The Pine-Scented Heavens


So we finally saw Mandy (2018) back in December, and I’ve been having a low-key but constantly-running train about it in my mind.

Painted a bit in advertisement as some sort of arthouse-homage to 80’s grindhouse revenge, it is that, sorta, but is also part of another 80’s tradition that’s somewhat subtlely-alluded to in the film, the vaguely-fantasy/proto-“urban fantasy” laid out in works by authors like Stephen King. Mandy herself is even reading a King/The Dark Tower-esque novel at the beginning of the film, and she paints surreal fantasy landscapes out of Robert E. Howard’s wildest Frazetta-esque dreams. The elements surrounding the drug-addled monster bikers summoned from deep in the woods by a  mystic horn, the power of belief turning a burnt-out Manson-esque rockstar into a callow creature like Jeremiah Sand, and the clear allusions to Nicholas Cage’s Red being some form of traumatized “warrior” feels incredibly reliant on the horror tropes of 80’s paperbacks that drew heavily on fantasy and supernatural elements.

A lot of those fantasy elements in horror are the threads that arguably are the roots of more modern “weird fiction” and “urban fantasy/horror,” utilizing the deliberate blurring of the concrete real world and the mythical/legendary world beyond immediate perception (that arguably exists in tandem with us). It’s that more than the hyper-violent aspects of the film that define it arguably here, because so much of the film feels like a dream, blending lucidity with fantasy, reality with inner thoughts and monologues.

And yet, it’s not a dream.


If anything, the 80’s heavy metal overtones of the film (music, t-shirts, background, etc) make this film feel like the manifestation of a concept album, where story is good, but light, and in the background compared to the themes that the film/album is attempting to convey here. Mandy conveys the theme of the point-of-no-return that revenge stories seem to skip over, especially when it comes to hyperviolent ones that we enjoy and immerse ourselves in. In a way, Mandy reminds me of one of my favorite comics, Grendel, by Matt Wagner (and a veritable cabal of artists and cowriters).

I’ve written about Grendel before and how it manifests a unique view on the true nature of violence as a solution, and how Wagner’s magnum opus’ greatest feat is painfully illustrating how “might makes right” only in short term, and it ultimately collapses into pathetic anarchy and bloated excess destined to dissolve into nothing. But in the moment, in the heat of it?

It’s good, it feels good and righteous.

Mandy feels confusing, it feels like how Red’s mind must be in the aftermath, and how he’s not thinking. He’s not considering what to do next, because he’s perpetually in the heat of it, like a horror-movie monster or a fantasy-epic barbarian, a character in the world(s) that Mandy would paint, a world that maybe they’re living in right now, fantasy and magic intertwined with reality. The Black Skulls bike gang, for example, are a great example of this, a cunning combination of Mad Max-esque post-apocalytpic biker gang crossed with an eternal and preternatural, almost eldritch wild hunt band forever roaming the dirt roads of the Pacific Northwest.

There are definite nostalgic elements to Mandy that I appreciate, because they’re controlled, a slow deliberate burn instead of a gush of fuel and fire all over the dry grass like a lot of nostalgia-heavy works that you see these days. Seen through the sensibilities and lens of Panos Cosmatos too, the film is less an ode to a particular genre and time period.

Instead, it attempts to tap into the atmosphere of several genres’ aesthetics, intertwining into something less like a film and more like a wild experience. It is a wild hunt, in every sense.


Whiskey, Women, & Blackguardin’

(A version of this showed up in my email newsletter)

As the kids say, let’s jam.

2018 has been weird, rough, tough, but also tumultuous in a good way. The news is full of garbage, but at the same time there are bright spots. I got married, which was definitely a party. I went to Iceland and Greece, one of which was new, and the other familiar.

Also, I got a bunch of stuff written;

  • There’s a lot of semi-regular nonfiction and miscellanea at the blog, which is still the primary look into my head and whatever I’m reading/thinking about/doing.
  • I hit 100 on the email newsletter, which I’m unnaturally proud of.
  • The Means At Hand went live, something I’m proud of putting together and trying to keep going, which feels like…not a job, but interesting schoolwork.
  • I wrote and put Some Girls Wander: Two Short Stories out. I haven’t been doing a lot of fiction this past year, so I’m glad this is coming together.

