Shocked, though pleasantly surprised. Monday, Dec 6 2010 

“Some days even my lucky rocketship underpants won’t help.”
– Calvin ; Calvin & Hobbes.


An old teacher mentioned to me that she desired to use my blog to help teach her students– however, it would help if I updated again. It’s been almost a year– and how things have changed. Some senseless updates:

– Picked up a double major — no, not English, but rather a Bachelor of Science in Business Management to pair with a B.S. in Legal Studies in Business.

– Last May, I successfully conducted my first official creative writing seminar to great success. I am questioning every time I complained to a teacher to finish grading my papers quicker.

– I’m down to my last three semesters at Tulane University down in New Orleans before I commission as an Officer into the Navy.

– And most importantly, my hiatus from writing is rapidly approaching its end.

– I am thoroughly shocked, though pleasantly surprised, that despite not updating in year, I’ve averaged a pretty nifty amount of views a month since.


Dangerous Inspiration:

Oddly enough, I channeled my inner 10th grader and bought the recently released My Chemical Romance album, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Kill Joys.

No regrets, none whatsoever. I wish I could write that some deep, impressionable eureka moment arrived from listening to this album– but rather, it’s invigorating. I draw no direct topics to write of, but the energy to write again.

Does that make sense?


The Dog Prince?
And for almost 18 months now– the phrase, “The Dog Prince” has stuck with me. It pervades almost everything I’ve tried to write. Someone help makes sense of it for me.
I’ve tried:
– A fantasy story of  a Prince shamed to peasantry because of his bloodline of traitors to the current crown
– A modern story of a father finding out that his six year old son is not actually his son; with his son having no idea and his wife in the process of divorcing him, he has to ask to what he owes this boy– the relationship of  a boy with a father but a man with no son.
– And a few others…



The First Step of the Last Step, cover art submission, an old Musket Newspaper article, and loud noises about good people. Sunday, Mar 29 2009 

Candy calls from Dixon Hall, just like the time before.
She wants a winter fling in the middle of spring,
She says Love is such a bore.”

Candy; MyNameIsJohnMichael



First draft! The Publisher sent me the skeleton of the book so that I could start setting fonts, heading styles, etc. Spacing is key— is it just me, or does anyone else believe that if you let a powerful sentence drift free to the top of the next page rather than finding a way to keep it within the paragraph, it loses its… meaning?

I don’t know. But it’s an interesting process. I’m going through and finding any grammatical errors I missed the first time around— its hard to pay attention sometimes, after reading each story a dozen or so times. They’re all terrible to me. Each sounds a thousand years old; but once in awhile I’ll stumble across a line or a paragraph that reminds me: at one time, I thought this was the best I could do.

And with each consecutive story, I surpassed that.

But enough self-love. Submission for the cover art is coming in. Samantha Thayer so far has put in some good photographs— I’m eager to see the best of what others have to submit! Once more if you’re interested in trying to design or take the picture of the cover to my book, check out the poem posted in the earlier blog— I believe the second one— and try and capture it! Also, if you feel that you can’t, please submit what you consider you best, most significant piece of work— I’m not ruling out that it may be more interesting, and may even embody my message more. Send these to

I’m a firm believer in recognizing friends and fans, so if you think you’re interesting enough to mention in this blog— please please please shoot me an email telling about your skills, links to your websites, and pictures. I’m trying an experiment by showcasing people that know me now and sharing my venue with them in hopes that when my book comes out or they start to get the attention they deserve, they’ll return the favor and spread word about me.

Networking, marketing, and keeping in touch with the people that weave in and out of my life, all in one. Sounds like a plan? So get interesting. The media bores me with the recession and corruption in Congress; there is so much going on in the world worth talking about. Let’s make some loud noises about good people for a change.

Let me finish by saying, the CD Release party was nothing short of amazing.  The First CD MNIJM from CD RELEASE PARTY

This is a picture of the first CD they handed out that night at the CD Release party.

The John Hancock’s are from none other than Leo DeJesus and John Michael themselves.

People wonder why I collect that autographs for indie rockers— a lot of people think that it’s because these people might get famous one day and then it’ll be worth something. Honestly, I think my reasoning is that when I hear these songs, they’re not something that’s playing on the mainstream radio; it’s real music by real people and their signature validates their existence to me more than just being an icon, a temporary quake.

