Vagina Monologue

It all comes back to you, I tell the Great Vagina in the sky. How it’s gotta be. I write, but if I’m not writing about you then nobody clicks. No clicks means no reads means I’ll be sucking dick for Ramen money in five years. And I’m probably going to suck at sucking dick because I have no practice, wouldn’t even make the JV team. So from now on everything discussed here on will separated from you, Oh Great Symbolic Vagina, by not more than one degree. Good thing my life is already set up that way.

So. Here’s my day, as a vag-centric montage:

Morning, it’s spring, blink awake with Terminator vision. A digital red clock on the lower right counts up: time elapsed since last penetration, last validation. Sober Fred has been laid about twice ever but, Good Lord, Bar Fred is on a tear. Still, the birds on the wire outside twitter an exhortation: fuck fuck fuck. It’s spring, that’s what this season is for, the Korean women on the sidewalk can’t manage to keep their skirts down when they encounter even the lightest of breezes and so their hot clouds of pheromones will flood the air, turn you into a dog with your tongue lolling sideways out of your jaw… basically, why are you not fucking right now, you unfuckable fuck.

Cut to lunch. You’re single, enjoy your time, the other teachers implore me. They have kids, and they appear perpetually stunned by this fact. Unfocused, drained eyes, they always seem as if they just walked out of a car wreck. Eighteen full years of having always just walked out of a car wreck.


Cut to right now, gotta write something. Post something to harass the Internet with. That girl from Friday didn’t text me back. But maybe she’ll find this blog like the others have done and think: well, he can write a little bit. Or probably not, actually–I’m talking about skybound vulva here.

Goddamn you, Anna. I thought it was spring. Let’s do this. Last chance before I’m famous. Actually… scratch that. You’ve probably got plenty of time.


I’m Back

Partially. Monday is my day over at Conceited Crusade and I just put up a new piece. An observation from today, when a gay man in Korea came into my cafe and caused something of a ruckus, as the old folk say, since homosexuality is pretty taboo over on this side.

This Gay Korean Man Walked Into A Cafe and You’ll Never BELIEVE What Happens Next

Anyway–I’ve missed you all, people of the Internet. But the time off from running this blog has been productive. Got a bunch of scenes for the new novella written and I’m sorting out the publication process for my first novel.

I’ll be back here on Wednesday with some new stuff.

Colton, out.

72 Hours in Goa

If you read one thing today, make it this. Truly hilarious travelogue of a banker’s trip to Goa, India. From the other group blog I write for, Sweet Pickles and Corn.


 by Mordecai Feldman

  Editor’s note:  My cousin, Mordecai “Morty” Feldman, occasionally writes articles for the Travel section of the New York Times. Last winter, Sweet Pickles & Corn’s Eli Toast and I joined him and his wife for a trip to Goa, India. He sent me the following story, which will soon be published in the Sunday magazine supplement, pending a few revisions and editorial streamlining. In exchange for me and Eli keeping quiet about a few indiscreet moments of the trip, he agreed to let the readership of SP&C have the first look at his dispatch. You’ll note that Eli and I do not appear in his article. This is not because we asked to be left out, it’s because Morty told us that he didn’t like us very much.

–Steve K. Feldman



Good old Goa!  Good-as-gold Goa: the golden jewel of the Indian Ocean coast…

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To the sixteen people who care: I need to take a fast time-out from the blog slog for a week or so. Need to put in some steady work on the new manuscript I’ve been writing. This is because all the pieces I pretend like I just shoot off in 20 minutes while sitting in my cafe actually consume an embarrassing amount of time to write and edit.

In the meantime, here are my favorite pieces from 2015 so far:


#TBT: Land of 5,000 Virgins

 Snapshot: The Korean Workplace


Letter to My 17 Year-Old Self

Now Write a Blog Post

America: First Observations

Expensive Lunch Among Rich People

Of course I’ll still be keeping up my hype man duties by re-blogging some great stuff from the Conceited Crusade blog, which will keep rolling along as scheduled. The other writers on that site have really been crushing it, so give them a follow and check out their personal blogs for more.

