Earning money by writing


It’s what all aspiring writers want to do, make money with their writing. But as I look at the possibilities it always feels like a lot of work with very little gain. Just this morning, I saw an ad on craigslist advertising for writers they could hire. They wanted a recent example of something I had written, and so I decided to write something just for them. I can write about anything, perhaps not intelligently, but enough to keep the reader’s attention. I do have things to say about a lot of issues, but do I have the discipline to produce x number of words to a strict deadline? I think so. I live in San Francisco and it is funny to me how many writers there are in this city. Whenever I tell someone I am a writer, they almost always say they are a writer as well. I have yet to meet a writer who makes their living writing.

Most of what I write nowadays is poetry. I write poetry because it comes easily to me, and a lot of people seem to like it. It has been a hobby of mine. But I really ought to be writing more, and get paid for doing it. I work as a sales associate at a clothing store, and it barely pays the bills. If I am talented, and have something to contribute, it is foolish to live in poverty if it is unnecessary. There are a lot of people just like me, talented and barely able to keep a roof over their heads.

So what do people want to read? I think they want to read something different from the usual things you find. We need writing that doesn’t nurture our worst instincts. We need writing that inspires people to live meaningful lives, and to find solutions to the many problems which plague us. Take the income disparity problem, for instance. I think the educated need to be educated. They have some crazy ideas. They seem to think that the poor deserve to be poor, and the rich deserve to have what they have. They fail to recognize how rigged the game is. Poverty destroys a vital resource. People who are in poverty become a liability because they are poor. If they could have enough to simply live unassisted by government, they could be in a position to contribute their abilities and talents. Instead they are written off. I have been shocked and appalled by the way poverty stricken people have been treated. They are treated like trash, as if they have no value whatsoever. I think this is distorted thinking.

The rich entrepreneurs need to ask a simple question: Who is going to buy their goods and services? When most of the population is struggling to survive, they are not going to be able to buy expensive meals or expensive products. Here in San Francisco, business relies on tourists. Most of the locals can only afford to live here, if they have some kind of government assistance. Families have moved away to the suburbs, or out of California altogether. A nation without a middle class is in trouble. I think our troubles began when corporations put their own interests ahead of the interests of our country. They destroyed our economy in pursuit of quick profits.

What is the answer to this problem? I am not an economist, but it seems to me that the average person in America needs to take back capitalism. Capitalism that is concentrated around the uppermost one percent is no longer capitalism, it is oligarchy. We need to stop giving our money to large corporations and begin supporting the small businessman. We can create our own economy which does not depend on government or big business to survive. Of course, this means trading convenience for freedom. It is much more awkward to create an alternative economy, than it is to simply consume as we always have. That lifestyle, however, keeps us stuck in poverty, dependent upon either government programs or a part time job at a pitiful wage. The best model would be for all of us to find ways of being entrepreneurial. Business doesn’t need to be the exclusive domain of the rich. It is for all of us.

Being paid to write is an example of this entrepreneurial spirit. If I have the talent and the discipline, I can do something about my circumstances. I don’t have to give up my dignity in order to get my government handout. I can find ways to support myself on my own terms. This little essay is just an introduction. I haven’t worked out all of the details of how this new economy would work, but a lot of people have. We can get into contact with one another and network.

Painting using my penis wasn’t as easy as I thought…..


Sometimes, late at night, I get horny. One night, recently, I was cruising through the internet for something sexy, but different. I happened onto this video of this guy from Australia who calls himself Pricasso. He paints using his penis. The guy was really kind of goofy, and reminded me a little of Wavy Gravy, the old hippie. He worked on this large canvas, and had a huge dong. He used an enormous amount of paint getting it all over himself, but his paintings weren’t bad, not great, but not as bad as I would have expected given his brush. Watching him use his weenie to paint did nothing for me, but then I began to think about it. I wonder how hard (or soft) it would be to do that? I decided to try painting with just my penis. I bought some water soluble paint safe to use on the skin, and a pad I could experiment on.

