After decades of talking about it and handfuls of false starts and stops, I’ve completed my first book. On June 1st of 2026, Weirdo Du Jour Press releases my debut novel, Ornery Cuss. Not to be confused with the zine printed in 2023, this is the complete and unabridged version chocked full of the working class dark humor you love. A grubby coming-of-age tale about a sharp-edged loner who runs away from a stifling rural community and into the arms of Chicago’s raw chaos. No shortcuts taken nor lessons learned any way but the hard way.
You can pre-order a copy here. By doing so, 100% of the price you pay goes directly to me as the author. I will sign and write whatever personal inscription you wish on every copy you purchase.
Of course, I didn’t do this all alone. I wouldn’t have gone through with any of this, were it not for the support and guidance of Dmitry Samarov. His talent and experience helped refine these pages through edit and design. Most importantly, his encouragement helped will Ornery Cuss into existence. It’s a gift to have someone so thoughtful in my corner. Yesterday we had a conversation on Hu U No about the book, writing, zines, and the like. You can listen to it here.
Got invited to record an off the record episode of Textual Healing. I read a short story of mine called “State Line Limbo” and chose the Tom Waits song “Burma Shave” to accompany the selection. Next weekend a full interview with Mallory Smart will be available. You can listen to my public restroom reading (keeping it classy) of “State Line Limbo” here.
88-page long, quarter sized zine about working in a record store. Complete with silly good times and tales of weirdo collectors of vinyl. Comes with its own playlist on YouTube or Spotify. Only $3!
It’ll be available soon, and I’m STILL sorting out an online store-front. So if you want a copy right away, shoot me an email. weirdodujour@ proton.me
“Make All Our Dreams Come True: 3 Years in Milwaukee”
A 2-buck chucklefuck. Written and assembled in under 5 days, this quarter size zine is 40 pages long. A bitter stream-of-consciousness-like rant about the foibles of moving to Milwaukee from Chicago. Highlighting memories of jobs, apartments, and neighborhoods with a slowly imploding marriage in the background. I wrote this in a flashflood of memories that wouldn’t recede in hopes of being able to finally let some stuff go so I could move on.
I’m sorting out an online store-front at the moment so if you’re wanting a copy right away, shoot me an email. weirdodujour@ proton.me
My mug and a mention of Weirdo Du Jour appear in Dave Hoekstra’s article about Feed, over on Block Club. Of course, I had to rope Dmitry Samarov into this, too.
Restock of Ornery Cuss and Cathode Ray Mission #1-3 at Quimby’s! 1854 W North Ave in Chica-go-go!
Also, look at this cool thing I saw today:
This and a lot of other weird stuff at Graveface Chicago / Terror Vision record shop. Fun things everywhere to look at, video rental, and a mini morbid museum. The cat was my favorite, but I was also delighted by a small exhibit dedicated to David Huggins. If you only like stuff that’s cool, I highly recommend Graveface. Have a beautiful weekend, weirdos!
I’d recently uncovered a time capsule in my storage unit. A dusty shoebox containing the master copies of Lucille Brawl #1, a cut & paste comic created in May/June of 2006. Not knowing what I was doing at the time, I just started drawing my little cartoons with grey watercolors and pen nibs. It was glue stick versus packing tape, and I fumbled over layouts, texts, and dialog bubbles drawn with a ballpoint pen. Then I made the mistake of printing copies at Staples. So many details of the water-colored art were lost in washed out in photocopy toner.
What remains after all these years is an embarrassing and grimy as hell DIY comic book.
What’s more cringe is that for a while I would LARP/cosplay my own character out in the electric Chicago nightlife of the early aughts. Yikes.
There are a few copies currently for sale at Chicago Comics on Clark Street.
“We are drive-in mutants; we are not like other people.”
In a small hotel conference room that stank of weed, a sea of right hands were raised in pledge. Some hands were parted as Vulcan greetings and others posed as devil horns. The audience was being sworn in by taking the drive-in oath.
