The market is now open on ALL terrible takes of that name. TUGLIT, HUGLIT, SMUGLIT. The possibilities are ENDLESS…or as large as the entry in the rhyming dictionary for ‘thug’.

Whatever, fuck off.

So either this cold is making me feel all feelsy or the recent news that Big Daddy Thug aka Todd Robinson (author of the amazeballs THE HARD BOUNCE and upcoming ROUGH TRADE – CLICK and BUY) is closing shop at Thuglit really caught me up.

Going with the cold. It sucks. Please make all the sickness stop. This house has had a pox since fucking January. I suspect the little one. She drools.

Anyway, Thuglit. I’ve been lucky to make four (FOUR) appearances in those pages and my stories are nowhere near the best. I recommend you go and buy ALL the issues (I appear in issues 11, 15, 18, and Cruel Yule). It goes beyond the stroking of my ego here, though, and I know it’s been a love fest over on Twitter and Facebook, but I think it needs to be reiterated that working with Todd and the Thuglit crew on those stories were a goddamn joy and I truly appreciate the effort and attention to detail he’s provided. I don’t think I know any other writer with that kind of devotion to the craft and to the scene. He owed us none of that, but still did it either way.

And hell, I can’t say that I disliked a single story I’ve ever read out of Thuglit. That’s fucking rare, man.

So anyway, go buy Todd’s books. Go buy the back issues. Let the guy know he’s appreciated, even with the mag going away.

The bright side to this is Todd having more time to write and bring some quality fiction to all of us in whole new ways. I’m looking forward to that.

And hell, I’ll still see that cranky bastard at Shade when I visit either way. Now I can bother him for even more writing advice he’ll tell me to ignore.


My favorite pic of visiting Todd at Shade before he shaved his beard

Be easy,


Electric word, life


When I was 4 or 5 years old, most of my family lived under the same roof. My uncle, Papo (Marcelo) was a big music/movie head. He lived in the converted basement area downstairs with his wife and kids, so I was always down there playing with my cousins and listening to music and watching movies.

I have a lot of good memories of that.

Specifically the day my uncle put on Purple Rain because to paraphrase him, ‘This dude is fucking bad’ (it was the 80’s).

I can’t tell you how many times I watched that movie. All I know is I have that entire album memorized. I know that movie in and out. I’ve watched it with genuine enjoyment as an adult. Not out of a sense of irony, but out of awe.

Jump a few years ahead to 1989. I remember standing on a line nearly three blocks long to go see some flick called Batman at the Loews American around the corner from my apartment. That movie was vibrant, different, indelibly marked with that man’s unbelievable talent.

And it never ended. If there’s any single musician we can call an American parallel to David Bowie, it’s Prince. He was other-worldly, capable of anything, furiously individual – a fucking guitar god above all.

Like Bowie, the first notes of the first album you heard from Prince changed the shape of your brain. It set the tone of your memories.

It’s frankly bizarre to believe he could possibly die from something as banal as a flu.

But giants fall easy, I guess.