The early settlers of Erie, PA had little to worry about from the American Indians living there. By the time the French had declared the area their property, the Erie Peoples had already lost a war with the Iriquois Nation, its members killed or dispersed to find haven with neighboring tribes. Whatever remnants were left behind would have gone mostly unnoticed by the French, who busied themselves building forts and watchtowers to defend their landhold against the British in the, how I wish I were kidding, Beaver Fur War. When the War was over and a town started to grown from the settlement, marked, unmarked and disappeared graves of Native peoples gave way to factories and stores and houses and backyards and, of course, churches and bars. Locals joke that after killing someone in a bar fight, you can cross the street for absolution. The real punchline is that you’d most likely only have to cross the bar.
People without imagination nor humor often refer to “Eerie, PA” without knowing that the dead lay everywhere citizens step. Nor do they know that in the weeks after the Autumnal Equinox as nights grow longer and days grow colder how werewolves pass through the area on their way to winter haunts. People who unluckily meet the packs have to beg the Cousins for the lives and make bloody promises to keep their paths a secret. The oldest cemetery, in the center of town, embowers a crypt in which a vampire is said to sleep. It can easily be spotted by the tangle of spray-painted occult symbols (some of which are real) and scorch marks inflicted by a zealous believer that mar its marble walls. Ask locals about the tall man in the black overcoat who walks the road between Waterford and Edinboro, and they’ll tell you how he vanishes as soon as you drive past him. And though the gypsies have long since abandoned Erie and Axe Murder Hollow has been built over by developers, the druids are still around.
Number of siblings I have… 1
How many grandparents are still alive… 0
How many of my parents are still alive… 1
How many nephews I have… 1
How many dogs I’ve had… 2
How many cats I’ve had… 6
How many hamsters I’ve had… 3
Number of serious boyfriends I’ve had… 7
Average length of serious relationships… 9.1 months
Number of times I’ve been in love… 3
How many terabytes of porn I’ve downloaded in four years… 1.3
Number of times I’ve read The Mists of Avalon… 8
Number of times I’ve watched Zorro, the Gay Blade… 46
Number of times I’ve watched Emmet Otter’s Jug-band Christmas… 104
Number of times I’ve watched Forrest Gump… 1
Number of times I’ve watched American Beauty… 0
How many jobs I’ve had since age 15… 26
How many cities I’ve lived in… 8
How many states I’ve lived in… 6
How many places (houses, dorms, apartments) I’ve lived in… 21
How many countries I’ve visited… 7
How many languages I’m fluent in… 2
Additional languages I’ve been exposed to but am not fluent in… 4
How many video game systems I’ve owned… 5
Current Xbox gamer points… 3365
Apparently, when the Phoenix returns to the Marvel Universe this Spring, it will be targeting a character no one could have foreseen.
As the Phoenix Force continues its crash course towards Earth during the blockbuster comic event of the year, Avengers Vs. X-Men, Iron Fist learns that he has a shocking connection to the all-powerful embodiment of rebirth and destruction!
Iron Fist has a connection to the Phoenix? OK. Did he brush past her to get to the men’s room in a crowded discotheque once? Was he dipping his pen in the cosmic ink? Has… I can’t go on with this. Is there anyone in the Marvel Universe the Phoenix Force hasn’t tried to merge with? Because Iron Fist is just popcorn duds at the bottom of the bowl.
And remember, when you merge with a blowsy cosmic entity, you’re merging with every other person that cosmic entity has merged with. Dirty, dirty whore.
UPDATE: Oh! It’s the sash, isn’t it?
[Source]
My grandmother taught me… don’t doubt children who see things.
There was the stump of an apple tree in my grandparents’ backyard that was quite old and soft in the center. My brother and I -sometimes our cousins when they were visiting as well- would use it as a table or as a ersatz trampoline or a place to put our feet and count off who was It with rounds and rounds of King Sayer. In my mind, the stump was roughly the diameter of a redwood, knowing that it wasn’t in actuality any bigger than a large pizza. It had as many uses as we had ideas to task it with, then I got the idea to pick away the rotting center to make a fishbowl.
And that’s when things got scary.
As I was removing wood chips from the stump and tossing them to the ground, I uncovered part of something that -from what I could tell- looked like a toy bee, like the center spinner on a See n’ Say. I remember thinking, “How did a toy get in here? And who could have done it? Did they know I would find it? Is it for me? Oh, boy!” I started to sweep away the debris to get to the toy, but when I touched it -as plasticy shiny as it was, it was warm to my touch. And then it stirred and began to hum, buzzing like a real bee, but too large and too not natural. I waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaailed in that high-pitched screech that terrified five-year-old boys will later deny they can do when they turn seven. And ran in the house to my Grandma, who was struggling to get up from her place on the white living room couch. I threw my arms around Grandma’s waist and we toppled back to the couch. I blubbered out my story as best I could, but it was no more coherent than, “Something… *sniff* in the stump… it… it.. it BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
My Grandma put her hands on my head and called out, “Mike! Michael!” My Grandpa came from upstairs. “Mike, get rid of that stump in the yard. Now!” He didn’t ask why or what I was crying about or anything. Grandma was in earnest He went down to his basement, got his axe, and destroyed the stump. I could see him chopping out the back from my Grandma’s lap. She had no reason to accept what I had said, had tried to say, but she did. She took action because she believed I was telling the truth and because she loved me. There’s really nothing in the world that matters so much to a child.
