are you watching closely?

should old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?

2009-12-31T19:41:00.005-05:00

For the first twelve or so years of my life I had around 100-150 nosebleeds every year. At this point I don't even remember why. Something screwed up with my sinuses, technical jargon, technical jargon, little-kid-me got bored and stopped listening. Anyway, it got better. Now they're very, very rare. Every few years rare. Had one the other day and it was an unexpected reminder. 'Ooooooooh, I remember now, I'm that kid.' Life has a way of doing that. We change so much year-to-year, but there will always be little things to remind you of who you are, who you've been, who you're on your way to becoming.

Odd way to begin a post that's mainly just to wish you a happy new year, I know. It just inspired an odd sort of introspective moment in me. I make no bones about it, 2009 was . . . not a great year for me (for any of us it seems). Glad to be rid of it. This year was a right bastard. But, there's always a new one coming. And that's something important to remember, I think. There's always more, until the day there isn't, and by then, well, you don't have to worry so much about it anymore, y'know?

Whoever you are, whatever you are, I wish you all the best in the closing of this year and the opening of the next. I hope you allow yourself to be whatever you most want to be. I hope you make time to enjoy the small, unimportant bits, because they can be quite awesome. Right now is on its way to somewhere else, but it's really all we've got. Tell your favorite person how much they mean to you. Be kind to yourself. And here's hoping 2010 will be a little gentler with all of us. Take care.

birth control

2009-11-09T18:04:00.004-05:00

It truly is disturbing how much joy this picture brings me.

post delayed

2009-10-26T21:34:00.002-04:00

New post was planned for tonight, but I seriously doubt it's going to happen. We'll see how tomorrow goes. Good intentions, yada yada.

I did want to point you towards John T. Unger's legal woes. It's a horrible thing that's happening to him and, well, if you feel like lending a hand, you'll find all the info you need there.

Oh, and here's Felicia Day (yeah, I know every geek in the world is in love with her now, but I liked her way back in the days of Vi, so suck it!). And Sean Astin (kinda). And lots of things to learn. You're welcome.

See you, space cowboy.

i don't understand how these things keep happening

2009-10-21T19:44:00.002-04:00

I start clicking through links, reading bits here and there, and eventually I space out and come to staring at some of the oddest things. It really is fascinating to me.

i mean, ducks can't even fly . . . oh, wait, i'm thinking of chickens, aren't i?

2009-10-18T16:14:00.001-04:00

So, yeah, Donald Duck just became more awesome than you. Donald. Duck. Yeah, that guy. I mean, it's not enough that he's riding around in a giant robot shaped like himself, but that robot is also riding a rocket-powered skateboard! Just not fair, man. You can try to argue the point once you finish with your giant robot version of yourself (mine's coming along nicely, thanks for asking), but until then, Donald wins. Dammit.

an open letter to faux-aquaman

2009-10-17T20:24:00.005-04:00

Dear Guy-in-the-Aquaman-costume:
Why? Why would you do that to yourself? You don't want to be Aquaman. Aquaman doesn't even want to be Aquaman. Did it take you long to decide which era of Aquaman you should represent? Classic Aquaman? Water-handed Aquaman? PAD-era Aquaman (actually, I kinda liked a few of those stories . . . dammit, I'm stepping on my own point). If a girl talked you into this, dude, she's not worth it. She can't be. I sincerely hope you get some help with whatever the hell is wrong with you. Take care and good luck.
~Jay

three flavors of awesome

2009-09-26T23:43:00.004-04:00

What's that? You want some cool videos with no context so I have to do as little work as possible. Well, ok. Here you go.

someone's got to save the world

2009-09-18T23:00:00.000-04:00

randomness from the desktop

2009-09-13T13:25:00.008-04:00

I've got a bad habit of saving pictures to my desktop and then forgetting about them. It gets rather crowded at times. So, to motivate myself to clean it off (much like I did with the bathroom sink), I post the most amusing of this rather odd lot.

just keep walking, preacher-man

2009-08-31T22:07:00.004-04:00

Ok, we let our flaws out a little bit at a go. So as not to scare you away, I think I've done a fairly good job at camouflaging mine, but one's gonna have to leak out here. I do in fact have a slight case of triskaidekaphobia. And yesterday's bit of pointless nonsense Redbox dirty joking was the 13th post for August (the most I've done any month so far, but it did involve criminal over-use of the 'stuff and nonsense' tag). And today is the last day of August in the year of our lord, two thousand and nine. So, even though I'm a bit knackered and trying very hard to get some things written tonight and I don't really have anything worthy to say, in spite of all of that, I have to put something up here to make it to the magic fourteen. So, what you get is an overly-wordy explanation, but that's sort of part of my idiom as well, so maybe you did learn a bit about me from this one. It's a skinny maybe, but it is a maybe. I think maybes are beautiful.

While writing, I'm listening to the new Arctic Monkeys album HUMBUG. It has been sitting unlistented to on my iPod for almost a week, figured it was time to give it a chance. Dug their debut to an impossible degree, follow-up didn't quite reach that height, though it was a good one and is home to a few tracks that I adore. Haven't made up my mind on this one yet. I had read others say that it was too similar to previous releases, but I don't believe so. It is similar, but we're dealing with the same artist here. Similarity comes with the territory. You don't have to reinvent yourself every time to keep me happy. Anyway, will either report back with a proper review or completely forget to do so. Just know I intend to write further. Good intentions and all that rot. Alright. Back to work. Be well.

you get what you pay for

2009-08-30T19:05:00.004-04:00

I like a value as much as the next guy, but the whole Redbox thing kind of disturbs me. I mean, a dollar?!? I'm used to paying at least fifty and, well, to be honest, that's not even the highest quality. Sure, there was that one time in Salt Lake City, but we're all allowed to make mistakes occasionally. Not to mention the whole concept of getting it from a vending machine is just creepy. A little too Star Trek if you ask me. Plus, the machines are right there in public. In the grocery store. Near our food. And then you have to think about how many people use those machines. That's just gross. Think of how quick that could spread venerea--what's that? Really? Well, what do you think Redbox is? . . . ooooh. Um, never mind I guess. Move along. Nothing to see here.

things dorks laugh at

2009-08-29T09:41:00.006-04:00

From here via here.

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Big grin.

why are so many highly excellent shows set in Bristol?

2009-08-27T19:33:00.003-04:00

Being Human has been running on BBC America lately and I must say I am hooked. The penultimate episode of the season had one of my favorite cliffhangers ever. Check it out if you get a chance. Very much looking forward to the finale this weekend.

(Too exhausted to post more than this and this one's mostly just for an excuse to post the above picture. I just think it's a cool promo shot. Promos are usually just a matter of 'look at our pretty actors', but this one made me stop and look to see what was going on with the fading chick. Her name's Annie, by the way, and if you give the show a try you may soon love her as much as I do.)

racecar

2009-08-26T18:56:00.005-04:00

(I know I've been sort of neglectful of the blog lately. Life gets in the way, y'know? Also, I've been in novel-writing mode for the past few months, which leaves very little room for anything else. Ok, I've got a lazy streak too. Sue me. Anyway, this is my attempt to begin making amends. A new short story for you to read. Well, it's probably a year or so old, but it's new to you. Unless you've read it before, but that list is quite short. This is one of those that very nearly wrote itself. It just sort of popped out in one chunk. Just as Mr. Gaiman did with Mr. Nancy in American Gods, I borrowed a character from a story I haven't written yet to facilitate this one. If I ever get around to writing that other one--and it is a mammoth brick of a novel that could give you a permanent limp if you dropped it on your foot--then you'll get to learn much more about Donovan and a few of the more far out things she gets herself into. For now, I offer you this. I hope you enjoy it.)

Racecar
by Jay Barber

We met on the Jersey shore. I’ve already stretched believability; no one meets anyone on the Jersey shore. But we did. We were both lost.

She looked fragile and nervous, standing there letting the surf roll over her bare feet. She looked like she was waiting for something. I approached with caution, not wanting to scare her, and stood behind her for a full two minutes before she noticed me. I made a horrible joke about crabs pinching off her toes if she wasn’t careful. She responded with another—much funnier—one-liner involving venereal disease. I held out the half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey after I had regained my composure. Her eyes were shiny and red, as if she’d been crying. She accepted the bottle and we sat on the beach drinking and trading biographies as the sun was gently swallowed by the waves.

Donovan was lost. Literally. She didn’t know what town she was in. She claimed she’d been ‘exploring’, but it sounded like nothing more than driving around aimlessly for months, just seeing what the country had to offer. She’d become confused on where she was going and what she was doing when she reached the Atlantic. So, she stopped and took off her shoes and let the crashing waves play at her feet and lower calves.

“I’ve still got such a long way to go,” she said, running a hand through her short, fire-colored hair. “Makes me tired just to think of it.”

“It sounds like you don’t have a very concrete plan,” I said. “You can always change it. You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to. Anywhere at all, really.”

She bit her lip. A thin white scar ran from just below her left eye and ended halfway across her cheekbone. Far from making her unattractive, it actually gave her face a bit of character. It lent her an air of strength and I began to wish for some confluence of events that would end in her letting me kiss that slightly puckered line on her cheek. Thirty minutes talking nonsense on a beach and I want to kiss her. It’s not surprising, though. I rarely leave my house without falling in love.

She looked at me with round eyes the color of seawater—tropical, you-can-see-clear-to-the-bottom seawater, not the semi-solid greenish-brown sludge we have on the East Coast. “It’s not that simple,” she said, “We all have to answer to fate and I’ve got miles to go, you know the rest.”

I had been coming back from three days of business meetings in New York. I had been invited to exhibit a few of my paintings in a small gallery in hipster-infested Williamsburg. I drove up from D.C. for a day to set everything up and allow the organizers and patrons to buy me meals and drinks. My work was received fairly well and talk began to circulate about a permanent installation in the gallery. I stayed for two more days working out the logistics of this (sign here, initial here, shake hands, lather rinse repeat). I took the scenic route home and soon found that I had very little idea of where I was or where I should be. Lost. I had one up on Donovan, though. I knew the name of the town, seen it on a sign as I crossed the city limits and decided that a nearly deserted beach would be as good a place as any to finish off the bottle that had seen me through my time in the city.

“I get it,” I said as I did my best not to allow those cerulean orbs to swallow me, “we’ve all got responsibilities, but no one owns you. You can do whatever you want. Decide you’ve explored enough and just go home. Or go somewhere else and make a new one.”

Her brow furrowed and thin lips separated as if she was about to argue, but then I could see something cross her mind, her entire face became calm and lax. “Why do I get the feeling that you have something in mind?”

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. “Well, um, I mean, DC is a growing area. Lots of opportunities. I’m sure you could find a job that suits you. Um, that is, ah, if you wanted to.”

She wrinkled her almost-too-big-nose. “Job,” she scoffed. “I don’t believe in money.” She said it matter-of-factly, as if money occupied a similar realm as unicorns and sasquatch, easily disbelieved. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Maybe.”

“Then just say it.”

“You could come home with me.”

And so she did.

* * * * *

Upon hearing that I was an artist—one who creates art for art’s sake rather than any commercial utility, ok, that’s a fancy way to say unmarketable art—most were surprised that I could afford to live in the city. It was understandable. Poverty and I had been near-constant companions for most of my life. For years my home was a dingy, leaking loft tucked and hidden in the hills of Maryland. And then, a year or so before Donovan, my friend Alan accidentally wrote a children’s book about fairies. He asked me if I’d be interested in illustrating. I refused out of a lack of interest in drawing tiny, winged women, but Alan is nothing if not persistent. I eventually agreed, doing it more as a favor than anything else. Alan was once a drug dealer by trade and I had enjoyed the benefit of ‘friend prices’ for most of my formative years. I felt like I owed him.

Long, strange story turned shorter and not quite as strange, the damn thing spent months at the top of the bestseller’s list. So, I didn’t have to worry so much about money after that and I moved into a nice, if small, apartment in one of the more affluent parts of town. All because I knew a guy who took some bad mushrooms and came to his senses four hours later convinced that he’d been invited to sing a ballad for Queen Mab of Faeire. The world is often a strange, interesting place.

All that by way of explaining how an artist and a young woman who didn’t believe in money were actually able to survive idlely and comfortably. I could go on about art and capitalism, but it’s doubtful that anyone is very interested in all of the friends that my sudden good fortune lost me. Faces that once beamed when they saw me, now tensed and “sell-out!” was shouted across restaurants or from one sidewalk to the next. This isn’t about that, though. This is about her.

* * * * *

We were both marvels of restraint. Home for at least forty minutes before our clothes were left in discarded heaps on the hardwood floor of my apartment. I touched her hesitantly at first; acutely looking for any sign that I should stop, that any one particular touch had taken the whole thing too far. There was no resistance, though, and my hands grew bold and confident.

For her part, Donovan showed no hesitation. She seemed to automatically intuit all of the things I liked; all the ways I wanted to be touched. It happens to couples sometimes when they’re open and honest enough. Each learns all the things that the other likes and sex goes from just a bit of fun to oh-my-god-where-did-you-learn-to-do-that. I had experienced it a few times. Always in long-term relationships after months or years of experimenting. Never the first time. Never, that is, until Donovan.

I slept afterwards—I am a man, after all. Slept and dreamed of soft, ivory skin and that scar on her cheek stretching as her face contorted with pleasure. Dreams folded in on one another, each more pleasurable that the last, until I found myself purposely pushing myself up towards wakefulness just so I could wonder how I could be so lucky.

I awoke in bed alone. A figure perched naked on the corner of my windowsill smoking a cigarette. A slow inhale and the burning tip glowed, illuminating Donovan’s face in the darkness.

I turned on the lamp. “Are you ok?”

“I’m really going to miss this,” she said, twisting to blow a cloud of smoke out the open window. The sounds of traffic and tourists from outside cut into our secluded world.

“Miss what? Are you going somewhere?” I asked. Panic rose in my chest.

“Yeah . . . no. Not to you. It’s hard to explain.” She shook her head, frustrated at all the things she couldn’t quite say. “Just remember that I enjoyed this, ok? No matter what happens, remember that I was happy here with you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You won’t. Not for a while.” She tossed the butt out of the window and stood up, walked to the side of the bed and towered over me. “I remember seeing you for the first time. In Belfast. I looked back and saw you watching me. You looked so confused, so sad. I didn’t get it then. Today I understood it, I woke up in my car and you weren’t there with me. I knew what that meant and then I understood how you felt. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”

She laid down beside of me. I felt the warmth of her naked thigh brush across my own. My mouth opened to protest, to declare that I didn’t know what she was talking about; I had never even been to Belfast. But then she slid one leg over me and straddled my stomach. I felt the moisture of her on my skin, breathed in the fragrance. And I wasn’t so much worried about what she was trying to say anymore.

Afterwards I felt sleep attempting to steal me away once more. I fought it off just long enough to ask: “Are you going to be here when I wake up?”

Her smooth back was turned to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but when she said “yes” it was followed by a sniff and I knew she had been crying. There will be time enough in the morning, I thought to myself. My eyelids grew heavy. I let them fall.

* * * * *

Donovan cheered the next morning, so I was tempted to let the subject drop, but my subconscious still nagged and brooded. I broached the subject while she stood at the stove, frying pancakes.

“So, about last night—“ I began, but she interrupted me before I made it much farther.

“What about last night?” she said.
“You seemed upset, said some things that I didn’t quite get.”
“Did I? It won’t happen again.” She said it with pure, undiluted confidence, as if she knew for a fact that the situation would never reoccur.

“Hey,” I said as I walked around to stand beside her at the stove, “don’t just brush it off like that, if you’ve got something you need to talk about, let’s talk. There’s no reason to keep anything bottled up.”

“You won’t understand.”

I wiped a smudge of pancake mix from her cheek and noted the shallow wrinkles that spider-webbed out from the corners of her eyes. She was thirty-five—or that’s what she’d told me anyway—and five years my senior. I had thought that she looked much younger, but there in the corners of her vibrant eyes, I could see the years were catching up to her. “Please talk to me. Are you ok? Do you regret coming back with me?”

“No,” she said. “I can’t explain it. There are just some things in my . . . um, past, that I can’t quite tell you about. I have a condition. It makes things . . . different for me sometimes.”