“As long as one drive-in remains on the planet Earth We will party like jungle animals We will boogie ’til we puke The drive-in will never die”
Long before I was ever thought of or before the term was invented, my father was a drive-in mutant. A rock n’ roll hippie of the 70’s, that regularly took in the creature features at the local drive-in each weekend. I didn’t know until later in life how much he loved the spook shows and Midnight movies. The very same cult films that I too would come to love in my life. In the mid-90s there was no greater bond between us than to make popcorn on a Saturday night and watch TNT’s Monster Vision. This was my introduction to Joe Bob Briggs, the premier drive-in film critic. Joe Bob would host the double feature and offer obscure trivia and cheap jokes. Usually, my dad would fall asleep before the second movie and I’d be left with my own prepubescent fears in the darkness of our living room. These Saturday nights are some of the happiest memories I have with my old man.
Monster Vision was officially cancelled in 2000 but the man behind Joe Bob, John Bloom, maintained an official website dedicated to his alter ego. His own work had inspired me over the years to continue to pursue writing and film making. Naturally, I did my best to follow his career with mailing lists to stay on top of his columns and events.
A few years back, John Bloom met horror enthusiast, Diana Prince when she attended one of his signings. The two became friends right about the time he was approached for the umpteenth time about a new show. Admittedly going along with it for a free lunch, he was introduced to AMC’s new horror streaming platform, Shudder. The idea was to resurrect the character and continue to host horror films. Unsure at first, Diana Prince encouraged Bloom to accept the offer. Convincing him that the fans were numerous and hungry for a return. When the funding fell through at the last minute, Prince helped secure resources to make the show happen. So as Bloom prepared to get back in the saddle, he asked Prince to be the new mail girl, “Darcy”.
Joe Bob Briggs officially returned in the summer of 2018 with a 24-hour marathon called The Last Drive-In. The response was larger than anticipated, with thousands overloading and ultimately crashing Shudder and AMC servers. Fans were tuning-in to the loading screen of doom, unable to watch the marathon. The few that could log-on got to witness Joe Bob give an emotional sign off at the end. Expressing gratitude to all the fans over the years, as he hung up his spurs. But breaking the internet was good news for Joe Bob, as it prompted Shudder to bring him back with 2 holiday specials and a regular series.
March of 2019 a reoccurring Friday night double feature with Darcy the mail girl. While the first season was airing, Joe Bob hit the road with his one man show, How Rednecks Saved Hollywood. A 2-hour cinematic lecture about the true identity of rednecks and their impact on film, from low budget to mainstream. I caught Rednecks in Milwaukee that spring, learning history of the films my dad loved of hillbillies and moonshiners.
The line to meet Joe Bob was wrapped around the block on that frigid Wisconsin evening. He arrived in a hearse from a local funeral home to a roar of applause from the crowd. When the line finally rotated through, I stood star struck before the man I grew up watching on Saturday nights. He shook my hand and signed my book: To Krystle, a drive-in kind of gal.
2020 ended up being the revival year of the drive-in with Corona virus closing theaters across the country. Reaffirming what Joe Bob has been insisting all along, the drive-in will never die. The Shudder network was generous to everyone on lock down with a second season of The Last Drive-In. Citing more viewers than ever before, fanfare flooded social media with official and unofficial merchandise. 4 more holiday specials were released and promise of a 3rd season.
February of this year, an invitation was broadcast to fans on all platforms. The first ever Joe Bob Drive-In Jamboree, a 3-day event at the Mahoning Theater in Lehighton, Pennsylvania. Scheduled for later this summer, the Jamboree includes an indie festival for guerrilla filmmakers called “Mutant Fest”. The underfunded and DIY directors were encouraged to submit their horror films. All submissions from low-budget to no-budget welcome.