Many musicians all strive to be an icon in some sense. Humanity, the energy it gives off, is so much more interesting. This 6-man show is the wave you see in stadiums, the melody of a chain striking a trash can and a couple hundreds bodies moving to the beat.


Once more, please leave your comments, feedback, angry loud insults on the blog! I appreciate hearing from my readers both here and abroad.

I uncovered an small article I wrote for the high school newspaper (The Musket of Orange Glen High School). I had the pleasure of working my senior year with a set of unique individuals; to paint the picture— we had a ragtag staff of professional procrastinators, school corruption conspirators, and useless characters. We had an overbearing administration, and the student government despised our optimism for what we thought could be more than our cynicism of what actually was. We had support from a Government teacher who openly sounded off about what was wrong and right with the paper, an honesty that was always appreciated.

Small to note, we also had an amazing teacher that guided us with standards rather than rules— and the difference showed.

Without further ado, A Call to Arms by Terence Sanders:


“What is the point of these editorials?” Principal Diego Ochoa calmly asked the Musket staff in a recent interview. Despite the best efforts of the Musket editorial staff this year, it appears that the answer is not self-evident. Contrary to popular belief, the editorials are not to point fingers but to raise hands; when the questions stop being asked the inconvenient truth becomes unnecessary. While the unshakable integrity of the administration and staff prevents them from lying to students, manipulation through half-truths and the best intentions are the price students will pay for remaining uninvolved on their campus. The Musket editorials compel the student readers to exercise the most underrated emotion in a high school teen: Curiosity.

In every sense of the word, it is a call to arms. To stand united as a student body, linked together by their curiosity, and raise their hands. This action symbolizes the embracing activism of an unyielding, open palm without the crude anger of a shaken fist. The administration and organized student bodies around campus will welcome and recognize student interest— students passionate about their school, themselves, will ultimately push OGHS to new heights. Just as there is more to each student than their yearly standardized-test score, there is more to this school than the daily announcements. Join clubs, campaign for an ASB officer position, attend sports games, and enjoy drama productions: do more than just volunteering your time; actively participate in your social education.

But above all else, to thy own self be true: if you feel something is wrong, do not let it go unnoticed. The conformity of fearing to act— or worse, failing to believe that individuals can make a difference —will redefine this generation’s definition of freedom. The strange thing is, questions tend lead to more questions, building curiosity; use this journey to the truth to unite the students, hands raised politely for answers. The Musket editorials are here to inspire, to recognize, and to embrace this call to arms that is curiosity.


Thunderstorms sparks inspiration, The Talented Mr. Walters, and some literature to read. Saturday, Mar 28 2009 

“The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug.”
~Mark Twain

Let me say that the quote up there is one of my favorites, because of the down to earth honesty it presents to all writers, novice or young.

There is nothing like a good thunderstorm to spark inspiration. Going off of Sean Carpenter’s suggestion, I decided to indeed make my introduction more personal—i.e. written with pronouns and feel good intentions.

Anyways, it was filed, formatted, and finished… sent off the magical land of Publisher. Then of course, my girlfriend glances over it and says, “You’ve got two typos. But don’t feel bad, it’s the kind that’s hard to catch.” Beautiful. Because big, glaring mistakes that tired eyes don’t catch are perfectly acceptable.

On a lighter note, an old friend Brian Walters stumbled across my blog earlier and left some kind words. I’m going to return the favor by telling all my readers to check him out at:

He’s a multi-talented actor, musician, and model that’s making his way out to New York city next year, for the New York Film Institute. Whilebrian I remember him best as the guy that got mobbed at the Zoo during freshman year of high school by, yep, short skirted Japanese schoolgirls. They recognized him of a TV show he did on national television as a kid.

Anyways in recent years, he’s been touring India with his music while raging all across Japan with his tunes.

As most in Yokosuka, support him by checking out his shows. Everyone else, check out his websites and let him know that he’s apart of a special class of people that are pursuing their dreams.

Said it before Brian, see you at the top of the world someday.

Would like to thanks Leo DeJesus, John Michael, and the rest of MNIJM for their shout out to me, and to let them know that with them linking me on their site, I hit new highs on visibility with this blog. Thanks for helping me spread the word about my book!


