Don Antonio's pizzeria was, legitimately, a dump. But the dust on the walls had been inhaled by movie stars thirty years ago, and the cracking bricks on the floor had needed mob blood scrubbed off of them a half-dozen times over. The worn and cracking wooden chairs had held the ample frames of some of Los Angeles' biggest power brokers and dealers, men who wanted to duck out of the high-profile places they normally frequented, and into a shady, shut-in, secret place off Westwood Blvd., a place where they would not be seen. Don Antonio's had lost its varnish long ago, but underneath it was history, true history, the kind you have to search for in L.A.

The Pizza Shack that replaced it ripped up the bricks, since they were a tripping hazard, and cleaned all that dust up, finding that cheaper than paying off the health inspectors as Anthony had. In place of the wooden chairs, which they tossed unceremoniously into the dumpster, they had bendable plastic chairs, designed to hold the morbidly obese and their morbidly obese children. After they took all the bricks out, they laid down smooth, clean, sterile linoleum. They painted over the familiar ugly piss-yellow and baby-puke green façade, bathing the century-old restaurant in their even-more familiar corporate colors, which they'd spent a hundred grand running through focus groups, ensuring the right shade and brightness.

Where the varnish and polish had been wearing through, they stuck stickers and menus, and, above all, logos. If someone were to get a glimpse of what lay underneath, the results could be catastrophic. This is progress.

Labels: Stories

God I love that picture…it's so perfect, the expression on Vonnegut's face, the way he's looking back over his shoulder at us. I don't know, it's such an iconic photo, it's exactly how I always imagine him. The fact that his wife took it is that much more perfect. Several months ago I informed the blogosphere that I was embarking on a chronological reading of Vonnegut's novels…around a month ago, I finally completed it, with a few length breaks in there for good measure. In a way I regret the breaks, but still, at the conclusion of the study, I feel I have a much more comprehensive grasp on Vonnegut as a writer. If you've never done a chronological reading of a writer, I highly recommend it: it will be as big a revelation in understanding the development of the writer as reading a bookshelf's worth of literary criticism.

Anyway, here are a few sentences on each of the books [obviously, this is a long post, my apologies]:

Player Piano: I'd read it before, and my thoughts now were more or less what they were then––if this was Kurt Vonnegut's first novel, maybe there's hope for me yet. Squarely mediocre sci-fi, but of course still amazing and moving since it's Vonnegut.

Sirens of Titan: This book was written seven years after Player Piano, and during that time Vonnegut must have undergone some kind of radical transformation, making the jump from average sci-fi guy to timeless master in one quick move. I've read this book three or four times now, loving it more every time. Heartbreakingly great.

Mother Night: I'd also read this one a few times prior to the study, but I still believe it's one of his most underrated works. It's not very sci-fi, or recognizably Vonnegut in some ways as it's the story of an American spy who did amazing work for the Nazis, but still, the kindness Vonnegut treated (most of) his characters with is astounding. Very well crafted, this book deserves to stand with the other masterpieces.

Cat's Cradle: I still believe this should be recognized as Vonnegut's best book. This is one that every high school English student should get the chance to read, to understand that a masterpiece can still be fun, while providing as much depth and opportunity for analysis as Thomas Hardy or other drudgery.

God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater: This was the first novel in the study I hadn't read, the story of Eliot Rosewater, big-hearted rich philanthropist and personal savior of Rosewater County. Told almost in a series of vignettes, this is a book subtly different from most of the others. Impressive, but not as enjoyable on an emotional level as the other books.

Slaughterhouse-Five: Nothing new to say about it. Every word is perfect.

Happy Birthday, Wanda June: I don't read many plays, but I liked this one. Interacts with the Odyssey on some cool levels, and may have been the first work of fiction (it was written in 1970) to point out what an asshole Odysseus would be if he were real.

Breakfast of Champions: Of course I'd read this before, too, but this time I found the book incredibly depressing. Having gone through all the novels to this point, it's clear to see that Vonnegut had lost his love of writing at this point in his career. His style has started to implode, and it's clear that he's getting tired.

Slapstick: The beginning of that implosion in the last book comes through here. I was incredibly disheartened by this book. It's clear that the suicide of his sister has destroyed Vonnegut's world, and while his attempt to piece together a novel may be valiant, it's certainly not enjoyable. The end seems to be Vonnegut throwing up his hands and saying, "What's the point?" The most depressing book I've read in a while, both within itself and in the context of Vonnegut's career.

Wampeters, Foma and Granfaloons: After the "first death" of his fiction career, with Slapstick, Vonnegut published this collection of nonfiction, which ended up being the seed of a weird non-fiction/autobiography/fiction hybrid genre that I believe Vonnegut has pioneered. I'd read this before, too, but it was interesting to look at the dated material and pair it up with novels he'd written in that time period, which I'd just read.

Jailbird: I had never read this one before, and it was the first big pleasure I got out of unread books in the study. I had to doublecheck that it was written in 1979, since that must make it the first great anti-corporate novel in America, coming long before the critiques of the mid-80s and 90s. Ironically, the protagonist's last name is Starbuck. This one's a real treat, and ends up being a more appropriate critique of today's world than that of the late 70s/early 80s.

Palm Sunday: The realization of Wampeters' promise. I'd read this before, but again, having followed along with Vonnegut's creative life, it was great to see it catalogued this way. This is one of the more unique books in his canon, and I think more people should read it.

Deadeye Dick: The second great joy of this study, Deadeye Dick totally caught me off guard with how good it is. It's one of the hardest books to describe, but it's really worth reading.

Galapagos: To me, this is maybe the best Vonnegut book that 90% of even Vonnegut fans haven't read. I read it a while ago, when Shar foisted it on me, and I remain as blown away by it now as then. It's as intricately constructed at Sirens, but with a very modern take on the natural flipside of evolution and natural selection. The message? Your brain is bad. Plus, unlike some of the more recent stuff, it's as good a plot-based story as the older Vonnegut.

Bluebeard: Another previously unread-treasure, this is the second-best book that 90% of even Vonnegut fans haven't read. No kidding, this book made me cry…twice, I think. It's the autobiography of Rabo Karabekian, the modern artist from Breakfast, and now the laughingstock of the nation. He's been hiding his final masterpiece in a potato barn, and…well, you should read it.

Fates Worse Than Death: In the vein of Palm Sunday and Wampeters, but better than both of them. Had read it before, loved it again.

Hocus Pocus: There was quite a hiccup in the study before I finally bowled through Hocus Pocus. Most fans who've read it say it didn't leave much of a lasting impression on them, and I think if I'd plowed through it right after all the previous stuff, I would have felt the same way. Instead, with deeper reflection, I have to say it's one of the more subtly done works of Vonnegut's career, weaving together nearly every previous theme and message he'd put forth into one, very tightly constructed work that I think people should take a second look at.