I didn’t do as much writing and publishing and submitting as I wanted to (planning a wedding and a lot of teaching and travel and learning how to relax has clashed with that), but at the same time, I did do a lot of writing that meant a lot to me, and anything out there that people read is counted as a victory as far as I’m concerned.

Doing The Means At Hand has been a singular long-running project that I put a lot of energy into and want to push far along, and I’m very proud of it so far. I wish there was more there (I know I promised that there’d be one more post for 2018 in there but I just don’t have the brainpower to get to it right now so my analysis of John Le Carre is going to have to wait, sorry), but what is there feels good to be able to show off as a basic idea. Also, I try not to stress myself out about “how much” gets written, because so much of that pressure is tied into whether or not I’m doing anything of “worth” in the world, which honestly, is a bullshit train of thought.

Write whatever, whenever. The only rules for writing that matter is that it has to be available for someone other than you to see it, and it has to be yours. “Voice” and anything like that is secondary to material itself. I know that “writing rules” are things that get discussed once in a while, and while I do love Elmore Leonard’s rules for writing and adore Stephen King’s book On Writing, rules about how to do things like write, which are odd combinations of art, craft, black magic, and self-flagellation, are mostly junk.

It’s so odd to see the field treated like a code that can be cracked, like a line that can be jumped if you just know this one certain thing, this one unique trick. There are no tricks, sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. I did the math recently about how many free downloads I’ve given away, added that up to how many books I’ve sold digitally, and then added that to the traffic I get to my blog and that I’ve gotten from getting work published outside my own avenues with other sites and outlets…and it’s OK? And the sad part is that “OK” is better than any focus I got from making and self-publishing comics. Blogging and nonfiction and prose might be a hard wasteland, but it’s better than the actively-hunting-you jungle that is comics.

And yet, I’m also a writing teacher. I should be writing more, I feel, I should have more published material to show for it, at least that’s what my brain says. That of course is also tied into academic imposter syndrome, to the feelings of inadequacy surrounding an academic career, all that. Then the other days I look back at the material I’ve done and what’s out there by me, and tell myself “You know what? I’ve done OK.”

I did OK in 2018. I hope you look back and realize that this year, you did OK too.

That’s it, this is probably the last work I’m writing for the year. Enjoy your holidays, enjoy little things and big things, don’t be ashamed or afraid to feel joy.

Stay sharp, stay proud, stay hungry, stay defiant. See you next year.

Innings & Spinner Racks

I love baseball, but I love it in a weird way. I don’t actually know a lot about the math of it, of statistics and sabernomics. My history on it is spotty at best sometimes, beyond what I like and what really sticks out for unusualness and morbidity. But I love it nonetheless, because I love going to games and watching games, listening to people talk about it, reading about it, and I love that it’s one of the things that I have to share with my father. It’s an impulse we’re drawn to and we automatically follow if the game is on TV or the radio. We don’t have much in common honestly, but of the few things we do is baseball.

The other is reading.

Genre fiction is one of my other major loves, in particular detective-slash-crime mysteries. I read voraciously as a small child, jumping as soon as I could to my parents’ straight-to-paperback novels about cops and private eyes, about mobsters and deep conspiracies unraveled by reporters and hapless civilians. They were his books for the most part, retrieved from the bookshelf in my parents’ room on his side of the bed, and I ate them up. I still eat them up, the discovery of a mystery-themed bookstore by one of he schools I teach at is a delight that made my day.

It’s hard sometimes to describe why I like these books sometimes, why I can be so obsessive about this genre that in a lot of ways can feel incredibly limited. It’s hard to describe how that can be the appeal of it, how it’s amazing to watch this very classic framework that ebbs and flows with suspense and comfort, that can be a slow burn with small but amazingly-important moments of fast loud burns and bursts, where you can’t blink for fear of missing something, where you have to go back and just revel in the amazingness of what just happened.

It’s just like baseball, right?