First off, I have a little dick, so I can’t do those huge canvases unless I have a little step ladder and a lot of time. So I used your basic 8 1/2 x 11 to start, this way I didn’t have to be an acrobat on top of everything else. I have been an artist, I have painted and drawn many times, so I knew the basics, but that wasn’t much help. I discovered right away that I could forget producing anything remotely realistic, because detail is impossible. Now I knew why Dickhead, excuse me, Pricasso, used such huge canvases. It was the only way he could produce detail. The small details of his paintings are the width of the head of his dick. While it is possible to produce smaller strokes it is tedious and because you are using yourself instead of a brush, it can wear you out after about ten minutes. So I saw that I needed to go for the expressionistic. Broad, wild strokes that conveyed the basic thrust of what I wanted to say with the painting. Crude, childlike renderings are to be expected at first, as I become familiar with this weird method of painting. I noticed how I could convey a basic feeling with just a few strokes. In some ways, the crudeness could work for me instead of against me. After all, a painting produced by my penis ought to be crude. This is not a subtle organ. While I don’t think my initial efforts are very good art, they nevertheless intrigue me. They are actually better than I would have expected. I expected to have a lot less control over the result.

How does it feel to brush your penis against a canvas, or, in my case, a sketch pad? It actually feels pretty damn good. It is stimulating. This is one advantage to using your penis as opposed to the more socially acceptable tools. You have this feedback loop of sensation from your imagination to the penis to the brain back to the penis, and it can get you high. Your dick becomes a literal joystick with that vibrator built in. Naturally the penis works much better as a brush when it is hard, otherwise you are basically painting with a sponge, which really limits what you can do (basically just objects viewed through a dense fog). Of course, you don’t want to get too excited, but if you concentrating on the painting and not just masturbating or fucking the paper, you will keep yourself in check. I discovered that positioning the penis differently or using different parts of the penis produce different brush strokes. Generally you can do better work with a lot of paint, because it lasts a lot longer, and you don’t have to keep dipping your dick in the paint over and over. Another annoyance is having to hold the pad with one hand as you paint, it might be better to use a stand. But probably not, because you find that you will need to move the pad around a lot to get the right position. It’s fun, but only for about a half hour or so. then you get tired of it. However, this is only if you are working from your own imagination……

I haven’t worked from a live model yet. I may never. I think it would be an interesting experience if it were a woman I was attracted to. It might be exciting for both of us. What could be more erotic between lovers than a painting of her produced by his penis? What could a woman do? Maybe she could try painting just using her tits. Is all of this disgusting? Of course it is. Unless it is your penis, then it is interesting and kind of stimulating. For now, I only know of that Prick Pricasso who has managed to make some kind of career out of this. It is a novelty. I seriously doubt this guy gets laid. He probably does the painting and gets absolutely nowhere when it comes to using his dick for anything else. But I could be wrong. Women do dig artists, and artists with big dicks are even more popular. As far as my own dick is concerned…well, it is adequate, it gets the job done, and I think anyone would be surprised that I was able to paint what I have, given the size of my penis. They say size doesn’t matter but when it comes to painting with your dick, the smaller you are the more of an acrobat you need to be, and it is a lot more work! But I admit, it would be a lot more fun to make my living painting with my penis than continuing with the job I have.

So go ahead, try it yourself, and let me know how it is for you. Please. no pictures of your dick. I don’t care about the size of your brush. But pictures of your artwork might be interesting. I think my initial efforts, featured below, are a lot like Bob Dylan’s paintings. I wonder if Bob used his prick and didn’t tell us.


The Joy of Kvetch (almost as good as sex)


So if I have to explain kvetch to you, you won’t get anything out of this essay anyhow. So too bad. As it happens, kvetching is good for you, some people even make a living at it. It is good to give expression to the uncensored gripe, complaint, anger, or pain. Because if you don’t you just end up giving yourself a stroke, because it builds up inside you like a balloon about to burst. When you reach a certain age you can give up all that stuff about appearing dignified, or at least you should. Everybody, in spite of what they might say to you, love kvetching, unless it is about them. Kvetching is half of what youtube is about, that and cat videos, that should give you some idea. I’ll let you in on a secret. It’s not really a secret, it’s just something I haven’t bothered to tell you yet. I’m not Jewish. Yeah, and I kvetch. But let me be clearer. As far as I can tell, I’m not Jewish. My parents weren’t Jews, and they certainly weren’t the sort of people that would even consider adopting anyone, besides they already had five other kids. But as far I’m concerned everybody is Jewish to a degree, it’s just that some can prove it. They have the papers.