“Condition? It’s not—“

“It’s not contagious. I wouldn’t put you at risk like that. It’s just . . . maybe think of it as a birth defect. Nothing we can do about it.”

I wanted to press her further, but there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find Alan standing there with a thin stack of paper and a huge grin on his face.

“Hot off the presses,” he said as he breezed past me into the apartment, “just finished it last night. Time for the pretty pictures and all of that. Oooh, hello.” He noticed Donovan and turned on the charm in an instant.

“Donovan, this is Alan,” I say, “Alan, this is my . . . friend, Donovan.”

She offered a handshake. He accepted her hand and then flipped it over, laying a gentle kiss on the back of it. “A pleasure, my dear,” he oozed charm and the air became thick with bullshit. “And how to you two know each other?” He asked the question directly to Donovan—I ceased to exist for Alan whenever there was a pretty girl in the room—but she only stared back, her face completely blank.

I took this to be shyness and swooped to the rescue. I gave Alan a blow-by-blow description of our meeting the day before—leaving out the personal parts, that is; the parts that I wanted to save for myself. Halfway through the story, I looked at Donovan and saw that she too was listening intently. It may have been because she had such a large part in the tale—like she wanted to make sure I got all the details correct—but there was something else in her expression. Almost curiosity.

“What did he bring you?” Donovan asked after Alan had said his goodbyes and left us in peace.

“This is the new book,” I said. “He’s under contract for three more and the publisher has made it known that they’d very much like for me to illustrate the others. Guess we’re a package deal now.”

“Oh,” she exhales, “that was the . . . the fairy guy?”

“Yup, the wordsmith in all his glory.”

“What’s this one about?” She leaned forward across the back of the couch in an effort to steal a glance at the papers before me.

“I haven’t read the whole thing yet,” I said. “Just an outline. But it seems to be about a young girl who is transported through time to the medieval age. Camelot, King Arthur, all that good stuff.”

“Didn’t Mark Twain already do a story like that?”

“Did he? I didn’t know that. I guess it’s cool as long as kids don’t know it either. Thank god for our lackluster education system.” She didn’t see the humor in it, so I changed the subject. “You want to go get some Chinese? Mama Wong’s is just down the street.”

She frowned for a moment, as if trying to remember something. “Yeah, I’m hungry, but not Chinese. Pizza?”

“Pizza it is then.” I gave her posterior a playful smack as she passed and we spent the afternoon eating cheese covered bread and making fun of strangers.

Interesting side-note: Mama Wong’s was closed down by the health department two weeks later after several diners were exposed to salmonella. I suppose it was a lucky break that Donovan wasn’t in the mood for Chinese.

* * * * *

Every relationship has that adjustment period. Man is a complex animal and it can sometimes take quite a while to learn another person’s little quirks. There’s the trial phase where you slip on the relationship, walk a few laps around the store to test the fit, study your feet in those short mirrors, ask yourself if you can live with the way the relationship rubs up and down on your ankle. Every couple goes through it. Except one.

Donovan and I never had that period. We just fell into a comfort level that I’ve only experienced with old friends. She seemed to anticipate my every need, every desire. It was like she knew me inside and out from the beginning. Thinking about it now, I wonder why I wasn’t more unsettled by it. At the time I was too swept up in the fresh relationship to pay much mind, but I wish I would have, I wish I could have figured it out sooner.

Neither of us had intended for her to actually move in with me. In the first couple of weeks there was talk of classified ads and neighborhoods where she could find a decent, safe place to live. It just never happened. We settled into such an easy rhythm that months pasted quickly and before we realized what had happened, my place had become our place.

And it was good. For a while. Playing house suited us. I enjoyed spoiling her and she enjoyed being spoiled. The odd sadness she displayed on that first night did not come again. I progressed quickly on the illustrations for Alan’s new book. Life carried on. We were happy. Or if not happy, at least content.

* * * * *

“What are you working on?” she asked as she slid up behind my chair and gave my arm a squeeze.

I turned from my drawing table so that she could see the sketches I’d been trying to complete all morning. “Character designs,” I said, “he’s got so many damn characters and I have to cast them all. It’s harder than it sounds.”

“I’m sure,” she said with mock-sympathy. “So, who’s this?” She pointed to a small, boyish knight riding a horse much too big for him.

“That’s Gawain. He’s still a boy, really. Enthusiastic love interest. He lied about his age so that he could join the Round Table.” Donovan frowned in disbelief. I held up my hands in a pantomime of defense. “Hey, I just doodle. Any problem with the nonsensical plot should be addressed to the author.”
She laughed and picked up another sheet of paper where an old man in a conical hat scowled. “I think I can guess this one.”

“Yeah,” I said, “that’s Merlin. Though Alan didn’t seem to know what to do with him. He mostly just stands around and occasionally turns things into other things.”

“A lot of people have trouble with him,” she said, almost too low for me to hear. “It is given to him to live backward in time.”

“What’s that?”

“You don’t know that part?” Donovan perked up at the thought. She liked nothing so much as teaching, and was good at it too, seeming to have amassed a colossal body of knowledge in her relatively short life. “Makes sense, though. A lot of writers never even addressed the problem.”

“What problem?”

“Merlin. He lived backward in time. From future to past. He got younger as the stories went along. He knew the future because he’d already been there, but he was totally ignorant of the past. Goodbyes meant nothing, hellos broke his heart.”

“Why would anyone leave that out?” I asked. “That sounds like it could only make the stories more interesting.”

“It’s too big,” she said, a trace of sadness in her voice. “Think about it from Merlin’s point of view. His perception of reality would make everything a mishmash. He’d never know what just happened, but have complete recall of everything that was about to. How do you motivate a character like that without giving away the end of the story?”

“I guess that makes sense,” I said, only partially understanding her point; I could tell it was one of those things that would give me a headache if I thought about it too long.

“It’s not real, though. Merlin didn’t have that problem. T. H. White gave it to him.” She laid the paper back on my table and looked out of the window, deep in thought.

“What do you mean real?” I asked with a laugh. “He’s not real anyway. He’s a wizard. Wizards don’t exist.”

“Yeah,” she said, her face flushing, “I just mean, historically, in the old Arthurian legends. It wasn’t in there. Didn’t come until much later.”

“Alright, that makes sense then. So,” I said, waving my hands over the papers with a flourish, “do you want to see the dragon?”

* * * * *

At the time, I thought it all happened suddenly. It seemed that way, but now I think it must been gradual. Things cooled between us. The inside jokes came less and less frequently. Half the time she didn’t laugh at the when they did come.
My opportunities to kiss that fine white scar were fewer and fewer.

I reacted in the shortsighted way any man would. I redoubled my efforts. I became bold. I tried through mere force of will to force her into feeling something again, force her to remember the good times. But that only drove her further away. The months lengthened and turned into a year and then two. Still we limped on, growing a tiny bit more distant from each other day by day. Eventually, it began to feel like I barely knew her; like she barely knew me.

Her scar served as a visual representation of this. It had always been a small thing, barely noticeable until you looked close. I had something akin to affection for it. The scar just served as a reminder of who she was; she was Donovan and no one else, no one else was her. But then it started to expand and darken. It scabbed over. Fresh, wounded flesh began to show through where only scar tissue had been before. In my mind, I equated this wound with the hurt in our relationship. It taunted and tortured me to see it. Donovan, either detecting this or simply becoming self-conscious, began wearing a small bandage on her cheek at all times.

I still remember the day she started doing it. I got up to take a piss and there were these tiny black strings lying on the bathroom sink. I raked them off into my hand and went to find her in the kitchen. But she had this bandage taped to her cheek and every question leaked from my head. I was upset, but also grateful; I no longer had to see that inflamed line across her face, reminding me of my failure.

* * * * *

I came home from a celebratory drink with Alan—publisher loved the new book, eager to discuss a sequel—to find Donovan sitting on the couch, staring listlessly at her hands. Her hair was disheveled and there were small spots of dried blood on her face. There was a glint from her shoulders and I took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. Tiny pieces of glass were stuck in the fabric of her sweater, reflecting the little remaining sunlight back at me. The bandage on her cheek had an uneven red line drawn across it.

“Donny,” I said, sinking to kneel beside her, “what the hell happened? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” she said in a harsh tone. “Just . . . do whatever. I need a few minutes to myself.”

“But—at least tell me what happened. Are you hurt?” I reached to touch her bandaged cheek but she jerked back, dodging me.

“Listen,” she said, beginning to rise from the sofa, “I think it might be time for me to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Somewhere else.” She pushed past me and pulled her coat from the closet.

“Are you coming back?” My voice was quick and panicked.

“I don’t know . . . no, that’s not true, I do. No, I’m not coming back.” Her hand reached for the door knob.

“But.” I tried to move to block her, but she nudged past me. “But you can’t just walk out. Everything we’ve been through?” I searched my mind for any idea that might make her stay. Stay for a little while, anyway. At least long enough to talk. “All the time we’ve been together? How long has it been?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared blankly at me. No malice, no contempt, no love. Nothing. At the time I thought that was why she didn’t answer, she didn’t feel anything, but now I realize I was wrong. She didn’t answer because she truly didn’t know how long it had been.

My feelings hurt, I stepped aside and let her go. I stood and watched her through the open door, waiting with expectation for her to realize what she was leaving, to turn around and come running back. If nothing else, just to turn for one last look at me.

But she didn’t. She walked across the hallway and down the stairs. Her footfalls were even and slow; no hesitation.

* * * * *

I was surprised not to see her in the bed with me the next morning. And the morning after that. And again. Again. We lose ourselves when we sleep, when we dream, and that process of coming back to yourself in the morning, it can be a slow one. It can sometimes take a moment or two to remember who you are. And in that moment I would remember an earlier, happier time when a beautiful girl snored soundly beside me. I would reach to touch her and meet only barren mattress. The memory that she wasn’t there and why she wasn’t there, it would come on like a sudden wave; a fresh hurt each and every morning.

But no pain is forever. It got better and better. I put one foot in front of the other until walking became natural again. Life distracted me. My heart healed, if slowly, and I missed her less and less. Maybe that’s not true. I still felt like there was something missing, something that should have been there with me, but I stopped telling myself it was her. The hurt dulled as I refused to articulate it until it was just a normal, everyday ache; one you tolerate without thinking much about. I still feel it.

I did alright for myself, though. Alan backed out of the children’s book series after the Camelot book hit big. The publishers were eager for the following volumes, but he just wasn’t interested. He’d conquered this challenge; he was ready for the next one. So, they came to me. I had nothing better to do and was desperately in need of a way to occupy my mind. And thus I became a rather successful author quite by accident.

Successful is a relative term, but the point is that time passed and the years stacked up and I was well-known enough that my editors thought it time I did a signing tour. An endless march of identical hotel rooms where I had to be reminded what city I was in on a regular basis. Much time spent sitting at a table scribbling my name for very nice people who started to look exactly the same. In the end, the tour brought me to Belfast.

* * * * *

I was standing in front of my hotel at five in the morning, fighting jetlag and waiting for the shuttle that would take me to the airport and the next plane. It was cold and the city smelled of heather and vomit.

There was a tap on my shoulder.

“Do you have the time?” she asked and I felt my mouth drop open even before I had processed what I was seeing. Her face was a mask of generic politeness. She showed no recognition at all.

“Don—,” I began, but then the tree limbs above our head danced with the wind and moonlight shone on her face for the first time. The lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth were gone; she looked years younger than when I knew her. Her cheek was smooth and flat; flawless. The scar, wound, bandage, all of it was gone. Like it never happened. And then I realized. I understood. For her it didn’t happen. Not yet. “Don’t think it’s much past five,” I finished, trying to turn my momentary slip into something that would sound like a stutter.

“Thanks, muchly,” she said and strutted past me with a friendly smile.

It occurred to me then. All the anger and pain and frustration I’d felt at even the thought of this girl, for all those years, it was all wasted. Nothing was what I thought it was. With a relationship you really do have to look at things from the other person’s point of view. I hadn’t done that. Hadn’t even tried. And that—more than the growing distance or my neediness or her ‘condition’—had been why it didn’t work out between us. It really was my fault. Perspective is everything.

I watched her walk away, growing smaller and smaller as she disappeared into the foggy gray morning. I wanted happiness for her then. More than anything, I wanted her to be happy. I knew it wouldn’t be immediately forthcoming—I had a good idea of what awaited her in a few years—but I wished for her to find whatever it was she was looking for. And I hoped that when she did, it wouldn’t be too long ago.

i will make you share my pain

2009-08-21T15:45:00.002-04:00

How is it even possible that I'm still bummed about Prime going out like that oh so many years later? Stumbled on by accident and we all know what misery loves.

they're screwing with us right?

2009-08-14T21:41:00.005-04:00

I mean, I thought the whole 'Fox News' joke was funny for a while too, but they've been playing the characters for so long, it's like they believe that's reality now . . .

Hmm? That is their reality. Well, *expletive deleted*

(Link shamelessly stolen from Derren Brown.)

go watch it

2009-08-13T21:44:00.002-04:00

Become a fan of Community on Facebook and you can watch the pilot online. There, I've handed you twenty odd minutes of entertainment. Taking the night off now.

when they eventually make the live-action muppet movie

2009-08-10T19:49:00.005-04:00

it came from under the bathroom sink

2009-08-08T17:37:00.025-04:00

Misery loves company, dunnit? So, realizing the task before me, I'm forcibly making you join me on this trek through packrat-ville. That area under the bathroom sink is a place I rarely venture. All my daily necessities are out on the counter, so the door is usually only opened to chuck something else in there. Today, I've decided to clean out said cabinet. And I had been meaning to post something at some point before the day is through, but hadn't come up with anything interesting thus far, so here's my two-birds-with-one-stone solution. (I'm just full of cliches today, huh?)

Here's where we begin. I know I should probably be embarrassed, but I'm not. We are what we are and one thing that I am is 'not overly concerned with neatness and order'. I've been carting some of this stuff around for years, just dump it in a bag or box every time I move and stick it under new bathroom cabinet. At least I recognize that there's no reason to have all of this junk I never use, even if it's taken me this long to do anything about it.

First on the menu is what appears to be a plastic apron. Why do I have a plastic apron and how long have I had it? Gonna have to plead ignorance on both those questions. I promise it was never used in the process of dismembering bodies, but more than that I cannot say.

Ok, you caught me, I'm Sasquatch.

"You can't open the book of my life and jump in the middle."

Suction cups! Everyone loves suction cups! No, I don't know what the hell this is either.

Apparently I'm terrified of having bad breath. Or I'm a closet alcoholic. Mmmmmmm, minty oblivion.

I like to keep the empties around so the new fish will know what's in store for them. "Yeah, I'm gonna squeeze your innards out and there's nothing you can do about it. Take that, you pasty bastard!"

Another one?!?

Semi-permanent green hair dye. An artifact from the punk years. It was a long time ago, ok? Don't you judge me.

A piston converter from a Lamy fountain pen. I don't have a joke for that. Sometimes it is what it is.

Nicotine patch on the Q-tip box. I'm proud of him for trying to give up the cigs. Much more self-control than my last box of Q-tips. I'll tell you that story some day. You'll have nightmares, guaranteed.

No idea. Tiny plastic scooper for . . . something.

This thing stopped being a brush years ago. And I rarely have enough hair to warrant brushing. I think we're blaming this one on an ex-girlfriend if that's cool with you. That in spite of the fact that most of them didn't have very long hair either. They'd still brush it, though, wouldn't they?

Coasters. Coasters shaped like rotors in a brake pad base. Because you never know when you'll be having a nice beverage under your sink, but you never want to leave that wet ring. Am I right or am I right?

This isn't particularly interesting. I'm sure a lot of households have one. I'm just curious what the hell these things are called. Baby Booger Bulb? Also, I have no babies, so again, I wonder why I have this.

Pill guillotine FTW!

Want to smell like me? Really I just love the design of this bottle. The little fake wood cube at the top just drips awesomeness. The graphic designer buried deep inside me really digs.

And, finally, we arrive here. Not perfect, but I at least know what everything is and it's arguable that I might need at least some of it at some point in the future. Baby steps, y'know? We'll tackle the closet and junk drawer some other time, possibly in a decade or so.

