Hey, I’m back. AM I BACK?

I’m updating just so that old whine from a year-and-a-half ago isn’t the top thing one sees when they visit this web site.

I am pretty damned grateful that anyone would read, let alone share, my posts here, which I should have taken out in the backyard and burned like Bill Watterson claims one should do with their first 1000 oil paintings. Welp, Old Bill is still hiding in the woods and setting fires at the worst time in history to do so, and I’m still hiding in plain sight at the bookstore and contemplating life’s terrors.

I used to spend way too much time organizing this shitty blog and I think I might take it easy and pop back on from time to time, not sweating THE ALMIGHTY ARCHIVES so much. You can click through the old junk in the sidebar if you’d like but I’ll warn you: it is a mixture of poetry, prose, shitposts, and a bunch of autobiographical gnashing of teeth. I probably stand by about half the prose, a quarter of the political ideas and none of the poetry.

It’s too late at night to do anything else right now, and I’ve already started too many paragraphs with “I.” It is all about me though, baby. Talking about myself is the only thing I was ever good at.

Thanks for stopping by. Oh, and if you happen to come across a weird porny Doctor Who parody, uh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.


For a year I wrote and rewrote and proofread. It was a good exercise, and it wasn’t for nothing, but it’s over.

After seeing what I’m competing with (beautiful hot garbage by pancake people) and realizing humanity’s short and shortening attention span, I surrender. It’s not worth the angst or my time.

One cannot hope to win against the Almighty Algorithm. I’ll still write, in much shittier form, on social media, and I’ll get such a payout. Yuge. Redirecting people here was an act of futility. Hitting them where they live always gets me the juice.

Read the archives or don’t. This will be up until I get tired of paying the hosting bill or civilization collapses.

Love you, baby. See you on the flip side.

WhoFest at the End of Time

Thursday, Gina, Wiggles and I loaded up the car and set off along rivers swollen past bursting. Once again, Doctor Who had us Texas bound.

Now that’s what I call a view.

We arrived at the DFW Airport Westin around 5 pm and checked in. Gina had already creeped the flights from Heathrow to DFW and predicted Peter Davison would be on the one arriving at 5:05 pm. We took our things up to the eighth floor and came down about an hour later in search of sustenance. On our way out the automatic sliding glass doors I saw a familiar man walk around an SUV in the drop-off zone. A respectable kite-flying breeze whipped his grey hair up around his head.

“That’s Peter Davison,” I said.

I rolled Willie’s stroller out the doors past him and said, “Excuse me.” He’d been discussing something with the co-occupants of the vehicle he’d just exited. The Doctor sighed and walked inside.

“Wow,” Gina said, “he seemed exhausted.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Showing up on Thursday keeps paying off.”

We hopped into the car and Gina navigated me to Afrah, which is a Mediterranean restaurant in Irving, Texas. My god. Can I eat there every day for the rest of my life? Now I know why shawarma was the first thing Iron Man requested in Avengers when he’d cheated death.

After getting our fill and then some, we headed to Target for supplies and went back to the hotel to collapse in exhaustion. Wiggles was as cooperative as he could be. It took him a bit to get used to the new environment, but once he conked out, he reverted to his regular schedule of torturing Mom nearly to death all night long.

Friday morning we rolled out of bed around 10 am and headed over to what might be the greatest Denny’s on Earth. Hear me now and believe me later, those folks take breakfast seriously. The service is always quick and professional, and I could tell the oil was clean from the taste of the fried potatoes.

Now that I mention it, I haven’t had a lot of bad restaurant experiences in Texas, and we aren’t always eating at the places with three or four Google Maps dollar signs. Is the pay just better here? Is there something about Texas culture that lends itself to finer dining whether you’re at the Dallas Fish Market dropping $200 or the Waffle House dropping $20? Some budding sociologist needs to investigate, but it sure ain’t the Arkansas Experience.

We jogged the stroller back across the street and headed down to the conference area of the hotel. I was too full of coffee or anxiety or both. My heart hammered. I was in familiar surroundings and around familiar faces, but holy shit I was wracked with trepidation over something. Gina felt it too.

I know it’s sideways. I’m road typing on my phone. Deal with it.

When the first panel with Peter Davison, Dan Starkey and Mark Strickson began at 3 pm, we were up front and ready for action. Gina realized that her nametag had been slicing her to pieces. The plastic edges were sharp like blades, so I fished my Swiss Army Knife out and gave it to her so she could file the edges off. Later, we realized my nametag had scratched Willie’s foot a bit so we doctored on him, too. These are the random-ass things you have to worry about.

The MC, whose name I don’t recall (does it matter, really?), came out and introduced each actor as they leaped out of a TARDIS onstage. I snapped a couple of decent photos and Wiggles seemed to be weathering things well until the first time things got loud.

Oh bother

Wiggles yelped and we immediately moved about ten rows back. One of the large speakers had been situated right above his head, and that wasn’t his bag at all, baby. The next time the panel joked around, though, he wailed again and I jumped up and took him to the back. Dan Starkey made a joke about scaring children. The audience roared in laughter. I gave a feeble wave on our way out the door and we stood in the lobby for the rest of the panel.

I wasn’t disappointed at all, but I was gripped by a great sense of guilt. I’d dragged my son to this thing that he probably wouldn’t weather well (at least the panels) and I spent at least a few minutes feeling sorry for myself and browbeating Bob Talbot for all his terrible life decisions.

We had a meet-and-greet to attend at 7:30 pm, and I was absolutely horrified that Willie wouldn’t like it. Gina and I were both nervous in general about meeting the actors, and we spent the afternoon discussing every potential horrific outcome. We were made for each other in this regard. By the end of the conversation we might as well have concluded that our meeting with these fellows would somehow result in a domino-effect end of our lives and civilization itself.

