Cheating On My Novel

I’m currently going through a mild version of writer’s block. “How,” you might ask, “are you going through writer’s block yet composing your first blog post in almost a year?” Reread the first sentence and you’ll see the word mild in there.

It’s only when working on the novel that this mild writer’s block shows up. I’m nearing the novel’s completion yet find myself staring at the blinking cursor. Everything’s been mapped out. I know exactly what comes next. The issue is the wording. I’m scared it’s total shit and that the novel’s future readers will get antsy. Bury the book out of embarrassment. “Can’t see what I’ve been reading these past few weeks. Nope haven’t been reading anything. Eric Sazer? Who the hell’s that?”

On the outset of writing this flash nonfiction essay I saw it serving two parts: as a procrastination tool and a place for me to vent. Watching these words form upon the page, I’m having a bit of fun. If my novel was my wife, this blog is my mistress. This blog and I rented an old Mercedes convertible and together we’re riding through the countryside on Memorial Day weekend. Back at home, the novel’s wiping away all the piss I accidentally dribbled on the bathroom floor.

I love you, novel, but fuck you. You’re driving me nuts. I’m gonna go wild with my blog. I’ll print pages of you out, novel, and use that to wipe my ass. Leave the shit-stained pages in the middle of the woods. Let the squirrels and mice nibble away at the bullshit words printed on the page.

Okay, now I feel like an asshole. What kind of future book salesman am I? One day, it’ll be available at a bookstore near you. On that day when your eyes land upon the spine, will you splurge and invite this novel into your life? Or will you envision the novel causing an epidemic in your home, where immediately upon purchasing it, every book on your shelf would suddenly turn into a massive pile of manure?

I hope that doesn’t happen. As a matter of fact, I will return the Mercedes convertible, kiss my mistress farewell and return home. I’ll lift the novel off the bathroom floor, bathe it. Make passionate love to the novel. Clean my own urine dribbles off the bathroom floor. Then on the day this novel is available for purchase, I’ll make sure it comes with a roll of paper towels, rubber gloves and organic house cleaner. Just in case.

Ya never know, right?

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part Two

Just like in the dreams when the dreamer struggles to open his eyes, such was the case with Anton. It wasn’t fear that prevented him from seeing what was on the other side of his lids, rather a thick layer of gunk coating his left eye.

While scraping the gunk off, he glanced over at a candle lit table using his perfectly working right eye. There sat Ursula seated in a tan sequin dress. Naughty thoughts filled his mind. If his head wasn’t pounding, he would have leaped off the sofa and tore the woman’s dress off.

His clean left eye revealed more at the candle lit table. Opposite Ursula was the fit man in the towel. He, however, had removed the towel at some point and slipped into business attire. The two held champagne glasses in the air and appeared frozen in suspense.

“Hello,” Anton groaned.

They did not budge.

“Ursula,” he said with greater diction.


“Yuri,” Anton shouted, gazing at the shut door of his brother’s bedroom.

Ursula and the fit man lowered their glasses. They winked at one another. Suddenly, the fit man bolted out of his chair and raced over to Anton.

“So glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

“Beside a throbbing head and a bit confused, fine. Where’s my brother?”

The fit man exploded with laughter. “You hear that, Ursula?”

“He’s a funny one,” she said, chuckling.

“Your brother, you say?” The fit man asked in jest.

Anton nodded.

“I don’t know.” The fit man looked around the room. “Ursula, have you seen this man’s brother anywhere?”

“Very good question. It seems, Anton, your brother has been a bit hard to find lately.”

“What do you mean?” Anton swung his legs off the sofa, nearly kicking the fit man to the floor. “Where has he been?”

“The only way to find out,” the fit man said, repositioning himself on the sofa, “is to go on a treasure hunt.”

“A treasure hunt!” Ursula guffawed. “Where do you think we’d find him? Under a rock?”

“If not there then inside the cupboard.”

“Come on, you two.” Anton pleaded. “I haven’t seen my brother in a year. I’m very worried about him.

The fit man shifted in his seat.

Ursula cleared her throat and then stood, making her way to the sofa.

Both Ursula and the fit man rubbed Anton’s back.

“Perhaps I knocked you over too hard,” Ursula said.

“Do you require medical assistance?” The fit man asked.

“Medical assistance? No. Why would I need medical assistance?” Anton felt them moving closer. He squeezed his knees together so his legs wouldn’t rub against theirs.

“You did bleed,” Ursula aid.

“You bled heavily, Anton. If mom were here, she’d take you to the emergency room, no questions asked.”

“You’re right if my mom was here, she would have checked me into a hospital a long time ago.”

“Oh God,” Ursula removed her hand from Anton’s back and placed it over her mouth.

“Anton, Mom did check you into a hospital a long time ago. A mental hospital. St. Ives.”

“St. Ives.” Anton frowned. “That’s a prison not a hospital.”

“Right. Hold on one second.” The fit man stood and then motioned for Ursula to join him in a far corner of the room. There he whispered, “I’m getting a weird feeling about this one.”

“Yea. Same here,” Ursula said, flashing a quick grin at Anton.

“You think this one is dangerous?”

“I wouldn’t say dangerous,” she studied Anton who was hunched over on his knees staring at Yuri’s bedroom door. “More clingy.”

“Like he’d never leave?”

“Yea,” Ursula gagged. “Yuck!”

“Yuck indeed. Tell you what,” the fit man said. “How about I take him around the block to find his ‘brother’ and then later, you and I can have a ton of fun?”

“Please hurry up, then,” she moved in for a kiss. It was too quick. She wanted more. As he moved to attend to Anton, Ursula grabbed the fit man’s shoulders and whispered in his ears,”I love you, Yuri.”