I have a hard time explaining why I love baseball, because to most people, it’s also seen as boring and stale, as conventional and limited, just like mystery novels. It’s so hard sometimes to explain to people how engrossing the strategy of it can be, how I’m on the edge of my seat for so long and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it aspect forces me to actively pay attention to every bit of motion on the field.

While it sounds intensely cliché at this point, I was an odd child more interested in reading and loud music and being alone and contemplative, making me shy and overthinking teenager with zero interest in traditionally masculine things like sports. I leaned more on my mother for emotional support, not really understanding my dad’s seemingly-simplistic and stripped-down methods for approaching problems and discussions. I wasn’t embarrassed of him like I knew other teenagers were or would be of their parents, but I just didn’t understand what drove him, and I knew that he didn’t understand me and what drove me.

In the same way, my father has struggled, not just with understanding his older son, but in his own way with his personal life and with his work. He’s by no means a perfect man, but he’s always been a figure I could look to for practicality, even when I knew, logically, that he just wasn’t physically around to help me. It’s from him that I get my propensity for useless knowledge about anything and everything I read, that I get my sense of humor at times, that I get my love of grilling. Sitting down with him when I visit family isn’t a deep personal or existential dive into self and emotion, but it’s a comforting one, where so much just gets stripped away to focus on what really matters at that moment, big or small.

I got to appreciate this more as I got older, and he and I have settled into a level of understanding with each other. Time and life experience sometimes have ways of making you look back on a parent’s up and downs and recognizing what they really meant or what they were trying to do. Hindsight’s great like that. He and I each have our own definitions of what it means to be a man, an adult, a Greek-American with immigrant roots, a successful and functional person. We’ve both recognized that we can’t rely on the other to be anything other than the person they are, insecurities and overthinking and all.

So often we want our relationships with people to be intricately-intertwined braids, when in fact they’re independent threads measured by where they intersect briefly, and how often they intersect. He and I intersect repeatedly with casually enjoying baseball and reading mystery novels, because they’re both emblematic of the major and solid intersection we both have, which is the strength of reliable comfort.

The familiarity and comfort that exists in that familiarity is intensely attractive to me. So much of daily life, especially these days as the news and or daily interactions continue to actively drain us of energy, sometimes of the very life and legitimacy we’re owed as people. Is it any wonder we try to find solace in familiarity? In comfort food, in comfort reads and experiences? Baseball and crime fiction are fundamental comfort experiences, not just because they can be the threads that help a weird kid connect with his awkward father, but because those two people are emblematic of the kinds of people who need that comfort.

Hometown Heroes


For some reason, I’ve been really interested in the cultural impacts of old late-night “horror hosts” recently. Not even those TV-only ones, and not in some no-real-purpse nostalgic attachment, because I’m honestly not slavishly-reminiscent of a particular one (my weird childhood and broad television viewing, plus being a little too young to have really lobbed onto any that would have been around when I was a kid (plus my parents tended to very strictly-control my TV viewing when I was a wee lad).

Rather, it’s more thinking about just how regional and localized they are, how they had impacts on people like me JUST in the areas they were viewable, where those broadcasts reached late at night on odd channels or at odd and irregular hours, limited by material to show and shifting contracts and other information that we easily-find and follow today but had to scramble and hustle to learn then, sometimes simply experimenting and obsessively-clicking through TV channels for hours at night, hoping to re-find it.

As people more and more have used social media platforms like YouTube and Twitter to create personalities and brands to sell themselves in hilarious (like dril) or monotonous (Film Critic Hulk) ways, a lot of times attaching themselves to particular subcultures in doing so, it’s interesting to realize just how much of that is the natural progression of an older model.

Chiller Theater003Cassandra Peterson (aka Elvira, Mistress of the Dark), Bob Wilkins, Svengoolie, and Al Lewis are some of the ones that immediately come to mind, though those characters are also, in a way, the natural TV evolutions of radio personalities like Dr Demento and Art Bell (radio’s another whole thread but similar enough here), who built brands around the personas they played and the material they covered, not to mention how they approached it (Elvira’s basically the precursor to MST3K as far as I’m concerned).