I’m a writer who doesn’t know how to write.
I still can’t fully explain the difference between Constructivism, Structuralism, and Post-modernism, and now – God, help me – there’s the New Sincerity to worry about.
I know how a story is supposed to go, and sometimes follow the “supposed to” too slavishly.
I have a better-than-average vocabulary, but often fall back on breezier words like “like”, “nuh-uh”, and “srsly”.
I can spot a theme in someone else’s work at 50 paces, but get lost exploring mine.
I think about my own writing a lot and how to improve, write more, write wider, but I don’t do much about it because I’m the only voice in my head and it’s hard to grow in an echo chamber.
I’ve been a lucky amateur so far, but if I ever want to be a better-than-Twilight writer (“better” in the literary sense, not in the financial success sense, however nice that would be), something had to happen.
And it did: I’m part of a writers’ group now, which may be the most difficult thing I’ve done in quite some time. My assignment from my peers, based on a writing sample is to “[w]rite about the things that you fear most. Be intimidated by the subject that you are writing about. Go outside of your comfort zone and explore the emotions/feelings/memories that you’ve maybe ignored or hidden.”
Right. That is so easy for me to do. Writers are all about putting themselves out there to be better writers. Nothing is hidden. Nothing is out-of-bounds. That’s me.
Ha. No, it’s not.
Let me tell you a story.
When I was a junior at IUP, I decided to spend the summer working at school rather than come home because I would be closer to my boyfriend at the time and we could spend the summer being in love and sickening our friends. The place I had been living was not available for the summer, and truth be told, I was going to leave anyway and find my first on-my-own apartment. Like any college town, Indiana had dozens of postings for summer sublets with the possibility of longer leases in the Fall. I pulled I don’t know how many tabs and left messages for all of them to have no one call me back. here’s what I said, “Hi! My name is Sean McGath and I’m calling about the room for rent. I can provide references if you need them, and I am going to tell you up front that I’m gay and have a boyfriend. I just want to be up front about that before we get too far into this process. I also want to tell you that we’re not screamers, so you’ll never know when we fuck. My number is XXX-XXXX. Thanks!”
Yes, I was that gay guy.
I am no longer that gay guy. I’m not even that guy anymore. By design. Yes, I was being honest and out there and truthful. But can you see where I went a step too far? I did, too. Not immediately, but eventually, the forthrightness and bluntness and words that would gush out of me like water from a firehose were crimped to a trickle. Now, I am demonstrative, not verbal. Putting actual feelings down on paper or across electrons is unseemly because it assumes that they are fit for the public to see or hear about and discuss. Or that anyone would even care to. I have probably lost a lot of dates because of this. Not for lack of trying. If you look at the post I made about a guy I have a crush on, it’s obvious I’m floundering to say something important and to say it right; the cracks in the crust that the words fall into to be dissolved in the lava below are huge and embarrassing.
Now I am compelled to write about me, which is something I have not wanted to do for a long time. And it’s going to suck. And my entries on this site are going to be wretched (maybe someone will even have the nerve to post and tell me so), but I’m going to do this for me. And my future millions. Which I’ll use to buy my family something pretty. But I’m not telling you what.
Yes, this is a late-in-coming post, but I can’t not share it with you even if Christmas is a month gone.
You’re no doubt looking at the picture above and wondering where you too can get a zombie cap just like the one pictured. You can’t. At least, not commercially. And just not yet. This was created by Season Crannell and Chris Dye for me to give to my nephew for Christmas. I wanted something unique to give him, something that I knew none of his other friends would have. I told them this idea I had for a cap that was both cute and horrifying (and warm, of course), and they delivered in a big way. I think it needs to be on Etsy and a million need to be sold.
It is a great gift for any holiday. And it is the perfect companion to a Zombie Meal Time t-shirt.
Talking to a friend today, he brought up this series of posts – my Adventures in Grindr. Without really hearing his question (I know there was one), I replied, “What adventures? Maybe if Erie were a bigger town there’d be adventures, but as it stands, I have yet to hook up through Grindr. Mostly I post about Grindr because I get ridiculous conversations I can blog about.” And to prove my point I offer you the above chat. Hi-lar-ee-ous, right? Do you think William realizes he’s got getting naked with me? Probably not. I know there are some straight people who are too stupid to breed, but there are some gay guys who are too stupid to bed.