Timequake: I hadn't read this before either, but I was pleasantly surprised by it. It's a unique novel, fusing together the Palm Sunday/Fates Worse Than Death style with a more fictionalized sensibility, creating a work that, while maybe frustrating to casual readers because of its seeming lack of structure, was really impressive to me, as the last full-length fictional work of Vonnegut's career.

God Bless You, Dr. Kevorkian: A collection of radio vignettes done by Vonnegut, in which he acts as an afterlife explorer, interviewing dead people. Very cool and experimental, but still very Vonnegut.

A Man Without a Country: Vonnegut's last published book of his lifetime, this book is really sad. If you've read late Twain, after he gave up on trying to laugh at the world's horrors and started being horrified by them, you know what this book sounds like. It's still an essential read, but it's not for a day at the beach.

The future: There are plans to release the final novel Vonnegut was working on, incomplete, as well as finalized plans to release a final collection of essays and speeches, with an introduction by his son Mark, on April Fool's Day. The books is called Armageddon in Retrospect, and will apparently focus primarily on topics of war and peace, including a few short stories, as well as a non-fiction account of Vonnegut's Dresden experiences. I can't wait, and I couldn't be happier that the true conclusion of my Vonnegut study lies somewhere out there on the horizon.

Labels: Generalness, Vonnegut

The eyes are everywhere and they're always watching. They can see everything, even you, even me, but it's not you they're looking at it's me always me. The eyes are in the ivy and on the walls, in my bathroom and my hamper my bed my ceiling your ceiling. We cannot escape them and they are always watching always.

They can't hear anything only see that's why I yell, it's the only way to get the truth out because they can't hear they can only see, and what they see they devour and destroy, and they crush the truth like trash in the truck but if you shout if you shout loud and long then you can tell somebody else, and maybe they won't stop you, the eyeseyeseyes. THEY'RE WATCHING YOU! THEY'RE WATCHING ME! ALWAYS! YELL IF YOU HEAR ME!

Labels: Stories

Ammut the Destoyer is self-conscious today, about his/her fat hippopotamus butt. When the Egyptian gods constructed Ammut to be their eternal force of punishment, devouring any and all souls whose hearts weighed more than the feather of ma'at, they had used pieces of the most fearsome creatures they knew, giving him/her the jaws of a crocodile, the intimidating mane of a lion, as well as a lion's strong forelimbs and claws, and body. But then they'd stuck a hippo's back legs and butt on him/her, for good measure.

"Were a lion's back legs not strong enough?" Ammut wondered. "Could I not have sat in this fiery pit and chewed up falling souls with the back legs of a lion?" More preposterous, hippos, particularly the godly, archetypal kind, are notoriously asexual, meaning that Ammut has spent his/her entire life having to use the split-gender pronoun. Ammut considers this a waste of his/her already limited mental capacities.

Of course, Ammut is loyal to the gods, and would never miss a day of work, for any reason. But being the bringer of the second death, the Bone Eater, the Devourer of Millions, the scourge of Egyptian sin, would be a lot easier if he/she didn't have to worry about fanning the flames of Duat with hippo farts every ten seconds.

Labels: Stories

If you've been listening to that Sports Night podcast I've been nagging you about, you know by now about the Sports Night/Smooth's Super Bowl Extravaganza! We'll be recording a live episode in a sports bar full of football fans, and we'd love for you to join us. Tickets are $40 at the door, with all the proceeds going to Children Today, and none of the proceeds going to us. We remain in the game for the love of the game... Anyway, there'll be delicious all you can eat buffet, a lingerie show at halftime, and the Sports Night crew along with a ton of other fans. Come on down! Also, fifteenth episode is up, so go downloady! Now-y!

Labels: Generalness

I was filling up my gas tank at a Mobil station two blocks from my high school, Long Beach Poly, the Home of Scholars and Champions and Also Some Neglected Poor Black People Who Were Neither Smart Enough or Good Enough at Sports to Contribute to the School's Statistical Domination of Any and All Other Schools. A strung out, skinny black woman came up to me, shaking a little, while I had my hand on the gas pump. She held her skinny hand in front of her like an offering, though of course it was the opposite. Where her shirt pulled up I could see a c-section scar. "Hey, sir, hey, listen, I know I'm black and I know you're white, but do you think you could spare a little change? Anything, just something."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I don't have any cash." It was true, I didn't. I almost never had any cash; my grandparents had given me the car for my birthday, and I had a thirty dollar a week allowance from them that went into my gas tank, which it was doing as we spoke.

"Please man, can you help me? I know I'm black and you're white, but can't we just be people?"

I fumbled. "No, listen, it's not like that."

"I know how it is."

"Wait. Hold on. Don't go." I opened my car door and reached into my change bucket, scooping out a little mess of nickels and dimes, and handed it to her. I immediately felt bad. Of course it wasn't because she was black, it was because she was looking for drug money, and I didn't want my money going to that particular kind of demon.

A week later I saw the woman again, a block closer to my school. She was even more strung out, even closer to death. I knew she would be dead within a few days, maybe dosed out by a rock I'd paid for. I wouldn't know for sure that she'd died, because it wouldn't be written about in the paper. If she had been white, every local newspaper would have devoted a page to the tragedy. But hey, that's not their fault: poor black people don't buy newspapers, only middle class whites are dumb enough for that. And everyone likes to read about themselves. Look! We're famous.

Labels: Stories

If you're one of those pesky undecideds (and I'm not sure I understand how you could be), or if you have 17 minutes to get the bejesus inspired out of you, here is Obama's SC victory speech. I've been listening to him speak and talk regularly for four years, and this one is a doozy. The whole crowd chanting "We want change!" and "Yes we can!" is beautiful.

Labels: Generalness

You will open your mouth and down the torch and light your soul on fire. You will become a thing of glory, and a being of pure will. You will turn the red lights green.

You will make the ruling class realize that the only difference between them and those they rule is money You will make rich people realize they're just poor people with money.

You will not falter, fall, snicker, mock, bait, switch, or ruin. You will rise.

Labels: Stories

Hello hello-

I have a quick article up at this link, which is a beat story I did about the historic and monumentally great Poly/Milikan girls' basketball game last night. I may be doing more sports writing in the next little bit here, I'll keep this blog updated with new links and everything else. I'm actually very happy with the article, so go on ahead and check it out!

Labels: Generalness

I am the smartest man left on the planet, and I'm having trouble finding a date. It's been over eight years since 99.5% of the world was wiped out by nuclear bombs, hydrogen bombs, atomic waste, and hydrogen poisoning, and yes, I've copulated with nearly 200 women in that time, but it was for purely reproductive purposes. I would like to see the human race continue to exist for some reason, despite how terrible and disgusting we are. I am a family man.

First off, it's hard enough to find women in the first place, since most people now assume that anyone walking the streets is a member of the cannibalistic dog/human hybrid gang, that'll eat your flesh just as soon as look at you.

