My Semi-Fictional Life #23 (Cooking)

Hello, my culinary-minded cuisinartists. Today we’re going to be talking about something near and dear to my pudgy little heart. Cooking.

The very first thing I learned how to cook was spaghetti. I’m not talking about buying a jar of Ragu. I’m talking about watching a pot of marinara bubble like a witch’s brew for several hours. We bought our noodles because making the sauce caused a big enough mess. Last thing we needed was flour everywhere. This required that I learn how to brown hamburger, as well. After that, I learned how to scramble eggs and fry bacon, and eventually how to flip pancakes.

The whole time my mother was teaching me to cook, I was having fun. I was learning a skill set while enjoying quality time with Mom. But I also learned a few important life lessons.

Some of my best memories of my childhood are of baking with my mother. The woman made dozens of cookies every December and would pass them out to family at get togethers as Christmas gifts. If she didn’t make enough, people would threaten to riot. I don’t do much baking these days, but when I do, I involve my kids.

And here’s why.

Our cooking is not always a success, and I think that’s important. Last week, we tried making ice cream. I didn’t think the recipe was going to work, but we did it anyway. Holy hell was it bad. The cream separated from the ice crystals and it left this grody film on the top of our mouths, as if we’d eaten an entire box of Captain Crunch. You know what I mean. Same thing happens when you eat really cheap donuts. Bleck.

Cooking failures can teach children that failure is all right. That ice cream wasn’t the end of the world. We put time and effort into something that didn’t turn out right and life didn’t end. It’s how we deal with failure that counts. Failure is an important tool when it comes to learning. You’re not always going to succeed, and that’s okay. At least you finished it, and now you can take what you learned from that failure to make sure that, next time, you’re that much closer to success.

That’s how I see it anyway. What are some of your favorite meals? Do you cook? Let me know in the comments below.

See you tomorrow,


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This is $0.99 on Amazon today. Click the cover to buy. ‘Preciate it!



My Semi-Fictional Life #22 (Ash)

Hello, fellow animal lovers, today I want to talk about my dog. His name’s Ash and he’s a golden/pitbull mix. We think. Not a hundred percent sure. So if any of you lovely dog experts wanna chime in, feel free to. There’ll be a picture of him at the end of this post.

Ash is a big softy, our little mane-less lion. He’ll grab you by the hand with his mouth and lead you around the house. He’ll call out “Mama” when he wants my wife to take him for a walk. He pouts when he doesn’t get his way. Lip out and everything. He prefers sleeping with my son but will settle or my daughter. He’s just an all around good dude who happens to think he’s human.

Ash came from a pit-mix my sister rescued off the streets. The pit-mix (Peggy Sue) was pregnant when my sister came across her, and Ash was one of six pups. His sister, Cindy (originally Cinder… get it? Ash and Cinder? … I’ll stop), stayed with us for about three weeks until she started kicking Ash’s ass on the reg, so my mother adopted her. Then Coal came along, a big black lab/pitbull mix. We lost Coal earlier in the year, though, to stomach problems. Now Ash is all alone. But, if you ask me, I think he prefers being the only one of his kind in our house–a furry human with a tail.

I told you all that to tell you this.

Tonight, I cut my hair, but before I shaved it all off, I clipped the top and left the sides. Basically, I gave myself a Homer Simpson. I came out of the bathroom to show off my new do, looking like a completely different guy, and Ash wasn’t having any of it. Who was this stranger who had infiltrated his home? What villainous villain had sneaked past him in the dead of night? Who was this dastardly bastard with the horrible haircut???

Ash started barking and growling and even rushed me. I guess he caught a whiff of who I was about two feet away from me, because he came to a sliding stop, nails scratching at the tile in the kitchen, his head cocked to the side, wondering what fresh hell had become of his daddy. I let him smell my hand. He licked it. Then proceeded to lick everyone else in the house. I mean, he had to let them know everything was all right. Right?

So that’s my boy, Ash. Do you have any pets? Tell me about them.

See you tomorrow,


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My Semi-Fictional Life #21 (A Review)

Hello, everybody, and welcome to the beginning of week three of this year-long blogging series. It’s been fun so far. I hope you’re enjoying yourselves. Today, I have a review for Victor LaValle’s Big Machine.

Victor LaValle is a terrific writer. He plays with emotions, can make you laugh in one paragraph and sad in the next, and then laugh again a few sentences later. The writing isn’t the issue I had with this book. It’s the voice. I read LaValle’s The Ecstatic months ago. While reading Big Machine, I noticed that both main characters, while different people, had the same voice. I’m starting to believe that LaValle only has the one voice: slightly-sarcastic, self-deprecating, relatable low life. He nails that voice, but I would have much rather read about a different kind of character.