That aside, I want to talk about my friend. He’s definitely not too stupid to bed. Probably too cute not to. He lives nowhere near me, and though we’ve tried to meet, it hasn’t happened yet for one reason or another (believe me, we’ve tried and are continuing to try). I suspect he’d be more than just some guy. And talking about sex in the way of random, casual partners with someone I like seems like a good idea. I obviously can’t back away from previous posts -nor should I, nor do I want to- like I told my friend, we all come with histories attached and I’d like to know his someday. I mean, not on the first date or anything, because that would be a little too much, and I’d like to know him in the present instead of digging into his past and maybe not liking what I see there because it reminds me of things I don’t like about my past.
Or something like that.
Penises.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve been corresponding with a gentleman who saw the Weird City Theatre production of my “Giants in Those Days” way back in July, 2010 (several times, apparently), which is kind of amazing because to the best of my understanding no one saw it (though I was told a fascinating rumor that Mary Jo Pehl came to a performance (I suspect she was probably alone in the auditorium)). One of his reasons for writing was to he ask me for a copy of the script, which I at first demurred to do because I more than anyone realize the raw nature of the script and the too-serious tact of the production, and while the horse has already jumped the fence (and more than likely dead from some Wildfire-like accident), but eventually sent him a DOC copy of. I also hinted that there was a hardback version of the script, but it was a one-shot deal I secured for myself so I could had a semi-permanent copy to eviscerate at my leisure. He asked if there were a way for him to get a copy as well, so I contacted Ka-Blam and it became available today.
As chance to experiment in live theatre, there has been no parallel. As a work of mine, there are some really excellent moments and characters that I love. As a classic for the ages, well… Going back to the above said evisceration, I’ve thoroughly gutted the play and have started re-writing Act One as more of a “Super Friends”-type show that will not only have educational PSAs and crafts, but high adventure, dangerous traps, clumsy kid sidekicks, Miss Dawna’s bukkake obsession and other more contemporary superheroic foibles. Act Three will probably stand as is. Maybe.
I was so flattered when, just the other night, the little green Jedi Master who stole my heart back in 1981 returned the favor by trying to steal into my pants. What a dream come true to bag a hero of such renown! Yeah, the age difference threw me for a second, but then I thought, “He could be one of those generous older men and if I play my cards right I can parley meaningless sex into a private pleasure asteroid of my own where I can build an exclusive (yet terribly cute) bed & breakfasts that caters to intergalactic movers and shakers who need some away time from the hassles of fighting an oppressive government and its instruments and agents of hegemony.” Ah, but his age was just the first drip in a cascade of worries that plague any potential hookup. Like most guys on Grindr, I worry about, you know, “satisfaction”. Sure, he’s hell against a Sith Lord, but can he use the force of his love to send me to this side of the galaxy and back? A Samson on the field, a Sleeping Beauty in the bedroom; it could happen. What about size? He’s like, 2’5″ or something, right? Then I remembered an expression in ASL:
And I decided to take the chance.
Press play. Don’t look away.
Did you manage to make it all the way through? How high had your shoulders crawled up the side of your head in a futile attempt to escape the horror? Were there tears? A sudden, jarring flashback to your high school piano recital when you stood up to bow and had an erection? Then, congratulations, you have just experienced “fremdschämen”, or “contact embarrassment”. Start committing this word to memory, because with all the mid-season replacement shows coming up, you’ll have a plethora of opportunities to whip it out and impress your friends with your fer’rin’ lenggage skills.
Also, Merlin return to SyFy this Friday.
How is it possible we have gone without this word in the English language for so long? Just last week I was wandering around the house eating old bits of cheese and floppy celery and frost-burnt waffles because I was in a funk. Who hasn’t had a bad day (or three) and turned to food to feel better?
Google Images: ruining diets since 2001
“Kummerspeck” (literally “grief bacon”, which is the coolest etymology next to disaster‘s) is the weight I have to work off that I gain during said funk while I still feel strongly about keeping my New Year’s resolutions. Thank you, Germany!
Tradition demands that pork and sauerkraut be had on New Year’s Day, and while not a fan of sauerkraut in its unadulterated form, I do love a good pork roast. Thanks to the helpful suggestions of some Facebook friends, I perforated the pig in thirty or so places and stuffed each well with a clove or two of garlic. The whole hog was then marinated overnight (I read that marinating up to three days is desirable, which I am truly curious about and will try the next time I don’t wait until the day before to make dinner) in chipotle and cider vinegar. Roasting started at 7:30 AM at 500° for thirty minutes and continued at 225° for 10 hours. The roast flaked apart when barley touched by a fork, and the crackling on top was crunchy crunchy.
Of course, I pulled out the pierogies I made earlier in the Fall for a side (Saint Joseph over a sawhorse, were they good!)…
…and sauerkraut simmered in beef broth for good luck and less gassiness.
I hope all your dinners this year will be delicious and plentiful, and may others be part of your bounty.