Then, we thought better of it and agreed everything would probably be fine. Our meet up, that is. We are certainly living out the last days or the end times, whatever that means to you. Secular or religious, we are totally fucked, y’all.

In fact, today during some downtime I saw Trump’s Facebook post about how the media had “censored” his 100 Days ad, and how it was time to “FIGHT THE MEDIA – (LONG PAUSE) BIAS.” I commented under his post that “This is the craziest fucking thing I have ever seen in my life.”

This is the goddamned President, y’all. We haven’t just crossed the Rubicon. We aren’t just through the looking glass. We’ve broken the woks and sunk the boats and Steve Buscemi has Space Madness. Someone call Aerosmith and Ben Affleck. We gotta drill this meteor and our future depends on it. (For what it’s worth, I prefer Deep Impact.)

It wasn’t lost on me that my friends were all wailing and gnashing their teeth on Facebook over healthcare and executive orders and I was here attempting to hobnob with celebrities. Every time I attend one of these now I wonder if it’s the last one. I consider how bad things will have to get before we stop celebrating, but then I remember birthdays and Christmas, and how even during The Great War people supposedly paused to observe holidays. Maybe we can eke out some existence in this hellsphere, but I think this might actually be the time we don’t make it back from the depths.

It is with that great idea looming above our heads we launched into another year of schmoozing with British science fiction pantomime heroes.

Help me Obi Wan Kenobi, you’re my only Oh wait

Gina strapped Wiggles to my chest, and Master Blaster trundled toward Thunderdome once again. It was showtime.

We checked in for the big elbow collision and stood in line in front of the conference room. Wiggles was his super cute self so our fellow attendees took turns saying hello. The con staff let us file into the room and Gina and I claimed a big round table. We’d just eaten so we didn’t take advantage of the buffet, but I quickly walked over to take a gander. Prime rib. Shit. Maybe we shouldn’t have had supper after all.

Peter Davison and Dan Starkey cruised in and headed straight to the food. They must have been hungry because they piled it on and sat down at a mostly unoccupied table to chow down. A guy we’d met at WhoFest 3 last year plopped down next to Starkey and chatted with him as he stuffed his face. Davison concentrated on his food, and I stood there bouncing William while Gina went to retrieve the one beer each our tickets afforded us.

I was gripped with the fear that I had become this dance’s wallflower about fifteen minutes in. Mark Strickson had snuck to the table behind us and was deep in conversation with a young kid in a soccer uniform. This wasn’t going as I had planned. At dinner, Gina and I had discussed A Beautiful Mind, game theory and our strategy for approaching the actors. We’d decided not to converge on Davison because he was the blonde, figuratively and, at least at one point, literally. Now it looked like we might be going home high and dry.

The blessings of the all-father on the people who run WhoFest. The handlers sprang into action and tapped each actor on the shoulder. It was time to chit chat.

In a bit of serendipity I could not have manufactured, I had been standing up bouncing Wiggles next to my empty chair. Our round table was full and the only empty seat was mine. Peter Davison sauntered over and said to me, “Oh I can’t take your chair while you stand.”

“No,” I said, “the kid loves to stand. You take this one.”

Fucking jackpot.

Ninja photo

You Whovians will recognize the Leela cosplay from the photo before this one. She was on the other side of Davison and did a wonderful job playing the resident interviewer. We sat around the table and listened to them chat for about twenty minutes when she asked him if he’d ever thought of writing a story for Big Finish, the company that produces the audio Doctor Who adventures.

Peter said he didn’t have time to sit down and hammer one out, and he’d begun to say he didn’t know if it would be rubbish or not when I blurted out, “Well, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing by far.”

He looked at me and asked, “Oh you mean Big Finish?”

I said, “Oh no, I really almost said something terrible there. I mean, considering fifty years of Doctor Who, there is no way anything you’d write would be the worst.”

Peter Davison, the Fifth Doctor, looked at me and said something about writing and how he’d use a pseudonym, I think, in case it was shit and they had to throw it out. I’m not sure because I was smiling in a cringe so hard my face split in half and I died a thousand deaths.

Wiggles fussed a bit, so Gina unhooked him and bounced him back to happiness. Davison paused to greet William and comment on his size. Every time today we told someone he was six months old, they said they guessed he was at least eight or nine. Yes, he is literally Harrison Bergeron. It’s about goddamned time, probably.

After about thirty minutes the handler came by (and, if I recall, he was the same guy I exchanged witty banter with the year before when he handled Ian McNeice all the way to the bar – “I’m second in line,” I’d said in an attempt to be witty – it went OKAY) and told Peter it was time to switch out for Mark Strickson, who you might know as Vislor Turlough, or the guy who discovered Steve Irwin, or “I have no idea who that is.”

The dude in this sideways photo that I’m not going to fix because I am typing on a Dell keyboard attached to my fucking phone on a WordPress app, yeah, that is Mark Strickson.

Leela took the reins again and gave Mark the full Oprah treatment. I was in awe. They mostly spoke about radio dramas and I didn’t know what my input should be on that front. There was a moment, after discussing high school kids with a teacher who sat immediately to my left, when he started talking about how his parents had a one-room flat and he’d come from “nothing,” and I was afraid he was about to get all bootstrappy on us, but he said, “Luck, just luck and being in the right place at the right time, and don’t ever think that you did something that makes you special. Look, I worked hard, I still work hard, but I am so lucky, so much of this is just chance.”

I was like, yeah bro. I can get down with that.

Mark was forced to leave like Peter, but as he got up he played with Willie and said, “Oh, he reminds me of my Tommy when he was a boy!” Wiggles, I love you buddy, but you are the best bait.

Dan Starkey aka Strax the Sontaran (as well as other various Sontarans) sat down as we crossed well out of our time slot and launched into an animated discussion about stunts and makeup. Leela once again dominated the chat, and I didn’t care. I interjected at one point about how the Sontarans in “The Two Doctors” had been six feet tall, and he agreed it was a bit ridiculous, but I was mostly content to just watch the magic happen in the chair right next to me.