Fucking Auto-Correct

The number of times I edited The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One is absurd! All because of auto-correct. Makes me and my characters appear illiterate.

In the case of any unusual wording for future posts, blame damned auto-correct. I beg you to please tug at my shirt sleeves (if you’re in my physical company) or send me a polite email at to let me know of this weird error. It’ll be fixed in a heartbeat.

Happy days or nights or something in between!

The 1,000 lb. Brother, Part One

Yuri weighed 1,000 pounds. The man ate all day and night. Never slept. Only snoozed for minutes at a time. The poor man had so many bags under his eyes, one could store artillery inside them.

Clothing Yuri was impossible. The only thing that fit him was a 20 foot sail that his muscly brother, Anton, stole off a boat. The owner of the sailboat filed a report with the police. Surveillance cameras showed Anton lugging the sail into his car and then driving off. Police picked Anton up and threw him into a musty, dimly lit room.

“Ya sold it?” the detective interrogated.

“Of course, I did. Needed the money.”

“And who’d you sell it to?”

“Can’t remember. It was night. Everything I do is at night.”

“Right.” The detective scribbled notes in his legal pad. “Man or woman?”



“Seriously, I couldn’t tell.”

Anton was imprisoned for a year where, for the most part, he paced his cell worrying about his brother’s wellbeing. How in the fuck will Yuri eat? The man had to roll himself to the bathroom and then piss in a sideways facing commode. Their younger sister was around but she was too busy getting fucked at nightclubs. Selfish bitch.

The year in prison was hard on Anton. Inmates knocked him around, busting his lip open a few times. The prison guards dribbled scalding oatmeal on his back. He only made one friend in the prison but that person hung himself in the tenth month of Anton’s sentence.

Once released, Anton hitched a ride back to Yuri’s. He didn’t go up right away. Instead, he paid a visit to a deli. Ordered two turkey sandwiches. Ate one on a park bench. The other was for his brother.

Anton banged on his brother’s door.

“Yuri,” he hollered.

Some nimble being hopped on the hardwood floor and yanked the door open. It was a tanned brunette wearing what looked like a homemade bikini.

“I’m Ursula,” she grinned.

“Ursula, hi. Is my brother here?”

“Oh my gosh,” she climbed his chest and wrapped her thin arms around him. “You’re Anton. Welcome home. Come in.” Ursula lowered herself to the ground and grabbed his hand. “Your brother will be thrilled to see you. He’s in the shower right now.”

“The shower,” his eyebrows furrowed. “How’d you get him in there?”

“You silly,” she slapped him in the gut. “He got himself in there.”

“Wow, that’s unusual…”

“Is it?” She smirked. “How do you get in the shower?”

“Touché.” My god, Anton thought, what a lovely girl. How in hell did she wind up in my brother’s apartment?

“What you got there?” She pointed at the turkey sandwich.

“Oh, it’s for my brother.”

“Only for your brother? Not for me too?”

“Well,” Anton stammered. “I guess you two can share it.”

“May I smell it?” She grabbed the turkey sandwich out his hand and then knocked him to the ground.

Anton went in and out of consciousness.

Paper rustled in his ear.

Then loud grunts.


Blood trickled down his head.

Turkey debris sprayed everywhere.

Deep sighs.

“Let me get you a blanket,” she growled.

Sudden warmth.

A fit man wrapped in a towel hovered over Anton.

“Why hello there, Anton,” the fit man said.

That was the last Anton saw until later that night.

Ugh…do I have to?

It’s 3:50 pm on Monday. I’d rather do anything else than write this blog post. Such as Netflix. God, that sounds wonderful. Lounge on my bed. Rest my head on a pillow. Space out to Ryan Phillipe kicking ass so he can reunite with his wife and daughter in Shooter.

The better, more mature part of me prevented myself from going down that avenue. Mostly due to the fact that I set a goal to walk at least 5,000 steps a day. Each week the step count will increase by 1,000. Today, I’ve only walked 1,341 steps. That’s no good. I got to get out there. Get to 5,000 or more. Please, God, let that happen before the weather worsens.

It’s amazing how far I’d go to not update my blog. So far today, I’ve used two methods of distraction. One, laundry. Two, disassembled the kitchen sink pipes to scrape the moldy gelatinous grime from within. The latter was a must as the water would not go down.

Now I’m parked on a bench outside the Mudd Puddle Coffee Roasters in New Paltz. There’s a slight breeze. Feels like a tornado could be around the corner.

Wow, I’m scrambling for words. I so baldy want to entertain you. I want your praise. I want you to walk away feeling inspired and take action. Yet the words feel flat.

When I work on the novel, it isn’t like this. The characters suck me into their ridiculous lives. I chuckle like a madman as I record their fictional mishaps and fortunes onto the page. There’s a gorgeous confidence when in novel writing mode. Also, I’m not publishing the novel until the whole damned thing is done.

This blog scares the daylights out of me. I tell myself the blog needs to convert the reader into a client. “Oh hire me! Hire me. Hire this half-wit! Hire this nonsense machine who writes children’s books for adults. Hire the fool who can fantasize his way through a job interview but in reality boasts in an off-putting insane manner.”

I admit, that last paragraph was fun to write. It forced me to be real. Maybe there’s greater intimacy between you (the reader) and me. If not, that’s okay. You’ll live. I’ll live. I’ll continue to show up at this blog terrified as shit.

Now, for the love of God (you must think I’m religious mentioning God’s name twice. I’m not. Just spiritual), I must take a walk. Perhaps you do too. Whatever you do with your time, I implore that you make it your best. I’ll be back when I’m back (which will hopefully be next week if I can work up the courage).