Is it too much to ask for a little conversation? Wit, charm, the adornments of an intelligent relationship? Must I keep rutting like a pig in the ashes and filth of a society that no longer exists? Are there no other survivors who appreciate a turn of the phrase, or the modernist sensibilities of Faulkner and Fitzgerald? Ah weary world, what wonders remain, what treasures hidden beneath your rubble? Just one literate woman, please, or at least someone who liked Aaron Sorkin shows.

Labels: Stories

First, a pre-recommendation recommendation: go see movies at Edwards 26 on Thursday nights. It's practically Friday so you don't necessarily feel like you're seeing a movie in the middle of the week, but it's totally deserted, and you have a higher chance of actually being able to enjoy a movie without dealing with…shudder…people.

Also: go see Juno! It's really frapping good. For the first fifteen or twenty minutes, I was really scared that it was going to be a better version of Napolean Dynamite, but still, you know, a version of Napolean Dynamite. It ended up being anything but. I love that people are starting to make movies about high school/college/twenty somethings that aren't completely retarded and filled with 40-year old screenwriters' visions of youth that don't jibe with reality at all.

Pretty much through and through, all the characters in this movie were nuanced and believable, the kind of post-postmodernist people that actually exist. For example Juno, the title character, has a stepmother, played by everyone's favorite White House Press Secretary, Allison Janney. Instead of doing any of the really boring and stupid things that have been done with stepmothers in movies, Janney plays a woman who is clearly (though it's not stated) acutely aware that Juno is not her actual daughter, but who still loves said stepdaughter, even after she gets pregnant at 16. She plays a woman that loves puppies so much she cuts out pictures of them, but can still say "shit" and "fuck."

The soundtrack can be a little precious, but that's becoming expected for movies like this. And by movies like this I mean movies that actually do have the power to make you laugh and cry within one 90-minute period, which, given that it cost me and Shar $50 to see a movie, eat a few snacks, and get dinner, is much appreciated. Seriously, every actor does a great job, and what looks like a cookie-cutter "indie" script turns into a surprisingly touching and realistic story. Another feather in the cap for Fox Searchlight, which I'm pretty in love with. Granted, it's Fox, and Fox is always evil, but it's nice that they're at least profiting off of good movies.

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit

"Hey man, what's your deal? Don't look so glum about the weather. Trust me, this is great. I should know, I'm the one who did it. Last night I set this garbage can on fire and did my dance and said my prayer, and I did such a good job it's flooding now! They should give me an award or something.

"Why? Well, you've probably noticed, although I see you're nicely dressed so perhaps you haven't, that we've been in the middle of a drought. You might be one of those idiots who thinks that droughts are caused by global warming, or a natural cycle. Not so. It's caused by a small group of powerful car wash owners, with access to money and technology even your Men's Wearhouse suit and you couldn't imagine. They're the ones who keep it from raining here, man.

"Why would they do that? Think about it, man! It's simple. For one thing, when it rains, everybody's cars get washed off and they don't have that business coming in. But second, when there's a drought, what do we have? That's right, wildfires. Very good. And fires produce what? That's right, ash, all over southern California. And tell me, Mr. Seventy-Five Dollar Shoes, did you wash the ash off your car three times a week, or did you take it to a car wash? That's what I thought. Here's my card, sir. Yes, I realize it's just my name scrawled on the back of a McDonald's wrapper, but if you find you require my services, just ask around. You'll find me soon enough."

Labels: Stories

The surf looks absolutely perfect today…I'd better grab some jetpack fuel after I have my breakfast burrito. If I miss those clouds I'm going to kick myself all week. Have you never been cloud surfing? You don't know what you're missing, dude, it's divine. The wind in your face, all that space between you and your responsibilities, your job, your girlfriend…it's so easy to just let it all go for a few hours.

I know a lot of guys who prefer the really wispy clouds, which I get: they're faster, more dangerous. But I'm a big cloud guy myself, so a day like today, with those huge towering ones, and big gaps of blue sky in between, that's perfect for me. You get up a good head of steam, come off the top of one of those things, and you can see for miles. The space in between them is perfect today: not so big that I'd need to use the pack to keep me and my board from falling, but long enough to look down and see all the little bugs going to the grocery store, running in circles. Long enough to throw your head back and howl, and beg for just a little more time, a little more time before you have to come back down.

Labels: Stories

There is a new episode of SportsNight, a wonderful cavalcade of sports information both local and national, available at the link on the right (It's the one that says Sports Night, wouldn't you know it?). Episode 14 may be our best yet, with a wonderful shot at the Press Telegram, the return of Top 5 Off the Field, and us yacking about Cal State Long Beach and Long Beach high school sports. Plus JJ says some pretty questionably homo-erotic stuff in there, you don't want to miss it.

If you're too lazy to move your mouse to the right to click on the link, you can CLICK RIGHT HERE instead. The things I do for you: yeesh!

Labels: Generalness

It's weird as hell when famous people die, weirder when they die young, and weirder still when it's totally unexpected. On the one hand, I didn't know Heath Ledger, and I think it's strange when people get histrionic about the deaths of people they've never met, excepting great leaders and inspirational figures. On the other hand, what's way worse than grieving for someone you've never met is berating somebody who does. Whenever a celebrity dies, be it Ledger or Steve Irwin, there's always that small-but-loud group of idiots who immediately start barking, "What's everybody bummed about? Who gives a shit? It's not like you knew them."

Technically this is true, barking idiot. Except that most of us get bummed when there's a drive by shooting a few blocks away that kills someone we didn't know, or when a suicide bomber kills two dozen Israelis we didn't know, or when we realize that AIDS is destroying an entire continent of people we didn't know. Death is a scary, ever-present part of life, and when it reaches out and grabs the actors, directors, and writers sitting on top of the golden American throne that is Hollywood, only a barking idiot wouldn't be a little freaked out. I mean, Heath Ledger wasn't Britney Spears: he seemed like a happy, healthy guy who loved his daughter and felt seriously about his work. On top of that and as an aside, he was one of a very few young Hollywood actors who I thought was both talented and not a douche bag. Then suddenly he's dead, which inevitably makes me remember, in the middle of an otherwise normal day, that so will you be one day, barking idiot, and so will I be. And I don't feel like I'm reaching too much to say that I think that's fucking weird.

Labels: Generalness

The familiar heavy slap of the mail slot opening and closing told Kara that her mystery helper had visited again: the mail had come hours ago, and it was nine at night. She ran to the door and looked outside, but there was nobody there, just like the last five times. It was one of her neighbors, she figured. They knew how hard things had been since her husband had died (no life insurance) and she got laid off. She'd picked up two other jobs since, but added together they still didn't make up for what she was making before, and now she had to rely on her mother, or friends to watch Rudy in the evenings.

There was nothing her helper could do about that, although they clearly wished they could. So instead they did what they could, dropping a $75 Vons gift card in her mail slot every week. She couldn't figure out why. Her mother told her, "You're a good person, honey. People like to help good people, and they probably don't want to face you because they don't want you to be embarrassed or feel indebted to them." When Kara asked why a gift card, her mother said, "Because a meal or a car wouldn't fit through the slot. Now just shut up, buy your son some dinner, and be extra nice to everybody who lives around you. That's probably not a bad idea anyway."