We’d run thirty minutes over schedule and the convention staff were getting pretty antsy. They begged us to take the contents of the buffet with us “or else it’s going in the dumpster,” but we didn’t haul anything away except our commemorative WhoFest glasses and Wiggles, who was, as always, the star of the show.

We headed to our room and I wondered aloud why I’d been shitting myself in terror. Gina had a few ideas but it all boiled down to my neuroticism and our general malaise. We got back up to our room (which is right across the hall from Mark Strickson, apparently – Holy shit this could be interesting) and settled in for some rest before tomorrow, which is the big day. I went ahead and shaved my beard into a tactical mustache. The Brig and the Squig are coming out tomorrow. Gina Jane Smith will be in attendance, and I’m sure the guy driving around the RC K-9 (with the app he wrote himself – I asked) will have a field day. We’ve broken the ice with our actors, so the rest is future history.

I don’t want to get too personal with someone else’s story, but Leela implied she’d had some tough times Doctor Who had gotten her through. I remember sitting in an empty house over two years ago and watching the First Doctor wildly flip switches to the drop and whine of the TARDIS grinding to life. I was still eating groceries my ex had bought and my only company was Ian, Barbara, Susan, and a zany old space wizard. Cherry tomatoes. I had a box of cherry tomatoes to go with my bachelor meal. I was a lost dad with estranged children and that boom, like a timpani, along with the sound I now know was piano strings, was escape. It was life.

I’ve now watched fifty years of Doctor Who and then some. I’ve met most of the modern companions, a load of supporting characters, and Doctors Four, Five, Seven, and Twelve. Matt Smith has booked Dallas for October, and we will get here again by hook or crook. We have to, don’t we?

Tomorrow will be another adventure, and I hope I have something to tell, dear reader. Times seem final, or at least approaching finality, and these distractions, while frivolous, represent something we cannot lose sight of. We can’t let go of fiction. We can’t release our want for wonder. We absolutely cannot give up on the romance of what could be.

I claim to be a cynic, but I am the poet who languishes. I want to be hateful, but I am a sentimental softy. Though the thin curmudgeonly crust of years remains that kid who watched every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation and took notes with illustrations. I wish I could find that notebook.

Our stories are all we have. This shit is fleeting, y’all. Fiction is forever.

See you tomorrow, space cadets.

Beatrix and the Oscillating Blade

Last night I was about a third of the way through The Book with No Pictures when I heard a brrrap behind me and to my right, as if Bea had shuffled a deck of cards. She yowled. I looked up from B.J. Novak’s instant classic, which is usually the only book Cora will tolerate at bedtime anymore, and saw blood.

“What did you do?” I asked. She held up her bashed fingernail and I determined she wasn’t hospital-level injured, so I kept asking.

“What did you do? Did you stick your finger in the fan? Why did you do that?”


I tossed the book on their nightstand, scooped Bea up, and headed downstairs. Cora was right on my heels.

“Gina,” I said as I rounded the corner into the living room.

Gina slid on her socks from the hall into the kitchen like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Her eyes were huge.

“She’s okay,” I said, “but she’s bleeding all over the place. I think she stuck her finger in the fan.” We headed to the bathroom.

“I thought you guys were kidding around at first,” Gina said, “but then I heard you call my name and I was like ‘omigod.'”

Bea squirmed and boohooed in my arms. I laid her across the sink. Gina had gotten a wet washcloth while we spoke and started cleaning the blood off Bea and me.

“I didn’t see her but it made the sound,” I said. “You know, like when you stick something in a fan.”

“We’re going to have to put it under the faucet, Bea,” Gina said.

“Noooooo,” Bea said.

I took her hand and ran it under the tap. She continued to complain but didn’t struggle. Her finger had already stopped bleeding, and I could see it had come from a small slice at the tip.

“Yeah,” I said, “I know that sound from when I was a kid, we were always sticking shit into fans.”

“Bea, you don’t stick your finger into fans or it will chop it off and you will go to the hospital,” Cora said.

Gina applied antibiotic ointment to Bea’s finger and folded a big adhesive bandage, which was shaped like a cupcake, over it. The novelty dressing was a bit floppy, so she grabbed some medical tape, wrapped it around once, and tore it off.

“There,” she said. She wiped Bea’s tears with the damp cloth and searched us for any remaining blood.

“Thank you,” I said.

Bea still in my arms, Cora and I trudged back upstairs. I put Bea down in her bed and grabbed The Book with No Pictures with the intent of picking up where I’d left off. I sat down beside Cora and opened it to the part where I’m a robot monkey.

“Hat Back,” Bea said. “Hat Back.”

“Okay, okay, let me finish this first and I’ll read it,” I said. I cruised through the remaining twenty pages in record time and got up to put the book back in my office. It’s autographed and technically Gina’s, since I got it for her along with signed copies of The Bassoon King by Rainn Wilson and Why Not Me? by Mindy Kaling as a Dunder-Mifflin themed Christmas gift, so I don’t want the kids to wreck it.

“Hat Back!”

“Okay, okay.”

I retrieved I Want My Hat Back from its home in Bea’s bed and performed it with all the gusto I could muster after the previous ordeal.

When I finished, I placed the grimy, jacketless thing back into Bea’s bed.

“Hat Back,” she said. “Twinkle Little Star.”

I bent down over her bed rail and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” while I finger-combed her hair, still damp from their bath. She breathed deeply and sniffled.

“I love you,” I said, and I stood and turned around to attend to Cora’s bedtime requests.

“I want the Mary Poppins good-night song,” Cora said.

“Twinkle Little Star,” said Bea.

“Uh,” I said, “Okay Bea.” I turned back around and began my encore.

“Why does Bea get two songs?” Cora asked in the pause after the first line.

“Because she’s hurt,” I said, and kept singing.