I take back what I wrote there, in the title of this piece. Nothing is as good as sex. If you think otherwise, then it’s been far too long since you’ve had any. But I didn’t want to write about sex, because every bonehead on earth talks about, thinks about, writes about, posts pictures of, and gets very little of, sex. The subject is worn out. Why read a cookbook when you can eat? I’ll tell you why kvetching is important. We spend a lot of time worrying about what other people think. So we try to be cool. Everything is ‘no problem’ or if you’re texting, it’s ‘np’. Not long ago everybody was saying “It’s all good.” Of course when I say ‘not long ago’ I mean a decade ago. When you are older, time is compressed. You think about giving somebody a call, and half the time they’re dead, and have been for years. Nobody ever tells you.

But I lost my train of thought, or as a lot of people call it, I had a ‘senior moment’. I was relieved when I learned what that phrase really meant. I thought it referred to when an older person dies while sitting on the toilet. (technically they die lying in front of the toilet, cause nobody ever keeps their balance when they’re dying). But, for Christ’s sake, I didn’t want to write about dying either. Or toilets. These are just about the least popular topics for any older person. Christ doesn’t like those topics either, that’s why I’m saying this for his sake.

No, what I was going to write about was how being cool is a total waste of time. First of all, it is never the right person that notices. Why is that? You are being the epitome of cool at some party or whatnot, and only the most uncool people walk up to you, and want to be your sidekick. Happens every time. I’ll let you in on a secret, nobody gives a shit about how you are, what you’re saying, what you’re wearing, what your face is like, etc. because they are using up all their energy thinking about what you think about them! and that’s just the ones that are even bothering to think at all. Most people are just like cows, in the pasture, chewing their cud, not a thought in the world. You could tip them over if you wanted. But even the most bovine do eventually have thoughts. But usually people don’t really know what to think until you tell them what to think. That’s called marketing, and that is why few people really let themselves kvetch. They are too busy marketing and doing a lousy job of it, usually. That is where kvetching comes in.

You see, you are kvetching with your body language, your facial expressions, and you don’t even know it. You may think you got your sales pitch down, and you’re saying all the right things, but your body is saying something else. How many times have you asked someone how they are doing and they say “Good” or “Fine” but their tone of voice, their intonation leads you to worry they might take a bit too many sleeping pills or jump off a bridge. When you kvetch, you get that stuff out of your body and into where ever that stuff goes, I’m not an expert on these things. But I do know that when you get your complaints out in the open, not always, but often, they end up being pretty damn funny, or at the least, absurd. But only if you understand how to kvetch, because kvetching is not your garden variety complaining.

You need to kvetch in such a way that anyone can relate, because they have had the same kvetch at one time or another. If you are a serial killer, you might kvetch but it will likely not be the same sort of complaints that the non-murdering listener has had. So that kind of kvetching, we don’t need. For that, we have therapy. Let me give an example.

Why is it that everybody always talks about how easy it is to get laid, and yet, almost no one ever does? You get this all the time, especially from women. Where are all the good men? they complain. We are right here, waiting for you to ask us for sex. Well, maybe not you in particular, but don’t worry, I’m sure there is a woman who would love to have sex with you. Just ask! These women are full of shit. They fail to understand that ‘good men’ in the abstract is entirely different from an actual ‘good man’ in the flesh. Fact No. 1 – People are Gross. No getting around it. They just are. Better to just understand this, because otherwise you will use this as an excuse to never, ever, have sex with anyone. Fact No. 2 – People are Sexy. But sometimes you don’t see it, because you are too hung up on the gross part, but you know what? The Gross Part IS the Sexy Part. But you won’t discover the truth of this if you don’t have sex with Mr. or Ms. Gross. It works the other way too. You may think that so and so is really sexy, but sure enough, if you get intimately involved with him or her, they will become the monster from the black lagoon. Might be a smell just as you wake up next to them, that just hits your Gross button, or their hair in the wrong places, namely, not on their body.

