Sep 29
Scream for Me, Chicago! “S’up, asshole, whatcha doing September 22nd?” My brother, Steve, never calls me the Polish Hammer because he calls himself the Polish Hammer. He calls me “asshole” since that’s what our mother called me. It’s the same reason I always call Steve “asshole.” I’m certainly not going to call him the Polish …
Sep 22
Out on the Streets of Hammond I’m fifty-one years old, staring down the barrel of fifty-two, and I still have no fucking idea what I wanna be when I grow up. I remember coming close to deciding about ten years ago when I was slinging funny books at The Deep. Life was good. Stress free. …
Sep 15
Collecting Collectors So, I had my book launch for Mister Joe’s Pirates last Saturday at the Seidr Brewery in beautiful downtown Arab, Alabama. Seidr boasts a Norse mythology theme, which is to say all the drinks are named after Viking shit and the bartenders are forced to cultivate aggressive facial hair. It’s not talked about …
Sep 01
They Control Your Image We were called to the middle of the plant for an impromptu meeting. I was afraid it was going to devolve into another lecture on bathroom breaks. Management hates it when anybody poops on the clock. Despite there being more video surveillance cameras than a PornHub taxi trained on the bathroom …
Aug 25
Chaos to the Fly 4 (the finale) 5. “I wouldn’t mind getting the Polish flag tattooed on my arm,” Vic allowed. “It’d give me something to point at if I’m ever caught out doing something stupid. Or maybe a Polish warbird, you know. Something that’ll warn a fella they’re messing with at least a third-generation …
Aug 18
Chaos to the Fly 3 3. “Why is it, every game, every practice, feels like I just walked out of the Twilight Zone?” Brian asked. “I didn’t think it was too bad,” Wesley said. “Learn something, didja?” Milsap and Brian exchanged uneasy glances. They’d agreed beforehand not to include Wesley in any discussions concerning the …
Aug 11
Chaos to the Fly 2 2. Nine o’clock in the morning, Coach Vic and Coach Pete showed up for practice dead drunk and immediately began cracking open pony boy bottles of Little King Ale. “You gotta be kidding me,” Brian said. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and they’re already bombed out of their …
Aug 04
Chaos to the Fly 1. It was fucking hot. Milsap believed there wasn’t a half acre of hell hotter than the northside of Hammond in the middle of July. It was the sort of heat that made you forget you had ever experienced cold weather. Of course, Northwest Indiana, sitting on the ass end of …
Jul 28
A Taste of My Zucchini “What happened to your pimp cane, Polish Hammer? Haven’t seen you brandishing it around for the better part of a week.” “Ah, one of those middle-aged strippers at Uncle Buck’s Booty Bungalow sat on it and broke it. Damn thing wasn’t near as stout as I thought it was. But, …
Jul 21
In Search of the Incorporeal Handjob, or My Night with the Huntsville Paranormal Investigators I don’t always have money. I know you see the pimp cane I carry and think, now here’s a man who lives a life dedicated to leisurely pursuits. Looks can certainly be deceiving. The big ass diamond on the end …
