fictionary… 8 megapixel artist… bloody awful poet.

Archive for the tag “bloody awful poet”

November Is No More

today pic

November is no more.

The frenzy.  The confusion.  The push to the finish.

(and that’s just when you’re sleeping)

Every day a panic where there need be none, all because of a looming, self-imposed midnight deadline that causes content anxiety in the most honored of bloggers.  And gives all wannabe bloggers the only reason they need to disengage from all social media until after the New Year.

So before I go off into blogging witness protection for the next month, here’s a little recap of the November that was.

NaBloPoMo 2016.


Where most of my good ideas came from…



Where most of my bad ideas came from…



My most favorite post…

There Must Be Something More



Your most favorite post…





The reason I quit every year…



The reason I don’t…



Thank you to the Cheer Peppers, and thank you to their creator, Ra Avis…



And as much as it pains me to say this here and now…

I’ll see all of you here again, next year.


© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Bloody. Awful. Poet.



Once upon a time…

(I know, a terrible way to begin any story.  Just like concluding it with, “…and they lived happily ever after.”)

…there was a middle-aged man who thought he could write…  a little.  He wrote  a screenplay that he let no one read, and, for a time, he was a somewhat successful, albeit unpaid, contributor to an online Citizen Journal that now, no longer exists.  He thought he was happy in his pursuit of writing,, and considered the years he was investing in his craft as the equivalent of a fancy journalism or film school like he so often saw advertised on TV between 2 am and sunrise.

Time passed.  Years, even.  The screenplay never got sold, and the Citizen Journal fell into the hands of a disreputable new ownership group.  The middle-aged man’s words grew fewer and fewer with the years and the circumstances of life, until all he had left were poems.  Not the broad sweep of five-pointed prose, or the sharp stick of tightly wound slam.  Just the shit that popped, spontaneous and whole, into his brain at all inconvenient hours.  In dreams.  While at work.  And the bathroom.  Yep, especially the bathroom.  The words weren’t good, they were just real.  For the first time since before the invisible screenplay, the words… his words… were real.

So he began to write them down.

(One note of explanation.  The phrase, “…bloody awful poet”, for those now reading who are unfamiliar with the work of writer/director Joss Whedon, was properly, um… *borrowed*… from a character he created.  A character who, in flashbacks, was known as William, the Bloody Awful Poet“.  Click the brightly colored letters to see just what I’m talking about.)

Including today, there ten more open spaces in the November Nightmare known as NaBloPoMo.  That means plenty more opportunity to share some Bloody Awful Poetry with readers and friends.  Poetry that still comes to me, spontaneous and whole, at all inconvenient hours.  I’ll keep writing them down.  I’ll keep sharing them.

But nobody’s going to see that screenplay… ever.

DIY Life Coach

nano do as I say


It’s November 14th, 2015.  Tomorrow marks the half-way point for what I, in the past, have mocked harder than France secretly mocks Jerry Lewis.  Yep, NaBloPoMo, or National Blog Posting Month.  A time when normally shunned people rise up from their nerd coffins and attempt to make the internet explode.  A time when the average blogger, cyber reader, or Bloody Awful Poet tries to post more in one month than in the previous twelve months combined.  I’ve known bloggers who, following participating in NaBloPoMo, have taken ill, quit jobs, lost relationships, and otherwise simply dropped out of society.

Having said that, here are a few observations I’ve made through the first two weeks of this self-inflicted Blogmageddon…

Observation number one.  Contrary to popular myth, THIS SHIT IS EASY. 

I used to look at regularly published posts as something to be feared… even dreaded.  Like uncompensated on-call hours for that blue-collar job that you make-believe is SO COOL, but is really just a life-suck that pays a lot closer to minimum wage than your used car salesman of a boss is willing to admit.  Putting your shitty life on hold for a few weeks to write what amounts to three chapters of a bloated Stephen King novel is chump change in comparison to sitting on your ass waiting for a drive from LAX to Culver City for twenty bucks… minus the gas YOU have to pay for out of your own pocket.

Life lesson number one.  Work sucks, but we all need the bucks.

And posting everyday breaks up the monotony of being insulted by working a ninety-hour week, and having the guy who signs your paycheck tell you, with a straight face, that you really only worked a fifty.

Observation number two.  You don’t know what complaining really is till you learn what complaining REALLY IS.

People in France have a right to complain.  Not blue-collar workers in Los Angeles.  Not blue-balled bloggers in their mommy’s basement.  People with real problems have a right to complain.  While “hard is hard”, some hards are harder than others.  Bitching about blogging, much like bitching about your job, means you have one… and possibly both.  Blog or don’t blog.  Work or don’t work.  Blogging every day has taught me that if you can do it, and choose to do it, you give up your rights to bitch about doing it.

Life lesson number two.  Quit yer bitching.

And yes, I mean ME.

Observation number three.  In a month that has taught me more than four years of high school, thirty years of marriage, and fifty-four years of life, here it is.

Do what makes you happy.  If that means blogging every single day for the rest of your life, then do it.  If that means working a job that doesn’t allow time for blogging… or for that matter, a life… then do that.  And if life gives you the clarity and the opportunity to know and do what you love, then jump the hell on it and ride it hard off into the sunset.

Life lesson number three.  Oh, fuck!  There IS NO number three!

Just do what I said.  Because, for once in my life, I’m going to.  Whatever that entails.  Which, at the time of this writing, I have no idea what it is.  But I’m going to find it and do it.

So ends day 14 of that hashtag that changed my life, forever.


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Sunday into Monday

space heater










It all collapsed at once

Everything I had staked my future on had fallen in on itself

And as I sat in my room, late Sunday into Monday


with the TV on and the space heater blowing up at me from the floor

I took long pulls on my second PBR

and typed

Because there was nothing left to do


© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Tony Deegan


I met Tony Deegen when he was almost 70… I was near 50… He was old on the outside and young in his bones… just the opposite of me.

Tony Deegan spent his 401k on a stripper… must have been a big tipper ‘cause he didn’t drink… paid for her tits and put her through school… as old farts go, he was cool.

Tony Deegan saw the Dodgers in the Coliseum… got to see ‘em play there in the 1950’s… sat his bony ass near the peristyle… Vin Scully’s transistor echo made him smile… when all things were new… till they moved all the families out of the Ravine before ’62.  He saw Drysdale and Koufax and Bobby and Jack as equals in his hall of fame.

Tony Deegan, by the time I knew him, he lived on Arbor Vitae… where he wouldn’t invite you because it was a rundown piece of furnished shit… and the beard on his neck was thicker than the one on my chin.  He was all stories by then… forgotten glories of a when that was dead… and he wouldn’t let just anyone into his head.

Tony Deegan always listened to progressive talk on his car radio while he worked, or sports… always out of sorts… and his opinion on either subject wasn’t always correct, political or otherwise… everyone around him said he was always to blame for every wrong thing… mostly because he couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut.

I want to be just like Tony Deegan when I grow up… except for the stripper, and the 401k… and the dying when he was so damn alone.

Copyright © 2013 Bill Friday

My Vices Are Relatively Few

my vices are relatively few 2

My vices are relatively few…

I drink too much
but at home, and not in danger
I sleep too little
because I drink too much
And guilt
Guilt at the things I’ve done wrong
Guilt at the things I’ve not done
Guilt at the things I’ve yet to do
I’ve been forgiven for all the things I’ve done
or not done
and maybe for all the things I’ve yet to do
but one
Because she is only almost five
and must first be hurt before she can forgive

My vices are relatively few…

© 2013 Bill Friday

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: