Screams From The Abyss
The ongoing documentation of the life and times of the author with the worst luck in the industry, Geoff Cooper. What he enjoys, what is important to him, what pisses him off. His successes and failures as they occur. Reading this will gain insight into his work--not only his fiction, but the non-fiction as well.
Consider this a behind-the-scenes look into a writer's daily life. Here, you can enter the mind of a horror writer. Here, you can listen to the screams from the abyss. |
The Chevron Avenger drew this cartoon of me. I think it's pretty fuckin' accurate!
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Thursday, August 16, 2007 Posted:10:03:00 PM
I'm Either Jinxed--Or Blessed.
I don't know if I'm jinxed or blessed. I'm leaning toward the former.
Recently, I wrote something about offending the EMS gods--specifically, that it's not recommended to smoke a cigar Robusto-sized or larger while on-duty.
Since then, I've gotten pathetically few calls. Like... three. One was a MVA: minivan goes up the embankment on a curve, hits a tree head-on, catches air, partially rolls, rotates 270 degrees, but lands on all four wheels. Right side of the car's wrecked. Frame/subframe damage. Driveline. Suspension. All tires were blown.
Spiderweb crack in the windshield where the driver's head went into it, glass all over the fucking place. Driver took off. Passenger's this chick who's asking me if I've got a goddamned hair brush. She's railing out on coke, her ankle's the size of a basketball, and she wants to find her makeup, a hairbrush, and can't understand why everyone's being so mean to her. She used to be a model, she tells me. Used to be a med tech, too. Oh, and a Marine. And she's got a degree in Theology, so she doesn't want to hear me say, "goddamnit." And she's got a degree in sociology.
My partner said, after we finally got this whacko to the ER, "If she's got a degree in sociology, I'm Dr. Phil."
I shook his hand. "Dr. Phil. Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Seuss!"
That was one.
Another: FDGB. Pronounce this "Fid-Gib." FDGB is an acronym for "fall down, go boom." We get a lot of these. This particular FDGB was a resident at a nursing home. Poor old lady. Broken hip. Feel bad for her, because at her age, there's little chance she's going to be with us much longer.
Another: ... shit. I forget. It's been a while.
Gimme a few, I may remember.
Anyways, my point is that I think I'm jinxed. Because it really seems like that when I'm on-duty, that everyone in my area remembers how to drive. They're in great health and coordinated. They're not injuring themselves. Which is good.
But boring.
Mind-numbingly. Fucking. Boring.
So I violated the EMS law about smoking cigars larger than Robusto. Had a Gurkha Legend here, brought it in. Smoked it. Just so I'd have evidence of such, I grabbed a picture of me in front of the ambulance with the thing, sent it to a few friends via my phone. No tones.
I took my boots off after the shift was half-over. No tones.
I ALMOST said the "q-word." The Q-word rhymes with "riot" and means "The opposite of loud." The EMS gods HATE it when you use the Q-word. "Tranquil" is the approved substitute. However, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Could. Not.
But I thought about it. Thought about it real good.
I was that bored, you see. Bored fucking shitless. I wanted a call. A good one. Something to do instead of sitting there, wishing I had something to do. Then it hit me: that, in order for me to have a good call, there's gotta be someone badly hurt--or really fucking sick *just remembered the other call: guy with abdominal pain* and when you think about it like that, you really DON'T want a call. You don't REALLY want anyone to be seriously hurt. You don't REALLY want anyone to be THAT sick. But you do at the same time--because that's your gig. That's what you do. So, I began to wonder... am I jinxed, or blessed?
Me? Blessed?
Yep. Jinxed it is!
Later!
--Coop
"Get up and get, get, get down
911 is a joke in yo' town..."
--Public Enemy.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007 Posted:11:34:00 PM
Everyone Cut The Shit.
All right. Whisky Tango Foxtrot? Has everyone and everything on this planet gone insane, or just those in my life?
Damned 6.0 diesels blow dead, diseased, dehydrated dingo dick in the desert. I am SO goddamned sick of this engine, it's idiotic controls, the bullshit, power-robbing, problem-inducing emission fucktardation, and the inability of anyone, anywhere, to get this thing straight. I've fucking had it! AUUUUUGGGGGGGH! FORD: Cut the shit. Federal Government: Cut The Shit. Let us run the 7.3 liter--that fucking thing was a tank!
My brother apparently came down with a case of Rectal-Cranial Inversion. I've only heard snippets, have no real way to contact him, but on the outside chance that anyone looking at this knows him, tell him to fucking call me. Hey, Shit-For-Brains: Cut The Shit.