So what does that have to do with what I don’t remember bringing up in the first place? Almost always, when someone asks for sex the first impulse is to say No. In fact, when you ask anyone to do anything for any reason, unless maybe it’s a request to pass the salt, is to say No. Because Yes implies INVOLVEMENT, and that feels icky, like having to do all kinds of things you really don’t want to do. So the truth of the matter is that getting laid is not easy, for most of us. If you are older, it is even harder. Let’s face it! Nobody wants to have sex with an old person, including, perhaps even especially, old people themselves. Now the good news is that this initial reaction to the idea of having sex with an old person, can change. But it is a Catch-22, because in order to get somebody to want to have sex with you, they need to have sex with you. Sex works miracles on perception. Someone that you hadn’t found attractive at all suddenly becomes, well…. not beautiful or handsome but not gross either. They become a bit more attractive, and the more sex you have, usually, it gets even better. Sex definitely changes how you feel about someone, almost always for the better. Which is why I sincerely believe we should all get off our high horses and fuck one another. We will be much happier for having done so.

What does any of that have to do with kvetching. Nothing whatsoever. I just used kvetching as a lead in to writing about whatever comes to mind. Writers do this all the time. You start a novel, and you think you know what it’s about and then discover that only the first couple of paragraphs were any good. The rest is filler. The author figured you would only get through the first few sentences when you ‘re in the store anyhow, so….make it good! It’s the same way with popular music, they grab you at the beginning and the rest can be crap. It doesn’t matter because almost nobody actually listens to a whole song, or reads a whole book anymore. They twitter. There is only one twitter I would ever consider sending, #myass. I lied. I have twittered before. I sent “sitting on the toilet, thinking about Vladimir Putin” I thought that was cute. But my trouble is: I don’t know when to shut up. A good close. Now there is a true art form. A good exit.

Never learned how to do that.


shut up and write: my first short story (or essay) 11-13-13


For some reason I failed to understand I was John Wilkes Booth. Except I wasn’t. I could view my grizzled, wild eyed visage as if I were on top of this crazed killer of our President, holding him down so he could not escape. But then, I felt my own body, pinned tightly to my bed, frozen and heavy. I had surrendered to my fate, a grim smile crossed my face.

I knew I had to get up. I could imagine myself, awake and alert, and ready to fly out the door. I had promised to be somewhere. Perhaps to meet with my fellow conspirators. My body felt as though it had been beaten. Of course, it had been beaten, you idiot, you shot Abraham Lincoln! Don’t you remember? Remember? I am lying in bed. I had been tossing and turning all night. Even though I’d committed no crime, I felt like a fugitive. I’ll be late. I hate to get up now.

I sprang to my feet, and once erect, I felt fresh and alert, ready for the day, 8:25 am. Holy crap! Just enough time to dress and go, except I need to shave, and I need to clean out the cat box, and I should…..just go…Go!

So, here I was, desperately walking as rapidly as I could, down Valencia St. I knew it wouldn’t be long, perhaps even this sunny morning, that my fate would catch up with me. I had killed the President. My mind had failed to sort out the conflicting data swirling around my sleep deprived brain. I still felt as though I were John Wilkes Booth, a well known actor, who had made his escape to San Francisco, after depriving a much despised Lincoln of his life, and for just cause, I grant you. ‘Enough of this shit!’ I thought. This is not a day in which to be anyone other than myself.

As if to remind me of my true identity, I felt pain in my upper chest as I walked towards Borderlands. Is it my heart? I thought, idly. Such pains have so many origins. If I die, I die, I thought. For Booth life is but a brief affair, a Borderlands. Where else might I be heading in this odd place between sleeping and waking. Am I truly sitting here in a well-lit, comfortable coffee shop, writing much as John Wilkes Booth would have written, ink upon page, albeit with a quill and not a Bic.

Why would I think that I, an obscure fellow at best (still with the nineteenth century prose style, I see), but why consider myself to be a killer of Presidents? For the fame? the recognition, for the purpose of saying things are not as they seem, or maybe as a desperate attempt to alter the course of history. But then, it struck me as certainly as the hammer pounding in my head, I was also Booth’s captor. I held him down, with a grim determination. Damn you! and Damn what you’ve done! At the same time, I recognized that all of this was my brain’s attempt to make sense of the sleep paralysis which kept me pinned to my bed, seemingly unable to move.

