Unsolicited

The world has been noisy. Wars and threats of war. Political division. Spiritual corruption. The deafening silence of Epstein files not being released, and/or the violent and shrill sound of redacting. The baffling grind of points of view and perspectives that can’t agree on objective reality. The roaring deluge of AI slop. The eerie creaking of so many necks and backbones bending to endure the digital fire hose of doomscrolling. The turbulent sound of slipshod congressmen, their jellyfish spines swishing and swirling as they shift their morality toward bottom lines. The beep and boop of cash registers ringing up ever-inflating and overpriced cartons of eggs and gallons of milk. The monotonous offering of vapid thoughts and soulless prayers in the wake of screams and whimpers that will echo until the Russians or the North Koreans—or hell, the Americans—input the launch codes…

Earth: a potrait.

Try as I might, I haven’t found a pair of earbuds that can officially mute the brain-dead and soul-rotted among us wielding the megaphones. I did, however, do a brief audit of my work last year, and I noticed something lovely.

The best I felt last year—the most peace I experienced, and the moment that filled me with what I would best describe as faith—was my daughter’s chorus concert. The show surprised and inspired me, but it wasn’t just the show; it was what the show moved me to do. I wrote an email to the high school principal and sang the praises of the teacher who directs the choral program. More than that, though, it was a love letter. Yes, it was a love letter to the young man who is clearly a gifted and passionate educator, but it was also a love letter to the very idea of education. It was also a love letter to the arts, a love letter to community, a love letter to beauty and vulnerability, to harmony and melody, story and song, suspense and awe.

I concede that love letters come easily on the heels of the sublime, but maybe that’s because the sublime—being the sublime—brings a lot of muscle to the old heave-ho of a love letter lift. It stands to reason, then, that a person might exercise that muscle more regularly, and in doing so express a lot more love. Which transforms the noise of this upside-down world into something more fun—something you feel instead of dread, something warm instead of ICE-cold, something you want to remember instead of something you wish you could forget.

It is in this spirit that I’m planning to do a little extracurricular side project. I’m calling it All Kinds of Funny: Unsolicited.

Who doesn’t want to be this guy?

This project owes a debt of gratitude to my buddy Mike. Mike is a private pilot, among other things. I would put him in the running for the most interesting—and most competent—humans I know. When the apocalypse comes (and it may have already started), I’m confident I’ll live longer than anyone who is not friends with Mike. You may be picturing a Navy SEAL who’s trained in microbiology, horticulture, and tiki libations, and there’s a lot of truth to these assumptions. But the one thing I really admire about Mike is his dedication to correspondence.

Mike travels all over the world, and on his layovers he gets himself a big stack of postcards and writes to my kids and to droves of other friends’ and family members’ kids. We have a stack of Mike’s documented travels, and my kids light up when we receive them. It’s as if this great big world shrinks for a second to remind them that there’s somebody out there thinking about them, and reminding them that this life is for the living and the loving. Mike probably wouldn’t say it in that way, with those words, but I can read between the lines.

Ralphie clearly doesn’t have a Mike in his life.

In this current culture where most everything is made up of disposable ones and zeroes, there’s something fun and exhilarating about getting a tangible piece of mail, sent not from a medical billing company seeking payment for the operation on your busted-ass kneecap or the local court demanding you serve on a jury in a civil suit between corporate raiders, but rather from another human being who’s hoping you’ll smile—maybe even laugh—if only for a moment.

If you’re unsure whether or not you’d like to participate in this free service I’m providing, here are some practice runs I’ve whipped up:

And here’s the front of the postcard:

So one more time, if you want me to send an All Kinds of Funny: Unsolicited love letter (of sorts) to one of your people, just click this button:

I’m providing this postcard service free of charge, but if you want to pick up my anthology or my novella or write me a nice five-star review, I wouldn’t complain (see the links below). But truly no pressure. I’m nothing but excited to bring All Kinds of Funny to mailboxes of the unsolicited and unsuspecting.

All Kinds of Funny and Other Serious Matters, Volume 1 is available in paperback and hardback! Click this link or the image below, and get your copies now!

And/ or if you like Elmore Leonard, Joe Lansdale, or the Coen Brothers, you’ll dig my novella, DIG. If it makes you laugh, cringe, or question your moral compass—do me a solid and leave a quick rating or review.

Get it at this link or click the image below: Dig: A Dark Crime Comedy

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Many thanks to everyone who has contributed to the Cobles. Lori has chosen to cease any further surgeries. The family has brought her home and initiated hospice care. If you haven’t yet, please watch their story and consider chipping in. They’re one of the most fun families I’ve ever met, and I just love them.