By the time I’d finished, Bea was out. I turned back toward Cora and sat on her bed.

“Mary Poppins,” she said.

I sang “Stay Awake” and only had to make up about half the lyrics. She didn’t notice, or at least she didn’t mind.

“Another song,” she said.

“Okay,” I said, and did “White Christmas,” which is normally her first and only request. Sometimes I phone it in, but yesterday I committed. She was out or well on her way by the time I had finished crooning my heart out. I kissed her on the head and quietly left the room.

Bathtime, storytime, blood offering to the fan gods and all, they were in bed and resting by 8:30 pm. I silently hoped they wouldn’t get me up at 6 am, but we all know hope is a mistake.

It ended up being 6:45 am, by the way. Tired and chronically yawning, but grateful, I made it to Cora and Bea’s respective schools and work on time. Bea’s little bandage was still hanging on for dear life when I dropped her off at day care. I can’t think too much about her standing there in the middle of that room while her supervisor vacuumed, so loud.

Bandaged Bea with a big head of hair, moderately tangled, and pink jelly shoes she can put on herself. Oh Bea. We’re only little once.

Fake Headlines

I will explain what happened last night, then I will tell you what has been going on with me.

Arkansas is in the midst of attempting what I call “mass executions” before their drugs expire this month. That means eight guys gotta go, and they’ve already done three in the past few days.

Last night I was sent this screenshot, which appears to be an animated live update of someone being executed. I was already emotional about this situation, from being inundated with hate all week on all the local news pages where the good Christian citizens of Arkansas were calling for blood, and I assumed they had found their Nightcrawler angle on this entire mess. I had that detail wrong, and I guess I’ve joined the ranks of Fake News after sharing it and tweeting it repeatedly.

Thing is, they were live broadcasting outside the prison. They DID seek to profit from this tragedy, and while the tasteless image was used to describe the execution process, it was not a progress bar. Because I flew off the handle and assumed one thing, I’m the garbage guy, which is fine, because that’s how I feel all the time anyway.

Furthermore, it really doesn’t matter because it would have stopped nothing. These guys are dead or are going to die, and who really cares about a bunch of murdering rapists? I think anyone who would read this understands that we have a justice system for a reason and why lynch mobs are dangerous. I think you probably have also heard about the West Memphis Three trial that took place here in Jonesboro, Arkansas, and understand why some of us around here might have questions about our justice system. If you aren’t familiar, please read up on it. I cannot summarize it here properly, but believe me when I say a bunch of superstition about the occult led the West Memphis police to frame some juvenile delinquents and drag them to Jonesboro where local business leaders and attorneys colluded to form a kangaroo court and put them on death row as an example to everyone watching. The three were eventually freed after twenty years, and Damien Echols came back to Little Rock for a day last week to protest these executions, his very point being that THIS STATE has NO BUSINESS executing ANYONE.

That said, I was wrong and sloppy in my approach, and something that momentarily got some attention ended up getting deflated. I’m not a news organization, so I can’t post a retraction and soldier on, sally forth, chin up, whatever. I’m not a leader who gets to lie about every mistake and keep on truckin’. That’s what your politicians do. I’m wrong constantly. I’m almost never right, I feel, and it’s no surprise that I’ve been increasingly ignored, unfollowed, and unfriended the shittier my opinions get. I am so politically removed from most of you, Democrat and Republican and Other, that I’m viewed as the local nutbar, and that’s fine. I wouldn’t have it any other way, but it is lonely as fuck.

I have been flailing for the last fortnight trying to figure out what my way forward is online at this point. I have deleted and reinstalled the Facebook app daily. I have quit and unquit within the span of fifteen minutes. I don’t want to offend those of you who have had chemical dependencies but I am addicted. I need the thrill of being online and the dopamine hits and I’m not getting them. My brain is panicking and doesn’t know what to do. It is devastating to write 2000 word essays about my kids every day, some of which I think are my best work, and have 20 people read it if I am lucky. I could make YouTube videos where I throw them across the room and be famous, but I am not that cruel. The point is that society would eat that shit up, but they’re not getting hardons for the mundane right now. Maybe my heartwarming family stories full of angst and at least two mentions of death are too boring these days.

So I’ve been cruel online lately. I’ve punched down. Stomped down. I find myself agreeing with bigots and fascists because they point out what’s wrong with the reasoning of “libtards” and I take a moment and wonder if I could make it in their world. I couldn’t, but I have to say it’s tempting. If I thought someone would embrace me with open arms I could be Alex Jones, or Anne Coulter. I want to be loved by someone and it’s always gnawing at me, in the back of my mind. I could L. Ron Hubbard this shit and start a religion. That’s what I want. It’s what I need. Then, I think is this temptation? Is this the secular devil? This is what you guys mean when you talk about that, while you thump on your bible, and it’s a human thing you’re describing. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

This used to be the type of thing I’d post on MY BLOG, which no one reads, and I’ll probably copy/paste it for posterity’s sake (this was originally posted on Facebook, which I cannot escape), but I’m tired of writing and proofreading for hours for nothing. I’ve made this pledge privately and I’ll do so publicly now: I am going to keep writing, about my life, my kids, and things I love, like science fiction, but I am quitting politics. I think the world will get along fine with my $35 check to the ACLU and me living and just being a person. I am too wild to feed into the narcissism of all that shit. It makes me Jekyll and Hyde, or more ironically the Wolfman (Talbot). I wake up with the figurative blood on my hands and vaguely remember what I’ve done. I’m constantly filled with remorse. I can’t do it.

And some of you might point this out as my privilege, that I can be nihilistic and self-centered and stop speaking out about things. You’re correct. Thing is, I cannot handle it. It is affecting my mental and physical health. I need a pass for this. If you want to call me a sick boy, the dude who couldn’t hack it in the world, that is fine. I would rather live and be happy with my kids in this hellscape than fight and fight and make myself ill for nothing. Still a trashbarge of doom. I could have carved out an existence on this punishment sphere, and I’ll look back and realize that I had things to love all along but I spent too much time hating the world to realize it.

