Alright peeps, can ya’ll give me a simultaneous, “FUCK YEAH!!”
And also a megadose of “WOO!”
Original Sin be done! Live, and ready to be ignored by the public!!
Author copies are headed my way in the next couple days, so if anyone is interested in a signed edition at a discounted rate (1.3% off the regular price — sweet deal, I know!) then shoot me a Feedback note, and I’ll ship ‘er out to you.
And I won’t charge you ridiculous shipping and handling costs, like those motherfuckers at Amazon who make sure their profit margins can’t get undercut by writers trying to distribute their own books — their sneaky way of guaranteeing a maximum amount of dollars remain clutched to their tentacles, no matter how some bright-light tries to skirt the system.
But instead of whining about a corrupt juggernaut of merchandise distribution, let’s discuss a couple snippets of positivity here…
This 400-page tome of silliness and stupidity was a wild ride to compile. Much of the writing was done either on a sailboat, or roaming Central America, which gave a lot of unexpected flavour to what basically amounted to an improv book.
It’s interesting to make note of where you find yourself in life when you let go of trying to micromanage everything, and ride the Baloney Poney (still a frontrunning name for my sailboat) wherever the wind blows. This is not to say planning is irrelevant when it comes to navigating our personal oceans, only an observation that life seems far more fun (for me, anyway) when I keep the scripting to a minimum.
I’m reminded of a recent adventure to London with my buddy, to celebrate some Xmas fun with my fam. Whenever I heard him utter the words, “So what’s the plan now, Mike?” I usually responded with an, “I dunno, let’s turn left here.” The moronic frivolity that ensued in the “big” city will forever be filed in our mental dossiers within both the “F” and “N” files, as in, “That was a whack o’ Fun, but let’s Never do shit like that again.” Haha. But what happens in London stays in London, unless of course your idiot friend does boneheaded stuff like Snapchat incessantly certain private moments, like being kidnapped in a car, to all his moronic friends trolling social media.
Anyhoo, I’m rambling… A shock, I know!
Original Sin all flowed from a single sentence typed into an ageing laptop, with no real direction in mind before the words started appearing on the magic typing screen. And that was the real fun of the book — just a bunch of made-up bullshit, that left me laughing my ass off, and also allowing me to re-connect to shitty, goofball artwork that I’d lost passion for producing.
The next book in the works is a yearly independent calendar of the very best of Daily Bread — filled with tips, tricks, and insight to help you get through each day of mundane existence with a crooked smile on your face.
After that, who knows??
I could easily do an Everything is Bullshit II, or continue on with an Original Sin trilogy, but what’s the fun in becoming formulaic? That’s what other people do when they let a style dictate them — artists who keep producing similar paintings, writers who keep producing expected themes, and hookers who stick to only one hand-job technique. To me, that cries out safety, security, and lack of imagination. I have no idea what the next major writing will entail, and it’s gonna be tough to top the volume of weirdness I just compiled, but such is the true magic of life — taking that random left without fear of getting lost traveling an unknown road.
I’m reminded of a quote here I heard some smartypants person say:
You can’t be lost if you don’t know where you’re going.
Hmm, who was that? Oh yeah, prolly me.
While I’m in babble mode, I should probably note that the first advanced copies of Original Sin may be rough around the edges still — in need of a few dozen typo corrections or aesthetic layout tweaks. I’m not even sure how well the artwork is going to translate to print. But what could be better than owning one of these signed copies? It’s like having a Melville first draft of Moby-Dick, when the title used to be Moby, The Motherfucking Sea Mammal That Ruined My Life. Cool, I know.
And it’s probably time to find myself a legitimate literary agent — a parasite to slip me into the big leagues of idiotic literature distribution… the kind of schmuck to send me advance royalty cheques, and pay for stints in rehab.
Book writing will take a short hiatus here as I need to practice some new music heavily for the next few weeks. Acoustic Mondays with Kitchen Jesus are just around the corner. If you’re ever in the Goderich area, you should definitely check it out! Unless of course I get cancelled after the inaugural performance, which is high in the possibility department. Time will tell…
With that said, I just realized I babbled away another thousand words here, and probably lost half of you along the way… But who cares? My blog, my fun. If you didn’t enjoy my stupidity on some twisted level, you wouldn’t be here.
And for that I shout out my humble appreciation.
New fun on the way as always. If you want a copy of the book, shoot me a line. Otherwise, the opportunity will always exist for you to put your dollars into the “correct” deep pockets of commerce, AKA Amazon, if you want the book. It would be a shame if those schlubs went belly up, wouldn’t it?
Rock on friends, chat soon.
I’m in the middle of the final proofread for my new book, but my brain has turned to mush, so I need to take a break before I start missing obvious typos and stupid shit that’ll make me look like a jackass hack once I hit that publish button. I’ve come too far to half-ass my final polishing, just for the sake of quicker completion.
