Kick Lannigan TV show "looking for men"

More opportunities to be an extra in the Kick Lannigan TV show (AKA: Gone), based on my book, ONE KICK. They are filming 12 episodes in the Pittsburgh area, from now through September.

Side note: I assume the casting agents are looking for "a bunch of men" to play FBI/COPS because they have already cast "a bunch of women" FBI/COPS.  *knocks head against desk*    


Anyway, here's this - copying below:


We are going to start booking the next block of GONE next week! 

We are going to need a bunch of men to portray FBI/COPS ages late 20's - early 50's from now to September!( If you came to the casting call, we definitely will be contacting you soon!) 


Here is what we are after for FBI/COP Types for men! 
All ethnicities 
Late 20's- early 50's
Looking for men in good physical shape! 

Please email [email protected] 

Please include Name, Age, Height, Weight, Wardrobe Sizes, Current Photo and Availability now through September! 

Look forward to hearing from you!

Casting Extras for Kick Lannigan TV show

ONE KICK fans: the TV show (GONE) is in production in the Pittsburgh area.  Lots of opportunities to work as extras. Including this one.  If you've read the book you'll know that this photograph is a really important prop. I love the idea that someone out there gets to be Bishop's mom.  I'm posting this on 5/11.  If you're reading it too many days after that, well... I'll try to remember to post casting opps as I see them.  


We are looking to create a Family of 3 for a family still photograph from character "BISHOP"s childhood.

MOTHER- Can be Hispanic/Italian/Greek (roughly ages 30-50's) 

FATHER- Can be Hispanic/Italian/Greek (roughly ages 30-50's)

BOY- Can be Hispanic/Italian/Greek (roughly ages 6-12) 

We will create the family out of the options. If selected you would need to be available next week for the photo shoot. 

Please email [email protected] 
Please include your name, height, weight, age, number and current photo. Please write which you are submitting for in the subject line. 

We will contact you with further details! 

*we did email everyone from the casting call who we felt fit what we were looking for this specifically but if you feel like we missed you go ahead and send us something!* 


TV show based on "One Kick" is in production

The television show based on my novel, "One Kick," is in production in Pittsburgh.  True story.  They are building sets.  Actors are in fight training. (That's when my husband said he knew it was real - when actors started working out.)  They are filming twelve episodes.  The show - called GONE - stars Chris Noth as Frank, Leven Rambin as Kick, and Danny Pino as Bishop.  You can learn more here:  You guys have been so patient waiting for the next Kick book.  I hope you enjoy the show!  I'll keep you posted about where and when to watch.   

What scares me?

Here are some of the ways I’ve murdered people.  I’ve burned people alive.  I’ve drowned them.  I’ve poisoned them with the venom of a blue ringed octopus.  I’ve filleted, hatcheted, sliced, diced, and shot people.  One time, I even blew up a priest.  

I write about bondage, pedophilia, child abduction, cults, drug dealers, torture, ghost cowboys, and politics. 

I am not easily scared. 

I can research the forensic details associated with the remains of a child buried alive in a warm humid environment, and dug up three weeks later, as opposed to a child buried in frozen ground and found after a few days.  I can read criminology interviews with mass killers.  I can watch an autopsy of a 19 year old suicide victim.

I am okay with clowns, corn mazes, chain saws, twins, and life-like dolls.  

You know what scares me?


They scare the shit out of me.  Snakes and butter.  The butter thing is a story for another day.

I know it’s silly.  I’m embarrassed. I want to be one of those cool chicks who walk around with a python casually draped over their shoulders, like, hey, this is my snake Edie Sedgwick…instead I am the idiot standing on the chair screaming.  

I do not like this about myself. 

I even had a snake tattooed on my arm as a way of claiming my fear.  That didn’t work by the way.  It was total bullshit. I am still afraid of snakes.  And now I have a tattoo that scares me.


Many people have offered to cure me of my fear, mostly by offering to wrap large snakes around my neck, which is like offering to cure someone’s fear of serial killers by raping them and burying them in a shallow grave.  


But because I had agreed to do this event tonight, I had promised to do something that scared me so I could stand up here and tell you all a story about it.  So I thought it might be worth exploring the possibility of having some kind of controlled snake encounter.


