up from beneath the towel in keen interest. “Twenty?”

“Twenty.”

Without another word, Doug raced past them.

“I have a feeling there’s going to be a party,” Jerry said, watching Doug’s finely sculpted mass make the stairs in impressive time.

“Do I want to be here for this?” Tony asked.

“Where else are you going to go?”

“Sit back,” the gardener said to Tony. “Have a good time. Just relax. But, be warned, this garden can make you drunk from its scent sometimes. It can change a man.”

“Right,” Tony said in a dubious tone.

The gardener shrugged as if it was no big deal he was not being believed. Tony had the feeling that this same shrug would have accompanied an earthquake or an atom bomb explosion. As if the entire history of the world was no big deal. Then he winked at Tony. “I will see you later. I have work to do.”

He walked away, again, in a way that only the Italian man can perfect through years of being Italian.

“He winked at you,” Jerry said, nudging his friend as they watched the gardener stroll down the garden paths. “The hot gardener with the Italian accent winked at you and then he said he will see you later.”

“I know. Why do you suppose he did that for?”

Simple Men, Spanish Translation

The Spanish version of Simple Men is released today. Catch the fever HERE!

Incidents of Odd Coincidence

I think I may have super powers.

When I was a lad, all healthy and vigorous, shy and lonely, I had quite the fantasy world in me head. You see, growing up in the strict religion of my parents I wasn't allowed to socialize with any "worldly" children. Well, not outside of school anyway. I've always been rather introverted, so it was no big deal. I spent a lot of my time entertaining myself by making up stories, whole inner movies I'd even cast. I had big dreams as a kid. I dreamed I would one day own my own film studio and make movies that never got anything below three stars from critics and won all the Oscars. All the actors, writers, and directors loved each other and the world was a big, happy fun park. My film company was named Blue Bird and our biggest star was the beautiful Marylinn Jane, a combination of Monroe and Jane Seymour (who I was obsessed with at the time). (How do I still remember all of this?!)

Anyway, with the good come the bad. In my inner life, I fantasized that around the age of thirty I would get seriously ill. When I was a child and serious illness was something I only saw in Hollywood movies I guess I assumed getting sick could be as glamorous as how Greta Garbo or Bett Davis portrayed it. I saw myself looking fabulous in the hospital bed, surrounded by adoring friends and familty, suffering from some mysterious disease. I would eventually recover, but I never fantasized past that point. What kid can see past the age of thirty? It is an unfathomable age. Like a drop-off point to the very young.

Fast-forward two decades and there I am in the hospital bed, just as I had seen, only it was anything but glamorous. Bette Davis is a lying bitch! But I can't help but wonder: did my inner filmmaker bring this about or is it nothing but a child's natural clairvoyance? I tend toward the latter. I believe as children we have deeper connections to other plains, existences, strings, whatever. There have been several other occasions in my life when something similar has happened. As if thinking about something hard enough, wishing it to fulfillment, has an effect on the world, causes ripples in the fabric of reality.

Par example: After I came home sick from Australia and learned my dog Spike had been put down I was heartbroken. Not only was I clinging to life and sanity, one of the sweetest dogs I had ever known was gone from the earth. That spring there was a night I was finding particularly hard to cope with things and the last thing I remember before I finally fell asleep was a hard wish for a new dog. I was awakened the next morning by Alex, who had been dropped off by someone at the end of the lane and was barking her way back to the house. She's nearly ten years old now, but she still acts like a puppy.

METAPHYSICAL RANT:

We could get deep here. Depending on your point of view, deep into thought or shit. We could have a discussion about why the world is in as miserable shape as it is. That if enough people simply turned off the bad news and started sending out good vibes maybe things would change. Our minds can do amazing things and myths become reality just as readily as what is real becomes myth. Look at the panda bear. Those fuzzy darlings were once thought to be myth as well. Maybe things are changing but at so minute a decibal that it won't be fully noticed for some time. You know what I think? I think we all need to listen to folk music. Screw religion. Religion is the big bad wolf at the earth's doorstep. Folk music has all the answers, I'm certain of it. Josh Ritter, Tracy Chapman, Dar Williams, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Richard Shindell, Bob Dylan, and the new world prophet Conor Oberst...they know. They KNOW.

END OF METAPHYSICAL RANT

And for those who say all of this is only a matter of coincidence, I say what is coincidence? It's a hiccup. A reminder of some great connection. And once you have a whole string of coincidences happen to you like I have, well you just gotta throw your hands in the air and embrace it. Embrace your super powers. Embrace the crazy. Everybody else is. At least this type of crazy is a positive fiction.