The fundamental thing though, to me, that separates so many of these, is that they were of an era when local fame was a viable thing, when localized boundaries set by the arbitrary but fiercely-fought over and defended by the newly-created cable companies, regular broadcast TV channels, and the FCC (again, we’re tangentially-close to the related but wholly-separate thread here of how local news, however big, could sometimes spend months if not years being isolated from the national stage simply because of who could receive what TV channels and newspapers).

When I was in grad school, I discovered both the attempts at rebroadcasting and rebranding the local old Channel 11 (if you’re from NY/NJ/eastern PA you know what I mean when I say a “Channel 11 movie”) horror movie feature Chiller Theatre, as well as a newer local TV cable thing called Sci Fi Ninja Theater, a bizarre local cable-access show that featured spotlights of local cons of all stripe, clips of music videos interspersed with anime and horror movies. Lots of it is on YouTube if you’re not in NYC and/or don’t have cable (which I no longer do and a lot of others follow suit).

Here’s the thing about this show; The host is very much familiar to me. I don’t mean like I know him or have ever known him. However, seeing him, I recognize the type, and the type is a familiar trope that’s basically unique to the ecosystem of heaven metal and punk shows on the East Coast done in Irish bars that take cuts of the door higher than usual because they don’t like all the kids and weirdos confusing their usual patrons with their loud music and weird outfits.


It’s a familiar aesthetic and brash personality I know, but beyond that, it’s (regardless of how I feel about the show, which I wrote about almost a decade ago and got some…interesting…fan mail) an attempt to continue the tradition of small-time TV personalities utilizing the cheap and almost-universal medium of local late-night cable, which are very regional. I feel like some of this is lost nowadays with so much material going out there that’s reaching for broad coverage in the flattest and simplest means possible, that loss of localization being seen as necessary through the lens of being a YouTube or Twitter personality that is trying to carve a space out for themselves amongst the impossibly-crowded noise-to-signal-heavy world of the larger Internet Space.

So I know that a lot of them still live on in different ways. I know that we now have critical and legitimate appreciations for them, that they live on in spirit in various forms, that YouTube has preserved so many of them (as much as I hate a lot of the Internet and social media, the amateur archiving that goes on sometimes is incredibly impressive and legitimately Good Work). I know that nostalgia for hard-scrabbling days of finding the things that you like isn’t necessarily that good because we live in an age of plenty, of wide-open spaces to find what helps us learn we’re not alone, even if we’re weirdos. It’s interesting to think though about the impact these local TV heroes have had on a huger cultural/national scale all these years later, now-venerated. It’s too late for a lot of them, which sucks, but also as fan culture and con culture at one point turned towards bringing them into spotlights as cult figures seen as cool (legitimately or ironically), letting those still around how much they mattered to someone.

Vinny from SFNT mattered to me, in the same way Bob Wilkins and Elvira mattered to others, and I hope somewhere, someone starts down that same path to matter to another whole wave of weirdo kids down the line. Because there’ll always be kids down the line looking for monster movies on TV late at night when they can’t go to sleep and have the house to themselves. As there should be.

‘Tis The Season For Some Spooky Readin’


Hey hey, happy Halloween season! 

It’s my favorite time of year, with tons of movies, Halloween candy (I had a fistful of candy for lunch yesterday, don’t tell anyone), dark spooky stuff all over and spooky punk and goth music blasting (I’ve been listening to The Damned‘s 1985 album Phantasmagoria a lot on my way to work, which is perfect for the season as well as regular obvious rotations of The Misfits), and kids in costumes screaming as they hit you up for candy while insisting they’re not scared and want to watch a scary movie.

I’m in the middle of a lot of writing for The Means At Hand, trying to keep up the newsletter, and managing drafts from my writing-heavy classes, not to mention a ton of horror movie watching, but for my favorite time of the year, I threw together two new short horror stories as a free download called SOME GIRLS WANDER.

Two short stories for the Halloween season about the supernatural oddities that lurk in big cities, just as scary and disquieting as any dark forest.

I hope you guys download it, enjoy it, tell your friends about it, and check out some of my other writing.


Worn On The Belt

So I’ve started becoming a “watch person,” I think.