Expect more hackneyed bullshit from your boy Fred to start running in this space during the middle of next week.

Colton, out.

Ninety Percent of This Generation Made A Sex Tape

A good laugh to start your morning. Thank Underdaddy for this one.

Conceited Crusade

Anyone from the mid-eighties until the late nineties is a suspect in this investigation. I have found that large parts of everyone’s sex tapes are for sale online. Mine was. We all did it, nothing to be ashamed of.

It is only natural and I think it should come back around.

Since the media arts were discovered people have had a desire to co-opt the mysterious powers to make suggestive media. Starting with burnt sticks and smashed berries they painted scenes in caves. Mostly related to sex and drugs and stick figures on walls, some of the art included the cave address of ex-cave-ladies and candid descriptions of the lewd acts she would perform for a meal. The link between sexual tension and artful expression was formed. The renaissance brought elegance to art and successfully worked in boobs and nakedness. But the world needed a soundtrack to be inspired.


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New Post: 2015 Commencement Speech

I’m up today on Conceited Crusade and I wrote this:

2015 Commencement Speech

It’s a transcription of a speech that I would give to college graduates this commencement season if I be invited/compelled to address them. Quick painless read. Vodka-soaked tampons get a mention and if that doesn’t sell you then nothing will. Go on and dig it.

Bye for now.



Still Got It

She was born in 1994 so in the morning I was doing that pedophile math. She was ten years old on my first day of college, that sort of thing. Because you’re a man you think: that’s hot. You can’t not do it. Thoughts that aren’t crimes yet but will be in a decade. And then you think: am I already that old crinkle-faced fuck who gets it from the young ones. In my case, it’s only because they mistake my odder traits for some sort of charismatic mystique. But then after all that you think: yes, I’m aging but hey, I’ve still got it.

Now I am Dracula feeding off the flesh of young maidens. I think I can keep it going. Gonna have to play up the writing angle more in the future. When writing has become a lost art form, like making chariot wheels or constructing a ship in a bottle. I imagine I’ll get plenty of attention. People will come up and wonder how it’s done. Tell us, oh master, how the black marks get on the white page.

I fully intend on being a cliché. I’ll be a bachelor creative writing professor who bought a Porsche and a wine rack instead of siring kids. Of course I will always want kids and men with kids will want what I have, because contentment is something that exists for only about ten minutes at a time. It would be asking too much for it to last.

Anyway. In 2015 pillow talk is both of you looking at your smartphones and murmuring comments to break up any silent stretches. She was reading BBC. I said: look, here’s my boy Tom Brady, let me tell you about #Deflategate. She’s half-French and half-Congolese so I could actually tell her something she didn’t know. To her, a white American male is exotic. I actually have an accent, like the people in movies. Hers is more French than African. I could listen to French women read a shopping list. During the requisite Life Story swap I acquit myself well. Lots of practice. This thing has been sanded and polished and winnowed down to a ninety-second legend. I hear myself talk and think: I want to meet this guy. Well, good. After this many days alive I’d better have four or five interesting things to say by now.

She went back to her dorm. Dorm, goddamn. She has a concert to go to later. Psy will be on, because this is Korea and of course he will. And I bought groceries and read a book and took a nap. Old guy things. Hide your daughters.

Luring Life Forward

One of the many great posts up on Conceited Crusade this week.

Conceited Crusade

Life. A farce. A deceptive dance where pioneer members of society steadily lure the youth into successive phases of life that are shittier than the last. Example, Buddy gets married and urges you to do the same. Now substitute married for any major life altering status.

Imagine a world where canaries used in coal mines evolve a confusing trait; Instead of simply dying in the presence of toxic gases, these asshole canaries speak perfect English and say things like, “Holy Shit Guys! You have to get down here!” Then, they live long enough to stare at you while you lower yourself into the deadly trap. All the while shaking their feathered heads and staring at you with cold dead eyes that see life but cannot partake. This is life.

