Over the weekend I visited my friend. He has about two dozen chickens and recently got a domesticated pig (i forget the breed but it won’t be more than 300 pounds tops). Right now it’s a piglet and no more than 30 pounds. No…no pet is eaten at this house, although the chickens lay some mighty fine eggs.
The new piglet wanders around the yard, rooting for…well…roots. That’s pretty much what he does all day. And the chickens ignore him. Except for one.
Get excited people! The Cold Iron presale begins next week!
It is 1856, and New York is burning.
When a series of devastating fires tear through Manhattan, Nathaniel Hood, Watchmage of New York, finds himself battling against a weapon beyond even his considerable power. Both Nathaniel and his police detective son, Jonas, scramble to catch the culprit, only to uncover a deep conspiracy mired in fanatical politics, greed, and a blood-soaked grudge. Is it a rebellion of Veil Dwellers, supernatural creatures trapped in our world and under Nathaniel’s charge? Is it renegade magelings seeking power beyond their control? Or is it something altogether different, unknown, and far more deadly?
Cold Iron is the sequel to the award-winning novel, The Watchmage of Old New York. The price of failure is higher, and the moral choices for both Nathaniel and Jonas threaten to change both them and the city forever. New York is as cruel and unyielding as iron bars, but in the Watchmage’s world, even iron can burn.
One of the most important people in my life, one of my best friends and a former lover, a person I love more than myself, ghosted on me a few months ago. I keep looking at pictures of us and her daughter around my apartment. The tears come every time.
I will never see her again. I will never see her smile or hear her laugh. Her daughter, who I love as my own and even included in the dedication to Cold Iron, will never play with me or show me her stuffies and their life stories. I’ll miss every giggle. I’ll never push her on the swings. I’ll miss every birthday. In time I’ll be little more than a faded memory, and that’s if I’m lucky. Maybe in her world I’ll cease to exist.
I think that I know why she ghosted. Her current boyfriend doesn’t want her contacting me because we dated for so long, and our love is still palpable, even if it has turned to friendship. I’m the enemy. I’m a threat. And she loves him enough to do that. She doesn’t want to be alone anymore. And I understand because I know her so well. She needs him because he can give her what I cannot.
Nothing will repair this slash through my being. The heart heals when it’s a romance, but what about a friendship? I’ll miss her forever. I’ll miss her when I’m dead. And that’s how I feel inside.
I’ll miss her when I’m dead. I know because I’m already there.
The following was inspired by a huge fly that got into Katie’s apartment last night and pissed me off with its flyness and flyosity.
Once upon a time, there was a fly. He was not a sly fly, nor a cry fly. He was not my fly or your fly or anybody’s fly. He was Guy the Fly, just a simple fly in an unsimple world, a world where he could find no picnics to sample and faced all sorts of predators that wanted to predatize him with their predatory ways.
One day Guy was fleeing…no…flying…away from one of these predators when he saw with his hundred eyes a rectangular-shaped cave. It was cool in the cave, and Guy could see with his hundred eyes that there was raw chicken breast on a baking sheet in the kitchen. “What luck!” He buzzed. “I can eat a tiny bit of that chicken and there is nothing that will attack me. This is paradise!”
The cave closed shortly after Guy the Fly flew into it, but Guy was not perturbed. He had flown a long way before he saw the cave, and was not afraid of such odd occurrences. But when a giant, fleshy hand swatted at him, Guy went from unperturbed to very, very perturbed.
The final proof is done. The Layout is almost done. The cover is almost done. Cold Iron, the sequel to The Watchmage of Old New York, should be here by the end of the summer. Here’s the backpage blurb to get your metaphorical mouths watering:
It is 1856, and New York is burning.
When a series of devastating fires tear through Manhattan, Nathaniel Hood, Watchmage of New York, finds himself battling against a weapon beyond even his considerable power. Both Nathaniel and his police detective son, Jonas, scramble to catch the culprit, only to uncover a deep conspiracy mired in fanatical politics, greed, and a blood-soaked grudge. Is it a rebellion of Veil Dwellers, supernatural creatures trapped in our world and under Nathaniel’s charge? Is it renegade magelings seeking power beyond their control? Or is it something altogether different, unknown, and far more deadly?
Cold Iron is the sequel to the award-winning novel, The Watchmage of Old New York. The price of failure is higher, and the moral choices for both Nathaniel and Jonas threaten to change both them and the city forever. New York is as cruel and unyielding as iron bars, but in the Watchmage’s world, even iron can burn.
Btw: Watchmage is 99 cents right now, so now is the perfect time to buy it. Get in on the story just in time for the sequel. Every purchase is a big boost to a struggling artist like me. If you like my writing, 99 cents is a worthwhile investment.