Labels: Stories

"Well, Icarus, my son, I believe we're finished now."

"Father?"

"I say, I believe we're finished now."

"Yes, father."

"It's been a long month locked in this tower, but I believe these wings will carry us across the sea to freedom."

"Hm."

"Oh, come on Icarus, you can at least pretend to be grateful. I am freeing us from the cruel grasp of King Minos, after all. And those wings weren't easy to make either, you louse. We were so desperate for materials I almost had to use wax from the candles to hold the feathers together."

"Oh?"

"Yes, 'oh.' Anyway, fortunately for you I found some Plaxico brand heat-resistant plastic binding solution. Do you know what that means, you uneducated, inappreciative bastard child of mine?"

"No, father."

"It means, Icarus, that when we're flying over the sea and you fail to heed my advice about not flying too close to the sun, that you will merely get a sunburn, instead of your wings melting and you plummeting lifeless into the ocean, thus causing me to spend the remainder of my life cursing the pain my artifice has brought upon our family."

"Yes, father."

"Icarus, you're an ungrateful cur, you know that?"

"Yes, father."

Labels: Stories

His wife was fading from the world like a thick fog beneath a rising sun, and their home was frozen, a burden they'd once born happily, underneath the large wool blanket on their marriage bed. But now the wool froze and stuck to his wife, and he could not warm her with word nor deed. Their land was as desolate as it was beautiful, and there were hardly any trees to take down; just the one their son had planted for them on the day he left home, to make his fortune on the continent.

But when he saw her shivering on a Sunday morn, he made his decision. He'd already burned the axe handle, along with most of the wood in their home, so he approached the tree tentatively, unsure of how to proceed. Then he heard a cough from inside the house, and he took the tree apart, piece by piece, with his bare hands, and carried it inside, wood for a fire to warm his wife.

Labels: Stories

"It's my life, father, not yours, not His. I can do what I choose in this country; it's not like when you were growing up. When I go to college, I can declare whatever major I want, choose whatever career I want."

"I see. If you so chose, you could never speak to me again. You could never speak with Him, if you chose. Because we are in this country now."

"Yes. I suppose so."

"Then I should never have brought you to this country, where you can think and say such things. God has a great wish for you, son. You must rise and answer his call."

"And what if his wish is not my own? What if I want my life for my own?"

"If your wish is not God's wish, son, then you are no kind of man. And you are no citizen of the world."

Labels: Stories

I realize this must look bad for me. But please, listen: I'm really, seriously, totally, not a racist. I wasn't shielding my sandwich from that Mexican man because I thought he was socially, economically, academically, or physically inferior to me, it's just a well-known scientific fact that many Mexicans carry germs and diseases, and I didn't want them on my sandwich. That's not racism, that's just good health. Please don't hit me. Ouch.

Labels: Stories

It's the circus, so this kind of thing isn't out of the ordinary. Igor ran away from home, where he was an assistant to his father, who was an apprentice to a man whose profession held no interest for Igor. And now, Igor was in the fetal position inside of a giant metal tube, his knees pulled to his chest, giggling maniacally to himself as he waited. Every night (and twice on weekends) when he was in here, waiting for his moment, he'd remember how it felt to wake up every morning at his father's house, knowing that the day ahead of him was going to be misery, knowing that the only exciting thing for him was the ten minutes he'd spend alone in his bedroom before he fell asleep, half from exhaustion and half from boredom. Then there'd be a "poof" and all of a sudden he was exploding out of the red, white, and blue cannon, heading for the beautiful green cushion on the other side of the tent. Everyone would ooh and ah, and Igor would just look back at the cannon and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Labels: Stories

The Mobster says, "Hello everybody. Thank you for coming to today, the First Annual Mobster Picnic. Please enjoy the fruit salads and the watermelon, and we will put the burgers on the grill as soon as we are done with the three-legged race. I see Jimmy Scars is over there, tying himself to Rocky Stones. Last week I heard Jimmy was going to get his legs tied to a new pair of cement boots! Ha ha. Thanks. Seriously though folks, I'm glad you all made it out. It's a beautiful day, and it's nice for us to give our girls a chance to show off those lovely figures.

"Have all of you turned in your raffle tickets? Johnny Four Time? Ricky Spitts? Jonathan Richmond? Good, good. We've got some great prizes up there, and I think you'll all be very pleased. If not, I'll pump ya full of lead. Ha ha, kidding, kidding. Thanks so much. Seriously, it was hard work putting this event together, and I want to thank Tommy Gunn and Matty Mook for their efforts. Superb, gentlemen, superb. Now, let's all put our hands together as we welcome the Mobster Kids, who are gonna share with us some of their favorite standards. Hopefully they'll do my favorite, 'I Shot the Sheriff.' Ha ha. Come on up, kids. Seriously."

Labels: Stories

I thought he'd like it, so I helped him up into the car. And it took him a while to get settled. Like he hadn't been sitting next to me for 10 years and a couple thousand miles. Like the carpet wasn't made up of at least forty percent golden retriever hair. I don't know. This time, it took him a while to get settled. I waited, and we drove to the park. We sat for a while and we watched the joggers and the ladies in spandex with their strollers and kids feeding the ducks. I was a little disappointed in him for not leaving me with something more, something profound or funny or at least memorable. He was, I think, a little disappointed in me for calling him my best friend. In the end, I guess we didn't have a lot to say to each other. I thought I'd want to give him a whole speech, but instead we just sat. We sat, and we watched the squirrels run up trees, and when the sun set I turned on the car and we went home.

Labels: Stories

Please Listen Now: The nation is on fire, and nobody is doing anything about it. 49% of the country is sitting back and smugly denying that there's any smoke or heat or anything wrong at all, and 49% of the country is sitting back and smugly pointing out that there is a fire, and bitching about how hot it is without doing anything to put it out. Nobody here started it, though some have poured fuel on it. But it's always been burning. Now it's rapidly running out of combustibles, and soon there'll be nothing left, not even ruins to dance on.

Some of the smartest citizens, instead of joining the volunteer fire brigade, are running away to other countries. This is understandable: it's what all the best writers of the first half of last century did. But it doesn't help anyone to run out of a burning house, with 300 million people still trapped inside, unless you throw some water on the thing. Otherwise it just burns to the ground. And it's a good house; for its flaws, most of the geniuses of the last three centuries have agreed that the house, odd in its design, is one of the most beautiful and bold experiments in the history of the world. It made me, it made my favorite musicians and poets and T.V. shows, and there's almost nothing left of it now. Please, please please please, find a hose.

Labels: Stories

She's in the car, on her way to work, and she's singing along to this perfect song, this kick ass, go get 'em, motivational, beautiful, inspirational song that has her so fired up she's ready to go to war against anyone, any country, any idea, anything: she's ready to go to war against the life she's living now, for the sake of the life she wants to live. She's singing along. The song is on repeat.

