Moon Runners is a week away and I’m shitting my pantaloons. Majorly stressed about performing and A. not coming off like a douche B. being entertaining enough that people engage my career. I brought TEN books to sell and some stickers. The thought of all of it makes me dizzy, but I’m the one who wanted this, I gotta make it happen.

It’s all for Jack, everything is now for him.

From the desk of Robert Dean:

So, Moonrunners is SOLD OUT. This is nuts. This small festival taking over a rock and roll club is now at capacity. It’s amazing to see how the people got behind this thing. I’m pretty much shitting my pants hoping not to bomb. I’m speaking for fifteen minutes. I hope to see a few of you in the crowd. If you’re reading this, come say hey and I’ll gladly take a shot with you.

Side note: I am not an evil, un-American because I don’t trust The Man. Just because the media deems it truth, does not make it so. Dig deeper and you’ll quickly ferret out the lies they’re selling you.

Listen to Ghost and drink beer.

Notes from the underground V3.5632

Hello world.

How are all of you? I’m alive. Got a lot going on upstairs these days. Trying to get something moving, something happening. Kind of in this weird vortex or what is it called…..purgatory!

I’m in the middle of writing a new book, The Red Seven, I’m about 83 pages deep, and without a doubt, it’s my best work, and the most removed from anything I’ve done yet. If nothing as of yet establishes me in the game, I have faith TR7 will.

I have a novella seeing the light of day soonish, I think. That’s called We are The End.  My agent has my tv show, Everything Underground and my latest pulp, COFFINS. I’m speaking in less than two weeks in front of potentially hundreds of people for 15 minutes, at Moonrunners Fest in Chicago and hoping I don’t come off like a tool, and people want to support me following my blabbering. Topics covered will include: dinosaurs, music, gay marriage, hookers, weed, wiggers, country music, and The Clash.

I’m still slowly compiling stuff for my pet project Snakes in The Garden, where I pretend to be a competent poet ala Bukowski.

it’s scary and stressful right now. I know EXACTLY what i want out of life, it’s a matter of beating down doors, and getting a few YES’s going. I don’t pretend to be some dude who’s got it all figured out, because I don’t. Not even kind of.

I use my blog as a sounding board for all of the personal fears that I have, that I could maybe reach someone who’s feeling the same as me someday. I hope someday I am successful, and that these notes help guide someone to know they’re not alone.

Really, at the end of the day, it’s a matter of wanting to be your own boss. To rely on your gifts, and your art to provide a life worth living. It’s hard work, and I guess when it does happen, it’s sweet as possible. I have this dream where I can afford all kinds of things, and I can just do all kinds of nice things for people I love. I’d love to buy my dad any bike or boat he wanted. To give him a brand new Gibson to play around on, and buy my mother anything in the world her heart desired. I want to give my amazing significant other anything she wants. I want her to have that garden, and garage, a place that we don’t have to freak out about the cockroaches and rats (we’re not dirty people. We live in an old New Orleans house. Vermin run rampant in this town) a house, not a rental, and that cool, old truck she always window shops for.

Some days, it’s  hard to get out off bed when you feel like it’s hopeless, and the world sucks beyond comprehension. Some days, it breaks your heart to just consider the path you’ve chosen, and you wish you could make that left turn back in Albuquerque. But, it’s a sickness, to write, and to be driven to want more. 

My parents have done so much for me, and one day I want to make them extremely proud. They’re proud now, but I want to be a true, blue collar success story. That kid from a south side working class neighborhood made good. I want to make Sarah proud, that she did pick the right guy.  The one, she stuck by when he was so broke he ate popcorn for dinner, or when he couldn’t afford a candy bar without using change. She stuck it out, and helped ease the pain of life. This life, the pursuit of something bigger, and better. It’s a lot of work, and a lot of luck.  It ain’t easy, but focus is key. Sitting down, and thinking aloud, even though no one reads it now, helps.

Like I said, maybe one of these things happens, and my life changes and I’m no longer a working stiff who’s always dreaming big, and maybe some kid like me, will not feel so alone when the weight of the world continues to get heavier as the days pass.

You want nothing, but yet it all.

 

Starving kids line the streets while cars sit on concrete blocks. Old chaps drink out of bottles in brown bags, while whores pull up their skirts so you can see their bulging asses.

Somewhere, some white kid wants this.

He wants the strife.

He wants to shed the life of privilege for credibility only to himself. Out here in the barrens is where dreams die after a bloody shit after all of the cheap beer and rapid gunfire.

 

Fucking white people.

This is the face of a leader.

 

He’s got that smile. A common, goodlooking, missionary fucking, Sears brand smile. Those canines are sharp and white, meant for cutting and tearing. His suit is a dark blue, the color of violence.

More fierce than a lover’s red, and more sickening than a violet; his soul is hidden somewhere under the necktie.

The tighter the tie, the more the idiots cannot see the man.

His soul cannot escape as long as he’s tight, and squared, and smiling.

 

He’ll win in a landslide.

Zeemeebs

So, I FINALLY have an outline to the last chapters of my book.
It took a little while, but I’m halfway through, and I officially know how it’s all gonna end & what happens. Lots of nods to spaghetti westerns, and always, it’s super grim.
I want it 100% agent ready by July.

Live in or around Chicago?

So, click the link if you wanna get hip to the radness that is Moonrunners Fest. You’ll get to hear songs by Fifth on The Floor, silently make bubble hearts about Rachael Brooke, and listen to me wax poetic on such topics as: Dinosaurs, writing, wiggers, why 19% of the population reads, and why it’s ok to judge people based on their musical taste.