Pursuant to the last post, regarding my furious outburst at the number of self-aggrandizing bullies and sycophantic narcissists weighing in on the Aurora, Colorado tragedy in exactly the worst way possible… Here’s a better way to react:

Warner Brothers has coughed up a fairly large amount of money, and I believe the official “victim’s fund” is already up around $2 million, but this story, in particular, struck me as one that needs to see a most excellent ending. If the interwebz can raise $500K+ for an old lady who got bullied on a bus, I’m sure they can see this story end as well as possible.

As a Dad, a Husband and an Artist, this story really hit home for me. I remember sitting in the theater on opening weekend of THE DARK KNIGHT with my viddy preggo wife. We are both big fans of the Bat, and were very excited to get a nice evening together in a cool, dark respite from the summer heat, in a somewhat comfortable chair. The idea that something as heinous as what went down in Aurora could have happened is pretty much unimaginable, but it sure hits me now.

Caleb Medley is a Husband, Artist (yes, Stand-Up Comedians can be considered artists) and now he’s a brand new Dad. He’s also in a coma, down an eye and may have irreparable brain damage. He’s also looking at some pretty nasty hospital bills and a long, hard recovery when he wakes up.

So let’s all quit our bitching and complaining, leave off the backseat parenting, news-hawking,  conspiracy theorizing and anonymous conjecture and DO SOMETHING TO HELP. This young man, and his new family, are some of the victims of Aurora. Ease your conscience with $10 or $20 and help save a family suffering through tragedy.

http://calebmedley.com/help

Or you Crackbookers can go to here:

https://www.facebook.com/supportcalebmedley

That title will be sure to confuse some tweeps.

Yep. Got a bite on Hot Sinatra. They said that “despite the grammatical issues”, they couldn’t stop reading and really liked my “powerful voice” (cue small amount of whizz in my jockeys). I apologized for my Canadian edumacation and sent off the full manuscript last night. We should hear back in 3-4 weeks, should make for a tense mid-summer. Not to mention those damn Red Sox… though, if Lester was going to give up a 3-run homer to anybody, I’m glad it was The Youk.

In other news…

Coffin Hop submissions are closed, so now to dig into the last minute pile and see what we can see. There’s at least a couple of promising tales in there. With the Coffin Hop 2012: Death By Drive-In anthology on my plate, the Manlove & Kickerdick XXXmas story, a Stephen King review due any day now, and half-a-dozen other commitments, I am a very tired boy. Call Ma. Send Coffee.

Yep. Got some Moss Cole fan fic the other day. Guess me and the boys have made it before we’ve even seen print.

Also, this is happening:

“So what the hell do you want, you big fucking baby?”

“I told you, I don’t want nothin’”

Jurgen Kierkedoek stomped off, his size thirteen Doc Martens leaving thunderstorms in their wake.
Menlowe gave a loud sigh and shook his head at the darkening sky before turning to follow the giant.

“Sweetie, all I was saying…”

Kierkedoek stopped and swung his wide, fur-lined shoulders back to face the smaller man.

“All you were saying is that there ain’t no Santa. Which you’ve been hassling me about for years. Fuck you, man. You know how mad that makes me.”
Menlowe stepped gracefully over a small puddle and gently placed his hands on Kierkedoek’s furry chest.

“You’re right, Yergie. I’m sorry. I’ll stop teasing you. Now will you calm down so we can get to this job?”

Kierkedoek snuffed an unpleasant-sounding amount of snot back into his sinuses and spat it out into the street, where it slapped loudly into the gutter slush.

“Fine. Fuck it, man. Let’s get it done. This fucking sucks.”

Menlowe shuddered at the expellation of loogie, but moved to feed his arm through Kierkedoek’s.

“I know you’re upset about working on Christmas Eve, but I promise I will make it up to you in the morning.”

“Did you get me the new Halo? And the anti-grav controller?” Kierkedoek bounced as he walked.

“I am not telling you.”

“You fuckin’ did too.”

“Behave. Just realize that my gifts better be pretty damned amazing, Big Boy.”

The street was filled on both sides with an ocean of last-minute shoppers, rushing and shoving, jockeying for position in the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice the mismatched pair as they strolled arm in arm. Arthur Menlowe, wrapped up in his pristine, and very new, Helly Hanson parka, and Kierkedoek, towering beside him in what could only be described as a 70’s style bear carcass of a fur overcoat, made a distinct impression.

Kierkedoek brought them to an abrupt stop in front of a questionable-looking old rummy in a frayed and stained red suit, lazily flopping a handbell from side-to-side as he mumbled incoherently.

“Good afternoon,” Menlowe sang, “Liquid lunch today, Santa?”

As Menlowe waved his hands in front of his face in the generally-accepted symbol of stank drunk, Kierkedoek shoved one giant fist inside of his coat pocket and crammed a fistfull of crumpled bills into the swinging ball of donations.

“Don’t you dare!”

“Merry Christmas, man.” Kierkedoek grinned at the red-suited bum, ignoring Menlowe’s protests.

The rummy gazed up and sputtered out a thank you and a “Happy Holidays, Bub.”

Menlowe refused to speak again until they were on the number seven bus, headed away from the six other street corner Santas who had received large dispensations from the meaty hands of the West-Hollywood ball-slap artist known as Kickerdick.”

-A Manlove & Kickerdick XXXMas