Then, somehow, her license plate is touching the same column it usually does on the same floor of the parking garage, and her engine is off, and the music is gone. And she's singing to herself again, singing someone else's song, out of key.

Labels: Stories

When his wife gave birth to a son, he cried because he was so happy, and because it was so tragic. She asked him why and he said, “He is a boy, and he is to be a man. It will be his job to spill his blood and life so that the gears of existence will stay oiled. He will have to die so that the world can continue to turn. They will not allow him any other path.”

And when she gave birth to a daughter, she cried because she was so happy, and because of the pain she foresaw. Her husband asked her why and she answered, “She is a girl, cursed to be a woman. It will be her duty to sacrifice her emotions and dreams at the altar of the world. She will have to support it and mother it so that it will continue to turn. There will be no other path allowed to her.”

And when their children, their boys and girls grew into men and women, and had children of their own, the couple cried for joy, and straightened their backs, and cleaned their children’s tears, and beheld their grandchildren and said, “Here at last is hope.”

Labels: Stories

“Honey, it’s of the upmost importance that we make this decision tonight, we’re nearing the halfway-through January mark.”

“I agree. First, let’s talk about Jay; I know he’s an unconventional choice out of the six candidates, not the most athletic or intelligent, but he has a spark about him? I think he might be going places.”

“Good point, but I think it’s too early. Let’s allocate some time to keep track of him, but he’s not ready yet. What about Maria?”

“Maria is a strong candidate, you know that. But I wouldn’t feel comfortable giving her the title after what she called me last week at the dinner table.”

“You’re right, of course. Well, looking at these performance evaluations, I think we have no choice but name Chris to the position for a fourth consecutive term. He’s the oldest, the smartest, the biggest, and the best.”

“Alright darling. I was hoping for a little more competition from the other candidates this quarter, but you’re right.”

“Go ahead and call him up. We don’t want to keep our Favorite Child of the First Quarter of 2008 waiting.”

Labels: Stories

The sticky, sterile smell of chlorine came to him like freedom. Little Danny had never known a scent so sweet. Since he’d learned to walk, his right leg hadn’t worked properly; it hitched when he walked, and made it impossible to run, thus significantly narrowing his options for social interaction in his fourth grade class. It seemed to him like all the smart kids, the cool kids, did all their talking while they were running, either racing or playing kickball. He played catcher, where he squatted awkwardly next to the teacher, who would always pat him on the back when he did anything remotely un-terrible. His classmates were nice to him, they didn’t make fun of him, and they did their best to treat him like he was normal. But he couldn’t blame them for doing their talking and laughing while they ran, for reveling in their youth.

The locker room at the Y was intimidating, but he changed into his shorts and showered, avoiding eye contact with the weird old men who walked around naked and slapped each other on the back. Then he limped out to the pool, moving with excruciating care: if he slipped and fell, he wouldn’t be able to get back up. Finally he made it across the gritty, slimy concrete to the edge of the water; he paused and looked down, into the clear blue. He heard his mother cheering for him from the bleacher stands, and saw the lifeguard eye him nervously. He was tired of people watching him nervously. He took a deep breath and simply fell in sideways.

He found that the lessons had paid off. It was his first time in the water without an instructor next to him, but he swam to the deep end quickly. His leg worked fine underwater, he just had to push it a little harder to keep from moving crookedly. But when he pushed it harder, it didn’t hurt the way it did on solid ground. He moved back to the shallow end and started seeing how long he could hold his breath, twirling and somersaulting underwater, relishing the way all noise, all trace of his life on land dropped away when he submerged. With each breath he stayed underwater as long as he could: he had found his home. This was where he wanted to live.

Labels: Stories

They look like inanimate, lifeless stretches of road, don’t they? On ramps, off ramps, connections, junctions, made of asphalt and steel and sweat, reaching from here to the great unknown. You think that we built them, and not the other way around. But the freeways are living snakes, feeding off of the weight, and heat, and vibrations of the vehicles atop them.

It is the freeways who clog traffic, to keep commuters with them the way a desperate empty nest mother clutches her daughter to her bosom when she’s home from college. It is the freeways who have invested wisely in our economy to help fuel slow and steady growth, creating new jobs and new commuters. SUVs are a freeway’s best friend.

Some of them even have personalities, especially in the viper’s nest that is Southern California, where the roads have more character than the populace. There’s the big daddy, the 405, the 710, a crusty old man, the 1, a rebellious and artistic youth, and that mean son of a bitch, the 101. The freeways are lonely, and they are hungry. They are inevitable.

Labels: Stories

Sometimes it feels good to be wrong. And by sometimes I mean this once, and only this once. For years I poo-pooed on audiobooks (literally), in the same way that I currently poo-poo on e-books and Amazon's Kindle. This is because I?m a total prude about some things, and the reading experience is one of them. I love bookstores, used, new, whatever, I love walking into them, wandering around for an hour or two, and coming home with new books to read. You know, with my eyes.

My new job comes with a shiny new commute, usually between and hour and an hour and a half, and while I do enjoy listening to music, music tends to make me more aware of my surroundings (and the fact that I'm wearing a rut on the cattle chute that is the 405), and not less. I'd read a few things online (again, with my eyes) and heard a few things (this time, in a touch of foreshadowing, with my ears) from my wife about audio books being a great way to alleviate the self-hate and murderous impulses that come with wasting eight or ten hours a week on the freeway.

Naturally, I pooped on this theory, until my mom got me the CD version of Steve Martin's new memoir, read by the author. I was an immediate convert: I listened to it on the way to work the day after I got it, and was totally hooked. First, for a memoir read by the author, I actually think an audiobook is better than a "real" book, because it's basically just a four hour recording of Steve Martin talking about his life. That particular book works better on CD because Martin references a number of standup bits and songs in the book; on the audiobook, they aren't just referenced, they're performed for intense and creamy listening pleasure.

I've now moved on to America: The Book: The Audiobook and will be starting Colbert's audiobook soon, and then maybe moving on to some classics. As much as I loved America: The Book: The Book, I have to admit I prefer to hear Jon reading it, even if I do miss out on hilarious graphics, and naked Supreme Court Justices. I still have some issues with audiobooks (lame packaging, high cost, occasional sneaky abridgement, and I don't get the appeal of someone other than the author reading), but I recommend them highly to anyone who spends too much time in their car, driving places they don't want to be. You can check them out from the library, or burn them off of me if you're curious. Even if you've poo-pooed on them, you should try them. You just might find yourself eating that poop, actually smiling in traffic as your lame compulsory commute is transformed into personal time set aside for "reading." If you're like me, that's what you wanted the time for anyway.

Labels: Generalness, Mike Recommends or Trashes Random Shit

In the sunny and sleepy lands on the southern side of Soldier’s Hill lived a farmer and his wife, of modest means and humble ways. They had both been raised in poor towns, sprouted from the dirt and dust of middle America. With only the clothes on their backs, they had hitched to the hill, to farm government land until eventually they earned enough to buy the land themselves, taking root and reaching for the sky.