Get Your Own Personal Face

That’s right ladies and gentlemen! Get your own personal face right here. Tired of what the mirror says about you? Are those pesky neighbor kids point laughing at your ugly nose and buck teeth? Well right here where I am, I trade you your pock-marked face for something that will soothe strangers. Your phone will be ringing off the hook with requests for dates. It’ll be like Beatlemania all over again except you’ll be the only star running through alleyways and dressing like a hobo. When you’re ready to give up your soul (oops, did I say that)…your grossness for a new personal face, shout me out. Hashtag the fuck out of me #bitchwantnewface #uglymugnomore #doublechindestroyer #asswipingoldface #newpersonalfacedoc

Who Do You Listen To?

While riding the Metro-North into Manhattan in late December, I was reading The Science of Getting Rich by Wallace Wattles. I marched through Grand Central and continued downtown on Madison Avenue where I pictured piles of checks handed to me. “Pay to the order of Eric Sazer, Three hundred sixty-five thousand and two-hundred twenty-one dollars”, “Pay to the order of Mister Eric Sazer for the amount of Eighty-eight thousand, nine-hundred and fifty three dollars,” “Dear Eric, Please deposit this check written out to you, Eric Sazer, for the full amount of four-hundred and two thousand, seven-hundred and sixteen dollars. Enjoy it”. Block after block my mere thoughts alone were putting me into the billionaire bracket.

Anyone who knows me personally will attest to the fact that if greed rides though my bones, it does so on extremely low dosages. This desire to be wealthy rides more on the coattails of helping the world while doing the things I love rather than getting sloppy rich, lazy and unconscious. I could write an entire essay or blog post on how I’d use money to positively change the world around me (note to self).

By the time I hit East Thirty-third Street, I had enough funds to purchase Murray Hill. The glow within was so enormous I just couldn’t contain myself. I looked over at a younger man on his cell phone. We exchanged glances and then he asked if I needed any help. Shoving my wad of etheric billions into an unknown abyss, I shrugged. The younger man rushed off the phone with his mother and asked me who I am. I tell him my name and that I’m a writer. Coincidentally, he’s a marketer seeking a writer for a specific project. The nature of this project wasn’t revealed until days later: Ghostwriting the lyrics to a hit song for a fourteen-year-old girl with a golden voice.

Despite my limited experience in songwriting I agreed to the assignment. Why? Spoiler alert—the main character in my novel becomes a lyricist. The excitement working on this ghostwriting project ebbed (due to my insecurities as a lyricist) but mostly flowed (come on, who wouldn’t want to be wealthy after writing a hit song that makes millions happy?). On Thursday, January 28th, my excitement for this assignment came to a screeching halt when the young marketer asked for two first draft verses due on a meeting tentatively set for Sunday afternoon. Terror is what killed the excitement. “Four days isn’t enough time,” I told myself. “I really need to sit with this and let the words seep out naturally.” Oh the lies! The deception!

Later that day, I get on a call with a wonderful woman who used to work in the music industry. When I shared with her this project along with my terrors (which by then had spiraled out of control. “I’m no songwriter! Who am I fooling?), she did what any being would do…she acted as my mirror. At the end of the call, I was 98% sure that I’d have to abandon the ghostwriting project. Then a small voice in my head said, “Eric, stranger things have happened. Who cares that you don’t have years of experience writing songs? What about the novel? How is the main character going to be a lyricist if you don’t know how to write lyrics yourself?”

These past two days, the voices of terror played a grueling match of Ping-Pong against the voices of encouragement. Late this morning the match finally came to an end when I shared my concerns with the music producer on this project. He urged me to ignore those voices of terror. “What’s the worst that will happen,” he argued. “You write a bad song? So what?” The music producer insisted that I give this more than a month’s shot. “If after three months and your lyrics are less then desirable, than we can revisit you moving on.” How wonderful it to see the voices of terror vanish into silence.

I’m no fool. The voice of terror has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. Everything can be honky dory one minute only for seconds later paralysis kicks in. It happens to the best of us. The outcome of this song is unknown. I could write killer lyrics but the girl with the golden voice may not know how deliver it. Another outcome—all the world agrees that the lyrics are God awful but something about the beat, the girl’s voice and a tiny quarter of one verse gets everyone off their seats, dancing, singing along, raising vibrations, ending wars…ooh the possibilities puts a chill down my spine.

So, reader, who do you listen to? Do you play it safe? Do you not get up on that stage during karaoke because you might be so damned good (note to self)? Are you the type to sit in the back row hiding under your winter coat during an interactive theatrical piece (note to self once again)? When finished writing your blog, do you push the ‘delete’ button (if there is one) instead of ‘publish’, reader? Please comment below.

I will leave you with the song that got me dancing at the end of my last blog post. Until next time!


Enough Descending! Time to Ascend

Those readers who have been with me from the very beginning know that I titled this blog Descent Into A Creative Mind. That was all fine and dandy at first as tapping into my creativity did feeling like a spelunking expedition. There was a ton of bullshit to wade through, such as, “What’s this nonsense I’ve tapped out on the page?” or “Does anybody give a crap about what I have written here?” or “Is it descent or descend?” These types of questions went on and on. Underneath all this bullshit (heck let’s just call a spade a spade here. It was my shit. I’m not a bull. I’m a human after all…I think), I finally found myself (Eureka!) along with the subject of my new novel entitled The Admired. The only spoilers you’ll get about this novel is that it’s a satire on obsession and er…it’s slightly autobiographical, emphasis on the word slightly. The rest you’ll have to read when the book comes out (I’m 46,000 or so words into the writing of this novel. That’s about 1/3 of the way through).