I’m going to try and include in some of my blogs some bits of writing I’ve been doing on the side; feel free to comment and enjoy!

This one is called, Hollow Men. Not a recent writing, but I read A Clockwork Orange, The Catcher in the Rye, and bits of The Perks to Being a Wallflower. I enjoyed the latter two style of writing and decided to give it a shot. This was not included in the novel because I felt the limited violence within it was a bit vulgar, and altogether the piece was unpolished. However, it’s definitely a fun read—and was even more exciting to write.

Hollow Men.

I never thought it’d happen to me. You read about it in some third-rate novels that shouldn’t leave the shelves, see it on the news in some town no one has ever heard of. Where I lived, nothing happened without a reason. In my town, there was an annual picnic, and then an annual community play— come to think of it, everything seemed pretty planned out. No room for the spontaneous or the ugly, no time for the indifferent. After all, nobody was like that in real life, right? No one was like that. We all laughed at the mayor’s jokes when he came to the school, even if he really wasn’t that funny. We sat in rows. We sat in columns. We stood in unison. We walked straight and tall, just like they asked.

When I think about it, it never really bothered me. In fact, I don’t think I noticed before this year. You know, the way everyone kind of smiled. No, no— they didn’t smile, just kind of. Like you knew that something wasn’t there that should’ve been. An unearned compliment; every time someone looked at me, it felt uncomfortable. People shouldn’t be so wrapped up in trying to look like they’re doing the right thing. That’s the problem with most things in life: we don’t want things to be okay, we just want things to look okay.

I started noticing things. Not the way that I noticed my hair was getting redder every time I happened to glance in the mirror, but more… I don’t know, subconsciously? Like Rick. Take Rick Sanchez for instance, because I started noticing him. He was always staring at me, and saying something. Well, not saying, more like muttering. I could barely make it out sometimes, other times I wouldn’t understand a word. It wasn’t Spanish though, hell no. Didn’t sound like a waste of my time, and that’s all Spanish was. I told my seventh grade teacher that once; she threw me out of the class. Said to me, “I can handle ignorance, but you’re just stupid.”

I had an A in that class. Next day, it was an F. The pop quiz must have been weighted. Didn’t really matter though, middle school was just a waste of my time too. Bunch of kids watching other kids do things, but not regular kids— they all tried to imitate the people that they saw living on the television. They wore clothes they knew didn’t fit because somewhere along they way they thought that made them more popular. Funny thing was, they were right.

Kids, we never really know what’s good for us. Parents, teachers, people we never meet— they all try to tell us that. Tell us, “Hey kiddo, hey buddy boy. Don’t listen to that junk the TV tells you— think for yourself.” I hate it when they talk to us like that. I’m not six, and I haven’t been for over a decade. Think that matters to the guy over at the grocery? Nah. He still calls me buddyroo. If he wasn’t seventy, I think I’d punch him in the gut. Hell, I’d knock him somewhere else, but you can’t hit elders. Got to respect them, that’s what Daddy always said. That’s all mythology though, because I honestly tried. Can’t respect a guy that calls you buddyroo, and that’s a damn fact. But you know what? He doesn’t tell me to think for myself. Just looks at me kind of funny and laughs to himself.

See? That’s what I’m talking about. If was talking to you maybe around Christmastime, I wouldn’t have said a word about some guy calling me buddyroo and giggling to himself. Wouldn’t have noticed it at all. But it’s different now, and I can explain it if you give me a second. You know, that’s why I can’t write essays for English. Never could, and it’s gotten worse lately. Never can get straight to the point, old Mr. Richards used to laugh at me. He’d give me an essay about global warming and I’d have to explain the reason why China isn’t quite the full-blooded communist everyone claims them to be before I could even talk about anything really.

Makes it even worse lately, everyone stares at me when I write. Like they know I’m going off on a tangent, so they stare at me while I fidget in my seat. Then when I look at them, they look away down at their paper. Quick as a fox, those kids. I swear to God, some of them are psychic. Gets me distracted pretty bad sometimes, trying to catch them staring at me. I know if I can catch just one in the act, then they’ll all stop and I can go on writing my essay, off-topic and all. “Off-topic is better than nothing at all,” good old Mr. Richards said to me after I turned in the last essay with only three lines; they kept staring, I couldn’t concentrate.