I love my wife and kids. Gina, Wiggles, and the girls are the best thing that ever happened to me. I owe it to them to stop staring at my phone. I owe it to them to stop hating everything so much it kills me.

I’ll always be around, until I’m not, but I have to change if I’m going to survive. If that means I turn a blind eye sometimes, so be it. I can’t wreck my own castle and expect to go out and conquer territory. I am the worst revolutionary. The one everyone ignores. Well, I’m stepping off this streetcorner. I’m putting down the bullhorn. I’m going to enjoy being a father.

The world never needed a Talbot politician.

Anniversary 2: Electric Boogaloo

Gina and I were married on January 11, 2016, which was the day before her birthday and the day after we returned from what may be tied with the Dallas Fan Existential Crisis as most angst-filled convention we’ve ever attended. David Bowie had died the day before, which had a little bit to do with it, but we’d reached the ends of our ropes in other ways.

There’s no pretty way to say we were losing our minds living apart, which was one of the judge’s requirements prescribed during my previous divorce. It’s a completely understandable arrangement; I can imagine how less responsible parents might have a series of strangers shacking up with them, and I can further imagine how that could be detrimental to their children, but it still seems a bit nanny state to me.

Gina has always loved the girls, and it is a testament to her huge heart that we’re even together. I’d like to cite my charisma and devastating good looks here, but we all know no amount of game can make up for having two kids from a previous marriage and going through a brutal divorce process. I’ve said it before, but Gina really is the patron saint of stepmothers, and I’m not sure what I’ve done to win this lottery.

The tone of this love letter is already different than some I’ve written in the past, so let me make something clear: I stray from any sort of negativity when I talk about our relationship in public, and I’m absolutely going to hold to that pledge. Not that I have anything to complain about when it comes to Gina, but it really is a death knell when I see some of you folks whining online about something your significant other did. You need to address that shit in private, otherwise it’s emotional abuse, plain and simple. I’ve been guilty of this in past relationships, and every time it pops up on my On This Day app, I cringe.

Furthermore, when I’m writing about celebrations of love, I try to keep it positive. There’s something missing, though, if I act like nothing was ever hard (haha, maybe I should say difficult). Holy shit, guys, it wasn’t just difficult. At times, it was devastating, but it wasn’t because of us. It was baggage, circumstances, and the world. We’ve won such a victory here, but there’s no reward without a struggle. I’ll save the happy sappy shit for our legal anniversary on January 11th or Valentine’s Day. Today, however, a day before April 16th, which was the day we celebrated our marriage publicly with our friends in a mostly-traditional ceremony, it’s time to get real.

The first thing I did when we arrived home on January 10, 2016, was crack a beer and put Space Oddity on full blast. Life was short, and we were going to get married.

This wasn’t some Vegas, Elvis impersonator-associated notion. Gina had survived a harrowing car accident a few weeks before when she totaled her car and escaped with a few bumps and scratches. She only drove home that night because a court order said she had to spend the night under a different roof than my children, otherwise she would have been safe with me. I don’t believe in fate, but if you want to call that a sign, I’m not going to hold it against you.

So, the next day we drove to the Craighead County Courthouse, got our papers, found a Justice of the Peace, got married, Gina moved in, and we lived happily ever after, The End.

Oh wait, something else occurred a month later, and a month after that she showed me a positive pregnancy test. I’ve strained my brain trying to remember which time it happened, but I can’t peg it down. It had to have been early February, and I’m certain it must have been a great time for everyone involved.

I have to tread carefully on this next part, because there were a few days of sitcom, no, rom-com level misunderstanding as we both assumed the other person wasn’t ready for this even though we both were. No one wanted to say the words, but every time we discussed the situation, it was more along the lines of “What are we going to do,” not, “Holy shit this is amazing.” I mean, we had just gotten married, and it was time for stability and relationship building, not cranking out babies, right?

The standoff finally ended one day when she said, “We have to talk,” and I started spilling my guts. We had our Hollywood moment, or something close to it, when we realized we both wanted the same thing and that we were also terrible at communicating sometimes. Conflict resolved, set sail for parenthood (again).

(Willie, if you’re reading this, you were always wanted – though you were a bit of a surprise – but Gina and I were also terrified of upsetting each other. Thank you for being here, and thank you for teaching us how to talk about Important Things.)

Gina and I held a public wedding ceremony at Lake Frierson on the 16th of April that year. Only a handful friends knew we were already legally married, and next to no one knew she was pregnant (although I’m sure they’ve done the math by now). The girls were in attendance, which was wonderful, and I have to say it was the most pleasant wedding I’ve participated in. Third time’s a charm.

I’ve told the tale of how Willie was born, which I hope you’ll read if you haven’t had the chance. I think about it often, and I frequently thank him for being here.

I thank Gina, too, but not enough. I thank you again here, love, for all you do. There’s no way I can repay you, other than being here and loving you and Willie.

As we journey into our second year of marriage and our first year of parenthood together (my fifth, personally, but who’s counting), I cannot pass the day without marking it. Though there’s no traditional precedent for dual anniversaries, I think we’ve earned January 11 and April 16.

I love you, Gina. It’s still an adventure.

Funny Papers

Last night I walked by the humor section at work, as I do at least a dozen times a day, but this time I paused because a Garfield book was out of place. I picked it up, flipped it open, and thumbed through the pages. It was the first collection, where Garfield looks weirdly misshapen through about half the book and slowly morphs into the familiar cat we all love (or love to hate).