I made a decision to give this blog a new look and a retitling. (Those of you who clicked the hyperlink—Welcome back! Where the hell did you think I was going to send you? I was in the middle of a sentence for crying out loud!). Joyously together we can call this blog The Ascent To Our Creative Minds. The intention of this facelift is to inspire, inform, enlighten, ignite passion under our tushies and pull together a community of brilliant souls. Yes, that means you! If any of this interests you, please read on.

When talking about ascension this isn’t some New Age hodgepodge. It’s real folks. I’ve discovered the roots of agelessness and unconditional love. How, you may ask: The expression of creativity. This is the inner child at play. You might say, “Well, I’m too old. I’ll never change” or “How’s this gonna help? I need to make money. Playing is for kids.” Bullshit alert! I mean human shit alert! Whatever-species-you-are-shit alert! I don’t care if you’re two or two thousand years old, all of us have an inner child. There’s tons of literature out there to prove this. Comment below with your doubts and I’ll be pleased to send you a handful of links. Should you still be sitting there bemoaning, “This jerk with this inner child nonsense”, let me ask you, don’t you want to laugh and feel the joys you once had as a child? Heck, I know I do. If you don’t, I’m not judging here but it would absolutely perplex me if you were to respond, “Eric, I actually hate laughing. Nothing beats a good ol’ serious boring day. While the sun rises, I yell at my loved ones. Cut people off on the road. Fire everyone at work. Sue my clients. Heck, they smelled like piss anyway. Then come home. Why eat a delicious dinner when you can munch on a nice microwaved paper towel. At 7:30 PM on the dot I lock myself in a frigid broom closet. Ain’t no mattress there! Why lay down when you can stand up? God gave us two feet for a reason. After some leaning against the icy wall, I do it all over again the next day.” Well, friend, I don’t even know what to say to that one.

Now, since we are all living here on planet Earth, money does need to be made in some capacity. However, why not go about it while having some fun? Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not talking about something kinky here, although that is not out of the scope of possibilities. There have been worse ways riches have been accrued. What I was getting at is a technique some of the greatest entrepreneurs use called brainstorming. The root of this is creativity.

I’ll go more in detail on all of these topics and more in future posts. In the meantime, regardless of your age, sexuality, economic status, connection with spirit, enjoyment of sleeping in a frigid broom closet, I really hope to learn more about you. Together let’s break through our limitations and soar through our most elevated selves. I suggest after reading this, you put some wild music on and get your dancing feet going. That’s what my plan is once I push the “Publish” button.

To the dear world

Let’s write one another from our own beds.  We can spill our hearts out on the pages.  Go till we run out of ink or when our fingers cramp up.  Then toss the letters out the window with the hopes it will arrive somewhere safe.  

The next morning, grounds people will pick up our sad letters.  Press it to their chests.  Feel bolder than a skyscraper.  The grounds people will then lead  humanity into a true heart-based culture.

All it takes is one pen and as many pages you’re willing to donate.  Go ahead folks.  Scribble from your heart.


At Swanson’s, we not only install an X-Ray vision chip into your eye.  We guarantee it will work.  Take it to your favorite swim park.  Share with your shady father the contents of his locked “mysterious” cabinet.  You’ll impress people of all races, religions, ages and criminal backgrounds.  Swanson’s…wow your eyes before you die. 

Ode to the missing lamp

You were never here but somehow I miss you.  It would be easy to just flick you on or off as I lie here, my head pushed deep into the down pillow.  Without you I have to get up and shuffle to the light switch six or seven paces from the bed.

Strange how passion drains out the body.  I scream in agony for it to stop.  People tell me it’s normal to walk about like a zombie, feel nothing,  want only to pay bills or have a superficial chuckle with a stranger otherwise known as my brother or cousin or best friend.  Then as this passion has found itself deeply embedded outside of my consciousness, the simple act of walking six or seven paces to turn on or off a light becomes a burden.  Can’t death just take over.  Better yet, please end this nightmare ruled by apathy.  Allow me to awaken with lamps all about that are ignited by my mere excitement. This is what I long for.  

Naked Inn

While out in California, I had attempted to collaborate on a piece that I had entitled “Naked Inn”. Nothing ever came of it. Perhaps the awful title turned my collaborator off. Devoid of any further rambling, here is the piece in its raw form —

When Grandmother retired from the Inn, she demanded I keep it a Christian establishment. This baffled me as she considered herself a Buddhist. In her earlier years, should anyone make mention of Christ or any of His followers, she’d wince, insisting the conversation be changed. The repetition of her retiring wishes that the Inn remain a Christian establishment led me to believe that perhaps this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. Could she be stricken with madness? Events later in her life pointed to early onset of Alzheimer’s. She, however, in this moment, couldn’t be clearer.

One key to the Inn dangling in one hand, a finger on the other hand shaking inches from my nose, Grandmother howled, “Keeping it a Christian establishment means you keep it clean, Edgar! It means you follow the rules. When people check in, you get their payment right away. If they got no cash, show them the door! You hear me?” Before I could answer, she kissed my cheek, shoving the Inn’s keys in my jeans pocket.

As the Inn’s new keeper, business proved rather slow. The phone would ring, the callers surprised to hear a young man’s voice on the other end. Some feared Grandmother had died. I had assured them the woman was sunbathing, winking at cashiers, licking ice cream cones and enjoying every moment of retirement. Regardless, the Inn remained vacant for several weeks—just the creaking floors and me.

The first guests to arrive were two naked twenty-something year olds, one male, the other female. They were naked in clothing, money, vehicle, identification and knowledge of how they got like this. The boy suggested that had they arrived six seconds later, they could have died. How? They didn’t know. Despite their skin being opposite tones, they could have been twins.

“I don’t know what I can do for you two,” I warned. “You got’s no money.”

“You can keep us safe,” insisted the girl.