Two decades later they had lived well, and assembled a meager savings. They wanted a child, to teach the things they’d learned to, and to share the life they’d built with. But the farmer’s wife was as barren as her hometown, and could bear no seed. So they prayed together, kneeling by the bed they’d carved together from an oak felled on their property by a lightning storm. And they both heard a voice that told them to take heart, and make an offer of what they could at the base of their lilac tree, which stood at the base of the hill.

So that night, after dark, they burned the savings they had been keeping in a hole in their bed, a former squirrel hovel. The next morning at dawn, there were two baby’s slippers there, but nothing else. All day they worried that they wouldn’t be able to afford their petition to the heavens, so they borrowed what they could from their neighbors, then burned it under the tree at midnight. The next morning, next to the slippers, they found a bottle, clothes, and a crib. They had nothing left to offer. So the farmer cut some stalks from their crop, and his wife trimmed the most gorgeous flowers from her garden, and they left them under the tree.

The next morning there was a sweet, calm baby there, gurgling at them from where he lay in the dew. They dressed him, and carried them home together, tickling his feet and kissing his nose. The farmer surveyed his land that evening, then turned his eyes to the den, where his wife was changing their child. He felt like one half of a perfect seed, sprouting new life, life that would reach further towards the heavens than he and his wife could ever have dreamed.

Labels: Stories

Two bucks. Marcus couldn’t believe it, it had been thirty years since he’d been to this barber shop, but it was still owned and run by Jerry, and he was still charging two bucks for a trim and a shave. Unbelievable. When his mother had started dragging him in here, he thought it was because it was the only place she could afford to get his hair cut. He’d since realized that while that was true, she was taking him too because of Jerry. She was trying to show him that he could be a better man than he was turning into.

He removed his hat, unbuttoned his coat, and stepped into the shop. Jerry was the only one inside. At the tinkle of the bell over the door, he turned. When he saw Marcus, he smiled widely. Marcus opened his mouth, and Jerry raised a hand, shaking slightly, to stop him. “Just let me look at you,” he said, placing his hands on Marcus’ well-tailored coat.

They didn’t say anything, Marcus just took his usual seat, removed his coat and his
suit jacket. “When are the services?” Jerry asked him.

“Tomorrow.” Jerry nodded, and then went to work. The last haircut he’d had cost nearly fifty times the advertised price here, but that wasn’t why Marcus found himself wishing he’d made the trip back home more often. He tried to tell himself it wasn’t too late yet. After he’d been cleaned up, he offered Jerry a twenty, but the old man shook his head seriously. “No. Been doing like I told you?”

Marcus looked down at his thousand dollar suit, ran his hand over his two dollar trim, and nodded. “Taking care of myself? Yes, sir. As best I can.”

Jerry patted his newly-smooth cheek, teared a little. “She was right to be so proud of you, son. I hope you know that.”

Labels: Stories

Wow, has it already been 250 days of this? It only feels like 245! (Badum-bum). Hey, alright. Thanks for the pickup, Jimmy. Yes, 250 days, 250 stories. Please, kill me now. Seriously (well, not seriously). Every time I reach one of these milestones (generally in increments of 50), I get all puffy chested and proud of myself. “Holy shit!” I say to myself. “You’ve written such-and-such a number of stories, in an increment of 50! You sexy, magnificent beast of a writer you!” Then of course, I do the math and, as usual, math ruins everything. “Oh my God!” I say to myself. “You still have 116 more stories to write in 116 days, and you literally don’t have a single idea in the bank. Not one. Why did you decide to try and do this? You’re never going to do this. You are worse than filth.”

Yes, it’s a long and winding road ahead, and frankly, I’m still not sure it’s going to happen. There have been a handful of days where it almost didn’t already, and there will probably be more than a handful to come in the next four months (Oh, Christ, four months? Really?). But stick around, what say you? And tell your friends! And leave comments!

On the upside, southern California has been RAVAGED BY A PACIFIC STORM OF EPIC PROPORTIONS for the last few days, by which I mean we had some light mist, some light rain, and, briefly, some regular rain. I love the rain, in the way a dog loves another dog that provides a short respite from the usual monotony of sunny, smoggy days, so it’s been a happy January for me, especially since I’ve been scoring moral and sports victories left and right. Barack won Iowa last week (!!), then Patrick Willis won Defensive Rookie of the Year, thus validating (in some small part) the Niners’ season, and the Chargers beat the Titans yesterday, in the best football game I’ve ever seen. Okay, it wasn’t the best, but it was the most excited I’ve ever been at a non-Poly game. It was the third playoff game I’ve been to, and the first the Bolts won. Thank God! Thanks, God!

Anyway, if you’d like to hear my ravaged and voiceless throat rasp on about how amazing the game was with fellow-Charger fan J.J. Fiddler and depressed Bucs-fan Ryan ZumMallen, the 12th episode of our Sports Night podcast will be available for download within a few hours, and I highly recommend you download it several times. If you aren't an iTunes subscriber (shame on you! go to iTunes and search SportsNight one word, we're the only podcast result), click to the link on the right bar to get going. Now, I’m off to figure out what to do with the next seven-and-a-half hours of my workday. Probably something along the lines of coming up with 116 story ideas. Badum-bum. Hey!

Labels: Generalness, Mission Statement

If you’re using a q-tip (or any generic brand cotton swab) when the Big One hits, there’s a 47% likelihood that you’ll be jarred into stabbing yourself in the brain. If you’re shaving, you may well cut your neck or leg or buttocks open, potentially causing you to bleed to death while emergency personnel are otherwise occupied. If you’re doing vigorous stretching, dislocation of important joints will be difficult to avoid. Perhaps you think you’ll be safe in your car. Wrong: Dead wrong. You’ll turned into a pinball, trapped in an arcade of epic proportions, being ricocheted between an infinite number of bumpers. But you will not score a triple bonus, nor an extra ball.

Good God, whatever you do, don’t be in the shower in the event of the Big One. Razors flying at your eyes, shampoo bottles transformed into you-seeking missiles, shower caps flying from the rack and down your throat…what a mess. Why would you do that? And stay away from your bookshelves at all times, even if they’re secured and you’ve put earthquake straps over each shelf. You never know what’s going to happen in the Big One. Best to have one of your lesser-liked friends fetch you reading and research material when necessary. Also, you’re going to want to avoid all walls, ceilings, and floors in case wiring gets exposed. But don’t run outdoors either, or the chasms in the pavement might swallow you up before the falling trees smash you.

No, in preparation of the Big One, I recommend staying in the fetal position, in the center of a padded room, at all times. You must be doing nothing, with nothing around you, to maintain optimum safety. Anything else would be madness.