When I was a child, I sat in the Trumann Public Library every afternoon after school and read their comic collections from cover to cover. I was also a fan of the Time Life books and the Disney annuals, and sometimes I’d wander into science fiction, but I pretty much stayed in the left-hand corner as you walk in the door, right past the model of Old Ironsides, the USS Constitution. At the time, I didn’t know a Talbot had once steered that ship, but it wouldn’t have meant much to me anyway. Just a handful of years later, I would be on the opposite wall perusing (and I do mean perusing, fuckers, look it up) the works of Stephen King and Michael Crichton, but in elementary school I was more interested in the adventures of a particular orange cat.

Back in the bookstore yesterday, I read strip after strip without much effect until I came to one where Garfield accidentally jumps into a toilet, and here’s the kicker: It was a short, weekday strip which would have been printed in black and white, but there in the book the “SPLOOSH” was lovingly rendered in yellow ink. That, combined with Garfield’s “I hate Mondays” in the last panel really tied it all together.

In my later Cedar Park Elementary years I discovered The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbes, of course. I hate to even mention the works of Bill Watterson lest you all collapse in jizzheaps of orgasmic self-satisfaction at being fans of the greatest comic that ever was or shall be. Man, fuck you, Bill. I suffered through the goddamned documentary where a guy travels to libraries and museums to pull out newspapers and prints featuring Watterson’s work and view them with all the awe and wonder of Indy in the map room. Bill is hiding somewhere in the Midwest and burning his oil paintings, the most noble artist. Whatever.

As for The Far Side, it is beyond reproach. I envy the kids these days who get to do book reports on things like Diary of a Wimpy Kid or whatever Raina Telgemeier’s most recent relevant work is. I tried to do a book report on a Larson collection in fifth grade and I got my ass handed to me by one of those teachers who looked and acted 60, but I’m sure she was actually 32. The same crone gave my brother a D for turning in a brilliant short story about three ghosts named Moe, Larry, and Curly, who were, as he put it, “Zestfully Dead.” Sometimes that phrase hits me in the shower and, thirty years later, I have a good chuckle.

As products of 1978, Garfield and I share a special kinship. I could read not long after the 1980s rolled in, to the glee and excitement of all my relatives. This was probably also my downfall, because speed of development doesn’t have too much correlation with the point at which someone peaks, so while Little Bobby Talbot, Boy Genius, would soon become Bob Talbot, Idiot-Man, the general expectation of automatic greatness was set early. Sorry to disappoint you, fam.

The old folks would often sit me on their knee and ask me to read the funny papers, since that seemed both appropriate and challenging enough for a toddler, and I guess I gravitated toward the adventures of Jon Arbuckle and his sassy cat. The dotted-line Family Circus comics always seemed like an adventure, but what the fuck was Mary Worth?

Later, I’d seek out Jim Davis’s fresh takes at the library, and I even got into US Acres for a while when ol’ Jimmy couldn’t keep up with my lust for more original grumpy-cat action. There were other tomes there that I wish I could find online, like a huge, taped-together hardcover on the history of Popeye. I know way too much about that salty sailor and his Thimble Theatre friends, and I have the handful of taxpaying citizens of Trumann, Arkansas, to thank for it.

They also had an even thicker, even more taped-together fat black book on the history of comics in general. It started with the Yellow Kid, and the Katzenjammer Kids, but it also introduced me to other classics like The Spirit, Krazy Kat, and The Red Tornado. I don’t remember the collection’s exact title, and my Google-Fu has failed me so far, but I’m sure someone else out there read this thing. I cherished it, and if I could find a copy online for under $100, it would be mine by tomorrow.

It is something strange to see the lasagna-loving cat I studied so much in my youth bandied about in memes and edits, but I don’t take too much offense. It is a testament to the enduring work of Jim Davis. You don’t see nearly as many Peanuts memes, and the Calvin and Hobbes ones are often saccharine, but if I remember my Žižek properly (he was either quoting Mao or disagreeing with him, but I digress), an ideological battle is won when the enemy starts using your language. Now that religious fundamentalists explain superstition in scientific terms, it is only a matter of time before they’re engulfed by rational thought, which they don’t have to accept, but they’ll still be forced to describe their denial with our words.

It is the negation of negation. When you claim to loathe Garfield or at least be bored by it, yet you continue to describe life and humor with its imagery, it has already penetrated to your core. There’s a strange ennui about the comic, a depth many miss until they remove dialogue boxes or work it into live-action plays or YouTube poops, and for all the complaining about Garfield, almost forty years later you are still complaining about Garfield. Slavoj may not be right about everything, but he’s hit that one square on the nose.

My kids are aware of Garfield, mostly in cartoon form, but they’d rather watch The Real Ghostbusters. Lorenzo Music voices characters in both, so perhaps there’s something about his benzo’d Bill Murray delivery that appeals to children. In any case, I’m glad they at least tolerate a thing that was once so important to me. I suffered through enough dark, tediously boring afternoons of Peanuts cartoons at Granny’s house to know what it’s like to just not feel it. I know some of you have fond memories of good ol’ Chuck, and I don’t seek to shit on them, but to me it was all grey skies and WWI fantasies, screaming beagles and irrelevance. I wanted to watch Sesame Street.

Dat Vince Guaraldi, tho.

I had a ratty, orange, stuffed cat I dragged around the house and yard on adventures. It was my buddy and my constant companion, though the doll now rests in some box, I am sure, in a sequel to Toy Story 3 that doesn’t end in donation or incineration. Consider it, perhaps, an alternate ending 10 minutes into the film where the correct container gets put into the attic. Time to gather dust, roll credits.

I had something you wrote about, Mr. Watterson, and for all the slutty merchandising, maybe I had it because Jim Davis didn’t hide his light under a bushel. Maybe you wrote about something only someone else could provide. Your comics are a history, and they are history, but all the beauty and insight in the world sequestered in your cabin, torched in the woods, do not touch what was striped and sour and droll and mine.

I had a friend, and my friend’s name was Garfield.

