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Crashing the Shortbus

Yup, killed to death.

Yup, killed to death.

I felt the tires slip upon the tarmac and wheel go wild in my hands. Sliding noisily, the shortbus missed its turn and elbowed around a tree, its driver flung like bloody meat through the windshield. There were no survivors.

What happened? Was it a banana peel? No, it was a royalties check. I won’t say how bad the royalties check was, but it was awful. It was bad enough that I would intentionally drive my bus into a tree to collect the insurance money––but there is a minor setback. Shortbus drivers are uninsured.

What will I do now that my shortbus is a mangled wreck? Walk away? Some friends suggest I self-publish my next book. Take control over pricing, and be able to offer my third and greatest book to readers for free. One of my author friends has done well with self-publishing—comparative to my awful royalties check.


Being a fan of Jesus, I’m going to tell a Shortbus style parable. Here you go…

One upon a time there was a telemetry technician who worked in a hospital. He knew how to interpret cardiac rhythms so as to help medical teams quickly respond to critically ill patients and save lives. He was very attentive, and fairly astute at determining dangerous heart changes from non-dangerous rhythms.

But one ICU manager didn’t like how this technician sat around watching computer screens all day. She didn’t think watching over sick, critically ill patients was enough work for the tech. So, she and her micro-managing charge nurse conspired against the tech who watched over the sick and the dying. Although it wasn’t his duty, they made him transfer doctors’ orders to nursing charts. A duty that averted the telemetry technician’s focus from dangerous and sometimes fatal heart rhythms to charting medicines he wasn’t educated in the use of, or proper dosing. The ICU manager said, “You’ll figure it out.”

One day, while the telemetry tech was trying to read a doctor’s shitty scribble, a patient went into a fatal cardiac rhythm—and died. The tech was blamed for not doing his job—and fired. The end.


Nice parable, aye? It might be true, or maybe not. Jesus was never clear, so why should I be?

The point is this, I am a writer. I am not a publisher. Some people might have two heads and with their two heads be good at wearing two hats, but I have no desire to slack my primary duty to make way for one I’m not educated to perform. It is hard enough writing a book. Then selling that book, and then marketing that book. I have no interest in being the publisher too.

The shortbus is crashed, but there are other facets of my writing to be found for free.

Here is my fantasy fiction hobby blog—

Here is my professional webpage—

Dead Cupid


Merry Christmas

For real, no joke…Merry Christmas.




It’s Been Too Long Since We Met Last

Sounds like a romantic rendezvous, doesn’t it? Funny thing, I’m working on a short story––a ‘zombie-porn story’ for an anthology called 50-Shades of Decay. I’m not kidding.

Gimmie some tongue baby.

Gimmie some tongue baby.

I’m not speaking any more about zombie-porn until my story is accepted. This topic is closed, but it has been a long time since I’ve posted anything on the Shortbus. I figured it was time to pop up again. I’ve done a fair bit of blogging though… if you are interested in my new adventure, google two words, Skyrim Prodigy.

I’d written a typical ‘career-suicide’ Shortbus post, but I’m trying to avoid hurting myself any more than I must. It was good and fiery, pointed and with poisoned tips. Sadly, being a published author had turned me into a begging ass-kisser to everyone. I can no longer afford to rub anyone wrong—even the most despicable of scum. I’ve become a hostage to my art.



Crossroads of the Shortbus

Crossroads of the Shortbus

Still, I’m going to try to keep the Shortbus alive. I will continue to write about C-Jane and my strange travels, but since we are both being financially punished those will be very few. Expected trips, March we are going to Ireland. When we had money, we pre-paid for most of the trip, so we are still going despite our deep poverty. I am also going to the World Horror Convention in New Orleans in June. I’m in an anthology that might be nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. Plus I might have a chance to read a little bit from one of my books.