Don’t believe me? Think back to what people tell anyone on the verge of a social next-step:

Leaving Pre-school – “Oh…

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My Mother Just Liked Conceited Crusade on Facebook

And so should you.

But I think she just liked it because she saw that I did. I don’t think she actually clicked (though you should), because she’s be on the phone gushing over it right now, and I don’t think she reads, where I write stuff like this, otherwise, man I would’ve heard about it by now. Probably for the best. Heart attacks, especially right right after Mother’s Day, are to be avoided.

OK. Obligatory daily post fulfilled, conscience eased. Gonna sleep. Happy Friday.

Launch Dates

Time to pull the trigger. Announce some dates and put myself under the gun. I’m putting out my first novel on Tuesday, July 21st.

What It’s Called:

The Colony

What It’s About:

In twenty-five years the US will have a colony on the moon. Not far from China’s, actually. The American colony suffers a massive bombing during its grand opening gala and the government is quickly convinced that a young Air Force pilot is the culprit. A platoon of Marines pursues him across the lunar surface–but that’s just one problem. The other is that he only has an hour of oxygen in his suit.

The book has been done for a while. I wrote it in China when I was 23 and I’d read all the English books in the library. It’s been re-written a few thousand times since then and I can tell you it’s pretty damn fun. I wanted to write the most badass, cinematic mystery-thriller I could and I think I pulled it off.

But you know how it goes: first accomplishment and then trepidation. Now I’ve got performance anxiety. The prospect of releasing it horrifies me. But hey, if there’s anything Present Fred does incredibly well, it’s give Future Fred the high pressure of a deadline. Time to figure out the mechanics of a successful release and get this thing launched.

So, see you July 21st.

Then, exactly a month later, I’ll put out another one.

What It’s Called:


What It Is:

Something different. It’s a novella and I’m cranking through the manuscript now. My current baby. This one is about the background characters who suffer through the climactic set-pieces in action movies, those goddamn melees that happen five or six times a summer. It’s about those people on the sidelines who have their Jeep pancaked by a robot and or take a missile through the window of their café. Insurance does not cover these things. Sure, these civilians survive, but many of them start to wish they hadn’t. It’s about who fate calls to be heroes and whether everyone else is locked into their cameo roles in the Great Plot or not. Above all, the story is a confession, and I’m having fun with it. There’s a lot of action (of course) so far and it’s gonna be twisty.

So, see you August 21st. Should be a good summer.

Now: back to work.

Negative Role Model

G.Z. wins post of the week over at Conceited Crusade with this one, I think.

Conceited Crusade

Sunday morning at the gym. Eminem is screaming in my ear but I’m still not entirely awake. The only people here are young men who look like Leonidas and old women who look like Gandalf. I take a seat at an empty bench after I grab my weights and stare at my reflection. The gym is the only place where it’s socially acceptable to look at yourself. I compare my lacking chest and round tummy and linger on my arms where stretches of muscle are visible. I look myself in the eyes a little too intensely and, honestly, if I wasn’t me I’d probably think I’d want to fuck me. Narcissistic teenage girls don’t look at themselves this long. Finally, I inhale, and up go the weights. After eight reps, the weights come back down and I review my reflection. Getting swole, I think they call it. I’d be swole…

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People of the Internet:

We’re one whole damn week into the grand collaborative blog experiment known to (a small sliver of) the masses as Conceited Crusade.

I just threw up my new piece on the site. It’s about North Korean missile launches, God and the Devil, demons and typhoons, and the hellish drudgery of the workday. Go on now, give it a skim:

Meanwhile, In South Korea

The other writers I’m riding with know what they’re doing and they’re giving me a run for my money. They’ve all got my stamp, so I hope you click through the site and dig their stuff too.

I’ve gotten a lot of emails from other people wanting to join up and I’m glad and honored that you all reached out. Just wanted to let you know that for the next few weeks we’re going to keep our rotation as it is, just to keep things from getting too top heavy at the start here. Get a good vibe established and keep growing this thing and gaining some traction, and then we’ll start seeing if we can work some new people in. There’s a lot of talented scribblers out there and we’d love to have you on board at some point.