I emailed a friend who works at the zoo.

To my abject horror she wrote back and said that she could set me up.  Not through the zoo, but through a former zoo teen snake enthusiast named Cody, who now works for Pets on Broadway.


I had a lot of mixed emotions about that. 


But I got in touch with Cody and set up a time to come meet with him.  And the snakes.

Yesterday.  2 PM.  


I spent the morning researching snake phobia.  Sidebar: snake phobia articles are all accompanied by terrifying images of snakes.   

A few hours into my research, my page of notes consisted of one sentence.


At 1 pm, I took a Xanax.

At 2 pm, I pulled up in front of Pets on Broadway.

Before I got out of the car, I reapplied my lipstick.  So I’d look nice when I was admitted to the hospital after my panic attack. 


Cody is young.  Like twenty, maybe.  Or twenty-five.  Young enough that he’s kind of annoyingly competent and mature.  The day I met him he was wearing a hoodie, jeans, sneakers, glasses, and a digital watch.  He has a tattoo of a lizard on his arm, and he carries a Batman keychain. 


Cody loves snakes.  

But he’s used to dealing with people who suffer various stages of discomfort around snakes, and he’s as calm and patient as a psyche ward shrink.   


He walked me over to “meet” the snakes.  


There were maybe six aquariums, with a snake in each one.  Snakes like to live alone.  It’s one of their things.  One of the snakes, a ball python - lifted its head and stared at me. 


“Um, can snakes smell fear?” I asked Cody.


Cody didn’t think so, plus he said, they have really bad eyesight.  “He’s just exploring,” Cody said.  He wasn’t exploring.  He was staring.  Like full-on John Hinkley death stare.


Cody uses words like “adorable” when talking about snakes, as in, “Ball pythons are adorable.”  He also says stuff like, “I know one snake who…”


Does anyone ever really know a snake?


Snakes all have unique patterns, he says, “like zebras, and snowflakes.”  


“Do you want to touch it?” he asked.

He was talking about a white ball python in one of the middle aquariums.  He had a triangular shaped head - the snake, not Cody - Cody’s head it normally shaped —  and was maybe eight inches long.  He would grow up, Cody told me, to be 3 or 4 feet, and probably live 30 years.  

I did not want to touch it.  

“Can you pick it up?” I asked Cody.

“Sure,” he said.  Cody is a go-along-with-it kind of guy.  He opened the aquarium lid, dipped his hand in, and lifted out the snake.  


It didn’t have a name.  Cody says they don’t name any of the snakes because they’d  “get to attached to them”  but I will call this snake Frieda Kahlo. 


Frieda Kahlo wrapped herself around Cody’s hands.  She was always on the move, adjusting, — snaking — using Cody’s hands as tree branches.  


Snakes don’t like being held, Cody says, but some of them tolerate it. 


There was a sign on Frieda Kahlo’s tank that read FUN FACT:  THESE SNAKES CAN ONLY FIND PRAY IN COMPLETE DARKNESS.


That’s when the lights went out.


I swear to God.  The lights went out in the store.


“They’re just testing the electrical system,” Cody assured me.


The lights came back on.


He held out his handful of creepy crawly.  “Do you want to hold her?” he asked.  


I haven’t always been afraid of snakes.  When I was five and my cousin Jessica was six, we went hunting for rattle snakes in the desert outside my grandparents house in San Antonio. I had recently read Trixie Beldon #1, in which Trixie saves her younger brother from a snake bite by slicing the bite open and then sucking out the venom. I was eager to try it out.  I didn’t want my cousin Jessica to die.  I just wanted her to be bitten, so that I could practice.  I remember being disappointed when our snake hunt came up empty. 


My snake phobia manifested a few years later, in Key West.  It was 1979.   


I was home alone.  Cleaning.  I remember that because I was wearing a red bandana around my head, because i thought it made for a good vacuuming outfit.  I was seven.  My step-brother, Alan, was ten.  He been out riding his bike with a friend.  This was back when Alan and I both had the same shoulder-length blond hair. 


You’ll notice there aren't many parents in this story - again, it was 1979.  


