Thursday, February 25, 2010

big dumb animal, "i must be doing something wrong"

as promised, a video clip of big dumb animal (my band) performing a song i wrote many years ago (but made a million times better by s-the guitarist's additions) entitled, "i must be doing something wrong" (and yes, i am singing. no, i am not even in the least bit sorry.)

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Tuesday, February 23, 2010

just a heads up

while i remain buried under perpetual homework from the inner circle of t-square hell (read: pictorial drafting) i just wanted to let anyone who still reads that if you order "my" book from you will in fact receive the book pictured (three jumpers i think, by micheal marr or morr or something) but i can guarantee that if you buy it through barnes & noble online, you will in fact receive my book. i received my copy yesterday, and am already half-way through reading it, and really, honestly, i would rework at least 50% of it. probably more. some of the chapters make little to no sense outside of the confines of this blog, and many of the others are choppy and not in any kind of chronological order (or any other logical order for that matter). i'm still jazzed as hell to have a copy of my book in my hot little hands, but am a little disappointed with myself for not reworking it a little better. i guess everyone has to start somewhere.

darth sardonic


Sunday, February 14, 2010

nothing special just...

is it bad that i would love to write a glowing review of my book recommending it to all and sundry as the greatest story ever? so unlike me too, geez.

happy valentine's day everyone. we are simply being lazy here.

i am going to be going through my pals list soon and weeding out quite a bit. after which i will probably go on a search for new funny or interesting blogs to add to my pals list. or not. who knows?

darth sardonic

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Tuesday, February 09, 2010

about fucking time!

my book is officially available to all and sundry: google "unfinished work ron faires" (there it is i have outed myself in my blog after some 6 years or something! also, as i mentioned in a past post, my name is not ron, but it is correct on the cover of the book itself.) there are several online bookdealers that carry it, though the isbn's seem to differ so not sure why, but it is indeed the book with the plain gray cover and the blue border that simply says "The Unfinished Work" and "Dave Faires" on it.

i will eventually get a link that will take you straight to it, but i have also noticed the prices range from a slightly-higher-than-normal 17 bucks on up to 30-odd, and need to wrestle with myself to not put the more expensive link in here and therefore sell out and line my pockets with filthy lucre.

a very special thank-you to you, the beloved non-existent readers (in the book the reader is just referred to as the "beloved reader" but you non-existents that have been here through thick and thin know who you are) who have listened, laughed, cried, and commented through out. and an extremely big hug/kiss/thanks/whatever thing to dj kirkby for getting me on the path to an actual publisher.

i shall remain, as always and ever,

darth sardonic

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Monday, February 08, 2010


i have amazing friends. my family rocks. i want to punch my pictorial drafting teacher in the face. my book, The Unfinished Work, might finally actually just possibly be available to anyone and everyone regardless of color, race, religion, creed, or country of origin of said person's credit card as long as they have access to the internet and a means to make online payments. i'll know for sure in 3-13 more days. naturally, i will let you, the beloved non-existents know when i know, and most likely post a link or some such thing. i am still working on my fiction novel, but think i have enough blog posts and sundry miscellaneous stories to do another memoirs cum insanity cum essays from the inner dank reaches of my mind follow-up to The Unfinished Work that i am thinking will be entitled Pierce County. my guitarist, s, should be home in less than a month and then big dumb animal (as we have dubbed ourselves) will immediately begin preparing ourselves to actually play bars and clubs and such and take our show on the road. i might post an old video of us playing a song i wrote here eventually.

i guess that more or less sums it up for now, o my droogs and only friends.

darth sardonic

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Thursday, February 04, 2010

it couldn't really be helped, but that doesn't make it suck any less...

this is not fiction, though i wish to god it was, o my beloved non-existent readers...

i wasn't speeding. i wasn't talking on the cell, or texting. i wasn't even distracted by any number of things that might distract a driver as he travels at 35 down a road.

which means i saw the black and white streak with plenty of time to brake hard.

but not quite enough time to prevent myself from hitting it with the opposite-side back tire.

"oh, fuck. fuck fuck fuck." i exclaim as i pull the car off ten feet further, throw my door wide, and leap out, heedless of traffic.

"oh, goddamn it. no no no! calm calm, stop." i yell at the cat as it tries vainly to run away from its own pain, the parts of its body that have become enemies and are attacking it. a disconnected and analytical part of me admires it for its fighting spirit. the rest of me goes sick to the stomach to see it spinning on its side, droplets of blood spattering across the blacktop, the grass, two trash cans that it ended up between; frantically thrashing its legs in rythmic running cycles that would carry it far away were it not for the damage to its skull.

"oh, shit. shit fuck shit. no no, calm now, calm." i place a hand on its side and it relaxes some, gasping breaths.

i should've known that even as my hand rested on its side, the cat's spirit was wending its way to warm angel arms and happy mousehunting amongst cotton-tufts of clouds, but some panicky chunk of me was playing manic optimist like nero sawing his fiddle as rome turned into an inferno around him:

"fuck fuck, who do i call. where is the nearest vet? shit, why didn't anyone stop?"

i waffle between the cat, who is renewing its efforts to escape on foot, and a nearby house.

i should've known that all the cat wanted was a warm, loving, calming touch as it expired on the side of the road. i should've known that no owner would want to see their pet in this state. i should've known the dice had already been thrown and had come up snake eyes for me and this ill-fated feline and done what i could to ease its passing. i should've known. i should've fucking known.

i went to knock on the door. no one answers. i run back to the cat, who is still but breathing, albeit increasingly shallower; staring blankly with one sunken eye and one bulging. the red blood pooling in one ear makes me dash to another house. no answer.

dammit dammit dammit. i check on the cat again, and this time i know it is no longer fighting, not even in spirit.

i want to puke, or cry; as if the ache and agony i feel is a tangible object and doing one or the other could excorcise all the bad feelings like so much bile and salt.

i still feel as if the owners of the cat should know what has become of their loved one. there is no collar. i knock another door, and an old gentleman with a refined kentucky accent and a waxed mustache answers the door. i ask him if he owns a black and white cat, or knows who might. he replies that he believes it might belong to one of the houses i have already knocked. he goes on to say he has seen it dashing across the highway many times, as if knowing this self-destructive behavior on the cat's part will ease my own anguish at having hit it.

"i can tell you're very upset about it, young man. but if you have to choose between having an automobile accident or hitting a cat, well, i think you have to go with hitting the cat."

the analytical part of me knows that this is his attempt to make me feel better about it without really knowing me or how i think or feel. the analytical part of me quietly says, "thank you for that." while the rest of me fights to not feel indignant at his words.

i thank him, and go back to the cat. there is only one final act of futility to accomplish in this, a series of futile acts: i lift the lid to one of the trash cans that will be picked up in another hour or so, lift the limp body while repeating "sorry sorry sorry sorry" like all my higher brain functions have been shut down, and gently place the cat inside.

thanks for playing along.

darth sardonic

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