That’s it for now. Happy Monday. Hope you’re having a smashing day at work. Hope your Mother’s Day photo post yesterday on Facebook got a lot of likes.


Nightlife Chronicles Volume 638

Last night I met a club owner from London who lifts his pinky when he drinks beer and has a personal driver. If that sentence didn’t make you angry then perhaps nothing will. He told me what he pays this personal driver per month and it’s more than my salary. So right from the jump I was like: fuck this guy. Then I talked to a guy from Florida who is a session drummer and has been in K-POP music videos. Right on, something a little different. But not that I gave a shit. He could have been the first man on Mars or a time traveler from the future and I would have found it hard to care since he lacks a vagina. Men are horrifying creatures.

So, you’re out and all you’re thinking is: where are the girls, I need to stand by the girls. You plot your positioning like the venue is a giant RISK map. You want to casually post up in a high-traffic vortex zone where the ladies have to pass by on their way to the bar or the bathroom. It works, but then you end up standing next to sixteen other jackasses, other pussy pirates who are running the same play and who you have to shout disinterested conversation at because you want to seem like a man about town who knows everybody.

And Lord knows these two guys were thinking: fuck this tall guy and the fact that he exists. Walking around in a suit because he knows girls come up to ask him why he’s wearing a suit.

Well no one is stopping you from doing the same, good sir. And anyway, after the brutal stretch of another exhausting week, what else are you gonna do except spend two exhausting nights out on the scene indulging in your darker appetites. If you stay celibate too long all the pressure builds up and you go shoot up a school; I’m doing the right thing here.

One of these days I’ll wake up late on the weekends and eat pancakes with a nice woman. Read a book and watch a movie with a beer while spooning. Carbs on the couch. My hand up her shirt and she’s not wearing a bra. Sounds sublime. Anyway, time to go out.


Fuck, I have to get out. There are no foreigners in this Korean neighborhood so I don’t talk to anybody. So, who wants to get a beer. When and where…eh, you know what, let’s not even do the logistics charade. I’ll bail on you unless you are a female with whom I have not yet had sexual congress. I just want you to want me to come out.

I’ve been on lockdown, writing in the villa. It’s like being in the hatch from LOST. And now I’m growing a beard. I catch my reflection and think: what is this guy’s story. I see a contract killer who did bad things for the right reasons a long time ago in another hemisphere and fled to the edge of the map. Forever in wait for that one day when you ID the white guy in aviators parked up the block, watching you buy melons. Feeling the hot flare in your nerves as your right hand moves to your waistband. They should have left you alone.

I have to get out. But on the other hand it’s nice to be in a place where you don’t speak the language. You don’t need to have a trite take on the royal baby or whateverthefuck. Or: maybe it’s not very nice. People have stopped looking at the tall foreigner because they’ve gotten used to me. Hey, townsfolk, what the fuck. Why don’t you bother me anymore. I mean, it’s not like we were going to talk. I just want you to want to talk to me.

New Blog: Conceited Crusade

The world needs more blogs, so we made a new blog. Last week I put out an all points bulletin for writers and got a quality little crew pulled together. Now we’re getting to work.

Here is the new site, read the first two posts and give them some love. If you click right now someday you can say you were there at the start. You’ll say this at a cocktail party in five years and people will turn toward you with great interest in their eyes. It’s like saying you were on Facebook in February 2004

So it begins. We’ll be running new pieces for you every day. Give us a follow and tell all your friends, in case karma exists and you want good things to happen to you in the future.

New Look

I switched it up and grew out my beard this week as a show of testosterone. As proof that I carry the soul of a Viking marauder within me. I want my students to wilt before me as their instincts warn them that I can and most likely will rip their spines out through their throats. I want for sparks to shoot between the labia lips of women observing this secondary sex characteristic. For tingles to reach all the way up to the uterus in anticipation of my Goliath sperm. This is what I want but when I went out today it was clear the look had backfired and that beards have been hijacked in the modern era. The only people who have noticed are telling me I look like I lost a bet, or like I’m a hipster, or like I’m already 30.