Just Don’t



Been one of those weeks.


Monday, October the 13th, Brought to you by Darth Vader


DARTH VADER is the twitter handle of @DepressedDarth, a rabid and sleepless Star Wars superfan who delivers very funny SW shit on a daily basis. So I thought I’d offer an alternative to all the “HAIL CTHULHU! COME, DARKNESS!” posts today on this, Monday the 13th of October wherein, fuck yeah, we have plenty to be PLENTY scared of. If you’re a parent, it’s Enterovirus 68. If you’re paranoid (and who isn’t), it’s Ebola. If you’re a red bloodied Republican who’s quietly (or not so quietly) hated Obama’s black fucking guts for the last six years and now you turn on your TV and LOOK! Why that damn darkie has allowed Iraq to fall to pieces, completely dismantling all of George W.’s good work and those ISIS bastards are using guns and tanks we gave them and on and on but really, if you’re a red bloodied Republican on Monday the 13th of October you might be mad but red bloodied Republicans aren’t scared of shit, are you. You’re especially not afraid of these ISIS bums. ISIS? ISIS? What kinda name is that for an army, wasn’t Isis some Egyptian bitch who fucked Caesar or built the Sphinx or something? For if you are indeed a red bloodied Republican with a framed picture of Schwarzkopf on the mantel there ain’t no way on God’s green Earth that you could ever ever possibly be afraid of a woman, not even on Monday the 13th of October. Nope. Not you. A bitch? Come on. But RBR, look at the time! Time for bed, off we go. It must be strange to live without fear, RBR. I kind of feel sorry for you—I mean, fuck, you’re never going to buy one of my books except perhaps in my wildest dreams when you hold it up on big media and scream BLASPHEMY or something—but Red Bloodied Republican, I genuinely feel sorry for you. So as a one-time Draxian gesture I have arranged a special gift, a nightmare. Tonight. 2:47 am. Not masked gunmen kicking in your door nor the White House blowing up but the spectral and burning visage of Isis, her hand at your throat, a knife at her side, the Nile rising behind her like a tsunami to drown you in the waters you fear the most, the red rivers of woman.

No, really, you don’t have to thank me, RBR. The pleasure? All mine.

Because I finally fell into the proper wavelength of October today. The fear. The weird. It felt good to embrace it, embrace fear. Even as my world explodes around me, I find myself laughing a lot. Because I’m so full fear that when a bomb doesn’t go off for a full five minutes suddenly there’s something hilarious in my world. I’m still afraid. But it feels so good to laugh.


STAR WARS collected / created by @DepressedDarth





Screen Shot 2014-10-11 at 8.33.41 PM

When your parents ask you to clean your room

See? A little ha ha never hurt anyone on Monday October 13…

Oh, shit. It was Columbus Day, wasn’t it.


A Plea from January that I never finished, thus never posted: “HELLO, 2014 (oh, planet earth, we are in trouble)”


January 8 2014

HELLO, 2014 (oh, planet earth, we are in trouble)

Yes. Planet Earth, Gaia, Terra — we are in deep fucking shit. We are fucking doomed. Are you killing us because of how much we’ve harmed you? Are you alive? Are you shrugging us off, weeding us out?

[more about new emergent dominant life forms after we’re gone]

† † †

October 11 2014, 9:35  pm EST

NOsTRoDaMUS. Has. Spoken.

Is Earth weeding us out? I’d have to say, why, yes.

We better start learning better communication skills with Mother Earth real soon.



I’ve Been Recalled to the Home Planet…


Nasty bits of business. Labor relations w/ the Tharks, reconstruction woes for the pyramids, The Face, the tourist fees for Mariner Valley—some genius at Mars HQ decided they needed an “expert” and that same genius decided that the “expert” needed was yours truly. So much for the new adamantium stitches in my new boots! So much for the Red Planet’s lackluster night-life! So until I knock the God of War into shape, there’ll be no posts until midweek at the earliest. Hang Tight, True Believers, I Will Return.


“Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Jack.”







The Return of The King


Ha. As if. What a week it’s been. Sleepless nights, broken computer, mortgage shit, bitchfests w/ the co-parent, blah blah blah.


New computer and the requisite fucking expensive software are now up and running, more or less. Weird learning curve w/ new operating systems. We’ll get there. The only constant is change.

