Scam 12/16/20

Remember how yesterday I said that I was busy, could really blog, because a lot of “cool” things were happening? Well, all it turned out to be were scammers. Sure they asked to do their interview over Skype and sure their questions were full of typos, but I was there to be a proofreader anyway, right?

When they wrote “we’re going to get you a computer and printer for the job, all we need to do is send you a check, then you deposit it…” all I could do was sigh. Again? Really?

There were a few telltale signs other than the ones mentioned above. Looking back on it, their “acceptance letter” came from Nexgen Flouride, a company based in India which is decidedly not the company they said they were. But you know, when you’re excited about a new job…you just kind of read the e-mail on your phone and go, hell yes.

I also ended up going and taking a look at the company they claimed to be. They’d said they were DotDash, and if I’d done even a little research, I’d have known they were full of shit. DotDash used to be It’s on Forbes lists and Fast Company articles, and these motherfuckers had the audacity to use the CEO’s picture as their Skype profile (btw, fun fact: their user IDs were like cid1345870123723, lol). When I looked at that website, my heart sank. What I thought was a grimy, semi-professional little startup (willing to pay…not excellent, but well enough) was in fact a joke. Like that, a little bit of comfort, a small piece in the freelance business I’m building (to the tune of $30 an hour for 10 hours a week) evaporated.

But I’m telling you, when you’re desperately looking for these things, and busy with getting everything ready for a baby, and also juggling five other freelance projects, you want to just hustle things in. You want it to be true, and so you plow forward, despite the red flags.

The first time I got scammed like this was about fourteen years ago. I was eighteen and had just moved out of the house. Living with Rios, she got approached at Bath and Body Works by an older couple who asked if she and I would like to go to lunch with them at Souper Salad. The food tasted like dog shit and cost too much, but we sat there for an hour while they told us all about the opportunities.

I asked how much we got paid, and they said, “Hah, there’s no payment, but you get a commission for every X you sell, and every person you bring on to sell X.” (I’m not typing in “X” to protect them or anything, I just honestly don’t remember what it was.) I said, “This is a pyramid scheme.” They said, “This is not a pyramid scheme.” Then I got really pissed off and they left before finishing their dinners.

I wish I could have these scammers in front of me so I could yell at them, or do worse.

Most of all, it just feels bad. Before looking into any of it, I had clicked on the “acceptance letter” in my email and unthinkingly messaged my wife to tell her that I’d gotten another freelance gig. This time at $30/hr. She texted back that she was proud of me. Imagine an hour later, me with my tail between my legs. Humiliating!

She’s kind and told me she loved me. I felt worthless. For one moment, I thought maybe I am worth $30. You know? Because you go through this mental thing where anyone offering you money feels suspicious. Growing up poor, you don’t trust shit like that. I let my guard down a little, and let myself feel worthy.


I’m over it, though. Back to the grind. I have managed to procure several (legitimate) freelance gigs through Upwork, and the Reedsy editing continues apace. If you’re interested in any of that, holler at my Reedsy profile or message me here. Oh, and I do want to get that ghostwriting stuff off the ground! Maybe you need a little collabo help, getting over a plot problem or some such thing? Holler at me!

Kowloon 12/15/20

On the second day of my fast, I drove past the Hungry Frog diner, closed by the pandemic. Interesting message there on the side.

Instead of my normal highway route, I decided to take Penn home. I listened to Kowloon Walled City the whole way, which really seems like the best music for crack of dawn partially snowed-over Midwest.

Short one today. Lots of stuff going on!

Knight of Coins 12/14/20

This is the first day of a three-day fast, and I’m realizing how many snacks there are in this house. Living with a pregnant woman, you learn to always have food on hand, and a glance around bears this out: a rolled-up bag of chips on the nightstand by the bed, snacks near the TV, the kitchen cabinets full of choices. I normally get home from dropping her off and set into those cabinets, but not today. The grehlin is giving me a hard time.

On that note, let’s return to a random tarot card for today’s blog direction.


Just my first thought when I see spiky shoulder pads.


This alternate spelling led to some interesting google search results:

What an absolutely awful texture that is. Wonder of wonders that people can be so different, look at this thing and not get their teeth set on edge. Yikes. Could be a good album, though? I will never listen to it.

Cool bioluminescence shot by Patrick Coyne.

