August 17, 2015 § Leave a comment
I think writing as a failure is because it’s expected that the whole story can be captured in five minutes. The extent of the attention span it seems. At least mine most days. But writing isn’t like that, life isn’t either. Nothing good ever happens in five minutes, it takes time, maybe even a lifetime before you get good at something. Then you die. That’s the bitch of it.
I was just sitting on the couch (I say couch, not sofa, even though I worked selling furniture for a while and when I said couch my managers cringed.) a minute ago thinking about my brothers kidney. I was also thinking about you, whoever you are, reading this and wondering to myself, why would you want to read this, and why does my brother have a tumor the size of a softball on his kidney?
And does it really matter?
My name is Dan, my brother is Dave. We have a sister Sue and we were all born to a woman named Rebecca who married a man named Edmund.
For the longest time, I thought my mother’s middle name was Sue, in fact, in the Navy I put that middle name on more than a few official papers, the fact of the matter is her middle name is Marie. That’s why my sister’s middle name is Marie too.
My brothers middle name is Lawrence, after my father’s middle name. My middle name is Earl which is after my grandfather’s on my mothers side. Granddad was a Kentucky coal miner back in the day when they actually dug deep holes in the ground and men went into these holes and picked away at the coal by hand until they had a tidy pile and then they shoveled the pile into a coal car which was pulled to the surface. Talk about some bullshit hard work, coal mining is that. But Grandpa Melvin did that. And when he wasn’t mining coal, he was tear assing around the county where Central City is located. So I hear. Which is where he met my grandmother on my mother’s side, Alice, Alice Gay Day.
Alice was a little crazy. I visited her when I was sixteen while she was in the purple wing of the Novi Regional unit one day after she had an episode. I remember vividly the nurses telling me to follow the purple tiles on the floor and that would lead me to the purple wing, where, Alice was found propped up in bed, gray disheveled hair springing forth as if Medusa herself had officiated the styling, and babbling incoherently about the martians coming to take her home. My grandmother always wanted to go home. We all assumed home meant the great hereafter. Grandma played the organ in church in Kentucky and took a shine to god and his kingdom. So we just assumed that she was talking about the kingdom when she talked about home. Martians or not.
Alice and Melvin had a brood of their own. Uncle Kenny, Aunt Debbie, Aunt Phyllis, Aunt Linda and my Mom Rebecca. Alice had a child die in infancy. She never got over that.
They’re all Fogles, but according the the social security office the name is Fogie, that is if you are trying to verify some sort of birth record or such. I found this out one day when I was at the social security office doing just that. I was having a bitch of a time and the lady I was talking to obviously saw how frustrated I was. She is the one that told me the spelling of the name is Fogie. Thank god for small favors and federal workers able to put two and two together. Something of a lark it seems these days. But then again that was twenty years ago and I don’t suspect that the government has gotten any wiser. So maybe if I needed to do that again I’d be fucked.
Alice also guilted Rebecca with a mind full of bullshit that she never got over. Rebecca felt she was the perpetual keeper of her siblings. Because that’s what Alice told her. My mom rarely had a day of peace because of what Alice did. Not until she died, and even then, I’m not sure she found peace. Especially if Alice beat her there, which, of course, was the case. And of course, assuming there is some sort of hereafter. Who the fuck really knows?
October 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
Dear IT Guy From India,
I feel that cosmically, forces deep from the universe flow through my soul, and that each evening, when I sleep, the darkness I experience is only that from which I come, and to which I will ultimately return.
I don’t fear the darkness, because in it, I find a warmth and love that makes me know that it is not my enemy, but rather, a friend. Proof of this, to me at least, is that the darkness of my sleep is split with dream, of which I can take to believe as reality as any waking moment. What is waking consciousness after all, but sensory perceptions of a world that I cannot prove exists other than my mind perceives all things I experience. Is that not the same as dream in sleep?
Coming Awake in Des Moines
Dear Coming Awake in Des Moines,
You’ve got a lot of choices with an Apache server install, and depending on your distribution or installation choices, Apache may already be installed.
Setting it up on Linux varies from machine to machine, Red Hat, Debian, Caldera, or Mandrake, among others have different ways to fine tune the install, but in the end they all work the same.
When I configure Apache, I like to keep all the binaries and associated files in one directory, typically /usr/local/apache and I’ll set up a content directory like /home/httpd/html. Here is where I’ll put all the CGI scripts and programs.
What’s nice about this setup is that if you end up with multiple “virtual hosts” running, you get an easy handle to manage it all. In a lot of distributions out there Apache is already set to go out of the box. You just start the server and populate it with content. But sometimes you have to play with the config file.
Apache is really a simple operating system to get up and running, unless you have to compile your server, which is beyond the scope here. But if it is installed already, great, you’re almost there!
Hope that helps.
October 10, 2014 § Leave a comment
Go carefully into these dark woods
Because when power comes to subjugate people,
They go for the writers first.
They will hunt them down and kill them
Not because they are the mightiest
But because they stand for the truth
June 18, 2012 § Leave a comment
William Clayton broke into Giliad’s apartment today.
He’s scopin’ the place out just to make sure his keys work. Killing is on his mind, but just how is the question.
June 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
Originally posted on NewsFeed:
Worried about recent bouts of rampant cannibalism? Fearing an onslaught of the undead? Well, fear not: you can now prepare for Zombiegeddon with a new line of specially engineered zombie bullets — while supplies last.
Hornady Manufacturing Company, a Nebraska-based ammunition maker, is promoting its line of Z-Max zombie bullets as “specifically designed to vaporize zombie varmints.” Since killing zombies, as everyone knows, requires taking out the brain, the Z-Max line boasts “Ultra-flat trajectories [that] send mangy menaces to the varmint graveyard.” These bullets are built, as Hornady’s website puts it, to “make dead permanent.”
(PHOTOS: Pop Culture Zombies)
But before you rush out to fill your survival bunker with special anti-zombie ammunition, please note that the product’s more of a gimmick than anything else. The Observer reportsthat the bullets are mostly a product of company owner Steve Hornady’s affection for zombie flicks, plus a dash…
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June 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
Originally posted on Gem State Writers:
Showing emotion can be one of the hardest things for new writers. Most spend hours learning body language and the physical reactions emotions stir.
Fist-clenching. Teeth grinding. Lip-curling. We know them all. We have the list.
The problem is that these standard expressions get old quickly. If your antagonist sneers more than once in a book, he looks like a cartoon villain. My agent calls this “grimacing” and she wants it out of my writing.
Fine. Agreed. But what can we put in its place? Dialogue can’t carry all the emotion. Sometimes the strongest feelings are the ones we can’t put into words.
There has to be a way to physically show emotion without falling back on these old clichés.
I have always struggled with this, but recently I remembered a scene from my childhood which illustrated exactly what I need to do as a writer.
When I was growing…
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