Here's the big picture. Yeah, it's small, but we're doing the whole starving artist thing right now. I mean I could have chosen a more monetarily rewarding career path, but . . . actually that's a really good point . . . dammit!

things I don't remember

2009-08-05T19:32:00.008-04:00

My ex sent these to me the other day. I have almost no memory of the project or how much I was involved. The art is definitely hers, though I think I can claim credit for Mountain Norm. That's me on the right (in my much punkier days) and my shirt does say pubic hair, but other than that I have very little idea. I think I must have killed the brain cells that contained that information. Enjoy.

I had to ask her where the title came from and to my surprise she actually remembered. Yes, a televised rodeo was involved.

things i won't talk about no matter how much you badger me

2009-08-04T21:05:00.007-04:00

1. Twilight and Twilight-related topics
2. Anyone who's last name is Jonas who has at least one brother
3. Her
4. Why you're afraid of socialism
5. Any sport that doesn't involve Canadians and a puck
6. Canadians that are not comedians, Nathan Fillion, or the aforementioned puck-handlers
7. The little her
8. Why I'm drunk right now
9. This size, shape, and/or lifting capacity of any muscle on your body
10. How much money you make
11. March 26th, 2009
12. Any Bono other than Sonny
13. Your fanfic (regardless of subject)
14. Your slash-fic (ditto)
15. September 20th, 2004
16. The cute thing your kid/pet/imaginary friend just did (well, maybe the last one)
17. Megan Fox
18. The liberal media
19. How perfect your significant other is
20. Reasons I should let go of my anger
21. Trickle-down economics
22. What happened nine-ish months before August 15th, 1979
23. Why I'm wrong
24. What will happen on August 15th, 2009
25. Why books are boring
26. Why it isn't possible
27. Reasons I should regret anything
28. Reasons why revenge is not a healthy pastime
29. Reasons to be wary of the number 29
30. Any television show that is not either fiction, news, or history
31. Any movie featuring Megan Fox
32. Why you're too creative to work a nine-to-five
33. How you work a nine-to-five so you're too busy to be creative
34. Why I shouldn't say the word 'fuck' so often
35. How much more you know about computers that I do
36. Why you can't grow a beard (you're just making excuses, time to cowboy up)
37. Why beards aren't awesome
38. What you had for lunch
39. Any sexual act that doesn't involve me
40. How you can't break into the comic book industry because Dan D. and Joe Q. keep hiring television writers/novelist/screenwriters who are always late with their scripts and don't understand the industry anyway and if they would just look at your Firestorm or Dr. Strange pitch then they'd hire you on the spot
41. Any dog that weighs less than 20 pounds
42. Any cat that weighs more than 7 pounds
43. Why you're not in love with me (You know you are. C'mon, don't bullshit me)
44. Why Schwarzenegger reference don't work for every situation
45. Why ________ is the greatest television show ever (if the _____ is anything other than Firefly)
46. Why it's better where you used to live
47. That time I snuck up behind you and slid the dull side of the butcher knife across your throat so you thought for half a second that I had just cut your throat (it was hilarious and I am now and have always been awesome, so, again, cowboy up)
48. Why blogger thinks 'snuck' is misspelled
49. All the things I could have done with the past 20 minutes other than this
50. Why I shouldn't/can't/couldn't/won't/don't/ain't
51. Why this list should have ended with an even number

that's what bilbo baggins hates

2009-08-03T21:38:00.004-04:00

I cannot tell you how many times I watched the Rankin-Bass Hobbit when I was a kid. Have not thought about it in years and then today, pop, 'hellloooooooo' and there it is. Odd. Good odd, though.

"What else?" you ask. Dunno. How about a little bit of this.

There's also this. Which made me laugh. It points to exactly why I find the social networking scene disconcerting. So much constant connection, it's exhausting. I don't particularly enjoy having a cell phone most days. I reserve the right to hide whenever it pleases me.

Richard Abowitz's article on Teller from Las Vegas Weekly. Which is my favorite thing I read today. (Yes, it's old, but Mark Evanier hadn't seen it yet and neither had I, so maybe you're in that group too). (Yes, Teller is one of my favorite people to read about, glad you've been paying attention).

I'm a little too brain-dead for anything more than that tonight.

been waiting for this for a while

2009-08-02T20:25:00.000-04:00

in which we make friends and influence people

2009-07-30T19:07:00.008-04:00

Class, I'd like you to meet David Thorne. Dave, this is the group. No, really. What? That's Gerald, man, don't talk like that about him. Gerald's a cool guy. No, his head has always been shaped like that. Yeah . . . oh, you meant him, no I don't know his name . . . think he's just messed up.

So, now you know why I wasn't very productive today. The gravitation pull of Mr. Thorne's humor proved to be too strong and I was sucked in. Do forgive.

(This is my favorite so far if you're looking for somewhere to begin.)

Here's our new game: Pick a word. Common word. Nouns are good, but not necessary. Now pick a number. Lowish number, but not too low. Google image search the word, go to the page that corresponds with the number and find the picture on that page that most displays awesomeness. This game can entertain you for hours on end if you've got a few people playing it via email.

I begin with Turkey-12 and bring you:

What do you mean 'why is that awesome'?!? I swear it's like we don't even understand each other anymore. Et tu, Gerald?

wouldn't you rather be playing oregon trail right now?

2009-07-22T22:24:00.006-04:00

What do you mean 'what does it mean?'? Do you have to question every gift I give you? Can't you just say thank you and let it go? Alright. You're welcome.

Here's a thing.

Here's another thing.

Odd day. Glad it's almost over. The listlessness is strong with this one.

Now, shut up and listen to M. Ward.

Again, you're welcome.

i have eaten way too many fruit snacks

2009-07-21T22:40:00.006-04:00

Target brand / Market Pantry. Assorted fruit. You've got the orange, peach, grape, and strawberry. Still with me? Good. What the hell is that other thing supposed to be? If anyone has unlocked that little tidbit of information, please let me know. What? No, I'm not stoned. Why? No, I'm always like this. Yeah, that's fine, you don't have to come any closer.

Box looks like this:

If you have any idea what that other fruit is supposed to be let me know, so that I can stop thinking about this. Think of the children.

The moment I stop amusing myself is the moment all of this stops being worth it.

two reasons i wish i lived in london

2009-07-20T22:34:00.004-04:00

1. The Sultan's Elephant.
(Link shamelessly stolen from Amber Case.) (If you're surprised that I think this is righteous, then you haven't been paying attention).

2. Warhorse:

(Link shamelessly stolen from Jonathan Carroll.)

why is mandy patinkin so awesome?

2009-07-15T22:44:00.001-04:00

the cautionary tale of the cardrona bra fence

2009-07-15T00:10:00.002-04:00

The best thing . . . well, not the best thing, but one of the best things about writing is the way even the oddest most peculiar fact can eventually be used in some way. A wisp of a scrap of an idea could balloon into something very different. All this means that as a writer, you're allowed to waste time learning random stuff because you can call it 'research' and tuck away any info you find for possible use later.

So, in that spirit, I share with you the Cardrona Bra Fence. I don't know how I ended up there (I promise porn was not involved). Or why I felt the need to read the entire article, but now I know something I didn't know a few minutes ago. Maybe you do as well, yeah?

today they turned it on

2009-07-10T00:09:00.002-04:00

Click on this right now. Just in case you didn't hear. Or if you did hear but weren't aware they turned it on. You're welcome.

Oh, and I just saw the creepiest commercial ever. For revengification, I shall never use a Palm Pre. Ever.

Early flight tomorrow. So I really need to get some rest. A normal-sized post is coming soon, I promise. Though I am going to do more of these little ones in the future, just to avoid waiting so long between updates. That's the plan, anyway. And site news will be forthcoming soon. Be well.

we can't ever go back to arizona

2009-07-09T02:02:00.001-04:00

chose your own acid flashback

2009-07-08T00:23:00.003-04:00

really lost on our walkabout

2009-07-07T23:48:00.005-04:00

Just something that amused me:

And a very violent ringtone just informed me that tomorrow is Dana Snyder's birthday. Problem being that this phone is a multiple hand-me-down (claimed by me after I shamelessly murdered my last one with sweat) and I have no idea who Dana Snyder is. But happy birthday, anyway, Dana. Hope you have a great one, who ever you are.

In Seattle by way of Portland and Victoria, BC. The problem with travel-blogging is that when the interesting stuff is happening I'm either too busy or (later) too tired to actually blog about it. Now I've caught a couple of minutes, but it's all run together in a blur. I'm sure I'll throw a little update your way soon, but for now, I'm just checking in here to wave and say hello and wish you well. To be continued at some point once I remember what day it is.

And the site (as in a full, honest to goodness site with all kinds of goodies and not just this rambling blog) is moving along nicely. Have many ideas that I'm excited about. That one's definitely to be continued . . .

being an experiment on murdering an entire workday

2009-07-01T17:49:00.015-04:00

(image via stevegrosbois)

9:51 AM: “In which we embark”
(Persons belonging to the upper management of a certain Southeastern-based corporation are advised to ignore this post. You wouldn’t find it that interesting anyway. I heard there are some kids outside that are caving to peer pressure, they’re planning to vote Democrat, why don’t you go stop them? Could be a good idea.)

Ok, are they gone? Good. (No, you too, Mr. Yates. I don’t care if you just opened your soda, it’ll still be cold when you get back. Now git!)

Ok.

I don’t speak of the day job that often. Partially it’s because I know they’d rather I didn’t (there have been memos circulated on the proper way to mention Company issues on personal blogs and the like, most of it just seems to be different ways to say ‘Please don’t talk about us.’), but also it’s just painfully uninteresting. Uninteresting to me and I’m the one who knows all about the juicy office politics, so I can’t imagine how dull it would be to everyone else.

But that’s where I sit now. With my steaming JLA coffee mug (Morrison-era JLA, so it’s got Kyle and heavy-metal-haired Aquaman as well as the Supermullet) and my many, many boxes of binder clips (those things are important, dammit!). I sit here and wait for the next seven hours to elapse so that I can go on vacation. And it strikes me that the two and a half hours that have passed since I got here this morning (ok, two hours and twenty minutes, punctuality is an alien concept to me) have been among the slowest segments of time I’ve ever experienced. If we can ever find a way to harness the power in the last-work-day-before-vacation, immortality could possibly be within reach for all of us. That would mean that our eternal life would be spent watching the clock and praying for five, which could possibly be the seventh circle of office-hell, but it’s not my job to iron out the details of these things. I’m just the idea man.

So, as I said, my vacation begins tomorrow. Flying out to the Pacific Northwest to visit some folks, possibly finally hunt down the elusive sasquatch, and stealing some time as a sort of back-door research trip for the novel I’m currently working on (going pretty well so far, that’s sweet of you to ask, the feeling you get when things are sliding into place right when you need them to, that’s a hard one to compete with). I’m going to try to post some while I’m gone, but no promises. If you’re desperate for my particular brand of wit and . . . um, stuff, I’ll most likely be on Twitter a bit. (Probably a good idea for you to follow me there, anyway, so that I won’t feel so guilty for neglecting the blog so often. Yes, that’s a very selfish reason, but we are who we are.) Anyway, where I’m going with all of this (Mr. Point! It’s good to see you! Wasn’t sure if you’d be gracing us with your presence today.) is that I’ve decided to spend this extra long day with you. I’m going to leave this document open and slot in whatever occupies my time while I wait on the workday to be over. I’ll be as brief as I can so as not to bore you, but you see how verbose I am anyway, so brevity is not guaranteed. For those of you bemoaning that I don’t post more often, this is my form of an apology in an extra large special edition post (with a die-cut, chromium-dipped, triple-gatefold variant cover). For everyone else it is an experiment on killing time with a very tiny knife (‘Dicking around on the Internet @ Work’ didn’t have quite the same ring to it).

10:36 AM “Encryption really is a cool word”
This is what I’m reading currently. Corey Doctorow is always interesting and informative, even when he’s writing about a topic I think I have no interest in. I’ll be engrossed by the time I finish the article. It happens every time. Also, he is much smarter than the rest of us.

10:43 AM “Mmmm” or “Things you can’t have right now”
Now I’m fantasizing about a turkey sandwich. Not just any turkey sandwich, but the turkey sandwich I could make if I was standing in my kitchen right now. Oatmeal bread. Colby Jack cheese. That one brand of honey mustard that I’ve only been able to find twice. All of these things I purchased with currency and placed in my kitchen for just such a craving. But, sadly, it is all there and I am all here. Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?

11:14 AM “Ooooh, pretty”
Photography amazes me. So much good stuff out there (and so much good stuff under Creative Commons licenses, CC makes you instantly ok in my book and I plan to return the favor if I can ever get motivated enough to finish putting stuff up on the site). Good stuff like this. And this. If your desktop is still boring and/or ugly after visiting those links, it’s your own damn fault. Two I really dig:

(image via petecarr)

(image via EJP Photo)

11:58 AM “Lunch" or “Everyone gets disproportionately excited about 40 minutes away from their desk for overpriced sandwiches with no accompanying alcohol”
Took the long way to walk to pick up my caesar salad. These sorts of walks are something I’ve been doing since I stopped smoking. Lets me get out in the fresh air so that I’m not imprisoned within cube walls all day. I find what’s going on with this neighborhood interesting to witness. We’re in the middle of some sort of urban reclamation phase. Some blocks are still pretty shabby and rundown, but right beside a barber shop that’s been there for 30 years, you’ll have a huge tower of modern opulence rising out of the sidewalk. It creates a weird sort of dichotomy, with the past-city making war on the future-city and vice versa. No matter which side wins, I doubt this city will recognize itself ten years from now. It’s about to become a very different place, one way or another. The salad has been eaten, my breath has been rendered deadly to all forms of life that should be unfortunate enough to wander too close. Still don’t know exactly what goes into caesar dressing—and don’t particularly care to—but damn is that stuff tasty. Odd, but tasty.

12:11 PM “Burritos are serious business”
This is what I read while I ate my salad. Cracked me up muchly.

12:27 PM: "Want"

I am not a paper cup.

(via neatorama)

12:50 PM: “Why are we still talking about this?”
"Defense chief giving 'don't ask, don't tell' a closer look." The idea was antiquated in ’93 and now a decade and a half later we’re still whitewashing the issue in an attempt to make it appear shiny and modern. If heterosexual men and women serve beside each other in the armed forces, gay men and their straight brethren can as well. It’s a non-issue. Stop trying to legislate morality and allow people to live their lives. Shee-it, it’s not nearly as complicated as everyone tries to make it. (Don’t even get me started on the issue of gay marriage. If your traditional man-woman marriage is ‘devalued’ because the committed gay couple down the block are allowed to share health insurance, then you’ve got bigger things to worry about than someone else’s marital status). [/rant]

1:07 PM: “ . . . .” (That translates to speechless)
. . . .

1:24 PM: “The mug to which I have spoken”
Couldn’t find a full picture, but this is my JLA mug that I mentioned earlier:

(image via photosam1000)

Bought in one of those Warner Brothers stores more than ten years ago and I’m proud that’s it’s still in one piece (I have a great tendency to drop things, some would say I’m clumsy, I would say I’m ruggedly handsome with a rapist’s wit). (‘Rapist’s wit’ line shamelessly stolen from Jim Carey, but he doesn’t mind. He’d better not, after all the shit he’s stolen from me all these years.)