The doorbell rang. 


My dad’s apartment was on the second floor of an old conch house in Old Town, across the street from a cemetery.  


I went downstairs and answered the door.  And there’s Alan, with this big shit eating grin, and he’s holding a black snake out in front of him, with both hands, and in my memory this snake is the size of a bicycle tire — like 4 feet long — it may only have been 2 or 3 feet —  but it was a big snake.  I backed up the stairs as quickly as I could.  Alan and his buddy hurried up after me, with the snake.  


Alan wanted to keep the snake.  He cited Finders Keepers.  Which is, of course, a landmark case, establishing precedence. 


The problem was Alan didn’t have anywhere to put the snake.  And at some point in the process of waving it in my face, and handing it to and from his friend, it got away.


In the apartment.  


I remember standing up on the couch as it slithered across the living room.  

Snakes are hard to catch.

They are good at hiding.  


When my dad and step-mother got home, Alan had to explain what happened.

He had lost a snake. In our house. 


That night, at dinner, I saw the snake slither out from under the couch and race toward the kitchen.


This is how it went.  For weeks.  The Summer of the Snake. We might go days without seeing him, and then, there he'd be sidling up against a baseboard.  When friends came over, I had to explain that they might see a giant black snake, and that we were pretty sure it wasn’t venomous.  More than one playdate ended with us all on chairs screaming.  

By the time Alan managed to catch the snake, it had been around so long that the powers that be decided he could keep it.  In an aquarium.  On the balcony.  Next to the hammock I spent a lot of time in reading Nancy Drew books.  

The snake ate live mice.  

Sometimes the mice stayed alive in there for days, all trembling ear and twitching noses.  Their pleading little eyes saying, HELP ME.


“Do you want to hold it?” 


Cody lowered Frieda Kahlo onto my fingers, and she wrapped herself around my hand.  She was all muscle, I could feel every part of her as she wound around my fingers and arm. 


My hand was shaking.  Snakes can’t smell fear, but they can sense stress. Frieda Kahlo wasn’t that into me.  I held her for about four minutes - not that I was counting.  Long enough for Cody to take some pictures on my phone.


Then Cody lowered her back into her home.  


Later he got out a blood python.  This was a horrible looking snake.  With grotesque vomit colored spots.


“Isn’t he beautiful?” Cody asked.


“I don’t want to hold him,” I said quickly.


Cody had him in his hands.  The blood python was longer and thicker than the ball python.  As thick as an engorged cock.  Cody held him as we talked, which is like trying to talk to someone holding a chainsaw.  It makes it hard to concentrate.


The python struck.  Right from Cody’s hands.  It lunged forward, fangs bared.  


I jumped three feet, let out a little shriek, and scrambled backward.


Cody quickly wrestled the snake back into his tank.  Cody wasn’t sure why the snake had struck like that.  He thought maybe he’d been startled by a shadow.  


My heart was in my throat.  


I managed to finish talking to Cody.  I said goodbye.  When I was leaving the store bathroom - after washing my hands so I wouldn’t die of snake born salmonella - I saw a lasso of something called bendable eco-terra for a lizard habitat - a kind of twistable vine material - it was hanging on an end cap.  


I yelped.


For a second, I thought it was a snake.


See. I am still not cured.  


But thanks to Cody, I have some cool pictures.  And a new blog post.


I hope you’re happy.




[End note: I wrote this essay for a show called Reluctant, produced by my pal, Courteny Hameister.  Her book of bittersweet and hilarious essays - OKAY, FINE, WHATEVER - is available for preorder.  It is snake-free, and honestly one of the best books I've read all year.] 

And another thing

I love you all. You know that, right?

Ask Me About My Feminist Agenda

So it looks like is no longer selling the ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA tee-shirts.  (Their shirts are always limited release.)  But happily, similar shirts are for sale on many, many other sights, including, and  If you're looking for the tee-shirt, just google "Ask me about my feminist agenda tee-shirt" and you will have lots of options.  

Tee-shirts for humans!

Welovefine has some pretty excellent Mockingbird tee-shirts for sale this week, including ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA, which is really a shirt that every human should have.

