Once My Looks Go, I've Got Nothing

Welcome back! When last we left off, Sheila and I had returned from the Keyaki Beer Festival and the frivolity thereof. With our first weekend concluded, we looked forward to Monday morning and the week ahead. But before I can get too much into that, I need to get something out of the way. We Need to Talk About Chu-Hi So, chu-hi. Or chūhai, or chuuhai, or however you want to write it. You may recall a passing reference to it in Part 1 of this very blog series, but I'd like to take a moment to describe what exactly it is. Chu-hi is big in Japan . It's a beverage of the adult variety, a refreshing concoction that comes in one of numerous light fruity flavors. Our favorites were lemon and grapefruit. Lest you be fooled by this seemingly innocuous description, chu-hi is potent . Deceptively so, in that it doesn't really even taste like it contains alcohol, but is actually packing a quite respectable 6% or so. And if that wasn't enough, there is a variety we ni

        A longtime friend of mine informed me last year that he would be getting married in Japan in May, 2015, which was at the time unfathomably far in the future. At first, attending didn't seem like a reasonable option: there was no way I could afford plane tickets, hotel rooms, etc. without racking up some unwanted debt, and I didn't even have a passport, having done all of my traveling to that point within the continental United States. Eventually, however, I decided to just go for it and make the trip happen, a decision which had nothing whatsoever to do with my girlfriend's desire to see Japan, no matter what she or I may tell you. So how did it go? I'm glad you asked! Otherwise I'd just stop writing here, and it would be a pretty crappy post. Bon Voyage      First off, let it be known that ANA Airlines is fantastic. Mind you, this is coming from someone who had never been on an international flight before, but still...keeping me from going out of m

Even though my ostensible first novel only came out a few years ago, I've been writing ever since my chubby little fingers were capable of scrawling squiggly approximations of letters. I distinctly remember some of my school journal entries being succinct fictional works, many of which involved Godzilla or a sentient puddle of acid with grizzly bear arms named Gory Glob. Eventually, I took the next step and started creating full-length works. That's right, Henry Garrison wasn't actually my first book...not by a long shot. Don't believe me? Well check this out! That, my friends, is the cover of my first book, Nightmares and Other Tales . If you aren't familiar with the 1993 best seller charts, you'll just have to take my word for it when I say that this baby was lighting them up . And with a cover like this, how could it not? I mean, you've got a tombstone with a spider and slime AND a spooky monster claw poking out from behind it. You've got a

You may have noticed the fact that I relentlessly plug my novel, Henry Garrison: St. Dante's Savior , on this blog. Obviously, I would love it if everyone that read my posts also read my book. At the same time, though, I understand that just because a guy can write a million-word screed about a children's horror book doesn't mean his novel will be any good. Therefore, I'd like to use this post as an opportunity to introduce my readers to my novel in a more concrete way. Since the proof is in the proverbial pudding, I've decided to share a spoonful of said pudding with you in the form of the first chapter, presented here in its entirety. For a bit of background, the novel is about a bored teenage boy living in the 'burbs who finds a pair of gloves that give him extraordinary powers. It's not as dumb as it sounds, I promise. While you're reading this chapter, it may occur to you that it doesn't much sound like the first chapter of a superh

     I recently posted the following on Facebook. Don't worry, it's not family photos:      During war time, bombs get dropped; such is the nature of war. Tragically often, said bombs cause damage far beyond their intended targets. Such was the case one time, with a certain McDonald's, a bastion of unhealthy comfort food in a volatile area. Errant ordnance reduced this greasy palace to smoldering ruins, and it was small comfort that the debris-laden air smelled like french fries for hours afterwards. They say if you visit this site in the middle of the night, you will find a lone man there. He is a chubby fellow clad in black and white, an outfit that recalls old-timey prison garb. He sifts, heartbroken, through the charred remains. "Rubble, rubble," he sobs mournfully. "Rubble, rubble."      On the surface, this seems to be merely a strange joke, perhaps a bit long-winded considering how slight the punchline is. Yet it is also indicative o