This “night of coynes” search turned up many articles about the most famous Coyne of our time, Wayne of The Flaming Lips. They’re local celebrities, with Coyne’s Womb Gallery being one of the neat artistic staples of OKC. Here’s an article with his basic thoughts about basic things. It’s a wonder people ask artists questions like this. Just make the music/art/whatever!

This one is giving me major “Throne of the Third Heaven” vibes.


This word caught my eye on page 15 of searching “night coynes”. I’d never heard it before. Turns out it’s a traditional Russian stringed instrument. A quick search for the term brings up this “balalaika metal” song that has 640,000 views.

Which led to this video about a “theorbo.”

Buster Sword ass instrument


The story begins as King Arthur’s court celebrates the New Year for fifteen days. The lords and ladies of the court are having a great time dancing and feasting. The story describes the lavishly served feast with all the trimmings. Each guest is free to partake in the royal meal. However, King Arthur will not eat on such a high holiday until someone tells a fascinating or adventurous tale.

Illustration from The Sphere Magazine Illustration by William McLaren titled Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

After a year has passed, Sir Gawain must prepare to leave for his journey to the castle of the Green Knight. The other knights are sad to see such a good friend and stellar knight meet with such a bitter blow. Gawain’s answer to the concerns of his fellow knights demonstrates his bravery: “Why should I tarry? In destinies sad or merry, True men can but try.“

The poem describes Gawain’s armor in detail. He carries a red shield that has a pentangle painted on its front. The pentangle is a token of truth. Each of the five points are linked and locked with the next, forming what is called the endless knot. The pentangle is a symbol that Gawain is faultless in his five senses, never found to fail in his five fingers, faithful to the five wounds that Christ received on the cross, strengthened by the five joys that the Virgin Mary had in Jesus (The Annunciation, Nativity, Resurrection, Ascension, and Assumption), and possesses brotherly love, pure mind and manners, and compassion most precious. The inside of the shield is adorned with an image of the Virgin Mary to make sure that Gawain never loses heart.

From Maypole of Wisdom

Goldeneye/Snow 12/13/20

Started off the day with a cup of bone broth in one hand and matcha green tea w/ ashwagandha & gotu. The snow came right on time, even if it was mostly slush.

Took a morning walk to Gray Owl coffee. It’s been in Norman for what, ten years? It’s a great store, but I worry about their $$ during These Capitalized Times. If you’re in the Norman area, patronize this establishment (none of the picture I took are actually of Gray Owl, btw).

Maybe I’ll take more morning walks. I probably would have thought a lot more if the wind hadn’t been blowing the sleet and snow directly into my face. Rios thinks I’m strange whenever I go out into the elements. Makes me feel like Calvin’s dad.

Just me and some transient folks out and about at this time of day. They announce themselves loudly. Cars swish through the slush. The sky was this magnificent slate gray, like the sky in Goldeneye.

Or maybe it’s just the whole color palette of those first few levels.

I always used to murk these guys. What good is having a license to kill if you don’t use it to murder scientists?

Thinking about Goldeneye now. I used to watch the movie over and over, and the game took up near-permanent residence in my buddy’s N64.

It seems like there’s a remake in the works, or there was until the fan-made Spies Don’t Die got slapped with a C&D.

Hopefully technology gets so fast and so awesome one day that a game like this could exist after a week of development, and fly under the radar long enough to embed itself deeply in pirate sites, before any legal action can be taken. That’s the dream, right there. Of course that more than likely comes along with things that are Terrifying and PKDickian, but perhaps we could have a neat Goldeneye remake.

Incredible tree.

Maybe it’s not the game that I’m remembering so much as the geography of Germany. Neubrucke means “new bridge” I think. A huge hill in front of our apartment building led down to the playground/school. Behind the school there was an old pillbox/bunker thing graffiti’d with swastikas and Very American slurs, if you catch my drift.

Anyhow, the sky turned this kind of gray for most of the winter, there. Nearly twenty-two years apart, two places across an ocean are linked by memories of a James Bond video game.

Didn’t intend for the N64 nostalgia to come on so strong this morning, but I’m glad it did. That’s what I’m finding so interesting about blogging. I am able to follow threads in my mind, and present them in a semi-organized format. The atomized doom porn of The Bird Site completely kneecaps this ability in the average person, leading to reactive kicking and screaming rather than cozy little Sunday blog posts about a cold walk and an old videogame.