What saves Big Machine is the wacky storyline. I had no idea where LaValle was going to take me after those first 100 pages. But, I must say, getting through those first 100 was a goddamn slog. I read the book from September 11 to October 21. It took me until October 18 to get past the first 100 pages. Over a month to read a fourth of the book. Not cool. I almost didn’t finish it because I was bored. But something told me to stay with it. In the end, I didn’t regret the journey, only the outset.

I dug the idea and execution of the Devils of the Marsh. They were creepy and imposing and I’d never seen anything like them. When I run into a new monster or entity that I dig, I usually want more of them. But, here, I found that LaValle used them just enough for my liking. Another thing I’ll mention is the inclusion of both a supernatural and human villain. This is horror 101, but a lot of horror authors ignore it. Your horror would be so much better, fellow scribes, if you included a human element to your fiction. Stephen King is terrific at this: Henry Bowers in It, Jack Torrence in The Shining, and Margaret White in Carrie. Your human villain will be even more terrifying if you can make them relatable in some way. In this book, Soloman Clay is balanced well with the Devils of the Marsh, but he’s not the only villain. In fact, I don’t think there’s a good person in the entire book. Only lesser evils.

After the first 100 pages, the book jumps back and forth from Ricky Rice’s past to the present. I think I liked the flashbacks more than I did the present stuff. That is until the end. The bit on the pier was exceptionally well written. I saw every detail of that scene. What a way to close out the main storyline.

In summation: I would’ve liked this book far more without the first 100-page slog. The rehashed voice from The Ecstaticwas a letdown, as well, but I think that’s just LaValle’s voice in general. I’ll simply have to space out his reads. He’s definitely not someone I can read back to back. Recommended to fans of literary fiction that leans toward horror.

Final Judgment: “You have a collect call from, Hadababyitsaboy.”

Thanks for reading. I’ll see you tomorrow.


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My Semi-Fictional Life #20 (The Late Edition)

Hello, you beautiful so-and-sos. I almost forgot that I owe you a blog post. It’s been a long-but-extremely-fun day. Let’s talk about it.

The weather’s been nice recently. 70-80 degree days with a lovely breeze blowing through. We’ve have the windows open and the A/C off because ol’ Mother Nature has been so amicable. Well, that all changed this morning. We woke up to 44 degrees and cold asses. I’m a big dude who’s hot-natured, so it was a welcome change for me, but my wife (Chelle) and kids (Autumn and Chris) woke up with chattering teeth. Needless to say, the windows have been sealed up for the winter. I hope the temp doesn’t go up again. It’d be nice to have a cool Halloween. Please, though, no rain. The last two Halloweens ended in soggy costumes. Thanks, Obama!

After we had some breakfast, we headed out to the pumpkin patch here in town to check out what they had to offer. The trip ended up more of a photo shoot than a pumpkin procurement situation and I ended up getting what has become my favorite picture of my wife and I. I’ll post it down below as the Pic of the Day.

After the patch, we headed to Target, where Chelle vlogged while the kids and I goofed off in the Halloween section. We dressed up on the spot and I did impersonations and everyone looked at us like we were nuts. Good times were had.

Dude, I remember being a kid and going shopping for costumes. My mom and dad would fuss about me acting silly in the aisles. No fun. So now that I’m a parent, as long as my kids aren’t at risk of breaking anything or harming anyone, I let them goof off. We might annoy some people, but honestly, I don’t care. These two will only be young once and we already don’t get out enough, so no harm, no foul.

We hit Mickey D’s on the way home, grabbed a couple Mc-Pick-Twos, and ate in the car. I made THIS for dinner, and everyone praised my elite crock pot skills, yo.

It was simply a damn good day. Hell, it’s been a good month. The new paperbacks are selling well, both on Amazon and on my site and there are loads of new books and stories coming and advanced readers are digging Beyond the Gates of Toyland and everyone is happy, and, ladies and gentlemen, I love my life. I hope you had a good day as well.

*hugs and high fives*

See you tomorrow,


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My Semi-Fictional Life #19 (New Paperbacks for Sale! CHEAP!)

Hello, you considerate consuming consumers! I have good news. All of my novels and collections are now in paperback.

I will not be shipping these to you. The printer (Createspace) will be in charge of that. This is how it works: You order from me, I order from them, and then they ship directly to you. Because of this, I can offer all of my books for under $10 apiece, shipping and tracking and insurance included. Yes, even Cruelty‘s thick ass.

You will be able to find these in the Store Page of this website, or on this post, in case you want to share it. Here’s the price list of each book with a special deal at the end for buyers who want the whole collection at a steep discount:

Bay’s End – $8.00


Dastardly Bastard (Only available in print) – $8.00


What the Dark Brings – $8.00


Life After Dane – $8.00


Others & Oddities – $8.00


Cruelty – $10.00


The Edward Lorn Collection – $40.00


My apologies, but the Edward Lorn Collection does not come with any fancy slipcase as of yet. What you get is all six books listed above at a considerable discount.