Seagate Hard Drives can cut the shit too. I'm about sick of dealing with this loss of data crap.
The Federal Government can Cut The Shit. New Tobacco taxes? $10 cap on cigars? Ahem. Fuck you. Asshole.
These dolts, pussheads, and putzes can ALL Cut The Shit. Just when I think a final level of idiocy has been reached, some dipshit opens their mouth and sinks even lower. Of course, people are going to stop to watch the car wreck, but when the driver of the car keeps backing up and slamming into the same telephone pole over and over, it just gets fucking boring. They make medication for that. Look into it. But use your own money, asshole--not my fucking tax dollars.
The weather sucks, too.
Grr.
Fuckit.
Later!
--Coop
"I don't know if I can take no more.
Baggin' it, I'm out the door.
How can you say you know what I mean
When you're pissing all over my life?"
--Overkill
Tuesday, August 07, 2007 Posted:11:52:00 AM
Ain't Like Riding a Bike
I've gotta tell ya: writing ain't like riding a bike. While you don't really FORGET, you do get rusty. I'm fiddling with something now that I've wanted to do for a while, but man... it's taking me a lot to get the words out. More accurately: getting the words out the way I want them to. To sound right.
(I'm a perfectionist, and perfect is a skinned knee...)
Seems like an awful lot of work for such a small output. Has it always been this difficult?
(YES! You dumbfuck!)
Oh, yeah. Guess it has. Disregard...
Later!
--Coop
"When pen hits pad it results in catastrophe."
--Machine Head
Thursday, July 26, 2007 Posted:11:06:00 PM
Square World
I was contacted a few weeks ago to take part in a documentary being made by an upstart director. He's from my home town, and was making a film on the premier local band of days gone by, Riphouse. I knew these guys. Played shows with them, was around for much of the band's lifespan. They broke up fifteen years ago--and I haven't seen or spoken with any of the surviving members since, as I left NY shortly after all that. So this guy calls me up, and after a bit of internal debate, I decide to go through with it. It was weird, venturing down memory lane like that. This guy had shows I'd played. Pits I was in. Pies I smashed in the drummer's face for his birthday. People I'd blocked out. Others I remembered, but lost contact with... those that I haven't thought of in fifteen goddamned years.
I haven't been home much since I left. Just being there makes me antsy. Sure, I've gotta do the obligatory visits with the kids to grandma's, but after 24 hours, I'm ready to leave. Thing is, after I do, I get this urge to write about the place (Brackard's Point). So, I never REALLY leave. Not really. But I can't be there, either, because I go fucking insane. I don't belong there, as this last trip painfully pointed out for me. Whatever I had there is gone. The house is ripped. Existence refused.
There was, however, a time, long ago, when I did belong. I don't even recognize that guy--much less remember how he thought he belonged. And it's difficult to determine whether I grew up, grew out, or just... grew.
Feh.
Got my EMT certification--passed the class. Yes, now it's official: I am --get this shit-- a fucking health care provider. If that ain't enough to make your asshole pucker...
Got that SIG, too. Still a sweet shooter. Keene can't hit fuck-all with the thing, but then again, Keene can't hit fuck-all with any goddamned handgun, far as I can determine. Heh. (Partially joking--I'm twenty times the shot he is, but the guy DID hit a can at an honest 30 yards.) I'm working on one of his revolvers right now--unfucking the trigger for him. It was an absolute mess--gritty, sloppy, heavy trigger. One of the worst I've ever felt. But with a bit of determination and patience, I've smoothed up the action quite a bit, took out the slop, and lightened up the pull. I dare say it's almost good, now.
Won't matter. Fucker still won't be able to hit shit with it.
Saw Teh Lebbon earlier this week. He came over with Keene, we went out to this Peruvian place for dinner, then out to Keene's place so they could drink. I brought a couple of smokes: an Ashton Cabinet for Brian, a La Gloria Cubana for Tim, a Gurkha for myownself. They violated a bottle of Knob Creek and I started a coffeecup collection out at the swing. I like talking with Tim. Wish he was around more often. After leaving them, I gave some things another thought. Still thinking.
Later!
--Coop
"Who really cares?
Fuck it, let's mosh."
--Riphouse
Wednesday, May 09, 2007 Posted:3:14:00 AM
Well.
Okay. So. Haven't posted since November of 2005, I see. Why? Let's just say I had a shit-u-ation I had to unfuck that required 100% of my attention 100% of the time. It's been a rough year.