Last week I went to The Clearwater Festival, also known as the Great Hudson River Revival. It’s the biggest folk festival in the New York area and one of the oldest in the country, and I’ve been going for 20 years. But sadly, last weekend reminded me that I’m not a kid anymore, and I can’t have fun the way that I used to.
Camping out is not required for the festival, but there are campgrounds that me, my friends, and several dozen people use. Traditionally every night has a “hoot” (a big singalong and jam where we sing folk and old classic rock songs) that goes on way too late. Of course I joined, and I was up singing and stomping and drinking (a LOT of drinking) until 2:30 in the morning Friday night.
I woke up shivering at 6 the next day, which is amazing in itself. If you’ve been following my blog, you know that for the past year, my brain has decided that 4-4:30 was an appropriate wake-up time. My head was pounding like I was in a drum circle all night (which I kinda was…there were drums along with the guitars, flute, washboard (!), saw (!!!) hand clappers, and singers). I looked in my cooler and realized that in about 4 hours of singing, I drank 10 beers. You have to keep your throat wet for a proper song circle. There is magic in a song and alcohol is one of the spell ingredients. 20, 10, even 5 years ago, I would’ve have flinched, but I am 41 now. I was dehydrated. I was headachy, and I could barely drag my ass out of the tent.
I still had a great time on Saturday and got to see all the bands that I wanted to see (Ani DiFranco, They Might Be Giants, The Mammals, Willie Nile leading a tribute to Dylan and Springsteen, the Neilds), but on Sunday morning I felt awful. I didn’t get much sleep, it was going to be 90 degrees (it had been almost 90 the day before, and I hate the heat), and I knew that if I stayed I would be miserable to the miserablist power. So I struck camp, and I drove home.
It was the first time I had ever left Clearwater early, and you know, I’m okay with it. I made the adult decision. A younger me would’ve toughed it out for the sake of toughing it out, but I weighed the options and made what I feel was the right choice. Sure I missed Jeff Tweedy (front man for Wilco) but hopefully I’ll see him else where. Sure I missed The Mavericks, but I’ve seen them 3 times. I accepted that I’m older now. I can’t forced myself to party just to party.
Also, I should learn to pace myself with the beer. I had no idea that I drank that much. They just disappeared down my throat.
Totally worth it.
Most Americans foolishly believe–as our lying teachers and textbooks have told us for 200 years–that it was the English that sailed from Chesapeake Bay and laid waste to Washington DC, burning the White House. Of course, this is a lie made by lying liars for their own agendas. The truth is far more sinister and involves our “polite” neighbors to the North: Canada.
In the Spring of 1814, after the glaciers receded from the Canadian wilderness, the Sovereign State of Canada launched a dastardly attack, cutting a swath of destruction from New York to all points south, ending with a deplorable burning of the sacred American Capitol. Here is the absolutely true story of the Candian assault on our land.
The Armored Moose Cavalry
Beginning in Montreal, the Canadian forces crossed the St. Lawrence River and marched south. At the head of the attack was Lt. Colonel Tim Horton, who led the feared Canadian Armored Moose Calvary. The moose were layered in steel, with spikes adorning their antlers. Their riders carried curved axes called “hockey sticks.” They trampled through the Adirondack Mountains of Northern New York. Wherever they stopped, they built a coffee shop named after their leader. Some stand even to this day, though under the name “Stewarts.”
Lt Col Horton in his dress uniform
Following the cavalry shock troops were massive cannons mounted on Zambonis fueled by something later called “Crown Royal.” Carried in special pouches, this mighty fuel allowed the Zambonis to travel great distances, gliding across the terrain as if they were on ice. Behind them were the Canadian riflemen, bedecked in their plaid, flannel uniforms, though the officers wore denim trousers and open denim jackets with a wolf shirt beneath.
Supporting their assault was perhaps the Canadians’ most vicious and barbaric weapon, the Canadian Geese Air Corps. These fierce creatures rained fetid death from above, from which there was no escape. When opposing troops saw their flying V pattern overhead, they ran, for no man can match the ferocity of a Canadian Goose.
The Canadians sacked Albany, then plowed south, skirting New York City and instead attacking the port of Newark. Oh, how the streets of Newark ran sticky with syrup that day. The barbarous Canadians celebrated their victory with a feast of sliced and fried potatoes smothered in gravy and cheese curds. They called this food “cheese fries with gravy (note: translated from Olde Canadian).” It is still on the menu of most New Jersey diners, though I dare say that they don’t know its sinister origins (or do they?).