As we stare down the barrel of 2014 w/ only 3 months left and on this, the first full day of Fall, let’s get a head count of who’s who, what’s what, and what’s left.

I pubbed THE LAST STAR IN THE SKY as a kindle single. Oh boy, bravo!


The Last Star in the Sky is available exclusively @ amazon.com

(like, big deal. but it felt good to put something out there)

I bought a new car. A new OLD car. But it’s a Jeep, and I love it.

I completed all the mortgage shit. We are now at the mercy of the Evil Bank. [GAH! The mortgage people just called! No, really! Just now! They wanted to know how much money Simon Drax made as a fiction writer in 2014. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!]

Well, that’s my fault, isn’t it.


no progress

(well a little)


no progress

(well a little)

The TWIN PEAKS essays

Halfway through reviewing the first season, still only halfway through Fire Walk With Me. Seriously considering whether I should honor this commitment or just bail, you know—fuck it. I have lots of thoughts and feelings about Twin Peaks as a TV and film and story-arc and social phenomena, etc., but I’m wondering if I really have anything original or insightful to bring to the table.

[Though watching the original pilot and Fire Walk with Me back to back is an incredible experience: Lynch and Frost knew their shit, they really, REALLY knew their own myth.]

And that’s all for now. It is nice to be back in operation. I will share Moon pictures soon.

Love Drax


I Am Going to Watch This Video All Day

God. Yesterday a weepy love letter to U fucking 2, today a goddamn cat video. God, Drax, look in the mirror! WHAT HAVE YOU BECOME?!


“DRAAAAAAAAX!” (a review, a rant)


So I finally took my son to see the stupid Guardians of the Galaxy movie the other day—and trust me, it is an exceedingly stupid and bad movie for reasons I will explicate shortly—but my son “loved it.” My son is an optimist. He makes the most of everything. If it’s a movie? “AWESOME!” If it’s a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? “AWESOME!”

But even he could feel the vibe as we took our seats.

The stupid movie had opened nearly a month before. We went to a noon showing on a Sunday attended by MAYBE 50-75 people in a theater capable of seating 1,500 and man, those taking their seats were nearly all dads with their kids. No moms. The moms knew what I knew—this film was going to suck. So, call me psychic! I could tell my son was readying himself for a disappointment.

I didn’t want it to go that way. He had already returned to school, but it was Labor Day weekend, he wanted to see the big stupid Marvel Comics Movie, and I was determined he would have a good time.

So I became three things. 1: A liar, 2: The idiot who screams in the movie theater, and 3: The moron who applauds every time something blows up.

Also, I had a card up my sleeve. Drax, man. Drax The Destroyer.

DRAX THE DESTROYER was created by Mike Friedrich and Jim Starlin in the early seventies, and Drax was a pretty bad-ass character for Marvel comics. He dies. Is resurrected. Fashioned into a living weapon of vengeance. It was Drax The Destroyer from whom I drew my chosen surname, NOT Lord Dunsany, NOT Hugo Drax from Moonraker of the James Bond series, NOT the scary-ass power plant in England. Drax The Destroyer. He was green, he was nuts, he was tough as shit.

I thought the pseudonym “Simon Drax” would induce either terror or ridicule. Both reactions suited me fine.

Sitting in the theater watching Guardians of the Galaxy with my son, whenever Drax appeared on screen, I very loudly howled


My son was a bit embarrassed but still highly amused, and nobody in the scant audience cared. As a matter of fact, every time I screamed “DRAAAAAX!” there were titters of laughter in the dark. And screaming at the screen for a single character is not solely the propriety of the obnoxious moviegoer. Example: Rocky Horror. “BORING!” and “WHERE’S YOUR FUCKING NECK?!” And more: I saw Jim Cameron’s ALIENS ten times in the theater in the summer of 1986, and every time this babe showed up—


— all the cool guys in the audience screamed


My voice was the loudest. At least it seemed that way. Vasquez and ALIENS rocked.

Unsurprisingly, Guardians of the Galaxy did not rock.

I made sure my son had a good time. I screamed “Draaaaax,” we applauded when shit blew up, etc. But it was not a good movie. Not even close.