2:16 PM “In which options are presented that will have no bearing on your life . . . unless you’re me . . . in which case: what’s up, me? You’re alright, you know that?”
I’ve purposely changed my handwriting a few times. And I’m talking on a letter-by-letter basis. I print much more than I write in cursive, so the shape of the letters is more important. (You cursive-writers can get away with a squiggly line for the last few letters in ‘anti-inflammatory’, but I have to carve out each individual letter, y’dig?). So, I make such a change only after heavily weighing both options. Also happens rarely because it is such a pain for the first few weeks as I often fall back on the old-letter shape unconsciously. I mean, really, how often do people (people who aren’t me) think about the shape of their letters. Anyway, I bring this up because there are three such changes that I’m contemplating making. And these are big ones. Two are big because they’re both in my very short name and the other is big because it has irritated me for as long as I’ve been writing. So you can see what I mean:

That’s the way I would currently write the word. (Written with a Lamy Safari. Never underestimate a thirty dollar fountain pen. This thing is a blue-collar workhorse that never complains and still lays down a really nice line. The ink is blue-black Parker’s Quink. If you know what that means I don’t have to say any more). The word Gray doesn’t hold any special significance for me, but we’re looking at the a, the y, and the capital G, and it was the shortest word that had all three that I could think of . . . though now as I write that I realize I did just have a rant about gays in the military about an hour and a half ago, maybe that's what started this whole thing brewing in my subconscious. I think we’ll stick with Gray. Still like the g-r-e-y spelling better, though. Damn Brits get all the best toys. So, what I’m thinking is possibly subbing out the current look of the capital G and just making my normal lowercase g bigger to take its place (it’s a much funkier object, illustration to follow). Considering the opposite for the lowercase a by just making it a smaller version of my Capital a. And the y I’ve always found boring, so I’m considering incorporating the hard angle I use in my J’s and lowercase g’s. All of that means nothing to you, I know, so here’s what the result would look like:

Why am I sharing all this tedium with you? To kill time! Haven’t you been paying attention? Mostly thinking out loud, but if you do have an opinion on either of the three letters discussed above, feel free to let me know. Let your voice me heard. Rock the vote and all that rot. Opinions on my lowercase r are neither requested nor welcome, I like that little guy and will not hear any words to the contrary. As I said, the a and y are important because they show up in my name and I do have to write that so often (would be easier if people would just stop suing me, but noooooo, every other day there’s a new process server standing on my doorstep in a chicken costume). So, for the sake of completeness, here’s what we would get:

becomes

See the difference? Much more angular and expressive in the modified version. Almost angry I’d say. (Please don’t point out how egotistical it is to spend so much time thinking about one’s own handwriting, remember one’s goal here is to kill the clock and efficiently as possible and this little exercise has already taken care of about 25 minutes). Haven’t made up my mind yet, but I’m leaning towards the new versions. Y gives me a little bit of pause because I don’t want to overdo it with that hard angle mirroring the J. Will think more on that one. The lowercase a hovers back and forth, but I was never overly fond of the old version, so I’ll probably take the new one for a test drive. Capital G is pretty much a done deal, just have to keep reminding myself to use it (and I don’t really know anyone with a capital G in their name so I it only really comes up at the beginning of sentences. Sentences like “Get the fuck out of my chair!”). Will report back if there are further developments (whether you like it or not).
For posterity’s sake, here’s the competition:

That’s my signature, incoherent non-letters and all. Even I struggle when I try to read what I've written in cursive. But that’s what I’ll be scribbling on people’s books in a few years. So get started on your forgery skills now! (Now, to remind myself that I’m not a complete egotist, I’m going to have to go spend 7-9 minutes pouring over past mistakes and generally emotionally abusing myself. Neuroses are fun, yeah?) (This much-too-long handwriting conversation brought to you by the office all-in-1 printer/scanner/faxer/whateverer and MS Paint. Thank them both the next time you see them.)

2:58 PM: “Winston Zeddemore finally gets some respect”
THE Ghostbuster.

3:22 PM “What was that?"
That little lull there, that was me doing actual work. I do apologize. I had originally been hopeful that it would take longer (taking 2 hours would have been ideal; yes, I’m sorry, had I seen such an opportunity to kill the last two hours of the work day, I would have taken it and shamelessly abandoned you. But it was not to be, so we’re still friends). I’ll hold off on sending this PowerPoint back for a few minutes. (PowerPoint is responsible for most of the evil in the world. I bet Satan uses PowerPoint). Always make them wait longer than you have to, best to avoid labels like ‘fast’ and ‘efficient’. Much easier to surpass expectations on every level if you purposely keep the bar set on the low side. The trick is to be charming enough no one notices how low the bar is. So, you can tell I’ve got no worries on that end. Hour and a half to go. Crunch time! Let’s do dis!

3:47 “ZZZZZZTTTTTTTTT”
I like this.

Lev runs down all the news you need to know.

3:55 PM “BRB”
Going to step outside and stare at the mammoth construction project to remodel the mall. Mall as in landscaped park-ish area between large downtown buildings, not Mall as in “Let’s go to Orange Julius”. Staring is what every man must do when faced with construction sites. It’s part of God’s plan. There may be drool. Just sayin’. I shall return in a moment. (Still trying to break myself of improperly using ‘momentarily’.)

4:14 PM “See, I’m not the only one over the age of seven who uses MS Paint on a regular basis”
Don’t think I’ve ever linked to Paint at Work before. Seems like a good day for it.

Here are some buttons for you to click.

4:33 PM: “This what my face looks like when I’m pondering implications”
I have been told that I can get out of my Alltel contract with no fees if I just fake my death. Seems a bit extreme and I fear the retribution karma would bring about . . . but I shall think further on this . . .
And Mark Evanier reminds us that all animals are dirty thieves. THIEVES, I tells ya!

4:44 PM “Vindication!”
Just had a conversation of printing vs. cursive with a coworker. A conversation he began with no prompting from me. So, I can’t be the only one who thinks about this stuff. Maybe not in that much depth, but the point is still valid.
Aren’t you supposed to make a wish when the times all the same number like that or is that something only my family did? The world may never know. Unless it already does. In which case, nevermind.

4:55 PM “Compromise”
I sort of ran out of steam at the end there. Turns out wasting an entire day is much harder than it appears. Most of the dead spots in this report are from me staring blankly into space. But now I have five minutes remaining. It will take the largest part of those just to figure out how to add an out of office message to my voicemail, so we’re going to call this good enough. God bless you if you hung in through all of that. Hope you are doing well. I'm going to head off into that old:

(image via ponanwi)

tiny little random magic

2009-06-23T21:59:00.008-04:00

I'm not an acquisitive person by nature, but I do have a weakness for items of a highly awesome nature (such as this, just purchased yesterday, mostly for decorative purposes because there's no way it will fit on the DVD shelf). Because of this appreciation for the oddly awesome, eBay is a dangerous place for me (let us not speak of the drunken night that resulted in me winning two pieces of original art from TRANSMETROPOLITAN that it then took me six months to pay for). But there are good values to be had, so I'll occasionally wade into the eWaters. One such purchase was eight hardcover fantasy/sci-fi novels for under five bucks. Some Gaiman, some Le Guin, a Tolkien I wasn't familiar with. And among them was a hardcover, book-club edition of Susanna Clarke's JONATHAN STRANGE & MR. NORRELL. I already had a copy of the regular hardcover, so I set this one to the side, didn't look at it for months. And then the other day, I flipped through it for no real reason and inside I found a child's drawing of an elephant with a ragged edge showing it was torn from a spiral-bound notebook. The picture itself wasn't remarkable (except in that way that all children's drawings are remarkable), but what struck me is this: Someone cared about it. Someone cared enough to rip it from its notebook and then protect it from damage by tucking it into a book. And this 'someone' is a stranger to me. That's fascinating to me. I'll most likely never know whose it was or why it was saved (other than the obvious love of a child), but it's now mine and I feel a moral obligation to keep it safe. I'll tuck it in one of my own books and when I'm gone (hopefully many years from now) someone else will find it and wonder at what kind of story it tells and why I saved it. That kind of situational, random magic, that's why I love the world. That's why I get out of bed in the morning.

And because I promised, here are those out-of-context comic panels, um, in-context (I told you they were still odd even with the official captions):

I used to play The Sims regularly with an ex of mine, but haven't touched it in years. The story of Alice & Kev reminded me why I used to enjoy the game so much. It's alternately funny and heartbreaking (especially the entry titled 'Selflessness'). Well worth the read if you've got some time to kill.

That's all for me. I and my nicotine patch shall now retire. Goodnight.

arts & crafts with out-of-context comic panels

2009-06-20T01:19:00.007-04:00

Through my internet-rical travels, I end accumulating odd/funny/whatever pictures on my desktop. Rarely do I remember where they came from after the fact, but that's all part of the magic too. It's like little surprises for yourself. One type of picture that tends to show up often is panels from old comics. Especially those that can easily be taken out of context or just stand as weird on their own. And since I am only a day and a half in to my war with my own nicotine addiction, I don't believe I can manage much in the way of coherent thought (best thing about quitting smoking: I get to snap at people all I want and they forgive me easily enough, still not fun times though). So, in lieu of thought and intelligence, I offer yout two of the aforementioned panels. I've whited out the text with an amazingly advanced program called MS Paint. And now I offer them to you. Save the pic and add you own text. Or print them off and do it by hand. I've still got the originals and will post those next time (but they're still odd, even with the appropriate dialogue). Sound like fun? Well, give it a try anyway, you might even have enjoy it.

The Goddamn Batman illustrates the finer points of the pimp-slap:

Superman + weaving = . . . well, I'm not sure what that equals actually:

If anyone's particularly proud of their creations, send them to jay.barber.lives@gmail.com and I shall gain much enjoyment from them. No prizes, but my happiness is prize enough. What? Ok, I'll mail a cookie to the person who comes up with the best one. *fast talking legal jargon, cookie not transferable, yadda yadda, minus dock fee, taxes, title, whatever*

Oh, and have you heard the might tale of Lunch-Hawk?

Also, I have decided that 'depth of field' is one of the most beautiful phrases in the history of wordification. So it is written so shall it be done.

Hope you are doing well. Or at least better than I am. I miss you already Mr. Camel, we had a good run, but it's time to part. I'd still love to burn one right about now, though.

Be well.

and then they put the food on top of the water pan

2009-06-15T23:08:00.002-04:00

My new mission is to make sure everyone gets a chance to watch this. Because that is your god-given right as citizens of this world.

Rhett & Link have advanced degrees in awesomeness.

the good shit

2009-06-13T12:53:00.003-04:00

(I'm often out-and-about when an idea for a story or a scene will pop into my head. Having been a Boy Scout in my youth, I am prepared for these eventualities. I pull out my pen and my notebook and jot a few words to serve as a reminder. Sounds like a workable process, yeah? Problem being that I often have trouble remembering what those words were supposed to remind me of after the fact. Which brings us to this. On one such occasion I found the words ‘radioactive danish’ scribbled in a notebook and to this day have never recalled what that was supposed to refer to. So, I set out to make something that could be based off of that idea and also, probably more importantly, on a mission to amuse myself. This little short story is what came out of that. I know naming a story THE GOOD SHIT is an obvious invitation to snark, but just read the damn thing, the title doesn’t refer to the story itself. I’m not sure how good it actually is. I think it’s pretty close to the shape of what I wanted it to be, though, and in endeavors like this, that’s a much greater victory than we can usually expect. Ok, enough of my rambling. Enjoy.)

The Good Shit
by Jay Barber

The coffee was a gift. The casual, disinterested way it ruined Bobby’s life was an unintentional side-effect; call it a bonus if you’d like.

Doug passed the rectangular plastic bag across the table with a nod of self-satisfaction. “Just give it a try,” he said, “maybe one of these days you’ll realize you’ve been drinking muddy pond water. This is, as they say, the good shit.”

“But I like my coffee,” Bobby said, feeling the tiny beans rub against one another as he squeezed the bag. “I don’t even have a grinder.”

“Blasphemy! Do yourself a favor and buy one. Twenty bucks, you won’t regret it.”

“You do realize the reason I drink the cheap stuff with the crystals is because I can’t afford better. Twenty bucks for a grinder is more money for me than it is for you.”

“Crystals,” Doug scoffed. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “Alright, fine, I think I’ve got an old one in the pantry. I’ll bring it to you. Put the beans in, push the button. Easy-peasy Japanesey.”

“This is how drug dealers do it,” Bobby said. “First taste is free, after that it costs you.”

“You’re paranoid, my boy, just try it. I promise an eye-opening experience.”

So, two days later, Doug stopped by Bobby’s desk and laid a plastic cylinder on his calendar. Bobby had to be shown three different times before he was able to remove the cup and expose the blades. There were fourteen different buttons on the grinder’s base. Bobby wondered at their purpose. One button should have been sufficient. Grind. That was all the thing was supposed to do.

He carried the grinder behind his forearm, like a football, as he walked to his car and then, eventually, from the car to his run-down condo. Anyone noticing this would be lead to believe that Bobby was self-conscious about carrying the device. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain why this should be, but he felt it nonetheless.

Bobby ground the beans into a coarse powder and filled the reservoir at the back of the coffee maker with water. He leaned on the counter and waited for the aroma of Peruvian Charisma to fill the kitchen. He studied the bag in his hand while he waited. The front was adorned in a wood-cut portrait of an impoverished field hand leading a donkey. “A simple taste of simpler times,” the slogan promised. Bobby turned the bag over and frowned at the price tag—twenty-four ninty-nine, no way he could afford that on a regular basis, this would be Bobby’s first and last bag of Peruvian Charisma.

He noticed a small sticker beside the price. It was twice the size of a postage stamp and illustrated a bit of craggy land marked off with a grid. The miniscule print under the graphic explained that these particular beans were grown on a specific plot of land. The wonder of satellites and the internet allowed the consumer to zoom in on their respective area and get a view of how the rich aroma in their cup came in to the world.

Bobby filled his cup, added sugar and a splash of cream. He drank deep of the warm, rich liquid and sighed to himself. It really was the best coffee he had ever tasted. It was then that Bobby decided that getting a view of a humble coffee plantation could amplify his experience. He went over to his computer, pulled up the company’s website, and entered the longitude and latitude listed on the back of the bag.

The outdated computer hummed with effort and then presented Bobby with a section of field where coffee plants grew in perfect, even rows. The lone figure of a field worker walked between the rows, stopping occasionally to examine a plant or touch a leaf. Bobby smiled to see such attention to detail. Peasant farmers taking such pride in their work, it was a thing of beauty.

The man paused for a long moment and Bobby squinted as he leaned closer to the screen. It looked like the farmer was standing motionless with his hands somewhere near his waist. Bobby click on the magnification controls on the side of the webpage and the man’s form grew larger. Bobby felt his mouth drop open as he realized that the man was urinating. A tawny shower of moisture arched from the man’s pixilated penis and showered the nearby plants. He twisted back and forth at the waist causing his piss to cascade in a zigzag path that fell on at least four different plants.

Bobby collapsed into a fit of coughing as he carried his cup to the sink and dumped it out. He felt himself begin to gag and dashed to the bathroom, barely managing to shut the door before vomiting violently. He laid his forehead on the cool plastic of the toilet seat and saw that amber arch of urine in his mind. It was an endless stream cascading on the plants, covering the field, flooding the land. The farmer cackled madly in Bobby’s mind without interrupting his stream. He threw up again. It would not be the last time.

* * * * *

Bobby was at the office, standing in the men’s room at a urinal, contemplating the easiest way to ensure that his food remained free of waste products. Start shopping at more affluent stores? Not feasible. Bobby would never be able to afford it and even at exorbitant prices, there was no guarantee that the guy at the meat counter wasn’t rubbing his naughty bits on the flank steak, marinating the chicken cutlets in his own semen. Grow your own food? It was an attractive alternative, but Bobby’s backyard was little more than three square feet of grass surrounded by gravel. He figured growing one’s own food would be expensive and time-consuming as well. He hadn’t eaten a thing since visiting that website. He drank only water.

“Whoa, careful with that thing, killer,” a jocular voice said from behind him. Bobby partially turned and nodded as Doug stepped up to the urinal beside of him. Doug was the regional director of something-or-other and his life was all about voting republican and tax loopholes and conspicuous consumption. The good shit. Bobby scraped by on barely more than minimum wage in the data entry department. This incongruity in their financial standing often made Bobby wonder why they were even friends. Were they actually friends? Doug was always cordial and friendly—sometimes to an unsettling degree—but Bobby did often feel as though his boss was making fun of him somehow, but he could never quite articulate where that feeling came from.

“You look like you’re deep in thought,” Doug said as he unzipped himself loudly and allowed his own urine to ring against the porcelain. “What’s on your mind?”

“Farming actually.” Bobby looked down and realized that his business in the rest room had been completed for the better part of two minutes, but he still stood there, holding himself in one hand and staring at the wall in front of him, thinking about urban agriculture.