So how do I take a break from writing? By writing obviously…
A new blog post has been long overdue, mostly because 24 hours in a day doesn’t quite cut it for me anymore. But that’s bullshit of course. We always find time for the things we love. It will forever be our choice to prioritize one action over another.
The holidays were kick-ass fun, visiting family, and hanging out with good friends. But the new year has arrived, and it’s time to get shit together again. My traditional 10-day water-only fast, to greet another arbitrarily chosen calendar year, has quickly past the halfway mark, and I’m growing eager to suck back some fresh fruit juices, and hopefully parlay my new non-toxic habits into a lasting routine I can be proud of once again. Time will tell…
I’ve busted my ass the last couple weeks to ink the final illustrations for Original Sin, and I couldn’t be happier with how cheeseball and ridiculous it all turned out. When the first book proofs are ready, y’all will be the first to know…
As I begin Day 7 of the fast, I realize I have much to reflect upon. Firstly, food is not as critical to day-to-day survival as we’ve been led to believe. Normally when I do an extended fast, I do it with as much bed rest as possible, allowing the energies at my disposal to foster internal repairs. But this time round, stupid responsibility found me working 11-hour shifts for the first 5 days of my cleanse. Definitely not a preferred situation!
But ya know what? Aside from the ragey first few days at work when the worst of the toxins worked their way out of my body, I feel pretty fucking kick-ass. Not once did I feel overburdened physically, or ready to pass out as I carried on with my regular duties in Chuckyville, all in spectacular fashion of course. Okay, okay, maybe “spectacular” ain’t the right word, but I’m entitled to a little poetic licence here and there. It’s my fucking ego-driven blog. I’ll make up whatever bullshit I need to float my giant yellow boat.
On an even stranger fasting note, I still hit the gym every morning before work. Although I’ve dropped a few more pounds than I would have expected thus far, my muscle strength has not atrophied one bit. I’m still pushing the same weights before I started the fast — although in need of more rest time between sets. The body is a fascinating machine.
The second noteworthy part of this fast is the realization how much time I spend living for what’s next — my next stimulant, my next outlet, my next break, my next day off, my next hand-job (one thing that absolutely refuses to manifest). Having zero stimulants at my disposal — essentially nothing to “look immediately forward to,” aside from water — has been a reminder to ground myself in the moment again, something I continually struggle with, despite my pompous and preachy ramblings otherwise. Realizing everything that counts always takes place right here, right now, seldom fails to help alleviate the griefs and stresses of past and future scenarios that never truly exist.
Changing habits always seems to be a tough thing, but it really comes down to changing thoughts. More accurately, quickly quashing the unwanted thoughts that forever seem to percolate in our brains. If you don’t let one of those random word bubbles grow to completion by nurturing it, there’s no way you can act it out. You know what I call the strategy? Thought Abortion. That’s right, let everyone know I coined that phrase. You basically give a fresh brewing thought the ol’ coat hanger treatment before it develops, and never again will you be at the whim of undesired action. Let the embryo grow, and you’ll eventually get fucked with child-support payments.
You wanna change a habit? Simply make a new choice. Then keep choosing that new choice. Ain’t fucking rocket science.
Wow, I am a preachy fuck.
Anyway, back to the fasting thing…
Although my cheekbones at the moment may look to some like a starved waif living in a concentration camp, I think I resemble more of an exotic Icelandic god. Yeah, once again, my blog, my delusional bullshit, deal with it. But my body has leaned out into a chiselled work of art, dropping most of the fat-trapped salt and toxic shit that’s been stored up over my last year of poor lifestyle and dietary choices. I still have a few pounds of fat on my ass that will get me through to day 10, so I have no worries reaching my goal.
Current medical dogma would have expected me dead or in the hospital several days ago. But my decision to push the boundaries of human potential have proven otherwise. I’m thriving better than eating 3 squares a day, and I continually learn new insight into this freaky vessel I call my body.
Though completion may seem a bit far away at the moment, when I hit day 10 I’ll look back on how quickly the time went, just like we all do when reflecting upon the past. Before I know it, it’ll be boating season again, and time to ramp up Mission: Sail the World as an Incompetent Jackass Who Has No Fucking Clue What He’s doing.
I also need less and less sleep each night. Yesterday I went to bed at 9, waking up thinking it was around 5 AM. My internal time clock is normally pretty bang on, but when I checked my phone, I learned it was only midnight. WTF? Three hours of sleep that felt like 8? Wild shit. That’s what happens when the body has no need to expend energy digesting black bean burgers and quinoa fries. Neato.
Of course there’s more fun shit to ramble about, but it’s time for sleep.
Let’s end this on a quote from good ol’ Ferris:
Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
Or is it A? Or eh? I dunno. I guess I ruined that moment.
Next post? That’s right, official announcement of the release of Original Sin.
P.S. I just went 24 hours without drinking water as well. Fuck you science!