The Epic Interview of Eric The Arvin

I feel that this painting alone can relay the EPICNESS of the interview I did HERE. All shall read and despair!!!

EXCERPT: Suburbilicious

From Book 2 in my Jasper Lane series, Suburbilicious. Here we find gay dad Terrence on a father/son outing with the son he had no idea existed until recently.

Tessa, the name of Terrence’s one-night trist with the puzzle that was heterosexuality, had put together the trip to the father/son camp as a surprise for both Terrence and their son, Christian. She had done this because she knew that they needed to spend more time together. Of her own admission, she hadn’t even let Terrence know about Christian (Terrence called him Chris, for reasons of obvious aversion) for the first sixteen years of their son’s life because she wanted him to be raised with her own ideals. She realized the folly of this now, and sought to rectify the error by any means she could.

It was a long drive from Jasper Lane in the compact minivan; an all-nighter. They would have been there sooner but Terrence insisted on stopping by every antique store they passed, and there were a lot of them. Chris liked browsing, so this was not something he fussed over in the beginning. But by the time they were through browsing (or the shop owners had thrown them out), the minivan kept getting more and more compact.

“Dad, no more!” Chris eventually had to put his foot down. He said it with a bight smile, though. He said everything with a bright smile. He could have said “Rupert Murdoch is president” and still be smiling as the world collapsed around them.

Chris realized this was par for the course with his father, this semi-parenting of Terrence. For their trip, Chris had packed a few items of basic clothing that he could reuse; he had also brought camping gear, and Terrence had helped him pack the tent in the back. There would be plenty of room for them in the mini-van, he had first supposed. But that was all before Terrence began loading his “basics” into the van. Terrence had brought luggage. He had packed every creature comfort he could think of: an electric toothbrush, his iPod, his laptop (and a small library of the best of Falcon porn), and the latest issues of every magazine he subscribed to, all 26 of them. Chris just laughed as he stood alongside David and Cliff, the three watching Terrence struggle with his load of unnecessary necessities. “That’s our Terry!” their expressions seemed to say.

Once they finally arrived at the camp, which consisted mostly of pines and lakes spotted by barren patches designated for the tents (the only stable structures was the check-in and the latrines), it was Chris who realized exactly what type of vacation his mother had planned for the two of them. He wondered when Terrence would notice, but, thankfully, he didn’t seem to be paying too much attention to what was going on.

God, thank you for laptops and gay porn DVDs!

Terrence had completely missed the three crosses at the camp’s entrance, and, to Chris’ relief, his father had even skimmed over the rather obvious Christian feel and look of the check-in as they approached it. Chris held his breath the entire time, but there was no grand explosion of horror. Terrence was completely unaware even without his DVDs. Chris thought it would have been humorous, if it weren’t so sad. Instead of paying attention to the crucifix-decorated welcome forms he was signing or the “Jesus loves you” pen he was holding or the collar-wearing older man who was welcoming them, Terrence was busy checking out the only other father to arrive as of yet, a cute GQ-ish number with gorgeous, executive hair and wearing a plaid shirt. Chris was thankful for this, otherwise their vacation together would have ended sooner than…well, a gay man’s vacation at a Bible camp.

The old priest or preacher or shaman – whatever he was – the old man who had welcomed them shook Terrence’s hand, but Terrence hardly noticed. He had caught the other father’s eye, trying to reel him in. Quickly, Chris acted. He pulled at his father like an anxious child ready to go to the fishin’ hole and soon enough they were out the door with the directions to their designated campsite.

“Did you get a look at that!” Terrence whispered. “Oh, daddy!” Then, remembering he was with his son, he straightened up, somewhat embarrassed.

“This ain’t the Dunes in Saugatuck,” Chris jibed. “Here are the directions. It’s not too far. I’ll drive.”

They first carried the large green army tent they had borrowed from James (well, Rick gave it to them technically without telling James) from the minivan. Sitting it down, they surveyed their surroundings. They were given a spot at the rear of the campground near the woods and the lake. Terrence liked this. From here he could watch the other fathers arrive, and slowly divide and conquer.

“I wonder where Paul Bunyon from check-in will be?”

Chris shook his head in mock disappointment. “This isn’t a monastery, Dad. Mom sent us here to spend more time together.”

“And we will,” Terrence assured him. “But I’m sure there are going to be times when you want to be alone with the other boys your age.”

“Right.” Chris smirked.