“How’s that?” Doug frowned at him over the plastic divider screwed into the wall between their respective urinals.

“Nothing.”

“Well, don’t run off to the farm anytime soon,” Doug said as he flushed the toilet and zipped himself up, “I’m going to need you to help me go through the cold files next week.” With that, he clapped Bobby on the shoulder and strode out of the bathroom door.

Bobby looked from the door to the sink to the place where Doug had stood only a moment before. Doug hadn’t washed his hands. All of those handshakes and power lunches and drinks with the VP’s after work. And he hadn’t washed his hands.

Bobby’s head filled with unspeakable vile images as he stumbled to the nearest stall and retched out what little was left in his stomach.

* * * * *

“What happened to your shirt?” Michelle asked on her way back from the printer.

Bobby looked down at the shoulder of his shirt, now sodden and clinging to him. He had fought the urge for as long as possible, but he kept coming back to the image of Doug slapping his back playfully before exiting the bathroom. Bobby could not shake the impression that a florescent green handprint was emblazoned on his back. So, of course he did what anyone would do in a similar situation. He removed his shirt and ran it under the faucet for several minutes, until the fabric was soaked through and all traces of the bossman’s bodily emissions had dissipated.

“Got caught in the rain,” Bobby said. Even he had to admit it was a weak lie.

“It rained?”

“Yeah, uh, a couple of minutes ago.” Bobby turned back to the papers on his desk, hoping it would signal to the pretty young woman that the conversation was over.

She didn’t quite take the hint. “You see the Danishes?”

“Hmm?”

“Roland brought in Danishes. They’re on the desk over there.” She pointed to a vacant cubicle around the corner from Bobby’s.

“Is there—“

“Yes, we saved an apple one for you. Help yourself.” The heels of her tall pumps clicked on the floor as she walked away.

Bobby was not a man a great willpower and one of his favorite vices was sugary sweetness. His stomach rumbled a complaint and he decided that it might be possible to eat frosted apple goodness without throwing it back up moments later. If he could keep his mind reined in, that is.

Enthusiastic and committed to undertaking this vital mission, Bobby stood and walked around the corner to select his Danish. He cursed to himself when he saw Doug leaning on the empty desk and talking on his cell phone. He held a raspberry scone in his hand and waved it carelessly to punctuate whatever point he was making. Bobby looked down at the small cardboard box of pastry. Just like his shirt before its ceremonial bath, the box now had a number of bright emerald handprints on it. Doug had soiled the entire box with his filth.

Bobby begged his mind and stomach to shut up as he slinked off, back to his desk.

* * * * *

“What’s with the gloves?” Bridget asked.

Bobby flexed his hands inside the latex gloves and cursed himself for not taking the time to prepare an excuse. “Paper was drying my hands out,” he leaped on the first thought that popped into his mind. The wave of one hand indicated a great many sheets of paper on his desk. “It’s a skin condition. Genetic, I think.”

“Hmm,” Bridget said, her interest already lost. She extended a hand and held on to the corner of Bobby’s desk, steadying herself. “Sticky,” she said, rubbing her foot back and forth on the carpet. She bent and removed one crimson shoe. Her mouth turned down when she saw the old piece of gum stuck there. “Wonder where I picked that up. I mean honestly, is it so hard to spit it in the trash can?”

“No, it’s not,” Bobby agreed as he watched her hands closely. He had a feeling he knew what was about to happen and shuddered.

Bridget scratched a stranger’s gum off the bottom of her shoe with a French-tipped fingernail and frowned at the pink, hair-laden wad. A flick of her wrist and the gum bounced off the side of Bobby’s filing cabinet and landed in the trash can. “Two points,” she said with pride.

“You are going to wash your hands, right?”

“No time. Meeting with Jeremy in a few, I’ll do it later.” Bridget pulled at the back of her skirt as she walked away and Bobby was wholly unsurprised to see that she left two small, green fingerprints where she touched it.

* * * * *

“What’s with the mask?” Doug asked.

Bobby had found it in the first aid kit. A rounded piece of fabric with a small rubber string running from one side to the other. It covered his face from nose to chin. Bobby was surprised how much it muffled his voice when he spoke. “Mono. I don’t feel bad, but it’s a rare form. Highly infectious.”

“You need to go home?” Doug asked, his voice almost sounding sympathetic. Bobby opened his mouth to say, “No, I feel fine,” when Doug sneezed hard into his hands and wiped them on the front of his shirt. Two florescent green trails now marched down his chest.

“Yeah, actually, that may not be such a bad idea,” Bobby said and five minutes later he was walking to his car. A stray dog defecated on a light post and he felt his stomach flip.

* * * * *

Bobby was seeing traces of green filth everywhere now. Even when he wasn’t given any idea of what type of filth he was seeing. A small boy kicked a soccer ball in the parking lot of Bobby’s apartment complex. Florescent pigment stained his chin and the front of his shirt. Bobby closed the blinds.

Feeling sick and desperately hungry, he dug a frozen lump on hamburger meat out of his freezer, with hopes of being able to both cook and eat it. Bright green blotches ran across the top of the meat and made him feel nauseated. Bobby ran the raw meat under the tap water for forty-five minutes. He squirted a line of dish soap across the top and scrubbed at it roughly with a small piece of steel wool. When he was satisfied the meat had been sufficiently washed, he molded it a waterlogged patty and placed it on the stove.

The moisture of the sodden meat leaked through the bun and turned his hamburger into a sloppy mess. Tasted horrible as well. But Bobby was able to keep it down, even as he wondered if the meat could have possibly benefited from a few more moments under the tap.

* * * * *

“Bobby?” Doug’s voice asked through the phone’s speaker. Bobby rolled over in his bed and looked at the time; ten thirty. He was exhausted from six and a half hours of scrubbing his house the night before. Bobby opened a sanitary towlette from a pack on the night stand and used it to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

“Hey, Doug. Did you get my email?”

“Yeah,” Doug said, “I got it in the sense that I receive it. If you mean ‘did I understand it’, that kind of got, well then the answer would be a no.”

“I thought I explained it pretty clearly. I’ve got this condition. I don’t think I can come in to the office. Not even sure if I can leave my house. You think I can work from home?”

Doug sighed. “Your job is data entry. You take the hard copy and type it into the computer. You can’t do that from home. It’s not . . . you just can’t.”

“I understand.”

“So, you coming in today?” Doug asked.

“No. I told you, I just can’t come in. And if I can’t work from home, I guess that means I kind of, you know, may have to quit.”

“What are you going to do then?” Doug’s voice softened. He was asking as a friend now, rather than a boss and Bobby felt like he may have been unfair to Doug. He should still wash his fucking hands, though.

“Honestly, I have no idea.”

* * * * *

The ads appeared in the Penny-Saver on a regular basis. Work from home! No experience required! Have fun and make money! They were usually pyramid schemes, no fortunes to be made there. But, if one was willing to participate in enough of these programs simultaneously, it was possible to eke out enough of a living to keep oneself fed.

Bobby woke and spent two hours scrubbing and cleaning. Then he sat at his computer, designing business cards for a graphic design firm that was comprised largely of one solitary man working out of a foul-smelling garage. Email made it possible for Bobby to work for the man without being forced to venture into said garage.

He made himself a sandwich around noon. He had all of his food delivered from a small grocery store down the street. An elderly couple owned the place, conducting their business like it was sixty years ago. They still kept a tab running for some regular customers. They still delivered. Bobby trusted them. The food still had to be washed thoroughly before it could be eaten, though. Bobby held each piece of bread under the tap and heavily spiced it with soap. The soggy mess was then ingested without pleasure, but Bobby was happy enough not to feel the need to vomit.

He cleaned for another hour and a half and then began cold calling people to inquire if they might be interested in refinancing their mortgage. Most hung up on him without a word.

Then he exercised—running in place in the center of the living room for forty five minutes—and cleaned for another hour or two. He spent his evening gluing small, plastic figurines to decorative bases. He packed them carefully into boxes—boxes that had been coated outside and in with alcohol-scented hand sanitizer—and left them on the porch for the postman.

He cleaned for three more hours before bed.

And so it went for Bobby, each day passing much like the one before it. He was sometimes unhappy, but no more so than anyone else. There was an odd sort of pleasure from the safety he felt; safe from the germs, safe from the filth, safe from the bodily fluids of others. He felt protected for the rest of his days—all of which were spent within the walls of one run-down condo.

Bobby never drank coffee again. Not once. Not even the good shit.

be right with you

2009-06-11T19:41:00.008-04:00

Hang on . . . going to step outside for a minute before I start this one. Try to figure out if I've even got anything worth saying today. Feel free to go have a smoke or visit the wc or whatever . . . we'll reconvene here in five . . . I've never used 'wc' before . . . I mean I've used one, just not the expression . . . ok, be right back.

Ok, back.

First, I'd like to introduce you to Joshua Allen. Mostly just so that I can point you towards his Wiretap Follies, which had me laughing harder than I have since Arrested Development was canned. It's set up like a blog, most recent entry first, so you'll have to go to the archive to start from the beginning. Well worth the time. (His tweets are well worth a follow as well. Hilarious little minimalist short stories, they are.)

I also dig this is not a pitchfork. I'd not be brave enough to take such a hard look at my music collection. There's some stuff in there that's best left forgotten.

But then you'd also find stuff like this:

So there is some balance in the world. (That was mostly just for an excuse to post something visual to break up all the wording. Still a great song, though).

I had the misfortune of being present the last time this happened. Oh, the humanity indeed.

I remember as a kid, I couldn't fathom the idea that video games didn't exist in my parents' youth. The next generation is probably going to feel the same way about the DVR. We're grew up in the future's stone age.

No idea where that last thought came from. I should have probably begun this by admitting I'm very tired. Thursday was a trojan horse with three Mondays hiding inside. Feeling a bit . . . discombobulated. Less than stimulated, mentally that is, if you'll excuse me going all Clampett on you for a moment.

So, with that, I think I'll bid [pick your favorite foreign word for 'goodbye' and put it here]. Just felt as though I needed to stick something up here so everyone would know I wasn't dead. Unless I'm undead, but the word does literally mean 'not dead' so the point's still valid. (Speaking of zombies, is anyone else getting a more than a little excited about COLIN? Ok, I'll post the trailer just in case you're too lazy to click [making this the first time I've embedded a clip within a parenthetical thought, interesting]

now there's nothing to do but to close, like so).

A'ight. Peacin' out for reals. Have a good night. If I can get my shit together (there's a pun in there that you might get later) I'm planning on throwing a short story up here in the next couple of days. Baby steps, as Mr. Wiley would say. Go eat a cookie, you'll be glad you did.

did I ever tell you . . .

2009-06-07T22:35:00.002-04:00

Here's hoping we all live the kind of lives that such stories will be told after we're gone.

astroturfing out in the open

2009-06-03T19:26:00.003-04:00

Cracked me up.

so say we all

2009-05-28T19:27:00.005-04:00

My taste in foodstuffs is a little on the limited side (I'd give you some overly-complex explanation for that, but it probably comes down to some form of immaturity, and mostly I just hate tasting something I don't like), that small fact notwithstanding, it always bugs me when people judge something without trying it. The something that I'm referring to here is, of course, entertainment. I like to sample something before I make a judgment on it. Or at least have an idea of what it is so that I can say why I'm not interested. So, that being said, I decided to finally head the recommendation that has been given to me so many times that it's just become a dull roar. I decided to give BATTLESTAR GALACTICA a try.

I'm a genre fan, that much has probably become clear by now, but I just never gave BATTLESTAR an honest chance. I was 'aware' of the original series. I knew who played Apollo and Starbuck, knew the general concept, knew there was some comparison to STAR WARS, but that was the beginning and the end of my learnedness. Then the new series started getting such good buzz, I gave the miniseries a try (this was probably around the time that season two was airing). I found it slow. Good, but slow. Slow and heavy at a time when I was obsessive about the quick wit and energy of the Whedon and his acolytes. Anyway, point being I did enjoy the miniseries at the time, but just never made an effort to revisit that world for the ongoing series. So, I decided to give it another try. Had planned on doing a write-up once I finished the series, but then I stumbled upon the Fantastic Fangirls 'So what are you waiting for?' idea and realized that was what I was doing anyway. And the month of May is almost over, so I figure why the hell not?

If you want to skip to the end, I'll tell you that I still find the miniseries to be slow. Before that's taken as overly harsh, let me just say that I began this endeavor about two weeks ago and I am now heading into the home stretch with about half a season to go (also Razor, Caprica and the webisodes). Yes, I watched it that fast. Yes, that means I am now an obsessive fan. I'm now of a mind that the miniseries needed to be slow. The toy box was full of these amazing, fragile pieces and the creators had to take their time pulling each out and showing them to us. It's not until the regular series that all of those pieces get utilized to their fullest potential. I respect the miniseries much more now.

As for the rest of the series, I don't want to spoil anything for those that haven't watched, but may want to. Like LOST, I think the journey really is a good bit of the fun. Part of the reason why I blew through the whole thing so fast was the anticipation of 'what's going to happen next?!?' As I said, I'm in the middle third of season four. ______ was just killed, making ___ _____ lose his shit in a serious way. ________ and ____ just came home with ___ _____ ___. Good stuff.

The thing that I've been struck with most is the spirituality of the show. We've got two sides to a conflict. We've got two competing religions. Everyone has an some sort of belief. It's just a complexity that I haven't yet witnessed on a major television show. These people live and breath. They believe, they despair. (I've always had trouble spelling the word 'despair', there's a poem in there somewhere). Some of the things that come out of these characters mouths (especially Caprica-6 and our good friend Baltar) makes my intellect smile wide and long.

I was afraid at the beginning that BATTLESTAR would be just about paranoia; who can you trust, you know the drill. And it is about that. But there's so much more going on. It's deep and dense and heavy and fearless. It is good television. Hard to write a review when you won't let yourself talk about the plot, that's something I've learned in the past ten minutes, but this show is just too good to let even a little bit slip to a potential new fan. Also, now that it's almost over, I find myself being extremely jealous of anyone who has not seen the series yet. I'd love to experience it for the first time all over again. Hell, I guess that sentence is a pretty damn good review for anything, now that I think about it.

It does offer me some amusement that I am now a fan of Dwight Shrute's favorite show.

I'll leave you with this little tidbit that's been on my mind lately. I do think you can tell a great deal about a culture by the stories they tell, the fiction that endures and catches on. So, especially looking at genre stories, we've had a lot that deal with issues of trust lately. There is BATTLESTAR. Anyone could be a Cylon (well not anyone, 12 anyones, if you know what I mean). You've got DOLLHOUSE where our friend Tahmoh has once more learned that not everyone is to be trusted (learned that not just once, but twice in the first season alone). You've got Marvel's SECRET INVASION from last year, where even people you've been fighting alongside for years could be an evil, shape-shifting alien. There are others, but that's good enough. So, I'm wondering what it says about our society that we are so enamored with the idea of suspicion and paranoia, especially when they are directed as those closest to us. No idea what it means yet, but it is something I've been thinking about.

And now I believe I shall pray before the altar of the almighty sandwich. Take care.

don't make me recite the oath

2009-05-27T18:10:00.004-04:00

I know! Ridiculous, right? I've always been firmly in the camp of wanting to see Nathan Fillion as Hal Jordan, so this just reinforced my already solid opinion. Impressive, most impressive. Extra credit if you can tell what movie each shot originated from.

in which we discuss tee shirts, blankets, books and girlfriends

2009-05-26T19:46:00.014-04:00

I'm a fan of obscure tee shirts. I'm actually wearing this one right now:

(Available here if you're interested)

Those that know me and my obsessions could guess who that frazzled looking man is (though most seem to think he's picking his nose). As far as the general public, I really couldn't say. But there's a level beyond that. Even friends and acquaintances that could guess that is in fact Mr. Gaiman, would have no idea why it says 'Scary Trousers' under him. A couple of minutes on Youtube could answer that question (and also supply one of my favorite Alan Moore stories), but that's not the audience we're trying to reach either. That guy is willing to do research, good on him, but it's not very impressive.