There are so many inputs, so many possibilities, some leading to precious or not so precious insights, others leading to a one way ticket to the looney bin. It is hard to get my brain to work properly at times like these. I feel as though my brain is like a typewriter missing a few keys, leaving the reader to guess the intent, filling the gaps with their own narrative. That might be an interesting project for someone with absolutely nothing else to do, I thought.

You see, I am a writer, as you might have guessed by the meandering nature of the previous prose. I am never at a loss for words. My only restraint being the merit of the words. Does anyone benefit in any way, from adding my words to a brain already filled with useless junk?

Whoever said, “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.” clearly had no experience with bedbugs. As a longtime resident of San Francisco, I had more than enough experience with the little bloodsuckers. They were the cause of my sleeplessness. In a demented sort of way, I admired these bugs. They were damn near impossible to eliminate. I could kill them by the millions, the trillions, and no matter, they still would find……but enough about bedbugs. That is not a fit subject for man nor beast. After all, as a writer, I must consider my market. Bedbugs do not make for enjoyable reading, so I thought instead of the opportunity afforded by this unpleasant yet intriguing state of mind. Why the hell did I dream of John Wilkes Booth? What did that say about me? It is also interesting that I was both Booth and the man holding him down. How could that be? So here I am, on the lam from some heinous crime, and it is I who shall bring myself to justice. One of the first things I learned on my journey to the clear light, it’s all me, every last bit of it, even the bedbugs.



It is after midnight. The perfect time for a dipshit. It is also appropriate that I am posting this on an extinct blog. I lost faith in this irreverent blog because my dipshittiness almost got me sued. There was a time when I was a true dipshit. I didn’t take myself as importantly as I do now. Now, all I do is write poetry and transcribe someone else’s thoughts, dreams, and desires. Which is fine, but……what about my own? Mine have been on hold, until I get that job, have that money, get rid of the bedbugs, fleas and whatever. My true mojo was out there in that indefinite future. The same future in which everyone recognizes my genius, and where I don’t get laid every night because sometimes I just need to take a break from all that female adulation. Pretty fucked up, I’m sure. Hey, maybe I’m just a dipshit in disguise.

Just one of those guys

a dipshit in disguise

walking through his neighborhood

and never sees a Goddamn thing

His hopes and dreams

recorded for anyone to read

long after he’s died

a dipshit in disguise

Hey, that was supposed to be funny, and it turned out sad. Much like my life. But nobody cares about an uneventful life, if I’m going to be sad, I need to be SAD in a big dramatic way. You know, wearing the same clothes for weeks on end, so sad that I forget who I am and need to be put away somewhere, except these days there is nowhere to be sent, so I would just wander the streets, all my old friends avoiding me when they run into me in some doorway, lying in my own urine. Now that is a degree of despair which demands attention. It is the sort of thing a dipshit daydreams about, isn’t it? A way of gaining attention, instead of living up to what it means to be a human being.

But dipshits are angry little brats who never asked to be a human being, and quite frankly, resent it. There seem to be more dipshits today than when I was growing up. It used to be that no one ever aspired to be a dipshit. If you wanted someone to straighten up and stop embarrassing you and him or herself, just call them a dipshit. Back then, only Beat poets would welcome the company of a dipshit. Today dipshittiness is a growing industry. Comics? Most of them are just dipshits. Our culture has turned away from erudite humor, and have settled for dipshit culture. They are everywhere. I can’t go down to the local Walgreen’s without there being at least a couple of dipshits standing in line, if you can call it standing. Usually they are weaving around the line, and swaying on their feet like a drunk, except dipshits are drunks that never become sober. There am I, obviously a very important person compared to them, and I get more annoyed by the minute, muttering under my breath, “dipshits!’. Now, I do make one significant exception in regard to dipshits. I cut teenagers some slack because teenagers by their very nature have always been dipshits. That is what a dipshit really is, someone who is not a teenager, acting like a teenager.