“I’ll start unpacking!” Terrence proclaimed excitedly as he sauntered back to the minivan. It was the sauntering that made Chris giggle. Terrence was like a chameleon, he changed every five minutes, trying the butch routine here, the more fem there. Turned on by superheroes one day and cowboys the next. Even his hair was a constant show of changing personal taste. When Chris had first met Terrence the year before his head was shorn as clean as a cue ball. Now, he wore a stylishly messy blond mop. Chris sighed. What a great dad!

Chris busied himself with unpacking the tent so that the canvas lay square on the ground. He set the pegs and rods to the side, knowing that one of the competitions described at check-in was the raising of the tents. Kind of like a barn-raising, he supposed, but pointless. When done he watched squat on the ground as Terrence fumbled his way in and out of the minivan. It was immediately an enjoyable show, so he tore open the beef jerky he had bought at one of the previous nights’ numerous pit stops and chewed hungrily.

“Hello, young man,” came a kindly voice from the dirt road near the campsite. The preacher/pastor/shaman who had checked them in earlier was walking toward their site, kicking up dust onto his black ensemble with his shiny black shoes. “Christian, right?” he said, coming to a stop in front of Chris. Terrence remained by the minivan, still fighting with his luggage. Chris was able to keep an eye on his father over the preacher’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” Chris replied with his trademark smile. He was hoping desperately that Terrence would be too consumed with his testy luggage to actually recognize the old man was an old man of the cloth, and was relieved when the old man didn’t repeat his name, Father Donaghan.

“Very appropriate for this place, your name is.” He chuckled. “I just came by to tell you something I forgot. Check-ins are always so confusing for me. The older I get....” He wasn’t a bad old man, Chris thought. Rather grandfatherly in fact. Wilford Brimley-ish, but not as hefty. “I came to invite you to the prayer circle this afternoon” (Terrence straightening, ears seeming to perk up to the sound of danger) “, a circle of Christian and brotherly love” (Terrence turning in their direction, a deer caught in the headlights) “a joyous praising of the Lord.”

At once, Terrence dropped his luggage and bounded into the woods, desperate for escape. Father Donaghan heard the luggage drop, but was too slow to see Terrence flee into God’s wilderness.

“Looks like you’ve overpacked my boy,” he said, noting the spilled luggage.

“Looks like,” Chris agreed anxiously.

Kindly refusing the old pastor’s generous and continuous offers to help him get things settled, Chris finally saw Father Donaghan off and at once leaped into the forest after Terrence. It didn’t take him long to find his father. The sounds of a cell phone’s keys being punched frantically led him around a thick wall of ferns and brush.

“What are you doing?” Chris asked.

“Calling your mother,” Terrence hissed. “She did this on purpose. Did you know about this? Oh, it’s an evil plot! I’ve never been more Barbara Stanwyck than now.”

Chris took the phone from him without much struggle. Terrence simply wasn’t expecting it.

“What are you doing? Give that back!”

“You’ll get it back when we head home. Not a moment before.” He closed the phone before Tessa could answer and stuffed the cell into his pocket. “Now come on. Let’s get things unpacked. Christian or not, you’re going to have fun here. And you’re going to have that fun with me. Got it?” He turned to go, expecting Terrence to follow.

After a few steps he heard a rustle in the brush and turned to see Terrence still hidden behind leaves and trees. His fingers pulled away the leaves just slight enough so that he could see out. “Is he gone?” he whispered loudly. “Is the church man gone?”

“Stop that!” Chris whisper-shouted back. “Stop hiding behind bushes. You look creepy!”

“Don’t talk to your father in that tone of voice!”

“If you don’t come from behind there I swear to God, I’ll...”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll scratch every DVD you brought with you!”

There was an audible gasp, more rustling, and then Terrence emerged from nature as if nothing had happened. “Let’s go raise a tent,” he said, walking briskly past his son.

The Traveling Arvin-bury Takes a Fall Trip

One should never plan a trip to the floor. Spontaneity is the key, my friends. This will set your new trip apart from any you've taken before. Just get up one day and go. Or try to. Nothing brings on error like the good ol' college try.

First, you must start out in a good mood so your false sense of infallibility can be righteously squelched. Also, for maximum confusatory status, I recommend you take the trip in the morning. A floor never looks so foreign as when you've just woken up and are hurtling toward it unimpeded by those annoying catchalls like chairs or desks. I have found that an extra long bed sheet trailing off the mattress onto the floor and curled up like a python is quite helpful in getting things started.

