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“Shit.” I ripped my glasses from my face, frantically rubbing my eyes, mascara dripping off my lashes. Dustin looked over at me.


“I’m fucking crying. Godamnit!” I punched my knee and tried to hide myself in the passenger seat of his car.

“It’s ok.”

“No it’s fucking not!” I ground my teeth willing myself to stop crying. I could not be doing this in front of him. He tapped the ash on his cigarette out the window.

“It’s ok, you can cry in front of me.”

“But I don’t want to. It’s a bitch move. I am not a bitch.” I could feel sobs starting in my diaphragm and held my breath.

“You’re a fucking cunt, tell …

My nightgown has little yellow flowers on it. I've been up for awhile, but playing in my room. I realize that it's quiet and something gets my attention that I'm too alone. I must be around 4, maybe younger.

Where's mama? Her bedroom is off mine, she's not in there, I go into the kitchen, she's not there, "Mama!?" I call - it is my usual call I am sure. I was a needy child. There is no answer. I look in all the rooms, the living room, my sister's room, the bathroom. The door to the front hall is also leads to the cellar. There's a light switch by the doorway in our kitchen for the cellar. Under it is a …

If there’s one topic that bores and irritates me enough to want to viciously hurl dried out and grizzled breasts (not mine… the chicken’s) against the wall… it’s COOKING.

Again, I’m the odd-woman out who can’t find a remedy for the “I Gotta Cook Again Blues.” Okay, eating out is a given. But it’s a bit embarrassing to attempt to do it three times a day.

My husband of almost forty years and my three grown boys have gotten used to my ‘absolutely no desire to emulate Paula Deen or Rachael Ray’ bad attitude. To be honest, I just don’t care what these spatula-driven divas can whip up in only a few minutes. So slap me with a wet lasagna noodle. …

Clearly getting period blood on one is unavoidable, an act of God, one could say. Getting shit on your foot, while a slight mistake in judgment, still is forgivable. But this next story was completely avoidable. I have nothing and no one to blame but myself. My laziness. My trouble with boundaries. You will view me differently. You'll laugh. But underneath the laughter there will be concern, nervousness. You may doubt my truthfulness or my sanity. At least my honesty I can absolutely vouch for. What's worse, I think you will doubt my judgment for posting this. It has taken me a LONG time to tell this story. Just last week I opened up and told [bob]. The wound had been too raw. Prepare yourself. …

When I was in elementary school, perhaps the worst thing that could happen is if you vomited at school. The custodians would be dispatched to the scene where they would cover the upchuck with a generous helping of a pink sawdust-like concoction that was not only supposed to absorb the puke so it could be swept/scraped up, it also attempted to deodorize the body fluid with a strong bouquet. Regardless, it smelled like pencil shavings swimming in minty chunder. Back then, the students did not laugh at the incident or the poor puker. If it happened in the hall, students would invariably circumvent the scene with a mixture of awe, revulsion, and reverence. They knew. They knew that whoever "did it" …

I have lived for a number of years, searching for just that right job. I have done almost everything, from waitressing, to staff writer for a newspaper.

Now, I found my drive...what thrills me...what motivates me.

As a result, I am now a published author. I still can't believe it. I knew I had stories in me, but little did I realize those stories would come bubbling up at the ripe age of 41. It's been ten years now, and my debut novel, SHADOW WALK: THE GATHERING, has been published.


I know if I can do it, you can too.

Follow your dream, no matter where it takes you.

In 1998 my wife gave birth to our first child. You might feel this is no big deal. Lots of people have children. This, however, was my first known blood relative. I cant claim that I felt any different than your average new father when I looked into her eyes for the first time. This was the first time I looked in a persons eyes and saw myself looking back. It was like looking into my own soul and having it look back at me and ask "What am I supposed to do now?" For the first several weeks I would get up with her in the middle of the night and stare into her eyes. I was looking for clues, bonding with my own …

Right before Labor Day weekend, 2007, I got this email:

Dear Robin,
I’m a Movie and Television Producer/Director based in Los Angeles. I recently read your book Three Days In New York City and wanted to discuss with you the possibilities of adapting it for Film or Television.
Please contact me.
Michael Spielberg

I read his email fifty times and somehow missed that it said “Michael” Spielberg, not “Steven”. After finally realizing that Steven Spielberg would not contact an unknown writer and include his personal cell phone number, my next step was to check Google. Were Michael and Steven brothers? Hell, I’d settle for second cousins.

No such luck but there was a listing for Michael at IMDB. Read more »

We called it The Intersection. As in, "Let's go down to The Intersection and get a Co-Cola" (our truncated patois not only for Coca-Cola®, but any soft drink in general). There were any number of intersections dotting the 3⁄4 mile or so between my trailer and The Intersection, but this one was The One because of the stores: The Piggly Wiggly grocery store, Pitner-Brewster hardware store, Lile's Drugs, and, best of all, Mullins' Five & Dime. My sister Carolyn was the head cashier at the Piggly Wiggly, and I eventually worked there as a stock boy; I bought my first real target arrows at Pitner-Brewster (goodbye, rubber suction tips!); I bought crack vial-shaped bottles of pure cinnamon oil at Liles in which I soaked …

October, 1992: San Miguel de Allende

It is an October night in 1992 and, despite the chill in the air outside, I am wearing a sleeveless powder blue velvet top with front darts and low-slung black jeans. My clothing choice would be vintage and hip in downtown Philadelphia where I routinely roamed four months prior, but here in a discotheque in the heart of central Mexico, the irony is lost and I suspect I even look a bit old-ladyish. Around me, Mexican adolescents dressed in shiny pants, short skirts and high heels shimmy to the disco beat but I have stopped noticing because I am kissing one of them with my eyes closed.

