If you don’t leave petitioners/street activists horrified, confused, and doubting the essential humanity of anything and everything, you done goofed. Those people are punchline drone targets.

A Modest Morality

  • [outside Coalition For An Affordable City]
  • Petition Dude: Sir! What do you think of wage inequality in San Francisco?
  • Me: I think we should kill the rich.
  • Petition Dude: That's a little...extreme.
  • Me: And then eat them. As a warning to the rest of their kind.
  • Petition Dude: Uh, well...you're obviously well to do, you're in a very nice suit.
  • Me: Oh, I stole this.
  • Me: I don't do "conventional" morality.
  • Petition Dude: [terrified confusion]


Huh. It was my six year anniversary of moving to California the other day. Primarily living in San Francisco (the great and terrible), though I also lived in San Jose (boring but full of friends) and Los Angeles (that fucking useless viper pit of terrible idiot monsters). It’s been a strange six years (barring the six months back east), but I’ve made the best friends of my life, and for better or for worse, I belong out here now. I guess that’s become readily apparent, over time.

Anonymous asked: Did you know that the name Conlon almost looks like Colon? Did you know?

Yeah, if you’re blind, stupid, and scatological, it sure is.

My hair is a mess but this member’s only jacket looks great.

Conlon’s eyes still had dirt in them, embedded in the sticky mess he saw through in life. His father brushed the dirt from them and sat thinking. A bright silver gun hung from each hip and two more in each boot and Conlon’s father debated for a brutal moment simply emptying them into the funeral director and corpseman and then one last blazing round for himself. Conlon’s father dismissed this cold end and stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling lights. Tell me who did it, Conlon’s father rasped in his old, unused voice. The ice hadn’t been kind to him. Tell me who brought me to bury my boy. The funeral director tugged at his black tie nervously and the corpseman stared up at Conlon’s father, the great lawman from the ago. It was a cold and bitter world but where Conlon’s father had slept was colder and more bitter still. Only hell had colder spots. It was them color boys, the corpseman said. You want I put on a map where they build a fire at night. But Conlon’s father had collected his hat and left before the corpseman was done speaking, headed out into the wasted, black roads of Kingslayer.

People are always surprised I love westerns and I’m like really because I think they have a huge influence on my writing.

"Friends Of Conlon Frontier"

New western idea: Conlon Frontier, sheriff of Kingslayer, Nevada in the year 3011, on the edge of the Defiant Verge, is murdered by the Color Gang, an outfit of art bandits, for his removal of “relevant graffiti” from the edges of Kingslayer. Conlon’s father, a retired (read: frozen by law) Marshall is thawed out and ordered by the authorities to bring his son’s killers in alive. Conlon’s father, (Raylan of the Frontier) in turn discovers the Color Gang was working for the Commission, a government sanctioned group bringing aesthetics back to the world since an unnamed apocalypse devastated the world and removed people’s capacity to produce more than limited bursts of art. Hijinks ensue.

Alias City

You know how it is when you go to apply for an account at the credit union and they’re like ” well, according to this, you don’t exist”.


Adulthood, or as I call it, finally joining a credit union to avoid bar ATM fees.

Dystopian Deregulation

I frequently refer to LA as “the dark zone” or “the forbidden land” or “the hellmouth” pretty regularly.