Sound 12/12/20


“The Wave” by Villu Jaanisoo
Kunstraum Bernsteiner


My Tascam DR-05X came in the mail yesterday. I could not be more excited to play with this little field recorder. I’ve become interested in sound lately, and how you can play with different levels of quality and “reality” in a podcast setting.

It’s also a beautiful object. It’s got these two blunted devil horns coming out either side. Like it’s picking up sounds that it isn’t supposed to catch.


Cities and Memory is a global, collaborative sound art and mapping project that remixes the world, one sound at a time. The project covers more than 100 countries and territories with more than 4,000 sounds, and more than 750 contributing artists.

Field recordings from the Sistine Chapel, a bat cave, and Yakushima forest.


Spark Access 12/10/20

These thoughts stem from a recent article by Jay, titled “Early Access Artists.”

I’d recommend reading that before continuing.

Now: can this apply to the novelist? Could a novelist release unfinished chapters out into the world, or perhaps even snippets of ideas, or perhaps books with entire sections condensed to a small note (“chase scene here”) with the “chase scene” sent out at some later date. Or how about this: a novel that is written publicly every day. Revised, too. Added onto. Like this blog. Perhaps I will start doing that.

The question becomes: how important is it to a reader that an author hands them a set-in-stone offering, a static and final thing? Is that some of the appeal of reading an author in the first place?

I’m thinking of two divergent strains of music-making. On the one hand, you have the album model, in which a band or an artist or a team of songwriters coops up in a studio for however long, records the album, mixes it, and then presents it to the world. In pop records, the album is expected to be as polished as possible. When you listen to a well-produced album, there is something to it.

Now think about Soundcloud rappers. They might not even have mixtapes. I have followed Spark Master Tape for years. At one point, I really wanted to write a book about him. (I contacted someone on Twitter who seemed to be affiliated, in that he had “insider info” on Spark, and the man himself often retweeted him. I wasn’t interested in outing the guy, I just wanted a sitdown so I could pitch my book idea. That person ended up using their account to sell THC vape pens. Bamboozled again! Anyhow, I digress.) Spark hasn’t put out a proper mixtape since 2017. But he has steadily released songs in that time. About 16 by my count. And when you add them all to a playlist…it’s not cohesive in the way an album should be, but you still have the content there.

So is that just as good as an album? Is the schizophrenic nature of the various tracks, recorded separately and over time, enough to rule them out from being a proper body of work? Could we compare this to a short story collection? Maybe, maybe not.

What would this mean for a novel in progress? What is it about having the novel fully finished that separates that mode of production from that of a TV show, or one of these Soundcloud pages? It’s an ongoing, fresh development of content. A TV show doesn’t even have the whole thing written out, usually.

Anyhow, I’m going to experiment with writing a novel in this way. I’ve talked to Kelby about it recently, and I think it’s an exciting, slightly different way of presenting material to people, and one that is much more functional with regards to my own style of writing.

Barry 12/09/20

I’m thinking about my recent exit from social media. I ended my Twitter run with a quote tweet of the author Tod Goldberg. He made some lame, easy Trump joke couched in the amazeballs Wendig-style of “something made of bees” that I despise so much. If this sounds like a schizophrenic typing at the moment, you’re not far off.

Twitter is a disease.

I thought about the time that I did a panel at a writing convention with Tod’s brother, Lee. We were up on a dais, talking to a room of mostly septuagenarian mystery fans. Me there to promote my burgeoning crime press.

I was there with my friends Johnny Shaw and Barry Graham. I wonder how Barry is doing these days.

That day created a schism in our relationship. See, I had forwarded the e-mail that the moderator of the panel had sent to the myself and the other panelists. In it, he said that he wanted to keep the panel simple, because the audience would be too stupid to get anything outside of very basic shit.

I showed that to Barry, and he flipped. Barry’s a Buddhist monk, crime writer, and Scottish psychopath, and when I moved to Portland he became one of my very best friends. An absolute iconoclast, Barry had alienated nearly everyone in the crime writing scene, which generally looks down on people who call you on your shit.

Barry also has a somewhat sordid history with his various ventures into creating monasteries in the US. He’s got, shall we say, negative reviews. I still love him.