If you would like any of these books signed, that is not a problem. It will, however, be $3.00 more per book, or $10 more if you buy the collection. You’re not buying my autograph, you’re paying for the extra shipping to me then you instead of only paying for shipping to you. If you do want the signature option, you must email me at the email at

Thank you for your support, and I’ll see you tomorrow.



My Semi-Fictional Life #18 (A Review of JERUSALEM)

Hello, you righteously rebellious readers! Today I have a review of Jerusalem, by Not Quite Gandalf (a.k.a. Dame Alan Moore). Enjoy.

Once upon a time, there was an old magician. We’ll call him Not Quite Gandalf. Not Quite Gandalf quite enjoyed scatological metaphors and similes, and what kids in his day called Funny Books. Not Quite Gandalf, not quite comfortable in his own skin, decided one day that his legacy should not be Funny Books. So he decided to collect all of his unused ideas into one fuck-all-big tome and call it Jerusalem.

(Man, I see an Internet Rage Machine out there right now. Their face is beet red and there’s smoke blasting from their ears. They’re looking for the comment box, but WordPress is telling them that they cannot comment because they are not friends with the fat fuck who just called graphic novels “Funny Books”. I’m kidding, Internet Rage Machine, calm your man-boobs.)

The point of the opening paragraph is to illustrate Alan Moore’s mindset. (See what I did there? Illustrate? Because he writes Funny Books? I’m clever. That’s called wordplay. I’ll throw in a shitty metaphor later, see if you catch it. It’ll be fun. Like one of those spot-the-difference games.) With the publication of Jerusalem, we see the actions of a wizard in the later stages of life, desperately begging to be taken seriously. “I wrote a massive fucking book, me. I’m a proper bloke now.”

Internet Rage Machine: “Your parody of the Queen’s English is offensive!”

Me: “Oh, sugar, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

The main issue I have with this kitten-squisher of a novel is that it’s not a novel. It was marketed as a novel. The goddamn cover calls it a novel. Even Not Quite Gandalf calls this motherfucker a novel. But it is not only a novel. A terrific three-hundred-page novel resides inside this clusterfuck, though. If Not Quite Gandalf had accepted the services of an editor (wonderful people, editors), we might have received a better all around experience. What we do receive is a novel bookended by two loosely (and, gotdammet, I meanLOOSELY) connected short story collections.

Imagine you have a bowl of salt. Dash a bit of black pepper into your bowl of salt. You still with me? Coolio. Now focus on the bits of pepper. There’s probably a hundred or so miniscule flakes of black pepper on the surface. What I need you to do now is to pick up the bowl of salt and give it a shake. Right. Good. Now dig through all that salt and FIND MY MOTHERFUCKING PEPPER, ASSHOLE!

When you read the synopsis for this panda-ass of a novel, you’ll see that someone thought it’d be cute to say it’s a book about EVERYTHING. Well, they’re not being cute. And therein lies the problem, ya dig?

Every chapter, except one written in verse and another that’s just shorter than all the rest for no real apparent reason, is 30-65 pages of brick after brick of text. If Not Quite Gandalf had edited these chapters down to the pertinent details of the world he was creating, I wouldn’t have anything to bitch about. But you’re going to read about EVERYTHING. Not Quite Gandalf seems to think that EVERYTHING is interesting. But it’s not. There’s a reason why most humans suffer from Cognitive Blindness. Cognitive Blindness is what makes Hidden Object Games so appealing to us highly evolved apes; our brains are programmed not to give a fuck aboutEVERYTHING, so we only focus on what we deem important. Not Quite Gandalf does not seem to have that problem. He thinks you give a fuck about EVERYTHING. I, sadly, do not. I do give a fuck about a cohesive storyline, which is in here… somewhere. Because this book does make sense. There is a good story in here. You just have to dig through the salt to find the goddamn pepper.

The lackadaisical editing and perpetual pontification present in this fecally-minded, masturbatory miasma of intellect and madness creates a colostomy bag of calories that goes straight to one’s ass cheeks like a White Russian with wee-colored margarine in, to smooth and soothe your tender palate, as the author’s warm, room-temperature load slides down your gullet and you retch and pass a burnt umber and ochre coal of waste into your knickers, in which resides a ratty resident known as Tom the Diamond, a shit-encrusted man-troll hellbent on fathoming the words this fat fuck wrote on the internet in a weaseling attempt to corrupt the good name of an overhyped author struggling to be taken seriously outside of the world of Funny Books.