When Joe Bob and Darcy were announced as guests for the fan convention, Days of the Dead, I decided to attend myself. I was curious what such a gathering would be like for fans and celebrities during Covid. If local numbers stayed low and vaccinations continued to roll out smoothly, this would be the first horror convention in Chicago since the pandemic started.
At the Crown Plaza Hotel in Rosemont, employees were cased in plastic at the front desk. Hand sanitizing dispensers lingered in a few corners but there was minimal direction for convention attendees. The main requirement was wearing a mask properly at all times. An unquestioned rule that very few broke. After ping-ponging back and forth between will-call and volunteers, I found my way to the main room. For a few hours, I chatted up strangers and vendors, waiting for my scheduled photo op with Joe Bob and Darcy.
Considering it had been a while since the last convention, everyone was a little rusty on opening night. The photographers had given me the incorrect time slot but were determined to make it right. Runners and organizers would zip back and forth, reassuring me, “Don’t worry kid, we’ll get you a photo with Joe Bob.”
“And Darcy.” I would add every time.
There would be no Last Drive-In without Darcy.
Thankfully, both guests agreed to reshoot before their scheduled panel. Down to the last minute, here came Joe Bob Briggs, ten miles tall in his bolo and boots. Darcy glided beside him in an ethereal evening dress. Both kept their distance and masks remained on at all times through the convention. As part of convention rules, every guest had the right to set their own boundaries for contact with fans. Joe Bob had previously admitted on Diana Prince’s own podcast, Geek Tawk that he had contracted Covid in the beginning of 2020. An experience I’m sure neither wanted to repeat. They said little if anything during our reshoot before quickly moving on to their panel. I thanked everyone nervously, and followed behind them from a distance, taking a seat in the far back.
Right out of the gate, Joe Bob shared that he and local horror host, Svengoolie had been plotting doing a show together at the Music Box Theater. In summer of 2019, both hosts were hinting on social media that they were working on a project. Plans were put on hold due to the pandemic and according to Joe Bob, “Svengoolie is not coming out of his house until Covid is over.”
Joe Bob goes on to announce he’s looking to produce films and has been reading different horror anthologies that come out each year. While admitting that most are not film material, he examines each “in a certain weird way” that could possibly change them into film material. His Mutant Festival this summer is a manifestation of that, as well as uplifting the underdog film makers.
A few days before the convention, Joe Bob had gone to social media reminding his followers of the upcoming deadline for Mutant Fest. Seeing this, I had considered a short film I had helped create in 2013. Friends and I were inspired by an email received from a Joe Bob mailing list. After years of forgetting, here he was in my inbox asking for screenplays and scripts from his fans. Our short was never finished and years later I am the sole owner of the remaining footage. With a run time of 6 minutes and 51 seconds, I updated the movie the best I could and submitted it to Mutant Fest.
I have no delusions about my humble no-budget horror short, but I’m optimistic for horror in general. During the end of his panel, he marveled at how horror has become mainstream in the last 20 years. Diana Prince is now a regular columnist for Fangoria and John Bloom is a man with a vision for avant-garde directors struggling to get their films made. The Last Drive-In has really helped Shudder take off, and the team behind it will likely do the same for the future of horror movies.
The 3rd season of The Last Drive-In with Joe Bob Briggs airs Friday, April 16th only on Shudder.