He wanted to stand up in the middle of the presentation and read the e-mail back to the moderator. I became very nervous about this. I told him that I would prefer that he didn’t do that. He said “okay.”

But that wasn’t the end of it. In Barry’s eyes, I was compromised from that day on. Our conversations and meetups for beer continued apace, but something had shifted. Finally, one day we got into an argument about that day. I said, “I didn’t want to compromise my career.” Barry said, incredulously, “Your career? You were scared about what these fucking people thought of you because of your career?”

I felt a great shame when he said those words back to me. He went on: “I think that you’re a coward. I think that you don’t believe anything that you claim to.”

There was booze involved, sure. But he was getting to something.

Do I actually believe in anything? Am I just a coward? I poke at these structures of power, these things that I find worthy of fucking with. Do I believe it, though? Will I take that extra step?

I think about this often.

Writer 12/07/20

Got a new laptop today, for my birthday/Christmas. It was long overdue. My old Macbook is a battleaxe, still chugging along eight years later, but it is mighty slow, especially when opening Microsoft Word. Which is a dogshit app, but still. I depend on that working quickly for my business, and having to wait five minutes for a document to appear onscreen has become taxing.

I would click something, get up, make some coffee, read a chapter of a book. Okay, great. It’s ready now. Just not very sustainable for a writer.

A writer. What a strange thing to admit to being. As someone who has spent time in the world of writers, it became ugly. Too much of an identity, less of a descriptor. The strangest thing happened, though. The more I conceived of it as such, the harder and harder it got for me to do any actual writing. My frustrating personality, as someone who doesn’t want to be tied to one thing at all, kept me from actually doing the work. That and a fair amount of anxiety, if I’m being honest.

Anyway, who gives a shit? Pontificating on writing is the biggest waste of time in the world. It’s a thing you either do or don’t. Like eating, or making friends with the neighborhood dogs. I think that’s going to be my go-to, semi-Buddhist take whenever someone goes on about writing and what it means to be a writer. “Who gives a shit?” It’s clean. I like it.

Formally, though, welcome to the blog.

I’m not allowed to talk about anything that I’m doing, either with the blog or with my novels, because I’ve found over the years that it spoils the whole process. Most of you will get it soon enough, if you don’t already. It’ll be a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Who gives a shit?

Fatherhood continues to be a thing that develops day-to-day. I know that it’s coming. Moments of realization roll over me, and I know that one day I’ll be very different. But I’ve always had the spirit of a procrastinator. There is no possible dimension where I am fully ready. All I can do is jump. One time I went skydiving with my pal Sebastian. I was hooked up to a pro like a little baby. The plane door opened and they dangled me out the door and asked if I was ready to go. The answer was a resounding “Yes???” The Three Sisters looked phenomenal that day. So clear. We hit the ground just fine.

What kind of dad will I be? I get along with my father well. Now. Not so much when I was doing the actual growing up. What about that relationship didn’t work? I thought, at one point, that having a child would be a way for me to right the wrongs I felt I’d experienced. Now I recognize that as selfish and weird. It’s really not about me at all. And that, my friends, is something to wrap the head around.

Has anything been about me, my whole life? I’d like to think it has. Then I wonder who this “me” is that we’re talking about. Is it the me who enjoys drinking a beer in a warm house on a cold night? The “me” who reads a book and finds myself being shaped by the words as I read them. The “me” who is standing in a line somewhere holding a toothbrush and a pair of socks like some kind of asshole? I don’t know. I feel like I’m a few dozen me’s from the time I wake up to the moment I fall asleep. It’s been about someone or something this whole time, but who? Never just one.

I had a dream last night that I was back in the neighborhood that I grew up in, but the trees were enormous, stretching up to the sky, Jack’s beanstalk style. Every time I woke up to get a glass of water or use the restroom, I would tell myself “think of those trees” and I’d go back to it. Other dreams in the past week have had me visiting “the land of the dead”, having smoke blown on my soul by shamans, memorizing the shifting topography. This is never spooky or weird, but rather nice. I’ve made friends, but won’t type their names.

Recent science suggests that the way we remember dreams is due to our waking brain making sense of the signals our REM brain has sent throughout the night. That we all assemble it in the moment of waking, and retroactively ascribe a timeline.

Is that not the biggest load of horseshit you’ve ever heard?

Be well.