The Canadian March South
They continued south, and the American militias were helpless against them. They fled at the sight of the armored moose and geese assaults, and Horton’s hockey hackers cut them down. After bringing polite destruction down on Philadephia, Horton split his forces. One-third of Horton’s troops headed west, laying waste to Appalachia in Virginia and Kentucky. The most famous battle of their western campaign was the Bowling Green Massacre #neverforget.
The rest of Horton’s troops moved south toward the Capitol. The American troops stood ready, but with a fierce battle cry of “yeh hoser!” the armored moose cavalry charged. There was no stopping the massive beasts, and the moose were just as fearsome. The Zamboni artillery fired double-doubles upon the left flank of the American troops, scalding them and driving them to flight. President Madison and his wife Dolly fled the White House, Dolly taking the portrait of George Washington with her before the Canadians could desecrate it with slabs of Canadian Bacon.
And there, on the 24th of August, 1814, Lt. Col. Horton sacked Washington DC and burned the White House. They then celebrated with some Molsons and danced to Nickelback all night long.
Nickelback: the greatest of outrages
Aftermath
Eventually, there came peace, and Horton’s Hackers returned to the Great White North. But they left a legacy across America. You see, no Maple Tree ever grew in America before the Canadian assault, but one intrepid rifleman named Johnny Mapleseed planted acorns along the Canadian army’s path. Without this young man, there would be no American maple syrup.
The discarded bags for the Crown Royal were later discovered to be excellent dice pouches for 19th-century games such as “Cellars and Cholera.”
Canada later said that they were sorry for the burning, and especially for Nickelback.
I’ve been away from here for a while. Things have been happening, and they’ve been too heavy to write about here. I’ll give a brief summary
And I have too many books in me to die just yet. Then again, so did Val, and the Reaper didn’t give a fuck.
I wrote an article on Pinkster in New York, just in time for the Pinkster festivals this weekend. Don’t know what it is? Click the link below.
Yes, here’s a post from a fat guy about how to lose weight. I know it seems silly, but 1) people that are fat know tons about how to lose weight because they’ve tried everything, and 2) I’ve lost almost 160 pounds and have kept it off for 5 years. I’d still like to lose another 20-30, but I’ll get into that in a bit.
(Me in 2013/ Me in 2018)
I try to work out four days a week. Usually, I manage three. I do kind of an aerobics/kickboxing/weight training routine, and by the end I’m lying on the floor, sweat soaking into the carpet. It’s been pretty effective since I started doing it. I’ve only dropped a few pounds, but I’m down a belt notch and I’m closing in on that glorious fifth belt notch, the place I was at when I was working out at the gym. Still, I’m 240 pounds. Part of the problem is that since I started at close to 400 pounds, I’m carrying about 20-30 pounds of extra skin. A normal BMR for my height and weight is about 2550. My adjusted BMR (according to the weight loss doctor) is 2212. Those 338 calories a day make a big difference (2/3rds of a pound per week).
Anyway, Spring is finally here, and I like to walk in the park. The problem is that a walk, even a brisk walk, is not nearly enough exercise compared to my normal routine. So, I started Heavyhands, and sweet Jeebus on a pogo stick while eating Good N Plenty, that’s a hell of a workout (if you do it right).
The basics are that you walk around while carrying light dumbells. Most people use 2lbs, but I use 5 because I’m an endomorph and naturally strong. You’ve probably seen people at the park and on treadmills at the gym doing it. Most likely they are doing it wrong, swinging them with a normal stride or hardly moving them. I was one of them for two weeks until I found out that I was doing nothing.
I found out that the proper stride is to swing the dumbbell up so that it’s parallel with the ground on each stride. If you’re doing this for an hour, you’re basically doing 1800 alternating shoulder raises (I’m estimating one raise every 2 seconds, which is slow). I’m not at that level yet. When my shoulders would give out, I would do bicep curls or tricep extensions, then switch back when they didn’t feel like death. In addition, you should walk almost in a duck walk to get the legs and butt involved. You look like an idiot doing it, but it’s worth it.
By the end of the workout, I wasn’t as short of breath as I am after my aerobics, but I had no strength left in my shoulders or biceps. It’s a combination strength/endurance workout, like rowing. You won’t get as big as a bodybuilder or as thin as a jogger. You’ll get somewhere in between.
The only caution that I’ve read online is that you can get tendonitis from the repeated motion. I cooled down in a shower afterward and took some Advil to prevent inflammation. We’ll see if it works.
It’s nice to be outside again. I’m not going to do this every time, but it’s a good change of pace from my indoor workout.
This has been your daily “Fat Guy Talking About Weight Loss” post. We now return you to Doge memes.
Heavypaws
casandersdotnet 