Labels: Stories

It is unclear why she's dancing, though when you first see her, you can't help but think of that stupid Eagles song, the really obscenely famous one, you know the one? "Some dance to remember, some dance to forget." She doesn't look like she's dancing to do either of those (not that you'd know it if she were); she looks like she's dancing to call down some kind of force, lightning maybe.

She's wearing only what looks like a bedsheet, knotted clumsily at her waist, and she's in the middle of a lush Irish plain. It is pouring rain, but she's out there, where you can see her from the highway, dancing. The first time you pass her you think maybe she's celebrating something. Half an hour later when you feel an overwhelming desire to turn around and drive past her again, she seems to be mourning something, and you can faintly hear what sounds like a keening cry.

It's not until the fifth time you go by that you realize she's not even a little bit wet, wit the rain pounding the grass and earth around her. She's out there, twisting, turning, daring the lightning to strike her, as dry as a bone. For a moment you can see clearly enough to understand that she's not moving between the raindrops. The rain is hurling itself away from her. It won't touch her. And as you drive by again, you wonder if maybe she's dancing to try and catch it.

Labels: Stories

They waited as long as they could, until the droning wail of the tornado siren bleated dully against the wind whipping across the patio. Nobody else in their Podunk town was still around; they beat the bush yesterday, when the evacuation orders were handed down. But the Cullens had no chance: neither Grampa nor Gramma could be moved without an ambulance, and they sure as hell weren't leaving behind the two old souls Pa referred to as the arks, short for patriarch and matriarch.

At the siren's cry, they all maneuvered carefully down into the bunker below the house. Pa had dug the hole, laid the concrete and stocked it himself, last summer. Now his family crammed themselves into the new home he'd made them, each clutching little items and mementos they didn't want torn away by the howling winds, which were almost surely going to destroy the rest of their house.

Down there, they pressed together, and sent their prayers towards the heavens. Then they sent them in every which way, but still as once voice. The heavens weren't safe anymore, not for prayers or souls. Overhead, trees scraped the bunker's covering and cars were thrown like cotton balls, and the Cullens couldn't tell if it was angels or demons marching over them.

Labels: Stories

Ashley walked wearily to her car, parked by the park across from her happy home. She’d had the last two weeks off, to play with her son, watch movies with her husband, and enjoy her life. It was one of the coldest winters she’d experienced since moving to New York seven years ago, so they’d spent it mostly inside, her happy family, huddled together against the cold, making one warm body out of three. Today, as she sat in the driver’s seat, she felt she’d betrayed that unit. She’d broken rank.

She turned the key, and cursed loudly when it turned all the way without engaging the engine. She hit the steering wheel, paused, then hit it another three times, crying. She hadn’t driven the car for the last few weeks, and it had been cold, but not cold enough to keep the damn thing from running. She popped the hood, and walked around to see if her non-existent mechanic skills could fix the problem.

Nestled in the engine compartment was a little family of rats, tucked in there to huddle for warmth, next to the engine, shielded from the elements. Ashley could see chewed-through wires ringing their little assembled nest, with bits of plastic and other refuse shored up to protect them. When they realized the hood was open they paused their frantic feeding and stared up at her. At first, Ashley didn’t know what to do, but when the rats began to shiver, imploring her with their eyes to close the hood, she figured it out. She shut it, and strode confidently back to her house, resolved to wait until the next day to call the tow truck.

Labels: Stories

Labels: Generalness

Admittedly, sending the text message while on the freeway wasn’t the smartest thing to do. But what do you want from me, perfection? My buddy asked how the game had gone, and I really wanted (really really wanted!) to tell him about how I’d almost dunked, so I looked down for a mere five or ten seconds, and next thing I know I’ve rearended the guy in front of me.

So he pulls over, and I pull over, we both pull over, and I feel like a bit of an asshole. I mean, it was an honest mistake on my part, but still, it was going to be a bummer for the guy I hit that I didn’t have any insurance. So I get out of my car, all smiles, hoping to cheer the guy up. His door opens, and it closes, but nobody gets out, and I’m wondering for a second if maybe this guy is invisible or something. Then I hear his little foot stomping, and I look down to see this tiny little midget man, absolutely furious. He looks like he wants a fight, which is almost enough to make me start laughing right off the bat.

“I’m not happy,” he said seriously.

“Oh?” I asked, just as seriously. “Which one are you?”

Then he “charged” me, little feet and fists flailing ridiculously. My point is this, class: don’t send text messages on the freeway, or you might end up accidentally tossing a midget off of an overpass while trying to pry him off your leg.

Labels: Stories

So this is the most self-indulgent thing I've done thus far on the blog (aside of course from the blog itself), and I cry your pardon. At the beginning of the year, my good friend Dan and I agreed to a bookoff, to see who could read more books in the year. While Dan lost his list a bit back, I kept mine going, mostly because I found it was a great way to chronicle my year; looking back on each book, I immediately recalled where I was and how I felt when I finished. Anyway, it's the end of the year, and this list is sitting around, so...I figured I'd put it up. The books are first, then the graphic novels. For your perusal, and, more likely, my archiving:

BOOKS
What is the What
WIgfield
You: the Owners Manual
Pirates Under the Black Flag
The World of Karl Pilkington
Cannery Row
Galapagos
Next
The Audacity of Hope
McSweeney's 22
Embryoyo
Gilgamesh
Alan Moore's Exit Interview
Johnny Cash: An American Man
Life after Death: A history of the Afterlife
The Mummy: Egyptian Funerary Archaeology
A Model World and Other Stories
Jokes Told in Heaven About Babies
Shakey: Neil Young's Biography
Player Piano
Sirens of Titan
Mother Night
Cat's Cradle
God Bless You Mr. Rosewater
Slaughterhouse Five
Happy Birthday, Wanda June
Between Time and Timbuktu
Breakfast of Champions
Wampeters, Foma, & Granfaloons
Slapstick
Yiddish Policeman's Union
No One Belongs Here More Than You
Blaze
Speak, Commentary
Jailbird
Palm Sunday
Deadeye Dick
Fates Worse Than Death
Comedy By the Numbers
Galapagos
Bluebeard
The World Without Us
Go Long by Jerry Rice
Spoon River Anthology
The Colony
I Am America (And So Can You!)
Blood Meridian
No Country For Old Men
Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark
More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark
Scary Stories 3
20th Century Ghosts
Oh, the Glory of it All
Heart-Shaped Box
54