“Just put us in your worst room and forget about us,” suggested the boy.

“Worst room?” That made me laugh. “All the rooms here are great. Majestic, my grandmother would call it. Plus, how the hell can I forget about you two? You’re my first guests as the innkeeper.”

“Don’t you got a closet in the cellar,” asked the girl.

“You two are nuts. Listen, I promised my Buddhist grandmother I’d keep this a Christian establishment…”

“How does that work?”

“Not sure but I’ll tell you something…”

“What,” they both sung.

“I’ll give you a room.”


“That’s right. One! If it were my grandmother, she’d tell you to get lost, you understand?”

“We understand,” they echoed.


They followed me up three flights to a room with two queen beds. They both crawled into a bed each, staring at me like a long lost uncle. I offered them clothing but they said not to worry, they’d figure it out in the morning. Their eyes closed, quickly followed by intense snores.

In the morning the room was immaculate. The sheets smelled fresh, not a single trace of nakedness anywhere (other than my naked confusion). I hollered a bunch of names but realized moments later they never gave me their names. Clearly it was time to sit at the front desk and scratch my head.

When I’m drunk…

The words come out faster.   You see, I’ve been rather miserable lately.  Running around town looking for my right place.   Jump into the Pacific Ocean?  Return to a land where walking alone seems nearly impossible?   Ay, questions just stick their ugly monstrous cocks down my throat mid-fucking-sentence.  So, I swat them away with Cutco knives glued to my fingers and then scream, “Screw it, I’m here.  This is where I’ll be…at least for now!”  Seems to work.

When I’m drunk, I also find myself torn between the words tossed on the page and the eager individuals sending me messages on Facebook.  Really, what I wish to say is, “Shut up and when can we make love?”  But I don’t.  I just play it nice and easy.  Flipping back and forth between the massive flow of these words and whatever commonplace thing that leaves my fingertips on that social website.

The urine that builds up during the drunken process infuriates me.  I’d piss right here, in your eyes, as you read this but it doesn’t work that way.  I’d have to buy a new computer.   Who’s got money for that shit these days?  So I’ll leave you here, wondering what my urinating experience was like.  Did I moan?  Was there a knock on the door from a bunch of drunks demanding an orgy?

So, I’m on my merry way now.  Unzipping the fly.  Standing over the toilet and whistling a tune…

The Prolonged Absence

Pop your champagne bottles!   Jump through the hills!  The long and arduous journey from New York to California has come to an end.  Here I am in heaven on Earth–Humboldt county, California.

It’s taken me some time to settle in.   The first few days were rough.  I’ve had to disconnect from the memories of my super comfy L-shaped house to a solar bus in the middle of the woods.   The bed I sleep on is an inch or two too small.   The occasional hornet gets stuck in my mini-afro; due to their peaceful ways, they understand, simple mistake.  Does a man punch another man for accidentally bumping into another?  Some do…not these hornets.

More to write later.  I’m at a party and judge myself a bit anti-social.

The Gringo

“Them shrimp burritos, man, they sure as hell just melt in your mouth.”   The Gringo stood in the hallway, peering into the kitchen.   The chef, a whistling muscleman, plopped a spoonful of guacamole into a stuffed taco.   He then meandered over to the deep fryer, yanking out the plantains.

“You must have had the shrimp burritos before, haven’t you?”  The Gringo continued.  The chef nodded then pushed passed his chatty voyeur.  “Ah to Follow the Chef,” sang the Gringo.   Had the bathroom door stayed shut, he would have continued on with the song.   A hunchbacked woman stumbled past the Gringo, her breath reeking of fecal matter.  Once inside the tiled bathroom, rose fragrance permeated the air.

There upon the warm porcelain seat, the Gringo closed his eyes, humming the tune “Ah to Follow The Chef.”   Minutes later, nothing had found its way out of his rectum.   He was awoken by a pounding on the door.   The Gringo leapt up, his genitals flailing about, yanked the door open.  There stood the chef.   The two uttered their apologizes with cheeks aflame in embarrassment.

Boy Killer

Oh kiss me, Gertrude. It’s been so long since we’ve held one another. How about you yank the bed cover off and we spend time rolling around? We can make smoothies and then share with one another horror stories. You’ll love that, I know.

Here’s my latest horror story–

A nine-year old boy prone toward wearing striped shirts shot his parents in the head. His father kept guns around the house. One of those types that feared everything from intruders to those using the driveway as a turn-around station. When the cops arrived, the boy said nothing.   At the station, he just cried.   When I got to him, the boy had clearly lost his mind.   He licked his lips. Spoke in tongues. Maniacal laughter echoed throughout the interrogation room.   The boy needed sedation.  Whatever was prescribed to him had no effect.   He stared at me, called me his mother yet I’m a man. A new psychologist was assigned to the case.

Months later, the boy visits me in my dreams.    He tells me that one day he’ll find me.   Gertrude, please hold me.   Please assure me that I’m safe from this boy.

Marching Out West

My fellow readers:

Know that I’m at the beginning of a journey.   In exactly 29 days, a U-Haul truck will be parked in front of my cabin.  All my loved possessions from the past four plus years will be emptied out into that U-Haul truck.   Several days later, I’ll be marching out west to Northern California.

In this timeframe, my postings might be scarce.  Once settled in, expect to hear more from me.   It’s my pleasure to entertain you.   More so, it’s a great joy to express myself in whatever ways I can.  Time to freshen up and prepare for the day’s adventures.

Tiny Box

A tiny box is where I live.   Any time I reach for something, shit breaks.   Think it’s time to make a change.  How the hell am I gonna get out of here though?  Gravity seems to suck me down.