Dear Internet,


I quit Twitter and it was a big story.  But (with the exception of the first story, on Comics Beat) I did not read any of the coverage until yesterday.  It was Halloween, so I was looking for scares.  Wow.  That was interesting.  I want to take a minute here to correct some inaccuracies I saw reported again and again.

The ASK ME ABOUT MY FEMINIST AGENDA cover was not an alternate cover.  It was the primary cover.

Issue 8 did not come out last Wednesday.  It came out the week before.

I had not just posted the cover image.  That image has been floating around for months.  

I had not just announced that Mockingbird had been cancelled.  That’s been public knowledge for awhile.  

I did not get blowback for asking people to buy the comic to send a message to Marvel to make more comics books with women super heroes.  That tweet was over a week old, and met with a lot of support, at least to my knowledge. 

One of the remarkable things about reading the coverage was seeing how it twisted the information in the Comics Beat story, which - despite a hysterical headline - was fairly accurate.  I guess this is what happens when stories get reported without talking to anyone involved and rely on other stories for facts.  

Here are the facts, from my perspective.

I quit Twitter.  I deactivated my account Thursday, after receiving several misogynist and/or jerky comments the night before.  SEVERAL.  Not dozens.  Not a deluge.  One is too many.  I was tired of wasting energy dealing with the constant low-level misogyny and meanness that pollutes a certain kind of comic fandom. I posted some comments reflecting my frustration.  The next morning, when I logged on to deactivate, I saw that I had lost approx 1500 followers overnight.  I also saw that my notifications were filling up with new followers.  I saw that comments were flooding my feed.  I had no idea what was happening.  I had never seen that kind of activity on my account.  But I figured it wasn’t good.  I went through with the deactivation. I assumed I had been trolled in some kind of organized sense, but I didn’t know.  (Still don’t.)  Frankly, I didn’t care.  It was moot.  I was done.    

I felt…relieved.  Like I had backed out of a burning house. 

Then I started getting texts and emails from people expressing sympathy and outrage.  “Are you okay?” they all wanted to know.  “What’s happening on Twitter?”

“I’m fine,” I kept saying, baffled.  

I figured by the way the story was blowing up and by the DefCon 5 outrage that there was some really horrible stuff happening on Twitter, and that I was somehow at the center of it.  But as I said in my previous post about this, I didn’t see any of this.  I was gone.  

It is a strange thing to become a hashtag.  The #StandWithChelseaCain movement (or whatever) had nothing to do with me.  I couldn't see any of those missives of support.  I’m not on Twitter.  I was incredulous at how widespread it apparently was and how everyone in my entire life seemed to know about it.  I think it’s an important statement if it means “Let’s Be Less Jerky on Twitter and Stop Normalizing Sexist Blather.”  

Yesterday as I was sitting here still reeling from the bizarre coverage I had just read with its made-up facts, pictures culled from my Instagram account, and comment sections filled with New People Who Hate Me, I saw someone post a question on my Facebook feed. (I’m paraphrasing.) 

“Is the whole Chelsea Cain thing really about the feminist tee-shirt on the cover?” 

I wanted to respond.  But I didn’t know the answer.  What “whole Chelsea Cain thing” was he referring to?  Everyone I ever talked to loves that cover.  (Well, there was one guy who suggested it be changed to ASK ME ABOUT MY MISOGYNIST AGENDA.) But maybe people had lashed out against it once I had left Twitter?  See, I don’t know.  Then I saw that someone was typing a response.  I waited, hoping to gain some clarity. But the person who responded just referenced the coverage.  

I also saw, yesterday in the comments under a made-up story I read about myself, some people accusing me of making this whole thing up. 



I have not given a single interview about this.  I’m probably the worst person to ask about the “whole Chelsea Cain thing” because I’m so out of the loop.  

Clearly this story touched a cultural nerve.  It’s an important conversation to have.  But it also revealed, to me, how misinformation and hysteria can spread so swiftly and convincingly as the media chases after whatever is trending and tries to find something to say as click bait.  

I thought long and hard about posting this.  Because I really don’t want to feed this story any more oxygen.  But I also wanted some truth to be somewhere on the Internet.

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