Sticky: Finally, Some Good News

29 Oct

I’m writing a serialized novel called Finally, Some Good News. Here are the chapters so far:

  1. What Do You Do
  2. Nest Egg
  3. Second Date
  4. No Exit
  5. The Zombie Zone
  6. Angel of the Morning
  7. Belinda
  8. Power Achiever
  9. I Just Keep Losing
  10. The Sherman Oaks Outdoorsman
  11. Aswang
  12. Festival of Savings
  13. The Fisherman’s Daughter
  14. Ghost Wedding
  15. Talk to Her for Me
  16. Father of the Sword
  17. The Big One

The Big One

11 Mar


In the morning they were going to move north. It had rained again. At 1AM maybe. The water tapping hesitantly at first on the tent roof and then walls of it making rivers of ashes, crawling cold in the dirt under the nylon floor. Hissing over the dying trees and ripping the gray grass out of the mud like a cancer patient’s hair coming out in clumps. Snaking into holes in the blown out Sherman Oaks roofs around them. Waking up mold spores in wrecked sectional couches and pianos and entertainment centers. Fattening up the burned out corpses of TV writers on hiatus who’d moved over the Cahuenga pass seeking highly rated schools. The scorched ribs of the pit bull mixes they’d rescued. It had taken months to get one. The shelters were bristling with volunteers and their alimony money. They interviewed you like Harvard. They wanted credentials. Certificates of education about rattlesnakes, coyotes. You had to try and try. You had to know somebody. Nothing left alive to soak up the sounds and the air made white noise like a jet engine next to you. She had second shift to listen for killers but when he woke up her cheek was nestled in his armpit. Her hair on his neck still wet, smelling like campfire smoke and swimming pool. The rain calmed down to a tap tap tap on a detached gutter pipe somewhere and a gray light was picking up. Her fingers on his collarbones and her eyes were opening and she was pulling down the zipper in his 25 degree rated sleeping bag and kissing him. Her mouth stank like Slim Jim debris caught between teeth for sixteen hours but he got used to it. She pulled open his cocoon and the cold air hit his belly. Slipped off her toothpaste color underwear and crawled on top of him and he felt like he was easing into a warm bath in winter. Moving slow with her hot palms on his chest and he looked in her eyes, seeing a child outside time that he wanted to hold and protect. When he came the world went white and he could see her black bones.

Why Haven’t You Posted

10 Mar

Looking through my own shit and I fucking covered it. I’ve said what there is to say about this apartment. The insects living in it. The fungus inhabiting the grout, mineral crusts in the toilet, the stews bubbling in its various crock pots, et cetera, et cetera. I’ve fucking done it; I got fucked up, I got sober. I got laid, I didn’t. I was broke, I got dough. My fucking same goblin face in the same mirror. Desperately flexing the same obliques under the one flattering light over and over and the pictures still suck. It’s done. Nothing changed, yet tons of shit happened. You got to read about all of it. Now the movie’s over but I keep waking up. I need a muse and you’re a cunt, Angela, for not talking to me. Continue reading

Father of the Sword

10 Feb

philippine cockatoo


Joy had the day off. She came in the morning. Took him to the beach where her canoe was waiting. Do you know how to drive one, she said. It is traditional Philippines boat. PVC pipe bolted to the sides on struts to make a catamaran. Black nylon fishing net heaped in the aluminum hull.

It was high tide. White sand stretched out into swaying weeds under calm water. Out on a pier a Chinese family studied distant ships with binoculars. The only other tourists. Tall storm clouds pulled sluggishly at the horizon. The night before he’d taken the scooter into Puerto Princesa to find sunscreen. A hundred kinds but only one that didn’t bleach your skin, for tourists. In a separate area of the pharmacy. On the boulevard by a harbor full of shipwrecks kids dancing in school uniforms stopped him for pictures, laughing. He woke up early. Spent long minutes smearing sunscreen on. Toweling it off. He didn’t want his nose red but didn’t want to be shiny either. Appraised his gut in the mirror. Sitting down like it would be in the boat. Continue reading

Talk to Her for Me

28 Jan

daily mail


On his 37th birthday he got an email. I love your OKCupid stuff, it said. Would you write my profile. Some messages. $500. Vlad.

He didn’t write for money. Instead he made cold calls for a real estate office in Rancho Cucamonga. I see the lease is almost up on your refrigerated warehouse. There’s a new property with rail spur. Specifically designed for meat storage, or citrus. If you meet your wife I get ten grand, he said. He was kidding, but Vlad said: done. Continue reading

Ghost Wedding

24 Dec

stupidity 3


At night a burning star arced across the black sky to the north. Past the mountains. They were in what was once a back yard. Cinder block walls around the pool still half intact. Everything up high was gone but in the dips between the hills buildings still stood. Air mostly still and cold but once in a while a shrieking hot wind would spin the dead leaves, send them clattering against the concrete. It carried burned magazines. Excel printouts, emails marked HIGH IMPORTANCE. The pages spiraled around and hissed against the walls in the dark. Continue reading

The Bitcoin

13 Dec


Friday he got off late from the coffee shop. Had to walk up the hobo alley off Abbott Kinney in the dark, to the residential street where he’d parked his Mercury Topaz. Work lot for customers only. Rough day but they all were. Gloria the goth cashier girl called in sick. He had to cover. He had a crush on her but she was dating some guy in a band. A state worker out of South Carolina had called, threatening a fine. The dishwasher had fathered kids there and he’d forgotten to file the wage garnishment. In his hand, in a clear gallon freezer bag, the now day old vegan almond flour blueberry muffins. No time to cook but it was something.

Suddenly behind a trash heap something moved. He felt his hands raising up, although he couldn’t box. Rats scattered and a coke Zero bottle rolled half cocked over the concrete with a sound like a door knocker. A strange voice rattling off the dumpsters. Can you help me, it said. Continue reading

Diary: Into the Crypt

10 Dec


Have to go into the fucking office. Weekend ruined. Won’t write the next chapter of Finally, Some Good News. Dreams in flame. Death, run over by a car, shattered pelvis, squirrels gnaw my scrotum, etc.

What’s more I wasted all morning reading /biz. Watching graphs fluctuate on Coinbase with my puny investment in imaginary money you can’t withdraw. It’s a Chinese finger trap. When you pay in, the system sucks it up eagerly. When you transfer out– a long dark lacuna while the price of what you want whips around wildly. Never in your favor. When your coin is lowest and theirs highest, it goes through. Plus a fee. Don’t you see, cryptocurrency eliminates the middleman. Continue reading