On your trip you will have many familiar experiences in brand new ways. Why, it'll feel as if you are tripping for the first time all over again! The dream-like confusion, the blood-chilling fear, and the humiliation. My oh my, the humiliation! If you fall in the company of others make certain you stand up quickly and act as if nothing happened. Nothing at all. It doesn't matter if you take a fall on live TV. Have the dignity and sense of self-preservation of a politician and deny it ever occurred.  You must walk away with the speed of an American tourist with Montezuma's Revenge. If you are alone when you take your trip, you must hit the ground with balled fists and cry for vengeance. Cry to heaven!

You will see many new things on your trip. You will see a chair or a table you think you know, and you will wave - you will wave frantically - but it will act as if it doesn't even know who you are. Some tables and chairs are unfortunately known for their rudeness. This is a cultural thing, having been carved into them when they were mere stools and nightstands. They are all somewhat stand-offish and rooted to their ways.

If you're lucky there will be a sense of strange slow motion to the fall, so you can experience every blabbering inner scream and cry of terror, every Holy shit! I'm falling! No, no, no, no! and every Why me, God? Why me? You may suddenly, if very briefly, find religion again. And then, very soon after, remember why you lost it in the first place after you receive absolutely no help from God's flaccid hand.

Brace yourself for impact upon arrival. Once you are there it will not seem half as intense as what you were expecting. Your head will not, in fact, fall off at the jolt and your plans for an Eva Peron style funeral in your honor will quickly be forgotten when you open your eyes again and squee silently I'm alive! Sweet Jebus, I'm alive!

Once you have seen what you want to see, once you've become acquainted with the dust bunnies under the bed and the dried piece of macaroni trumpeting your failure from under the desk, for god's sake, leave! But not without souvenirs. Be sure to pick up your bruises, and it's always polite to leave something behind. Maybe a big hole in the wall the size of your head. You want this trip to be remembered for years to come. Who knows when you'll have the opportunity to feel this humiliated again?

Oh, and be sure to give a call to your friends and family and let them know you've arrived at your surprise destination safely, and will soon be returning home. I'm positive they will be waiting for the exciting details of your trip, ready to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Shelvish

Love seeing my books on shelves. This I received today from radio personality Nate Karfield, some of my books at Stonewall Library. Four others are checked out.

EXCERPT: SubSurdity

Book #1 in the Jasper Lane series, Subsurdity. In this scene, Rick Cooper moves into the neighborhood:

Rick Cooper pulled into the driveway, his heart still pounding from his run-in with the curb. More truthfully, it was the sight of a sweaty, beefy muscle god in tiny, green shorts that flustered him. He was still a tad dumbfounded by the experience. If things had gone worse, if he had run into a house instead of trash cans, there would have been serious repercussions. He only had one eye. It would be a clear-cut case to any police officer.

“Ricky, baby!” came a shout from the lawn. Terrence sat in his green lawn chair in the center of the grass, holding a very large margarita in one hand and a very small pink cell phone in the other. “I’ll call you back,” he said quickly to the person on the other end.

“Hey, Terrence,” Rick greeted, as he got out of the rusty blue Festiva. 

“Is this all you brought?” Terrence asked, somewhat disappointedly as he approached the vehicle, peering in the back seat. He held his drink like a prized possession, high and out of harm’s way, sunglasses he had perched on his shaved head.

“I didn’t have much,” Rick answered, numbly. “Most of the stuff was Coby’s.”

“So, he gets everything? The apartment, the dog, the computer? The greedy slut!”

“Yeah, I didn’t buy too much when we were together.” Rick’s reply was simple, nonconfrontational.

“Well, how could you? I mean, he was using everything you made to support his gambling habit,” Terrence explained. “What an ass! And after your accident, too.” He shook his head in disdain before taking a gulp from his glass as one hand stayed permanently fixed to his hip.

“Well, it’s over now. All I’ve got are these few boxes of clothes and CDs.”

“We’ll soon fix that, baby!” Terrence grinned. “There are some fabulous places around here to shop.”

Rick could always count on Terrence to know the best shopping venues. Even in college he could smell out a unique shopping experience a mile away. But then, unique never much appealed to Rick.

“I like the shaved look,” Rick said, gesturing to Terrence’s dome.

“Why, thank you, darlin’,” Terrence replied in a faux southern accent. “I like the eye patch. It looks good on you. You can really pull that off.”

“Whatever,” Rick shrugged.

“No, really. Gives you character. It’s sexy.”

