This is my blog. This is where I'll indulge necessary distractions from my main work as a novelist. I'll write about things such as: pure joy; love and hate; the battle of the sexes; eroticism; natural selection; warfare; political, religious, and social tyranny (and its opposition); technology; the cosmos; thermodynamics; free will, futility, and doom; MotoGP and F1; style; art; beauty....

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My First Novel "THE MILL" is Now Available
June 11, 2014

My first book, a dystopian novel, is now out in papeback.

See it on
See it on

The Mill: An Anti-Social Anti-Novel is a dark and possibly mean-spirited exploration of the human condition, and the subsequent need for comic diversion. It is a coming-of-age story about discovering the true nature of the world, or more accurately, its lowly inhabitants. It follows a band of young men as they start to acknowledge their bleak futures during some rough, summertime employment at a Midwestern flour mill. From the shockingly dangerous and filthy working conditions to the near-universal ineptitude and warfare, it describes the ridiculous workings of that microcosm, and the rationally debauched minds (and code) of its young men, with a brutality thus far unseen.

Rob and Brian were young, a bit naive, and certainly not geniuses, but they were sincere and just bright enough to recognize absurdity when they saw it (which was always, and everywhere). Often, and in full alignment with their own most base human instincts, their only recourse against the pervasive senselessness was to join in the folly and find humor in whatever misadventure took place. The Mill is a comedy about coping with disappointment, unfulfilled ambition, and ugliness.

Rule #3: Use a tool for a task, then destroy that tool.
"All tools are disposable here at the Mill," he said sternly and without a hint of humor. "At the end of each job, we destroy the tools we used. This is just how it's done at the Mill. Get on board, fuckers."

It was a really pathetic display to witness. It was a bleak testament to the lowest of human ambition and achievement. It was waste personified. Again, JoJo was only twenty-two years old. At his current rate of self-inflicted decline, he'd likely be wheelchair-ridden by age thirty.

This man could not go more than five seconds without saying, "The fuck," when referring to any person, place, or thing. It was as if his brain suffered frequent stack overflows and needed to constantly reboot to some primitive known state.

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