“They watch me, sir,” I told him straight, I mean he’s suppose to be the teacher and make sure everyone’s taking the test, right? Surely when he watched us, he must have noticed something.

“Don’t blame others for your own mistakes.” I hated how he always had to offer advice. You couldn’t ask a question, give a statement, doodle a goddamn picture in his class without getting some advice in reply. I swear it. Seriously, that quiet kid James Franco asked him what the date was and the teacher had to say, “If you don’t know the time, how can you manage your life?”

He could just said, “October 10th, and it’s a Wednesday.” No, no— had to give advice. I mean we’re students; we need to learn everything, right? God, I don’t miss talking to that old man. I think I’d punch him too, but at least he never called me buddy boy or anything. But to be honest, I don’t know if what he did was worse.

That’s why I don’t go to church anyways. A stranger preaching me a sermon— don’t lie, you know that sermon is just a fancy word for advice. I don’t even know the guy, and he’s telling me what I’m doing wrong and that I need to fix myself. Bunch of bull, if you ask me. But then I heard something that made me a little interested. Somebody told me people weren’t the one’s I was noticing looking, it was God. I told them God didn’t care enough to watch my sorry self. Couldn’t help but wonder, though, if maybe the big man upstairs was paying attention from time to time. Spent hours one afternoon imagining it, God coming down to talk to me: “Hey, what’s up? How’s life?”

Only I don’t think God would ask me what’s up. But I know he wouldn’t call me buddy, that’s for sure. Because we weren’t buddies. I didn’t go to church. Couldn’t stand sitting in their with a bunch of people trying to be sorry for something. I never could find anything to be sorry about. And come to think of it, God wouldn’t talk in contractions. Something about the whole shin dig of I-created-thou tells me that he’d pronounce it all: “How is life?” Maybe that’s what separates Him from us— he sounds out his contractions.

Told a kid he was mistake today, said it on my way to church. Hey, call bad guy— hell, you can even call me one heartless piece of crap and I wouldn’t mind. Just don’t call me a bad kiddo or something like that. That’s what you tell to the kid who steals a yoyo from his best friend in kindergarten because he doesn’t know any better. Nah, can’t call me that; you should’ve seen this kids face when I told him. Asked me what I meant, and when I explained that I bet he was an unplanned regret, he looked like he was going to cry. Told him to toughen up some, that’s what I did.

He punched me in my face. Damn near broke my jaw that kid did. When I was cursing him out and spitting up blood, he just walked away. Stupid kids nowadays can’t take a joke. I caught my reflection in a puddle of water right before I ducked into the chapel. Bloody mess of things, he really got me good.

“Bloody, right he did.” God, that’s what a Brit probably would have said had I told him the story. Bloody this, bloody that. I guess after Jack the Ripper, everything seemed bloody to them. I don’t know what the big deal was about old Jackie boy— I bet the untold side of the story is that some hooker probably called him buddyroo and giggled to themselves, and that’s why he went nuts. Sounds logical to me.

But anyways, I got into the chapel and immediately some nuns noticed my, uh, state-of-affairs, and made a big deal. They wanted to help— strangers and all! Guess that’s what makes nuns what they are, fussing over strangers to help them out. Kept asking me all these dumb questions, things like: “What’s your name?” “Where do you live?” “Do you have a dinner to go home to?”

Makes me sick to my stomach. What in the hell does where I live and whether or not I got some dinner waiting there for me have to do with blood running down my mouth? What did it have to do with sopping a warm, wet rag to my aching jaw? Nuns, what a bunch of fakes. Remember what I was telling about, how people just want things to look okay? They didn’t really care whether I was hurting or not, or if my jaw was as broken as it felt— they just wanted to make sure I went home and didn’t die out in the middle of the church doorsteps.

“You’re very welcome.” Can you believe they said that? Now don’t get me wrong, despite all their fakeness, I was going to say thank you; you can’t be rude to a nun, that’s like bad karma or something. Maybe it’s in the Ten Commandments or the Constitution, but I know I’ve read somewhere that being rude to nuns is only bad luck. But they said it before I said thanks. Can you imagine? Pretty presumptuous if you ask me; what if I had been one of them rougher boys and was going to spit in their face after they were through? Not that I am, but still. You can’t be fake and presumptuous. That’s in the Bill of Rights, I know that much. And if it isn’t, then it damn well should be.