What are my long-term plans?  Got pictures of what my bed will look like?   How will each inch of the pavement look while driving to this new place?   On what day will someone pay me?   Will I get undercut?   Will it work out?   Are there enough people out there?   Do I have…

How I loved that tiny box!  Now, I say fuck it.  Just gonna walk, see where the road takes me.  Don’t really care what the fucking pavement should look like…just gonna see how it is as I stroll across…

An Italian Feeds A Pigeon

She went by the name Giovanna.   It had been discussed weeks before her birth to call her Gloria or Greta but it was insisted upon, by both soon-to-be parents, they take their time.  Scolastica, weak and fearful she wouldn’t deliver safely, prayed every night before her bowl of gnocchi.   Her husband, Bruno, a gourmet gnocchi maker, also worried about his wife’s health but kept his feelings hardened, never bringing them around Scolastica.   He’d pamper his wife, bathe her while singing, “Abballati Abballati”.   This would surely put a smile on her face.  Bubbles would splash everywhere.

In the delivery room, Bruno hummed “Abballati Abballati” yet all Scolastica could scream was, “stai zitto” [shut up].   Had she thrown hot irons at him, Bruno still would have persisted with the upbeat tune.   Once Giovanna was out, wailing with joy, Bruno looked over at his wife who had passed out, white as a sheet.  Scolastica stayed strong for three days, afterwards giving up on the struggle, she released hold of her body.

Bruno, the widower father he was, got sucked into a depression.  This he passed onto Giovanna, who grew up guilty, feeling as if she released a toxin into her mother’s womb.   Not a single therapeutic technique could shake this feeling.  Once she turned eighteen, Giovanna took her misery to the streets.  Moved into a cardboard box.   Pushed two shopping carts glued together, the interior filled with buttons and bread.   She used the bread to feed a pigeon she befriended.   Over time, Giovanna grew convinced this pigeon was her mother.  She stroked the pigeon, mumbling, “mamma”.   The pigeon cooed in her hands, slowly dying.

Disgusted with life’s sorrows, Giovanna gobbled a handful of buttons, swallowing one at a time.   She hummed a slowed-down version of “Abballati Abballati”. Inside her belly, the buttons dissovled into miniature pigeons. They eventually burst through her stomach, taking with them into flight Giovanna’s misery.

Advice to Writers Using Mac

Yesterday, an email went out to a potential employer.   It was for a journalist job.    I assured the letter was error-free.   This morning, I noticed one silly mistake.   Where there was a “for” should have been an “of”.   How could this have happened?

It dawned upon me that a setting on my computer automatically corrected the spelling.   Here’s what I think occurred.   While I was in the midst of writing “of”, I typed  instead “f-o-[spacebar]”.  The computer switched the two letters.   While editing it, my eyes skipped over the “for”.

After this, I now want to see all the errors on the page.  Makes it easier to edit.  If you’re in the same boat and are using Mac Lion, here’s how you fix this:

  1. Open System Preferences
  2. Click on “Language & Text”
  3. Select the “Text” tab.
  4. Uncheck “Correct Spelling automatically

Happy writing!

Harry’s Dirty Feeling

Feeling kinda dirty, I am.   You might ask, “Have ya showered?”  and I’ll say, “Fuck yea, I showered.   What kind of man you think I am?  Have I showered?   Of course, I showered!  Have you showered?”

What’s behind this dirty feeling?  Well if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.  Yup, I sure fucking will.  You can just sit back, take off your blouse or trousers, whatever you got on and I’ll be happy to tell you.   Get yourself all roused up and such.   What rouses you?   What makes you so wet or hard that you can barely think of anything business-related?   Granny Smith apples?   A sweater chewed up by moths?   Fat men tossing corn at pigs? Whatever the hell it might be, think of it.   Stare at it.  Do to it with your mind, finger or tongue as you will.   Feels nice, does it?  Do it some more.   Do it till exhaustion.

Back to what makes me feeling so dirty…is nothing really. Just wanted to get your attention.   Wanted to see what would happen if I took you somewhere you’ve always wanted to go.   Hope you had a nice journey.   That’ll be fifty dollars, please, you sexually defunct lunatic.  Make the check out to Harry Trulo.   Thirty-eight twenty-one Bronco Road.   Rochester, NY.    One four six oh four.

Notes from the Can

Lots of flatulence and everything’s coming out slow.  Strange, had I waited an extra five minutes, a mess would have formed on the bed. That’s where I was, lying there, considering my next move…literally.   Stay here or go elsewhere.

Staying here certainly would be convenient.   Keep up my routine looking for work, milling about the various coffee shops.  Stalk folks at Barnes and Noble.  The same folks.  The ones who threatened to call the cops on me.

Going elsewhere, ah, would be an adventure!  Sell my shit (not what’s leaking into the can right now…that’ll be long flushed), say farewell to all my neutrally minded friends and then dash off to a large vessel of land.   In that land I can heal, grow all sorts of foods, meet a plethora of folks, maybe even come in contact with my right mate.  It was OkCupid who informed me (via the hundreds of questionnaires) that it’s out west where I’ll find more people like me.

Thank you, Can.   I now know what to do.

Inner Dialogue

The last few weeks, I couldn’t help but hear my inner dialogue screaming negativity. So much about my inability to find work, encounter a romantic partner, live in a comfortable environment, etc.   Fate brought me in contact with Louise Hay’s You Can Heal Your Life.  This book has been life-changing.  The main philosophy in this writing is re-imprinting the brain so that it thinks positively about self and self’s reflections (friends, family, employers, co-workers, neighbors, community, etc).