Carlos is my 19-year-old student and I have tried …

I. Acid Stereo

Slug’s neck swells
then tightens
as grace slick’s maple hymn
softly bleeds from
every corner

and I can smell vinegar
leaking in droplets
from pallid flesh
a reflexive response to this
silver soprano

but outside
blood-less landscapes
dragged by traffic
cross my sensory field

sticky vocals lap our ankles now
and swollen slug stiffens now
chin pulled to collar
in effort to shield ears
from new sap sound

humid hands tighten on ten and two
and I do not turn to look
but I wonder how long slug might allow
this female voice
to invade her realm

I feel souls all around me
but penned in machines
they are bacteriaRead more »

The world today has become a very gay place. Now a person can take the word gay in two different ways -- gay as in happy, or gay as in homosexuality. Well today we’re talking about homosexuals. Okay, lets say it all together now h-o-m-o-s-e-x-u-a-l-s. Gay men can be stratified into 4 basic categories; masculine, feminine, flamboyant, and bi-curious. Now this paper might seem very discriminatory, but as a gay man, I’ve just noticed these recurring patterns in the gay community, and I feel I can talk about these things from an insider’s perspective.

First up is the masculine homosexual. The masculine gay guy looks like a typical jock. They are the …

I've had a brief stint in the drug culture in my years growing up and every once in a while I still dabble in it. i'm not ashamed to say or write it. Uppers, downers, inbetweeners i've done it...all you had to do was give me a little coaxing and then I would be sold. One drug really got ahold of me, and shook the foundation of my life. My friends.
Conor Oberst (the famously emo songwriter and lead singer of Brighteyes) wrote a song that included the lyrics "and the sun turned us to stone" and i realized the song was about being addicted to cocaine. Night was an endless party for me filled with techno music, ersatz friend, and …

Memo 1: Remember to put flowers on my own grave

If only there was a perfect solution for everything. if only there was a perfect way to lose weight, and easy way to
die,and easy way to pull myself from the depths of my depression. I don't want to feel this way. I ask myself everyday why I can't stop feeling like this...feeling like there's no light to guide me. I dwell into my mind to find a piece of sanity,
but end up empty handed everytime. My mind is just an endless stream of dead conscienceness, that i wish that i would one
day find the end of. I cut, I purge, I try …

(ok, so I’m starting to write again, and I’m going to finish the book i started so long ago. The Doctors said i need to see a therapist, but the best therapy for me is just to write. I’m going to be posting half chapter or full chapter on my blogs, so give me some insight. I started writing this book almost 2 to 3 years ago so some of the material might seem old to my friends that have been here from the start, but bear with me.)

I’m worried about my friends, hell I’m worried about myself. Let’s just say that at this point in time I have a lot on my plate. My plate is composed …

This is the mostly true story of the day the shit came crashing down on me, one bright, sunny Friday morning in June of 2005. I woke early and snuck out of my apartment, half-heartedly trying not to wake my slumbering boyfriend or his friends who were visiting for the weekend. (As any transplanted New Yorker will confirm, a move to the city means becoming reacquainted with long-lost family and friends, eager for a place to sleep while they visit the city.) Despite my poorly attempted quietude, I left my guests relatively undisturbed and sprinted to the gym to start my day.

Feeling quite accomplished following a few miles, a set of weights and a shower, I left the gym and began walking …

My life started on the floor. My mom was getting up onto the exam table and out I came with the cord breaking and all. As I grew older, I was constantly being compared to my older sister. She a straight A student while I pulled down C's. I was the one who had the "face of an angel and the disposition of the devil" in my mom's words. She was of the old school that having sex was a chore that the woman had to suffer. Many nights I heard her say, "come on now and let's get it over with." Was it any wonder my father drank himself under the table? With that drinking came other things. He first turned to my grandmother …

The Spike

It was the usual Sunday Brunch at the Spike, with incredible omelets, poached eggs in Bearnaise sauce, French toast to die for, and your latte always made to perfection.

I just love it when gorgeous gay men enjoy cooking to perfection, even if only once a week. Normally the Spike is a gay leather club in New York City, that ranges from homey local neighborhood hangout to leather night nipple clamping sexatorium. This is obviously before the all encompassing Aids epidemic that left very few standing at the Spike anymore.

At Sunday brunch, metal chains were put aside, fake palm trees put in their place. White linen tables were set with formal flatware arrangements, with your champagne flute …

I do not follow Contemporary Christian Music these days. I do not want to. I am not a musical snob, but I must admit to being a little bit “old school.” I was raised in church -- Southern Baptist (back before the Great Divide in the late 70s [when they were much more fun]) -- and like scores of other teenage boys with cars, I fell in love with rock and roll music. When I was a junior in high school, I began to feel spiritually adrift, so I returned to the church with the best of intentions. I guess the shouts of evangelists convinced me that my rock and roll music was, at most, of the Devil, and, at least, keeping my eyes from …

It wasn't a cry for help. Or maybe it was. Looking back now I'm not really sure. On a stifling hot day in the summer of 1998 I tried to kill myself. The reasons why were all the usual: unhappy at work, my girlfriend was cheating on me. Nothing particularly noteworthy.

I left work for the day and drove home. On the way I stopped at a liquor store, where I purchased a fifth of Everclear and a 32oz bottle of Gatorade. Then I went to a pharmacy where I bought a package of over-the-counter sleeping pills. My plan was to take a few hefty slugs of the Gatorade, top it off with the grain alcohol, and wash down the whole pack of sleeping …
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