On Not Writing

It is at times like this when I’m not writing or even writing about writing but writing about not writing that I can only comfort myself with examples of Kafka or Fitzgerald wailing and gnashing their teeth over the thing that would not make itself available. Worse yet, though, is the realization that while I’ve definitely hit a few homers, mine were knocked out of the park at practice rounds in ball fields no one will ever see, which amounts to masturbation. No quantity of nuts blown into the toilet or your favorite sock will produce an heir no matter how much flourish and gusto you coaxed them out with.

There have been times I looked online for inspiration, but either the Almighty Algorithm or the dystopian present’s mundanity or both have taken hold and all I see now are hundreds of posts about an airline. I’ll blame you whenever I can, and today has been a wonderful opportunity in that regard.

That said, I’ve resigned myself to guerrilla warfare when it comes to creative acts. Every time I sit down to produce one large work, I’m smothered by wrongness. I’ve been in enough relationships that were panic-inducing from the get go. Every book I start feels like the wrong partner, but maybe I just fear commitment.

Perhaps I’m afraid of going dark for months only to emerge with another hunk of garbage. Possibly, I’m afraid I’ll never love it, and I might be even more terrified it would develop some kind of following, which I’d be forced to defend. Is it possible to carry to term something so hated and have it flourish? Do the scriveners of cliterature adore their own fantasies or are they more fond of the paycheck that follows? Did they dream of Hemingway’s Spain while they hashed out this month’s titillating tale, available now on Kindle for $2.99? Did they clutch their dogeared Bukowski through college and emerge with the next hot cautionary teen free-verse hit, and another, and another?

Did they squeeze that turnip from their office or did they stand in a restroom stall to proofread while they huffed piss? Excuses are excuses, but I’m actively selling my belongings because I’m failing to make it on the income from a full time job and an inherited farm. If the Great American Novel is something I can find, I’ll have to steal it piece by piece. It’s too cumbersome, too great a thing to haul off during lunch breaks and precious time away from my growing offspring.

It is not lost on me here, the hypocrisy of searching for success when I rail against the very system that refuses to accept me. I’m the unyielding problem child who begs for unconditional love between tantrums. I’m Cool Hand Luke digging his hole while society says, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.”

Once, I read a union-busting pamphlet that described socialists as losers, whiners, lazy, and chronically depressed. I can’t take exception to that anymore, but I still ask, “Why should I love a world that goes against every fiber of my being?” I must own the stereotype, though, in order to move forward. Revolutions are not led by #winners. I am the shit guy. I’m the one who can’t hack it here. I’m the one who cannot be pleased, so I yearn for an order and a method different than this one.

Funnier, still, is that I have all the equipment to win but in precisely the ways I don’t want to. I have the land, the face, and the race, and the religion is there for me if I choose to accept it. I’ve been so gripped by layers of self-loathing that I’ve denied what I arguably am in favor of some other thing, which is a fairy tale. Still, I’d die a dreaming pauper before I sold my small remaining excuse for dignity out for a few pats on the back from gold-adorned soft white hands.

So many people claim to want change, but it is usually in the order of things, not the method. Whatever label they slap on it in the western world, it usually boils down to replacing capitalism with intersectional capitalism, as if that could be a thing on a grand scale, but capitalists will package it thus and sell it to you as a first step toward democratic socialism if it gets your buy in, though they obviously have no intention of taking you there.

The burning hatred I hold toward a system I both cannot change and, as I hurtle toward forty years of age, have not succeeded in, consumes me as well. I’ve taken the old adage about rage being like drinking poison as a challenge. If I drink enough, perhaps I’ll become a choking, flammable cloud. This spiritual self-immolation is destroying me, but when the spark arrives, won’t there be change?

I am the worst combination of things: A spoiled American, a guilty middle-class white man, a pessimist, and a dreamer. I am vain, narcissistic, and in control of very little except, sometimes, where I take a shit. I am the migraine, grinding away in the dark. I am broken-tooth insomnia.

This isn’t leaderspeak, but I am not that. It’s best I embrace who I am and what I’ve always been, which is the guy who wasn’t very good at things even though someone thought he was supposed to be. For all my bluster about being Bolshevik Batman, I’m more like the copycats Batman beats up before he tells them to go home and leave it to the experts. I should mention that Bruce Wayne is Ayn Rand’s wet dream, but it still follows. I’m a basket of contradictions that barely tolerate existing in the same container, and so are my metaphors.

I will write of angst if that’s all there is. I’ll fill volumes with tension headaches and neck spasms. In time, I’ll have enough essays on pessimism and the futility of struggle to publish “Fuck It: Why I Can’t Say Fuck It and Stop Fucking It,” which will sell for only $2.99 on Kindle.

It’s no Chuck Tingle, but it’s all I’ve got.

You Can Run…

I used to run all over town until I fucked my knees up, then I’d run some more. For all my irresponsible self-injurious behavior, you’d think I would have been doing marathons, but I ate way too much and pushed myself too hard too quickly. Most of my runs were six to eight miles, and I think my longest ever was almost ten miles, which is not even a half marathon.

I’m not going to give myself zero credit here. I peaked in mid-to-late summer when the temperatures were regularly over 90° F. Sometimes I’d weigh myself before and after the run and I’d drop five or six pounds of water weight in a couple of hours. One time it was more like eight. I didn’t know that was possible, but next time someone tries to sell you one of those miracle weight loss contraptions, rest assured they’ve found a way to sweat some water out of you, which you’ll add back next time you take a sip.

I also ran up and down Crowley’s Ridge, through the Craighead Lake Park, and down into town. I’d often cross one of the treacherous overpasses and cruise by Wal-Mart and the Mall at Turtle Creek. This city has few sidewalks, so I’d bolt across parking lots, empty plots, and ditches. I’d return home with swollen knees and go to work barely able to squat, or walk for that matter.