My jaw wasn’t broken by the way, but I’m pretty sure you don’t care. Still hurt though, hurt like nothing else— that’s a fact I bet you savor. See, my theory is that people like to see people get hurt. Nah, not in that whole “you’re a failure and a wuss, but I’m so great” complex, just it gives them a chance to do something nice. You know, like pay a compliment they don’t mean while they try to smile. God, I know I’ve done it a couple times. Nothing like watching a kid down on his luck and then stopping by and saying something inspirational like: “Hey there buddyroo, don’t worry. Things will get better. Just when it’s the worst, things will get better!”

For the record, I think that’s the day I decided I would murder the next guy that I see saying something like that. Some mornings, I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror, knowing I did stuff like that. I mean, c’mon. Can you rub it in his face anymore? Imagine yourself hungry, pretty thirsty, and cold out on the sidewalk— and then some well-dressed guy, sipping some hot coffee, coming over and trying to smile, saying some bull about life getting better. Getting all close and personal about it too. I tell you what, if it ever happened to me, I’d look both ways and pull that jerk into an alley and fix my life with his jacket and wallet.

Fact is, the real thing you should do is toss the poor kid a sandwich and then ignore him. Believe me, he’ll be more grateful for you silence than the sandwich. Nothing a poor guy needs more than some sage advice. He already knows he messed up, and given their circumstances, I’m almost positive they’ll remember with a certain painful clarity where they screwed themselves over and are already shrewdly planning how not to make the same mistake again. People take people for granted; we’re so convinced that everyone else is stupid.

So yeah, I’m sure you’ll understand all about yesterday morning. I mean you get it, right? When the big yellow bus is spitting out kids on the front lawn of the school and the colors are just kind of swimming around, I’ll admit I get kind of dizzy. Wasn’t quite myself. And I don’t need to be reminded that my clothes aren’t the most fashionable thing on the block. But he had to say something, the stupid janitor. I’ve been going to that damn school for nearly four years and he tries to run me off the campus. “Hey there buddyroo, maybe you had a sip too many. Try and hold yourself together, but you got to clear out of here. School’s starting and these kids got to learn their lessons. I’ll ask this once nicely, buddy boy, but if you don’t leave I’m going to call the cops. Try and make something of yourself, today is a new day.” He even tried to smile.

I’m not crazy, Officer Leeway. I’m really not. But as he said these words I could see right through him. Like he was finally as hollow as he sounded. Hold it Doc, don’t need the meds yet: let me finish my story. I was scared sir, I really was. But I’ve got to admit, I was a little curious. The brick was a bit excessive, but I swear to God it was my greatest surprise when he bled like the rest of us. I was confident that he was empty inside, like everyone else like him. I still don’t really understand… you see, he wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real. Hollow men don’t really exist, do they? But I wonder now, maybe he was one of them I was noticing. Oh, I see that look on your face… on both your faces. I’m crazy, huh? Dangerous? You don’t understand. you just didn’t notice these things.

And to be honest, send me away. They’ll call you a dozen nasty things in prison, but they won’t call me no goddamn buddyroo. You called me paranoid, Doc, hell even schizophrenic. But your words are hollow, and I can see right through you.


Cover Art, the Impossible Introduction, and the People that Come and Go. Wednesday, Mar 25 2009 

There’s music in the sighing of a reed;
There’s music in the gushing of a rill;
There’s music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
~Lord Byron

Its New Orleans in the Spring, and I’m spend hours sitting trying to write an introduction that was suppose to be easy, but is far from being the two hour job I had initially thought it to be.

When every word is to be picked carefully, how are you suppose to introduce a short story collection? I’ve scoured the university library for research– wait, I’m listening to Pandora Radio and Aqualung just came on (He isn’t African American?!) I always thought he was a black jazz artist or something– back from the detour, I’m struggling. If anyone wants to suggest some thoughts, feel free to leave a comment.