Two more just to kinda show you what I'm talking about:

(Available here)

(Get it hereabouts. Not making any money off of this, just playing fair since I'm shamelessly stealing pics for illustrative purposes)

See, the audience you're going after when you emblazon something like that on your chest, it's a very specific audience; it's the ones that are already in on the joke. It's almost a sort of morse code of geekdom. It's the same idea that lead to early Christians creating the fish symbol. Smacks of blasphemy, but take it down to it's most basic terms, the fish was a way for members of a group to recognize and acknowledge one another. Same thing we're dealing with here when the guy at the record store has BROWNCOAT marching across his chest, or the chick two treadmills over has KHAAAANNNNNN stretched between her shoulders. It's a way to tell that you are among 'your people'. I disagree with most things that most people say (ok, slight exaggeration), but throw out a Whedon reference or a Spaced joke and you're instantly ok in my book. All by way of saying that I find the place that tee shirts have in our lives to be fascinating. You know the ones I'm talking about. The good ones. The ones you wear first out of the laundry (yes, like Golden Boy). The ones you allow to remain in the rotation long after they've passed their prime. The ones you will never paint in, no matter how ragged they get. Yeah, you know that shirt. If nothing else, maybe thinking about that shirt, even for these past few seconds, maybe that made you smile a little bit. Those are the tiny little moments you've got to hang onto, because they're really all we have.

The question rings out, loud and true: "Where the hell did that line of thought come from?" I hear, and I answer. Mostly because that odd sort of relationship with tee shirts leaves you with one problem: that box/bag/closet full of shirts that you love dearly, will never wear again, and cannot allow yourself to part with. What's to be done? Clearly, as with all serious matters, the answer is quilting. I am in love with this idea. Not just as a figure of speech, I want to do horrible, horrible things to this idea. (Ok, that's taking it a bit far, but I do enjoy making myself laugh.) I'm not even sure why I like it so much. Partly, blankets are another thing that I really appreciate, just as objects. There's the whole rhetorical 'what would you grab if your house was on fire' question. Mine would be, first and foremost, a Mickey Mouse blanket that my grandmother knitted for me (ok, knitted for my sister and then gave to me to stop the tears, sis got a different one) when I was four or five. So, these things, these blankets, we wrap ourselves up in them when we are sick, when we are lazy or cold, when we are in love. Blankets are a huge part of our lives. We've already established that tee shirts are a huge part of our lives (or for some of us, those that don't agree with this I will have great trouble relating to on a personal level). Ready for the hat trick? The third-thing-that-I-love that would be contained within such a creation? See what the guy did at the bottom of the article? He was very terse, very economical with his words, but he told you where those shirts came from and what they mean. He told you their stories. You take a pile of well loved tee shirts and make them into a blanket, you're just wrapping yourself in stories. And that's about the most beautiful thing I can think of.

And this is about the most righteous thing I can think of. I'm always surprised when there's some talk of book banning. It's such an antiquated notion. A fearful notion, really. But one that lives fat and happy in the home of the brave. My first reaction is usually some slight irritation, but there's something inside me that smiles too. Something that knows what book banning really means. It means that the artists are still out there doing their job. They're still making people nervous. They're still making us see things from a new perspective. And then I always wonder how many of those calling for a ban on a certain book have actually read the book in question. It all comes back to LOLITA for me. Repellent subject matter; it's supposed to disturb you if you're a thinking, feeling person. But it is also one of the most beautifully written books in the English language (at least in my opinion). Some may have to look at it as complete metaphor (as a love letter Nabokov writes to the English language) to be able to stomach it, but it is a remarkable novel. Don't protect yourself to the point that you make yourself unavailable for unexpected beauty, for wonderful surprises. Protect your children, sure, but you have to do that actively. You have to be engaged in their lives and know what they're being exposed to; you need to be able to talk to them about these difficult issues. I know it's a hard job and there are no vacations, but that's also why parenting is one of the most amazing things a person can do. And just you try and tell me that they're not worth the effort. As for the rest of us, we don't really need your protection. We can take care of ourselves. We can take care of our own children, our own hearts, our own minds. And beauty is such a rare, fleeting thing, don't ever be afraid of it, no matter how it comes dressed.

Clive Thompson has some interesting thoughts on the future of publishing. Which actually corresponds pretty well with some things roiling around in my head lately. Haven't quite decided how to make it all work yet, but I will report back with some treats for you in the not-too-distant future (say something cryptic like that and it's almost guaranteed never to happen, but I promise to do my best).

Alright, fine, I got all serious on you for most of this post, so here's something frivolous:

Hope all is well on your end.

may contain randomness . . . also bryan cranston

2009-05-21T18:58:00.005-04:00

Come with me on a journey. I end up here, and don't even ask me how, I've already forgotten. So, I start by reconfirming something that I've felt for years, that Bryan Cranston is a cool mofo. I think it'd be tough to argue that one. Then it dawns on us how random it is to be able to watch this particular actor in a 23-year-old episode of Airwolf. That episode of Airwolf doesn't have to hang out in front of the liquor store anymore, it can go right in and make a purchase. And you can watch it whenever you want on the internet. That's the world you live in. Go ahead and marinate on that for a minute, because then you get to the comment section and find a guy having a meltdown about Greg Garcia. And after all that, I call it my favorite link today and blow a gigantic kiss to the horrible Frankenstein that is the internet.

I've been meaning to collect my thoughts on various things to do a right true worthy post that has a point, but that'll keep for another day or so.

What else? The only new show announced for next season that has me excited so far is the tiny-Firefly-reunion-remake-of-V. Pictures, videas, all that good stuff. Which is where we find this:

We get it, Morena. You're attractive. Stop making the rest of us feel inadequate. Seriously, though. I do hope the show does well. I do hope the rest of the world comes to recognize the genius that is Alan Tudyk. Ditto for our lady above and Elizabeth Mitchell. Those three right there are enough, but the rest of the cast is equally as impressive.

And for no other reason than it made me smile today:

That's enough for me. I'll actually have a point next time, I promise. Be well.

wednesday wednesday wednesday

2009-05-12T22:31:00.003-04:00

*to be read in the obnoxious announcer voice*

This is the BIG ONE! The rumble for the island! Two men enter, one man leaves. BE THERE!

have no fear, the man of bronze is here

2009-05-06T23:08:00.005-04:00

Looks like Doc Savage is stopping by for a visit.

But then we (we being me) feel all guilty for our ulterior motives and admit that posting that was merely an excuse to post this:

Leaving both of the above items as largely circular in the their relationship and wholly, completely unimportant.

Unless you're really into Doc Savage. In which case: You're welcome.

A short story a week continues. Some good stuff in there.

It's amazing to me how many great short stories you can find online, just sitting there waiting for you. Interesting times, indeed.

Just go read it, trust me. For those of you paying uncomfortably close attention, yes, it does take me this long to read a magazine. But when I finish it knows it's been read.

Oh and here's all those ridiculously hard puzzles. (You can give them a try online before inevitably hitting the reveal solution button).

Made me smile, but in a guilty sort of way. Like gobbling down too many sweets at once. My palate is used to more of a variety.

Nope, don't think there was a point buried in any of that. What's up with that, y'reckon?

barely anything at all

2009-05-05T22:15:00.003-04:00

And where do we find ourselves on the hierarchy?

These are the questions that define who we are.

do any of them actually have heads?

2009-05-04T20:19:00.005-04:00

Yet another oddly composed image from DC. It's remarkably well-rendered, but what's with the boob obsession lately? Thought it made a nice bookend to the Supergirl post, too.

captain farrell should have listened to kenny rogers

2009-05-03T11:07:00.007-04:00

Ausiello's Fall TV Cheat Sheet. Because this sort of stuff is important to some of us. So much good stuff either likely to go or already gone. Slightly-better-than-neutral news on Chuck.

You end up accidentally starting a novel about fairies. That's understandable, happens to all of us at some point or other. The true surprise comes when you start to do research and realized exactly how fascinating fairy myths and legends actually are. And then there's the Casablanca Effect. I heard for years that it was one of the bests movies ever, yada yada, you know the drill. But I was . . . probably pushing eighteen if not older by the time I actually watched it. And it is a good flick, but I had already been exposed to a lifetime of Looney Tunes and Animaniacs and all other manner of parody. Nearly ever line sounded like a cliche because they had been referenced so often in other places ("Play it again, Sam." "We'll always have Paris." "If that plane leaves and you're not on it . . . " [these may not be exact, but you get my point]). It always sort of bothered me that I never got to experience the movie as a thing in and of itself. I knew it as a part of the culture first and foremost, the work itself came second. And I suspect it will be that way for future generations as well. For this and a number of other works (you'll have to catch your kids early if you want them to be shocked that Vader is Luke's father). Anyway, the elements in these old fairy stories have been recycled and rethought and rewoven so many times, I often find myself knowing where the story is going just because I've been made familiar with the pattern elsewhere. I'd like to think that not all of that is just borrowing. I like to think of every story (the ones worth telling anyway) have a sort of inevitability about them. An idea, no matter how small, brings its own baggage and will have quite a bit of input on the shape it will eventually take. That's how things are shaped in my world, anyway.

Worked at the local Beerfest yesterday. I find myself continually surprised at how intoxicated people just seem so happy to be alive. I'd say that's why they're tolerated to so much greater degree than others altering their minds with chemicals. The burnout gets some leeway because he is amusing. And the Prozac-addled are just part of the scenery now. But the drunk has a special place in our society. He gets special treatment, it seems. I wonder if part of that is because (in the early stages of intoxication anyway) his happiness is just so infectious.

I love this. Europe explained:

(Roll on credits: I found it here, via here. [Swiss Miss is awesome, by the way]).

Because I had trouble thinking of a clever title for this one, I cheated and just made something up. Now I have to justify it. Here ya, go.

(Though I guess the captain was over the Cork & Kerry Mountains and not sittin' at the table, but you take my meaning.) They're both that old style of Story-Songs that people don't seem to make that often anymore.

Just realized that by that widget over there *nods left* that I haven't used last.fm in close to a month. And the last thing I listened to just happened to be called Hard on for Jesus. I tell you, I know a lot of people question how random life is, but when you see stuff like that, I think you have to admit that someone has a hand on the wheel. And he has a sense of humor. (I hope.)

you know, i wasn't even really hungry in the first place

2009-04-30T19:09:00.002-04:00

Because I am wholly unsure whether my mind can actually hold a thought at this moment, I bring you one of the new classics with no comment.

now with much greater educational value than intended

2009-04-28T18:49:00.010-04:00

Maybe the dinosaurs weren't killed by an asteroid. Interesting article. I’ve found my relationship with science changing as I get older. I remember as a kid, anything printed in a book was fact (kinda the same way your parents know absolutely everything, I still remember that feeling). The idea that facts sometimes seem to be as mutable as silly putty is a secret that they admit to you only a little at a time. It was, at least for me, only after years of hearing the word ‘theory’ thrown around that I finally realized what it meant. These are just the best answers we’ve come up with and not much more. And, to be honest, I’d rather live in that world (where reality has some elasticity and surprises are always possible) than one where the concrete of fact has already set and hardened. I did very much enjoy the last lines of the article:

“For the dinosaurs that perished 65 million years back, extinction was extinction and the precise cause was immaterial. But for the bipedal mammals who were allowed to rise once the big lizards were finally gone, it is a matter of enduring fascination.”

While on today’s science kick, I somehow landed on Pluto (metaphorically landed, not literally, do try and keep up). (Not realizing that it had become a verb in the past few years. I love adding new words to my . . . is there a way to use the word lexicon without sounding like a douche?) So, I bring you this little Plutonian landscape:

Pretty righteous, yeah?

Ok, you want more? Fine. Take a journey into a black hole. And, to avoid appearing racially biased one way or the other, how about a white hole to boot?

J. J. Abrams guest-edits this month’s Wired. The whole issue is worth a look (even if you’re not a fan, he’s pulled together some interesting bits of info, especially if you’re into puzzles). I especially enjoyed his article on spoilers.

“True understanding (or skill or effort) has become bothersome—an unnecessary headache that impedes our ability to get on with our lives (and most likely skip to something else). Earning the endgame seems so yesterday, especially when we can know whatever we need to know whenever we need to know it.”

I found myself nodding quite a bit as I was reading. The spoiler is an odd phenomenon that has cropped up with the advent of the internet. I’ve always wondered what those who are firmly in the spoiler camp actually get as a reward. Sure, there is the self-satisfaction that comes with getting that new scoop or piece of info before the other guy, but I’m hoping that’s not it. I’ve always thought that mindset kind of missed the point anyway. It’s one thing to hear that Mr. Brady was killed when the split level collapsed amid the chaos of Hurricane Alice, but without the context, without sitting there while the creators do their best to earn that ending, it’s all just stuff and nonsense. You know what happened, but you don’t know why you care. Reminds me of something that I just read in Lewis Hyde’s very excellent Trickster Makes This World. (Yeah, it’s from the introduction, cut me some slack, I just started reading it yesterday). (Oh, now you want to know how I can call it ‘very excellent’ after only reading the first bit, well . . . sometimes you can just tell, y’know?).

“As entertainment, the story stirs up a fantasy of amusing disorder; as medicine, it knits things together again after disorder had left a wound. In fact, to tell the story without such moral or medicinal motives does a kind of violence to it, and to the community (so that the teller would be suspected of engaging in witchcraft)."

I do my best to avoid spoilers, just because it takes the fun out of it. Especially with something like Lost where the puzzle is more than half the fun. I really do look at that show as more of a game than anything else. The best part of an episode is usually discussing it afterwards. That’s not to say that I begruge anyone their spoiler-dom, I just don’t really understand the mindset behind it.

Mark Evanier answers some f.a.'ed q.'s about Jack Kirby. (Not new, but I felt like spending some time with the King today, though maybe you would as well). (I can't recommend Mark's blog enough. He's a wise man with many stories to tell and he updates far more often than we deserve.)

mostly links; awesome links, but links nonetheless

2009-04-22T20:28:00.007-04:00

This awesomeness comes courtesy of Neil and Mousey just because it's, well, awesome.

Uncomfortable plot summaries. Some funny stuff in there.

Further awesomeness: Don't judge people according to their appearance. Check out the slideshow. The second one is my favorite.

Have any Len Wein comics?

Sneak peak of what I've been working on lately:

Ok, if you can see the time-stamp, you know it's not what I'm working on now, but that is my computer . . . just not the computer I'm typing this on . . . ah, nevermind.

Possibly to bed quite soon. Be well.

they're very impressive, yes, but super?

2009-04-18T13:51:00.008-04:00

I'm a casual comic reader. Get my books from a online subscription service that ships when the total reaches fifty bucks. That's about once a month and even that feels like too much at times. Anyway, that being said, I'm not sure what week this is from but sometime in the past month, this has been the big preview in the DC Nation column at the back of the books:

It's a preview from James Robinson's upcoming JLA: Cry for Justice series and I offer it here with a minimum of comment. My main wonder is if this is a cropped picture or the full cover. Did Supergirl get cropped out or was her torso the only portion of her body included in the picture? And then there's the simple fact that most superhero masks have that weird no-pupils thing going on, so it looks like all four of our brave heroes are staring directly at her breasts (ok, you can see Ray and Freddy's eyes, kinda, but that does nothing to damage my point). I work in corporate America myself and remember well the communication I had to send out the last time our department had a reorg. This was just going out to internal employees and senior management and it went through probably eight drafts and more than a half-dozen peoples's hands. How many people had to ok this artwork? And no one saw a problem with it? It's very well-rendered and I'm a huge fan of Mr. Robinson, but the composition just seems a little bit unfortunate.

In the course of tracking down that image, I cam across this interview from last year. I read on because of the tease of new Starman info and found this little factoid from James to be quite interesting:

“Do you know the whole thing with Captain Marvel Jr. and Elvis Presley? Well, let me tell you. For Freddy Freeman, ‘Captain Marvel Jr.,’ the art was always done by Mac Raboy, or a lot of it was. It was a much more serious book than ‘Captain Marvel.’ It felt more serious. It was darker. It was more real than C.C. Beck’s ‘Captain Marvel’ and definitely more serious than ‘Mary Marvel.’ And also he was a scruffy, cripple news guy, who when he said, ‘Captain Marvel,’ became Captain Marvel Jr.