Re-imprinting the brain can be fun.   Throughout the day, I’ll sing songs such as “I accept myself” or “I am sexy”.   Overtime, though, a wall might be hit.   Your emotional center, otherwise known as the Will, might say, “This positive affirmation is total bullshit right now.”   What a perfect time to actually start screaming and beating pillows.  By doing so, space opens up.   Each scream and each lashing of the pillow, you are moving through the energy of “this positive affirmation is bullshit.”   This might be a judgment but we all wish to approve of ourselves.  We all wish to be sexy.  Okay maybe we don’t all wish to porn stars or supermodels but sexy, yes.  Sexy to our partners.  Sexy to ourselves as we look in the mirror.

My suggestions to all who care about healing:

1.  Pick up a copy of You Can Heal Your Life.

2.  Come to understand your limiting beliefs such as “I am not sexy” or “I need the approval of others to get by in life”.

3.  Change it to a positive affirmation.

4.  Say it over and over again.

5.  Should your emotional center say this is bullshit, get to a safe spot, beat a pillow, scream till tears come streaming down your cheeks.

6.  Say the positive affirmation again.   It should feel more true.  If not, repeat screaming and beating of pillows.

How I strongly wish healing for this planet and everyone on it.  Thank you and love to you all for reading this.

Whitley’s Great Offense

Whitley did everything in her powers to avoid being offensive.  Regardless of the path she lead, Whitley left people pouting, blushing or rushing into a state of utter depression.   It took only one man to inform her that she held an unconscious desire to destroy others.  He went by the name Charles Boswell.  Charles was a retired architect living on the upper west side of Manhattan.   When he came in contact with Whitley, it was a sweltering day in Central Park.  Nearly every male was shirtless.  Charles, however, felt his form inferior, thus kept all fabric affixed to his body.

A golden retriever searched for a tennis ball nearby Whitley.  This had been her first time sunbathing in seven months.   Disturbed by the canine’s prodding, Whitley reached for her t-shirt, covering her cleavage.

“Whatever you’re looking for, dog, it ain’t here,” Whitley whined.

The golden retriever leaned in, licking Whitley’s face.

“Yuck,” pushing the dog off her.

Charles rushed in apologizing, “Spark!  That’s not my dog.  It’s my friend’s.   He’s away…”

“I don’t care,” Whitley barked.   “Take that beast away from me.”

“Spark,” Charles giggled.   “He’s a sweetie!”

All Whitley wished for was her space back with the sun.   “Take whoever’s dog this might be and leave me.   You’re wasting my time.”    She then fell back onto her giant beach towel, shaking with grief.

Stroking Whitley’s hair, Charles questioned her mental health.   “I know a great therapist.   She charges little and works her ass off.”

“I don’t need one.”

“You’re delusional and mean.”  Charles then dropped his business card beside Whitley.   “Call me if you’d like the therapist’s contact information.”

Whitley watched the man disappear into the crowd of sunbathers.   She stuffed his card into her purse, knowing full well that a therapist would do her wonders.

The Girl With No Lunch

The little girl went to school without lunch.   She cried all day long as the children around her chomped on their apples and buttered biscuits.  The teachers offered her nibbles of their sandwiches but nothing could calm the little girl down.

At school’s end, everyone was glad to see poor Tabitha depart.   Everyone except Arthur Dresmanian.   He found a beauty in Tabitha.   Something so freeing in the tears and its accompanied wailing.

The years that followed, Arthur fell so deeply in love with Tabitha, all he could do was stutter in her company.   By seventeen years of age, she had enough of his silly ways.

“What is it with you, Arthur?”

“Nu-nu-nothing.  Yu-you?”

“You hate me?  Do I scare you?”

“Nu-nu-no.  Wu-why?”

The only cure for Arthur’s irritating stuttering, she realized, was to kiss him.  She lodged her lips upon his, pushing Arthur against the cold lockers.  Seconds later, she pulled away asking, “Now, how do you feel?”

He responded with a kiss.   Never again did Arthur stutter.   Never again did Arthur speak as he fell deep into Tabitha’s mouth.  Her canines tearing him apart.  Blood dribbling down her chin.  She raced to the bathroom only to be stopped mid-way by Principal Hayes, an old curmudgeon.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

She pointed to the blood on her chin.

“What happened?  Forgot your lunch again?”

Tabitha nodded.

Hayes sighed, extracting a miniature notepad from his back pocket, “Alright, who was it this time?”

Mountain House

Going to a mountain house.  There’s a family there in hiding.   They’re paranoid someone’s out to kill them.   I’ve been asked to guard them.  The parents, George and Harriet, are under the impression I enjoy using handguns.  Never touched one in my life.   As a matter of fact, I detest weapons.  My purpose at the mountain house is to assure they understand my visit will be brief.  I’ll prepare an Indian buffet then take the long boat back to my urban shack.  Flip on the tube, roll myself a smoke and then pass on the bearskin carpet.

Unwanted House Guests

Theses unwanted house guests shield themselves as love but really they are pariahs.   They just appear.  Looking back, you wonder if you invited them in?   Maybe a little…life can be lonely sometimes.   Boy, how nice it is,though, to be alone.  Do things your way.   They, however, argue that everything you do is wrong. You calmly tell them they’re not seeing things right.   No, they insist, it’s you who is seeing everything wrong.  But we love you, they add, and you’re not alone.   Well, if I wasn’t alone, then why the fuck do I feel so alone?

Time to clean house.   Push these unwanted house guests to the porch, to the lawn.   Hell, I don’t care where they go.  Just leave me be.   Let me fill my space with my loving energy.   I will win here.   It’s in my cards.

Visit From Granddaughter


March 2012–Without both job and therapist I became overwhelmed.   Shaking with tears, I pulled over into the parking lot of the sex shop.  It became clear that I needed help.