I’d often picture myself talking to Dad, but I never felt any sort of presence other than my own futile straining. I’d try to force it, to dig my nails into something in my brain, but it never clicked. I was alone, myself and the trail or the road, and I did find the elusive runner’s high a handful of times. It felt like I was riding a motorcycle, just elation, cruising, and the world humming past me. There were other moments when I screamed and cursed my way up steep hills, which is difficult to convey without making it sound funny.

These days I look for reasons to avoid cardio. I’m thrilled to no end when I pick up a resistance exercise workbook and part of the intro has been written by some wise dude who proclaims, “Cardio is a gigantic waste of time!” He’s wrong, but I love the comfort of confirmation bias.

If you want to lose weight, eat less and exercise more, of course, but if you want to look good with your clothes off, you gotta lift. You also might want to do a bit of cardio lest your heart violently explode, but that’s up to you. I feel like I get enough being on my feet at the bookstore forty hours a week. Your Mileage May Vary.

Please don’t misread this as your life goals prescribed by your new unsolicited fitness guru. This is my experience and it doesn’t have to match yours. If you have different plans, by all means follow your dreams whether it means running ultramarathons in Arizona or having your living room wall removed by firemen. We all gotta die sometime.

I see lots of you struggling with things, and it’s hard sometimes to do anything other than click sadface when you say your life is being destroyed, or that you hate the way you look, or that you’ve gone in for another surgery. I don’t want you to feel alone, especially when it encompasses your body, because I’ve had all sorts of struggles in that arena. Still, though, when yours include almost dying, repeatedly, I don’t know what there is left for me to say other than, “Holy shit.”

Maybe, “I see you.”

When your struggle is that you are objectively more beautiful than me but you hate yourself, all I can say is, well, I’ve been there. I used to be young and attractive and I hated myself. I still do, inside and out. No one hates Bob Talbot as much as I do, and because of this I know no quantity of compliments will fill that hole. I could have billions of screaming, undulating fans and the moment I went home and it got quiet I’d taste dirt again. I can’t run from the CPU sitting atop this meat machine. Believe me, I’ve tried.

Yesterday I stood at the customer service desk and looked at the Nook sign fifteen feet in front of me. I gazed, unblinking, until my vision got blurry and I thought, “I bet if I stared hard enough I could jump through that O.”

I don’t know what I look like or sound like when I’m trapped there, and I do mean trapped. I feel imprisoned, and I vacillate between strange silence and animated preaching about socialism. Sometimes I’ll come up with a decent shitposty idea and chuckle to myself, then I’ll wonder if I have time to hammer it out on my lunchbreak. On a day like today, when I’ve gotten up early to lift weights and write, I use that precious hour for study.

I hope sadface is enough for you. Sometimes when I see bad news, I want to launch into a screed about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune but then I realize I’m making it a bit about myself. If I’m lucky, I embarrass myself so badly even thinking about it that I clamp my mouth and my hands shut and go on with my day. I don’t think my message about how that must have been terrible and one time, at band camp, I got a flute stuck in my pussy, is going to help anyone when your entire family just got marched over by the “Spirit of Troy” Marching Band from the University of Southern California.

We all know that’s not my job, though. Half the battle is that you shared a feeling, and the other half is that someone said, “Hey, I hear you,” because these are often situations money can’t fix. Hell, if money will fix it, suck up that pride and fire up a GoFundMe. I’ve given plenty of people I’ve never met a few bucks because someone I do know said it was important to them.

Otherwise, we’re here. I’m here. I hate to say, “We’re all in this together,” because it’s certainly closer to, “Everyone dies alone,” but while we’re breathing, give me a holler. I hope that next time I yell into the void, you throw me a sadface. I’ll return the favor. I can spare the 1.42 calories (not kilocalories) per click.

Slacktivism on the Edge

Today I had the pleasure of asking someone who works on Capitol Hill (I won’t drag him into this by namedropping him) why he doesn’t reach over and punch Paul Ryan in the balls.

No comment.

I also asked if he ever went back to his office and said, “WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”

No comment.

That’s the most exciting thing that’s happened since yesterday, when I got asked to move my IWW pin three inches from my lanyard to my shirt. I’m pretty sure even asking me to do that is technically illegal, but all sorts of things are technically illegal, like scheduling people for breaks they often do not get or setting up situations where they’re forced to work off the clock. You know. Things like that.

Minimum Safe Distance

At the risk of seeming like some easy-to-pick-off lone wolf, the entire situation is made even more ridiculous by the circumstances. I’ve worn this thing for five years and they claim they didn’t notice. If they hadn’t had us remove all our “bling” (it’s fucking “flair,” Jesus – get it straight), no one would have been the wiser and I could have gone on being a slacktivist who wishes he didn’t live in a right-to-work state.

I’ve kept it on symbolically, as a token of the beliefs I hold, the organization I’ll never have, and what I passionately feel is humanity’s only way forward. It just happens to be barely protected speech (and sometimes it isn’t) so I have that going for me, which is nice.

I don’t have to point out what a sad, harmless, pitiful man I am. I toss my screeds to the wind and I don’t even know most of the twelve people who read them. I wish you spoke to me more. If you’re afraid of doing so publicly, do it privately. I need to know I’m not doing absolutely nothing, which is what I fear most.

This isn’t funny or entertaining, and I thank you for tolerating it today, if you are even that generous. I’m tired and I have nothing to show for it. I love my wife and my family, but as far as achievements go with regard to writing or activism, I have strained myself to the max for no gain. For loss. It’s devastating.

I almost threw that dumb fucking pin in the trash, but then what would I be? If I can’t even cling to my ridiculous ideals, I’m nothing. Why am I even here?

Have a great Saturday, if you can. I’ll be at work until five, then I’ll go home and try not to be such a downer. It’s a challenge I’ve failed lately.

PS – It’s hard to write on your lunch break with your boss hovering over your neck, but I’m the gonzo retail journalist, right? This is my domain, between danger and despair.

To be continued…