GRAPHIC NOVELS
Absolute Kingdom Come
Ultimate War
Skrull Kill Krew
Teen Titans vol. 1-6
Rising Stars Vol. 1-4
Strange: Beginnings and Endings
Teen Titans/Outsiders: Return of Donna Troy
Teen Titans/Outisders: The Insiders
Plastic Man On the Lam!
Sloth
JLA/Avengers
Thor: Ragnarok
Mage vol. 1
Wanted
The Defenders (Giffen/DeMatteis
Weapon X (Barry Windsor-Smith)
The Birth Caul
Batman: Gotham by Gaslight
Batman: Absolution
Batman: Dark Knight Dynasty
Manhunter vol. 1-2
Goodbye Chunky Rice
Barnum!
Outsiders vol. 1-2
Absolute Long Halloween
Catwoman: When in Rome
Dark Victory
Teen Titans: Judas Contract
Promethea vol. 1-5
Abandon the Old in Tokyo
Supreme: The Return
Animal Man vol. 1-3
WE3
The Mystery Play
Superman: Red Son
Batman: Faces
Revelations
All Star Superman vol. 1
Spider-Man: Reign
Civil War
Spider-Man: Blue
Marvel Knights Spidey vol. 1-3
Mouse Guard
Dr. Strange: The Oath
Iron Man vol. 1-2
Top 10 vol. 1-2
Top 10: 49ers
The Boys
Plain Janes
Runaways vol. 1-3
Seaguy
Spider-Man/Black Cat: The Evil That Men Do
Fantastic Four: The End
Justice League: The Nail
Fantastic Four/X-Men
Wolverine Enemy of the State vol. 1-2
Batman: Riddler (Matt Wagner)
Preacher vol. 1-2
Fun Home
Powerless
Punisher: Born
Punisher: Welcome Back Frank
Planet Hulk: Prelude
Planet Hulk
The Hood
Black Hole
Batman Ego and other Tales by Darwyn Cooke
Ex Machina Vol. 1-6
Invincible: Ultimate Collection Vol. 1-3
Superman: Birthright
Identity Crisis
JLA: Crisis of Conscience
Avengers (Johns) vol. 1
Earth X
Universe X Vol. 1-2
Paradise X Vol. 1-2
Nextwave Vol. 1-2
Green Arrow Vol. 1
Goon Vol. 0-5
Punisher MAX vol. 1-8
Punisher: From First to Last
The Pro
Punisher: Barracuda
Green Lantern: Rebirth
Batman: Gotham Noir
Preacher vol. 1-9
Sidekick
Captain America: Fallen Son
Dark Tower: Gunslinger Born
Heroes Vol. 1
LXG: Black Dossier
Cataclysm
No Man's Land vol. 1-5
God Loves, Man Kills
The Goon: Chinatown
Paul Dini Detective Comics vol. 1-2
Spider-Man: Fairy Tales
BKV's Escapist HC
Ultimates 2 vol. 1-2
Stormbreaker: Beta Ray Bill
Superman/Doomsday: Hunter/Prey
The Doomsday Wars
Superman/Doomsday: The Aftermath
162

Labels: Generalness

Well hello hello, loyal blog readers. Whether you’re Dan or Shar, I hope the new year finds you happy and healthy, and that you’ve gotten some time off from whatever it is you do. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken directly, because I got a job about a month ago, a full-time 9-5 kind of deal, with a decent whack of a commute on either side. It’s very corporate, which has its ups and downs (downs: knowing you’re part of what’s wrong with the country, ups: paid vacations and health insurance!). The big upside is that I’m getting paid to write, and semi-handsomely at that, since I’m making my freelance rate full-time, and the big downside is that a lot of projects I cared about have fallen by the wayside, including this blog. But of course I HAVE been posting a story every day for the last 245 days, so what else do you want from me? What’s that? You want some self-indulgent New Year’s related posting? Okay, Dan and Shar, I give.

Here are some New Year’s resolutions:

1- Spend more time with my wife and friends: This is kind of a recurring resolution that I make every year, because it’s always something I want to do. It’s pretty self-explanatory, I guess.

2- Continue getting healthier: Not just going back to pre-honeymoon weight (which I’ve actually almost finished), but going back to drinking more water, stretching twice a day, and maybe, just maybe, eating a little less ice cream. I live pretty healthily as it is, but I’d like to be in better shape, and I want to set aside some time to actually put my health insurance to use, and get my body (and teeth!) checked out in the next few months.

3- Write more: Also always a recurring resolution, but what are you going to do? Writing about electric vehicles and the like at work is cool, and I love this blog, but I want to further a creative career this year. By 2009 I’d like to be getting paid regularly for creative work, or take in a nice lump sum for a book. I’m working on getting some comic projects going with a few different companies, and I’m (still) working on a novel. I would like to find the energy to still devote myself to these projects around my other obligations. I’d also like to post more non-story material on this blog, including more movie and book recommends as well as general life updates.

Er, I guess that’s it…pretty boring, eh? What can I say, though, I’m pretty happy with my life as it stands right now. 2007 was a crazy year, in which I was diagnosed with more dumb medical problems, nearly taken to small claims court by a mean old lady, I left school, I got married, went to Hawaii for the first time, watched a ton of great movies and read a ton of great books, and got my first grownup job. Hopefully 2008 will be even better (although nothing’s gonna beat the whole “wedding” thing).

Anyway, I’ve rambled long enough; tonight or tomorrow I’m going to post an incredibly self-indulgent sort of post: a list of all the books and graphic novels I read last year. So keep your eyes peeled, Dan and Shar!

Labels: Generalness

I am a carilloneur, which I realize means nothing to nearly everybody. In fact, I’m typing this on my son’s computer and the red squiggly line underneath my profession tells me that not even this computer knows what a carilloneur is. Put simply: I ring a bell for a living. A carillon, the kind of bell I play, is an incredibly adaptable instrument however, one capable of producing varied and complex melodies, from the national anthem to chopsticks. Its different from change ringing, which most people think of when they think of bells; change ringing is when several different bells of different tonalities are played together to create a melody. The carillon is only one bell, struck in different places with varying strength to produce different notes.

I do not do the striking myself; I use a clavier, which is kind of like a large piano, except that it takes a lot of strength to play it. When most people find out what I do for a living, they laugh, embarrassed, believing that they have a secret joke. They’re wrong: I know they’re laughing because they’re thinking of the Hunchback of Notre Dame, though he was a change ringer and not a carilloneur (as different as a classical guitarist and Jimi Hendrix, believe me). I let them think their secret thoughts are secret though. There’s no need to tell them that from high above the university, I’ve learned the truth about people: that while we may look or sound different from each other, we’re all essentially the same, just different notes ringing from one bell.

Labels: Stories

"Aw, get up son, won't you?"

"I'm so tired, Da. I don't want to."

"It doesn't matter what you want, boy, get up, get off your bed, go get your shit done. It's time."

"But—"

"Don't 'but' me boy, I said it's time. You've been moping and dragging your feet around like you were a slave for long enough. Open your eyes and take a good look at how beautiful your life is, goddamnit. Your every inhalation should sound like those knees hitting that floor to plead with the Almighty Universe for another one, your exhalations should sound to the Almighty like a shouted prayer of gratitutde for the priceless gift of being alive for one more second."

"Jesus, Da, you've gotten sentimental."

"Not sentimental, boy, smart. Comprehending of things. I can see things from this side I never saw, and believe me, life is better than the alternative, son. Way better, and you're only going to get one crack at it. Now get the hell up; it's January 1st boy, and you've got a brand new year ahead of you to get your life right."

Labels: Stories