I like watches, especially mechanical ones that simply require a battery to show an analog time on their face. Can you remember learning how to tell time by tracking the position of a clock’s hands on the face, and how when it clicks, it seems to open a whole new world for you?

No, just me?

I’m not into knowing a lot about and studying their complications (a term that actually describes the inner mechanics), but the idea of not relying on something digital and/or web-based (like a cellphone, smartwatch, or the clock on your cable box) to keep time feels important to me, so over the past year or two I’ve made it a point to wear a watch to work. I’ve actually had a few watches for a while, nothing fancy (though one is, but I can’t wear it anymore because the band is too small, I took a segment out of it and I think I’ve somehow gained mass in my wrist?), but recently I got new bands and batteries for most of them. I got a watch as a gift a few years ago and started wearing it regularly, and another (again, nothing fancy or expensive) recently, so suddenly I find myself with options when I get dressed in the morning. Now I’m thinking of getting one of those cases that holds and displays them for my dresser, instead of just having them arbitrarily in the sock drawer, or next to my little thing of hair pomade.

An analog timekeeper makes me feel like I have at least one piece of somewhat reliable and repairable hardware that won’t run out of battery (by the end of the workday). I’m not a handyman-type, but I like reliable and simple tools. A watch is a simple tool that does one thing, three at the most. It tells time, and if you’re fancy, it can also tell you the date and keep time. And you don’t even always need it to be fancy to keep time, if you can count.

I like tools. Not necessarily the tools to fix things, though I’m slowly building my “toolbox,” the things I look to if I have to fix whatever around the house. Those we have, the power drill (which I hate but can use), a scraper for putty and glue, a hammer, some screwdrivers and wrenches. What I mean by tools are the things I rely on, almost every day, to do things just right, the way I like them.

  • I like my boots, sturdy black leather, British-made, which (if they’re like the last pair that were like this), I can get almost fifteen years out of before I need to think about replacing them. Boots are important as far as I’m concerned, because it’s a sturdy shoe that if they fit right, you can do almost anything in.
  • I like the Japanese kitchen knife I have, from a home set my wife gave me. It’s got a bunch of useful knives, but the general-purpose “santoku” style knife is the best. We cook a lot and I use it for almost everything, and I’ll probably be at a loss when I have to replace it.
  • The multi-tool I carry in my day bag is also a perfect tool, because I’ve found myself needing to use it a lot more than I ever thought, especially the pliers built into it. You never know when you need pliers, apparently, moreso than you’d ever need a knife blade or a little saw.
  • Unless we’re going on a date or I’m visiting my mother, I usually have a pen with me. My bag is full of them, and when we travel, a pen and notebook are key. I’m not actually picky about special types of notebooks and pens, not as much as I used to be, but ballpoint pens and Sharpie markers are essential as far as I’m concerned.

I didn’t grow up in a “tool” family, not in that way that we’d be really into gadgets and stuff. Even my hangman-inclined grandfather and fixit-type dad weren’t too into always carrying around a tool or knife on their belt, or anything like that. But they knew what they liked, what worked. My grandfather kept so many tools, about two full sets’ worth, in the basement in the boiler room/storage area. My dad would do simple but pretty decent fixes of stuff that needed to be fixed, sometimes with just whatever was on-hand, not worrying if it was the “right” tool.

Still, It’s nice to me, a hippy-dippy liberal academic guy who never wanted to be conventional masculine, to have the right tools around, or at the very least, know what he needed for that sort of stuff. It’s odd to think of yourself as someone whose into that sort of, not “worship” or “fetishization” of these sorts of accoutrements of masculinity, which they definitely can be. It’s more of an “appreciation” of them, of the way that they work and yeah, that they’re things everyone (not every “man”, but everyone) should try to have on them.

I think everyone should wear watches. Well…I think people shouldn’t necessarily be as reliant on a phone or a “smart watch,” which is just a cell phone on your wrist, to tell the time. The clock in my kitchen is analog and battery-powered, and the alarm clock in my bedroom isn’t some smart-clock thing synced to the wifi, it’s just a clock. Everyone should have a reliable pair of footwear that’s as durable and rugged as it is good-looking. Everyone should, at least to me, have a kitchen knife that’s sharp and they know how to use so they can make tasty food.