Please leave feedback! I’m seeing people visit the site (over fifty hits on the first blog) but not a single comment! Its not hard, and pretty easy. No registration required, just put in a name.

My Cover Art/Photo contest is coming to a close, but there is still time to submit! Please email me a picture that embodies the poem: The Wraith of Lilies (The only poem being included in my book, currently set to the first entry!) I’ll post it at the bottom of this blog once more.

Finally, the album The People that Come and Go by MYNAMEISJOHNMICHAEL (Not to be confused with John or Michael) is being released on Saturday here in New Orleans. These are a great core of guys who have an amazing story– Musicians that embraced a project to produce 52 songs in 2008, one per week– finally compiled the best they had to offer in a CD. Check out their daily updated blog:

If you’re in a New Orleans on March 28th, to be a no-show here would mean you’re missing out on the very beat that keeps the shared heart of New Orleans beating. Between MNIJM and the Leo DeJesus, the Lion of New Orleans, I’ve never been more inspired by live music. If you’re unfortunate to be out of town– let me know! I’ll be sure to attend, and grab you CD. Just leave me an address in the comment box.




 The Wraith of Lilies

On steps of stone,
These thoughts I garnered
Left me quiet, wishing well.
The garden bloomed—
Jealous metaphor;
Into flowered tide, I sail.
But as I pricked
My thumb— oh, crowned rose!
I met the Wraith of Lilies.

Conviction spoke
In her painted eyes;
With hushed tones and such, she warned:
“Boy of youth, do listen close!
Beware the thorn
Of the rash red beauty.
We chase stars that should be ours,
And wake to leave the Lilies.
The purple petals,”
Softly pursed her lips,
“Play beneath the pause of Sun—
Yet plead for your attention.

The love-thorn bush,
You lie sprawled beneath,
With care you trace soft petals;
Pretense with Love,
A gift is false! The
Color hued with broken hearts;
The shade of
Adored strawberry fruit
We love— only in season.”

The Wraith’s sad smile,
Those defeated eyes;
I dropped the rose, wandered on
The garden seemed much larger
Now, to this day,
Still I pass the rose—
And I always watch the lilies.
Lesson learned; when I find Her,
We’ll play beneath
The day’s pause of Sun.
“Just as well,” the Wraith would grin,
“Hand her a Chrysanthemum.”

Getting the Message Out. Wednesday, Mar 11 2009 

I play a musical instrument a little, but only for my own amazement.”
~Fred Allen

Most of you know by now that The Pocketbook: Coloring the Gray, a short story collection that I’ve written, is currently in the works of being published and should be available to the public by late summer 2009. The most important thing right now, in regards to the book, is getting the message out. Spreading the word, through any means possible about the book and what it means.

But honestly, what does it mean?  The_Ferris_Wheel

Is it the theme of the stories, or perhaps the answer to the most undesirable question in the world: “What is your book about?” Is the message what this book means to me, or what it means to the reader? Am I suppose to explain how writing sometimes makes me feel like I was once more looking up through the labyrinth of metal of a Ferris wheel, or about those moments when it renders me silent, a rarity appreciated by those who personally know me.

The point is, its only a book. If you know me, its a book your friend wrote. If you don’t know me, then its just a book by some guy who did everything you did:

Writing away in the back of notebooks instead of taking notes— muttering half thought lines and settings to quietly aloud while walking alone, creating and destroying heroes and those exceptional flawed characters with the stroke of a pen. Putting your imagination out there for everyone to read and critique. Telling stories to your friends you said you had read but secretly had conceived and written yourself; the shiver of a thrill you get when they approve, and the painfully perfect blows to the stomach when they don’t.

The point is… I’m just like you. And with me writing this book, you’re not reading from an author that’s going to be famous, from an author that’s going to change lives. You won’t ever have to analyze these stories for an essay, and you can think what you will of them because there is no Sparknotes reviewer available to to tell you what to think.

You’re reading from the writer within yourself whether your twelve, eighteen, twenty-six, or sixty— because every word I wrote is a word I share; words that we share as we live our lives so similar. Every emotion I feel, every person I draw inspiration from— it is without a doubt that you’ve felt it before, or met someone similar.

And that’s the first message, the main message, I guess I want to put out.

We’re not so different you and I, the reader and the writer.