As I admitted above, I am a closet dipshit. I used to be a dipshit right out in the open. I didn’t care. I missed the days when I was a teenager and shot my mouth off at every opportunity, regardless of whether I was making a fool of myself or not. A lot of people pointed out that I was a fool in those days. My teachers, my brothers, my sister, who often called me a dipshit, and my mother. My mother went to great lengths to explain to me that it was a sin to call someone a fool, then minutes later called me just that. My mother was a real dipshit, but saying that to her would earn me a good smack in the mouth from my father. Actually my father never smacked me, but come to think of it, I never called my mother a dipshit either.

When I think about it, being called a dipshit is a double insult, not only are you shit, you are a dip of shit. In other words, you aren’t THE SHIT, you are just a dip of it. You aren’t enough to bother with, an irritant, a bad joke, sort of like a flea. Even a punk is a step above a dipshit, because a punk knows better, and a dipshit never ever knows better. A dipshit can be counted on to do the faux pas, the wrong move, to be in the wrong place at the right time, or the right place at the wrong time, or just some sort of mistake in the scheme of things, awkwardly existing like a meal that absolutely no one has ever ordered. But there you are. After a while, you begin to stink from neglect. Such is the life of a dipshit.

Maybe this post will revive my dipshit spirits. Maybe I will retrieve my wise ass reputation, which was never wise in anyone else’s eyes, only stupid, only just being a dipshit. Maybe I will post more onto this defunked, debunked, defucked, blog, and make it relevant again, maybe I can go back to not being important or special, not the sort of voice in the wilderness you want to heed, but the sort of voice in the wilderness that irritates you to no end. Advice from a dipshit. What happens when an entire society descends into ineptitude and even mayors and congressmen, and sports figures are dipshits too! Doesn’t that change what it means to be a dipshit? When dipshits cease to annoy or offend, they have lost their right to being called such.

In ancient Rome, the dipshit had a special status. He would stand in the Forum and defecate, urinate, or masturbate, in plain view of the crowd. Then, whatever this filthy nitwit had to say was considered to be an oracle, the voice of the Gods, or failing that, he was considered to be quite wise. Could this be the origin of the expression: “Holy Shit!” You’ve got to admit, when a guy dumps a load, or shoots a load, you tend to notice. What he says would probably be remembered. But he would be considered a real jackass, a real dipshit.

I make no claim to be the voice of the Gods, and I have no plans to defecate or masturbate outside the local Walgreens, but I feel that my dipshittiness serves a purpose, if only to puncture my toxic pride, and the toxic pride of others.

It remains to be seen if there will be more posts like this one, or if this blog, which isn’t quite dead, but certainly smells funny, will become active once again. If dipshits could read I am sure they would enjoy this post. But a dipshit must never be made to feel good about his or her self, their magic lies in their utter disregard for themselves, their total lack of ego. Others might mutter, “Look at that fool, he doesn’t give a shit about anything, including himself.” to which I’d say “I disagree. I think he gives a shit. Didn’t you see him at the Forum?”

Sexuality Blessed


Beneath the tidy proper manners

Hello how are you?

May I fuck you?

Lies urgently hidden away

A secret that sits just under the pants

I want you, you want me

But we search vainly on a cloud covered day

For the sun of sexuality


Our one self our one self-contained enclosure

Be it cunt or be it cock

When interlocked

Form a brand new universe

For us

And yet and yet…..

For so many this is not the case

We equate all this with the sharpest pain and most righteous anger

Sexuality cursed and viewed with disdain

Fuck and fucked and cunt and dick become obscene

Weapons of choice in our gender war

Let us be tender

to our wounded genitals

Ask for the best

Sexuality Blessed

Because this is the door

This is the quest

Just how it feels tonight


August 23, 2012

I am still sitting here doing the same

But it’s different

My words are difficult to frame

Events far larger than I are moving with such a force

I and you and the girl next door

Can’t help getting carried away

On one side lies a darkness so deep

It eats away at my courage

and adds fuel to my fears

On the other side lies a woman

shining with her own light

serene and secure in her beauty

she points to a world so new

we cannot imagine it

and smiles

This captures it

That’s just how it feels tonight

to be on the verge of my death

or the cusp of my rebirth

This very moment

this very time

feels so delicate

liable to crack apart at any moment

but nevertheless leading to something so good

no words can ever suffice

that’s just how it feels tonight