I can’t afford to go to movies anymore, but Netflix still brings us movies for cheap. I might begin writing Shortbus style reviews for some of the DVDs we watch. (YAWN) yeah, I know. Like I said, I’m a hostage to my art, gone are the glory days of knocking down other people’s card houses.




Interesting that Sober is the song playing as I write this. The drunken ramblings that are the Shortbus to Hell must change–as I’ve stated now for more than a year. These anonymous blah-blah-blatherings that we have all enjoyed are doing nothing for my career. C-Jane and I intentionally left Las Vegas so as to purge the mean-spirited attitude. I think our escape worked. Life here is not ‘perfect,’ for whatever that word means in reality, but the intense hate has fallen off.  Since its inception, the Shortbus was intended as a way to release hostility incurred by a purely apathetic society. I have left that society and so I’ve also abandoned my hostility. Now that anger serves no one.

I cannot delete the Shortbus, that would be wrong, but the frequency for which I post here will be greatly diminished.  I will eventually leave a link to my ‘professional’ blog, and then one for a new project that is in the works as we speak. Since I write fantasy fiction and I am a huge gaming dork, I’ve decided that I should do fan-fiction of the game Skyrim. It will be as niche as the Shortbus, but with a greater reach and attracting more readers that might buy my books. To continue investing in humorous, yet spiteful rants serves no one.

Those who have remained loyal to this kooky blog, don’t worry, I will still post here. I still have to give ‘Big-J’s presidential endorsement’ — which I promise you will love. Occasionally, if something fun happens, I’ll post it here, but reviews about entertainment need to go to my other blog, book reviews and author interviews belong there too. I’ve sought to post about once a week here on the Shortbus, and that is going to slow drastically. Here is one promised link for those who are interested.


Samson’s Excellent Adventure (Part Final)

Before I get started I just want to express how relieved I am that Mitt Romney admitted he was wrong about what he said about 47% of all Americans. Of course, C-Jane and I knew all along he was referring to the other 47% and not you or me. Apology accepted; now please, take your rightful throne in the White House oh’ king of kings.

Should I repeat what Glen Beck said this week? … sorry, I’m digressing.

I couldn’t help it. Sorry, sorry…

So, we awoke in Twin Falls Idaho, the land of options. In the complimentary breakfast area were several genetically modified bagels with human-hair yeast substitute–imported from China, or the option of the same waffle that every corporate hotel in the US offers their grossly over-charged “guests.” I had the waffle as C-Jane colorfully mimicked my, “F*** this, let’s eat in Boise.”

We collected Sam and the first thing we noticed as we left the building was “Wow, it sure is a lot cooler here than in Vegas.” Our thin, reptilian blood was not used to the absence of “HOT!” like in Vegas. Lucky Sam had a coat of hair.

Sam seemed less disturbed by this day of travel than he had the day before. At least he refrained from living in his litter box. He seemed very sad, resigned to depression as if C-Jane’s car was his sentence for living the good life in Vegas. This has been a pretty crappy year for the Sam Cat since he was the only one home when we were burglarized, there was C-Jane’s absence for several business trips, and at least three visits from RJ, Best Man for Hire. Sam doesn’t really like him––it’s the smell of old cabbage and Brut cologne spoiled by the stale reek of Marlboro. Moving across country seemed the final insult to Sam’s need for structure, so he lay writhing in his cage, moaning in forlorn misery.

The drive across Idaho was uneventful. We made it to Portland without anything worth writing about. We made it with enough spare time to retrieve our new keys, and we introduced Samson to his new home. My step-dad and mother had driven up a different way and pulled a trailer full of our stuff with their big truck. That night, we met for dinner at a nice German pub.  Yummy.

It took Sam most of the week to get it together. We’d hired help to unload our trailer, and Sam hid in a cupboard. The internet guys came, and Sam hid in a cupboard. We put all our stuff in its new place, and Sam hid in the cupboard. He really does put the ‘pussy’ in ‘cat.’

Sorry about the F-word, but it fits the picture.

Next up at bat–Fun Times at the DMV.


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