“So Elvis Presley wanted a unique haircut. And at the time, in the fifties, especially in Memphis, he couldn’t get it because everything was short, back and sides. So he would go into ladies hair salons with copies of ‘Captain Marvel Jr.,’ show them Captain Marvel’s haircut and that’s the original look of Elvis. And when you think about Elvis later, Vegas Elvis, with the cape, think about it in your head, turn into red and gold or blue and gold and it’s a Captain Marvel costume."

I was uncertain about the direction that James and the others were taking with the Superman books at first, but I'm enjoying the hell out of the ride so far.

I finally got around to reading the Sinestro Corps War in preparation for Blackest Night and I am once more just absolutely floored with what Geoff Johns is doing with Green Lantern (with help from many other talented people). I always had some nostalgic affection for the character, even though I never particularly enjoyed his series. That has changed now and it's usually one of the first things I read. Can't wait to see what they do with the film.

You know you've been curious, admit it:

Not much going on, otherwise. Playing the waiting-game on every issue that would be interesting enough to mention. Go outside and play the next chance you get.

like sausages?

2009-04-14T19:48:00.004-04:00

As I get older, I seem to take fewer and fewer risks with music. I used to fall for someone and devour their entire catalog, but that hasn't happened for a while. I'm also an admitted TV junkie (it's the best place to find the long, serialized stories that I do so dig). Put those two facts together and I'll have to admit that much of the new music that ends up entering my life's soundtrack comes from television shows. So, I'm surprised and a little bit delighted to find this website. If nothing else, you can research the show with the best soundtrack on television (there is an unofficial soundtrack, looks like a pretty good selection). Which is where I finally identified this little ditty that has been running through my head all day. (Which is where this whole line of thought began, if you were wondering.) I dig it.

I do sort of keep a soundtrack going for myself. And it's . . . eclectic? Can I use that word without sounding like a douche? Tullycraft has been in heavy rotation lately. But they somehow got joined with the Kinks (link not inserted because I expect you to know who the Kinks are). So I'll play something like Miss Douglas County and follow it immediately with He's Evil. (And by play, I mean play in my head as often as not. You can't perfect your strut without a song constantly in your head.) Odd mixtures like that are where I live. I've thought about putting together a playlist and posting it for posterity. Look back in a few years and see what the music of right now said about my life right now. Music is a topic I keep coming back to simply because I'm fascinated by it. I don't presume to understand it on any level, so it's a little like magic in a way.

Just posting this because it makes me happy. Brian's one of those characters who I think it must be impossible not to love.

Happy Whatever-the-Hell-day-it-is. I cannot believe how quickly this year is passing. Time and tide and all that rot. Be well.

happy zombie-jesus day

2009-04-12T20:29:00.004-04:00

Or whatever else you're celebrating today.

And yes, Virginia, Woody Harrelson is still awesome.

soft like a cloud?

2009-04-11T19:40:00.003-04:00

This obliviously took a bit of talent and planning, but then the big day came and they were upstaged by the guy running the drive-through.

Life's a funny thing sometimes.

jesse custer never shows up, though

2009-04-09T19:52:00.002-04:00

So, the area I live in is relatively close to the city, but had been only marginally developed. The city is growing this way, though, and shopping centers, hospitals, and all manner of interesting things have become popping up with a steady regularity. Not surprisingly, many of the structures that were already here are churches annnnnnnd (look out, here comes the point) our closest coffee shop is often used for small Bible study groups. No matter what time of day you go in, there's likely to be at least one table taken up by vigorous discussion. And I'm not complaining at all, religion of any form is just fascinating to me (read: this is me romanticizing my tendency to eavesdrop). This morning there was an older man in a suit so perfect he had to be an actual preacher. Not minister, not shepherd, Preacher. And listening to him, I realized how familiar I was with what he was doing. My higher education was focused on all the abstract theory of Literature. The aesthetics. I realized that preachers have to utilize the very same toolbox that a literary theorist use; the difference being that they're applying these tools to only one work. I never thought of ministering as an artform, but the idea appeals to me. If nothing else, it shows just one more way that art holds a position of great power. Whether you're religious or not, you have to admit that churches are one of the first things a new community builds. They're pretty vital to the bedrock of our world and at the heart of religion is a faith based on some work of literature (there are exceptions, but you know what I mean).

While having no measurable musical ability myself, I seem to have surrounded myself with a social circle that includes several musicians. Talking with them about the art of the thing (the thing being music) (and yeah, we're still on art, though I'm trying very hard not to use the word aesthetics again . . . wait . . . dammit!), I've been surprised by how little difference there is in the way they talk about music and they way that writers talk about their medium or visual artists about theirs. The craft is completely different, but the underlying ideas, there's a unity there. It's all one thing and that's a beautiful thought to me.

All the jobs that fictional characters have, I've always wondered if Writer was the most common. It's possible this isn't true, cops and soldiers are pretty common too. But everyone thinks their own life is fascinating (or I hope so anyway) and it is a writer deciding what the story will be, so it makes a kind of sense. I do love stories about writers, though.

Billy Bob Thornton stonewalls like no other. I'm impressed with his stubbornness and sense of entitlement. I'm impressed with the interviewers ability to stay cool and stand his ground. Mainly, I'm just wondering what the other members of the band are thinking during all of this. The world may never know.

Saw this poll and thought "well, that's a stupid question." Contributed my vote to see the results and it appears it was, indeed, a stupid question. We all know you can't stop the signal.

Helpful links for anyone still confused about what's going on with the Dollhouse schedule.

And now the coffee is done and I miss it already.

Enjoy your day. Enjoy the simple fact that no one else has your life.

you're entering a world of pain

2009-04-07T23:43:00.005-04:00

6 Writers Who Accidentally Crapped Out Masterpieces. Pretty good list. This has to be my favorite part:

"Far be it from us to suggest that Shakespeare had any sort of contempt for his toothless, donkey-riding fans, but perhaps his ability to invent so many new words had less to do with his prose refusing to be bound by the constraints of the English language, and more to do with the fact that his illiterate audience wouldn't be able to tell a real word from a "Shakespeare original" if their donkey's life depended on it. It's very possible he was just fucking with them."

If you're not watching Chuck, try it out. Quickly becoming one of my favorite shows. This weeks episode gets much, much respect for two very great pop-culture-reference lines. "Oh, boy," and "you're entering a world of pain."

If you haven't read "I Love You, Beth Cooper" by Larry Doyle, try it out. Quickly becoming one of my favorite novels. Insightful and funny and true.

Here's a treat just because I love you:

The eyelids, they grow heavy. To be continued.

wanna?

2009-04-03T14:28:00.006-04:00

I'll meet you there.

Surfing the internet at work boasts productivity. Which is good because it was on a work-internet-break that I read about Andy Richter Controls the Universe being released on DVD. Loved this show when it was on and I've spoken often of it since, but my memory on the actual content was kinda hazy. I'm a disc in now and have not been disappointed. Good stuff. Worth a look. And now I know where I know that guy on Better Off Ted from. (And now I see both shows were created by Victor Fresco, fascinating the way you stumble on new information like that.) This episode is playing currently:

We finally get a chance to have 'FBI' and 'adamantium' used in the same article, yet somehow I'm not as excited as I always thought I'd be. Disappointment never gets any easier, yeah?

Malcolm Reynolds will teach you everything you need to know to get through life:

so you'll always know

2009-04-02T19:40:00.001-04:00

How much is a stamp? (The guy in the mailroom is lying to you, go kick his ass.)

looking forward to not-so-interesting-times

2009-03-31T20:25:00.003-04:00

Lost-related coolness. It's Doc Arzt, but spoiler-free. (Karla always has the best links.)

It's surprising to me how easy it is to develop magical powers once you put your mind to it.

And the sad news, we've lost another talent. I was a little late finding out, but Andy Hallett has passed away. I was always a huge fan of Lorne. Rest easy, buddy. Thanks for everything.

worth the price of admission or your money b . . . ah, nevermind

2009-03-30T18:17:00.005-04:00

Interesting article on humor on the internet. Mr. Brown gets much respect for one of my favorite closing lines I've read lately. It is funny, though, how much the anonimity of the internet turns everyone into a comedian. Funny intersting, not funny ha-ha (though it often is that). Be sad if they all just eventually focus too much on their own quips and don't take the time to laugh at anyone elses. I dunno. It's been an intersting day.

Thought this was really clever.

Monday has become an amazing night for guilty-pleasure Television. That just needed to be said, for posterity.

some days it does not pay to get out of bed

2009-03-26T22:09:00.003-04:00

It's odd to have one of those days that you know you'll remember forever. I didn't say bad or good, just odd. Hope you are well, whatever you may be.

in which many points are nodded to briefly as they pass, but little else

2009-03-25T18:45:00.007-04:00

People fit into categories with minimal effort if you're willing to overlook the dangly bits on the sides. One category I find myself in is "People who do not watch The Price is Right on a regular basis." I'm aware of TPiR, but even if I'm not at the office when it's on, I never seem to catch it. So, the stars chose to align in just such a way to make today the first chance I've seen an episode since Drew took over . . . [interlude here just to say that I'm not entirely uninvested in the subject, TPiR was a huge part of my childhood, so I've got some love for it] . . . and it's just odd. Different odd. For one thing, it seemed to me that Drew didn't much want to be there, or that's the vibe he was giving off anyway. But that is him, though, he's got sort of a low-key persona. The weird thing for me was how small everything felt. The studio, sure, but more than that, the whole experience felt smaller, diminished. It's interesting, if nothing else. Time makes a ruin of us all, I suppose, even the emperor or lunchtime television.

I can't wait to see what they do with this:

I am honestly enjoying the hell out of this season of Lost. I'm of the mind to just sort of ride with it, I know it all makes sense (mostly) if you give yourself up to it. So, I abide while doing my best to see both the forest and the trees and not get bogged down in the minutiae. That being said, God bless everyone who is trying to keep track of all of the wonkiness. I mean, just reading how they had to split out the timeline proves problematic. Lost fans have their own Crisis on Infinite Earths now. It seems to be the natural progression of stories to get bigger and more complex. Hell, look at Star Wars. That's just a hungry void of a story now. Does anyone even know what's going on there anymore? Ah, I've lost whatever point I was trying to make. Fiction is fun.

I try to find sometime frivolous and fun like that to get excited about every day. TV shows are good for that. Gives you something to look forward to while asking very little in return. People are good ways to waste time too, though. Go waste some time. Go make yourself happy, if only for a moment.

when I was a kid I actually preferred this one

2009-03-18T18:50:00.002-04:00

I was pretty young, but still . . .

And just to play fair, here's the guys we know and love:

ramble on

2009-03-11T20:11:00.004-04:00

So, when you're a kid, you make up stories. Everybody does, I think. There's some deep need to describe the world we see. At some point, for some, it begins to be thought of as a possible vocation. That's when you really start to wonder what tales might live inside of you. And I'd say, as with any art form, such thoughts begin with mimicry. Many of those first ideas are just retreads of those stories you love with a fresh coat of paint on the shutters, a reshingled roof. Young writers learn much from copying. I do have a point, it'll be along any minute now.

I'm several days behind on the far-too-many television shows the DVR allows me to follow, so I turn on Heroes. Problem being that I haven't been particularly interested this season. I can't even say why, it's just began to feel a bit directionless. Still entertaining, but not what it once was. My mind begins to wander just as Jack Coleman's name flashes across the screen and I think the same thing I've thought ever time I watch the show: "I know that name from somewhere." It's never been at the front of my mind, but it has nagged me. I get a decent amount of pride from my ability to remember useless trivia, so not being able to place him irritates me. For some reason I start to think about the demon (I think he was a demon, been a while) Sahjhan from season 3 of Angel. Anyone who speaks with me for more than a few minutes can tell you I enjoy the Whedon, so maybe that's where I saw the name. And Sahjhan would have required a lot of make-up, making the actor tough to recognize. Nope, close though. That's Jack Conley. Ok, bit the bullet and just looked up Jack Coleman. Page down a little way (far further than I expected) and I have my answer. Nightmare Cafe. Six episodes aired when I was twelve years old. I wasn't particularly a fan of the Nightmare of Elm Street guys, but I freakin' loved this show. And this is the point, Nightmare Cafe was one of those stories that I loved so much that I wanted desperately to rip it off. What would have been my first novel (had I followed the plan I had at the time) was extremely close in theme, tone and, well, almost everything. Story wasn't a complete mimic (and I do think there is enough good stuff in there that I may revisit it someday), but the pieces were all there. I hadn't thought about that show in years. And that's the point, the sort of liquid encyclopedia that the internet has become is fascinating. Someone loves something, no matter how obscure it is (and Nightmare Cafe may not be as obscure as I think it is, and does seem to be running on the channel Chiller, but my first thought on reading that was "What the Hell's Chiller?"), the person wants to share the thing they love with the world, so they make a webpage for it. And it's there, for anyone to stumble upon and relive a particular time in their life. Everything is important to someone. I'd say that kind of drive that people have, the thing that motivates them to make a Muppet Babies webpage or a Twisted Sister podcast, I think it's the same think that drives people to make up stories in the first place. So that whole thought just took on a circular aspect that I didn't really intend. It was written on the fly without the aid of mind-altering substances, that's just the weird way my mind works. So, anyway, if you so choose you may now enjoy a slightly-younger-than-Claire's-dad Jack Coleman in Nightmare Cafe:

Yes, I am aware that I spilled by geek all over this post and no, I don't really care very much. I know all about the 616, so my geekhood is buried shallowly if at all.

Anything else? I dunno. This arrived from a friend this morning and set the tone for my day. Way behind on all the things I want/need/have to do. But they'll all keep. Right now everything's . . . everything's ok. Yeah.

(And in the typing of all of that Heroes is now over and I have to admit, it was one of the better episodes this season.)

Be well.

why do we care what you think?

2009-02-08T10:20:00.007-05:00

Slowly getting started on a lazy Sunday (sadly one that does not include an appearance by Andy Samburg). So, to warm up my fingers and mind with intentions of eventually finishing up some submission packets, here are some thoughts on things I've seen lately.

This American Life Season 2 (TV): It's probably hard for me to be objective about this stuff since I'm such a huge fan of the radio show. I was late on the bandwagon, but very soon discovered their online archives and lost many, many hours in the process. If you've seen the first season or listened to the radio show, then you know what to expect here and won't be disappointed. Several of the stories had me on the verge of tears, but that's really no great feat when it comes to me and compelling stories (ok, I can be a crybaby, there I said it, happy?). The most interesting thing for me is when they cover a topic that I think I'm not interested in. I'll p'shaw with disappointment but keep watching anyway. Usually less than five minutes later I've been sucked in and find myself sitting straight up in my chair. It's good stuff. I do sort of miss the way they did the framing stuff from season one, though. Those three little icons accompanied by Ira's voice-over: "Well, it's This. American. Life." I don't really even know why, but that always made me smile. And the whole visual of taking Ira and his desk and putting them in remote locations, it always made for a cool image. But now, it's more urban, I'd say. Ira's been released into the world with a tiny hand-held camera. It works for the show perfectly, but I did prefer the rawness and oddity that were there in the fist nervous season. It's a minor quibble, though, hardly even worth mentioning, but I did it anyway.

Coraline: Any one who knows me can tell you I'm a huge fan of Neil Gaiman. I devour his stuff. Read the Graveyard Book in one sitting and have since reread or listened to it at least half a dozen times. That being said, Coraline was always my least favorite thing that Mr. G has done. And that's not to say it's bad, not by a longshot. I just didn't connect to it the way I connected with Sandman or American Gods or the stories in Fragile Things. Coraline is a good book, it really is, just not one that captured my so completely. Now that I've seen what Henry Selick has done with the film, I may need to reread the novel and revise my opinion. Maybe it was the intricate design work or the nearly flawless puppetry. Maybe it's the small fact that Coraline herself is adorable and charming while still acting like a 11 year old girl. Only one exposure and I think I'm in love with this film. The changes (Wybie's inclusion, the location change, etc.) all made sense within the framework of the story and none seemed superfluous. The film just works and I applaud everyone who put so much time and effort into it. Really, if you stop to think about it, it's a marvel that the film was even made in today's short-attention-span culture. It's a cool flick, that's probably the simplest, best way to put it.