Rough, but not altogether bad. Deb and I are doing well. My daughter, Victoria, was born 27 November, 2006. She's now popping teeth and has recently discovered her feet--which is good, because she's going to need 'em to learn how to drive stick. Heh. Devon's growing like a weed. At first, I was concerned how he'd react to the new baby, but he's a good Big Brother, and is really good with her.
Joined the ambulance corps, have been going to a metric fuckton of classes for that --there was first aid, CPR, AED, EVOC (Which is basically the driver's license for emergency vehicles), and now I'm in EMT class. Doing pretty good in it: running a 94 average. I've got a test tomorrow, covering nine chapters, so here's hoping I can maintain my grade. I'm not sweating it much, though: if I don't get a 94+ on it, I'm not going to cry or anything. Just as long as I pass.
Let's see... started reloading for the Garand. Got my dillon all hooked up for it. I hope to do some testing this week on the loads I've developed. We'll see how it goes. I've committed to buying another pistol, too: my friend has a SIG 226 Navy that he needs to get rid of. I told him long ago that if he ever sold that gun, he was to sell it to me. We worked out a deal, and it should be in my hot little hands soon. It's only a 9mm, but it's a great gun despite this flaw.
Someone told me about replacement barrels and conversions that will take it to a .357 SIG or .40 S&W, but I'm leery of doing such things to it--not the technical aspects such an endeavor would entail (change out the barrel, spring, and magazine--big fucking deal), but conversions are kinda shady. And I'm not all that fond of the caliber choices, either. I figure it's a 9, it oughta stay that way. But like I said, the 226 is a great gun despite the lack of barrel diameter.
The .357SIG round is really a .40 caliber case slightly stretched and necked down to .355--which is a 9mm. They used the .357 moniker merely for marketability, drawing a comparison between it and the .357 Magnum. It's one of those rounds that looks good on paper, but really, you're still putting a 9mm hole in the target. In a defensive situation, I'd prefer the .357 Magnum. The .40 S&W (AKA forty, short and weak).... grr.... this round needs to just go AWAY. Quickly. It's a pussified 10mm for LEOs that can't be bothered to learn how to shoot and whine about recoil. Fuck all that noise.
So there ya go: between a 9mm, a .357 SIG, and a .40 S&W, I'll take the 9mm. Though I do wish SIG would make a 10mm... now THAT is a Hell of a round. Unfortunately, to get one, there's two choices: a converted 1911, or a Glock. Neither of which are acceptable. This is not to be a slight against the 1911--that's my favorite pistol of all time, dig--but 1911's are supposed to be .45 caliber. Anything other than that is just WRONG. And the Glock 10mm offerings... dude... they're Glocks. I'd sooner buy a Chrysler. Heh.
Later!
--Coop
"Spread the word I'm livin' again.
Tell the world I'm lovin' again.
Don't you know I feel like givin' again.
Freedom!"
Wednesday, November 09, 2005 Posted:11:28:00 PM
Despite the hype....
I'm not playing Civilization IV. It doesn't work on my computer. I've got 3.4GHz of processor, 1.0GB of DDR2 (533MHz) RAM, a 128MB PCI-e video card and the fucking thing doesn't work. I can play the system-melting first person shooters all day long if I so chose (I do not), but a simple turn-based strategy game? Eh-eh. I get BSOD's, crashes to desktop, and... blah. Don't even get me going.
Some dumbfuck damned near comitted suicide last night by trying to break into my house. By the time I came around front with the .45, he'd taken off. There's been a few home invasions in my area recently.
It was asked of me if I'd have shot him. Hell, not if I could help it. If I caught him outside, I'd have held him there at gunpoint until the cops arrived. That was my plan, anyway.
If he was inside, though, with my son in the house? I'd have been more than justified, I think, of putting a couple of .45 caliber holes in his chest. And let me put a pre-emptive "go suck a dick" here to all those who might think of saying I wouldn't be so justified.
Interestingly enough, there's a "castle doctrine" law up for debate here --basically saying that a citizen has no obligation to retreat when faced with a criminal, and is justified in using force in defending themselves, their property, and their family. Like I need a fucking law to tell me that. Apparently, I do, or so say some whinybutt liberal fucking lawyers.
I'm sore from the Chiropractor. I had the TENS unit turned up to 45, and fell asleep while being zapped. Woke up, was racked and cracked.
I'm sick. Got some nastyass sinus infection that's squeezing my eyeballs to jello.
My rebate for my radio was rejected.
My Zippo just spit a flint.
Saw Mooch, though. That was cool. Haven't seen him in a while. Glad to know he's still around.