Guardians of the Galaxy is an instantly forgettable assemblage of set pieces and dumb idiotic jokes and “spectacular” effects, and though I kept my son in a good, attentive mood—becoming, in effect, a liar, encouraging my son to applaud for shit—bad dad, bad bad bad dad—mentally, I was in Hell. I kept shaking my head. WHO CARES? Any of it. Who cares? The silver ball? The cameo of Thanos? That the main characters become friends? The Kirby-created villain?

Who cares.

In Alan Moore’s anthemic essay Writing for Comics, Moore uses “Who cares?” as a mantra as he rips apart bad comics, bad storytelling, bad writing. There’s never been a more successful writer than Moore who’s been more adversarial to the film industry in the adaptation of his comics into movies. He’s walked away from thousands, shaken his head at millions of dollars in payment for adaptations of his work. In many ways Alan Moore is Planet Earth’s last honorable man. He just won’t take that fat stack of cash. He has a simple theory: There are good comics, there are good movies, but they are not interchangeable. One can not necessarily be successfully morphed into the other.

I agree with him one hundred percent. Know your form.


The makers of “blockbuster” Hollywood comic book movies would do well to study how intelligent, successful comics actually work as opposed to replicating again and again and again the structure of the cinematic hit based on its opening box-office haul, the demographics, the popular plot points or story arc based on previous movies rather than the source material, or the fact that the movies they make merely contain characters and elements and lines of dialogue and design schematics of the comics they are mauling that they KNOW the fans will flock to. The makers of Guardians should have read more good comics.

I don’t care that the Guardians of the Galaxy movie sucked, actually. I have better things to worry about. As a matter of fact, it was MISSION ACCOMPLISHED: my son had a good time. Even if I had to become a liar, even if I had to become a bad father, even if I encouraged him to applaud for a piece of shit. It was like giving him candy I knew would rot his teeth.

I screamed “Draaaaaax,” to the audience’s semi-hilarity, my son was amused, we appreciated the theater’s AC, we ate all of our popcorn. He had a good time. Mission accomplished.

So what’s my problem?

Glossy pieces of shit that cost millions of dollars while children are dying of hunger and thirst, movies that distort original visions of the creators, and the sad fact that I am a participant in these crimes. I might scream my chosen name in a dark theater for yucks—but I’m just as guilty as the assholes I just spent 1000 words bitching about.


I Am Gripped By A Strange Sudden Passion…

Gary Burghoff stars in M*A*S*H

Gary Burghoff as Walter “Radar ” O’Reilly in MASH

… to write a MASH fanfic called “Radar’s Brother.” It would fit into a “Haunted WW2″ collection monkey I’ve been thinking about for… sometime now.

Briefly: Radar’s older brother served in WW2. Whatever Radar’s latent psychic powers might have been, his brother’s powers were far greater. Quick tight short story. The government recognizes Radar’s brother’s abilities right away, and they use him in covert operations as a psychic throughout the course of 1939-1945. It has to end tragically with Radar’s brother’s death, and the government covers everything up. Radar and his family receive a letter, a medal, a flag. Radar idolized and loved his older brother. He is devastated. He never recovers from this loss. And this is why poor Walter O’Reilly is so twitchy and weird when he’s serving in Korea in MASH, wielding only a shrapnel of his brother’s power when he’d freeze and whisper, “Incoming.”


MASH was one of the first “adult” TV shows I was allowed to watch as a child, and I was instantly fascinated by the character of Radar. Yeah, we all love Hawkeye—whatever—but Radar was weird, man. He was a misfit, a man-boy with no “real world” experience, sweet and gullible to a fault. Also, he had extra exceptional hearing, or he was psychic. He knew when the choppers were coming in with wounded. “Incoming.”


“Just write it down, write it down now. Because you will forget it.” — Warren Ellis




Yes, blue. Blue is the new red.

You might remember I mentioned that I’m writing a series of essays on Twin Peaks for a forthcoming anthology. I’ve written one essay, some sketches, but I’ve become overcome by a passion to spill all the brain cells I have left regarding everything I think and feel about the “start” and the “end” of Twin Peaks, FIRE WALK WITH ME. I already have 100,000 words in my head regarding this remarkable movie, but the more I thought about it I realized I should watch it again. Easier said than done. A beloved film, but I didn’t have a copy of it. Netflix has the entire series, but not FIRE WALK WITH ME. Had to buy a 10 dollar used copy. Watching, and making copious notes TONIGHT. And yes. Blue is totally right. More later.

The owls are flying.



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