Did you have fun reading that last passage? Good. Read this fucking book, ya muppet. Because that is what you’re going to get. Page after page of rambling as Not Quite Gandalf force-fucks his thesaurus into a family way. Ten years of anal coitus with a Word Find is the only possible meaning behind this bloated and belligerent belly-laugh of a book. See, Not Quite Gandalf, you’re not the only one who can write like that. Doesn’t make you any more or less special. Any literate cocksucker can string together nouns and verbs into a Yorkshire pudding of madfuck meanderings.

This book is an accomplishment in the same way that watching a man bash his beanbag in a drawer repeatedly for ten years would be an accomplishment.

“He didn’t give out after the first slam? Ya don’t fuckin’ say! He’s still going? Fuck off! Wait… he really is STILL going??? I gotta see this!!!”

And that’s why I finished this book. I know how fucking crazy Not Quite Gandalf is. I expected page after page of nuttiness, but I thought this would be entertaining moreso than not. Being inside the mind of a man off his meds should’ve been a blast from beginning to end. But Not Quite Gandalf has some whole crackers left in the sleeve, and these injections of sanity are not fun to read at all.

I know more about British history than I ever needed to know. I know about how you folks across the pond went from the barter system to gold to coins and paper money. I know a bit of Sierra Leone history. I know the ins and outs of Northampton because Not Quite Gandalf describes it in every fucking chapter. Think you know your way around? Took the tour, didja? Well, too shitting bad, ya dense pudding, you’re coming along for the next 34 tours, because fuck you, that’s why.

Jerusalem is not completely terrible. I loved quite a bit about the second book. Imagine Neil Gaiman’s NEVERWHERE and King’s IT mashed together. Sound like fun? For the most part, it is. The Nene Hag was amazingly well-concieved, as were any of the snooker scenes. Unfortunately, once you’re done with Book Two, you still have Book Three to contend with, and there’s not a motherfucking ounce of those last 400 pages that I enjoyed. Why? Well, this next bit is a spoiler, and no, I’m not hiding it with a spoiler tag because… well, you’ll just have to fucking see, won’t you.

The last chapter of the book is a rendering in words of the cover. That’s right. Not Quite Gandalf spends fifty of the last sixty-page chapter going over the cover art of the book. The last ten pages are cool, but they left me with a sore feeling in my asshole, as if I’d just been to prison—a virginal sense of “That’s it? That’s what all the fuss was about?

In summation: Not Quite Gandalf, I hope you’re remembered how you want to be remembered. Me? I’m gonna remember you for this.

Final Judgment: Thank fuck this was a gift from the publisher.

Author’s Note: By request, this review, without this final postscript, from opening line to the final judgement, is, according to my version of Word 2013, 1,280 words long, which is the page count of this Tom-Cruise-forsaken book. You’re welcome.

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My Semi-Fictional Life #17 (Punchable Faces)

Hello, you punchy pugilistic prizefighters. Today I want to talk about a problem I have, something I consider a bad trait to have. Namely, my ability to spot a Punchable Face. I’m not a violent person, but I do sometimes have violent thoughts. This is one of the reasons I write; to purge the shit from my brain that would likely get me arrested if I acted on it. Think of it like masturbating before a big date. I will be naming names in places, but this does not mean I want to fight anyone. I’m sure there are plenty of people who do not like the way I look and that’s none of my business. I do not mean to offend anyone, yet someone will no doubt be offended. I’ve never let that stop me before, so ONWARD!

  1. Men who knuckle their chins for photos and stare off into the distance like they’re Rodin’s fucking Thinker. Stop it. You look like you’re leaving a shit. (Also, you don’t “take a shit”, ya muppet. Hopefully, when pooping, you “leave a shit”. If you’re taking shits, stop it. That’s disgusting.)
  2. People who pose with their fists in their hips like they’re goddamn Peter Pan. Like this dude. I don’t know that dude, but his face is highly punchable to me. Authors have a horrible tendency of doing this. You didn’t just conquer a foreign land and slaughter their indigenous people. Fuck off, please and thank you.
  3. Joel Osteen and everyone who looks like him. Jaysus Butternut Christ, that man’s face just screams “Touch me angrily with a closed fist!” Even if dude wasn’t a religious airbag who preys and profits on gullible sheep, I’d still fantasize about denting his forehead.
  4. Tom Arnold. Just him and not people who look like him. Him. #Always
  5. Leonardo DiCaprio. I think this one comes down to jealousy. Yeah. I’m jealous. Hey, at least I’m honest.

There you have it; five types of people I feel compelled to pound into hamburger based on looks alone. I do not truly wish violence on any of these people, but their faces cause my shoulders to twitch.

Who makes you telegraph your punches? You’re safe here. No judging. It’s only wrong if you act on it.

See you tomorrow,


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