My brother's getting married and insists the chick ain't knocked up. Go figure.
DB is still short and has big cheeks.
Guess that's about all.
Later!
--Coop
Sunday, September 18, 2005 Posted:8:19:00 PM
J... E... T... S...
The only thing better than Miami losing is...
Miami losing to the Jets!
WOOOOOOOOOOO!
Later!
--Coop
"It's up to you New York, New York..."
--Ebb/Kander
Friday, September 16, 2005 Posted:9:49:00 PM
Retribution, Inc. Update For Pre-Ordering Shockliners
For those waiting on Retribution, Inc. from Shocklines, and had opted for the "inscribed to you" gig Matt had running for the pre-orders, your wait is nearly over. Yesterday, I inscribed them all, and sent them out today. I would suspect that copies should start arriving in a week, ten days, or thereabouts. Thank you all for your support and patience. I know pre-ordering small-press shit is a HUGE leap of faith --I've been burned a couple of times before on pre-orders myself, dig-- so to see so many of you take the plunge and have me inscribe them to you, sight unsen, really warms my heart.
The cockles of the heart. Maybe the sub-cockle area...
Seriously, thanks to you all for your faith and support. Means a lot to a guy...
Now I hope that each of you who had been waiting on this thing don't want to cram it down my throat when it finally arrives!
Later!
--Coop
"And it starts like this:
A scream from the abyss..."
--Retribution, Inc.
Monday, September 12, 2005 Posted:1:37:00 PM
Public Service Announcement.
Ahem.
Zero is not a letter. Nor is three, four, or any other number. These are not interchangeable with letters. Please stop trying to use them as such.
"Owned" is NOT spelled with a "P," for fuck's sake.
U is not a word. Neither is R.
Thanks for playing.
Later!
--Coop
"No one can hear
when you're screaming in digital."
--Queensryche
Sunday, September 11, 2005 Posted:9:58:00 PM
Backblast
Backblast: went to Florida for the first time since I left the place all those years ago.
Go on and wring my neck...
A lot has changed.
Nothing has changed.
Put on your hat and coat, take a walk down the street....
I saw some of the people I wanted to, avoided those I didn't wish to see. Passed places I remembered with uncanny clarity from times in my life when everything was a blur:--
Too damned blind to judge me...
Walking: --in the rain. --in the waves. --on the beach. --down Summerlin. --into the troop transport. --after that fuckstick. --across the parking lot.
Innocent people suffer the loss. Your broken hope so close to the cross...
Driving: --Daniels, downshift. --whipping through Red Cedar, Thunderbird, losing them, around and around again. --I-75, Mustang, that fuckin' Mitsi. --Greg, College Parkway, two wheeled turn. --Rx7, Pine Ridge, dusted 'em. --Jeremy's truck, mud, Dee's friends from The Island. --other 'Bird, o2 Sensor, revelation. --over the bridge, hole in my lip, stitches.
Let freedom ring with a shotgun blast...
The places the faces the names the games the jobs the losses the pain the same the hate the fury the friends the kids the errors the triumphs the rage the forgiven the blood the scars the fists the trysts the heat the sweat the necks the chicks the lights the sound the jams the rush the seething the falling the crash the crush the promise the betrayal the drunk the denial the accused the convicted the redeemed the trial the pool hall the head-slam the coffee cup shatters the lizards the parties the failure the bastards the regret the nail gun the crowbar the pool cue the tie beam the Mustang the funnel-cloud the breakthrough the palm trees the concrete the couches the boats the leaving the dreaming the waking the goats the OD the ambulance the cops the charcoal the escort the book the toilet the unspoken the arrest the maglite the rib shot the piss blood the Cape Cops, the "Protect and Serve" the Pyramids the in my face the Jackson the questions the pits the Inferno the bookruns the .357 the oil slick...and yeah, I lost the rhythm. Fuckit.
Dead maggot... spitting head...
Was wierd to be back, for what seemed like a mere instant. I could have used a week to sort it all out in my head. Maybe it would have made sense then.
No more lies...
Yeah, Creators From The Phillie were right: it wouldn't, either.
Why look back? I'm asked this --in one way or another-- from time to time. I'll tell you why: because to understand the past is to control the present, lest history repeat. Mistakes, made once ... forgiveable. Made twice...
Born with insight and a raised fist...
Damn, it was good to see the old crew.
Yes grim is the hometown.
Later!
--Coop
"The truth hurts, the truth hurts
Fairy tales are written like a book.
Truth hurts, the truth hurts.
Open your eyes up, take a look.
Son."
--Pro-Pain