Speaking of Mr. Gaiman, I truly hope he won't mind if I steal this link from his blog. AMC has The Prisoner online. I just had to spread the news as this has been a particularly hard series to come by over the years. Well, at least for me. I remember the grainy VHS tapes that were loaned around in high school. No one seemed to ever know who copied them originally and they tended to not be returned after being borrowed. They just belonged to everyone in some weird vintage TV show co-op . . . or something.

I could include other things (like my thoughts on how this season of Lost is going or my excitement that Breaking Bad will be back soon), but that's probably enough for now. I'll leave you with my current theme song (I've also begun thinking quite a bit about personal theme songs lately, don't be surprised to see a post on that in the near future). Here's a cool video accompanied by Bob Schneider's Long Way to Get:

service will be restored

2009-02-04T20:29:00.005-05:00

Computatorial problems lately. No fun. Very tired. Television is good and asks very little of you. Parker's Quink in blue-black is a thing of beauty. More to come. Be well.

. . . you know you want to sing along.

you know you want a victorian rv

2009-01-26T23:48:00.002-05:00

I'll admit it. I've got a soft spot for steampunk. But even if I didn't, I'd probably still think this is pretty cool.

what do you think Regis is doing right now?

2009-01-26T20:44:00.005-05:00

We seem to find ourselves in the final stages of a massive proofreading project, so haven't had time to put anything up here in a few days. Busy, yet in that way that would be massively boring to describe.

Here's a musing to tide you over: Type Batman into the internet movie database and you get close to a hundred entries (give or take, some are probably dupes). Y'know one title that's not on there? Batman 2. Wonder why they always get creative with the Bat-titles.

Ok, ok, since you asked so nicely. My favorite title on the list is Fight, Batman, Fight! There, happy?

And a big congratulations to Mr. Bod and Mr. Neil. Big smile when I heard the news.

put on your jelly bracelets and your cool graffiti coat

2009-01-18T14:35:00.006-05:00

Just because it cracks me up.

sssssshhhhhhhhh

2009-01-18T12:42:00.002-05:00

"Hey, mister! Could you give us some interesting historical information about card catalogs?" Um, yeah, sure.

(I think I've decided in the past 15 minutes that I really need to find a cool vintage card catalog cabinet--alliteration is fun, huh?)

if it bothers you so bad, here's your nine cents back

2009-01-17T08:32:00.007-05:00

Speaker Pelosi Presents Capital Cat Cam. The video itself gave me a chuckle. The numerous meltdowns in the comments section are the best part, though. And the best they can think of is complaining about wasted tax dollars. Doesn't look like it cost that much to me. Unless they had to buy the camera, but even then, this is the US Government we're talking about. Waste just comes with the territory. When anything is that big with that many moving parts, there's gonna be some leakage. You can bitch about it if you want, but I think you can easily find worse offenses without trying very hard. *bobs his head over there* I think they get points for effort anyway. Trying to get younger people interested and involved in today's fragmented culture, that's a difficult mission.

didn't they kill him off last season?

2009-01-16T20:54:00.004-05:00

You ever have one of those days that feels like a lost episode? Like characters you thought had long ago taken their final exit from the story of your life suddenly crop back up. I haven't quite decided if it's a good thing or not. It can be a confusing thing, I suppose. But in a way it's fairly cool when it reminds you of why you cared so much about them in the first place.

Just a wealth of information about fountain pens. Why? Because fountain pens are good things in my book.

you want me to do what?

2009-01-15T19:14:00.005-05:00

Thought this was interesting. That's just a little bit of sphincter-loosening pressure right there.

(Yeah, that was just an ugly sentence.)

The Onion never fails to remind you of things you haven't thought about in years. (In this case, T.J. Maxx, which often supplied a good bit of my wardrobe in my early years.)

the children all gave the house on Edgar Court a wide berth

2009-01-11T21:31:00.002-05:00

. . . whenever they passed. The house could not be faulted for this; their avoidance was not caused by any failing or incongruity on the structure’s part. It was a perfectly normal house built in the split-level style that was popular twenty or so years previous. It sat on a small rise on the north end of the cul-de-sac, greeting the neighborhood with its manicured lawn and vibrant red shutters. Sculpted ivy ran up one wall and the roses in the small garden always bloomed full and round, and at least a full week earlier than any of the neighbors’. The house was friendly and serene, but it was not inviting. When pressed, the neighbors would have difficulty explaining exactly why this was, yet when it came time for the next barbeque or Halloween party they then somehow managed to forget that neat little house on the hill when passing out invitations. They could never tell you why, though. But the children, well, that’s a different story. They could tell you exactly why.

Ms. Gause was why.

The children called her a witch and avoided even walking past her impossibly normal little quarter of an acre. They hid in the tall bushes on Mr. Hyatt’s front lawn—this being the best location for an unobstructed view of the Gause residence, without allowing oneself to be caught under that arc of the nearby street light’s—and they would dare each other to step onto that stone walkway, ring that glowing little doorbell. Few accepted the dare, those that did never seemed to complete their missions. There was always much laughing and running before any child made it more than halfway up the walk. So, the house remained largely undisturbed and unmolested.

This suited Ms. Gause just fine.

Occasionally, though, one of the older kids would summon up all the apprehension and fear they’d felt of that unremarkable little house over the years, they’d take that fear and turn it into a white little ball of anger and they’d lash out. Alcohol or some other medicinal substance was usually involved. The Gause house would be splattered with eggs come the morning. Or lightly showered with crisscrossing rolls of toilet paper. Or the simple aluminum mailbox would have a fresh dent on one side. Inevitably, in a suburb this small, the guilty party would eventually be outed and marched up that fearful walkway to apologize to Ms. Gause.

Ms. Gause would really rather they didn’t.

The shaking youth would stand under the single bare bulb lighting the porch and give a sullen, nearly tearful apology to proper Ms. Gause. The parents flanking either side of the offender would then offer an apology of their own. Ms. Gause would smile though the screen door—for she refused to open it—and she would accept their penance with a flat, unremarkable smile. On the way back to the car, the child would protest and declare that the woman is a witch, a foul loathsome creature who congregates with the boogeys and suppers with spirits. The parents would chide the child for their overactive imagination and silly accusations. The parents would have been better off had they listened, though, for a child is many things and one is perceptive.

Ms. Gause was indeed a witch, but those not involved in the magical community may be surprised to discover that it was not, in fact, a very interesting vocation. She could control the quality and shape of the flora on her lawn—she was always good with plants—but she dared not make them overly impressive or else she’d attract attention. She could pick coins from the air—a lesson learned from a drunken leprechaun one night in Antwerp some 400 years previous—but could not spend extravagantly, for, again, this would arouse the curiosity of the community. Her desire to say hidden was not the product of any specific conspiracy. There are no packs of witch-hunters prowling the streets looking for magic-folk. No, she’s not in any tangible danger; not anymore. It’s just that, as I mentioned, she is quite old and one thing you learn after your first thousand or so years is that anonymity is much safer than the notoriety. Any witch that didn’t learn that would most likely not see her second thousand. Yes, there were a few who learned this lesson in poor, frigid Salem all those years ago, but not as many as one might think. Not as many as one might hope. They generally prefer more humid climates—the tropics, the marshlands.

Also, it’s worthy of note that desire is a fickle mistress. That’s another fact that true practitioners of the art soon learn. There’s something primal and hungry in the wanting of a thing—whether it be a treasure, a mate, or something less concrete—yet in the possession, there is rarely a comparable level of pleasure; the grass is always greener until you move to the other side of the fence, and then you realize it’s just as wilted and brown over there. Put more directly: When you have the power to have everything, you stop wanting anything.

And so Ms. Gause spent most of her day simply and idly. She completed three different crossword puzzles before the civilized world had had its breakfast. She then brewed two pots of coffee—one glowed a faint emerald green—and took a cup of each out back to sit by the small stream that ran behind the house. The emerald coffee was placed on the ground and Bast, Ms. Gause’s equally emerald cat, would happily slurp it up. Bast was another thing that had to be hidden from the rest of the cul-de-sac, not only due to the color, but because the cat exuded raw power from every pore. Ms. Gause, back when she used her previous name, had once claimed that Bast was an imprisoned goddess from distant Egypt, but this was only to extort money from gullible travelers; Bast was a male cat after all. He was something—that much would be clear from but a glance—but the true nature and utility of his being was a secret that Ms. Gause had yet to reveal. Neither the woman nor the cat had ever been to Egypt, though they had both often remarked that it would be an interesting place to visit.

Ms. Gause would have a small snack around midday—usually a slice of pie or a few biscuits—and then retire to the garage, where she would putter about, working on this project or that. There on the counter were the remains of last week’s aborted attempts to breed a fireproof phoenix. She had abandoned the idea once someone, Ursula perhaps, had reminded her that the Pheonii quite enjoy the fire as it makes them feel more akin their ancestors, the Ifrit. Fiery red feathers had been sprayed with every substance known to man—and more that were not—and they laid in a small pile on the table.

A car battery and a clock radio, both of which had been partially dismantled, sat just to the left of this. This experiment had lain untouched for close to a month. Ms. Gause had realized that while it was possible and perhaps justifiable to solve the world’s energy problems, there was very little profit in it; very little profit for her anyway.

These and a hundred other abandoned theories laid scattered here and there. Ms. Gause knew each time that she’d lose steam and quit even before she’d even begun, but she began anyway. She knew it was a waste of time, but time was the one thing she had plenty of.

Ms. Gause would cook a light supper around 8—usually a slim slice of chicken or some lightly sautéed tofu, once a year, on her birthday, a sun-baked flank of yeti—and then bathe and retire to her bedroom to read until her eyelids grew heavy. This was the pattern of Ms. Gause’s safe, repetitive life until the day the taxi stopped directly in front of that lonely little house on Edgar Court, bringing with it danger, a warning, and a houseguest.

all of this is great, but where are the flying cars?

2009-01-11T20:58:00.004-05:00

I’m a part of that last generation who came of age just before the technology bomb hit. In high school there were maybe 4 or 5 kids who actually had cell phones. I didn’t get one until three years after graduation and it was the size and shape of a brick. Now, not too many years down the road, kids are asking for their own phone before they’ve even graduated from Happy Meals to the Extra Value Menu. They’re all googling and twittering and other-jargon-verbs-that-sound-almost-dirty-ing. It’s something I think about often. In the way so many of us rely on computers to stay connected to one another, it sometimes hits me exactly how much of our lives we’re expected to spend staring at computer monitors. Slave over spreadsheets all day only to come home and farm khorium nodes or spend hours arguing on a message board or randomly surfing while staying apprised of everyone’s Facebook status.

I’m often ambivalent on the way the internet has become so much a part of our day to day lives. In some ways it’s good. Wikipedia is a marvel to me. So much information in such a convenient package. There’s a lot of power there. I just used it a few minutes ago to figure out the name of my hat. It’s one of those that golfers often where, taller at the back than the front. My sister always called them ‘cow turd’ hats, but I’ve never known any other name for them. So, anyway, in my quest to become a hat person (it’s proceeding rather steadily, thanks for asking) I started wearing one of these hats more and more often. I bonded with the hat and felt the need to know what it is actually called. Few quick key strokes and I not only find out they’ve got a number of names (Flat Cap, Cabbie Cap, Duck’s Tongue Cap), but that they’re favored among older working-class men in the north of Britain, as well as the Irish and some parts of the Punk community. Just a dearth of information about even the most mundane of subjects.

But what’s the price? I haven’t given that as much thought. The things we’re creating here in the e-world would seem to lack the permanence that we once enjoyed. Try reading through someone’s blog from a couple of years ago and you’ll likely find that most of the links are dead. I’d say it may even be easier to locate a hardcopy of a newspaper from the year of your birth, than to locate something digital that has fallen out of use. Storing so much (for lack of a better term) STUFF is expensive and time-consuming, people are more likely to let something slide off; let it just disappear into the ether. I suppose that’s ok, though, not everything needs to be preserved. But by connecting the world, we’ve lost a bit of that shared experience. I’d bet everyone of a certain age knows the artwork from the Sergeant Pepper album because they saw it big-as-life on the original record. My contemporaries know Nirvana’s Baby-in-swimming-pool from the first time they saw a copy of the CD or cassette. But these days I don’t even know what the album art is on most of the new music I buy. All I see of it is a tiny thumbnail on my iPod screen. I miss being able to enjoy the object-ness of an album. I fear the day when books will go the same route (I’m not actually convinced they will, well, not all kinds of books anyway, but the concept alone is enough to upsettle me).

All of the talk is about what we’re gaining, the salesmen rarely address what is lost. It must be what it felt like when all the scientific minds came along and did their best to squeeze all the magic out of the world. Maybe that’s what I’m most bothered about. I want to hold on to the magic just a little longer. Anyone with a computer can and probably does know what every inch of the Statue of Liberty looks like, but that’s no substitute for standing under her. Read Sparknotes all day, but you’re missing the point; you’re missing the magic in the words. And I guess that’s what I’m getting at. No real thesis with this one, just sat down and started typing what was on my mind, but my wish for you is that there is still some magic in your life. Strike that, I KNOW there’s still some magic in your life, I’m just hoping you take the time to notice.

*****

At first I thought it was odd that this could make me nostalgic for something I was never involved in, but then I guess that’s the point of all writing. At the end of the day is supposed to make us believe in something (a story, a character, an emotion) that we didn’t when we first cracked the book (or clicked the link or what have you). It’s still a thing of beauty when it works, though.

*****

And everyone here (which is just me at the moment, but we do so enjoy referring to ourselves in the plural) would like to wish Cabal a speedy recovery.

it starts like this

2009-01-10T00:36:00.005-05:00

“Why are you here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did you see him?”

“Yeah. In the hallway just a minute ago.”

“Talk?”

“Hello was pretty much it.”

“’Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.’ Who’s words are those? Frost? Emerson?“

“Shelley. And I love you too.”

“Oh, don’t get all defensiveness. I’m entitled to a little righteous indignation.”

“Whatever.”

“You disagree?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been avoiding this conversation for a long time.”

“Maybe you’re wishing you had avoided it a bit longer, hm?”

“Tired of running, but—”

“Forgiveness is harder than it sounds sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Wait, is that blood on your shirt?”

“It’s not mine.”

“The shirt or the blood?”

“Both actually. Long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon . . . except, you know, the obvious.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not, is it?”

in which more thorough introductions are made

2009-01-10T00:05:00.005-05:00

Feeling the need to begin every new endeavor with an explanation would mark someone as possessing a particular constitution. I seem to find myself of said constitution. The battalion of ex-girlfriends that guard my arctic stronghold would say this bespeaks a lack of confidence, but I prefer to think of it as merely being polite. It is an important question to ask, though. Why are we here, anyway?

You’ll have to figure that one out for yourself, but the least I can do is explain why I’m here . . . or where here is . . . figuratively speaking . . . and stuff. My reasons for starting to blog are probably selfish. I think I’m on the verge of some sort of transitional period and have decided it might be kinda cool to catalog it (or catalogue, if you prefer). I’m an office drone by day, trying my hand and writing in the evening with one novel in the final stages of being polished for submission. So, what I’m thinking is that this could become either the tale of a first time novelist going through the process of first publication, or the story of an idealist being swallowed by the corporate world to the point that I don’t even recognize the person I’ll be five years from now. Either way, there’s bound to be an interesting story in there somewhere. I suppose the other option is that I’ll end of having a nervous breakdown and that’d make for even better reading. And if nothing that interesting happens, I’ll just pass on things I find elsewhere that are worth a look. Probably make some sarcastic remarks that may or may not be funny. I’ll probably post some snippets from stuff I’ve written (that being another selfish goal, to get used to writing for an actual audience). So, that’s it. My overly-thought-out explanation for why I’m here. We’ll see what happens. Sit down. Get comfortable. No not that close to me. Little further. Yeah, that’s a good spot. Nice to meet you.

I don’t even remember who first showed me this, but I never seem to get tired of watching it.

hello

2009-01-09T13:36:00.002-05:00

*waves awkwardly* (why did it have to be an awkward wave?) (I don't know, you typed it.) (I don't know then.) (me either) (ok)

Nothing to see here. Just keep walking.