It felt like centuries had passed by my cave before I emerged pale and pink-eyed from whiskey and song; but the outside world and everyone in it was just as disappointing as they ever were. Fuck this city. I traveled the endless cracked sidewalks of a shitty neighborhood, covered in smashed tequila bottles and pornographic chalk drawings. A salty shuffle down a glittering path of remorse and the whole time I’m crying under my black aviator glasses. Walking around and crying. It had been a weird day—after an even weirder night. Several cans of RC were consumed to remedy the best/worst emotional hangover I’ve encountered within a burning inch of memory. Most of that morning was spent scrubbing off all the sharpie X’s on my arms. I had held my brother down and scribbled them across his cyclist calves too. Intoxicated punk rock Voodoo rituals, I’m sure, just like throwing flaming matchsticks at one another. At this rate, we’ll surely kill ourselves before Halloween. Well who the hell knows, man?! The world may never know and God Damn I’ve been drunk a lot. I was just so happy to have a few days off in front of me that I never bothered to look at a clock or put the bottle down. Every last one of us pulled up our britches by studded belts missing teeth and moved onto other dive bars. New mud holes, new shit spoons, and alters of watered-down liquor bottles to pray at. Burning through every poor-to-hip neighborhood from the South side on up, trying to find a place of our own. We sank every dive between here and there that had its moment of catching on just to fill the empty space in our heads and make us feel like we were part of something again. The ghosts on those walls had a language that caught the beauty and viciousness of ordinary talk. The plain-speak of thieves, vets, addicts, and terminal disciples that shave in the gutter. Talk that has a fine, incisive, and dramatic tone to it. And we clung to those words like high school hangers-on that never made it out of their hometown. Never noticed all the beautiful evenings we wasted in stuffy bars. Never considered that you’d end up on the floor after rocking on loose bar stools with loose women and air guitaring to Bad Company on cue sticks. I might as well have been God Damned Ed McMahon, handing over my whole paycheck to a different bar each week. And in the morning, only the matchbooks and re-entry stamps will remember where I’ve gone. There is a point for every old tavern when all the geriatrics start dropping off like flies. Lie down and die from snuff and rotten livers or they quit drinking on doctor’s orders and hen pecks. And then our generational blahs invade. Those soldiers of cool and idolized white trash that have fucked up one too many times in the night club district and consistently whined about bumming smokes. Fixies for Trixies, Wugazi, and “Jaymo-soco, bro.” High fives for low lives, blood guts and fire trucks. Feeling fired and inspired. A/A propaganda, Buddhism for dummies, and Dharma Bum squat cults pushing up Daisy Cutters. Most are waiting for the moment when you stop talking to go on about their own lives and it’s always a piss and moan twist and shout. Too many overusing the word “like” and deploying fat jokes at their own expense. Even a polite laugh was a trap. And here I was in my third decade feeling like a thing from another planet. Only capable of relating to half humanoids that made careers of singing about isolation like Mark Mothersbaugh or David Byrne. So you move on. You move on because they’ve filled every booth and bike rack. Even the can overflows with their top 40 hits. How cruel fate’s hand is when she puts a dollar in the jukebox. Trapped in our own personal Hell of a spinning room, the night will roll upon that “break down” hour. I told the truth and dispensed otherworldly advice, slurred and running to new depths in circles and circles. Chasing its own tail and carving a gigantic ‘O’ into our brains. Secrets and sins confessed. Discord, Manipulation, and Girlfriend Island. These are truths channeled from another realm entirely. Some Shamen can unlock things with tortuous physical acts like sweat lodges or sun dances. Us scumbags consume our weight in cheap beer. So there are no longer arguments about the secret of life. Pretty sure we got it figured out…as long as we are able to find a pen to write it down before it’s forgotten. Maybe it’s no secret at all. Winter never fails to turn to spring. The sun never fails to rise and shine an unflattering light onto our faces. Hangovers get harder and every morning we notice pasty beer bellies dotted in bad stick n pokes, hanging over screaming hems. Cigarette lines scratched into lips and eyes and coal and makeup smeared across sunken cheeks. Another 7am Sunday morning glimpse into the future where we still lack any sort of direction. Errant ambition. We could easily just drink away the rest of our youth… Never giving up the dope, the wine, the stage, or measuring out insomnia through Nick at Nite TV shows, even after the landlord fixes the gas leak. Under fed and overgrown from bad habits and characters into cardboard caricatures to hang on oily walls. Another brood of seasoned barflies that will live and die by law of the taverns.
-Originally Published in Wonderlust Literary Zine 2015