Everyone should have a tool they can rely on, that they can trust. It’s important to trust the people in your life, your loved ones and friends and family that you care for. But it’s also good to know that there’s a truth to holding something in your hands and knowing it’ll do what you need it to do, it’ll do it no matter what, and it’ll do it how you need it to be done. Keep your feet warm. Quickly fix a broken piece of furniture. Make a meal. Tell you when it’s time to get home to those loved ones.

Here we go…”THE MEANS AT HAND”!

My new project, the crime/noir/mystery fiction site THE MEANS AT HAND is now live!

Here is a bit from the first post, of what is (hopefully) going to be a weekly thing;

Like punk, crime fiction is about problems coming back to haunt you. Not necessarily just your problems personally, but also the problems of the culture that you’ve built and live in, the problems of the industry that you work in, the problems of the space you occupy, all of which get pushed to the side or under the rug in a post-war economic boom time to create a facade.

We’re on Twitter, and there are RSS and email subscription links on the site, as well as the still-open Submissions page.

My Family the Animals


Summer is for reading.

Every time of the year is for reading, honestly, but when I was a kid, summer meant NEW books to read on vacation, be it for school assignments (summer reading) or just for fun. My parents were fairly-pleased to discover I could be shut up for long periods of time in a car or on vacation with a new book, be it brand-new or a book of theirs from their collections.

To this day, I see summer and any kind of potential travel or time to ourselves away from home (be it a short weekend trip or a few weeks’ somewhere else) as an opportunity to dive into new reading material. It’s still an ingrained part of my psyche, to think about what book I’m going to read whenever I have to travel somewhere, going back to when I was younger.

Gerald Durrell’s My Family and Other Animals is one of those books, one of my favorite books of all time probably. Durrell, the youngest of five, was born in 1925 and passed away in 1995, and is best known as (arguably) one of the founding believers and establishers of modern zoos and conservation. He was also a writer, and the youngest sibling of renowned author Lawrence Durrell.

My Family and Other Animals details, in as best as he could remember, Durrell’s life growing up with his family on the Greek island of Corfu between 1935 and 1939, his family following his brother there. The book was not entirely truthful to the best of Durrell’s memories (according to his wife he wrote while recovering in 1955 from an attack of jaundice), being somewhat edited for humor and the rosy tint of nostalgia (the reason the family left Corfu was the onset of WW2, though its primarily presented as because Durrell was returning to England with his family so he could go to school).

Still, it’s a fairly-accurate representation of Durrell’s growing interest in studying animals, in what his family was supposedly like, and more importantly, what life was like in the 1930’s in Greece. When I was somewhere between 10 and 12 I got a copy, and I read it voraciously, constantly, especially during the summers. When I was 10 we lived in Greece for a while, with me being sent back to the US to live with my grandparents when I was 16. I spent a lot of time in the summer, as I’ve probably babbled about before (especially if you’ve met me in person) on a small island near the coast of Turkey called Ikaria. It’s beautiful, but when I was a kid, it was the sticks.

It was remote, my Greek was not that great, power and water were basically rationed, people had outhouses, and for a kid with barely-passable Greek and no real sense of how to pass the time that didn’t involve TV, my Game Boy, or my Walkman (the latter two having to be rationed basically because I could only get my hands on so many batteries), it wasn’t exactly paradise. Until I was older and I recognized how much of being there for time off wasn’t about doing things, but about decompressing and letting myself become entwined in the social patterns of those who live there and not having to constantly “do things,” I took it all for granted.

I don’t take it for granted anymore, and as I’ve gotten older the tugs of the very tribal nature of having Greek ancestry (and the intertwining nature of that ancestry with coming from a white-but-ethnic immigrant/refugee background) makes me relish and appreciate it almost exponentially. I took my now-wife there two years ago, and it was my first time in a decade. It was a breath of fresh air, and we went again this year for a longer period of time, a stretch of time that we both realized we desperately needed.