The woman who came to my aid was insane.  She insisted I ignore my deepest self. She then urged me to write an erotic tale.   Below is the erotic tale entitled Visit From Granddaughter.   It’s X-rated, of course.  Shield your eyes if you are a minor or a prude.  Before continuing on with the tale, I’d like you to know I switched therapists.  The new one is much better.


A strange perfume was in the air, something musky and sweet.  The pedestrians rushing about the overheated pavement observed that yes the sweet musky smell derived from a female.

Roger mumbled aloud to himself. Whatever had been on his mind vanished.   He looked around, saw clearly that he was amongst strangers.  He blushed, ran into the foyer of the nearest skyscraper. A woman in her early eighties fumbled with a bag of groceries.

Roger, kind soul that he is, offered his assistance.   She at first declined his help.  Perhaps it was the hoody affixed upon his head, the aviator sunglasses, scruffy neck, and paint-splattered jeans that caused this octogenarian to reel back in disgust.   But then when he actually spoke, “You can’t do this alone,” the honey poured out his lips.

“Come up,” she urged, leaving everything to him.   During the elevator ride up she rattled on and on about her granddaughter, how she’ll be coming by any minute and the vegetarian lasagna, her granddaughter’s favorite dish, has yet to be made.

Inside the apartment, modern appliances throughout:  a flat-screen TV that responds through whistling, a remote control shower and toilet and a miniature robot that circumnavigates the floor sucking up any and all dirt rendering her living space spotless.   As she put together the vegetarian lasagna, the old woman complained of today’s urban supermarket lines.  “There needs to be more self-checkout lines or cashiers that have at least a high school diploma,” she urged.

Fifteen minutes inside this woman’s apartment and Roger was ready to leave.   He paced about, adjusted his collar, stamped his feet, checked his imaginary watch, anything to imply that the next step would be departure.  She, however, insisted he meet his granddaughter.

“She’s a high school scholar,” the woman boasted.   “You should read her fictions.  They’ll make your bones tremor.”

As he devised an escape plan, the doorbell rang.

“There she is,” the old woman morphed into a marathon runner as she made her way toward the buzzer.   “Eat dinner, get to know Eloise and then you can take off.”

“Superficially,” asked Roger.

“What do you mean, young man?”

“It could take years to actually get to know someone.”

“Oh, Roger, you mustn’t take everything so literally,” the old woman cackled.

The door flew upon, nearly knocking the old woman off her feet.   Standing in the doorway was Eloise, grinning cheek to cheek.   Sixteen, maybe seventeen.   Long slender tanned legs framed in turquoise jogging shorts.   Brown hair fell halfway down her tan tank top.   Eloise nearly crushed her grandmother to death.  The two held hands staring at one another, humming some private tune.   It all ended with the two jumping about like two schoolgirls at a candy store.

Roger was already drooling.   He apologized as he shook Eloise’s hand.   They worked their way into the dining room.   Hot steaming veggie lasagna flopped onto the plate and before Roger knew it, dessert was offered.

As the cherry pie made it onto his plate, the old woman lightly kicked Roger’s chair. “Tell Eloise what you do?”

Roger stammered at first but then managed to find the three words, “I’m an artist.”  The two fawned over Roger’s chosen profession.  Can they see his work?  Does he make enough money doing this?   What inspires him?  How long has he been doing this?  The barrage of questions threw him into a state of confusion.  “What to answer first?”   As he opened his mouth, the following words were emitted: “Eloise, will you model for me?”

“There’s no better time than now,” Eloise nodded and then hoisted herself atop the dining room table.

“Oh,” the old woman moaned.  “I just knew the two of you would hit it off!”

The turquoise jogging trunks flew off her left leg, landing in the old woman’s lap.   She sniffed her granddaughter’s jogging trunks as Eloise made her way toward Roger.

“I don’t have my…”

“You have it all, Roger.”   She then tore off her tank top, her tits flopping about in his face.  “Lick it.”

There was nowhere else to go but into Eloise’s bosom.   As his tongue glided around, he found his hands ripping Eloise’s lacy G-string.

The old woman dashed into the kitchen only to come out seconds later with a pair of scissors.  She sliced off Eloise’s G-string.  “A little bit easier for you, young man.”  She then took a seat, watching the two youngsters going at it.

Eloise pulled Roger onto the table, kicking away any debris in their way.   Her hands caressed his massive bulge.

“Your turn, Roger.”  The old woman activated her scissors once again, cutting open his outfit.   The two women stared with utter admiration at Roger’s Spartan frame.  Like a starving pup, Eloise sucked upon his dancing pectorals.  His left pointer finger entered her rear end.

“That’s just how I like it,” shrieked Eloise.

“It must run in the family,” agreed the old woman.

The two lovers fell atop the lasagna-stained tablecloth.  She worked his cock so hard that it nearly knocked over the bottle of wine.

“Put it in me,” she insisted.  He then thrust himself into her dripping wet vagina.  Inside, her muscles clenched and released at such a rate, Roger thought he was loosing his mind.

“This is the hardest my cock has ever been,” he confessed.  He then glanced over at the old woman.  Her breasts were dangling out her blouse while she fingered herself.

“Take me next,” the old woman wailed.  She couldn’t wait.  The old woman climbed atop the table while Roger slid his cock against Eloise’s clitoris.  The octogenarian then grabbed Roger’s ass cheeks, rimming the hole within.

“Spray Granny and I at the same time,” Eloise insisted.

The old woman slapped Roger’s ass and took position beside her granddaughter.   Roger stroked his cock as Eloise and her grandmother massaged his muscular thighs.   A warm stream of sperm squirted out atop both females.   The two licked every ounce of sperm off one another.

“Anyone care for some tea,” chimed the old woman.