“I lost my eye, Terrence,” Rick said. “That’s not sexy.”

“You didn’t lose it. It was taken from you by that bastard of a boyfriend and his gambling debts. And then,” he exclaimed, clearly getting more intoxicated by the minute, “he goes and breaks your glass eye! Who breaks someone’s glass eye! I mean, really! You were living in a damn Tarantino film, my friend.”

Rick laughed dryly. “It’s good to see you, Terrence,” he said, giving his friend a hug. “Thanks for this, for letting me move in. You and David are great friends.”

“Don’t mention it, hon. It’s David’s house, though. I’m just staying here for a bit, too. Want a margarita before we unpack you?” David and Terrence had been the best of friends since college, yet they couldn’t have been more different. David was athletic and masculine, Terrence was artistic and a tad feminine. Somehow, though, they connected. There were times in college when Rick had felt like an outsider around the two of them-but then, Rick always felt like an outsider.

“No, thanks,” Rick declined. “What are you doing, drinking so early-and in the yard, no less?”

“David and I have been doing this for the past two weeks. You’re not the only newbie on the street.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A big muscle man,” Terrence moaned. “He runs by here every day. Just moved into a house down the street. Yummy! He was in the military.” His eyes lit up with mischief.

“Oh, I think I saw him. Almost caused me to run off the road.”

“Uh-huh,” Terrence said, sipping his drink. “Speaking of you and the road, are you supposed to be driving? Isn’t that dangerous with the whole Cycloptic thing going on?”

Rick took a playful swipe at his friend’s cheek. “You’re the dangerous one,” he joked, as best he could.
His attention, though, was immediately drawn to a grey Hummer pulling into the driveway behind his Festiva. The bass thumped loudly, shaking windows down the street before it was silenced.

“Who is this?” he inquired, awestruck by the massive vehicle.

“Hmmm?” Terrence said, as he turned to look at the land yacht. “Oh. It’s just David.”

“David owns a Hummer?”

“Of course not! That’s his boyfriend’s.”

“Ricky!” David’s voice called from behind the passenger-side door as it opened. He struggled to get out of the beast without falling awkwardly to the ground. “My God! Ricky! How are you?” he yelled as he ran to his friend with arms wide.

David had clearly been to the gym recently. His arms were twice the size they once were. He’d been a wrestler all through high school and college, but he had never looked as swollen.

“I’m good, David. How are you?” Rick smiled.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugged off the question. “I’m so glad you’re going to live with us! And if that Coby or any of his gambling goons tries to come around here, we’ll sic Cliff on them.”

“Cliff?”

Rick’s question was answered as he saw the owner of the Hummer, a solid man built from muscle and veins, walking toward them in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, both of which were barely able to contain the bulges beneath.

“Rick, this is my boyfriend, Cliff,” David said with pride.

Cliff held out his huge hand with a square-jawed grin. “Hey there, Rick,” he said with a deep baritone of a voice.

“Hi,” Rick replied, taking the giant’s hand. “You’re huge.”

“Eh...it’s the steroids,” Cliff admitted, nonchalantly.

“Oh.” Was that supposed to lessen the wonder?

“Cliff, would you take Rick’s things inside?” David asked.

“You bet,” Cliff said.

He opened the Festiva’s back door, nearly tearing it from its hinges, and got almost the entire lot of clothing and CDs with one muscled embrace. He walked to the house with heavy strides as the three friends watched by the car.

“Where did you find him?” Rick inquired.

“Becky Ridgeworth, down the street,” David answered. “She knows a lot of guys in the film biz.”

“He’s an actor? I think I would remember if I saw him in anything. What has he been in?”

“You haven’t seen him in anything, believe me,” Terrence cut in, taking a break from the margarita. “You don’t watch porn.”

“He’s a porn actor?” Rick glanced at David with eyebrows raised. It was as exclamatory as he ever got.
David grinned widely and nodded. “Becky does copy writing for porn studios...on the sly, of course.”

“That’s amazing. I imagine it’s hard to breathe with that much man on top of you during sex, huh?” Rick winked.

“Oh, honey. Cliff’s a bottom,” David corrected.

Rick nearly fell over.

“Are you all right?” Terrence asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Rick steadied himself. “Depth perception,” he said, blaming his one eye. “Screws me up, that’s all.”

Cliff strode back out to the Festiva to retrieve the last bit of luggage. As he leaned into the backseat, Rick watched the muscular, steroid-enhanced ass.

“I’ll have that drink now,” he whispered to Terrence.