I think what made the book so intensely attractive to me was that it was one of the first written depictions of where I was spending my summer vacations, and did so realistically. Durrell’s Greece was soaked in sun and cloudless skies, the kind of dry absolute heat that demands of you to sleep during the day, though most foreign kids like my cousins and I would fight that with spite (we’d go out in the middle of the day to explore abandoned houses and fields, the woods, the beaches where people didn’t swim because it was too rocky) until we learned better and would save our exploring for the afternoons before the sun went down and after a post-lunch nap.

Granted it wasn’t 100%, mostly because of the various iterations of the intense tribalism of Greeks from island to island, region to region, town to town. The people of Corfu would have been practically metropolitan and cosmopolitan compared to the absolute backwater that is Ikaria, where my family is from. It’s also in a completely different region of the Mediterranean, which further increases the strong likelihood that there’d be vast cultural differences between the Greeks the Durrells encountered and the ones I grew up with in those hot dusty summers.

Still, the sense of just how different a world Greece is bleeds through, and it bled through to me so much, seeing in Gerald Durrell myself, in a place I didn’t completely know and understand, with very little guidance as to how to proceed in it, as friendly as it could be to me. Durrell writes about people who he had interactions with and the places he and his family would go to, and in my mind, they felt very much like Ikaria. The old churches, despite the different names given to them, were to the same saints, and the towns where people would go to for groceries every other week, were the same white heat-reflecting walls and busy-but-not-too-busy streets full of people talking loudly, but not too loudly and not too busy. It is Greece after all, and things get done when they get done. Not sooner, and not a moment later.

My copy of My Family and Other Animals is in a plastic bag now, a sleeve to protect it as best as I can from the ravages of time. I love books and firmly believe that books should be used, that books should reflect this (a lot of the books my brother and I grew up on disintegrated with use over the years), but at the same time, I don’t want to totally use this copy anymore. I’ve been toying with getting another copy to have to re-read, saving my childhood copy. The pages are less yellowed and more brown at this point almost, and I’ve had to scotch-tape the spine more than once.

I think I’m going to get one more re-read of it in, before summer is “officially” over and the experience we just had of two weeks in Greece is still fresh enough in my memory. It is still summer after all, so why not?

Summer’s for reading.

It’s Not Funny Anymore

One of the inevitabilities of living in New York City and being from New York is that someone you know will go into standup comedy. Or improv, which is arguably worse these days as ac cultural movement because it’s a mutation of that dreaded species, the “theater kid”. You’ll run into college kids working on the street to give away promotional tickets to comedy clubs as a job (a thankless-looking one that plagued the streets when I was in college wandering around…I almost maybe fought one once but that’s another story), you’ll be reminded of Jerry Seinfeld, of Saturday Night Live, of UCB, all that. Earnest-looking guys writing about or talking about their witty observations of life around them, about their overbearing or long-suffering girlfriends, about their exploits, all that.

And it’s a shame to be exposed to it, because most of it sucks.

I…do not like standup. Pretty much at all.

The last time I went to a standup comedy show was the only time, and it was to watch comedian and actor Rob Delaney perform (he was great). He was great in particular because he didn’t rely on what even back in like 2011 was getting to be hack material, sexism and tryhard-edginess, the sort of stuff that the late 90’s/early 2000’s had used as material for comedy (it seemed like to me thanks to cable TV finally) as some sort of evolution of standup after the counterculture approach to it of the 1980’s blew up in a big way.

But I don’t like standup. Going onto my Netflix account (because I no longer have cable TV), I’m inundated with it, specials and routines from people who more and more either aren’t funny or all look and sound the same.

It’s 100% a personal thing. I just can’t stand new guard, old guard, listening to someone feign modesty and plumb self-deprecation to create this facade of incompetence and immaturity, an approach to comedy and storytelling that a lot of male comedians seem to use, is pretty boring. Female comedians can be better, but there is still this huge divide, a chasm in my head between “people who think they’re funny but shy away from admitting it as an act to seem humble” and “this person is funny” in my mind.

The only exception I made to this rule for a long time was Nick Offerman and his “standup special” AMERICAN HAM, mostly because it wasn’t presented as one normally might do standup comedy, more a dry-wit experience (something that I think a lot of people try but can’t do right, instead falling into sarcasm, which isn’t the same thing). I’ve written about my love of Offerman before, but how he framed his show (and now knowing he didn’t come from a standup or improv background initially) made it feel not like someone was trying to make me laugh, which I appreciated.

Then also last year \ we watched BABY COBRA, a standup special by Ali Wong, who also had another show this year called HARD KNOCK WIFE, both of which were amazing. Wong presents herself not as a self-deprecating or emotionally-stunted person stumbling through life. She’s fucking ferocious, and openly unapologetic about that rage and wit and I fucking love it. Again, there was no attempt to mask or apologize for any sort of perceived or pre-sculpted artificial awkwardness, simply a desire to talk and express ugly emotions.

The idea of being emotional and of that emotion not being expressed in any sort of elegant or “beautiful” way is so weird and new and raw, when we experience it, it’s so off-putting. We expect to call emotional honesty “refreshing,” but in reality, actual emotional vulnerability is ugly-crying. It should make us feel a little uncomfortable in just how much a person is trusting us to see this very not-pretty and hypersensitive interior part of themselves. It’s a series of anxiety attacks that feel like micro-strokes in your brain that lead to a petty reason to self-sabotage.

It’s something that is thoroughly lacking in a South Park-inspired comedy field, where dumb nastiness passes as criticism and no one really thinks about just how bad that makes us look, how it makes us look at and think about other people as fodder. Because that’s what it does, it makes us look at other people as fodder, suckers, marks, material. We devalue our relationships in that way, the far other end of the relationship spectrum, opposite over-romanticizing.

The reason I’m trying to find a way to vocalize all of this is because we watched Hannah Gadsby’s Netflix standup special NANETTE, and it’s breathtakingly-amazing in showcasing her ability to tell stories and compose a long cohesive narrative that at first, really appears to just be random threads of thought. Those threads ended up becoming a serious look at telling jokes and using joke-telling to deal with personal issues and how that can actually be a deeply broken thing. I don’t want to “spoil” the whole thing for you per se, so I won’t go any further, but it’s a really unique take on and criticism of standup and the culture of standup and comedy overall. How Gadsby expresses all of this is so great, because she manages, through her own traumas and her real fears and rages, to convey it so eloquently that the way we treat trauma and cynicism as fuel for humor is not necessarily that good for us in the long run.

When I started college, Cartoon Network launched their [adult swim] block for the first time, and I loved it. At one point,t hey needed up getting the syndication rights to a Simpsons-esque “adult humor” cartoon called Family Guy, and boy did they run with it. The shift since then, which coincides with South Park and a dozen other shitty sarcastic empathy-killing pop culture bits, is a huge part of why I just don’t care, why I think people who latch onto these sorts of humor outlets are annoying, and why I’m OK saying that most comedy and standup is just bad. It’s not boundary-pushing or groundbreaking, it’s just mean and dumb and tells me more about how lazy you are as a storyteller and an emotionally-honest person.

I do like NANETTE though. I think public performance and storytelling could learn a lot from it, and hopefully it does. I’m sick of sarcasm having a higher social currency than empathy, and I’m glad I stopped giving a shit about how ugly and dumb I look and feel trying to express deep emotions and fears. I think we all should.

With The Means At Hand

So I’m starting a new nonfiction writing project, “The Means At Hand.” It’s a web publication/blog, a conversation about the definitions, roles, rules, inspirations, and impacts that mystery/crime, noir, and detective fiction (all the same but also different, something we’ll be touching on actually) have had and continue to have as both a popular but historically-maligned literary genre.

I love “genre fiction” and thinking about most of my best nonfiction writing, it’s about the impact that it’s had on me and how important those genres (crime, mystery, horror, fantasy, sci-fi) and I want to be able to keep continuing to make the conversations around different genres that basically get shit on historically grow.

One of the (hopefully?!) best parts of it is that I’ll be opening up the site to submissions by others as well as my own writing, so if you’ve got anything related to what you see on the site, be sure to dust it off or finish it up.

There’s not much but I do have a welcome post up, and the CONTACT and SUBMISSIONS pages are up as well, so do me a favor, be cool, and check out and stay tuned.